| 11/09/2003
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Leaving the UK Well, after nearly four and a half years in the UK, its time to leave, so the bags come out yet again. Its been brilliant, but am feeling the need to move along so the first stop along the way is Amsterdam (I know – a long way) but pretty much finishing off Europe, meeting the lads at Oktoberfest again, and travelling to Australia for the Rugby World Cup. Heading to Africa straight after that (please see map for route), and will then end up in NZ next year. I am looking forward to it, am nowhere near organised – but what kind of trip is a trip without debacles? |
31/08/2002 |
Ketchup Trip I thought they were turtle’s feet - even Nigel wasn’t sure what they were. On questioning, Pedro our waiter said they were barnacles. God knows why Nigel had ordered them as I thought they were commonly found attached to the bottom of super-tankers, but it could have something to do with the fact that he had ordered one of everything that has lived or has ever lived in the ocean!!! Due to a slight passport oversight, I arrived in Faro, Portugal to meet the lads about 8 hours late in a marina restaurant. I thought they were sitting at the buffet table. A massive lobster pot, oysters in their dozens, several types of fish, mussels, squid, octopus, giant shrimp, the alleged barnacles, things unidentifiable, and a side of fries. Several hours later, a lot of burps, and leaving the sweet satisfying smell of bodily gases in the air our party of 5 waddled into town for a spot of boozing. A dozen spots later, and after 3 Canadian lasses and a 50 euro EXIT fee to a club (for some of the less eloquent or money conscious), all the boys dribbled into bed for a 30 minute deep sleep until we were awoken for a shambolic bus ride across the border to Seville in Spain. A hectic start to a tour that was to culminate in the infamous La Tomatina Festival in Bunyul and a few days in Ibiza. Leaving Nigel to sleep off the effects of his night out the rest of us wandered around the town, checked out the tourist sights, and stopped every now and again for relief from the beating sun at several roadside outdoor bars. Pete used his mirrored glasses to excellent effect in peering at the very saucy Spanish girls which seem to be of great abundance in this part of the world. They were using their non-sun glassed faces to stare back at his skinny white pins. Having secured tickets to the bullfight that night we all woke up Nige and headed to the Arena. I don’t think anyone from the SPCA would be that happy with the goings on there as quite frankly, it is very brutal. After being made to run around like a very big headless chicken following coloured bits of cloth flapping in the air, it is then stabbed by a lance several times from a bloke on a horse wearing tight pants, and then stabbed 6 times with big pointy knitting needle things by guys leaping in the air with tight pants, and then the matador finally comes out (in tight pants - they seriously need to think about new uniforms), after all the work has been done and sinks a 3 foot sabre into the shoulders of the beast. As if that’s not enough, once it has collapsed, a little bloke comes along (in tight pants) and stabs repeatedly in its neck until it is dead. Then it is chained to a team of horses, given a farewell tour of the arena and raced out to end up as a tenderised steak at a local restaurant. We watched five of these fights and were most excited when the fifth one almost nailed a few of the tight-pants wearing gits (would have said something else but I am being politically correct). After deciding to eat bacon at a nearby pub, we headed to a late night bar where the vodkas they served came in buckets. Pete must have been feeling it as he was looking very cosy with a very bacon-featured English girl about 4am. (at least he wasn’t wearing tight pants though) Picking up a hire car for a short jaunt towards Gibraltar was made an arduous affair when there were intense arguments about not wanting to sit in the middle. This was settled upon through a complex analysis of smoking needs, size, generally sleepiness, bodily gas emissions, and Woolworth’s Bladder Syndrome. Ultimately it came down to paper-scissors-rock. The Spanish refuse to admit that Gibraltar exists as we struggled to find directions to it anywhere - and if you listened to our guide on The Rock everything was directed at halting Gibraltar’s progress towards immediate world domination, and that he was the King of Gibraltar. Basically he was full of shit, so we could relate to that very easily. Leaving Nigel to sleep off the effects of his night out, the rest of us cruised through town, and joined a tour of the Rock. Quite impressive really. A very defensive place. There are also about 300 Barbary monkeys that run loose near the top and leap all over you jumping from shoulder to shoulder. It was at this time that I realised we didn’t actually smell that bad after all. A unique sort of town area, very similar to Tallinn in Estonia - we were craving some man-food so headed to the best red meat place in town. We made a bit of an impression in the restaurant and kitchen as the chef took it as a personal challenge that we had each ordered a massive plate of ribs for an entree, and a large steak for our main. Wolfing it down like you do, the chef admitted defeat and shouted us a round of drinks as he reckons he has never seen a group of 4 eat so much - well what could we say - must be all our exercise. Heading to the main square for a few drinks proved fruitless as the town was dead. Could have something to do with the fact that it was a Monday night but that is no excuse to a nation that wants to dominate the world. This disappointment was somewhat relieved when Jason and myself went into one bar, and Nick and Pete went into the one beside it. Having collected our drinks, we headed out to an outdoor table and purely by chance two young scantily dressed blonde girls were wedged between us. Nick and Pete looked like Jim Carey does in the mask when looking at Cameron Diaz. Heading back to our pension, we woke up Nige to inform him we were back and told him to go back to sleep. A bright and early start to a long hot drive along the Costa del Sol through English tourist package-ville towards Valencia punctuated by the now incessant bickering re the middle seat. At least this passed the time. After a tourist stop debacle at the only real tourist stop along the way and a Valencia location debacle from Jason the Ultimate Navigator we eventually found the bargain of all bargains at the Valencia Holiday Inn Express at 25 Euros each to meet Craig. A few cables later we met in the hotel bar for a large one and headed into the old town. Several Irish girls later and many beers I scarpered around 4am so cannot attest to goings on after that. However my 2 hours sleep proved a godsend later in the day. A rude awakening at 6 for a very early train ride to Bunyul meant that only Pete and I made it to the train station in time. Luckily for the others the train staff were on strike or some other rubbish (of which we were used to as we were coming from England), so on to a cab and off to Bunyul. As we were so organised, we were several hours early for the actual event. This proved to be 119 minutes too early as by the time we had looked around town we were bored. Come 10am though and all sorts of tourists were gathered in town for the main event - rescue a side of ham from atop a greasy 25m pole, rip off everyone’s t-shirt, get soaked from water cannons, and try and turn everyone into tomato pesto. Quite frankly, words do not do it justice - please see website for photos, but let’s just say that it was to great satisfaction that Nigel’s hair (which is carefully cultivated into a 1 foot tall sculpture every morning) was turned into a flathead. Ibiza to follow... |
10/06/2002 |
Trini Soca From the hot winter sun of the Caribbean, to the hot summer sun of London. Not. I can't believe how crappy the weather is back here. I have already forgotten the everyday snorkelling, the continuous sunglasses wearing, and the requisite local beers that go along with this. Been back about two weeks so thought I’d better recap (mainly for myself) before those brain cells get lost for good. Barbados is a party island in the sense that we are used to. Packed pubs, open till late, all you can drink bizzo. So when not at the cricket we were partying. Mon/Wed drink specials at Harbour Lights Bar, Thurs at the Ship, Fri and Sun at the Boatyard. Before this our resort had a happy hour straight after the resort next door finished theirs. Also completed the Banks Beer Trail around Barbados, which is having their local brew in 20 different pubs around the island. Funnily enough, we ended up on a catamaran booze cruise up the coast. This was all the rum you could drink as well as some pretty good snorkelling with a shitload of fish and turtles over a wreck. After a massive night celebrating our historic test win with all the other kiwi boys on tour and half of the team (who I must say were spading their arses off - no names) who were absolutely smashed I grabbed a quick 53 minutes kip before my 7am flight to Grenada. (NB: all stories you heard about the injury that Lou Vincent suffered this night - I know nothing) Rocked into Grenada (well stumbled in my drunken stinking shambles that I was), hired a car and attempted to do a bit of island touring before crashing on the beach. What a mistake this was. I have never before drove in such circus. The streets were almost skinnier than the cars, as steep as the steepest street in the world in Dunedin, and there were mobs of people everywhere. I also don’t think road rules have reached that country yet. After threading the needle of St George, I gave up and parked by the harbour for a bit of a wander. A 30p chilled Heineken perked me up a bit, and it was then that I noticed I was the only person in sight wearing NZ cricket regalia. No wonder people were staring after the trouncing we handed the West Indies. But I was staring back at them as I couldn’t believe how many women in business suits there had hairy legs. Very unnatural. We had organised a trip back up to the Grenadines as I was on a mission to track down Morpion - allegedly the smallest island in the world. This is like the size of a cricket circle, just pure sand with a solitary thatch umbrella on it, surrounded by turquoise shallow reefed waters and shitloads of fish. So we flew up to Union Island and then jumped on another booze cruise after we managed to talk the captain into visiting this postcard place on the tour. Brilliant, all we needed was a scantily clad model frolicking in the water. We could do no wrong as lo and behold, the cricket gods had supplied a young French woman in the Incredible Shrinking Pink bikini on our boat. This resulted in a hurried collection of photos when the lads would say "quick, stand there I’ll just get a shot" and then blatantly point the camera off to the right, using one of us as a vague sort of cover for not being a pervert. Alas, most of these shots were ruined when my underwater camera got smashed along with me in a particularly violent wave on the coral, and Shane's leaked somehow. Jason must have been very excited as his are all blurred. Visited Palm Island, Maria etc on this little tour - which I imagine would all be honeymoon type islands that you can read about in brochures. Funnily enough, we also bumped into the Dolittle crew - anchored off Mayreau I think. So a night spent at Union Island which was very quiet. All we did was have a long dinner with lots of Hairoun beside a pool full of sharks. The only excitement was ordering lots of garlic bread and throwing it over the edge and watching the big sharks squash the little sharks. Back to Grenada where we decided to give the island tour another try. I don’t think we were meant to have wheels here. It was like the twilight zone. We continued driving in a straight line, no turnoffs anywhere, and yet we still managed to drive straight from one village into the exact same village further on!!! We only knew it was the some one as a particular vicious looking car wreck was the centrepiece of village life. Giving up, we stopped at another waterfall and headed to the hotel bar. I decided to give the Grenada match a miss as the pitch was pretty flat according to the lads (good move this), and I wanted to see another couple of islands. So I flew to Guadeloupe via a long stopover in Antigua where I made my best purchase yet - Trini Soca Gold 2002. The music of the Caribbean for the year - sold out everywhere we tried. Ahh, the sweet sound of soca. Went to Guadeloupe which was an absolute shambles. The baggage staff were all on strike so the pilots unloaded our luggage from the plane, and we carried it miles to the terminal to immigration and customs. This was after a complex array of hand signals between myself, the pilots, and some 7 foot tall woman waving a radio. The French. Did an island tour amongst other things, but the highlight was definitely diving and snorkelling around Pigeon Island. Jacques Cousteau allegedly named it as one of the top dive spots in the world. A whole lot of massive fish which nearly took my hand off when I was feeding them about 10m down. Would have been a great shot had I an underwater camera - and an English speaker with me!! Went out in the resort area and got talking to a few of the locals (well, an observer would have said talking is too strong a word. More like a series of grunts and gestures). I must say that the French girls here are very very classy. Also found the first McDonalds I have seen since London. It seems at all the English speaking islands here; it would have been wise to invest in KFC and Cable and Wireless years ago. They have a massive monopoly and are everywhere. A 15 minute flight and a wild taxi ride with crazy old man with no teeth
and one eye I was in Roseau - the capital of Dominica. I heard a lot of
dodgy stories about this place, but I must say the people here turned
out to be the friendliest of the lot. Stayed in Ma Bass's B&B and
she treats you like part of the family. A welcoming lemonade, snacks,
nice room, and even an intro to the local guide within about 10 minutes
of arriving. Now I had wanted to climb up to the Boiling Lake here and
had vague plans of how to get a guide. Ma Bass set me up with Hagan who
turned out to be the fella recommended by Lonely Planet. Even though he
had a wicked looking knife wound down the side of his face, we arranged
to start at 6am the next morning for the hike which was described as a
6 hour strenuous walk for the fittest only. I classed myself as such as
I figured nearly a month swimming, snorkelling, travelling, poor eating
had burned off most of the famed London Lard that mysteriously accumulates.
Forty minutes after starting I was grateful to find that we had stopped
so he could waffle on about some tree the Carib Indians used for communication.
I missed most of it as my heart had shifted position and was pumping blood
directly in my ear. I was glad to see that he had a few beads of sweat
(bear in mind that this is a rainforest and it’s about 35 degrees
and as humid as a chefs bum crack) on his forehead, but this was nothing
compared to torrents that were flooding off me. I think I single-handedly
drowned all insect life on the trail. Another 40 minutes later I was trying
to peer ahead through the banana leaves to spot him to see if he was ready
to give up. No luck, but rounding a bend at a great rate of stumbling
I burst out onto the top. I would have jumped around like Rocky does after
he runs to the top of those stairs imagining Eye of the Tiger music but
I was having trouble completing the simple act of focussing. Flew back to Paris and had arranged to spend the day there before my night flight - doing all the touristy things properly as on previous attempts of being there - over rugby weekends I had just found myself boozing. Now, I had been carrying around this large old nautical map of the Caribbean for the last 3 weeks - enduring a lot of questions from immigration about how long I had been skippering, where was my yacht, where I was going sailing to etc etc. It was in mint condition. And after all the flights, boats, buses, taxis, trains etc I’d been on - what did I do? I left it on the bus that dropped me off at the airport for my flight to London. Was I gutted? Was I pissed off? Perhaps you'd better ask all the French people that were standing around me at the time when I discovered "theft". (you will notice that I have talked myself into the theft, and not the loss of the item) After a slight immigration debacle back in London, eventually made it home after 50 hours of being awake, and with 4 hours before I had to get up for the Toast New Zealand Wine and Food Festival in London. This was a great day up until about 3pm. I assume it was after that as well but I all I have got to go on is pure conjecture. About 5000 kiwis in the same place in London. Caught up with a whole bunch of old friends as well as all the other lads. Since then have been stuck into work, been to the Ultimate Fighting Championships (brutal, very brutal but good all the same) at the Royal Albert Hall, had a few parties and played a lot of golf. And as this email has taken awhile to get around to finishing, it is now a week or two since I started it and the weather has been fantastic. Pretty close to 30 degrees. As you know this makes the tube unbearable - but it will only be for a week or two as winter will no doubt kick in soon.
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