Bali's Got Talent

This is a picture of a German traveller we first encountered on the slow boat to Lombok, a week or so ago. Let’s call him Klaus. My first impression of Klaus was not favourable: a traveller of indeterminate age, he sat on the seat next to mine and for the next 4 hours repelled me with his frowsty, unwashed aroma. Then we got off the boat, went our separate ways and I rejoiced. It wasn’t to last. A week later we were reunited with Klaus, somewhat predictably, on the boat back to Bali. His long blonde hair was tied back in a lank pony tail and he was decked out in staple traveller garments: free flowing, ‘ethnic’ print shorts, a mysterious pendant made of stone or shell and work and dusty sandals. We were sat on deck, upwind from him thankfully, but this time he made a far more serious sensory assault. Klaus had a recorder, of the type usually favoured by 10 year old girls, and for 4 hours he sat broodingly on the side of the boat and played such classics as Celine Dion’s My Heart Will Go On.

As the hours rolled by, my distress grew. To Joe’s embarrassment (sorry Joe), I ostentatiously put my hands over my ears and glared at him, but my passive aggression was blithely ignored by Klaus, who was no doubt experiencing recorder-music induced euphoria. Towards the end of the voyage he instigated a duet with a Balinese guy with a guitar, but even Klaus could see that a recorder/guitar rendition of Hotel California was never going to work and the session fizzled to a halt as the boat finally groaned into port.

I bring your attention to Klaus because in many ways he embodies everything that is embarrassing and awful about travellers and travelling. In his native Germany, Klaus no doubt conducts his life in a moderate and Celine-Dion-free sort of way; it’s only when a few thousand miles separates him from his native shores that he becomes a grotty, recorder-playing berk. People like Klaus irritate me, and there are plenty of them.

Joe tentatively suggests that I should try to be more tolerant, but I can’t help but be incensed. And anyway, I think that not pushing Klaus overboard and throwing his recorder in after him was extremely tolerant of me.

Turtle Soup

After loitering for 8 days around Bali’s surfer hangout Kuta, we were in need of a change of scene. We purchased cheap tickets for a slow boat to the Gili islands, famous for crystal clear water, accommodating reef sharks, manta rays and turtles. Turns out the cheap option wasn’t the best idea as we were repeatedly dropped off at cafes so the driver could get his commission and desperate salesmen tried to sell us return boat tickets, saying there was no way to get off the islands unless we bought tickets off them right away. We kindly declined their offers, as did everyone else we were travelling with, enraging the salesmen.

It was a long and indirect journey over 12 hours, consisting of an overcrowded bus, a very slow ferry to Lombok, another bus trip up the coast followed by a final trip in a smaller boat to Gili Trawangan. Exhausted from irate salesmen and the painfully slow transport we finally arrived as the sun was setting behind the island, turning the sea a dark bluish gold. In contrast to our budget travel option, had we taken the more expensive fast boat, we would have got to the Gili islands in 2 hours. Next time...

The following day we woke up and ate our obligatory breakfast banana pancakes washed down with a glass of gritty coffee and tripped over about 3 cats (The island happens to be overrun with beach cats, mostly without tails). We had showers but failed to feel any cleaner, quickly realising the water coming out of the shower was probably pumped directly from the sea. Feeling a bit grotty from the previous day’s journey and a dismal breakfast we were in need of some relaxation so headed for a nice spot to unwind by the sea.

We found a beautiful spot under a tree by a small beach bar, hammocks hanging from the branches and to Laura’s annoyance the sounds of James Blunt crooning in the air. I would have been annoyed too but had managed to zone out into a book. I don’t mind James Blunt, but we’ve heard little else but Blunt, Bob Marley, and Jack Johnson on a loop for the past 2 months and eventually it begins to grate.

We found an excellent way to avoid the endearing but tedious holiday drivel by sticking our heads underwater. Using snorkels and masks drowning was avoided and the water cleared as we paddled away from the crashing waves on the shore and floated over the corals below.

The friendly man who gave us the snorkelling gear was positive we’d see turtles if we headed out away from the boats ferrying tourists to and from the island. Feeling scarred from failing to see tigers on a tiger safari where there was a 100% chance of seeing one, I was unconvinced we would see a turtle even if it was right in front of us.

Feeling highly dubious about seeing anything remotely interesting we swam out over the corals to the edge of the reef where it drops steeply down and the sea turns a darker blue. To my delight the sea was teaming with wildlife, thousands of tiny silver fish swam in schools darting from one place to another in unison. Larger brightly coloured fish pecked at the sand and corals spitting leftovers out of their gills. It seemed like the whole cast from Finding Nemo was on display apart from one, the turtles.

After lunch we decided to have another stab at seeing the elusive turtles so hiked further away from the boats by foot till we were on a deserted part of the beach and donned our masks and fins. We paddled out further than before, past some fish patrolling an enormous coral growing from the seabed like a mushroom. A fat puffer fish glided along close to the sand looking for smaller fish to pick off with its sharp beak mouth. A patch of aneomes protected a pair of clown fish that were keen to show who was boss and snapped at my fins.

Feeling tired we began heading back along the reef to where we had left our bags. I was drifting near the edge of the reef by a steep shelf when I saw a huge brightly coloured fish that would have been an excellent dinner for a family of 6. The fish had incredible patterned scales and was in no hurry so I called Laura over to see it. We both began swimming after the big fish closer to the edge of the reef shelf when out of the blue a large sea turtle came into view. We were very close to it and it did a few turns right in front of us before swimming off into the deep blue. We had both resigned ourselves to looking at some pictures of turtles on Wikipedia that evening, but there was no need. As we swam closer into shore we came across another, smaller, turtle and swam around with it in circles before running out of enough water to swim in leaving us beached on the wet sand.

A good day's snorkelling - followed by an incredible dinner where we both ate coral trout. A delicate and tasty fish, probably one of the pretty things we had seen swimming about earlier.

Here is a lobster that was on offer at the restaurant we ate at. Apparently it is 1.5Kg, but the waiter assured us that we could get a 3kg lobster if we wanted.


The picture of the turtles above are from a turtle sanctuary where they are kept for a year after birth before being returned to the wild.

Surfing: an Introduction

The first morning after our arrival in Bali, we ran to the beach in a frenzy of excitement, quickly hiring boards and slapping on a cursory layer of suncream. The minute that followed revealed a number of unwelcome truths:

1. The board they give you to learn on is approximately twice your height and three times your weight. You are leashed to this monolith with a piece of cable and some Velcro.

2. Getting this board to the water’s edge requires Herculean strength.

3. I’m scared of the sea, specifically:
a. The waves (enormous)
b. The undertow (vicious)
c. Good surfers (might blast past, impaling me on the point of their boards)
d. Bad surfers (might lose control and lose their boards in the vicinity of my face)
e. Water getting into my goggles and stinging my eyes

The weight of these truths caused me to exit the sea approximately 60 seconds after first entering it. With a quivering lip and goggles beginning to fill with the hot tears of shame, I stayed on the sand while Joe hastily found me a boogie-board. Clinging tightly to my piece of foam I managed to catch a few waves without drowning. Meanwhile, Joe leapt fearlessly into the surf and found his sea legs almost immediately and cut a fine figure as he blasted towards the shore .

4 days later...

Since writing the above, some progress has been made. I have been upgraded to a proper surfboard and have on about 2 occasions stood up on it for a bit. One of the reasons surfing is so tricky is that it makes several different bits of you hurt. Here is a summary of the body parts which are currently causing me grief:

1. Thumbs. These get blistered. Or at least mine do, Joe’s are fine. No idea why, possibly it’s from gripping the board too tightly as a result of paralytic fear.

2. Torso. After the first day, we both found our torsos had been scratched raw in some places from rubbing continually against the roughly waxed boards. Further damage has been prevented by the acquisition of rash vests, but it still hurts.

3. Knees. These are scratched and sore, again from the board rubbing.

4. Arms. These ache royally as a result of hours spent trying to hoist my body from a lying-down-on-your-front-being-scratched-position to a surfer-dude-upright-standing-position.

5. Front of body. In order to get far enough out to sea to surf, you must first walk/swim/drag yourself and your board through about 18 waves of increasing size and strength. This is akin to being ambushed constantly by an enraged gorilla and the constant pummelling is very tiring.

6. Head. The bigger waves make it harder to keep a firm grip on your board. Sometimes it slips out of your hands, rises up with the wave then bonks you squarely on the head.

In spite of this catalogue of aches and pains, surfing is, annoyingly, rather fun. So I expect we’ll be putting ourselves through the mill for as long as it takes to stop being rubbish (in my case) and start being offered sponsorship deals (in Joes).

Sights of Bali

Hard to see from the picture, but my budget shorts are actually rusting.

This is the memorial site that lists people who died from the terrorist bombings in 2002 and 2005.

Handmade street decorations just outside our hotel.

Oi Cromarty, your mums a baggage handler

Plymouth to Inverness Ryan Air Flight 836

A short time after take off...

BING BONG! “Attention cabin crew, this is first officer Johnson speaking, please could hostess Cromarty report to the cockpit immediately.” What he doesn’t mention is that Captain Blueboulles head’s gone purple (again).

Moments later...

An automated warning sounds out: “Please remain seated.” The seat belt sign comes on and the plane jerks through the sky awkwardly. Women are crying and men are being sick in their beards. But just as quickly as it all began the plane levels out and the shrieking dies down.

BING BONG! “Attention passengers, this is the captain speaking. Apologies for the disturbance, the tip of the plane entered an area of low resistance for a brief moment, but I’ve managed to withdraw us from the body of the problem for now. Please sit back, relax and enjoy the rest of the flight.”

Hostess Cromarty leaves the cockpit exhausted and freewheels down the aisle on her trolley. Like a pro she gets all the way to the back of the plane on one push but forgets to put the brake on and is sent flying head first into the disabled toilet and is knocked out cold. The door slams shut behind her.

Literally minutes go by without the business class passengers being given extra peanuts and heated towels due to hostess Cromarty’s disappearance. The suit-wearing, peanut-starved business men are beginning to grumble but this is nothing compared to the chaos consuming the back rows of the plane. The bearded men, panicking, shake their heads from left to right, flicking puke into the eyes of children beneath them. A small boy gets out of his seat to go for a wee but is blinded as a thick wad of partially digested chicken chasseur gets him in the eyes. Still desperate for a wee, the young boy feels his way to the first toilet he finds and unleashes a torrent of warm yellow heaven.

As the little boy wrings out the very last drop, he clears the chewed strands of chicken from his eyes and meets the gaze of another pair: one eye staring right back up at him, the other drifting round the cubicle as if in a daydream.

Meanwhile, on the floor, Hostess Cromarty feels relaxed, enjoying the final touches of a facial at Sollies, her favourite Portsmouth beauty spa. The seaweed wrap is warmer and saltier than usual, and then she thinks it strange to be tasting the seaweed wrap at all.

“Where is Miss Mahoon, who usually does my facials?” she whispers to the small boy washing his hands next to her. The boy ignores her studiously and scampers back to his seat.

Confused hostess Cromarty rises to her feet, her hands pushing against the sides of the cubicle to balance. It becomes clear she is not at Sollies after all. Pulling the toilet door ajar reveals a battleground of leaking sick bags and her ransacked drinks trolley, leaning to one side and bleeding tomato juice. Empty packets of peanuts are strewn along the aisle.

BING BONG! “Attention cabin crew, this is first officer Johnson speaking. Can hostess Cromarty report to the cockpit.” The captain is refusing to land the plane until hostess Cromarty make his usual ‘going down’ drink.

Hostess Cromarty promptly slams the toilet door shut and slumps over the basin, waiting for this nightmare to end. As if giving him the hind lick manoeuvre wasn’t enough for one day.

Later...

Back on the ground, hostess Cromarty is in no rush to go anywhere and remains locked in the toilet cubicle until all the nut-scoffing suits and sick-stained economy passengers disembark. She stays where she is until the cleaning team go in, break open the door and drag her by her elbows the length of the plane. Her heels dig into the carpet, cutting through the lakes of tomato juice and assorted trolley snacks. They leave her propped up against the outside wall of the terminal building.

Still, it’s not all bad. In the back of her mind she knows she’ll be with Barry soon, her Inverness infatuation. Barry the baggage handler, who’d recently been promoted to managing an entire carousel at the Inverness arrivals lounge. Barry, proud of his new job title and not-too-shabby pay rise (£8.50 per hour) was keen to treat hostess Cromarty to a slap up meal. The two are reunited in the short stay car park by the designated smokers area, where Scotland’s flagship Little Chef rises from the grey paving like a beacon of hope for foodies in a land where Iron Bru and battered Mars bars are considered 2 of your 5-a-day.

Hostess Cromarty doesn’t speak much during their meal, but Barry can’t help himself. “I’m sure you’ve done something new with your hair?... Your skin is positively glowing...”
And then begins making outlandish promises: “Next time you’re here it will dinner to two at the Toby Carvery!” Cromarty isn’t listening to a word Barry says as she slowly falls into a grease induced coma. She also neglects to notice Barry’s new Ben Sherman shirt. In Barry’s mind, this can only mean one thing: tonight is the night.

He desperately wants to express how he feels about hostess Cromarty physically, but it’s not clear from Cromarty’s slurs what she’s trying to say.
“Take mez toilez? OK!”
“I thought you’d never ask! Here let me wipe the peas off your chin”.

THE END

By Joe Weitz

The Magnificent Sapa Valley

The view from our hotel balcony:

A whiteout without the snow...

Hanoi Town

We’ve just spent the past couple of days in Hanoi, the capital of Vietnam. We arrived early in the morning on an overnight sleeper bus. The first sights as we pulled through the suburbs of Hanoi were rows of roasted dog hanging by their front legs with their stiff tails dangling in the wind. It was a grey morning and unpainted concrete buildings soared into the sky on each side of the bus. The greyness and hammer and sickle flags along the roadside threw up images of how I imagine communist Russia to have looked.

Despite the initial murky vista, the sun broke through the clouds as we entered the old quarter and the city was transformed into a cocktail of colour. Bikes zipped down narrow alleys and tradespeople displayed their wares in shops and on bikes: from handmade cake tins to flip-flop factory outlets.

I donned my tour guide hat and dragged Laura through the streets of the old city at a swift pace. It might have been pleasanter to take our time, but I needed the loo and wanted to get back to the hotel as soon as we set off. Regardless of the danger of soiling myself we soldiered on, taking in sites such as the old city gates, a restored Chinese merchant’s house and the less intriguing road of blacksmiths which filled our ears with screeching, drilling and banging noises. Aside from this the only mishap occurred when Laura was bitten by a cat early on in the tour.

Post midday snooze, we picked up train tickets for our next destination (Sapa Valley) and then followed our map to an area that looked like a big green park. It turned out that the map had just colour coded that part of the map green to indicate a separate district, not a grassy park, it was just more built up Hanoi streets bustling with market vendors and motorbikes. By this point we’d gone too far to care so we picked up a huge mango and ate it on the curb side mulling over our options. More eating seemed like a good idea so we set our sights on a restaurant called KOTO. It turns out that KOTO is the Hanoi equivalent of Jamie Oliver’s 15 restaurant, serving top notch grub, cooked by under privileged kids from the city. An extravagant evening out, what with the mango appetiser, but having lived on white rice for the past 2 months it was time for some proper food.

The following day we’d planned to visit Ho Chi Minh’s mausoleum complex, where visitors can enjoy looking at his 120 year old body in a glass sarcophagus – rather like a grisly Snow White. Uncle Ho is unfortunately only on display until 11.30am each day, which we think is in case his face collapses and needs touching up. Every year he is shipped off to Russia where his embalming fluids are topped up and he’s given a once over by the commie dictator preserving experts. Despite our good intentions, we slept in so weren’t able to give Ho our best, but I reckon he’ll still be there next time.

Day two in Hanoi was beginning to wear us out. The relentless motorbikes and car horns on every street were deafening and it was time to leave. Our train out of Hanoi left at 9pm so we made our way to the train station and hopped into our bunks for the night. My ears were still ringing when we arrived in Sapa the following day and was distraught to find that Sapa is undergoing some serious tourism development. This means spiteful people with power tools, keen to use them for as much of the day as possible grinding and banging them on hard surfaces until my ears feel like they are bleeding. On the plus side, once you get out the small town, the countryside is stunning and the presence of power tools decreases.



Next stop boogie boarding in Bali!