Why did I choose Mexico City?

If I’m perfectly honest, when I was planning my trip (which pretty much involved deciding on the cheapest one-way flight I could find), I had no intention of going to Mexico. My original idea, was to head straight back towards South-East Asia, where prices are cheap and I could dive for next to nothing. My travel compass swiftly changed when I made the last minute decision to book a flight to Toronto and spend 3 months split between Canada and the USA.

It was all thanks to my fabulous French friend, Charlie (the proudest French person I know), had planned to visit Mexico City in October of twenty-sixteen, so I decided to follow his lead and fly down from New York City. It would have been a wasted opportunity for us to be on the same side of the world and not see each other. He did, after all, attend my party in the UK before I left for my year of travels. And I am so grateful that he suggested I join him. What a beautifully interesting city. 

My favourite building – Casa de los Azulejos (House of Tiles)

Like most countries in the world, the capital city is generally the place that you spend the night and leave on the first bus the following day. Expect for London. Everyone seems to love London. Anyway, Mexico City is the polar opposite. It is abuzz with crumbling architecture, cheap local roadside eateries (oh, those tacos) and accommodating, super friendly people. In fact, the nature of the Mexicans was one of the reasons I extended my intended stay. Everyone wants to get to know you, even if your Spanish is particularly terrible – guilty – they will try to have a broken conversation because they are genuinely interested in who you are and where you come from. 

Helping a local with his English project for school

I was very lucky to be in that amazing city during Día de los Muertos (Day of the Dead). I did not experience the ambience of attending a cemetery during the festival, but I did go to the parade on the twenty-ninth of October. Apparently, it was the first year that they conducted the event, as it was inspired by the famous James Bond movie, Spectre. 

Amazing costume effort by the locals

It felt like the entire population of Mexico City had come out to enjoy the new fiesta of native dancing, creepy costumes and the deep bass of Spanish music. Well done Bond, you’ve started something special. 

A float from the parade

Beyond the colourful wreaths of flowers, and competitions of oversized pan de muerto (bread of the dead, or ‘dead bread’ according to America) offerings, is an architect’s dream. You could explore the streets of Centro Historico for weeks and still come across a different church or even a ruined piece of lost Aztec heritage. Im going to give you a brief lesson to explain why the ruins of this city provide such a vibrant, if a little complicated, Mexican history.  

Mexico City was once the ancient capital of Tenochtitlan. The Aztecs and the present citizens share the same appreciation for the centre of the city, known today as the Zócalo. It is one of the biggest main square’s in the world and has been used for ceremonial purposes, religious festivals and celebrations; true to form, it is where the Day of the Dead Parade finished and the musical fiesta began. 

 Zócalo – Day of the Dead Festival shrines in front of the Catedral Metropolitana de la Ciudad de Mexico (Metropolitan Cathedral of the City of Mexico)

Adjacent to the Zócalo is the ruin of Templo Mayor. Originally, this was the location that the Aztecs considered to be the centre of the universe; all according to legend, of course, as is the popular phrase in many Central American museums. Unfortunately, I do not have a photo to post because I think it’s on my camera, not my phone, however, this website offers more in depth information and shares an image of what historians believe the site looked like when it was constructed.

A common theme that appears in the history of this archeological dream-world, is that many of Central America’s ancient cities were overthrown by greater forces. For example, the Aztecs conquered the Mayans and muscled them out of their homes. Many ancient treasures of this world have been lost due to years of pillaging, or piracy, or, in a strange not-quite-justified kind of way, recycling. This brings me back to our modern day plaza in Mexico City, the Zócalo. After the conquest over the Aztecs in fifteen-twenty-one, the Spanish disassembled the beloved centre of the universe, Templo Mayor, and used its bricks to pave the Zócalo plaza. This savage destruction is peppered throughout all of Central America’s history. Templo Mayor is now a museum and a sad looking archeological site tucked away behind the beautifully decaying Cathedral. If you were touring the city, and didn’t know of it’s presence, you would probably miss it. 

Another stunning piece of architecture in the city is the picture perfect, front cover dominating, Palacio de Bellas Artes. This museum mainly houses art collections, but also has a permanent exhibition featuring models and photographs that depict the work of Mexican architects.

The front of Palacio de Bellas Artes

 I did not visit the museum itself due to time constraints (as per usual), but I did go to the free tour of the fully functioning theatre inside. Now this was something special. This is where you can watch performances of the Ballet Folklorico de Mexico and of the National Symphonic Orchestra. Sitting on one of those soft red velvety chairs in the audience, I looked up at the heavy marble walls and intriguing safety curtain hiding the stage. That curtain alone weighs twenty-seven tonnes. Built by Tiffany and Company of New York, it is a mosaic made from a million tiny pieces of crystal to create a shimmering stained-glass-effect masterpiece of a Mexican valley. The image features two active volcanoes, Popocatepetl and Iztacchihuatl, both of which can be found bubbling away South of Mexico City, in the state of Puebla. 

Tiffany’s marvellous crystal creation – the lighting inside wasn’t the best for amateur photographer skills

Fun fact – Mexico City was originally built on lake Texcoco. Because of this, the immense weight of the marble structure and the Tiffany curtain are a heavy burden for Bellas Artes, resulting in the loss of two to three centimetres of the building each year, as it sinks into the earth. 

An example of the marble inside the theatre – my photos do not do it justice

So, I spent ten wonderfully jam-packed days of exploring Mexico City and its surrounding delights. And believe me, this was still not enough time. Fortunately, The airport tends to be a very cheap destination to fly into as it is an international connecting hub, so hopefully I’ll find my way back there one day. Actually I know I will. I completely intend to. It is a city with surprise around every corner, so don’t be afraid to explore side streets, local markets and buildings, just check with the security guard on the door that you’re allowed inside first!

Inside the post office – I fell in love with the iron staircase and elevator

My original intention after this was to head straight to the famous Tikal ruins of Guatemala, but something kept me anchored to that smoky taco-pregnant country for a few days more. With a cheap ticket to Cancun purchased, I got on the easiest Metro in the whole world (they have pictures for each stop) and made my way to the airport. 

Cancun Airport – Get yourself a cheeky cocktail before you get on the bus to Cancun

This post was written to the sounds of orchestral Nicaraguan street music and deafening bangs of fireworks at six-thirty in the morning. 

New York – I took my bite, and my hunger still isn’t satiated…

You’d think that it would be possible to pretty much see everything if you spend thirty-seven sporadic days in the city of lights, horns and smoke. But no, I absolutely have to go back. I must discover the reason that everyone queues to shoot themselves up the Empire State Building, I need to take a sneaky peak inside at least one beautiful theatre, and have a swanky evening meal in the Upper East Side.  

 Naughty treat of wine and sushi in Long Island 

I may not have taken part in these rather expensive experiences this time around, but I still managed to spend a decent portion of my poor backpacker fund. ‘Don’t worry,’ I would tell myself, ‘you’ll be in Central America soon, so have one more of those tongue tingling, free-poured gin and tonics that you love so much.’ Thankfully I’m writing this blog from Mexico where my daily spend is roughly thirty of those special Great British Pounds that I intensely saved. This budget includes my accommodation, food and sightseeing. It is around the equivalent of six hundred Mexican Pesos. Stay tuned to find out what I spend those pesky pesos on in my next post.  

So back to New York City. There’s so much to tell you. I have a list (I love lists) of everything I did, everywhere I went and sweaty photos to show you where I ran. My original plan was to run around Central Park like a local, but as I was staying in Brooklyn, I would have had to use the Metro to get there and back. In resisting the urge to do so, I saved the whole of the subway from having to endure the after effect of my sport session during an unseasonable heatwave. 

Running is addictive, especially when you’re in new places where you accidentally hit distances of eight miles because you get lost, or completely underestimate the length of a road. Did you know that the longest road in New York City is Broadway? The reliable internet states that it is sixteen point three miles long.  

I did not run this road.  

In fact, my favourite place to run was Prospect Park in Brooklyn. There is a track that circles the entire ground, specifically for those who wish to run, cycle, walk, etc.  

Cheeky selfie in Prospect Park during a morning run

Each time I took the route to the park, I passed the beautiful gold mythical mural surrounding the entrance to Brooklyn Public Library. One quiet rainy day, I wandered around the building and read the majority of a haiku poetry book. I was soggy, but it was bliss. 

The door to Brooklyn Public Library

I arrived in New York City at the beginning of September and left on the twenty-fifth of October. With a couple of road-trips in between, I was able to experience the city during a time of intense heat, and witness the slow transition into a chilly red and orange wonderland. Winter was coming, and with it, so was ice hockey season. A quick search on Stubhub and I had my hands on two pre-season tickets for the game between New York Islanders and the Philadelphia Flyers at the new Barclay’s Centre in Brooklyn. 

Singing the National Anthem in harmony… Before the match mayhem…

It’s a great place to watch sport, but, I warn you now, if you want a pint, or a liquor with a mixer, or even a cocktail in a plastic cup, expect to cough up thirteen of your hard earned bucks. THIRTEEN. But beyond that, what a show. Talented men glide around the ice like they knew how to do it from birth, or even before. Underneath all the padding and oversized Jerseys was a sport that was instilled in their very being. They weave in and out of the other players on the ice like a rehearsed musical. Naturally, a seemingly harmonious dance between rivals wouldn’t be complete without a friendly punch-up or two. Or six.

Game time

New York is full of surprises during every season. As you may have read in my previous post about the 9/11 memorial, I am interested in the preservation of history and memory. On the eleventh of September, I made it my mission to scour the city for the best location to view the tribute of light. A couple of local friends advised that I head towards the piers on the Westside of Manhattan, so I made my way through Greenwhich Village, resisting the enticing soft serve in Big Gay Ice Cream, towards Pier Forty-Five on the Hudson River. It was half past six when I arrived and the sun was already setting. I meandered along the wooden boards and thought of home. I looked down and remembered the years I would stomp along the planks of Weston-super-Mare’s Grand Pier, desperate to get to the Pavilion, where I would spend all Mum and Dad’s money on the teddy grabbing machines, and eat my weight in deep fried donuts.

I reached the end of the pier and found fifty or more people partnered up and dancing to a Waltz. I watched the pairs traverse the wood until the sky faded and the clouds turned from white fluff, to a rainbow of orange, yellow and pink candy floss. 

The sunset across Hudson Bay

A few moments later I saw it, a blue beam of light streaming from it’s bulb in the financial district. But something wasn’t right. I could only see one. There should be two. I was in completely the wrong place. Drawn to the dramatic sky, I stayed until the pretty melody stopped and the dancers dispersed before I headed towards the nearest Metro. 

Dancers on Pier Forty-Five

A couple of misjudgements and an hour later, I finally figured out the best location. Perched on a bench at Brooklyn Heights, I gazed at that blue number eleven against the blackened sky. The ghost of the Two Towers. 

This beautiful picture (somewhat blurry – I need to perfect my photography skills) needs no caption.

I realise, as I think about closing this post, that I am yet to discuss Lady Liberty. How dare I. That one hundred and fifty one foot gift from the French (three hundred and five foot including the stone pedestal) was a symbol of freedom and new beginnings for thousands of weary travellers that crossed the ocean in search of their American Dream. I will admit that I almost didn’t bother doing the trip to Liberty and Ellis Island. I had seen both from the free Staten Island Ferry, but something piqued my interest as my New York City stint drew to a close. I also owed it to the friendly people of the United States, that are so proud of their country’s heritage, by taking my time to absorb the most dominating piece of their history. At eighteen dollars, it is one of the more affordable historical attractions in New York, and probably the most informative. This is where it began. This is how the United States of America became the super power that it is today.

Morgan Bear asked to have his photo taken with the iconic Statue of Liberty

Obviously Lady Liberty herself is quite a special sight. The crew that take you to the island will cut the engine and allow the boat to drift onwards. This is the perfect opportunity to take close-up snaps and study the statue as a whole, rather than craning your neck as you stand beneath her. As the vessel glides, you’re already imagining the wide-eyed foreigners staring at the crown of sunshine and the fierce gold flame; her mighty presence asserts promises of freedom, opportunity and improved lifestyle. Even today, when Ellis is nothing more than an island for learning and memories, Lady Liberty sits upon her plinth, and continues to look straight ahead, determined and unfazed. Regardless of the number of people that mill around her island every day, it is a peaceful idyllic location for a Copper deity who bears the burden of the Nation’s prayers upon her stone tablet.

View of Manhattan from Liberty Island

After gawking at the statue for an hour or two, I hopped on the shuttle boat to Ellis Island. I really wasn’t sure what to expect. I’d heard many a story of how the conditions on the ships were horrendous, and that many people died along the way. I heard that once on the island, there were still no guarantees that you’d be granted the right to enter the United States. In my mind it had never been a very welcoming place, and to an extent, it wasn’t. But it certainly wasn’t as bad as I imagined either.

Entrance to Ellis Island’s immigration centre

The audio tour is included in the price, so I followed the invisible voice as she took me through the stories of the thousands of immigrants that had trudged the halls of Ellis Island. She took me up the staircase where I would have been obliviously examined by doctors for approximately six seconds. They would have determined whether or not I was fit to enter the country. If I failed the test, they would pre-determine an illness and chalk a symbol on my clothing to establish the ailment. 

View of Ellis Island’s hospital buildings

If I passed this test, I’d have entered the iconic hall where my whole life would be examined via a set of rigorous immigration questionnaires, before being granted the freedom to join the American Civilisation. In the present, as I entered the now echoey hall, I could sense the buzz of multi-lingual conversations that would have bounced around the room all those years ago; frightened voices of people realising that they had just entered a completely foreign world with no concrete plans of where they would live or work.

The hall in Ellis Island’s immigration centre at the end of the day

But it wasn’t all doom and gloom, apparently, throughout the sixty-two years that Ellis was in operation, the island let ninety-eight percent of the immigrants onto American Soil, that equates to more than twelve million people. Another fun fact is that around forty percent of Americans today, are able to trace part of their heritage back to Ellis Island. If you’re lucky, you might catch a talk presented by one of the grand-children of an Ellis Island immigrant.

A New Yorker that works at Ellis Island – her grandmother was an immigrant here

What a fascinating and haunting place.

This post was written to the sound of my iPod songs on shuffle, some of which included the childhood tunes of Steps…

My Love Affair with Washington DC

A pleasant surprise

When I booked a one-way ticket to Toronto, I thought, okay, I’ll start off slow, take some time out, visit some friends, a couple of weeks in Canada, a month or so in New York City, then get back into the grit of backpacking, head to South America, and get my relaxed self back into the crazy world of hosteling. Three months later and I’ve visited 4 Canadian States and 10 US States. This is way more than I bargained for, and it’s all down to the amazing accommodating friends that I have visited, all of which are now family to me. So thank you to everyone that has been part of this not so relaxed whirlwind.

Don’t worry, the reason I’m writing to you today isn’t to present you with a soppy Oscar speech, it’s to reflect on my favourite place so far.

During a trip to my friend David’s hometown in Virginia, I was lucky enough to have the opportunity to visit Washington DC on three occasions. Naturally, I was desperate to see the monuments. David’s sister, Katie, drove us to a parking garage near the Capitol Building so we could loop around the whole National Mall. She warned me that it would be a lot of walking, but this didn’t phase a Fitbit obsessive who tends to avoid any transport that does not involve using her own legs.

The Capitol Building, like most of the monuments, is a bright white structure supported by an array of columns. It’s situated directly opposite the Lincoln Memorial at the other end of the National Mall. It’s a pretty building, but it doesn’t have the ‘wow factor’ for me, probably because you can’t get close enough to really appreciate the architecture.

Capitol Building

I do however, recommend checking out the Botanic Garden. Guarding the entrance to the conservatory, is a wiggly brown tentacled metal sculpture. It reminded me of a kraken or mythical creature from a Japanese Anime, but really it just represents the roots of a tree. You may have to patiently wait for a class of school children to stop climbing all over it to get a good photo, though. Inside, the garden is sectioned off into different categories of plants/areas of the world, like a mini version of Cornwall’s Eden Project. Did you know that cocoa pods actually grow from the trunk of the tree? I also found it amusing that they were growing Cabbage on a Stick and Pumpkin on a Stick. High five America.

Cabbage on a Stick

Pumpkin-on-a-Stick

After our short trip around the natural world, we continued our historic journey until we came to a tired, yet fully functional, carousel. This extra-ordinary carousel marked the end of segregation when eleven month old, African American, Sharon Langley, took a whirl on that magical roundabout; the same day that Martin Luther King, Jr belted out his, I have a dream, speech. The carousel is now enjoyed by people of all ages, shapes, sizes, colours, cultures… Everyone! This history was all very interesting and serious, until I read the first of the Rider Rules:

That was it. Game over. Hilarity won.

I feel very fortunate that I was able to explore DC with someone who had worked in the area and has an true interest in its history. The passion that Katie has for sharing her knowledge is infectious. I could feel my brain sponge working overtime to absorb as much information as possible, eager to make the most of my private tour.

Now we’ll move onto the good stuff. You can pretty much see the Washington Monument from anywhere in the city. DC law states that no building is permitted to be constructed taller than the five hundred and fifty-five foot obelisk; so you won’t find a stuffy high rise metropolis here. One of my favourite facts about the monument is that it is two-toned in colour. Six years after the commencement of the construction in 1848, it was halted due to lack of funding. Around a quarter of it had been completed. The money sucking American Civil War pushed the construction back even further. It wasn’t until 1884 that the monument was completed, and on 21 February 1885, it was dedicated to the first President of the United States, Mr George Washington. The bottom quarter of the obelisk is a darker stone than the rest of the structure due to the elapsed time and different sources of marble used; a constant reminder/symbol of the wartime effect.

Morgan Bear loved the iconic obelisk

A post about Washington DC would not be worth the read if good ol’ Lincoln and Jefferson were not discussed. Towards the other end of the National Mall, we came to a fork in our path. A bit of extra walking wasn’t going to deter a Fitbit freak like me, so we opted for the route that opens out onto the track that loops around the Tidal Basin of Potomac Park. Towering above the edge of the North bank is the gift of Japan – cherry blossom trees. Katie excitedly described the Spring season where they would bloom, unashamedly admiring their own pink reflections in the water below. Directly opposite, is the Jefferson Memorial. Proudly tucked away from the buzzing centre of the touristic city, Jefferson stands tall in his own columned castle. I was shocked to find that there were not many people milling about on the steps, enjoying the view of the Washington Monument from afar. Apparently, a lot of tourists don’t venture to this area because of the added walking distance. I wasn’t complaining.

Jefferson Memorial

The biggie, the one that everyone swarms to, like shoppers to a Black Friday sale, is the Lincoln Memorial. I proudly admit that I was one of the masses, happily chatting about the famous scene from Forrest Gump, recalling that time I ate Bubba Gump Shrimp in Las Vegas and taking my souvenir selfie of the Reflection Pool. We chilled on the cool steps, taking our time to imprint the memory of this monumental place. Children fed snacks to the fat ducks bobbing at the edge of the pool, locals obliviously jogged past, miming to their motivational running tracks, teens jumped in unison for a cheesy Facebook cover photo. Luckily, we had arrived at the time of a very rare tourist lull. It was not overly crowded in the memorial and I was able to have my picture taken with the big guy, completely on my own (with Morgan Bear), without having to queue. Not like the time it took me half an hour to take a photo of New York City’s Raging Bull.

Lincoln Memorial

We completed our tour of the iconic National Mall with congratulatory cocktails and a hearty meal of my first ever juicy mound of meatloaf (oh, my… just wow) in Old Ebbitt Grill. Before leaving, I made sure to take a photo of the original Walrus head famously bagged by President Teddy Roosevelt.

Aside: I was a little disappointed that we could not see the Whitehouse during that first day trip, as the whole area was closed off for an unknown reason. Fortunately I was able to visit during my second and third trip to DC in the week to follow. The best time to tour the monuments is definitely at night. I was like a child at Christmas, running from one to the other, eyes wide at the ghostly white marble against the black backdrop. It was a chilly evening and not many people were around. We almost had the moment to ourselves.

Our serene moment at the World War II Memorial

As we drove back to Reston, Virginia, I pictured my own Washington city lifestyle – I would stretch out my limbs each morning, prepping for a lap around the National Mall, eat lunches on the green, attend exhibitions in the museums, read under the cherry blossoms. My day-dreaming triggered a strange comforting feel. This was a place I could, possibly, call home, one day. I never thought I’d think this way about a city, but DC isn’t like hyper populated, claustrophobic London or New York. It is the equivalent of the United Kingdom’s artistic culture hub, Bristol, which I greatly missed, until I was introduced to this marble historic playground.

This post was written to the Spanish sounds of Mexico City at night and the pumping base of the upstairs club in Hostel Centro Historico Regina.

…Advanced Course!

So I just found this blog post on my Kindle. I suppose I should upload it. Yeah.

Once we got back to DJL reception, signed our dive logs and had an attractive photo taken for our dive licenses, Sam and I decided to book the advanced course, starting the following day. At roughly 8000 baht, £145, (we received a helpful ten percent discount for taking the PADI course) and with a couple of days to spare before we had to be in Bangkok, we couldn’t pass up the opportunity for more time with the fishes. But first, we had to attend the Koh Tao pub crawl to celebrate our open water diving success. If you head to the island yourself, I definitely recommend the lady boy cabaret show. It’s brilliant.

Anyway, back to the diving. The advanced course consists of five dives in the space of two days. It’s pretty intense, and there are skills that need to be completed, but they mostly turn out to be fun dives. As a group, we decided to do the following:

– Navigation dive (compulsory)
– Peak performance buoyancy (compulsory)
– Night dive
– Wreck dive
– Deep dive

As interesting as it sounds, the wreck dive wasn’t as exciting as I was expecting. My favourite was the night dive. I was initially worried about heading 30 metres below sea level at night because I thought the darkness would make me feel claustrophobic, but it actually had the opposite affect. Even though there were other divers around the site at the same time as us, (not as many as during the day, though) it still felt like we were the only people in the entire ocean. I know the sea is vast anyway, but somehow it just felt, bigger. Our instructor, Jo, gave each of us a torch, not only for light, but for communication. If any of us were to see anything of interest, we were to slowly circle it with the beam of the torch, being careful not to shine it in the eyes of the marine life.

I don’t think I’ve ever come across a feeling that night diving instilled within me. It’s one of those places that you would go to put issues and worries on hold, because you just don’t tend to think about crap like that when you’re able to bob along next to the colourful wonders of the ocean floor with your newly acquired buoyancy.

So, £320 later, and I am officially an advanced open water diver. I didn’t think I’d ever take to island life. I’m not really a beachy person. But it was very difficult leaving Koh Tao. Diving isn’t just a sport or a hobby, in the six days that I spent in the company of divers, I realised that it’s a way of life. Getting up early for a 6am dive is never a problem when you know you’re going to be heading out on a boat for the day. Thank you Davy Jones. Thank you very much.

Koh Tao Take Two

Okay, so I’ve just realised that I’m behind by roughly twenty-four blog posts, and now that I’m editing this, it’s probably more like thirty. I better get started.

This time, I will actually write about Koh Tao.

Four hours after arriving in Thailand from Kuala Lumpur, we boarded the 10pm sleeper ferry from Chumphon. Despite the Hobbit sized beds, the mattresses were comfortable, and I managed to sleep for the full six sailing hours. I would recommend this mode of transport, that is, I would have, if we hadn’t arrived on Koh Tao at 5am, four hours before we could check into our accommodation. If you should choose this option over the high speed catamaran, I can however, recommend a top notch stone bench outside Davy Jones’ Locker (where my dive journey begins: http://www.davyjoneslocker.asia/ ).

After observing the early morning island life of divers heading out to the longtails with their gearbags, and drunk backpackers stumbling the wrong way home, we checked in, paid for the dive course, and hit the beach. Not before I slapped on the factor fifty, though.

The course started at 4pm that same day. Who needs to nap when your first lesson is in the classroom, watching videos?

For future information, (because I know you’ve all going to want to take a dive course after this) our Padi followed this syllabus:

DAY 1
– Classroom: watching videos and filling in questionnaires (roughly 3 hours)

DAY 2:
– Morning pool session: instructors distribute health and safety information which is then implemented in the pool. Here you will learn and practice the Padi skills (3 hours)
– Break for lunch
– Back to the classroom: last few videos and questionnaires. (You are often given the option to do the exam, too. As a whole group we decided to get it out of the way. so our session took about 3 hours)

DAY 3:
– Two dives and basic skills

DAY 4:
– Two dives and basic skills
– Qualification! (You have to have your photo taken for your dive license. I recommend having it straight after the dives, it’s more authentic that way. You may not even have a choice either way).

Side note: I am claustrophobic and my biggest fear is drowning.

The first dive is always going to be pretty daunting. So why was I the only one that looked like I’d forgotten how to breathe and speak? Like a line of ants, we descended a rope at the end of a fellow dive boat. I probably hadn’t even reached the five metre mark before my ears started compressing. I tried all the techniques I knew to equalize, wiggling my jaw, blowing against the ear drum, etc. Nothing worked. I stopped breathing. A diver should never stop breathing. Ever. It’s the number one rule. I panicked. Without realising, I’d ascended to the surface. Fortunately, our dive master trainee, Arno, followed me. He calmed me down. It took about ten minutes for the pain to subside.

“Do you want to try again?”
“I don’t know. I want to. I’m nervous.”
“Five more minutes?”
“Okay.”

We floated in silence.

“I want to try again.”
“Okay.”
“Slowly?”
“Very. Equalize every time you move down the rope.”

With Arno’s guidance, I successfully made it to the bottom where my group sat waiting.

At this point, I’ll give you a handy hint: it’s not a very good idea to smile when your knees touch the sand, no matter how proud you are of yourself. You don’t want your mask to flood before you’ve even attempted it as a skill.

I’ll never forget that first trip out on the boat. I generally felt ready to quit before I’d completed one dive. Without my patient safety net, Arno, I wouldn’t have given myself the opportunity to become addicted to the hobby I never thought I would be able to try in the first place.

Oh, and before I go, yes, I did qualify. I may have also splashed out on another course, the…

Koh Tao

So today I realised that I’ve been putting off a lot of important stuff. That life stuff that life is full of:

– Replying to emails
– Replying to Facebook socialisings
– Nurturing blog
– Printing flight confirmation
– Buying conditioner

I suppose you could say I tried to tackle some of these neglects this afternoon when I propped my Kindle against the wall and turned it on with every intention of writing. Something. Anything. Naturally I flicked through the interface’s carousel and opened the non-word processing app, ‘TED’. Not only did I fail at all of the above, I also fell asleep.

When I woke up, I stumbled upon a TED talk by Dave Eggers, which can be found here:

I may have been drawn to his talk because I’m familiar with him as an author, it might have been because I’m fascinated with the way he talks faster than he can think, maybe it’s because he has an impressive beard, whatever it was, I’m thankful for it because it rescued me from slipping into a state of writerly disinterest.

Serious writers probably shouldn’t need a metaphorical kick up the arse to get the pen moving, but when you’re on the other side of the world, and your life is rushing past like rice paddies outside a bus window during a journey from Hue to Hanoi in Vietnam, you begin to misplace some of that writerly passion. And I say ‘you’ rather than ‘I’, because I know I’m not the only person to have strayed away from this chosen path before, and I won’t be the last.

You might also be wondering why the post is titled ‘Koh Tao’. Well it was initially supposed to be chronologically travel related.

I guess it still is, really.

KL

A five hour bus journey later and we arrive in the city of Kuala Lumpur. Much like Singapore, we found the metro and headed towards the station where we would find our hostel, Reggae Mansion. Sam chose it because it has a cinema. We never used the cinema.

Tired and beaten, we decided to get an early night. I wasn’t sure if this was going to be possible in a twenty-four bed dorm, but I was ready to try. The friendly member of staff explained the route to the room and gave us the code. I forgot it instantly. Thankfully, Sam was more alert, and we were in.

My first impression was: this is cool. The bunk-beds are built up against the walls. Each one has a curtain across it and there are lockers at the underneath the bottom bunk, big enough to fit an entire rucksack. Sam was excited because it was the first place we were able to test our padlocks. It’s not always the big things that excite backpackers.

My excitement soon dwindled when I matched my number with the bed. Top bunk. How the hell was I meant to get up there?

My first attempt at climbing the ladder proved that my legs and arms are quite short. But I found a way to lever myself up in the end. It’s a good job I don’t suffer from vertigo. Once settled, I realised I’d be sleeping in a luxuriously comfy bed for three nights, in a private little pod that I could actually change in. Again, the little things, like not needing to go to the bathroom to get dressed, are luxury.

Before I started writing this piece, I really didn’t know what I had to say about Kuala Lumpur. To me, it was just another high-rise city. Although it wasn’t what I expected. I suppose, because it’s in Malaysia, I assumed it would be quite dilapidated and dirty. It was neither of those. It was more like an underdeveloped Singapore and an overdeveloped Bristol.

So I’m taking this piece down a different path. In fact, I’m going to talk to you about my favourite aspect of travel.

People.

We didn’t meet many people in Sri Lanka because it was so guesthouse/homestay oriented. We stayed in a dorm once, where we did eventually meet fellow backpackers. Anyway, it turns out that Reggae Mansion is like a hub for meeting new people. They offer an all day tour called ‘The 7 Wonders of Kuala Lumpur’. We hadn’t really looked at tours before, apart from the massive tuktuk scam we went on in Sri Lanka that robbed us of a few thousand rupees. Hidden charges are everywhere in Sri Lanka, so be careful if you’re heading that way. But this 7 wonders tour seemed legitimate and a bargain.

It’s roughly 5RM to the £1, not bad for a full day and seven different places. Plus, the tour started at 10am. Even better.

We reached the lobby a few minutes early and sat on the sofa. The room started filling up and people were shuffling around or fidgeting in seats. We’d had a short chat with someone else going on the tour, but other than that, there wasn’t much conversation around. When the guide turned up, he did a quick register. Thirteen of us altogether.

For the first destination, everyone went off in their pairs or by themselves to explore the mosque we’d been taken to. Despite our separate ways, we all came together at the end and spoke about the one thing we had in common – the mosque. This was enough to break through the wariness you feel around new people, and from then on, the bus was full of voices. “So, where are you from? How long have you been travelling? How much did you save for your trip? Do you like travelling alone?” These are the critical questions that begin any friendship between one backpacker and another.

By the end of the tour, we’d had group photos and more in depth conversations. We also found out it was someone’s birthday, a girl from sunny England. So of course, we collectively decided that she needed to have a night out and arranged to meet at the rooftop bar in Reggae.

After a dry three weeks, the vodka went straight to my head, even after a whole plate of BBQ food and Sam’s leftover baked potato. Eating that night definitely wasn’t cheating. Then someone said ‘buckets’ and ‘card games’, and that was it. All dignity was lost through karaoke and struggling with stairs. But it was a night to try and remember, and one that would be difficult to top.

The next morning, I dragged people out of bed and demanded we get coffee before the hangover kicked in. As the morning ticked on, everyone else joined our breakfast table and lamented that they had buses to catch and bags to pack.

It’s a shame we all dispersed so soon after we’d just met, but that’s the way of the backpacker. You come and go as though you were never there.

But fortunately, we have Facebook.

Haw Par Villa

As promised, here’s the story for another time.

One morning, I got talking to a guy who’d been in Singapore for two weeks. I asked him what he’d enjoyed most and what he’d recommend. Reeling off the usual guidebook attractions, I noted them down and circled my map. Just as I was going to clear my breakfast dishes, he said:

“Oh, and my favourite thing I did, was go to Haw Par Villa. It’s this place full of Chinese statues. I won’t say anymore, just go there. Trust me. It’s bizarre and brilliant.”

So I did. But not before having a sneak peak at the Lonely Planet guide to see if there was anymore information. The answer was, no, not really:

     ‘That which is derived from society should be returned to society’, said Aw Boon Haw, creator of the Tiger Balm miracle salve. A million dollars later, what he returned was the Haw Par Villa, an unbelievably weird and undoubtedly kitsch theme park showcasing Chinese culture.

Knowing that it was about the people who developed Tiger Balm, but not much else, I hopped on the metro and headed for the conveniently named station, ‘Haw Par Villa’. When I got off the line, I wandered into the street, expecting to find a map with a big YOU ARE HERE red dot, but who needs a map when you can just turn right and you come across this:

I walked up to the main gate where I was met by a man. It was very quite and I couldn’t see any tourists. This is often a bad sign in SEA.

“One hour,” he said. “We close.”

Crap. I’d left it too late and so I had to rush. I smiled and said thank you before continuing up the slope towards the attraction. When I rounded the corner, I found a signpost and a map. This place is big. With my camera around my neck, I decided to take a picture of everything as I knew I wouldn’t be coming back here. Not for a long time anyway.

Walking around, I thought I’d be able to gain some information from the abundance of plaques and signs dotted around the area, but most of them were a metallic gold, chipped and most of the writing was worn away. This was much the same story for the statues themselves. What were once colourful depictions of Chinese myth and legend, were now fading bridges and beasts, weathered and crumbling.

A clichéd splash of paint would have actually brought these statues back to life, but somehow, they seemed better this way. I’m sure back in 1937 when the Villa and it’s grounds were opened, the bright colours and clear, blue water features would have attracted visitors from all over. In fact, an article on the way out proved this to be true. But I felt as though this dilapidated park had an abundance stories whispering through the tunnels and over the bridges of chipped plaster and paint.

Did I mention it was deserted? Not only were there no tourists, but there were no staff either. I had the lonely place to myself. It was brilliant. I wandered around in the silent world of tigers, fish, people, and myth. It was a blissful hour.

Although run-down, I felt this place deserved a post. It was my favourite spot in Singapore. It felt unloved and unattended for, but this is what gave it charm and illusion – exactly what Haw Par Villa is supposed to represent.

Adam’s Peak

Oh, hello blog, it’s been a while. Twenty-four to be exact. Since then I’ve been to Singapore, Kuala Lumpur and Thailand. So yes, I’m very behind. I do have some pretty good reasons though:

– Hours of overland travel
– A couple of nights of excessive alcohol (because 3 weeks without it was enough…)
– Learning to dive
– Being hooked on diving

Excuses, excuses, excuses.

So 2380km takes us back to Sri Lanka. I’m going to keep us hidden in the hill country for a little longer.

We got off the train at Hatton, and we were instantly badgered by Sri Lankan transport. “Where you going? Tuktuk? Taxitaxitaxi? I own this hotel, nice hot water and comfortable.” As per our usual, we started asking for the bus station. But of course, ‘no’ buses run to Delhouse, you have to take a tuktuk. So the bartering began. Somehow, we managed to get a ride for four hundred rupees. It probably should have cost us one thousand, perhaps more, but the driver did actually stop several times on the way to pick up various tuktuk essentials; a spare tyre, some fuel, some oil. Oh, we did get to see a lake on the way.

“You want pictures?” The driver was already getting out.
“Okay, what’s the lake called?” I asked.
“Sorry?”
“The lake. It’s name?”
“I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”
“Does it have a name? The lake?”
“Ohhhh. No. No name.”

And off we went, although not before having our photos with Mr Driver and his beloved tuktuk.

After a cold shower and an afternoon of chill time, we tucked ourselves into bed and slept until 3am. Some climbers had been awake for an hour already, but word of mouth informed us that it should only take roughly two hours to reach the summit. Plenty of time before sunrise.

On the way to the base, we stopped by the open stalls to stock up on water and bars of sugar. Energy energy energy. After being badgered into a too-early-to-care donation scam, we found the first step at 3:30am. This is where team Sam and Lauren split up. I can’t walk slow due to a knee condition, and Sam can’t walk fast due to asthma.

As I started to ascend, Sri Lankan men, women and children, were already coming down and finishing their pilgrimage. We often exchanged morning pleasantries, but as my breathing became more shallow and the words ‘good morning’ didn’t feel so good anymore, I plugged myself into my iPod and let Maroon 5’s rhythm carry me forward. It felt like I was running on the beach back home, but this was steps, and I didn’t have my wing-dog, Lenny.

The entire path leading to the summit was lit, so I could roughly judge how far I’d walked by studying the number of lights above and below me. I had a system where I would walk up blocks of steps without stopping, and then allow myself a couple of seconds respite at the top of each block. This worked perfectly. I was able to make progress while admiring the activity around me. I was struck by the number of elderly men and women making the pilgrimage, probably for the hundredth+ time in their life. Bare foot, frail, determined, they took it step by step, many women in their nineties were supporting each other, stopping with each other. Sometimes I’d pause my music, just to listen to their native language. It wouldn’t have surprised me if they were gossiping the whole way. Sri Lankan tea plantation workers are well known for their twitterings.

Besides the couple of seconds of breathing time, I did stop once. Big mistake. I knew as soon as I’d perched myself on a railing, I’d be stuck. I felt the muscles spasm in my legs and the cartilage in my knees started to burn. I’d probably walked up four thousand steps by that point. The top seemed so close, but the lights above me never seemed to reach the summit. I checked my iPod. 4:45am. Determined to make the sunrise, I swigged my water and took a bite of the sugar bar. I must have stopped for five minutes. Too much.

Although, it wasn’t soon before too long (see what I did there?) that I turned a corner and the steps became steeper. There was a set of railings on either side of the path, and one straight through the middle. I picked the right hand side and mimicked the pace of the person in front of me. Eventually, the trail of people ahead started to slow down due to a human traffic jam near the top. Sweating and wobbly, we all waited. I checked my watch. It had been one hour and thirty minutes ago that I’d conquered step one. There were about one hundred left and it took me fifteen minutes. I shouldn’t say I’m dissatisfied that I could have reached the summit quicker, but actually, I kind of am. Personal competition and all that.

Anyway, I edged around the temple that sat at the top of the peak, and joined the Western world that had been waiting around for a couple of hours. The early risers were shivering under blankets and jumpers. This would probably be the coldest place I’d visit in Sri Lanka. On went my own two hoodies and a pair of gloves (thank you, Mum, for making me pack winter-wear).

A quarter of an hour later, Sam joined me at the top; just in time for the sunrise. We watched the sky pinwheel through its colour chart of navys, blues, pinks, reds and yellows. As it rose, the mountains below started to come into focus, triangular shadows pointing to the sky.

If I’m honest, that was pretty much it. Although beautiful, the urge to see the sunrise was quickly replaced by an urge for descent.

I won’t bore you with the details of going down, but I will let you know that it hurt. A couple of times I had to move aside for people to be stretchered down the mountain.

But I made it. Tired, sticky and shaking, ready for a shower and some breakfast.

At the bottom, I turned around and looked up, towards the peak, where we’d left people in peace, praying after their long pilgrimage.

They’d be there for a couple of hours, eating, drinking, praying, socialising. This was their way of life, and they’d let us in. Grateful, I turned around and dragged myself back to the hostel.

As I tucked into my toast and runny jam, I thought about how I would climb Adam’s Peak again if I was ever in the area. It’s definitely cheaper than a gym membership.

Stories To Tell

I’ve Been Searching For It For Days

We’d trudged through the dusty towns and cities of Colombo, Negombo and Kandy, and I was beginning to wonder where the renowned Sri Lankan scenery was hiding; apparently it can’t be missed.

Standing on the platform at Nuwara Eliya, we waited among the seventy/thirty tourist to Sri Lankan ratio, for the train to Ella. We were already in the ‘hill country’, but we were yet to experience the vast tea plantations that are supposed to occupy the area. Although we’d already sampled plenty of it.

The train rolled in and people started shuffling along the platform. Shuffling, shuffling, shuffling, running. Running to claim a seat for the three hour journey ahead. Of course, we were not quick enough. One of the main guidebook attractions we wanted to experience, and we had to stand in the aisles or between the carriage couplings. I managed to park myself in the middle of a carriage so I could see out of the window. I didn’t bother taking my camera out. I didn’t want photos of filthy windows taunting me for missing the views on the other side.

The train jerked forwards. I could already feel the cramp in my toes from my not-so-broken-in walking shoes. For the first half an hour, the scenery passed by, much the same as everything I’d already seen in Nuwara Eliya. Dry grass dominated the slopes either side of the track. A three-legged dog relieved itself on what looked like a giant pink tulip. A couple of mini waterfalls trickling down the side of the hills attracted a few twitterings from the tourists, but nothing guidebook worthy yet.

I was distracted by a fidgeting French couple when it happened. Since they’d gotten on the train, all they’d done was move their bags from one place to another in an attempt to make some seats. While I was trying to grab the strap of my bag to tug it out of their way a forth time, the train emerged out of a tunnel and the voices in the compartment rose. I looked up, and there it was. A reason to use the word beauty.

Colombo has its busy roads and backstreet drug grottos that tuktuk drivers are happy to show you in case you’re that way inclined (often without asking you first), Negombo has its beach that attracts many tourists and even more locals, Kandy has its Temple of the Tooth (turns out there’s one in Singapore too), its scamming tour operators and its man-made lake. The stretch between Nuwara Eliya and Ella has these sheer drops on either side of the railway tracks, and hillsides that would send you plummeting into a forest of coconut trees or tea plantations.

I took my phone from my bag and wrote the following sentences:

     The Sri Lankans make incredible use out of their land. Wherever there is a patch of mud, a seed grows.

I look back at this and feel as though I didn’t put enough effort into describing what I saw, but then, upon reflection, this note expresses exactly what I thought of the scene at the time. The simplicity of the sentence structure shows just how much I wanted to be looking out of a window rather than at an iPhone screen. It’s not very often that we experience something that has the power to transport our minds away from technology, long enough for us to temporarily forget that it exists.

I stared at the expanse of foliage that was revealing itself to us as we sped across the rails. Each time we went through a tunnel, a different view would be there to greet us on the other side.

I watched the silent movie of the countryside until the train stopped. Sri Lankans started vacating their seats, so I threw my bag onto one next to a window and climbed across. Normally, I would be more  polite, but this was important. I had to see.

The train pulled away and I took my camera out; poised, I waited. But the view was gone. No more rippling hills or overcrowded forests. No more mist brushing the canopies of coconut infested palms. No more sheer drops. Just fields, and mud.

A Sri Lankan occupied the seat beside me and started asking me the usual, ‘where are you from? Where are you going? How long in Sri Lanka? You like?’ spiel. I took the opportunity to ask him about the environment, trying to mask my disappointment. I found out that those patches of mud I’d been ignoring, were actually rice fields.

We spoke about cultivation for the rest of the journey, and by the time we reached Ella, I’d taken fifty+ photos and been informed that I should try a red banana during my stay. I promised I’d buy one as soon as I could.

I met Sam on the platform and showed him some photos.

     “Did you see? All those plants. Look at this one of the train.”

     “I couldn’t see from where I was standing. That’s a good photo.”

I felt sad that I’d managed to capture a fraction of the beauty that Sri Lanka has to offer.

     “We’ll take the train to Hatton when we go to Delhouse to do Adam’s Peak, okay?”

And so, we did:

P.s. Adam’s Peak, you ask? Another day perhaps…