The Golden Compass and other bus tales...

I have owned my compass since I was about 8 or 9. I would take it with me to Scout camps. Its home was always in the drawer of my desk, a desk and compass that happily moved from Edzell to Turriff and then to various flats in Edinburgh and finally Glasgow. I have had it for nearly 25 years. It was in good nick too but, if truth be told, in all those years I barely ever used it.
On the night bus from Lago Agrio to Quito, a man sitting behind my chair, slashed my rucksack from under my chair as I slept and stole that said compass. I cannot begin to express the depths of sadness and loss I am currently struggling through
Joking aside, I was actually very lucky. My camera was also in the bag but hidden away. Although, I discovered later that he also took my headlamp. There are many warnings about theft throughout South America. We have always been very careful and that was our last night bus and long distance journey. Generally, driving styles excluded, buses have been very safe and reliable. I´m just thankful it was nothing majorly important that was nabbed. In reflection, I was suffering from a bout of particularly bad (sulphurous) and frequent (at least every 3 minutes) flatulence throughout the journey. Perhaps that was enough to deter the thief, the vagabond, the ragamuffin, the scallywag, the cad, the villain, the reprobait, the rogue, the rascal. Who knows?

We have found that is not always a good idea to look ahead on most buses. In South East Asia they are particularly fond of honking their horns and the buses have a surprising variety of excruciating melodies. In Vietnam they don't travel fast but like to overtake in a way which can be 3 vehicles deep, and that's just on one lane of the road. Just when you feel yourself heading for certain oblivion and an appointment with the Grim Reaper, the bus pulls in, just in time, and calm and order is restored.
The worst drivers so far have been those behind the wheels of Eduadorian buses. The driver speeding us from Tena to Lago Agrio had 2 Colin McCrae Rally stickers proudly emblazened across his front windscreen. He didn´t just interpret them literally, they seemed to inspire him into a crazed, primal scream style of driving behind the wheel. He raced other buses, passing them and re-overtaking them in a fierce competition for customers en route, as he silmultaneously swung the bus ruthlessly round tight bends, over blind hills and down steep ascents.
In Asia and South America you can buy just about anything in the bus station or on the road. At Quito bus station, for example, all the following was being offered by individuals wandering around: sweets, ice-cream, puppies, fruit salad, TV remote controls, hair dye for men, Rubiks cubes, chocolate bars, DVDs, CDs and spectacles.
On the side of the road people sell newspapers, brushes, toilet rolls, drinks and chicken and chips; whilst others camp out beside traffic lights performing juggling tricks and offering to wash your windscreen.
Buses can be jam packed within a matter of seconds. Bags of rice or potatoes jostle for space with old ladies sitting in the aisle and small children sitting on laps. And attempts to temper a 7 hour bus ride by reading your book or listening to your ipod are drowned out by music at ear splitting levels or DVDs showcasing violent and bloody martial arts films.
What is great about the buses is how much they are used. In these countries most people don´t own a car. Let me travel to London from Aberdeen in the comfort of a Chilean Pullman Bus semi cama (sleeper bus - very comfy!) than a squashed Citystink / Slowcoach any day of the week.

Welcome to the jungle: Ecuador

The Cuyebeno Reserve is situated deep inside the Ecuadorian rainforest. It is in the west of the country, near the Columbian and Peruvian borders. The area is just 30km or so north at the Columbian border is considered very dangerous. Farc rebels have camps on both sides of the border.
To get there the entrance point is through the dusty oil town of Lagro Agrio. A 3 hour truck journey through oil and gas fields and palm tree plantations, is then followed by a further 3 hour journey in a motorized canoe to our final destination of the Nicky Amazonian Lodge in the heart of the reserve. Thankfully, after such a long, grueling trip, the lodge is nestled happily inside an aura of tranquility and restfulness. Water turtles sat perched on logs, welcoming our arrival to the lagoon, as well as the intoxicating wildlife sounds and rhythms that is the constant soundtrack and audible heartbeat of the rainforest.
We had 3 full days to soak up the atmosphere, hopefully see a myriad of animals and learn something about the sanctity of this unique eco system. We weren´t to be disappointed; the experience was much, much greater than all our expectations and by the end our veins and minds were buzzing with a rocket fueled injection of the David Attenborough/Indiana Jones type of adventurer/explorer pure adrenalin rush.

Paola and Don Carlos were our guides. Paola spoke perfect English and had an all consuming passion for the wildlife, the culture of the local peoples and sharing her enthusiasm with visitors. Don Carlos was from the local Quechuan community. He was a wise, warm hearted and gentle man, who possessed an intimate knowledge of the local forests and rivers.
The trip was also special because of the feeling we had the place to ourselves. Sometimes as many as 20 people can cram into the lodge but we were lucky to share our time with just one other couple, the lovely Brian and Berbel from the Caribbean island of Bonaire.

Paola and Don Carlos walked us through the jungle and pointed out many different medicinal plants that the locals use to help with sickness and wounds. Don Carlos built a simple snare trap used to catch small mammals, made using materials from the forest. He showed us the Cabano palm tree and how easy and effective it was to make a thatched roof from its strong branches. We ate live beetle grubs found inside the nut of a wild coconut. The head was crunchy and the body tasted creamy with a hint of coconut. Or so I told myself. On swallowing Kathy surpressed a gag reflex!
We drank the local alcohol; chicha made from the yuca plant and panela, a spirit distilled from cane sugar.
We visited a local shaman (he is the main geezer) and learnt a tiny fraction of his vast medicinal knowledge of over 500 rainforest plants. In another village we yanked up yuca plants, then grated, dried and sieved them to make yuca tortillas.
We traveled to the Laguna Grande, that lies immediately beneath the line of the equator. We swam in its warm waters, only slightly peturbed by the possible close proximity of caiman and anacondas. We saw an anaconda at close quarters, a colourful toucan above our heads in the branches and followed a troop of monkeys swinging from tree to tree.
We fished for Piranha. Kathy caught a baby one. I managed to hook a catfish.
At night we walked through the jungle discovering crickets, grasshoppers, stick insects and spiders in the pitch darkness. Under a magical ceiling of sparkling stars the nocturnal rainforest took over. Red caiman eyes peered eerily at us from the black waters of the lagoon. Tree frogs, tarantulas and cockroaches appeared uninvited inside our cabins.
On the last night a small, brown mouse with large, bulbous eyes took a fancy to our stash of biscuits. After an initial period of rustling and confusion, when Kathy claims I screamed and squirmed like a big girl's blouse under the mosquito net, the beams of our head lamps cornered the mouse contentedly squatting on the shelf of our bedside table, munching its way through a big chocolate cookie! Kathy said the mouse reminded her of someone elde who always finished the biscuits (and crisps) (and pies) without a care. She named it Athole...

Oooo, James...

"Meesterrr Bond," said in thick Russian accent was one our favourite phrases on the Tran Siberian Express. But, I´m afraid Kathy has been under a terrible strain recently. She was beginning to fear that it would be January before she might see the new James Bond flick and, under the comforting secrecy of a dark cinema, ogle Daniel Craig's biceps pulsating under his tailor made tuxedo. So, our first cultural act of worship in Quito was to pay homage to the local multiplex and a screening of the Quantum of Solace! And very good it was too! When the plot landed in Bolivia and the Russian city of Kazan, we both squealed with the daft conceited excitement of 'we've been there!'
After Quito, we spent 4 days in the tourist town of Banos. We enjoyed the thrill of the gravity cycle tour taking in all the spectacular waterfalls and a 4 hour trek in the local hills.
Next stop was Tena and a day of river rafting on some class 3 rapids. Accompanied by 2 German lassies, the day consisted of lots of squealing, giggling, falling into the water, getting chucked into the wayer and having our legs bitten alive by blinkin sandflies. Their bites are much itchier than mosquitos or midges and we both spent the night tormented by a seething rash of reminders from the little b... blighters. If a cheese grater had been handy, I wouldn't have thought twice...

Film Festival

A list of all the films we have seen whilst traveling. Some were seen in cinemas (denoted C ), some were watched on a tiny screen in our Spaceship campervan in New Zealand (denoted S ), but most were watched at random on buses, trains, planes or on cable tv film channels such as Cinemax, HBO and MGM.

Iron Man (2008, John Favreau) C

Wanted (2008, Tim Bekmambetov) C

Atonement (2007, Joe Wright)

Star Trek: Insurrection (1998, Jonathan Frakes)

Bodyguard from Beijing (1994)

Inside Man (2006, Spike Lee)

Just Like Heaven (2005, Mark Waters)

The Killing Fields (1984, Roland Joffe)

Sex and the City (2008, Michael Patrick King) C

Kiss Kiss Bang Bang (2005, Shane Black)

The Return (2006, Asif Kapadia)

Hot Fuzz (2007, Edgar Wright)

Deja Vu (2006, Tony Scott)

October Sky (1999, Joe Johnston)

Spiderman 3 (2007, Sam Raimi)

Wild Hogs (2007, Walt Becker)

Night at the Museum (2006, Shawn Levy)

Shakespeare in Love (1998, John Madden)

She´s the Man (2006, Andy Fickman)

Sisters (2006, Douglas Buck)

Kingpin (1996, Farrelly brothers)

Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull (2008, Steven Spielberg)

Four Brothers (2005, John Singleton)

Gattaca (1997, Andrew Niccol)

He Said, She Said (1991)

Batman Returns (1992, Tim Burton)

Sgt. Bilko (1996, Jonathan Lynn)

Billy Connolly Bites Yer Bum (1981) S

Open Water (2003, Chris Kentis) S

Zodiac (2007, David Fincher) S

The Day After Tomorrow (2004, Roland Emmerich) S

Aliens (1986, James Cameron)

Bad Timing (1980, Nicolas Roeg) S

The Dark Knight (2008, Christopher Nolan) C

What Happens in Vegas (2008, Tom Vaughan)

Star Trek: First Contact (1996, Jonathan Frakes) S

The Final Cut (2004, Alan Hakman) S

Gothika (2003, Mathieu Kassovitz) S

Don't Mess with the Zohan (2008, Dennis Dugan)

Cassandra's Dream (2007, Woddy Allen) C

Changing Lanes (2002, Roger Michell)

American Dreamz (2006, Paul Weitz)

Take the Lead (2006, Liz Friedlander)

Pirates of the Caribbean: Dead Man's Chest (2006, Gore Verbinski)

Hearts in Madison

Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers (2002, Peter Jackson) S

Meet The Fockers (2004, Jay Roach)

Identity (2003, James Mangold)

The Black Dhalia (2006, Brian De Palma)

The Omen (1976, Richard Donner)

War (2007, Phillip. G. Atwell)

The Beach (2000, Danny Boyle)

The Pursuit of Happyness (2006, Gabriele Muccino)

Reservation Road (2007, Terry George) C

James Bond: The Quantum of Solace (2008) C

Frost Nixon C

Milk C


Martial Arts Film Kunming C


Who Wants to be a millionaire film houston C

Reading list

A list of all the books we have read whilst traveling. A denotes that only Athole read this book. K denotes that only Kathy read this book. What can I say, she prefers the idea of tucking into bed with Alistair Campbell, whereas I prefer to go for Bez. Ha ha ha...


Ian Banks - The Steep Approach to Garbadale

Ian Banks - Song of Stone A

Arthur Conan Doyle - Hound of the Baskervilles

Lloyd Jones- Mister Pip

Charles Dickens - Great Expectations A

John Cleland- Fanny Hill A

Jules Verne - 80 Days Around the World

Jules Verne - 5 Weeks in a Balloon

Amistead Maupin - Tales of the City

Khaled Hosseini - The Kite Runner

Jon Swaine - River of Time

J.G. Farrell - The Seige of Krishnapur A

Loung Ung - First They Killed My Father

David Chandler - Big Brother Number 1

Graham Greene - The Quiet American

Bez - Freaky Dancin' A

John Wyndham - The Midwich Cuckoos

William Trevor - A Bit on the Side

Anne Tyler - A Patchwork Planet

Rose Tremain - The Colour A

James Meek - The People's Act of Love

Anthony Bourdain - A Cook's Tour

Ian McEwan - On Chesil Beach

Graham Greene - Travels With My Aunt

Anthony Bourdain - A Bone in the Throat

Steve Turner - The Man Called Cash (Johnny Cash biography) A

Zadie Smith - The Autograph Man

Claire Tomalin - The Life of Thomas Hardy K

George Orwell - Animal Farm (in French) K

Alistair Campbell - The Blair Years K

Jean Rhys - Wide Sargaso Sea K

Daniel Defoe - Robinson Crusoe K

Anne Tyler - Dinner at the Homesick Restaurant

J.G. Farrell - The Singapore Grip

Kurt Vonnegut - Galapagos

Peter Carey - Jack Maggs

Ian M. Banks - Use of Weapons

Gabriel Garcia Marquez - Strange Pilgrims

Irvine Welsh - The Bedroom Secrets of the Master Chefs

The flight of the condor and Colca Canyon

After the many highs of Machu Picchu, we travelled next to the deep, deep gorge of the Colca Canyon, the deepest canyon in the world. On the way, we stopped off at the Cruz Del Condor and watched with wonder as those huge birds glided effortlessly above our heads, their massive wingspan cloaking the hillside in shadow as they swept through the sky.
We stopped for a few days in the sleepy, dusty haven of Cobanaconde. My kind of town. The Hostal Del Fuego was a a warm andf friendly refuge. Unfortunately, I fell victim again to the fury of the God of Poo. Kathy visited the oasis at the bottom of the canyon on her own. There they have pools and palm trees. Still gripped by the Incan God of Mentalism, she made the return trip not long after midday. The Hostal owner and his friend were amazed at the speed of her journey. The friend even asked her if she had been aided by mules on her trek. He wasn´t joking!

Machu Picchu (part 2): "not aliens, guys!"

During the trek, Kathy became possessed by the Incan God of Mentalism. When hill walking, I usually lead on the way up and she leads on the descent. On the Inca Trail, however, I just couldn´t meet her pace; going up or down! Only English Gary was her match. Infact, he became her nemesis. Gary liked to let her go off infront and then command ridiculous amounts of competitive strength to catch up with her, sometimes even carrying two rucksacks. Nutters, the both of them. "Maybe too much coca leaves, guys?" As Freddy often said.
On the 4th and final day, Kathy trounced the lot of us in the morning race to the Sun Gate. The Sun Gate lies in the hills above Machu Picchu. On the shortest and longest days of the year, the sun shines through the gate and beams down in a straight line to the Temple of the Sun in Machu Picchu; it shines through the window and lands exactly on a prescribed spot in the middle of the floor. It is not something from the pages of Indiana Jones, it is Indiana Jones. Without the snakes. And with llamas.
"But not aliens, guys, not aliens!" As Freddy would constantly remind us. "People like Mr Miguel built this place. Clever people. They knew all about the stars."
We were told that the sunrise through the Sun Gate would be at about 6.20am (as it happens we arrived too late, but it didn´t matter). The Family left the base camp at 5.30am and were told we had just enough time to make it for the sun´s brand new day. As the boom from the starting pistol resounded off the ancient hills (only Kathy and Gary actually heard this, the rest of us were still waking up...), Kathy was off! She was completely unstoppable, a lightning fast hare darting her way to the mythical prize of the Sun Gate. Christian (who is 22 and in the US Airforce) and myself did our best to keep up with the scorching pace. But she was moving too fast, it was impossible. Even Gary was a beaten man. I have a clear and demoralizing memory of looking up at the Monkey Steps, a tall flight of painfully steep steps inches away from the Sun Gate itself, to glimpse Kathy disappear nimbly over the top, just as the chasing pack had reached the bottom.
When I finally walked through the Sun Gate, Kathy was waiting with outstretched arms and a sweaty smiling face. Below was Machu Picchu. How can I describe the moment? We were all exhausted. 4 days, 45 km and one shameful game of footie had finally caught up with us. The emotion struck us all dumb. It seemed an age that we all sat there looking down at the famous ancient ruins, calmly soaking its old stone limbs in the warm pool of the morning sun. Nothing was said between us except for a string of contented smiles.
The Family walked around Machu Picchu in a bit of a daze. Freddy enthused passionately about the architecture and egineering skills of the former inhabitants. "Remember guys, no aliens!" There were other people there too. They had come by bus. "Lazy tourists, guys," frowned Freddy. The Family growled at these outsiders with distrust. We felt like they didn´t deserve to be here, like they didn´t belong. What had they sacrificed to Pachamama? One middle aged tourist in a lurid flowery blouse, pulled the neck line over her shoulders and sprawled herself over a part of the ruins, posing for the camera. The collective jaws of The Family clunked to the floor in astonishment. That was perhaps taking the notion of sacrifice too literally. Canadian Mike nicknamed her ´Machu Pornshow.´
Whe Bob and his wife had visited the ruins in 1972 there had only been another 12 people there. After 11.30, when the tourist train arrives from Cuzco, there would be some 2000 people clambering amongst the ruins. The Family was long gone before then...

It was an unforgettable 4 days. Please go, if you can. And don´t be a lazy tourist. Don´t take the train. Take to the hills and earn your passage through the Sun Gate.
For Freddy. For William. For the cooks. For the porters.
For The Family.
"For Pachamama, guys. For Pachamama!"

It still brings tears to my eyes...

Machu Picchu (part 1): it's a family affair

"We are family guys!" That was the proclamation from Freddy, our guide, before we set off.
It was the morning after the night before. With only 4 hours sleep under our pillows, it was time to begin yet another big adventure; a four day trek along the Inca Trail to the mystcal mountain palace of the Incas, Machu Picchu. It was an expedition that would require Victorian era planning and resources. The Family was 16 tourists, 2 cooks, 21 native porters and our guides, Freddy and William. By the time we stepped through the Sun Gate at 6.20am on the 4th day, watching spellbound as the shadow blanket was slowly dragged across the hills below our feet, revealing Machu Picchu in all its sleepy, early morning reverie; we really felt like a family. " For Pachamama, guys!"
The porters displayed Herculean feats of strength and hospitality over the 4 days. As we, the tourists, willed our bodies up the steep climbs, they raced past us carrying loads of up t 20kg. Morning tea, lunch and dinner was always set up and waiting for us under tents with tables, chairs and cutlery all neatly arranged. The porters even formed a finish line and clapped and applauded our every arrival. The head porter, Miguel, is 63. He was as fit, wiry and lean as an Andean fox. The cooks conjured up amazing things from the meagre camping stoves like pizza and cake. And every day we looked forward to a new variant of delicious homemade soup. There is no other word for it, AWSOME!
It was also a remarkable trip because of the personal reasons and biographies that had brought each of The Family members to be there.
Eilleen, from Canada, was celebrating her 65th birthday. 4 of her children (she has 8 in total) and Katie's boyfriend Mike, escorted, pushed and motivated her all the way to the finish. William, the guide, kept their spirits going all the way, with a little help from trail nuts laced with M&Ms!
Bob (65) and Jeff, a father and son duo from Chicago, wee there to remember a wife and mother passed away in 2006. Bob and his wife spent the years from 1969-72 working for the Peace Corps in Peru, building schools and falling in love with the country. They were even married there. Bob, like Eilleen, ploughed up the hills with a stoic determination that reminded me of my own proud, "I{ll do it my way!" old bugger of a dad!
Jeff was a true gent, a scholar of Bill Murray and Chevy Chase and one of the funnniest men I{ve met in a long time!
The Sassenachs were out in force too. Martin had dreamt of visiting Machu Picchu ever since he was a lad. Recruited on his mission were his close mate Gary, his son Christian and his son's friend Alun.
Katheryn and Rory were there wildly detouring en route to a new life in Vancouver, Canada. Previously, they had bought an RV the size of a semi-detatched house and motored their way around the States for 3 months. Katheryn, a nurse, had a job awaiting her in the new year. Rory was abandoning his life as a super intelligent radar geek to start a new career as a seaplane pilot. Cool!
And that just leaves little old us. At this point in time traveling has become our life. What else is there to say?
Over the 4 days The Family learnt a lot from Freddy about Incan history and the deep spirituality of the local Quechuan people. We learnt how there are 3 levels to Incan beliefs. Condors at the top, Pumas in the middle and snakes at the bottom. Cuzco is the naval, the centre of the universe. Cuzco is shaped as a puma and Mach Pichu is shaped as a condor.
"For Pachamama, guys!" Every drink from chi cha (corn beer, sour and a bit mingin) to water had to be spilled on the ground before drinking, to pay respects to Pachamama (Mother Earth). At the end of the 2nd day, an arduous climb equal to the height of Ben Nevis, The Family shared a ceremony at the top to give thanks to Pachamama. A cairn was built, coca leaves buried at the base and Pisco brandy spilled over the top. My dad does the same thing with a hip flask of rusty nail when he reaches the summit of a hill; except he never spills a drop! Pachamama was evidently listening as the weather stayed fair for all four days. Not bad considering this was the rainy season.
On the first night Freddy challenged The Family to a game of football against the porters. After 10 mins of charging about at high altitude you are absolutely knackered. Only Mike, the young Canadian, managed to last the pace and that was mainly because the rest of us refused to sub him in our hyperventilating states. Needless to say, we lost. Heavily.

(I am) Everyday People

November 4th, 2008: US Election Night. A couch in the Casa Campasino, Cuzco. A clay oven baked takeaway pizza. Two bottles of Inca Kola. A twix. A snickers. Tuned to BBC World Service TV. David Dimbleby at the helm. Kathy there last time around. With Ken MacDonald. She wore a red stetson. The fridge at home covered in magnetic memories. Points of place. "A village in Texas has lost its idiot," one reads. To prove aonther point. Kathy´s excitement is uncontainable. She wriggles and squirms, blurts out facts, figures; makes noises of disapproval and sage nods of agreement. John Bolton recites his own Satanic verses. A colossal brute. Obama is a left-wing radical. He generalises. The BBC are incompetent left-leaning hacks. He generalises some more. The panel seem nervous but David is calm. The ship is steered deftly into neutral waters again. The results are slow. The new touch screen graphics a bit crap. We wait. David fills. Switch to New York. Cocktail politics. Ricky Gervais. Eddy Izzard. 2 bloggers. Not sexy. Talking drivel. David reels it in. Back to the studio. Serious chat.
Suddenly. New Mexico votes for Obama. They never get it wrong. Obama begins to stack them up. Oven chips are off the menu, sir. Kenya anounces a national holiday.
McCain´s concession speech is eloquent and touching. A park in Chicago awaits.

The turntables might wobble but they don´t fall down.

Obama appears. He looks formidable. Strong, tall, confident, black. Yes we can. He offers hope and puppies for his daughters. Bribery and optimism: classic teaching tactics. Yes we can. Oprah is there, hugging the shoulders of the person in front. Big eyes. The Rev. Jessie Jackson is there too. In tears. Who can blame him? We are both in tears. Yes we can. Is it real? Or is it just Hollywood? One hell of a speech, all the same. Am I being foolish? Am I being naive? I want to believe. Will puppies work in Iraq?

Different strokes for different folks.
And so on and so on
And scooby dooby doo...

Bring the noise! (turn it up)

Her name was Kathy, she was a Weegee...

At the Copa - Copacabana... During our entire time staying at the small Bolivian town on the edge of Lake Titicaca, it was impossible to lose the silky tones of old Barry ´the nose´ Manilow. Yeah, I know he is infact crooning about the one in Brasil, but still... It is a lovely wee place, quiet and relaxing after the intense noise of La Paz. You can see the Bolivian Navy out in full strength. They have a wooden hut and a sentry guard but the only sign of boats are the tourist ferries and Donald Duck paddlers edging the shore. We boarded one of the ferries to the the Isla Del Sol, the island where the mythical Manco Capac (and his sister), the founder of the Incas, is said to have merged from. Very pleasant it was too.
From Copa... (see if you can´t stop yourself singing along now!) we crossed the border into Peru and the town of Puno. We were just in time for Halloween. Unfortunately, they have imported the same American model that the kids at home prefer these days too. Only 2 handmade costumes were spotted and there was certainly no signs of the 30min routine I was made to rehearse and perform on doorsteps before I would even dare asking for a sweet or two. Good fun all the same. The next 2 days were the traditional All Souls day, where families take flowers to the cemetaries to remember their deceased relatives. As a result, the town was fairly quiet. However, in the afternoon we chanced upon a local 6 aside tournament. Of course, we did the right thing; bought some empanadas (pies!), Inca Kola (Irn Bru!) and settled ourselves down for a hugely entertaining afternoon of footie!

Back in 1947 a motley crew of adventurers, bored now that the high adrenalin challenges of WW2 combat were behind them, set out on a high seas adventure across the Pacific. Their skipper was a Norwegian called Thor Heyerdahl and their boat called the Kon-tiki was a raft made entirely out of balsa wood and native Peruvian materials. Thor wanted to prove that it was possible that the first settlers to South America migrated from the Polynesian islands. He used expert raft builders from Lake Titicaca to construct the raft using ancient Incan methods. The journey was a success but his theories remain controversial.
Even further back in 1862, a grand British party of mules and men began transporting the 2766 pieces of British made ship metal from the port of Arica to Lake Titicaca, some 3810m above sea level. Put together, the 210 tons of finest Victorian engineering would assemble two ships, the Yavuri and the Yapura. Sadly, someone forgot to pack the Airfix instructions and someone else underestimated the magnitude of the hostile political and environmental landscape that lay ahead of them. Some 8 years later, on Christmas Day 1870, the Yavuri was finally launched onto Lake Titicaca. The Yapura made it a few years later but, indignant at being left behind, changed its name to the Puno.For the last 12 years a crew, led by Captain Carlos Saavedra and an endearingly eccentric Britsh lady called Meriel Larkin, have been painstakingly restoring the ship. Meriel Larkin´s family were former Clyde shipbuilders. When we visited it, it was weeks away from being finished. The Captain was extemely proud. Learning of our Scottish roots he pointed out that all the ship´s instruments were made in Leith. And there was another ship rusting in the port, called the Coya, that was made in Dumbarton! It is quite a story and the restoration work is beautiful.
The Captain now plans to retire by touring the world for 10 years. His itenary was vast, obscure and made our escapade seem like a skip through the Meadows in Edinburgh. What did stand out was the part where he plans to tour the Stans and learn Russian. A remarkable man and a remarkable ship.
I wonder if, a 1000 years from now, the remnants of these British built ships will inspire future ethnologists into crazed expeditions tracing the possible migration of peoples from Victorian Britain to Peru? Sadly, the relatively short lived art of Clyde shipbuilding doesn´t look like it will last that long for anyone to pass on to the future ethnologist just how they did it. Well, there´s always the internet. :-(

On a brighter note, we saw our first batch of live, wild guinea pigs running around on the grass on the shore next to the ship. How cool is that?!

High attitude!

Less energetic than the ascent of the volvano, but still exacting, were the ten days we spent in Lauca National Park and then Bolivia's salt flats, both at around 3-4000 metres. Altitude sickness is not great - it feels like a bad hangover without the memory loss or the fun. It makes walking particularly hard work because you get breathless and dizzy, but even so, we saw tons of wildlife including flamingoes, llamas, alpacas, vicunyas and an andean fox, albeit often from the comfort of a 4x4.

Many silly photos were snapped during our 3 days at the Salar de Uyuni (salt lakes) in the south of Bolivia. The area is pure white and covers a land mass the size of Belgium. It is 120m deep at the deepest point. We also visited some amazing lagunas (lakes) full of flamingos. One was a deep, deep red. The highest point of the journey was 5000m and on the second night we were 4300m above sea level. We have just come to terms with the high altitude. We shared the tour with 4 young Irish girls, a young Scots couple, 2 blokes from south London (with the surname MacDonald!!) a Belgium couple and an Aussie. Everyone was great fun. All the youngsters got very drunk on the last night on 7% Bolivian beer called Special... sorry Bock, and a bottle of Bolivian grape brandy. We all had to get up at 5am the following day. There were one or two sore heads, believe you me.
On our last night in Uyuni we had a wee bit of a scary adventure in the local cemetary. To be exact, we got locked in behind 10m high walls and spiked gates!
We had taken an early evening walk to build up an appetite for some more beef, egg and chips and came across a large cemetary at the edge of town. There were families outside and inside there were about 3 people doing various things around the site. A young lad at the gate warned us not to take photos. Or so we thought...
Very soon we were completely absorbed in the various styles and decorations of the graves. This contrasted between elaborate family graves to graves of broken concrete with only a crude metal cross to mark the spot. Behind us the sun was setting and the place was becoming increasingly eerie and quiet. We made our way to the gates, noticing 2 dogs that weren´t there when we entered, and, to our horror, the gates (all of them) were closed and padlocked. The place was deserted. A Bolivian Hammer Horror! Looking around we found a plank of wood that we propped between a bench and the wall. Getting up was easy but getting down... Me, the big lump, scraped my belly and arms clambering over the wall and dropping over the other side. Ouch! Kathy, the athletic Jemima Bond, skipped on to the wall and cleared the other side with a dramatic double somersault - completing the routine with a triple toe salco to finish. Dix point!!!
Then we scarpered. Thankfully, the dogs were as big lumps as myself.

Bolivian tasty treats include the biggest ice-creams we've ever eaten, (yes that does include Italy) which Bolivians like for breakfast, llama steak (chewy but good) and, the biggest revelation of all: quinoa. Just because Gillian McKeith recommends it, I had always assumed it was revolting. Not so. The impact of this diet is particularly obvious in Bolivia. Women and men alike here are chubby. There is no other word for it. Kids are little butterballs and it's not unusual to see them chomping their way through an entire packet of chocolate biscuits, usually given to them by their parents to distract them. (Incidentally, I find the same trick works well with Athole on long bus journeys, of which there are plenty.) Women also like to layer themselves in numerous quantities of skirts, petticoats, woolly jumpers, aprons, cardigans, coats, tights, legwarmers (I kid you not), blankets and hats - so much so that getting down the aisle of a bus can become quite an operation. We passed a strip club today and wondered how many hours it took to get down to just their undies?
High altitude also burns extra calories, or at least that's what I'm hoping. La Paz is the highest capital in the world at 4,000 metres above sea level and as a result, its footie teams are made of iron. (Incidentally, the Scottish cyclist Chris Hoy trains here for the same reasons. Wonder if he eats ice-cream for brekkie.) We have yet to see a match live, but we watched one in the pub in Chile, which was almost as exciting, although the screen was hard to see for the fog of cigarette smoke. (Remember that?) Footie is definitely the first sport in South America, but snogging comes a close second. Everywhere you turn there are couples, not just teenagers mind but middle-aged ones too, absorbed in the close examination of each other's face in public. How they manage to find anything through the layers of clothes is another matter.

Touching the volcano: Villarica

Villarica is in the Lake District of Chile; lots of beautiful fishing lakes surrounded by snow capped volcanos and treks through lush wooded forests. It has a very European feel and the hostel we stayed in was run by a Swiss German couple. Claudia and Beat opened the Torre Suisse after touring the world for 2 and a half years on bicycles. Yep, my bum hurts too thinking about it. They really did it the hard way and there is some incredible photo evidence of them around the world posing alongside their bikes. They have been in Villarica now for 12 years. Claudia is quite a character. She tends to shout nicely at you and stomps purposefully around the place like a wound up toy. She prepares homemade yogurt, homemade bread and jam for breakfast. It is the best we have had in South America. They even have a genuine cuckoo clock on the wall. She is lovely, if a little scary. One night we asked her if she would like to join us for some wine. "No, no... thank you!" She barked in clipped English. "If I drink the red wine then I dancing!" I believe it!
Also at the hostel was a retired American guy called Frank who disappears from his home in Ohio to Argentina for about 7 months every year to go fishing. He had a wiley old hermit charm about him. He has spent his life climbing volcanoes and working as a ski instructor. These days he enjoys the simple joys of fishing. When he found out our Scottish roots, he cited Hamish McInnes as a personal hero and one óf the original hard men of ice climbing´, and of the Spey river as the spiritual home of fly fishing.

Dominating the landscape is the active Villarica Volcano. Its height is just under 3000m and it last erupted in 1984. We set out to conquer it. We signed up with a local mountain guide and set off at 7am to begin the journey to the foot of the slope. Our companions were a great couple of girls from New York, a Brazilian couple, a lively young Italian and two Frenchmen humping skis and a snowboard that they intended to descend the volcano on. The rest of us were planning to slide down using a cheaper method; our bums and a plastic tray.

The ascent had actually been cancelled the previous day because of high winds.
But today was still and graced with blue skies. Armed with ice pics and multiple chocolate bars we set off. The Brazilians didn´t last long. After 30mins we never saw them again. One of the guides said it was because there are no volcanoes in Brazil and they never know exactly what they are letting themselves in for. But there no volcanoes in Scotland either, I thought. Climbing up to Edinburgh Castle really isn´t the same thing at all. Oh, dear! It wasn´t long before the French skiers lagged behind too, the weight of their load too much to cope with on the steep, slow ascent to the top.

The rest of us were making good pace and began overtaking other groups on the way. The biggest problem was the sun that reflected off the snow with blinding strength and also made you perspire badly. 3 quarters the way to the top, Kathy started suffering from wobbly legs and then my weaker left arm started grumbling from the strain of putting pressure on the ice pic. But exactly 4 hours from the start of the climb we made it to the top. It was amazing, what a feeling. The whole world was literally at our feet and directly beside us was the grumpy moans, groans and great puffs of sulphur clouds belching from the crater. (It was later that we learnt that our guide holds the record for the quickest ascent to the top, an incredible 1 and a half hours...)

However, the best was still to come. Using only a plastic tray, a cushioned backside and the mysterious force known as gravity we raced our way back down the mountain. What a laugh it was! Kathy and I had about 5 wipouts between us when lost control and flipped over and over through the deep snow until we stopped. During one extra fast section we both lost our ice pics almost similtaneously ( we were using them as a tiller and break) but the canny Italian saved our bacon from the rear by scooping up the ice pics en route and smoothly delivering them to us in one sweeping motion as he continued down the slope. Nice! The next minute, however, he came off the tray and half his body disappeared under the snow line. He was stuck , wedged in to a crevasse, his legs dangling beneath him. It was time for Kathy and I to come to the rescue. We got close and held out our ice pics for him to pull himself up with. After a couple of minutes of tense struggling he was free and back on top of the snow. The top part of the volcano is a glacier. It was lucky that the crevasse was nowhere near as wide as it was deep!

By the time we got to the bottom we were all exhausted, soaken through but completely exhilerated from the experience and on an absolute high.

Back at the hostel, Frank was very complimentary with our achievements. We celebrated with a slap up self-cooked feast of steak, garlic mushrooms, roast tatties and Maipo Valley Chilean red wine. Then we were joined by a Aussie called Trish. Our planned early night quickly evaporated amongst another 2 fine bottles of Chilean red. Eventually we hit the sack. We slept like babies too. Kathy snored but for once I didn´t mind a bit!

Santiago

It was hard to leave New Zealand behind. It had become to feel like home. So much so, that you had the feeling that Glasgow was only a couple of hours down the road... And in one sense it was; at our last stop the wonderful Irvine family in Auckland had fed us, washed our clothes, reminded us of our table manners, been our tour guide and allowed us to sleep soundly in a proper bed. Thank you! And sorry Max for rushing off before you finished your picture. Please send it to us!
Then it was time for Scott Bakula to jump into our skins and quantum leap back in time on our way to Santiago, Chile. It took us a few days to get over the shock but then we discovered that the national dish in Chile is an empanada - a cheese pie. And boy are they tasty. Of course, there are lots of regional varieties, so we felt obliged to try quite a few. Most of the restaurant food here is based around meat and carbohydrate - not much in the way of greens, salad or really any veg at all. This is a bit of a mystery as whenever we go to a market they are stocked high with amazing veg, pulses, fruit and enough advocadoes to drown Scotland in guacamole. So what do they do with it all? They definitely don't feed any of it to tourists. Still, it hasn't detered us from searching out the best, and cheapest, meals we can.

On our first day in Santiago, we met a couple of students who told us some good places to eat, and mentioned a few good dishes to try. Unfortunately, with our Spanish being less than basic at this time, and their English reasonable but not wide in vocabulary, we went away with the impression that Chile was famous for its chocolate mice. Strange, we thought, but we should probably try some. Luckily, before we pestered too many sweetie shops, we discovered that in fact they had been talking about a pastel de choclo, or maize: a corn pie. It is also yummy - a sort of shepherds pie filled with mince, chicken, some veg if you are lucky and then topped with corn mixed with egg and sometimes cheese.

My dad has recently made an attempt to outgrow my beard and moustachio. Well, that wouldn´t be difficult. I´m not quite sure what side of the family I´ve inherited my body hair genes from but there certainly isn´t much to go round. Fortunately, where the hair does grow on my face, it grows in the right places to look okay. The closest I ever came to sideburns was the stage makeup I needed for playing Fagin at school! Kathy has mastered the art of trimming my beard with the scissors from my Swiss army knife. She takes it all very seriously. I, in return, have been allowed to practise my best Nicky Clarke impersonations and have been licenced to tame Kathy´s mullet. Kathy got a magnificent hair cut in Vietnam but the haircut you get tends to reflect the trend in the country where you are. In Vietnam they dig sexy bobs but in Chile they wear the chico mullet. It wasn´t bad, just a little bit out of proportion around the neckline. That´s hairdresser lingo-technical, in case your wondering, for the bit at the back. Swiss army scissors and comb at hand, I wrestled, captured and tamed the mullet with gusto. By the time I had finished, I was already suggesting possible hair products to suit the client´s hair condition and a follow up appointment to have a go round the front of the head. It has to be said that the client was suitably impressed!

P...p...p...pick up a penguin

I was thinking today that Scotland´s Autumn colours will be looking their best at the moment. I bet the Perthshire hills and lochs are just ablaze with gold, bronze, amber and red. Lots of things about New Zealand kept reminding us of home. In the north island of NZ there was lots of heather planted around the hills of the 3 active volcanoes of Mount Ruapehu, Tongariro, Ngauruhoe. The plants were all imported from Scotland years ago and they are apparently very popular for wedding photo backdrops when they are resplendent in their proud purple bloom.
The scenery of the south island is really like Scotland. Everything just seems a bit bigger than normal! But some of the native species of animals are very different. In Scotland, you won´t find any penguins or sea lions outside of Edinburgh zoo. We made it our mission to see a penguin in the wild and in NZ there are lots of opportunities for catching sight of them.
On the east coast of the south island we drove to the town of Oamaru, famous for its Whitestone cheese factory and blue penguins. I hadn´t realised how shy penguins are. They have built a grandstand for enthusiasts to watch the penguins come ashore at dusk but also to keep onlookers at a safe distance. Sadly, it was a bit expensive and we didn´t fancy the idea of watching penguins from a grandstand. That wasn´t how we envisaged our first experience of encountering penguins in the wild. David Attenborough doesn´t build grandstands, now, does he? So, we spent all our money at the cheese factory instead. Undoubtedly the best cheese we tasted in the whole of NZ. They also make a delicously tangy lemon cheesecake.
In Oamaru you can also buy genuine NZ whisky. A warehouse specializes in bottling from casks of the now defunct Wilson´s Distillery of Dunedin. Pretty good it was too with a sea saltiness not unlike Old Pultney. Penguins vs. cheese and whisky was always going to be a tough one. This time the penguins lost..

Journeying south down the east coast, the good weather and beautiful scenery trapped us in the Otago Peninsula. Once again I was reminded of home. The high cliffs, rolling green fields and golden sands transported me back to the north east coastline of Scotland.
At Sandiford Beach we went in search of the shy yellow penguins that can be spotted there. Instead, we found a colony of not-at-all shy sea lions and a fully naked batch of young lads running in and out of the cold waves. And the sea lions were by far the scariest of the two. As we walked along the beach, we got too close to one sea lion, who sneezed at us with contempt, reared up on its hind and then charged towards us with ungainly but frightening speed. I´m sure there is a whole list of sensible things that you should do when this happens but we just panicked and ran as fast as we could. Picture an angry Sumo wrestler plunging across a beach on their belly at what seems a physically impossible velocity and you have a fairly accurate idea. Scary. As hell. Maybe the naked men had some method to their madness? The group of girls situated on the hillside overlooking the beach, who made good use of our binoculaurs, certainly thought so! The penguins stayed well clear. With all that going on, who can blame them?

Our luck finally changed after a wee walk to the islolated Munro Beach on the west of the south island. A boulder marked the point where it was best to stop so as not to disturb the Fjordland penguins who were currently breeding. A few sets of footprints in the sand beyond this point was evidence of some foolish human visitors who obviously felt they knew better. Void of grandstands, the temptations of cheese or whisky, naked men or sea lions; we waited patiently with the binoculaurs. 15 mins past and I spotted a black shape bobbing and weaving in and out of the waves. Was it just a piece of drift wood? It seemed to be letting the tide do all the hard work of bringing it to shore. When the shape reached the sand, stood up on its feet and flapped its wings, I nearly screamed with excitement. No, not another naked man, a real live penguin. Our very own. It stopped to look our way for a few seconds and then waddled off to the safety of the rocks. Eat your heart out David Attenborough!

Abel Tasman: perfect water in NZ

One of the best days we have enjoyed in all whole time away was sea kayaking in the Abel Tasman National Park in the north-east peninsula of the south island.
The charm of New Zealand is that it is full of crazy outdoor adventures. I kept telling myself I was working up to the bungy. Kathy was having none of it. The closest we had come so far was the luge in Queenstown. It was actually my belated birthday present. The cable car takes you to the top of the hill and then you charge down on a 3 wheeled pastic engineless cart. It was tremendous fun, the five times that we each raced down the steep track just wasn´t enough.
But Abel Tasman was a different kind of adrenalin rush. The slow, thoughtful kind. It was beautiful day for starters. The sky was blue, the water still and the 3 kayaks in our group were the only people out there. One of the pleasures about being somewhere off-season is that when the weather is right it feels like you are the only tourists in the world and you don´t need to share your experience with anyone else. In China, that had been almost impossible but on that day it was just perfect.

Our kayak was a tandem version with myself at the front and Kathy steering from behind... as always! After we got in the water and started to paddle, there isn´t much to tell. It just felt amazing to gently work our way round the coastline. We spotted oyster catchers, shags and seals and our guide, Josh, told us tales of the early Maori settlers in the area.
Lunch was had in an idyllic little coved beach. Kathy and myself wasted no time to strip down to oor dookers and charge into the sea. ´JESUS!!!´ It was c c c c frEEZING! I lasted about a whole ten minutes but Kathy, never one to shy from a contest, endured the baltic waters for at least another 10mins. One of the English lads with us, was inspired by our fine example and raced into the chill in his pants. The 2 young Swiss lads didn´t seem impressed. They stayed marooned and bored on their rock. It was obvious that they had still to reach the overgrown kid stage yet!
After lunch we left our party behind and followed a short trek around the rest of the peninsula. Later we were picked up by the sea taxi and taken back to base. I spent the time on the journey back calculating how I could afford to buy a kayak. It is really very similar to a campervan. You store all your provisions in the body of the kayak and are free to roam wherever you like. Weather permitting, Scotland is perfect for it.

You´re probably wondering why I´ve not yet mentioned anything to do with food yet. Well don´t worry, here it comes. After another heavy day of exercise we were more than ready to eat. A take away was on the cards. In town there was all the usual suspects: fish n´chips, curry, Chinese. No, not tonight. Our take away tea was from somewhere that specialised in roast lamb and all the trimmings. It was New Zealand after all and it tasted just like mum´s home cooking. Roast lamb, roast tatties, carrots, peas, pumpkin, kumara (sweet potato), cauliflower cheese and a massive ladleful of gravy on top. We forced it down with a bottle of L&P, which is NZ´s answer to Irn Bru. We´re thinking of opening a chain when we return home.

A gentle paddle followed by a roast tea; now that´s my kind of day. The bungy doesn´t even get a look in...

"Farewell and adieu to you fair Spanish ladies,": living the fishing dream in NZ

The Tongariro river is world famous for its trout fly fishing. The closest I remember ever coming to holding a fishing rod was scooping for minnows with a green net and cane in the rock pools at the edge of the North Sea. But as you know ´proper´fishing is unbelievably expensive at home. In New Zealand you can buy an annual licence for just over a $100 that allows you to fish in any river anywhere in NZ for no extra cost. Not bad, eh!?
Unfortunately, we seemed to be starting the sport at the deep end. Fly fishing is apparently the highly skilled end of the sport. Like sword fighters, the skill of fly fishing is considered to be more of an art form. By the end of our afternoon we clearly understood why!
Our guide was a lovely old fishing veteran called John Sommervell. He had big rough hands full of cuts and large patches of callous skin from standing waist deep in running water holding on to his tackle for years on end. (Sorry, mum!) His jacket had tens of pockets, all full of essential fishing gear and ´stuff´. He had recently returned from a trip to the rivers in Mongolia fly fishing for taimen, a long distant cousin of trout. He was one of only 3 to catch one. We knew he was good.

He was adamant that we learnt the basics of fly fishing properly. Other guides apparently showed people how to cast off and then took over form the client and caught the fish for them. Waders on, we were READY TO FISH! It was a lot to take in. We learnt all about loading the rod and casting off, then about the ´presentation´of the fly on the water. After about 1 and a half hours of practise we were ready to give the real thing a go. The problem now was trying to coordinate all the things he had been telling us. My mind was a blur. No wonder it takes years to learn and become good at it. He teased us with tails off people who had caught a fish on their first cast. We weren´t to be so lucky. The real difficulty is that you don´t actually feel when you have got a fish on the fly. You have to watch the floating guide like a hawk. If it moves, dips or does something strange, chances are you have a strike. Then, you yank the rod with your right arm and pull the line with your left to hook the fish on the fly. What followed was about 2-3 hours of us both concentrating really hard and then desperately yanking the rod to see if we had a strike. John stood behind us and watched over us, occassionaly screaming ´STRIKE´as an indication that we needed to react. Unfortunately, the reaction time between a strike and reacting with the rod is less than a second. After 5 hours standing in the middle of a fast moving river, neither of us had caught anything. We hadn´t even come close. But John was very complimentary about our casting style and presentation. We both really enjoyed it (I would love to have another go) but today wan´t to be our day.

Fast forward a couple weeks to a boat drifting in the middle of the Pacific Ocean in the Bay of Island in the North of NZ. This time we were fishing for red snapper. No fancy technique this time, just a rod, a very long line and a bucket of sardines and mullet. More of a waiting game than an artform, we started hooking up some smaller snappers after about an hour. Unfortunately, they were too short at under 30cm to keep and we had to throw them back. Goldfish, the skipper called them!

Another hour passed and still we had caught nothing. The skipper decided to move the boat and change the bait from sardines to the more expensive mullet. Within 5 mins I could feel a much bigger wait on the end of the line. This is the feeling I had been wondering about and waiting all this time for. My mind rushed away with images of the catch and pictures of me arms fully stretched holding the prize. As the hook got near the top of the water, the skipper wondered if it could be a John Dory. When it flipped and splashed itself out from the waves it showed itself to be a a a.. a... SHARK! If only a smallish school shark. Still, I had caught a shark. Cool!. "I think we´re gonna need a bigger boat!" (and more quotes from Jaws sailed around my foolish head). Sadly, the spritely youngster caught itself in Kathy´s line and twisted and jerked itself into such a mess that it took the skipper ten minutes of cursing, swearing and bopping the poor shark on the nose to release it.

Not long after we started getting lucky with some gurnard (they have colourful fins and look more like butterflies). Thankfully we were allowed to keep them. Our dinner tonight was banking 100% on this trip! The skipper dismissed them as carrots. Although it was unusual to catch them, he still wasn´t impressed. His trip in the morning had proved very fruitful for nice large snappers, he felt he was letting us down. The truth was that Kathy and I were overjoyed to catch anything at all after our last trip. We didn´t care. We felt like true seadogs at last!
By the end our total catch between us was 3 goldfish (snappers), 5 carrots (gurnards) and 1 great white (school shark)! The skipper sent us packing with our freshly filleted gurnard and the wings off the snapper he had caught in the morning.
Dinner that night in the camper van was sensational. Mashed tatties, mushrooms and spinach tossed in garlic and pan fried fish (tossed in seasoned flour).
Breakfast was almost even better! The leftover tatties and fish were transformed into fishcakes. With a big dollop of Watties (made by Heinz but spicier) tomato ketchup we scoffed them overlooking the waters where we had done our hunting the day before. I felt amazing, Kathy looked amazing, the fish tasted amazing. Sometimes life does not get any better.

Breakfasting like a tramp: NZ

New Zealand feels like one massive outdoor playground for big kids. It is the home of the bungy jump and the home of the zorb; a giant plastic ball filled with water, that you climb inside and then roll down a big hill. The dramatic, achingly beautiful landscape is plastered all over Peter Jackson´s Lord of the Rings. Opportunities are endless for trekking (or tramping as Kiwis call it), camping, fishing, sailing, kayaking, rafting, skiing, snowboarding, swimming with dolphins, whale watching, penguin spotting or, as I already mentioned, flinging yourself off a bridge with a thick elastic band tied to your ankles. It was time for Team Kathole to wise up, get active and say "NO TO CHEESE!" But New Zealand also makes really good cheese and wine!! Well, after all that exercise you do need to unwind of an evening...

Our home for the next 3 weeks was to be a bright orange vehicle called a Spaceship. Half people carrier, half campervan, it had been cleverly fitted out with a DVD player, gas stove, double bed, fridge and plenty of storage space. We loaded up the van with a trip to Pak n´Save. It is the supermarket equivalent to Ikea. All the goods are stacked high for cheapness. The branding brought back distant memories of Fine Fare - I loved their smelly cheese n´onion crisps in the canary yellow bag... Kathy loaded up on oats for brekkie...

Cooking for ourselves for 3 weeks was a real luxury, even if it was in a camper van with only 2 burners and 3 pots. In between all the eating we did a fair amount of walking and hiking, (and swimming - it's a very cheap way to get clean as well as a bit of exercise) so we didn't quite turn into the flumps you'd expect after that ingredient list. Camping burns lots of calories, that's what I always say.
Of course, it´s always worst at breakfast time, which is the meal I have struggled with the most while we´ve been away. It´s not so bad for Athole - he can go till 1230 quite happily without much more than a cup of tea and a biscuit. But if I haven´t been fed by about 10 o´clock, I can become grumpy, unwilling and very, very stroppy. Poor Athole!

I think the least inspired breakfast we encountered anywhere was in Russia - pink, wet, limp hot-dog sausages with no skin; boiled to oblivion and then served semi-tepid with a choice of spaghetti or something unidentifiable that may or may not have been semolina or grits. On the side: tasteless cheese and raw onion with bad coffee and tea (8 spoonfuls of sugar obligatory). China wasn´t too bad so long as we were in hotels, although rice porridge with egg is singularly unappealing at 8am. Here in South America it is an unvarying diet of white bread, sticky, incredibly sweet jam, tea, coffee and relentlessly over- or under-cooked eggs. Yoghurt is an option, but it usually consists of sugar, powdered milk (milk dust as Athole calls it) and flavourings and e-numbers. What wouldn´t we give for a Markies fresh fruit greek yoghurt!

The worst was definitely Laos though - on our 3 day trek in the jungle we were treated to hand-caught frogs, boiled with land crabs and eels and served in a spicy soup. It is, of course, immensely rude not to try the food in that sort of situation, especially as our guide was the one who had been out at 3am in the fields catching the frogs. Athole and I cautiously nibbled at the legs of the frogs, peeling off the skin (they were boiled whole) and nodding enthusiastically. Meanwhile, our guide casually picked one up and bit its head off, chewing even more enthusiastically. Watching him chomp through the rest of the amphibian whole, we realised we were going to have to eat frog guts for breakfast. Eating the insides of something that lives entirely on flies is never appealing - at 0730 less so, but we both managed a bite or two before putting down our frogs. At which point our guide asked: "Are you finished?" and proceeded to eat our leftovers.

Luckily in New Zealand, we were self-catering, although trying to live as cheaply as possible. That meant one thing only for brekkie - porridge. I could eat it every day and not get sick of it, but Athole was ready for some cocoa pops after about 2 weeks. You should have seen his eyes light up when I figured out a way to make toast. Boiled eggs and soldiers was never such a treat!

Of course porridge gets you properly fuelled up for a big walk, of which we had plenty in NZ, so I think really we were very glad of the oats. Especially on the colder mornings where we had to turn the car around and wait for the sun to melt the frost on the windscreen while we had our porridge in the mornings! One of those mornings came before one of the best walks we had; in the ski-ing area on the north island. We set off around 9 and took about 3 or 4 hours, including a scramble up a steep, steep slope of shingle, to get to the most spectacular lookout across two extinct volcano craters, now formed into perfectly round and crescent shaped greeny-blue lakes. In the distance, we could see bigger and bigger volcanoes, all capped with shining, sparkling snow glinting in the sunlight. The sky was blue, we had great sarnies and biscuits at the top and we really felt like we had conquered the world. ( The only thing that could possibly remind us of our inferiority was the 60-ish man who jogged casually past us as we were huffing and puffing our way to the top. Bloody Kiwis.)

I think our other hardest walk was the Pinnacles, also in the north island, which was really tough - mostly because we had to climb stairs rather than walk alot of the way. The Pinnacles themselves are incredibly high, grey towers of rock, not far from Auckland. We set off to go half way up one of them, and found that the track we were following was originally made for timber-workers who invented a system of pulleys to harvest the enormous Kauri trees that were found in the area. They cut stairs into the rock in order to make the many trips up and down easier going in the rain and mud. We were getting puggled going up with just our daypacks holding water and a few mars bars - these guys must have been made of iron dragging all sorts of heavy equipment and tools up there! (Actually, it turned out they had horses and mules, but still.) Once we had reached the top, we could still see the Pinnacles above us, but it felt as though we were walking through the tops of the forest below, we were so high up.

There were many others - the scenery and landscape of NZ makes it impossible to go anywhere without discovering another lovely walk around the corner, and those two were the longest ones we completed. But I think Athole´s favourite was the Rob Roy valley, where we stomped our way up above the tree line in a really narrow valley to reach a mountainside that was just perfect - trees, snow, blue skies again and waterfalls cascading all over the sheer, rising cliff opposite ours. The only thing that was missing was a slug of rusty nail at the top!

See the stars under the stars

After Perth´s cool climate, it was a shock to land in the tropical heat of Broome in the North West of Australia. Fortunately it was a dry heat; not like the soggy conditions our peely wally Scottish bodies waded through in Asia. A mere sniff of the nose was enough to bring you out in another flood of sweat, gushing unstoppably from every pore in you body. Sure, Linx? Don´t make me laugh! If I had protected my body in two layers of tightly wrapped clingfilm, the sweat would still have found an escape route in less than a minute.

The plane journey to Broome was a spectacular bird´s eye view drifting across the Australian outback. The red, arrid landscape defined by stunning shapes, tones and blended colours; stretched out below like an infinite Aboriginal canvas. The plane does a final low acrobatic turn and sweep over Broome´s perfect white beach and emerald Ocean waters before skimming the shore on its way to touch down.

Broome is expensive. Our accommodation is the overpriced and sketchy Cable Beach Backpackers, which we share with lots of stewdent travelers and a smattering of aging hippies in worn tie-dye skirts. Including the men. To save on money, we stuffer a 3 day self-inflicted stint of tuna and pasta. And here´s me thinking our impoverished student days were behind us. But the landscape around Broome is stunning. At Gantheaume Point, Ospreys nest in the top of the lighthouse tower and beneath the orange rocks dinosaur footprints can be glimpsed at low tide. A lot more is on show at the nudist beach adjacent to the main Cable Beach. We almost dared but I´m not sure the rest of the world is ready for quite that size of shock. "Just fine where we are, thank you!" The sands were pure and the water crystal clear.

One evening, after yet another mouthwatering feast of cold, limp tuna pasta, we headed for the Sun Picture´s screening of The Dark Knight. Sun Pictures, founded in 1916, is the world´s oldest outoor cinema. The wood panelled interior and rows of metal framed deck chairs are all original. They even project films on 35mm film and not some crappy knock-off DVD that their mate brought back from Bali . It has lots of history. In the early days, the local Aboriginals (black fellas) were segregated from the rest of the white fellas. These days it struggles to attract many locals away from their recent import of Bali DVDs. Which is a travesty. The atmosphere is superb. "See the stars under the stars," is their poetic slogan. The atmosphere is also unique. Directly underneath the airport flightpath, a Quantas jet flies inches over the audience´s heads, literally tickling the tops of their ears during the early evening screening; and scaring the life out of any innocent newcomers!
Before our screening, we had been held transfixed with eery amazement at the spectacle of massive flocks (packs?) of flying foxes (fruitbats) silhoutted against the fading dusk sky. The film itself was tense, unsettling and truly excellent. Midway through the film a wayward, lone flying fox flew directly passed the screen, casting a huge batmanesque shadow across the picture. The audience shrieked in unison, then giggled collectively with nervous excitement and appreciation. You can´t scriptwrite that sort of thing. Movie magic!

Broome was also our point of entry into the Australian Outback, the largely unpopulated land that covers nearly 70% of the whole of Australia. Tim was our guide. He has had many previous occupations: former jockey, blcacksmith, diamond miner, taxi driver and more. He was also complaining of recovering from a cold as the Broome temparature had dared drop below 25C! Wimp! Our vehicle was a 4wd battle bus / tank that left little in its wake. It had a quaint basket of fruit positioned at the front, as if to show it was in touch with its feminine side too.
Our tank powered its way first of all to the sacred Boab Prison Tree. Boab trees (help ma Boab!) grow into adults of an awkward bulbous shape. As they grow they leave an empty chamber inside the trunk. In the dark days of the Colony many trees were used for imprisoning Aboriginals.
At Wijana Gorge we stood incredibly close to lots of shy freshwater crocs. I learnt that it is infact the saltwater versions that are the bad muthas of Crocodile Dundee legend. Tim says that him and his mates have been swimming here before. We were able to test out that theory at Tunnel Creek where we walked through shallow water containing freshwater crocs. Tim told us all about the Aboriginal folk hero Jandamarra who used Tunnel Creek as his hideaway. After initial violence, he adopted a campaign of non-violent protest with the police, against the treatment of local Aboriginals. He was able to trick, confuse and scare the white fellas for so long that local Aboriginals began to decribe his actions as magical and treated him like a living God. A fascinating story.

Our last 3 days in Oz were spent enjoying the chilled out European vibe of Melbourne. We messed around on the fabulous trams, visited art museums, walked in the botanic gardens, watched an historic AFL match on the telly (Dave would be SO proud) and purchased some very nice bottles of skinless wine. The main highlight, predictably, was food. In St. Kilda, the shore district of Melbourne, we found a very strong contender for the ´best fish and chip shop in the world.´ At ´Clamm´s´we devoured a blue whale´s helping of fresh fish, scallops, squid and Kathy´s favourite - the pineapple ring (I´m sure blue whale´s love pineapple rings too). With chips and a bucket of tartar sauce.

Cheesers and winos on the Margaret River

At the weekend, our magnificently generous hosts, April and Dave, drove us down South to the beautiful Margaret River area for a we spot of wine tasting and cheese mongering/murdering!
Oh, CHEESE, how we miss you... All the countries we had previously visited from Russia to Indonesia don´t really do cheese. Posh restaurant menus aside, Laughing Cow processed cheese in Vietnam was as close as we got. We had a lot of quality cheese eating time to make up for. A ´cheese factory´no less had been spotted on the map. The excitement was almost too much. Cheddar, Brie, smelly Stilton and Wensleydale; how we miss you.
Our time in the Margaret River was perfect. We were blessed with clear starlit skies, unspoilt sandy beaches and we clambered over the magestic Canal Rocks like a couple of ten year olds. It was also full on fun for grown ups. Glasses were swilled, noses dipped and a thesaurus of superlatives spent debating the merits of various Merlots, Cab Savs, Semillons and Chardonnays. we visited the famous Simmos ice-cream parlour TWICE. And, yes, we ate a hell of a lot of cheese. "Don´t it make you feel good?" as the gravel throated Stefan Dennis of Neighbours once asked. Yes, Dennis, it certainly don´t, erm does.
On the way home to Perth we stopped off at April´s Auntie who was waiting for us with some ready baked scones and freshly whipped cream. Dave scoffed at least twice us much as everyone else. I counted! Well, he´s a growing lad after all. As they say back home, "tuck in yer at yer Unties."

Our final day with April and Dave was a Sunday picnic to end all picnics at King´s Park. It felt like half of Perth was there doing the same thing. And then to top it off a superb roast pork dinner at night. The belt was loosened. Twice.
It is impossible to sum up how much generosity and kindness our hosts showered unselfishly upon us. If we can treat them to half as much hospitality when they visit Scotland then we´ll be doing very well indeed. But as always, we just can´t promise the weather. I´m sure a picnic and bbq in the backseat of a car will be a novelty for them anyway...

Oz Rules

This was my first visit to Australia, it was Kathy´s second. She was last here 7 years ago for the hosts, April and Dave´s´wedding. Kathy first met April years and years ago when they both worked for Camp America in their Summer hols, supervising lots of stroppy American rich kids for weeks on end while their parents went yachting around the Bahamas. Or something. The experience made them firm friends, even though they have really only spent a matter of weeks in each other´s company in the time since. April is a travel agent and with her hubby Dave they have seen most of this world.
But before meeting April and Dave we had to get past Australian Quarantine. I was scared. The stories I´d heard made it sound more severe than Russian border control. There would be a strip search, chemical showers and all food (especially marmite) and organic materials (anything with seeds or made of wood) confiscated. We had spent our one productive afternoon in Bali scrubbing boots and bags, and picking out seeds and grasses from our stuff with microscopic precision. As it happens, they didn´t seem that bothered. As long as you weren´t hiding a wooden Balinese Buddha you were okay. A quick look over the boots and we were waved on. Those with Buddhas (mostly young men in their 20s sporting new, swollen, painful looking tattoos) were ushered in to a different queue monitored by lady customs officials who had clearly modelled their look on Rosa Klebb. Good luck.

April and Dave were there to meet us at the airport. It was only 6am. We went back to their house, drank about 3 cups of tea and collapsed into bed. The Oz adventure proper was going to have to wait to the afternoon...

Our first full day in Oz was to start with a traditional Aussie BBQ. The venue was friends of A&D called Rod and Kylie. After a mountain of sausages, bacon, eggs, OJ and tea we were all set for enjoying our next Aussie institution, an afternoon at an Aussie Rules Football game.
Freemantle Docker (Freo) Vs Saint Kilda Saints (The Saints). Freo play in a lurid bright purple. We skipped the merchandise stand and made do with a beer and a hearty Mrs Mac´s beef pie instead. Lovin´it already!
The atmosphere was great. The game lasts about 2.5 hours but it really doesn´t seem that long. The action is fast paced and the point scoring high. A&D kept us right and after about 30mins we had a sure grasp on the rules. Dave filled me in with all the stats and the key players. I learnt who the legend "MAXEE" is and that St. Kilda´s main man goes out with an actress from Neighbours. Cool. I think. Dave is a very tall man at about 6ft 7. All the AFL players are tall, some even taller than Dave. I would feel like Jinky Johnston out there. AFL: not a game for dwarves.
At half-time Freo were winning but by the 4th quarter they had suffered a might hammering. To quote Dave, "They were shockin´. That was murda´. Wasn´t it darl?" Even though they lost, I loved the game and I loved being in Dave´s company - a big warm hearted guy with a dry sense of humour.

The next day was Kathy´s birthday. April took us to the Wildlife Park. Like 2 big kids we got to wonder about stroking kangaroos, koalas and pose with giant, sleepy-eyed wombats. At lunch-time I fell in love with April. She is the Queen of the picnic. Kathy tells me that she learnt her trade from April. Like the BBQ, Aussie´s have transformed the picnic into an artform of itself. The climate helps. My mum and Kathy´s mum are also Picnic Queens. But so many of many picnics as a boy are remembered from the inside of a car staring at the rainsoaked beach or the sodden picnic tables in the forest carpark. Familiar to you too?
For Kathy´s birthday meal we chose Kathy´s all time favourite dining experience- a Seafood Platter at Joe´s Seafood Shack in Freo. WOW! It was amazing. Crayfish, barracuda, scallops, prawns, squid and something green called salad. The shack itself was fitted out something similar to Flint´s wooden cabin in the film Jaws.

Aside from the amazing seafood, Freo is also famous for being the twin town to Kirriemuir for one of its deceased former residents - only a certain Mr Bon Scott of ACDC. Rock ON! He is buried here, has a statue here and apparently the way to pay your respects is to spill some whisky over his gravestone. Maybe next time, when I am wearing a studded leather jacket instead of my Berghaus fleece...

Bali bums

Bali is all about beaches, surfing, shopping, getting as drunk as possible and finding a new spot on your body to inflict a dodgy tattoo. We didn´t do very much. We zoned out for a few days into our own world of beaches, books and the Olympics on the tele. The local Indonesian food we tried was disappointing, usually fried and greasy.
Nothing much happened. A couple of young English chaps turned up at the hotel one day, surfboards in tow. One of them described an hilarious account of how he nearly forgot his board, after which the other one branded him an "uber-doofus-diggalo!" Don´t know what it means but I´m using it.
By the end, Kathy was back to full health and we were ready for a new life down under. Don´t think we´ll be back to Bali in a hurry.

Fish head curry: properly the best curry in the world (as they might say in Cornwall)

It feels like there are really only 4 things to do in Singapore: shop, eat, drink and make loads of money. We didn´t have enough dosh to do the shopping, drinking, loads-a-money bit properly, so we decided to cram in as much of the EATING into our single day as possible. I say ´we´ but Kathy was still suffering from the latest bout of RPS (Runny Poo Syndrome). In such hard times, I took on the difficult task of scoffing for the both of us. Kathy nibbled.
Singapore is full of large exciting foodhalls offering a mouthwatering selection of international flavours that reflects the international mix of the island itself. We visited the one in Chinatown. Chicken and rice and a Satay duck in a really black, spicy peanut sauce were the standouts.
The Empire and the Commonwealth still lives and breathes through the walls and history of the Raffles Hotel. We were far too scruffy to be allowed even my fungus ridden toe in the door of the main hotel. We made do with a drink at the Long Bar of its most famous concoction: the Singapore Sling. Too slickly sweet for my liking ( more of a Mohito or Whisky Sour man ) but there were big bowls of free bar nuts to tuck in to. The done thing is to fling your empty husks to the floor. Every new customer who enters the bar makes a very crunchy entrance.
Singapore was also a pilgrimage to sample the delights of Fish Head Curry. I had first read about it inside the godlike pages of Madhur Jaffrey´s Curry Bible. It is large snapper heads stewed in a richly spiced curry soup and then served on a banana leaf. The place to try it is the Banana Leaf Apollo in Little India. I was very, very excited. It was exellent. Extremely fishy. And you had lots of fun tearing the fish heads apart, scouring for those last flakes of hidden flesh. Kathy could only nibble. Poor love.

Halong Bay to Sapa: 4 seasons in one day

From Hanoi we headed for the coastal delights of the magestic limestone islands of Halong Bay. On our junk cruise boat we were joined by some Spaniards, some Germans and a lovely English couple from Cornwall. The first day ended with lots of swimming and jumping in from the boat, until we spotted some serious looking jellyfish slinking about beside the hull of the boat. At night Pamela and Kathy were transformed into Karaoke Queens, dragging the Spaniards and the English into life. I put on my best evening dress, a little bit of lippy and performed a baritone version of Madonna's 'Like a Virgin.' At night there was the most severe thunder storm. The lightning flashed like gunfire outside our cabin window.
The next day it rained and rained. We did a spot of kayaking. A rather snobby Aussie lady joined us for a while, reluctantly joined in our postit game (she had never heard of Freddie Mercury - she preferred jazz singers...), but then dined alone on a beach at a table all by herself. See ya. We spent the final day lounging at our hotel with the English couple. The hotel fortunately doubled as a water park resort. Just like the end of 'We Are the Champions'!

Our next adventure took us to the hill town of Sapa, very near the Chinese border. The train journey was a bit of a nightmare. We were unable to get any sleeper berths so shared an 8 hour overnight 'soft seat' carriage with a group of Vietnamese who played and betted on cards all night long.
Sapa is the closest to Scotland we have come to yet on our travels. A beautiful, stunning landscape. They also have the saying 'four seasons in one day' to explain the dramatic change in weather that can strike the town. After the searing 38 degree heat of Hanoi it was also lovely and cool. On the first day we hired a couple of motos in search of the silver waterfalls, an abandoned catholic monastry and fraternised with some women from the local Red Dxao hill tribe.
The next day we hired a jeep and a guide who took us to Ban Ho, amongst the people of the Black H'Mong and Day hill tribes. At lunch time the guide got tipsy on rice wine. Fair enough, if you offer some to your party - which she didn't!!
The train back to Hanoi was less of an ordeal this time. Sleeper berths for all.

Our last evening in Hanoi was spent enjoying the food and old colonial ambience in the classy Green Tangerine restaurant.
The next day we said a teary goodbye to Pamela at the airport. It was an amazing 10 days, full of laughs, full of adventure, full of delicous food and many songs about geckos - it's a long story. Another time.
Pamela. We love you. We miss you. Good luck in your new school!

Little did Kathy and I know that we were to spend the next 28 hours after Ms. Hills's departure stuck in the depressing oversized double garage that is Hanoi 'International' Airport...

Celebrating the arrival of Ms. Pamela Hill in Hanoi

We were both a bit nervous about the arrival of Ms. Hill. We were also really excited and couldn't wait for such a close friend to come and share our adventures. Pamela and Kathy go way back. They trained and swam competitively for the same Weegie swimming club. Apparently, Pamela use to wear what is known as a 'toxic waste lady' because of her swimsuit - one of those uber bright luminous Speedo creations. Don't worry, she has more sense now. I'm not one to talk, I once proudly wore a pair of lemon jeans with an aqua-marine blue top for more than a year. Not a proud moment.

Pamela was greeted at the arrivals lounge by the two of us in matching Vietnamese conical hats with a newly scribbled Scottish flag on the front. We had one for Pamela too. Everyone was giggling and pointing at us. That wasn't making us nervous either, we were quite used to that by now. And then Pamela told the funniest joke I have heard in ages. Dad, you will love this!



Why did the baker have brown hands?

He forgot he was needing a jobby!!! (Hee hee hee hee.)



Team Kathole was temporarily abandoned and Team McHillong formed with due haste.

So, why were nervous, you ask? Well, many people we had talked to told us how much they disliked Hanoi. The people were gruff, too serious and you got ripped off left, right and centre.

After 4 full days in Hanoi, we absolutely LOVED the place. Yes, it is a little bit hard skinned at first, but underneath the people are warm, friendly and possess a very dry, very Glaswegian sense of humour. It is really easy to get ripped off and the taxi drivers are amongst the most scheming, untrustworthy bunch I have met for a while. The meters are generally rigged and they cry like big babies when you scoff at their inflated quotes. But you know what the secret weapon is - BANTER. Good old fashioned Weegie banter, parleyamo Glasgow if you will. At first, Pamela was a wee bit unsure (Kathy and I are extremely battle hardened to the way of the barter by now) but by the end of the 10 days she was strutting her stuff and leaving taxi drivers shivering wrecks by the side of their cars, pleading, no begging, for us to take their taxi!

The Old Quarter of Hanoi is amazing. Life starts at about 5am. People are up eating bowls of delicious Pho Bo for breakfast, playing badmintion, jogging or doing group work outs with swords or table tenns bats next to the lake. The food in Hanoi was unbelievable. Simple, cheap, plentiful and with so much choice. We ate Cha Ca (grilled gish with turmeric), Bun Cha (rice noodles with pork) and the tastiest ribs I've ever tried (oven roasted with chili and garlic salt). Colin, big brother, you would kill for these ribs. The drink was good too. Everytime we stopped for a drink we pulled! We shared a freshly squeezed sugar cane drink (refreshing and clean like fresh pineapple juince, but better!) with a small group of banana sellers taking a break from the market. Pamela's Vietnamese phrasebook came in very handy. When I asked the lady next to me for a dance, it prompted the older grey haired woman across the other side of the room into a flurry of excited language, that I can only guess was some sort of matchmaking marriage proposal. Later that evening at a Bia Hoi bar (incredibly cheap but strong freshly brewed lager) Pamela had great success using the book to impress a gentleman well past his 60th year. After accumulating a total of 16 bia hoi's and a dried squid for me(to replace the lack of a Kebab shop), we left in high spirits, not having a clue what anyone had really said, but friends for life. Mr Diem's "1,2,3 - HANG ON BABY," (in Vietnamese) broke the ice perfectly both times.

We spent some time at Ho Chi Minh's Mausoleum and at his museum. Sadly, we walked away none the wiser about the man, his past or his achievements. The museum is a truly bizarre place, with large scale exhibits that embody the evils of Colonialism, Capitalism, Fascism etc. Unfortunately, there is very little information and what information there is is poorly displayed and too dense to flick through. Disappointing. Uncle Ho is still hugely revered by many Vietnamese. We learnt nothing.
At the Hanoi Hilton (The old prison) we enjoyed an exhibit of the belongings of a former inmate you may have heard of - one Senator John McCain, who was imprisoned here when his plane was shot dwon during the 'American War.'

From the Delta to the DMZee...

On our last day in Hoi An, we got on a motorbike and headed out to the country to escape the tailored temptations of the city. Most of our best experiences on this trip have been when we have gone it alone, left the tours and tourists behind and discovered places by accident rather than by design. There is a large Catholic population in this area. We stopped for an iced coffee outside the first church of the day. The young teenage girl who served us gingerly took out her English homework at the table next to us. She ended up taking us round the church, explaining all the pictures on the noticeboard and her confidence at speaking English improved with every step. Next, we screeched to a halt outside a house where the loud rhythmic thwack and shunt of the loom was in full swing . It was a rickety contraption and the couple working it looked exhausted and sweaty in the midst of the extreme dust, heat and humidity. So, this was where the cloth for all those wonderful clothes had originated. We felt humbled. The couple were finding it difficult to smile, despite their kind invitation to watch. It was hard work.
Our next church was spectacular, on open air Cathedral majestically perched on the crown of a hill. The panoramic view from the top held a commanding 360 degree sway across the entire valley. The sounds coming from below were a chorus of looms shunting and weaving away, an industrial contest to the usual contributions of the frogs and the cicadas. The Vietnamese are a proud and hard working people. And they know what it is like to graft.

From Hoi An we traveled to the old Imperial city of Hue, famed for its Imperial Palace and its Imperial cuisine. It was also nearly bombed to extinction during the 'American War.' Money is now being pumped in to renovate the ruins of the Imperial Palace. It is a less foreboding place than the Forbidden City in Beijing. Perhaps it is because it is mostly ruins, but you can wonder more freely and closely amongst the buildings and get a closer sense and appreciation of the style and architecture.

Hue is also a stone throw away from the DMZ, the demilitarized zone. Cut across the 17th parallel, this divided Vietnam into 2 distinct regions after the French were defeated and was also the area of some of the most furious and deadly fighting during the 'American War.'
Propaganda in Vietnam is of classic old style vintage. The artists and word smiths responsible for museum exhibits and large public billboards seem to be stuck in a 1960 / 70s airtight bag. The art is about bold blocked colours and large heroic persona. The words celebrate heroic deeds, national unity, strength and sound clunky and out dated in their manipulative rhetoric. Everyone who fought for the Southern Vietnamese army (ARVN) was brain washed, a puppet of the state and wrong. The Northern army (NVA) treated all prisoners respectfully and all war crimes were to be found at the guilty feet of the American and ARVN troops. The version of events is simplistic and in some respects seems to play down the strength of conviction of what most people in the north believed the were fighting for. It is difficult to put your mind in a different place and time to understand but you must. A comment from a an Aussie war veteran in the comments book in the War Remnants museum in Saigon seemed to ring true, that 'not one side came out of the war with any great deal of respect.' The Americans dropped bombs, napalm, chemical weapons indiscriminately and at a massive cost to lives and the environment. Soldiers fighting for the ARVN were not just puppets, as the propaganda tells us. They believed in the high ideals of that word Capitalism and that the arch enemy of Communism must be squashed. When the country was reunified in 1975, hundreds and thousands of Vietnamese fled the country, fearful of the Communist regime. Many of these 'boat people' were confronted with new horrors in the form of sinister Thai pirates waiting for them around the coast or years spent in refugee camps. Vietnam was a starving and forgotten country for much of the 1970s/80s, with only the Russians and Cubans willing to offer a helping hand. But they booted Pol Pot from power in 1979 in Cambodia, and in the same year defeated the Chinese from invading their border. It is sad, it is brutal, it is bloody. There are many versions of the same events. But it is also deeply fascinating.

Our guide across a one day trip of the DMZ was to be a Mr Diem, former translator to General Wesmoreland, the 4 star General and one time Chief of the US forces in Vietnam. After reunification, Mr Diem, like many others from the South was sent to reeducation camp for six years. Since then, his family and others like him have suffered massive discrimination in their opportunities and success in work and education. It was not for us to take sides but to listen. He was bitter, he was proud, he was a Capitalist but in war he had been defeated. We visited strategic sights like Charlie 2 hill and the 17th Parallel. In daytime, both sides blasted the other with their respective propagandist messages, watched carefully by the bully busting troops from India and Canada, making sure no-one was breaking the rules. After dark all the rules were broken. The NVA would secretly ship their weapons and troops across the 17th Parallel and down the infamous Ho Chi Minh trail, whilst the Americans would show off with massive forays of bombing raids and scorching use of chemical warfare (Agent Orange and the like). We saw the Vinh Moc tunnels where the NVA hid away from the enemy in a cramped claustrophobic warren of tunnels. They took 6 years to build and during their use 17 babies were born underground. 16 of them are now apparently high ranking officers in the Vietnamese navy.
When the war finally ended in 1975, the DMZ was a toxic flattened wasteland, battered and bruised with the massive craters from B52 bombs and where the only sign of life underground were the millions of deadly land mines waiting for the unfortunate overground.
Over the years, nature and man has slowly reclaimed the wasteland from the toxins and the land mines. Rubber tree forests are plentiful. But for people like Mr Diem, the scars of war are deep and unforgiving. He is currently in the slow process of applying for American citizenship.
I'm sure an ex NVA soldier's version of events would have been no less passionate or convincing, just different.
He also had a great sense of humour and taught us to toast in style. "Mawt , hau, baa, YO!" Which, roughly translated, means, " 1, 2, 3 HANG ON BABY!" It proved to be the perfect ice breaker with the locals for the rest of our days in Vietnam.
Mr Diem was also not some hardlined warmonger. When we visited the mass graves of the Vietnam War Memorial, he took care to point out how young most of the dead men had been. Of course, the older of us will remember Paul Hardcastle's '19', the number one song chanting the average age of the American soldier fighting in Vietnam (surely one of the strangest ever chart topping singles - did people dance to it in nightclubs? At least I am not old enough to remember that!) Scanning the Vietnamese graves, it felt that their average age was more 18 or 17 years. And many were young girls too. Mr Diem kept reminding us how young he had been then too. And that is really the lasting impression we took away from the DMZ, not as the real life playground and set design for all the Vietnam war films we watched on VHS in our formative years, not as a crucial stand of between the forces of Capitalism and Communism, but as a killing ground of young men and women. Nothing more, nothing less.