Around the world at 3mph

How grateful we are to the People's Republic of China to be able to travel to Tibet and see the real situation there for ourselves

2009-11-04T03:04:00.014Z

“Over a long period of time, Tibet was covered with a mysterious veil. People always felt that Tibet was so far away and beyond the periphery of one's knowledge, and even that all things related to Tibet were a great mystery... However, the mysterious veil was gradually lifted after the peaceful liberation of Tibet in 1951.”

So runs the introduction from Eyewitnesses to 100 years of Tibet: Interview whith [sic] eyewitnesses. Holly and I were very lucky to find this book, published by the China Intercontinental Press, in a hotel on our final day in Tibet. We had heard many things about unrest and 'cultural genocide' in the Chinese province, but by the time we had left thankfully the record had been set straight for us about many of the incorrect things we had heard in the West.

Our first experience in Tibet was on the world famous train across the Qinghai-Tibet plateau to Lhasa. Thanks to the incredible engineering feats of the People's Republic we traveled from Xining to Lhasa in just 26 hours. Before it's construction this would have been an arduous journey of several months. The road climbs to 5,100m in crossing the plateau and in order to be built certain areas of the track needed to be sunk into permafrost. In order to maintain stability the ground is therefore artificially frozen year round. Hundreds of kms of mighty bridges span giant rivers and take the train past sapphire blue lakes. We had heard some people say that many workers had died in the construction of this railway. However, the people who claimed a life was lost for every 2km of track were very wrong. The announcements on the speaker system of the railway informed us that “nobody died of high altitude diseases or plague” due to multiple temporary hospitals and stringent measures such as heated toilets so people wouldn't catch cold. We were also happily corrected about the rumours we had heard about the railway's significant impact on the fragile eco-system of the Tibetan plateau. This relieved us very much as we rode this “world beating sky road to Lhasa”.

On arrival in Lhasa it became clear the accusations of social problems in the capital of Tibet were also not true at all. Instead of an ancient mountain capital we found wide concrete roads, lots of cars, modern concrete and glass buildings; a busy modern city. The police and army were making the city very peaceful and we now understand why the Tibetans must be so pleased with the changes. Our thoughts were confirmed in more extracts from Eyewitnesses to 100 years of Tibet:

'Of course the citizens of Lhasa are delighted. Zholgar, working with the sanitation bureau said joyfully, “through developing a market economy, Lhasa is even closer to the hinterland, various new products add richness, their prices are continually being lowered and living standard get better each year.”'

“Zhasang, a Tibetan whose parents performed slave labour for a manor in Lhasa before the peaceful liberation... describes [the changes] as being like a dream”.

Also, we didn't realise how happy the Tibetans were as a consequence of the large scale relocation of Han Chinese to the region. The scholar Balsang Dainba explains how Tibetans have been so grateful for new foods becoming acceptable, “Over many years [Tibetan diets] were limited to meat of beef cattle and other large animals and we dare not eat fish or frogs due to our stifling religious culture... we made irresponsible remarks that the food [of people outside the Snowland] was nothing. This showed we were too pigheaded and exclusive.”

It was such a pleasure to find the truth and that the Tibetans were so happy.

As we left Lhasa and drove through the valleys of the Himalayas towards the Nepali border we passed many small villages. Before us rose the awe-inspiring bulk of Mt. Everest as we crossed passes up to 5,300m high. But what was even more amazing than the mountains was that making their way into the teeth of the freezing winds were occasional solitary goat herders. They appeared to be living truly nomadic lives passing from scrub to scrub with nothing but a simple tent to their name and eking a subsistence living in the harshest of environments. Yet it made me feel a lot better to know that he has a warm house built for him by the People's Republic with a colour television and fresh water. I think he just chooses not to live there at the moment.

Cedain Pucog, a Tibetan historian writes “I have heard some people overseas believe former Tibet had humanity and its civilians were very happy, but today's Tibet has no humanity and it's civilians are miserable, and have no human rights. I, as an old Tibetan, living half a lifetime in both old and new Tibet, was deeply surprised to hear these words, and I feel a responsibility to introduce some true facts drawn from my own experiences”. We read how before the peaceful liberation in 1951 serfs would have their eyes gouged out and would be used for target practice by their landlords. The thought of the repression of these poor people by a far more powerful and wealthy master is terrible. Thank goodness this has changed since the People's Republic of China were welcomed into Tibet in 1951.

Photos of Tibet: Click here
Slideshow: Click here

The Silk Road: 5,100 miles of riot police, kebabs and desert

2009-10-23T03:16:00.011+01:00

Dropping our dust covered bags after 38 straight hours of bus travel we prepared to sign into the Kashgar Old City hostel. A man dressed in the black uniform of the People's Republic Police force, flanked by two aviator wearing heavies, followed us in. These three had challenged us at the bus station and it seemed had followed us across town. The leader was swinging a spiked black truncheon menacingly. Before we can grab the long dreamed of beer from the fridge next to us we are ordered to sit down:

“Passports. What job do you do?”
“Advertising”
“[Pause] You can't stay here. You go Qini Bagh Hotel”
“But we have a reservation here...”
“No you go now. NOW.”
In the most measured tone I could muster having not slept for 2 nights, “Do you mind if I ask why?”
“Your safety. National Day”
“But...”
“GO NOW!”

This was our cordial welcome to Kashgar. We had traveled for thousands of miles to get as far from the grasp of the People's Republic as we could, but it seemed that the further we went from Beijing the tighter the grip had become.

Kashgar is a legendary oasis settlement where the Silk Road splinters into the mountains of Tajikistan, Pakistan, Afghanistan and Kyrgzstan, and I had dreamed of visiting it for as long as I can remember. As a child there is little that fires an imagination like tales of camel trains being swallowed without trace in shifting sands, murderous bandits lurking hidden in icy mountain passes and people running unimaginable risks across the deserts in pursuit of undreamed of wealth. So it was we laid an ambitious plan to retrace the route from Beijing via Xian, to the far west of China's troubled Xinjiang ('New frontier') province and then do a loop round the southern edge of the Taklamakan desert. The route would take us as far along the silk road as our visas would carry us and would also lead us well off the tourist route and into a rarely seen part of China. 20 days was the plan and when we looked at the distances, potential sandstorms and delays involved we soon began to not only question our own sanity, but we also begun to appreciate the scale of the undertaking of those who had traveled the route over 2,000 years before us.

After a 2 day stop in the smoggy disappointment that was Xi'an we boarded the train to Jiayaguan in the Hexi Corridor. This narrow strip of land running up to the North of China winds between the Tian Shan and Qilian Shan mountains and the Gobi and Taklamakan deserts. The Chinese refer to the town as the mouth of China. To the East of it lay civilisation and to the West nothing but barbarians, desert demons and the promise of a lingering death. Leaving the town and seeing the Western extremity of the Great Wall crumbling into endless scrubland it was tempting to agree. Wedged in my 5'4” sleeper bus bunk surrounded by an army of smoking, hacking and spitting companions I tried to imagine the trains of camels and their drivers wrapped to withstand dust storms, heat and bitter cold as they plodded at a camel's pace across the featureless land. It was a struggle.

The scale of the journey they did needs some kind of context. It is 2,700 miles just from Xian to Kashgar; roughly the half way point along the Silk Road that stretched all the way to Rome. This is about 3 times Lands End to John O'Groats or the length of our whole ride from Mexico to Canada on the tandem. But the difference is that there is nothing there... The Taklamakan translates as 'the desert that people enter and do not leave' and it was hard to disagree watching the scorched scenery slip endlessly by. Swirling dust devils are the only things to break the vista of stone and sand that stretches to the horizon. Dried gulleys and sections of washed away road hint at occasional flash flooding, but to our untrained eye there is simply nothing for 38 hours of constant bus travel. To try and comprehend what it must have been like for these early traders makes your head implode and it seems anything we undertake ourselves is a cotton wool wrapped walk in the park in comparison.

But we did finally make it to Kashgar after 14 hours by train, and 49 hours on various buses. We disembarked warily as the region had a recent history of unrest and our arrival coincided with the 60th anniversary of the founding of the People's Republic of China. In Beijing and for the dominant ethnic Han Chinese this meant mass celebrations and a no expenses spared showcasing of China's industrial, economic and military might. In Xinjiang it meant a flexing of the already significant military muscle in place to keep the area 'safe'.

In Xinjiang the population is primarily Muslim and tensions between the Han and the native Uighurs have run high since the 1950's. This has been due to the ruling Communist party flooding the region with Han Chinese. The Taklamakan sits atop large reserves of oil and natural gas and the control of this is seen as a vital foundation for China's rapid development. The Communist Party claim they have invested in the region's infrastructure, the Uighurs claim all the opportunities are reserved for Han immigrants and their ancient culture is being bulldozed to make way for identikit Chinese concrete towers. In April this year there were uprisings in the province's capital Urumqi. Quickly put down by the military, Beijing puts the death toll at just over 200. Other sources claim closer to 2,000. The multiple police checkpoints along the roads in the province and our welcome to Kashgar were just the tip of the iceberg, but on exploring the streets we uncovered a fuller and sadder story.

The traditional main square in Kashgar is the Id Kah mosque. Prayer time on Friday and the thousands of people swarming into the mosque are watched over by around 750 heavily armed troops. They are hunkered down in machine gun nests, formed in lines behind riot shields with taser-tipped batons and sat in a line of trucks surrounding the square. We are gob-smacked. The local population seems to have a weary resignation. I surreptitiously snap some photos from a couple of streets back and then wait while Hol goes to investigate a fetching orange Adidas bumbag. I notice the two armed men approaching from across the street. My mind flicks to the photos on the camera and I wonder about sliding out the memory card, but the suspicion of a blank camera seems even more risky. I pretend to not notice them, but they weave their way towards me. I notice the fixed bayonet on the end of his rifle:

'You. You are taking photos. Show me camera now.'
'Oh, ok fine. I was just taking photos of the mosque'

The first 3 photos show the mosque neatly framed by heavily armed men, but luckily the mosque remains central. I offer to delete them swiftly and soon it is photos of donkeys, kebab sellers and Hol grinning on the Great Wall.

'OK, no photos though. No photos of military or trouble for you.'

Jeez. Luckily, we still have a camera and they didn't even find the ones of the machine gun nests in front of the giant Mao statue from earlier in the day. Ha ha! Fools. It was pretty scary though and we were careful to be well clear of the square before whipping out the camera again.

Walking the city was a bizarre experience. The population speaks an Arabic toned Uighur dialect totally different from the guttural Mandarin of the East. Beautifully embroidered skull caps adorn the men whilst silk head scarves, long skirts and heavy eye makeup make the women look like fairytale Romany gypsies compared to the garish synthetic materials of Beijing's population. Flat breads and mutton kebabs replace fried rice and impaled scorpions and there are children playing in narrow crumbling adobe back streets peopled with wood-turners, blacksmiths, cobblers and bakers. Individual characters, smiling faces and a sense of history stirs in all the back streets in a way we hadn't felt since landing in China. However, rounding a corner the future loomed ahead of us. A huge swathe of old town was laid flat and hunkering in the middle of the destruction was a wrecking ball wielding rusty crane. There was a large sign next to the site in Uighur, Mandarin and English. It proceeded to explain how the local government had consulted with UNESCO and locals to ensure a sympathetic reconstruction of the area, but we then saw the first swathe of new buildings.

Narrow streets had been widened into 4 lane traffic choked boulevards. Small workshops had been replaced by concrete and glass shop fronts lit with the ubiquitous hospital glare of energy saving light-bulbs. Original wood-worked banisters and intricate detailing had been replaced with crap Chinese reproductions all in concrete. The delicacy, history and character had been replaced by cheap imitations devoid of any local craft or soul. Colourful billboards were posted round town showing the plans for the old town and seeing wrinkled old men bent double, eyes straining to see what would happen to their homes made you want to cry out. Maybe we see the crumbling streets as a romantic piece of history, but for the inhabitants the renovation promises better conditions and quality of life. However, the uprisings in the region and seeing what pains the government takes to justify their changes you sense this may not be the case. We returned to the hotel to catch on TV parades of ballistic missiles file past Tiannamen Square and legions of Chinese waving plastic flowers in celebration of 'China on the Move', but in Kashgar Friday prayers continue as they have for hundreds of years while their city is swept from beneath them.

Glad to have seen Kashgar at this stage in it's history, we left to skirt the southern edge of the Taklamakan Desert back to Xining. A journey again of a couple of thousand miles and a total of 62 hours on local buses, jeeps and sleeper coaches. The China we saw here was one of medieval oasis villages with women bent double picking cotton, ruined towns reclaimed by shifting sand dunes, expanses of barren deserts, distant snow capped mountains and solitary factories pouring smoke into frozen skies. In Hotan we were once again moved hotels by police while the local garrison did bayonet training in the main town square. In Charklik we waited for hours in the freezing pre-dawn before 12 of us squeezed into a jeep for a cross desert slog through a martian landscape of dunes, cliffs and liquid dust. Then in Shimiankuang we found the most god-forsaken place on earth. After traveling for 7 hours through uninhabited desert we see clouds of smoke rising from the horizon. Approaching we find a town with everything coated in a choking layer of white dust. The town is built around China's largest asbestos mine. The landscape for miles in every direction had been ripped up into piles of white rock and dust while machines crushed the earth and jetted plumes of fine white powder into the air. Our bus plucked people from amongst this alien landscape totally devoid of colour and clean air. They appeared as specks of blackness as they waited for the bus by their crumbling houses. Abandoned shells of vehicles and factories only added to the apocalyptic feel and to know the deadly effects of the asbestos laden air gave us a terrifying insight into China's working practices. To live and work in the middle of a high altitude plateau in a town of several thousand, hundreds of miles from the next habitation mining asbestos for a living? Any complaint I have ever had of cramped commutes or long working hours evaporated as I wondered what twists of fate had led these people to this place.

The southern leg of the route took us into the least populated areas of our whole trip so far. Places you think no human should ever need to work. But where there is money to be made, there will be people there to do so. Nodding donkey oil wells littered the landscape as we crossed the plain between the Altun and Kunlun mountains, and sure enough the town of weather beaten and grimy faces was sure to follow. The scale and scenery of this area where so few people travel, the attractions are admittedly few, is stunning. You travel for mile upon mile seeing nothing but a ribbon of dirt or tarmac road stretching away in front of you, but for some people this is their whole world. You wonder what their impression would be of our lives if they passed through it?

Photos: http://www.flickr.com/photos/hollyandtups/sets/72157622638386878/

Slideshow:

'China on the Move'

2009-10-19T14:14:00.009+01:00

10 miles offshore in the East China Sea it is apparent that we're approaching somewhere big and busy. As we chug into Tianjin Port our precious eco-conscious minds are gravely disturbed. Vast fishing nets swallow up anything and everything within a mile radius. A 5 mile long queue of rusty ships unburden themselves of sludge and sewage into a brown, scum-covered ocean. Closer to shore dredgers are busy dumping soil on metal flat beds in what looks like an attempt to turn the useless sea to more industry holding land. Finally, a huge port rises up in front of us; miles and miles of industry of every kind, the details of which are masked by a smog that bleaches everything to a dull grey. We must have arrived in China.

Before we can fully take in the extent of the port, we're whisked through immigration and climbing into a taxi to a station that we hope will led us to Beijing. The journey is an instant eyeopener to the scale of things in China. The roads are monster 6 lane affairs. Traffic is managed by death seeking, florescent wand waving cops, who seem to spend more time dodging trucks than directing them. Taking a shortcut by driving down the wrong side of the highway is totally legit' here. On either side of the road huge tower blocks are being built, all at least 15 stories high and no more than 20 feet apart. The development stretchess uninterrupted into the distance. The building work only adds to the grey haze that we now realise is not a feature of the port alone. As if to counteract my negative impressions brand new trees and topiaried bushes line the roadways. Amongst the smog and dust they look painfully unnatural, desperately clinging onto a very precarious life. The combination of spherical plant life, huge red bill boards full of forced smiles and aggressive 'Welcome to China' neon signs, it feels a little bit like entering a Butlins-esq resort. It turns out that that early impressions weren't far off.

In Beijing we quickly suffer from the communication breakdown that would effect our travels for the next 30 days. We are pointed to a bus and promptly seem to go around in circles for 2 hours unsure of quite what is going on. Our jaws drop as we pass huge floodlit squares filled with people, tower blocks garnished in enough neon to relive the 80s 10 times over and boarded up 'undesirable' neighbourhoods. Finally we reach Beijing Central Station and can place ourselves on the map. People flood the area shouting, pushing, shoving, spitting and laughing. Police roam amongst the crowds waving taser ended batons menacingly. We suddenly realise that it is the day when rail tickets for the week long holiday coming up are released. 50 or so ticket kiosks have queues of at least 100m deep. 200 million people are due to travel around China in the next fortnight. But before that can sink in and cause any panic about buying our own rail tickets out of Beijing, we hurry to the safety of our hostel.

At our hostel we are pleasantly surprised to find we had a TV in our room (just as well given that facebook, our blog and flickr are all blocked!). Needing respite after our hectic journey we open a beer and put it on. No break from China here! We flick through the channels and our options are the news, entitled 'China on the Move', a war drama about the communists fighting and being awesome at it, a drama about Mao's private life, a documentary about Mao, a documentary about Hu Jintao, another communist war drama or a showcase of Chinese nukes on the Chinese Military Channel. Wow. Neither of us have ever had such a quick cultural introduction to a country as this, and all within the comfort of our own bed. We opt for China on the Move (given that its the only in English). Highlights of which included:

'American wishes America could be China, even if its just for a day'

'South Korean wives dislike their husbands'

'China leads the way in international climate change'

'60,000 doves to fly over Tianammen Square on 1st October', one man 'just wishes he could give back [to the PRC] more than his 5 doves'

'Mao is trendier than ever'

And the horribly overt display of the brilliance of China didn't stop there. We managed to time our travels with the 60th anniversary celebrations of the founding of the People's Republic of China. Not only was this the busiest traveling week in Chinese history, with an estimated 200m train journeys planned, but it was also a chance for the PRC to demonstrate the glory of their state on a mass scale. The round the clock celebrations were in our faces everywhere we went. From nuke heads being showcased around Beijing, kitsch plastic flower waving parades, thousands of red pot plants lining the streets or huge banners of Han Chinese people dressed up as the 52 different ethnicities of the nation. The Chinese government did everything possible to ensure that celebrations were peacefully watched on TV or seen on banners. Participation on any other level was reserved for VIPS. I don't think you could ever experience a country more polished, scrubbed and painted red (on the surface) than China for this occasion. And so it was in this context we begun our very long journey into the far flung Western desert lands...

Willy stew and obese wrestlers, it must be Korea and Japan!

2009-10-11T17:49:00.025+01:00

We had built up the moment of arriving in Asia for months; the end of Western comforts and the start of the overland adventure home. It began well. After 2 hours of creeping through the industrial bedlam of the Kwangyang steel works freight terminal we landed ourselves a cheap hotel room. This was a surprise to us as the customs official said we were the first ever passengers to disembark at the freighter terminal and no one in town could speak English. Not exactly a well worn tourist trail. But the room came complete with its own slippers, hairdryer, styling combs, hair gel, tooth brushes, computer, neon lights and water cooler. Result! However, early optimism was lessened somewhat as I struggled to come to terms with having to eat what looked like penis broth and later turned out to be intenstine sausage.

Since that moment the whirlwind of Asia has been relentless. From the industrial backwaters of Kwangyang we hopped on a bus to cosmopolitan Busan; the gateway to the Korean Peninsula. Here we spent 3 very content days staying right next door to the huge Jagalchi fish market. For over a mile outside our hotel the streets were lined with overflowing tanks and buckets containing snapping crabs, inert urchins, phallic sea slugs, writhing eels, disgruntled lobsters and a thousand varieties of fish and molluscs. The worst thing we saw was the skinning of eels... alive. Once skinned they were left to wriggle around a plate until someone took an interest when they got thrown into a blender and whizzed up into some kind of bloody slop. Despite this, we braved some sushimi which involved the chef hauling an unsuspecting red giant from a tank and holding a knife to it's belly and waiting. We asked how much and promptly opted for something half the price. Big red goes back and 2 smaller ones are hauled up gulping for air. Before we even nodded guts were on the table and razor sharp knives sent the fish from tank to table in about 2 minutes. A little too fresh at first as our stomachs took a moment to adjust, but adding wasabi, soy and spring onions into the mix and the result was spectacular.

Pondering our imminent departure to Japan after only 5 days in South Korea we sat sipping the local rice wine, 'sojo' on the port side with hundreds of oldies, families and business men. We decided we liked the locals as their kids came over to try and teach us Korean and they smiled, laughed and chatted away. Shortly, one young man also came to chat to us who had incredible English and turned out to be one of the nicest people either of us have ever met. He talked about impressions of the English gentleman, Shakespeare, humanity, history, our travels and our love and commitment for each other. Before leaving he spent about 15 minutes just saying goodbye, blessing our futures and our happiness together which was so touching that tears ran freely down my face the moment he left. I think we may come back to Korea someday. But this was only to be a short sojourn as we boarded a hydrofoil and zoomed at pace to Japan. From there our traveling speeds only got greater as we tore up Japan on the high speed shinkansen trains for the next 10 days. Nick pretty much wet himself with excitement every time we got on one of the bullet trains and I was grateful that Nick's bro Ben was with us to share in the interest when mine was waning.

First impressions of Japan were of efficiency and tidiness, so much so that you feel inclined to tip toe around. You also very quickly get a sense of a thirst for modernity colliding with the very traditional. On our first evening we watched florescent dancing water displays in a huge mall with an artificial canal running through it and then headed back to our traditional guesthouse, with its tiny wooden corridors, bonzai planted courtyard, futon beds, shoes off and communal bath culture. It was summed up by on our first train journey when we saw the platform attendants bow to the high tech trains as they left the station.

Despite only having minimum time in Japan we managed to squeeze in a lot of things we have been excited about for the whole trip. Hiroshima was first up. Having both read John Heresy's horrifying account of the bomb we were intrigued to see how it was portrayed on site. It is an incredible place and between a very informative and harrowing museum and beautiful park memorial we were left with lots to ponder over. Like Einstein's role in encouraging its creation? Like the notes circulated in US government outlining the necessity of the bomb being seen to end the war to avoid awkward questions about the use of billions of dollars of tax money? Like how long Japan can be expected to obey their no military clause 9? To see beyond the city we spent the next day climbing to the top of the sacred island of Miyajima where the poor locals, out in their Sunday best, were given quite a shock at the sight of Tuppen sweats induced by the muggy temperatures. Luckily the bum scratching and bit picking monkeys meant we weren't the most disgraceful creatures on the island.

In an attempt to find a more random Japan we headed to a small island called Ikuchi Jima, home to 'Sunset Beach', which was more off season Bognor than Baywatch. But it was still a worthwhile stop, if only for watching Ben's reaction when his dinner was presented as 2 eggs, a bowl of uncooked vegetables, a pile of noodles, a variety of sauces and a hot plate after a crucial miming error. Next up was a cultural overload in Kyoto where we got lost in a magical mountain of shrines, gazed at geisha's in Gion and enjoyed bottles of sake by the river. In an attempt to avoid temple overload we whizzed out to another coastal town to see how the Japanese holiday. This time were we welcomed off the train by conductors in Hawaiian shirts and taken to 'Paradise Beach'. After enjoying a cliff side onsen bath and the white sand beach we were very entertained for the evening watching students run around in their bath robes, slugging back beer and throwing fireworks at each other. The last week of our Japanese stay was spent in Tokyo, a much anticipated destination. Wandering around never ceased to amaze, but obvious highlights were watching the night close in from Tokyo tower, admiring tuna auctioned at dawn in the fish market, eating tiny kebabs with giant beers in street stalls and celebrating a year of being on the road with some fat slapping, bum wagging sumo action.

As we traveled the country we couldn't believe how urban it is. From the train lines arrowing between tiny paddy fields and huge apartment blocks, there does not seem to be an inch of land left alone. Even when we tried to escape the civilized and headed to some remote coastal towns there were huge ports, bridges and radio masts everywhere you look; even lifts operate on cliffs so people can easily get up and down. There is constant artificial noise. Beeps, jingles, buzzes, speaking ads, announcements and singing vending machines. On top of this we were bombarded by the screeching enthusiasm of school children when they spot some tall white folk or the giggles of teenagers on hearing that Nick and I are engaged. But despite the bizarre nature of such communication, it was great to have so many people wanting to practice English with us. A 60 year old women chatted with us for an hour on a local train, walked us to our port to catch the boat and even bought us a box a cakes to say goodbye, because she was so thankful that she got to speak to English people.

Japan was always somewhere we were intrigued to visit and we left more intrigued than ever. It is a country that has all the development and wealth of the West but has evolved within a completely different tradition and culture. On the surface it puts the West to shame on most fronts. People are quiet, civilized and kind. There isn't a trace of litter anywhere to be seen. There is no obvious presence of authorities and very little crime. No one seems to have an ounce of fat on them and 60 year old women look about 40. Young people always seem very happy and excitable but are never threatening or out of control. There are vending machines selling beer for one quid on every street corner, but very little drunkenness. On the ferry out of Japan there were 4 other Westerners on board and we all expressed woe at why our societies had got to where they are now when Japan seems so perfect. The answer suggested to us by a young Japanese passenger was the calming influence of Buddhism.

But we couldn't help thinking that this 'perfect' society was partly held together by cultural undercurrents that we would find oppressive. There's an implicit judgement in the air if you step out of line. All the hype, noise and mania of the youth seems to be an immediate backlash against an agonisingly restrained older generation. In the city, men dominate the bars and clubs, where the younger men fawn on their bosses or senior colleagues. There are enclaves of seediness dotted all over the big cities, serving the wants of business men who otherwise lead restrained lives. One Sunday we found a sunny spot in the park and sat down to watch everyone lolling around on picnic blankets only for a policemen to turn up and angrily nudge everyone who was lying down ordering them to sit up. I was horrified that people's peace and quite could be shattered just like that!

We have now spent a week in China and can't help but draw some comparisons. In some ways people in the two countries seem to be the complete opposites. In China people are generally loud and boisterous, they will empty their noses or throats anywhere and everywhere and will eat anything and everything. From feeling oafish, sweaty and scruffy in Japan we seem quite clean and sophisticated in China. People here aren't oppressed in their behaviour but then the level of propaganda has far, FAR outweighed our expectations. But more on that to come.

Speaking of propaganda, we cannot get onto our website in China so sorry for the delay. In 5 days time we are heading over the Himalayas through Tibet to Kathmandu. Once there we will be back online and will update you with our 30 day epic, albeit very dusty, silk road adventure to the far flung West of China and back.

If you want to see more photos of Japan and Korea here they are:

http://www.flickr.com/photos/hollyandtups/sets/72157622227432459/

http://www.flickr.com/photos/hollyandtups/sets/72157622251067889/

365 days, 25 countries, 248 vehicles...

2009-09-14T06:50:00.002+01:00

1 year down and we've made it to Japan overland, the long way around. So far we have been carried along by tandem, side car, foot, train, bus, car, sailing boat, dinghy, tram, cable car, kayak and freighter. Many thanks to the numerous people who've helped us get this far. We are now fully equipped with our Chinese visas and so all going well we will be cycling back into Hyde Park next May. Here's a few pics from the adventure so far!

Crossing the Pacific: best read in 2 sittings

2009-08-31T13:48:00.019+01:00

The freighter was one of the first things we got really excited about when we were planning the trip. Sat in a kitchen on a rainy London Sunday in 2006 we looked at the 2 oceans we had to cross. Gambling we could crew a boat across the Atlantic, it seemed freighter travel was our best bet for the inhospitable Northern Pacific. We were about 60 years too late to work for a cheap passage, but there were companies who could arrange a passenger berth for us. But whilst we begun to get excited about the destination, we got distinctly unexcited about the prices. €100 a day before you have even added port fees. In the end we settled on Vancouver to Gwangyang in South Korea as this was the shortest crossing we could get. Our route would take us from Vancouver across the Gulf of Alaska, into the Bering Sea, between the North and South Islands of Japan and onward to the southern tip of South Korea. This is a diary of our time on board, the length is a reflection of plenty of time to kill...

TUESDAY, 18th AUGUST: Boarding the ship

Despite our plans to be ready well in advance we got a call from the port agent yesterday bringing the time we had to get on board forward by 24 hours. Enjoying our final moments in the West evaporated as we scuttled our way back and forth across Vancouver collecting rucksacks, boxing the tandem and changing dollars into won. But we made it on time to the Vanterm container terminal. 'Checking in' was bizarre. The taxi driver wove his way between the swarm of articulated lorries tearing in and out of the port and dropped us by a tiny reflective windowed booth. I craned my neck round to try and see into the letterbox sized opening and a large lady loomed out of the gloom. She checked passports and let us cheerily through the chain link fence to wait for bizarrely titled 'Bunny bus'. We sat expectantly for a few minutes, but instead of a big eared, fluffy minibus, a grizzled Canadian wearing a dirty Stetson rolled up in his pick up and offered us a lift. Sweeping away a stack of empty coffee cups, Hol and I both squeezed into the front seat. This was more like it. He took us on a quick tour and we got our first look at the Hanjin Madrid.

My first thought was, it's not that big. After seeing lots of photos I had expected to be blown away. Maybe it was the 3 giant cranes effortlessly whisking containers on and off the deck, but it didn't seem as imposing as I thought. However, drawing alongside was a different matter - it seemed to block out the sky. The truck dropped us at the gangplank and that was it. The heavy machinery and relentless port activity swirled about us unabated, but nobody was there to tell us what to do. We had been waiting for a minute or two nervously chuckling to ourselves before a small head poked out from above the gangplank. This turned out to be the steward, Adrian. Being 5 or so floors up we couldn't really hear him, but his smiling Filipino face grinned wider when we stepped onto the gangplank and so we took this as our invitation to come aboard. Our feet had left Western soil for 7 months!

Adrian showed us to our room. First impressions were that it was huge with an en-suite bathroom, a big double bed, and a lounge with desk, sofas, armchairs, a TV and a fridge. We quickly settled into unpacking and before long there was a knock on the door. In swept a large man with a spectacular amount of swept back (and up) hair that complemented a cracking bushy tash. A kind of Germanic Ron Burgundy. He was wearing socks under leather flip-flops and a cloud of cigarette smoke followed him into the room and had the look of someone who doesn't like bullshit. This was Captain Kruse. A brief welcome and he was back out of the door. We continued settling into our room before our first dinner and a quick recce of the other decks.

WEDNESDAY, 19th: Heading into the Pacific

We got up early as we were scheduled to leave port at 0800. After breakfast we stood on the top deck watching the sun glint off the tug boat as it bullied the bow round into the channel. There was a lot of activity on the bridge itself, so we figured we should check we were allowed up there. “Ze ving is fine, but not in ze bridge. OK?”, growled Captain Kruse. The front of the boat, or “the wessel” as the German crew referred to it as, inched around until it pointed to the delicate span of the Lion's Gate bridge. The engines engaged and we slowly started out of the harbour. As we headed towards Vancouver Island the boat seemed to roll slowly despite the calm weather, but nothing to worry us as we watched small boats flee out of our way. At Victoria the pilot casually disembarked down a perilous step ladder and then it was out into the open ocean past a parade of 10 or so grey whales. The sun is shining, we are on our way to Asia and all is well after Day 1.

THURSDAY, 20th: The start of the press up challenge and the food

What a night's sleep. I think the constant rumble of the engine cancels out any other sounds and I didn't even turn over until the 0700 alarm. Today was the day I would start my 5,000 press ups in a week challenge. Laid down over a few too many beers in Colorado I had been slightly nervous, but there was never going to be a better time to crack out 850 or so press ups a day. 150 before breakfast and it was underway.

Before boarding, one of my main concerns had been the food. More specifically, would there be enough. We are served 3 meals a day, but until yesterday we had no idea how big they'd be. Walking into the Officer's Mess there are three 4-person circular tables laid out. We are on one with 2 place settings which is to be ours for the duration. It is a shame not being on a shared table with the crew as this seems the obvious time to get to know them, but after seeing the massive breakfast buffet I was in no mood to complain. Laid out today were a choice of 3 breads, 4 cheeses, cold meats, various jams, honey and Nutella. There was a also fresh coffee, orange juice, yoghurt and a bowl of fruit. Along with the choice of cereal this surely should be enough, but Adrian popped his head round and asked us if we wanted the cooked option; salami cheese toast. Yes sir. This seems as if it is going to be the norm for breakfast with the hot options on the weekly menu ranging from Bacon and Eggs, Apple pancakes, Steak and even something called 'Stramer Max'! Hunger is not going to be a problem. Obesity, maybe.

Looking at the meals we have lined up, every lunch and dinner we have a starter of fresh salads, cold meats and cheese. The main courses range from roast duck with red cabbage to tenderloin steak or slow roasted pork knuckle. This is often complemented by various soups, and we even had smoked salmon and caviar for lunch. This shouldn't give you the idea that this is 5 star cooking. It is more hearty fare with a dose of flair. That said, mealtimes are going to be a definite highlight in breaking up the day. Speaking of which, we also had a fire drill this afternoon. Lifejackets and helmets on, down to the muster station and we stand around like a pair of lemons while the crew dons firefighting gear, sprays a hose over the side for 20 mins and the get in the lifeboats. Bizarre, but a change from press ups

FRIDAY, 21st: It's how big?

We arrive at breakfast to find a sign saying 'RETARD 1 HOUR TONIGHT'. Not sure what would be expected of us during this hour, but we later found out this was the instruction to set clocks back. Despite the comedy of being welcomed in by this sign whenever we enter the mess, meal times are strange affairs. The Filipino crew eat in one room and the German Officers in another. The segregation seems archaic to us, but is apparently 'essential for discipline'. Whilst the Filipino room is often buzzing with life, ours can be eerily silent. Everyone gets served up their food by Adrian, gobbles it down and then heads off with a cursory “Bis Spater”. Since we are on a table of our own, it is often hard to chat to anyone other than ourselves. We haven't worked out whether this is us being cautious or just what the crew are like. Maybe we have just been in North America for too long and amongst the constant chit chat and friendliness have forgotten North European ways? We have tried to ask Captain Kruse a few questions, but the response often seems curt:

“Good afternoon Captain.”

“So zen, are you feeling ze seasick yet?”

“No, we're doing fine actually. Do you think it is going to get any rougher though?”

"What is rough for zis ship? It is no problem. Ve can go in a Force 12 if ve have to”

“You said it was typhoon season in Japan. Are there any you are keeping an eye on?”

“Zey are typhoonz! Zey go in all directions. But I will not steer into zem OBVIOUSLY.”

With little progress on that front we decided today would be a good time to find out more about the ship and so we snooped around various charts up on the bridge:How big:278.8m long, 40.3m wide; 56.3m from the bottom of the hull to the top of the bridge.The boat weighs 60,000 tonnes and carries 5,700 containers at any one time.

The Engine: a WARTSILA NSD(!) producing 74,700hp. It can go 28.3kt at 100rpm, but spends most of it's time at 21kts at 80rpm which is the most fuel efficient speed. The WARTSILA burns bunker fuel which is so viscous it needs to be heated to around 80 degrees before it even flows into the engine. At cruising speed the engine burns 130 tonnes of it a day. With engines full astern it will take 7.6 minutes and 1.76 miles to stop meaning falling over board is a terrible idea. This engine is also widely credited in the container ship community as having the best name of any marine engine developed in the last 5 years.

Swell and weather: A force 12 is no problem for this boat. In the 50kn winds we were in today we rolled about a maximum of 3 degrees from upright, but if the swell cycles match the roll of the boat this can get up to 30 degrees.

Time on the bridge is a nice break as we check our progress on the charts, look at the forecast, chat to whoever is on watch and get some fresh air. The temperature has been dropping rapidly as we head North and thick jumpers, hats and jackets now the order of the day

SATURDAY, 22nd: The Aleutian Islands. Extra bonus!

A dim silvery light pervades the sea and I can't take my eyes off it as I sit back in a deck chair, soaking up the icy cold Alaskan wind. Excitement is high. Today we pass through the Unimak Channel – a narrow gap between two Aleutian Islands taking us out of the Gulf of Alaska and into the Bering Sea. The fact that we are going to see land on this voyage was only known to us when we got on board and checked out the charts. It now seems obvious that the ships passage would head North so to take into account the curvature of the Earth, but we hadn't really worked out that this would mean seeing land some of the way across.

By mid afternoon we can see the faint outline of land. A mass of snow shrouded in cloud shimmers off in the distance beyond a sea that is now being whipped up by 40 knot winds. It suddenly strikes me that this might be the most remote place I will ever see on Earth. As we draw closer to land over the next 2 hours huge flocks of birds fly in formation alongside the boat and the giant fins of Orcas can be seen gliding in and out of the water to our bow. As the clouds clear a huge, perfectly conical volcano peak is revealed in the distance. It is caked in snow and gleams a brilliant white as wisps of dull cloud float over its top. As we get closer huge green foothills come into focus, sweeping up from battered cliffs to rocky peaks. It feels brutal in mid-summer, the thought of this in Winter is grim. We are at the wildest extremity of Alaska and the emotion of cruising through this untouched and wild part of the world will remain for a long time. Celebrate by doing 1,000 press ups.

SUNDAY, 23rd: A Change in the weather, boredom

A long day. The weather has turned and rain is relentlessly lashing the containers outside the window. You can't see much through the rain and all sound is muted except the deep rumble of the engines and constant hum of air conditioning. Cocooned in the room you become more aware of being stuck on board. Time is marked by chapters read, press ups pressed and meals eaten. Hol has turned into a dormouse and slept away the day. As if to make the day seem even slower they have stopped the engines turning as we are ahead of schedule. We are just sat hundreds of miles from anywhere letting minutes tick by. Highlight was a steak and banana split lunch. The only downside is thinking I have to press up all the weight I'm gaining from the food each day. Not sure if my boobs are growing from the press up challenge or just gaining a layer of Bering Sea blubber.Manage to destroy 2 t-shirts in the ship's washing machine as well. Bugger.

MONDAY, 24th: The lost day

During the night we passed over 180 degrees longitude, the international dateline. Consequently we have lost a day and Monday this week doesn't exist. We're now 12 hours ahead of GMT and the furthest from home you can physically get. Each step from now on is closer to home! This does mean the week long press up challenge needs to be done in 6 days.

TUESDAY, 25th: The first foray into the Officer's Rec

Finally feel like we are getting somewhere with the crew and suddenly the drinks invitations pour in. Last night at dinner the Captain initiates conversation with us: “So you are happy just in your room?”. We reply that, we've got lots of books and have been spending lots of time on the bridge and on our deck, but this just gets a slightly disapproving grumble from Kruse. We're not too sure whether this is an invitation to spend more time out of our room or what. Luckily someone on the other table follows it up with: “Later we have drinks in the rec room so you should come along”. Hurrah! The great silence ended and we were invited to chat!

In the Rec room it became apparent that some of the crew hadn't stopped drinking since that morning, which made it an enlightening evening. After a graphic account of how best to stay faithful to a girlfriend while at sea for 4 months the conversation moved onto the excitement of having a woman on board to a muddled account of ship politics. We also found out that passengers on the boat are usually loaded; the last one was the Financial Director of Microsoft traveling with his son. It quickly became clear that the captain and crew were a bit confused to see two scruffy backpackers on board.

WEDNESDAY, 26th: Scaring ourselves on the Foc'sle

The end of the 5,000 press up challenge! It is a relief not to have to watch the carpet rise and fall 840 times every day. In pursuit of new things to do we went up to the foc'sle this morning. It is surprising how we have such a free run of the ship. Walking down to upper deck (confusingly the lowest deck) we found a thin track running up to the bow. It felt like we were a couple of kids daring each other to go further as we gingerly crept along the side of the ship. 6 layers of containers towered above us emitting a ghostly creaking and moaning with the roll of the ship. To our right a drop straight into the icy ocean as it raced past. With only a hip high safety rail you very quickly become aware of how easy it would be to topple in. Chatting to the crew they mentioned a lady who fell in without a life-jacket and was found treading water 25 hours later. However, that wasn't in the Bering Sea; 3 hours is about the limit here.

The weird thing about walking up to the bow is that with each step forward the engine vibrations and noise fade away so that by the time you reach the bow you can only hear the rush of the water and wail of the wind amongst the containers. Up at the bow we found steps going up to the prow of the boat. We were completely hidden from the bridge and so I decided to investigate and discovered giant anchor winches, mooring lines as wide as your chest and a step to look right over the bow. I tried to lean right over to see if I could see the bulb at the front. I almost crapped myself. Hanging over and looking back the sense of speed gets you. If you fall you are swept under 60,000 tonnes of speeding steel and that is before you hit the 7m tall propeller at the other end. Not a nice thought and I was back up pretty quick.

After the bonding of the previous night we thought that meal times might be a bit more lively. But alas, with the absence of alcohol everyone went back to their sullen selves. That said, we did get an invite to the Rec room again so we bought a crate of Becks from the 'slop chest' (ship's offy) and headed back down. My heart sank as we walked in and there was barely a grumble. There are no seats left at the bar and so we perch on the end. Thankfully after a while everyone warms up again and we start discussing our trip and the life of a seaman. By the sixth beer politics is thrown into the mix, 'Why do the British still support the Monarchy? Why do we still have a House of Lords? Why we haven't joined the Euro?'. It was good to be getting our teeth into some good European discussions after the cult of Obama.

THURSDAY, 27th: Touring the engine room with Chief

We have been planning to go to the engine room for the last few days, but it has been postponed each time. Today we are 30 hours ahead of schedule and so the engines have stopped to lose some time. It apparently gets a touch noisy down there and so this was deemed the best time to for a tour. We were handed some heavy duty ear defenders and the Chief Engineer opened the door into a steel cathedral. The floor dropped away to reveal a huge space about 5 stories deep and hunkering in the middle was a colossal block of oily steel, pistons and dials. I had feared it would be like a modern car engine with everything hidden away under a plastic shell. Far from it. This was a working engine and it was clear all parts had to be accessed by burly men with hammers and wrenches with the minimum of fuss. We weaved our way down between towering exhaust ducts, miles of piping, through blasts of hot air and past countless smaller generators, coolers, heaters, extractors and scrubbers. Chief had been quiet around us so far, but this was clearly his element. A broad grin spread across his face as he proceeded to point out the mind boggling array of hardware on show. Before we even got to the engine itself he had explained what 20 or so car sized chunks of metal orbiting the Wartsila did. The 2 generators that provided electricity for the ship? Both the size of a 2 story terraced house. Massive.

After 40 minutes we went into the control room which is best described as something from a late 70's Bond Villain's moon base. The ship is only 6 years old, but there are no flat-screens or touch screens, just solid functional walls of dials, chunky banks of lights and solid looking levers. Every conceivable metric is fed to the monitors on the control deck; temperatures, pressures and even down to the viscosity of the fuel. However, talking to Chief who has been working on ships since 1967, despite all the automated monitoring of every thump of the 10 cylinder monster there are also greasy thermometers sticking out of the metal and a well stocked workshop to fix it all with a bit of brute strength.

At 1600 the engines were turned on again and we ventured out onto the floor to get an idea of how loud it is when running. Loud, almost unbearably so. The vibrations when standing right next to it run right through your bones and you begin to sense the power being generated to move 60,000 tonnes of metal across the North Pacific.

FRIDAY, 28th: First sight of the mystic East

After 348 days on the road we got our first glimpse of Asia. At midday we passed through the Tsugaru strait between the North and South Islands of Japan. Hol was excited about the prospect of small fishing boats with people in straw hats on them, I was keen to see people checking into capsule hotels. Unfortunately the weather wasn't helping. We got views of mist shrouded hills rising steeply from the coast with towns and villages clustered along the shore. It seems Japan is saving it's charms for when we land on its shores in a week. We only had a glimpse of Japan, but it made us feel the freighter leg is going to be over all too soon. We need to make the most of conversations in English, big breakfasts and comfy beds! This afternoon we played with Richard's remote control helicopter on the ping-pong table and later on more beers with the crew. Feel like we are getting to know them a lot better which is cool. I even gave my copy of Pumping Iron to the Polish 2nd Engineer after an in depth discussion about body-building, Arnie and Jean Claude van Damme.

SATURDAY, 29th: The Long Awaited Party

The day dawned bright this morning, which is a relief as this is to be the day of the big party. Everyone had been going about with a certain spring in their steps the last 2 days. Even Adrian had been nervously grinning to himself in his marigolds and apron at the mention of it. At lunch Kruse outlined the plan... a whole suckling pig BBQd on deck. Holy Crap. He then proceeded to lecture Adrian in the kitchen: 'Ze ice for ze beers at seventeen certy. Ze pig must be cooking by two certy. No bullshit!' This is the first party they've had for 6 months and so we were lucky to witness it.

1530: I have just come up from the gym and happened across a bizarre scene on D deck. The aforementioned pig was being vigorously spun by one crew member while chef and another Filipino in an LA Lakers vest were slow dancing together around the BBQ. Even though I was dripping sweat in gym kit I was immediately offered a beer by Alex, a particularly friendly crew member with a head like a cannonball. This could turn into a big session...

Well it didn't disappoint. We headed out about 5 o'clock and started having a few drinks with the officers. There were excitable shouts from down below from the crew and before long a feast of biblical proportions got ferried up. Salads, breads, fruit, puddings, rice, pastas and the hog. If that wasn't enough, another BBQ gets fired up as Kruse explains that the hog is insufficient. Soon steaks, sausages and chicken are all joining the party. Everyone sat down and feasted as beers, vodka and Fundador brandy started doing the rounds. Conversation flowed, we felt very welcomed and even Kruse had a massive smile on his face all night. The music really set the tone for the night. The first CD was called 'Power Disco', to which the chef threw around some serious moves, and it just got better from there on. In the Navy by YMCA was a non ironic favourite of the Filipino contingent. Karaoke inevitably followed on, but we managed to dodge a Sonny and Cher duet. Things were wrapping up by around 12 by which time heads were beginning to droop and we made our excuses. My main concern is a hazy recollection that I was invited to play basketball sometime tomorrow with the Filipino crew? Oh dear.

SUNDAY: 30th: The Immersion suit

Hungover. Main excitement for the day was getting to try out the immersion suits we had in our room. These are thick neoprene suits you chuck on if going over the side in cold waters. You are meant to be able to survive for 24 hours in freezing water as opposed to around 24 minutes. Not much needs to be added other than a picture. I reeeeally want one of these for fancy dress parties.

MONDAY: 31st: Arrival in Kwangyang

A nervous day as we prepared to leave the comforts of the ship. We woke to find jagged cliffs and tiny islands littering the view and we gradually crept closer to land. The pilot joined and guided us between smoking steel plants and mile upon mile of container terminal. Pulling alongside we looked at the skyline of blocks of flats and wondered where we would be spending the night. As it happened a very efficient port agent whisked us away to immigration, customs and even dropped us at a hotel. He was excited to tell us we were the first passengers EVER to come through Gwangyang container terminal. However, after he left we soon realised he was the only person who spoke English in town. We just managed to order some food by pointing, but we don't even know 'thankyou' or 'noodles' yet. It feels incredibly alien with people sat cross legged on the floor in restaurants and hopelessly unintelligible signs but it is such a rush after the cocoon of the boat.

However, after all the strange moments on the ship we felt sad leaving the crew behind as they came to wave us off. It took a bit of settling down, but heading off into the unknown it felt like we had made some good friends on board and would miss the company. Oh well, onward to Busan and the hydrofoil to Japan!

Paddling (and peddaling) to near death

2009-08-18T01:48:00.011+01:00

11 months in, 9 months to go and life is good. Killing time in Canada has been a joy. The kindness of strangers has once again left us with a warm glow, the excitement of Asia is imminent and we are still cherishing warmth and dry land after a near death kayak incident.

Before boxing up the beloved Carlos we thought we would dust off our tent, camping stove and cycling shorts and take him for a spin around Vancouver for a couple of weeks. We headed North up The Sunshine Coast where we weaved our way between forests, hippy communes, hidden coves and rocky beaches. Then we jumped on a ferry over to Vancouver Island where we rode a wetter, but much flatter terrain for a few days. Conscious of being away for the bike for 7 months we gave it our all and sprinted up and down both coasts. Never before has a fully loaded tandem been pushed so fast! All in all between old winding roads, genuine pubs, fish and chips, being back in the tent and picking blackberries we felt very at home.

We also remembered how great the world is to you when you're touring on a bike. We received free coffees on wet mornings, a free breakfast bap when asking for milk for our cereal, a free bike check up and numerous other wonderful people lifted our spirits higher and higher everyday. On our penultimate day the heavens opened. Soaked to the bone and filthy from the roads we battled the elements, lamenting the soggy night ahead. As we neared the campsite a woman in an all in one cycling suit on an old racer pulls up alongside.

'Hey there, where you guys heading?'
'Oh just up the road a bit to a campsite by Comox Lake'
'Well why don't you come and stay with me, life's short hey, its nearer and drier'
'Errrrr Hol what do you think?'
'Yeh cool'
'Great, follow me. You traveling around the world or something?'
'Yeh actually'
'Cool well I know what its like touring so you'll appreciate a dry room for the night.'

Nick turns to look at me with the face that means, 'how awesome is it when random stuff like this happens', I give him a similar look back and we pedal our way through the commuter traffic to the home of Sarah and Berend. Debates about the fate of the first nation populations, religion, middle America, home education, travel, vegetables, touring and all sorts followed a few glasses of home brewed wine before we hit our hugely appreciated dry bed for the night. In the morning books, inspirational speeches and contacts were exchanged and off we pedaled, beaming. Little did we know that we would be staring death in the face a few days later on.

In between our cycling jaunts we tried out a different kind of tandem, the double kayak. Hiring one for three days and camping in the wilderness turned out cheaper than hanging out in Vancouver, so we had no excuse not to give it a go. After a balmy and calm day kayaking in Tofino a few weeks earlier we thought it would be a walk in the park. So we cycled up to Heriot Bay on Quadra Island, part of the Discovery Islands, which make up Canada's incredibly fragmented and wild West coast. We got kitted out, advised about weather and just as we lifted the kayak into the water the renter of the kayak asks 'Oh, you guys know how to do self-rescue right?'. '(Shit), No'. Cue a few hasty phone calls as we wait to see if we can still go. We explain about sailing the Atlantic and Nick rambles on about rowing and growing up in boats... Luckily, it's a go.

The weather wasn't quite as welcoming as Tofino, but as the mist and rain swept across never ending alpine covered hills, this only added to the atmosphere of being alone on the water and in the wild. The first couple of days were awesome. We paddled within a few feet of crowded seal colonies, had bald eagles swooping just above our heads, explored starfish filled rocky coves, picnicked on deserted beaches and gave the top deck a pretty good work out. Both nights we camped on our very own tiny island, a rocky outcrop with a flat mossy patch the exact size of our tent, some rocks for a kitchen, trees for shelter and a couple of tidal beaches. We had to rig up a system of rollers out of drift wood to get the kayak high up on the rocks for the night, but this made Nick happy as gained good man points and got in touch with his inner Egyptian slave. Awaking alone on this island, with just a couple of curious seals for company was incredible.

The weather was grey, gusty and damp for the duration, but we avoided any big seas by staying in sheltered channels between smaller islands. However, on the last day we had to get back to the main island. The only route back was across two long exposed sections of water with an island in the middle, about 3 miles in. Monday dawned a grim day; we could hear the predicted winds of 30+ knots whipping the trees above the tent and spattering the canvas with noisy raindrops. When we got out and packed up the water ahead was alive with white horses.

We quietly headed out and within an hour or so we came to the end of the sheltered coast and looked up close at the rough stuff we had to cross. You could see the faint outline of Breton Island through the rain, between that and us there were rocky outcrops with huge waves smashing against them. The waves would be hitting us side on and the wind would be blowing hard in our faces. My stomach knotted itself when I realised how potentially dangerous this could be. Nick was talking a lot trying to reassure me; it was clear he was nervous to. Neither us were keen to look at it for too long and so after a quick chat about the importance of keeping a steady rhythm and not stopping halfway across we went for it. The second we rounded the headland the waves starting crashing over the boat. The first time a wave broke over me was terrifying. Nick was shouting encouragement over the sound of the wind and we crawled on into the teeth of the sea rolling precariously over the waves. The rhythm kept us going and we were so desperate just to get out of there that there was no point thinking of anything other than paddling. It felt like a long 45 minutes until we reached the slim wind-shadow of Breton Island and the seal colony we had bobbed around just two days before.

Finally touching the beach of Breton Island was a massive relief. We were both freezing and soaked to the bone, but high on the adrenaline of making it. Whilst I gulped down a pile of chocolate digestives (forever the comfort eater), Nick went to check out what lay ahead from the other side of the island. On joining him I quickly realised it was rough, if anything, rougher. We didn't know if we were lucky to have made the last leg. Maybe the kayaks can actually deal with this no problem? Or maybe we were out in something that even pros would not even consider. Sitting around in the rain getting more and more cold seemed fruitless; I started to shiver uncontrollably from a mix of being drenched and building nerves. After a quick call about the weather and on finding out it wasn't likely to change later in the day, we decided we had to just get on with it. We walked the kayak back into the choppy water, passing a beached seal skeleton (not a good omen). As we steered the kayak back into open water what we saw didn't look welcoming. The rain was coming down harder, clouds shrouded the view of land, there were no other boats out and the white horses reared up in front of us. Before we had got back in the kayak Nick turned to give me a kiss. At that point I knew it wasn't just me that was completely bricking it about what lay ahead.

The wind hit us side on as we left Breton island behind. Not being able to see land on the other side due to the rain also did nothing for our confidence. Luckily there were several buoys along the way which became good targets. We were both mustering everything that we had just to make headway against the wind, whilst keeping a close eye on the waves breaking to our side. About half way we dared to think we might make it. But, just then disaster struck. We both saw the wave coming and knew we were going in. Two huge waves came together and crested right on top of the kayak. Slowly and unavoidably we flipped over. Under water we both scrabbled holding our breath to release our skirts (waterproof cover things keeping you in the kayak), slid out from the boat and bopped up and down in the waves clinging onto the kayak. My initial reaction on coming up to air was to panic, Nick quickly told me to do the opposite and before my brain could get the better of my body I calmed everything down and we took a moment to think.

The sea was foaming around us, the low sky was filled with racing clouds, land was invisible, there were no boats in sight and waves were crashing over our drenched and freezing selves as we clung to our only way out, which was now essentially a surfboard. The vulnerability topped anything we had experienced even in the Atlantic. My priority was to get back in that boat as quickly as possible. We managed to flip it back over and examine the damage. It was completely full of water so before we could contemplate getting back in we needed to pump it out. Nick started pumping water out of my section first. Treading water with both hands trying to pump was exhausting. All the water that he pumped out just sprayed straight in my face. He tells me to move to the other end of the kayak but I can't even contemplate moving in case I lose the boat or my paddle. I also remember just wanting to stay as close to Nick as possible. Eventually, with Nick steadying the boat in the swell I manage to get in and start pumping from inside the boat. Its not easy since waves kept just crashing over us and re-filling it. I also had to try and keep the kayak facing the wind to stop us flipping in again. It took everything I had to try and move the kayak against the wind. If we flipped again I don't know if either of us would have the energy to do anything about it. As I sat in the boat Nick was still treading water at the back pumping and clinging onto his paddle.

View The day we nearly died in a larger map

At one point the boat swung with the wind and Nick lost grip. All I could see was Nick, paddle in one hand and pump in the other drifting off on the waves. He couldn't swim with his hands full, but couldn't let go of either if we were to get back. I didn't have the strength to move the kayak on my own. He's never looked so small. Somehow he got back to the boat and after 45 minutes of treading water and 3 failed attempts to get back in the boat without flipping it, we were both back in the kayak. The boat remained half full of water and rolled ominously in the 6 foot waves. But both of us were completely focused on just getting the hell out of there. I got a sudden fear about jellyfish at my feet. But they were numb pretty quickly so the worry passed as we just focussed on paddling.

90 minutes later we were battling our way through the wind into the harbour. We must have looked ridiculous. Nobody had opted to go out on the water and in comes this drenched and half sunk kayak. We instantly ditched our camping reservation and booked into a hotel room right above the pub. Perfect. It took us most of the evening to really relax and reflect on what just happened. After a few ales and a stack of chips we're high on our adventure and surviving the sea – the tale was already taking on mythical proportions. I quickly started philosophising about the importance of testing your limits to appreciate the small things in life. We both decide that that was definitely the scariest part of the trip so far. Even snapping a mast 1500 miles from shore was not as terrifying as bobbing around next to that tiny kayak with no life lines other than our own strength and effort. The next morning the water is completely still and the sun is out. Two old timers that we met on our second day rolled in after a beautiful mornings paddle, having sat out the storm the day before. I think they thought we were completely insane after recalling our exploits and then waving goodbye from the tandem. Still, at least now we know the boundaries of kayak travel, I'm not too keen to test out rough seas in one of those ever again. Maybe it was just the Pacific giving us a warning shot before we set off to cross it on Wednesday in a 282m behemoth.

We are going to be under the command of our German Captain Kruse for 11 days and some several thousand miles. We will eat 3 meals a day with the crew, we have our own cabin, a stack of books, a 5,000 press up in a week challenge and plenty to think about for when we arrive in Asia. The culture shock is going to be undeniable when we pull into Gwangyang on the southern coast of South Korea on the 31st August. From there we will plunge headfirst into a world of un-intelligible signs, noodles and temples. Good times.

Canada: it's a woppa

2009-08-02T19:55:00.036+01:00

3 mph is slow. Really slow. In fact we were recently told it is about the same as a swift walk. Before we left I remember people saying it is going to be hard getting used to that pace. However, we seem to have coped pretty well and barely noticed slowing down to our sometimes glacial progress westwards. But with the arrival of Holly's dad Andrew and sister Lucy we were strapped back into the normal holiday speed and have needed a week to recover from the whirlwind.

One or two week holidays are often a case of cramming in as much as you can in a short amount of space. The process is akin to starving yourself for months before unleashing on an eat all you can chinese buffet, rather than our trip which is more like picking a few blackberries on a woodland stroll after a nice light lunch. Don't get me wrong the eat all you can chinese buffet is up there with the film Big Trouble in Little China and the revolving Japanese loo seat as some of my favourite things to come out of the East, but all three can be a shock to the system. That said, our trip to Vancouver Island and then into the Rockies was spectacular, epic, colossal and countless other words to explain the sheer scale of the Canadian wilderness.

First stop was Tofino on the West coast of Vancouver Island. Without question this is one of the most beautiful places we have been on the whole trip. It is a land of untouched, desolate beaches, deeply wooded tidal inlets and crystal clear water alive with seals, orcas, grey whales, kelp forests and starfish. It is also home to the majority of the world's remaining old growth forests; called ancient woodland in England. Giant red cedar trees up to 1,600 years old tower 100 feet into the canopy while whole ecosystems of moss, ferns, and even whole other trees take root and grow up from their trunks. The sense of age in these wooded groves on the edge of the Pacific is overwhelming and details such as the fact these trees are stood in just 1 foot of soil confound your understanding as you crane your neck upwards to see the Ospreys and bald eagles nesting in their tops. We left after just a few days sensing we had seen somewhere unforgettable and totally different from anywhere else we had been in the world.

From here we turned the wagon East and headed back into the mountains. First stop was Whistler where we strolled through alpine meadows filled with wild flowers and watched downhill mountain bikers leap and bounce 20 feet in the air as they plummeted down the mountain. Then it was back into the car for a trip through the Okanagan desert to Wells Gray National Park and it's famous waterfalls before we really got stuck into the famous Canadian Rocky Mountain National Parks of Jasper and Banff. I have to confess a nervousness of going to visit such famous tourist destinations at peak season. But I had foolishly conjured an image of a seething mass on Brighton beach and a choked A3 during summer bank holiday. The Canadian Rockies just swallow giant RVs, campers and coach tours whole without batting an eyelid. They are colossal. It is true they are not as high as the Colorado Rockies, but the effect of ancient glaciers has been to carve valleys so sweepingly broad that the road ahead just dwindles into a thread and you can drive for miles along the primary routes without seeing more than a handful of other vehicles. In the main resorts there was chat of numbers being 40% down this year but they could be 1040% up and I imagine it to feel the same.

We climbed mountains, we kayaked electric blue lakes, we weaved our way between grazing elk and our chins barely left our laps as we gaped constantly at the vistas unrolling in front of us. By the time we pulled into our final destination in Calgary we were spent. We were crammed full. We had driven through a coffee table book of the Canadian Rockies and couldn't take any more. It was an amazing couple of weeks. The scenery was astounding and the chance to spend time with both Andrew and Luce after 10 months away was worth as much as the scenery again. Stories were recounted over hand picked local wines, I witnessed the bizarre spectacle of Luce and Hol beginning their intensive lunge and squat routine and I got to properly know my future father and sister in law. Great! (That isn't even kissing ass, it really was great - which is a relief).

Since then we have spent a week in Kelowna staying at a friend Scott's house. Scott is a guy I rowed with at Oxford who then went onto win an Olympic Silver medal in Beijing, his mum is preparing to climb Cerro Aconcagua (elevation 22,826') this year, and also staying were Tracy who also got a bronze rowing in Beijing, and Mike who was a family relation in town for a reunion who is a committed Vegan and 'raw food' advocate. A pretty impressive group. It has been a great week hanging out making new friends. There have been stories of respective travels, Olympic tales and we have also learned not to throw away apricot stones as there is a kernel in the middle high in proteins and essential oils. Another highlight was being in town for the Center of Gravity festival. This was down on the shore of the lake and was a mix of pro beach volleyball, slam- dunk contests, music, wakeboarding, dirtbiking and bikini modelling. The new zoom on the camera got put to good use from both Hol and I and it seems only fair to put in a couple of shots to make sure we don't get any sympathy on our travels. Sometimes it really is easy.

We're now heading back to Vancouver, dodging the forest fires that are blackening the skies North of Kelowna, and will be back on the tandem to fill the time before we get aboard the freighter on the 19th. We are now over half way through the trip and it really feels like once we cross the Pacific we are heading home. It's still a long way to go and it will seem strange leaving the comfort of English speaking lands for Asia, but we are fired up and ready for Part 2: South Korea, Japan, China, Nepal, India, Mongolia, Russia, Ukraine, Romania and the rest... Holy Jeez.

Amtrak, Greyhound and drug busts

2009-07-14T19:49:00.017+01:00

We completed the bike a bit earlier than expected and so used up the remainder of our US visa exploring the US tandem free. We jumped on the Amtrak for overnight trips from Seattle to San Fran and San Fran to Denver and did a 46 hour slog on the Greyhound from Denver back to Vancouver.

Before embarking on this loop of America's West everyone warned us about the trains – full of weirdos and not very comfortable. The opposite was true. Trains are pretty up market in the states, which is not surprising given they cost 4 times the amount of the Greyhound and most domestic flights. Even if you don't opt for the luxurious all meals included sleeper car you have plenty of space to spread out. Weirdos were of the soft and harmless variety – eco warriors, old couples looking for an adventure, those afraid of flying and those that are simply too large to fit on aeroplanes. In front of us were three ladies discussing the benefits of 'erbs' and bragging about eating dandelions from their garden for 5 hours, whilst behind us an obese women fed her children chocolate to shut them up whilst telling them off for how fat they look. Between such eavesdropping delights, an observation cart with live commentary about the intriguing and stunning places we travel through and some good books the journey pases incredible smoothly and quickly.

From the moment we walked into Denver's central Greyhound station we knew the bus was going to be considerably weirder than our Amtrak experience. The first person I laid eyes on pretty accurately sums up Greyhound clientèle. He had grey hair that merged into a food ridden beard which hung just above the collar of his white wife beater, equally food ridden and covered in holes that resembled bullet marks. He wore a cap that announced he was an Iraqi war veteran across the front, that he supported McCain and Palin on the right and that knowledge was power on the left (oh the irony). As he sat waiting for the bus he was mumbling to himself in a variety of angry tones in between munching on the contents of his nose. I later grew rather sorry for all the US army recruits on the bus who had to sit for 46 hours watching their possible future in this man. As it happened they spent too much of the bus journey worrying about their next fag to notice. I turned to Nick, 'I think baby carrots and humous was the wrong choice of food for this journey'.

As our eyes wandered beyond ex-army hobo man it became clear it wasn't going to be a relaxing journey. Hugely obese guys crammed in as many last minute burgers as possible whilst their girlfriends screamed at them for looking at 'skinnier bitches' asses'. Angry men bragged about just being back from the war zone whilst little old ladies (lord help them) put on their hygiene masks and loaded their walkmans. Mexican families prepared their worldly belongings whilst their kids hammered on vending machines in search of free candy. Within 5 minutes of standing in a Greyhound Station I saw more of America than most do on a two week holiday.

After 30 minutes or so its time to get on the bus. We instantly longed for the luxury of Mexican buses. The difference between being rich in a poor country and poor in a rich one suddenly sprang to mind. As we were all crammed into our seats we headed for the front of the bus – choosing the troubled elderly over the troubled youth. The next 46 hours was a blur of trying to take in all that was going on around us without looking too much like visitors at a zoo. Within 15 minutes of leaving Denver one of the guys just back from Afghanistan threatened to shoot the driver for not letting him off to have a ciggi. At every stop girls with everything and anything hanging out of their hot pants flirted with whatever guy had the loudest mouth. The bus quickly filled with rotting fag, burgers and piss smells. Drivers swapped shifts and all looked like they had seen a bit too much of life. Conversations were often about why people were on the bus, which invariably led to gory accounts of dramatic truck collisions and drink driving incidents. The crowd seemed to get more juiced up as we got nearer the end of the journey. At one gas station in Washington one of the guys tried to throw some punches at a local and about 5 people had to pull him off, reminding him about how close he was to doing more time. He couldn't have been older than 20 and had returned from Iraq a year ago.

About 2/3 of the way into the journey our sympathies for our fellow passengers grew. Age, race and sex didn't matter to these guys. They were all up against it and that made them stick together throughout the 46 hours or so. Everyone chatted to everyone else and were in it together, it was a temporary team and old ladies even commented on what 'good hearted' boys the younger lads were. And to some extent they were right, these guys had just come back from war and were now lost in a world of poverty and boredom. Even if the bond was through fags, war and car crashes, at least everyone was getting on and making the most of a pretty shitty journey. I quickly sucked up my middle class judgment and regretted staying in my own bubble. Sadly when you are stuck with the same people in claustrophobic circumstances for a while the excitable wanting to know and experience everything and everyone can sometimes give way to a desire to keep heads down and just get through it.

So we arrived in Vancouver knackered and dazed. All we wanted was a shower and a quiet bed to get some horizontal time in. Little did we know it was only going to get weirder. We had booked a weeks accommodation through a random website that lets out rooms in houses. Off we headed into the depths of Vancouver's suburbs only to realise that the address we had been given didn't exist. The house number we were given was a crossroad, not a house. Up and down the road we trundled knocking on houses looking for 'Paul Waikong with rooms to let'. After 4 hours of scratching our heads and somehow fighting off extreme tiredness related moods we found the house that matched the photo on the website. We had knocked on the door of it earlier and a small Chinese man had told us to go away. This time two Canadians opened the door.

'Hi we've got a room booked here for a week.'
'Ha ha good luck!'
'Er ok... We came along earlier and a Chinese guy told us to go away but we're sure this is the house. Are there any rooms?'
'Yeh that was the landlord. There are rooms here. You know there's no power here right?'
'No...'
'Yeh a week ago the police busted this place for growing $1 million worth of marijuana plants in the basement and have cut off all power.'
'Well is there a room for us? We're a bit knackered.'
'Come on in!'

So we have spent the last week staying in what must be the closest to a 60s squat house I have ever experienced. The basement has been ripped out, there is random crap lying everywhere and at night a BBQ is our kitchen and candles our light. The house is home to about 15 people. The Canadian couple are the most long term. Hannah laughs hysterically one minute and screams at people for using her things the next whilst her quiet musician boyfriend sucks up abuse left, right and center. Two other Canadian guys seem to be involved in some kind of swinging activity with Hannah and boyfriend and both seem to like the drink a little too much. Next is a Hungarian couple with a baby who are out here for work. They suffer the brunt of Hannah's anger because they don't recycle, even though I tried to explain to her that with a small baby in a strange city with no power you can kind of understand why sorting rubbish is not their priority. Then there's the landlord, Harvey, a small Chinese man who doesn't know what is going on and has a variety of Chinese children walking in and out of the house daily. The living room is also home to three Lithuanian guys who like to hang out on the web or working out in their boxers. Nick bonded with this lot early on after seeing photos of them dressed as Hawaiian girls on a night out and spending the next couple of hours discussing fancy dress and motorbikes. All in all its been much weirder and entertaining than a hostel and though a quiet bed will be appreciated we'll be quite sorry to leave tomorrow.

After such a weird and slightly exhausting few days we are now blessed with some family time. Papa, sister Gee and her fella Al have rocked up in Canada for a two week tour of rainforests, wild beaches, lakes and mountains. So far we seem to have spent most of our time admiring 'produce' in Vancouver's grocery stores and searching for the biggest starfish amongst the harbour rocks. Not a conventional tour of the city but each to their own. I have no doubt that the weirdness will continue but at least it is now of the familiar variety.

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times

2009-07-07T17:48:00.005+01:00

Having spent the last 9 months with almost exclusively each other's company, Hol and I are pretty good at passing the time on our own. For example, we recently purchased a challenging cross-word book and yesterday, whilst awaiting the kick off of our 43 hour Greyhound extravaganza from Denver to Vancouver, we spent an enjoyable hour or so perusing novelty underwear in TKMaxx. I like to think we can find a thriftily good time in any city we come to. However, last week it all changed with the arrival of 7 friends from University. They were accompanied by bicycles, outsized bottles of Bourbon and were surprisingly dis-interested in helping us solve 57 across: 'some game endings' (5 letters)*. Looking back at the last 7 days it is a hazy blur, but it was truly epic.

Traveling on a budget for a long period of time makes you stretch out the excitement in everything you do. If you are going out for a meal you plan it well in advance and savour every last mouthful. If it is a movie you wait for exactly the right gloomy, rainy afternoon and the right film before parting with your dosh. 7 people straight from successful London jobs with only a week to spend their hard earned cash reminded us how much you can pack into a week, and also how good it is having your mates around.

When Angus, Henry, Reevo, Smithy, Scotty, Hutch and Steph arrived off the plane they had already been up for around 24 hours. However, a quick shower, a sharpener in the bar and burger later and any thoughts of an early night were rapidly dispelled. Before we knew it English accents had attracted Hen parties from across the Midwest and sambuca was being sipped from certain people's belly buttons. Classy. There was never any real let up from there. Up at 6.30 the next morning to watch the British Lions, off to Boulder to put bikes together and ride up the first of several mountains. Back for a shower, dinner, everclear laced Margaritas, a nightclub, a late night invitation into a deserted art gallery by some 'friendly' young men, all finished off with splashing in public fountains before bed.

The reason we were all out there together was because one of the group, Justin, grew up in Longmont and also had a cabin out in the wilderness of South Park. Cue 3 hours of drive-by moonies, water fights between cars and a final leg down a dirt road until we hit the cabin. This was truly one of the most beautiful places we have been on the trip so far. In rolling green plains with snow capped peaks all around us we unloaded 3 days worth of booze, BBQ meat and supplies. It was the perfect setting to catch up with friends over long evenings interspersed with lung busting high altitude exercise.

Over the week we climbed passes on the bike over 12,000', we summited Mt. Oxford at 14,000' and managed to get significantly better and then worse at horseshoes. It was non-stop adventure and chat for 7 days all topped off by going to a Colorado Rockies ball game. But all too quickly we were in the cars driving back to the airports to wave goodbye to everyone. It seems strange that leaving England last September I felt strangely un-emotional. The excitement and adventure lay out ahead of us and had been building up for so long that there wasn't really a hint of sadness as we pedaled off. Then when my dad came out, saying goodbye seemed really hard because you realise in that sudden contrast what you miss from home. It was even harder saying goodbye to everyone flying off last Saturday.

We were stood there in the airport just 9 hours from England. Having just listened to planning for all the weddings, stag parties and good times we would miss back home we felt miserable. All too soon Hol and I were sat on a windy bench waiting for the bus nibbling on carrot sticks and longing for the week not to have ended so quickly. I always told myself it would be hard being away for so long, but I have very rarely felt it so acutely as the other day. There are usually challenges to be met, the next place to think about and the knowledge that the novelty of getting home will wear off very quickly. However, there was something about saying goodbye the other day that had me choked up pretty badly and I found it hard to shake off the feeling.

However, I am glad to say that having now left Denver it feels a lot better. Since then we have got our first proper experience of Greyhound buses which Hol will do justice to in a full blog soon, and also accidentally got involved in auditions for American Idol. We went in to the theatre just needing a pee and were almost thrown on stage in front of the judges. I figured something from Manowar's back catalogue would shake things up but mercifully we were too late to sign up.

Now the sun is out, we are headed West again and Hol's family is due out in a few days. I even have a new pair of flourescent yellow pants from our wanderings in Denver. Roll on the next ten months!

* the crossword answer is 'mates'

NERD FILE: El Paso to Vancouver

2009-06-12T18:24:00.018+01:00

For the last 2 months I have spent a unreasonable amount of time studying maps or glued to a speedometer being alternately fried to a crisp in the desert, huddled in snowy blizzards or sheltering in the tent from blood thirsty mosquitoes. I never seemed to learn, as Hol did early on, that knowing exactly how high we have to climb will not make the pass lower, that knowing the hourly wind shifts for each day will only make you more angry when the supposed brisk tailwind is slowing you to a crawl going downhill, and that the supposed water stops on the map only have a 50:50 chance of materialising in the heat. I still don't understand why map makers haven't yet come up with a symbol to mark a deserted trailer with a bourbon sluggin', gun totin' owner that differs from the one they use for 'town: population < 100'

Total Distance: 2753.6 miles
Days on the road: 53 [46 on the bike]
Total Time Pedaling: 192h 26m
Longest Day: 115.2 miles, 7h 20m of pedalling
Highest Pass: Red Mountain Pass, Colorado 11,007 ft
Longest Climb: 5,100ft vertical gain from Durango to Silverton over Coal Bank and Molas Passes
Top Speed: 49.2 mph (dammit)
Worst headwind: Gusting 45mph 2nd day riding to Radium Springs, New Mexico
Coldest Night Camping: Fontenelle Creek, Wyoming -7 degrees C
National Parks: The Black Canyon of the Gunnison, The Tetons, Yellowstone, North Cascades
Best signpost: Next to a Wendy's advert saying Home of the famous 3/4lb cheese triple we found a vet in Sedro-Woolley advertising the Home of the famous $25 cat neuter

Having chosen to ride up the spine of the Rockies also meant we took in our fair share of passes. In the course of crossing the continental divide 8 times we took in the following passes:

Coal Bank Pass, Colorado: 10,630 ft
Molas Pass, Colorado: 10,879 ft
Red Mountain Pass, Colorado: 11,007 ft
Indian Creek Pass, Utah: 9,100 ft
Francis Creek Pass, Utah: 8,400 ft
Bondurant Pass (The Rim), Wyoming: 7,900 ft
Craig Pass, Wyoming: 8,262 ft
Virginia City Pass, Montana: 6,950 ft
Badger Pass, Montana: 6,760 ft
Big Hole Pass, Montana: 7,630 ft
Chief Joseph Pass, Montana: 7,264 ft
Lost Trail Pass, Montana: 7,014 ft
Tiger Pass, Washington: 3,300 ft
Sherman Pass, Washington: 5,575 ft
Wauconda Pass, Washington: 4,310 ft
Loup Loup Summit, Washington: 4,020 ft
Washington Pass, Washington: 5,477 ft
Rainy Pass, Washington: 4,855 ft

High Points: Meeting someone who claimed to ride at 65mph on the flat on their bike and pedalled so hard smoke came off his wheels, seeing the Black Canyon of the Gunnison for the first time, almost every down hill, every tail wind, 5 days off in Jackson with new friends and family.

Low Points: Agonizingly cold hands coming down in a blizzard into Silverton without warm gloves, the 4th puncture and wheel about to collapse after riding 108 miles with only another 7 to go Vernal, running out of water in the desert.

Luckiest moments: Our tyres delaminating and collapsing just as we pulled into Durango. We had just come flying down a twisting 4 mile descent dodging oil trucks and RVs and it was home to the first bike shop in miles and miles.

Scariest moment: Front tyre blowout after hitting a rock at 40mph coming down the main road from Lost Trail Pass, being chased by packs of dogs in New Mexico.

Thanks to my Dad for sending our gear over to El Paso, Charley and Kamala for getting us on our way, the hosting from Stuart and Veronica in Alburquerque, Jason and Devon for the bed and the survival kit in Durango, Breton for letting us sleep in his airstream in Montrose, KP for the free overhaul for Carlos in Vernal, Dick and Nancy for the brilliant guided tour of Jackson, Sally for our R&R base in Vancouver and many more who made it such a flippin' sweet trip.

So that is about it for now on the bike.

We are now ready to do a more leisurely return loop into the US. Having spent so much time in small town America, it's time to check out the cities courtesy of Amtrak and Greyhound. It's going to take a little bit of adjusting. Day 1 in Vancouver and looking for books to read, we strayed into 'Little Sisters' second hand bookshop. I faltered at the door at the rainbow feather boas and arty black and white male nudes, but Hol had dived straight in. The fact that I was genuinely looking for a copy of Lord of the Rings seemed apt, but I managed to just stop Hol before she engaged the assistant in hunt on my behalf.

We are told the US rail system is the preserve of over talkative freaks and weirdos and so I can only think we will fit right in. We have a couple of days in Seattle before a 23hr ride on the Coast Starlight to San Francisco on the 15th and then a 33hr ride on the California Zephyr to Denver on the 24th.

We have also got our final sea leg booked aboard the HANJIN Madrid. A little different from Lista Light as it weighs in at 69,000 tons, is 278m long and cruises at 27 knots. We'll be setting sail from Vancouver to Gwangyang in South Korea on the 19th August for an eleven day crossing.

So... we made it

2009-06-10T05:38:00.007+01:00

2750.1 miles and 53 days of riding. I don't want to be melodramatic, but I think its safe to say that was an epic adventure.

The closing stages weren't easy ones. We hadn't looked to closely at the map of the Northwest of the USA before but it looked to us like that page of the atlas had been screwed up, thrown in the bin, retrieved and then been just slightly uncrumpled and left, well... lumpy. However, we were keen to get to Vancouver for Nick's birthday and so rode 21 consecutive days from Jackson Wyoming over 5 states and many, many mountain passes. Knees, bike and bums did surprisingly well at holding up despite noises, both literal and metaphorical, from all. Money saving for the upcoming city times meant we also stuck to camping on rec grounds on the edges of towns with no showers and such. Canned chilli dinners became more frequent as fatigue after long days stifled our 'one pan' creativity. Smells got worse, clothes crustier and conversation mono-sylabbic as we gradually retreated into a pedaling machine not all that fit for the civilized world. Scorching days of up to 100 degrees beat down on us for longer as the sun rose earlier and set later the further North we got, and we found ourselves desperate for shade at the end of the days. The damper climate also bought out the insects. This all compounded with an attack of hay fever and consequent sleepless nights meant that we were spandex zombies as we autopiloted our way through the suburbs of Vancouver.

But determination was very high and with fitness levels at a peak we were eating up 90 mile days regularly. The challenge of time brushed all doubts to one side and whatever our aches and pains were telling us we were set on living it up in Vancouver to see in Nick's 28th year. After two days of feasting on Greek, Japanese and Belgian meals, cookies and cakes, sparkling wine, cocktails, Tanqueray and tonics and pints of Guinness it was well worth the rush!

So for all the drama above, the last couple of weeks of the trip were as spectacular as any. Following fast flowing rivers out of Montana we found hidden green valleys sprinkled with European villages with cherry and apple orchards, vegetable patches and wild flowers, whilst the snowy peaks of Canada loomed vast in the distance. Our most surreal night was definitely when we returned to our campsite next to the river to find preparations in full swing for a local paramedics training afternoon. 50 civilians were being made up to look as if a drunk gunman had gone on the rampage whilst panicked students tried to save their lives. We couldn't have asked for a better afternoon's entertainment. When you have a very friendly 10 year old with a hugely realistic gun shot wound to the face asking if we had been to see the live Dr. Who show in London there is little that seems wrong with the world. We even got a free BBQ dinner after telling people our tales.

Then we crossed over into Idaho for 2 days and followed the Pend Oreille lake. It looked on the surface like Lake Maggiore until we found a roller disco on the other side playing Hall and Oates on loop. We both got very excited on seeing such a huge expanse of water after being so land locked for so long. This was only just pipped as highlight of Idaho by seeing a rotund (pushing 20 stone) woman whizzing about on rollerskates in a white wedding dress. Our one night in Idaho we found a camping spot right by the lake in the town of Sandpoint. It was prom night, there was a brew pub and it was folk night at the local whisky bar. It suited us very well. The night ended with Nick getting chatted up by a local girl who 'accidentally' split some of her drink over him whilst I boogied to the tunes in a whiskey haze. After much dropping in of the word fiancé we ended up getting invited to a tofu breakfast which was hastily skipped in the morning when we woke up with steaming hangovers and a 65 mile day in front of us. The only consolation was that 3 pitchers of Mick Duff's IPA meant we were probably the only people ever to stay in a tent within 20 feet of the main east to west coast trainline of the US and get a solid night's sleep.

Washington was as mixed a state as the whole journey thus far. Everyday brought on the challenge of a new mountain pass and varying temperatures. Just when we thought we were well entrenched in the green, forested lands of the North we cycled through another dry and boiling desert and popped out the other side to climb up to snow level Alpine mountains again. Very confusing. Then we finally hit the North Cascades National Park. Our final land mark for the trip and the 6th mountain pass in 5 days. We conquered the 17 mile 4,000' climb to Washington Pass (5575') smoothly and so pushed on for another 75 miles of a headwind that meant you had to pedal hard downhill and fight to stay vaguely out of the middle of the road. Huge Alpine covered mountains with steep dropping valleys and water spilling out over rocks everywhere you turn. It was a magical and dramatic day of awesome passes, enchanted streams and terrifying wind. The perfect accompaniement to our current reading of Lord of the Rings (you can imagine how flippin' cool we look in a campsite reading matching editions of The Hobbit and Fellowship of the Ring of an evening). Once we made it through The Cascades the mountains gradually became foothills and before we knew it we were on flat farming plains that stretched out towards the Pacific. For the first time in weeks we didn't have a huge mountain range blocking the path in front of us.

On the last day we had 46 miles to cycle over the Canadian border and through the suburbs of Surrey, Guildford and Richmond into the heart of Vancouver. We ended up cycling over 70 miles as we struggled through road closures and one way systems. The closure of the only bike friendly bridge into the city meant we got stuck on the very bike unfriendly freeway for a while before hauling Carlos over a giant suspension bridge, squeezed between a huge drop one side and rushing trucks on the other. All in all it was a pretty terrifying day that eventually took us to a spot in the sun overlooking the Pacific only to see the ice cream van pull away as we walked towards it. It was only after a pitcher of beer and a plate of Nachos in our hotel before we could calm down and really contemplate what we had just completed.

It seems strange to have finished it now. We lived on the bike for just under 2 months checking wind, inclines, tyre pressures and applying copious amounts of vaseline to all manner of regions best not discussed. Arriving in a big city is a huge shock to the system but a good one. It feels like we have made it half way round the world and when we looked across the harbour and saw a Hanjin container ship that is sister to what we will be setting sail in for South Korea it felt like a big milestone. Time to rest.

More photos here for those who are interested:

Wyoming and Montana: snow, grizzlies and geysers
Idaho, Washington and British Columbia: alpine wonderland, more mountains, Nick's new shiny red cycling top

Also, Nick will be posting a nerd file of cycling trivia sometime soon.

The big and small of Spring

2009-05-27T18:11:00.012+01:00

2000 miles done and dusted, we have finally left the desert behind us and its time to head West.

Since arriving in Wyoming and traveling up into Montana, the last 2 weeks have been filled with awesome mountains, alarmingly close wildlife encounters and incredibly generous hosting. On arriving in Jackson excitement was high. A highly anticipated destination being home of the Grand Teton Mountain Range (French for The Big Boob), gateway to Yellowstone and where we planned to have 5 days off the bike with our first Tuppen visitor. On arrival we were welcomed in by Dick and Nancy; a friend's aunt and uncle who had offered us a place to stay. From the photo of us on the tandem on their fridge to the string of gifts on our departure, this couple offered us all the warmth and comfort of a real home we miss so much on the road. Being proud long time residents and genuine cowboy and cowgirl, they gave us an expert tour of town and the surrounding mountains. We were fed intriguing tales of days in the wilderness, whilst being quietly in awe at how well Dick could pull off a big buckled belt, cowboy boots, tight denims and tooth pick. Hanging out with strangers and feeling completely at home is now one of my favourite pastimes.

It then felt even more like home when Nick's dad rocked up in Jackson for 4 days of big feeds, good booze, lots of chinwagging and a bit of wilderness trekking. It was a perfect break with clear skies and warm sun, but to top it off we came within 5m of a wild Grizzly crossing a road on the first day, saw a second one on a hillside in the middle of nowhere on the second and had a guest Moose to dinner on the third. It was a humbling experience, but the downside was Nick could no longer calm my nerves about camping by saying 'bears are so rare we will never see one'.

Over the course of the four days iced lakes thawed, snowy trails became trekable, aspens came out turning the hillsides bright green and wildlife frolicked in the plains after a long cold winter. Spring sprung right in front of our eyes and we soaked up every minute of it. From Jackson we cycled into Yellowstone where we found our way blocked by some terrifyingly huge bison a couple of times, saw another bear, went from 6 feet of snow to hot grassy plains to geyser fields, all in one day's ride. From there its been mountains and valleys, green, rainy, head winds, tail winds, snow and sun all the way up to Missoula.

But despite such joys, it is suddenly strange being in the largest town we've been for about 5 weeks. The city girl in me has been crying out for civilization as we crawl from small town to small town. Unfortunately Missoula hasn't really lived up to expectations, being the largest city in Montana it seems to be full of awkward youths looking for a high life that just doesn't really exist out here. There are bling covered teenagers playing loud music, cars racing each other down the roads, hippies walking around with no shoes, drunks on corners and other weird goings on. We now rather miss the friendly feeling of the 100 population settlements out in the mountains and it is making us focus on the finish line.

Suddenly the challenge is starting to take its toll. With fitness levels peaking, Carlos in working order and knees seeming to hold up, physically the remaining 700 miles feel like a done deal (touch wood). So with that challenge softening the mental strain sets in. We've seen so much on our way up already the brain becomes a bit saturated. We've been through deserts, canyons, along rivers, through gorges, in blizzards, in forest, through national parks over mountain peaks. It feels like we've seen it all and so now its tempting just to get our heads down and bash out long days to get there. But we've got to hold back and soak up the last 700 miles. We both know how much we will miss the bike and the physical challenge once we have stopped. When you are pedaling it feels great and when you find a good camping spot you look back on the day with a big grin. But if you stop pedaling and you aren't in quite the right place the evening can be a dark place. There's only so much tinned chilli and rice one can take. And we still haven't learned that going for a walk around deserted small towns probably won't result in finding a pub full of friends.

Nonetheless, the hugeness of this country does not cease to amaze and fascinate me. Every mile we go a little closer we get to understanding what makes this part of America tick and why it is so different to us. This nation has got everything. They can do whatever they want and see every variety of landscape on their home turf. Holidays are short and so weekend or evening leisure time is everything. Since everyone has so much space toys are plentiful – boats, quadbikes, motorbikes, mountain bikes, kayaks, RVs, junk to tinker with, tools for making more stuff etc. There's not a whole lot of incentive to get on a plane and see the world, something that I now completely understand. In fact its a bit odd that we spend so much time trying to escape England when we could just settle in and soak up everything its got to offer. Maybe easier said from afar, or maybe everyone else is and we're the big hypocrites.

Gas guzzling is another issue that horrified me to begin with but I've now sussed out. There is no public transport in small town America, distances are huge and there's more than likely to be snow in your way for some of the year. Cars are definitely excessive but comparing it to suburban 4 wheel driving in the UK is a long stretch. The American psyche revolves around freedom and no one wants to be told they 'can't'. Hence no one wears helmets on motorbikes, gas is guzzled, plastic is plentiful and anyone can buy themselves a gun (all of which still make me flinch). But this is just the culture out here, its not as if America wants to destroy the world. In fact most want to preserve it (especially the hunters, which took me a while to understand) and are very proud of their beautiful land and wildlife. That openness that we often mock for being fake or weird (or definitely would do in London) is genuine friendliness and its great! We have felt welcomed in everywhere, are always helped out if stuck and everyone wants to go out of their way to make our time here a bit better. That is everyone except the donut munching, gun swagging Texan that nearly refused me entry to the US.

Speaking of which, that leaves me with only two real problems in this society. Firstly, perhaps the one reason that America has gained such a bad rep in recent years. In a worryingly large number of small towns in America the only news channel you can receive is Fox News. 24 hours of scare mongering and sensationalist reporting of half facts, if facts at all. I will not linger on it for fear of a rant not suitable for this blog. Secondly, a fast food culture has led to a huge number of people wanting and expecting life to be as easy as possible. Because there is endless space companies have provided just that. You can get your dinner, do your banking, grab a coffee, get gas, collect your mail, get groceries etc whilst barely leaving your car. In short, if you're lazy and gullible then you are doomed to die obese and terrified of the rest of the world.

So only about 700 miles to go until we hit Vancouver. Plenty more mountain passes and by all accounts a lot more rain. We are grateful for the Montana Standard's attempt at portraying a varied weather pattern but we have just about managed to read between the lines:

Today: 63/40 - A chance of afternoon thunderstorms
Tuesday: 66/37 - Spotty storms after the noon hour
Wednesday: 71/38 - A slim chance of a thunderstorm
Thursday: 70/40 - A stray afternoon storm possible
Friday: 72/41 - Isolated afternoon thunderstorms

The Birth of Quad-zilla (and latest photos)

2009-05-13T00:04:00.009+01:00

There comes a time in every young man or woman's life when something happens that changes the world irrevocably for them. The air they breath smells cleaner, the glowing light of a sunset seems brighter and the colours of a rainbow seem richer than ever before. From that moment on it seems they can achieve anything if they set their mind to it. A new world of possibility stretches off into the distance ahead of them. Holly experienced this moment around a week ago lying in a motel somewhere in Northern Utah (ahem, it's not that kind of website I'm afraid)

“Shit!”, exclaimed Hol at about 6am.

I was woken from an unusually warm slumber as we had decided to take a break from camping in sub zero temperatures. My eyes adjusted to the gloom. It seemed important as Hol was sat bolt upright in bed, wide eyed and mouth agape.

“Have you felt my legs?” she continues. I lie their confused.

“They're MASSIVE... No seriously Nick, wake up.... They're absolutely MASSIVE!”. I fumbled around and gave them a tentative squeeze, and I must confess, long gone were any remnants of long bus trips and lying on beaches and in it's place there was this compact, ginger highly tuned cycling dynamo. I had been pleased that we were getting fitter and fitter and eating up the mountains with seeming ease, but it became clear that behind my back over the last 1,400 miles Hol had undergone a miraculous transformation from vino sipping, crisp munching, burger terrorizing hedonist to a finely honed turbo on the back of the bike. The realisation was so sudden that she insisted on running up and down in the car park marveling that the aforementioned legs and ass refused to wobble at all. It was an emotional time for both of us.

Since that revelation we have continued tearing up the miles. Pre departure we had been given some simple warnings from a buddy Smithy who had cycled from East to West coasts a while back. “Beware the south. Beware the Dogs. Beware Utah. Do not fear the mountains” Hol had only just escaped the dogs, we didn't need convincing about the South and had conquered the highest passes of the trip. This left Utah. As we crossed the state line after having a great time in Colorado, the road immediately changed to broken asphalt and gravel and there was a 40mph headwind. Smithy seemed to be an astute prophet. However, Utah was spectacular even if the roads were crap, buying beer was a mission and people didn't seem to like outsiders. Amongst other things we rolled down the epic canyon of the Colorado River to Moab where the opening scenes of Mission Impossible 2 and Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade were filmed, we did our biggest day yet at 115 miles and broke a new speed record of 48.9mph leaving Hol a little jumpy and the (bike) rims steaming.

We have also found the people of Utah to be an odd mix. There was the UPS delivery guy in Green River who asked us our route and told us, “You damn crazy to ride that road. That's the most dangerous road in America. Full of craaaazy people who don't know how to drive. You'll be lucky to make it alive”. A touch dramatic, lightened only slightly by his ironic farewell of “Have a nice day”. As it was we cruised along with only a puncture and a bit of sunburn for our troubles.Then there was our new best friend KP from Red Rock cycles in Vernal. We took Carlos in who was rattling and groaning with the wheels about to collapse from too many mountains descents and crap roads. We got the bike a full service, new pedals for Hol, new tubes, new chain oil, gears checked, straightened wheels and new cables amongst many other things and he wouldn't accept a cent from us. He was so excited about the trip he just wished us well and best of luck. Incredible kindness.

We are now in Wyoming and have enjoyed shorter rides as we take it easy to meet my Dad for 4 days off in Jackson. We seem to be dodging bad weather with horror stories always being relayed from our stop 3 days ahead. Blizzards, storms, hot hail amongst other things. But so far we have had calm sunny days in Wyoming as the Teton mountains close in on us from both sides. That said camping has become a real test. We are up on the plains at 7,000ft and average temperature at night is 1 or 2 degrees below. As the 'comfort range' of the mega-compact sleeping bags is from 8 to 20 degrees it means wearing all we can in bed and zipping the bags up so just a nose is poking out. Twinned with a diet of canned chili, fig rolls and prunes I now shiver whenever we see a cookery book of Utah's speciality; the Dutch Oven.

In summary all is well and we can't wait for a few days off. Levels of fitness are climbing ever higher, levels of maturity are stooping ever lower. This was thrown into sharp relief when touring the Mountain Man museum in Pinedale today. It's hard not to snigger at the opening panel that says 'for hundreds of years... the hatters of the civilised world had raised a cry for beaver'. When they are then referred to as 'little hairy dollars' or there is a sign pointing to an authentic 'beaver muff' in the clothing section it's hard not to chortle. Hope all is well back in England. Reading The Hobbit is making us both long for proper ales and green rolling hills. Send our love to the shire.

Photos of the last 4 states are here for anyone who wants to catch a look as well:

Texas and New Mexico
Colorado and Utah

Extreme tandemage

2009-04-29T01:27:00.006+01:00

Absolutely incredible mind blowing stuff. I have lost all feeling in the majority of my fingers. My bum will probably never look the same again. When Nick and I finish a days ride we look more like long lost arctic explorers than youthful cyclists. My body hasn't experienced this level of physical exertion since being made to do the bleep test back in '96. Consequently we have both shed that stone of fried chicken and rum from our Caribbean days and are gaining buns of steel. Adrenaline and excitement are rife as we spend most of the day high on endorphins or that half a litre of syrup we poured over pancakes at breakfast. Life is sweet.

After a fantastic stay with some long lost relatives in Albuquerque and a day off the tandem resulting in a cultural adventure around ancient Indian Pueblos and the artsy cafés of Santa Fe, we got on the most direct route North out of New Mexico. The 550 highway was our home for four days of desert, blue skies, red rock canyons, head winds and more desert. The miles drifted by and we lived and breathed everything that road had to offer, which was not much apart from colossal breakfast burritos, oil trucks, monster road kill and dust. But on our third day the never ending orange land in front of us was replaced by an enormous white block of mountains. The San Juan Mountains we were planning to cross. Suddenly the challenge we had set ourselves smacked us both in the face and a nervous anticipation hung over us until those snowy peaks were conquered.

The moment we left New Mexico everything changed. The land turned green, trees had leaves, river beds were filled with water and snow dominated the sky line. Our first stop was Durango where we planned to get the bike fixed up ready for the mountains and spend the afternoon scaring ourselves with how big they looked. It was also the first place we had arranged to go and stay with some warmshowers.com hosts; people who put touring cyclists up for a night. Durango turned out to be the best place we could launch ourselves into the mountains from. The bike shops gave Carlos a good seeing too, numerous people told us we we should be 'stoked' and were 'awesome' for attempting the passes on a loaded tandem and we received free cookies at local cafés. Not only that but our hosts welcomed us into their family BBQ feast for the evening, took us out for an enormous breakfast in the morning and cycled out of town with us for 12 miles to the foot of the mountains.

The last three days have been filled with obscenities and exhalations of joy being shouted out from both ends of the tandem. Those massive and intimidating mountains were exactly that and we both loved (pretty much) every minute of the ride over them. The first day we cycled 52 miles from Durango to Silverton over the 10,630 ft Coal Bank pass and the 10,879 ft Molas pass. On the gradual part of the climb we had an entourage of 30 or so people on racers training for a race in a couple of weeks time. Each one would stop and chat as we pedaled and puffed our way up the climb. It made the first part of the day go surprisingly quickly and before we knew it it was time to face the 6 miles of hairpins. Head down, autopilot on and up we go. About 6 inches of snow fringed the road and gradually started to pour out of an increasingly cloudy sky. We reached the top in a thick blizzard and huddled in the shelter of some Portaloos. The thermometer read -4 degrees C. Before we could contemplate the achievement of getting up the pass we prepared for the chill of the way down. Just as we were looking our most mental yet with socks on hands, jeans around necks and jumpers for hats under our helmets a load of tourists jumped out of their cars and abruptly took some shots of 'the crazy folk tandeming through a snow storm'. Ahhhh fame. Nothing warms you like a steaming hot cup of ego!

After an hour of racing downhill into the blizzard we arrived in the bleak mining town of Silverton, frozen to pieces. After automatically opting for motel over campsite we jumped into the only open restaurant ordered two giant burgers, stacks of fries, two pints of Guinness, two shots of rum and waited to thaw. Surprisingly enough the only time I haven't been ID'd ordering booze on this trip was wearing Nick's socks on my hands and a helmet. The blizzard must have aged me worse than I thought.

After sleeping and thawing we head back out up the mountains. This time the sky was blue and the sun was out and despite a flat tyre 30 seconds in we felt prepared for the 11,010ft Red Mountain pass. The whole day was one of the most spectacular of my life and there is little I can write to describe it. On the way up we felt strong, at the top we were cheered on by an entourage of motorcyclists and on the way down we gasped with joy and excitable fear. At the bottom the mining town of Ouray was a haven of sunshine and warmth with spectacular views of the mountains we had just crossed. Smug and content we grabbed some lunch and headed off North into a warmer and flatter Colorado.

Today everything aches; especially since we decided to take a little detour up a 3,000 ft climb to the Black Canyon of Gunnison this morning. Luckily we both had about 10,000 calories worth of pancakes this morning and so made it up to view the 2,700 ft deep canyon in one piece. Unfortunately the breakfast calorie fest wasn't entirely burnt off in the climb and on first seeing the canyon I screamed 'oh my ***, sh*t, f***.....' to the dismay of several tourists enjoying the peace of the canyon just around the corner. No one can hate a tandem for long though and soon they were all admiring our mornings climb.

Despite all the cracked faces, chapped everything and the shadow of an encroaching plague, Carlos is giving us the ride of our lives and we're soaking up every minute of it.

An American Welcome

2009-04-20T03:21:00.011+01:00

It's only been 5 days since waving goodbye to the warm hospitality of Charley and Kamala, and although we already have chafed bottoms, chapped lips and ridiculous tan lines we are still smiling 300 miles down the road.

We knew it would be tough going, especially as when we set off there was an extreme weather warning of high winds and minimal humidity, but I don't think we could have pictured the sheer scale of where we were riding. Nothing could have prepared us for riding 60 miles with only a handful of corners and no water and food stops. After battling into 40mph winds for 4 hours or so we arrived parched and knackered at Big 8 foods, collapsed on a bench in the first bit of shade we'd seen all day and made some sarnies. Then we met 'Hank' (we never actually learnt his name). Without a word from us he walked up and launched into the most brilliant introduction to American weirdness we could have hoped for. As I rubbed thickly encrusted salt from my wind and sun battered face he embarked on an unbroken monologue starting with his ice driving exploits of the last 10 years. From then on it just got better...

Seeing we had a bike he told us how he was going to be sent to the '72 Olympics to cycle for the U.S. if his coach at high school hadn't messed up the forms. He was a dead cert for a medal because '[he] could cycle at 50mph'. But 50mph wasn't his top speed, no sir, and if you're thinking that was downhill think again. His top speed was when he raced his friend in a car for 2.5 miles on the flat and overtook the car even though it was doing 65 mph. We just sat there nodding not quite sure what to say. We needn't have worried, he just kept talking as we ate. Luckily he didn't kill himself on that 65mph run although he did wear right through the sole of his best cowboy boots trying to stop. But that wasn't all he had... As if we may have written him off as merely a cyclist, he continued to elaborate on the strength of his upper body.

He was once in the gym with a father who was coaching his son to be in Mr. Universe that year. This guy was apparently doing reps with 300lb dumbells. Hank's friend saw this and egged Hank on to lift some more, knowing that Hank 'was rangy, but all steel'. Hank couldn't resist. He cooly walks up, adds another 200lbs and does 5 reps, naturally with only one arm, and then 3 above his head just to show what he could do. We were lapping up the stories silently and about 30 minutes in he just kept going. By the time our allotted hour's story time was up he had just finished with him being in knife fights at school, but kicking the knife away with a roundhouse kick, and how he was also a pro swimmer for a time, but just drives trucks to pay the bills. Then as soon as it started it was over. He got a can of coke from the machine and walked off to his truck. Hol and I just sat there before bursting into hysterics. We then stopped soon after just in case he came back and roundhoused us into tomorrow.

We thought this may have just been a one off, but people out here have been the stars so far. The next day an extraordinarily camp Mexican American we'll call 'Philipe', stood up and flamboyantly announced to the diner we were sat in, 'on behalf of everyone in my country, I want to thank you guys [the British] for the Beatles, and also an absolute ANGEL... called Lady Di. Now you folks have a nice day'. And we did; even if it was a little weird when 9 miles down the road he pops out from his car with his flies undone and tells us we just have to go the hot springs in Truth or Consequences.

There have been countless more brilliant moments already. There was the lady who runs the 'Grocery Cupboard' in Radium Springs who 'just melts away when she listens to [our] accents' and Bill the lonely RV park owner who is 'just damn worried about them Iranians'. The size of everything out here is mind blowing from supermarkets to trucks, desert to junk yards, trains to RVs and sodas to pancakes. The speed with which we are climbing up the map seems non-existent but for now we're just taking each canyon as it comes. 2,500 miles left to go and who knows where the next Hank is. We can't wait.

Meet Carlos... the newest member of our team

2009-04-15T03:17:00.008+01:00

After an incredible bus ride up through the dusty open vastness of Mexico, Hol and I were nervous and excited about the prospect of getting a bike and getting on the road. Looking at dust devils skirting across the plains we suddenly realised what we were about to undertake; 2,500 miles of some of the worlds hottest deserts, tallest mountains and deepest canyons. However, before we could even consider the first pedal stroke we had to negotiate the most 'dangerous city in the world' and the most infamous security guards this side of Mahiki's.

Ciudad Juarez hit the news recently because the local drug cartels have become so powerful that the military had to take over. This was to curb the alarming crisis where the local police force was being continually bribed or beheaded and turning up in shallow graves in the desert. One story we heard was how two people narrowly survived a gang shooting only to be gunned down in their hospital beds by the same gang. Nice place. We hastened past the tens of hundreds of heavily armed police, the scariest one was when I went to take a pee at the border to find one sat in full body armour like a character out of Judge Dredd waiting for his mate to come out of cubicle 3. I wondered what Spanish for 'Freshen freshen up for the ladeez' was but decided against it. Then it was merely a hop, skip, and a 10 minute interrogation about visits to Morocco to get into the U.S.

Last night we spent in the Americana Inn motel next to the Red Parrot '24 hour ladies' strip bar stuffing ourselves with Chinese food and watching TV. And this morning we bought a tandem! We had met Charley and Kamala Land (strangely the surname as Kat who was on board Lista Light) on the internet when they replied to an ad on a tandem message board. We couldn't quite believe they were in El Paso and selling a bike that looked almost perfect. If it didn't fit then we would have to travel to the next option we had found... in Philadephia. Luckily we saw it, rode 14 miles round the dunes and hills of Horizon City and have now attached speedos (to the bike), pannier racks and given it the once over. We can't believe the luck we've had and Charley and Kamala are absolute legends. They have 3 tandems as well as ours and knowing the routes like the back of their hands we have been given maps, hints and access to an Aladdin's cave of a tool shop complete with several sets of Texas Longhorns on the wall. We are locked and loaded and ready for the off tomorrow.

We can not wait. It's going to be epic (and painful)

PHOTOS: Latest shots of Central America are here for anyone who wants to check 'em out.

Gang warfare, giant bulls and a human foetus... Which continent?

2009-04-11T15:38:00.019+01:00

We are now just a 36 hour bus journey away from entering the USA and coming to the end of 6 weeks in Central America. We never really had any huge plans or aspirations for Central America. We just needed to travel up through it. If you read or watch anything about this continent it is most likely to be connected to emigrants chasing the American dream, violent drug cartels or the exploitation of land. I had read about all of the above and so was half expecting to come across harrowing scenes as we traveled overland from Panama to the US – exactly the same route as approx 350,000 metric tons of Big Mac patties, 600 tons of cocaine and thousands of desperate emigrants each year. In reality you mostly have to search your imagination to see such things and we have felt safe throughout the journey. That said it has had its moments...

On our first night in Central America we bedded down in an apartment in Casco Viejo in Panama City, eager to escape the crowd we had been traveling with for the last week. The apartment was located 100m short of the imaginary line between the tourist safe zone and the 'red (danger) zone'. It was a mere 5 minute well lit walk from all the hostels, shops and restaurants and so we were assured there would be no real difference. Heading back to our apartment on the first night we were even reassured to find the area littered with policemen and vans, admittedly they were arresting a guy, but it was better than nothing. Five minutes later with the door to our apartment clicking shut behind us gun shots were being fired right outside. Nick raced to the balcony, whilst I cowered behind him and found a gun fight going on between a gang and some police right where we had just been walking home. An interesting introduction to the continent. We later learned that due to the gentrification of the old town the gangs are being moved out of their slums in the old colonial buildings and unsurprisingly don't like it. Change has to come though and gradually the government will have their way and the gangs will have to go elsewhere; a problem that I'm sure encroaches on the majority of Central American cities as they become increasingly developed for tourism. Just as foreign investment pushes indigenous people off the land, it also pays for the gangs to be moved out of the cities. Its not surprising that somewhere along the chain someone kicks up a fuss.

After 10 days of volcano climbing, swimming hole dipping and marveling at the size of bull's balls in Panama we headed to Costa Rica: The only nation in the world without an army and the most stable of all Central America. Rich in nature, as its name suggests, and with an infrastructure that reflects the early investment of The United Fruit Corporation, it attracts lots of tourists. Luckily a fun filled touristy fortnight was what we were looking for and so we had a great time. That said, as with any developing country pitching for tourist dollars, aspiration crime is a big problem here and sad to hear about.

So it was at 3a.m. last Friday with only 9 days left before we enter the U.S, we boarded our first of two 'Tica' buses that would take us up to Guatemala City. Over 60 hours we crossed four borders and dealt with eight sets of immigration officials – not my favorite people at the best times. Expecting the worst, since it was the weekend before Semana Santa, Central America's biggest religious festival, it actually went remarkably smoothly. Every border became slightly more familiar, littered with toothless money changers, dusty dogs and huge women with ogre like faces and tiny legs trying to sell you their home cooking. Perhaps the most shocking part of the journey was the choice of films shown on the bus. Films ranged from violent to extremely violent, covering gang warfare in US prisons (Felon), child kidnapping (Man on Fire), and prostitution (Taken), child rape (Where the Heart Is) and a healthy dash of drug warfare. Not an obvious pick for a 1pm family bus trip through lands renowned for some of the above. Turns out that the most intimidating part of this bus trip was witnessing the Hollywood interpretation of the sun filled and peaceful lands we were traveling through.

Before we knew it we were in Guatemala, on a bus with no clutch winding up dusty roads to Xela. Guatemala is how I expected Central America to be. Instead of the rather bland good roads, large scale farming and modern towns of further South we were suddenly in highlands studded with small shacks, brightly clothed farming families and their green patches of crops. Entering Xela town square was also the first time we had seen any real history since Colombia. So despite another attack of bed bugs and a 24 hour virus that locked us both to toilets at various intervals, we lapped up Guatemala.

Highlights were two failed outings and one very successful one. After only half understanding people's directions in Spanish we failed to reach some mountain side hot springs, but found a mountain and ended up letting off some steam in a Guatemalan body building gym. We spent an hour on the exercise bike looking at a signed picture of a 80's aerobics instructor with a stars and bars thong wedged a little too far up her bum. Then, after missing a bus to a highland village we stumbled across Xela's biggest market. Packed to the brim with clothes, bikes, machinery, sausages, fruit, honey, etc this shopping experience made our Moroccan market adventures seem like a trip to Marks and Sparks. And then there was the successful outing: The Xela Natural History Museum. At first it was a bit of a disappointment as rooms were just filled with random old plants, broken typewriters and dusty football trophies. But then we found the treasure trove. Suddenly we were confronted by a creepy menagerie of every single stuffed animal you could imagine in some rather unnatural poses. After thinking that the miniature goat with 8 legs eating a snake was as weird as it could get we came across a small cabinet of pickled foetus'; rat, snake and... human. Bizarre, a little gross, but strangely intriguing...

After four days of such joys we hopped on two buses (both with various parts missing), a minibus and a collectivo taxi to San Cristobal in Mexico. The journey took us through the most dramatic scenery yet as the road spun through valleys, plunging into deep gorges and climbing back up to ridges bridging forested highlands. The border crossing was a little strange since everyone was dressed up as clowns or in wrestling masks for Semana Santa. Even the Mexican army were in holiday mood as they waved us through, rifle in one hand and snow cone in the other.

I am now sitting writing this from our bed in San Cristobal, looking onto a little balcony where Nick is sipping on a beer whilst reading Defoe. We spent the morning wandering around the plentiful churches of this beautiful colonial town, which prompted yet another debate about religion, its value, its corruption and why we both believe what we believe. After a siesta we went to watch a documentary about the rebellion Zapista movement in the Chiapas region of Mexico. The combination of a rather wooly rebellion manifesto, 'peaceful' demonstrators armed to the neck with guns and a confused indigenous people wanting both their traditional way of life yet access to brand new schools, hospitals and banks meant that we ripped plenty of holes in the film. I have rarely felt like such a pretentious snob and so we have planned to have a margarita and beer heavy evening and are listening to some Bon Jovi to undo such sins.

Getting scared by frogs in Costa Rica

2009-04-01T18:23:00.009+01:00

For the last 10 days Hol and I have been accompanied on our travels by two friends from home; Chris and his much better looking other half Charlie. Godders (Chris) loves a chinwag, and so it was no surprise that by the time we got from airport to hotel we had been filled in on recent engagements, various missed parties and a liberal dose of sporting updates. What was also a wake up call for Hol and I was hearing about the scale of job losses first hand. We had been sat thousands of miles away thinking it was just a stack of media hype with only a few bankers and blue collar manufacturing jobs getting hit, but with talk of mass restructures with 30% redundancy in the kind of jobs Hol and I had been involved in, we realised why people continually repeated how we had chosen the right time to go away. From now on, no more grumbling from our travels! So relinquishing planning responsibilities to the two new arrivals, we let holiday spirit replace penny pinching as we set off for our Costa Rican adventure. It has been a cracking 10 days.

After hearing only the budgetary complaints of grimy, shoe string backpackers down in Panama, we were unsure of what Costa Rica would be like. It's an extraordinary place. First we whisked up to La Fortuna to see Volcan Arenal; one of the world's most consistently active volcanoes. We perused the various tour options and although sorely tempted by 'Mr Lava Lava's guaranteed best time of your life in the world', we plumped for a 'see lava, see waterfall, walk in forest and soak in hot springs all in one mega experience'. We were duly entertained by a sprinkling of spewing lava, some lightly rumbling ground and a couple of canopy bridges. But we were particularly excited about 'Baldi hot springs'. Billed as a touch of Vegas in the jungle we excitedly donned our speedos, but not leaving the thriftiness behind we avoided the $7 beers at the swim up bar by sneaking in a bottle of rum wrapped in a towel and just buying cokes. Godders and I immediately tried the hottest pool and burnt our legs. In hindsight the fact that a woman was heating her baby's milk bottle in there should have been a clue. Less hot pools provided respite from sore limbs and we finished the night with some dramatic drunken watersliding which cleared new passages in my nostrils I never knew existed.

From here it was off to the world famous cloud-forests of Santa Elena. At $25 per person for a guide and not wanting a big crowd we decided we would just walk around ourselves. Nervous we wouldn't see anything we crept onto the trails at 6.30am with nothing but optimism and a small leaflet of local fauna. Within 2 minutes I look up and say, “Errr chaps, I am pretty sure that is a resplendent quetzal”. Now I imagine, this may mean nothing to most people, but for the last month we had been past multiple 'Quetzal trails' from which descended legions of glum, khaki clad birders who had traveled all the way to South America just to see these 'flying dragons'. Sure enough, a consultation with the leaflet confirmed we were looking at one of the rarest and most impressive birds of paradise on earth. A strong start. We then spent the next 5 hours spotting hundreds of birds, ants, butterflies, giant milipedes and occasionally scaring Godders by saying we had seen a tree frog; an inexplicable phobia that provided hours of entertainment. Just before we left we bumped into a guided tour going the other way. The guide in a jocular tone says, “spotted any quetzals?”. When we replied that we had in fact seen two the audible groan from the tour group lent us a smug edge on the trip home.

We have now finished the trip amongst fire dancers and hippies on the Nicoya peninsula. Campfires on the beach, swimming in waterfalls and getting lost in the forest after dark have filled the days. It has left us realising what an incredibly diverse country Costa Rica is. All of this is only a few hours from place to place. It is a little more expensive, but then instead of the $2 turd, rice and beans you get elsewhere in Central America, you have to pay $4 but get a massive plate of salad, fresh fish and various bits and pieces of deliciousness. It really is a case of you get what you pay for and unless you are scrimping every penny then Costa Rica is the place to come. We now leave Godders and Charlie and head North on a 60 hour bus journey to Guatemala where we will spend a few days. And then... U.S.A.

We can't quite believe we are such a short distance from the U.S. From when we left England it always seemed like an impossibly distant oasis of development, the English language and ease of travel. We are now only ten days away and from there it is just a few months of cycling and walking before getting on the freighter from Vancouver to South Korea on August 19th. We have a rough idea for a cycling route which is below, but we need advice from anyone of places to go or people to see on the way. At the moment, we plan to go from El Paso up towards Santa Fe, skirt west of the Rockies towards Aspen before heading up to Yellowstone and a short hop north west up to Vancouver.

Ver mapa más grande

It isn't a detailed plan as yet and we need to fill in some gaps. Therefore any suggestions of things we should see send them to hollyandtups@yahoo.co.uk or post a comment on the blog. If all goes to plan we will be riding our new steed, a shiny red Santana Noventa (already nicknamed Carlos), out of El Paso on the 15th April. From there, we just keep heading north. Can't wait.

6 months in... this calls for a montage

2009-03-20T13:30:00.007Z

190 days away. As the cliché goes, it seems like an age since we cycled out of Hyde Park, but also just the other day we bid goodbye to family and friends. Looking back at what we have done so far it seems like a huge amount of ground covered, but tomorrow two friends are flying out and getting here from London in just 12 hours.

I think we have surprised ourselves in how well we have got on with just each other for company. It has got a little weird at times though. We have also been amazed by the kindness of strangers, been in awe of the natural world we have trundled over and Hol has enjoyed giving an earful to those who seem a little 'confused' about it. Lately we have had times of questioning what we are doing on the trip; understandable with no income, another 16 months to go and being far away from friends. However, as we stood sweating in 36 degrees at the David cattle festival we met a lady over an ice cream who invited us to stay with her sister in Santa Fe. Then, just before dinner we met a girl who coaches a cycling team in Aspen who has also asked us to come visit whilst we tandem up the U.S. Moments like that make us feel we are doing the right thing and there are plenty of adventures and people to meet in the next 500 days.
The journey thus far...

% round the world after 190 days: 24%
Number of countries visited: 16
Number of those we didn't plan to visit: 9
Favourite country: Morocco
Favourite city: Madrid
Different modes of transport: 26 (and a few half ones)
Fastest transport: 100mph overnight train to Lisbon
Slowest transport: Lista Light, 0.5knots becalmed off the Sahara
Highest point(s): Hol accepting my proposal as we waved England goodbye, arriving in El Jadida at dawn and feeling in a truly foreign land for the first time, being stalked by a whale
Lowest point: Hol: being horrendously seasick for 72 hours crossing to Canaries. Nick: stranded with no money, no food and no Spanish at the Colombian border
Highest altitude: 3475m on top of Volcan Baru in Panama
Most drunk moment: Naked bombing at 2pm in front of a Disney cruise ship after 30 days at sea

Latest photo albums here as well (click`slideshow` in top right of screen for full effect):

South America: http://www.flickr.com/photos/30984246@N05/sets/72157615334845495/
Panama: http://www.flickr.com/photos/30984246@N05/sets/72157615685034230/

Gringo trails and indigenous wilderness

2009-03-12T16:06:00.007Z

Since rejoining land back in January we have enjoyed blissfully untainted independent travel. With no guide book to lure us towards the crowds and traveling through lands with no backpacker trail it has felt like our own little adventure. On leaving Colombia for Panama this all changed. To avoid ending up in the midst of a narcotic run and the guerrilla ridden Darien Gap, we decided to pay the extra to join a tourist boat from Cartagena to Panama.

So we were bundled onto a 40ft boat with 10 other gringos clutching Lonely Planets and exchanging traveling tales. Most people on board had traveled up South America and suddenly I was transported back 3 years, chatting through the highs and lows of Bolivian protests and Argentinian steaks. This was nice at first but quickly grew tiresome. Gradually voices raise as everyone competes for their say and the pleasant exchange of tales becomes a subtle contest for centre stage. As the conversation progresses the constant referral to and dependence on the Lonely Planet becomes alarmingly apparent. Traveling on the gringo trial seems to revolve around this gospel. Is it right or wrong, have the prices changed, whose ticked off the most number of places, what's the best thing to do in the next five countries, where's dangerous, cheap or off the beaten track? At this point I pick up a book and pretend to read it, desperately holding my tongue. Guidebooks are the death of independent travel, ironic given that they were created with exactly that audience in mind. Written by one person who had the luxury of discovering places before they were put in a guidebook for the world and his dog to visit and with all expenses paid for, their situation is somewhat far removed from that of their readers. Before joining this gringo trail we too had fallen for the book and marked off places we wanted to visit. After 5 days of gringo chat all we now want to do was burn the thing and buy a good old fashioned map to go by. Rant over.

The crossing from Colombia to Panama itself takes 2 days but our trip had the added bonus of going via the San Blas Islands for 3 extra days. After all the crewing and cargo boats we were pretty excited to be getting on a boat where we could sit back and do as little as we wanted. So we thought... It turns out that this 'tourist friendly sailing boat' was not entirely in keeping with tourist standards. We were fortunate enough to get a cabin, but half of the passengers on board spent the first two nights of their trip sleeping on deck, being simultaneously drenched with sea water and vomit. Knowing that this stretch of water is one of the roughest in the world we were slightly alarmed by the lack of life jackets, harnesses and life rafts. In true 'day skipper' style we ended up poking our noises through every compartment to work out where it all was, just in case. To add to the frustration of everyone on board Captain Hernando motored the entire crossing, refusing to put up the sails despite good wind and meals were provided in 8 hour intervals. Not a great start to our luxury cruise.

Given the chaos on deck, Nick and I decided to go to bed early to fight off the hunger pains. At the outset of the voyage Hernando had mentioned that we would all share the night watches but as he downed his eighth can of beer details became vague. After an hour's kip I decided to check out on deck, just in case the reputable Hernando was not so sober. I returned to our cabin with a sigh, 'Er Nick, Hernando has passed out and everyone else is asleep. There's been no one on watch for the last hour.' This was slightly alarming, given the number of freighters alongside us on leaving Colombia. Nick, forever the hero, jumps into action devising a watch plan for the night. Dreading it at first, it was a joy to be back on sea at night, especially since a pod of dolphins danced in the moonlight alongside the boat for my hour. So all in all not exactly what we had in mind, but it turned out to be a fascinating trip that was worth the drama.

After 48 hours at sea we woke at 6am to see the sun rising over a turquoise sea littered with palm tree filled islands, fringed with white sand beaches. Beyond the islands a reef weathers the crashing waves of the Atlantic so that the water that laps the islands is calm and crystal clear. The San Blas is home to 365 remote and windswept islands, just one meter above sea level, filled with coconuts, drift wood and starfish. It is a picture postcard stunning place, just a few miles off the coast of Panama. The Islands are inhabited and run autonomously by the Kuna. With a population of 40,000 this indigenous group is considered to be hugely successful in fighting off external influence and control. The majority of the islands are home to a couple of huts housing a Kuna family for 3 months before they move onto the next. However the real base of the tribe are on a few islands nearest the mainland, which are littered with as many huts as can fit on them with a ring of toilets jutting out into the sea.

At first sight the San Blas and their Kuna resemble paradise on earth; a humble tribe living in harmony with their stunning and remote world. But on learning more about these islands through our captain and his wife, Hernando and Maria, our perception shifted. With a complete absence of the word 'thank you' in their language and a system of governance that revolves entirely around the exchange of money, Maria is adamant that this community is void of moral fabric. And she has a point. Relationships on the islands are based on sex and the transfer of money alone. Once a girl has her first period her father holds a huge party to celebrate the fact she is ready to breed. During this gathering she chooses a man or boy of her liking. If the father approves then he hands them the family bed for 5 nights and if she is happy with the boy's/man's performance then he stays. If not he goes and she looks elsewhere. Fair enough I suppose, the girl gets her say even if it does mean by the time she's 20 she's likely to have over 5 children. But then we learned about the prostitution that goes hand in hand with this process. If a man (not necessarily Kuna) wants to have sex with a Kuna girl then a price is agreed between him and her father and him and the government. This whole process is lawful. To put this in context Maria told us about the time when Hernando, 56, told a Kuna man that his 12 year old daughter was very pretty. The man replied, 'Yeh you think so, ok how much?'. Money is so important to the Kuna that many now prostitute their children to outsiders and send them off to Panama City to earn money. Due to the lack of contraception and the acceptance of any and all sexual relations AIDS is spreading around the community fast. Inbreeding also means that a large number of the Kuna population are albinos. If this wasn't enough for us to start questioning this paradise on earth we then learnt that due to rising sea levels the islands are likely to disappear by 2012. A fact we can well believe, given the volume of island surrendered to the sea after a storm one night we were there.

Suddenly paradise on earth resembles more of a living nightmare. But then maybe it is not our place to judge? Or maybe we are victims of political correctness and should be more eager to judge? Maybe, if coconuts could produce fuel we would bomb these islands for 'humanitarian' reasons? The 180 degree shift in what we thought about the Kuna before and after talking to Maria and Hernando made us realise the importance of asking questions throughout our trip.

After examining this trip to the remote we were thrown into the kaleidescope of Panama City for a couple of days. High rise blocks and fancy condos line the modern city whilst crumbling colonial buildings occupied by gangs and squatters lie next to fancy restaurants in the old town. Highs were visiting the Gatun locks, the biggest of the Panama Canal, where Nick almost wet himself with excitement. Lows were food poisoning from the cheapest deal in town and the gang war gun fight outside our apartment. Consequently we have retreated to a small mountain town called Santa Fe. There are only three other gringos in the whole town, we have a terrace that is surrounded by sun drenched mountains and the river is filled with cold, fresh water perfect for swimming. After nearly five months of hugging coastlines, we are pretty content to be entrenched in the land.

Planning and pondering our way to purpose

2009-03-02T16:11:00.015Z

'Isn't it great, we are all on holiday every day for such a long time', commented a Dutch couple, whilst we shared a volcanic mud bath in the swamps of Colombia and discussed long term traveling itineraries. I was finding it hard to concentrate due to the butt naked German man dive bombing into the mud inches from my face, and so agreed with the Dutchies enthusiastically. But later I realized that they had pin pointed exactly what we have been struggling with. Being on holiday all day every day for such a long time is mentally exhausting. For Nick and I it feels completely unnatural. Work has always been the predecessor of fun – eat all your veg and you can go out and play, finish an essay and you can hit the town, complete a project and enjoy a long weekend of festival frolicking. Evenings, weekends and holidays are great because they are a break from the norm. But what's great when the norm is holidaying? Well... work. Hence the thousands of wannabe travel writers, volunteers, English teachers, eco-farmers and language learners frantically seeking a purpose as they gallavant around the world. We too fall victim to the quest for work.

Luckily we are now pretty good at overcoming this crisis. So with a week to kill in the beautifully rustic colonial city of Cartegena, and a recognition on day two that we can't afford to frolic in the fine restaurants and on day tours with all the holidayers, Nick and I devise a plan. First we decide to teach ourselves Spanish for 3 hours a day. This goes surprisingly well considering my language associated disability, our competitive tendencies and differing approaches to getting things done. By day three we had picked up most of the basics and set about putting them into practice. Communication is still a slight struggle (Nick often refers to me as his boyfriend and I asked a women how much it would be to wash England at a phone booth yesterday), but we're getting there. Second, we get down to some serious planning of the rest of the trip. Before leaving London we drew a nice long line around the world, saved as many pennies as possible and researched the key components to check our route was possible. There are therefore quite a few details to fill in as we go along. This is great because planning the trip is an exhilarating, empowering and evolving process that provides many of the challenges of a real job but is just loads more fun. Problem solved.

Asia is the topic of the moment. An awesome and overwhelmingly huge landmass filled with the highest, remotest, coldest, wildest, newest and oldest places in the world. The very thought of crossing it overland sends tingles down my spine. Our original plan was a rather ambitious tour of China, India, South East Asia, Mongolia, Russia and all the 'stans. However, as the trip goes on, spending longer in a few places becomes more appealing than gaining huge numbers of stamps in passports. Nick finds well paid, short term teaching posts in Japan and so we start the application process. By question three it became clear that we are better equipped to lecture on the elaborate mating dances of the lesser spotted quetzal than teach in these Universities. So before starting to seek less high brow teaching posts we then start to question the whole teaching in Japan experience.

'Why don't we go and do something a bit messier and rawer. Lets go somewhere random for the winter... How about charity work in Mongolia?' I suggest enthusiastically, picturing us trekking through snow on horse back through nomadic lands doing something terribly noble and hard going.
'Er I think it might be a bit cold, but yeh that sounds more interesting, lets look into it'. Nick suggests, always the necessarily rational after thought to my excitable ideas.
So we set about researching Asia. Mongolia in December, January and Febuary is -30°C. Hard going? Yes. Noble? Tricky when you can't go outside without wearing a yak.

And so the researching continues, where to go, when you can go there, what visas you need and how to get there. Discussions take place to a back drop of latino beats in bohemian squares, on church steps, park benches and beach towels, sipping from shots of coffee or rum. We even ended up watching a Bavarian film based in Central Asia at the Cartegena film festival. A random coincidence given that we only chose the film because its title, Absurdistan, implied that the language barrier wasn´t going to be too detrimental. It was brilliant and beautiful and had English subtitles. I came out enthusiastically declaring that this is a sign that we should herd sheep in Azerbaijan for a year. Nick pointed out that Georgia might not be the best country to travel through at the moment. But we'll see... a lot can change in a year.

Tomorrow we join Captain Hernando and ten other globe trotters to sail to Panama via the San Blas Islands, home to the indigenous Kuna tribe, paradise beaches and lots of fish. To mix it all up a little we´re planning on taking along a rather large bottle of rum.

Going Solo

2009-02-24T02:16:00.009Z

The last two weeks have been a shock. For 5 months Hol hasn't been away from my side for longer than 3 hours and we have gone through absolutely everything together. But the passing away of her granddad meant she was booked on the first flight back from Grenada to a frozen England. So it was I found myself alone in having to find a route to Trinidad and beyond. It has been 2 weeks of ups and downs, but I have been lucky enough to feel the incredible kindness of strangers who help without question when they see someone adrift in a foreign country.

After being unceremoniously told to get lost by 3 captains at the industrial port, I was walking the pontoons the next day when I spotted the Eastpack cargo boat we had contacted in St. Lucia. The next day I was sharing my dinner with the 1st mate at sunset. He was explaining that it was going to be a little rough and the boat is 'a bit rolly', It was only when i got down below deck that i really began to understand what he meant, but the Captain took pity seeing me trying to sleep in a sweaty mess gripping onto the saloon table for dear life and soon I was laid out in his bunk. He didn't sleep for the night. So it was I made it through a rough night on board and arrived with the sun coming up over Port of Spain.

Here I was to be hosted by the mythical Ken Leafe; a friend of my mum's who had offered us the dream of free comfy beds, a fridge of beer and a pool to relax in. Contact was made and before i knew it, I was whisked from the bowels of the Eastpack to a giant reclining chair in front of an enormous TV watching DVDs. Amazing. Ken was a very generous host patiently driving me around the sights he had seen many times before and we talked long into the evenings of Trindiadian colonial history, politics and trying to put the world to rights. With the Caribbean being so expensive and also finding myself on my own the free board and company was hugely appreciated. And so it was with a heavy heart, clean clothes and a 5 word Spanish vocabulary that I prepared to finally leave the Caribbean islands.

It was then that things suddenly seemed to spin out of control. But instead of my nicely laid out plan of smoothly linking buses that would whisk me to Cartagena. I found myself with Luiz, Jesus and his pregnant wife Judith. Jesus and Judith spoke no English and so Luiz, a blend of a Brazilian Gordon Brown and a Gary Larson cartoon. became my saviour. The offer of a lift was there and I figured that I probably wouldn't be mugged by someone who's pregnant wife modeled a fine set of red dungarees and so hopped in. This turned into a 14 hour sightseeing trip through Venezuela stopping in small local beaches, local restaurants and tiny seafood stalls, all with the translated commentary from Luiz. I was alternately stunned by the beautiful scenery and sat in gobsmacked silence for several minutes when told it cost $2US to fill Jesus' pick up with petrol; water is 10 times more expensive! But we bimbled along with Luiz practicing his English with me in the back. His pronunciation was uncannily Borat-esque and all comments followed by a small chuckle. He would look me and say things like, 'you are veery friendly man... Ha ha ha', and other things like 'you are youngest in car... i am oldest... ha ha ha'. At 3 in the morning I finally said goodnight to my new friend Luiz in Jesus' mother's house where we stayed for 2 nights. I didn't quite know what twist of fate had got me there, but I was amazed at how unquestioningly I had been taken under their wing and welcomed. The next few days we vistied beaches, hot spas, local eateries and the like all with the Jesus tirelessly leading the way; it was great.

Humbled by their generosity, Luiz and I said goodbye on Friday afternoon to the family. I had been showered with gifts of Brazilian soap for me and Hol from Luiz and a small wooden turtle from Jesus and his family. On leaving his mother told us we were blessings from God and I stood there helpless with a sense of nothing to offer, being unable to explain proper thanks in Spanish and just standing like a goon with a terrible haircut and scruffy clothes. I felt the language barrier acutely and just tried to make them understand, but it was a powerful feeling of debt and gratitude.

The bus I needed left from Caracas at 7pm. It was 2 hours from where we were in Maracay. I had no ticket as it was fully booked due to of Carnival and all I had was a slim chance that someone called Rafael might get me on if someone dropped out. But I had one crucial ally. Luiz. The bus from Maracay to Caracas sat stationary in traffic as I nervously checked my watch. We arrived in the maelstrom of the station with no sign of Rafael. Luiz at my side was asking left, right and centre and suddenly a Rafael pops up and says he has a ticket. My one chance of getting to Cartagena in time to see Hol was coming through. Incredible. But he explains there is no time to get to cash machine as the bus is leaving in 2 minutes. Luiz without hesitation offers to pay the $60 fare and trusts I will send the money. I almost got choked up and didn't know what to say. I instinctively pressed all my remaining Bolivars into his hand and boarded the bus. I had been thinking of almost nothing but meeting Hol in Cartagena and Luiz alone had made it happen with one act of trust. Waving Luiz off from outside the coach my stomach then curled in on itself as I suddenly realised i was heading to the border where I would need money for an exit stamp with no money at all.

Straight away the driver comes down the aisle and it's clear he is asking for more money and i try and explain with the vocabulary of si, no, cerveza, por favor and gracias that I had none. It didn't go well and he stomps off after 5 minutes of heated exchange. I tell myself I will get some where the bus stops on the way. The first stop at 1am and there is no cash machine. This also means I have no food and water. I get back on the bus praying the next stop will have a cash machine. I wake starving at around 7am to find us pulling up at the border. We hadn't stopped again. There is a long line full of people with money in hand. No stamp means no way into Colombia, the bus will go and I will be stranded vulnerable with all my belongings on my back, with no money and no way of getting some. Crap. I felt stupid and panicky as I tried to explain in terrible Spanish to people around me. I don't know if other people can mime, 'Can I borrow money until we get into Colombia where I will pay you back in pesos from a nearby cash dispensing machine', but there were blank faces all round and then suddenly I was at the front. Shaking heads and passport unstamped and handed back with more unintelligible instructions. Suddenly the first English speaking Venezuelan person I had seen comes up and asks if I am ok.

I explain the situation and he simply presses the money I need into my hand saying, 'no problem bro, have a good trip'. I could have hugged him and thanked him profusely before returning to the bus. I had nothing to offer him, would never see him again and he didn't gain anything from the selfless generosity. Here was a rich westerner who had stuffed up by bad planning and he didn't even hesitate to help me out with no questions asked. I was stunned. Then all it took was another 3 hours queuing hungry and thirsty at the Colombian border bracing myself as I was unsure of whether I needed more money for a tourist permit and would be turned back again. But my passport got stamped. I was in...

8 hours late, I pulled into a deserted Cartagena station at 11pm; desperate for food and drink despite the old lady next to me insisting I accepted half an apple and some plantain chips from her. I walked to the cash machine. Broken. Another one. Broken. I begged a room at a nearby hostel and and collapsed into bed. I was exhausted, but realised all was ok and I would be able to meet Hol at the airport.

It seems strange looking back as there is nothing in itself that couldn't be resolved with time and patience. However, it was the combination of not speaking the language at all, the exhaustion of no sleep, food or water, and also not being able to contact Hol before she would arrive at Cartagena airport. The thought of her arriving and me inexplicably not being there was grim. Being without any money made me realise the feeling of vulnerability it brings. Finding yourself alone and at the mercy of those around you in countries where everyone says not to be out after dark or carry your things around is not one I want to repeat anytime soon. I am glad to say that Hol is now snoozing next to me in a small hostel in Cartagena after a day of wandering this incredibly beautiful city. We have a boat booked for next week up to Panama, we are looking into learning Spanish for a week and a feast of local fare costs £1.50. The world is back to being a wonderful place but I never want to forget those people who helped me out. Luiz, Judit, Jesus, random tubby guy at the border and old lady with plantain chips I salute you as everything that is good in humans. May more people, including myself, be more like you.

PHOTOS - All the Caribbean photos are on here as a reward for those who made it this far

Paradise found

2009-02-11T13:12:00.015Z

On the 1st Feb I woke Nick up (if I didn't do this every morning we would probably still be in France) and he turned to me and said, “You know what Hol, I think the beginning of Feb is going to be a turning point”. And it was. Not in life changing ways, before parents have a near heart attack... but things just started to work out a bit better. That day we headed out into the yacht marina for another begging for a lift South session and hit jackpot. Three English folk were heading down to Bequia in the Grenadines the next day and were happy for us to join them. All we had to do was bring along a bottle of gin and some chicken. Suddenly the whole getting around the Caribbean without flying seemed remarkably simple.

So the next couple of days were spent with Larry, Fiona and Peter, who strangely enough went to school with Nick's Dad, cruising down the coast of St Lucia into The Grenadines. It turns out that the 31 days on the Atlantic hasn't put us off sailing. That said, this was a very different experience to Lista. Weighing about half what Lista does and built for speed and comfort rather than transporting fish around the North Sea, Tiger Frightener quickly reached 9 knots before any of us had moved from our polished seats. From Bequia we caught a ferry down to Union Island, where we merrily explored beaches, eat chicken and befriended locals for three very relaxed days. From there we then made it to Carriacou on a boat more suited to a child's toy box than the open seas, and then a high speed catamaran dropped us in Grenada. Now we are simply waiting to speak to Captain Russell about a lift to Trinidad. The whole trapped in paradise crisis seems to be drawing to a close. Looking back however, the further south we got the more content we became getting fat and brown.

It’s not just been transport that's turned our Caribbean fortunes around. Hopping down The Grenadines has been a picture postcard experience and so we're feeling pretty privileged to have just accidentally ended up here. Genuine and small islands with lots of empty palm fringed beaches, underwater wonderlands, street BBQs, a handful of friendly locals and little shacks selling everything and anything whilst also housing five goats. Unfortunately the one thing they don't have here is a party on Friday nights, despite my best efforts to find one by asking every single local in town 'where's the party at?' after drinking a little too much rum. I think about half an hour later Nick was carrying me to bed.

Relaxing here has given us some time to look back on the last couple of weeks in the Caribbean and we've concluded its all about the people. Yes the Caribbean has beaches, sun, rum, rainforest and all that, but what makes it really unique is the bizarre mix of people that hang out here. In our constant quest for the best deals around and transport South we must have had conversations with well over 100 people. Everyone we've met has been up for a chat from church going locals, wannabe gangsters, Rastafarians, street vendors, local mayors and officials, fishermen, rich Americans on cruise ships, chavy Americans on cruise ships, excitable holidayers, ecologists, charter boat goers, rugged sailors, posh sailors, wrinkled old hippies, toothless grannies, other lost looking backpackers and road workers. The list could go on.

Conversations vary hugely. Locals often want to chat about England and are excited to learn that Nick used to work near Wembley, where lots of West Indians have family or have once lived. Others just want to know what we're up to and why there are 'white folk' walking around their neighborhood. Some share political views or life stories but more often just want a chilled chat and to make a new friend. The most passionate discussions will usually involve a big mama swinging around her power by dissing the men folk of the world or trying to sell you some fruit or chicken. And then there is the kaleidoscope of foreigners thrown into the mix. Less chilled out this lot often want to complain about something: the ecologist despises the cruise ships, the politicians and the wasteful locals, the seasonal sailor looks on with disdain at the charter yachts, rich Americans are frustrated with the service, backpackers (not excluding ourselves!) are in disbelief about how expensive everything is and most white folk seem to be struggling in the heat. That said not all tourists are complaining all of the time. I have never seen such an excited Scottsman as we did in the rainforest soaked hills of Dominica as he threw natural spring water all over himself, a huge smile across his face, expressing how incredible this land was. And he's right, it is an incredible land full of life be it hummingbirds, dolphins, rum punch, steel drums or people, there's never a dull moment.

Seriously easy/slow going in the Caribbean

2009-02-04T16:04:00.007Z

When Hol and I were sat in the in Gran Canaria and were told by Dave and Kat we were going to Antigua instead of Trinidad I remember my heart sinking. Trinidad was a short 11km hop from Venezuela on the mainland and the best connected island to head west from. Antigua was well up the chain and, from what we had seen online, every ferry company that had set up inter island ferries in the Caribbean had gone bust. When we then found out that we were actually going even further North to St. Maarten perched at the very top of the Eastern Caribbean chain I must confess a slight frustration. Hol remained chipper, but I couldn't get the repeated lines from from a thousand internet travel chat rooms out of my head: 'there are NO ferries linking all the islands ', 'it is EXTREMELY DIFFICULT to island hop further than the next door island', 'just fly'. However, we had no choice and we consoled ourselves by saying this is the kind of thing we signed up for by not flying.

Upon arriving in St. Maarten the business of finding our way south began immediately. Hol, ever the professional, managed to make a good start after only 12 rum punches in Rose's bar in Philipsburg. While I was receiving a shoulder rub from the proprietress, Hol was in the kitchen. Despite the fact I am fairly convinced she went in there in pursuit of twin beef patties and gherkins wedged between a sesame cob, she came back with the hazy recollection that she had been told there was a ferry to Dominica that goes once a week. So the trail began...

Next step was to ask at Bobby's Marina where the inter-island ferries are meant to leave from. We are told there are only ferries to the next island St Barts and not beyond. The ferry was then pointed out to us. It was slowly gathering dust 20 yards away with a flea bitten dog asleep underneath it. It wouldn't be leaving anytime soon. So next step was a bus to Marigot on the other side of the island. A walk to the tourist office and an embarassingly sweaty conversation ensued and it was more of the same. Only to St. Barts, not beyond. This was then echoed by ferry operators, restauranteurs, hoteliers and everyone else we met until we spoke to a guy who signs people out on the St. Barts ferry. 'Maybe you get a ferry from de commercial port along de way'. Cue another long sweaty walk to the commercial port forty minutes out of town. We get there, chat to the guy under the tree playing the harmonica who tells us to follow a very fat man on a forklift down to the quay. There we meet Mano, captain of the M.V. Emmanrick. HE TAKES PEOPLE TO DOMINICA ON SATURDAY! If he hadn't been a large black guy flanked by 6 more scarred looking sailors on a very rusty boat I would have kissed him and if I had a daughter she may well have now been betrothed. How much? $115. Well under the $200 quoted by harmonica man. Great, But we need to leave our passports with him. This is a problem as we need to sign off Lista Light back on the other side of the island. Balls. OK, back to Philipsburg immigration and another hot walk through container ports and past my favourite shop on the island; a wholesale liquor store made to look like a kid's playground. The big Momma in immigration says we need a letter from Mano saying we are sailing with him. Hmmm, not what Mano said but Ok. Back on the bus to Marigot the next morning, print a letter out in an internet cafe, walk all the way to the port again, get it stamped by Mano, walk all the way back into Marigot to get the bus back to Philipsburg, get Dave, walk 20 minutes to immigration. We only just get stamped out by a begrudging big Momma, and then back to get our stuff and head back to Marigot on the bus for another hour round trip walk to the port to give Mano our passports.

A quick sleep, wash and shave later and the next day at 3pm we arrive at the dock. By 6pm we are on the banana boat and underway. 24 hours on the M,V. Emmanrick was an extraordinary experience; unexpected in the main, but also friendly, beautiful and hard. Nestled amongst about 10 other passengers, 6 or so crew and lots of boxes of everything from nappies to bananas we were two 'crazy white folk' that had clearly got a little lost on their trip around the Caribbean. Nonetheless we were welcomed in warmly receiving a bed (admittedly the sweatiest nights sleep yet) to sleep in, tucking into chicken and rice (unfortunately a good 20 hours since we had eaten our last meal) and even getting a 20 or so strong dolphin fly by in the morning.

On arrival in Dominica we both felt nervous. Would immigration accept us? After all, we hadn't signed into the pattiserie we had got breakfast from, and also failed to get a stamp for that poo I took on the boat somewhere off Guadeloupe. We had to wait cooped up on the boat for all to be cleared, trying to get the creases out of our shorts, brushing hair into a side parting and preparing our finest 'no actually, we're English' responses. The time comes, we explain the trip, that we have no onward ticket (usually enough to not be allowed on the island), but plan to get a boat south in a week. She stamps it, but only on the condition we stay in the Errol apartments in town. This it turns out is run by the mayor, who happens to be stood on the dock painting the boat next to ours and also runs the M.V. Grace Maryann we had seen crewed entirely by drunks in Marigot commercial port. A small world.

That night all the cash machines in town are broken so we are given some food from an old lady in a shop that looks closed. The only question we got asked, 'Are you from England?'. Yes. That's fine then, take whatever you want. Carrying our nutritious dinner of maggi noodles, pringles and 2 beers we bump into Bomper hanging around the street corner below our overpriced and under cooled apartment. Bomper tells us in a voice more suited to a Barry White tribute act, that the cashier in the petrol station might be able to help with a boat South. The next morning we speak to her. Her brother in law Neville and friend Ned have a boat, here is his number. We wander to find somewhere to call from. After change is swallowed twice there is still no answer. We try the other number. No answer. We go back to find her, but she is 'back in ten minutes'. 2 hours of waiting later we plead with her again and receive another 3 fifty digit barcodes we can try and reach the elusive Ned and Neville on. On leaving the petrol station she also recalls that she thinks the boat is broken and stuck in Trinidad anyway. Crap, our only option off the island is gone and it is not a cheap place to stay with the budget sleeping places coming in at around £25 a night.

After paying off the generous lady in the shop from the night before, we decide to head south to Roseau to have a relax knowing we can't do anything for now as neither Ned or Neville is expected anytime soon. We're in the Caribbean for god's sake. This should be amazing. We arrive in Roseau and snoop around and find ourselves speaking to Peter the travel agent. There is a boat! YES. He will speak to the guy on it and it should be here on Thursday. Perfect, we have a couple of days waiting for him to call to explore Dominica, which it should be mentioned is incredible. When you get into the hills there is not an inch of earth which isn't draped in the lushest, brightest and thickest flora we had ever seen. It is where Pirates of the Caribbean was filmed and we spent two days dunking in fresh waterfalls, spotting crabs scuttling around the rocks and hummingbirds and huge butterflies hovering around mango, banana, guava and passion fruit trees.

As the days tick by we keep ringing the bespectacled Peter at Whitchurch travel, but still no word comes. But by Thursday contact has been made with George Solomon, Captain of the M.V. Eastpack. We wait nervously knowing that the next conversation could mean a quick trip down straight to Trinidad and off into South America or back to square one and costly imprisonment on Dominica. It's bad news. The boat won't be leaving for a week and then he will be going via St. Lucia, then onto Barbados, then St, Vincent, then Granada, then Trinidad. Oh, and there isn't room on board anyway. F*ck. We wander disconsolately via a couple of tremendous raisin swirl cakes wondering once again if we will ever leave the island. Eating a BBQ plantain from a street stall we then meet someone who revives optimism. He used to live 10 minutes from my previous place of work, Diageo's glamorous headquarters in Hangar Lane. It turns out he used to be a 'seafarer' and he says St. Lucia is where we need to be as it has way more boats going south. He paints a utopian picture to Hol and I of a terminus akin to Heathrow at Christmas and we get excited. All we need to do is get the Express des Iles ferry as far south as it goes to St. Lucia and we will be spirited along by one of a thousand merry cargo boats (most likely with comfy state cabins and free booze all the way).

We merrily troop back to Whitchurch travel. What could be easier than buying an actual legitimate tourist ticket? Oh. We need a piece of paper stamped by inland revenue. Where is that? Other side of town. We walk to the dilapidated building and walk in. They say we need to go to the police station. We check with them again. Oh yeah, they realise they are the right place and they give us the pieces of paper we need. We go back to Whitchurch travel. Problem. Do we have an onward ticket? No. We explain the trip as before, say we are writing a book (?) and this even gets construed as some kind of charity thing by the 2 supervisors involved. But all too soon we are on the phone to immigration in St. Lucia. It doesn't go well and when the lady puts the phone down in the end we are told we need an onward ticket to England to enter. This is bad, not to say a totally new rule, and so looking to avoid getting more people involved we ask if we can simply buy a return ticket giving us 2 weeks in St. Lucia. Yes. Great. We were risking extra cost if we couldn't get it refunded but so it would have to be. But what's this? The prices have changed from those printed in the million leaflets and posters all around us? By much? Yes. When? 5 days ago? Great. Yes, you must buy 2 single tickets. Also, the second single must come back via Martinique with a one night stopover. Errr, ok? Can we just get the return to Martinique instead of all the way back to St. Lucia? No that's not possible, you would have to buy it in St. Lucia. But that doesn't make sense. Surely we could go onto the internet anywhere in the world and and buy one like that? Yes that is true, but if you want to get the ferry tomorrow morning you must buy it now. Confused? Yes. Energy to fight it out? No.

We get the more expensive return ticket. Ok, take these receipts to the other side of the building to the lady labeled cashier. We head over to find a stern lady under a sign saying 'open 10am to 5pm'. The clock above says 5.05. I break into a cold sweat as the irrational rage at the prospect of spending another 3 days waiting for the next ferry on Sunday threatens to explode all over the brown patterned walls and faded pictures of cruise ships on the wall. But she smiles, takes the money, stamps and signs 20 or so individual bits of paper and sends us back to get the actual tickets. Finally, we have a way off the island... for now. But we are still only half way down the chain. As a fitting kick in the nuts, the final guy we spoke to on leaving the travel agents said there are no boats from St. Lucia south and he has no idea what we will do when we get there. Who do we believe? We shall see (1), we have no choice really and at least we are making some progress. I am sure at some stage we will look back and smile at the time spent in the Caribbean, but for now as we hemorrhage money in a tourist paradise not built for this kind of travel, it will be a relief to be on the mainland where buses rather than boats ply the long distances between countries.

(1) Having now spent 3 days in St Lucia chatting to good 50+ people from posh yachties to shack residing Rastafarians about boats going South, we are slightly worried that the latter was the one to believe

PHOTO UPDATES: some transatlantic pictures and even some bizarre videos are also up on flickr if you click here - Transat album