Little adventures

There are always little adventures – or mishaps – shall we say on any long trip. So far this year, mine really have been limited to working 70 weeks in Canada, meaning I couldn’t really enjoy Vancouver. That, and getting stuck on the US/Canada border for 4 hours bc they couldn’t be bothered putting on more than one staff member on duty over mothers day. Oh, and our 4 hour delay in Tasmania while accidentally getting stuck in a car rally. Ok – I’m clearly not the brightest of travellers.

Today, things got a little interesting. I decided to go to Macau for the day – which is another of China’s ‘Special Administrative Regions’. Basically, like Hong Kong, you don’t need a visa to enter this part of the country. They’ve got their own currency, and you get a ‘Macau’ stamp as you enter and leave the ‘country’. I now have four Macau stamps in my passport.

After wandering through the old streets of Macau (which, by the way, is one of the more interesting cities in the world – a weird mix of Portuguese and Chinese with a whole heap of tacky/kitschy casinos thrown in for good measure), I jumped on a bus back to the ferry terminal.

Only problem was, I was relying on my broken Spanish to ask questions of people who speak Cantonese and broken Portuguese. Not a great idea. I jumped on a bus to the ferry terminal, lined up with everyone to go through the ‘departures’ immigration desk, got my passport stamped, and was herded through the giant building along with about 10,000 other people. My suspicions were raised when the first non Chinese characters I saw were something along the lines of ‘Bienvenido a China’ (which can’t be right because that’s Spanish and Macau's 2nd language is Portuguese , but I don't know the word for welcome in Portuguese). So I tried to go back through the immigration ‘depart Macau’ gates I’d just passed through – but as I was already in China, I wasn’t allowed.

So there I was. No mans land. Literally. Technically in China, but really, just like that Tom Hanks character in 'The Terminal' (bloody hell that was a bad movie).

Somehow I made my dumb arse mistake understood (I have no idea how, bc really, I have 2 words of Portuguese, and none of Cantonese). So the immigration cop lead me through this dodgy back gate and back into the ‘enter Macau’ immigration area. I had a couple of eyebrows raised as to why I was trying to enter the country after I’d already arrived and left in the same day. I managed to convince him it was an honest mistake (“another stupid tourist”), and jumped in a cab to get to the right ferry terminal, just in time to go through immigration again – and get on my ferry back to Hong Kong.

Am rather glad to be back here now! Despite the fact everywhere is busier than Oxford St on a Saturday afternoon – I still feel a hell of a lot safer knowing I’m not going to be deported and can get on my plane to Melbourne in 36 hours!

International Sport

Sport – or rather – people’s attitude to it, can define a culture. Coming from Melbourne, I find it hard to find a sport I don’t like. And I love watching the crowds at a sporting match even more.

Take, for instance, Major League Baseball. I know nothing (well, very little) about the game. But I did know that I wanted to go to Yankee Stadium in New York to soak in the atmosphere. And consume $10 beers. And giant pretzels.

Not only was I entertained by the game – which went down to the wire (I’m wrong in my baseball terminology – but New York beat Toronto on the last ball of the 9^th innings by getting 2 home runs – it was pretty exciting) – but I loved the attitude of the crowds.

Bearing in mind this match is being held on a Thursday afternoon. An ordinary Thursday. No public (bank) holiday. Yet 55,000 people managed to rock up. I suppose out of a city of 8 million, that’s not a huge percentage, but I was still impressed.

Behind us sat a couple of families – well, mothers and a lot of kids. Speaking Spanglish throughout the game – one of the mums convinced her kid that one of the stars from the Yankees was her boyfriend. So we’ve got a 5 year old kid yelling out (in half English, half Spanish) – “hey – that’s my mum’s boyfriend! Wow, he’s good! When can I meet him?” Others sitting around us were exploding at ‘rookie’ mistakes made in the field – and yet others (like myself) seemed far more entertained by the old men sweeping the field at the end of three innings. These guys swept a huge area in unison – all the while dancing to YMCA. Pretty funny stuff. And very American.

Days later I found myself in Finland watching cricket. I wasn’t supposed to be in Finland. It was just a stupid stop over with a bad connection on my way to see everyone in London. But I figured, it’s better wandering around a city rather than killing time in the airport, so I jumped on the bus and explored Helsinki for a few hours. It was ok – pretty much similar to other northern European cities (ok – I’m a complete travel snob for that last comment – but I think I over did the weekend trips while living in London). But what really surprised me about the place was a dirt pitch in the middle of a lovely park. On that dirt pitch were two bona fide cricket teams playing what looked like a pretty high level match. While there were only a few supporters surrounding the huge oval, the people there seemed pretty enthusiastic. I chatted with a bloke from Surrey, who I think was the vice captain of the team about cricket in Finland. He enthusiastically told me about the history of the game in Scandinavia, and how they’re aiming to get to the ‘2^nd rung’ of the ICC tournaments. But they need to convince local councils first that they have to play on grass. Not dirt. “Because trying to get mums to want their kids to play in cricket whites on a dirt pitch is an uphill battle”

Had a couple of days in England too, to watch the mad passions of British supporters watching Euro 2008. And they’re not even in the tournament their team is that crap! But they’re still insane for the game. It’s fun to watch.

On my last leg of my travels now … so I’ll be able to get home to see some real sport (AFL) soon!

Strange Canadian personalities

You meet some strange people travelling. Well, you meet strange people everywhere, but I think most people’s ‘oddity’ radar is on higher alert when they’re in an unfamiliar location.

Met some strange people during my two months living in Vancouver.

Take, for instance, the pyramid lady. Now I’m not talking about someone inviting me into their home to sell some dodgy scheme to me. No, this lady’s religion was pyramids. And her preacher’s pulpit was a stunning winery in the Okanagon region of British Columbia.

On a week long tour of the Rocky Mountains I’d had a pretty good time being dragged from site to site, despite my slight snobbery against organised tours. So when we arrived at a winery overlooking one of National Geographic’s top ten lakes in the world, I was expecting a taste of some decent wine, maybe a bit of a spiel on winemaking, then I’d be back on the bus. Ready for an evening of drinking lots of wine.

Instead we met pyramid lady. I didn’t actually learn anything about wine, but was informed that my sneezing was caused by my refusal to sleep underneath a pyramid frame, rather than the fact I had a slight cold. This woman then proceeded to lead us into a giant pyramid where the wine from this place was aged. Here the preaching continued. Ancient Egypt, some maths thing … whatever. At the end of it we were ‘invited’ to stand underneath the point of the pyramid and make a wish. Which was bound to be granted within 28 days. Of course. That’s the reason life has had a few hiccoughs for me. I haven’t been wishing underneath a pyramid. After what seemed like an eternity of sitting inside the giant pyramid with waiting for someone – anyone – to follow her lead and make a wish, we were finally allowed out. Not one of the 17 prisoners had taken her up on her offer. And when we were finally allowed to drink the wine, it was rubbish. Seriously. Worse than goon – and $40 a bottle. Must have something to do with the fact it’s made in a pyramid.

The other particularly odd person I met in Canada wasn’t a brief encounter. It was a two month social observation into the world of geek. Ok – Jess – I know I am far from the coolest person in the world. I hung in the library in school and sucked at sport. But this guy is on another level altogether. And taking the piss out of him for hours every day was the only way I got through my working day.

I was going to give this bloke I pseudonym, but I can’t be bothered. Michael, his name is. Not Mick. Or Mike. But Michael. And he referred to everyone else by their full name, despite the fact that they introduced themselves by a shortened version of their name. To everyone else, the lovely Chinese lady in the other office was known as Pam. But to Michael, she was always Pamela.

And he was dumb! Seriously – he had a number crunching job, where I was hired as a writer – and all day long he’d be asking me things like ‘when I receive a return to sender envelope – does that mean the address is wrong?’. Ok, my bitchy, snobby side is coming out, but it was pretty funny.

I reckon he stole his wardrobe from Steve Urkel’s. For those of you not familiar with bad early 90’s American sitcoms, this means he mixed corduroy pants (hitched to his nipple line) with checked shirts and a knitted jumper tied around his shoulders. One day I had to leave to run outside and laugh when he walked in wearing velvet pants and a skivvy.

The conversations I had with this person (the only other person in the huge, old hospital ward I was working in) were few and far between. But when they did arise, 90% of the time they were about the monarchy. He was an expert. Not just on the British monarch (seriously, he asked my view on Australia becoming a republic within 2 minutes of meeting me), but he knew about random monarchies world wide. He asked me how many people had watched Princess Mary marry the Danish prince a few years back. And whether I had gathered in a public place to celebrate this momentous occasion for Australia. Regrettably, I told him that I had been living in the UK at the time (I think), and that I had no real interest in the monarchy, so hadn’t taken any notice. I thought this would get him off the topic – but unfortunately I now know much more about dozens of different royals than I ever care to repeat.

Ok – after this rant I’m probably using up some serious karma points, but I’ve been a nice person to most people I’ve met – and especially helpful to some of the homeless people living near the restaurant where I worked at night … so really I think it all balances out.

Before I go – I have to mention one more group of strange people. Ultimate Fighting Championship fans. I was in a small Canadian town last week, having a beer at the local pub, when a huge group of blokes walk in. Just in time, apparently, to take front row for the “most ****’in awesome fights – live from Las Vegas!”. I have never seen this sport before. And because I love all sports – I’ve even watched curling – I was prepared to give this a go. Well, this UFC fight made the movie Fight Club look like a bit of a scrap between primary school kids. And I’ve never seen a group of blokes more excited by blood and convulsing (after the losing contestant was kicked in the head numerous times). It was a strange social experiment. The group I was travelling with were fascinated by the fascination of those blokes. But that, I hope, is the last time I watch UFC.

Cheers for now …

Winning the battle against Canada

Moving to a new city or town is a bit like a race against yourself. You’ve got to get yourself a house, job and life quickly. For me, it had to be all done within a few days to avoid those inevitable questions: what the hell am I doing here?, why have I left awesome friends/job/town/life to sit in a scungy hostel with no money to even have a beer?

So the first few days I was on a massive race. I reckon I ran a couple of marathons getting the whole house/phone/bank account/job (x2) sorted. Managed to squeeze in a free John Butler Trio gig in Whistler with a few of my flatmates too, so it wasn’t all running.

Strange things I’ve noticed about Vancouver so far.

1. Buses stop to change drivers on dodgy back streets where they just sit for 14 minutes (record thus far) waiting for the next person to rock up.
2. The lovely house I live in (with 17 other people) looks exactly like it belongs on one of those ‘small town middle America’ sitcoms. Maybe I could play an extra on that show. Could be my claim to fame.
3. It snowed. In late April. Big fat snowflakes that stayed on the ground for a whole day.
4. You have to pay for incoming calls on your mobile. That sucks. But mobiles have a ‘home zone’ – so you can call a mobile from home for a local call. Kind of defeats the purpose of ‘mobile’ communication, but I guess that’s why they call them cell phones over here.
5. It’s quicker to walk to work than take the bus. Even though my ‘day’ job is about 7km from my house. Sometimes I really miss London!
6. Kits, the area I live, is like a carbon copy of Chapel St in Melbourne. It’d be more eerie though if there weren’t snow capped mountains in the background.

So now for the ‘real world’. I guess after months on the road it was always going to be hard when the reality of ‘no money’ hit. My schedule is a little insane right now – basically involving getting up at 5:30, going to the gym, then 2 jobs, and getting home about 11:30. Sat/Sun is nice bc I’ll prob have half or a whole day off. So in reality, my body is probably going to start yelling at me soon (but I’m living with a dietician, who’s telling me what to eat so hopefully I can put off the whole ‘collapse into a coma’ until I’ve at least earned enough money to pay for hospital!).

Anyway – I guess this is a little depressing, so I’ll end it here, and will write again when I have a life!

Learning to be Mexican ...

I’m writing this just having completed my proudest moment in Spanish thus far. Some old American bloke seemed distressed. It’s hard to be distressed in this lovely hostel with a balcony looking over a very Mexican square. When he told me what was wrong – that he’s been studying Spanish for months, and still isn’t able to order what he wants from the juice bar, I thought I might be able to help him out. And I could. So perhaps all those lessons weren’t such a waste after all.

*****************

Mexico has been a feast of the senses. Sound, taste, sight – everything. It’s a bit of an overload, and I hate the fact I can’t delve deeper into this huge country, but there’s always another time.

If I could somehow record and distribute the soundtrack to this past week, I reckon I’d make a fortune. Rocking up in Merida yesterday, we stumbled upon a huge brass band playing salsa music for hours. It seemed that most of the town had turned out to dance the streets from morning till night. Some people are just born with rhythm, and no matter that they’re 80 years old, and struggling to walk, they can still dance. I wish I was born in Mexico …

Reckon I’d be a better cook too if I was from Mexico. They just seem to grill a bit of chicken, cut up a few tomatoes and avocados, whack it in a tortilla, and two minutes later you’ve got a bloody tasty meal.

I don’t think I’ll be taking up the country’s challenge for busking on the bus however. I’ve taken a few long bus rides in Mexico, and there always seems to be entertainment in some form or another. Yesterday was a particular highlight. The bus pulled up in the middle of nowhere … just a huge field about 30km from the nearest town. People got on and off, as they tend to do in random places in central America. One of the new passengers on the bus stood up the front and started going on a rant about something. I thought he was trying to sell something (a bus is the best place to buy street food with the amount of people getting on and selling stuff), but no – he was performing magic tricks. First of all the egg and the hanky … made it disappear, reappear, that sort of thing. Then he pulled a chicken from his armpit. A live chook. Seemed to appear from nowhere, and then it was allowed to roam the bus while he finished his show. After asking for a few pesos for his troubles, the man got off (with his chicken), into another field, waiting for the next bus to pop along.

It hasn’t all been ‘genuine’ Mexico however. The fake tourism in the Yucatan (well, basically around Cancun) makes the Gold Coast look like some hidden holiday treasure, waiting to be discovered. You can buy the most ridiculous crap. And of course, people do. Staying on an island half an hour from Cancun, I thought we’d be safe from the huge commercialism. But it’s spread everywhere in that part of Mexico, so we took advantage of the free food on offer from the giant hotels, swam at the beautiful beaches with the beautiful people, then buggered off out of there after a couple of days. I’m really not above that type of travel, and there’s not much I like more than a pool bar, but sometimes when you travel this far, you want to see something different. So we left.

I have to go back tonight – purely because my flight to Vancouver leaves from Cancun, and I’m leaving Mexico in about 30 hours. But until then, I am enjoying the last ‘real’ Mexico on offer, and I plan to salsa step all the way to the bus stop.

Basking in Belizie

You’ve gotta love a country where the post office doesn’t sell stamps. Being a good friend/tourist, I’d bought post cards the day after I arrived in Belize. I am still to send them – though not for a lack of trying.

Staying on a tiny Caribbean island about an hour’s boat ride from Belize City, I was in heaven. Caye Caulker is made up of about 5 or 6 sandy streets. Most wooden hostels and hotels are on the beach, and many – like mine – have a few hammocks under palm trees where you can take a rest from the 10 metre walk from your bed to the ocean.

The attitude reflects the island too. “You’d better Belize it man” is the nation’s tourist slogan, and they really are that cool. ‘Hey mun, you’re in paradise mun’ a cool as f*@k Caribbean man greeted me as I stepped off the bus in Belize City. He was right too – the reggae beat to the nation reflects the laid back attitudes, and somehow adds to the beauty of the place.

The laid back attitudes do extend to service though. I don’t like to admit it, but I’m really not patient enough to handle backpacking in random places sometimes. (Liz, maybe I could attend teacher training with you to grow a bit of patience??) After years of travel, I’ve trained myself to expect bad, slow, or non existent service. Drinks can take half an hour to arrive, food – sometimes and hour and a half. You can’t really complain though when you’re sitting on a swing under a palm tree as a gentle breeze tames the harsh Caribbean sun.

What I’ve never come across, in all my years of travel to random corners of the globe is a post office that doesn’t sell stamps. That’s taking ‘laid back’ to a whole new level. Trying to be organised, I bought a few post cards and wrote them while I waited for friends to finish shopping. As they were clearly going to be a while purchasing random stuff, I thought I’d wander up to the post office. After strolling a couple of blocks in the harsh midday sun, I was glad to find the small door covered in lists of names of locals who had mail to pick up. When I wandered in and asked how much a stamp costs, the one staff member simply shrugged and said “We don’t have stamps. We might get some in a few days, I dunno”.

Usually that lack of organised service would piss me off. But in Belize, I found it so ridiculous – so in tune with the atmosphere of the island – that I started laughing. And the lovely Caribbean lady joined me for a giggle too.

As you may be able to tell from reading this, I did very little in Belize. Most of my time was spent lying around. Number one location for lying around was ‘The Split’ – a point where the island was ‘broken’ in half by a hurricane about 40 years ago, and now is the best swimming beach on the island, complete with bits of concrete to sunbake on (I think it was an old pier), or jump off for a swim if you felt the sunbaking was getting a bit too much.

Number two location for lying around was one of the many hammocks scattered around the island. It’s very possible to spend your entire day in a hammock on Caye Caulker. You can go to restaurants with hammocks, bars, even laze on a hammock tied to a pier above the warm, pale green seas. A good book is necessary of course, but what I found most enjoyable about the place was the friendliness of everyone. I met two cool chicks (22 and 24 year old commercial pilots … made me feel a bit inadequate) within about 20 seconds of arriving, and the rest of the time was spent just hanging with awesome people.

As I write this I think I might chuck in my plans for Canada … Belize sounds much more fun.

Semana Santa means crazy, loud, Easter

Guatemala leaves western countries to shame when it comes to Easter celebrations.

In Melbourne, we've got the Royal Children's Hospital Good Friday appeal, a few days down the beach, and an Easter Egg hunt.

In London, it's usually a short flight over to somewhere warmer for a few days of overpriced hotels.

In Guatemala it's a week long celebration that culminates in five days of 20 HOUR processions through the town. Literally. I arrived last Wednesday as celebrations were gearing up. Hundreds of 'carpets' made out of coloured sawdust, straw and flowers were being laid over dozens the cobblestone streets. Each taking about 4 or 5 hours to create, it's a community art project that has thousands of tourists elbowing each other out of the way for the best photo.

I was impressed with the effort. Especially the 2 year olds working tirelessly to get the design of Jesus' crucifixion exact. But early the next morning I was shocked to wake to a huge procession of 'floats' carried by people dressed in purple stepping all over the intricate designs. Not only that, they were followed by a very loud, very large brass band playing a repetitive, depressing tune which I only assume has something to do with the 'mood' of Easter Thursday and Good Friday here. This 'mood' was lifted somewhat by the dozens of people selling Virgin Mary dolls filled with lollies.

It seemed as though the whole of Guatemala had descended on the town of Antigua. Which was just as well because they needed the thousands of people to build new 'carpets' once they had been trampled on. Over five days, I'm guessing each carpet was rebuilt at least 4 times, each taking hours.

After a couple of days of following the celebrations, and getting stuck in crowds, I decided to escape to Honduras. For the day. Just over the border is an impressive Mayan site, strangely reminiscent of Ankor Wat in Cambodia, for its intricate designs. While much smaller, it was still quite cool to sit on top of a pyramid built by slaves 1300 years ago, and lived in by kings.

Back in Antigua, I've been spending my time in Spanish classes, and people watching. Last night I was invited to a birthday party for the nephew of the woman I'm staying with. I thought my family gatherings were loud and slightly crazy. But it's nothing compared with an extended family celebration for a 17 year old here. Four trestle tables were pulled together to sit dozens of adults and a group of kids - all boys aged about 2 or 3. Needless to say it was very loud. But I managed to make myself understood to a certain extent, and I think I even followed part of the conversation. Not the part when one of the sisters doubled over laughing so much she ended up on the floor though. Wish my brain would remember more Spanish words.

I'm out of here in a few days to check out more Mayan ruins, then to hit the beach in Belize. Money’s running a bit short so I might need to hitch my way north to Canada to start working … but I’ll figure that out in a couple of weeks.

Until then, Hasta Luega.