From Melbourne to Sydney like Thelma and Louise

Chris didn't want to go a road trip. He said that the two of us trapped in a metal box for over 1000km wouldn't end well. To make his case he cited previous case history of broken London wing mirrors and a minor weeping episode after someone shouted at me. I cited successful recent drives to Leeds and Cornwall. One of which started at 4am.

I won.

At the car hire place the man told Chris the excess on the car was $5,000. Then I couldn't quite work out how to start the car... I'm not saying he spent all of the next 6 days with his head in his hands but he was certainly a bit jumpier than usual.

After a few days in Melbourne where we had winced at the cost of wine, beer and other essentials and taken in the free Ned Kelly lecture at the State Library (it was billed as a half hour chat through the exhibition and turned into a 2 hour eulogy) we packed up and headed out to the open road.

First stop was Foster via Wilson's Promontory. Wilson's Promontory is a wonderful national park. All mountains and forest and beaches. We saw our first kangaroo here. It was dead on the side of the road but it was still a kangaroo (probably, it might have been a wallaby). It was on all levels (apart from the dead marsupial level) incredibly beautiful.

We'd been reading a travelog by the author Howard Jacobson about his trip to Australia over 20 years ago. He had a habit of naming places after friends as he went about. We decided that our friends Slim and Laura would have found much joy at Wilson's Promontory so henceforth let it be known as 'Slim's Protrusion'.

Foster's was a one horse town and the horse was called John. John owned the hostel we stayed in, the neighbouring holiday park and the butchers. He stopped by to say hi. “People get upset if I don't” he said with a deep sigh. It must be stressful being such a man about town.

We flew out of Foster the next morning in the wrong direction and after retracing our steps had to drive slowly behind some a cow wandering happily along the middle of the road.

A few dead kangaroo's, some small lost Irish men, a mad French couple, a possum and a caravan later we arrived in Sydney in unbelievably heavy rain.

We made it to the car rental place safe and sound. I have never seen Chris looking happier than when I handed back the keys.          

Back in Bali

After 5 days of, mostly, sunshine drenched beaches in Lombok we were ready to head inland again and to the treat of our trip. Vicky and Space bought as a night in a lovely hotel in Ubud for my 30^th. Ubud is the cultural capital of Bali. When Islam swept through Indonesia parts of the royal family and their courts of artists and musicians fled to Bali and set up shop in Ubud as a consequence its got a lot of culture. It also features heavily in that new Julia Roberts film 'Eat, Pray, Love' so there were a lot of Americans who'd come to find themselves. We left them to it.

Our room was amazing. A teak cabin on stilts overlooking the rice fields. Amazing. We had a wonderful day lazing on our balcony watching the ducks in the rice fields and drinking beer before heading out for a world class meal. Then at 2am Chris decided that we really hadn't made enough use of our lovely teak bathroom and spent the rest of our stay clutching the toilet bowl.

After living up with the spiritual Yanks in Ubud it was time to finally embrace the place which Bali is renowned for. Kuta Beach. If you want to know what Kuta is like imagine an Asian Costa del Sol and you'll be about there. Still it is Kuta where Bali tourism started and Kuta which remains a significant driver of the local economy and even if our mate Geoff hadn't flown out from Sydney to meet us there I suppose we'd have had to go and have a look.

I don't know what there is to say about Kuta really. Lots of booze and hangover killing swims are really the only way to go. Though the joy of Bali is its tiny so we didn't have to stop exploring the Island. One evening we went to Jimbaran a little enclave further down the coast which is reputed for its beachside BBQs. We ate so much seafood we felt sick. We had a whole lobster, calamari, prawns, fish, clams it just kept coming. Finally the tide came in and we had to flee our seats.

Another day the four of us (Geoff had bought out his friend Julia) went on a bike tour. The company drive you to the top of the volcano and then you cycle down stopping en route to see local Bali life. We stopped in at a family compound where they were preparing for the teeth filing ceremony which every Bali teen undergoes when they come of age. We saw people harvesting rice and preparing it for the mill. It was all interesting, but it was not all downhill. Our charming guide would periodically pause and say 'the next bit is downhill, downhill and then a little bit of exercise...' Any kind of uphill in over 30c heat and god knows what humidity can only be euphemistically called exercise.

At the end of our bike ride we were treated to a 9 course meal in the owners family compound an orgy of yummy Indonesian food. We went home full and happy.

Surf's up in Lombok

From North Bali we drove round the coast and back to Sanur before heading off sans Jeremy to the neighbouring Island of Lombok. Lombok is a mainly Muslim country, unlike Bali which has its own unique brand of Hinduism. As such we'd be warned that it might be more conservative. The biggest difference I saw was the lack of Aussie families in their Bintang uniforms. We stayed in a stunning place right on the beach with crashing waves an amazing sunsets.

Surfing was big and we decided it was time to have a lesson. Perhaps should have waited for Oz. Our instructor seemed to have been trained by the Marines and kept shouting at us that everything we were doing was WRONG and DANGEROUS without making it clear what was RIGHT and SAFE. The tide started to come in and we soon found ourselves crashing up the rocks. He insisted it was safe (whilst shouting that THIS WAVE IS TOO BIG and NO NO NO) and I thought 'Sod this I've knelt on the board with one one foot up
and no hands. That's good enough for me, see you later mate'. So headed in. He surfed towards me (not on his head this time which he did to show off) to try and convince me to carry on. Then started shouting again as a giant wave took me and threw me on the rocks. I have wounds. Pictures will follow.

The next day we went on a tour which was a little safer. We saw some amazing beaches before the rains came in and visited a village doing traditional weaving. We had a great time got on very well with Opan the guy driving us round though we were also treated to his dubious views about disabled people who are 'not normal' 'nearly human' people who needed to learn some skills and not beg on the side of the road. I mean the Government have rounded them all up and put them in an institution to teach them things, the only reason they beg is because they're lazy... Ok Opan.  

What happened in Bali stays in Bali?

Sorry we didn't get round to blogging in Bali. Somehow we just never quite found the time. But now we're unemployed in Sydney (more of that to follow). We have plenty of time to give you a quick run down.

First off Bali is wonderful, but without Chris's uncle, Jeremy, there is no way we would have seen, learnt and done as much as we did. Jeremy, for those who don't know, spent some time living in Indonesia 10 years ago teaching English and since built a business importing Indo furniture and craft to the UK. It seemed that everywhere we went someone knew 'Jerry' and if they didn't it wasn't long before they were chatting away in Indonesian. We were very much playing second fiddle ('Where is your uncle? Is your uncle coming back soon? When can I talk to your uncle again...?') not that we minded.

We started in the resort of Sanur meeting lots of Jeremy's friends both ex-pats and Indonesians. It was also in Sanur that we first sighted the cultural phenomenon of the Bintang singlet. Bintang is the generic, ubiquitous beer of Bali. Now Australians have a bit of reputation for beer worshipping and they are doing nothing to dispel this impression in Bali. In all the touristy place we went we found whole Aussie families (Mum, Dad, kids, grandparents, babies, dogs...) all wearing matching Bintang singlets. It was clear we weren't in Karantanka any more. The beer was flowing.

With Jeremy driving we hired a car and set off into the centre of the country. We toured through rice fields, mountains and small villages. Every now and then Jeremy would threaten to stop and buy a Durian. Apparently if you can get past the smell, the fruit of Durian is very tasty. Durian smells of stale sick and rotten sick. You have to be pretty committed to get past that smell. We weren't.

In North Bali we got deluged by rain, scammed by a man who described himself as a 'Criminal Romantic' (rapist?) and went snorkelling at a coral reef. The coral reef was amazing. I'd never seen anything like it. We saw all sorts of fishes. Lots of the ones in Finding Nemo.

We also went walking in the national park. No elephants this time and the Balinese tiger died out years ago so no seriously scary encounters with wildlife. In fact few encounters with wildlife at all, for which our guide was most apologetic. However, the wildlife had got the memo and when we arrived back to the carpark a troop of monkeys had set up camp on the roof of the car.

Cyclone to Singapore

We were supposed to get a train from Varkala to Chennai to take our flight out of India to Singapore and then on to Bali. It should have been a 15 hour overnight affair getting us into the city in time for a quick look about before our flight. But after a marathon train journey a few weeks earlier we'd checked the domestic flight prices, caved and bought tickets. We had no idea how lucky we'd been.

The night we would have been travelling towards Chennai by train a cyclone hit South India. In particular it hit Chennai. At the time that we took our cheat flight, trains were being held outside the city and the roads were flooded. It turned out that there was only one way to make our flight to Singapore and we were on it.

This knowledge did sort of make the 7 hour wait for the flight in the cockroach ridden, overpriced filthy airport sweeter but it was tough going.

Many hours later we arrived in Singapore in time for New Years Eve morning. There couldn't have been a bigger contrast. From above Singapore looks liked a city built by Lego. After sliding through the pristine airport and out on to the metro system I couldn't believe how clean everything was. I started to wonder what the people of Singapore were so worried would happen if something got dirty.

Fortunately for my sanity we had managed to pick the red light district to stay for the night and things here were sufficiently grubby (though really not very grubby) for me to feel at ease.

Singapore has been described as “The only shopping centre with a seat at the UN”. It sure does have a lot of shopping centres. We visited a few and then went back to snatch a few hours before the fireworks and our flight to the Indonesian Island of Bali.   

Germans can't surf

Varkala is Hampi by the sea. Sponsored by Kingfisher Beer, it is also appears to be dry. So there is an odd juxtaposition of all the walls covered in adverts for Kingfisher and not being able to legally buy any. You can, of course, buy a Kingfisher but it's served in either a tea mug or in a bottle covered in paper. Everyone knows that police officers cannot see through paper.  The sea was warm and I learnt that you can surf in India. I can't. And neither can anyone from Germany.

Fort Cochin or The hunt for the Christmas drink

It started in the lush hotel that Mum and Dad had booked us into as a Christmas present. It was an amazing place which used to be owned by one of the Jewish families who had lived in Cochin. After Israel was created many of them left to join the new state leaving behind some great houses. Sadly many had fallen into rack and ruin until tourism came along and rescued them. So there we were sat in the yummy restaurant asking for a beer to go with the food: “Ha, ha there is no alcohol here.”

We consulted the slightly dated guide book Helen had leant us. No booze in our hotel at Christmas was a serious problem we needed an alternative source. A couple of options presented themselves, we set out to explore.

At place after place they laughed in our faces. The only places we could find in town to serve us anything remotely Christmassy came with a five * tag. But it was Christmas so we settled in to the comfy chairs listened to the Indian band doing random covers of western songs and ordered another Kingfisher.  

Water, water everywhere...

We got to Alleypey, unfortunately I wasn't feeling great. I had drunk the filtered water in Kumarakom rather than make the waiter go and get me a mineral water bottle. “It's fine. It's filtered. I drink it all the time” So by the time we got to Alleppey I pretty much insisted on the first place we saw that had a toilet.

It was only afterwards that I noticed the cockroaches. The guy who ran the 'homestay' would disappear for large amounts of time and the water did not run. I spoke to the other residents who were a group of sweet but very very stoned Swedish backpackers.

“yeah... he's just here... Oh... wait... he went out. Yeah... An hour ago.”

“Does your water work?”

“Oh... That's why the toilet doesn't flush”

We stayed there a night and then booked ourselves into a hotel. With a pool. On the roof.

I'm getting the feeling that both Hazel and myself are pretty shitty backpackers.

The following day we booked a day trip in the backwaters being punted up and down the canals by a local man who would occasionally point at a temple and mumble “temple”. Being pushed around on a boat for 5 hours is an incredibly relaxing way of spending the day and I would heartily recommend it.

This ones for the ornithologists

People go to Kumarakum for a few reasons:
1. To pick up a converted rice barge also known as houseboat to drive around the lake on
2. To see the setting for Arundhati Roy's booker prize winning novel The God of Small Things
3. To watch the birds.

We couldn't afford a houseboat and Chris hasn't read The God of Small Things so birds it was. Early in the morning we headed to the bird sanctuary (which does run alongside Arundhati's old gaff in a former rubber plantation) for a spot of twitching.

Our guide was brilliant pointing out giant fruit bats settling down for the day, night heron's tucking their beaks under their wings. Baby black turtles shuffling into the water like a couple of black pebbles, Darter birds darting, rare thrushes that prefer walking to flying, walking and so on. We saw all manner of kingfisher, egret and heron not to mention kites and eagles. There were butterflys, dragonflys, wild pineapples and rubber sap oozing from the trees looking just like rubber. Chris was not quite so enthralled as he was still feeling ill. Every time the guide pointed out something new Chris could just about muster a nod and a 'yep, its a bird'.

Later that day sat having a Kingfisher beer and a sandwich while looking over the lake we saw a real kingfisher dive from the tree into the lake and swoop off with his catch.

Back at the homestay new guests had arrived, three elderly ndian men. We said hello and made polite conversation and later they came over again. "Do you drink liquor?"  We supposed we did and found ourselves in their shared room drinking whiskey and water and discussing Indian's new anti-corruption bill and the relative merits of north or south India.    

"It's very dangerous here..."

Ooty was lovely. A hill station up a mountain, the weather hovered in the mid teens and was incredibly refreshing from the heat and humidity of the rest of India. We had arranged to stay at a homestay halfway up a mountain surrounded by terraces of tea.

Hazel insisted that we go to the man made lake in the centre of Ooty and have a go on the pedaloes. This was Ooty's answer to Disney World. After a full hour on the pedaloes Hazel decided that that was quite enough fun for the day and we now had to find a drink to steady our nerves. This is not easy in Ooty. The only place that we could find to drink alcohol was a 5 star hotel up a mountain where the waiter stood beside us and topped up our pint glasses if we even looked at our drinks.

The next day we booked a trip through our homestay for a days trek. This was incredibly good fun although very tiring. Two staff from the homestay took us in a four by four around the 36 hairpin bends down into the neighbouring valley where we were joined by two men from one of the local hill tribes. The six off us set off into the scrub with the one person who spoke English gesturing at the mountain in front of us and saying 'up there'. Right. 

A quick shimmy through the fields, over a river and passed some lowing cows and we had started a near vertical assent. Our 4 guides (which seemed excessive at the time) seemed to have no bother sprinting up in front of us, laughing and joking and taking mobile phone calls. The one in front hacked a path with his machete and they all just kept going without even breaking sweat. By the time we reached the plateau we were dripping and could barely speak for trying to breath.  

After that the walk eased off a bit (perhaps they took pity?) we got to have a look at the flora and fauna. Our tribesman guides pointed out things and our man from the homestay attempted translation. We wondered if we were getting the full benefit of the tribesman's wisdom when after a lengthy explanation our English speaker turned to us and nodded at a large tree and said "its a tree". 

We did manage to find termite mounds, bee hives and an elephant skull. This all seemed pretty cool to us and we'd have been happy with the elephant tracks and the skull, but there was more to come. 

We were walking down a sort of wide grassy pathway in between forest high on the mountain side. It was flat which made a nice change. All of a sudden our guide with the machete made urgent noises, appeared to blanche and urged us quickly backwards running himself. He had spotted the most dangerous beast in the jungle and it was headed our way. A female elephant with her calf. We could hear the elephant trumpet behind us. All I could think of is how to explain to Hazel's mother how I was really sorry but Hazel just couldn't run as quick as the rest of us. 

Once he'd gathered himself he approached the elephant again and redirected her into another part of the forest using the ancient technique of clapping his hands. We heard her crashing through the forest beside us and were again urged to run in the opposite direction. 

The adrenalin rush seemed to bond us as a group and we all laughed with relief. Our English speaker confided in us as we settled down for lunch with a view over the valley; "It's very dangerous here, only local people come no foreigners". Right.