Loco

The Captains log this week has tales of sea monsters, storms, seasickness, Spanish brandy, serenades of George Michael and a stash of Nutella. There’s also news of great celebrations - All aboard the Hugo!

Tintin on the Pacific

As I type this the laptop screen rocks slowly back and forth with metronomic regularity, swaying in time with the desk, the floor and the entire room.

I gaze out of the window in front of me to take in the view: mighty waves slipping by; crests breaking; clouds drifting across an azure sky. And endless, endless water, stretching to the horizon and far beyond.

It’s not the most typical of sights. But then isn’t the most typical of surroundings. We are on a boat in the middle of the Pacific Ocean.

Having travelled most of the 21,000 miles we have covered so far by land (with the odd ferry thrown in ) we now take to the water, hitching a ride for 15 days aboard a container ship bound for LA, from the far east of the Pacific to the far west.

The Pacific Ocean - the very words conjure up images of ambition and adventure, it’s a byword for the exotic, the far-flung, the unknown. The neon-lit waters of Hong Kong harbour to the to the surf-bound coast of California - sounds far more interesting then Chek Lap Kok to LAX.

No identikit airports and long, dismal queues, no leg-crunching seats and foul, plastic food. No predictable movies or no 9/11 paranoia, no screaming babies or snoring adults.

Just the two of us and a few crew on a big boat. On an enormous blue ocean. With no land for days.

My primal fears still to stir inside. Drowning, shipwreck, seasickness, scary monsters in the depths below and ferocious storms in the skies above.

Too late.

We’ve hauled the anchors now, cast off the ropes. We’re heading out into the unknown, the unquantified, the unpredictable. There’s no way out at sea. No one can hear you scream…

Deep breath.

Take a look at our surroundings. It’s palatial!

As the only passengers we’ve been given the owner’s cabin - a bedroom, large living room and en-suite.There’s a TV, DVD and Hi-fi, plus a fridge, a desk and large sofa. 15 days in which we can live out of cupboards and drawers rather than the cramped confines of a smelly old rucksack.

No dodgy Chinese wiring here, no leaking toilet or dripping taps, no filthy sheets or cacophonous street sounds. Just a gentle hum from the engine, and the steady rock of the ocean. There’s a laundry and mess room, where we dine with the officers. Three hot meals a day, served to us at our own table. There’s a a small gym, with exercise bike, weights machine, table tennis and darts board. There’s a sauna for Lara and even a mini swimming pool.

We’re are treated as honoured guests: the officers go out of their way to guide us around; the crew invite us to sing karaoke (I wisely turned down), play basketball (I was resolutely thrashed) and ping pong (ditto).

In between eating and fraternising we doze on the deck, stretched out on sun loungers or dip into the boat’s impressive DVD collection.

All the time we little moving world sways gently around, sometimes placid, sometimes vigorous.

This can present certain challenges: how to eat soup in a swell for one, and how to sleep when the boat’s rolling and pitching.

Other challenges lie ahead no doubt, but in the meantime I admire another sunset and gaze at the horizon.

I feel like Tintin, my hero, the daring young reporter.

He regularly set off on his adventures by boat, where exciting events would take place: Snowy would get attacked by a shark; Thompsons would wear old-fashioned bathing costumes and Captain Haddock would invariably get drunk on whisky.

And always there was some shady type on board, a stowaway, or a crooked crew member, usually a shifty Balkan-looking type with crossed eyebrows and a dodgy ‘tasche.

Best keep an eye out. After all, anything can happen at sea.

Wednesday

Whenever we lose track of days we usually find it is Wednesday. On this Wednesday we were given an extra day; Wednesday 3rd December 2008 literally happened twice.

The first third of December started like most others on this ship - the alarm went off at 07:45, with breakfast at 08:00. We have recently discovered porridge on the menu, which makes a refreshing change from the fried meat of the last week. It was a warm, sunny day with a large roll factor. The rolliest we had experienced so far which made doing everything either an uphill or downhill struggle that eventually got the better of my digestive system. The swell was in fact so strong that the front of the ship was damaged, but the ship ploughed on.

I went through the usual routine of writing in the morning, eating at midday, reading and snoozing in the sun after lunch followed by yoga and the exercise bike before dinner at 17:45. The regular evening DVD screening was Son of Rambow (****½) and Bobby (***).

At 22:30 we crossed the International Date Line, 180° longitude, and the day started again. So when we woke we opened the second third of December window on our World in Slow Motion advent calendar.

It has taken tins of peanuts, circling torches, diagrams and protracted discussions with the Navigator for me to understand why my life will always now be a day longer than stated on the calendar. It’s something to do with standardising time so that night is always dark and day is always light the world over and so that everyone is living the same day as in Greenwich, London. But perhaps more importantly, every step eastwards is now a step closer to home.

The second third of December began like the first. Alarm at 07:45, porridge at 08:00. It was cloudier and windier than the first third of December but the nauseating rocking had subsided. Everything carried on pretty much like it had the first time round except that the reading and snoozing took place indoors as there was no sun.

After the gym the day took an unexpected turn. A note on a chair inviting me to take a stroll to the bow was followed by games in Morse code and signal flags. Then I was led to the edge of boat where surrounded by nothing but Pacific Ocean on three sides Tom got down on one knee and popped the question. I took my chances and said yes.

That evening we celebrated with the Filipino crew who gave us Spanish brandy, a serenade of George Michael and sang love songs to us on the karaoke machine. The German Captain shared his private stash of Nutella with us. You can’t beat that for history repeating itself.

You can read past blog entries here.

Loco2 would like to say a huge CONGRATULATIONS to Lara and Tom on their engagement!

While Lara and Tom are sailing across the Pacific to the USA, out of touch from the world-wide-web and in touch with the big-wide-world, we visit South-East Asia through their eyes for the last time. To keep us going in their absence they have provided us with a ‘Dos and Don’ts guide to South-East Asia’, but first we hit the tracks from Hue to Hanoi.

Hue to Hanoi: letting the train take the strain

In Hue we elected to tackle the next leg of our route by train. We were looking forward to getting back onto the rails again, rather than onto yet another bone-rattling, leg-twisting, ironically-named ‘sleeper bus’.

The photojournalist Tim Page, who’s rattled along a few Vietnamese railways in his time, puts this better than me:

Train travel allows the mind to wander, the eyes not really focusing on the passing countryside, the heady clackety rhythm becoming white noise, a mere sound tapestry to meditate upon…On a train you actually have a sense of getting somewhere, denied the traveller sealed in an aluminium tube zooming across the sky.

Inside the small dusty waiting room, we occupied an entire row of flimsy plastic seats, our enormous bags dwarfing the slender locals hemmed in around them. I poked my head around the door to glance at the platform: it was uncomfortably quiet, hardly a soul moved, let alone a train.

As the minutes ticked by and the time dragged well past our designated departure time. Still no train.

The locals seemed unconcerned, dozing in the seats, nonchalantly sipping green tea and gazing at the traffic outside.

Finally, 50 minutes later it was action stations: a guard stirred, a tinny loudspeaker croaked out some kind of announcement and we were allowed onto the platform. People plus baggage began shuffling onto the platform. Hardly a great swarm of people like you’d have to contend with in China, more a trickle of the unhurried.

A group of men crouched down on the platform, lay a battered old briefcase on its side and immediately started playing cards. They fingered their dirty old dong notes whilst others crowded around, watching the gamblers.

A young couple strolled up and settled down on the bench next to us, resuming the cooing they had been so rudely interrupted from back in the waiting room.

And still no train.

I began to wonder what it could be that was causing such a severe delay. Mexican bandits? The wrong type of snow? Richard Branson?

Finally, an hour later than scheduled, the noise level seemed to pick up, passengers stirred and, to much whistling both from its driver and the sundry guards on the platform, a train appeared, its headlights piercing through the descending gloom.

The dusty green carriages hauled up in front of us, the grimy windows obscuring the interior. We quickly boarded, hauling our bulky loads through the narrow corridors as the rabble pressed up eagerly behind us.

Peering into our cabin we found it already occupied: a large family, big enough to fill a small village stared back at us, their grubby kids sprawled all over the beds. Cue frantic hand signals and pointing at beds and tickets before finally the guard came along and turfed these stubborn train gypsies out.

Although ‘soft sleeper’, our cabin didn’t quite live up to our expectations: it held six beds rather than four, crammed in so that each bed had about two and half foot of space between it and the one above. Grimacing as I adopted a contortionist pose I squeezed my slim frame into a bunk at the top, hauling my pack up behind me.

There was a jolt, and we started moving: ten hours through the night to the capital.

A short night, abruptly ended at 5.30am. Raised voices, doors slamming, a knock at our door: we’d arrived. Hanoi.

The Dos and Don’ts of South East Asia

Sun, sweat and scooters; trains, temples and tours; bananas, buses and lager. The tourist infrastructure in Vietnam, Cambodia, Thailand and Laos turns traveling into a wonderful holiday. However, alongside the tourist trade come touts and tricksters to be wary of. So to supplement your Lonely Planet/Rough Guide (delete as appropriate) here are World in Slow Motion’s top tips for S.E. Asia:

Do:

- Take a sheet sleeping bag. There is a curious lack of bedding in these parts.
- Carry plenty of U.S. dollars cash. They are a useful back-up and the currency of choice in Cambodia.
- Drink bia hoi on plastic chairs in the street in Vietnam. 20p for a glass of draught lager.
- Drink fruity drink and coconuts with a straw. You can spot a fruity drink stall by the glasses of chopped fruit to which condensed milk, coconut milk and balls of sticky rice are added and served with crushed ice.
- Eat amok. This creamy Cambodian curry is the among the best food in SE Asia.
- Take the sleeper bus. A bus with beds is a sight to behold and an experience not to be missed, but don’t expect to have a good kip.
- Have a massage at Seeing Hands in Siem Reap or Phnom Penh. These blind masseurs know what to do.
- Help out at Big Brother Mouse. Either chat with the children in English or buy one of their books to help promote literacy in Laos.
- Get up early to see monks collect alms at sunrise, a special sight in Luang Prabang, Laos.
- Go to the flag lowering ceremony in Hanoi, Vietnam. A triumphal affair every night at 9pm at the Ho Chi Minh memorial.
- Learn to say “no thank you” in the local language to keep the hawkers and touts at bay.
- Stay at Golden Temple Villa in Siem Reap. Excellent value and unlimited free bananas make it a winner.
- Stay at Hong Thien Hotel II, 46 Chi Van An Street, in Hue, Vietnam. Tien at reception is very helpful, but don’t book a Halong Bay tour through them (see below).

Don’t:

- Stay at Greenfields in Hoi An, Vietnam. Poor value and dreadful service.
- Rely on your guidebook for accommodation and eating recommendations. Use the Web, get tips from others and explore by yourself to find some real gems.
- Go on a Halong Bay, Vietnam, tour with Tuan Linh travel agency. These tours are sold through Kim Adventures and various hostels in Hanoi. The boat is broken and the guides lousy. If your boat is called the Duy Tan Junk 02, don’t get on it. Electricity is intermittent and the motor may give out.
- Use the travel services at Victory Queen Hotel (formerly Old Darling Hotel), Hanoi, Vietnam. They take a whopping commission without telling you.
- Buy shoes at Cham H’Mong, 495 C’ua Dai Street, Hoi An, Vietnam. They fall apart within hours.
- Buy your Cambodian visa at the ‘Cambodian Consulate’ in Aranya Prathet, Cambodia, it’s a scam. Buy it at the desk once you’re through Thai immigration.
- Take any price as given - accommodation, food, things - all are up for negotiation. Pay what you think is fair.
- Sleep at the back of a sleeper bus. The bounce prevents sleep.
- Lose your temper with a local. If you cause someone to lose their temper they will lose face and make your life very uncomfortable as they try to regain it.
- Expect a peaceful sunrise at Angkor Wat, Siem Reap. You will be joined by hundreds of tourists all jostling for the same perfect sun-rises-over-ancient-temple photo.
- Wear shorts and sandals in Khao Yai National Park, Thailand. The leeches will eat you for breakfast.

We are sailing…

So, farewell Asia.

After four months on the road and rails across this mighty continent, from the low mountains of the Urals to the warm waters of the South China Sea, we will finally bidding a farewell to this huge, diverse chunk of the planet.

Tomorrow we set off into new waters…literally. For the next two weeks our new home will be the CMA CGM Hugo, a container ship sailing across the Pacific Ocean, from Hong Kong to Long Beach, USA.

Beyond the ocean lie the delights of another continent: North America?

But first we have the small matter of a large pond to cross.

Laying my trusty Michelin out last night I realised that the Pacific covers a good third of the planet. It’s going to be a long and (hopefully) fascinating voyage.

See you on the other side…

You can read past blog entries here.

It’s that time again! It’s time to be transported 1000s of miles to the heat, the bustle and the ‘motorised beasts of burden’ of Vietnam. This is the last leg of Lara and Tom’s South-East Asian stint, as they have recently set sail on a container ship to the United States of America.

Vietnam. I lie on my bed in the sweltering Saigon heat, a rusty old three-bladed fan slowly revolving above me. My mind conjures up images from the film Francis Ford Coppola’s and others like it, movies with which I’ve grown up, shaping my visions of this enticing land… My visions are disturbed by a strange buzzing noise. As I awake from my reverie it grows louder and louder, as though thousands of bees are heading back to their nest, somewhere under my bed.

Drawing back the curtains I’m brought rudely back into the present, looking out onto a typical street scene in downtown Ho Chi Minh City (formerly Saigon). The source of the noise is not apian but human - I gaze down upon a street full of motorbikes and mopeds, moving in a constant stream, tearing up the street like a conquering army, sweeping all before them. Honking Hondas, yapping Yamahas, screeching Suzukis, even moaning old Russian Minsks. It’s like a kind of oriental Quadrophenia.
Here in Vietnam the two wheeler is king.

Their size suits the Vietnamese - we’ve seen whole families crammed onto one bike - two adults and two kids - another, a little Honda, carried no less than five grinning teenagers. Motorbikes also function as a kind of motorised beast of burden, deployed to cart the family’s food home or carry around the tools of their trade. These doughty little vehicles seem to be capable of withstanding a sizable load - a very sizable one: pots; produce, even pigs, all trussed up in wicker baskets and heading for market.

It doesn’t matter how big you are, or how many bags you are carrying. They made easy work of my 6 foot frame, 50 pound backpack and numerous other accouterments, squeezing us all on board and zipping along the Saigon streets like a ballerina on speed.

As we tore up between the serried ranks of riders, I dug into the drivers shoulder blades and thanked the gods that helmet-wearing has recently been made a legal requirement.
But pity the poor pedestrian. For here in Ho’Ville the sheer volume of traffic makes crossing the road a risky business.

You hover nervously on the pavement, eyes squinting in the bright sunlight, trying to perceive a slight gap which might allow you to squeak across. When one appears you’re in there, dashing into the road, pausing midway to finding another gap in the other direction, praying that some evil knievel doesn’t ram into your large Western behind.

Once again, our Western frailties are exposed. We look clumsy and awkward, like babies groping for their parents. By contrast, the locals don’t find these bipedal menaces a problem; indeed they seem nonplussed at it all, casually sauntering across busy streets. A Ho‘Viller slowly strolls into the maelstrom, with barely a glance at the hordes of horsepower heading rapidly their way, and wanders out, without a scratch, at the other side.

This seems to be a blueprint for survival in Vietnam. We therefore adopt it as we board a bus heading north, pushing deeper into this this manic nation. South East Asia, as we somewhat lazily refer to it, has long been a favourite holiday destination for Western tourists.
So much so that, contrary to our experiences in China, Japan and Russia, the region has, at times, almost felt like a home-from-home, such are both the numbers of Westerners we have come across and the facilities the tourism-savvy locals have put on for their visitors.
From the dirt roads of Laos to the temples of Cambodia, from the streets of Saigon to the jungles of Thailand it is not unusual to meet a fellow Western tourist, be it backpacker or package holiday.

They travel a well-trodden path or, increasingly fly in a crowded sky, on new budget airlines (unaware of the connection between their plane flight and the damage increasingly wreaked by climate change on the places they visit).

Short on time and long on regrets, we join the herd whizzing between the main sights (albeit sticking to surface transport). Many become seduced by the places they visit and linger just a little longer, shortening their stay at their next destination, perhaps canceling it altogether.

Some, a few, don’t seem to leave at all.

We’ve come across them, Retired from the West, attached to the East. Way back, in the 70’s or 80’s they visited these places as tourists, two weeks out of Europe for a holiday in the sun. They returned home but the places they visited stuck to them like the resin of a Jackfruit.

Their lives lacking something in the West, they returned once again, to the beaches, the temples, the people, for another heady rush of the scent of the East, and became hooked. Days turned into weeks, weeks turned into months and before they knew it they were applying for temporary residence here, renting an apartment, meeting or even marrying a local, starting up a small business. I’ve lost count of the number of guesthouses here, or tour operators owned by a German, a Frenchman or some other European.

Some of these people really go to seed in the tropical heat, driven half-mad in the by the extreme change in their surroundings, sometimes overindulging in cheap beer, cheap drugs or cheap love.

Something pops in their head as a result of the alterations to their existence and they remain suspended, neither Western nor Eastern. All have leathery skin, and a long look in their eyes…

You can read past blog entries here.

So, it’s time for another installment from Lara and Tom. This week, they have some useful advice for us regarding possible entry and exit strategies for crossing Cambodia’s borders. Entry into Cambodia, it seems, includes an official guide who accompanies you to safety…

Aranya Prathet, Thailand, to Poipet, Cambodia
We crossed the border into Cambodia at Aranya Prathet, one of Thailand’s five land border crossings. It was a very confusing process with little information and scams a plenty. Have your wits about you and don’t trust anyone.

Having been warned against taking the ‘direct’ bus from Thailand to Siem Reap we made our own way to Aranya Prathet. It feels like the end of the road with little in the way of accommodation and the dredges at the bottom of the culinary barrel (including frog, lizard and bush meat).

The border is open from 7.30am to 5pm and you can buy your visa at the border. The tuk tuk journey from town (6km) should cost no more than 50 Bhat, and make sure your driver takes you to the border and not to the ‘Cambodian Consulate’. The Cambodian Consulate is a scam. The sign and building certainly look legitimate and they do sell Cambodian visas, but after one too many “sure brother’s” we got suspicious. Only it was too late; as we had handed over $30 for a visa that we later learnt should cost only $20. The best place to buy your Cambodian visa, if you haven’t got one in advance, is from the visa booth once you have gone through Thai immigration and customs. Cambodian immigration and customs are then a straightforward stamp and enter.

Poipet is an unnerving and unwelcoming entrance to a country. After the relative ease, cleanliness and smiles of Thailand, Cambodia throws dust, ragged children and deformed adults at you. Women pull carts through a cesspool of a road piled high with rubbish and mud. Going through the Angkor towers gate into Cambodia felt like walking through a portal in to another world.

Moving on from Poipet to Siem Reap or anywhere in Cambodia is a chore. The Cambodian authorities claim to have made it easier to avoid scams by providing their own irritating touts and escorts across the border. Whether you like it or not, they’ll accompany you from Aranya Prathet to Poipet and put you on a free bus to the tourist bus terminal (about 200m), where you pay corresponding tourist prices.
It is a slow roller coaster ride on red mud, about as bumpy as the roads in northern Laos, but it is also a fascinating introduction to Cambodia. Dazzling fields of rice stretch as far as the eye can see with water buffalo wallowing, children playing and men fishing with nets all up to their waists in water. Given the country’s history it feels tropically eerie. These feelings were offset by the surreal as a man on motorbike went by with two rigor-mortised pigs, trotters pointing towards the heavens, strapped on the back.

The last part of the trip is finding your guesthouse in Siem Reap. On the city outskirts the taxi driver passes you over to a tuk tuk for the final leg of the journey. Make sure you have a hostel reservation, or pretend you have one, and insist on being taken there and not to the one where the driver receives commission. The tuk tuk ride is included in the taxi fare. Another irritating ‘official’ rides with you trying to sell tours of the temples. Ignore him too. Once settled Siem Reap is definitely worth the hassle, and the journey there is an unforgettable and unique part of the Cambodian adventure.

Bavet, Cambodia, to Moc Bai, Vietnam
Leaving Cambodia is a doddle in comparison to entry. The road from Phnom Penh to Vietnam is good and there are direct buses from Phnom Penh to Saigon (Ho Chi Minh City) that take six hours ($12).

There is little more to say about the crossing. It was easy. You give your passport to the bus staff and they get the exit stamp for Cambodia while you are eating lunch and admiring the bling of Bavet‘s casinos. You then get off the bus to go through Vietnamese immigration and your bags are scanned at customs. Back on the bus and you’re in Vietnam….

You can read past blog entries here.

We can’t remember exactly how it started. We can’t even recall when. It was probably on another holiday and over another pint when…I proposed the idea for our next trip: “how about going on a wee jaunt around the world…” Lara screwed up her face “…without flying?”. Her eyes lit up

Having traveled across Europe, through Japan, China, Laos, Thailand and Cambodia, we join Lara and Tom as they take their first steps in Vietnam. They have traveled 17,063 miles, on 46 trains, 10 buses, 6 boats and 11 cars. (You can read previous blog entries here) Their journey into Vietnam was a doddle compared with what they faced departing Thailand for Cambodia, and so, while we wait for news of their slow travel adventures from the rice paddies and floating markets of Vietnam, we back-track a little to the Temples of Angkor, early sunrises, monsoon rain, and the trials-and-tribulations of slow-travel Cambodia style.

Crossing the border from Thailand into Cambodia it soon becomes apparent we’re in a different country. Not everything changes of course: the tropical heat is still intense; the writing just as squiggly; the large paintings along the roadsides of their monarchs with medals similarly blinged-up.

The friendly demeanor, the enticing smiles may continue, but we soon find out that these two countries share more differences than just the ongoing border dispute, (a nasty little row which has recently spilled over into out-and-out, albeit small-scale, fighting.) This current conflict is most certainly not good for business, at least in Cambodia’s tourist epicenter, Siem Reap, much-needed tourist dollars are down as visitors are scared off, leaving guesthouse owners and tuk tuk drivers like our own, the curiously-named Mr Pea, competing with too many others for too little business. Unlike Thailand, this is a country where crushing poverty is endemic and the recent past is very dark indeed. This starts to become apparent the moment we cross the border: hassle from hawkers increases; begging becomes commonplace.

Any westerner is a potential meal ticket and the locals go to great lengths to prise the much-valued dollar out of your willing hands (in Cambodia, the mighty Greenback is King; the local Rial currency used only as small change). At times it becomes just plain uncomfortable. Riddled with guilt from a day spent batting away beggars in rags and scrawny waifs we sat down for dinner at a café on the street. Within minutes they had zeroed in on us, trying to flog us their pitiful wares, surveying you with hungry eyes and making each mouthful feel unjustified. The tuk tuk drivers are incorrigible, following you into your guesthouse in a bid to secure the next day’s business: “where to tomorrow sir? Killing fields? Market?”. They usually draw the worst of my ire, but whilst you can bat them away with steely eyes and caustic curses it’s hard to deny those in greater need.

Whilst all this hassle this is often distressing, leaving you feeling powerless at best, and more often than not a cruel, cold-hearted, exploitative Westerner, there are also moments of light relief. Top marks have to go, in a very tough field, to the young lad who tried to sell us his wares whilst stood in water up to his knees in Siem Reap’s bus station during one of the frequent torrential downpours. There was no stopping this indomitable little chap. He had us in his sights and, in the pouring rain he bounded over, umbrella in one hand, fruit in the other. He danced up and down on the spot, every inch of him sodden wet yet still bearing a massive grin on his face, “Pineapple sir? Banana?”

You can read Tom and Lara’s full blog entries here.