Loco

I wrote these series of emails back in late 2006 when I travelled around Eastern Europe by train. I started off with a few mates for a month of summer fun, and then I ventured off on my own. I’ve modified the emails a bit so they make sense to a blog reader, but apart from that they are as I wrote them back then…

Hello and welcome to Jamie’s long-awaited witty and concise email documenting his travel so far. First of all, congratulations for getting on the list, I know the selection process was tough but you all got through it. Secondly, sorry if the email is neither witty nor concise; I have been scolding myself for weeks for entertaining the ludicrous notion that it might be and the fact that I have actively marketed it as such simply consolidates my folly. It is much more likely to be verbose and long-winded. If anyone doesn’t want to receive my intermittent rants, please reply with the word ‘Unsubscribe’ in the Subject, and include an 1800 word essay on the pros and cons of hyper-communication in a globalised world.

So I’ve been travelling for about five weeks, and have been on my own for about five days now. Here’s an an abbreviated account of my travels so far…

Paris (one night) - Got told off in our hotel at 2am for repeating very loudly “J’habite en [insert British town in the relevant accent, e.g. ‘Liverpool’ in thick scouse]”

Munich (two nights) - Celebrated my birthday in a classic stereotypical beer cellar playing literally the worst music I have ever heard (a cross between bad nineties commercial trance and Bavarian folk). The Germans at the bar were loving it (and I must admit that when I was drunk I requested Dreamer by Livin’ Joy, and sang along quite ardently).

Prague (three nights) - The city was so beautiful that it inspired us to name my ridiculously large back-pack “Horace Twatbag”, and the associated zip-on rucksack, “Horace Twatbag’s Massive Detachable Ballsack”.

Zagreb (one day and two night trains getting to and from it) - Me and Rich helped a Czech girl find the right train when she was stranded at Salzburg station in the middle of the night. Despite her not being able to speak any English, with the use of a tiny phrase book we managed to discern that she was a probationary officer in charge of a woman who had stabbed her kids to death in their sleep. Nice.

Hvar, an island off Split in Croatia (one cursed night) - Oh how excited we were to get to a sunny picturesque island! And then camp on a rocky quarry that proceeded to get flooded by a massive storm, getting all our clothes muddy and us very pissed off. Needless to say we got the hell out of there.

Korcula, the next island along (three comfy nights) - Leaving Hvar we got hit by another storm so our plans to camp were thwarted. Thankfully a sexy Muslim from Sarajevo offered us a room in the house her grandfather had built. Went to a club playing incredible music where we encountered an Australian who said things like “Do you wanna fuck me for 4.99, mate?” (I’m paraphrasing), referencing the fact that he slept with a prostitute in Budapest for a fiver. He drunkenly opened his heart to me as his relationship fell apart before our eyes. It was a definite moment.

Orebic, on the peninsula of Croatia (six nights) - Camped ten seconds away from a lush sandy beach, looked at fish through goggles, got tanned.

Korcula again (two nights) - Went to a hostel run by a weirdo who’d been on South African Big Brother and thought it was cool to replay the videos of himself on it every night in the bar. He looked like he was made of plastic. He told Rich that his name was “an enigma”.

Sibenic (two nights) - Stayed in a huge city-like campsite that scared the living shit out of me. I thought I was some sort of tourist refugee, forced to live in limbo with a bunch of socially inept Germans. Krka national park however was stunning, and I spotted a snake in the undergrowth. There were also strange hanging caterpillars sent by God to test your reflexes as you meandered through the wood.

Ljubljana (one night, two night trains around it) - Drank lots of coffee, went to a wicked ‘club’ that was more like four buildings in a carpark surrounded by cool graffiti. Played table football and felt incredibly urban.

Berlin (four nights) - Soaked up the history like a massive knowledge sponge. Got so excited that I began repeating the phrase “I live a life of learning”. Felt bloody cultured seeing some modern jazz.

Amsterdam (three nights) - Got very stoned but managed to hold together some conversations, consisting of a lot of bullshit.

And then all my friends left me and it was just me and Horace Twatbag. I got on a train back to Berlin (very stoned) and read about how inadvisable it is to go on a night train to Gdansk, especially if alone, as there is a high risk of getting gassed and robbed in your sleep. Then I got on a night train to Gdansk, after trying to communicate with a load of scary-as-fuck Russians in uniform who were demanding my passport to try and make sure I didn’t stay in the part of the train that would take me to Russia without a visa… I eventually settled down in my cabin with a really sweet Polish Grandma and Grandson, and didn’t get gassed.

It was quite weird being on my own at first but I’m now used to it. The flat I’m staying in is lush (belongs to a family friend). The girl who showed me round is quite sound, if a little abrasive (she’s a good muse for the play I’m trying to write). I went out with her and some of her friends on Friday night. One’s learning English so could hold proper conversation and she’s cool. The club we went to was surprisingly good and reminded me quite a lot of Urban Gorilla (good breaks but a bit of garage unfortunately, wicked cosy venue though, female DJ, which is apparently far from uncommon).

Then last night I went out on my own to a drum and bass night I’d seen advertised. Some of it was good, big fat Polish man MCing which was quite amusing (MCing in Polish sounds quite good). The club was really cool. It’s in the middle of a park by the 3.5km sandy beach, apparently it used to be a public toilet! Grimy. Met a bloke there called ‘Kuba’ who is an actor and plays the drums so I’m going to go and discover the Polish underground with him (he was pissed off that the club we were at was going increasingly commercial).

It seems that there is a special group in Polish society (or at least in this part of the country) that calls themselves ‘artists’, encompassing people who paint, act, play music etc. The girls I went out with on Friday have disdain for them and think they’re posers, whist ‘Kuba’ loves it, and says things like “it is impossible for me to do anything with my life except act”. He wears a big tweed jacket and a stripy beanie… He’s got something to say for himself anyway so I’m going to get to know him a bit, and play his drums.

Tonight I’m hopping on the train to Gdansk to meet Agatha (what a name), the girl who is learning English and is really sound. We’re going to a party her friends are putting on with fire (assuming poi and staff etc) and music. Should be good. Have had some bloody great discussions about politics and history for those who are interested.

Agatha’s granddad helped Jews hide during the Second World War and eventually he got shot by the SS. When I was in Berlin I was reminded that 3 million Polish Jews were killed, it’s so unbelievable. And the fact that there were some non-Jews will to stand up against the tidal wave really touched me, and it obviously meant a lot to Agatha. The first shots of the Second World War were fired in Gdansk as the Nazis invaded Poland by sea, and the city was the one area in an active war zone for the longest time out of anywhere, basically the full six years.

Even when the Russians liberated Gdansk from Nazi control in 1945 they continued the destruction of the city because it was at the time called Danzig and therefore they saw it as part of Germany. So obviously after 1945 Poland was under Communist control, and in 1970 the Solidarity movement started when some workers at the shipyard in Gdansk striked. They were shot dead but the movement continued to build until in 1989 it finally executed a peaceful revolution and threw off Communism (in the meantime the late Pope, who was Polish, visited the city and offered his support to the movement).

Now (this was written in late 2006 the country is run by two twins: one as President, one as PM (the former appointed the latter). The government is a coalition and one of the parties in it, the ‘Family Party’ is deeply homophobic (linked to the high levels of Catholicism in Poland). Strangely though, apparently it has the highest levels of membership by gay men out of all the parties (this seems very odd and I want to read up on it). The majority of the population is rural and a lot of them take as gospel what is said by a very powerful priest who has his own radio channel and TV show. The country is supposedly secular but he has a lot of sway and the educated girls I was talking to are very worried about his influence. Also, the aforementioned Family Party has underground militas (not publicly linked to the party) similar to the SA in Nazi Germany, or the RSS in India (Hindu fundamentalists linked to the BJP).

I am interested in trying to get to the heart of what young people see as their political orientation, or duty, since they are the first generation to grow up in the post-communist era. There were some quite heated debates over drinks on Friday night, and in true geeky fashion, I was absolutely loving it.

In another three-worded alliteration-fuelled blog post, Kate waxes lyrical about the harsh dilemmas of relaxing on a paradise tropical island. I have delayed posting this for some time because of pure, seething jealousy… over to Kate:

Since my last love affair with our friend the internet I have been back at sea for two weeks, at the mercy of the uncooperative wind and waves as we sailed the 1500 nautical miles from Tahiti to the Kingdom of Tonga. Sadly in this installment I have no stories of pearl smuggling or giant eels to keep you entertained but have been brought crashing back down to the day to day monotony of yachting; of reading books, cooking meals, and enjoying the many delights of salt, water, their close relative salty water, and the colour blue which is available in a range of shades and tones to suit your home.

However before departing Tahiti I did manage to squeeze in a beer and impromptu sing-a-long with a friendly group of skirt-wearing, pot smoking, tattoo covered locals who made up with beards what they lacked in teeth. A lifelong supporter of the comedy beard I was pleased to make their acquaintance and so spent my last few hours on land in their company, playing along to their songs with the newest development in percussion technology, the classic pebble and bottle combination. Disappointed that they couldn’t offer me a lift home, and reluctant to see me try to hitchhike they kindly organised for me to be escorted back to my yacht on a jet ski. Talk about arriving in style. I only wish that the following two weeks at sea were as interesting.

The highlight (if you can call it that) of this week has been the arrival of cockroaches on the boat. While not an infestation of biblical proportions, the headcount currently standing at two, we didn’t want to give them the opportunity to multiply, so armed with a bottle of now illegal boric acid, and with the tune of ‘eye of the tiger’ reverberating in my ears I got to work, dousing all available surfaces with the noxious powder in a hope to burn off their limbs as they mount their assault on our food stores. Ha ha, in your face disgusting only-thing-to-survive-a-nuclear-holocaust-evil-insect-of-doom. Survive this! It seems the pre-emptive strike did the trick and we haven’t seen any since. However, the threat to our precious food was not over yet.

Just as we were recovering from the cockroach fiasco we suffered the simultaneous breakdown of our fridge and freezer which forced us into a race against time to eat as much food as possible before it defrosted or grew mould. While I can’t really complain about being encouraged to stuff my face with ice cream, cheese and salami, this eat-a-thon, coupled with the distinct lack of exercise which characterises life aboard a 44ft sea-faring caravan is rapidly accelerating my decline into lardiness, about which I am none too pleased. And then, three days later all the food was gone, and we were left with 3 apples, a variety of tinned goods and a selection of just add water treats of the dehydrated kind. Thanks to the joys of pasta, rice and fake mashed potato (or faux-tato as I like to call it) we did not starve. Nor did I develop scurvy which I happen to think is a pity as it would be have been very authentic sailor-ish of me, but there’s still time.

The third disaster to strike our boat was the weather, which fluctuated wildly between total calm and no wind on one end of the spectrum, and too much wind and lots of rain on the other. Somebody once likened yachting to “standing in a shower while tearing up money”, and I have to admit that the last fourteen days fit this bill very well. The only saving grace in this situation, which comforted me as I was thrown from side to side during one of many small storms or as I sat, staring through rain at an eerily becalmed sea, is the thought that as a trans-Pacific hitchhiker it isn’t my money.

Our arrival in The Kingdom of Tonga came just in time, the last apple had been munched, the fauxtato was rapidly running out, and so we descended on Neiafu in the Vava’u group of islands and headed straight to a restaurant to resume the lard-off. Neiafu is a little corner of paradise, a yachtie heaven deep in the heart of the South Pacific, where Palangis (foreigners) have set up shop in their hundreds and are welcomed with open arms. Captain Cook named Tonga ‘The Friendly Islands’ when he sailed here many moons ago and the accuracy of that statement is just as true today as it was then. In the space of a week I have been offered a job, a free place to stay, enjoyed oh so many drinks on the house, and been invited to church. There is a great balance here between locals and visitors and I have fallen in love with it.

So in a bold move against the little sensible person who usually resides on my shoulder, I have abandoned ship, leaving the sailing vessel Esprit in my metaphorical wake and striking out alone. One of the potential hazards of this particular kind of hitchhiking is that personalities can clash and with no more than a few metres to separate you from your fellow crew it can become a little stifling. Let’s just say I didn’t necessarily like the cut of my former captain’s jib, and was eager to see what opportunities might open up if I took a chance on Tonga. So as I write this email I am a boat-less sailor, a nomad of the open seas and am bravely sticking out my thumb in the hope that another yacht will take pity on me.

Despite my initial fears that I might be stranded in this paradise forever (woe is me) my bravery has been rewarded and within a few hours of officially leaving my yacht I have been offered not one but two crewing positions on other boats. They say beggars can’t be choosers but I think that ‘they’ were not in Neiafu so I am currently being a yacht snob. I am enjoying myself far too much here to set sail again too quickly so am currently staying put, throwing myself head first into a great little community that has made me feel more than welcome. And if all else fails I can always stay here and have lots of Tongan babies because the locals sure are pretty (don’t worry Mum, that’s a joke…sort of).

So watch this space. I could be back on a boat before the week is out, heading to Fiji, Vanuatu or well, anywhere, or I could hang around for a month, who knows. Afterall this is a place where the school uniform is comprised of a skirt for the boys, there’s a pub quiz on Wednesdays and a weekly drag show in which local Fakaleitis dance to Kylie Minogue. What more could you possibly hope for?

At the risk of incurring the wrath of Tina Turner’s legal team, I thought it was appropriate to post a picture of the teeny tiny singer in celebration of Loco2’s achievement in being named one of the twenty best travel websites by the Daily Telegraph.

Given the meagre resources that we’ve currently got at our disposal (i.e. me and a laptop), this is a proud moment, and gives us a boost to keep plugging away at growing the site.

Amongst the other sites mentioned was the marvellous walkit.com and our trusty friend couchsurfing. My next blog will be all about my experiences couchsurfing around Eastern Europe.

As if to make up for the boredom and monotony of my Pacific crossing the last week has been a whirlwind of activity, shady deals and cultural diversity: from Polynesian men with tattoos covering half of their faces, and a transvestite waitress who wore her lip liner in an evil clown style, to an alcoholic pearl dealer offering me his hand in marriage.

Since my last blog I have been on land not once but three times, having spent a few days in Nuka Hiva in Les Marquises, 24 hours on the tiny coral atoll of Ahe in the Tuamotu Archipelago and the best part of a week in sunny Tahiti.

In between land the sailing has been approximately the same, water in all directions and saltiness all round. Salty hair, skin, and clothes, I am always salty, like some kind of delicious bar snack. In fact it occurred to me this week, during another of my deep thought night shifts that I share quite a lot with the humble peanut of late, salty, dry roasted by the sun, and a brilliant accompaniment to beer. This dream was shattered though when curiosity got the better of me and like the filthy and disgusting individual I am I licked my arm, only to discover that I am far less delicious than I had hoped.

The arrival of land on the horizon couldn’t have come at a better time as I was seriously beginning to doubt my own sanity (as demonstrated by the peanut analogy and by the worrying fact that I caught myself pulling faces at my own reflection while on the graveyard shift). However, Nuka Hiva is a tiny island with an even tinier town so my few days there were a slow reintroduction into the world of civilisation.

Though small and quiet, with only one restaurant and 2.5 shops, it was amazing to have more than four people to talk to, and more than 44ft to move in one direction. On the downside I did have to shower and at least consider brushing my hair. That’s one thing that I definitely don’t miss about civilisation, I’ve grown quite fond of the semi hobo look, so much so that I continued modelling my vagabond chic on land, embracing French Polynesian culture by eating brie and baguettes, and drinking red wine while sitting on the beach, barefoot and dirty like a shipwrecked sailor.

I celebrated the big 23 in style and spent my birthday traipsing through the jungle with the heavily tattooed descendants of cannibals (seriously, Google it) in order to see what I am assured is the third highest waterfall in the world. Standing at 310 metres I suppose it was pretty big, but I was more interested in swimming in the pools and re-enacting an advert for new improved herbal infused all natural essence of aloe organic fusion key amino tropical jungle protective conditioning shampoo. While I busied myself with this important task I failed to notice that the pool in which I swam was also home to a family of massive eels, with savage pointy teeth and evil Wayne Rooney faces. My vision of paradise came crashing down around me as I ran screaming from the pool. You will be pleased to hear that I escaped wound free, and none of the locals tried to eat me during my stay so all in all it was an amazing birthday, and not one I’ll forget in a hurry.

Our departure from Les Marquises was not nearly so epic as our next stop was a mere 4 days sailing. However, a few nights of bad wind slowed our progress considerably and threatened my sanity once again. One night, during a particularly boring 2-4am lookout shift, while cruising at the daredevil, batten down the hatches, man over board speed of 3 knots, I watched with horror as a cloud, yes that’s right, a cloud, overtook us. I was only able to console myself with the fact that this turbo charged boy racer super cloud looked a bit like Africa on the radar. There’s nothing like some endless boredom to kick start your imagination.

Luckily we managed to catch some good wind during the day and we did eventually make it to Ahe, one of the largest landmasses in the Tuamoto group of islands. It seems ‘large’ is a term that is applied quite loosely when it comes to Pacific atolls as from the beach at one end of the island I could see all the way to the other side.

Having exhausted the island’s major attractions and reluctant to get back on the yacht I wandered aimlessly down the street, chasing crabs, and looking at the amazing selection of food in the shop, including “celebrity sausages” (insert your own sausage worthy celebrity here). As I turned a corner an extremely drunk man waving a tea towel tried to get my attention. As I got closer I saw that this was no ordinary drunk man but a drunken man with a bag of pearls. So I went over to say hello.

With one hand on a can of Heineken and the other resting lazily on a huge pile of pearls, the man looked me up and down, peering at me through one eye. He squinted through his drunken haze, and then declared “very beauty…” he paused, whether for effect or to remember the word in English I’m not sure, and then he triumphantly proclaimed “FULL, very beautiful!” Quite what he hoped the outcome of this would be was not made clear, perhaps he envisioned me offering my body in exchange for pearls, I’m not entirely sure. Either way once he realised that I was not going to be forthcoming in offering myself as a prostitute he fell back on safer ground. “Whisky!!!” he exclaimed, laughing to himself and pushing the pearls towards me “one bottle, one pearl”.

The moral questions raised by trading alcohol for pearls are ominous. Besides the fact it’s probably illegal the man in question looked like he could do with a night off the booze, but it seems this local man was just out to make a quick buck and who am I to turn down a bargain. After an hour of turning down marriage proposals and the promise of “beucoup enfants” I walked away with a pocket full of pearls. Luckily (for me) I had bought a bottle of Mexican tequila as a present for someone in Australia and was able to swap it for 6 shiny pearls. So even though I will be arriving empty handed down under I will look fabulous (darling) in my pearls. Now that I’ve got my hands on some treasure, and the fact that I climbed the rigging this week means that I am back on track in my pursuit of piracy.

Just when I thought my week couldn’t get any better I arrived in Tahiti which is one of the most culturally bizarre places I have been. This is a place where men wear 1980s style scrunchhies in their hair, old ladies with traditional flower headdresses eat McFlurrys, and everybody, young and old, men and women, wear Oakleys and board shorts as if they might catch a narly wave at any moment (should that be gnarly or are surf dudes too cool for silent Gs?)

I must take off my proverbial hat to the Tahitian tourist board that has done a sterling job of promoting Tahiti as some kind of beach paradise, which it is not. It’s more of a neon hubbub in the middle of nowhere, a strange mini France where people play boule and drink red wine in a concrete jungle better suited to central London than the South Pacific. I love it.

After a day of hitchhiking (which is ridiculous easy seeing as though there are only about two roads) I made it around the entire island and saw most of the sights. The following day, having failed to find my beach paradise I decided to do the right thing and visit a museum, if nothing else this was a good opportunity to spend time away from the rest of the crew. Don’t get me wrong they’re a good bunch but 44ft is so small. In fact if you’ve got the space, stand up now and walk about 20 steps. That’s it. Anyway, the God of fun was looking down on me and while hitching to the museum I was picked up by a gang of students who’d just finished their final exams. To cut a long story short, the nicest beaches are hidden from tourists, I never made it to the museum and I am mildly hungover. Three cheers for student banter. My sanity is at least partly restored.

We set sail again tomorrow for Nui which no-one, including me has ever heard of. It is over 1000 nautical miles away so you’ve got at least 10 days to recover from this blog.

Lots of love Kate

p.s. I saw a partially blind cat with a pearl as a fake eye. That is way bling yo.

Thanks to Carol Esther for the amusing peanut people photo