80 Days

Almost there. Almost ready to go - physically and mentally. Just found out that my hotel booking in Japan has come back because they are full. I suppose I could leave it till I get there but I don’t think Tokyo is the sort of place where you can just stroll around until you find somewhere nice to stay. Anyway I want a “ryokan” which is a traditional japanese inn - very simple, matress on the floor type of place. I’m definitely not going to stay in one of those places where you sleep in the drawer of a filing cabinet !

Anyway that’s Day 41. I’ll concentrate on Day 1 right now

Well, here I am in Venice sitting in the sun having successfully completed the overnight journey from Paris, in spite of trying very hard to catch the train to Rome - that would have been a great start. You see the sign on the board definitely said Venice on platform one, but nobody was allowed through for the time being. Then  suddenly everybody started to surge onto the platform  and I followed. There did seem to be a lot of carriages which had the doors closed but eventually I came to one I could get on. Now there was a label on the carriage door which I swear said  ‘ Venice ‘.  Anyway after a few minutes the train started to move. That’s funny I thought, it’s 20 minutes early - trains don’t leave early - maybe he’s just shunting some carriages around. But no - soon it was ‘tickedy-tick-tickedy-tick’ and we were belting along. I think the leaving early started to concern me and I asked an italian girl in the carriage to confirm that this was the train for Venice. She looked at me strangely as if I had asked her was it the train for Kuala Lumpur. ” Non Monsieur, c’est le train pour Roma “. Oh ,bloody hell. I’m going round the world and I can’t even get on the right train out of Paris. Don’t panic, don’t panic, stay calm. Now think about this. The train I want is still in the station in Paris. Imagining a map in my head I decided , or rather hoped, that the first part of both train journeys would be on the same track. Now if both trains were to stop somewhere en route at the same station, let’s say Lyons, then I could simply get off the Rome train and hop on the Venice train. I consulted the guard who consulted his timetable and yes, they both stopped at Lyons. There was even enough time beween the two trains stopping that I was able to stroll up the escalator, find a place for a burger and a beer  and stroll back down. Needless to say I did make sure I was on the right platform.

Arrived at about 8:00 old time and spent the first hour trying to find the hotel which turned out to be down one of those narrow little alleyways that you get in Venice. I’ve got the whole day here tomorrow so will probably stroll down to Piazza San Marco for a very expensive coffee, chocolate, or beer, then go to a gallery after lunch before I board the boat late afternoon. This should be uneventful and as I don’t expect there to be any internet on the boat my next update will probably be Wednesday or Thursday.

See you

Phileas

So, still in Venice, I’m off out for something to eat. There is a nice little restaurant I know which isn’t too far from the hotel just off the ‘Canal Grande’. Shit it’s closed. Well I know another, but its a good walk and I’ve done enough walking today. So decide to try and find something different - a kosher jewish restaurant, my life already ! Feeling a bit guilty about ignoring the Middle East in my voyage, I can at least try some of the cuisine. A starter of falafel with about 12 different dips/ accompaniments, followed by the good old chicken soup with matzo ball, leaves me feeling not quite replenished so I finish off with fried artichokes which were not too good. Never mind, I tried

Monday, and following the slight hiccough with the train, I decide to go down to the port to collect my tickets and find out where the boat goes from. Good job I did ’cause it’s bloody miles away. I supopose I was expecting something a bit bigger than the car ferry from Sandbanks to Shell Bay but not something the size of the Titanic er …or rather the QE2. It’s huge (which is why you’re getting this blog today - there’s Internet)

Anyway on my way back, I notice that there is transport back to Piazza San Marco on the Vaporetto. Perfect, so I take the boat back to San Marco and treat myself to a Hot Chocolate in Florians - only 9 Euros (with the orchestra it would have been 18 ) Have lunch and  on the way back to pick up my luggage, decide to see if there is a vaporetto from the station. Yes, number 2 looks like it goes close. Well it did, very close, so ruddy close I could have jumped off. Unfortunately it carried on and on and on. You know most vaporettos stop every 30 seconds. Well this one just carried on to the other side - the bloody Lido. Don’t panic Mr. Mainwaring. Don’t panic. A quick calculation says if I stay on this bloody boat it will take me ages to get back. So I get off when it finally stops and wait for the next one to go back. It comes. I catch it, go past my ferry again and getting off at the next stop I’ve only got a twenty minute drag round the docks before I arrive and coolly embark with half an hour to spare - no sweat.

I’m hungry now so going to try the delicacies of this Italian / Greek galley………

…….Shouldn’t have bothered. That was probably the worst meal I’ve had since I was in hospital. Overcooked rice with overcooked chicken in something resembling Madeira sauce but only in colour, made worse by the fact that it was cold, due to only one cashier, in spite of there being hundreds of waiters - in a self-service restaurant ? I ask you.

Anyway met somebody to talk to - but that’s in tomorrow’s update

Bonne nuit !

Fogg

I promised an update on my first real conversation since leaving home. I had just finished my meal when I overheard this chap talking to his wife about “circumnavigation” and “single-handed” and thought that perhaps he was talking about going round the world. So, I stroll over and ask him if he was, and he said not really, and I said “oh sorry, it’s just that I am …etc . etc” and he says that it sounds interesting, and asked me to sit down. So it turns out he was talking about his grandfather who, as well as being a Black and Tan, also set off to sail round the world solo. Don’t know if he made it or not. Anyway this chap is a writer and talked a lot about their (remember there is a wife, who hardly got a word in ) house in Corfu that they built in 1970. OK , so its pretty boring, but when conversation is scarce, any port in a storm 

Tuesday passed fairly uneventfully. Tried to go to bed early but couldn’t sleep - thinking about waking up at 04:30 to disembark.

Wednesday began early - like 5 o’clock early to disembark from the boat. In the darkness I just followed other weary souls not really sure where I was going, but fairly sure that they must know - a station or maybe for a bus. I suppose I could always take a taxi into town. No, do it the hard way - this decision turns out to be the best decision I’ve made so far. Ah, there’s a railway station. So, single to Athens I said . “No, no” he says the train left at 05:30 - five f***ing minutes ago. “Bus Station” he mumbles waving vaguely up the  street. So I trundle off in the dark to find the bus station. Its amazing how many people are around at that time of day. I buy a ticket - Euros 16 ! Seems expensive for a little trip into town.

Two and a half hours later we finally arrive in Athens driving through some dramatic scenery having crossed most of southern Greece - that will teach me to look at the map next time. Just think of the fare if I’d taken a taxi

Well I’m off out for the evening - its 5:30 in the afternoon -  I have been up for over twelve hours

See you tomorrow

Treated myself to a lie-in this morning - 9:00. Set off on the usual route but this time continued on up the hill to the Acropolis - keep wanting to call it the Apocalypse. Now, they are restoring just about all of it, and not that tidily either, so it was a bit disappointing but impressive anyway. Somewhat hairy in places due to overnight rain making the stone paths rather lethal

Needing to go back to the hotel, I decide to use the new underground system. Set off in the right direction, got off at the right stop….. Under the pressure of deciding whether to go for the train that had just come in, stay on the train I was on, or get off and stay on the platform, I unfortunately made an error of judgement and instead of changing lines I merely changed direction and went back to where I had just come from. Thanks to the help of a rather attractive girl who told me the way and smiled at me in a way that says “poor old fool”, I go back again and this time make the change to the right line. You may be laughing at this but its bloody difficult to read signs in Greek particularly when half the population is trying to get somewhere and…..Well would you believe it, there is actually an announcement saying “Mind the Gap”. I refrained from adding “Stand clear of the doors please” as I don’t think it would have been appreciated or even understood.

Having finally had a very nice lunch - probably the best Moussaka I have ever had, I spend the whole afternoon reading the paper and doing the crossword having managed to find an English Paper - unfortunately it was the Daily Mail - yes I know what you’re thinking - How can anyone spend an afternoon reading the Daily Mail

Off to hopefully find a good meal. See you tomorrow.

Phileas

Decided to make it a cultural day today and visit the archaeological museum. So I walked there, had a “Café Freddo” first and then bought my ticket having first tried to get in without one - innocently of course. Lots of statues and vases and bits of crockery and busts and ornaments and I suppose once you’ve seen one piece of marble or pottery you’ve seen ‘em all. Still I now know a bit more about the Neolithic period and also the Minoan and Maecean civilisations in 6000 - 3800 BC. How do they know, that’s what amazes me. I mean how can they look at a piece of rock or marble and say that this is a head from the Minoan period, probably from Crete, dated 5500- 5449 BC, and probably of a young man born to a wealthy family who probably died from falling off his horse which was probably called Perseus…. etc. By the way have you ever noticed how these statues have nearly always lost their noses and their arms? Oh and usually their willies as well.

On leaving the museum I am accosted by a girl doing a survey - yes OK I’ve got 5 minutes. Turns out she is trying to correlate personality characteristics with the way we walk around museums. So, if you are extrovert and outgoing, do you walk round in a lateral way studying evey exhibit in turn or do you randomly jump from one to another. Seems pretty obvious to me , but also what does it mean anyway ?

Well, that was Athens. Not the most attractive or fascinating of capital cities but worth a stop. It’s certainly a busy noisy place with traffic driving as if it was in the Monaco GP, and loads of motorbikes and scooters, most of which ride on the pavement. There’s a hint of arab culture about the place in the way they dress and talk to each other. Why do all the shopkeepers stand in the doorways of their shops and why do they try and talk you into going into their restaurant - “Ello, ello, come inside, come inside, eat, fresh fish, very nice, you like…..”. But to be fair they don’t bother you that much and do at least understand when you say “no” you mean “no”.

So I’m off to the airport now, by Metro ( in the right direction of course), leaving Western civilisation behind and not seeing it again until I reach the USA on Day whatever it is. Cairo next which will probably be even busier, noisier, dirtier, and dustier than Athens- it will certainly be more Arabian !

Just realised I’m on Day 8, one week and a tenth of the way round !

Passe Partout
pp Phileas Fogg

Getting up at 3:30 meant we arrived in Aswan early Tuesday morning. First stop the High Dam (as opposed to the Old Dam ) Pretty big Lake Nasser. Lots of antiquities, temples to various Gods, and a whole civilisation ( the Nubians) got moved and weren’t too chuffed about it.

Carried on sightseeing (well, you’ve got to really havn’t you) by sailing on a felucca which is a strange open boat with a bloody great sail and unusual boom which only swings half way across until it smashes into the mast, at which point half the sail carries on and somehow you “go about”. Anyway we took one to Kitcheners Island in the middle of the Nile which was given to the great Lord Horatio, who was among other things commander of the Egyptian Army - don’t quite know why but there it is. Apparently he had a passion for gardens so devoted the whole island to be a Botanical Gardens. Now there’s not many people know that.

It’s a lot quieter up here ( that’s UP because it’s Upper Egypt, which is Upper because its higher than Lower Egypt i.e. up river) You still get pestered of course ” ‘Ello  ‘ello. Wey you from? You like my shop? I do special price.  Fife Egyptian pouns. Three Pouns. OK  2 for 1  poun……” I usually try and ignore them but if one persists then a curt “Shukran” usually works. It means somewhere between thank you and “piss off”

Actually most of the guys are harmless enough and I suppose have to earn a crust. We’re usually only talking about 30-50 Egyptian Pounds which is less than a fiver, so for Mohammed’s sake pay the man Abdul.

Hello from Cairo or to be more precise Aswan today (wed). I have emerged from the depths of Cairo in one piece. Sorry folks about the lack of communication for the last few days, but no Internet anywhere and this one is incredibly slow, so here’s a brief update.

My brother joined me Saturday night at one in the morning and Sunday we did the pyramids which we could actually see from our bedroom window - amazing, you just cant stop looking at them, then the Sphynx. I thought Athens was dirty but Cairo is probably the dirtiest, dustiest, noisiest place I have ever been to. As for crossing the road - the traffic is unbelievable, continual blasting of horns and overtaking on both sides of three lanes of cars, trucks, taxis, minicabs, motorbikes, people in what is supposed to be only two lanes - the drivers are just crazy - even worse than in Rome!

Went to the Museum and saw Tutenkhamen stuff - funnily enough some of exhibition was on loan to London. Cuisine here all much the same, except treated to an excellent Indian meal on Monday night ( ready for next week). Wake-up call at 03:00 (yes three in the morning ) to get to Aswan where I am now on a boat on the Nile. Setting sail for Luxor and Valley of the Kings tomorrow. Will update when I can. Musty go taxi is waiting

Many, many thanks to those who have responded to my blog its good to hear from home which is beginning to seem a long way away as I head further East.

Dessert Rat  

Before we left the boat we had a final day of sightseeing - and the best was saved till last - the Valley of the Kings where on a stinking hot day we descended from the already baking desert ( it was only 07:30) into the tombs of Ramases the I, II, and IV ( not sure where the III was) Fantastic, absolutely amazing what they did. The stone carving and painting on the walls was so detailed and intricate it was unbelievable. We followed this with an almost equally stunning Valley of the Queens with a temple in honour of  Hatshepsut who was the Margaret Thatcher of the Pharaohs. Now our Egyptian education was over and we headed back to the boat and said goodbye to our guide Archie ( his real name was Gemil ).

Before we handed in our room key which, would you believe it, was the same number as our hotel room had been ( 404 ),  I went to get some cash from the good old reliable cash machine, except this one wasn’t a hole in the wall, it was like a pillar box on the street . Well of course as is the case in Cairo I had my helper who was desperate to show me how to use the machine - I obviously did not appear to be able to deal with such a complex piece of equipment, which in fact proved to be right because as I went to retrieve my card it disappeared into the machine never to appear again in spite of me pressing every single bloody button. Shit! So what do I do now ? I try and find the bank who owns this technical wizardry only to find out that their office is closed on Fridays. I return to my helper who has stood on guard just in case it regurgitated the card but to no avail. Consolation was I had got the 1000 Egyptian Pounds to pay our drinks bill (its only 100 quid between two for four days before you say anything ) but it was an inconvenience I could have done without. Yes, yes, before you tell me, I have of course cancelled the card, due to having had the forethought to take my internet banking details with me so I could get the number to ring just in case something happened to my card.

A final lunch on the boat which like all the other meals was buffet style - ‘help yourself to as much as you can possibly get on your plate and step on anybody who gets in your way’ style. At least it was freshly cooked. Beer was good, when available, and I had a surprisingly good Egyptian Brandy

Back to the hotel in Cairo where we had use of a room to change and wash - room number ? well almost, 403. Had plenty of time so went up onto the terrace to have something to eat and got right in the middle of an Egyptian Wedding where a woman makes some very strange noises and a man plays some very strange music on a pipe, and two youths do a very strange dance with poles. The bride and groom look as if they are going to a funeral, and here’s the bride on a mobile phone in the middle of the procession !

We escape and go to our room only to find that the key won’t work - the bloody door is double locked . Don’t panic - they will have a master key at reception. So go and call reception. Man arrives with two keys and hey presto….. neither of them work. Images of doors being hacked down come to mind. Planes being missed etc. Anyway he somehow finally cracks it and we are away.

Say goodbye to brother, who I leave somewhat reluctantly with a tour guide who was rather sweet - apparently she stayed with him for another hour until 02:30. Well I manage to check-in OK with just a moment of crisis when he can’t find my name on the list and I look at the ticket which says 03:30 on the 12th, and I look at my watch which says the 12th. What! but it’s Friday - if Friday is the 12th then I’m a day late. Oh God, what the hell am I going to do now ? I then realised, with a certain amount of relief, that it was of course after midnight and the date on my watch had changed.

What a relaxing final day in sleepy Cairo

Saturday mid-day and I arrive in Bombay - sorry Mumbai. Get 500 Rupees  out of the cash machine, and go to find the taxi desk. The woman says R 700 into town - that seems a lot I thought, that’s…. that’s…. wait a minute that’s nearly 100 quid ! No, no, 78 to the pound not 7.8 you bloody idiot. So, I’d just got the substantial sum of about £ 6.50 out of the machine, which actually would have lasted me all day as I was to discover.

Out of the airport and immediately there is a smell to the place - don’t know what it is, but those of you who have been to India will know what I mean. This time there is no tour guide to greet me, no brother to turn to, I am on my own in India !

Taxi ride into town was hairy to say the least. They drive with their horns and change lanes every few seconds. Arrive at hotel which is small but comfortable, and my room no. - oh so close 405! That’s 404, 404, 403, and 405. What are the chances of this Mr. Evans ?

I spend the afternoon walking round the Fort area of the city. Amazing, the place is amazing. A mixture of classical Victorian Gothic architecture alongside art-deco style buildings, alongside dirty, grubby little side streets lined with  street vendors  selling clothes, shoes, bags, watches, telephones, cold drinks, freshly squeezed juices and cane sugar, bajia and other food items, most of which I don’t recognise. There is constant noise - from traffic and men (mainly) conversing with, and shouting to each other. Black and yellow taxis buzz around like a swarm of bees ( apparently there are about a 140,000 in the city ) In spite of all the vendors trying to sell their goods, there is no hassle. Just a “hey sir, look here sir” and if you say “no thank you” that’s it, they leave you alone. The pavements are littered with sleeping people and sleeping dogs. People having their lunch, people playing cards, people just sitting or standing around - doing apparently nothing. But everywhere there are people.

I venture out for dinner and come across a lively little place which is packed. I enter with some trepidation. “Yes, sir” a man says and saying I would like a table for one he tells me to follow him and finds me a table , gives me the menu, and says he will be back. The menu is extensive but most of it unintelligible. So, I tell him to choose something off the fish menu ( fish and seafood being their speciality) I end up with a very nice filet of spiced fish. I try some conversation with the two blokes who have joined me, but their English isn’t that good, so it’s one of those conversations where he says something and I nod, and he looks at me as if to say “well what do you think ?” and I say “pardon” and he repeats the question, and I still don’t know what he said, and so it goes on, or rather doesn’t. I pay the ridiculous sum of about R230 ( less than € 4 ) which would have been cheap for the 50cl bottle of beer alone!

Well that’s my first day in India - no events, no disasters , just fascination with a totally different life and culture

See you tomorrow

Mike in Mumbai

Wake up fairly late and venture out into the street looking for a coffee house. It seems a lot quieter than yesterday and a lot of shops are roller-shuttered up. Of course, its Sunday - they obviously still respect this as a holy day. Well I set off in a different direction towards the station. There it is - an enormous and splendid edifice with Victorian Gothic architecture mixed with Muslim flourishes, complete with domes and gargoyles. It makes Waterloo look like a village station. Apparently nearly 2.5 million people a day pass through here.

I cross the road with the dexterity of one who is used to risking his life dodging attacking taxis as they swarm towards him. There’s a park with something going on. Its a cricket match! In fact its several cricket matches. I walk down by the railings looking for an entrance. Amazing, there must be at least 20 matches going on in a space about the size of 2 football pitches. you can’t tell who is fielding in which match as pitches overlap each other. On the other side of the path there’s a game on its own in front of the old pavilion, so I sit down under the trees by the boundary with about 100 others, none of whom seem to be particularly interested in the game at all

I’m feeling a bit tired this evening (walking round in this heat is exhausting) so I just go across the road to try out a modern Indian restaurant - its called Sizzlers, and nearly everything that you order comes out “sizzling” and still steaming and cooking on the plate. The place looks a bit like a Wimpy Bar in the 60’s, but it appears to be the place to go to, particularly for middle-class families with teenage children.

Monday and I decide to go further afield and walk down to the “Gate of India” the old entrance if you came by boat erected in honour of the visit by George V and Queen Mary in …er…1911 I think. Facing the sea is the magnificent if rather opulent old Taj Mahal Hotel, built by a guy who was annoyed at being refused entry to a top hotel because he was ‘a native’ - ” I’ll show ‘em ”

Got pestered for the first time, but by a young lad trying to sell me a map. Eventually, partly because he had a certain amount of charm, but mainly because I needed one, I bought it - cost me all of €3.

I’ve been drinking Lasse and pressed fruit and cane sugar drinks all day., which is probably why I feel a bit queezy. So decide to call it a day and hit my scratcher

Our Man in Mumbai

God its hot out there - too hot and couldn’t find any shade so came in to do this. I seem to have got my dates a bit confused. Anyway, Day 18 was Tuesday, when I ventured up to the Central Station to cancel a ticket - this was for a journey where I was still on the waiting list and had been for weeks, so I decided to change my route (I am now on a train that leaves Goa at 08:30 and arrives in Chennai at 08:30 !) What a performance - it took me about quarter of an hour to find the right place and then the same again to find out what window to go to and what I needed to do. The queue was miles long and I was getting hot and bothered, so decided to go back in the evening.

I strolled down to the harbour again at least there’s some breeze down there. On my way, bought some shirts, nice loose fitting ones and caused quite a stir as people gathered to see what I selected and discarded. It was quality stuff like GAP, and four for R600 (about €10) seemed a reasonable deal

Sitting on the sea front wall on Marine drive, it strikes me that Mumbai is like an Indian version of Brighton with its long promenade and old Victorian and Deco hotels. OK so its about 10 times the size, 15 times as many taxis, and 20 times as many people, but otherwise….. apart from being slightly warmer of course.

Having just stepped outside for a walk around the back streets, as its cooler now, I realise that it’s absolutely nothing like Brighton at all. Napoleon described the English as a nation of shopkeepers. He obviously hadn’t been here. The streets are full of tiny little shops/kiosks selling all sorts of things or in most cases not selling all sorts of things. In front of these are stalls selling shirts, bananas, watches, samosas, electrical goods, fruit juice and more.

Back to the station, and I find out its window 52 not 22 as I was told at first. Join the queue and wait and wait. Show three English lads how to fill the form in and when one asks his mate if he is 19, I said I was once, but had decided to take my gap year a bit later. I get my ticket cancelled and receive a credit of about R800 - that will buy a lot in India

Well, one more day in Mumbai and then I’m off to the beach and a bit less noise, hustle and bustle. So I’ve seen Mumbai but only a small part of it, only the old centre, and I’ve probably only seen 1 of the 16.4 million people who live here and that’s only one city !  I actually looked out my window last night at about four in the morning and it was the first time I had seen the street empty.

Walking the streets I’ve noticed that there seems to be a fashion among a few of the men to have their hair dyed a rather strange sort of orange colour - no other colour just bright orange.

Right that’s all folks, I’m now off to face the challenge of catching a train - hopefully at 11 o’clock at night it should be a bit quieter. See you in Goa

“Well goodness gracious me” - I’m a quarter of the way round

Day 20 actually starts with the end of Day19 - the station. So much for it being quieter at night - its worse. The taxi nearly mows down 5 people as we enter the station drop off point, and before I can even get out of the cab, a porter has opened the door, grabbed my bags, confirmed where I was  going and set off at a pace, with my baggage on his head. Ah well, may as well let him go now. He stops and discusses my ticket with two mates. He transfers my luggage to a trolley and we go to platform no. 15 which is actually outside the station. He plonks my stuff down and then, and here it comes, asks for “money”. I had my 20 rupees ready, but the surprise was he wanted R150. What! I’ll give you 50. We settle on R100. So I sit calmly on a bench rather chuffed that I had managed to handle the quirks of the Indian rail system and in plenty of time as well. I thought too soon.

Porter no. 2 arrives and asks to see my ticket, gabbles something totally unintelligible and disappears. Quarter of an hour later he still hasn’t come back. What if its a con.? What if he sells black market tickets ? What if ?… a touch on the shoulder tells me he’s back. He tells me which carriage it is and where my seat is. What a nice chap. But, and here it comes, he holds his hand out, does that movement with the thumb and forefinger as if counting notes and says “money”. I ask how much and he looks away as he says R200 . No wonder he looked away. Anyway he would not budge so I forked out the R200 and sat down on my bags as instructed - At the time I wondered why he was so insistent that I sat on my luggage. I realised when the train came in and porter number 3 arrived. He saw the signal and in spite of my protestations that I was quite able…..he was off. I followed him into the carriage, and he showed me my allotted space, and here it comes, held out the the semi-folded palm to , at least graciously, accept my R100

That’s it I thought. But no, back comes porter no 2, just to make sure that everything is OK, just to tell me those are my bags ( I know they’re my bloody bags I thought, and may even have said) and just to, and here it comes, demand another R100 from me “But I’ve only just given you R200″ I said without a smile. He gabbled on that the money was not for him but for the rail company and….. Bloody Hell here take your money and bugger off.

Just as  I was beginning to think I had the compartment to myself a youngish couple get bundled in followed by porter no. 2 who avoided my glances and beat a hasty retreat, signalling to my fellow victim to come outside so he could extract the same again from him. The couple turned out to be French, and after I made a comment that at least we didn’t  have to tip the ticket inspector, we started talking. They were touring India in 5 weeks and had only just arrived so were still adjusting. We were later joined by a  young professional local, in fact he was principal at a college of engineering - nice class of people one meets in these first class compartments doesn’t one ?

The rest of the journey went fine, apart from the principal waking me up when he went to get off the train, and then waking me up again to tell me it was the wrong station, and then waking me up again when it finally was the right station. Got up properly about 07:30 to see an orangey- coloured countryside with trees and the odd river and no people, yes no people. Arrived in Goa. Away from the bustle of the station life is calm and slow - nothing like Mumbai.

My accommodation is interesting- its actually an apartment on the first floor of a group of buildings around a sort of courtyard. Probably built in the seventies and had seen better days. Still it was comfortable enough and I had loads of space. Went for a walk - the place was like a morgue. I was soon to learn that it was of course end of season, and there weren’t that many people around - although there were plenty of places on the beach to eat and drink which were still open

Talking of which I don’t feel too good today- got a touch of the Mumbai Tumbai. As this internet site is a good walk, or rather run, from my residence I’d better go now

Going in Goa

My accommodation is 5 mins from the beach, so I spend most of these two days in beach huts drinking exotic fruit juices and sleeping under a bamboo shade and fending off girls and women selling souvenirs who I seem to attract like sand-flies. Having earlier said that you don’t get pestered in India, you do on the beach. They actually have some nice stuff and I bought a few things because “she do me very good price, special price”. But they don’t seem to realise that there are only so many sarongs / necklaces / T-shirts a man can buy and when he says “no more” he means “no more”. I told one of them that it didn’t matter how much she brought her price down, I just did not need another sarong. She kept saying  “I do very good price - special price” I tried to explain that if she came down to 1 rupee, I still wouldn’t want to buy it. “You don’t understand that do you ?”. She looked perplexed and shook her head - not an Indian shaking of the head meaning ‘Yes’, but a definite ‘No’

I try one of the beach shacks to eat and notice that there is what one would expect on a beach in India - a snooker table! So I challenge the waiter who has been chatting to me to a game. It is of course pool that we play, but what is so amazing, apart from the fact that they actually have proper chalk, is that the table is absolutely flat and true - on a beach?

This rather wild individual with spiky hair emerges from the kitchen and orders a glass of wine - he is either the chef or more likely the washer-upper. I realise he is French and we then spent the next hour or so discussing, wine, cheese, food in general, politics, Sarkozy etc. It was good to get the intellect working again

Yesterday I decided to be really adventurous and rent a bike - as in pushbike. I toyed with the idea of renting a scooter but decided to play safe which is probably a good job because a few minutes after setting off a lad on a scooter pointed out that I was on the wrong side of the road. No steering wheel you see - didn’t relate. Anyway I had a good cycle round and saw a bit of the place away from the beach

Feeling a bit better tummy-wise so go and eat on the beach literally a few meters from the sea. Play safe and order a Chicken Korma. There is this waiter who keeps putting his arms up in the air as if signalling to somebody - I have to ask him what he is doing. He tells me it’s his duty -   ” Boss say need more business. My duty to get more business” Well it seems busy enough so maybe it works

One more day and then I’m off To Chennai ( Madras)

By the way, I won the pool match 2-1

Hustler Hents

I intended to spend my last day in Goa cycling around a bit more but it was incredibly hot. In fact I later discovered that India was experiencing a heat-wave, and it was even hotter than usual at that time of year. I couldn’t help noticing that although my little head was always covered with beads of perspiration and my shirt stuck to my back like velcro, most locals managed to look relatively cool in spite of long trousers and long-sleeved shirts.

So I took the bike back and did my blog for the previous day. I forgot to mention that on the Saturday night, whilst I still had the bike, I used it to get to the beach, where I somehow managed to get a little bit pissed, and when staggering off the beach, I tripped over a fishing net that some idle fisherman had left lying around, landing flat on my face on what fortunately was sand. I picked myself up, dusted myself down and then tacked my way home - on a slightly wobbly bike.

Had a late lunch on Sunday of Goan style fish and chips and then saw what appeared to be a bull or bullock having a swim in the sea ! No it wasn’t the previous night’s drink causing mirages across the sand - it was definitely a very large creature of the bovine family wallowing in the water and being washed down by a young lad - the photos will prove it.

Ah well, that’s India

And now I’m Goa, Goa, Gone !

There should have been little to report on today as the whole 24 hours were to be spent on the train, and what can happen on a train journey? The bloody thing can break down, that’s what can happen.

The day started well - I woke up before my 7 o’clock alarm
( it would have been 6 o’clock but I had checked the timetable and worked out that I didn’t need to go the station by the airport - an hour away- as the train was going to stop at the nearby station). Such was the confidence in my mastery of the Indian Railways website that I ordered a later taxi and had an extra hour in bed.

I was still early ( this is becoming a habit - please note) but the train was ominously late and did not seem to be making up time as we trundled along. An Indian family offered me some fresh mango and a chapati filled with some sweet stuff for breakfast which of course I graciously accepted.

Looking out of the window, I am surprised at how lush and green everything is, with lots of palm trees and signs of irrigation with well marked out fields growing something - I don’t know what. As opposed to Mumbai and even Goa, I hardly saw any sign of life - just the odd homestead and the occasional lone soul, presumably going somewhere doing something, but seemingly going nowhere doing nothing.

After an early lunch of 2 samosas I dozed off, coming round when we stopped at a station. Dozed off again to wake up thinking this station looks very similar to the last one. In fact it was the last one - not similar but the very same. It was still the same station 3 hours later.

So in spite of a lot of men looking very concerned and discussing the situation we had to wait until a replacement engine arrived - I got the feeling that this could have happened before. So it looked like a 24 hour journey was going to be a 27 hour journey

Good Night

Stranded somewhere near Mangalore

Having gone to sleep thinking I would never get to sleep. I awoke with a thud literally, as I threw myself off my bunk onto the floor and heard an Indian woman saying “slowly, slowly” as I tried to work out what I was doing on the floor of the carriage. I felt slightly embarrassed as I stumbled back onto my bunk which fortunately was the lower and not the upper one. Decided that as I was awake, I was up, and watched the dawn break. 

By now I had mastered the art of nipping off the train when it stopped at a suitable station, which involved running in the right direction (for this you had to look out for the nearest vendor to where your carriage had stopped) then picking whatever you wanted, then thrusting a note or two at the vendor ( along with twenty other passengers all trying to do the same thing) and then sprinting along the platform to jump back on the train before it sets off, making sure that you jump back on the right coach as you can’t change carriages once it’s moving - its a good job I’m fit that’s all I can say

You may be slightly hindered in leaving the carriage by a tea or coffee waller. These daring young chaps will run alongside carrying an urn full of tea or coffee and then leap on board as the train slows down. They will then move quickly down the carriage shouting ” ‘offee, ‘offee” and dispensing at speed paper cups of an already sugared, already milked coffee or tea. They will then leap off the carriage before the train departs.

Finally after 27 hours the “Chennai Express” trundled into the station. I was met by the usual band of taxi pimps all trying to get me to use their services. OK you will do. How much ? R600 ( €10) sounds a lot. As it turns out it was, but all I wanted was to get to a room with a shower and a bed.

My room was probably the best I’ve had so far with an interesting view which to one side looked over a sort of river with sort of cows grazing, but in the background a flyover and on the left some excavations. I suddenly realised I was hungry and ordered a Fish Tikka expecting the worst - it was excellent - the best so far.

I ventured out for a walk avoiding bikes, trickshaws, carts, buses , oxen and taxis. Sometimes there was a pavement, sometimes it was the road. Nowhere to stop and have a drink. That’s something I’ve noticed in the cities - there aren’t really any cafes to sit in -everything is outside and standing up. And no sign of a restaurant. Looking at a map I realised I was out of town, which doesn’t really exist anyway - I mean there is no recognised town centre or square or park. So in spite of good accommodation the location of the hotel wasn’t too good. I tested the hotel restaurant for the second time and yet again they did a very authentic and tasty kofta. Dilemma - nice room, great food, lousy location.

I’ll sleep on it

Challenged in Chennai

“Well I thought I might bus down to Pundy
I might bus down to Pundy today
I probably won’t bus down to Pundy
But then again I just may”

( apologies to Mike Nesmith )

Well I did.

The test of a good plan is how versatile it is - whether or not it can be adapted to meet changes in circumstances. So I’m sitting here feeling quite chuffed with myself for making a spontaneous decision and coming down here for a couple of days.

Pundy, as it’s still called, or to be more correct Pundicherry, or to be even more correct Puducherry, is a left over from when it was a french enclave, and it has a colonial feel to it with a sea front reminiscent of “Blvd des Anglais” - well apart from the fact that there are hundreds of people sitting, standing, walking, talking . The openness is refreshing although its still hot.

So I made the decision at the bus station, when all I went for was to check the timetable and bus no. etc. I did have my little rucksack, purchased in Mumbai, for events such as this, with change of clothes etc. So I just hopped on this coach not knowing at the time what was in store. The driver started yelling at some of his colleagues even before we set off, and then proceeded to drive like a man posessed for the whole 4 hour journey - tooting his bloody horn at everything - cars, taxis, trikshaws, even other buses - driving on the wrong side, overtaking on the inside, overtaking when something was coming the other way.

To try and slow down drivers like this loony, the police have set up barriers half way across the road. Most drivers slow right down and go through the gap slowly. Not our man. He speeds up, crosses to the other side of the road and then swings and slings it through the chicane getting as close as possible to the barrier

I start walking from the bus station in what felt like the right direction - it wasn’t, in spite of an assurance by a local. They say never ask an Indian for directions because even if he doesn’t know he will tell you where to go. ” Sorry I don’t know” doesn’t exist in their laguage. And so I flag down a trikshaw ( one of those funny little three wheel scooters that bob and weave across the streets )

I find a hotel/guest house and settle for a plain boring room, but with a balcony and sea view. Perfect I thought and cheap - I soon found out why.

A demain mes amis

Well some of you seem quite intrigued to know what happened last night. Sorry, but it was nothing exciting. I had chosen a room without A/C to have a sea view and balcony. Mistake. When I took the key card out to switch off the lights the fan in the ceiling stopped and when I opened the doors to the balcony, mozzies got in, as well as noise from the street. Half past four and I’m sitting on the balcony trying to catch what little breeze there is, scratching my bites. Finally fell asleep with doors shut, fan on, electric lights on. In the morning I changed rooms.

Strolled round Pondicherry during the afternoon admiring the architecture and smiling to myself at some of the sights and signs - like the tiny little grocers that had Intermarche over the shop front, or the fact that the internet cafe did not open until 10. I like this place I thought as I strolled along the sea front - ça me plaît beaucoup.

Tomorrow I will be heading back to the peace and quiet of Chennai to catch a plane to the next continent or is it sub-continent ? I will try and sumarise India then - must go no more rupees

Mad in Madras

I decide, rather than risking getting back too late for my flight,that I would leave this little corner of french colonial India early, so was awake at 7:00 and on the 7:30 bus  heading back to Chennai. I began to realise that, having listened to the blowing of horns  for several hours, there is yet another Indian language - that used by bus drivers - it’s called “honki”:

A primitive language based on fundamental sounds:

1 short honk     =  I’m behind you and would like to pass

2 short honks    = I’m getting closer and coming through

3 short honks    =  I’m right up your arse and will repeat  this until you shift

3 short honks and 1 long honk =   Just get out the BLOODY WAY
  ( there is a stronger version of this often heard in the Tamil region where the honks     
   are  reversed - it has a similar but more forceful meaning)

2 long honks =  I’m bigger than you and I’m going to knock you off the road

3 long honks =  As for 2 honks but only used as a last resort before deliberate collision

These translations of course only apply to the Bus-driver dialect. There are different dialects for taxis, scooters , trikshaws, and private vehicles, but this should give a basic understanding and provide one with the ability to get byon the roads of India

I’m beginning to ramble. So, these are my last few hours in India as I sit in the airport with plenty of time to write this. Not a typical environment actually - its cool, its quiet, its clean, its not even busy. How did I find India ?

India is a contradiction in itself. It has the ability to be annoying one minute and likeable the next. Its people can be so frustrating and yet so loveable. Sometimes you want to swear ( sometimes you do ) - the nodding head which really means “I don’t know what you’re saying but I will pretend I do” and the smile of shiny white teeth saying ” no problem ” and you stop and think -” No there isn’t really, is there ?”

 The mentality is different - the girl on the beach who could not understand why, even if she lowered her price to one rupee, I just did not want another sarong. The trikshaw cabbie who had never heard of my hotel , whose solution to his lack of knowledge was for me to buy a map, even though I was leaving in a few hours time. And of course our beloved bus-driver who really believes that by continually honking his horn the solid traffic in front of him will just part and let him through.

But on the other hand one thing that amazes me about the Indian culture is the way that, in spite of all the dirt, dust, and debris, they are always so particular about their standard of dress. The women, almost without fail in their beautiful and colourful saris, and even the men in smart pressed shirts.

One memory I will keep is the sight of couples and families strolling or sitting by the sea in the evening sun - very peacefully. This contradicts the scene in the cities where its nothing but organised chaos

So, India? Beautiful it isn’t, but fascinating it certainly is

5:00 in the morning and I arrive in Kuala Lumpur - what an amazing airport, even at that time of day. So bright and cheerful and well signed (colour-coded, simple eh?) As the taxi drove into town on a journey which turned out to be what must have been 40 miles, I watched the dawn breaking as the city centre appeared in the distance looking like a New York skyline. I kept looking for the Petronas towers - when I saw them I realised I could not have missed them, as they glinted in the light of the rising sun emerging from the ground  like two …. I’ve run out of superlatives, but they really are an impressive sight - its like the Matterhorn - nothing changes but you just can’t stop looking at it.

My room is on the 9th floor of what is not a very tall building compared with those around it, and not only have I got a great view of the towers ( which look even more dramatic at night ) but also in stark contrast the old and scruffy shops and houses in the Chinese quarter of old KL. It is a mixture of old low-tech and new hi-tech. I would take 2 photos - one looking towards the town with shops and restaurants, people and noise, the other looking down a suburban lane with houses and gardens, nobody and peace. I took them from the same spot.

Having grabbed a couple of hours sleep I set off intending to find Chinatown but suddenly realised I was away from all the hustle and bustle and in a land of well-trimmed roundabouts and flyovers and sliproads and flower beds - no, not Chinatown at all. So headed back to one of the main streets and found one of hundreds of little chinese restaurants, noodle bars, pancake stands etc. Got some lunch and headed back to sort out my mobile - changed my Sim-card and got chatted up by the three assistants - well that’s the way I saw it anyway. One of them asked me how old I was for goodness sake - I made them guess - two said late forties and the third one 51 or 52. Honestly. I don’t think there was any reason for them to flatter me.  Do you ?

Sunday morning, and I walk the streets again. I was quietly approached by a gentleman of Indian origin wearing a turban who showed me his card - I saw the words “fortune teller”. Now, I knew that I was going to be conned, I knew that I was being conned, and I knew that I had been conned. But in a strange way I quite enjoyed the experience. The man was brilliant - so bloody clever. I knew what was coming but I just could not see how he did it. To make it brief, he warmed up by getting me to pick a number, and a colour, and then produced a piece of paper with these written down. He then asked me various questions about family, such as parents ages and life history, he did some “calculations” on his fingers, wrote something down on a scrap of paper and asked me to hold it in my hand, which I did. I kept my fist tightly closed all the time. He then asked me to write down such things as wife’s name, number of siblings, date of birth etc. He then wrote God on another piece of paper and asked me to put it in the same hand. I took particular care to make sure that the scrap of paper already there was not touched. He then asked me to open the two scraps of paper  in my hand. One said God, the other had my mum’s name, Lizzies name, my date of birth etc. in his handwriting, and all correct ! I still don’t know how he did it, but it was good entertainment and well worth the equivalent of 20 Euros that I had committed if he was right.( yes, yes I know).

He then told me that I must be very wary of a woman called Barbara for she means me harm ( remember this )

 In case anything else came up as regards my future, which he had already forecast, ( sorry, I am sworn to secrecy) he asked if he could he have my mobile no. so he could contact me. I replied that anybody who had done what he had just done should know my mobile no. without any problem. He smiled and nodded.

Out for something to eat and end up in the red light district - propositioned several times but declined gracefully. Well you do don’t you ? Mind you ……

Last day in KL tomorrow - think I’ll arrange a little tour.

Monday and if I remember correctly spent most of the morning doing the weekend’s blog, Arranged a little tour for the afternoon with my friendly cabbie (from the airport). Had lunch across the road at an open air chinese eating-house - I can’t quite call it a restaurant - nor Bistrot ! Cabbie, whose name was Zaharin, or something like that, arrived on time and our first stop was the station where I wanted to confirm my reservation, which I’d made on the internet but due to technical problems  hadn’t received a copy confirming it. Was in and out of the station before my cabbie had time to finish his fag (remember Mombai ?). He really wanted to show me the government sector which was a bit out of town he said. Half an hour later we were still driving on what were I have to say the best roads I have ever been on. I actually think he fancied a bit of a drive. Anyway when we arrived at this massive complex that was carved out of the jungle the architecture was something else. Every building was in a different style, but all very tastefully done. So we went and had a tea/coffee and chatted and chatted and chatted, bringing in an Indian lad who sat near us into the conversation. We then set off back to KL and he finally did show me the Petronas towers and “BB Plaza” and a few other places of interest. When it came to paying him he said “No sir, you are my friend”. Well even a tight-fisted Yorkshireman could’nt have this, so I forced RM50 (about Euros 10 ) into his hand and said goodbye.

On the road again, or to be more precise on the track again. The train leaves at 14.25 from KL Central Station which is a bit of a confusing place. For long distance journeys you go down below ground level to get the train but they only let you down about 10 minutes before the train is due which is rather disconcerting. I couldn’t understand why he was letting all these other folk through but kept waving me and my valid ticket away.

Then there’s the announcement which says the train from Singapore has been “re-scheduled” for 15:35. The train is late, lets face it, it’s late. You can’t re-schedule something when its already started. Now I would accept delayed, even slow due to whatever, but if its not on schedule its late - as simple as that

Now as you’ve probably gathered, I wasn’t too chuffed about this, because it meant we would not get to Penang until nearly midnight, and then there’s the ferry and a taxi to add on, but as there was nothing I could do, I decided to console myself with a cup of iced coffee. Maybe it will make up time (it did as it happens)

We set off and gradually the view out of the window changes from city centre, to suburb, to jungle, and as dusk begins to fall there is a strange “Apocalypse Now” atmosphere about the place. It had rained the previous night and the rivers were full and the air hazy and heavy. After approx. 8 hours we arrive and I couldn’t be bothered to wait for the ferry so took a cab to the hotel via the longest bridge in SE Asia (14 km). I’ve been upgraded and the hotel room is spacious with a balcony and sea view. Can’t be bad but I’ll appreciate it more in the morning. Right now its time for zzzzzzzz……………. 

I wandered around getting my bearings and working out the confusing hotel lift system, where you left reception to get in a lift to go down a floor to the pool and cafe, and then got in a totally different lift to go down another floor to where my room was - on the 6th floor - see what I mean ?

Bloody hell, they’re tall - 4 tower blocks of apartments standing next to the hotel - they must be nearly 50 floors each ! Well Penang is not what I expected at all - far more developed. I thought it would be a Malaysian version of Goa but its more like Cannes

When I arrive at my destination I always check the next connection just to be sure of how and when I’m getting there, and where ‘there’ is. Uh oh - cockup on the timing front. My first real mistake. I’ll try and explain. Because I now knew that the airport was so far from the railway station, I decided, quite sensibly I thought,  to fly from Penang rather than take the train back to KL for what would be a tight connection. No problem, except I forgot to allow for the fact that the train would leave the night before my flight from KL which was already booked for the Sunday (OK so far?) Now if the train was to leave on Saturday I would obviously check out of the hotel on Saturday, so I booked the flight from Penang on the Saturday to go to KL, which in fact was the same plane as the one from KL to Shanghai, except it wasn’t of course because…..Yeh, well you now you see it’s not that easy being a solo circumnavigator.

Solution ? Merely extend the ticket to depart from Penang, stopping at  KL - he thinks. Extra revenue for the airline - he thinks. No problem - he thinks. Yes - problem. My ticket could not be altered. But that doesn’t make sense he thinks - but then a lot of things don’t Michael. Spent about an hour on the net looking for alternatives, trying to modify, re-book etc.

Finally resorted to the good old telephone. When I had finally found a number to ring, and then pressed button 1, button 2, and button 1 again eventually spoke to somebody who said she would change the reservation but didn’t give me any reference or confirmation or anything. Sunday morning at 06:00 will be the test 

(Stuffed - I’ve eaten well today and in a fashion that sums up this multi-cultural country - a Malaysian breakfast, a really cheap Chinese lunch and just to finish me off one of the best Indian meals I’ve ever had )

 Went into Georgetown by courtesy bus ( this is significant) and spent the whole day wandering around. It was fairly quiet in places due to the day being a public holiday - 1st may and all that - so a lot of places were closed but it didn’t matter, I wasn’t going for the shopping anyway. Most of the foodie places were open and I crossed the road to one that looked busy - they were queing for tables so I stood there like a sweet and sour prawn waiting to be directed to a table. Nobody even acknowledged my existence - but I wasn’t the only one, it seemed to be the norm. Eventually the woman at the table in front of me took pity on me  and forcing her son to finish his plate and his drink at the same time, they left - boy with very fat face full of rice and  fruit juice. The place was called “Sky Restaurant” and under a sign saying “Sky Hotel” (which must have been somewhere although I saw no evidence of it ), was a sign saying  “Please do not spit” Charming, I thought. I remembered on the upstairs deck on buses to and from school, it used to say “Spitting Prohibited” which is slightly less offensive than “Please do not spit”. As an inquisitive boy I wondered why the people on the lower deck were allowed to spit, although they never seemed to make use of this privilege. Anyway back to Georgetown.

Looking round it appeared that everybody was eating  more or less the same thing - Char Siu ( chinese roast pork ) It was being sliced and chopped at incredible speed off these dangling legs of red-ochre coloured pork. I ordered, waving my hand in the vague direction of the man chopping. The waitress asked me if I wanted soup as well. Er…. yes please. Vegetable ? Er…. yes please. Rice ?  Rice ? er…. yes please. In spite of the chopping man still continually chopping, there must have been a few orders ahead of mine because I had to wait a while. Looking round the room at various posters and notices I was intrigued to know what a “Jolly Shandy” was but decided to stick with freshly squeezed juice When the food came it was delicious, absolutely delicious. When it came to pay the bill, guess how much. Well you’re wrong - it was the princely sum of R7.50  about £1.50, which was about half the price I had just paid for an iced coffee at Starbucks ! 

I walked down to the harbour and as I strolled along the front made an impulsive decision to go to Langkawi in search of paradise. So, booked an open ticket on the ferry for the following day - It’s not that I wasn’t intending to come back, but an open ticket gave me the option 0f staying till Saturday if I liked the place

By now it had got very hot again, so I thought I’d go back and finish the day like I had started it - with a Starbucks iced coffee, while I waited for the courtesy mini-bus, due at 17:30.  Got there early but was surprised that nobody else from the morning trip was there - they must have gone back early by taxi.

Well half past five came and went, and it occurred to me I may have got it wrong - maybe the pick-up was 18:30. So I phoned the hotel and was told that it should have been 17:30 as I thought, and would I like to speak to the driver!  Well I spoke to him but couldn’t get much sense out of him, except that he would come and pick me up, at least that’s what I thought he said.

18:00 came and went, as did 18:15 and by 18:30 I’d had enough. Phoned the hotel again, after getting a wrong number, who then rang me back to tell me I’d got the wrong number, to speak to the driver who was still there and appeared to have no intention of picking me up. I got a taxi back to the hotel and very calmly told the waif of a receptionist that I was not a happy man. But what the hell, life’s too short. It’s probably my fault for not being able to speak Malaysian

[ The old blogger is back ! Sorry about the breakdown in service. This was due to technical problems - no bloody internet in China or on the South China Sea ]

 Caught the 08:15 ferry  to Langkawi which docked about 11:00. My friendly cabbie who brought me back from Georgetown when I was abandoned there, and who kept calling me “Mister Mike”, had arranged for his mate in Langkawi to meet me at the dock. Was that him ?            ” Hello. Mister Mike? ” confirmed that it was.

I found out the reason for this rather comical form of address. In Malaysia, if not other Asian countries, a man takes his father’s given name ( can’t of course call it Christian name) as his family name. If he called me “Mister Henty” he would be addressing my father by his given name, which would be confusing, particularly as he wasn’t there and in fact is no longer with us. So he addresses me by what he thinks is my family name. Get it? No - nor do I. Although I thought I did until I tried to explain it

“Yes I am Mister Mike” I said and we set off on a short guided tour as requested and then to find a cheap hotel with a room by the beach. Ah, this is more like it - palm trees, single storey buildings or even  shacks. This is what I had thought Penang would be like - commercialised but not overdevelopped ( which apparently it used to be) Next we go for lunch ( I had a whole sea-bass in chinese plum sauce )and I find out more about Langkawi. I then dispense with his services, having first checked that he can take me to the ferry the following day ” No problem Mister Mike”. I seem to get on well with cabbies. One thing I have learnt on my travels is that its worth finding and keeping a good cabbie. Bad ones are a pain in the arse and do nothing but sting you. Good ones can make life so much easier and are well worth paying for.

After lunch I stroll up the beach and update my blog ( not at the same time of course). Have a glass of draught Guinness served by a local girl with one arm who ran this Irish Pub, which wasn’t the slightest bit Irish  apart from the Guinness, which was surprisingly good and got the thumbs up from me which delighted her - I felt like the man from Del Monte ” He say YES”

Back to the beach to see what’s happening and I get chatting to yet another Frenchman over a beer or two. The beach and its bars were now busy as the sun went down and we continued chatting as his wife and kids and a rather fanciable friend joined us. Needless to say I was happy to accept their invitation to eat with them, or did I invite myself ? I can’t quite remember. So we meandered up the beach and found a rather smart looking place which turned out to be run by Germans ( hence the smartness) Had an excellent fish and coconut curry washed down by a litre carafe of Marguerita - yes, I did say litre. Well, we saw the people on the next table having some and thought it seemed like a good idea. As we staggered off down the beach I said “au revoir” to my friends for the day and somehow found my way home

Had a long walk on … yep, the same beach, the following morning and then withdrew from the heat to spend an hour or two catching up on E-mail, blog etc. Caught the late ferry and on the way back phoned my cabbie in Penang to check on Sunday morning and also see if by any chance he could pick me up off the boat. He was waiting for me at the dockside - see what I mean about cabbies ?

Got back just in time to pack my things and grab a few hours sleep before waking up at 04:00 to leave at 05:00 for the airport with my trusty cabbie - see what I mean ?

I bought my ticket to extend the flight to leave from Penang without any problem and I was on my way to China 

Landed at Shanghai just after 2 o’clock Sunday afternoon. The journey from the airport took at least an hour and seemed to justify the fare. The Apart-Hotel was fine, and I am moving up the dizzy height scale to the 16th floor. Jeese, I thought KL had tall buildings but Shanghai is something else - not only tall but such original shapes - some quite unsymetrical and you wonder how they can build them like that. Walk round looking for an Internet cafe - they don’t appear to exist in China. Which is why you have had to wait for the last couple of updates. I only managed to check my mail by persuading a sweet young thing in an estate agents to let me borrow her access - if you see what I mean. I tried again the following day but her boss was there this time and she would only let me have 5 minutes!

Now here’s the frustration. I don’ t think I’ve ever been in a country where I do not know one word of the language and 99.999 % of the population don’t know a word of English. Sign language and gesticulations can only get you so far. Menus and signs are all in the Chinese alphabet so you can’t even guess what they mean. If you ask for something in English, you get asked to write it down. They then write something in Chinese script and point to it as if to say “is that what you mean?”, and you think “I don’t bloody know” and so it goes on, or rather doesn’t.

As you already know my fondness for commenting on driving culture and practice, I must just mention pedestrian crossings. They are nearly always by traffic lights, although I have seen one which was a sort of dog-leg crossing where you teed off from one pavement onto an imaginary island and then chipped off at an angle over a bunker and onto the opposite pavement. OK, I was lying about the bunker.But most crossings are as I say, by traffic lights and initially appear to follow the same code as in the west of the Green and Red Man. However, try crossing when the Green Man shows and you are likely to be taken out by a herd of cyclists and scooterists who apparently don’t need to take any notice of the Green Man and don’t even need to slow down. At busy junctions its chaos with a whole mass of pedestrians, bikes, scooters, motor-bikes,. all trying to cross, go across, cut across, come across. Then there is the odd car or worse still bus, which turns right, even though the light is at red, just to add another player to the stage of this Chinese Pantomime.

Not surprisingly felt rather tired this evening, so having gone for a beer in the bar, I took the easy way, or so I thought, and chose something off the bar menu. Mistake, big mistake Had to wait nearly an hour during which they brought me soup which I didn’t order, and made a pathetic attempt to placate me by offering half a glass of something which resembled a Kir Royale but made with pomagne and blackcurrant syrup - delightful. When it finally arrived it turned out to be probably the worst chinese meal I have ever had. Described as pan-fried duck I was expecting nice thin slices or strips of duck, hopefully crispy with a nice plum sauce and noodles, or at least rice. I was surprised to receive a plate of some sort of potato concoction with two whole duck breasts which weren’t even sliced, were overcooked and therefore tough. I managed to force down a few mouthfuls of one of them, but then paid and walked out, letting them know that I was not a happy man. That’s the second time I’ve not been a happy man, which I suppose in 37 days isn’t bad

See you tomorrow

Charlie Chan

Monday and I go to check on the ferry - where it is, pick up the ticket etc. It took me ages to find it during which I was accosted by a street artist who produced a pair of scissors and a piece of paper and began cutting  fairly quickly to produce one of those silhouette figures which of course he was willing to sell me and which of course I was willing to buy - it was rather a good likeness. No real problem with the ticket except it needs to be paid in full in cash before the ferry leaves. He tells me RMB2600 which is about Euros 230 and is less than I was expecting.(I never did find out what RMB stood for- Real Money Bank perhaps) I go and get enough cash out of the ATM to pay this, having already withdrawn RMB 2000 earlier that morning - you can tell something is coming up, can’t you? Well I get back with the additional cash only to be told by this miserable official that if I want a return ticket its RMB 4000. But I have reserved a return ticket so why didn’t you tell me it was 4000 and not 2600? Oh, what’s the point. I stay calm and go back to the bank, getting some strange looks from the security man, to withdraw the extra and ……..you guessed it - “Computer says No”

A slight technical complication which I shall deal with later

By now I’ve had enough chuffing about and having walked all the way down to the front from my hotel I decide to take a cab back and risk being mowed down in an attempt to hail one. Having finally managed to get one to stop, I open my mouth to tell him where to go and ……….nothing. Why ? Because I can’t remember the name of the bloody hotel. Now come on, come on, concentrate. Its the……..it’s the….. Trouble is I know it’s not The anything. It’s something appartments. I try to describe it, where it is, another building close by, but the taxi driver of course doesn’t understand a word I am saying. Anyway he seems willing to take on the challenge of trying to find a hotel, which actually isn’t a hotel and which he doesn’t know the name of, guided only by this idiot englishman who doesn’t even know in which part of town it is, and who hasn’t got an address or phone no. and who thinks he is going to spot it leaping out from all the other buildings - in Shanghai ??? He seems positive but hesitates when I can’t tell him whether it’s right or left at the lights. He offers me a cigarette. I decline, saying I don’t smoke. I am now beginning to feel just a little bit concerned. Here I am in what is probably one of the most highly populated cities in the world, with high-rise towers coming out of the ground like beanshoots, without any reference to where I am staying, and not being able to speak a word of the language. He offers me a cigarette. I accept (even though I gave up 20 years ago) partly because it occurs to me that it may be rude not to accept when offered, and partly because I felt I needed one. Then suddenly it came to me - Hyatt International !!! That’s not where I’m staying but its close by - if he can get me there. He checks his map. Ah so. Recognition on his part and relief on mine. As we approached the hotel I saw the black glass building with the curved sides which I had been so desperately trying to describe as a marker to where I was staying. Well you try saying “black glass with curved sides” in sign language. 

My last night on my brief stay in China and I decide to try the restaurant opposite - my little legs being a bit tired having wandered around looking for an internet site, but instead discovering side-streets where suddenly trees replaced tower blocks and birdsong replaced car horns. I’m on a narrow one-way street which in fact isn’t one-way, although everybody is riding and driving as if it is.

So I stroll into this rather swish Chinese restaurant, am shown to a table and then given a menu. I start looking at the pictures and realise too late that it is mainly ’sushi’. My last night in China before spending a week in Japan and I go to a Japanese restaurant. Still I did have some good Chinese meals in Malaysia!

Off to the boat

I am now on the ferry, having paid that miserable agent for a one-way ticket only, told him I would fly back and that he could stuff his bloody boat ( but not until it got me to Japan). Whilst writing this I am working out how I am going to make RMB 116 (about £10 ) last me for the next two days. The “administrative problem” with my credit card has continued and I am still unable to withdraw cash from the ATM. “Should have taken a spare card”  you’re thinking. I did - this is CC no. 2. ( Remember the hungry machine in Luxor ?) What’s more, there are no banking facilities on the boat and the canteen doesn’t accept cards. Great.  I blame it on communism, myself.

The two days on the boat pass slowly with nothing to do except read, write this, and play table-tennis. Contrary to common belief, not all Chinese are excellent at table-tennis and I managed to win quite a few games. I was pleasantly surprised that, in spite of a degree of dizziness caused by the boat’s movement, some of my shots were bordering on brilliant.

Luckily they did a dish of the day in the canteen and by sticking to this, resisting the sometimes desperate urge to buy a beer, and walking past the snack machine, I managed to get through the journey without looking like an emaciated wreck, and without having to beg, steal, or borrow from anybody.

I realise mid-afternoon that its Day 40. I’m half-way there and in terms of places to see and countries to visit, I’m over half-way. I have met 3 young (well, younger than me) Swedish lads who were doing China and Japan. Two had been in Beijing studying Chinese, and the other had met and obviously fallen in love with a girl from China and …. say no more. He and I played  ping-pong with two Chinese girls and …. What? No, table-tennis I mean.

After being docked for about an hour, we are eventually allowed off the boat and after a very thorough check by charming but very particular customs and immigration officials, I set off desperately looking for a bank - I’ve got less than Yen 100 in my pocket which is about half of diddly squat. Around  the ferry terminal it’s mainly residential and there’s no sign of a bank. I ask a business man in suit and tie - he has no idea. A half-hearted question to a group of about 12 women on their haunches picking weeds out of the gravel results in a response “ATM, yah, oer dah, fas flah”. Very strange.

Got enough cash, at the second attempt mind you, and I make my way to the Metro, where I bump into the three guys from Sweden. Between all four of us, and after much discussion over the location or even existence of the mainline station, which was not clearly marked on the map (although the Centre for the Protection of Human Rights and the National Water Museum were), we then managed to master how to use the ticket machine and we’re away. I bid them farewell when we get off the Underground as I am going to Tokyo direct. There’s only 34 million people in the Tokyo metropolis so it’s hardly likely that I will see them again but I leave them with “You never know its a small world”

The station is rather confusing - there are different lines, different levels of train, underground and overground. and umpteen platforms to choose from. All held together by a chic shopping mall which for a minute makes you forget why you are there in the first place

Having spent two days on a slow boat to (or rather from) China, the first thing you notice about trains in Japan is that they are bloody fast. I thought the TGV was quick but these “bullet trains” really do shift - TTGV ( train de très grand vitesse ) The second thing you notice is how charming and courteous the rail staff are, and the rather quaint but likeable way the ticket inspectors and refreshment trolley boys/girls do a smart little bow as they enter and leave the carriage. The third thing you notice is how quiet and peaceful it is even in the city. I walked around for a whole day and did not hear one car horn - you can imagine how much that pleased me. The fourth thing to notice is how disciplined everybody is - when the red light says don’t go, then you don’t go, even if there’s nothing coming. The fifth thing you notice is how tall you feel because there are a lot of very small people in the streets, and a lot of very old, very shrivelled up people as well. The sixth thing you notice is how many eating establishments there are - literally every other shop is a cafe, restaurant, noodle house, sushi bar etc. The seventh ( and I promise last ) thing you notice is that all the cyclists ride on the pavement. Ha! Got them at last you think. But no, they’re supposed to ride on the pavement - it’s illegal not to. There’s even a yellow line down the middle - one side for bikes, the other for pedestrians.

There’s an awful lot to notice in Japan         

The weekend and I continue my meanderings around Tokyo. By chance I stumble on a Chinese Temple. Outside there is a structure which resembles a well. There are a lot of people standing round it. I move closer and inside there are a lot of incense sticks burning and everybody is immersing themselves in the smoke - apparently this is supposed to bring good health. I refrain from joining them in case of causing offence.

I think that of all the customs I’ve seen so far, the strangest is definitely that of communal bathing. How do I know? Because I’ve been. I decided to experience this weird practice - to Western eyes anyway. Firstly I upset the old bitch at reception by forgetting to take my shoes off, and then when I did the miserable old cow indicated quite clearly that in her opinion my feet were a bit high. I thought “So would your’s be dear if you had done as much walking as I have”. So I ignored the ethnic insult and proceeded with some trepidation into the changing room. I found a locker, stripped off, and walked into the washing area. They were all sitting on little plastic stools and scrubbing themselves violently with wet towels and bubbles of soap. I looked around nervously for these towels and soap. Nothing. So I sat down next to this guy who found me a towel, lent me his soap and showed me how to scrub myself squeaky clean. There’s only so much scrubbing one can do, and although they seemed to carry on for hours, I felt I was clean enough to immerse my scrubbed body in the hot tub - “Bloody Hell, thats hot” I thought. I stood it for as long as I could and then ventured into what turned out to be a cooling off room with plants, a waterfall and pools of cold water. What I found strange about the whole process is that nobody speaks - well, the men don’t anyway. You can hear some chatting from the other side of the wall which seperates the women, which I thought was a bit of a shame at first. But then looking at the state of some of the men, maybe it was better that way.

I forgot to tell you about my experience in what is possibly one of the oldest and probably the smallest bar in Japan. I was walking past, on my way back from a disappointing visit to an Irish bar ( they get  everywhere ) where I was the only one there,  although the Guinness was good, yet again , when I heard talking, and peeking through the window saw what was a crowded but very small bar . A woman sitting on the railing outside addressed me in English - the usual question of where I was from. After e few minutes discussion she said I ought to go in - there was a lady inside who could speak good English and I would be made very welcome. So I stuck my head inside ( initially that was all I could stick inside, there was so little room ). Anyway I was welcomed with open arms, given a stool, and a beer, introduced to everybody, and had a volley of questions fired at me. I had two interpreters - the lady who had lived in the US  for a few years and the owner’s daughter who I noticed was actually quite attractive, and of course as the evening wore on and I downed yet another beer, became even more attractive. Anyway I staggered out of there about midnight with fond farewells and pleasure-to-meet-you expressions.

One of the difficulties in doing a blog is that if you don’t do it soon after it has happened, it’s often easy to overlook it. Having just read the entries for the last few days I realise there are a few things I have forgotten to mention, so I will stick them under Day 45.

I deliberately booked a hostel ( = cheaper hotel for backpackers where accommodation is often in shared rooms with shared bathroom facilities and in this case mixed ) so I could stay in true Japanese style. I envisaged a large room with matresses on the floor. I did not envisage a tiny room for 6 men/women/boys/girls in bunk beds coming in and going out and coming in, sleeping in the day, faffing about with bags, opening and closing and re-opening and re-closing doors, packs and zips. Why don’t people get themselves organised so they only have to go to the bathroom once, and don’t have to rustle around in umpteen plastic bags looking for god knows what that is so important it couldn’t possibly wait ? I’ll tell you why - because they’re kids, thats why. And I’m an old-age hippie.

On the first morning after I had arrived, I was strolling down the main street and looking in a cafe window、Ｉ saw a face I recognised and would you believe it - two of the Swedish lads. - All the bars in all the world and …. So I have a chat with them and say again that it’s a small world. I carry on wandering around and, I know, I know I promised I wouldn’t notice anything else, but I’ve got to mention the masks. About 2% of the people you see on the street are wearing dust masks - you know, the type you wear when sanding/spraying etc. I didn’t notice any pollution, but it’s a bit of a sad endightment if you have to wear a mask to walk round your capital city. Maybe it’s the latest fashion

For a complete change I decided to make full use of my rail pass and visit Kyoto which is the original capital ( crossword fans will observe that it is also an anagram of Tokyo ). It is minute compared to today’s capital and retains a charm which most cities lack. It has lots of small side streets with tiny little houses and gardens created on the pavement - people actually living day to day in the centre of a big city as if it were a village in the hills. Talking of hills, did you know that about three quarters of Japan’s surface area is mountainous or uninhabitable, and, as about half of what’s left appears to be devoted to growing rice, the whole population gets squeezed onto the remaining 10% ? - No, nor did I .

Monday morning and I am told there is a phone call for me. What ?! For me ? It is a friend of a friend, who lives in Tokyo and has offered to show me a bit of the city and tell me some places to go. So we arrange to meet at the Mori Tower in Roppongi Hills. While waiting I noticed that the Arts Museum had an exhibition of the history of the Turner Prize including many of the original works which I thought would be of interest and it was. But firstly up in the lift to the 51st floor and walking round the observation deck seeing 360 degrees of Tokyo. Incredible, as far as the eye could see, buildings, towers, appartment blocks. We then went to the open deck, where at 240m above the ground it was a bit breezy. My friend suggested a few places to see on my last two days and I thanked her for her time and hospitality

My last two days in Japan, and for a complete contrast to Tokyo I venture up into the hills for some peace and solitude - yes, its possible to find it in Japan, in a place called Nikko where there are temples, gardens and something which I didn’t expect to find - a national park. On the way there I tried another uniquely Japanese custom - the railway lunch box. As the majority of commuters travelling by train don’t seem to have time to stop for lunch, they make use of what would otherwise be wasted time by consuming a beautifully presented selection of sushi with chopsticks provided ( in spite of continued attempts to get used to using these bloody things, I still find them a pain to use - they are definitely not suited to my level of dexterity) On the subject of food, there is a commonly held belief that Japanese food is nothing but Sushi - not true. There is a whole range of noodle and rice based dishes along with just about everything that you could possibly deep-fry in tempora batter. I saw a hilarious translation for one of these dishes which went something like ” what levelled, with dust of bread on surface”. There is also a Japanese equivalent of cooking at your table, which I tried one night. It consists of tender strips of lamb served with bamboo shoots and onion, a bowl of consomme and a bowl of steamed rice. ( I think I’ve been reading too many menus)

I wake up on my last day to the sound of pissing rain - that’s put the damper on my plans (get the pun?) It will be no fun strolling round Ossaka in this. So I opt for the contingency plan. I spend the afternoon going up the river and back to see the 20 bridges which link the two sides of Tokyo - once you’ve seen one bridge, you’ve seen them all, you say . Not so, all 20 are very different ( Poor old sod, he’s getting all excited by bridges now - all this travelling has obviously gone to his head ) Well it was something easy to do on the last afternoon.

I know, I know, I promised no more things to notice but I have to remark on the cleanliness of vehicles. The taxis are immaculate, even the dustbin wagons are spotless, and this morning on the way to the station I spotted an absolutely pristeen, but not new, cement truck. And just to make it a nice round 10 things to notice, the japanese really do say ” Aahhh soh, weelly” when you tell them something only vaguely interesting - as I often did of course.

Sayonara

Tokyo Jo

Ta-ta Tokyo. Hi-di-hi Hong Kong.

 Arrived here on Thursday and I’m beginning to feel a bit oriental - my eyes are half shut and I’ve just had a Thai Duck Curry Pie for breakfast would you believe. I’ve at last found a really good Internet Cafe where they not only have free access but do brilliant coffee and play excellent music in relaxing surroundings.

Nothing exciting about the journey here except I fell asleep on the train, woke up to see the name of the airport on the platform and jumped off - one station too soon. So I had to take a taxi which cost me nearly 3000 er…. whatever the currency is in Tokyo, I’ve forgotten already. That’s one of the pains about hopping from one country to another - you never get chance to get used to the currency. Once you’ve mastered how to divide by 5, multiply by 4 and then add two zeros, everything changes and you now have to divide by 500, take the square root, add 13 and then guess. Yen, that’s the currency. I had 3000 yen which was going to pay for a nice cup of coffee and a sit-down-plenty-of-time breakfast. Instead I had to sort out change from my pocket to pay the taxi-driver leaving me just enough to buy a carton of yoghurt drink. ( Did you notice that I referred to my means of transport as a “taxi-driver” not a “cabbie” ?  Well he was a robber ).

I have spent the last two days walking round this very confusing city. Firstly the buildings. My hotel is fairly tall by normal standards and I have been ‘elevated’ to the 21st floor (hee-hee) Usually you can use a tall building as a landmark, so that you can find where you are. Not here you can’t. Every tall building is obscured by at least three others. Just to make things even easier every street looks the same as every other with signs, banners, posters, shop fronts all announcing something in Chinese - I know not what. Consequently it is very easy to get lost and  yes, I did. Fairly late in the evening, when things get busier and  even more confusing, I kept seeing buildings, shop windows and other things which were familiar, but I couldn’t remember where I was going when I saw them before. Almost jumped in a taxi, but couldn’t have faced the embarrassment of jumping out at the next corner mumbling “I knew it was round here somewhere”

I don’t quite know what I expected it to be like here, but its certainly bigger than I thought - I suppose that I imagined it being about twice the size of say, Gibraltar, whereas in fact its twice the size of that other bastion of the empire, Singapore. Also its not just one island, but several large islands and part of the mainland as well. The total area of the island called Hong Kong is about 100 km sq - just enough to squeeze 7 million people on top of each other, literally.

While walking round the streets, day or night, I keep seeing people with trolleys packed high with flattened cartons, magazines etc all tied up in bundles about 1 cu. m. I’ve not seen anything happen to all this material but I assume it gets recycled somewhere.

What has surprised me is the disappearance, assuming they were there in the first place, of residues of the British administration. Apart from road signs, the names of streets, the cars being RHD, and not forgetting the dear old trams which are still going strong, well still going anyway, apart from these, there is very little evidence that Hong Kong was ever anything but Chinese. OK a few of the restaurants have a menu in English but most of the staff don’t speak any English. I’m not saying they should of course, but I would have expected more remnants of good old British rule to remain. Still, it was over 10 years ago - yep, agreed in ‘84, handed over in ‘97.

This may very well be boring but its not just meant to be entertaining this blog you know, I try and make it informative as well. In fact I think I’ll rename it Mikopedia. Time to sign off.

Time to venture further afield today so I catch the train from Wan Chai to Chai Wan - easy to confuse these two particularly if you get on the train between them. So I travel east to the end of the line, North Point, where for some inexplicable reason I start climbing the hill out of town, and just keep on climbing, thinking I will eventually get to the brow of the hill and see the view of the bay. You know what its like when you can’t quite see the top, but it must be round the next corner, and then it isn’t