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Introduction
As a teenager I was a voracious reader, my
father substituting the stories of Ian Fleming, when he felt I had outgrown
Enid Blytons’ Famous Five. Later, I
would discover the wonderful, muscular prose of Jack London, from his teenage
years as an Oyster pirate on the Oakland waterfront, to wild adventures in the Klondyke gold rush and
beyond. This love of adventure brought
me to Joseph Conrads’ Heart of Darkness and later to Somerset Maughams’
colonial adventures in the Far East.
Raised on a diet of Victorian exploration, it is perhaps unsurprising
that I would develop a taste for the exotic.
My travels have been in
two distinct phases, the early travels, going round the world as a young backpacker
in the mid to late 1980,s and later, what I have called my ‘Ryanair Years’,
when I took advantage of Mr O’Learys’,
cheap flights to new destinations across
Europe.
In my younger years I might spend several
months or longer in a country, while, in recent years my trips abroad have
generally been between four days and a
week. Its is much easier to research and
organise travel than it was before the
internet, when thin, blue aerogrammes
marked ‘par avion’ were the closest
you could come to a mobile phone.
Having travelled in many countries, I realise
how lucky we are in Edinburgh, with the riches of the forth estuary on our
doorstep, and the Pentland hills at our back.
The many wooded hills and rivers which adorn the town, are host to Roe
deer, Woodpeckers and Kingfishers, and it is possible to see a hundred species
of bird in a day without leaving the boundary of the city. In recent years, the appalling environmental
damage wrought by the chemical DDT in the 1970’s has reversed, and buzzards are
now common in a way they never were when I was a child. Another cause for celebration is the
reforestation of Scotland. Deer numbers
have been thinned in the highlands and there are now seedling Scots Pines
growing in profusion on what has been heather clad hillside for the last few
hundred years.
As a five year old, my parents would take me
walking in the woods, pointing out the common birds, Blue tits, Robins and the
like. They indulged my growing passion
and I still have the charts and logs of my birding activities in the fields
behind our house when I was twelve and thirteen. Lovers Lane, and the surrounding fields,
where Short eared Owls came down from the Pentland Hills to spend the winter,
provided rich pickings for the nascent birder.
The Gogar burn was home to Water Voles, while Reed buntings and
Goldfinches lived among the tall grasses in the fields. Coveys of Grey
Partridge would startle the walker, exploding out from under your feet in a
flurry of wing beats. On the immaculate
lawn of Gogar house, Spotted Flycatchers sat on the croquet hoops, taking
short, circular flights to catch insects on the wing.
Today, nothing remains of these childish
haunts, the last colony of Lapwings having long deserted their lonely
roundabout, as traffic has increased over the years to service what is now the
Gyle shopping centre and South Gyle Industrial Estate.
In later years, I studied Horticulture at the
Royal Botanic Gardens in Edinburgh.
Here, I learned of Rachel Carson and her book ‘Silent Spring’, a warning
of how the environment was being degraded.
Our lecturer told us how, in the sixties, he would look on in sorrow as
each autumn hordes of thrushes would strip the gardens’ trees and bushes of
their harvest. Nowadays the berries sit
uneaten on the trees, as the Redwings and Fieldfares no longer come in such
numbers.
Unsurprisingly then, I have
enjoyed nature and birding where ever I have been, from the famous Indian bird reserve of
Bharatpur, to the cloud forests of Guatemala, and I will recount the notable
species as I go, if only for my own amusement.
I hope the reader will indulge my hobby and gain a greater appreciation
of the joys of birding, even, perhaps taking up the binoculars and field guide
for themselves.
Another passion is music, from my first guitar,
strumming along to Leonard Cohen and Neil Young, to learning saxophone while
listening to Stan Getz and Sun Ra. Like
nature, and food, music is found everywhere and I have played guitar from the
deserts of Israel to the beaches in Mexico.
Flamenco, Gamelan, Merengue and Kletzmer, I have heard them all,
from soulful Yiddish clarinet to the
infectious dance music of Latin America and the foot stomping, hand clapping
Flamenco of Seville. In India I came
across early versions of the bagpipe, and discovered quarter tones, western music
only recognising semi tones.
As I write this account
of my travels, memories have flooded back, people and places I had long
forgotten becoming fresh once more. The
Internet has allowed me to research details of places visited and maps of the region
have allowed me to trace my progress, uncovering forgotten towns and places of
interest. I have not lingered on
descriptions of well known places such as the Pyramids, as the reader can
search the Internet for more information, and better pictures, than I can
provide. I have also refrained from
writing much about my friends and travelling companions as I have no wish to
intrude on their privacy. These then,
are my observations, as I have travelled from Bombay to Banjul, Bandits to
Buddhists, Bee eaters to Bulbuls.
Menorca
My first long trip
abroad was to stay with friends in Calas Covas, a series of Neolithic caves
near the expat resort of Cala en Porter, on the Spanish island of Menorca. We sat at the back of the plane and, as it
took off, played The Flight of the Valkyries on our cassette recorder. Ten seconds later, a flight attendant rushed
along the aisle and put an end to our musical homage to the film Apocalypse
Now. Arriving in Menorca, having
consumed several bottles of Cava purchased in the Duty free, we wandered out of
the airport and fell asleep in a nearby field. Awakening next morning
surrounded by prickly pear cactus (Opuntia sp) we discovered the veracity of
Baloo the bears’ advice that it was preferable to use the claw rather than the
paw when picking prickly pears. It is
not the large spines which are problematic but the invisible glass like hairs
which snap off, hiding in clothing and causing endless skin irritation.
Undeterred we set off from Cala en Porter,
walking along the cliff top until we reached the bay where, long ago, people
had carved a series of caves from the soft limestone. Complete with
doorways, windows and raised areas for sleeping, our cave was high on
the cliff. A small, flat “patio” outside
the doorway, gave way to a steep hillside, tumbling down to the beach which lay
at the head of the cove. At night I lay
in bed listening to the waves in the bay, and sometimes watching a bat flying
round the cave, flying round and round until he found his way out again, all
this by candle light and and the
flickering embers of the fire.
Our friends had been living here for the best
part of a year, making a little money cleaning nets for fisherman. A perk of this job was that the fisherman
would give us moray eels which we boiled up into an oily stew, their tough skin
almost defying the, rather blunt, knives we were using. Our diet was supplemented with snail, which
I have never eaten since, and wild fruits which we called nesperos, though I
later discovered they were Japanese Loquats (Eriobotria japonica), a bit like
apricots. At low tide, an underground
spring provided fresh water, and on one occasion, a small octopus , which was
quickly added to the pot. Snails need to be starved for a few days after
capture to clear the digestive tract before consumption, some mornings they
would have to be picked off the walls and ceiling of the cave, having escaped
during the night. This was less
unsettling than the octopus which attempted to escape from the pot when the
water was added. The caves’ long term
occupant had perfected his cooking technique to the point that he baked bread
in the fire using two metal wash basins as an oven. In time he would brick up one of the deep set
‘windows’, building an oven, with a flue to the outside. If we needed bread, we
would hitch hike along to the little village of San Clemente, where, if you
were lucky, the baker would have found the energy to actually do some baking. If not, he would advise you to return “maƱana”.
There were four or five occupied caves, one,
known as the ‘hotel’, could house eight people, while another held a Dutch
couple and their two kids. The couple
owned a beat up Volkswagen van and would give everyone a lift into Mahon if
they were going that way. The van door
was held on with a human bone from one of the caves. I was told that during the Civil War, the
resistance had lived in these caves and placed their dead in one of the less
accessible ones. I visited there once
but there were only a few fragments to show what had been. The gentle, relaxed Spanish hippies living in
the caves taught me my first Spanish words and I began to appreciate the warmth
of Spanish culture. Typically, I pursued
the birds with my usual zeal, spending hours wandering the scrub above the
cliffs, seeing my first Red-backed and Woodchat Shrikes. It was here that we picked wild asparagus,
the young shoots hidden amongst the tough, spiny, gorse like foliage. These would be added to Tortilla Espangol,
flavoured with the wild rosemary growing on the cliff. One evening, as we ate, we were treated to a
spectacular lightening storm, ball lightening skittering across the sea as the
waves pounded the shore beneath us.
It was spring and pleasantly cool on the
cliffs, swimming was in order and the Roman quarry cut into the cliff side not
only allowed the Romans to transport rock by sea but functioned as an outdoor
swimming pool for us. It was here I
discovered that you can’t boil rice in sea water and perhaps more usefully,
that urine is a treatment for jellyfish stings. If unlucky enough to get stung, the weals
looked like a whip mark across the body, happily this never happened to me,
possibly because I didn’t actually enter the water much. Mahon is home to the largest harbour in the
med and birthplace of mayonnaise, but for me it was home to the little cafes
which still served free tapas with the crisp beer and expresso coffee we drank
during languid afternoons in the town square.
Sol y sombre (sun and shade) was a mixture of sweet muscatel wine which
was pretty much sherry, and cheek shrivelling red, the sugar giving you a
hangover only the young will endure . We
stuffed ourselves on cheap, homemade garlic potato salad, so strong that the
smell of garlic was pungent on the skin for hours afterwards. It was maybe just as well the cave was well
ventilated, the blanket for a door being a loose fit.
Although we never felt insecure in the caves,
one night we were rudely wakened by the torches of the Guardia Civil
(paramilitary police). The two girls my
friend and I stayed with, had been down to the disco one evening, coming to the
attention of the local police, who, assuming
the girls were on their own, had come for a visit the following night, truncheons
at the ready, as it were. Truncheons
were packed away on the discovery that the girls were not alone and after some
grumbling they disappeared back into the night.
I think they may have felt we shouldn’t really have been living in
Spain’s prehistoric heritage. At one
time Majorca had been home to a thriving troglodyte hippie community, although
the advent of the package tour quickly put paid to that. A similar community had dwelt on the far side
of Menorca, providing tour boats with a tourist attraction of naked hippies in
caves, until one day they apparently rose up, as it were, and started throwing
rocks at the boat, upon which the whole affair came to an end. I guess our backwater was one of the last and
I have heard that the area is now a pay to get in tourist attraction and nobody
lives in the caves anymore.
In the early eighties it seemed that you were
either rolling in it, or, rolling in “it”, I fell into the later category. Having five Highers and no discernable skills,
the opportunity to live rent free on a kibbutz in Israel seemed a good bet. I
would simply ride out the Thatcherite wave abroad and return when it was all
over. How was I to know that Thatcherism
would signal a permanent shift in British culture. Returning a year later to London I would see
groups of people living in cardboard boxes under bridges. Affordable housing was taking off.
Some of my friends had reservations about
visiting Israel due to the situation in Palestine, of which I knew little. In my defence, this was before the
Palestinians were walled in. I now
realise that I never encountered the reality of Palestine during my stay, but I
did experience the Israeli view of life and for many years had a ‘sunny’ view,
which I shared with the majority of the volunteers on the kibbutz. Although I now deplore the apartheid which
an increasingly militaristic Israeli state is inflicting on the rightful
citizens of this region, I hope the reader will indulge my youthful ignorance.
After picking up our visas in Glasgow ,
my friend and i took a bus to London
and an El Al flight to Tel Aviv. The
security at the El Al desk in Heathrow was as tight as you see nowadays, though
in those days it was unique. Arriving in
Tel Aviv, the plane door opened and a fierce, oven like heat rushed into the
cabin. It was June and the heat was
visibly wobbling the tarmac.
Kibbutz Sde Boker was in the Negev desert, and as the bus
rounded the crest of another barren hillside, the unremitting rock strewn
landscape was punctuated by a rectangle of green in the valley below. The kibbutz was a paradise right up to the
fence line, beyond which was a trackless desert populated by snakes and scorpions.
The kibbutz system is a
peculiarly Israeli system of communal living, borne of both the need to
colonise a land devoid of infrastructure, and the singular history of the
inhabitants. Groups of people literally
build their own village, borrowing money from the government, then paying it
back. Each kibbutz has its own form of
government and culture, some were communist to the extent that children were
raised in a communal manner, some run along lines of religious orthodoxy,
others, more relaxed, both economically and spiritually. This particular kibbutz, Sde Boker, was a
small community of three hundred people with a pioneering, socialist spirit and
was famously the home of David Ben Gurion, Israel’s first Prime Minister. On
reflection, the use of young international volunteers was a means of avoiding
employing Palestinian labour, though for some reason that had not occurred to
any of us twenty something
volunteers. What I experienced on
the kibbutz was a socialist society in miniature, with communal ownership, self
regulation and minimal state involvement.
The volunteers were housed two or three to a unit, one roomed buildings
each with there own bathroom, but no kitchen.
Everyone ate in a large dining area much like that in any college,
except that no money ever changed hands.
Similarly, there was a laundry to which you took your laundry, picking
it up fresh in a day or so. Even cars
were communally owned and could be borrowed when needed, meaning that most had
ruined gear boxes.
The twenty or so
volunteers came from across Europe, with a smattering of South Africans and
Australians. Some Kibbutzes would not
accept German speaking volunteers as they did not wish to hear German spoken,
and so, they were over represented at Sde Boker. In similar vein, I felt that some Germans had
their own reasons for working on Kibbutzes.
A joke I made about the Pope blessing the SS didn’t go down to
well. Be that as it may, the young
Germans were polite, friendly, well educated and capable people, some of whom I
would travel with in later years.
There were many British people in kibbutzes and
the common language on Sde Boker was English, the Germans having a better grasp
of the grammar than the native speakers.
The English volunteers were at first a bit reticent towards us rough
voiced Scots with our short vowel sounds and glottal stops but we soon banded
together once they had become accustomed to our accents. The uncommon good looks of my travelling
companion were no doubt an icebreaker also.
Kibbutzniks work a nine
hour day six days a week, resting on Shabat, which is from Friday sunset till
Saturday sunset, and there was a variety of jobs on offer. Working in the fields was guaranteed to help
with your tan, or turn a Scot into a prune, so I volunteered for dishwashing
duties, which didn’t involve getting up so early. The field workers were up by five thirty as
there was a long break during the heat of the day. My duties involved operating a large
industrial dishwasher with a conveyor belt and scalding hot water. Diners would load the trays with their dishes
and we would keep the dishwasher running and clean the machine at the end of
the shift. Happily there were hoses
which we, on the second floor kitchen, could aim at passers by through the windows. Another activity I seem to remember involved
cutting blocks of frozen meat on an unguarded band saw. Health and safety would have had a fit.
The desert was a birdwatchers paradise, from
the bizarre Hoopoes which strutted on the lawns, to the Egyptian Vultures lined
up along the roof of the chicken house waiting for one of the chickens to
‘escape’ into the desert. They usually
got about ten feet. The large, hot,
smelly sheds which housed several thousand chickens each, were not the most
popular workplaces, and chickens not the most beguiling creatures. The cage
reared birds were quite brainless. They
would peck at any wound, including their own, to the point of actually eating
themselves. I doubt this is normal
behaviour. Each morning we would search
through the chickens, removing the dead or dying.
A certain, well endowed German girl was
frequently assigned to work in the chicken houses and the reason became clear
when I did a few shifts myself. Hygiene
required that workers shower and change clothing before entering the houses and
the facilities were unisex. I doubt she
ever realised that her nickname amongst the male chicken house workers was
‘boing boing’.
The kibbutz was unusual
in that it had bought, and was in the process of paying for, a Sellotape
factory purchased from Italy. I worked
the night shift, taking the massive rolls off the glueing machine with a
forklift, placing them on a cutting machine and operating the machine, the
blades of which had been set up by the day shift worker. The blades were set according to the size of
sellotape required and my work was supervised by a friendly chap on the
neighbouring machine. One night I found a praying mantis sitting on the
machine, trying to blend in to a pile of flat packed boxes. This was preferable to finding a scorpion,
the sting from one could put a healthy man in hospital for a week, and
occasionally did.
There were orchards of
Pistachio trees, which the volunteers would race tractors through, until one
day a tractor came racing out of the orchard and knocked a car clean off the
road. When the picking season came, the
Kibbutz hired a man with a tree shaking machine which looked like something out
of a Mad Max film. He drove what looked
like a beach buggy with an arm and pincer at the front. He would grasp the trunk of the tree and
shake it so the pistachios would fall onto the mats we had placed below. The trick was not to kill the tree, so this
was a specialised job. We boiled some of
the nuts in kettles filled with salted water, then dried them on the roof of our
house.
Work aside, recreation
was the main concern of the volunteers, mostly getting off with each other,
though alcohol was another consideration.
Bottles of locally produced Vodka and an aniseed based spirit known as
Arak, cost about two pound a bottle and was often mixed with sugar and
lemons. A novel recipe was to cut a
small round hole in the top of a watermelon, upending a bottle of vodka into
the hole, then allowing the vodka to soak into the watermelon before
eating. There were frequent barbecues
and sing songs round the campfire, me playing guitar and singing Neil Young
songs. There were frequent barbecues as
escaped chickens could not be reintroduced to the houses due to the risk of
infection, instead becoming guests of honour at the barbecues. Two of the girls were nurses and didn’t mind
despatching the chickens. An underground
bomb shelter was used as the volunteers’ bar and the sound of partying didn’t
penetrate the thick walls. I remember a
fight between several drunken people being broken up by an Israeli suddenly
appearing with a gun and threatening to put a bullet in the leg of the next
person to throw a punch.
Through
my love of nature, I became friendly with a kibbutznik named Hafgad who knew
everything about the desert and the Bedoin people who lived there. He took me to see the rare Sooty Falcon and
Griffon Vultures as well as the Ibex antelopes and Guinea pig like Hyraxes
which lived on the desert cliffs. There
were leopards and porcupines, which we never saw, though you could pick up the
quills they dropped during the night.
Sometimes in the desert, you could see small walls a few inches
high. These channelled water from the
infrequent rainfall into large caverns which held water for years after
wards. These channels, which can still
be found all over the desert, were created by the Naboteans, and the water from
these chambers is still used to irrigate the desert. The Naboteans also built the city of Petra in Jordan
which is not so far, but it was not possible to go there with an Israeli stamp
on your passport.
At the end of each
month, the volunteers would be taken on a sightseeing trip, on one memorable
occasion to the Greek orthodox Monastery of St George of Koziba deep in Wadi
Kelt, a steep ravine in the desert. It
was here that the prophet Elijah had allegedly stayed in a cave and been fed by
ravens. The Monastery was founded by
hermits, who imitated Elijah by living in caves. Hermits have subsequently sought the
isolation of this remote region for centuries since. To my surprise there were
cells, high up on the cliff, where hermits still spend the rest of their lives
contemplating god. After years of
cramped living, their limbs would atrophy to the point where they became unable
to ever leave, provisions being lowered in a basket to the hermits by
monks. I remember being impressed with
the depth of their commitment and strength of will though years later when I
retold this story to my partner Karen I was surprised at her reaction. She felt that to cut yourself off from
humanity denied the opportunities presented by the gift of life and could be
seen as a waste. On another trip we
were taken to Masada the hilltop fortification where Jewish zealots had
resisted Rome for two years before a massive ramp built by the besieging Romans
allowed them to scale the fortifications, where, they discovered, the defenders
had all committed suicide. From the
summit of Masada there were clear views across the Jordan to the hills
beyond. A black crow like bird known as
Tristrams’ Grackle is found on the clifftops surrounding Masada ,
where it is quite common, though nowadays found nowhere else. Masada is near the Dead Sea and the oily
water was so thick with salt that you couldn’t let the water get in your
eyes. It is impossible to really swim,
as you can only bob like a cork, floating on your back as if sitting in a
rubber ring. The beach had fresh water showers, as you had to wash the salt off
before it preserved you like a ham.
Myself and another
volunteer decided to go on a short tour of the north, visiting Kyriat Shimona
near the Lebanese border, where we could stay with a friends’ family. The family had to speak several languages at
the dinner table as the three generations did not share a common language. While the grandparents spoke French and
Arabic, English and Hebrew were also needed so that everyone could
communicate. Norwegian peacekeepers we
met there, on leave from patrolling the border, told me that the locals tended
to attack only the French peacekeepers, apparently a grudge from colonial
days. From here it was up to the ancient
town of Safet with its famous artists colony in the old town. Many of these artists were older people, some
bearing tattoos from the concentration camps.
These echoes of the past are found throughout Israel and one cannot but
sympathise with what befell the Jewish people.
However, while researching Safet on the internet, I came across a
Palestinian website listing all the houses which had been taken from their
rightful owners after the war and in the following years. I tend to agree with those who feel that
Palestine is the root cause of all the problems in this area.
To save money, I camped in the Pine forest
which surrounds Safet. The discarded
pine needles made for a comfortable bed which turned out to be full of biting
insects, one night was enough so the next day we headed off to Akko. Akko is one of those maze-like old towns
which would draw invaders into its narrow winding streets where they could be
picked off by the rooftop defenders, a tactic famously shown in the film “The
Battle of Algiers”.
At the end of each
month, we got an extra day off and would take the bus to Jerusalem. The Old City is a crowded multi ethnic mish
mash of commerce and faith, from the church of the Holy Sepulchre with its
various tombs of Jesus depending on your religion, to the Via Dolorosa and the
various quarters, Christian, Armenian, Jewish etc.
Ultra Orthodox Jews live in an area of Jerusalem known as the Mea Shearim where
visitors are not really welcome and the faithful will avert their gaze from the
Gentiles or Goyim as they are known in Hebrew.
Orthodox Jews will not speak Hebrew outside of the Synagogue, as they
regard it as the language of god, instead speaking the mixture of Russian,
German and Hebrew they call Yiddish.
Moneychangers would give you better rates than the bank and if they spoke
Yiddish you could guarantee they would not cheat you as there religion forbade
it. Every seven years, the orthodox are
forbidden from eating anything grown in Israel as the torah states the land
should lie fallow. As the modern state
of Israel does not conform to the borders laid down in the Torah, the orthodox
would buy their provisions from the south of the country, which they did not
regard as part of Israel.
Visitors to Israel are
all confronted with the past, nowhere more so than at Yad Vashem, the holocaust
museum. Being a tender soul, I elected to skip that experience, instead
visiting the museum of the Diaspora, a much more celebratory experience. The list of famous Jewish people is indeed
impressive, Karl Marx, Einstein and of course Jesus, to name a few.
I met a girl from
Berlin with whom I would later travel to India after hearing stories from
seasoned travellers and resolving to become a ‘traveller’ myself. In those days that meant adopting the Lonely
Planet travel guides as a sort of religion, following the prescribed routes
like pilgrims. As it happened, my
girlfriend went back to Berlin and so, to get some money, my friend and I
decided to move to a Moshav in the Arava valley. A Moshav is a sort of semi privatised kibbutz
where farmers own their own fields, with each contributing a portion of their
time to communal endeavours which pay for the infrastructure.
Moshav Tsofar is south
of the Dead Sea, on the road to Eilat and Sinai. The summer was over by late October, though
the heat was still fierce and the work on Moshavs’ was mostly in the fields,
growing melons, aubergines and tomatoes.
Myself and two others
Scots were assigned to a farmer named Peke and worked in his fields for about a
hundred dollars a month. The Arava is the valley which Borders Jordan and the
fields ran right up to the double fence line which separated the two
countries. Between the fences was a
strip of sand about eight feet wide which was combed by the army every day so
that anyone crossing would disturb the sand.
There was a Massey Ferguson tractor and trailer which we used to pick
the crops when the time came. Peke asked
me if I could drive and when I said no, he pointed at the tractor saying
“there’s the tractor, there’s the desert, learn to drive”, and he threw me the
keys. Soon I was trundling along the
road that led to the fields, admittedly there wasn’t much to crash into,
although I did manage to jack knife the trailer into Pekes’ back garden on one
occasion.
Peke was busy making the desert bloom the
Israeli way. First we cleared all the
stones from a piece of ground before Peke ploughed, then steam injected cyanide
into the tilled soil, sterilising it, then allowing the poison gas to evaporate
away. Next, irrigation hoses were layed
in rows and the tractor would lay a skin of plastic over the ground. After cutting holes in the plastic where we
would plant the seed, we placed metal hoops in the ground and the tractor would
lay a row of plastic over the top creating a cloche. The hoses were attached to large barrels
filled with water and bags of fertiliser, effectively outdoor hydroponics.
I had my first view of Bee-eaters working in
the fields as they flew low above the crops like psychedelic swallows. In the distance Sandgrouse could be seen
searching the desert sand for seeds and sometimes a Bedouin camel caravan would
wend its way along the edge of the fields.
Deserts are cold at night as there is nothing to keep in the heat, and
we wore jumpers in the morning until it warmed up. By ten o’clock it was tee shirt weather,
though the Israelis were sill wearing thick jackets and I would tan like a
Walnut while working in the fields. One
afternoon there was a shout from a neighbouring field and in the distance a
small plane could be seen lining up for a low pass, it was the crop
duster. We ran out of the field, and the
following day the ground was littered with dead birds, Wagtails, Pipits and
even Partridges. The farmers grew large Galia melons and our three man team
would pick several tonnes a day as they ripened. In the fading light at the end of the day,
you could see the lights from the other tractors slowly making there way across
the desert towards the packing houses on the outskirts of the Moshav. We ate as many melons as we could, though it
has to be said that melons are quite limited when it comes to recipes. The other plentiful food was the date. The
Moshav owned a date orchard on a communal basis, everyone taking turns to tend
the crop. The date palm protects its
fruits with vicious, downward pointing spikes six or so inches long which could
go right through the unwary hand and despiking the palms was one of the
tasks. Dates are another crop with a
limited repertoire, although we boiled them to make a paste which could be spread
on bread, sometimes adding desiccated coconut for a change. A Peregrine would sometimes circle the
orchard, flying low in the evening light looking for sparrows.
My first New Year
abroad was spent in the now empty packaging shed, the fruit we had picked was
long gone. Rows of fridges were filled
with beer and the sixty or so volunteers partied the night away. During the night, three English lads broke
into the office and stole some money and several passports. One of their number had also ransacked our
accommodation and I lost several months wages.
They were later picked up in a court room in Tel Aviv where they were
watching one of their pals getting deported.
They admitted selling the passports and got beat up for their troubles
before being kicked out of the country.
At one point British volunteers had been banned because of problems with
violence and petty crime, but because so many volunteers were British they were
soon readmitted.
Most volunteers would take a trip to Egypt at
some point during their stay in Israel and I was no exception. There were many girls volunteering in Israel
and they would not travel to Egypt without a male companion. I ended up going
there with three girls, none of whom I was going out with and one of whom I
didn’t even get on with. To be fair,
they did open a few doors.
Egypt
We took a bus from
Jerusalem to Cairo, driving down the highway to Eilat, then down through the
Sinai desert. Sinai was where the Jews
famously got lost and is still a vast, empty trackless area known only to the
local Bedhoin people. The Israelis built a road down its east coast, following
their occupation, and it was this road which took us to the chaos that is Cairo.
Looking down from our hotel room window, the mix of cars, buses,
bicycles, donkeys, carts and camels filling the street outside, was the first
of many wonderous sights that awaited us.
Learning the numbers from one to ten (wahad to ashra)’ allowed us to
visit the markets with some idea of the prices and how to haggle. Next morning, we hired a guide to take us
round the sights, first stop being the pyramids, and big triangles they
certainly are. The Pyramids sit just on
the edge of town rather than in the desert as I had imagined, which was
somewhat disconcerting, rather as if Stonehenge was on a roundabout in Birmingham . The highlight for me, rather than the quick
horseback ride round the pyramid, was the Son et Lumiere (sound and light show)
played in the evening and narrated by Richard Burton, with the Pyramids as a
backdrop to the light show. Apart from
the Sphinx, which looks just like it does on telly, the most interesting piece
of archaeology in the area is an underground complex next to the old step
pyramid in nearby Saqqara. A series of
underground passageways with rooms leading off, contain the sarcophagi of
twenty or so sacred bulls. These coffins
were carved from a single piece of stone, weighing up to 70 tons each. Apparently, when these catacombs were first
discovered, the footprints of the last priests could still be seen in the
dust. Egypt is full of incredible
artefacts, it’s easy to forget how remarkable they are, because of their sheer
quantity. There are loads of tombs,
Temples and pyramids throughout the country, most, happily along the banks of
the Nile, and, more importantly, the railway. You can travel down the Nile by
boat, but its not cheap, and you don’t see the country the way you would if you
travelled overland. A trip to the
Egyptian museum is a must when in Cairo, the gold of Tutankhamun is
breathtaking, as is the sophistication of the ancient civilisation which
produced it. To see board games, items
of furniture and even batteries was a real education, and all pretty stylish
too.
While we didn’t get a chance to see the famous
Mosque, Cairo
wasn’t finished with us yet. During our stay, we were invited to several
weddings, which I for one thoroughly enjoyed.
It is considered good fortune to have travellers from a distant land at
your wedding and it would seem that having a trio of young European women is
considered particularly fortunate. I was
separated from the girls, as was the custom, and taken to a tent where the
tables groaned under the weight of the food.
After a few enjoyable hours I met up with the girls to find them
somewhat underwhelmed by their experience of the all male wedding
festivities. Apparently they had
suffered a fair degree of unwanted attention at the hands of our hosts
(literally). The Egyptian view of
European women seemed to be largely based on Hollywood movies, the female lead
invariably ending up in bed with…..whoever else was around. Given that their own women were ‘forbidden’,
some men were understandably keen to establish ‘relations’ with Europe. Also, my own, somewhat slight, frame was not one
which the locals felt sufficient to satisfy numerous wives, so on several
occasions I was given the opportunity to relieve myself of the burden of too
many wives. I couldn’t help thinking
that any culture which banned women, deserved all of the ensuing frustration.
Once we had our fill of the obligatory culture,
we boarded the train and headed south.
I’m told that nowadays armed guards accompany tourists but in the
eighties it was much more relaxed and militant Islamism did not affect us in
the slightest. Our first stop was Luxor,
home to the Valley of the Kings and Karnak.
The various tombs of Egypts ’
kings are richly adorned with hieroglyphics though the treasures are long
gone. Once you’ve seen one room with
Heiroglyphic wallpaper, you’ve seen them all, nice enough though. Karnak is a much more awe inspiring
sight. The hundred and thirty odd,
massive pillars, ten metres tall by three metres wide, and the surrounding structures,
make the Temple of Karnak one of the wonders of the world. My researches on the internet reveal that
the site is also the largest ancient religious structure in the world
The railway ends at
Aswan, the last major town in Egypt before the Sudanese border which lies on
the far side of lake Nasser. As well as
the jumping off point for a trip to Abu Simbel, it is also the location of
Elephant Island. Eric Von Daniken
famously wrote that the island was the shape of an Elephant when viewed from
space. When viewed on a map, it is
roughly triangular, unlike most elephants.
It is actually the site of an old ivory trading market, and today home
to Nuba people. The Nuba straddle
southern Egypt and Northern Sudan and are African rather than North African
people.
We became friendly with a local named
Mohammed who lived in a village on the far side of the Nile and made his living
sailing tourists up and down the river on one of the many boats, known as
Fellucahs. I was later to discover his
friendliness was partly down to the fact that he managed to bed one of the
girls. One afternoon, he invited me and
a Swiss lad we had met the day before, to his home. The three of us took a boat across the river
where Mohammed said we would need a taxi to reach the village, a few miles into
the desert. The Desert starts about a
hundred yards from the Nile on each side and we drove a good few miles along
dirt tracks which looked much the same as the rest of the scenery. Arriving in
the village, we realised that we were way off the tourist route, no roads, no
infrastructure, just mud brick walls.
Arriving at Mohammeds we were led into a room; the women in his family
bringing food, which they left just
outside the door. As we ate, more and
more people arrived, all men, and joined us, chatting away as they ate. As darkness fell, our host and the taxi
driver began an animated conversation before suddenly leaving without
explanation. People began to leave and
as the last two men were leaving, they signalled for us to follow and, somewhat
reluctantly, we followed them into the empty black night. Apparently a man had died in hospital in
Aswan and our taxi had gone to pick up his widow. On the way back, the taxi had become stuck in
the sand. Our hosts were indicating that
we should follow them out into the desert to help dig out the taxi. My Swiss friend and I weighed up our options,
only to discover we didn’t have any.
With some trepidation we walked the length of the villages’, only
street, (not to mention only streetlight) and into the night. Happily, within a hundred yards we came across
a taxi stuck in the sand, with the black clad widow sitting in the back. We jumped into the taxi and sped off into
the night, the radio blasting out happy, Arabic pop. As we passed through a brightly lit village,
the driver suddenly pulled up to a house and our fellow passengers, minus the
widow, got out and began to party. It
was a wedding. Before long we were back
heading towards Aswan, arriving at the river, where our new friends wished us
well and headed off to where ever they were going. Mohammed invited us on a trip up river to the
camel market at Daraw, near Kom Ombo, a days’ travel up river. This involved two nights on board his
fellucah, where he reaped the benefits of his labours and bedded the youngest
of my travelling companions. I got a
free trip up the Nile, passing the Temples at Philae and Edfu, so I suppose
everyone was happy.
The Camel market was a
noisy, dusty affair, where tribes people from throughout the region came to
barter and exchange gossip. Mohammed
pointed out some Beja tribesman, desert nomads who came to trade with the local
Nubians and Egyptians. They wax their
hair into ringlets and practice the Sufi form of Islam, although their
religious practices go back as far as the Pharoahs. Mohammed told us that until recently the Beja
had been guarding ancient Roman silver mines out in the desert. The Beja and their camels still carry spices
throughout the Sahara, in regions where even the Egyptian Army are loathe to
go. The heat and sand reek havoc on man
and machine alike.
Before heading back
towards Israel, we hired a taxi to take us south to Abu Simbel, another of the
massive temples built by Ramases the second.
Throughout Egypt, the three pharaohs known as Ramases the first, second
and finally Ramases the Great, built memorials to their own megalomania, and
are no doubt revered to this day by the Egyptian Tourist Board. It’s a four hour taxi ride through the
desert, some two hundred miles, a flat featureless landscape, rippled like the
beach.
Two brothers drove the
long, straight road from Aswan to Abu Simbel, the monotony had led them to play
a somewhat foolhardy game of ‘tag’, constantly overtaking and braking in front
of each other. Once in front, the driver
would throw water from his bottle onto the windscreen of his brothers’
car. After our driver had run out of
water, we stopped, and he drained some water from the windscreen washer bottle
so he could throw it at his brother. As we looked around, the landscape was
flat in every direction and the curve of the earth could be seen. I had the impression we were standing on top
of a ball, a sensation I have never experienced since. A camels’ head and neck were sticking out of
the sand, perfectly preserved in the desiccating atmosphere
During the construction
of the Aswan Dam and the creation of Lake Nasser, the Temple of Abu Simbel was
moved, to avoid the flooding. The Temple
had been aligned so that twice a year, the morning sun shines on the four
statues at the very back of the Temple and this has been retained on its new
site. The Temple reminded me of some
huge film set, for the simple reason that it was so unbelievable, the massive
seated statues dwarf the entrance, all cut straight into the living rock. It certainly doesn’t look like it has ever
been moved. If you want to see an
impressive ancient temple, then this is straight out of Indiana Jones, even
more than Petra (which does actually feature in an Indiana Jones movie). All in all, well worth the four hundred mile
round trip.
Aswan is the most laid back of the Egyptian
tourist destinations and we spent a week there, before taking the train back to
Cairo followed by a bus to Dahab, in Sinai.
Aside from being a great place to get lost,
Sinai offers the chance to experience the coral lined waters of the Red
Sea. After renting one of the thatched
huts along the beach from the young Bedhoin men who roamed the sanddunes on
their mopeds, we spent a few days snorkelling amongst the tropical fish and
coral reefs. The continental shelf
sloped away from the warm, shallow waters after some fifty feet and I remember
a large looming shadow, out in the deep waters, making me swim rather swiftly
towards the shore.
At the head of the Red
Sea lie both the Israeli resort of Eilat, and the Jordanian resort of Aqaba,
the two being separated by a wire fence.
The border is just to the south, in Taba. At the border checkpoint, we were interviewed
by several Israeli soldiers. As they
were searching through our luggage, one of the younger soldiers pulled a tampon
from a girls’ bag and asked her what it was.
The soldiers presumably more experienced colleague whispered into his
ear and he, somewhat shamefacedly, told us to be on our way.
Berlin
It was February, and twenty odd degrees when I
flew out from sunny Tel Aviv. It was still February when I landed in frosty
Munich, and remained so for the rest of the month. I was on my way to stay with
the girl I had met in Israel, together we planned to go to India. I had two notable experiences during the
several hours I waited for the train to Berlin.
The first was to get conned by a reasonably attractive women in a
bar. I had wandered into a bar, near the
train station, to hide from the cold.
Buying a drink, at her request, she ordered a glass of champagne, for
which I was charged twenty quid. After
refusing her request for a refill, I discovered she worked behind the bar.
The other notable
experience was as I waited in the train station. I got talking with a youngish German, keen to
enlighten me on the truth about the races, in particular the Jews. He told me how Jews had subverted classical
music with Pop music, Capitalism with Communism, killed Christ, and generally
undermined Arian culture. He was a
pianist, and spoke good English and French.
I was later told he would have been arrested had I told the police of
his activities.
I spent two months living in the centre of
what was then West Berlin, a relic from the war, surrounded by communist East
Germany. Sometimes the underground
trains would pass through one of the long abandoned stations which once
connected the west to what was now East Berlin.
Looking like a film set, the station was exactly as it had been when the
city was divided, except for the thick layer of dust. The other oddity about Berlin was the Wall
and I passed through Check point Charlie on my one day visit to East
Berlin. It was compulsory to change
twenty five marks into East German marks when entering from West Berlin, though
there was nothing to buy on the other side.
East Berlin was a bullet ridden reminder of the war, there were
buildings standing which should have been long gone, and meagre shops where
everything was wrapped in grease proof paper.
It was as if the East was stuck in a post war austerity while the West
had moved on.
Back in the West, we
were sitting in a cafƩ on the trendy Kurfustendamstrasse, when an arty looking
middle aged man in drag, entered the cafƩ with a flourish and regaled us with
what could have been Bertol Brecht songs, this was the Berlin of radical
theatre and politics. At the time,
Berlin was a particularly youthful, rebellious city as residents were pardoned
military service, and so, young people from all over Germany came to live
there. Militant squatters and anarchists
occupied old buildings, demonstrating against capitalism. A small demonstration of less than a hundred
people, banners waving, was arrested, to a man, by the Police, one sunny
afternoon. The entire demo packed into
vans, a few minutes after the Police had arrived, German efficiency in action.
My stay in Berlin
taught me that German is a language with very long words and that you can fry
Camembert, but was otherwise uneventful, I tried to learn the language by
watching television and failed, but at least it kept me out of the cold.
I managed to lose my
passport a few days before we were due to leave for Britain, having to apply
for a three day pass to get me to Harwich from the Hook of Holland. Arriving on the ferry at Harwich, the lack of
a passport led to myself and two Brazilians being kept behind at customs until
the connecting train had departed.
We spent the summer
with my parents in Edinburgh , with me working
for with the council to save money for our next trip, India .
India
A few days before we
left for Mumbai, which was then called Bombay, my girl friend told me that she
was only staying with me because she wanted to go to India. Not the most auspicious of starts, but off we
went none the less.
The cleaners in Bombay
Airport wore overalls emblazoned with the words ‘No Tipping’ across their
backs. Once on the bus to Connaught
Place we stared at the lines of cardboard, waist high shacks which lined both
sides of the road for mile after mile along nearly the whole route. We were in India!
The
Lonely Planet guide advised Europeans to stay in the area around the famous
Gateway of India and it was here we saw the peculiar poverty of India for the
first time. Polio and Leprosy had twisted
limbs into the most grotesque shapes, lepers on skateboards would whizz along
the road beside you, their fingerless limbs stretched upwards in the hope of
receiving alms. A young man, legs bent
by Polio, was obliged to walk on all fours, the tin can round his neck, a
grotesque parody of a cow bell. A
limbless man like a sausage with a head, lay in the gutter, his neck craned
upwards, until at the end of the day, he was loaded onto the back of a cart
with other unfortunates and taken away for the evening. As the sun set, the street vendors would
pack up their stalls and smoke Heroin, before settling down for the night on
the unforgiving paving slabs. Later, I
would hear of people arriving in India only to take the next plane home, which
was understandable. However, it is
surprising how quickly one adjusts and it would not be long before we became
used to such sights. Happily, once you
are away from the main tourist areas, the sight of such distressed people is
less common.
Having found accommodation,
food was the next priority. In India,
everything is hot, the weather, the food, even the fruit salad. A local coffee house offered omelettes for
breakfast, what could go wrong? What I
took to be green beans generously applied to my omelette, was, in fact, the
scourge of the hungry westerner, the Chilli. Thank God (or, when in India,
Gods) for yoghurt. Food would continue
to be problematic throughout my travels in India, that and finding drinking
water on my limited budget. Generally, I
would eat in the little eateries lining the main streets, a varied menu being
provided by one man and an open fire.
Generally this would be a Thali, or plate meal, in which the various
parts of the meal would be added to a single plate, or banana leaf cut into a
square. The basic ingredients for a plate meal are rice, dahl, chapati and
yoghurt, with maybe a bit of vegetable thrown in somewhere. This was eaten with the hand, using the
chapatti to soak up the dahl. At the end
of the meal you are left with a wet leaf, which biodegrades nicely, and there’s
no washing up.
The standard way to
travel to Goa was the now defunct Bombay to Panjim ferry. Theoretically one slept on deck arriving
refreshed in the morning. In practice,
an inebriated local spent the night, alternating between singing and vomiting,
sometimes managing both at once. In the
morning he appeared fresher than any of those who had constituted his audience
and the memory of his nocturnal gargling brings shivers to this day.
Western travellers to India often acclimatise
by spending a few weeks in Goa, Portuguese cookery and Christianity having
taken the edge off India’s exotic culture, and we would spend a month relaxing
with the other young westerners. Anjuna
beach was a hippy paradise, cheap accommodation and beach side bars nestling
under the coconut Palms. The warm sea
off the coast of Goa invites swimming in much the way that the Forth estuary
doesn’t. The long shallows and rolling,
eight foot surf made for great fun and I discovered the art of body
surfing. A miniature version of surfing,
this involved using your body as a surf board, coasting along a top a small
wave. The trick was to get as far up the
beach as you could without scratching your belly on the sand. There was a
weekly market, where frazzled, bearded hippies would try to sell their last
remaining underwear and local people sold the sort of ethnic handicrafts you
often see in Britain.
This was before Ecstasy
created the rave scene and there were no all night orgies on the beach. West coast Americans brought LSD and the bars
reeked of hashish, which could be bought along with your banana porridge and
mango lassi. Another culinary advantage
of the Goan coast is the availability of fresh fish, huge tuna steaks and
various whole fish cooked in the Goan style.
Every one was friendly
and we soon found travel companions for when we became bored with lounging
around on the beach. As it happened,
this took about a month, after which we began to think about heading off into
India proper. Paying heed to the old
adage about safety in numbers, half a dozen of us headed off by train to Hampi,
and the ruins of the great city of Vijayanagar, some hundred and fifty miles due east on the Deccan
plains.
The modern town of Hampi is built around the
ancient Shiva Temple of Virupaksha, the origins of which go back to 600AD. The ruined city of Vijayanaga, which
surrounds the area, was the capital of a south Indian empire from roughly
1200AD to 1600AD, when it was destroyed by the Islamic sultanate of northern
India. We stayed on the flat roof of
the local post office and dined at the restaurant of the postmasters’ sister, a
deaf mute. She communicated via her own
unique sign language and could talk to the young western tourists no matter
what their native tongue. As we sat on
our rooftop, looking at the massive brick built towers that marked the entrance
to the temple, strange, unworldly music came from speakers in the tops of the
tower and long limbed Langur monkeys would bound across the roof looking for
food. This was the real India , where painted elephants and processions
of supplicants and holy men came to and from the Temple and the concerns of the outside world
seemed far away. The flat plains are in place piled high with massive boulders,
the remnants of ancient glacial action and these were used to create seven
concentric walls, which fortified the ancient capital. Legend has it that when Lord Hanuman, the
monkey god was passing the area, on his way to creating Sri Lanka , he
dropped the boulders in the heaps you see today. In the thirteenth century, when western
explorers visited, over a million men defended these walls and the treasures
which lay within. The landscape is quite
surreal, with massive, rounded boulders sitting on top of the flat ground.
The Vijayanaga empire
ruled over the southern part of India ,
sometimes known as Peninsular India. The
Islamic Mogul Empire which invaded India in the mid 1500’s was unable to
conquer South India and the region is notably different from the predominantly
Hindi speaking north. The various states
tend to have their own distinct languages, Tamil, Teluga, Malayalam and
Kannada, being the major languages of the south collectively known as the
Dravidian languages. There are also many
different scripts, Malayalam to me, looks like rows of baby elephants. Suffice to say that they all have some
connection to the ancient Sanskrit language, a script which goes back to 1500
BCE (before the Christian era).
Currently, there are twenty-nine languages having more than a million
speakers living in India, with several hundred others spoken by a hundred
thousand or so. Although Hindi is the
official language, English is widely adopted as a second language, as the
Dravidian cultures feared being swamped by the northern culture. The bonus here is that for British
travellers, English is more common than you might think.
The Western Ghats are a
chain of mountains which run down the spine the spine of India and we would
cross them on our way to the coast. It
took several hours to climb the eight thousand feet to the old British hill
station of Ootacamund, or Ooty, as it is known.
The steep, winding road with its hair pin bends and frequent land
slides, offers spectacular views of the surrounding forest, which, according to
the brochures are stuffed with elephants and tigers, neither of which were
waiting for a lift. The British had
lived here, administrating the Empire in the cool mountain air, safe from the
oppressive heat of the plains below. Ooty was all cricket and cucumber
sandwiches served by immaculate waiters, not so much Ooty as Snooty.
According to our copy
of Lonely Planet, a backwater trip from Alleppy to Quilon, in the Southern
state of Kerala, was next on the itinerary, so off we went.At first, our small
boat sailed through the narrow canals rather like a taxi, stopping at the
occasional dwelling to pick up or drop off.
However, as our six hour journey progressed, the waters opened up to a
wide milky river and we passed other flat bottom sail boats carrying rice up
and down, a scene unchanged for centuries.
From Quilon we headed
to the coastal town of Cochin ,
famous for its Chinese inspired fishing nets strung out along the shoreline. We
headed for Trivundrum, the capital of Kerala, which nestles in a valley
surrounded by hills. As we sat on the
bus, our rucksacks, being on the roof, were being soaked by the torrential rain
which had been falling for hours.
Arriving at the bus station in the centre of town, we headed off into waist
deep water, the town had flooded. Wading
through the water, in the dark, it appeared that metal railings and gates were
carrying a weak electric charge, a bit like a static shock. We found a hostel half way up the nearest
hill and awoke to find the waters had gone, leaving the town covered in mud, so
we caught the next bus for the coastal resort of Kovalam, resting on the beach
and enjoying delicious meals in the fish restaurants.
We headed back up north
via Bangalore, visiting the famous Russel Market. The market is held in a square, surrounded by
two story buildings where sharp eyed Black Kites line the ledges, swooping down
to scavenge the rich pickings. It is not
unknown for them to snatch a treat from the hand of the unsuspecting passer by and,
not surprisingly they are regarded as something of a pest. I thought they were brilliant, I could look
out of my hotel window and watch them wheeling about on their long, thin wings
and forked tails.
On our way up north we
also stopped at a Jain Temple for the night, staying in the compound attached
to the temple, normally reserved for pilgrims.
I had ghardia or dysentery, or both.
Exploding from both ends, I was bed ridden and the mosquito bites on my
feet, which I had scratched, were infected and painful. As the others went to the temple to watch the
festivities, I lay in the dark and vowed never to drink water again. The Jains’ were good enough to let me stay
for a couple of days, until I felt able to move on. I admired their militant non-violence, the
monks even wearing a strip of cloth across their mouths, lest they accidentally
swallow an insect. They only eat fruits
and seeds, thereby killing no living creature in order to eat.
Reaching Delhi, we
stayed the thriving market area of Janpath, the narrow crowded streets made for
quite an intimate feel. In the evenings,
European heroin addicts living cheaply in the district would sit in the cafes
reading and beg a few rupees out of passing travellers. As cheap as India was, these long time
residents could live even cheaper, and heroin was cheap. As fellow travellers would concentrate in the
local eateries, we soon hooked up with an Israeli couple and decided to tour
Rajastan together.
Jaisalmer. |
Rajastan is a desert
state, becoming drier as you travel westwards, until it peters out into the
Thar Desert. Each off the desert cities
has its’ own splendours, money from the opium trade funding the palaces of the
wealthy in the seventeen and eighteen hundreds, in the way that slavery did in
Britain. Rather as in Southern Egypt,
the desert presented an obstacle to trade and long camel trains used to carry
goods to and from Pakistan. Again, as in
Egypt, the camel still reigns supreme. This was also the land where the fierce
desert tribes resisted the Mogul invasion from the west. Time after time Rajput warriors would ride
out from their fortified towns wearing the orange robes of martyrdom, to face
the enemy and die to a man. I wondered
if this was where Scots get the word ‘radge’, meaning uncontrolable or
unmanageable . I would discover that
slang Edinburgh words such as ‘choree’ meaning ‘to steal’ were, in fact
Hindi. I don’t know whether this comes
from the Romany language, or possibly the British Army. In similar vein, the Hindi word ‘bas’ meaning
‘enough’, as it does in Arabic also, is
echoed across Europe in words such as ‘basta’ (Italian), and ‘bastante’,
Spanish. Not suprising really, given the
ancient nature of Indian society. I had
wanted to ride on the roof of the trains while in India but this had never happened
on the trains I had been on. My wish
came true in spectacular fashion although the roof belonged to a bus rather
than a train. We rattled through the desert
until, as the sun was fading, the golden city of Jaisalmer rose out of the flat
sand. The round turrets which are
interspersed along the city walls make it look like a giant sandcastle from a
distance. We arranged to be driven out
to Couri, where we would stay with tribal villagers and take a short camel trek
into the desert. That night we watched
rats climbing about in the thatch roof of our mud brick dwelling.
We spent two days and one night
out in the desert, where I had hoped to see Houbara Bustards, but had to settle
for Sandgrouse. It was here that my
girlfriend announced that she had spent the night with our tousled headed
Israeli companion. I issued the
ultimatum that I was leaving for
Agra, and the Taj Mahal. As she didn’t
appear to be coming with me, I said I would be at the famous bird sanctuary of
Bharatpur for a week, after that and she could follow me there, or not as it
turned out.
In a way I suppose I
predated Princess Dianas’ solo trip to the homage to love that is the Taj
Mahal, though I don’t remember sitting on the seat, or being photographed by
the worlds press. Everyone knows the
famous symmetry of the Taj Mahal, but it is only close up that the visitor
realises it is in fact encrusted with semi precious stones, being truly more a
work of art, than a building.
Bharatpur was fabulous,
truly the twitchers Taj Mahal. In its
hey day, it was the local Maharajas’ hunting reserve, a large black monolith,
reminiscent of a war memorial, recounted the various famous figures who had
visited in order to slaughter the ducks and geese which abounded on the
wetlands. Over weekends of blood lust,
up to seventy guns would bag literally thousands of birds, sometimes tens of
thousands. I’m sure they thought it was
a good idea at the time. Like many of
these exclusive reserves, it has been preserved as a wilderness and today, is
host to a wonderful array of birds and animals.
I would spend every day patrolling the paths, notable sightings being a
Crested Serpent Eagle sitting in a tree and an antelope known as a Nilgai which
burst out of the undergrowth right next to me, and then back into it
again. A gang of vultures fought over a
carcass by the side of the road and I doubted a stick would have been enough to
drive them off. In those days Vultures
were plentiful in India but it turns out a worming medicine given to livestock
is poisonous to Vultures and today their numbers have plummeted.
The dazzling array of
birds was enough to temper my dismay at falling out with my now indisputably
ex- girlfriend, but as the week drew to a close I realised that she was not
coming, so I headed back to Delhi. Given
the size of India and the vast population, the chances of bumping into her
again must have been infinitesimal, so you can imagine my surprise when I found
her standing in front of me some days later, in Delhi. I was delighted to discover that the Israeli
bloke had dumped her and to cap it all, she was in tears because her visa had
run out some time before without her realising.
So we were back travelling together and our first stop was the German
Embassy. We knocked on the door until a
suit appeared at the glass panel and made the universal gesture for ‘go away’,
before disappearing back into the building.
Luckily, girlfriends’ Dad was treasurer of the Berlin Lions Club and,
after a phone call, we were furnished with a letter to give to the authorities
and a new visa was issued.
It was time to head
east, Calcutta was too far away, and I didn’t want to fall into its famous
hole, so we settled for Varanasi, Shivas’ city on the Ganges. I’ve always had a penchant for Shiva, the
coolest of the Hindi gods, not least because of his proclivity for ganga, so a
trip to his city seemed worthwhile. To
be cremated at the banks of the Ganges and have your ashes mixed with is water
is the quickest way to break the cycle of reincarnation and it’s big
business. The shrouded bodies of the
dead are burnt on the pyres of the burning ghats, before joining the sail boats
and bathers in the milky water.
Apparently, it’s healthy to drink the Ganges water, though I suspect
that depends on how you define ‘healthy’. It’s a cultural city, where classical
Indian music is taught and scholars debate the finer points of the Vedas. It was Holi, or Divali, or some such festival,
of which there are many, and massive, brightly coloured floats, known as
Juggernauts, were paraded through the streets at night. On one of the floats was a generator
providing electricity to the neon tube lights which women were balancing
vertically on their heads as they walked, illuminating the brass bands and
brightly decorated statues.
There was time for one
more trip before our flight back to the UK and we headed north to Himachal
Pradesh, travelling up the Kulu valley to Manali, gateway to the Himalayas, the
gateway being blocked with snow during the winter. We passed through Chandrigargh on the way, a
new town built by Corbusier along geometric lines and quite unlike the India we
had come to know. Manali is high up in
the hills, surrounded by Pine trees and quite Alpine in aspect. There are many Tibetans living here and on
one occasion we were smuggled into a back room for what turned out to be a meal
of illicit goat meat, apparently they were meant to be vegetarian in
public. Walking in the woods outside of
town, the foothills of the Himalayas were like
a white wall in the distance, I had no desire to head further north as it was
fairly warm where we were.
After four months of intermittent diahorrea,
heat stroke and endless train journeys, I had lost far too much weight and was
quite happy to head back home to Scotland . A last train ride to Bombay, and we were on
our way home. Arriving in Heathrow we
put our aged, bulging rucksacks onto a trolley and together had just enough
strength to push it along the endless corridors. As we passed through customs, a guard stopped
us and asked us where we had come from and how long we had been away. When we replied four months in India, I think
he could tell by our emaciated frames and the struggle we were having with our
bags that we were not millionaire drug lords and he kindly waved us through.
Indonesia
While in Israel, my travelling companion had
met, and would later marry, an Australian girl.
As we were both under twenty five, we qualified for an Australian work
visa and I headed off to join them in Melbourne, his girlfriend’s home
town. My one way ticket from London as
far as Delhi was with Aeroflot, the old Russian airline, stopping off to refuel
in Moscow and Tashkent. The Russian
version of Coca Cola was brown but otherwise bore little resemblance to that
liquid symbol of free market sugariness.
The Russian version of airline food was similarly unorthodox, as was the
condensation which dripped from the ceiling of the plane. Happily we changed to Garuda, the Indonesian
airline named after a mythical flying beast in Hindu culture. With a dragon painted on the fuselage and
delicate women serving delicate food, Garuda took me to South East Asia.
We stopped in Singapore and I had three days to
buy a walkman with extension speakers and look at the skyscrapers (yawn). As I sat alone in the vast hotel dining room,
a young woman came in, sat down with a coffee and annoyed the hell out of me by
repetitively tapping her spoon against the side of the cup as if she was
ringing a bell. After ten or so minutes
she rose and left, after a further ten years or so, it occurred to me that she
might have been a prostitute.
We landed at Denpasser in Bali, the rich smell
of Frangipani trees filled the air and I headed for the beach at Kuta. Although it’s a long way from Edinburgh, Bali
is in Australias’ back yard and Kuta is a favourite resort. A little like Goa, it’s a good place to get
acclimatise, and I needed too. The
oppressive heat and high humidity sapped the life from me, it was all I could
do to eat a banana smoothie before feeling uncomfortably full. The tropical resort is Australias Span,
and seems to me to have been a pointless
place to bomb, but then, you can travel in a country without becoming aware of
the politics.
The Balinese are a
delicate, gentle people, languorous young men growing their finger nails long
to signify that they did not work with their hands, being of some noble lineage
which meant that women did all the work.
I was surprised to discover that Bali is a favourite destination of
western women looking for sun, sea and sex with one of these doe-eyed toy
boys. Fortunately this turned out to be
culturally sensitive as it meant that they didn’t have to work with their
hands.
Bali is a smallish
island of steeply terraced rice fields and thick Jungle. Unlike the
Moslem Javanese, the Balinese are Hindu and the island is littered with
Temples as they are deeply religious and there are constant processions. First thing in the morning, people leave
offerings of food on the ground for the gods.
Unfortunately, the offerings are promptly eaten by dogs, who the
Balinese therefore believe are cursed. The government had put up posters
encouraging people not to fall into trances or become possessed during
religious ceremonies, as this was apparently a fairly regular occurrence.
At night the strange
but gentle sound of Balinese Gamelan orchestras drifted through the
darkness. Gamelan is a form of music
played on a series of large gongs, one person per gong, and is classical in
style, each region having its own variety, orchestras often accompany the
shadow puppet theatres which are the Balinese form of television.
I fell in with a couple
of Australian brothers and we decided to travel to Java together. Grant lives in Tasmania, a large, Jimmy
Hendrix loving man who, at the time wore wooden beads tied into the ringlets on
his beard and a riot of reddish hair. In
contrast, Indonesians are rather lacking in body hair, except for their mythical
demons, and where ever we went, women would point at Grant and laugh amongst
themselves, though some of the children gave him a more apprehensive look.
It’s no distance on the
ferry between Bali and Java and we were soon heading for Baluran National Park
in the north east of Java. A colonial
style hunting lodge provided accommodation, a walkway ran along the upper floor
of the wooden building and you could look out over the canopy of the scrubby
forest around us. Malaysian Peacocks are
quite different from their Indian cousins and in the evening, a dozen or so
would roost in a neighbouring tree, their long tails hanging down like oversize
fruit. A mother boar brought her three
little piglets into the compound just before dusk, to root around, looking for
scraps.
Walking in the forest I
saw the massive Southern Pied Hornbill and the Coucal, a sort of cross between
a pheasant and a crow. Coming across a
pig trail, I ducked under the foliage and began to follow the path, which led
like a tunnel through the forest.
Suddenly twenty or so metres down the trail there stood a male boar,
much bigger than the female we saw at the lodge, and sporting tusks. I quickly backed down the trail without
turning round and thankfully the boar watched my retreat without moving.
medieval bathing tank, Bali. |
The following night was
a full moon and we headed down to a seaside inlet just before dark. As the light failed, the trees took on a
triffid like appearance and the wonderful equatorial sunset filled half the
sky. A buzzard sized fruit bat crossed
the sky above us, flying along the coast towards its evening feeding grounds,
looking for all the world like the last dinosaur. A second bat appeared, then a third. Hundreds of fruit bats, with their slow deliberate
flight, were heading out to feed on some distant fruit trees. On subsequent nights I would see local people
flying kites into their path, hoping to bring down on of these cute, furry
children of the night. Roasted bat on a
stick anyone? Not for me thanks! Later
that night, we swam in the warm, oily sea, our movements causing the eerie glow
of phosphorescent algae to sparkle in the sea, just like the stars in the sky
above. After spending a few days in the
forest, we had one last stop before heading back to Bali and the last leg of my
flight to Australia.
Although it lies on the equator, the conical
peak of Mount Bromo is capped with snow.
The Volcano sits at an altitude of eight thousand feet and consists of
an active caldera, inside a much larger dormant one. Visitors stay overnight in an alpine lodge
near the snow capped summit, where mulled wine is served and it’s all strangely
‘aprĆØs ski’. We woke before dawn,
climbing the outer caldera to catch the sun rise. Once at the top, it’s about a kilometre
across the Sea of Sand, before you ascend the inner caldera. Plumes of smoke seep from fissures in the
sulphur splashed rock, and the smell of rotten eggs permeates the air. This was my first volcano and the highest
altitude I had been at, preferring to do my climbing by bus if possible.
Borobudur is the
largest Buddhist monument in the world, a six level “pyramid” built to form a
Mandala when seen from above. The dark
rock from which it is built reminded me of some Scottish castle though more
graceful in its lines. Each level is
carved with freizes but it is the view from the top which make a visit
worthwhile. A collection of Buddhas’,
some sitting inside bell-like stupas, gaze out across the jungle with a stone
like calm and the sight is quite arresting.
I had encountered the Balinese form of Hinduism, the Javanese form of
Islam, and now caught the faint aroma of Buddhism during my trip to
Indonesia. I was discovering the
richness of human culture in Indonesia, but
my feet would now take me back towards the spiritual values of my own
culture. It was time to head off to Australia and
make some money.
Australia
Arriving in Melbourne, my friends had rented a
bungalow complete with white picket fence, in the suburb of Caulfield. The nearby suburb of Moorabin is an
Industrial area and after buying a bicycle I soon found a job building
industrial fan housings. I was able to
save money and as there wasn’t much to do in the evenings, I took another job
packing bread. In the cool of the late
evenings as I cycled home, Ring tailed Possums teetered on the telephone lines
balancing with their tails. The suburbs
of Melbourne have been drawn with a ruler, block after block of bungalows in a
grid, with a grocers, an off license and a laundry every few blocks. For some reason, the planners don’t seem to
have considered the need for any natural land to be retained within the city
boundaries, but then this is the New World.
Designed with the car in mind, there is no point in walking anywhere,
the straight roads run into the distance and then on indefinitely beyond the
horizon. There was no local pub, nor
indeed a local anything else and my workmates tended to live many miles from
me, making socialising difficult. Australians
think nothing of driving for hours to get anywhere but for me this was a
definite drawback.
The ‘local’ nature
reserve for Melbourne is Philip Island, a two hour ride, and home to Australias
second biggest tourist attraction, a colony of fairy penguins. A few metres back from the beach, there is a
wooden amphitheatre where the public sit and as the sun goes down the penguins
pop out the sea and waddle under the stands to get to their burrows. It is an undeniably cute experience and I
wasn’t that surprised to hear that penguins have occasionally been smuggled
under coats and taken home by, lets face it, idiots. It must have been a great disappointment when
the aforementioned idiots discovered that penguins can’t tap dance. My sense of experiencing nature was somewhat
tarnished by the seating, commentary and ticket price, but I suppose it counts
as a tick.
There are other places to visit in the Melbourne area, such as the spectacular cliffs along the great Ocean Road, or Wilsons’ promontory, but the one that I remember most was a trip to Hanging Rock. The setting for a fictional picnic, hanging Rock is like a mountain, but not a mountain. It is in fact a formation of solidified lava which leaked from a vent in the ground. Rather than flowing, the lava was semi solid and so, piled up into a formation some hundred metres tall, composed of a soft alkaline rock known as Soda trachylite. The action of rainwater as split the formation into towers and rivulets to create a strange, swiss cheese landscape. With access to underground tunnels it, you can see how people might get lost after wandering into a tunnel. At the time I had no idea how this landscape had been formed and it is genuinely spooky.
Great Ocean Road. |
There are other places to visit in the Melbourne area, such as the spectacular cliffs along the great Ocean Road, or Wilsons’ promontory, but the one that I remember most was a trip to Hanging Rock. The setting for a fictional picnic, hanging Rock is like a mountain, but not a mountain. It is in fact a formation of solidified lava which leaked from a vent in the ground. Rather than flowing, the lava was semi solid and so, piled up into a formation some hundred metres tall, composed of a soft alkaline rock known as Soda trachylite. The action of rainwater as split the formation into towers and rivulets to create a strange, swiss cheese landscape. With access to underground tunnels it, you can see how people might get lost after wandering into a tunnel. At the time I had no idea how this landscape had been formed and it is genuinely spooky.
After a few months of
fan building, there was a down turn in orders and as I was only passing through
the owners decided I was the best choice to being laid off, and so, one Friday,
I got the afternoon off to go round the Industrial estate and look for another
job. A few hours later I was employed
sorting and packing rubber hoses for the car Industry. It was here, on the production line that I
met a few people who would invite me to their homes and I found a social group
for the remainder of my time in Australia.
In the quiet moments we practiced juggling the hoses, although three has
remained my limit till today. Although
there are rich and poor Australians, there is little in the way of a class
system and this came across in the politics.
Every now and then, the government would announce some unpopular decision,
usually tax related, and there would be a one day general strike in protest
followed by a retraction of the offending proposal. The whole procedure seemed to be conducted
without the fractious duality of British politics. With low unemployment and a thriving economy
Australia was, and probably remains, ‘the lucky country’, and to my mind this
had consequences, rather as the British social security system has
consequences. By and large, the easy
life has produced a satisfied frame of mind in Australians with little need for
political thinking or an interest in world affairs. A political animal such as myself, found this
a little dull, I feel that the new world lacks the cultural depth of the old,
all that history makes a difference. The
upside of this is, of course, that the environment was relatively pristine
until recently and this is evident when one ventures out of town.
Through work, I met a
young Aussie who was planning to drive from Melbourne, to as far north as he
could in one of those Big Australian cars, a V8 charger. His potential travelling partner had called
off with a broken leg and he asked me if I wanted to come along, I jumped at
the chance.
Heading north, at first
it’s all wide flat fields and hours of long straight roads, but eventually you
reach Queensland and tropical Australia.
Camping in any one of the various national parks, brown possums would
join us at the campfire, looking for scraps. They seemed completely tame and
you could hand feed them, even though they were wild, nocturnal creatures. They are a delight, all big, round eyes and
nimble fingers. In the mornings I would poke my head out of the tent and see
the small Eastern Grey Kangaroos grazing on the short grass of the camp site
and the noisy, crow like Currawongs examining the trash bins. Parrots have got to be the Australian
specialities, from the gaudy, budgie sized Rosellas to the massive, buzzard
like, Palm Cockatoos. The pink Cockatoo,
known as a Galah, descends in large flocks at waterholes, replacing the Gull
inland, and where the land is forested, a multitude of parrots screech through
the canopy.
Just to the south of
the Queensland capital, Brisbane, is the Gold Coast and the hedonist’s Mecca known as Surfers paradise,
where blond, tousled haired surf gods fend off buxom Barbie dolls with their
surf boards, makes you sick. Resisting
the opportunity to humiliate ourselves on the beach, we settled for standing on
a bridge trying to drop ice cubes down the cleavages of the barbies’ passing
underneath. Needless to say, a day or so
was enough and we continued north to Townsville. A small quaint town, this was my idea of a
holiday destination, the youth hostel served tropical banana porridge for
breakfast, you could walk round town, and it was mildly tropical. My friend expressed a desire to visit the
local Casino, an alien environment to me, so, one evening we headed off with a
hundred dollars and a positive mental attitude.
Well, he did, I wasn’t going to throw my money away. Happily the drink was free, so, as I got
drunk, we both received a lesson in the perils of gambling, he won three
hundred dollars. Being a bright guy, my
companion didn’t feel the need to return to the Casino so he and his money were
able to head off towards our final destination, the Daintree National Park,
tropical rainforest. I had vaguely
hoped to see a Cassowary, but as they don’t stand about at the side of the
road, this didn’t happen. We weren’t
kitted out for jungle exploration and I didn’t fancy getting lost and dying so
we had to satisfy ourselves with looking over the canopy from the car
park. A track led down to a river where
I saw a platypus or rather a platypuse’s back, and, as I sat motionless by the
bank, an Azure Kingfisher landed right beside me. I managed to get a great photo, at close
range, and it was only later I discovered I hadn’t put the spool in the camera
properly and consequently didn’t have any photos at all. Heading back to Melbourne after our two week
trek, the last leg was an eighteen hour drive from Brisbane, I didn’t know how
to drive then so it was all down to him.
Although I stayed in Australia for a year, most
of it was spent working and I seem to remember being bored quite a lot. Looking back over letters I sent to my
parents at the time, boredom was a bit of a feature. Before leaving, there was one last bit of
travelling to be done.
Great Lake, Tasmania. |
During my stay, I had hooked up with the
Tasmanian friend I had met in Bali, to see Neil Young at a stadium and he had
invited me over to his home town of Penguin, yes Penguin, the town where the
litter bins look like, you guessed, Penguins.
A six seater plane took us across the Tasman Sea, where my friend Grant
was waiting at the Airport. With my
rucksack and guitar, I had not expected him to pick me up in a motorbike and he
tore along the shoreline road with its twists and turns, while I tried not to
fall off, I could barely walk when we arrived.
Tasmania has that small island feel that a European can appreciate,
nothing is too far away. Hitch hiking
round the island, one of the first things I noticed was the ongoing clash
between loggers and “greenies”. A
trucker who picked me up, took me to see forest regrowth , showing how quickly
the trees return after logging, although I’m sure there was nothing like the
diversity of original forest. During my
hitch hike, I came across the overland trail, a pass through the centre of the
island, running north to south. Not
having a primus, I loaded up with cans of creamed rice and headed off for five
days, trekking through fantastic scenery of still lakes and rocky hills,
staying in the open bothies along the way.
Walking the trails, I reflected that my time in Australia was coming to and end, another
fortnight and I would be off, to spend Christmas in New Zealand as I slowly headed back
to the Northern Hemisphere.
New Zealand
My first impression Of Aukland was how the
assortment of buildings along the waterfront seemed to bear no relation to each
other, each one seemingly built in isolation.
New World architecture and planning, lacks the evolutionary diversity
that the passage of history has given the Old World, it was something I was
conscious of when I visited one of these modern cities. In the smaller communities, the relaxed pace
of life and rural aspect were reminiscent of the British countryside, or rather
a British countryside in which it rarely, if ever, snowed.
I headed off to the famous holiday area of the
Coromandel Peninsula where I had heard there was work to be had on organic
farms. Arriving at a kiwi fruit winery,
I discovered they already had enough workers but, flourishing a litre bottle of
Johnny Walker whisky, I was allowed to stay the weekend, where the light kiwi
fruit wine flowed like water, or whisky.
Kiwi fruit, grows on a vine and the fruits hung overhead, being arranged
like overgrown grape vines. The
Coromandel is a lovely area, green rolling hills and rural living. As it was Christmas, the Pohotacawa trees
(Meterosiderus) were in flower, their red flowers and season of flowering give
them the name New Zealand Christmas trees.
I had three weeks and realised that I would be better stinking to the
north Island as there was plenty to see.
Rotorua is famously home to some spectacular geothermal activity,
geysers, boiling mud pools and hot water lakes.
Maori people use some of the pools to cook and have lived here for
centuries. The village of
Whakarewerewera is the main centre for geothermal living and the first time I
had come across the distinctive wood carving of the people.
The reader may wonder
why I have so far failed to comment on the opportunities for birding in the
land of the long white cloud, and some may already have surmised the
reason. The birds have, in the main,
been eaten by rats, the remainder being largely nocturnal, scarce, secretive
and live in holes in the ground.
Legendary oddities such as the Takahe and Kakapo are confined to the
wilder areas of South Island, so I had to content myself with the pretty
Fantails and the Whiteye. A sighting of
the New Zealand Oystercatcher, which is
all black (like the rugby team), made me
wonder for the first time whether it was really that different from our
own, and whether the two species are separated more by geography than any
genetic incompatability. This has
niggled at me for years and I recently discovered more information. While in Gambia, I was lucky enough to see
the two local species of Paradise Flycatcher, and the hybrid between the two,
which is a distinct intermediate. At a
lecture I attended, these birds were mentioned as an example of how habitat
loss had brought a forest dwelling species into contact with a scrub dweller,
and the two were hybridising. The
definition of a species does not lie only in genetic incompatibility, but also
due to geography or habitat preference.
The idea of genetic groups is perhaps more accurate.
To the south of Taupo
lies Taurangi National
Park , a volcanic wilderness dominated by mount Taurangi ,
itself a conical, ochre hill, set in a blasted landscape studded with Copper
lakes of a shade unique to this environment.
Taurangi NP. |
As there were bothies strung out
along a five day tour of the reserve¸ and the walking wasn’t too strenuous, I
decided to spend the run up to Christmas walking the route. Not least due to the fact that some homesick
Scot had, in the last century, decided to introduce heather, the area looks
remarkably like Scotland. I passed a few
days of my walk, with an American guy who worked as a survival expert with the
Army, a sort of Ray Mears of his day. He
told me that he had been cycling round New Zealand and had spent some time
cycling in the company of two brothers.
A few days after having left them, he heard on the radio that one of
them had been killed by a car and he was a little upset. Sometimes, when travelling for a few days in
the company of a fellow traveller, you each become the only person whom the other
knows, so a certain trust and openness can develop very quickly. The disparate nature of your lives means you
will probably never meet again, but for those few days, you can become quite
close.
It was Christmas Eve when we reached the road
on the far side of the reserve and hitched a life to the nearby township of National Park . We were picked up by a hippy couple in a
small, overloaded, Renault type vehicle, squeezed into the back along side what
appeared to be their entire possessions.
On arriving in National Park, my legs seized up and I remained, doubled
over like an old man, at the side of the road. In a field, around which the
dozen or so houses were scattered, a lone Piper played a slow haunting tune,
reminiscent of slain warriors and abandoned townships, a heartbroken lament that
only Bagpipes can play, and I felt at home, this was indeed the Scotland of the
south. I headed towards a hostel in
Taupo where I had enjoyed the hospitality of the owners, a week earlier. It turned out they had managed to split up
while I had been away, and although they were determined not to let their
marital discord spoil Christmas, it definitely put a damper on things.
After a couple of days
nursing a hangover, I hitched back towards Aukland. This turned out to be one of the few
occasions when I have been given a lift from a woman, or in this case three
Maori girls, they were boisterous and friendly, showing an interest in where I
was from and where I was going. I told
them that having spent Christmas in New Zealand it was time to move on and I would
be spending New Year in Fiji.
Our
hosts’ speared fish from the beach and, at night, went diving for shark,
without breathing apparatus. Armed
only with a torch, goggles and a spear, they dived into the sea, and the rule
was, if the shark is bigger than you, leave it alone. The coral reef was sublime, just a few feet
beneath the luxurious, warm water, and the sand was fine and white. Walking along the beach, I came across a
Coral Sea snake, wrapped round the roots of a tree’ at the top of the beach. I
recognised the bright bands along its body and, knowing they are venomous,
stayed well away.
The local villagers
were raising money to build a primary school, and we were invited to join the
festivities. We were driven to a
neighbouring village of traditionally built houses and took our place on the
village green. There were five or so communities
represented, with a table set out to receive donations. The first community lined up and each person
gave some money, the total being added up and written on a black board. As out turn came, we were told to only put in
few small coins, as we would repeat this process again. It turned out that this was round one, and each
group would line up repeatedly through the course of the afternoon. After a while, it was our groups turn to eat,
and we lined up outside the cookhouse.
We were each given a plate of food, and as I exited the back of the hut,
I saw the cook, hacking bits off the carcass of a goat. Copious amounts of Kava were drunk, and the
singing began, punctuated with updates on who was winning the generosity
sweepstakes.
In the evenings, our
hosts’ would sing songs in the Fijian language, one of the favourites being
“Tiny Bubbles”. We drank beer and
chatted each other up, as young people will.
Where better to have a holiday romance than on a small tropical island,
it just seemed the right thing to do!
The Cook Islands
Flying between Fiji
and the Cook Island involves a unique experience,
crossing the International Data line.
Travelling east across the line, means arriving the day before you left,
in effect, waking up on Tuesday morning and arriving on the Cook Islands’
Monday lunch time. The main Island of
Rarotonga has a circumference of 26
miles with the centre of the island dominated by thick rainforest on the
steeply sided Volcano. I hired a bike
and cycled round the island in a few hours.
Life is slow here, I heard that on some of the smaller island which make
up the group, people succumbed to a sort of ‘stir crazyness’, as if in a
prison. On the plus side, Papayas, full
and juicy, were abundant and free, the climate was lovely, and the friendly
locals knew how to relax.
The epicentre for youth culture at the time,
was a bar named the Banana Court . On a sultry evening, the up beat Polynesian
music would begin, and so would the dancing.
By dancing I mean the mesmerising bum jiggling and graceful fluid hand movements
which told stories from the culture of the people. Every now and then, an older women would take
centre stage and show the youngsters how it was done. Men danced in a manner reminiscent of a bird,
crouched, and hopping. Music and singing
is a cherished part of the culture, the Banana Court bar still exists and puts
on demonstrations for the tourists.
The final stop on my trip across the South
Pacific took me to Faa’a Airport (unforgettable name) near to the capital,
Papeete on the island of Tahiti, colonial French facades, fading under the
tropical sun and spray. The language was
French and I saw people carrying fresh loaves of baguette bread, just as you
see in France, and it’s not cheap. There
was a campsite next to a Club Med resort on the island of Moorea. I wanted to check out the sea birds and I
wasn’t disappointed. Blue footed
Boobies, noddies, Tropicbirds and, saving the best for last, huge, forked
winged Frigate birds, like maritime Kites.
Spending only three days here, I had little time to discover the people,
though I remember there were tensions between the two cultures and people. It was now two months since I had left
Australia, and I had enjoyed visiting the various island communities, however,
my next destination was going to be radically different. My final flight across the Pacific landed at
Los Angeles’ (LAX) airport.
Mexico
The reader may wonder
what happened to Los Angeles, the truth being, I landed at LAX, and after
staying with a friend of my parents for a couple of days, I made straight for
Mexico where, I was assured, it was cheaper, which it was. I took the train to San Diego, where the
station toilets had no doors, and then across the border to Tijuana. English ceased to be spoken before I got to
the border and nobody spoke it after the border. Having some basic Spanish, I got by, taking a
long, several day train journey to the elegant University town of Guadalajara.
The journey involved trundling slowly through the Cactus forest which dominates
the north of Mexico. The Saguaro Cactus
is the one you see in movies, massive, trunks with arms, and a most unusual
landscape. Arriving at around eleven at
night, the town was asleep and I wandered around, getting lost and failing to
find anywhere to stay. Eventually I
approached some soldiers who were guarding an entranceway, and asked, in my
broken Spanish, for directions. One of
the soldiers made the hand gesture, which, in Latin America means ‘come here’,
but to me looked like ‘lie down on the ground’.
I refused and with a rising sense of panic, forgot what little Spanish I
had. He cocked his rifle and told me
that he was the Army, not the police and you didn’t ask the army for
directions. Funnily, I understood that
alright. I got the message, apologised,
and he helpfully pointed me in the right direction and a hostel for the night.
The stone built European style of the
buildings made me feel at home, after spending a year in the New World, this
felt like the Old World. It was in
Guadalajara that I encountered Mexican Mural Art, and there were several murals
by the artist Orozco. This is Social
Realist Art, rather in the Soviet style, but with the earthy tones and vibrancy
of Latin America. I had heard of
Revolutionary leaders such as Sancho Panza and Emile Zapata, and could see the
independent spirit of the people. As I child, I collected coins, a Mexican
dollar with an eagle catching a snake on one side and the revolutionary leader
Jose Maria Morales on the other, was one
of my favourites. He has a Bandana on
his head. It turns out he suffered from
migraines and wore a bandana soaked in water to ease the pain, was one of my
favorites. It turns out he suffered from
migraines and wore a bandana soaked in water to ease the pain.
The majority of Mexicans are
known as Mestizos, or mixtures, referring to the mix of European and Indigenous
blood in society, they form the dominant culture, as opposed to the Indigenous
people. The name Cristobal Colombo, as Columbus is known, was everywhere. His
name in some way symbolises the imposition of European culture on the
indigenous people of the region, in the way that Simon Bolivar symbolises their
liberation. This clash of cultures is
acutely observed in Diego Riveras’ Mural, ‘The history of Mexico ’ in the City’s National Palace . In one corner, a Mayan woman has a baby
strapped to her back and the baby stares out at the viewer with piercing blue
eyes. I was quite taken with this art
style, Rivera was married to another artist I came across here, Frida Kahlo,
her honest, pained gaze stares out from her numerous self portraits. Mexico
City is a thriving metropolis with a massive open
square, known as the Zocalo, at its centre. One evening, as I sat in a bar, one
by one, the Mariachis (musicians) came in, their guitars forming a pile in the
corner, as they lined up along the bar in their uniforms and sombreros, it’s a
musical place, Mexico. The City is built
on the ruins of the Aztec Capital, but their religious site outside of town, Tenochtitlan is still one
of the most impressive of the ancient sites.
The Pyramid of the Sun is the third biggest in
the world and I couldn’t help notice the similarity with Egypt . The discovery of cocaine in the bodies of
Egyptian mummies leads one to suspect that there was contact between the two
worlds in ancient times. The long terraces spoke of Military might and awe
inducing splendour. As I toured round
the various buildings, a flock of several hundred Cedar Waxwings flew into a
scrubby tree in front of me. One of the most famous artefacts from the Mayan
Era, is the calendar, a large stone wheel inscribed with writing which covers
thousands of years of time and famously ends in 2012. It is kept in a museum in Chapultepec Park,
the lungs of the city. Here also is the
Castle where various rulers lived, including Emperor Maximillian. This Austrian nobleman was duped into
becoming emperor, by Napoleon, who was running Mexico at the time. He turned out to be a descent bloke but ended
up being executed by the local Mexican hero, after Napoleon split. Normally not one for big cities, I enjoyed the
bustle of Mexico City, spending a week there without feeling intimidated or
unsafe. From here I took a bus to
Oaxaca, arriving to meet a man at the station who told us that the previous bus
had been hijacked by bandits. According
to him, the bandits had taken the bus into the bush, robbed everyone, and
kidnapped a young girl. He seemed
visibly shaken and I tended to believe him.
Counting myself lucky, I settled into Oaxaca, famous for its Tequila,
and for the ancient site of Monte Alban, not to be confused with Ricardo
Montealban, the actor from Fantasy Island and Star Trek, ‘The Wrath of Khan’.
This is one of the oldest sites, dating from
500 BCE, lasting till around the tenth century, and built on top of an
artificially flattened hilltop some thousand feet above the surrounding
valley. The Zapotepec Indians who built
this site, still live in the area. As you
travel further south in Mexico, the proportion of Indigenous people increases,
the largest language group being Nahuatl.
Meeting up with a German guy, and a Swedish
girl, the three of us headed down to Puerto Angel, a sleepy beach resort on the
south coast, some three hundred kilometres south of Acapulco. The hammocks on the beach were as
uncomfortable as hammocks everywhere. Who wants to sleep imitating a
banana? The three of us shared a room
and I started playing guitar in a local bar on the clifftop overlooking the
beach. The Mexican owner and his wife
were big music fans as well as quite romantic.
They had gained the impression that I was going out with my Swedish
companion. One evening they offered us a
romantic meal for two on a balcony overlooking the beach. We didn’t want to spoil the moment, so played
along, pretending to be a couple and everyone was happy. The food was
fantastic, fresh fish and local vegetables, it reminded me of the scene in Lady
and the tramp where the two dogs are fussed over by a romantic restaurant
owner.
Over the years,
Indigenous people fleeing persecution in Guatemala, have settled in the Chiapas
region, which is also the home of various Indigenous groups, the regional
capital being San Cristobal de las Casas.
The town has become famous as the centre of the Zapatista uprising in
the nineties, during my stay in the eighties, the poverty of the Indigenous
compared with the more affluent Mestizo’s was obvious. This being the Reagan
era, Ronnie saw these deeply impoverished, Nahuatl speaking people, as a
communist vanguard bent on taking over America, as soon as they raised enough money for a bus ticket. Further south, Ollie North was cheerfully
undermining democracy by funding the remnants of Nicaraguas ’ ex-dictator Somoza, the
place was a mess politically. Being
high in the hills, San Cristobal de las Casas, has a more temperate climate
than the surrounding area, colonial architecture and quite a sleepy town
relying mainly on tourism, a stop over on the way to Palenque, a jungle clad
ruin close to the border with Guatemala.
Palenque. |
Palenque is the
archetypal ruined city, massive buttressed trees grow directly from the broken
steps of ancient temples and lianas are draped across the forest canopy. At the time, the site was famous for its
Magic mushrooms which grow in the forest and could be bought quite openly. Young travellers could commune with the
alleged spirits of the forest, while the strange Coatimundi, a relative of the
Racoon, scurried about in the undergrowth.
I would miss the Temples around Cancun so this was a good
substitute. The spectre of Erich Von
Daniken rises again in Palenque. The
tombs are carved with frescos of the Mayan kings, and Erich reckoned that one
in particular shows a seated astronaut in a spaceship, which it doesn’t. The local guide spoken instead of a journey from
the underworld, rather than into space, I was quite chuffed at having now seen
two of the sites mentioned in his spurious book ‘Chariot of the gullible’.
There are several routes into Guatemala from Mexico ,
the most exciting being from Palenque through
the jungle to Flores and the temples of Tikal . With this in mind, I caught a bus to Frontera
Corozal from where a boat trip would take me across the border. At the time, the boat was pretty much a big
canoe which disappeared into the myriad of small channels cut by hand and
connecting the various water courses.
The border was a wooden structure on stilts, surrounded by water logged
vegetation across which Lilytrotters trotted and the air was full of the sounds
of exotic birds, Orioles, herons and the fabulous Anhinga, or snake bird. The guards were anxious to know if the boat
had brought them any food, which it had and they were largely unconcerned with
us. After several hours we arrived at a
small settlement straight out of Apocalypse Now, verandas built out over the
water and no sign of civilisation. It
was just getting dark when we arrived and a bus was scheduled to arrive at
midnight to take us to Flores, although I couldn’t even see a road. We hired some hammocks and waited. Apparently,
we were in Guatemala .
Amazingly,
around midnight, a coach suddenly lurched out of the Jungle and the few
passengers boarded. We had the bus to
ourselves at first, as we rattled through the darkness, the bus gradually
filled up until it was “pass the chicken through the window” time. At one stop however, things were different,
armed men ordered everyone off the bus. Bandits ? No, it’s the Army, just
looking like bandits. They separated the
locals from the foreigners, about five of us, hassled the locals about papers
for a bit, and then we were on our way again, along the narrow road with what
seemed to be forest on either side. We
arrived in Flores in the early morning and my first taste of Guatemala . I headed straight for the bus station, my
staging post to the fabulous jungle strewn ruins of Tikal .
The distinctive temples of Tikal rise above the canopy like something
out of the movie Avatar. A Mayan city
lost to the forest. In those days you
could stay in hammocks inside the grounds of the temple complex, a clearing in
the forest surrounded by tall trees. For
some reason I decided to spend another night wrestling unsuccessfully with a
hammock and awoke at dawn. A long
haired, middle aged, surfer dude, who on reflection, could have been the Big
Lebowski himself, was reclining in a near by hammock. He reached down, switched his cassette
recorder on, and the strains of Ravi Shankar at the Monterey Pop festival began
to drift across the clearing. Swallow tailed
kites circled above us and hummingbirds darted frenetically from flower to
flower. As the sun rose, Ravi drew to a
close and Jimmy Hendrix at Woodstock
brought a psychedelic tinge to a surreal experience. I have found that sacred sites often contain
lots of semi tame wildlife and Tikal
was no exception. Jungle Cats and
Coatimundi, the South American version of racoons, strolled through the
undergrowth while a variety of brilliantly coloured birds flitted through the
canopy. A couple of days birding was
enough and I considered my options
concerning how to get down to the capital, Guatemala City . My wanderlust must have been
on the wane because rather than take another endless bus through the jungle, I
elected to take a flight from Flores in a six
seater, which was much easier, and must have been pretty cheap.. Alighting in Guatemala
City I headed straight for the local Lonely Planet destination of
choice, Antigua .
As its name suggests, Antigua is the old
capital, a faded colonial capital with cobbled streets, old Spain in the shadow of a
Volcano. It is popular with back packers
as a nice small town where you can stay with a local family, and sign up to
learn Spanish before heading south. I signed
up for a month and was assigned an elderly widow and her daughter to stay with
and a young graduate as a teacher. On my
first day, I was served up a healthy bowl of the refried black bean stew that
forms a backbone of the local diet. Not
something I was used to, I struggled through the bowl as best I could. My host asked me whether I enjoyed the stew,
I replied that I didn’t, to which she said, “We eat this twice a day”. Oops!
Notwithstanding refried beans, the food was good, fresh fruit and veg,
beans, rice and tortilla, and as my host proudly informed me “In this house we
eat meat twice a week”.
Preparations for Easter, Antigua. |
Easter
was approaching and the good people of Antigua
are nothing if not devout. Celebrations
last a week and the whole town gets involved.
In the evenings, people create intricate carpets, made from coloured saw
dust, throughout the streets of the town.
Each day during Easter week, religious processions walk over these
‘carpets’, after which they are swept up, and remade for the following day. The highlight of the festivities is when
massive wooden floats depicting Jesus carrying the cross, are carried through
the town. The heavy floats were made
heavier by being filled with rocks and people vied for the honour of carrying
them. The processions featured legions
of Romans, Jews and biblical figures re-enacting the Easter message, led by a
monk swinging a smoking bucket of francinsense.
Apparently, one evening, riders on horseback moved through the
town ringing bells and shouting ‘Jesus Christ is dead’. If they did, it didn’t wake me.
There was
another reason that religion left its mark in Antigua . Frequent earthquakes had damaged churches
over the years and though unusable, they were not pulled down. Instead another
would be built and the ruins left standing.
Nowadays there are many ruined churches in Antigua ,
which give the town an ancient feel.
On Saturdays, there was a market in
the town square and indigenous people would bring their wares. Clothing made from cloth woven on backstrap
looms, vied with jewellery, masks and carvings, all made locally. Indigenous women wear intricately woven
outfits known as huipils, the decoration telling the observer which village the
wearer comes from, as well as her standing in society. While the men would tend to wear western
clothing, you could still see elders wearing the costumes which gave their rank
to those who could read the signs.
Indigenous people make up half the population of Guatemala , each village having its
own costume, and in many cases, their own language. There are fifty odd languages spoken in Guatemala ,
many indigenous people do not speak Spanish and most are illiterate. These are
the people Ronald Reagan thought were a communist vanguard bent on invading
America, but in truth have been brutalised and marginalised like so many of the
regions poor.
The
indigenous peoples unofficial capital is a town on the shores of Lake Atitlan
called Panahatchel. The town square is a
riot of colour where women, often with babies tied to their backs, sell flowers
on the steps of the Cathedral. In the middle of the flight of steps which lead
to the cathedral door, there is an eternal flame marking the spot where the
original Mayan temple stood.
Cathedral , Panahatchel. |
This
had long since been demolished, to be replaced by the Cathedral. Officially
catholic, the indigenous also practice aspects of the old pre Christian
religion of their ancestors, offering gifts of cigarettes, coca cola and
alcohol to the corn gods. While
wandering about town, I was drawn to a house where I heard strange music and a
saw a small crowd. In a darkened smoky
doorway, old men were dancing in an odd, drunken manner in front of a
statue. The Mayan culture is alive and
well in Guatemala .
In Central America ,
there is a type of forest, usually at altitude, which gets most of its moisture
from clouds, rather than rain. These
Cloud forests are home to a huge number of trees, including many species of
Avocado, and a bird which feeds on their fruit, the Quetzal. This, most beautiful of birds, worshipped by
the Maya and source of the fabulous headdress worn by Montezuma, their leader,
was a must see. So, for four days I
visited a Cloud forest, staying in a small outpost, with just myself, a housekeeper
and her daughter. I watched her and her
eight year old daughter dancing in the yard to a cassette recorder, after a
while I realised they only had one cassette and were repeatedly turning it
over, they seemed happy. I didn’t see
the Quetzal, having to settle instead for my first Red bellied Trogon, a close
relative.
Life
in Antigua was great for a young traveller,
nice weather, food and lots of other young Europeans around. I heard that the Nicaraguan elections had
been held and the government had lifted a ban on American tourists. This meant that several Americans were taking
the opportunity to go down and I was offered a space in a jeep which was
heading to Managua . This was the first time in Latin
America I had travelled in a car and we soon travelled the length
of the country down to the Honduran border.
The two borders lie a kilometre apart and it was late in the afternoon
when he got through the Guatemalan customs.
On arrival at the Honduran border we were informed that the border was closed
for the night and we were literally stuck between the two. Miraculously, there was a small pension for
those who found themselves in this situation, and so, we spent the night having
a drink and watching the pigs wander about.
Our only stop in Honduras
was at the old Mayan ruins of Copan
with their ball courts and elaborately carved stele. My first sighting of those iconic South
American species Barbets and a Motmot were here, although we didn’t have much
time due to the drivers lack of interest in birding. We sped on our way right through the capital,
Tegulcigalpa, which no one felt like stopping in and I can just remember
noticing how many tin roofed shacks there were for a capital city. We reached Managua late that night, the centre of the
town having been destroyed in the war, leaving it donut shaped. The skeletons
of bombed out tenements had been recolonised in an adhoc manner with breeze
block, corrugated sheeting or just blankets, filling in the gaps left by the
war. Amongst the weeds there were burnt
out tanks and the lorries that you see in old war movies. A large and grand building on the edge of the
devastation, which seemed to have escaped the battles, was a thriving
international post office, from where you could phone home.
I fell in with a chef and his
son, who were going to work in Baja California ,
that long peninsula in northwest Mexico , and we ate two kilos of
bananas on the way. Arriving at the border
we had to spend the night in a reception area, waiting for the border to
open. For some reason the police
patrolling the area had orders that people were not allowed to sleep, but had
to sit upright in the hard plastic seating, designed to be “bumproof”. I managed to squeeze behind some furniture
and get a few hours lying down . Happily,
in the morning I walked back into America through a kind of fortified
motorway service area, and off to LA and home.
I started work with the council the following week, bought my first
house a couple of years later and settled down to years of blissful
mortgagehood. It would be a full decade
before I would leave the UK again, but never for the durations which I did during my twenties, next stop,
the forties!