Not all who wander are lost

Of connections and coincidenceds

2009-11-15T11:28:00.000-08:00

My last post was pretty damn dark, but cathartic and necessary I feel to set some things straight. Its been a while, now I'm away again in India, studying a couple of IT courses, ready to face the big bad world again. I thought I'd have a sort of round up of the connections and happy coincidences that came my way, the good bits that made it all worthwhile :) here goes:

When deciding to go away, a good six months before, it felt like dark times were ahead. I spent a lot of time in meetings on issues of sustainability with concerned people:- Welsh Assembly members, Climate Change groups, University of Glamorgan and others working towards a Sustainability Collage of the Valleys while completing my studies at the Centre for Alternative Technology. Fuel, food and airline prices were shooting through the roof. The FTSE was falling by hundreds of points daily and gold was being bought up at ridiculous prices. My housemate feared that if petrol prices continued to rise as expected it would not be economic to get to work, even in his fuel efficient little Peugeot.

Personally the time of wandering and traveling was coming to a close, I wanted to settle in one place, and move towards build a resilient home using the design knowledge from CAT, but with no strong commitments and round the world tickets still bucking the trend of short haul price increases I could not resist having a last look see.

Round The World tickets come in a number of flavours, but usually mean you have to travel in one direction around the world, set dates of departure and the limit of a year. I did not like the idea of being tied to a route, and would have preferred to buy single tickets, but that is too expensive, some countries like Australia need proof of onward travel, and maddeningly its often cheaper to buy a return than one-way. There is usually the option to alter flight times cheaply and alter routes at greater expense.

Wireless networks, social networking sites and initiatives like Couch Surfing, Liftshare and Craigslist had reached a level of general awareness, even if few people outside the traveler or young urbanite used them. This to me suggested a new way to travel, I would vagabond about making use of these resources, my own skills of computer fixing, cookery, yoga and massage and see where it would take me. The route was set, but in between I'd no fixed plans, to be open to whatever presented itself, live cheaply, and never book accommodation in advance.

When like a pool game, life seems to offer no obvious shot, there is something to be said for cannoning the ball as hard as you can, so long as you can avoid snookering yourself. Its a gamble, but sometimes you get a feeling that the shot will come off - and saving a few scrapes it did. In nine months of drinking tap water, eating the weirdest things, wandering through dodgy areas, sleeping where I choose - the worst I suffered was culture shock, a sore throat and occasional hiraeth.

Back in Swansea I could not help thinking of Bob Dylan's Hard Rain falling as I recalled some of the many encountered on the trail.

I'd met women and men lost after the break up of marriages, putting on a brave face.

A drunk woman injecting food into the stomach of her cleft pelleted child.

Talked with a stabber, and the stabbed.

A psychiatric nurse who talked of angels.

Advocates of drugs, growers and campaigners against.

Been questioned accusingly by Daoists and Muslims on the same day

Cycled, driven cars, trucks and vans, sailed, motorcycled, hitched, walked long distances in the sun and rain, turned down lifts and been glad of them.

Slept in jungles and forests, palatial and grubby hotel rooms, sofas, floors, beside paths and fires on countless beaches.

Cooked meals in well stocked kitchens, on television and on discrete fires in the hearths of abandoned houses.

Met men with families in the past, or past family making age smoking their lives away in Asian fleapits.

People traumatized seeking solace in expensive therapies.

Met women and children for sale

Men who loved bought women, some worked out after all.

Sites of genocide and gazed upon confounding complex architecture.

Met up with friends from other travels, friends from home, and when people said to look me up if I was in their country I actually did!

Niels Bohr, the great Danish physicist of the Manhattan project said the "The opposite of a trivial truth is false, the opposite of a great truth is also true" and so it seemed with the people I met, as soon as I entertained a prejudice its counter example would present itself within at most a day. I cannot in good heart make any sweeping statements - The travelers view is at best through a cracked looking glass.

As jarring as this may seem I also experienced incredible generosity and truly baffling life affirming coincidences, in every county I visited, I met someone connected with home.

Cambodia - I traveled with my former housemate, and met an outdoor education teacher who knew the staff from the University of Glamorgan. I met an Aberystwyth Graduate who had lived in the same Student Village house I had lived in two years after me!

Vietnam - traveled with a guy from Humboldt State

Malaysia - caught up with my Humboldt pal

Australia - stayed my first night with a CouchSurfer who had stayed with me in Swansea, caught a ride with her fella to Byron Bay, found work on an organic farm. Her architect knew CAT and was visiting Crystal Waters from Brisbane where I'd left my rucksac with my couch surfing pal. The lady whose farm I was staying at was travelling up to Brisbane on just the right day. Visited old family friends in Bundaberg.

I met a lady into partner yoga and permaculture online, and stayed with her, and met some of my heroes. Caught up with two travel buddy from Cambodia, bumped into someone from Nimbin in Melbourne.

Stayed with a colleague in Newcastle, dinned with the director of Celtic Studies, and met someone lovely.

New Zealand - Travelled with the lovely person, visited an old Uni friend, a guy who had been camping in my same spot in Three Cliffs Bay, found an antique shop selling a few items, but significantly the same wedgewood, doulton figures and a soapdish I knew from my grandmothers. A bookshop with five titles on display my authors I had met!

Cook Islands - stayed at a tiny resort, met a guy whose parents lived at Southgate Gower, and frequently wandered the Three Cliffs. Met a lady who invited me to stay at her cabin in the wilds.

US West Coast - Met up with friends from CAT in San Francisco, Stayed in the same hostel in the same bed, quite by chance.

Stayed in the Cabin near lake Tahoe, the girls uncle had met my ex in California through his work.

Stayed in a the room in the same hostel in Portland.

Caught up with friends made two years previously for a wild week of jeeping, sturgeon fishing and target practice in the woods.

In Canada, met up and stayed with the family of a guy I met in Cambodia. Most baffling of all was hitching outside of Merrit, Canada's Country Music Capitol. I had slept in the spare room of a couple who had arrived there after hitching also. After a long and boring walk in the sun I was picket Peter, who had worked not 5 minutes walk from my house in Romsey, new the same landlord, quoted the Autobiography of a Supertramp, a book which has been following me around like a shadow and many other coincidences you would not believe if I told you :)

I met a dear friend in Indiana, an old friend from Swansea flew out to meet me in New York. In New York He and I met Janelle to see a gig, we had met in Cambodia and again in Brisbane, with many stories to share.

What an amazingly small world it can be, the thank yous deserve a post all of their own, but I'll not begin at this hour - as I'll be up all night, have school in the morning and do not want to get all misty eyed and sentimental.

Old Swansea town once more....

2009-09-26T14:26:00.000-07:00

Its been six strange weeks since I returned to Swansea, almost daily Facebook, emails and texts prod me to finish the damned blog. So here it is up to date apart from the photos which I've been sorting through.

Returning, it can seem that very little has changed, most friends are living in the same places. Reassuringly they prop up the same bars, a few new businesses have opened or relocated. Though I have a few more grey sparkles nobody else seems to have aged appreciably.

A few little people have arrived, some close friends are now engaged. A recent observation from my lovely Aussie friend after a year in London rings true for me also:-

"Its weird how on the surface nothing has changed, but on a slower deeper level, peoples lives have kept moving forward, sometimes it feels like the traveler is the one standing still."

Rediscovering my books, bikes and driving my truck were new and exciting experiences. Thanks to accommodating friends, I continued the couchsurfing theme, sleeping on 3 couches, 2 beds and my hammock in the first week back. I still have a pack with me most of the time, though much smaller. The habit is so hard to break, and I still keep feeling for my wallet as I get up. I was encouraged to wear shoes, rather than the boots I had worn, almost daily for the whole trip. It was not long before I regretted it, as I was soon in the mud again.

I was fortunate to be able to work a few days after returning, it was a youth group in a woodland setting with another instructor, Rik. A gentle reintroduction with perfect weather, good kids and enthusiastic youth workers. I hope they did not notice my slightly shell shocked appearance, it was odd to be in a position of responsibility again after looking out only for myself and traveling partner all this while. Riks many stories shared around the campfire contained people I knew from my sailing youth.

Packing my kit for work was so easy with all the practice of getting comfortable out of doors, choosing items from my inventory of out door kit. At home, no worries about avoiding police or park wardens, bears, mountain lions, poisonous snakes and spiders, not even mosquitos to bother me as I slept.

Cooking at the Welsh Bushcraft gathering at Margam Country Park was a great success with all the good folk of Dryad together in one place. With help from recently roped in volunteers I cooked self smoked trout and mackerel pate with laverbread bannock, spit roast lamb and saws bara lawr, smoked garlic mash, veggies and apple crumble. We made sure everyone spirits held up despite the weather, even in rain over 1100 people came through the gates.

Now the novelty of being back has worn off I took time to reflect on the adventure. For those not familiar with British understatement, taking time to reflect translated as hearing a silent scream of "What the fuck just happened?" looping constantly through my head, wolfing my meals down like I could not get the blood sugar spike quick enough, waking up at 0417 (why that time exactly?) totally alert, and running a resting heart rate of around 120 instead of the usual 60 bpm as I am now.

In all, I visited eleven countries over nine months, the only certainty in my travel plans was knowing I had to be at the airport at the right time to connect with my departing flight. Over the time, I never booked accommodation in advance. For a larger part of the trip, when I woke up, I had no idea where I would be going to sleep, I just trusted that something would work out, be it an overnight bus, a quiet corner of a city park, an abandoned house, a strangers floor, another couchsurfers home, or a hostel. Now I'm in the bedroom I had as a child, and I totally appreciative of my supportive folks, a comfy bed, free of both parasites AND rodents, it is you will appreciate, also a massive comedown and dent to my pride.

It is so true, that if you move back in with your folks, even temporarily, you do revert to being a child. I've felt really embarrassed at the frankly teenage whining my dear mother has had to put up with, which she has, amazingly well. She is such a star, and now as eldest, the head of what was is sadly now a small family.

My cousin Stephen visited for a long weekend shortly after I returned. His sister Mel, chose to end her life during a religious retreat shortly before my departure, after years of mental anguish, which included a frantic burst of independent travel, periods of hospitalisation, and the last time I saw her, a few weeks before, apparent recovery. Nobody really knows what the trigger was, we think about her daily.

During Steve's stay in Swansea visit we walked, swam and cycled together, and shared long conversations, it was such a relief when we finally got to talk in person after exchanging many emails and online conversations while I was away. He had written a blog about his ongoing process of adapting to his loss, a very courageous thing to do - I'm so proud of him.

He and I have grown closer through the experience, I'm sure it will come as a shock to some readers to learn that I lost my own father in similar circumstances during University. At the same time I lost my remaining Grandparents, a few friends and the mother of one of Jon, one of my dearest and oldest friends. Of the crew of four I sailed with during the long academic holidays I was the only one alive by graduation. Unlike my more emotionally aware cousin and friend I kept pretty quiet about it, preferring obsessive exercise, heavy drinking and solitary walks like a veteran of war. How I got my honours I do not know.

Its so true, you really do not know what something like that feels like unless you experience it for yourself. No amount of words can describe what that feeling is like, and I'm glad, because if words had such power, we would be too terrified to open a book.

Just as I listened to Stephen, he listened to me, our very different experiences of family life, about the other side of travel, that I never thought to put on the this blog. He could not understand the disparity between the posts he was reading and what was coming out in our private conversations. He thought I should post something of the real experience, not just the highlights or the good times but the difficult times also.

He felt I needed to spell things out for people. He said that the impression I gave was of being very self assured, and that to people at home I was ostensibly having a great time, he imagined people were probably a bit jealous, and that they felt a bit silly leaving comments, which is why it seemed like so few people were taking an interest.

This was revelation to me! Every post, I hoped, would be responded to with news from home. In an I'll show you mine if you show me yours kinda thing. "Jealous?" I asked incredulously. Don't get me wrong. I'm glad I did it, and I had some real highlights, confounding coincidences, and wonderful people. But a moment please....

How would you expect to feel, going around the world alone trying to bury your fathers ghost?

For the most part if I'm totally honest it was as you would expect - lonely, boring, frustrating, confronting, isolating.... But of course I'm not going to post that on a blog to depress or concern everyone. Least of all my closest family, who were worried for me anyway and had so recently lost one of the other Grandchildren. Do you make holiday movies of rows with your partner? or fill photograph albums with your toddlers tantrums?

I went to the pub last night and met Jon who is enough of a friend to tell me something straight out. We finally got a chance to speak alone and he said a few things that echoed Steve's observations.

Jon felt that I had offended friends at home, and turned people against me by suggesting they lived in a bubble, he conceded it had some truth in it, but added that I was in a traveler's bubble. My bubble was the blog audience of fellow travelers and new friends I had made on the trail. I thought I'd avoided playing the worldly traveler pretty well and was shocked to hear he felt so strongly that way. I truly regret any offence caused.

I have always missed having brothers and sisters, while siblings may get really angry at one another, there will always be a stronger blood connection. I have always envied the security that must come with that. If you get on the wrong side of a clique, you may find yourself entirely alone. My home friends I had thought of as a surrogate family. I feel I give a lot, and maybe unrealistically expect a lot in return.

Specifically I expect people to think I'm a generally a nice bloke, and to be given a bit of leeway considering what I was attempting and what I had experienced . I assumed that the underlying connection was there, but perhaps it wasn't. Looking over the emails I received in response to blog posts, its significant that most were from people who had traveled a lot themselves, relatives or ex-girlfriends.

Jon could not understand why I did not write that I missed my friends and my home town. Well I can only apologise for not posting online in a large font- I thought about you all the time, I had thought that was a given - but I'll say it now

I MISSED YOU !!!!

Every spectacular sunset, I wished someone from home could remember it to recall on overcast days outside the Tav.

How many times in a cafe nursing cold coffee and a dogeared book did I wish I was with the gang in the Uplands Dinner the morning after the night before?

How many bowls of entrail based soups would I swap for a Swansea batch?

Didn't I feel hollow, congratulating school friends on their getting married, buying houses or having children while being the oldest bloke in the hostel, missing my lover, burned out, trying to sleep, with people shagging in the bunk below?

But when people did not respond to posts I made here, send a quick email or the occasional text it was clear I did not have that connection I had always assumed I did, and that really did hurt. Friends I knew would be sending upwards of 10 texts in a typical day, but did not send one my way - I have had that same number for six years and displayed it on my fb profile. I could see wall to wall conversations that people were regularly communicating with one another with even greater frequently as time went on. Like discussing favorite biscuits*

I had been to the site of genocide and interrogation for a paranoid regime, sometimes insanity is collective. I saw people missing faces, dried blood on walls, on ceilings, descriptions of people having their liver eaten while still alive. (When the thought of eating a dead human liver is more acceptable than another option, you know you are somewhere you really oughtn't be) I saw the wooden frame where people were hoisted by their wrists by ropes till they lost consciousness, revived in buckets of shitty water and hoisted again, it was polished smooth! I saw rebar fashioned into shackles thinner than my wrists designed for the ankles of children. I was filled with disgust and pure sympathy, how many people were perpetrators? how many victims? all of them really. Stoned, missing a girl from home, wondering if I should come home early, wondering why she had not responded, then accosted by a child prostitute who made a dive into the room. Out and proud as they come, not the innocent kids I'd naively assumed. In fluent English he threatened to tell the police I had drugs when told him to go away. At the beach, kids with legs blown off by a landmine, what a waste! One nerve calming beer later, a six year old pointed a long firework into a lit candle on the table, and threatened to tell the police I'd felt him up if I did not give him money. I was pretty sure he was bluffing, but who knows here? Could I really be extortable by this kid? What happens if you are seen giving money to that child rather than the one who stepped on the toe-popper, a further set up, more bribes?. Damn that weed was strong. In Cambodia I can well believe you can pay to shoot someone as sport, because the family need the money that badly. I cannot believe I threatened a six year old with a glass. The look in his eyes showed the capacity for such cruelty was in me as well, if only in make believe.

I'd only seen what was now a museum, and had a minor hassle from some street smart kids, but the forces that produced them both were among us, and within us, the atmosphere was so heavy, the pain so deep, it touched me in a way that pushed really primal self preservation buttons. Here I was confronted with unscripted horror, the great unknown, and about to embark on another eight months of it.

Days later, escaping the sun baked insanity outside, to the relative calm of a slow internet connection and noisy air conditioning. I logged in expectantly, at that point, all I hoped to read was a simple hello, simply anything from back home, a few words like how Friday night at the pub went, but nothing! Perhaps I should have just stated my case for milk chocolate hobnobs as best biscuit.

*It wasn't actually biscuits it was something else, I don't want anyone to feel targeted by this.

If anyone feels that reading Steve's blog could in some way help them with a similar tragedy it can be found here www.stevesthoughts.blog.co.uk

New York

2009-09-01T13:37:00.000-07:00

New York is very compact, and felt like a very livable city, nobody drives in New York, there is too much traffic! (Futurama quote) I bought a seven day pass for both busses and subway for $23 dollars, which has to be the biggest bargain in town. Just as well, as the accommodation was the most expensive so far. Hugh did not like the idea of couch surfing or bivouacking in Central Park, which had a certain appeal for me.

Thanks to facebook I learned that my friend Janelle, who I had met in Cambodia, who showed me the sights of Sydney, was now in New York. She was on her second holiday, while I had still me been moving, not knowing where I was staying from one night to the next. The three of us went to a gig, explored Times Square and had a pretty awful meal. It seemed the area of town was devoid of good eating spots at that time, but walking back we realized we were only a few streets away from the mother-lode.

My friend from home had been tee-total for about four years, I had been looking forward to his company especially as I do not drink much anymore. It was a surprise therefore when the pair of us left a lock-in at 5am, drunk as skunks!

By anybody's standards New York is a beautiful city, though there were so many attractions, just wandering around and gawping at the toned and tanned and the architecture was entertainment enough. We both enjoyed Greenwich Village and Little Italy the most, the eating was excellent, but an included 20% service charge seemed excessive. I was glad to be headed to a place where tipping in bars is the exception, rather than the norm, and the glasses are bigger!

Indiana

2009-09-01T13:36:00.000-07:00

Peter had driven me all the way to Montreal, from where I was due to fly to Indiana, to meet Michelle. We had been friends since my last US adventure, and regularly emailed from opposite sides of the Atlantic. A fascinating time of correspondence, during which the worlds financial systems came unstuck, the change as the US administration switched to one of hope - and she left the hippy ecotopia of a liberal arts college amongst the giant redwoods of Northern California for Purdue, her highly respected grad school surrounded by endless plains of soybeans and Indian corn.

Taking in the cost of flights vs. bus journeys, and the various people I wanted to see, the cheapest and quickest option was to fly from Montreal though it meant doubling back. I had long hoped to visit the city, the famous Jazz festival was on soon, and I would loved to have caught up with an ex-girlfriend who had returned to her home there.

Besides the University, Indiana is famous for motor racing, farming and religiosity. People looked at me like I was special, in the short bus sense, when I told them of my plans to go there. One friend said to me, if you want to to see real America, then there it is. So far it felt I had only seen the beautiful bits. For many more, this flat land of parking lots, strip malls and monocultures was more representative. The sky seems bigger there, the clouds are fluffy, and the distances vast. This was the suburbia of The End of Suburbia, where every journey began not with a single footstep, but reaching for the keys to a pickup truck.

With such huge distanced between places I find it hard to imagine a real sense of community. I felt the loss for my friend who had won a scholarship to study here. After a six hour drive to her home, during which we picked up a speeding ticket (Minutes after remarking on the lack of cops! ) I was pleased to see she had found a really nice house she had bought for a song. Her research interests will encourage greater use of biogas in the region. Such technologies and the ideologies that support them are common on the West Coast, but have yet to make an impact in this area of TV dinners and televangelists. It could not possibly be as bad as everyone thought, the university was founded in 1869 but classes did not begin in 1874, Aberystwyth, my own university was founded in 1872.

We explored the National Park with its huge nettles and lost world feel I doubt many believe actually exist in those parts. The nettles were bigger than my hand span. It was wonderful to see my friend, enjoy her cooking, and her enthusiasm for her work and new lifestyle.

Michelle drove me to the airport, I slept on the way, I was sorry it had been such a fleeting visit, and I had not managed to stay conscious for the last of it. I was also excited to see New York, choosing the flight to get me in the Big Apple in the late afternoon. My good friend, Hugh from Swansea was due to join me for the last leg. I was looking forward to getting my bearings before he arrived, but I did not touch down until nearer 23:00. Still carrying out my plan of not booking accommodation in advance I was expecting to sleep at the airport.

Nothing unites like a crisis, and this delay did get the passengers talking, I met a guy who owned an IT training company who had run for elections to the Indian Congress party who showed me youtube videos of his rally attended by 25,000, who asked for my CV.

I sat next to Sebastian, a trombonist and member of a conservatory in the city we chatted for most of the flight about all kinds of things especially I remember listening rapt as he talked about improvisation in composition. When I told him tales of all the generosity I had received, he was as amazed as I had been, and joined the chain of other wonderful folk, by putting me up. He was moving out the next day and I offered to help in return. His housemates (roomies) were nervous about a a stranger staying, so I ended up crashing on Seb's floor on my Thermarest, people like him really do make a difference.

Thankyou all

Winnipeg

2009-09-01T13:35:00.000-07:00

Was where which I caught up with Justin, a massage therapist I had met in Cambodia. People had wondered why I had wanted to go that town in the middle of North America, I have learned to be selective in whose advice I take. What I call colourful others call sketchy. People had warned me that the place had the highest murder rate in Canada, and was also full of witches!

I had also heard, that the town was a hotbed social activism. Justin had found it very difficult to adjust back into life in Canada after his three month adventure in Cambodia. He loved Bodhi Villa so much he returned to sell his services at that cool riverside chillout spot. Crossing into Thailand the police stole his earnings, and even distributed his duty free cigarettes around the other uniformed thieves.

I talked his ear off from 10 am till 13:30 straight, till he brought me to his place, Oikos is a Greek word for a house run as a family, a housing cooperative, that had been running since the 1970s, the nine housemates were able to share a fantastic space, with plenty of room for instruments including pianos, a drum kit and a huge choice of sofas to crash on. I had a lovely time, saw a puppet show, received massage and reiki at the same time from two different people and many healthy veggie meals.

Hitching across Canada....

2009-08-19T03:56:00.000-07:00

Following the advice from the Craigslist guy, I caught a bus to the last stop at the edge of town the next morning, where a lady with bags overflowing with groceries gave me a bunch of bananas, grapes, an apple, and even cut me a chunk from her huge block of Tillamook cheese. She said she had children who had gone traveling, who had always been looked after on the road, and thought she would pay it forward. Over and over on this trip I have experienced such random acts of kindness. I was proud to tell the tale of my folks picking up hitchhikers in Tescos in Swansea, they brought them back to the house, to pitch their tent in the back garden, and served them a great meal which included crumbed monkfish and crab claws.

Hitching is illegal on the main highways in Canada, positioning is critical, but more accepted here than in the US. It is the same case between NZ and Austrailia. In the UK I have often picked up hitch hikers, many of whom have been service men. Probably because they are unafraid, used to mucking in with strangers, and often find themselves in different locations without transport, on not much money.

Hitching is always an adventure, and touch wood, all my experiences have been good. The last time I attempted to hitch in the UK was from Hillend Campsite in Llangenith back to the town centre. I had a punnet of strawberries, and held them prominently instead of the universal thumb sign. This was on a busy, summer day, where traffic was at a crawl or stopped giving plenty of time for folk to make a judgement call. Friends! Though I have a beard, and often wear stained trousers, I am hardly a scary looking character.

I was eventually picked up by someone I knew who was able to drop me in Gorseinon. Now on a bus route I was able to get into town, but no bugger would stop as I walked along eating the strawberries – they were big Gower ones too! The filthy looks you get, especially from that same demographic who complain about how things were better in their day, and decry the youth of today. To whom I say:-

"You were young then and you are the generation that raised them, how dare you write off the young as hooligans? Your prejudice and fearfulness is every bit as much of the problem as their perceived aggression."

I really believe the stranger danger message drummed into us has kids has helped make the UK one of the most fearful places I have ever been

Interestingly the people who have showed such genorosity and trust, by inviting me into their homes and giving rides do not generally live with televisions. Perhaps this is why they are less fearful, or maybe they are a select goup who really enjoy conversation. Of the many couches I have surfed on this trip, only a handful had sets, and of those we only watched selectively. Almost all however had internet connections, large book collections and cooked very well.

I want to be picked up by the sort of people who pick up hitch hikers. They are generally nice folk, who have hitchhiked themselves, they know what its like to walk with a heavy pack in the sun, while huge air conditioned trucks pass with just one person in them, for hour after hour.

Thankfully Canada is a country known for its niceness, it is the only country I decided to visit because of the good experiences I have had with their stock. Four rides in quick succession got me to Merritt, Canada's Country music capitol. Thankfully I arrived just after the festival, and stretched out on a log by the river to snooze. I could not imagine much luck hitching onward from this ghost town in darkness, and was waiting for the few people around to depart before setting up my shelter.

A young couple approached, realising I was a hitchhiker – they had also arrived at the town by hitchhiking but had decided to stay. We swam in the river, which was refreshing, the wide, empty concrete streets shimmered in heat even now, as dusk was approaching.

Mark and his girlfriend invited me to stay with them, a very interesting chap – he and a friend had discovered dinosaur footprints in his home town of Tumbler Ridge, causing a media storm. The ex-mining town, only on the bones of its arse was now thriving.

We shared an enjoyable time, a meal of moose steak, ate the truffles then sang along to The Lion King and played with his tarantula.

Once again, I had met friendly people, who took me in, and looked after me. I would have enjoyed taking up their offer to go rock jumping, but time was pressing, I still had a lot of country to cover.

Getting out of Merrit was easy enough, but once outside the town, the traffic slowed right down. Hitching on highway 1 was illegal, but 1a – the older, and quieter road was ok. I watched a constant steam on the first, but only a few every ten minutes or so bypassed me. Many of the vehicles had couples, who rarely stop, cars full of camping gear with no space, and trade vehicles who are often not allowed to offer rides.

As I was cursing humanity for their lack of trust, and wastefulness a Volvo pulled into the layby. I used to have one, in conversation we found out we had both had to replace the headlamp. A lot of the early stages of conversation, is unconciously establishing whether we are from the same tribe. It was not long therefore that I discovered he had worked at a vineyard no more than 5 mins from a house I lived in, and frequented the same pubs. Over the next few hours other coincidences kept popping up.

Peter, the driver had a wealth of stories, gathered over 40 years of travel as a road surveyor and other jobs. Originally from Scotland, he had lived and worked in Austrailia, NZ, Canada, USA, been arrested in Argentina in the 1970s as an extemist, and had a lucky escape. He had lived in India with barely more than a loin cloth and bedding roll. It was a pleasure to sit back and hear his tales, rather than telling my own.

A self described christian-romantic-existentialist he was on a nostalgic jour ney across the country. We watched the scenery unfold as we discussed Walt Whitman, road construction, the Beat poets, his experiences with shamans and of course existentialism.

We broke our journey in a wood, where he brought out a salmon risotto and a beer, I unrolled my bivi bag and blanket, while he made up his usual bed in the back of the big volvo. Every sound I imagined to be a grizzly or mountian lion, but managed to sleep well, feeling refreshed and waking early as I always do, when I sleep outside.

Spoiled rotten in Seattle, Vancouver and Victoria

2009-08-19T02:49:00.000-07:00

Washington had been a blast, with so many experiences to file away, I was content to muse over as I rode the Amtrack North to Seattle. On a long warm evening I met up with Natalia, a friend from Humboldt who had moved to study her Masters in Physical Therapy. She took me to her lectures to the gym and for dinner and easy conversation. What a contrast to the previous weeks excesses. We spent an enjoyable time sharing photographs and healthy meals.

I rode the greyhound from Seattle, uneventful save that one Sikh guy was peeing with the door open. One lady shouted out, you are not in India now, and threatened to punch him! If she had been there, she would not be shocked, and think twice about abusing members of an ancient warrior caste.

Vancouver has been described as Vansterdam for its excellent BC Bud, and liberal views. I wondered what the laws on entheogenic plants was, and entered a head shop. I got talking to one of the staff, who offered me some truffle chocolates. She made them herself and suggested I drop by if I wanted to buy any. Her apartment was again televisonless and stacked with books, plants and art. We drank many cups of tea as we shared photographs. A little later, bowls were filled with salmon chowder, caught by a friend. Later a fresh leafy salad and homemade cake emerged.

I was so well looked after, once again warm-hearted folk had invited me in, and made me feel totally welcome. What a run of good fortune, this had been my experience the whole distance as I traveled up the West Coast. By the evening I had accepted the housemates invitation to stay for the upcoming Salmon BBQ, an annual event to raise money for the fire fighters. The organization of this event at the farmers market fell to my host - who made up the sofa bed. Described as an interesting anti-cultural experience, I was taken to watch the Ultimate Fighting Contest by her boyfriend. I could not believe what I was really watching these pituitary retards beat their skulls together, stirring the crowd to near frenzy. I went to yet another party, then returned to the house. The preparations kept my hosts up late, nobody got more than a few hours sleep.

Despite the early start, we remained in good humor, the BBQ being a huge success. The Salmon tasted even better for the anticipation, and shifting heavy tables.

The girl's flat had was in a big pink 1980s apartment complex, with a pool, floating on my back, letting the strains evapourate I felt especially lucky. This was my first experience of Canadian hospitality, what a treasure these folks are.

I searched Craigslist for a ride across Canada, one offer sounded promising, 58 hours straight driving in a van with a guy and his dog, from Vancouver to the East coast.

Before leaving I decided to visit Mark and his family in Victoria, standing inline I one of the passengers offered me a ride to the ferry terminal, what a friendly place. Mark, and his daughter Kate were staying in the same accommodation in Cambodia before picking up their motorcycles to rode through Vietnam. I stayed for dinner during which Kate shared tales of Indian bus journeys which included peeing in a zip lock bag, when the driver refused to stop. She told a chilling tale of a stalker, which is sadly not the first one I have heard. Such a luxury to sleep in a real bed, for the first time in weeks, then spent the next day at the Royal museum. A fine lunch by the sea with Mark's wife, then dinner in town before we rode on his Harley Davidson to reach the ferry.

The ferry operated a reduced schedule, I had been lucky to catch the last ferry. I was a bit nervous as I had not yet managed to contact the man with the dog. I stocked up on food for the journey, and bought some exotic fruits to share with the girls who had not only put me up on their sofa, but even made me breakfast in bed with a pot of tea! Eventually the guy rang to apologize that his vehicle could not make it, but gave me lots of hitch hiking tips.

Portland and beyond

2009-07-19T20:34:00.000-07:00

I was sorry to leave fallen leaf, well aware the city would seem a shock after a full week in the mountains. We said our goodbyes over lunch in the nearest town, even this felt a little alien after the peace of the cabin. I rode the amtrak to Portland eager to spend a few days in Powells, the worlds largest bookstore – it occupies a whole city block, 600 x 600 feet, on four floors.

For nostlgias sake I chose to stay in the same hippy hostel on Hawthorne.

I was placed in the same room, again quite by chance – though this time in the bed my comanion had slept in on the last trip.

There was to be a book reading on Powells top floor, a romance novel about entheogenic plants, a subject I have always been fascinted by. I asked if there were any questions she would like asked, it is often reassuring to know at least one person in the audience will ask something you can speak at length about. Though I doubt silence ever follows a reading, it is a fear the debut novelist could do without.

She read aloud a description of the production on sensimelia, a potent type of marijuana produced by mistreating the plant, and keeping males far from her, so in frustration her colitas engorge and become sticky with trichomes in the hope of receiving pollen. I had tingles hearing it, I had always considered MJ is a very feminine herb in every sense, but never thought to use such racy verbage to describe the herbage.

She signed a copy of her book for my lovely writer friend from Oz and gave me her email to post some of my own experiences....

Powells is a great resource, particularly for my writings on improvisation, after two full days there I came away with 25lbs of books that eventually got posted home. It is hard to beleive the post office was closed on a saturday.

Readers will know I am not much of a fan of hostels, prefering to stay with locals or camping out. I tend to use them on the first day in a new city, or if I have spent a long time staying with someone and fancy a fairly anonymous time. It is nice to feel one is not in somebody elses space, and free to roll in late. In the West they are an expensive option, I do not know how people manage to afford long trips staying in them exclusively.

I have not been traveling on an absolute shoestring, a bottle of wine, a jar of preserve and picking up the occasional lunch tab or grocery bill for someone kind enough to offer sofa or floor space is something I am pleased to do, and still costs less than a night in a dorm bed and queue for the shower.

The people I have couchsurfed with are a self selected group of people who share similar values, I wonder if that will continue as the phenomenon becomes more widespread. Most of these people buck the dominant trend in not having a television, they love cooking and have travelled widely themselves. We have all it seems spent a large amount of time sleeping on friends sofas long before the www.couchsurfing.com network was created.

From the hostels now free internet service I sent out a number of requests, and got a prompt response from one member living within walking distance of the hostel. She was very busy, working 12 hour shifts and moving house, but very kindly offered me a place to roll out my sleeping mat and left the door open for me!

On my last trip to Portland my travelling companion remarked that they must have but Prozac in the water as everyone seemed so cheerful. There are towns that seem to get things right, and this is one of them – they are places where people have chosen to relocate, are easily accessable on foot or by bicycle and have many locally run enterprises.

I felt a bit funny entering a strangers empty home. It was tastefully decorated with my hosts own paintings and wall hangings from India; looking over her extensive bookshelves I recognised so many familiar titles we were sure to have a lot in common. She did not have a mobile, so I answered the telephone, wondering if she was trying to contact me. It was one of her friends, when I explined I was a couchsurfer, his fond description of her made me feel even more at ease. He was ringing to invite her for an art walk I had heard about.

Though it sounded fascinating it felt rude to arrive late at night so I rolled out my mat on the floor and began reading one of my many purchases from Powells. I awoke as she came through the door, greeting me with such warmth, quick wit and infectious love of life I felt charged – and understood how she could juggle so many comitments. The next evening as we packed her belongings up, we sang folk songs, a friend turned up to play guitar as she tackled the kitchen, who says moving has to be one of the most stressful times of life?

Last time in Portland I spent a wild time with folks who Andy from Dryad had met on an internet forum. He had asked for reccommendations for places to camp out, and potentially run bushcraft courses overseas. The majority had recommended Oregon, one larger than life character from Portland kindly offered to put us up on his floor and even to drive us way out into the woods.

We were both amazed by the friendship and generosity extended by him and his family. We had a blast drinking bourbon, eating deer and salmon he had caught, target shooting and camping out in pristene wilderness. The children were not at all like we had been led to beleive American youth were like – being courteous, interested, and unfazed by the arrival of two strange Welsh folk in their home.

I called Sean, hoping to catch him for a beer before heading north. Since we had last met he had not had a great deal of work, but had used the time to spend with the children, hunt and soup up his already rediculously powerful Jeep Wrangler Rubicon. We visited a number of dive bars in the area of town where he grew up, drinking strong black porter with bourbon chasers, and talking up a storm.

Despite the nights excesses he arrived at Leo's house in good shape ready for a days wheeling around the forests near Tilamook. In the company of a Mormon rock musician with a Toyota Landcruiser retrofitted with a powerful diesel and 39” tyres we tacked Airplane Hill. A steep ascent through trees over huge boulders, no photograph could do justice to the seeming impassability of the trail. Driving over the boulders required planning and great communication, I was glad to be able to enjoy the ride without that responsibility. When he let me have a go, driving the overeager beast between the trees and over potential diff hangers I understood his description “Terrifying at two miles an hour”!

We called in on one of our hosts oldest buddies and his familyAndy and I had met on out last trip. Dave's family had been in the Washington area for generations, a knowledge of which he shared as we retraced the cruising spots of his youth in his fathers 1957 fuel injected Corvettle, several shots of bourbon inside me, without seatbelts of course.

Though well educated and knowledgable in many fields my host has an uashamed redneck streak. We certainly undulged that side, changing the

His suburban – a huge 1980s family beast, the last of the metal dashed cars was now a $500 dollar truck he lamented.

“You take a $500 truck, and put a $1000 transmission in it. You know what you got?”

Answer “A $500 truck!”

“You take a $500 truck, and put a $1000 worth of tyres on it. You know what you got?”

.......

Sean and Dave worked under floodlights getting the huge transmission, power converter and shaft re-fitted in a spirit of affable companionship, while I worked the jack, found wrentches (spanners) and fetched cold beers.

The coming Forth of July weekend was set to be a scorcher, 90 plus farenheight in the city. The transmission fitted successfully we headed to the coast hoping to catch some sturgeon.

We caught three, I say three – I mostly slept, montion on the sea does funny things to people – to the extent that I beleive there is only one way to cure seasickness – and that is to sit under a tree. I have known people, who were totally comorttable in the worst rollers, wind against tide around landshead, loose all desire for survial evaporate on a right swell in the mediteranian. Clearly the motion, helmsmanship and conditions were perfect, I fell asleep soundly for much of the day.

Sean baited the trace with an anchovy, and whipped a live shimp to it. At anchor we ledged in the deeper holes, though fishing relatively shallow at thirty feet. Our target, the sturgeon is a royal fish in Britain, meaning any caught in UK waters have to be offered to the Queen. This one happened in Swansea, Wales.

The fisherman caught the huge fish, and telephones Buckingham Palace. A fax by return allowed the fisherman to keep his catch. The fish is a protected, and there was talk of a case being made against the fisherman. The valuable fish dissappeared before proceedings can begin. An interesting constitutional point, I wonder who got to eat it.

We were rewarded with three good sized specimens and a dungeoness crab. I had heard of these crabs, and had lond wanted to try one.

We only had one pot to boil the crab in, so we washed out the pee can we had been using for the week and set him on the barbeque. We took the grill out, upturned the flame speader and made a good seal with wet carboard and a breezeblocks. We put him on the last of the ice and looked forward to breakfast....

Moon on the Porch

2009-07-11T19:22:00.000-07:00

Though San Francisco is my favorite city, after a few days I was looking forward to natural beauty, and natural landscapes. I could not imagine spending ones whole life in a city without the woods to run to. I had been invited to stay in a beautiful family cabin of a Megan, the lady I met in the Cook Islands who had given my the lift to San Fran with her friend.

The cabin was in two parts – the first, built in the 1890s, and filled with the tools used in its construction and a dear little bedroom with an ensuite commode. Highly neccesary in this valley where bears room, it can be bittery cold at night and early morning even now when they days are long and waterholes just about swimmable.

The kitchen in the old cabin had remained untouched when habitation moved to the newer section built in the 1930s. It was quite eerie, seeing the old tins and food packets, preserved surprisingly well by the thin dry mountain air. The dryness

The newer section was very cosy, and though we arrived with a trolley full of shopping it had recently been stocked by other family members only a week or so before.

Thankfully the preparations against further bear attacks had held. Black bears are common in the area, on one occasion the family returned to find one had come into the kitchen, got into the deep freeze and was sitting in the sun eating a frozen chicken, he had even shut the freezer door behind him!

Along with the other males, I peed around the cabin in different spots, the testosterone is supposed to discourage them; it must have worked as they left us alone, though the recent repairs to the back door and claw mark on the fridge were strong reminders never to leave food out, and to wash up and wipe down surfaces regularly.

I was warmly welcomed by a group of friends working the summer at Fallen Leaf lake before returning to college or starting their careers. Bruce lived in a beautiful wooden house crafted by his parents. By no means a cabin, the house had one of the best equipped domestic kitchens I had ever cooked in.

With all the surplus food we had brought we cooked some fantastic meals eaten together at the long table overlooking the lake. His folks continued a tradition they picked up on their travels in Europe, I would love to adopt it. Each new dinner guest had their name and the evenings date written on a wooden clothes peg, this was used as in place of a napkin ring. The others were able to work out when they first ate at the lakeside table.

When the plates were cleared away and the domino set brought out, the pegs were clipped on top of the others on a thick string suspended from the ceiling, by this expedient one could work out who was due another dinner invitation. Such a welcoming home, it looked like another string would soon be needed.

Throughout the week we ate together between the houses, in most cases we fellas did the cooking while the women drank gin and tonics. Though to be fair this excused us from the washing up for the most part, allowing me to work on my game of dominoes. It is a totally different game when playing with math majors!

Thankyou all for inviting me into your community, and the bears also, for choosing to dine elsewhere.

Jim

Friday night San Franciso

2009-06-28T13:04:00.000-07:00

The title is also the name of one of my dessert island albums by guitarists Al Di Meola, John McLaughlin and Paco de Lucía. The B sides' Egberto Gismonti piece - Frevo Rasgado recorded in the year of my birth gave me rushes long before I ever heard of MDMA and still does.

I caught a ride up from Glendales to San Fran with Megan and Genevieve, friends I had made whilst waiting out the tropic storms in the Cook Islands. After a late start, frustrated further by incomplete directions that did not account for the one way system, meant we arrived later than planned. So far on this whole adventure I had not booked accommodation in advance, preferring to be spontaneous and having trust that it will work out. So far I have only had to sleep in city parks twice, and even then it was dry and I had my thermarest and a green bivibag to hide amongst the bushes in.

Friday night at eleven pm in the summer was pushing it a bit, but after wandering a few miles in the familiar city I found a cramped but friendly place in Chinatown – the biggest one in the US.

My Mum was very concerned that I had called my last blog entry “Swansea, do I judge thee to harshly”, somehow missing out the extra “o”, insisting I correct the mistake ASAP. I remembered while enthroned in the hostel restroom, I hate to sit down without something to read, at a push, I will read the ingredients of shampoo bottles. I had kept this compact laptop in my daysac along with other things of value, and attempted to correct the error.

The latch did not align properly with the door, and I was surprised by a girl who burst in. I heard her giggling up the hall - “He was sat there typing on his computer..” I cannot be the only one who gets inspired to creativity in these private moments. Fear not dear readers I am now typing from more salubrious surroundings.

The last time I was in San Fran, eighteen months ago I had stayed in a hostel between Union Square and the Tenderloin. The Tenderloin got its name for the cut of steak given at the end of a shift to police officers who were prepared to patrol this notorious downtown area. Here it is not in the least bit unusual to see a seventy year old transvestite arguing with a one legged prostitute, blatant drug deals or an old black man passed out in an alley wearing a full Father Christmas costume.

I called in to the same hostel and was warmly recognized by Nicola, the receptionist who had greated me on my last visit in mock sarcastic cockney “I suppose you want a room do ya?”

“How wonderful to hear some good British surliness” I replied, and asked where she was from. It transpired that we not only been at a party at the Center for Alternative Technology at the same time, but had mutual friends recently moved to the city. She had been the third person to suggest I visited Arcata in Northern California, a magically little town amongst the great redwoods where I left a large part of my heart.

By now you will not be surprised to hear it was that night I met two girls and a guy driving back to their homes there, who kindly gave me a ride, and put me up on their respective sofas. There began a whole other story, I could not help dwelling over, as I lay in the same bed I coincidentally been assigned on my last visit. Spooky huh!

On this occasion, Nicola had that previous night been at the same party as our mutual friends Jon and Amanda from the “Crusty Quarry” as CAT is affectionately called. Being part of the largest MSc course in the UK has its advantages, one being a network of hippy friends all over.

Since I saw them last John and Amanda had married and set up home in the Mission, or the Gaybourhood as it is known, in a recent survey 30 percent of its inhabitants had identified themselves as gay, bi or transgender, compared with 13 percent in San Fran as a whole.

I learned this little factoid on a walking tour the three of us joined, learning how to date the various architectural styles of the area and visiting sites connected with Harvey Milk, the free speech movement, and labour rights demonstrations. This being Sunday we passed a church whose largely male congregation walked hand in had to the stirring voices of Thomas Tallis motet Spem in Aelium - (Sing and Glorify)

I continued my walk to Haight Ashbury, the epicenter of the sixties counterculture, past the house where the Grateful Dead lived communally. Called into the Anarchist bookstore to pick up some zines and to ask after further references from the owner I had met on my previous visit. It was the occasion of the Haight Street fair, the atmosphere was electric, previously the staff and I were the only ones in the shop, drinking tea in the rain. He directed me to the next bookshop for titles I love, right on 1970's counterculture how to books. He warned me that the owner was a weirdo - too right! I sign inside read "no cameras - you will be asked to leave", and beneath in equally angry white letter "if you ask why you will be asked to leave"!

I continued along Grand, past Union square, through China gate, pausing at Ferlinghetti's' infamous City Lights bookstore next to the street renamed Jack Kerouac, through the museum of the beats, Through Chinatown to North Beach. I committed to memory the lines from the end of Kerouac's On the road, describing Neal Cassady hoping to be able to recite it my mind, when I reach New York and look back:-

"So in America when the sun goes down and I sit on the old broken-down river pier watching the long, long skies over New Jersey and sense all that raw land that rolls in one unbelievable huge bulge over to the West Coast, and all that road going, and all the people dreaming in the immensity of it, and in Iowa I know by now the children must be crying in the land where they let the children cry, and tonight the stars'll be out, and don't you know that God is Pooh Bear? the evening star must be drooping and shedding her sparkler dims on the prairie, which is just before the coming of complete night that blesses the earth, darkens all the rivers, cups the peaks and folds the final shore in, and nobody, nobody knows what's going to happen to anybody besides the forlorn rags of growing old, I think of Dean Moriarty, I even think of Old Dean Moriarty the father we never found, I think of Dean Moriarty...."

Santa Barbara - couchsurfing again

2009-06-28T10:51:00.000-07:00

From my last posts you will know I decided to spend no time in LA, and headed straight to Santa Barbara. I was keen to be Couch Surfing again after the resort in the Cook Islands.

While in the Cooks I had been fortunate to get to know the mainly Fijian staff who were running the resort. They too of course were outsiders, though they showed me incredible hospitality, sharing food and kava in their homes.

Again and again I have been touched by the kindness of strangers. During my last few days in Rarotonga, recovering from a nasty throat infection I was was walking back from town when a guy car turned his car around to ask if I needed a lift. After spending the previous day in bed I was glad to be walking, but I knew he would be upset if I turned down the offer. While we chatted I learned he was a pastor who had recently returned from a meeting in California. I commented how strange it was that mopeds were so much cheaper to rent than bicycles. Given the choice I prefer to cycle, its so much more peaceful and you see more wildlife.

At this he turned of to his house to lend me his bicycle, asking only that I dropped it back when I left, no sermon just a good neighbor.

One might assume such hospitality was the preserve of a safe little island community, but this was not so. Through couch surfing I contacted Wes who had recently moved into a shared house after a year of motor cyling around South America.

---Rant Alert---

Lloyds TSB once again stopped my card, this has happened in almost every country I have visited, despite telling them over and over of my plans. It is generally only a quick phone call to get service again, but does cause a lot of worry. The worst is when the ATM swallowed the card after too many denials. One may have intended to pass through the town, so cannot wait till the branch opens to pick it up. Worse, is having to find an address to get a replacement sent to by an uncertain date, and somehow getting there without funds.

It is for this reason I have got into the habit of traveling with at five cards, and keep some cash in reserve. The banks are convinced such behavior is indicative of money laundering so will not allow me to open any more accounts. I have met other travelers who had the same issues with LloydsTSB. We both tried to transfer funds between our own accounts to ones that do not charge such extortionate rates to get at your own money. We both found our cards stopped,then had to wait days for the transfer to occur once it was finally sorted out, all the time collecting precious interest. Grrrr

---Rant over---

I had just finished a yin yoga class at the Santa Barbara yoga centre, and was feeling totally relaxed, and looking forward to choosing a bottle of wine and some honey to take to my couch surfing host.

He lived a little way out of town, and agreed to meet me along the road between downtown Santa Barbara and his place.I would have felt very bad if I had to borrow his phone to call the bank, and have to owe my contribution to the grocery bill before even getting to know one another. Thankfully I had enough to buy a calling card, and inbetween his calls to find out where I was, and to the call centre in South Wales, managed to get the thing working again.

My host was joined by another couchsurfer from Russia and quickly made us feel welcome. He introduced us to the pleasures of barbequed tri-tip steak, his freshy made piquant salsa and the local tramp fuel – Simpler times lager at 6 percent, and 2.99 USD for a six pack. One could imagine the advertising the product, a bum happily pissed reminiscing;- I used to have, a wife, a house and a car, now its Simpler Times...

Uni Santa Barbara, like many I have visited the university has a very open access policy, allowing me free internet access in the library. I was able to photocopy some great material for my book research and update the blog with the last seven weeks of adventures. Not easy to concentrate, as it seems hot pants never went out of fashion here, I wondered how much time the students had for lectures with all the effort they must have put into their fine physiques.

One diner nearby observed that Santa Barbara was at that sweet spot on the globe where the folks put in an great deal of effort in their appearance like those in LA, but were not completely vacuous. I was entertained by his misadventures as a ladies tennis coach in a nearby obscenely wealthy suburb nearby. This is the land of bored silicone filled trophy wives, botox mishaps, duodenal ulcers, thrombosis and erectile dysfunction...

Back at the house, We took turns in cooking, and enjoyed great conversation over wine, before crashing out on the sofa with in the large lounge shared with a lab, retriever and an old but spirited sausage dog – who was convinced he was bigger than the other two put together. Yet another great couchsurfing experience, a new friend, I really hope to return the favour should he or his housemates find themselves in Wales.

When I later sat in an organic wholefood cafe, and overheard two guys drinking herbal tea, discussing cleanses and their mens groups, I knew I was back in California for sure. These groups have become very popular here, with adverts all over for places to “be still with fellow men and discover your inner warrior”. Call me unevolved if you like, but whats wrong with the Pig and Whistle and real ale?

Swansea – do I judge thee too harshly?

2009-06-11T15:14:00.000-07:00

Now in Santa Barbara, near LA

Back in the world of fast free internet I caught up with friends online, and enjoyed catching up on the gossip from home. A good friend thought, for those who do not know me well, it might seem that I have a downer on my home town, and the UK in general.

My friend, like me, is one who likes to play characters in jest, trusting that those around can see through those facades to the real person beneath. I recently discovered, it is a form of social play particularly developed in only children, like us. I have also learned that not everybody gets, or appreciates it – with some folks, what you see is really all you get.

I thought to write about home, from this sticky hot room in Santa Barbara some things to even the balance.

There is a Russian word I have heard, but cannot spell, which means “I love you, but I hate you right now”, just one word! It somes up feelings many people have towards their hometowns. One cannot live in any small town all ones life, without seeing both sides. I can see now, looking back how strangers may not know the love I do feel for the place.

Swansea's most famous son, Dylan Thomas - the fat poet with slim volumes, called it an ugly lovely town. He wrote some his most stirring poems of the town without getting overly sentimental, yet was known in temper to say “Land of my father's?, my fathers can keep it!”, and at the time I believe he meant it.

The UK is at least on a human scale, and the old town, Swansea is more human than most. If I wanted to reduce myself to a blubbing mess, there are two pieces that get me by yur every time. One is a quote from the fabulous Hunter S. Thompson describing San Fransisco in the middle sixties:-

"There was madness in any direction, at any hour. If not across the Bay, then up the Golden Gate or down 101 to Los Altos or La Honda. . . . You could strike sparks anywhere. There was a fantastic universal sense that whatever we were doing was right, that we were winning. . . .

And that, I think, was the handle—that sense of inevitable victory over the forces of Old and Evil. Not in any mean or military sense; we didn’t need that. Our energy would simply prevail. There was no point in fighting—on our side or theirs. We had all the momentum; we were riding the crest of a high and beautiful wave. . . ."

Though I was too young to experience the cultural ferment of those heady days, I have always been drawn to the movements and ideas that came out of the West Coast in that era, and hoped to refine its essential values.

They say the British have no idea of distance, and the Americans no idea of history. I did not stop in Los Angeles, I got on the first bus following the same 101 highway South, gazed in horror at the six lanes of traffic in either direction, the sprawling, smoggy, inhumanness. Though that first wave has long rolled back, new places are going through the same phases, so much of our modern world is the result of those inspired energetic people – who used the emerging technology to develop their beautiful visions.

The internet owes a massive debt to those countercultural luminaries, who saw the potential for switched networks to share tools necessary to implement those visions as books like the Whole Earth Catalogue had done in paper form.

The other piece that gets me "by yur" every time is Dylan's Return Journey, I have a crackly copy on tape, read aloud by a Richard Burton, his Welsh tones lilting defiantly over his trained BBC English. After touring America, Dylan comes home to hunt the ghost of his youth. He takes the listener on a walk through the city from the bombed out shops that are not there anymore, Ben Evans, down flat Gower street, the Kardoma cafe– then on High Street, the Three Lamps, and into some pubs I used to frequent, winding up to park bench in Cwmdonkin.

I cannot be the only one who called it Donkey Park as a little un?

Like the Russian word, there is one in Welsh that captures a feeling like no other. More than longing for homeland, more than nostalgia or yearning is hiraeth.

It describes a feeling I have not experienced so strongly since I heard a recording of Morrison Opheous choir singing appropriately “Swansea Town” in a tea shop in Gaiman, a small Welsh colony in the pampas of Patagonia.

On a sentimental mental journey from this stuffy downtown room full of sleep talkers and drunken Germans I have:-

Walked through Clyne Gardens in Spring,

Sat on the steps joining King Edward Road with Eaton Crescent, where post pub confidences are shared over secret smokes.

Re-climbed each of the Three Cliffs, Britains first area of outstanding natural beauty and first sight of special scientific interest. I maintain Gower has beautiful beaches to rival any I have seen in the world.

Mused that I can walk into any pub between Uplands Tav and the Queens hotel by the docks with its moth eaten bear and be sure of seeing somone I know, even if only to say “Orright!”

Visited The Grand theatre – the majesty of its boxes, set off by the reassuring dullness of their schedule.

Watched Shakespere by the rep theatre infront of Oystermouth Castle in the summer, blankets on knees with fish and chips from Covellis and wine

Flown, near sleep over the pointy self similar rows of houses Brynmill and the old friends living in them

I am not a nationalist, the whole world and stars are as much mine as anybody elses. Though given the scale I am more theirs than they are mine....

Like every county there are things I like and dislike about the UK. But I have ranted enough in other posts of things I dislike, so

Things I do like about Britain -

Sense of humour, the taboo against taking anything too seriously – which I am sure goes some way to keeping our society so peaceful.

Police brutality still shocks most people

Britain is far more tolerant of other cultures that anywhere else I have been

The BBC, especially Radio 4

Curry is available in the smallest of towns until very late

We do not go in for flag waiving much

No experience is legally required to put to sea on a boat

Good range of cheeses

ummm......

Cook Island Adventure

2009-06-11T15:04:00.000-07:00

I had really got used to having a constant companion, so it felt strange sitting next to people on the plane who did not want to talk much. I was not much for talking either as these notes written soon after arriving show:-

Feeling a little like Jack Torrence in the Shining – the Stephen King film, in which a writer struggling with his alcoholic past seeks isolation overwintering a grand old hotel to complete his novel. Disastrous consequences for his young family and himself result when the spirits of the place are upset. The outside shots were filmed at the Timberline Hotel near Mount Hood in Oregon in the Pacific North West.

I had camped in the same National park two winters ago. The heavy snows of the weeks before had frozen to a hard packed crust. The low sun had melted the slight impressions our boots had made, but a heavy fall was forecast. The window afforded a beautiful soundless vista, the dark native conifers had a strangely computer generated feel. One of the early difficulties of creating believable virtual images of the natural world was giving distant objects a far away feel. Simulated mists or clouds would be added to the scene to give depth. Out here, the high air pressure clean air made the landscape seem almost too real to be real.

In the South Wales Valleys, the monotonous straight rows of forestry commission are as offensive to my eye as opencast, blotting out the light below, impoverishing the soil and burning fast with a spiting flame to acrid smoke.

In their native setting of dwarfing peaks and volcanic lakes, hanging heavily with old mans beard, these trees had the ethereal air of a painting by Thomas Kincaid. Unlike the paintings of that American master of light, I sensed a darkness there. In times of strife I have found great comfort in lowland British woodlands, surrounded by life one feels more alive, more at home here than a house, the plants like familiar faces. Out here in the boonies, nature felt harder, indifferent to our concerns, it just is.

Our typical explorers meal of hot smoked steelhead and grits was washed down with hot coffee and icy Laphroig whisky. The greasy plates wiped with more old mans beard and tossed into the frozen creek bed fire – for a few moments animating strange shapes deep in forest. The pair of us slept in our well used hammocks amongst the native conifers, just inside the forest, a little distance from where we had hung our food from bears, fifty miles from the nearest building which at that time of year would have been empty.

Like most of Stephen King's novels and films the Shining uses a supernatural mysterious force, the wendigo or a soured burial ground to draw the characters dark side towards expression. The terrifying aspects of denied subconscious forces, that may unwind their own narrative beneath the surface.

Socially unacceptable, personally undesirable leftover aspects of the personality that surface when the guard is let down, like the friendly old bachelor who becomes bitter and lecherous in drink, an argument with a loved one that cuts deeper than a stranger's ever could.

.........

Funny how after getting ill, one often feels better than one did before. I had a very nasty throat infection, possibly from the shared coconut cup. More likely I felt, that after truly relaxing the bugs took their chance to catch me. After four days where every swallow hurt, and my lips swelled up I finally admitted defeat and bought some amoxycillin, vit C and echinacia which licked it in a few days. Tea tree can only do so much!

The place I am writing from now could not be more different. I am looking upon banana palms barely moving, framing a postcard scene of a turquoise sea meeting a powder blue early morning sky. A few long thin strips of cloud, perfectly parallel the ship less horizon. Six or seven puffs of cloud have hugged the same quarter of the sky since my last cup of coffee.

Rarotonga is at the same latitude as two places I have still have a yearning to visit, Madagascar, the Chilean dessert and the Great Barrier Reef. The Islands occupy a sea area of over 2 million square kilometers, though Cook never set foot here on this largest of the Archipelago. Unlike other places on this global wander the island is as hassle free as one could imagine a tropical New Zealand dependent in the South Pacific could be. There are no poisonous snakes, sharks, or dangerous mammals, the people friendly and laid back. The dogs that roam around the island bark half heartedly a menace only to to moped drivers.

The hillstation where I was to spend the two weeks was like the rest of t island in this current crisis almost totally empty. In a place which could easily accomodate thirty five, there were three of us. The big kitchen still had plenty of food left over from other guests, just as well, as the prices in the shops were pretty high. I had wrongly put the remains of my NZ Manuka honey in the amnesty box at the airport grrr.

The other guests were an Irish chap and an older guy from Middlesborough. He had visited the Islands two years before, and had helped the maid escape from a landlord who was expecting her to clean and cook for him besides paying rent.

She invided the older guy and myself to drink kava with them at the house she was now living in. Kava is a bre native to Fiji. It is the ground root of the plant piper methsycum, which is drunk from coconut shells in rounds. I was unexpectedly given the speak of honour, next to the server, who stirred the fine powder through a cloth in a large bowl to made the muddy tasting liquid.

It is drunk in one go, otherwise the tongue goes numb and very slowly, very gently produces a pleasant lucid, relaxing state. In no way intoxicating, though we drank it steadily through the evening the effect was similar in effect to camomile tea. The gentle and friendly manner of these Fijian emigrees touched us greatly. We were encouraged to drink a beer at the end to wash the kava away. Though we had brought several cans with us, they gave us beer and a delicious chicken, taro and cocoanut curry to take away. They did warn us however, that the next day we would be more than lazy.

Fourteen hours sleep lazy infact – I awoke, aware I had been dreaming a lot, but felt very well rested. I eased myself into a gentle yoga practice. This spot seemed the perfect place to rest, write and plan the next stage of the trip.

I took this time to get back into yoga practice, it is a lot easier to do when somewhere warm. Yoga on the deck beside the pool is always preferable to a cramped hotel room, glad of the extra warmth of the possum hair blanket I picked up in NZ.

Over the two weeks I met a couple from the UK, Ant and Pavela who regularly visted Threecliffs having relations in Linkside, and enjoyed singalongs with the guitar. Ant was another ex-IT person, taking time out, and a great musician, composing a song about the beef curry I was making with the few ingrediants we could find left by previous guests!

I could not resist wandering into the university, and after mentioning my intrest in improvisation, and local ingenuity I was introduced to the director who showed a keen interest, and helpfuly pointed me in the direction of some appropriate literature.

Too soon, Ant and Pavela were to leave, we went out for a few drinks and met Ralph, at 6'7” the smallest of seven brothers. His sister at 6'5” holds the current olympic gold for shot put. Though he claimed to be getting drunk for the second time that day, he gave me a fascinating account of the migration routes, and navigation methods of his forebears. He described a coconut shell, filled with oil, and having very acurrately bored holes to get a transit line from the southern cross.

The hillstation was now home to three of us, two younger lads on their first big trip. So nice to meet people of that age who are not getting drunk every night on their parents money. The food available in the supermarkets was not great, but we shared making some great meals from the abundant coconuts, star fruit, bananas growing nearby and canned tuna. My little axe was a great help getting through the tough fibrous shells of the coconuts, and the juice delicious. The guys were amateur boxers and really took to yoga, joining me for sessions every day, I am looking forward to hearing how they find home, when they make it back in a few short weeks.

I decided to look up the titles I had been recommended by Ralph and the director of the university. I fell into conversation with the owner of the bookshop who recommended one title. He thought it was totally appropriate to my endevour to live the principles of improvisation I had been exploring. He doubted I would find a copy though, as it was long out of print, and not well known.

The title was “Confessions of a Supertramp by W.H. Davies”, published in 1908 describing six years intermittently working, and begging across America and Canada by a poetic soul yearning for peace and struggling for self-expression. He was from Pill Newport, South Wales.

I had that very title in my backpack! My lovely writing friend had bought me a copy in a booksale in a one horse town back in New Zealand! It was right next to the biography of Margaret Meads I had bought for her.

New Zealand retrospective Part II

2009-06-11T14:51:00.000-07:00

I certainly had a lot to think about on those first days in Christchurch,NZ. I arrived from Sydney the day before Anzac day and spent the first few nights in a Base Backpackers, I try to avoid these more popular ones, they are loud, expensive and do not allow alcohol. Of course this made me want to drink – the easiest way to make me do something is to tell me I am not allowed.

The first thing I noticed about New Zealand was the change of pace, even in the city the traffic was pretty slow and sedate, the architecture more British. The Irish bar around the corner from the hostel contained a couple of old guys who I joined them to hear re-tellings of their fathers stories from Galipoli. A close cropped thick set bloke approached our group, and asked if I was a marine, apparently Buffallo tops like the one I was wearing are hard to get, but considered good kit as I have found them to be.

The Cathedral in Christchurch held an early remembrance service, I was sorry to have slept through , arriving in time to see young Cadets salute the cenotaph solemnly, placing a poppy – then giggling and chatting moments later.

On my second day of wandering I called into an antiques shop, amazed to see in the window two Doulton figurines, a cottage shaped butter lid and silver soap dish I knew from my Grandmothers house. When coincidences start like this it tends to be a catalyst for more – probably selective attention, but thats not the whole story.

The next shop was a book store in the window I saw five books from my own collection, two by authors I had met in person. The lady in charge was very helpful in my quest to find books on Kiwi ingenuity and put some titles by for me, including one I had not spotted from the Centre for Alternative Technology and a great volume of personally influential environmental essays I had never found bound together before.

Walking back to the hostel with my bundle I called into a map to plan my trip and got talking to the owner, a former marine who also remarked on my top. He had been camping in Three Cliffs Bay, Gower, where I work often, only two weeks before bivvying in the exact spot I had spent many formative nights as a young teenager!

Back at the hostel I met Nicholas, a thoughtful Argentina guy from Cordoba, a city I had visited on my first solo trip, and was interested to hear how the experiences of living there in the current downturn compared with those of difficult years after their economic crash. We became friends and I was happy to have someone to listen to on the drive down to Queenstown.

My transport was a Toyota Sprinter with a suspicious stain above the passenger seat, which could have been blood or coffee, I was never quite sure. We stopped en route at Lake Takapo to camp out under a tarp, it had been too long coming, I needed an uninterrupted view of the sky and camp fire. We cooked pork and beef steaks planked beside the fire and made a great sauce with tomatoes, chillis, anchovies and herby cream cheese triangles. With my Buffallo, wool cap, bergen and his parka we looked like we were on our way to Goose Green. Being sympatico we drank toasts of cheap red wine to our shared heroes including Che Guevara, George Borges and John Lennon until the box was empty.

Queenstown is the place to go if you want to jump off, or slide down something very high or fast relatively cheaply. My folks will be pleased to hear I did none of those things, content to enjoy the jaw dropping scenery and local characters.

One memorable encounter was with a huge kiwi who had walked from Auckland to Queenstown over the previous three months wearing a Swandri shirt (A long heavyweight woolen top, normally worn by farmers), board shorts full of strong beers and flip flops.

He was bit of a handful around the bars with his unique brand of humour. In the first bar, he asked the barmaid her favorite animal.

She said “An otter”,

He replied that an “an otter is a poor choice, it has very small ears and smells of fish ...” his favourite, appropriately, an elephant, was far better.

“Well I like otters, with their little hands!” she replied. The kiwi maintained that an elephant was far more impressive, could lift logs with its nose, and has much better ears, while the queue was getting deeper and impatient. He then confounded us by conversing at length with others in fluent Spanish and Japanese!

The hostel was pleasant enough, but not being much of a drinker or keen to do anything “extreme” with a 100 percent safety record I dropped off the Argentinian guy at his bus, and drove West across the Island to Dunedin to visit an old uni friend who since I last saw him had settled there, marrying a lovely kiwi girl Michelle and had a two week old son Alfie. They were so welcoming, even though the little fella was feeding every one and a half hours. It was wonderful to catch up, having not seen one other for six years, and though so many things had happened, we were still the same in many ways. Sitting down to the first sunday roast in six months was such a treat, as were the friends and family invited to join us, thanks guys!

I then headed back to Christchurch, excitedly awaiting the arrival the special lady writer who made leaving Newcastle so hard. The hotel by the airport came as a deal including breakfast and free drinks, but we were too late coming down. After explaining about the delayed flight and how we were so looking forward to catching the Hot Springs at Hanmer before dark, the staff relented, and made us a special picnic that really made the day.

The hot pools were much appreciated after the long drive and our log cabin very cosy, but next morning I could not find my camera – containing the shots of camping at Takapo, my visit to Gregs little family and other precious moments. Worse, I still had on the camera photos of bank cards I had not got around to encrypting. It was a terrible feeling driving back to our picnic spot, I remembered putting it down on the boot, but not what happened next, I did not expect to see it again.

Amazingly, after giving up on the park we drove off, but spied it beside the road on the grassy verge ofter a corner. A little damp, but otherwise unharmed by its travels and night out– we picked up a hitchhiker in the rain in an attempt to pass our good luck on, and it was....

Takaka – a hippy village at the top of the South Island was a very chilled place to spend a few days, with great organic meals, good coffee, and the best and cheapest accommodation so far. By this point my new friend had heard many of my silly stories, including my homemade orange wine named matchmaker for its resemblance to the chocolate orange confection, and the several couples who got together through loosing all inhibitions after drinking it.

Over breakfast in the hippy hostel I saw a familiar face, but I could not remember where from. It was she who remembered first, “Second year! Aberystwyth Uni, you used to have a big beard and kept squirrels in the fridge, there was a party, we got devastatingly drunk on orange wine!” We asked after mutual friends from those heady student days and shook our heads in disbelief, small world indeed.

Over the next few weeks we shared an amazing time visiting sights and having a very touristy time of it, whilst covering a lot of ground, rarely staying more than one night in any place.

New Zealand retrospective Part I

2009-06-11T14:50:00.000-07:00

I had not blogged my adventures in New Zealand at the time, and confined my last communications from Australia to sparse emails to a few close friends and family. The irony is, the more that happens the less one blogs about it. The best parts of this adventure may never be told, they are jewels I want to keep for myself. Now in the Cooks Islands there is no excuse not to catch up with the blog.

It was a sad time leaving friends old and new in Newcastle, New South Wales. To make the most of my last few days I traveled through the night to make my flight rather than spending the day before in my departure city. Sometimes its better to be busy rather than having time to brood.

The first few days in a new country I tend to walk about do not socialize much, some fruit in my rucksack, a map sometimes, and a book if I want to hide away, but mostly follow my nose. It is such a luxury of solo travel to do this, for me an essential stage in bedding down the experiences of the past, and leveling space for the next adventure.

Hostels can be such tiresome places, people often talk about where they have been, and where they are going, rarely where they are at. One can travel the well worn path through Asia and onto Australia and New Zealand in a safe but expensive bubble, polishing tales for better reception. I do not blame the people who do this, I am sure if I had started this adventure at twenty I would have done pretty much the same, recalling the strange, lost feelings of my first solo trip, when arriving in a new city without a reservation seemed daring. When seeing a group of Westerners I would want to be part of it, like a lonely island dog.

There may be no new frontier, but one can go always go deeper. If the sights tire, then one can always look to the infinite landscape inside – thats where the real journey begins. If one always seek the comfort of others one can only go so far. There are so much more to ask than “Where did you go?”, “Where did you drink?”, “Did you get sick?”

Something vital is lost when a journey becomes anecdotes. With new people only really wants to share the highlights – the parts that shock or make people laugh incredulous. But it is the darker times really transform, the losses or burning of naive illusions that allow the spirit to ascend. A lonesome walk though an industrial landscape may have an inner quality, one could never have in natural beauty.

If one moves rapidly between countries while connecting deeply with the people and landscape, there must be a time to reflect alone, knowing that even in a group the experiences are the product of one's own previous experiences and combinations of feelings you alone have felt, making travel the loneliest pursuit.

Sydney, Newcastle - friends and reminiscences

2009-06-11T14:46:00.000-07:00

yndey was beginning to feel like any other big city, not like I expected it to be at all which I put down to us so often seen aerial shot, when on the ground it looks like any other Western port city, was I becoming jaded?

I was looking forward to catching up with Nicola and Craig, friends from the UK I had not seen in almost three years. It would be lovely to see them both – Nicola and I had taught together on some really memorable bushcraft adventures. Craig had been through the same vipassa course I had followed in India. Though I knew him less well – we had a lot in common through our experience, even though one is very much alone with ones thoughts.

This mood was soon lifted by a message Janelle, a travel companion from Cambodia, and program exec for MTV. I'm not sure what she does really, but it includes deciding when programs go on air and seeing lots of gigs. We caught over a duck and hoisin pizza, a new one to me, aove the harbour bridge. She had another gig that night, and after the guy fitting in the room, I needed to catch up on sleep.

We later spent a lovely day seeing the sights of Bondi and North Sydney. Not like I imagined either, Bondi reminded me a little of Langland. At her flat I had used google earth to find Nicolas house, and walked there from the Train Station at Newcastle. She was away, but had left a key on a seat occupied my Maude the tortoiseshell cat who shared her house with two other girls.

Nicola, had invited me to stay at her flat in Newcastle a few hours outside Sydney, I was excited to see a familiar face and also to catch up with Aimelee a fellow South Walian I had met on a rainforest adventure in Borneo. Aimeelee had recently moved to town from up north, where she had been working as a psychiatric nurse with the aboriginal community, having felt stifled at home!

The key would not open the door, I had not found the other entrance to the flat on the other side of the house. Carefully moving the mirror, bottles of perfume and tooth glasses from the shelf, I was able to climb in through the window without spilling anything. The cat was upset at my presence, but sluttishly rubbed around my legs when I filled her bowls and stopped mewling, though she did not like to be stoked much.

Nicola had left instructions to help myself from her cupboard and to sleep in her room while she was away hangliding, and I took great pleasure relaxing, stretching and reading the great collection of books in the living room – so many familiar from my own shelves. Some expected counter culutre heroes: - Chomsky, Nietzche, Lao Tzu and some self help books, one on tarot another on neo-tantra.

Dawson Street is full of pretentious cafes with names like zinc and three monkeys, though at least here the yuppies had not totally taken over, and there was still an edge to the city. The industry was giving way to tourism in the same way as Swansea, and like my home town was struggling with its identity.

Craig took me out for several days whitewater canoing at the centre where he has been instructing. Through 11ks I was blown away by the scenery, drank lots of river water and learned not to grap at branches! By the second day on the river I had got better control. A sit on top this time – very similar to the one I used at home. Even so I got wet, the only one to stay dry was a child, on their first time – so much for experience.

Craig and I We camped out that night, I cooked potatoes in the fire had an interesting chat with other campers, teachers ans students of a Christian resilance course. On the third day we were sat on a hill after meditation, enjoying a meal of pasta and putanesca sauce, overlooking a beautiful area, soon to become an opencast mine if plans go ahead.

I returned to Nicola's, glad to rest my muscles and met her housemates. We got really well, sharing stories, explored the coast, and had some memorable free meals. Its amazing what supermarkets through away, when a new delivery arrives it seems the existing stock is thrown, no matter what its condition. We scored a mountain of lemons, eggs, melons, potatoes – several weeks worth from the bins. We dined well, drank gin and saw an inspirational but disturbing gothic puppet show.

Craig invited to call around before I left, we went out for lunch, and were walking back, when I saw a sign for the Austrailian Institute of Celtic studies. The institute was closed, but over the course of my telephone enquiry the directors, a husband and wife invited me out to dinner at their club. Real Bob Hope Country, and an interesting conversation that touched on many aspects of Celtic identity and the experiences of the early settlers.

Though I had planned to leave for Sydney that morning, I made a lovely new friend who convinced me to stay a while longer....

Two Countries behind, what happened?

2009-06-07T17:30:00.000-07:00

A lot, thats what! I have a load of notes and pictures ready nearly ready to post. While in Asia it was a lot easier to post, anonymous people and the cultural differences were the experience. Now back in the West, it is real, identifiable, people who take up most of my thoughts.

In my next post, I will post my notes organised into a rough chronology. I am now in Santa Barbara having passed LA by without looking back, having flown ten hours from the Cook Islands. I could eat a scabby horse, but will post soon I promise.

Jim x

Melbourne revisited

2009-04-24T02:36:00.000-07:00

After three weeks in Apollo bay, I felt it was time to move on. I had a great time, learned a great deal, and enjoyed a much needed respite from the uncertainty of where to stay each night. It is expremely liberating to move about in that way, but after months of this, a regular place and a familiar face to come home to are priceless.

I headed back to Melbourne cluching the bag of cookies my generous host had provided for the journey taking time to visit the Twelve, now nine apostles on a trip back to Melbourne.

While taking photographs of those amazing natural sculptures I fell into conversation with George, another ex-IT person who had recently been in New Zealand and began a facinating conversation that lasted almost 2 days.

We shared the train ride with a rather fearful lady who told me all about how terrible the Vietnamese were (I asked her when she was last in Vietnam?) Ditto for Indians, how nice Surfers Paradise was ?!!!!!! (A more soulless place I could barely imagine, though the beach was nice.) She told me how Austrailia was becoming overcrowded with immigrants.

Until this point I had maintained British reserve, content to try and immerse myself in her world, and imagine what that would be like.I burst out laughing and dropped in the stat that more people live in Mumbai than the whole of Austrailia.

It was a terrible shock to discover she was a highschool teacher Thankfully most others are better informed.

George was a fascinating guy to talk to, and we agreed to meet the next day to carry on our conversation which lasted long into the night. Solo travel gives the opportunity to see the world on ones own terms. For me the tourist sights can be seen on documentaries or in picture books, but the opportunity to spend time with people is what makes travel such a broadening experience.

Well aware that that one may never see that person again allows a refreshing frankness. There is no need for the usual facades.

The next day caught up with Fletch, an inspirational young man who I met in Cambodia while he was teaching at a school for street kids. At just 18 he had a grasp of media and world issues most of us do not reach till much older, and some like our school teacher may never know.

Since Cambodia, I was releaved to see he had regained some weight having been very sick, though in the meantime managed to injure his knee, and his wrist while getting used to the crutches. His spirit was not damped though, and he showed me round some parts of town I would have totally missed.

On my way back to the hostel I had another of those moments which are becoming so familiar I'm not even surprised. Walking along with my $1.50 pizza slice I came across a familiar face, a girl from Nimbin who had shared her goon with me at the very straight edged hostel, one of the few Austrailians I had met staying in them. Aussie nationals are unable to stay in many hostels, they are for foreigners only.

She and her friend were going to see Reg D Barker a black comic in town for the Melbourne Comedy festival,with a friend and invited me along for a hilarious show, which opened with a piss take of British understatement and class conciousness. Though its true the funnier the show the harder to remember the gags, and you had to be there.

Back at the hostel some kids from the homecounties were point scoring over where they went to school, how tough it was in the city, I had really forgotten what tiresome social games that demogaphic still plays – brought into sharp comedy relief by the show I had just seen.

Thankfully there were some older folks, including my favourite drinking companions the sharp witted Scots and self effacing Irish whose banter is as gritty as it is honest.

An Aboriginal, who at first seemed drunk was making an arse of himself, asking people their names and where thay were from over and over, hassling women, demanding cigarettes and food from those too meek to refuse. His behaviour would not have been accepted from a white man. He was aware that he could get away with his intimidation because people were so afraid of appearing predudiced.

Common with some black fellers, I belive the land owns me not the other way around. As Alan Watts my favouite spiritual entertainer says - “The earth people's in the same was as an apple tree apples”, I feel I have the right to camp anywhere I please, and I'll stand up to anyone who is being an arse, whatever their colour. The middle class kids had left the foyer where I had been typing away and retreated out back.

Suprisingly when I looked him in firmly in the eye and told him to he was embarrasing himself and upsetting others, he apologised and went off to bed saying in parting “You're alright Jim! You Welsh are the black fellas of Europe I reckon”, and winked!

The next day Fletch invited me to his folks place, to stay and see their ecologically inspired house, self sufficient in power and water and a garden with peacherines, a cross between a peach and a nectarine, though unfortunatly they were not in season to taste.

His mum, an environmental consultant to Government on litter was a fascinating person to talk to, and kindly did some laudry and gave Flech and I some vouchers to use the hot springs. We drove to them in her Prius and stayed in the sulphorous springs till we were quite pruned.

That night I caught an overnight bus to Sydney, sitting next to an IT worker originally from Chennai, and chatted until we fell asleep.

The maritime museum in Sydney is amazing and thankfully free. When I explained my interest in scrimshaw on of the staff suggested I visit the government archives. One phone call and fifteen minutes later I was sat at a desk with six books the librarian had picked out for me on sailors crafts and survival at sea.

That night I met up with Janelle from Cambodia who had recommended the place Chris and I stayed while in Campot. While we caught up, she showed me the sights including the Harbour bridge and took me for half and half pumpkin and duck pizza in the Australia, a grand old pub above the harbour.

Back at the hostel a Korean fellow who was sat on his bunk drinking beer while typing on his laptop fell off, I laughed at his clumsiness but was shocked when he started fitting, his eyes rolling back in his head. I cleared the space around him and had reception call an ambulance. I could not believe the man on the desk continued with processing new arrivals instead of making the call straight away, I would like to think they were too shocked to realise what was going on. The paramedics were there within minutes – by which time he had stopped fitting and was in and out of consciousness. They gave him oxygen and looked in his bag for drugs or medication, finding nothing, and with the driest of humour remarked “Thank fuck he's Asian, he's neat!”

Apollo bay, responses to climate change, peak oil, etc

2009-04-05T21:27:00.000-07:00

Well its been a while since I posted here because so much has been going on, though I have covered very little physical distance.

I am now in Melbourne staying in the same bed I left to visit Apollo bay to practice partner yoga, massage, and deepen my understanding of permaculture with a very special person who has been successfully integrating these disciplines into a powerful unifying practice.

This blog is not appropriate to describe the powerful inner journey of these precious few weeks, but it will no doubt come over in future posts. For now, with apologies to Fern for my witterings as she calls them, some thoughts:-

This global wander has been an exploration of contrasts at a very interesting time for our world. True to the spirit of Gonzo and improvisation, I have thrown myself into many strange situations with full passion and observed my reactions, getting caught up in the thick – then freeing myself. Well aware that this time is both real life and an excursion from it. The word Holzwegge seems appropriate, meaning a circuitous wander that has value in itself.

It has been observed of Generation X, we, lacking responsibilities, living in extended youth, reach thirty and suddenly find ourselves in a rush to make up for lost time and become hyper-responsible.
On the cusp between heady, youthful freedom, potency and the diametric desire for more stable, life- preserving responsibility is a wild and confronting place to be – a microcosm of a global unfolding.

In the face of world economic slowdown, peak oil, climate change, those cognoscent are taking action in divers ways. Some are digging in with stores of tools, grain and medical supplies, preparing for chaotic scenes such as I witnessed in Argentina following the collapse of their economy.

Some are reacting dynamically by building resilience into their food, education and social networks, many influenced by the Transition Towns movement, swapping seeds, growing are sharing knowlegde via bulletin boards and web seminars.

Some are choosing to see the world while they still feel they can, others choosing to leave that potential alone and find comfort in goods, insurance policies and reinforce their own commitment to home, friends and partners.

Of that generation whose parents grew up in the shadow of Luftwaffe, and matured during the threat of the Oil crisis, nuclear war and miners strikes we were primed for darker times.

Amongst my classmates we have observed differences in those with younger, and older parents like mine who remember the bombed out shops and food rationioning. My Grandmother I percieved even as a child was still traumatised by those bombings (Swansea – my home town was bady hit) and a constant worrier until she died.

Witnessing the enforced resilience of Vientnam and Cambodia, and of the conciously evolving resilience of the permaculturists has renewed my hope for the human prospect.

The child of the 1950s inspired by Dan Dare comics, imagined electiricity too cheap to meter, flying cars and domestic robots. Throught my childhood in the 1980s, we children had a similar idea of the future, but even then the prospect seemed less rosy.

Two American television shows of the time were the only things that would bring me in from playing in the woods: -The A team and MacGuyver who could wind his way out of any tricky situation using his engineering knowledge, duct tape and his swiss army knife.

I had inherited books and chemistry sets from my parents, though trying to purchase the items for my experiements it was obvious times had changed much to my consternation. It was no longer possible to buy ammonia or hydrochloric acid as cleaners from a hardware store, an icecream seller would no longer “give you a piece of dry ice, for your experiments” even if refrigereation technology had moved on.

Most often one was met with products already processed into goods, and the question “What do you want it for ?” - not easy question to answer as a twelve year old, bent on making a model rocket engine or electified umbrella.

Fears of safety means a modern chemistry set that produces no bangs, noxious gasses or corrosive liquids. Surely that was most of the fun.

Inspired by a book – the Hackers Handbook, guaranteed to appeal to the – here was a world where one could really improvise, the ultimate tool of free expression. Now for once was the ultimate swiss army knife or chemistry sets, with nothing but the computer itself and oneself, with understandingand patience one could make it dance.

I took to progaming very quickly, having no interest in playing computer games, but the nineties ecological issues had brocken into mainstream conciousness bands such the levellers, crass, sang and screamed respectively about the issues of the day, and promoted a rural pastoral vision for the future. I too was caught up in the whorlwind, I still believe in the there is only One Way of life ( and thaaaats your own, your own, your own..... ) Now it feels to me at least, that drunken dream is becoming the sober reality in places and in ways I would never expected or ever imagined I would experience.

It was only later I realised the unity of these divergent themes.

When faced with a radical crisis, when the old way of being in the world, of interacting with each other and the realm of nature doesn't work anymore, when survival is threatened by seemingly insurmountable problems, an individual human – or species – will either die or become extinct or rise above their limitations with an evolutionary leap. This is the state of humanity now, and this is its challenge – Eckhart Tolle

The Stones were right “You can't always get what you want, but if you try sometimes, you get what you need” and I most certainly am

Home, Hiraeth, Old Friends and New

2009-03-19T00:02:00.000-07:00

I uploaded two posts this time, this is the second, enjoy :)

Independent solo world travel one may assume is the pursuit of the extreme individualist. Rather, it is the path of one who seeks greater connection, not less. What seems like bravery, is trust in others.

We do not need to be complete, we will miss the mark if we try to , that is why there are other people on the earth.

The duality of ones existence, between periods of separation, isolation, coming together, becoming deeply attached. From unity of conception, division of cells, separation from mother, bonding to the breast, weaning, starting out, then getting scared, separation from family home, joining with others as friends and lovers, parted by death, returning to dust.

Some days are great, most are good, but many are dull, and some lonely or downright depressing. But still one presses on, because ultimately it is worth it. The skills one learns, confidence, the different views and ways of living and a beautiful active network of friends all around the world.

Returning, home can seem hopelessly prosaic, conservative and provincial. The pettiness, and trivialities that people allow to bother them are stark. Later, I learned that those little details had a quality, little acts that were the bread and butter of social interaction. Life is in the details it seems, little, regular thoughtful actions do more for the good feelings of people around, than big gestures.

I remember visiting Clyne botanical gardens in a week or so after returning from my last big trip, parking in what was my usual spot when I rented a dear little cottage opposite. On returning, two angry pages of A4 were attached to my windscreen, explained how difficult it was for the owner to get out of his driveway, “I have to twist right around to see, causing stain to my neck...”, and how desperately inconsiderate I was, my former neighbour standing on his perfectly mown lawn, affronted, arms folded while I read the note.

If you have ridden an unlicenced motorcyle at speed through a police block to avoid paying a bribe, refused change to limbless beggars, and seen homes pulled apart by buldozers with people still in them, screaming, hysterically it is hard to have sympathy for the whinger in his near million pound house.

The miserable old bugger was moved to ink by my car spoiling his idyllic view, what would he have made of the cremation I saw from ten feet in Mumbai. The searing heat, the sweet roast pork smell..

I have shared rooms with people I met only minutes before, and went on to spend weeks in each others company, sharing many stories, meals and sleeping spaces. Yet, returning, visited familiar homes, and not been offered time for a cup of tea and a conversation, the television still blaring inanities un-muted.

At times travelled hundreds of miles, slept rough, and walked for many miles in the heat to meet for a single conversation, yet friends would not walk to my house from town.

Lovers have flown half way around the world to share precious times, yet family members will not drive for twenty minutes to join me for lunch!

Rant over!!!!

I now realize people are just getting on with their own lives, in their own worlds, that have different limits to my own. Something the more experienced travelers have painfully learned to accept...

Leaving behind Crystal Waters Permaculture Village, sitting on the railway platform, I was joined by another wanderer who accepted my offer of a banana, and shared tales of hitching.

My last hitched ride had been with a red-neck whose hobbies included hunting wild pigs with a crossbow. His recreation might seem more unusual to others, but I listened with keen interest, we swapped recipes for sausages, pates and rillet.

In Bundaberg after another night in the park, I visited family friends, Greg and Delyth, admitting a touch of hireath seeing Greg's own water-colour rendering of Worms head, Gower, and the Welsh dresser I knew from happy childhood visits. The last time we met was in dry dock aboard their steel yacht Kate in which they had crossed the Atlantic, sailed on many occasions with my folks, myself and had been their base while moving back and forth between UK and Australia.

Just like the previous occasion, we managed to make a mess of ourselves, last time in Milford haven, on Bundaberg rum, this time in Bundaberg on native red wine. The couple have done many things I have longed to do, they farmed in Wales and sailed around the world. Two seemingly incompatable dreams that I have also shared.

Spending time with them I was able to unwind in the sea, in their pool, get laundry done, and get the chance to explain the reasons for my journey with people who knew me before I had known myself. They had been close friends of my late father, and knew better than anyone the dance between freedom and security I have inherited.

It had been my intention to travel to Cairns to dive the Great Barrier Reef, before flying South. This would not be possible, all trains to the area had been cancelled due to the flooding caused by the unseasonal rains. My generous hosts had planned to travel down the coast, and offered me a lift. My new intention to head to Fraser Island with camping and spearfishing in mind. Again I was thwarted by Hurricane Hamish, so I found myself on a train bound for familiar Brisbane.

From Brisbane I flew to Melbourne that night. Brisbane had been a welcoming city, but I felt I had been circling it like water around a plughole, reversed in this hemisphere.

Melbourne is a strange city, or at least Fitzroy is, the gentrified hippy artsy quater where I spent most of my time amongst the immaculately disheveled cappuccino crowd. Finding accommodation for one night only proved difficult, so again I bedded down in the park. The bivvy bag was unnecessary that dry night, so I slept with an extra layer under my Buffalo top on the thermarest.

The next morning I decided to smarten myself up with a lingering breakfast of eggs Florentine , good coffee, and morning Ashtanga class. The militant, wiry Scottish instructor was dubious about being able to handle his class, but allowed me a place near the back.

This was without doubt the most challenging class I have ever completed, though of course the battle is with ones self, and should not be a battle....

If my trousers and shirt had been soaked in a bucket of sweat, they would have been no wetter. At the end he shook my hand, and asked me if I had been to Mysore – the home that demanding yoga practice, a great compliment indeed. I had been, but to study massage, rather than four hours practice, six days a week. The bodies of those following the regime were like anatomical drawings, the ideal people to practice on.

One of the Ashtangis recovering over juice kindly offered his sofa to crash on and to show me around. Such offers have been common on this trip, and really lift the spirits, it was no real surprise he was another student of environmental issues.

That night in an overpriced hostel in town, one of the residents suspiciously asked me what I was typing on my laptop. After assuring her I was not a spy, to make light conversation, I asked her where she was from. She told me she had to find a husband, then she would know!

That night while dozing, she tapped me on the arm and asked if I wanted to come into her bed, I declined the deranged ladies offer and woke to find another of the bunk-dwellers had received a similar indecent proposal the previous night, he had used his backpack as barricade.

So it was with some relief and thanks I accepted Patrick, the yoga guy and life model's offer of sofa space in his share house, and a delicious meal under Orion's watchful inverted eye. That night was his life drawing class – which I joined, having not drawn properly since school. The progression of two and ten minute drawings I produced really encouraged me to start again – I will post them here when I finally get a decent connection to illustrate these adventures with my many photographs.

I am now in Apollo Bay, 3 ½ hours by train and bus ride from Melbourne, studying partner yoga and massage with a lady who organizes permaculture courses and has a business combining shiatsu with environmental education. It has been an inspirational time exploring these areas so close to my heart on the other side of the world; tagging along to permaculture workshops, meeting world renowned authors of ecological books, eating native edible plants and scouring refuse tips to make a chook (chicken) shed!

Peace

Jim

Crystal Waters – A Welshman, Irishman and Scot get deep.

2009-03-19T00:00:00.000-07:00

The timing could not have been better, Vicky – my woofing host was driving up to Brisbane for her sisters birthday, allowing me to pick up my pack and catch up with Mel + Brett in town before heading to Maleny with Vicki's architect Mark.

Brisbane's West End, was a pleasant return to civilization, celebrated with steak sandwiches and fries, my first since arriving, but no wine. Over the years I have slipped out of regular drinking, preferring to put the money saved towards travel, that and the fact that hangovers are so much worse.

I remember when a hangover was a slightly vacant feeling and sore head that was all but gone with a lie in, bacon butty and tea. If it was really bad, a pint of orange juice and bit more sleep.

Now, I wake up at 5 or 6 am feeling top of the world, still drunk. By 4pm a pressure between the ears, and a sense of melancholia lasting well into the next afternoon.

So it was with some trepidation I accepted the Aboriginal's proffered foil wine skin.

Sat in the park dinking away the afternoon was a cross cultural party of bums. One of whom had a brand new mobile, he had proudly stolen from a traveler. “I told him three times not to leave it out!” Such is the twisted logic of the chronic alcoholic.

One girl, with a sweet smile, but tired eyes, smudgy tattoos and tell tale track arks offered me a cotton bud, thanking her as we cleaned our ears happily. Giggling when I exclaimed “eargasms”

When she left her light fingered companion took an album out of her bag and showed me pictures of her twenty years ago, glamor shots, beautifully composed black and white portraiture, magazine covers. “Damn stupid junkie bitch!” he shouted, slamming the album closed.

When the girl returned she saw her bag was open, and blamed the aboriginal lady who was injecting liquid feed into the stomach of her cleft pallated daughter.

The argument, was quelled before it turned violent. The quiet aboriginal who offered me the wine, spoke a few calm words and peace was restored, but only temporarily. I was still glad to leave. The book I had sat down to read appropriately: - Far from the Madding Crowd.

That evening Mel and Bret fed me a wonderful meal, and provided warm bed sheets. I wondered where the bums from the park had bedded down. The next morning Bret and I swam in the outdoor lake next the river in Brisbane. Hard to imagine I had walked by so closely and not even notices the free, warm pool. After lunch we met Mark – the architect with whom had I had arranged to visit Crystal Waters – a permaculture village, of a scale unseen in Europe. He had been in Brisbane on business, so I was able to get a ride, and see a gig in town.

Mark had recently split with his wife of nineteen years, the mother of his three children and was optimistically planning the next stage of his life. It continually amazes me the strength people find to move on.

As expected when Welsh and Scottish get together, we soulfully reunited our respective clans over drink. I discovered the family taking care of the campsite were Gourleys from Ireland. My name, Gourlay, comes from Scotland, earlier from Norman invaders.

The patriarch Murray, knew of our shared latin heraldic motto, which translates as “He who penetrates deep things” . The tendency to over-analysis, exploring to the point of obsession ran deep in his branch of the family too.

He was not surprised by the calluses I have on my left hand through nibbling on when I have a point to ponder.

Our Bacchanalian feast of wine, pasta, chillies, more wine, raw garlic on toast, a whole thumb of raw ginger and coffee was a wonderfully cathartic time, but did remind me of why I don't like to drink much anymore.

Jim's tips for resilient travel

2009-03-13T03:16:00.000-07:00

Since being in Oz, I have stayed in a hostel for 2 nights. Unlike Asia, accommodation is very expensive, and often dominated my gap year students. I am a little bored of the typical questions of:- Where are you from? Where are you going? Did you get sick? and the conversations about anywhere except where one is right now!

By comparision with other places,Austrailia is so easy to travel in, I have been camping out, and accepting the generous hospitality of old and new found friends, more of which to follow.

These are a few tips and items I have picked up on the way, and would like to share. When I return I plan to go through my kit, commenting on the utility and number of times used for each item.

The first night in a new city, or after a long flight, book two nights accommodation, as the temperature change, new sights and sounds tire one out more than one might expect. It is so much more relaxing to lie in.

Allow yourself days off from traveling, it is easy to burn out.

If you always carry a small gift, a jar of honey, or packet of coffee, you can offer something, if offered an unexpected meal or place to stay.

Hair clippers are a good way to avoid "interesting" haircuts, and can be used to obtain pocket money. The ability to smarten ones appearance in a new place is very important to maintain morale.

A dentists pick, helps keep plaque at bay in areas where every drink comes sugared.

Teabags, decent coffee, marmite and anchovy paste are some comforts from home I often carry to share.

Led head torches are invaluable, by a good one like a petzl you can depend upon and tape spare batteries to the strap so they are easy to replace in the dark, and practice doing so. Carrying two allows you to lend one out, or leave at your campsite to find the way back in the dark. A red filter helps preserve night vision. Though keeping one eye closed when the light is on also works.

A decent knife and sharpening stone is really useful, if staying at a hostel, the ones provided are often useless, even slicing a tomato can be dangerous with a blunt knife. Being able to sharpen the knives and tools of your host will win brownie
points. An easily sharpened knife, I like the Opinel number 7in high carbon steel is small enough to cary at all times, and the lock prevents the blade closing on you, especially if cutting hard vegetables. In the UK, a lock knife may be considered an offensive weapon, so look out.

Field dressings should be carried when carrying a larger knife or axe, possibly taped to the sheath. Do not lend your blade to a numpty, they may stick it in the ground, or stick themselves. Never lend one to a member of the territorial army.

Disposable lighters, four taped together means you are almost guaranteed one will work. Airlines sometimes only allow two to be carried, be prepared to separate or sacrifice them. Bicycle inner tube is a great fire starter in the rain, I cut a 3 inch section, and stuff other sections in it.

Zip lock bags are useful for organizing kit, and stopping shampoo spreading everywhere. Freezer bags are cheap, but the heavy duty ones also prevent crumpling.

Dry bags are useful for larger items, I like different coloured ones to easily find kit. The corners of books will quickly wear holes in them if carried outside of another bag for any length of time.

A dark coloured bivvy bag, I use the 58 pattern gortex bag allows discrete camping, if you arrive late. Attach to the side of a backpack to get at it without attracting attention, or getting wet.

Thermarests make impromptu camping or a long wait in an airport more comfortable. I find a 3/4 length perfectly adequate in most climates, check the ground for thorns.

If bedding down in bushes, take a good look around for syringes. Be aware that in some areas, you may be sleeping near someone's stash of heroin. Not easy to do while being discreet, this is where your red filtered headtorch is useful.

Photocopy and take photographs of important documents and email them to yourself. Qualifications, degree certificates etc may be useful to secure work. I keep a duplicate on a usb pendrive.

USB pendrives are useful to swap info, mp3s etc with others. They are cheap and light enough to carry two. Mine has a portable linux distro on it. Very useful if the computer does not speak English, or if I want to boot on a machine a machine with a flaky install.

Netbook computers allow you to type offline, and steal wireless access. They can be a royal pain in the arse when they do not work. Carry copies of the install disks, backup frequently and keep a dry bag just for them. My linux on pendrive trick allowed me in when the disk got corrupted. Make sure they are properly switched off. Mine came back to life in its neoprene case, the sceen went tartan, and has never been quite the same since.

Never make a big purchase on the first day in a new country, if you are going to get screwed over, it is most likely when you have just arrived. Take time to learn the scams and realistic prices.

New currencies can be confusing, the size of notes or coins may bear no relation to their face value, so learn what older and newer issue notes look like. You may be palmed off with out of circulation bills. Being confident in handling the currency makes you less of a mark.

Bank cards may be rejected or eaten unexpectedly, especially from Lloyds TSB! travel with several, and keep a spare wad for emergencies. US Dollars can often be exchanged more readily than other currencies.

A wallet with a few small bills and expired cash cards allows you to give one over to a mugger, leaving time to administer your own form of justice.

Black market currency exchange can often save a great deal on bank rate, but do not part with your cash until you have inspected the bills. Buying currency is like buying anything else. Don't let yourself be rushed, or tricked with a call of "Police!"

Corkscrews or can openers, possibly on a penknife make things easer, though you can push the cork in with the aid of a stick and a small coin, but be prepared to get splashed.

Hydrocortisone cream effectively reduces the itchiness of things that will inevitably bite you in the night.

Bottles may not always contain what the label reads. In parts of Asia, petrol is often sold in soda bottles, so sniff first. I carry activated charcoal tablets in my med kit in case.

Leeches are very common in the jungle, especially after rain. They suck before they bite, so if you are quick you may they may be gently pulled off before they get stuck in. If they do lock on VERY gently pull them off, or put salt on them, the cigarette or flame on the back method can cause them to vomit up in you! They inject an anesthetic and anticoagulant, so you may not notice them.

Paracord is useful for rigging up washing lines, replacing rucksack buckles, and a million other uses. The genuine stuff is hard to come by, so buy all you can when available.

A tap key allows you to get water from faucets in parks and in the most unlikely places - and maybe bought at from the plumbing section at most hardware stores. Useful if you want enough to wash in!

Nimbin - getting back to the garden!

2009-02-20T23:36:00.000-08:00

The warm climate, and familiar language has afforded ultralightweight travel as pilgrims before me have used to take travel deeper. Leaving behind those precious peices of duffel that makes travel so easy forces one to rely on others, and allows an ease of movement and spontaneity that alows wonderful coincidences to occur.

Soon after typing my last blog entry, I boarded a multicoloured bus from Byron to Nimbin. Back in UK I had heard of the place as a setring for a festival celebrating the dawning of the age of Aquarious (It was not just a song), where many alternative types never left and experimented with new ways of living in beautiful surroundings supported by their clandestine horticultural ventures. Though now sadly overrun by smack and acid casualties.

I decided to check the place out for myself, to see if it deserved its grim reputation, The coach was filled with gap-year students, the amosphere felt similar to a school trip. I was reminded of the couch tours "straights" make to see the self defined "freaks" of Haight Ashbury intersection of San Fran in the late sixties. The hippies of the time responded by holding up mirrors.

The choice of hostels was the YHA with pool, and the more alternative Rainbow retreat. I chose the former, interested to see what the relatively straight crew there would make of the town compared with my experience of talking with locals. My accommodation was a tipi, very comfortable in the rain, and the pool was bracing, the people were hard work. Though judging by the faces of the people back on the coach were either unused to the effects of the herb, or overwhelmed by the whole experience.

I spend the afternoon in a cafe chatting with the locals who were a very friendly down to earth bunch. They were upset by the young crowd openly offering marijuana for sale, and yes there were a few smackheads, but no more than one would see in any town centre. The locals enjoyed the local herb, unperturbed by the CCTV recently installed in the highstreet, which seems to have done nothing but get peoples backs up. MJ is still illegal here, and broken trees are testament to the helicopter raids. I find it hard to believe anybody really cares about it anymore. Its main effect being procrastination, and enhancing the experience of the present moment at the expense of dulling of everyday unstoned experience.

I was sat in the YHA internet cafe, with all my kit beside me in the side pouch off my pack. A lady walked in asking if she could put up a sign asking for woofers (willing workers on organic farms), these are people who work on farms in exchange for food and lodging. This was was something I had done at Auroville in Pondicherry, India and something I was keen to try again. The manager of the YHA responded in negative terms, though he did not use the phrase loco parentis, that was basically his gist. Clearly I had to get out of here.

Vicki asked me what experience I had, and when I was convenient, I was ready to go straightaway, and hopped in the car. As we chatted there were so many things that did not need to explain, always nice to meet people who are on ones wavelength. Her place was a huge one roomed roundhouse, with decking around the outside, fed with from a beautiful waterfall, solar power and surrounded by fruit trees, palms and plants on a community owned site.

I was given the use of a very comfortable caravan to sleep in, and made to feel very welcome. Our many cups of green tea I began to feel re-inspired. Permaculture is an approach to creating sustainable human habitats a great passion of mine, and a philosophy I often borrow from in bushcraft teaching. It had always been my intention to visit permaculture places, as the philosophy came from these parts.

In the few days I have been here, I have met an architect who is travelling to crystal waters permaculture village, and Robyn Francis of Djalumbang Permaculture Centre, on of my heroes, whos work I had read way back when I was a eco-greenhorn at stewardwod.org in Exeter the summer after graduation desparate to do something other than IT. Ironic really, as I have been fixing computer problems, and cooking here!

Lots of things to update you with, but the light is fading fast, I hope to clear some more ground. A jumping ant bit me yesterday, which is not playing fair, I'd always thought of them as 2 D creatures. The swelling has gone down, so I'm going to myself useful.

Take care all

Austrailia

2009-02-15T13:48:00.000-08:00

"Procrastination ends tomorrow" laughed the drunk American observing my bulging Bergen.

I really was not in the mood, my pack contains all I need for myself and for another to spend an impromptu night out under the stars, or mountain trek. So long as I use everything I am carrying I do not really mind the weight. The spare clothes, headtorch and various odds and sods have really helped others out, and made many new experiences possible.

The customs in Aus are notoriously strict, and as usual I was patted down and questioned. The only time thishas not happeded in recent years was travelling with Andy - so the moral is travel with someone more dodgy than yoursef ;)

I was questestioned about the blades in my pack, but after confirming they were not double edged or martial arts equiment I was allowed in.

The friendliness of Aussies was confirmed as soon as I got in. I was able to stash my pack, and get free internet. I received an email from Mel, who had surfed my couch back in Swansea. She very kindly let me stay in her space room, gave me a key and a spare bike to ride into town!

Back in Swansea, she had described the design of her unusal house, the 19th century clapboard and post lightweight house had been divided into separate living spaces with a common hallway and garage underneath. The spaces may be joined by opening and closing of doors.

Relaxing into her couch it was wonderful to be in a home after countless hotel, bunk houses, jungles, beaches and park benches. Her house is bear Southbank, which is uncanilly like its London namesake, though their ferris wheel is smaller, and the women an even greater hazard to cyclists. I was had a moment rembemering how many people I had met, and places I had got to know since I stood on the London Bridge the day before my flight to Hong Kong.

Sycling back I passed through the Westend, a hippy area in the process of "Boutiquification" - my new word for the process as hippy places turn into hangout for the too cool for school kids and yuppies. The area of wide boulevards and arts cafes reminded my of Hawthorne area of downtown Portland, Oregon.

After the first few days readjusting to the familiar sights and smells, I have the luxiry of travelling super light, carrying not much more than the clothes on my back, phone, notebook, wallet, towel and poncho.

Mel's boyfriend Bret gave me a lift to Surfers Paradise where I felt very free as I was tumbled in the waves, bit the high rise and loud bars send me seeking quieter spots. I arrived in Byron bay later that evening, the first clear skies giving a perfect view of the milky way, and my ceiling for the night. Sleeping out always makes me feel free - there is something of the gypsy in all us worth their salt.

This second stage of travel, now back in the West is very different. Asia afforded cheap accomodation and constant novelty. This stage is about putting the lessons remembered from the road into practice, and learning new skills to support my bushcraft teaching.

I continue to be overwhelmed my the offers of places to stay, and the positivity towards life. Thankyou so much everyone!

Rant: A taste of home makes me feel ill

2009-02-06T17:28:00.000-08:00

I have just left an expat divers bar after hot pizza and cold beer, in these parts found more frequently the other way round. A treat after chicken and fried rice, or fried chicken and rice for most meals. I am badly craving salad and fruit smoothies! The table was set there, as all over Malaysia with fork and spoon only.

Finding good healthy food here is difficult with Kedai Kopis a national institution. These are typically Indian run Formica tabled cafes, filled by men smoking and nursing Nescafes sweetened with condensed milk and sugar. Such a shame that instant coffee has such a following, given the number of countries nearby that have a long history of producing great brews. I am reminded of the traditional Bracci, or Welsh - Italian cafe, where Benny Grannies raise frothy coffees to their prickly lips with Parkinsonian grips.

Here at least, the humble Indian roti has been raised to another level, the oily flat bread may be found stuffed with bananas, pineapple, coconut, chicken or veggies. Tea Madras is the closest thing to the the Indian Masala chai, being served in half pint mugs rather than the familiar shot glasses.

A place so full of Western divers is good preparation for my re-immersion into occidental culture.
Hearing familiar accents – mostly British, and meeting people who knew Swansea well enough to know which pubs to avoid no longer feels odd.

As I left, the covers band was getting into full swing, which in typical British fashion means, the volume is set so conversation is impossible, the mind goes blank, and there is nothing to do but drink, smoke and nod ones head appreciatively at the source of the noise.

I realize this makes me sound like an old fart, but then I have always preferred conversation to external entertainment. One of the pleasures of being older is no longer having to pretend I enjoy it anymore. Instead I can sneak back with a like minded friend, and wake up to yoga and market fruit while all around are nursing bad coffees and sore heads.

A large part of my dissatisfaction with life in the UK is the drinking culture, particularly strong in South Wales. Removed from that environment, I became aware of it in a way I had not before. The pub, kebab shop and Full English cafe are such popular institutions. One who is faithfully at the pub most nights is called a regular – not someone with a problem. Now I like a drink occasionally and very occasionally like to drink a lot, but it is the monotonous regularity of the whole thing that bores me to tears. There are plenty of other vices to explore, live a little!

One can join with groups, yoga classes or a surfing crowd but it has not reached that tipping point yet, where life supporting lifestyles become the norm rather than the exception. It seems one becomes part of a subculture if one wants to live a healthy life. Being an independent minded fellow, I will always do my own thing, but back home it can seem an uphill struggle.

It is so sad that the dominant social activities are harmful to ones health, even here amongst the expatiate diver crowd smoking and heavy drinking are very much part of the culture.

Back from the second jungle adventure

2009-02-05T21:31:00.000-08:00

The Kinebetangan river running through Sabah for over 400ks represents a diverse edge in a land otherwise ruined through the intensive growing of oil palms. Row after monotonous row of palms , below hillsides with solitary trees is heartbreaking to see.

The animals, pushed to the fringes of jungle at the waters edge are easily visible from the water. A hastily planned visit to the jungle made me glad of the extra provisions, spare torches, good boots, rain wear I had packed. The lack of a running water and other usual comforts would have been privations, had the company not been so good, and the wildlife so prolific.

Boat rides to see the orangutan, proboscis monkeys, hornbills were followed by treks through leech and mosquito infested jungle. The rain turning the jungle into mud deep enough to come over the tops of wellies. My 5.11 boots and long socks made life so much more pleasant, and worth all the derision of those who travel with flip flops and expect a cosy bed.

This trip is the first I have really been aware of the tourist trail. I have become used to bumping into people first met in other towns along a fairly well trodden path. This does of course have its ups and downs.

This time by a happy coincidence two British nurses and a cycle touring Canadian, Kevin and I had already met found themselves in the same place. We enjoyed the time in away from the city, much revived by getting soaped up under the rain.

The girls left with the first boat around 6 am, we fellas slept in being ready to leave by 9. In that endearing Asian way, people here prefer to lie and have you happy than tell the truth and disappoint. We finally left at for Sipidan at 14:30, being told “soon”, “maybe five minutes“ for around 4 hours. Calculating the average time, we worked out we had been given assurances the of the buses imminent arrival for two hours before it could possibly have left.

Travel may seem action packed, and it is at times, but more often there is hanging around waiting for transport that never arrives. It is the ability to smile through it that develops character. That said, I will be relieved to be back in a Western country where people are not afraid to tell the truth, or that they simply don't know.

Imagine how bad we smelt after four days in the jungle, in already dirty clothes, with no running water, in rain, then blistering sun, and my nearly thirty kilos of pack. A hotel room with warm showers, a crisp cotton sheets was much appreciated. My system clearly recoiled at such luxury, as I began that winter cold I had been missing.

Without surprise we bumped into the nurses, and planned a days diving for the following day. So much better not to plan. On the occasions I have tried to force things they never work out, but the day did perfectly. Diving with a cold is not generally advised, but thanks to daily breathwork I felt confident to stay oxygenated well enough. The three dives rewarded us with views of huge green turtles, nudibranks, trigger fish, pipe fish and a huge horned starfish.

The last couple of nights were spent on a floating island, a fifteen minute boatride from the mainland. This would have been the idea place to r+r, but for being blasted by torrential rainstorms and lightning which had us sheltering under tables. Spirits were rained however by the arrival of a huge creamcake to celebrate Lizzies thirtieth birthday. Not chocolate as ordered, but covered in cream, pinapple and cherries.

Back on terra firma, I am about to begin another solo adventure, wonder who I will meet next?

Hong Kong recollections.

2009-01-27T21:43:00.001-08:00

The plan for the first stage of the trip was to experience rich Asia in Hong Kong, in contrast with Cambodia, where many live on under $2 a day. The modern coal and nuclear fueled views across Kowloon bay versus the timeless majesty of Angkor Wat.

On a personal level, to explore the contrast between the trails of Hong Kong, and the city by sleeping in my hammock, gazing over the skyline – photos coming soon I promise.

Individual independent travel compared with moving about with a companion I know really well, and the contrast with my last long adventure. Taking stock of these reflections has taken time, but now, with a working laptop, and some time I thought I'd post up some of my handwritten notes.

Hong Kong – despite being a very safe city, I was highly aware, and a little on guard, which is tiring in itself, but especially so, given the pace and festival of colours. That damp dishcloth smell of the East, and the ducks in the windows of the numerous noodle bars are yellow, not the analine red of those in Bangkok, or San Fran's Chinatown.

The hardest thing to get around is trying to understand the expressions of people going by. Like big cities the world over, smiles are not returned. Nathan Road, Tsim Sha Shui has diamond dealers at one end, but a few minutes along, the tenements rise. Accessed by cage like lifts or grubby, rat filled stairways Chunking and newer Mirador Mansions are notorious.

Not wanting to get stuck in the lifts I used the stairs, and glad of the excercise I used them almost exclusively. A private world, a door might open onto an exclusive (by price) spa, a restaurant, brothel, or private home. The English road names still caused a smile, wondering why the colonisers chose those names: - laziness, or an attempt to map out the unfamiliar terrain with a homely abstraction?

There is something I continually find unfathamable about the oriental mind, I have been meaning to read “Orientalism” by Edward Said, since India. Though I am not one to show great emotion to others, though often wishing my feelings were less powerful, I cannot get past the feeling that there is something strangely lifeless that though probably unjustified, can still imagine allows a certain brutality and disregardfs for life.

The people who offer copied watches for sale are almost entirely of Indian, Pakistani or Egyptian extraction. Though less persistent, I was reminded of my first few days in India. The fear of being asked questions by someone, bringing up guild, exposing ones own insecurities. “Why are you here?” It is my sport to ask them if they are married, a question as common in India, as the weather to most Brits.

Seeing Westerners when alone for the first time, there is a tendency to nod, people who would have been ignored at home, come to represent something familiar and shared. I am almost tempted to put out a hand in greeting “drizzly sundays and luke warm beef”, expecting by return “Flat beer and soggy chips to you!”. It was a moment past this reflection, a Londoner past, half cut, and with barely disguised aggression asking a stranger where his unpronounceable hotel with strong cockney patois. I adopted the thousand mile stare and walked on.

I breakfasted at Mc Donalds, the thought of doing this a few years ago would have been unfathomable. It is not a refuge, not because it is familiar, but because it is nowhere. A baseline if you will to compare new experiences to, and though I hate to admit it, the coffee was good.

Book list

2009-01-27T18:45:00.000-08:00

I do love making a list, nothing better on a rainy day, waiting for a bus. I would love to be posting pictures, but it is so damned slow. I have not found any bulk image resize software that works on my litte acer yet. Lest everyone think my adventures are all daring do and bothering gap year students, here are some of the books I have been digesting since the trip began:-

Consuming Passions: History of English Food and Appetite - Philippa Pullar

People's War; People's Army - Bernard B. Fall, Vo Nguyen Giap, Roger Hilsman

First They Killed My Father: A Daughter of Cambodia Remembers - Loung Ung

Outliers: The Story of Success - Malcolm Gladwell

Dharma Bums - Jack Kerouac

The Great Psychedelic Armadillo Hunt, A Walk through Austin - Kinky Friedman

Far from the Madding Crowd - Thomas Hardy

Art of Pilgrimage: The Seeker's Guide to Making Travel Sacred - Phil Cousineau

Back from Kinebalu

2009-01-27T17:47:00.000-08:00

Hi Folks,

So nice to be clean again, after sweating like a pig in the rainforest around Mount Kinebalu. No I did not climb it, it was not altitude or lack of determination that defeated us, but the price and red tape.

To climb the mountain requires a permit, license, guide, insurance, accommodation, and now meals to be booked. The meals alone costing upwards of 50 ringit, which is over ten times what I had become accustomed to paying for a good feed. And the prices were all more for non Malays

The staff at the park were sympathetic, but their hands tied. Though the staff arranging accommodation were a royal pain in the ass, repeating the company line and blatantly lying. After identifying the racket that was in operation we decided to attempt the climb in one day, but were told we would need an interview with the ranger officer. I had spoken to him before, and could not get any sense. When I climb a mountain, camp rough, put a boat to sea, I do not expect anybody to rescue me if things get dicey. It is my decision, and as a adult, one I feel qualified to make.

It appears in this case, the changes to park policy are less to do with safety and more for profit. Not surprising really, but perhaps others could vote with their feet as we did, there are plenty of other mountains to climb...

Malaysia - first impressions

2009-01-22T23:17:00.000-08:00

Singapore airlines, have definietly got their act together. Just the way air travel should be, including the meal, seared fish with oregano and tomato sauce with green beans and mash. I really enjoy airline food, even though it is mainly there to keep us busy, and rarely much good, fiddling with the packets, and deciding which order to eat things is fun. So much better with a glass of Chardonnay, the first wine I have tasted since leaving, and complimentary of course.

Changi Airport does has free wifi, gym, and a pool at terminal one. So nice to get yogad up, push some weights, shower and bugger about on facebook. Though nobody will be surprised I just curled up on the floor infront of the dicovery channel to sleep.

On to Malaysia, bracing myself for the touts around the airport, only to be told by a friendly taxi driver to buy a ticket. My ride would be the one at the front of the queue. So much more civilized, and much cheaper than Vietnam, no beeping, no offers of weed or women, wow!

An evening with a new friend, who had recently sold her Austrialian ligerine busniess, including fair few beers on the seafront, massage and dinner cost less than you could pay for a pint at home. But of course the jungles are calling, and I have got a lot of useful tips from a friendly German tax auditor, who at 6'10" has made the unsuspecting Malays jump or rub their eyes in disbelief.

You will all be pleased to hear it is raining here, heavy, now drizzling - as it does every afternoon at this time of year, but it is warm - I cannot wait to find an spot where I can get soaped up, and stand under out in just my skin.

Jim

Hanoi, its not all bad

2009-01-19T06:25:00.000-08:00

If long term travel, has its ups and downs, independent solo travel has Marianas trenches and Himalaya. So it was with a little trepidation I hugged goodbye to Chris in Hanoi, and wished him safe passage back to Swansea. Wondering how he would view the ugly lovely town, having been exposed to so many new things, and how I would feel once again the captain of my soul, with no-one familiar to reinforce my persona.

Three of us reached Hanoi, via three boats in Halong Bay, two long bus journeys. Our new traveling companion was a graduate of Humboldt State, and like me had left a large part of his heart in Arcata in Northern California.

Cat Ba Island where we met, was almost deserted being low season, and no doubt affected by the worsening financial crisis. One could not help imagining this as a vision of the future, with water no longer running down the aqua slides, and cafes only serving drinks. Fortunately for us a sea-front room with stunning views and two comfortable double beds was ours for $5 a night!

Again we were though crazy for renting mountain bikes rather than motorbikes. We were told impossible – hills are too big, very far – which only encouraged us more. The hills though steep, were not nearly as hard as from Caswel back to Mumbles, the effort helping the scenery and making us feel we earned our lunch. Just as well as it included a mystery package, unwrapping the banana leaf parcel we found a block of glutenous rice, filled with egg and fish, really bland but great cycling fuel.

Following these tranquil days with the Capitol city was not going to be an easy transition. The roar of the motorcycles, smells and 3000 Dong beer hoi – home brewed small beer sold from a barrel on the street was inviting.

Funny how inviting smells, can become cloying after a while. The sight of a dog chopped up on a market stall, its duck coloured meat, and gruesome snarl was at first interesting. It soon came to symbolize quite how alien the culture felt. Stragely the next time we visited the head was covered.

In preparation for Tet, the lunar new year, people all over Hanoi were burning paper, and boxes simply made just for burning, held together with plastic ribbons which caught the back of the throat, and worsened the smog hanging over the rainy city.

With both my companions leaving, to the UK and Borneo respectively, I too felt the urge to leave – every long beep of the horn making me want to be on the next flight. Something that could easily be arranged at no cost given my airlines ticketing rules. I had tried to arrange the flight for the next afternoon, planning to confirm the next morning, after Singapore airlines had spoken to their London office.

That evening I spoke to some ex-pats, learning some valuable insights into the culture. I drank two mugs of hot chocolate, and began to remember how much I enjoyed traveling alone, it is far easier to meet people, and you do not get hassled nearly as much.

Waking after a long sleep to a sunny morning, I remembered how I had vowed not to run away when things got tough, I began to realize how easily I had slipped into the default tourist mode. I would stay on, and wait for the change of luck that was sure to follow once I let it.

With time to spare till the flight, I decided to get this laptop running properly. Despite my early attempts with a USB linux distro, the hard drive was too corrupt to be repaired with e2fsck, it needed a complete reinstall, the disk was safely in my drawer at home!

How to get a linux install DVD for one particular computer, and the use of an external DVD drive with very little English spoken was my challenge for the day. No easy task, as everyone here uses pirated copies of Windows, and the Vietnamese people prefer big laptops.

After calling shop to shop I found one with an external DVD drive, and another with the necessary installer disk. Eventually, by leaving my mobile as security I was able to borrow the disk, to get the little Acer back on the road! A little risk for a little reward has always paid off in the past.

While the re-install was underway the shop owner invited me to drink tea at a stall. I learned that he had obtained his CCNA , a valuable computing qualification in one year for $600. His business partner knew Cardiff was the capital of Wales from the football results, and thought the picture I showed him of Three Cliffs Bay, just as beautiful as Halon Bay. I learned it is as I thought just tobacco they smoke in those bamboo bongs. Even after taking up hours of the computer guy's time I was only charged a couple of bucks. The shop that had lent me the disk would accept no money, and even gave me a couple of tangerines!

I am now sat in a cafe, having enjoyed a steaming bowl of pho at 15000 dong, ($1 = 17500 dong ), well below the usual tourist rate. I am using an open wifi connection, so much nicer, even if it is cheap, paying for Internet access feels like soliciting.

.............

Before I could post the above, I discovered a great little place playing early Beatles and serving BBQ burgers in time for happy hour, and just been talking to a fan of A to Z of Bushcraft! Unfortunately Vietnam is behind the great firewall of China. Sites like blogspot have been deemed subversive, but never fear dear readers, I have rerouted the encryptions, and will not be silenced ;)

Peace out folks

It's been a while, Vietnam update

2009-01-09T19:15:00.000-08:00

Well Merry Christmas, Happy New Year and All. I would like to say, those busy living are too busy to write about it. But in truth I have been a bit unsure what to blog and what to keep to private communications. Travel is just a private experience, it seems incongruent to be posting to the world about it.

I last posted leaving for Phu Quoc looking for the island paradise we had heard so much about from those weary of hassles in mainland Vietnam. The hassles we no less present here unfortunately with the usual hoard of moto drivers wanting to take you to best hotels, and charge well over the odds. One tries to separate the touts from the rest of the people, but there is an ever present suspicion of people created by the constant pestering and attempted scams. I am assured it is a cultural thing, that asking “where you go?” is not considered rude, though surely “where would you like to go ?” would be more profitable.

After a long ferry ride to the Island, we were not in the mood and took a cold drink at a cafe while the other tourists got onto motors. Despite telling them we were not interested, the mot drivers sat next to us, drank coffee and offered us cigarettes and hotel cards. Now armed with a map, and having enough of their pestering we were determined to walk it. The sting had gone from the day as we began the 17k to the other side of the island. The moto drivers looking at our packs, nearing 30kgs told us we would surely die on the road. We walked off, expecting to see them again soon, but pressed on defiantly. At 5, and 12ks they appeared again, but eventually left shaking their heads.

Reaching the beach, Chris bless him went to the bar for cold beers and chocolate. The barmaid assumed he must have been attacked given the stake of him, and also thought we were mad to walk. A friendly Parisian, yes they do exist!, pointed out a place to set up the hammock and bivvy. Chris who is plagued by mosquitoes had my hammock with a built in net and splashed on repellent. I crashed in the bivvy bag underneath. Chris still managed to get eaten alive, I was untouched and could not convince him to sleep out another night, especially Christmas Eve.

Christmas was a fairly quiet affair on the beach at Phu Quoc. Though I understand the technology, it still amazes me that one can skype from the beach on an Island, even during a power cut, the router had a UPS!

New Year was spent with at Mui Ne friends from Bodhi and some new ones. From the facebook pictures one can probably tell what a messy night it was. Despite my commitment to yoga, meditation and all, sometimes getting smashed is really what you need, almost cathartic.

After a while though, the palm trees lined resorts become wearisome, one longs for something authentic, that was not designed for ones entertainment, and often poorly executed. We travel as much to lose ourselves as to find them. Not easy to do when one is constantly reminded of being a tourist

Saigon was approached after a sixteen hour bus journey, helped by Valium. We were the only ones we met who managed to sleep soundly, though the cots were too short for Chris and too narrow for me.

On a wander to find a cheap hotel we bumped into friends from new year, and spent a quiet evening a bar until the TV announced Vietnam's victory against Thailand in the Asia football cup. Saigon went wild, with most of Saigon's mopeds on the streets. Two years ago there were around 5 million registered, current estimates including unregistered are nearly 8 million. Most had more than one, sometimes 4 people on board banging drums, pots or the helmets of drivers in a wild celebration.

Hoi An was a welcome relief from the business of Saigon, and is famed for its French colonial charm, cuisine and tailors. We took full advantage of all these, with photos to follow.

The tailors can copy anything here, and were able to stitch me up a pair of “Naomi Klein's” from a picture of airwalks taken from the Internet. For $30 they were able to make a matching silk lined woolen hoody, the height of luxury and cargo pants, with suitably pocket picker proof pockets.

After the most boring tour bus experience to the 17th parallel, we would only laugh about in retrospect we are back in Hue, preparing to leave for Hanoi. Sixteen hours on the bus, so I am off to find some good books.

Now up to date with the where and when, the why of travel must surely follow, but breakfast calls.

Love to all

Jim

Vietnam

2008-12-22T20:00:00.000-08:00

Back on the road after Bodhi Villa was quite a shock. Breakfast this morning was not the tranquil affair, glowing from yoga and lingering towards lunch over Lao coffee and fresh orange juice.

Our first experience of Vietnam was typical, after a straight forward border crossing on motorcycles we changed bikes to get to the ferry port at Ha tien, to be told that the ferry was not running. We had head of this scam, but agreed to be taken to next stop down the road where our fears were confirmed. We refused to give the drivers any money, and took a bus to the next ferry port. They knew they were caught out, and had a wasted journey. We were very calm, and were pround of our selves for not beating them up and stealing their wheels.

This turned out to be a worthwhile stop, as it allowed me to get my laptop up and running, after the solid state harddrive became corrupted. Thankyou damn small linux and e2fsck! We also had time to get a good sleep and readjustment. Chris has been updating his blog at Chris' blog

We are about to board the ferry to Phu Quoc island for Chrismas, we hope to camp out and find at least a chicken to bbq.

I hope you folks are enjoying the seasons festivities, please hold a glass to our repective healths as we are thinking of you too.

Kampot, the sleepy town with sunsets to almost rival Cardigan bay in November

2008-12-15T21:44:00.000-08:00

"You are a little rebel" said my grandmother, I liked the word, and enjoyed rolling it over my tongue because it sounded like pebble, and at the time I had a fascination with them.

Last night, gazing over the moonlit river at Kep, lying on a beanbag, and enjoying the local poison, I remembered the scene vividly - be careful what you say to little ones!

The Bodhi villa is as close to the perfect chillout spot as possible, and has a d1verse (divers)crowd, a number of whom have sold everything to travel, trusting in some force or organising principle was tending the light at the end of the tunnel. I hope the great Hunter Thompson was wrong to call it the mythic fallacy of the hippy movement, I'm still wearing my thai pants with pride, and practicing massage with anyone who sits still long enough!

While I still have a base in Swansea, it still a source of inspiration and some trepidation that thoughts that arise about the ugly lovely town have very little significance to the day here.

With that in mind I have been practicing daily ashtanga, my thanks go out to all the teachers and students I have met and encouraged me along this path.

The idea of the pilgrimage, seems a better description than the hero's quest my current travels. Two years since my last trip, this time in the company of a great friend from home, the experience is very different. In someways I feel previous adventures were an initiation. Less starry eyed, more compassionate the words from Auldous Huxley's Doors of perception, written about his own psychedelic fueled trip to that other side, come to mind:-

"The man who comes back through the Door in the Wall will never be quite the same as the man who went out. He will be wiser but less sure, happier but less self-satisfied, humbler in acknowledging his ignorance yet better equipped to understand the relationship of words to things, of systematic reasoning to the unfathomable mystery which it tries, forever vainly, to comprehend. "

Deep learning, of the type I have been hoping to achieve will always come at a price, and this trip too in carbon dioxide emissions, time, money and emotions seems a lot more effort than Huxley's 400g of mescaline. Self realization cannot be bought for 50c a tab, it is an ongoing process - but gradual steps through yoga, pranayama, and simply being present, are beginning to revive that feeling I first felt in India described by Blake as that state where:-

"every thing appears to man as it is, infinite. For man has closed himself up, till he sees all things through narrow chinks of his cavern."

Before anyone suggests this little hippy is going off on one - (What was the vedic term, Lyd?)this time my feet are solidly on the ground, thankyou to all who brought me back to this place, and supported my efforts even if they did not understand my motivations or methods.

Hope all are well, in what I hear is a real winter this time, here's hoping to a real summer on my return. Please do keep your emails coming, it is lovely to hear the details of your lives, you are all very much in my thoughts.

Jim x

Sihanoukville

2008-12-02T03:20:00.000-08:00

Apologies to the handful who have been reading this, Cambodian internet is not up to much. I imagine the net is taking the strain of so many people trying to sort their travel plans out. This place is filling up with folks escaping Thailand, and the locals pushing prices up to cash in.

Cambodia - of conisidences and contrasts

2008-11-30T20:40:00.000-08:00

Well it had to happen sooner or later, at a bar in Siem Reap I got talking to an expedition leader for World Challenge and an assesor for the institute of Outdoor Learning, turns out he knew my old employer Roke.co.uk well, he had heard of Dryad Bushcraft , and we know a lady from the University of Glamorgan in common, small world.

Later on that night I bumped into a lady in a bar who lived in the same house as me in the student village in Abeystwyth two years later, her father owns the farm where the CAT staff house, affectionately known as the chicken shed /shack sits!

This is becoming such a common experience, I try not to be too superstitious, but when I start reading Jung the synchronicities come thick and fast.

Meanwhile it seems the world is exploding into chaos, with the bombing of Taj where I had the best coffee, and Leopolds in Mumbai where I ate too many curries at the start of my last big trip. The troubles in Bangkok have affected many people I am sitting with

Chris and I spent an amazing three days exploring the emensity of Ankhor Wat, taking time for me to play Mr Timotei, florikilng under a waterfall, photos coming soon!

After the breathtaking sunrise and sunset views, it was time to see the other side of this supposed land of smiles. A short tut tuk ride outside of Phnon Pen, we visited the Killing fields, then the interrogation centre at Tueol Sleng. It felt strange to make the journey from one to the other. Considering the 20,000 who made the journey in the opposite direction, but one way, of which only seven survived.

The whole experience was traumatic for us both, and will take some time to get perspective upon. With this in mind we have decided to head for Sianoukville to find the beach. The bus is due right now, so I'll sign off.

Why do nutters always sit next to me?

2008-11-20T03:43:00.000-08:00

Back at Stanley, where I spent a beautiful starry night on rocks nears I awoke early, and found a quiet spot to quietly do some yoga. Not long after I had completed the ashtanga sequence, in that wonderfully calm state, an old man strolled strolled by...

The chap would be exactly the person you would paint, to illustrate the story of a zen master, from his pointy beard, billowy trousers down to his simple reed sandals. “You daoist?”, I answered in the negative, “but I have studied the Tao Te Ching...”. Before I could continue, he launched into the nature of dao, and how we must nurture the earth, and fully treat it as our home – like it was a brand new idea to me, I did not tell him where I had slept ;) He practiced daily tai chi, Kung Fu and meditation and sounded like me when I go off on one, but for much much longer...

He did offer a lovely image of death being like the pupating stage before becoming a butterfly, then wandering off chuckling to himself.

Fast forward to night before last, when I took a ride up to the peak, a viewing platform full of designer shops looking over the city lights. The ride up, on cable car is very special, the floor of the carriage is angled to prevent one falling forwards. It reminded me, when I get back to ride the Aberystwyth Cliff railway, something I still have not done.

As I was losing myself in the view, another chap approached me, with the now familiar greeting “You Arabic?” I get that a lot whenever I get tanned, and allow my beard to become unruly. For best part of half an hour he told me how the Koran was infallible, and contains no contradictions, original sin was a misnomer, how god was totally just, but would condemn non-believers to the fiery pits, giving them new skins as each burned off hardly pausing for breath. I suggested he relax, and even wished peace upon him.

Tiring of his soliloquy I asked him “What sex is god?” He replied “he is so great, he is beyond gender, fucking and such...” I asked why he said “he” rather than she in that case, or it, or simply god? Though I think he was a lost cause, reiterating “he is not male or female” failing to see the irony.

I don't know why people feel the need to tell me how things are, I cannot help wondering, if they really truly believed these things, would they have the same drive to try to convince strangers?

I would have loved to get him and Mr Miyagi from Stanley together, I don't think it would do anything to increase understanding, or international relations, but it would be an entertaining fight to watch ;)

In which Jim encounters a ferocious beast

2008-11-17T22:45:00.000-08:00

The makers of the TV series Lost must surely have taken Hong Kong as inspiration. Having rested up in Wong Nei Chung Gap and breakfasted on the beef entrails I was keen to be on the trail again, this time following stage II of the Wilson trail, but in reverse.

It seems the meddling Mandarins have concreted long tracts of the wilderness trails in the aim of increasing safety, which is not really in keeping with the surroundings. Even small drops are protected by huge railings which spoil the aesthetic somewhat. The money I feel could have been better spent on signage, which is often non-existent, unclear or just plain incorrect. Though thankfully some helpful soul has graffited corrections.

The second stage trail I began at Tai Koo, the trail beginning behind the station, I began the trail at night, when it was cool, and I was still on UK time, by now in the habit of taking an afternoon nap. Not long onto the the a rustling in the bushes had me concerned, I prepared to great who ever it was, but the sound was a grunty angry sound and getting closer...My first thought was wild boar, whose tusks are sharped every time they open and close their mouths, and like a rat's never stop growing! I backtracked slowly to the some WW2 era mass kitchens, the holes for the giant woks now filled with bougainvillea, passing another of almost identical construction, following on to the Early Morning Walker garden.

I decided to wait till the moon had risen, and hopefully Mr Piggy had run all the way home. It was a cold wait, so I tucked my trousers into socks, tucked in my shirt, and wore my neoprene laptop case as a hat. As it got steadily brighter I began to get braver, and walked on, but keeping a close eye for trees to climb, should an angry porker come charging.

Every so often I would hear budhist chanting, the smell of frangipani incense, and again rustling. This combined with the sound of clapping, I assumed I had wandered into the HK equivalent of Holt's Field, but there were no chalets, friendly hippies, or smell of ganj. The music was coming from hidden tape players in makeshift shrines, all over the place, and the claping was regular and getting closer...

Thinking it was somebody buggering about, when I was already weirded out by the music, and rustling I was prepared to deck whoever it was. Turning a corner was an old man walking and clapping his hands before, and behind him as he walked. When he saw me he looked terrified. I must have looked rather wild eyed, and later realised I was still wearing my laptop hat!

Following the trail backwards proved a challenge, as the descriptions did not mention the alternative routes, one could safely ignore if traversing in the opposite direction. The hikers guide mentions passing a radio station, and passing antennas to the right. This did not help, as since published it seems the masts are everywhere. An very strange place with hatches and restricted area notices everywhere, straight out of Lost.

By morning I re-entered the Wong Nei Chung Gap, this area was significant in holding off the Japanese, as it provided covering machine gun, and 3.7" gun fire over Happy valley. My camp was at section 5, a matter of tens of yards away from a pill box, captured from British and Canadian forces by means of a grenade down the ventilation hatch. The whole area was eventually taken, with huge losses on both sides.

Again came the rustling, and grunting, by this time I was prepared to go mano a cercdo with the beast and had my knife in hand..... I was so relieved to discover it was a porcupine, an inquisitive beast, that in my defence, makes a lot of noise for its size. My oft quoted mentor, Horrace Kephart, who wrote Camping and Woodcraft in about 1910 descibed the creatures as "inveterate camp maurauders, a voracious lover of salt, devouring anything that has the slightest trace of it, axehandles &c" I had visions of my sweatstained pack and cooking supplies being savaged.

Back at my base, my hammock was waiting for me, and a welcome sight, my stashed main pack undesturbed, and had a much needed snooze!

Note: I edited this post, having typed it initially on a "borrowed" open wireless connection, with sun streaming on the screen, so could not read what I had written.

Back from Wilson Trail

2008-11-16T00:50:00.000-08:00

After exploring Konloon, and Honk Kong island I felt the call of the wild. Though as you folks know, the wild has me on speed dial. I have a load of notes about HK city, but thought better to present them once I've had something to compare them to.

Day before yesterday I made my way down to Stanley on the South side of HK main island. Though everything here is very expensive for Asia, comparable with London. Transport is the exception, the 45 minute journey cost about 8 hkd

Accomodation at eh cheap end, aroung 130 - 250 hkd for a private ensuite room, with room to swing a kitten. Stanley his more the sort of place to rent an apartment, unlikely to find anything below 500 hkd, so I slept on the rocks. The signs about the place forbid everything from racing model cars, and even lying down on places for sitting will get you grief. So I was as discrete as possible with a bergen with thermarest attached to the side.

After spending too long in the city, it was magical to sleep with the sound of the ocean, orion was a reasuringly familiar sight. With shark nets prominently placed, I skipped a moring dip, but did manange a full ashtanga yoga sequence.

Later I met up with an HK born Indian, not living in London who I met on the plane, we swam out from a nearby bay to a swiming platform, where I was able to teach him som e sun salutations as the sun was setting.

Now flexible and cooler I headed up to stage one of the Wilson trail, described in "The Serious Hikers guide to Hong Kong" as very strenuous, starting with a 1000 steps. They were not kidding, I also very much doubt the authors were carrying over 30kgs including this laptop. Still, after a snooze in the bivvy just past the summit, then steadily through the night, I made it to Wong nei chung gap road soon after sunrise very glad of my new lightweight boots - thanks Mum!

At the end of section 1 of the trail, I found the pill boxes used to defend against the Japanese, the jungle here was much denser, now with trees big enough to support my hamock, for my second snooze of the day, and a read of the new Malcom Gladwell book: Outliers, the story off success, still a few chapters to go.

Back in HK now, having fuelled up on Noodle Beef Combinations which contains Brisket, Stomach, Gristle and Beef Combinations. My first recursive meal, and throughly delicious, even if I struggled to work out which the various bits were.

My main pack is stashed in the woodland, with a stash of good firewood, water etc so I'll be heading up there tonight. I have some anchovy paste, garlic and chilli so hope to find some tomatoes and pasta for a putanesa sauce mmmm.....

What have I been up to since my last blog.

2008-11-13T11:53:00.000-08:00

Since my last big adventure I returned to teaching bushcraft and survival skills in Wales through my work with dryad bushcraft, and taken time out in the off season to learn more bushcrafty skills.

Professional hightlights have included:-

Couchsurfingin Northern California

Roasting vension and pizzas in a filing cabinet.

Cooking a four course meal for 10 in 70 mph winds

Serving a meal of seaside creatures, plants and Cawl for Canadian TV show with Micheal Smith

Bivouaking in Mount Hood national park out of season, where they filmed the shining, and hanging out a bunch of crazy gun nuts.

Learning and helping to film the process of forging damascus steel knife blades at in Sweden, where they make the Rolls Royce of Axes Gransfors Bruks

Teaching friction firelighting to autistic children (not my decision)

Receiving my Postgraduate diploma in Architecture: Advanced Environmental & Energy Studies from the Centre for Alternative technology

I have also studied been lucky enough to participate in a microhydro installations with the University of Glamorgan, included extensive theory, surveying and modeling to laying pipe and wiring.

Advanced First aid Remote Trauma - anybody need a glucose drip, or shot of adrenaline?

Basic Food Hygine - I got it, but the course did not include cooking bugs in the woods.

Loads of yoga, a little paid massage work, little mechanical engineering, a little computer work. Got my heart broken twice, and miss one special person like crazy, but I'm still smiling.

Honk Kong still wide awake 4am, why not start the blog?

2008-11-13T11:38:00.000-08:00

Hard to believe it is nearly 2 years since I last attempted a blog. My last effort began when I was travelling in India and Thailand studying yoga, massage and meditation. Also taking plenty of time to enjoy the company of many wonderful people from all over the globe many of whom I am pleased still be in regular contact with.

To anyone who has met since, they will be well aware how much I gained from the experience, and also how much of a challenge integrating the experiences of this time, into life in the UK has been. Though while on adventure I made a list of things to do, on my return, and after two years most of them I achieved. Anyone still waiting for a thai yoga massage, I will get around to you eventually!

My plans to blog my Indian adventure came to a halt as due to really slow computers, and I wondered how much interest there would really be in reading my ramblings, especially as so many of the experiences were personal and not I thought of interest to others.

Since then the whole facebook phenomenon has exploded like an electric spider across the collective concious, turning us all into voyeurs. The flipside is the comfort it has brought in knowing how much interest our friends take, in the little details of our lives. I wonder what Andy Wharhole and Marshal McLuhan would have made of it?

There are a mountain of images, thoughts, ramblings etc which never quite made it from my computer to the web. So this trip I have with me a fine an acer aspire one, a fine little linux laptop, digital camera and servers at home, with all the tools to spread my musings, pictures about the place.

As these thoughts are vomited up, I will post them here, eventually they may morph into a more structured output, but for now you will get them partly digested, with all bile included.