Or: how we eventually found a hotel in Wewak (and no, neither of us is pregnant).

It has never taken me two days to find a hotel before. We turned up in Wewak with our trusty Lonely Planet in hand, hoping to find not only a hotel at short notice, but also a tour guide to take us up the Sepik river (of which more later). It was a relatively tall order, but one of the best known Sepik guides actually runs his own hotel, so we walked confidently past all the hotel taxis at the airport and strolled the short distance to the Surfside Hotel. Which was a series of portakabins sheltering under a three story building site (OK…), and which had nobody at reception (less OK…). So we waited, and waited, and tried the hotel next door (ugh), and waited, and it got dark. And you really don’t want to be caught out after dark. And here begins an epic story to rival that of the holy parents themselves. Laying it all out longhand would turn into a long list of and-then-we-did-this. So, a few selected and compressed highlights:

• Our initial rescue by a pair of scruffy good Samaritans with a Land Cruiser (one of whom turned out to work at Deloitte PNG, of all places) and driven to the best hotel in the country “where the white people stay”(!). The Inn Wewak Boutique Hotel is actually reasonable value at US$200+ per night but was deemed a little too expensive so we resolved to try again the next morning
• Discovering that the hotel we had targeted as a cheaper alternative was – how shall I put this? – a brothel full of drunks. Complete with complementary condoms in the rooms. Nice! And great value at US$175 a night
• Not being let past security at our next choice of hotel – we clearly looked undesirable (perhaps they thought I was a drunk, and Lucy was, erm, also a drunk)
• Eventually finding Francis – our saviour and the owner of the Eden Blooms Transit Inn. Deaf as a post, deeply eccentric (i.e. he had a fully equipped kitchen, missing only an oven or stove of any kind) but good to us. There was no hot water, and you had to be careful not to fall through the floor in places, but it was cheap at the price ($US60 a night). We didn’t have the heart to tell him that in the UK a transit house was a place where ex-convicts were rehabilitated, and that this was perhaps impacting the tourist trade just a little…
• Shocking the staff at the posh hotel so much by our exploits that when we returned a few days later – stumbling out of the jungle, hungry and unshaven with armfuls of native carvings and desperately in need of a shower that didn’t come out of the river – they automatically gave us a 20% pity discount. But that is another story.

Our eventual hotel. The sign says “One person (given a mattress on the floor) – 60 Kina”. Class!

Our eventual hotel. The sign says “One person (given a mattress on the floor) – 60 Kina”. Class!

The time finally came when I could put it off no longer – I was starting to look like many of the travelers we saw about the place. You know the type: the guys where you can carbon date how long they have been travelling by the length of their scraggy hair and stupid unkempt beards. Despite a few rash boasts and not a little encouragement I have yet to either dye my hair blue, or to shave it all off (thanks AS). Instead, I decided that the little Peruvian town of Nazca would be where I broke my expensive habit of Keiko at John Allan’s in midtown and had a truly cheap haircut. Like, a really cheap haircut. Like, a ten Peruvian soles haircut.

I was surprisingly nervous. Lucy and I scoped out the various “pulquerias” and eventually settled on two, one of which we then eliminated because one of the salon chairs had been replaced by a ride-on toy racing car for kiddie haircuts. And I would have wanted to ride on it, and that wouldn’t have been cool. I negotiated with the lady in charge, who naturally spoke no English and seemingly didn’t understand my extremely descriptive international haircut semaphore. Eventually, the instruction (in Spanish) “like Ricky Martin, but straight” got her started. Lucy mercifully waited until later to inform me that I had actually asked for a haircut “like Ricky Martin, but a woman”.

Anyway, twenty sweaty minutes later I came out looking … well, you’ll have to wait and see.

Oh, we also took the opportunity to hire a light aircraft to fly at low level over the Nazca lines. Mysterious ancient civilization; huge prehistoric markings in the desert; unknown purpose; kilometer long geometric figures; massive glyphs of animals, birds, insects (and allegedly spacemen); discovered by accident earlier this century yadda yadda yadda.

We are carrying too much luggage. And by that, I don’t mean that we have one too many pairs of oatmeal trekking trousers in our backpacks and we are worried about the carbon footprint of flying them around the world (although we do, and we are).

We are not people to refuse to carry deodorant for weight-saving purposes. We have sensible, if ostentatiously heavy backpacks, and they aren’t the problem. By “too much luggage” I mean that we have taken advantage of the fact that the first leg of our trip involves driving a large car boot across the States to thoughtfully, pointedly and deliberately carry a bunch of RIDICULOUS crap that we don’t really need. We are considering it one month’s worth of soft start to long periods of being butch and rugged in deserts and on islands (and on desert islands).

Our “America-only” box contains the following highly critical travel accessories:

• Hard copy guidebooks of all the places we are going to. To be read, and then replaced with Kindle versions for the main trip
• A tent (so far, so sensible, although ours is yellow and has flowers all over it)
• A double air mattress (which will already get you frowned at in most semi-serious hiking campsites)
• A fluffy duvet, two sets of clean, white sheets and some soft pillows (erm…)
• A bulging bag of heavy toiletries including big bottles of shampoo and conditioner, a heavy glass bottle of aftershave, the world’s second largest bottle of vitamin pills etc.
• Two bottles of excellent champagne (but of course! One white, one pink, donations left over from our leaving parties)
• Four bottles of good sauvignon blanc
• One bottle of 18 year old Bunnahabhain single malt (for those long winter evenings. In the USA, in May)
• Two huge bars of Cadbury’s Dairy Milk (thanks Mum! Thanks Dad!). Also, one bag of fluffy white marshmallows for toasting over campfires
• A big container of home made muesli for breakfasts (obviously plus china plates, bowls etc.)
• And, la piece de resistance, a full-sized, mains-powered Nespresso coffee machine and four weeks of capsules (and a milk frother – seriously, what use is coffee without frothy milk?)

Essential backpacking kit. Essential.

Having carried the box back and forth down a couple of long hotel corridors, I also discovered a three litre, three kilogram bottle of ginger ale that had previously been lurking in our fridge at home that Lucy couldn’t bear to part with. We have some serious drinking to do!