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Thursday, March 15, 2007
Blog 34 - Canada and the end of the Road
Canada Rules
New Zealand was a blast. It was the first place I’d come across that I felt as if I could live in. Oz is pretty cool and they have a great ‘beach and barby’ lifestyle. But I suppose NZ is the closest place to home in terms of climate, seasons and attitude. Being in the southern hemisphere from October through to January was sooo strange. Your body gets used to the seasons over the years. Winter means dark, grey, cold, rain. A time to get cosy. In a sort of pseudo hibernation. Going from autumn back to summer seemed all wrong. Which was really nothing compared to going from mid summer to mid winter in the space of twelve hours and losing a day in the process. You start the day in sandals and t-shirt (nothing else) and wind up in boots and bobble hat (nothing else… well gloves, perhaps).
The time thing is a real mind bender. It was all fairly plain sailing to begin with. England to Thailand, gained five hours. Thailand to Perth gained another two hours. Perth to Sydney gained four hours again. Sydney to NZ, plus two hours. So now I’m thirteen hours ahead of England. Then flying across the Pacific Ocean to L.A. and on to Vancouver, in real time you gain another three hours but lose a day! To complicate matters, I’m now eight hours behind UK time. I’ve got math’s O’Level but I had had to get a piece of paper and a pencil to work it all out.
LA was just a couple of hours waiting to get a connecting flight. It was enough to get a flavour of the place. After a while you get used to killing time in airports. That’s one thing I’ve learned to cope with on this trip. I have the naïve idea that any form of public transport should be like getting on a bus.. you just walk on and pay the conductor, stick your bag in a rack and you are sorted. Air travel is so diametrically opposite to this utopia. The way airport security is headed, you will soon have to strip down to just the boots and bobble hat, except the boots would have to come off. Where does the line get drawn? There are only so many places to hide contraband. Will all guys have to be circumcised? Ooh, can’t go there, my eyes are watering at the thought.
How brilliant it would be to stand by the runway and hold your hand out to make the plane stop. “Does this plane stop at the beach?”. “No you need the No. 89”. “Oh, sorry”. Can you imagine. Instead of all the business types at the front there would be massed ranks of grannies with shopping bags on wheels. Until that day arrives, then killing time in airports will still be a compulsory aspect of travelling. Most terminals have huge windows where closet train spotters (me) can watch the planes taking off. I think that’s what all these people with laptops are doing. They would like to give the impression that their sorry workaholic asses are busy catching up on vital reports and emails. But the truth is they are secretly jotting down plane numbers and then bragging to their fellow saddo’s over MSN. If the planes get boring then there are the baggage handlers to watch. In L.A. they all appeared to be either gansta rappers or latino gang kids. “You seem to have mislaid my bag, but that’s ok, no worries, it was only cheap, I can get another. I’m sure you’re not pleased to see me and that really is a pistol in your pocket.”
Book shops/Newsagents are another good time filler. Its amazing how many magazines you can get through in a couple of hours and it doesn’t matter which part of the world, there is always a car mag with Jeremy Clarkson on the cover. There is no getting away from him. LAX was also the first public space I’ve been in where they had a wall mounted heart defibrillator. I noticed this as I was munching a cheese Danish.
Then, if you’re a lower paid train spotter and can’t afford the laptop; most terminals have some internet stations. These are a sort of bullet proof computer made to survive a nuclear holocaust. The versions in LA had been the victims of people who hit the keyboard with the momentum of twenty five stone of lard. No coincidence that the defibrillator was on the next wall. Its amazing how you can get used to keys where the letters have been rubbed off by thousands of itinerant typists. These pay as you go internet kiosks gobble money like crazy. You can get about half the BBC home page loaded before your dollar runs out. Its like an information bridle path.
People watching is a good old standby and never fails. As usual, fellow passenger paranoia sets in when you are in the check-in queue. Getting sandwiched between Mr. Bean and the Al-Quaida works outing doesn’t bode well for a ten hour high altitude incarceration. But still better than the Jehovas Witness disguised as a beauty queen.
Arriving in Canada signalled the last part of the trip. The initial plan to stop-off in Fiji and Hawaii and end up in the Caribbean as the final stop, had to be dropped. Doing the Sydney-Hobart just cost too much money. Which wasn’t a problem. Everything just came together at the right time for me to do the race and I have no regrets. If you are going to attempt something that big then you can’t be worrying about the money. There is no way you can relate the experience to any sort of balance sheet. I cut short my time in New Zealand. Still have the North Island to explore. But I knew that I would go back. Its such a wonderful place it deserves a trip all of its own. I’d kept enough money to go skiing in Canada, which had been one of my big goals of the trip. I’d carried a mangled newspaper clipping about Whistler halfway round the globe and was determined not to miss out.
In a sheep station on the Tropic of Capricorn I had had a camp fire conversation with two young Aussie lads, there for the shearing (why couldn’t they go to the barber’s like everyone else). They were working on the farm for a month to get the money to go snow boarding in Big White and gave the place a great recommendation. They weren’t wrong. Big White is a six hour trip on the Greyhound from Vancouver to Kalona then another hour to the resort. The bus was an experience. They run a very uncomplicated service. When you buy a ticket you can travel anytime. Seats are first come first served. So it pays to get there early. It also pays to stock-up on food and drink for overnight bus trips, as non of the Greyhound stops were open at night and I hadn’t brought enough water. Nibbling on my salty beef jerky hadn’t helped (no, that’s not a euphemism). You could see vending machines inside the locked stations, which turned me into a window licker for a bit of condensation. Not a good practice in midwinter Canada. I nearly had to leave my tongue on the window and get back on the bus. I don’t think the woman next to me objected to me melting some snow in my boot. I probably shouldn’t have used the end of her coat to dry it though.
Big White is a terrific resort. Not too much in the way of night life, which was fine by me. The skiing was excellent. I’m pretty much a beginner and there were easy runs off the top of every lift. Soft powder snow. No queues. You could take you time and not get run over by boarders as you do in the Alps. They even have Snow Hosts – volunteers who take you on a tour of the mountain for free. I stayed in a hostel which was fine and comfortable, with my own room with a small kitchen. Even had pot noodles left by the previous occupant (a last resort).
Travelling on your own can get a bit lonely at times and it forces you to make an effort to speak to strangers. Its amazing how often this bears fruit. Ski lifts offer a gilt edged opportunity to practice your small talk. I had really good chats with all sorts of people. I’ve always admired how girls can swap life stories in a flash. Supermarket checkout conversations. Its surprising how willing people are to talk if you give them an opening. “How is your day going?” is all it takes. I’ve always been a bit shy about this sort of stuff but the small effort can be very rewarding. I suppose the fact that there is no chance of being trapped for hours by a complete bore, encourages people to speak. Once the lift spits you out, you might never see them again. Wrapped-up in anonymising hats, goggles and scarves also helps people to open up. It’s the fancy dress factor. There is an old saying that ‘Strangers are just family you have yet to meet’. The media would have us believe that ‘Strangers are just rapists, psychopaths and paedophiles you have yet to meet’… which is a pity.
After having looked forward so much to Whistler, it was a big disappointment. As a resort it was much bigger and more spread out than Big White. Not much opportunity to ski-in ski-out. I had to get the bus from the Hostel to the lift. Fortunately the friendly Irish lads at the ski hire place in Creekside let me stow my ski’s and boots in the back of the shop. Shopping trolleys on a bus are one thing but me and a pair of skis would have been lethal. I can’t imagine how many eyeballs would have been hanging off them by the time I got home, what with misted-up glasses and big mittens and ski boots reducing you to the mobility and dexterity of a Dalek.
It hadn’t snowed for over two weeks and most of the time I was there it rained! This made the trails really icy at the tops and the flat light made it really hard to see bumps and drops. There were masses of kids cutting you up. It just wasn’t fun. On top of that I was staying in a hostel run by a neo-fascist golf club secretary. Me and golf clubs don’t get on. Anyone that asks you to leave because you are wearing a round neck sweater is going to be first against the wall come the revolution.
I accept that hostels need some rules. Otherwise the great unwashed would run riot. But this place really pissed me off. On the surface it looked like an idyllic log cabin in the woods but inside it was Stalag Luft XVII with leather sofas. Scratch my surface and inside is a grumpy old man waiting to burst out. It feels good to complain though. I must admit I’m beginning to get addicted to it. I left them a lovely long letter in the suggestion box implying that Guantanamo Bay was more homely.
I think probably that this was just the thin end of the travel weariness wedge setting in. I’d been away four and a half months and was getting a bit fed-up of living out of a suitcase and looking at a different ceiling every night. I knew it was time to come home. Vancouver airport gave me another opportunity to practice complaining. I’ve never seen such a one sided arrangement for travellers. If you were going to the USA then there were more shops, bars and eating places than you could poke a stick at. On the European destination side of the divide there was only a bunch of boarded-up clothes shops, one dingy café serving dried-up, salmonella ridden Chinese food. Couldn’t even get a beer. Such blatant favouritism and inequality makes my blood boil. To make it worse, you could see all the stuff you were missing through floor to ceiling glass partitions. Reduced to window licking once more.
I didn't make it to 80 blogs - this trip! - but I had had a brilliant time. Four months was just enough. A year would have been overdose. Travelling is a great thing for the youngsters. It opens their eyes to new worlds and opportunities. It makes them resourceful and independent. For the not so youngsters it does exactly the same. You come back with a bag full of dirty washing and a clean window with which to view the world and your life from a new perspective. Don’t think about it, just do it.
New Zealand was a blast. It was the first place I’d come across that I felt as if I could live in. Oz is pretty cool and they have a great ‘beach and barby’ lifestyle. But I suppose NZ is the closest place to home in terms of climate, seasons and attitude. Being in the southern hemisphere from October through to January was sooo strange. Your body gets used to the seasons over the years. Winter means dark, grey, cold, rain. A time to get cosy. In a sort of pseudo hibernation. Going from autumn back to summer seemed all wrong. Which was really nothing compared to going from mid summer to mid winter in the space of twelve hours and losing a day in the process. You start the day in sandals and t-shirt (nothing else) and wind up in boots and bobble hat (nothing else… well gloves, perhaps).
The time thing is a real mind bender. It was all fairly plain sailing to begin with. England to Thailand, gained five hours. Thailand to Perth gained another two hours. Perth to Sydney gained four hours again. Sydney to NZ, plus two hours. So now I’m thirteen hours ahead of England. Then flying across the Pacific Ocean to L.A. and on to Vancouver, in real time you gain another three hours but lose a day! To complicate matters, I’m now eight hours behind UK time. I’ve got math’s O’Level but I had had to get a piece of paper and a pencil to work it all out.
LA was just a couple of hours waiting to get a connecting flight. It was enough to get a flavour of the place. After a while you get used to killing time in airports. That’s one thing I’ve learned to cope with on this trip. I have the naïve idea that any form of public transport should be like getting on a bus.. you just walk on and pay the conductor, stick your bag in a rack and you are sorted. Air travel is so diametrically opposite to this utopia. The way airport security is headed, you will soon have to strip down to just the boots and bobble hat, except the boots would have to come off. Where does the line get drawn? There are only so many places to hide contraband. Will all guys have to be circumcised? Ooh, can’t go there, my eyes are watering at the thought.
How brilliant it would be to stand by the runway and hold your hand out to make the plane stop. “Does this plane stop at the beach?”. “No you need the No. 89”. “Oh, sorry”. Can you imagine. Instead of all the business types at the front there would be massed ranks of grannies with shopping bags on wheels. Until that day arrives, then killing time in airports will still be a compulsory aspect of travelling. Most terminals have huge windows where closet train spotters (me) can watch the planes taking off. I think that’s what all these people with laptops are doing. They would like to give the impression that their sorry workaholic asses are busy catching up on vital reports and emails. But the truth is they are secretly jotting down plane numbers and then bragging to their fellow saddo’s over MSN. If the planes get boring then there are the baggage handlers to watch. In L.A. they all appeared to be either gansta rappers or latino gang kids. “You seem to have mislaid my bag, but that’s ok, no worries, it was only cheap, I can get another. I’m sure you’re not pleased to see me and that really is a pistol in your pocket.”
Book shops/Newsagents are another good time filler. Its amazing how many magazines you can get through in a couple of hours and it doesn’t matter which part of the world, there is always a car mag with Jeremy Clarkson on the cover. There is no getting away from him. LAX was also the first public space I’ve been in where they had a wall mounted heart defibrillator. I noticed this as I was munching a cheese Danish.
Then, if you’re a lower paid train spotter and can’t afford the laptop; most terminals have some internet stations. These are a sort of bullet proof computer made to survive a nuclear holocaust. The versions in LA had been the victims of people who hit the keyboard with the momentum of twenty five stone of lard. No coincidence that the defibrillator was on the next wall. Its amazing how you can get used to keys where the letters have been rubbed off by thousands of itinerant typists. These pay as you go internet kiosks gobble money like crazy. You can get about half the BBC home page loaded before your dollar runs out. Its like an information bridle path.
People watching is a good old standby and never fails. As usual, fellow passenger paranoia sets in when you are in the check-in queue. Getting sandwiched between Mr. Bean and the Al-Quaida works outing doesn’t bode well for a ten hour high altitude incarceration. But still better than the Jehovas Witness disguised as a beauty queen.
Arriving in Canada signalled the last part of the trip. The initial plan to stop-off in Fiji and Hawaii and end up in the Caribbean as the final stop, had to be dropped. Doing the Sydney-Hobart just cost too much money. Which wasn’t a problem. Everything just came together at the right time for me to do the race and I have no regrets. If you are going to attempt something that big then you can’t be worrying about the money. There is no way you can relate the experience to any sort of balance sheet. I cut short my time in New Zealand. Still have the North Island to explore. But I knew that I would go back. Its such a wonderful place it deserves a trip all of its own. I’d kept enough money to go skiing in Canada, which had been one of my big goals of the trip. I’d carried a mangled newspaper clipping about Whistler halfway round the globe and was determined not to miss out.
In a sheep station on the Tropic of Capricorn I had had a camp fire conversation with two young Aussie lads, there for the shearing (why couldn’t they go to the barber’s like everyone else). They were working on the farm for a month to get the money to go snow boarding in Big White and gave the place a great recommendation. They weren’t wrong. Big White is a six hour trip on the Greyhound from Vancouver to Kalona then another hour to the resort. The bus was an experience. They run a very uncomplicated service. When you buy a ticket you can travel anytime. Seats are first come first served. So it pays to get there early. It also pays to stock-up on food and drink for overnight bus trips, as non of the Greyhound stops were open at night and I hadn’t brought enough water. Nibbling on my salty beef jerky hadn’t helped (no, that’s not a euphemism). You could see vending machines inside the locked stations, which turned me into a window licker for a bit of condensation. Not a good practice in midwinter Canada. I nearly had to leave my tongue on the window and get back on the bus. I don’t think the woman next to me objected to me melting some snow in my boot. I probably shouldn’t have used the end of her coat to dry it though.
Big White is a terrific resort. Not too much in the way of night life, which was fine by me. The skiing was excellent. I’m pretty much a beginner and there were easy runs off the top of every lift. Soft powder snow. No queues. You could take you time and not get run over by boarders as you do in the Alps. They even have Snow Hosts – volunteers who take you on a tour of the mountain for free. I stayed in a hostel which was fine and comfortable, with my own room with a small kitchen. Even had pot noodles left by the previous occupant (a last resort).
Travelling on your own can get a bit lonely at times and it forces you to make an effort to speak to strangers. Its amazing how often this bears fruit. Ski lifts offer a gilt edged opportunity to practice your small talk. I had really good chats with all sorts of people. I’ve always admired how girls can swap life stories in a flash. Supermarket checkout conversations. Its surprising how willing people are to talk if you give them an opening. “How is your day going?” is all it takes. I’ve always been a bit shy about this sort of stuff but the small effort can be very rewarding. I suppose the fact that there is no chance of being trapped for hours by a complete bore, encourages people to speak. Once the lift spits you out, you might never see them again. Wrapped-up in anonymising hats, goggles and scarves also helps people to open up. It’s the fancy dress factor. There is an old saying that ‘Strangers are just family you have yet to meet’. The media would have us believe that ‘Strangers are just rapists, psychopaths and paedophiles you have yet to meet’… which is a pity.
After having looked forward so much to Whistler, it was a big disappointment. As a resort it was much bigger and more spread out than Big White. Not much opportunity to ski-in ski-out. I had to get the bus from the Hostel to the lift. Fortunately the friendly Irish lads at the ski hire place in Creekside let me stow my ski’s and boots in the back of the shop. Shopping trolleys on a bus are one thing but me and a pair of skis would have been lethal. I can’t imagine how many eyeballs would have been hanging off them by the time I got home, what with misted-up glasses and big mittens and ski boots reducing you to the mobility and dexterity of a Dalek.
It hadn’t snowed for over two weeks and most of the time I was there it rained! This made the trails really icy at the tops and the flat light made it really hard to see bumps and drops. There were masses of kids cutting you up. It just wasn’t fun. On top of that I was staying in a hostel run by a neo-fascist golf club secretary. Me and golf clubs don’t get on. Anyone that asks you to leave because you are wearing a round neck sweater is going to be first against the wall come the revolution.
I accept that hostels need some rules. Otherwise the great unwashed would run riot. But this place really pissed me off. On the surface it looked like an idyllic log cabin in the woods but inside it was Stalag Luft XVII with leather sofas. Scratch my surface and inside is a grumpy old man waiting to burst out. It feels good to complain though. I must admit I’m beginning to get addicted to it. I left them a lovely long letter in the suggestion box implying that Guantanamo Bay was more homely.
I think probably that this was just the thin end of the travel weariness wedge setting in. I’d been away four and a half months and was getting a bit fed-up of living out of a suitcase and looking at a different ceiling every night. I knew it was time to come home. Vancouver airport gave me another opportunity to practice complaining. I’ve never seen such a one sided arrangement for travellers. If you were going to the USA then there were more shops, bars and eating places than you could poke a stick at. On the European destination side of the divide there was only a bunch of boarded-up clothes shops, one dingy café serving dried-up, salmonella ridden Chinese food. Couldn’t even get a beer. Such blatant favouritism and inequality makes my blood boil. To make it worse, you could see all the stuff you were missing through floor to ceiling glass partitions. Reduced to window licking once more.
I didn't make it to 80 blogs - this trip! - but I had had a brilliant time. Four months was just enough. A year would have been overdose. Travelling is a great thing for the youngsters. It opens their eyes to new worlds and opportunities. It makes them resourceful and independent. For the not so youngsters it does exactly the same. You come back with a bag full of dirty washing and a clean window with which to view the world and your life from a new perspective. Don’t think about it, just do it.
Sunday, February 04, 2007
Blog 31 - Round New Zealand in a Van
When you buy a round the world ticket, you have to say where you want to fly to and from and on what dates. Well that just about summed up the full extent of my trip planning. What I would do when I got to those places and where I would stay was completely in the lap of the gods. Or to be more precise, a local taxi driver. Which is a bit risky to say the least. I'm not too worried about getting ripped off. I mean most cabby's I think will have at some time or other gone via the scenic route. But its not like the fare, instead of being $20 is suddenly $200. I can cope with ten bucks more or less. You can always ask how much into town and you will be roughly there. The problem is that being a naive Englishman, brought up on the notion of cabby's being the proud possessors of 'the knowledge', you automatically assume they are 'local lads' who are street wise in the broadest sense. Therefore, if one was to assume in ones' innocence that they will be able to guide you to the object of your desire without the necessity to engage your own brain... then one is in for a big disappointment. I should have learnt my lesson from Sydney. I can't remember how many times I had jumped in a cab saying take me to Cuba only for the driver to say, 'where is that'. On more than one occasion the bloke had the street map open on his lap as he was driving!!!
Now don't get the wrong idea now with what I'm about to say. This is just a scientific or sociological observation. There is no racist implication here whatsoever. But you never,ever get what you might call a 'local' driver. Or to be more precise a 'native of the region'. So far I've found Korean, Italian, Portuguese, French, Indian, Mexican, Chinese, Hungarian would you believe and others who couldn't tell me where they were from because they couldn't speak English. I let them off with that one in Thailand. But Australia, New Zealand and now Canada (I've got a bit behind), you expect a bit of English.
Anyway, the Indian guy in New Zealand obviously thought the question, 'can you take me to a cheapish hotel in the town centre', was too much and had to phone a friend. Well I don't suppose he wanted to lose a life :-) The friend came through with the goods. So I suppose my philosophy of winging it was still intact. My travelling roll of the dice came up trumps once more. He found me a half decent hotel right in the middle of town and it was certainly cheap. I seemed to be the only non-Chinese person staying so that probably explains the reasonable price.
I know it sounds like I'm totally averse to planning of any sort. But when you think about it. Planning to stay somewhere usually starts with a serendipitous shot in the dark. If you do a web search or ask at a tourist information counter, look at a brochure or 'phone a friend', the chances of hitting the jackpot or ending up with the booby prize are still evens at best. The place I'm staying in now is a classy hostel in a good part of town with friendly helpful staff, but there was still dried snot on the bed sheet. I'd slept there two nights before I noticed. Sods law it wasn't at the feet end either...lol I don't thiiiink it was mine. I'm a pick and flick sort of guy more than the poke and stroke variety. All I can say is that you get used to taking the rough with the smooth. Not knowing how things will turn out is part of the adventure.
Sooooo... New Zealand. Well I can honestly say, at the risk of offending my Aussie mates and family, that NZ is just the best place I've been so far. You have to take this in the context of my own personal likes and dislikes. No snakes or killer spiders for starters. Sand flies though, that's a black mark, more on them later. If you like mountains wall to wall, grass (the soft green variety and not the pan scrubber stuff they have in Oz), rivers, lakes, lovely eccentric, friendly people, the smell of wood fires even in the city, good food, wine and beer (well the beer is okay - am a bit fussy about my pint)... then New Zealand is definitely the place to go. Its everything the Lord of the Rings promises it to be, without the orcs. Just a wonderful place really. Its too hard to describe it. You will have to go there for yourselves.
After being cooped up on the boat for so long I was gagging to get out in the country. Do a bit of hill walking or tramping as the Kiwi's call it. Camping and all that. Get away from hostels and the city for a while. So I hired a camper van. Or should I say a little palace on wheels. It even had a DVD player, microwave and luxury of luxuries..... a toaster. You did have to be hooked up to an external power supply for all the fancy stuff though. I wasn't too bothered about them. I mixed it up a bit. Sometimes just pulling off the road at a quiet spot or staying at a campground. It usually depended on how much I needed a shower. That cleanliness thing is over rated don't you think?
Camp sites do have the added advantage of providing a little amusement. I was in the shower block cleaning my teeth one night at a lovely site in Te Anau, when this middle aged sensible looking guy comes in to pee in pale blue pyjamas covered in teddy bears!! I nearly choked on my toothpaste. He shot me a dirty look. I think he may have been German. Hilarious. Do the boys down the Hofbrauhaus know that's what he wears for bed. I'm assuming he was wearing them to bed. He could have been heading out on the town for all I knew. There are all sorts of weirdo's about.
Guys on their own are generally thrown into this classification whether they deserve it or not. At least in NZ I didn't get refused entry to any camp grounds on the grounds of being a middle aged guy on his own. It happened to me in Cornwall once. You can see the woman at the reservations counter surreptitiously eyeballing the list of undesirables who shall be denied admission - Rapist, Child Molester, Peeping Tom, Flasher, Drug Addict, Potential Suicide - all of the above can be encapsulated into one entry... middle aged guy on his own. Haven't these people heard of mid life crises. They are completely ubiquitous among the male population. Okay I'm making mine last until I'm good and done. But we all have the need to escape now and again. You know, get a little cave time to mull over life's imponderables in a damp field somewhere. I did manage to persuade the said keeper of the list that I was just a normal geezer and no threat to the wider population. Not without feeling as if I had somehow 'got away with it' and that my place should have been on that list somewhere. I remember the stay well. There was a family at the bottom of the pretty empty field. Loads of noisy kids and a loud wife. The man of this canvas house had trudged disconsolately past my tent a few times as I was lounging lugubriously with mug of tea and good book (not 'The' good book - or I definitely would have been on the list... forgot that one 'Religious Maniac'). Finally he plucked up the courage to speak, 'You're on your own aren't you?'. 'Yes' I replied. 'Lucky Bastard'.... that was all he said as he plodded back to his corner of marital bliss. Being on your own sometimes isn't all that bad.
All sorts of self revelations make themselves apparent on a trip like this. For instance, I've discovered that I can only go so long without Scouse. That may make me a walking Liverpudlian cliche but its true. I had to make it for the family in Australia and now I was getting the urge again. You can't beat it really. Cooking in the open air just makes it all the better. I do admit though that by the third day of warmed up Scouse I'm ready for a cheese butty. Just typing this is beginning to make me slobber on the keyboard. I must be due another 'fix'.
Cooking implies washing-up of course. But its amazing how quickly you drop into 'can't be arsed mode' when camping solo. After licking the plate and the pan the out of tongue-reach bits can be sorted with some bog paper. Its a bit of a problem though with this sanitized stuff that seems compulsory these days. The dishes were taking on a sort of urinal block flavour after a couple of days. Why do they have to infuse bog roll with that fucking awful 'you won't be able to smell the shit because this smells worse' stuff. I'm not an advocate of the terrible austere, sadomasochistic (you get more hits if you include words like that) Izal, greaseproof paper that haunted the toilets of my youth. This particular roll had a lovely pattern of sea shells painted on it! That's got to be a Friday afternoon marketing department committee idea. 'What can we print on the paper to give it the subliminal impression of being soft and absorbent?'..... 'Well how about sea shells?'....Brilliant.
I can't make a blog entry without some sort of mention of toilets or the lack thereof in this case. You know you are getting back to nature when the only facilities are a nearby bush. I had hoped to avoid too many expeditions into quiet corners armed only with a bog roll. Some of the Department of Conservation camp grounds are pretty basic though. Staying on one such place outside Queenstown, there were only a few camper vans dotted around this huge scrubby, wasteland sort of site. So I didn't expect a queue for the one corrugated iron dunny. Getting impatient I decided to try my luck au naturel. To be honest there were some massive Maori Bluebottles staking out the bog, with very aggressive buzzing. I had a mental image of them performing the Hakka as I dropped my kecks. Sticking out their three foot long tongues and rolling their sixteen eyes. No, the bushes were a much better option. That is of course until you nudge the branch that a moment before had seemed such a convenient loo roll holder and witness it disappearing down the slope back into open ground in full view of the rest of the site. Or for that matter the swarms of rapacious Sand Flies that had been lurking under the bush just waiting for me. I think the Bluebottles tipped them off. The nasty little bastards bite like crazy. What was evolution thinking of when it came up with these useless tormentors. I mean the countryside is largely devoid of any prey for them. What do they eat when they can't get tasty human. My shins looked like the raw beef I'd used in the scouse.
You can't visit New Zealand without checking out the adventure/adrenaline stuff. Even if you only get as far as gazing idly over the brochures that inhabit every shop, hotel and pub. I wimped out on the bungee jump having seen the place where they leap into the abyss. That reminds me of a joke - How does a blind person know when they have got to the bottom of a bungee jump? The lead on their guide dog goes slack.... Sorry. Where was I? Yes. Jet Boating. That was what I wanted. They go up the Shotover River to do this. I was in for a surprise when I got there. The river goes through a canyon you could just about squeeze a kayak through never mind a four and a half ton, 540bhp, twin V6 Buick powered jet boat that would give Jeremy Clarckson a hard-on. Woo Hoo what a ride. The drivers deliberately aim for the rocks that stick out of the canyon walls and up from the river bed. I was sure he was going to run it aground but apparently it only has a four and a half inch draft. Big 360 degree spins, all getting wet, screaming (that was just me). Fabulous. They should do that up the Leeds Liverpool Canal for Capital of Culture year. Dodge the shopping trolleys and skim the fishermen... cool. I want to be a Jet Boat driver. Giz a job, I could do tha.
Now don't get the wrong idea now with what I'm about to say. This is just a scientific or sociological observation. There is no racist implication here whatsoever. But you never,ever get what you might call a 'local' driver. Or to be more precise a 'native of the region'. So far I've found Korean, Italian, Portuguese, French, Indian, Mexican, Chinese, Hungarian would you believe and others who couldn't tell me where they were from because they couldn't speak English. I let them off with that one in Thailand. But Australia, New Zealand and now Canada (I've got a bit behind), you expect a bit of English.
Anyway, the Indian guy in New Zealand obviously thought the question, 'can you take me to a cheapish hotel in the town centre', was too much and had to phone a friend. Well I don't suppose he wanted to lose a life :-) The friend came through with the goods. So I suppose my philosophy of winging it was still intact. My travelling roll of the dice came up trumps once more. He found me a half decent hotel right in the middle of town and it was certainly cheap. I seemed to be the only non-Chinese person staying so that probably explains the reasonable price.
I know it sounds like I'm totally averse to planning of any sort. But when you think about it. Planning to stay somewhere usually starts with a serendipitous shot in the dark. If you do a web search or ask at a tourist information counter, look at a brochure or 'phone a friend', the chances of hitting the jackpot or ending up with the booby prize are still evens at best. The place I'm staying in now is a classy hostel in a good part of town with friendly helpful staff, but there was still dried snot on the bed sheet. I'd slept there two nights before I noticed. Sods law it wasn't at the feet end either...lol I don't thiiiink it was mine. I'm a pick and flick sort of guy more than the poke and stroke variety. All I can say is that you get used to taking the rough with the smooth. Not knowing how things will turn out is part of the adventure.
Sooooo... New Zealand. Well I can honestly say, at the risk of offending my Aussie mates and family, that NZ is just the best place I've been so far. You have to take this in the context of my own personal likes and dislikes. No snakes or killer spiders for starters. Sand flies though, that's a black mark, more on them later. If you like mountains wall to wall, grass (the soft green variety and not the pan scrubber stuff they have in Oz), rivers, lakes, lovely eccentric, friendly people, the smell of wood fires even in the city, good food, wine and beer (well the beer is okay - am a bit fussy about my pint)... then New Zealand is definitely the place to go. Its everything the Lord of the Rings promises it to be, without the orcs. Just a wonderful place really. Its too hard to describe it. You will have to go there for yourselves.
After being cooped up on the boat for so long I was gagging to get out in the country. Do a bit of hill walking or tramping as the Kiwi's call it. Camping and all that. Get away from hostels and the city for a while. So I hired a camper van. Or should I say a little palace on wheels. It even had a DVD player, microwave and luxury of luxuries..... a toaster. You did have to be hooked up to an external power supply for all the fancy stuff though. I wasn't too bothered about them. I mixed it up a bit. Sometimes just pulling off the road at a quiet spot or staying at a campground. It usually depended on how much I needed a shower. That cleanliness thing is over rated don't you think?
Camp sites do have the added advantage of providing a little amusement. I was in the shower block cleaning my teeth one night at a lovely site in Te Anau, when this middle aged sensible looking guy comes in to pee in pale blue pyjamas covered in teddy bears!! I nearly choked on my toothpaste. He shot me a dirty look. I think he may have been German. Hilarious. Do the boys down the Hofbrauhaus know that's what he wears for bed. I'm assuming he was wearing them to bed. He could have been heading out on the town for all I knew. There are all sorts of weirdo's about.
Guys on their own are generally thrown into this classification whether they deserve it or not. At least in NZ I didn't get refused entry to any camp grounds on the grounds of being a middle aged guy on his own. It happened to me in Cornwall once. You can see the woman at the reservations counter surreptitiously eyeballing the list of undesirables who shall be denied admission - Rapist, Child Molester, Peeping Tom, Flasher, Drug Addict, Potential Suicide - all of the above can be encapsulated into one entry... middle aged guy on his own. Haven't these people heard of mid life crises. They are completely ubiquitous among the male population. Okay I'm making mine last until I'm good and done. But we all have the need to escape now and again. You know, get a little cave time to mull over life's imponderables in a damp field somewhere. I did manage to persuade the said keeper of the list that I was just a normal geezer and no threat to the wider population. Not without feeling as if I had somehow 'got away with it' and that my place should have been on that list somewhere. I remember the stay well. There was a family at the bottom of the pretty empty field. Loads of noisy kids and a loud wife. The man of this canvas house had trudged disconsolately past my tent a few times as I was lounging lugubriously with mug of tea and good book (not 'The' good book - or I definitely would have been on the list... forgot that one 'Religious Maniac'). Finally he plucked up the courage to speak, 'You're on your own aren't you?'. 'Yes' I replied. 'Lucky Bastard'.... that was all he said as he plodded back to his corner of marital bliss. Being on your own sometimes isn't all that bad.
All sorts of self revelations make themselves apparent on a trip like this. For instance, I've discovered that I can only go so long without Scouse. That may make me a walking Liverpudlian cliche but its true. I had to make it for the family in Australia and now I was getting the urge again. You can't beat it really. Cooking in the open air just makes it all the better. I do admit though that by the third day of warmed up Scouse I'm ready for a cheese butty. Just typing this is beginning to make me slobber on the keyboard. I must be due another 'fix'.
Cooking implies washing-up of course. But its amazing how quickly you drop into 'can't be arsed mode' when camping solo. After licking the plate and the pan the out of tongue-reach bits can be sorted with some bog paper. Its a bit of a problem though with this sanitized stuff that seems compulsory these days. The dishes were taking on a sort of urinal block flavour after a couple of days. Why do they have to infuse bog roll with that fucking awful 'you won't be able to smell the shit because this smells worse' stuff. I'm not an advocate of the terrible austere, sadomasochistic (you get more hits if you include words like that) Izal, greaseproof paper that haunted the toilets of my youth. This particular roll had a lovely pattern of sea shells painted on it! That's got to be a Friday afternoon marketing department committee idea. 'What can we print on the paper to give it the subliminal impression of being soft and absorbent?'..... 'Well how about sea shells?'....Brilliant.
I can't make a blog entry without some sort of mention of toilets or the lack thereof in this case. You know you are getting back to nature when the only facilities are a nearby bush. I had hoped to avoid too many expeditions into quiet corners armed only with a bog roll. Some of the Department of Conservation camp grounds are pretty basic though. Staying on one such place outside Queenstown, there were only a few camper vans dotted around this huge scrubby, wasteland sort of site. So I didn't expect a queue for the one corrugated iron dunny. Getting impatient I decided to try my luck au naturel. To be honest there were some massive Maori Bluebottles staking out the bog, with very aggressive buzzing. I had a mental image of them performing the Hakka as I dropped my kecks. Sticking out their three foot long tongues and rolling their sixteen eyes. No, the bushes were a much better option. That is of course until you nudge the branch that a moment before had seemed such a convenient loo roll holder and witness it disappearing down the slope back into open ground in full view of the rest of the site. Or for that matter the swarms of rapacious Sand Flies that had been lurking under the bush just waiting for me. I think the Bluebottles tipped them off. The nasty little bastards bite like crazy. What was evolution thinking of when it came up with these useless tormentors. I mean the countryside is largely devoid of any prey for them. What do they eat when they can't get tasty human. My shins looked like the raw beef I'd used in the scouse.
You can't visit New Zealand without checking out the adventure/adrenaline stuff. Even if you only get as far as gazing idly over the brochures that inhabit every shop, hotel and pub. I wimped out on the bungee jump having seen the place where they leap into the abyss. That reminds me of a joke - How does a blind person know when they have got to the bottom of a bungee jump? The lead on their guide dog goes slack.... Sorry. Where was I? Yes. Jet Boating. That was what I wanted. They go up the Shotover River to do this. I was in for a surprise when I got there. The river goes through a canyon you could just about squeeze a kayak through never mind a four and a half ton, 540bhp, twin V6 Buick powered jet boat that would give Jeremy Clarckson a hard-on. Woo Hoo what a ride. The drivers deliberately aim for the rocks that stick out of the canyon walls and up from the river bed. I was sure he was going to run it aground but apparently it only has a four and a half inch draft. Big 360 degree spins, all getting wet, screaming (that was just me). Fabulous. They should do that up the Leeds Liverpool Canal for Capital of Culture year. Dodge the shopping trolleys and skim the fishermen... cool. I want to be a Jet Boat driver. Giz a job, I could do tha.
Monday, January 15, 2007
Blog 30 - Delivery or Deliverance
As you might expect, getting to the finish was a mighty relief. Especially for those still to remove the cork! First night in Hobart was one big piss-up. And why not, we deserved it. Can't remember too much about the evening. Jugs of rum, scallop pies and staggering down the dock (after five days at sea you walk like you are pissed anyway). I seem to remember stepping over Andy in the middle of the night. He never quite made it to the cabin and lay face down on a sail bag as if a passing seagull had dropped him off after deciding he was too big to swallow. I don't know how he resurrected himself for his early morning flight. All that was left to say he'd been there was a flattened spinnaker, some loose change and his Alice band. Eye witness reports had him barging through airport check-in shouting 'Hobart hero coming through'.. only he could get away with it.
We kicked our heels for a few days in Hobart. New year was good and so was the food and drink festival. After feeling like I would never go to sea again at several times on the way down, I was itching to get back on the water. Chris Townsend, the new skipper for the delivery back to Sydney, had arrived. There was just Jim and I from the trip down and Alistair, Chris' mate for the trip back. Bit short handed really. Then providence stepped in and provided us with Jean-Michelle, Etienne and Jo-Annie. Three French-Canadian backpackers looking to hitch a ride to Sydney. They had never sailed before but the extra pair of hands would be more than welcome. I was only one page ahead of them in the sailing experience book anyway.
The weather for the return trip wasn't looking quite so friendly as the way down. We set off on Wednesday the 3rd but as we were looking to round Tasman Island at the end of Storm Bay we felt the full force of the northerly blowing at nearly forty knots. As it was getting late in the day, discretion was the better part of valour and we headed to Port Arthur for the night. At 4am we slipped out to try again. Much calmer now as we headed back to Tasman Island. The island is at the end of a long rugged peninsula, separated from the mainland by only three or four hundred yards. Chris decided to sail through the gap as he had done it before. As we got closer the two hundred metre high cliffs towered over us on both sides. It was still only an hour after dawn and the sea was a dark blue black against the slate grey cliffs. Bullets of wind battered down from the headland and whipped the surface off the water. As we pulled under Cathedral rock it was like that bit in the Lord of the Rings where they paddle through the Argonath with the stone kings looking down on them. Only this time it was the open sea with a gale blowing. We were moving with the tide until the flow met the incoming swell and made great standing waves. Water was breaking over the boat as it took all the sail and motor power we had to batter through. I think the Canadians were wondering what the hell they had signed up for. I could have guessed what it would be like as the headland had names like Hurricane Cove and Tornado Ridge.
Once through, the sea settled down a bit, although we were still beating against the wind. Progress was slow and rather than face a rough night on the water we headed for Triabunna to lay up for a bit. Boating has a habit of keeping you on your toes. Just when you relax it hits you with another problem. The entrance to Triabunna is a shallow river estuary and as we were ferrying the crew off another returning yacht, Kioni - too big to get to the jetty - we ran into the mud. It wasn't going to shift. So to tilt the keel enough to lift out of the mud we swung the boom out and got some heavy bodies on the end of it (yes that's me!). It worked but then we grounded again. This time a passing kelp fisherman gave us a tow-in after unloading all the surplus bodies (me again). No problem, I was four rounds ahead of the lighter weights by the time they got to shore.
The wind was still blowing hard from the north so we laid up until Sunday when a southerly change was forecast. We couldn't wait for the weather forever. Jim had a flight booked back to New Zealand to get back to work and my visa was due to run out in a week and also had a flight booked to NZ on the following Saturday. Chris was playing it cautious with a rookie crew and quite rightly so. But the prospect of getting a decent wind behind us and making a few good miles was too much to turn down, so we headed off again.
The barometer had been dropping rapidly as the low came through from the south. We could see great black clouds forming behind us and there was thunder in the air. The wind steadily picked up. I was off watch in the early evening, getting some kip in my Harry Potter cupboard. The HF radio was right by my head and I awoke to Chris getting the weather forecast. He didn't look that amused when I asked him how bad forty knot winds and four to six metre swell would be. I didn't get back to sleep.
Its amazing how much the sea changes when it gets a big wind driving it. It wasn't just choppy any more. The wave period had expanded so that you could fit a couple of football pitches in the valley between the peaks. The waves were breaking as the wind whipped the tops off them and blew great lines of spume. By now we were in a ten metre sea and the wind was up to fifty knots, storm force ten. There was only Chris and Jim who could steer the boat and Jim hadn't been out in a blow this big before. We had been knocked down three times by huge waves coming at us from an unexpected angle. The boat goes right over and the sails practically touch the water. Everything below falls out if its not secure. The two Canadian lads had turned green. The noise is frightening as the wind whips through the rigging and a house sized chunk of water drops on the deck. At this point Chris decided it was too dangerous to try and out-run the storm and we hove-to. Just the storm tri-sail set and the helm tied-off to balance the sail. Its an old sailing trick, but not many of the modern racers know it. The change was amazing. Instead of battling against everything we just bobbed along, side-on to the waves as they slipped underneath us. We had two on deck to watch for shipping, one hour on, two off. Everybody got some rest and was safe.
We were the lucky ones. Two other yachts put out Mayday's that night. Berrimilla, a tough yacht with several circumnavigations behind her was rolled and lost her rigging - see here for a description. Another vessel lost her steering.
At dawn the wind was beginning to die and later in the day had almost dropped altogether. The seas were still big though. I was steering for a bit until I accidentally gybed twice. Bit like scoring two own goals on the trot. It wasn't a big surprise to get substituted then. I was quite happy to spend a few hours on the bench.
Still no favourable wind so we motor-sailed the rest of the Bass Straight. When the wind did eventually pick up it was from the north and bang on the nose again so progress, still slow. We decided to stop in Ulladullah for a few hours to top up on water and food. We pulled up alongside a trawler to tie up and a wiry, weather beaten fisherman popped up, stoned off his head, and more or less told us to piss off - 'we don't want yachties here'. He changed his tune when we said we were too deep to moor by the other small boats and that we had just done the Hobart. Its like a magic word in these parts. He changed completely and gave us some bread and invited us in for a beer. This was when he revealed he was going to jail tomorrow for manslaughter for 6 years!!! We were getting a bit edgy now and it didn't help when he disappeared only to reappear with a rifle!!!!! Would you like to see my gun..... er no thanks, actually we must be going now, if that's OK. You expect to meet some colourful characters in some of these small Aussie towns, but crocodile dundee with a gun was the last thing I could have imagined. Anyway, we escaped and headed on.
No wind meant more motoring, meant another stop. Port Kembla this time for diesel. Stopping for a short while gave Jimmy the chance to cook his fish. No, not a euphemism. He had brought some fishing lures on the trip and had them trailing from the back of the boat from day one. It only took five days to catch one. A lovely silvery tuna about a foot long. He butchered it and bagged it in no time with the equivalent of a pen knife.. what a guy.
We eventually got in to Sydney Thursday night, eight days after setting off from Hobart. Ellie and Kathryn were on the dock with beer and pizza to meet us, what saints. It had been a trip and a half. The Canadians had gotten over their sea sickness after a few days and I think in the end, enjoyed the experience. I for one would be happy not to see a boat for a loooong time. Its like when your parents catch you with a cigarette and make you smoke the whole packet in one go. Talking of smoking the guys on the boat enjoyed a fag (not me!). Don't want people to get the wrong idea, what with Chris being an ex public school boy. Its a awesome thing to watch someone light a smoke in a gale with water spraying everywhere. Like Chris says, with sailing the first twenty years are the hardest. You have to serve your apprenticeship to be able to light up in those conditions. Its a wonderful paradox of the human condition that the smokers would happily poison their own bodies with tar and nicotine but still not pollute the ocean by saving their fag ends in a jar.
I can't not mention the perennial personal deprivations that happen on board. Toilet time as usual, is a complete mission. This time it was a bit better. The head had been jammed with something unmentionable, which caused all the problems on the way down. So it was performing a little better, if occasionally regurgitating its contents onto the deck. I assumed Kathryn's roll as chief lavatory attendant, in charge of the rubber gloves. Well some one had to. The three experienced lads were getting the boat home in one piece, the two Canadian lads were just about holding onto their lunch and Jo-Annie was a semi-permanent galley slave. We all have our place!!!!! At least the infamous pee bottle was dispensed with on the trip back. When it was calm enough, the back of the boat was a prime spot for the boys to do the necessary. When I asked Jim one day if the water was cold, he said it was... and deep too.
I'd like to finish by giving a big vote of thanks to Chris. His vast experience and permanently optimistic attitude got us home safe. I also need to thank Alistair and Jim who did the bulk of the helming. Thanks guys.
I'm writing this up in Christchurch, New Zealand. Just off in a camper van to explore the south island. What next? Will it be leaping off a 200 foot bridge with my ankles tied to a rubber band or a nice cup of char in a little tea room?? Its all going to be an anticlimax for a while, but I can take a bit of that......
We kicked our heels for a few days in Hobart. New year was good and so was the food and drink festival. After feeling like I would never go to sea again at several times on the way down, I was itching to get back on the water. Chris Townsend, the new skipper for the delivery back to Sydney, had arrived. There was just Jim and I from the trip down and Alistair, Chris' mate for the trip back. Bit short handed really. Then providence stepped in and provided us with Jean-Michelle, Etienne and Jo-Annie. Three French-Canadian backpackers looking to hitch a ride to Sydney. They had never sailed before but the extra pair of hands would be more than welcome. I was only one page ahead of them in the sailing experience book anyway.
The weather for the return trip wasn't looking quite so friendly as the way down. We set off on Wednesday the 3rd but as we were looking to round Tasman Island at the end of Storm Bay we felt the full force of the northerly blowing at nearly forty knots. As it was getting late in the day, discretion was the better part of valour and we headed to Port Arthur for the night. At 4am we slipped out to try again. Much calmer now as we headed back to Tasman Island. The island is at the end of a long rugged peninsula, separated from the mainland by only three or four hundred yards. Chris decided to sail through the gap as he had done it before. As we got closer the two hundred metre high cliffs towered over us on both sides. It was still only an hour after dawn and the sea was a dark blue black against the slate grey cliffs. Bullets of wind battered down from the headland and whipped the surface off the water. As we pulled under Cathedral rock it was like that bit in the Lord of the Rings where they paddle through the Argonath with the stone kings looking down on them. Only this time it was the open sea with a gale blowing. We were moving with the tide until the flow met the incoming swell and made great standing waves. Water was breaking over the boat as it took all the sail and motor power we had to batter through. I think the Canadians were wondering what the hell they had signed up for. I could have guessed what it would be like as the headland had names like Hurricane Cove and Tornado Ridge.
Once through, the sea settled down a bit, although we were still beating against the wind. Progress was slow and rather than face a rough night on the water we headed for Triabunna to lay up for a bit. Boating has a habit of keeping you on your toes. Just when you relax it hits you with another problem. The entrance to Triabunna is a shallow river estuary and as we were ferrying the crew off another returning yacht, Kioni - too big to get to the jetty - we ran into the mud. It wasn't going to shift. So to tilt the keel enough to lift out of the mud we swung the boom out and got some heavy bodies on the end of it (yes that's me!). It worked but then we grounded again. This time a passing kelp fisherman gave us a tow-in after unloading all the surplus bodies (me again). No problem, I was four rounds ahead of the lighter weights by the time they got to shore.
The wind was still blowing hard from the north so we laid up until Sunday when a southerly change was forecast. We couldn't wait for the weather forever. Jim had a flight booked back to New Zealand to get back to work and my visa was due to run out in a week and also had a flight booked to NZ on the following Saturday. Chris was playing it cautious with a rookie crew and quite rightly so. But the prospect of getting a decent wind behind us and making a few good miles was too much to turn down, so we headed off again.
The barometer had been dropping rapidly as the low came through from the south. We could see great black clouds forming behind us and there was thunder in the air. The wind steadily picked up. I was off watch in the early evening, getting some kip in my Harry Potter cupboard. The HF radio was right by my head and I awoke to Chris getting the weather forecast. He didn't look that amused when I asked him how bad forty knot winds and four to six metre swell would be. I didn't get back to sleep.
Its amazing how much the sea changes when it gets a big wind driving it. It wasn't just choppy any more. The wave period had expanded so that you could fit a couple of football pitches in the valley between the peaks. The waves were breaking as the wind whipped the tops off them and blew great lines of spume. By now we were in a ten metre sea and the wind was up to fifty knots, storm force ten. There was only Chris and Jim who could steer the boat and Jim hadn't been out in a blow this big before. We had been knocked down three times by huge waves coming at us from an unexpected angle. The boat goes right over and the sails practically touch the water. Everything below falls out if its not secure. The two Canadian lads had turned green. The noise is frightening as the wind whips through the rigging and a house sized chunk of water drops on the deck. At this point Chris decided it was too dangerous to try and out-run the storm and we hove-to. Just the storm tri-sail set and the helm tied-off to balance the sail. Its an old sailing trick, but not many of the modern racers know it. The change was amazing. Instead of battling against everything we just bobbed along, side-on to the waves as they slipped underneath us. We had two on deck to watch for shipping, one hour on, two off. Everybody got some rest and was safe.
We were the lucky ones. Two other yachts put out Mayday's that night. Berrimilla, a tough yacht with several circumnavigations behind her was rolled and lost her rigging - see here for a description. Another vessel lost her steering.
At dawn the wind was beginning to die and later in the day had almost dropped altogether. The seas were still big though. I was steering for a bit until I accidentally gybed twice. Bit like scoring two own goals on the trot. It wasn't a big surprise to get substituted then. I was quite happy to spend a few hours on the bench.
Still no favourable wind so we motor-sailed the rest of the Bass Straight. When the wind did eventually pick up it was from the north and bang on the nose again so progress, still slow. We decided to stop in Ulladullah for a few hours to top up on water and food. We pulled up alongside a trawler to tie up and a wiry, weather beaten fisherman popped up, stoned off his head, and more or less told us to piss off - 'we don't want yachties here'. He changed his tune when we said we were too deep to moor by the other small boats and that we had just done the Hobart. Its like a magic word in these parts. He changed completely and gave us some bread and invited us in for a beer. This was when he revealed he was going to jail tomorrow for manslaughter for 6 years!!! We were getting a bit edgy now and it didn't help when he disappeared only to reappear with a rifle!!!!! Would you like to see my gun..... er no thanks, actually we must be going now, if that's OK. You expect to meet some colourful characters in some of these small Aussie towns, but crocodile dundee with a gun was the last thing I could have imagined. Anyway, we escaped and headed on.
No wind meant more motoring, meant another stop. Port Kembla this time for diesel. Stopping for a short while gave Jimmy the chance to cook his fish. No, not a euphemism. He had brought some fishing lures on the trip and had them trailing from the back of the boat from day one. It only took five days to catch one. A lovely silvery tuna about a foot long. He butchered it and bagged it in no time with the equivalent of a pen knife.. what a guy.
We eventually got in to Sydney Thursday night, eight days after setting off from Hobart. Ellie and Kathryn were on the dock with beer and pizza to meet us, what saints. It had been a trip and a half. The Canadians had gotten over their sea sickness after a few days and I think in the end, enjoyed the experience. I for one would be happy not to see a boat for a loooong time. Its like when your parents catch you with a cigarette and make you smoke the whole packet in one go. Talking of smoking the guys on the boat enjoyed a fag (not me!). Don't want people to get the wrong idea, what with Chris being an ex public school boy. Its a awesome thing to watch someone light a smoke in a gale with water spraying everywhere. Like Chris says, with sailing the first twenty years are the hardest. You have to serve your apprenticeship to be able to light up in those conditions. Its a wonderful paradox of the human condition that the smokers would happily poison their own bodies with tar and nicotine but still not pollute the ocean by saving their fag ends in a jar.
I can't not mention the perennial personal deprivations that happen on board. Toilet time as usual, is a complete mission. This time it was a bit better. The head had been jammed with something unmentionable, which caused all the problems on the way down. So it was performing a little better, if occasionally regurgitating its contents onto the deck. I assumed Kathryn's roll as chief lavatory attendant, in charge of the rubber gloves. Well some one had to. The three experienced lads were getting the boat home in one piece, the two Canadian lads were just about holding onto their lunch and Jo-Annie was a semi-permanent galley slave. We all have our place!!!!! At least the infamous pee bottle was dispensed with on the trip back. When it was calm enough, the back of the boat was a prime spot for the boys to do the necessary. When I asked Jim one day if the water was cold, he said it was... and deep too.
I'd like to finish by giving a big vote of thanks to Chris. His vast experience and permanently optimistic attitude got us home safe. I also need to thank Alistair and Jim who did the bulk of the helming. Thanks guys.
I'm writing this up in Christchurch, New Zealand. Just off in a camper van to explore the south island. What next? Will it be leaping off a 200 foot bridge with my ankles tied to a rubber band or a nice cup of char in a little tea room?? Its all going to be an anticlimax for a while, but I can take a bit of that......
Friday, January 12, 2007
Sunday, December 31, 2006
Blog 24 - Sydney Hobart 2006 - The Story
They say a little knowledge is a dangerous thing. Well the same can be said for no knowledge at all. People often have a go at trying new things. But they usually start with some kind of taster; an entree to see if it whets their appetite. But to be honest, there are a lot of things to do, see and experience in life and the clock never stops ticking. If you are going to try something why not go for the biggest, hardest, most dangerous and most challenging for man and machine.
When you get on a boat and set sail there is no opportunity to say 'well actually its not quite what I imagined and I'd like to get off now....please'. If you run a marathon, you can walk or stop when it gets tough. If you are up a mountain and it get's a but nippy, you can come down. But when you are one hundred miles or more out to sea and mother nature is 'biggin it large', there is no getting off, there is no turning back, you can't stick your bottom lip out and take your ball home in a huff. All you can do is tough it out, say your prayers and hope your shipmates know what they are doing.
The first night out from Sydney was just such an occasion. The start had been a big adrenaline rush. Seventy eight yachts of all shapes and sizes blasting down the harbour. Sunshine, crowds, helicopters, wooooo hooo. Out past the Heads the fleet headed out to catch the offshore current. Our tactics were to stay inshore and as close to the rhum line as possible. It worked. For a while 'Global Yacht Racing Next' was leading the Sydney 38 class. There was a good steady south easterly of fifteen knots and the boat was slicing nicely through the swell. I went off watch at midnight and everything was working well. Two hours later I'm awake with a start. The boat was hammering into a heavy swell and the wind strength had doubled intensity with gusts over thirty knots. Feet were thudding on the deck inches above my head. The on-watch were shouting to be heard over the din of the wind and waves. Water was spraying down the hatch. The whole boat was shuddering and shaking. A shout came down for another hand to come on deck. Dave went up. I got into my foulies and waited to be called if needed.
Next minute the number one headsail was dumped into the cabin on top of me. I struggled to get it folded, too big and soaking wet to manage in a space not much bigger than your average broom cupboard. You couldn't stand up as you needed all your grip to hold on as the boat pitched and heaved. I had to sit on the floor and shove it into the forward compartment out of the way. Dressed in full foul weather gear and life jacket it was so hot. When you really exert yourself it brings on the sea sickness nausea, as if you didn't have enough to cope with.
I had the cushy job! Jim was on the foredeck trying to drop the number one and get the smaller number three headsail up. At one point he was hanging onto the forestay horizontal as the boat fell off a wave and dropped five metres with a crash, throwing him back onto the deck. He was lucky to escape with bruises. Jim's wasn't the only damage. A big gust and a heavy wave breaking over the foredeck combined to rip a metre long gash in the number one headdie as it came down. Not being able to use that sail again cost us our lead. The knot and a half extra speed the bigger sail gives you means that the other boats in the class can pull a big lead over four days. They slowly disappear over the horizon in front of you and there is nothing you can do about it. No, starting the engine isn't allowed...
That first night was a real bruiser. We had it good compared to some. Koomooloo, a beautiful classic wooden yacht, fell off two big waves in succession and split the hull. The British Army Royal Corps of Signals yacht, Adventure, turned back to help. Koomooloo couldn't have picked a better craft to come to their assistance. Adventure is a big steel boat and the crew were specially trained in man-overboard and survival at sea. Everyone was picked up safely. Maximus and ABN Amro two of the race favourites lost their rigging. The mast of Maximus falling on deck and injuring five crew. These are Volvo Ocean racers, the best there is. An indication of just how tough the Sydney Hobart is.
After the first night the weather slowly moderated. The big swell persisted through the Bass straight but the wind eased and the sailing became a little easier. By the time we got to the turn into the final run to Hobart at dawn on the fifth day, the sun was out and it was a pleasure to be on deck. We hadn't finished racing though. Kinetic was close on our heels and three more boats were in sight ahead. There were still places at stake. We were reeling in the boats ahead, with our spinnaker up for the first time in the race and we were pulling away from Kinetic. Then in the middle of the Derwent estuary, within sight of Hobart we hit a dead calm. The boat started to go backwards as the tide pushed us along. Kinetic had chosen to stay close to the North shore and were able to keep some wind in their sails. By the time we picked up some puff they were past us and too far ahead to catch. After five days and over 625 miles, I was amazed our race went right to the line.
It wasn't all nightmarish by any means. There are some great moments along the way. At night there are fabulous bright stars, luminescent water, dolphins that glow in the dark (I kid you not) and leave trails of phosphorescence. More dolphins in the day, strutting their stuff like they own the place; seals, sharks, Albatross, Stormy Petril on a stick; not everyday experiences by any means.
In a big race like this the start and finish are brilliant. The bit in the middle.... sheer endurance. We were lucky to have some experienced guys on board. Shane Kearns was completing his 11th race and Richo Holstein the boat's owner his 9th. Andy Middleton, the Skipper and Director of Global Yacht Racing, has done nearly all the big ocean and offshore races; is a yachtmaster and sea survival instructor. These guys are an object lesson in how to stay calm in a crisis. When the shit hits the fan they are there to get you through. The other guys on the boat were all pretty experienced too with years of sailing and racing experience between them. I was the complete rookie. A weekend Lazer dingy sailor twenty five years ago and a handful of races with the local yacht club on the Mersey. But that's the great thing about Andy's company. They give everyday blokes like me a chance to do something amazing. I had good training with them for two weeks prior to the race and they helped me feel confident I could do my bit and not let the rest of the team down.
We split the nine crew into two watches. Four-hour watches in the daytime and three at night. After a few sleepless off-watches where all you can do is wear the polish off your rosary beads as you listen to the boat pounding through the waves; shuddering, creaking and groaning: you get so tired you can sleep through anything. Then, when you have to go on watch, more personal shuddering, creaking and groaning as you squeeze out of your Harry Potter like bunk under the cockpit stairs to go and retrieve your wet gear from the forward compartment. 'I like getting dressed at sea ..... naart'. The sharp end of the boat is where all the violent action happens. One foot braced against the bog (sorry, heads), the other jammed under a sail bag, arse wedged under the sink. Sifting through a line of dripping jackets, trousers and boots looking for your own stuff in the near dark. You can feel the boat lifting-up sharply and you just know its coming. Some sixth sense tells you that this is not a wave you will be slipping over elegantly. There is a subtle difference in the motion but you know its coming and try to brace. When the bow falls off the top of the wave its like being in an elevator when someone has cut the cable. A bungy jump with rope instead of elastic.
I learnt my lesson eventually. Drag the gear as quick as you can onto the cabin floor and sit down while you pull everything on. You get your arse wet sometimes but its better than trying to pop rivet the mast with your forehead. The next challenge is to get it all on as fast as possible and get out on deck. Some other poor soul has been hanging over a rail getting soaked for four hours and wants to get below and sleep. Again the exertion/nausea/sweating thing kicks in. I lost count of the different number of ways I discovered to put on a life jacket the wrong way. The same counts for getting everything off. I was getting slick with it by the end of the fourth day! The old hands stay in their wet gear pretty much the whole time. Some of the bunks were designated as wet so that people could sleep in their wet gear and be available to be on deck fast if needed. It would take me a good twenty minutes to pack my sleeping bag; get dressed; get a drink of water, find gloves, hat, glasses; then there was going to the loo........
There is relief and light relief. More often than not, having to answer natures call combined both. The Sydney 38 has been described by others as a toilet with a mast. Now I know why. The two girls on board definitely got the worst deal. A bit of last minute shopping on Christmas Eve yielded a nice flexible bucket with handles, clasping between the legs for the use of. Not easy when all this action takes place in the afore mentioned forward compartment from hell. The boys had a clinical looking pee bottle freshly purchased with the luxury of a lid. I wasn't completely overjoyed at the prospect of dipping my wick in the same bottle as all the other boys. A fear justifiably confirmed at the end of the race when Richo confessed to having developed a boil on his todger - visually confirmed by another crew member (who shall be nameless to preserve the innocent ;-) - another nausea inducing experience.
As luck would have it the lid off the pee bottle was the first overboard casualty. The first of a list of jetsam inadvertently trailed across the Bass Straight, from pee bottle tops to sail bags, even the washing up bucket. The bottle filling method consisted of wedging yourself in somewhere and doing the blissful necessary. The emptying method involved teetering across the cabin sole like Bambi on Ice with the now open top container, climbing a few steps up and leaning out to the leeward side and tipping into the Briny. Avoiding any blowback. Occasionally you would be taken pity on by someone on deck and they would assist in the final tipping. Possibly just because they wanted their hands warming momentarily! Unfortunately the lid was followed by the whole bottle the next day. Big groans all round the boys. I won't say who the culprit was.... Andy. My boy scout experience and many hours watching Ray Mears was at last justified as I produced a beautiful hand crafted replacement. Well actually, I just cut the top off a water bottle. The nice new sharp edge did wonders for improving peeing accuracy and concentration.
Number two's brought a deep depression at the thought. Jim fell at the first fence when allowing the head to jettison his efforts all over the compartment from hell and several sets of foulies... how aptly named. He must have been sitting on the rail beforehand thinking, now what could I do to make that compartment a nicer place to be. He owes Kathryn several slabs of beer for cleaning it up. There was considerable betting activity on who would be able to put a cork in it for the whole trip. Unfortunately I succumbed on the fourth day ( a personal record ;-) and resorted to the bucket. The emptying of which over the back was unmercifully captured on film for posterity by the skipper. I'll be keeping a close eye on You Tube for any unwanted personal celebrity - key word search; bucket, sea, blind mole, scouser.
In the early days of the trip I just couldn't imagine how I'd got myself into such a tough position AND paid for the privilege. I had no idea how people could subject themselves to such torture year after year and keep coming back for more. When I asked the old hands why they did it, they couldn't give an answer. Now its all over, I think I know. there is a terrific sense of achievement from having come through it. You test yourself more than you can imagine and the feeling of having endured and survived makes you know for sure that you are truly alive.
I would like to thank my family and friends for their support. In the wee small hours of the night, when you are dead tired and you are hanging on to the rail, cold and wet, all your muscles aching from sitting on a hard deck littered with ropes and cleats, you think about your loved ones and the knowledge that they are willing you on gets you through it.
Now I've got the knowledge, would I do it again...... definitely.
When you get on a boat and set sail there is no opportunity to say 'well actually its not quite what I imagined and I'd like to get off now....please'. If you run a marathon, you can walk or stop when it gets tough. If you are up a mountain and it get's a but nippy, you can come down. But when you are one hundred miles or more out to sea and mother nature is 'biggin it large', there is no getting off, there is no turning back, you can't stick your bottom lip out and take your ball home in a huff. All you can do is tough it out, say your prayers and hope your shipmates know what they are doing.
The first night out from Sydney was just such an occasion. The start had been a big adrenaline rush. Seventy eight yachts of all shapes and sizes blasting down the harbour. Sunshine, crowds, helicopters, wooooo hooo. Out past the Heads the fleet headed out to catch the offshore current. Our tactics were to stay inshore and as close to the rhum line as possible. It worked. For a while 'Global Yacht Racing Next' was leading the Sydney 38 class. There was a good steady south easterly of fifteen knots and the boat was slicing nicely through the swell. I went off watch at midnight and everything was working well. Two hours later I'm awake with a start. The boat was hammering into a heavy swell and the wind strength had doubled intensity with gusts over thirty knots. Feet were thudding on the deck inches above my head. The on-watch were shouting to be heard over the din of the wind and waves. Water was spraying down the hatch. The whole boat was shuddering and shaking. A shout came down for another hand to come on deck. Dave went up. I got into my foulies and waited to be called if needed.
Next minute the number one headsail was dumped into the cabin on top of me. I struggled to get it folded, too big and soaking wet to manage in a space not much bigger than your average broom cupboard. You couldn't stand up as you needed all your grip to hold on as the boat pitched and heaved. I had to sit on the floor and shove it into the forward compartment out of the way. Dressed in full foul weather gear and life jacket it was so hot. When you really exert yourself it brings on the sea sickness nausea, as if you didn't have enough to cope with.
I had the cushy job! Jim was on the foredeck trying to drop the number one and get the smaller number three headsail up. At one point he was hanging onto the forestay horizontal as the boat fell off a wave and dropped five metres with a crash, throwing him back onto the deck. He was lucky to escape with bruises. Jim's wasn't the only damage. A big gust and a heavy wave breaking over the foredeck combined to rip a metre long gash in the number one headdie as it came down. Not being able to use that sail again cost us our lead. The knot and a half extra speed the bigger sail gives you means that the other boats in the class can pull a big lead over four days. They slowly disappear over the horizon in front of you and there is nothing you can do about it. No, starting the engine isn't allowed...
That first night was a real bruiser. We had it good compared to some. Koomooloo, a beautiful classic wooden yacht, fell off two big waves in succession and split the hull. The British Army Royal Corps of Signals yacht, Adventure, turned back to help. Koomooloo couldn't have picked a better craft to come to their assistance. Adventure is a big steel boat and the crew were specially trained in man-overboard and survival at sea. Everyone was picked up safely. Maximus and ABN Amro two of the race favourites lost their rigging. The mast of Maximus falling on deck and injuring five crew. These are Volvo Ocean racers, the best there is. An indication of just how tough the Sydney Hobart is.
After the first night the weather slowly moderated. The big swell persisted through the Bass straight but the wind eased and the sailing became a little easier. By the time we got to the turn into the final run to Hobart at dawn on the fifth day, the sun was out and it was a pleasure to be on deck. We hadn't finished racing though. Kinetic was close on our heels and three more boats were in sight ahead. There were still places at stake. We were reeling in the boats ahead, with our spinnaker up for the first time in the race and we were pulling away from Kinetic. Then in the middle of the Derwent estuary, within sight of Hobart we hit a dead calm. The boat started to go backwards as the tide pushed us along. Kinetic had chosen to stay close to the North shore and were able to keep some wind in their sails. By the time we picked up some puff they were past us and too far ahead to catch. After five days and over 625 miles, I was amazed our race went right to the line.
It wasn't all nightmarish by any means. There are some great moments along the way. At night there are fabulous bright stars, luminescent water, dolphins that glow in the dark (I kid you not) and leave trails of phosphorescence. More dolphins in the day, strutting their stuff like they own the place; seals, sharks, Albatross, Stormy Petril on a stick; not everyday experiences by any means.
In a big race like this the start and finish are brilliant. The bit in the middle.... sheer endurance. We were lucky to have some experienced guys on board. Shane Kearns was completing his 11th race and Richo Holstein the boat's owner his 9th. Andy Middleton, the Skipper and Director of Global Yacht Racing, has done nearly all the big ocean and offshore races; is a yachtmaster and sea survival instructor. These guys are an object lesson in how to stay calm in a crisis. When the shit hits the fan they are there to get you through. The other guys on the boat were all pretty experienced too with years of sailing and racing experience between them. I was the complete rookie. A weekend Lazer dingy sailor twenty five years ago and a handful of races with the local yacht club on the Mersey. But that's the great thing about Andy's company. They give everyday blokes like me a chance to do something amazing. I had good training with them for two weeks prior to the race and they helped me feel confident I could do my bit and not let the rest of the team down.
We split the nine crew into two watches. Four-hour watches in the daytime and three at night. After a few sleepless off-watches where all you can do is wear the polish off your rosary beads as you listen to the boat pounding through the waves; shuddering, creaking and groaning: you get so tired you can sleep through anything. Then, when you have to go on watch, more personal shuddering, creaking and groaning as you squeeze out of your Harry Potter like bunk under the cockpit stairs to go and retrieve your wet gear from the forward compartment. 'I like getting dressed at sea ..... naart'. The sharp end of the boat is where all the violent action happens. One foot braced against the bog (sorry, heads), the other jammed under a sail bag, arse wedged under the sink. Sifting through a line of dripping jackets, trousers and boots looking for your own stuff in the near dark. You can feel the boat lifting-up sharply and you just know its coming. Some sixth sense tells you that this is not a wave you will be slipping over elegantly. There is a subtle difference in the motion but you know its coming and try to brace. When the bow falls off the top of the wave its like being in an elevator when someone has cut the cable. A bungy jump with rope instead of elastic.
I learnt my lesson eventually. Drag the gear as quick as you can onto the cabin floor and sit down while you pull everything on. You get your arse wet sometimes but its better than trying to pop rivet the mast with your forehead. The next challenge is to get it all on as fast as possible and get out on deck. Some other poor soul has been hanging over a rail getting soaked for four hours and wants to get below and sleep. Again the exertion/nausea/sweating thing kicks in. I lost count of the different number of ways I discovered to put on a life jacket the wrong way. The same counts for getting everything off. I was getting slick with it by the end of the fourth day! The old hands stay in their wet gear pretty much the whole time. Some of the bunks were designated as wet so that people could sleep in their wet gear and be available to be on deck fast if needed. It would take me a good twenty minutes to pack my sleeping bag; get dressed; get a drink of water, find gloves, hat, glasses; then there was going to the loo........
There is relief and light relief. More often than not, having to answer natures call combined both. The Sydney 38 has been described by others as a toilet with a mast. Now I know why. The two girls on board definitely got the worst deal. A bit of last minute shopping on Christmas Eve yielded a nice flexible bucket with handles, clasping between the legs for the use of. Not easy when all this action takes place in the afore mentioned forward compartment from hell. The boys had a clinical looking pee bottle freshly purchased with the luxury of a lid. I wasn't completely overjoyed at the prospect of dipping my wick in the same bottle as all the other boys. A fear justifiably confirmed at the end of the race when Richo confessed to having developed a boil on his todger - visually confirmed by another crew member (who shall be nameless to preserve the innocent ;-) - another nausea inducing experience.
As luck would have it the lid off the pee bottle was the first overboard casualty. The first of a list of jetsam inadvertently trailed across the Bass Straight, from pee bottle tops to sail bags, even the washing up bucket. The bottle filling method consisted of wedging yourself in somewhere and doing the blissful necessary. The emptying method involved teetering across the cabin sole like Bambi on Ice with the now open top container, climbing a few steps up and leaning out to the leeward side and tipping into the Briny. Avoiding any blowback. Occasionally you would be taken pity on by someone on deck and they would assist in the final tipping. Possibly just because they wanted their hands warming momentarily! Unfortunately the lid was followed by the whole bottle the next day. Big groans all round the boys. I won't say who the culprit was.... Andy. My boy scout experience and many hours watching Ray Mears was at last justified as I produced a beautiful hand crafted replacement. Well actually, I just cut the top off a water bottle. The nice new sharp edge did wonders for improving peeing accuracy and concentration.
Number two's brought a deep depression at the thought. Jim fell at the first fence when allowing the head to jettison his efforts all over the compartment from hell and several sets of foulies... how aptly named. He must have been sitting on the rail beforehand thinking, now what could I do to make that compartment a nicer place to be. He owes Kathryn several slabs of beer for cleaning it up. There was considerable betting activity on who would be able to put a cork in it for the whole trip. Unfortunately I succumbed on the fourth day ( a personal record ;-) and resorted to the bucket. The emptying of which over the back was unmercifully captured on film for posterity by the skipper. I'll be keeping a close eye on You Tube for any unwanted personal celebrity - key word search; bucket, sea, blind mole, scouser.
In the early days of the trip I just couldn't imagine how I'd got myself into such a tough position AND paid for the privilege. I had no idea how people could subject themselves to such torture year after year and keep coming back for more. When I asked the old hands why they did it, they couldn't give an answer. Now its all over, I think I know. there is a terrific sense of achievement from having come through it. You test yourself more than you can imagine and the feeling of having endured and survived makes you know for sure that you are truly alive.
I would like to thank my family and friends for their support. In the wee small hours of the night, when you are dead tired and you are hanging on to the rail, cold and wet, all your muscles aching from sitting on a hard deck littered with ropes and cleats, you think about your loved ones and the knowledge that they are willing you on gets you through it.
Now I've got the knowledge, would I do it again...... definitely.
Monday, December 25, 2006
Blog 23 - Sydney Hobart Start
Hi Folks
Just managed to slip into the media centre at the C.Y.C.A marina and leave a quick message.
Its all mayhem here; 8:30am Boxing Day, its bright and sunny with a medium breeze to make all the flags flutter. Extra coffee stalls, news cameras, lots of nervous looking people with deep tans and wrap around sunnies, carrying sail bags, foul weather kit and last minute provisions.
The boat is ready to go. I've already gone ;-) .... its important to get your pre race dump in! Sorry if thats too much info but if you saw the bog on board you would understand why!! The astronaughts had it easy with their bathroom stuff compared to sailors in a small pitching and rocking boat with no hand holds.
Have had my seas sickness tablet and am raring to go. The start will be great as its a lovely sunny day but a bit chilly for the time of year and the forecast to get colder as we go south. Will be glad of the two layers of thermals. Weather forecast is good, with a deep low over Tazzy moving away east and a high pressure system coming in behind with southerly breeze. Means we will be beating against the wind and waves for most of the way. This will slow us down and make the boat bounce a lot (not good - see above!!) so expect at least four days to Hobart maybe five. Hope the food and water last if its the latter.
You can follow the boat - 'Global Yacht Racing Next' on the official web site here.
Will update when I get back.
A big thank you to all my friends and family who support me with their love and good wishes.
Merry Christmas to everyone and a very happy and exciting New Year.
John xxxx
Just managed to slip into the media centre at the C.Y.C.A marina and leave a quick message.
Its all mayhem here; 8:30am Boxing Day, its bright and sunny with a medium breeze to make all the flags flutter. Extra coffee stalls, news cameras, lots of nervous looking people with deep tans and wrap around sunnies, carrying sail bags, foul weather kit and last minute provisions.
The boat is ready to go. I've already gone ;-) .... its important to get your pre race dump in! Sorry if thats too much info but if you saw the bog on board you would understand why!! The astronaughts had it easy with their bathroom stuff compared to sailors in a small pitching and rocking boat with no hand holds.
Have had my seas sickness tablet and am raring to go. The start will be great as its a lovely sunny day but a bit chilly for the time of year and the forecast to get colder as we go south. Will be glad of the two layers of thermals. Weather forecast is good, with a deep low over Tazzy moving away east and a high pressure system coming in behind with southerly breeze. Means we will be beating against the wind and waves for most of the way. This will slow us down and make the boat bounce a lot (not good - see above!!) so expect at least four days to Hobart maybe five. Hope the food and water last if its the latter.
You can follow the boat - 'Global Yacht Racing Next' on the official web site here.
Will update when I get back.
A big thank you to all my friends and family who support me with their love and good wishes.
Merry Christmas to everyone and a very happy and exciting New Year.
John xxxx
Tuesday, December 19, 2006
Blog 21 - Sydney Hobart Boot Camp
When you are standing on a cliff top looking at a yacht cruising serenely past there is a certain idyllic feel about it. ('Can you feel the serenity' sic The Castle). Even when there is a bunch of yachts having a race, from a distance it again looks graceful and unruffled. So much for the macro view. If you were able to zoom in to the deck it would look more like an ants nest that's been kicked by a twelve year old. Mental is not the word. When I signed up for the Sydney Hobart I was naive enough to imagine the first scenario. I knew it wouldn't be quite like sipping G & T's on a sun lounger, I fully expected the odd wave breaking over the bow. The reality is very much more Spartacus than James Bond. I haven't quite been tied to the mast and flogged to within an inch of my life by Captain Bligh wielding a cat-a-nine-tails (that's another web site). But I have got more bruises and cuts than an all day paint balling session. Am developing forearms like Popeye from hauling sails up and down. The spinnaker I'm sure is an old Wimbledon Centre Court cover. Its like hauling in a cloud and stuffing it in a duffel bag while riding a rodeo stallion, having skipfuls of cold sea water thrown at you and at the same time being verbally abused by the Aussie contingent - 'come on John, pull it like you're pulling your father off your sister'!!! Repeat every 15 minutes until you hang over the side like a puppet with the strings cut.
That's just the physical stuff. Stack on top of that a never ending spewing forth of nautical t.w.a.'s (three word acronyms). It gets to the point where you really want to tell them to stuff their windward headsail sheet where the sun never shines. When the skipper tells you he needs a bit more cunni I really need to remember its a small rope at the bottom of the mast that needs tugging and not a forefeit from the female crew members.
Then there was the sea survival course. Jumping into a salt water pool with thermals, middle layer, oilskins, hat, gloves, boots and life jacket, having to swim to a life raft while being hosed from the side then righting the raft and climbing in. Well trying to climb in. The life jacket gives you a chest like Jordan that is really hard to get over the side of the raft while your trouser legs and boots have filled with enough water to relieve the drought in Ethiopia. If it teaches you one thing. Its that being in that situation in the open sea, possibly at night, has got to be the ultimate in last resorts.
Anyway... its all been just a bit more that one expected and there is still a 24 hour overnight training run to do. Below decks the sleeping arrangements make Das Boot look positively palatial. The bridal suite is two poles with a piece of canvas slung between and about four inches shorter than yours truly. Add more dripping water and a floor awash with an ample drop of the Pacific and suddenly the backpacker hostels seem very appealing. I can't believe I'm paying for this ;-) My comfort zone has disappeared faster than the shoreline. Now I know why Helen MacArthur is always crying. No tears yet though.
I'm sure it will be good for me in the long run. Some of the good stuff is that the three lads I'm staying with - Dave, Greg and Jim (the cabin boy - actually that's me) are dead sound like. Everyone on board has masses of experience, much more than my half hour in a rowing boat on Sefton Park lake. The owner, Richo, has done 11 Hobart's. Shane, the navigator has done 9. Andy the Skipper has done one and is a hugely experienced sailor. Andy runs Yachtmaster Courses and is a Sea Survival Trainer. So I feel in pretty good hands really. I just have to remember that I am on board ship and to buy a soap on a rope before I leave.
Another good thing is that I've persuaded my naturalised Aussie niece Kathryn to join the crew. She has loads of local racing experience and it will be great to have her along to keep an eye on me.
The race starts on Boxing Day morning around 10am (11pm Christmas Day in England). There is a race tracker that you can follow the boat with at this link for Global Yacht Racing. The boat is called 'Global Yacht Racing Next' and is a Sydney 38 class. We don't stand a chance of beating the professional big boys in their Volvo Ocean Racer 30 metre beauties, but we will be having a good stab at our own class.
Will try and get an update before we go.
Happy Christmas to everyone.
Thursday, November 30, 2006
Blog 19 - Sydney Surprise
Coming to Sydney was the next logical step. I’d seen the outback and some amazing sights on land and water in WA. So I was itchy to see my long lost relatives in Sydney and keep moving on. Australia isn’t the cheapest place to live and I was keen not to blow my bankroll on merely subsisting. I didn’t want to be in Oz just for the sake of being here. Its possible to camp, but not in the cities. So if you want to hang out where its at (man) you have to do the backpacker thing or stay in cheap hotels, which actually aren’t cheap.
Lucky for me the expatriate branch of the family are extremely hospitable and welcoming. I’ve been in Sydney the best part of a month now and have always been able to doss with a cousin or a niece. I thank you all. I hadn’t actually intended to linger this long. I’m always conscious of outstaying my welcome. By now I would have been in New Zealand. But as fate would have it, I had a call the other week to offer me a place in the Sydney to Hobart Yacht Race! Not just out of the blue like. I’d applied a while back for a crew place but hadn’t heard anything, so assumed it was a no go. The deal involved two weeks in the run up to Christmas in a Sydney apartment with the crew (the race starts on Boxing Day). Sailing every day in practice and preparation; entry to the Rolex Trophy Inshore Races, a sea survival course, an overnight sail, the race itself over five days, New Year partying in Hobart then sail back to Sydney for about the 8th Jan.
It’s the sort of thing I have only been able to dream of. It’s a really big deal race, up-there with the Fastnet. One of the top world sailing events. You are in competition with some of the best ocean racers on the planet. One of the few occasions where ordinary Joe Public like me can rub shoulders with the cream of the crop. I had a taster once before of this phenomenon with the New York City Marathon two years ago. I was in the same race, over the same course as World and Olympic champions. Paula Radcliffe was in the same race. It didn’t matter that she had finished and flown back to London before I saw the lights of Central Park. I was there and that was all that mattered. So I know what a big deal it is to be part of something with such a high profile on the world stage.
The only trouble was haveing to part with about three months salary to be in. I had to sleep on it… When I conceived the idea of having a year out and travelling the world, part of me didn’t want to just travel. I wanted to do stuff that I’d remember for the rest of my natural. Things you can tell your grandkids about. The cost of participating was more or less what I hope to have left when I get home to ease me back into normal life and not be in complete penury and dependent on loved ones for food and shelter. Fuck it. Its only money. If I survive and am still in one piece and of relatively sound mind, I can work, get a job (heaven forbid) and pick myself up again. It may mean the party ends prematurely, but what a party it will have been. If I’m home and beanless in the spring instead of the autumn then so be it. There may never be a future when time, money, place and opportunity come together to allow me to do this. In the end there was no decision to make.
I always find that agonising over big decisions is a waste of nervous energy. You have a gut feeling that can guide you. Its better to send a question to your belly rather than your head. Your guts do a fine job of sifting out what is nutritious and necessary for you from the caddle shovelled into it. Your digestive organs can do the same when it comes to coalescing a morass of confusing possibilities into a well defined answer that is good for you and only you. It’s a natural thing.
It also helps if you have been patient enough to allow the forces of circumstance to pile up against you until the point is reached where resistance is useless and there can only be one outcome. You then just have to go with the flow and allow nature to sweep you off your feet. You know when something is right because it all happens easily. There is no struggle.
So it was with the decision to enter the race and spend the money. In the end it was a no brainer… ha ha an accusation I’ve heard before… and ignored. It’s amazing how people react. I told my Aussie rellies and they were really happy for me. But the first thing you hear is… ‘Streuth, you know 11 people died in that race the other year, don’t you’. What is it about human nature. People just can’t wait to give you the bad news. Even if it is true.
The Sydney Hobart is a dangerous race, no question. The Bass Straight between the mainland and Tasmania is renowned as a wild and fickle place. Calm one minute and stormy the next. (I know a few women like that). One of the reasons people have died in the past is because its not in the Aussie nature to back down. The harder it blows the more they want to be out there. It’s a kind of national male chauvinism. The elements have a habit of having the last word in such situations. I’ll be in a mixed Aussie/Pom crew so prudence may prevail if it comes to taking it easy (she’s the cook).
After signing on the dotted line and jumping up and down with excitement (again), I was brought back to earth with a thump when I visited the local ships chandler to see about the list of gear that I would need. Yachties are a bit like plumbers. I pointed at a waterproof jacket in the shop, the only one they had, and asked how much.
‘What do you want it for’ was the reply. You have to get used to this sort of directness in Oz.
‘Sydney Hobart’, says I (aye Jim Lad)
Big intake of breath through pursed lips from Johnny Shopkeeper.
‘You don’t want that mate’. He looks me sternly in the eye (aye aye).. ‘You’re going to be cold and you’re going to be wet for five days’. I’m now beginning to think I should have saved my money for a spot of gentle rambling in New Zealand.
He then proceeded to give me a long list of all the ‘proper’ gear I would need to keep body and soul together on my journey to watery hell and back. A good grand’s worth (sterling). He let the air out of my spinnaker good and proper. Now I’m thinking I may as well go straight home after the race as I’m not going to have enough left to buy a hawaian shirt let alone visit the place.
But not to worry. Good old fate lent a hand again. A friend of the family kindly offered me the use of his gear. Which was all the best top of the range stuff recommended by my salty dog friend in the chandlers. There is no excuse now for snivelling, Ellen MacArthur like, as the Southern Ocean waves break over me in the middle of the night, while hanging my ballast over the rail.
That left a few odds and sods to find. My trainers (ex marathon) are just about to give up the ghost. I’ve gaffer taped over the holes in them but the black soles will no doubt be frowned upon by the capn. Defacing the deck with black streaks, ten lashes. They may need to be formally buried at sea with full honours. I could probably get locked up for chucking them off the Harbour Bridge. The odds of knocking out a ferry passenger would be quite slim (and not from the smell). So have picked up some cheap canvass deck shoes. Apart from thermals, woolly jumpers and hats 2 – warm and waterproof and wide and sun proof, the other bits are all boy scout stuff. I treated myself to a head torch. I found from the episode under the bus in the Outback night, that a light strapped to your head is way better than a handheld. I’ll need two hands to hold on. The best thing is a four inch knife with a glow in the dark handle. You just never know when you might be overcome with the urge to whittle in the middle of the night. I’ll just have to try and not disturb the rest of the crew!
Monday, November 20, 2006
Blog 18 - Vertigo Tour
Having just spent ten days on a steamy bus charging through the nether regions of Western Australia, you would have thought I'd have had enough. But no, not John Parker, bring it on, lets have some more. I like to do these things with a ripping off a sticking plaster attitude - fast and all in one go. When you are as hairy as me its definitely the best way.
So after a night on Ellie's sofa it was up at the crack of dawn (a nice girl) again. With a freshly laundered hanky to tie up all my possessions, I set off for the bus stop. I'd managed to get all the dust and sweat caked gear into the wash the night before. Most of it was dry but the red earth of the outback was still stubbornly ingrained in most of my modest wardrobe. I had followed the Lonely Planet packing guide to the letter and possessed a meager one tea shirt, one long sleeved top, one shirt with collar and long sleeves (doubles as passable evening garb in case the local greasy spoon has a dress code), two pairs pants with zip off legs, a frugal ration of undercrackers, one pair sandals, one pair of trainers (shortly destined for the great sneaker sanctuary in the sky). Oh and a toothbrush. If that was all I had I could probably get away with a Tesco bag to hump it around. Its the assortment of books, notepads, binocs, pen knife, accumulated pebbles and stones, copies of documents (halt, papers! - must be said in a Hollywood German accent) and heaviest of all, the assorted converters and battery chargers required to keep alive even the most modest of electrical necessities. At least I don't need a hair drier. Even with all the miscellaneous bits my pack is still a pretty manageable fifteen kilo's or so. Some of the others on the trips had massive bags. Fifteen kg wouldn't have covered the toilet bags of some of them. Its usually the young girls that are the worst. They have to have an outfit or three for every possible eventuality. On the last trip, as one of the few boys and the only one over six foot, I usually copped for passing bags up to and from the roof of the bus. So I have excellent first hand knowledge of the benefits of traveling light.
There is a curious sort of anxiety that sets in while waiting for your tour bus to turn up. There is usually a motley crew of bleary eyed backpackers of every shape, size, colour, nationality and smell, assembled by the bus stop. There will be four or five tours to different places all leaving from the same place at roughly the same time. You can comfortably while away twenty minutes or so weighing up who you think is likely to be a new traveling companion. Secretly weeding out the weirdo's. Its a psychoanalysts beanfeast. You learn a lot about your own prejudices on these occasions. They reckon you can weigh someone up in seconds and be more than 95% correct in your assumptions, without even speaking to them. Its really interesting to put this theory to the test. So I've surrepticiously edged out anyone over twenty stone and sweating, all men with pony tails (especially ones with dreadlocks), guys with Eric Morecambe shorts and calf length white socks with sandal's, any boy or boys under twenty clutching a slab of beer. I'd better leave it there or I'll be getting into libel land. Just as an amusing aside while I'm on the subject. This will appeal to at least one reader who shall be nameless (Trumper). When flying on to Sydney a very pretty girl sits next to me and starts chatting away, real friendly like. I'm thinking this is going to be a pleasant four hours. Everything was normal until I asked her what she did, to which the answer was, 'studying the bible'. Its one of life's 'oh shit' moments. God in his ironic wisdom had sent me a Jehovas witness to whiten my tarnished soul. Fortunately salvation appeared in the form of an angel pushing the dinner trolley. It gave me a moment to get the headphones on and face the front - the flying equivalent to slamming the front door. It just goes to show you cant judge a book by its cover. Also thankfully, not every pretty girl is a religious fundamentalist (unless the beard gives it away).
Anyway...... The new fellow excursionists turned out to be an excellent bunch, with a good proportion from my mental A list. This was going to be a three day trip down to the far south, in a loop through Albany, Pemberton, Margaret River and back to Perth. The country this time was very different to up north. Lots of forest, wheat farms, rolling green hills. You could be in Shropshire until a kangaroo hops out across the road. They are buggers for jaywalking. Especially at dusk. They stupidly stand and stare at the approaching headlights, transfixed like a 150 pound rabbit. If they do move its invariably back into your path. They get no change from the road trains. To these 200 ton multi trailered monsters that barrel along at 110kph and take over a mile to stop, its just like a fly hitting the bumper. But to a bus or saloon car it can mean being totaled.
Although I hated the thought of getting back on the bus, I was really excited about seeing the worlds second tallest trees... sorry but there has to be a nerdy corner in every story. There are two types of giant trees in this neck of the woods. The Tingle trees grow only in this area of Oz. To get the best view of the titans they have built a tree walk. This is a metal walkway suspended 40m above the forest floor and very shaky, as were my knees halfway along it.
We had four guys with us in their late 20's early thirties but still being properly juvenile as all lads on tour should be. They thought it would add greatly to the experience if they shook the walkway until you had to cling on like Indiana Jones crossing a bottomless chasm on a fraying rope bridge. Well done lads! You will all be pleased to know that tempted as I was to scream like a girl, I managed to maintain a modicum of self composure as you can see below -
For the cissy's there was also a ground level walk. They really are amazing close up. There used to be a big fella you could park your car in until it gave in to its age. It must have been a sapling around the time of the Spanish Inquisition - a fact I hadn't expected!
Just to get in the mood for all this high level action. We stopped on the way to Albany to have a walk up Castle rock and get a great view of the surrounding wineries and the distant Flinders Ranges. I liked this idea. After being cooped up on the bus an excuse to stretch your legs and have an hours walk was most welcome. Unfortunately it was another vertigo trip at the top. With steep sided rocks, enclosed ladders and a very rusted, not to be trusted summit.
All this was just a warm up though for the BIG ONE. There are a network of fire watch trees in the Southern Forests. They are not used so much now. Planes are a better option. I knew it was coming and had been psyching myself up on the bus all morning. The Bicentennial tree is a 74m Karri. With a viewing platform on the top which is reached by climbing metal spikes hammered into the trunk in an upward spiral. No safety net, no climbing harness. You need the nerves of a trapeze artist to get up, and down this thing. Some of us made it to the top but I considered it enough just to get to the first platform some 30m up. The ascent wasn't too bad. I just looked at the spike in front of me. But coming down I had to step out backwards off the platform and look down to check where my feet where going. When I got to the bottom my legs had turned to jelly.
I used to love climbing trees when I was a kid. Okay, not this big, but the vertigo thing kinda crept in while I wasn't looking. I must admit, I felt better for having done it. They say the best way to conquer your fears is to face them head on. There must be some truth in that. We visited the Gloucester Tree a little further on. It was getting dark so we couldn't climb, but I felt I could have done this one. Especially as at 60m it was just a tiddler ;-)
The far south of WA is a really beautiful place. The beaches are magnificent. Long white sands, big grey granite boulders and masses of wild flowers. The Southern Ocean is a deep blue. It was a bit too nippy to swim, it is full of icebergs after all. I must be getting soft, it's still got to be warmer than Angelsey in the summer. I ticked it off my ocean list. Have swum in the Atlantic and Indian, dipped a toe in the Southern, just the Pacific to go.
The last day was a bit of an anticlimax with lots of short stops to the small towns along the coast back to Perth. I just wanted to stop the bus and get off now. The thought of a single room and a hot shower kept me going though.
Taking tours is a great way to see the country. You don't have all the hassle of finding your own way, places to see, shopping to buy, accommodation to find. Its all laid on a plate for you. Plus the guides have heaps of local knowledge (like the best bakeries and cheapest bottle shops). You get to meet loads of new people and make new friends, even if some of them do have pony tails and dreadlocks.....
So after a night on Ellie's sofa it was up at the crack of dawn (a nice girl) again. With a freshly laundered hanky to tie up all my possessions, I set off for the bus stop. I'd managed to get all the dust and sweat caked gear into the wash the night before. Most of it was dry but the red earth of the outback was still stubbornly ingrained in most of my modest wardrobe. I had followed the Lonely Planet packing guide to the letter and possessed a meager one tea shirt, one long sleeved top, one shirt with collar and long sleeves (doubles as passable evening garb in case the local greasy spoon has a dress code), two pairs pants with zip off legs, a frugal ration of undercrackers, one pair sandals, one pair of trainers (shortly destined for the great sneaker sanctuary in the sky). Oh and a toothbrush. If that was all I had I could probably get away with a Tesco bag to hump it around. Its the assortment of books, notepads, binocs, pen knife, accumulated pebbles and stones, copies of documents (halt, papers! - must be said in a Hollywood German accent) and heaviest of all, the assorted converters and battery chargers required to keep alive even the most modest of electrical necessities. At least I don't need a hair drier. Even with all the miscellaneous bits my pack is still a pretty manageable fifteen kilo's or so. Some of the others on the trips had massive bags. Fifteen kg wouldn't have covered the toilet bags of some of them. Its usually the young girls that are the worst. They have to have an outfit or three for every possible eventuality. On the last trip, as one of the few boys and the only one over six foot, I usually copped for passing bags up to and from the roof of the bus. So I have excellent first hand knowledge of the benefits of traveling light.
There is a curious sort of anxiety that sets in while waiting for your tour bus to turn up. There is usually a motley crew of bleary eyed backpackers of every shape, size, colour, nationality and smell, assembled by the bus stop. There will be four or five tours to different places all leaving from the same place at roughly the same time. You can comfortably while away twenty minutes or so weighing up who you think is likely to be a new traveling companion. Secretly weeding out the weirdo's. Its a psychoanalysts beanfeast. You learn a lot about your own prejudices on these occasions. They reckon you can weigh someone up in seconds and be more than 95% correct in your assumptions, without even speaking to them. Its really interesting to put this theory to the test. So I've surrepticiously edged out anyone over twenty stone and sweating, all men with pony tails (especially ones with dreadlocks), guys with Eric Morecambe shorts and calf length white socks with sandal's, any boy or boys under twenty clutching a slab of beer. I'd better leave it there or I'll be getting into libel land. Just as an amusing aside while I'm on the subject. This will appeal to at least one reader who shall be nameless (Trumper). When flying on to Sydney a very pretty girl sits next to me and starts chatting away, real friendly like. I'm thinking this is going to be a pleasant four hours. Everything was normal until I asked her what she did, to which the answer was, 'studying the bible'. Its one of life's 'oh shit' moments. God in his ironic wisdom had sent me a Jehovas witness to whiten my tarnished soul. Fortunately salvation appeared in the form of an angel pushing the dinner trolley. It gave me a moment to get the headphones on and face the front - the flying equivalent to slamming the front door. It just goes to show you cant judge a book by its cover. Also thankfully, not every pretty girl is a religious fundamentalist (unless the beard gives it away).
Anyway...... The new fellow excursionists turned out to be an excellent bunch, with a good proportion from my mental A list. This was going to be a three day trip down to the far south, in a loop through Albany, Pemberton, Margaret River and back to Perth. The country this time was very different to up north. Lots of forest, wheat farms, rolling green hills. You could be in Shropshire until a kangaroo hops out across the road. They are buggers for jaywalking. Especially at dusk. They stupidly stand and stare at the approaching headlights, transfixed like a 150 pound rabbit. If they do move its invariably back into your path. They get no change from the road trains. To these 200 ton multi trailered monsters that barrel along at 110kph and take over a mile to stop, its just like a fly hitting the bumper. But to a bus or saloon car it can mean being totaled.
Although I hated the thought of getting back on the bus, I was really excited about seeing the worlds second tallest trees... sorry but there has to be a nerdy corner in every story. There are two types of giant trees in this neck of the woods. The Tingle trees grow only in this area of Oz. To get the best view of the titans they have built a tree walk. This is a metal walkway suspended 40m above the forest floor and very shaky, as were my knees halfway along it.
We had four guys with us in their late 20's early thirties but still being properly juvenile as all lads on tour should be. They thought it would add greatly to the experience if they shook the walkway until you had to cling on like Indiana Jones crossing a bottomless chasm on a fraying rope bridge. Well done lads! You will all be pleased to know that tempted as I was to scream like a girl, I managed to maintain a modicum of self composure as you can see below -
For the cissy's there was also a ground level walk. They really are amazing close up. There used to be a big fella you could park your car in until it gave in to its age. It must have been a sapling around the time of the Spanish Inquisition - a fact I hadn't expected!
Just to get in the mood for all this high level action. We stopped on the way to Albany to have a walk up Castle rock and get a great view of the surrounding wineries and the distant Flinders Ranges. I liked this idea. After being cooped up on the bus an excuse to stretch your legs and have an hours walk was most welcome. Unfortunately it was another vertigo trip at the top. With steep sided rocks, enclosed ladders and a very rusted, not to be trusted summit.
All this was just a warm up though for the BIG ONE. There are a network of fire watch trees in the Southern Forests. They are not used so much now. Planes are a better option. I knew it was coming and had been psyching myself up on the bus all morning. The Bicentennial tree is a 74m Karri. With a viewing platform on the top which is reached by climbing metal spikes hammered into the trunk in an upward spiral. No safety net, no climbing harness. You need the nerves of a trapeze artist to get up, and down this thing. Some of us made it to the top but I considered it enough just to get to the first platform some 30m up. The ascent wasn't too bad. I just looked at the spike in front of me. But coming down I had to step out backwards off the platform and look down to check where my feet where going. When I got to the bottom my legs had turned to jelly.
I used to love climbing trees when I was a kid. Okay, not this big, but the vertigo thing kinda crept in while I wasn't looking. I must admit, I felt better for having done it. They say the best way to conquer your fears is to face them head on. There must be some truth in that. We visited the Gloucester Tree a little further on. It was getting dark so we couldn't climb, but I felt I could have done this one. Especially as at 60m it was just a tiddler ;-)
The far south of WA is a really beautiful place. The beaches are magnificent. Long white sands, big grey granite boulders and masses of wild flowers. The Southern Ocean is a deep blue. It was a bit too nippy to swim, it is full of icebergs after all. I must be getting soft, it's still got to be warmer than Angelsey in the summer. I ticked it off my ocean list. Have swum in the Atlantic and Indian, dipped a toe in the Southern, just the Pacific to go.
The last day was a bit of an anticlimax with lots of short stops to the small towns along the coast back to Perth. I just wanted to stop the bus and get off now. The thought of a single room and a hot shower kept me going though.
Taking tours is a great way to see the country. You don't have all the hassle of finding your own way, places to see, shopping to buy, accommodation to find. Its all laid on a plate for you. Plus the guides have heaps of local knowledge (like the best bakeries and cheapest bottle shops). You get to meet loads of new people and make new friends, even if some of them do have pony tails and dreadlocks.....
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