Camels, Carpets….and Kebabs

I’ve dreamt of going to the Silk Road for longer than I can remember. Something about that phrase is more evocative than any other, for me at least, of far flung places, exotic spices, dusky maidens…..adventure.

So when we rocked up in Turkmenistan, we were ready to get our Silk Road ON.

First stop Tolkuchka Bazaar, on the outskirts of Ashgabat, and for decades perhaps the most famous of all the Silk Road bazaars for its sheer volume of STUFF. Want a live camel or two? A bushel of pomegranates? Stripy skullcap for the gentleman, silken headscarf for the lady? Prayer mats? Or more prosaically, some drain cleaner? A new kitchen sink? It’s all right here, you’ve just got to haggle (hard) for it. Strangely, however, we came away without buying anything other than several pounds of pomegranates (small translation issue), some nougat and a small mountain of dried fruit and nuts (so good here). Not for fear of haggling, mind (although we did both nearly fall over when the nice kindly old man quoted us $300 for the nice fluffy hats we’d been looking at. Real mink, apparently, rather than the more traditional sheepskin. Or fun fur). More a completely overwhelming surplus of choice. Tolkuchka has been moved in recent years to a smart, glossy new location that is shaped like a carpet (kid you not) and absolutely MASSIVE. Too big. We had an awesome time wandering round and looking at the transparent evidence of a genealogical melting pot in the faces of the people all around us but nearly gave up on our quest for the livestock market. We found it eventually though and were rewarded not only by the sight of camels being manhandled into pickup trucks (apparently quite easy – tie up their front leg, hoick it up onto the flatbed, camel will follow) but also the famous Silk Road fat bottomed sheep. And yes, they do indeed.

We did also see some magnificent carpets at the Bazaar, which, in retrospect, were probably some of the finest we have seen. However, Turkmenistan has some fairly byzantine carpet export legislation, so we didn’t look too closely, saving that treat instead for the shops which sell the goods complete with licence. Here, however, the selection was underwhelming, until, in the half hour before we were finally due to leave Ashgabat for good, I looked into the hotel shop – only to find a veritable Aladdin’s cave of beautiful, fairly priced carpets, but alas without the time to be able to indulge. We’ve been left, both of us, with a relentless thirst for a truly beautiful carpet which has followed us through the Silk Road, thus far unslaked.

What’s a girl to do in the face of such adversity? Well, ordinarily, drown the sorrow, but what with the multiple attractively dressed and strangely unaccompanied young ladies in the bar, I fell to the last resort.

Mutton kebab. First of many. Uuuuuummmm, greasy.

Welcome to the Silk Road.

The South Pacific – The Stats

  • Countries visited: only three (Papua New Guinea, Solomon Islands, Vanuatu) although it felt like dozens in a region where the village over the hill probably speaks a different language
  • Flights taken: 16 in six weeks. Of which we only had to charter one ourselves (or we would be bankrupt by now). Locals medevac-ed for urgent medical treatment in our spare seats: two
  • Longest period without a hot shower: two full weeks, although cold showers, hot lava-warmed buckets and using industrial-strength insect repellent as deodorant go a long way (please think of this, when we are being gleeful about our posh flight tickets!)
  • Nights spent sleeping on the floor with no bedclothes: two. Both in the rain, one in a leaky tent. Never again
  • Number of naked boobs seen: several hundred. We have started to see them when we shut our eyes. The Horror. The Horror.
  • Number of naked men seen. None, as a single banana leaf technically counts as being appropriately dressed on Ambrym
  • Number of birds of paradise slaughtered to make headdresses for the Mount Hagen show: apparently none – apparently all the feathers are antique. So it only looks like thousands of these rare birds have been killed for your amusement
  • Time it took to get comfortable with everybody being armed with a bloody great machete: shorter than you might think!
  • Number of times robbed at knifepoint: zero. Number of times we thought someone might be about to rob us at knifepoint…
  • Occasions on which we fled the country under threat of police action: one. We love Port Moresby (hi Brian!)
  • Active volcanoes climbed: two. Active volcanoes actually seen: one
  • Meals consisting solely of bread or crackers, peanut butter and jam: a dozen? Maybe more – memory is merciful
  • Mind-bendingly incredible experiences you couldn’t get anywhere else in the world. Half a dozen? The Mount Hagen show; a good couple along the Sepik river; the Ambrym festival; Mount Yasur volcano on Tanna; diving on WW2 wrecks in the Solomons. Absolutely amazing.

Where I belong

We were pretty excited leaving Vanuatu. Why? First class Qantas flight on the A380. Yeah baby!

This was the first of the first class legs of our round-the-world ticket (something we had decided to treat ourselves with when our trip got postponed for a few months earlier this year – you only live once) and in the A380 to boot, so we were pretty excited. The fact that we’d been living in the bush for the last few weeks didn’t exactly hurt either.

First stop, Sydney, where we stayed at the Holiday Inn (FANTASTIC view over Sydney harbor) and had a wonderful, indulgent meal at Rockpool (thanks for the recommendation, Dan) to get us into the right frame of mind. Then up bright and early so we’d have plenty of time to enjoy that FIRST CLASS lounge (Eggs Benedict and champagne for breakfast – yeah!) before boarding the plane and settling in to eat and drink our money’s worth with a fantastic 4 course lunch with matching wines, port and brandy. The seats are set up as quite self-contained pods, so James got some escape from me up until lunch time, when you can pull out a jump seat for dinner a deux (he was thrilled. Honest). A short siesta and a movie or two later, and we were in Hong Kong!

Of course, we now think this is how we should be treated in life, so it was fortunate that the short hop from HK to Beijing was also first class. First class dim sum, tea and champagne.

I could get VERY used to this!!

Backgrounds – Solomon Islands & Vanuatu

Apologies for posting these slightly out of sequence – we got caught up in the excitement of Vanuatu (OK, and getting clean again after Vanuatu) and forgot to explain what all the pictures across the top of the blog were.

…as if our “caption competition” explanations ever clarify anything…!

Great ancient warriors, hanging out with their mates (no, really)

Great ancient warriors, hanging out with their mates (no, really)

One of the most extraordinary experiences so far (and the dog thought so too)

One of the most extraordinary experiences so far (and the dog thought so too)

Pilot Matt arrives to liberate us from Ambrym. We would have hugged him if we hadn't smelled so bad

Pilot Matt arrives to liberate us from Ambrym. We would have hugged him if we hadn’t smelled so bad

It may not look like it, but this volcano picture was taken from a VERY long way away

It may not look like it, but this volcano picture was taken from a VERY long way away

Short Runs in Strange Places – Port Vila Harbour

Ah, the Beach Boys

We have just arrived back in Port Vila. Among other excitements (which Lucy will be rhapsodizing over elsewhere) we have been reunited with our excess luggage and I have remembered that I made the somewhat foolhardy decision to bring my running shoes round the world with me. Yay!

What better way to celebrate than a run around town?

The particularly observant among you may notice a few things. This run is extremely short (blame the lack of sensible exercise over the last six weeks?). It was particularly slow (ditto). And … I seem to be walking on water.

Turns out that iPhone GPS receivers still work while encased in waterproof plastic bags, tupperware and duct tape and hung in a string bag around your neck. And that the resulting Heath-Robinsonian contraption floats rather well when you go swimming. Cue James feeling exceptionally smug for (a) thinking of such a stupid thing (b) making it all the way across the bay without drowning (c) not being hit by a speedboat or eaten by a shark (d) best of all, not frying my iPhone despite dunking it in salt water for the best part of an hour!

Swimming off into the horizon

Swimming off into the horizon

 

Look! I haven't fried my iPhone!

Look! I haven’t fried my iPhone!

Return to Ci-VILA-zation

All in all, it’d been a pretty rough 2 weeks in Vanuatu; limited electricity, no plumbing, and lots of near-naked men. Fun and all, but we were jolly glad to be getting back to Port Vila, the nation’s capital and home of such excitements as running hot water; good bread (and pastries!! Gotta love the French ex-colonies), restaurants; and coffee. We spent a few days there, relaxing, diving (well, James did; I, wonder of wonders, had a mani-pedi J) and having a thoroughly lovely time of it eating lovely food and drinking some nice wine….and coffee. We’d bought some espresso coffee powder in PNG as a way of using up our last kina, and I felt sure we’d be able, with a little cunning, to turn it into a tasty hot beverage. Experiment 1 utilized some tissue paper and a sieve. It failed, unless you happen to like cold-ish Turkish coffee. Experiment 2 was James’ invention, and somewhat more successful: a centrifuge constructed out of an empty soda bottle, our travel washing line, and James. See technical illustration below:

The other and rather time consuming part of our Vila trip was a whole-scale decontamination of our wardrobe. The volcano trip in Ambrym, with associated dampness and smoke, combined with a week with no running water, had left us…well, smelling a little more native than we would have liked. We suddenly realized why we’d not suffered from flies in recent days. Still, the fine city of Vila has a lovely launderette that magicked our nasty stinking rotting items back into our wardrobe just in time for us to doll ourselves up for a 3 course French dinner complete with cocktails and wine.

Civilization’s great.

Escape from … Tanna

Another island, another escape. Our so-far-so-unpredictable trip started to take a predictable turn on the Vanuatu island of Tanna. Fortunately, this allows us an early opportunity to practice the format of our “Escape from …” blog posts. As a reminder, these are typically structured as a short skip over some deeply extraordinary and alien experiences, followed by some epic yet mundane battle to escape as soon as any form of real deadline looms. So, here we go:

  • Blah blah blah, Mount Yasur – trekking up the world’s most accessible active volcano. Check the volcano activity forecast online (yawn), activity level two out of five (double yawn). Huge ash plain, quadruple caldera, humungous explosions with great gobs of lava being thrown about 100 meters vertically above where we are standing (like, so what?). Guide’s actual advice was to walk away slowly if lava bombs start landing behind us. So far, so normal
  • A dull, dull, dull trip to Friday night worship in a Jon Frum Village. You know, Cargo Cults which worship the American Navy as gods are sooo last year. An entire culture being set up to re-enact world war two invaders’ behavior (down to the mock flagpoles, marching in squares and setting up fake air traffic control towers) – seriously, why bother? The fact that their altars include a Red Cross (the god of free medical treatment!) just made it all so much less interesting
  • Three days living in a wooden tree house thirty feet up a banyan tree with a view of an active volcano? Having your tree shaken gently but firmly by the occasional eruption? Collecting rainwater to drink when your seventh day Adventist guest house owners go to church all day, locking the kitchen and your only water source? Banal, banal, banal…

So, on to the interesting stuff. What could possibly go wrong with a two hour drive across the island to the airport for our flight out?

  • Our guest house owner had a habit of dropping last minute bombs on us. His finest example, I think, was waiting until Friday night to tell us that they were Seventh Day Adventists … and that as a result they couldn’t drive us across the island to the airport on Saturday as planned. It was their Sabbath, you see, and they take it extremely seriously. No problem – we have got wise by this point, and have built a full day’s worth of slack into our (three day) timetable. The race to the airport will be just that – a race – but there is as yet no disaster
  • A day sitting in our tree house in the pouring rain later, we have driven about three miles when we stop to pick up Sergi and Miriam (but of course!) who were staying nearby. We should have known at this point – wherever these two go, disaster follows. Needless to say, about fifteen minutes later we were parked by the side of an unfordable flooded river. Our guest house owner (who we strongly suspect didn’t want to get his 4×4 muddy) told us that we would have to wait for the rain to stop and the flood to subside. Again unfazed, we get our shoes and socks off and prepare to wade across to hitchhike from the other side
  • Having finally found a car prepared to attempt a river crossing, we make it to the airport in the pouring rain to find the flight has been cancelled. Or perhaps never existed. Or maybe it did. Who knows? We wait drinking beer for Schrodinger’s aeroplane to resolve itself to discover that there were two flights, only one of which has scheduled, perhaps only one of which is running. Who knows? Air Vanuatu book all the white people in the terminal onto the one remaining flight and all the locals get up and leave (WTF? Anyone?)
  • It is at this point a deluge worthy of Noah’s Ark. The incoming plane finally touches down, only to discover that it is impossible to refuel from two barrels of avgas in said rain without filling the fuel tanks with water. A nervous hour ensues, before the pilot decides that we don’t actually, really, truly NEED to refuel. A further nervous hour ensues after take off, as we wait in turbulent cloud for the plane to run dry and fall from the sky…

Enough said. In true “Escape From…” style, we made it!

Escape from Ambrym

We are thinking of creating a new blog category called “Escape from…”

I don’t know how it happens, but Lucy and I will be having a perfectly happy time pootling round some lovely part of the world. Things will be going smoothly: buses will turn up reasonably on time, planes will run (sometimes early), tour guides will fulfill promises made, everything will be great. Then, over the horizon will come … a flight connection perhaps, a planned tour maybe, something from the outside world which was preplanned and Cannot Be Missed. Suddenly, it seems like everyone disappears, everything grinds to a halt and seemingly insurmountable obstacles stand in our way. So it was with Ambrym.

We were relaxing after our epic volcano trek. We had a thoroughly-deserved day off, ensuring that we didn’t miss the plane by the simple expedient of staying in Sam’s guest house (it is not only close to the airport; Sam is the airport). There were no showers, but the ground water was heated by lava and so bucket showers from the well were warm and toasty. We were given as much rice as we could eat. Life was great.

Then our plane was cancelled. “Don’t worry.” says Sam “We will get you off tomorrow.” We waited a day before it was cancelled. “Don’t worry.” says Sam “We will get you off tomorrow.” And then your connection will be the day after, so we can get you to your destination – ooh – three days late. Assuming that your connecting flight runs, which it probably will. Or it might not. Two weeks in Vanuatu you say? Once in a lifetime you say? Oh, so sorry about wasting a quarter of your trip loitering around an airstrip.

Lucy and I are relatively seasoned problem solvers – it was what we used to do for a living, I guess. We ran through the options: we called Air Vanuatu and gave them hell (no dice); I heard about a passing ship and strolled down to the harbor to see if they would give us a lift (deck passengers only, heading in a direction best described as “off the edge of the world”); we looked to see if we could make a short hop to another island and fly from there (no); and … er … that was it. Only one airline flies to Ambrym. Ships call once a week. The neighbouring islands are just as remote. There were no other options. We were stuck. We weren’t going to have time to do half the things we had wanted to do in Vanuatu, and we were deeply p***ed off.

Or not. In our problem solving bag of tricks, there is one that we try never to use. A Nuclear Option, if you will. We hate using it, but it sometimes works where nothing else does. There is a big red button with big white letters saying “Solve, with money”, and we pressed it – our private charter plane arrived soon afterwards.

And yet we had faced yet another difficult decision – due to the complex economics of inter-island flight we had two equally priced (expensive, but not too astronomical) options:

  • A nine-seater Islander plane, allowing us to fly out not only ourselves but also our two friends Sergi and Miriam and the late additions of one chronically sick local guy and his wife who desperately needed to make it to the capital for medical treatment; or
  • A three-seater REAL LIFE SEA PLANE that would take only Lucy and me, but the pilot of which promised that he would allow me to FLY THE PLANE MYSELF! And damn the others! YEAH!

Sigh. Cue two grateful Spaniards, two extraordinarily grateful islanders and a slightly wistful James. As a consolation prize the pilot of the nine-seater agreed to allow me to sit in the co-pilot’s seat so long as I agreed not to touch anything and not to squeal too loudly when he flew us between the first two islands at 150 feet, buzzing the occasional passing yacht.

We made it.

Mt. Doom… Or “The Lord of the Rice”

The South Pacific is a pretty slow paced place; a place where you don’t sweat the small stuff (or even moderately sized stuff), but just sit back, relax and let things roll…. Which anyone who knows me will know is something I am just pathologically incapable of. I LIKE to sweat the small stuff; I find it makes the small stuff far less likely, in a few days’ time, to grow into medium sized, large or even frankly inconceivably enormous stuff that then turns round and bites you in the ass. With its inconceivably enormous teeth. Painfully.

So when we decided to embark on a two day volcano climb on Ambrym, our negotiation stance was clear. James did the talking (people here don’t really deal with women much), whilst I back-seat drove with true micro-management flare. James established that yes, we could do the trek. I pushed for details. Yes, there would be a high quality and reliable tent. Yes, we’d have sleeping bags. There would – of course! – be ample numbers of sleeping mats to sleep on. Yes, there was a plentiful water supply on the mountain. Et cetera. And yes, I was getting laughed at. We’re in the South Pacific, after all. These things get taken care of if you just relax and let them…

So the four of us (James, myself and Sergi and Miriam, 2 Spanish travelers who were also staying at Chief Sekor’s) felt quietly confident as we set off on our way. We were looking after our own food, with Sergi and Miriam kindly sharing with us some canned tuna and pate they’d brought onto the island, and the sure knowledge that we’d be able to pick up some wheels of bread to see us through the trip…. Only the baker hadn’t baked that morning, so no bread. No drama, there’d be some in the next village. Hmmm, although actually the baker here had gone fishing, so again no bread. Still, we’d get some in Ranvetlam, where we’d also be picking up our gear….. Ummm, about that gear. You know we promised sleeping bags? Well, we don’t actually have any. Is that ok? As long as we have sleeping mats? Sure. OK, and what if we don’t actually have sleeping mats either. Well, we have 2 paper thin ancient sleepmat remnants plus an old mattress you can have. Should be fine for the four of you, right? Well, yes, should be fine. After all, we’ll have plenty of food and water. Best go get that bread….. Bread? Oh, it’s just that the baker here is guiding another group on the mountain, so there is no bread. And we’re out of breakfast crackers. However, what we can do for you is to cook up some rice. LOTS of rice. That’ll keep you going.

Well prepared? Not us. Still, we were on a quest, and nothing and nobody could stand in our way.

We left behind the jungle terrain that formed the first hour of our hike and entered the ash plains of Mordor; desolate expanses of black bereft of flora or fauna (other than the ever encroaching orcs of course). Our course took us ever onwards, towards the fiery crater that formed our goal; fortunately our elven-woven hiking gear provided some protection from unfriendly eyes. Also from the rain. For yes, of course it rained. This wouldn’t be a sweeping 3 part epic without a storm or two. We got pretty darn wet before we reached our campsite for the evening, an ill-omened place with only a mean, smoking hut for shelter. Our men put up our tents, and undeterred by the now torrential rain, we set off for Mount Doom. I mean Mount Ambrym. One and a bit hours scrambling over lava later, we arrived at the peak. We saw……nothing. Torrential rain, don’cha know – so cloudy we could hardly see each other never mind the promised fiery crack. There went our plans for some nice hot rice that night. Back we marched to the shelter, warmed only by the promise of drying off in the shelter of our tent and some sitting round the fire telling camping stories.

You know that there highly technical tent? Well, it was about an inch deep in water when we returned – clearly not elven made. Us hobbits have good sturdy hairy feet but that’s just too much to take. James-Frodo set the men to try setting it up again whilst we sat in the hut by the fire, weeping sooty tears as we tied to avoid death through smoke inhalation. Eventually we prepared our dinner – cold rice and tuna warmed (smoked?) near the fire (not at all what we likes my precious, we likes our fish RAWWWWWWW and WRRIIGGGGLINGGGG) and, utterly dampened by the day, went to bed. James-Frodo’s tent intervention meant the tent didn’t leak TOO much during the night and it was warm enough that I reckon I got a good solid hour or so of sleep before waking bright eyed for breakfast the next morning.

Breakfast: cold rice.

James-Frodo by this point was clearly unwell. He maintained that this was the combined effect of the chill and rain of yesterday, smoke inhalation and a shoddy night’s sleep, but I felt sure that the real reason was due to the heavy burden he was carrying; we still has about a pound of rice left by this point and by his heavy hanging head I knew this tortured him – but any time I tried to assist him, he thrust me angrily away crying that the rice was his and his alone. Sergi-Pippin and Miriam-Merry tried to brighten the atmosphere with their jokes and laughs, but to no avail. We knew there would be a 3 hour walk out of Mordor, and set in grimly to achieve our escape.

Yes, that “3 hours to the nearest village” thing. Ummm, that wasn’t true. It’s actually 7 hours to the nearest village. Yep, we know you’re out of water. And walking across arid plains through highly sulfurous air. Still, you’ll be alright. Famous sturdiness of the hobbits and all that. Anyway, you’ve some nice cold rice to look forward to for your lunches……Cue small panic: Where’s the rice? Gone. The porters had abandoned us in Mordor and taken it. Or that’s the official reason; personally I suspect Gollum.

Anyway, after a 7 hour walk with no water, food or shelter, we made it. And the village that we ended up in, glory of glories, had coconuts for us to slake our thirst, and also offered us some traditional “laplap” (ground manioc with coconut milk), typically something us tourists politely nibble on before discarding, that was eaten in a flash before the chief’s somewhat startled eyes.

Yep, we made it. You see, things always work out ok in the South Pacific. You just have to go along with the ride.