Friday, 24 December 2010
Wednesday, 24 November 2010
Ohhai!
A quick hello to new friends who make their way here.
I hope you'll find something you enjoy, and please remember that my blog posts are a bit like buses. Foreign buses. You're never totally sure where they're coming from, when they're going to arrive, and even when one does eventually come along you're a little peturbed about where it's actually going.
I hope you'll find something you enjoy, and please remember that my blog posts are a bit like buses. Foreign buses. You're never totally sure where they're coming from, when they're going to arrive, and even when one does eventually come along you're a little peturbed about where it's actually going.
Thursday, 10 June 2010
Official Unofficial office World Cup Sweepstake
Leo | France - Korea DPR
Co-created the competition to maintain maximum interest, and even won some prize money. Fix? Naw!
Co-created the competition to maintain maximum interest, and even won some prize money. Fix? Naw!
Tuesday, 29 December 2009
Testing stuff
Jibberjabber.
Back from Jordan / Israel. Need to pull my finger out and carry on writing up travel blogs, but am currently distracted by...
* the Prime Ministerial debates.
* hoydens.
* cooking a three-course French menu for five.
* Pacman tins.
Blog entries still to come...
* French Polynesia
* Pitcairn Island
* New Zealand pt 2
* Australia
* China
* Kyrgyzstan
* Azerbaijan
* Georgia
* Armenia
* Nagorno-Karabakh
Blog entries currently 99% complete with photos...
* Iceland
* USA
* Quebec
* Cuba
* USA pt 2
* Cook Islands
* New Zealand
Recent travels...
I'm also all over
Back from Jordan / Israel. Need to pull my finger out and carry on writing up travel blogs, but am currently distracted by...
* the Prime Ministerial debates.
* hoydens.
* cooking a three-course French menu for five.
* Pacman tins.
Blog entries still to come...
* French Polynesia
* Pitcairn Island
* New Zealand pt 2
* Australia
* China
* Kyrgyzstan
* Azerbaijan
* Georgia
* Armenia
* Nagorno-Karabakh
Blog entries currently 99% complete with photos...
* Iceland
* USA
* Quebec
* Cuba
* USA pt 2
* Cook Islands
* New Zealand
Recent travels...
I'm also all over
New Zealand (beginning)
Aotearoa 16-22nd March 2008
Air travel really is much more relaxed in this part of the world. Opposite Rarotonga’s international airport, I sit in an Army old boy’s club with a beer and re-pack my bag. Checked in, I move out and take a Coca Cola, before sitting out in the sunshine on the grassy check-in lounge. Hibiscus lines the fence, and we watch the jet taxi in as people disembark.
Equine flu. Beware. Danger. Etc. The security at the airport is good, with neither the jobsworth nature that permeates in Great Britain, nor the sheer attitude that you get when visiting the United States. I reach my hostel in Auckland on the wrong day, puzzled by the International Date Line. England are on their winter tour, I fancy taking in a game. Seemingly charmed, I find that they are playing New Zealand in a ODI here. Tomorrow. In Auckland. Because of the misunderstanding with the dates, I’ve also missed all but two hours of Valentines Day.
Good times.
Up early. I make my way to the ticket ground and buy tickets for the New Zealand vs. England ODI. Once that was taken care of, I dashed back across town to the Chinese consulate on the Great South Road – just in time, as it turned out. My Chinese visa a snip at NZ$60… so long as I can pick it up at 2pm and get to the airport by whatever time I need to be there for a 5.30pm flight.
Far from an easy morning, I have my first Subway. Eggs. Jalapenos. Sweet chilli sauce. Breakfast? Breakfast.
England make it a great contest. The big screen focuses on someone in the crowd dressed as Andrew Symons, complete with boot polish. Some time later, two folk emerge in an empty stand with a large banner that read “Symons – stop monkeying around!” I laugh like a drain as they are chased out by police. This makes for a nice distraction from the damned, ill-behaved children in my ‘family’ section. Little bastards.
Collingwood sees the tourists home. It’s Friday night, but I don’t feel like going out. Not even with the Barmy Army in full voice.
Shall we tell them?
Who we are?
We are the England.
The mighty mighty England.
We are the England. The mighty mighty England.
There’s an old Canadian gentleman in the room in the hostel. He offers booze. He’s extremely drunk as I go to bed, and needs help getting into his bunk – but I’ll be fucked if I’m going to do it.
The next day I start my tour to the far North of the country, and the Bay of Islands. I’m pretty despondent, truth be told. There are French, Swiss, Dutch and Brits on our bus, and I want to talk to none of them. Don’t get me wrong, I’m sure they are all perfectly average human beings, but I listen to my iPod and generally seem aloof. We stay in Paihia. It’s small, but I find a place to sup on a Guinness and update my diary before wandering back to the hostel.
The highlight of the day has passed, undoubtedly – I just don’t know when.
I have my barbecue supper, and make no attempt at conversation, because, frankly, I don’t believe I want to. Well, I want to, but just not with the kind of people that I am happening across. I wonder if it’s general shyness manifesting itself as animosity towards people who I just judge, or whether I do actually dislike them. I’m sure it’s percentages of both, and whilst I’m sure that I could find conversations and friendship with any number of them – I don’t.
And so on, and so on
An ancient forest. Full of people. Pies. A highlight so far. Cape Reinga, where hills roll and gravel roads lay underfoot as we approach the lighthouse, and where Atlantic meets Pacific. Or something. The Maoris believed that the spirits of the dead made their way here, before finally finding rest somewhere in Polynesia.
Later, we sandboard. At the top of the dune – larger than I expected – I kneel, then lay my face down, and push off. Three times I did that, filling my clothes with sand when I ditch on the last attempt and thus ensuring mild discomfort until I can find a shower or rid myself of any retained modesty.
The spare day in Paihia comes in handy, as I watch TV with another comely couch potato. Drinks are taken with people, as I have been shunning people for some time lately. Giggles ensue when someone reveals their surname to be ‘Honeybun’. This fills me with some goodly energy, as the next day I head to colonial Russell – the birthplace of modern New Zealand. I stroll past small bungalows, the pretty town, and the odd immaculate garden and feel somewhat more content before my return to Auckland, and indeed, to the South Pacific Islands.
I collect my passport, and have my round-the-world flight ticket re-routed. Suddenly all the lights are changing to green, and the start to my day is a happy one at last as I pick up an excessive weight, and perhaps indeed quantity too, of books. This takes by bag up to 16kg, but with English literature likely to be thin on the ground for a while yet, it seems the most sensible course.
Stopover
The flight to Rarotonga is rough again, and I would say that flying across the South Pacific ocean is not something I will miss in a hurry. I gain a day, which disappears into a haze as I read and sleep during the day, but find the latter impossible in the darkness of night. Peanut butter toast happened somewhere along the line. A girl who looks like Scarlett Johansson checks in.
By jove, the next day I did something! Cycling a decrepit bicycle down to the shop for snacks and beer, I return only to need another shower, as I peel off my tshirt now stuck to my skin with sweat, and find solice by the pool. For some reason, I chat with a rotund American before making my excuses and making use of the free washing powder. With my clothes drying, I return to my room and beat back a scouting party of cockroaches with a liberal application of deodorant, which sets them scampering on their merry way. Buoyed by this cruelty, I chat with two English girls that evening. We share pawpaw and beer until a rather large spider disturbs the peace with it’s languid eight-legged shuffle up the wall.
Air travel really is much more relaxed in this part of the world. Opposite Rarotonga’s international airport, I sit in an Army old boy’s club with a beer and re-pack my bag. Checked in, I move out and take a Coca Cola, before sitting out in the sunshine on the grassy check-in lounge. Hibiscus lines the fence, and we watch the jet taxi in as people disembark.
Equine flu. Beware. Danger. Etc. The security at the airport is good, with neither the jobsworth nature that permeates in Great Britain, nor the sheer attitude that you get when visiting the United States. I reach my hostel in Auckland on the wrong day, puzzled by the International Date Line. England are on their winter tour, I fancy taking in a game. Seemingly charmed, I find that they are playing New Zealand in a ODI here. Tomorrow. In Auckland. Because of the misunderstanding with the dates, I’ve also missed all but two hours of Valentines Day.
Good times.
Up early. I make my way to the ticket ground and buy tickets for the New Zealand vs. England ODI. Once that was taken care of, I dashed back across town to the Chinese consulate on the Great South Road – just in time, as it turned out. My Chinese visa a snip at NZ$60… so long as I can pick it up at 2pm and get to the airport by whatever time I need to be there for a 5.30pm flight.
Far from an easy morning, I have my first Subway. Eggs. Jalapenos. Sweet chilli sauce. Breakfast? Breakfast.
England make it a great contest. The big screen focuses on someone in the crowd dressed as Andrew Symons, complete with boot polish. Some time later, two folk emerge in an empty stand with a large banner that read “Symons – stop monkeying around!” I laugh like a drain as they are chased out by police. This makes for a nice distraction from the damned, ill-behaved children in my ‘family’ section. Little bastards.
Collingwood sees the tourists home. It’s Friday night, but I don’t feel like going out. Not even with the Barmy Army in full voice.
Shall we tell them?
Who we are?
We are the England.
The mighty mighty England.
We are the England. The mighty mighty England.
There’s an old Canadian gentleman in the room in the hostel. He offers booze. He’s extremely drunk as I go to bed, and needs help getting into his bunk – but I’ll be fucked if I’m going to do it.
The next day I start my tour to the far North of the country, and the Bay of Islands. I’m pretty despondent, truth be told. There are French, Swiss, Dutch and Brits on our bus, and I want to talk to none of them. Don’t get me wrong, I’m sure they are all perfectly average human beings, but I listen to my iPod and generally seem aloof. We stay in Paihia. It’s small, but I find a place to sup on a Guinness and update my diary before wandering back to the hostel.
The highlight of the day has passed, undoubtedly – I just don’t know when.
I have my barbecue supper, and make no attempt at conversation, because, frankly, I don’t believe I want to. Well, I want to, but just not with the kind of people that I am happening across. I wonder if it’s general shyness manifesting itself as animosity towards people who I just judge, or whether I do actually dislike them. I’m sure it’s percentages of both, and whilst I’m sure that I could find conversations and friendship with any number of them – I don’t.
And so on, and so on
An ancient forest. Full of people. Pies. A highlight so far. Cape Reinga, where hills roll and gravel roads lay underfoot as we approach the lighthouse, and where Atlantic meets Pacific. Or something. The Maoris believed that the spirits of the dead made their way here, before finally finding rest somewhere in Polynesia.
Later, we sandboard. At the top of the dune – larger than I expected – I kneel, then lay my face down, and push off. Three times I did that, filling my clothes with sand when I ditch on the last attempt and thus ensuring mild discomfort until I can find a shower or rid myself of any retained modesty.
The spare day in Paihia comes in handy, as I watch TV with another comely couch potato. Drinks are taken with people, as I have been shunning people for some time lately. Giggles ensue when someone reveals their surname to be ‘Honeybun’. This fills me with some goodly energy, as the next day I head to colonial Russell – the birthplace of modern New Zealand. I stroll past small bungalows, the pretty town, and the odd immaculate garden and feel somewhat more content before my return to Auckland, and indeed, to the South Pacific Islands.
I collect my passport, and have my round-the-world flight ticket re-routed. Suddenly all the lights are changing to green, and the start to my day is a happy one at last as I pick up an excessive weight, and perhaps indeed quantity too, of books. This takes by bag up to 16kg, but with English literature likely to be thin on the ground for a while yet, it seems the most sensible course.
Stopover
The flight to Rarotonga is rough again, and I would say that flying across the South Pacific ocean is not something I will miss in a hurry. I gain a day, which disappears into a haze as I read and sleep during the day, but find the latter impossible in the darkness of night. Peanut butter toast happened somewhere along the line. A girl who looks like Scarlett Johansson checks in.
By jove, the next day I did something! Cycling a decrepit bicycle down to the shop for snacks and beer, I return only to need another shower, as I peel off my tshirt now stuck to my skin with sweat, and find solice by the pool. For some reason, I chat with a rotund American before making my excuses and making use of the free washing powder. With my clothes drying, I return to my room and beat back a scouting party of cockroaches with a liberal application of deodorant, which sets them scampering on their merry way. Buoyed by this cruelty, I chat with two English girls that evening. We share pawpaw and beer until a rather large spider disturbs the peace with it’s languid eight-legged shuffle up the wall.
Cook Islands
Kūki 'Āirani 4-15th February 2008
My Air New Zealand flight touches down before sunrise, Rarotonga airport's hilly backdrop barely visible, but by God is it warm. Due to lack of blank pages in my considerably dog-eared passport, I'm grateful that the immigration staff are kind enough to stamp a non-blank page. Hoorah!
Esther Rantzen asks me to help her find her bag, and I wonder if I might have hit my head without remembering.
A short minibus trip takes me and a couple of others to the beach front hostel, where we arrive in time to see sunrise clouded out by some heavy rainclouds. As reception wasn't scheduled to open for a couple of hours, I nipped to the nearby shops to buy some water, consider a pawpaw, and wonder why all the imported biscuits from New Zealand are quite so odd.
Don't believe me? Three words. "Milk Chocolate Afghans".
It turns out that the hostel doesn't have a reservation for me, I assure them they are wrong, and find it inexplicable that they know my name considering that I apparently haven't spoken to them before. Luckily, there is room available in a small shed-sized bungalow a stones throw away from a sharpened crowbar sticking out of the ground for husking coconuts. Getting tired.
I'm falling asleep at the computer for the first time since leaving work - and decide to supplement my day with a little adventure, taking one of the complimentary, decrepit bicycles for a ride to one of the few places that is recommended for snorkelling. Quite keen to get the right place, as other people have been dragged out through the reef (painful) by strong currents. Amusement reins as my snorkelling buddy from the hostel is repeatedly attacked by a small but belligerent little triggerfish, and I discover that it is possible to laugh with a snorkel on your face. Later, I open (read - destroy) a coconut with a subtle mix of crowbar and axe.
Scuba snacks
By my second day in Rarotonga, it's clear that three weeks here is a quite preposterous length of time. I find flights on the web that will get me to New Zealand and back for about 200GBP, and cycle up to the dive school to book myself onto a four-day PADI scuba diving course. The cost is half what it would have been to do it at home, plus this way the chances are I might see some real life fish, and not just revel in silent delight as used plasters float tantalisingly close to someone(else)'s mouth.
Put a map in front of me, and I will plan a trip. Even if I'm talking to you whilst I'm looking at the map, you don't have my full attention - merely enough to hold the conversation. That's the way it is. With feet up, relaxing after my swim, I consider my itinerary for the seven months ahead - New Zealand - Australia - Laos - Vietnam - Cambodia - China - Burma - India (whilst it's a little cooler) - and why the devil not! Kyrgyzstan - TajikistanUzbekistanTurkmenistan and a boat to Azerbaijan... GeorgiaArmeniaIran&Dubaiandthenhome!! Deep breath. Suddenly eight months isn't enough, but I'm strangely assured with the prospective addition of a few obscure destinations to the plan. Somehow it's more like my trip again.
As things turn out, I'm the only person on my diving course - and I'm happy for the one-to-one tuition. My mind is immediately put to rest when I ask about sharks in the Cook Islands, "you could slash your wrists and you'd not see one". Theory fills the morning, and in the afternoon I'm blindly fumbling and upside down in about 3 feet of water, tangled in neoprene and diving gear and struggling to fulfil the seemingly straightforward task of just paddling along the bottom of a swimming pool. Day two sees more theory, and kneeling at the bottom of a 3.2m pool and retrieving a lost mask and mouthpiece, and putting them both back on. I find this easier than doing the necessary skin dive, though if I can do everything else the course demands, there's not a lot going to hold me back for long.
I awake the next day from yet another football-related dream, QPR beating Chelsea soundly. I wolf down some toast and half a dozen sea-sickness pills in anticipation of my first open-water dive down to 12m. After about five minutes of that I somehow manage to float back to the surface, and decide that I need more weights. Day two, and I've completed my first dive to 18m - vomiting triumphantly over the side of the boat as we return to land, and once again whilst bobbing about in the water, desperate to descend to the sea bed where things would be calmer. Hopefully I wouldn't have to discover what you're meant to do if you need to be sick at the full depth of 18m, knowing that if I panicked - I was fucked. At that depth, you need a three minute safety stop at a depth of three metres before returning to the surface - or you'd probably get the bends and die. I'm amazed at my control, and incredibly proud of myself to have completed the course - which really was something that a few years ago, I don't think I ever would have even thought about attempting.
My seasickness was that severe, that I was very serious in considering whether I should scrap my trip to Pitcairn Island, which I knew was a three day boat journey. I'd already paid a deposit, planned my entire trip around it, and heard it call me for four years... I hate the sea.
Aitutaki
Air travel is wonderfully relaxed in this part of the world. Although I'm up early in order to pack up my floordrobe, I'm directed to the fireman at the airport - who lets me leave my big rucksack with him whilst I take some time out from my travels for a relaxing holiday. Rarotonga International airport's resident chicken struts his stuff as the breeze drifts through the open sides of the building, and I make the short walk across the runway to the the 34-seater Saab 340 jet. The flight is spectacular, the view of Rarotonga - which, being volcanic, is far from the sandy, palm-fringed paradise you would imagine - over and down into the Aitutaki lagoon. Get a window seat on the left hand side of the plane.
Mango. Coconut. Guava. Quite a welcome to my night's accommodation. Huge lizards strut the walls, and I go for a walk. The place is wonderful. Relaxed. Beautiful. The main road, lined with hibiscus and scented jasmine, led me past the oldest church in the Cook Islands. Past giant crabs dashing for cover. Into a shop for some sort of cup-a-soup, which I later cook for myself in a large silver bowl. I chuckle to myself at my rather Dickensian supper.
The next day I am the first to arrive on the boat for the lagoon cruise. The captain, a man of style, talent, and... well, his name was Leo too. I was made honorary second-in-command for the day, and considered the captain's daily routine compared to mine... almost horizontal in his chair, guiding the wheel gently with his feet, whilst strumming a small ukulele. The lagoon is paradise. Warm water lapping gently as we make our stops for snorkelling... wandering around one of the small islets... and taking a delicious lunch of pan-seared tuna, breadfruit salad and chips, and fresh mangoes.
A beautiful, beautiful place. Sublime.
Please check out more of my photos on Flickr/Ovi/more to follow:
My Air New Zealand flight touches down before sunrise, Rarotonga airport's hilly backdrop barely visible, but by God is it warm. Due to lack of blank pages in my considerably dog-eared passport, I'm grateful that the immigration staff are kind enough to stamp a non-blank page. Hoorah!
Esther Rantzen asks me to help her find her bag, and I wonder if I might have hit my head without remembering.
A short minibus trip takes me and a couple of others to the beach front hostel, where we arrive in time to see sunrise clouded out by some heavy rainclouds. As reception wasn't scheduled to open for a couple of hours, I nipped to the nearby shops to buy some water, consider a pawpaw, and wonder why all the imported biscuits from New Zealand are quite so odd.
Don't believe me? Three words. "Milk Chocolate Afghans".
It turns out that the hostel doesn't have a reservation for me, I assure them they are wrong, and find it inexplicable that they know my name considering that I apparently haven't spoken to them before. Luckily, there is room available in a small shed-sized bungalow a stones throw away from a sharpened crowbar sticking out of the ground for husking coconuts. Getting tired.
I'm falling asleep at the computer for the first time since leaving work - and decide to supplement my day with a little adventure, taking one of the complimentary, decrepit bicycles for a ride to one of the few places that is recommended for snorkelling. Quite keen to get the right place, as other people have been dragged out through the reef (painful) by strong currents. Amusement reins as my snorkelling buddy from the hostel is repeatedly attacked by a small but belligerent little triggerfish, and I discover that it is possible to laugh with a snorkel on your face. Later, I open (read - destroy) a coconut with a subtle mix of crowbar and axe.
Scuba snacks
By my second day in Rarotonga, it's clear that three weeks here is a quite preposterous length of time. I find flights on the web that will get me to New Zealand and back for about 200GBP, and cycle up to the dive school to book myself onto a four-day PADI scuba diving course. The cost is half what it would have been to do it at home, plus this way the chances are I might see some real life fish, and not just revel in silent delight as used plasters float tantalisingly close to someone(else)'s mouth.
Put a map in front of me, and I will plan a trip. Even if I'm talking to you whilst I'm looking at the map, you don't have my full attention - merely enough to hold the conversation. That's the way it is. With feet up, relaxing after my swim, I consider my itinerary for the seven months ahead - New Zealand - Australia - Laos - Vietnam - Cambodia - China - Burma - India (whilst it's a little cooler) - and why the devil not! Kyrgyzstan - TajikistanUzbekistanTurkmenistan and a boat to Azerbaijan... GeorgiaArmeniaIran&Dubaiandthenhome!! Deep breath. Suddenly eight months isn't enough, but I'm strangely assured with the prospective addition of a few obscure destinations to the plan. Somehow it's more like my trip again.
As things turn out, I'm the only person on my diving course - and I'm happy for the one-to-one tuition. My mind is immediately put to rest when I ask about sharks in the Cook Islands, "you could slash your wrists and you'd not see one". Theory fills the morning, and in the afternoon I'm blindly fumbling and upside down in about 3 feet of water, tangled in neoprene and diving gear and struggling to fulfil the seemingly straightforward task of just paddling along the bottom of a swimming pool. Day two sees more theory, and kneeling at the bottom of a 3.2m pool and retrieving a lost mask and mouthpiece, and putting them both back on. I find this easier than doing the necessary skin dive, though if I can do everything else the course demands, there's not a lot going to hold me back for long.
I awake the next day from yet another football-related dream, QPR beating Chelsea soundly. I wolf down some toast and half a dozen sea-sickness pills in anticipation of my first open-water dive down to 12m. After about five minutes of that I somehow manage to float back to the surface, and decide that I need more weights. Day two, and I've completed my first dive to 18m - vomiting triumphantly over the side of the boat as we return to land, and once again whilst bobbing about in the water, desperate to descend to the sea bed where things would be calmer. Hopefully I wouldn't have to discover what you're meant to do if you need to be sick at the full depth of 18m, knowing that if I panicked - I was fucked. At that depth, you need a three minute safety stop at a depth of three metres before returning to the surface - or you'd probably get the bends and die. I'm amazed at my control, and incredibly proud of myself to have completed the course - which really was something that a few years ago, I don't think I ever would have even thought about attempting.
My seasickness was that severe, that I was very serious in considering whether I should scrap my trip to Pitcairn Island, which I knew was a three day boat journey. I'd already paid a deposit, planned my entire trip around it, and heard it call me for four years... I hate the sea.
Aitutaki
Air travel is wonderfully relaxed in this part of the world. Although I'm up early in order to pack up my floordrobe, I'm directed to the fireman at the airport - who lets me leave my big rucksack with him whilst I take some time out from my travels for a relaxing holiday. Rarotonga International airport's resident chicken struts his stuff as the breeze drifts through the open sides of the building, and I make the short walk across the runway to the the 34-seater Saab 340 jet. The flight is spectacular, the view of Rarotonga - which, being volcanic, is far from the sandy, palm-fringed paradise you would imagine - over and down into the Aitutaki lagoon. Get a window seat on the left hand side of the plane.
Mango. Coconut. Guava. Quite a welcome to my night's accommodation. Huge lizards strut the walls, and I go for a walk. The place is wonderful. Relaxed. Beautiful. The main road, lined with hibiscus and scented jasmine, led me past the oldest church in the Cook Islands. Past giant crabs dashing for cover. Into a shop for some sort of cup-a-soup, which I later cook for myself in a large silver bowl. I chuckle to myself at my rather Dickensian supper.
The next day I am the first to arrive on the boat for the lagoon cruise. The captain, a man of style, talent, and... well, his name was Leo too. I was made honorary second-in-command for the day, and considered the captain's daily routine compared to mine... almost horizontal in his chair, guiding the wheel gently with his feet, whilst strumming a small ukulele. The lagoon is paradise. Warm water lapping gently as we make our stops for snorkelling... wandering around one of the small islets... and taking a delicious lunch of pan-seared tuna, breadfruit salad and chips, and fresh mangoes.
A beautiful, beautiful place. Sublime.
Please check out more of my photos on Flickr/Ovi/more to follow:
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