Parque Nacional da Chapada Diamantina, BRAZIL - 24 september 2002
After breakfast, we left by a road behind the pousada. It was a gentle walk for a long while before we started climbing slowly up slanted rocks amongst the vegetation.
I had wrecked my watch when I got to Utrecht in the Netherlands. So, without a time-piece, I had no idea how long we climbed. In a way, it was good. I just concentrated on taking the next step.
The region was surrounded by mountains with horizontal slates of rocks and thick foliage. We alternated between walking on rocks and cutting through bushes. We passed another group consisting of two guides and four Brazilian ladies with huge backpacks. Soon, we passed another two Brazilian men. They looked like they walked into a trekking shop and told the staff, “We want to go trekking. What do we need to buy?” and proceeded to buy a whole load of gizmos and gears, outfits and gloves, bottles and hats, compasses and more just-in-case gizmos.
Some steep scrambling later, we got to the top of a section with overhanging rock and stopped for lunch and a nap. Awesome view through and through. Straight ahead of me, between two mountains, there was a short length of the horizon all to the way to where the earth curved away.
We walked on for a long time, passing more rivers. The water here was brownish because of the reddish rock mass. We were told the water was safe to drink and so we drank them neat. As we filled up our bottles with the river water, the colour reminded me of urine, ha!
We made our way to a deep plunge-pool and a very pretty waterfall. After all the sweat and tough workout, the pool sure looked inviting. We plunged in, pronto. I swam up to the waterfall and sat behind it. Hmmm… It felt just like sitting in the rain.
The two Brazilian men, I call them Dumb and Dumber, arrived in their flashy, long-sleeved trekking tops and long-pants and gloves. Imagine, their perspiration had no chance of evaporating and cooling down their bodies. They must be really hot now.
But Dumb stripped down into his swim-trunks and climbed gingerly up the rocks to where we were sitting as we dried ourselves. He sat there and considered for a long time, saying that he ‘dared not swim’.
Dared not swim? Hmmm… if he could not swim, he would say he ‘could not swim’. But ‘dared not swim’?? Perhaps, his English was a little wonky. Eventually, he psyched himself up and allowed himself a short swim and scurried back to shore.
Dumber changed into his swim-trunks and just stared blankly at the pool. He never plunged in. Not even a toe went near the pool. Strange.
Brazilian Ladies arrived, in various stages of undress and by the time they reached the pool, their glorious string bikinis were revealed. There was no stopping them.
Pit-stop for that night was under some overhanging rocks, right by the rushing river. All of us, except the guides, slept near the river, under the stars. I felt wonderfully at peace here, lulled by the sound of the gurgling river. It reminded me of the night in Mongolia when Pablo, Goretti, Tina, Jus and I slept by the river.
In the middle of the night, we knew why the guides slept under the overhanging rocks. It rained. In the darkness, we knocked into and tripped over rocks, got a whole foot into water, blundered into walls to resettle ourselves under the overhanging rocks.
Parque Nacional da Chapada Diamantina, BRAZIL - 25 september 2002
No wonder Brazilian Ladies had such huge backpacks. They had something to wear for the night and something different and extremely fashionable to wear for today’s catwalk around the mountains.
The rain continued in the morning. But Crispian reassured us it would stop in an hour’s time. True indeed. Soon, we got our gears together and started rock-hopping.
Bon Jovi was so insightful - Slippery When Wet. The route today involved quite a bit of scrambling, clamouring and balancing on the slippery rocks across the river. Sometimes, there was something to hold on to. Other times, it was a real balancing act. A wrong move, I could slip and smash my skull to smithereens. Moments like these made me wonder why I do such things. One really had to be agile, sure-footed, quick-minded. All the rocks looked slippery - take your pick.
As I made my way precariously on the rocks, strangely, my thoughts went frequently to my teeth. Yeah, I kinda like them. I really do like them a lot. I hope to keep them intact. Then, I remembered my brain. I sorta like to keep that intact too.
We happened upon Dumb and Dumber. Dumber was drenched to the bones. Ooops, he must have done the slipperoo.
We reached our pit-stop pretty soon. There was a group of hippie-sorts and their molls, smoking joints permanently. The dread-locked guys wore woollen Jamaican caps and huge shirts. The glassy-eyed girls pranced around in bikini tops. They greeted Crispian with familiarity. Perhaps they lived out here at the pit-stop.
We left our things and made our way through more slippery rocks on the river and on slippery mud across the forest to reach the Cachoeira da Fumaça. There was a lot of jumping off and climbing up rocks, using upper body strength to yank yourself up.
Unlike the last forest I was at in Manu, Peru, there was no chorus of singing insects in the forest air. Besides mosquitoes, there seemed to be few types of insects in this forest. In a way, it was good. That meant we could grab and tug whatever tree, root, crevice, we needed without fear of armies of fire-ants or other exotics running up our arms. At some precarious points, I even held onto blades of grass, like a life-line. Silly, I know.
We reached the waterfall after 2 hours. I was not so much physically exhausted as mentally exhausted with all the micro-seconds-long decisions of which rock to hop on, how to climb up this huge one, which root to pull, which branch to grab, etc…
All this to see the second-highest waterfall in Brazil. The water seemed to be falling in slow-motion. Compared to its height, it was a mere trickle. The water also appeared to be blown into oblivion about three-quarters of the way down. Sometimes, the water made it to the bottom and we could see bigger splashes. Still, lying on the rocks underneath, it was a satisfying sight.
The chatters of the Brazilian Ladies arrived before they did and stirred us awake. There was not enough room for two groups so Crispian led us back. Along the way, we passed Dumb and Dumber. They again stopped Crispian to ask for directions. Straight ahead, dudes.
Back at our pit-stop, Egor and Carolina found a flat ‘beach’ (no sand here, just a flat piece of rock) by the river, swam and relaxed. I walked down further and found myself a nice spot - another flat, peaceful ‘beach’ with small waterfalls and a big area to swim in and absolutely no one else around. I swam and slept on the rock until it started to turn dark. It was perfect. Just me and my thoughts and nature…
The area below the overhanging rocks was smaller, compared to last night’s pit-stop. With the ladies, the hippies and us, we barely had room to walk around without stepping on one another’s sleeping bags. Yeah, tonight, all of us were wise enough to sleep under the shelter. Night fell by 6pm. There was nothing much to do except to lie down in the darkness and sleep after dinner. Strangely, Dumb and Dumber did not grace this spot with their presence.
Parque Nacional da Chapada Diamantina, BRAZIL - 26 september 2002
Once again, it rained. Unlike yesterday’s rain, however, this one did not let up. It poured and poured and poured. Brazilian Ladies, in yet another set of matching trendy attire, started to crack jokes about Dumb and Dumber as they were currently Missing-In-Actions.
We sat on our mattresses and watched the rain. The ‘cave’ started to flood. I looked at Malte from Germany. His government, recently re-elected too, had some experience fighting against floods in August, hadn’t they? So, could he be so kind to try and stop the flood now, bitte? He scooped some sand and a twig and blocked the area right in front of my feet. Danke.
When I ventured outside for a pee, I was thoroughly shocked by the thunderous river now. The calm and peaceful ‘beaches’ we laid on yesterday were now gone. The rocks we clamoured across had disappeared under the violent cascades. Dumb and Dumber were SO not coming back to this pit-stop. There was no way to cross the river today.
At 12:30pm, Crispian told us we were heading out. The water falling in front of the overhanging rocks, came from the top vegetation and rocks and was accumulated and looked heavy. But, once outside, the rain was actually not that bad by now. We headed up and up today to see the top of Cachoeira da Fumaça.
Rock after rock, step after step, we ascended without stopping. I felt giddy at times and had to stop for drinks. It was really quite difficult for me. Sometimes, I needed a hoist or a push from behind to tackle the huge rocks. Then, after a while, even for simple rocks, I could not process in my head how to handle them. I tottered like a drunk at some point. I tripped over roots or small rocks. No helicopter rescues, honey. I just had to keep trying.
Finally, we petered out onto flatter grounds at the top. We went through grasslands, now marshy and muddy because of the rain. And also, courtesy of the rain, it was foggy everywhere. It felt like walking in the clouds. We squelched through the mud. Sometimes, my entire boot sank deep in and I had to yank it out with effort and without falling unglamourously into the mud.
We came upon the thunderous river that would eventually become the second highest-waterfall in Brazil. I was a wee bit chicken, trying to cross this scary river barefooted. Crispian held my hand and got me across. Now, we came upon the top view of the waterfall we saw yesterday. I had commented it was a mere trickle. Well, it was alpha-male today. It was a loud, booming, voluminous, authoritative, no-nonsense, giant-of-a-waterfall today. It was an amazing sight! Wee-woah!!!!
After a short time admiring it and freezing away, we returned and went through more swamp-lands, even wading through knee-deep water. Finally, we did a quick run-and-hop downhill all the way to Capão, our destination. We arrived, dead-tired and an hour before night-fall. Phew… There was a jeep that drove us back to Lençóis and I could think of nothing except to get out of my clothes and jump into a shower. What an amazing trip!!
Lençóis to Ilhéus, BRAZIL - 27 september 2002
Malte would leave for São Paolo today and Egor, Carolina and I headed to Salvador. I busied myself, reading 100 Years of Solitude on the bus. I had started a tiny bit on the 26-hour bus-ride to Salvador but with the tinted windows, it had been too dark to read. Now, there was good light and I could not put it down. I got through half the book or so by the time I reached Salvador. What a genius story-teller Márquez is!!
When we arrived in Salvador, like my first arrival in Salvador, it was raining cats and dogs. I bought a bus-ticket to Ilhéus, leaving tonight at 10:45pm.
Now, what was a girl, with more than 8 hours to kill, to do in the rain, with the Rodoviária (bus-station) located right next to the huge shopping mall, Iguatemi Shopping? Yes, the girl goes shopping. Well, I have to admit, after about five months of travelling, I was kinda sick of my clothes already and was itching to buy new ones, especially since clothes in Brazil were rather cheap, and not to say, looked pretty and sexy on those Brazilian stunners.
Friday, September 27, 2002
Monday, September 23, 2002
13 - Empire of the Sun-Tanned (Salvador, Lencois)
Salvador, BRAZIL - 19 september 2002
We arrived in Salvador at about 3pm in the rain. Our favela tour guide had told us it never rained in Salvador. How wrong he was.
After settling ourselves in Pelourinho, the well-restored old city centre, we headed out for a walk and encountered a group of boys making music known as Oludum. This is music, with African origins, created from various sorts of drums. The music had great rhythm and charismatic ‘oomph’. The drummers looked like they were having the best fun.
Salvador was turning out to be very vibrant and spontaneous, with loud booming music at every corner. It has quite an Afro-Brazilian culture here, unlike in Rio. The majority of the people here are of African origins. Naturally, there are some mestizos and mulattos but I hardly saw a white Brazilian whom I could say was a local. I guess that was how the racial mix was like up north in Brazil.
Well, unfortunately, we could not really enjoy the night-life of Salvador tonight as it rained incessantly for the rest of the night.
Salvador, BRAZIL - 20 september 2002
Deepa and I meandered more around town today. Salvador’s Pelourinho is quite touristy. We learnt that this previously downtrodden district had been restored and cleaned up for tourism’s sake. Shops along the streets here mostly sold tourist souvenirs. These houses were plastered up evenly and painted in all sorts of pastels shades. Police were stationed at every corner to protect the area.
Once out of the immediate district, we saw crumbling buildings, cracked walls, peeling paint-work, foliage-covered walls, broken windows, lopsided balconies, missing shutters…
Capoeira, as I had explained earlier, was resurrected here in the state of Bahia. So, naturally, I expected to see some fighters-dancers out for a ‘play’ here. Deepa desperately wanted to see one. She had not seen one before. In the end, she paid and went to the capoeira school to see it. I wandered around the street and by night-fall, at the main square, as predicted, there was a circle of capoeira players so I watched for free.
This evening was perfect. The near full-moon was breathtaking in the clear sky. We sat al fresco at the tables set up on the uneven cobble-stoned roads, amongst the pastel colonial houses and enjoyed some ‘live’ music and drinks. The entire town was alive with locals, not just tourists, enjoying their share of music, drinks and dance for the evening. Every bar or restaurant had loud samba or oludum playing.
In a very humble local eatery that did not even have a menu, the locals broke into spontaneous dancing. And what I meant by locals here were fat, aging, tubby aunts and uncles. Not the slim and skimpily-clad youths. The energy in this town was electric.
At some corners, typical in this state, women in white Bahian, bouncy, lacy dresses and white head-wraps (they looked like they were wrapped in layers of doilies, actually), were sitting and deeping-frying Bahian snacks in dendê oil. Surely, your road to heart attack.
Salvador, BRAZIL - 21 september 2002
We attended a Candomble session tonight. It was quite an experience. This was a religious ceremony where they communicate with their gods and baptize a boy of 12 years.
The men were in charge of the complicated drum-beats (sometimes with hands for a god, and other times with drum-sticks for another god) and provided the main singer.
The women (and a few men) danced slowly in tiny movements in a circle in the yard. The floor of the yard was strewn with a type of leaves.
The dancing, singing and drumming went on for hours. Some younger, inexperienced disciples (who had to dance with their backs hunched and heads hung low) might fall into a trance earlier. A girl did that, actually. She had to be led out and revived because it was not the time for the trance yet.
The 12-year-old boy was brought out, first covered with white dots to immune him against illnesses. Later, he was brought out again, covered with yellow, pink and blue dots. We were to throw a sort of leaves at him as he passed by.
Slowly, the women and the disciples entered into a trance and the main matriarch of the event started hopping on one leg at some point. That meant she was possessed by a particular god called Ossain who was painted on a picture as hopping on one leg.
They were watched over and guided by some mentors who were not in a trance, just in case the entranced got a little lost in their walking or started grabbing their jewellery and hurt themselves.
Then, with their eyes closed, the entranced swooped out of the yard one by one, somehow knowing where the open gate was.
After a very long wait, they returned with very colourful and intricate costumes - bright blue, yellow, red, sequined-dresses and head-gears which had beads or shells draped across their faces. They held implements on their hands like axes and metal-snakes.
OK, we did not always understand what was going on. It was very complicated. Many gestures steeped in meanings. It was also a very long session. It started at 10:30pm and lasted beyond 1:30am when we left. No way they faked this for tourists. This was a religious ceremony and was not widely promoted as a tourist event. Still, I appreciated it and found it interesting. Some tourists had looked very bored with the repetitive dancing, gotten fed up and left in taxis earlier. Well, this was not a performance for them to like or dislike. This was a complex ceremony which had its origins from Angola and Nigeria, with too many things beyond our understanding.
Salvador to Lençóis, BRAZIL - 22 september 2002
Deepa is an art student. She wanted to do some sketches today to while away the time. Hmmm… I had bought a sketch-book in Irkutsk, Russia and I last used it on the Trans-Mongolian Railway. Yeah, I would crack mine open too.
We spent the day, idling around and sitting at the square, sketching the local people. It was awkward for me not to include details for the sketches. But this was what sketches were about. No way I could include details as people walked away or changed positions ever so often. A teenage boy was very amused with our sketches. He peered from behind our shoulders and laughed in delight whenever he identified whom we were sketching.
We had been eating at buffet-by-weight restaurants (cheaper) in Salvador but the food was unexciting and sometimes, not very fresh. So, as it was our last day together in Salvador, we decided to treat ourselves and order a la carte.
I only realised this much later, but most of the items on menus in Bahia were for two people. But we did not know it then, and she ordered fried fish and I ordered a Bahian speciality - Ximxim de frango (that is chicken cooked like a curry and swimming in dendê oil). Dendê oil which is red palm oil, a local ingredient here, is s-t-r-o-n-g stuff and extremely high in saturated fat. So, when I expire due to a heart attack later in my life, as my whole life flashes before me, I would surely recall this afternoon, sitting under the Salvador sky, eating chicken cooked in dendê oil.
So, imagine our surprise when the food was served with rice, salad, beans, and portions big enough for a party! We were embarrassed by the decadent display of such copious food and proceeded to partake of it quickly before more people spotted our greed. We did not do a bad job by finishing up all the fish and ¾ of the ximxim.
That night, we parted. I made my way to Lençóis tonight while Deepa travelled south to Caravelas for whale-watching.
Lençóis, BRAZIL - 23 september 2002
Lençóis, a small, quiet town, is set in the wooded mountainous region west of Salvador, near the Parque Nacional da Chapada Diamantina. The main tourist business here is trekking and day-trips to the rivers and waterfalls in the National Park by many agencies.
I arrived at, maybe, 5am in a disastrous condition. I stumbled off the bus groggily and into a group of hotel and tour touts. Many inquired if I wanted to do trekking today. Were they crazy? I hardly slept a wink last night on the 6-hour bus-ride with air-conditioning set to full-blast. All I wanted to do now was to find a place to sleep.
A guy said free transport to wherever I wanted. No way… “Sim [Yes]”, he insisted. OK, I climbed into his van, telling him the name of my pousada. Naturally, he drove me to another and suggested this was better, for the same price, no mosquitoes.
Não, obrigada [No, thank you]. You said you would take me to wherever I wanted. “No problem, no problem…” he drove on and dropped me by the pousada that I wanted. “Maybe you join tour today [sic]. We go to Glass waterfall [sic]. You meet at Hotel Alcino at 8:30am. Maybe… yes? Hotel Alcino…”
I could not remember what I uttered. A trek to the waterfalls at 8:30am today??? He was SO kidding me…
I slept til way after 11am. The grinning receptionist at my pousada asked what kind of tour I was interested in today. “Hoje? Não… Hoje tranquilo, tranquilo… [Today? No… Today tranquil tranquil…]” I told him.
I was keen on the 3-day tour to the Cachoeira da Fumaça, also known as the Glass Waterfall. At 420m, it is the second highest waterfall in Brazil. He said he was not sure if there would be a group. I would be able to know by 8pm tonight.
I headed out. Lençóis, after Salvador’s loud and wild music, parties late into the night, and reputation for mugging, was incredibly quiet and felt thoroughly safe. Birds were chirping. The town was tiny, sleepy and magically silent.
I walked around and sat around without anyone really paying any attention to me. People were friendly but a little restrained… if I managed to get eye-contact and greeted them. It was really different from Salvador. So sleepy. So tranquil. It was not long before I wanted to head back to my pousada to sleep again but I willed myself against it.
A man was crushing sugar canes through a rattling machine to squeeze out sugar cane juice. I got myself a cup for a perk-me-up.
I traipsed down to Rio Lençóis. The riverbed was a reddish mass packed with round, white, yellow, pink rocks. It was a very unique and beautiful landscape. Locals were washing their laundry and swimming in the pools with brown water. It was really pretty. There were small waterfalls here and there. Some pools were so deep, the locals plunged head-long right in.
By night, there was indeed a group formed - Malte from Germany, Egor and Carolina from France and I. We met our guide Crispian who could only speak Portuguese, and were briefed in Portuguese on what to pack for tomorrow.
Gee… now I did not feel quite ready for a trek.
We arrived in Salvador at about 3pm in the rain. Our favela tour guide had told us it never rained in Salvador. How wrong he was.
After settling ourselves in Pelourinho, the well-restored old city centre, we headed out for a walk and encountered a group of boys making music known as Oludum. This is music, with African origins, created from various sorts of drums. The music had great rhythm and charismatic ‘oomph’. The drummers looked like they were having the best fun.
Salvador was turning out to be very vibrant and spontaneous, with loud booming music at every corner. It has quite an Afro-Brazilian culture here, unlike in Rio. The majority of the people here are of African origins. Naturally, there are some mestizos and mulattos but I hardly saw a white Brazilian whom I could say was a local. I guess that was how the racial mix was like up north in Brazil.
Well, unfortunately, we could not really enjoy the night-life of Salvador tonight as it rained incessantly for the rest of the night.
Salvador, BRAZIL - 20 september 2002
Deepa and I meandered more around town today. Salvador’s Pelourinho is quite touristy. We learnt that this previously downtrodden district had been restored and cleaned up for tourism’s sake. Shops along the streets here mostly sold tourist souvenirs. These houses were plastered up evenly and painted in all sorts of pastels shades. Police were stationed at every corner to protect the area.
Once out of the immediate district, we saw crumbling buildings, cracked walls, peeling paint-work, foliage-covered walls, broken windows, lopsided balconies, missing shutters…
Capoeira, as I had explained earlier, was resurrected here in the state of Bahia. So, naturally, I expected to see some fighters-dancers out for a ‘play’ here. Deepa desperately wanted to see one. She had not seen one before. In the end, she paid and went to the capoeira school to see it. I wandered around the street and by night-fall, at the main square, as predicted, there was a circle of capoeira players so I watched for free.
This evening was perfect. The near full-moon was breathtaking in the clear sky. We sat al fresco at the tables set up on the uneven cobble-stoned roads, amongst the pastel colonial houses and enjoyed some ‘live’ music and drinks. The entire town was alive with locals, not just tourists, enjoying their share of music, drinks and dance for the evening. Every bar or restaurant had loud samba or oludum playing.
In a very humble local eatery that did not even have a menu, the locals broke into spontaneous dancing. And what I meant by locals here were fat, aging, tubby aunts and uncles. Not the slim and skimpily-clad youths. The energy in this town was electric.
At some corners, typical in this state, women in white Bahian, bouncy, lacy dresses and white head-wraps (they looked like they were wrapped in layers of doilies, actually), were sitting and deeping-frying Bahian snacks in dendê oil. Surely, your road to heart attack.
Salvador, BRAZIL - 21 september 2002
We attended a Candomble session tonight. It was quite an experience. This was a religious ceremony where they communicate with their gods and baptize a boy of 12 years.
The men were in charge of the complicated drum-beats (sometimes with hands for a god, and other times with drum-sticks for another god) and provided the main singer.
The women (and a few men) danced slowly in tiny movements in a circle in the yard. The floor of the yard was strewn with a type of leaves.
The dancing, singing and drumming went on for hours. Some younger, inexperienced disciples (who had to dance with their backs hunched and heads hung low) might fall into a trance earlier. A girl did that, actually. She had to be led out and revived because it was not the time for the trance yet.
The 12-year-old boy was brought out, first covered with white dots to immune him against illnesses. Later, he was brought out again, covered with yellow, pink and blue dots. We were to throw a sort of leaves at him as he passed by.
Slowly, the women and the disciples entered into a trance and the main matriarch of the event started hopping on one leg at some point. That meant she was possessed by a particular god called Ossain who was painted on a picture as hopping on one leg.
They were watched over and guided by some mentors who were not in a trance, just in case the entranced got a little lost in their walking or started grabbing their jewellery and hurt themselves.
Then, with their eyes closed, the entranced swooped out of the yard one by one, somehow knowing where the open gate was.
After a very long wait, they returned with very colourful and intricate costumes - bright blue, yellow, red, sequined-dresses and head-gears which had beads or shells draped across their faces. They held implements on their hands like axes and metal-snakes.
OK, we did not always understand what was going on. It was very complicated. Many gestures steeped in meanings. It was also a very long session. It started at 10:30pm and lasted beyond 1:30am when we left. No way they faked this for tourists. This was a religious ceremony and was not widely promoted as a tourist event. Still, I appreciated it and found it interesting. Some tourists had looked very bored with the repetitive dancing, gotten fed up and left in taxis earlier. Well, this was not a performance for them to like or dislike. This was a complex ceremony which had its origins from Angola and Nigeria, with too many things beyond our understanding.
Salvador to Lençóis, BRAZIL - 22 september 2002
Deepa is an art student. She wanted to do some sketches today to while away the time. Hmmm… I had bought a sketch-book in Irkutsk, Russia and I last used it on the Trans-Mongolian Railway. Yeah, I would crack mine open too.
We spent the day, idling around and sitting at the square, sketching the local people. It was awkward for me not to include details for the sketches. But this was what sketches were about. No way I could include details as people walked away or changed positions ever so often. A teenage boy was very amused with our sketches. He peered from behind our shoulders and laughed in delight whenever he identified whom we were sketching.
We had been eating at buffet-by-weight restaurants (cheaper) in Salvador but the food was unexciting and sometimes, not very fresh. So, as it was our last day together in Salvador, we decided to treat ourselves and order a la carte.
I only realised this much later, but most of the items on menus in Bahia were for two people. But we did not know it then, and she ordered fried fish and I ordered a Bahian speciality - Ximxim de frango (that is chicken cooked like a curry and swimming in dendê oil). Dendê oil which is red palm oil, a local ingredient here, is s-t-r-o-n-g stuff and extremely high in saturated fat. So, when I expire due to a heart attack later in my life, as my whole life flashes before me, I would surely recall this afternoon, sitting under the Salvador sky, eating chicken cooked in dendê oil.
So, imagine our surprise when the food was served with rice, salad, beans, and portions big enough for a party! We were embarrassed by the decadent display of such copious food and proceeded to partake of it quickly before more people spotted our greed. We did not do a bad job by finishing up all the fish and ¾ of the ximxim.
That night, we parted. I made my way to Lençóis tonight while Deepa travelled south to Caravelas for whale-watching.
Lençóis, BRAZIL - 23 september 2002
Lençóis, a small, quiet town, is set in the wooded mountainous region west of Salvador, near the Parque Nacional da Chapada Diamantina. The main tourist business here is trekking and day-trips to the rivers and waterfalls in the National Park by many agencies.
I arrived at, maybe, 5am in a disastrous condition. I stumbled off the bus groggily and into a group of hotel and tour touts. Many inquired if I wanted to do trekking today. Were they crazy? I hardly slept a wink last night on the 6-hour bus-ride with air-conditioning set to full-blast. All I wanted to do now was to find a place to sleep.
A guy said free transport to wherever I wanted. No way… “Sim [Yes]”, he insisted. OK, I climbed into his van, telling him the name of my pousada. Naturally, he drove me to another and suggested this was better, for the same price, no mosquitoes.
Não, obrigada [No, thank you]. You said you would take me to wherever I wanted. “No problem, no problem…” he drove on and dropped me by the pousada that I wanted. “Maybe you join tour today [sic]. We go to Glass waterfall [sic]. You meet at Hotel Alcino at 8:30am. Maybe… yes? Hotel Alcino…”
I could not remember what I uttered. A trek to the waterfalls at 8:30am today??? He was SO kidding me…
I slept til way after 11am. The grinning receptionist at my pousada asked what kind of tour I was interested in today. “Hoje? Não… Hoje tranquilo, tranquilo… [Today? No… Today tranquil tranquil…]” I told him.
I was keen on the 3-day tour to the Cachoeira da Fumaça, also known as the Glass Waterfall. At 420m, it is the second highest waterfall in Brazil. He said he was not sure if there would be a group. I would be able to know by 8pm tonight.
I headed out. Lençóis, after Salvador’s loud and wild music, parties late into the night, and reputation for mugging, was incredibly quiet and felt thoroughly safe. Birds were chirping. The town was tiny, sleepy and magically silent.
I walked around and sat around without anyone really paying any attention to me. People were friendly but a little restrained… if I managed to get eye-contact and greeted them. It was really different from Salvador. So sleepy. So tranquil. It was not long before I wanted to head back to my pousada to sleep again but I willed myself against it.
A man was crushing sugar canes through a rattling machine to squeeze out sugar cane juice. I got myself a cup for a perk-me-up.
I traipsed down to Rio Lençóis. The riverbed was a reddish mass packed with round, white, yellow, pink rocks. It was a very unique and beautiful landscape. Locals were washing their laundry and swimming in the pools with brown water. It was really pretty. There were small waterfalls here and there. Some pools were so deep, the locals plunged head-long right in.
By night, there was indeed a group formed - Malte from Germany, Egor and Carolina from France and I. We met our guide Crispian who could only speak Portuguese, and were briefed in Portuguese on what to pack for tomorrow.
Gee… now I did not feel quite ready for a trek.
Wednesday, September 18, 2002
13 - Empire of the Sun-Tanned (Rio de Janeiro)
Rio de Janeiro, BRAZIL - 15 september 2002
It was way into the flight when it finally sunk in that I was heading towards my third continent and I would be almost halfway across the world from where I had started. The cultures would be really different. And back to places where one COULD NOT flush paper down the toilets. Excellent.
I studied every piece of luggage that popped out onto the carousel until there was no more. I feared history was repeating itself when I finally spotted my backpack lying on the floor at a corner. Someone had hauled it out earlier and left it there. Phew…
I got a bus and navigated by the tiny LP map of Rio to get to my hostel which was located at Urca, right below the Sugar Loaf Mountain. If you stand at the yard and look towards the back, you would see the wall of the rock that is the Sugar Loaf Mountain. Amazing location.
Well, apparently, there were loads of buffet-by-weight restaurants here in Brazil and these were excellent deals in that you could see what you might like to eat. No need to point and pray. I soon found myself stuffing my face with my first Brazilian meal in one such place.
Now, when in Rio, where was the first place to head to (after satisfying your stomach, that is)? Naturally, Copacabana Beach. It is the most famous of all beaches in Brazil, a curvy stretch lined with the most beautiful bodies of Brazil.
Yummy men and teenage boys in tiny trunks were strutting around, playing soccer or surfing in the waves. Incredibly fat-free women were lounging around glamourously in their world-famous micro-bikinis the size of postage stamps. Their evenly-tanned, flawless bodies were so taut, one could bounce a centavo off them. I had to know the brand of anti-cellulite gel these girls use.
I was sitting in the sand, soaking in the sun when a group of boys aged perhaps between 10 to 15 surrounded me. The apparent leader of the gang looked at me with dead eyes and touched my bag. They were all probably half-stoned from drugs. I got up nervously and walked away.
I stood near a mother with two kids. The boys surrounded me, taunting me. The leader grabbed my bag while another boy reached for my wallet. As my wallet was connected to my pants with a coil, he could not make off with it. I turned around to see the surprise look on his face as he stared at my wallet and the coil. I tugged my wallet and bag back.
The boys continued to advance towards me in a menacing way. “Stop it!” I shouted at them. “Stopit…” The leader mimicked me. Some people were starting to stare. The mother with the two kids held on to her kids tighter.
I was scared but I decided to walk away firmly. I was afraid they might grab my things again or follow me. But by then, a guy in the distance had started shouting at them and running towards us. Thank goodness! I looked back and he waved me on, telling me to flee.
Sheesh… What a crappy thing to happen on my first day in Rio. I was lucky. Those boys could have carried weapons and turned violent. It made me very aware that in South American cities, I had to be extremely careful.
I stayed on at the beach as I refused to let the event spoil my day.
There was a group of capoeira performers. This was a sort of fight-dance. There was a group of musicians playing local instruments, like berimbau (a stringed instrument that looks like a bow, with a round-container-looking thing at the bottom) surrounding two ‘fighters’. These ‘fighters’ used gentle high-kicks and low-sweeps, slo-mo squirming around the ground and swaying from side to side to avoid each others’ blows… all to the rhythm of the music. It appeared the ‘fight’ was mainly NOT to hit each other and yet, was coordinated in a dance style that they almost hit each other. Capoeira had its origins from Angola, Africa and used to be banned by slave-masters as it was seen as a form of rebellious act. It was actually banned from the streets for a long time thereafter and only resurrected recently. I was not a good judge yet but this group here seemed very good.
Rio de Janeiro, BRAZIL - 16 september 2002
I made my way to the Bolivian Consular this morning. A lady came out to inquire what my business was.
“Fala inglés? [Do you speak English? -- in Portuguese]” I queried. “Não [No]” “Er… ¿Habla español? [Do you speak Spanish? -- in Spanish]” I tried again. “Sí [Yes]” Of course she could, she was probably Bolivian.
OK, now I had to explain my whole Bolivian visa saga in Beijing and London in pidgin Spanish to her. I took a deep breath and went haltingly… “En julio, fui a la embajada de Bolivia en Beijing a aplicar mi visa autorizacion. Soy Singapurense…”
Soon, she was nodding away and stifling her laughter. She appeared to be trying her best to politely stop me as I prattled on into oblivion. She disappeared into the Consular’s office. I waited a while and the Consular came out personally (most likely because he could speak English) to explain to me that I should return in three weeks’ time because my application status was still pending. OK, muchas gracias. Like the Consular in London, he was also a very simpático (nice) guy.
Moran, an Israeli girl, from my dorm was fasting because of a Jewish religious day yesterday. She needed to fast until 3pm today. Still, when I informed her I was heading to the Sugar Loaf Mountain, despite being weak and having no energy, she wanted to join me.
The view up there was spectacular. Need I say more? Rio de Janeiro indeed had the most beautiful setting in the world - between ocean and escarpment. I wandered around, totally in awe of every view-point. The distant sky looked a little smoggy but Rio, from every angle, is truly stunning.
By 3pm, we treated ourselves to an all-you-can-eat buffet in a fancy restaurant, where the smiling waiters kept coming to our table with skewers of awesome, barbecued meat and carving them off onto our plates. OK, I did not deserve this treat… I did not fast for a day. Moran did. But it was really gorgeous food.
Rio de Janeiro, BRAZIL - 17 september 2002
Rio de Janeiro is famously beautiful and loads of people want to live here. The narrow strip of flat land between mountains and beaches, buildings, offices, apartments, private condominiums, etc… was built up very densely. Between Copacabana beach and Morro de São João and Morro dos Cabritos (the mountains behind Copacabana), for example, there was only room for four main roads. Traffic was horrendous along the avenues here.
Meanwhile, on the slopes of many mountains arose slums or shanty-towns or what the locals call - favelas.
Deepa, an Indian-English roommate and I joined such a favela tour today. There are 600 favelas here in Rio. Most had never seen tourists so it was best to join a tour and never head out there alone.
We visited Rocinha, the largest favela in Rio. This was managed by drug-lords. Ironically, because they were managed by drug-lords, the number of robberies here was zero. This was because the drug-lords did not want trouble with the police and wanted to be left alone to conduct their business… and the locals had better respect the drug-lords if they wanted to live longer. Hence, there were no robberies. We could walk around with our expensive cameras hanging off our necks, we were told. My guide, however, did not share the murder statistics.
We could smell cocaine and marijuana in the air. There was a sort of energy in this favela. We heard a fire-cracker’s ‘boom’ and was told by our guide that the ‘boom’ was to inform people down by the beach that a new load of drugs had arrived and they could pop by to purchase. There were young runners stationed at the entrance of the favela, getting orders and retrieving the goods. These guys could earn up to ten times the minimum salary eventually but they hardly ever lived beyond 18 years of age.
In a way, a favela, while they looked a little run-down and had the reputation of being poorly-provided for, was actually quite the opposite. There were banks, groceries, McDonald’s, doctors, dentists, postal offices, etc… They were thoroughly self-sufficient. Why not? There were reputedly 170,000 residents living here who would be using these services.
They had water (which they needed to pump), electricity (though many tapped illegally from the power poles), garbage bins (which were collected, mind you) and importantly, road signs.
These essentials were fought for and provided by the ‘management’ of the favelas. If they had a problem, they created the solutions. They did not sit around and wait for the government to help. For example, as the roads are hilly and steep, gangs of taxi-motorcyclists have set up a business of transporting people up and down the roads.
The road signs, I mentioned earlier, meant that the people living here would now have an address. They could apply for jobs, apply for a driver’s licence, apply for electricity, etc… Imagine, if they had no address – “Er… Where do I live? You know, if you go up this road, at the second hairpin turn, you will see a house with blue shutters (that’s my uncle’s house), turn right and walk straight, and on the third left turn, head down the steps and you will see Fernando’s Lanchonete… count the fourteenth house from there… that’s where I live.”
A huge proportion, up to 80%, of the people living in the favela are regular working folks, who have absolutely nothing to do with drugs. They choose to live there in order to be near to their jobs.
Favelas could pop up anywhere. Rocinha, for example, is right next to the most expensive and prestigious private school in Rio de Janeiro. Another one we visited is right by an exclusive golf club, that actually turned down the application of a famous Brazilian soccer player. Such was the density of Rio. This favela had a wall where they painted ‘WELCOME’ in different languages, meaning to tell us tourists that they welcome us (although we should still never head out to favelas alone) and they hope we would be ambassadors to change the reputation of favelas. I noted there was no ‘WELCOME’ in Chinese and wrote one for my guide. He assured me it would soon be up there.
Rio de Janeiro to Salvador, BRAZIL - 18 september 2002
Deepa and I took the 26-hour bus-ride to Salvador, up in the North in the state of Bahia today. I dreaded to think how I could spend 26 hours on a bus.
To my surprise, the buses in Brazil were very well-equipped. And this luxurious bus we were on was ISO-9002 certified. The seats were spacious and there was loads of room in front, much like Business Class seats on airplane (not that I had ever experienced before). There were calf-rests which you could pull down and rest your calves. Goodie-bags with snacks, biscuits and jam were provided. There were also personal head-phones for the movies. The windows were tinted so dark that I could not read even in day-time, all for the supreme comfort of the passengers.
It was really quite easy to pass the time, I must say…
It was way into the flight when it finally sunk in that I was heading towards my third continent and I would be almost halfway across the world from where I had started. The cultures would be really different. And back to places where one COULD NOT flush paper down the toilets. Excellent.
I studied every piece of luggage that popped out onto the carousel until there was no more. I feared history was repeating itself when I finally spotted my backpack lying on the floor at a corner. Someone had hauled it out earlier and left it there. Phew…
I got a bus and navigated by the tiny LP map of Rio to get to my hostel which was located at Urca, right below the Sugar Loaf Mountain. If you stand at the yard and look towards the back, you would see the wall of the rock that is the Sugar Loaf Mountain. Amazing location.
Well, apparently, there were loads of buffet-by-weight restaurants here in Brazil and these were excellent deals in that you could see what you might like to eat. No need to point and pray. I soon found myself stuffing my face with my first Brazilian meal in one such place.
Now, when in Rio, where was the first place to head to (after satisfying your stomach, that is)? Naturally, Copacabana Beach. It is the most famous of all beaches in Brazil, a curvy stretch lined with the most beautiful bodies of Brazil.
Yummy men and teenage boys in tiny trunks were strutting around, playing soccer or surfing in the waves. Incredibly fat-free women were lounging around glamourously in their world-famous micro-bikinis the size of postage stamps. Their evenly-tanned, flawless bodies were so taut, one could bounce a centavo off them. I had to know the brand of anti-cellulite gel these girls use.
I was sitting in the sand, soaking in the sun when a group of boys aged perhaps between 10 to 15 surrounded me. The apparent leader of the gang looked at me with dead eyes and touched my bag. They were all probably half-stoned from drugs. I got up nervously and walked away.
I stood near a mother with two kids. The boys surrounded me, taunting me. The leader grabbed my bag while another boy reached for my wallet. As my wallet was connected to my pants with a coil, he could not make off with it. I turned around to see the surprise look on his face as he stared at my wallet and the coil. I tugged my wallet and bag back.
The boys continued to advance towards me in a menacing way. “Stop it!” I shouted at them. “Stopit…” The leader mimicked me. Some people were starting to stare. The mother with the two kids held on to her kids tighter.
I was scared but I decided to walk away firmly. I was afraid they might grab my things again or follow me. But by then, a guy in the distance had started shouting at them and running towards us. Thank goodness! I looked back and he waved me on, telling me to flee.
Sheesh… What a crappy thing to happen on my first day in Rio. I was lucky. Those boys could have carried weapons and turned violent. It made me very aware that in South American cities, I had to be extremely careful.
I stayed on at the beach as I refused to let the event spoil my day.
There was a group of capoeira performers. This was a sort of fight-dance. There was a group of musicians playing local instruments, like berimbau (a stringed instrument that looks like a bow, with a round-container-looking thing at the bottom) surrounding two ‘fighters’. These ‘fighters’ used gentle high-kicks and low-sweeps, slo-mo squirming around the ground and swaying from side to side to avoid each others’ blows… all to the rhythm of the music. It appeared the ‘fight’ was mainly NOT to hit each other and yet, was coordinated in a dance style that they almost hit each other. Capoeira had its origins from Angola, Africa and used to be banned by slave-masters as it was seen as a form of rebellious act. It was actually banned from the streets for a long time thereafter and only resurrected recently. I was not a good judge yet but this group here seemed very good.
Rio de Janeiro, BRAZIL - 16 september 2002
I made my way to the Bolivian Consular this morning. A lady came out to inquire what my business was.
“Fala inglés? [Do you speak English? -- in Portuguese]” I queried. “Não [No]” “Er… ¿Habla español? [Do you speak Spanish? -- in Spanish]” I tried again. “Sí [Yes]” Of course she could, she was probably Bolivian.
OK, now I had to explain my whole Bolivian visa saga in Beijing and London in pidgin Spanish to her. I took a deep breath and went haltingly… “En julio, fui a la embajada de Bolivia en Beijing a aplicar mi visa autorizacion. Soy Singapurense…”
Soon, she was nodding away and stifling her laughter. She appeared to be trying her best to politely stop me as I prattled on into oblivion. She disappeared into the Consular’s office. I waited a while and the Consular came out personally (most likely because he could speak English) to explain to me that I should return in three weeks’ time because my application status was still pending. OK, muchas gracias. Like the Consular in London, he was also a very simpático (nice) guy.
Moran, an Israeli girl, from my dorm was fasting because of a Jewish religious day yesterday. She needed to fast until 3pm today. Still, when I informed her I was heading to the Sugar Loaf Mountain, despite being weak and having no energy, she wanted to join me.
The view up there was spectacular. Need I say more? Rio de Janeiro indeed had the most beautiful setting in the world - between ocean and escarpment. I wandered around, totally in awe of every view-point. The distant sky looked a little smoggy but Rio, from every angle, is truly stunning.
By 3pm, we treated ourselves to an all-you-can-eat buffet in a fancy restaurant, where the smiling waiters kept coming to our table with skewers of awesome, barbecued meat and carving them off onto our plates. OK, I did not deserve this treat… I did not fast for a day. Moran did. But it was really gorgeous food.
Rio de Janeiro, BRAZIL - 17 september 2002
Rio de Janeiro is famously beautiful and loads of people want to live here. The narrow strip of flat land between mountains and beaches, buildings, offices, apartments, private condominiums, etc… was built up very densely. Between Copacabana beach and Morro de São João and Morro dos Cabritos (the mountains behind Copacabana), for example, there was only room for four main roads. Traffic was horrendous along the avenues here.
Meanwhile, on the slopes of many mountains arose slums or shanty-towns or what the locals call - favelas.
Deepa, an Indian-English roommate and I joined such a favela tour today. There are 600 favelas here in Rio. Most had never seen tourists so it was best to join a tour and never head out there alone.
We visited Rocinha, the largest favela in Rio. This was managed by drug-lords. Ironically, because they were managed by drug-lords, the number of robberies here was zero. This was because the drug-lords did not want trouble with the police and wanted to be left alone to conduct their business… and the locals had better respect the drug-lords if they wanted to live longer. Hence, there were no robberies. We could walk around with our expensive cameras hanging off our necks, we were told. My guide, however, did not share the murder statistics.
We could smell cocaine and marijuana in the air. There was a sort of energy in this favela. We heard a fire-cracker’s ‘boom’ and was told by our guide that the ‘boom’ was to inform people down by the beach that a new load of drugs had arrived and they could pop by to purchase. There were young runners stationed at the entrance of the favela, getting orders and retrieving the goods. These guys could earn up to ten times the minimum salary eventually but they hardly ever lived beyond 18 years of age.
In a way, a favela, while they looked a little run-down and had the reputation of being poorly-provided for, was actually quite the opposite. There were banks, groceries, McDonald’s, doctors, dentists, postal offices, etc… They were thoroughly self-sufficient. Why not? There were reputedly 170,000 residents living here who would be using these services.
They had water (which they needed to pump), electricity (though many tapped illegally from the power poles), garbage bins (which were collected, mind you) and importantly, road signs.
These essentials were fought for and provided by the ‘management’ of the favelas. If they had a problem, they created the solutions. They did not sit around and wait for the government to help. For example, as the roads are hilly and steep, gangs of taxi-motorcyclists have set up a business of transporting people up and down the roads.
The road signs, I mentioned earlier, meant that the people living here would now have an address. They could apply for jobs, apply for a driver’s licence, apply for electricity, etc… Imagine, if they had no address – “Er… Where do I live? You know, if you go up this road, at the second hairpin turn, you will see a house with blue shutters (that’s my uncle’s house), turn right and walk straight, and on the third left turn, head down the steps and you will see Fernando’s Lanchonete… count the fourteenth house from there… that’s where I live.”
A huge proportion, up to 80%, of the people living in the favela are regular working folks, who have absolutely nothing to do with drugs. They choose to live there in order to be near to their jobs.
Favelas could pop up anywhere. Rocinha, for example, is right next to the most expensive and prestigious private school in Rio de Janeiro. Another one we visited is right by an exclusive golf club, that actually turned down the application of a famous Brazilian soccer player. Such was the density of Rio. This favela had a wall where they painted ‘WELCOME’ in different languages, meaning to tell us tourists that they welcome us (although we should still never head out to favelas alone) and they hope we would be ambassadors to change the reputation of favelas. I noted there was no ‘WELCOME’ in Chinese and wrote one for my guide. He assured me it would soon be up there.
Rio de Janeiro to Salvador, BRAZIL - 18 september 2002
Deepa and I took the 26-hour bus-ride to Salvador, up in the North in the state of Bahia today. I dreaded to think how I could spend 26 hours on a bus.
To my surprise, the buses in Brazil were very well-equipped. And this luxurious bus we were on was ISO-9002 certified. The seats were spacious and there was loads of room in front, much like Business Class seats on airplane (not that I had ever experienced before). There were calf-rests which you could pull down and rest your calves. Goodie-bags with snacks, biscuits and jam were provided. There were also personal head-phones for the movies. The windows were tinted so dark that I could not read even in day-time, all for the supreme comfort of the passengers.
It was really quite easy to pass the time, I must say…
Saturday, September 14, 2002
12 - Books, Cod and Two Smoky Bars (Manchester, London)
Manchester, UNITED KINGDOM - 08 september 2002
Manesh was glued to cricket-on-TV again this morning. As Gisela, Lee and I prepared to head out, Manesh claimed to be busy with some reports from work and declined our invitation to join us.
We walked around the town square and visited a bookshop. As I was heading to South America soon, I was keen to find a book from a South American or at least a Latin American writer and finally settled on 100 Years of Solitude by Gabriel García Márquez.
As Gisela and Lee walked together hand-in-hand in a world of their own and smooched frequently, I was happy to trail behind them and admire the contrasting modern and old architecture of Manchester. Many times a very space-age, glass-and-metal building would be right next to a Baroque-style building. Interesting juxtaposition.
We found time to visit an art gallery. This was what was great about the UK - frequently, the museums and art galleries were free-of-charge. It had an excellent exhibition which I enjoyed thoroughly.
By 3pm, Gisela’s baby of a boyfriend complained of fatigue and moped around unhappily. So, we returned home. Manesh’s eyes were still glued to cricket-on-TV.
That evening, Gisela was finally on her own because Lee had collapsed in bed due to extreme fatigue from the very tiring day today hiking around Manchester, visiting one bookshop and one art gallery. I could chat with her a little. I had met her previously in Egypt in 2000, where she went to study Arabic.
Soon, the conversation turned to why she took up Arabic in university. What inspired her to take up this difficult language? She pondered for a moment and explained that when she was young, she was thoroughly fascinated by Tintin and his adventures, including some to the Middle East. So, one thing led to another. Hmmm… Tintin Tintin Tintin. Now, who did I say yesterday was a dead-ringer for Tintin?
Manchester to London, UNITED KINGDOM - 09 september 2002
I arrived in London at around 4pm, the last hour of which was a tedious crawl across the huge city in the horrible London traffic.
The friends that I would be staying with - Nick and Denise - were supposed to be back from their Scottish holiday the day before yesterday but last night, I had not managed to contact them. I only managed to leave a message with a lady (whom I learnt later to be Nick’s sister) who picked up the phone late in the night. So, I was quite lucky now to get Denise on the mobile phone on my first try and she gave directions on where I should take a train to to meet her.
I had met Nick and Denise in Peru in 1999 when they were on their first day of their RTW. When they came by Singapore the following year as part of the RTW, I had put them up at my place and showed them around. Actually, Nick and Denise were huge inspirations for my own RTW. It was really fantastic to meet Denise again.
As it turned out, after their trip to Scotland, they went to Paris yesterday and Nick was still in Paris for work and would be back only in few days’ time.
All over their house, they had put up enlarged photographs of their RTW trip. Gosh, they were incredible… I spent some time examining them and guessing their locations. I was not bad at this. We caught up with each other on the past events. As our interests were very similar, we could not run out of topics to talk about.
I also gave Robin a call. Robin and Louise were a couple I went on the horse-trek in Songpan, China, with. They had been really friendly and funny. We kept in contact via emails and we had looked forward to catching up in London. We agreed to meet on 11 September to visit the Natural History Museum.
London, UNITED KINGDOM - 10 september 2002
I made a photo-card and bought a 7-day travel pass usable in the London tubes, buses and trains. Excellent. Now, I feel a tad like a local.
Remember my application for the Bolivian visa in the Bolivian Consulate at Beijing? I had submitted my application for visa authorisation on 1 July. Now, more than two months later, I headed to the Bolivian Consulate in London to see if they could help inquire about my authorisation status.
I waited for about 2 hours before finally meeting the Consular. He was very understanding and helpful. He promised to fax to the Consulate in Beijing to inquire. I was to call back two days later.
I strolled down Charing Cross Road and gosh, to my surprise, this whole area was simply lined with charming second-hand bookstores. I did not know this previously. It was wonderful. I love books. I spent the entire day, just browsing in them and walking up and down the area. Books were dangerous stuff for me. I was really tempted to buy many of them. As I could not carry them all, I would have to send them back. They were not terribly cheap either. Through huge self-control and much pity, I did not buy any in the end. Sigh…
From a free magazine I picked up, I read that the ‘Earth from Above’ exhibition by Yannar Arthus Bertrand was now being exhibited outside the Natural History Museum. What a coincidence! I had first seen the exhibition in Warsaw, Poland and now, it would be exhibited at the museum that I was going to visit tomorrow with Robin and Louise.
London, UNITED KINGDOM - 11 september 2002
OK, today was THE SPECIAL day. All over Victoria station, everyone was on high alert. There were announcements repeating that all unattended items would be removed and destroyed. I was not sure if it was my imagination but there seemed to be loads of policemen crawling all over London today.
Robin had agreed to visit the Natural History Museum because according to him, that was the nearest to Central London he would allow himself to go today. I waited for them at South Kensington tube station. Louise came first. She informed me that Robin had just cut his hair and was suffering from hair trauma now. He would join us later.
After about an hour, Robin, with a really bad hair-cut, arrived. We sat at a café and exchanged hilarious stories about our trips and what was going on in their lives now. These guys were just great. We finally dragged ourselves to visit the Natural History Museum which had a rather original way of presenting their displays, thereby making them really easy to follow and interesting. We browsed through the Dinosaur and Human sections and barely had time for the Mammal section before the announcement came to ask us to scram. I was delighted at the exhibits at the Mammal section because I recognised many animals I saw in my past trips to Africa, Mongolia… Excellent museum. Free too.
We bought some bread, salad, cheese, etc… and ate dinner at Hyde Park. Soon, it got nippy and Robin flipped through the London A-Z that I had brought along and decided on the spot to run to Royal Albert Hall to try and catch a PROMS performance. £4 for a standing ticket.
Gosh, Royal Albert Hall! I never imagined I would ever live to see the interior of it. This was turning out such a wonderful day, experiencing London. Just before we reached there, Louise received a call from her mom. She explained where she was going. Then, she added, “No, mom. I don’t think the Royal Albert Hall will be bombed today. OK, mom… Bye.”
And when the brilliant concert was over, we had about half an hour to browse the ‘Earth from Above’ exhibition at the Natural History Museum before it closed. I had a thoroughly good time today.
London, UNITED KINGDOM - 12 september 2002
I had a flight ticket from British Midlands to Paris and another from Varig flying from Paris to Rio. I decided to go to Brazil on 14 September.
I futilely tried to call the two airlines to arrange my flight. I was put on hold forever. I also could not reach Denise who had told me to call her at work as she could get off work at lunch and meet me. I was on the phone for about an hour, trying all three numbers and finally, I gave up.
I calculated the time in Singapore. It was about 5pm. OK, I decided to give it a shot. I called my travel agent in Singapore. And surprisingly, I could get my trusty travel agent Samir. Hah… All the London numbers failed but a Singapore number worked. He booked the flights for me right away. Really sweet of him. He would definitely be getting a souvenir from me.
I met up with Denise near her work-place for lunch. This was the banking district, the ‘Manhattan’ of London. But even in the business part of London, it was very cozy and charming. We visited Old Spitalfield’s Market, the Millenium Bridge, Tate Modern and came by The Globe Theatre.
Robin had recommended me to watch ‘Twelfth Night’ at The Globe. We inquired and there were standing tickets for the matinee tomorrow for £5. Alright. I paid up. This would really be a quintessential English experience, I told myself - watching a Shakespearean play in a reconstructed Shakespearean theatre.
We walked along the southern banks of the Thames and when we got home, we met up with Nick (who had arrived last night) and they took me to another typical English experience - the pub. It was a traditional pub with broad wooden tables and benches. Fish and chips, the epitome of English cuisine, were served, wrapped in newspaper here.
London, UNITED KINGDOM - 13 september 2002
I had called the Bolivian Consular yesterday and the Consular explained he had heard nothing from Beijing yet. I was to call him again today. Well, again, nothing. Sigh… I guess I would have to follow up on this issue when I reach Rio de Janeiro.
The ‘Twelfth Night’ play was put up by men only, like how it was done during Shakespeare’s times. What can I say? It was excellent. It was absolutely hilarious. We laughed all the time. I did not feel tired standing for 3 hours in the yard at all. The sun cast a shadow on the yard for the entire matinee so it was really very pleasant weather. For £5, this was a cheap and fantastic entertainment in London. The actor playing the Lady’s Maid was superb with his acute comic timing. The Lady was played by a ghastly ugly man with a heavily-powdered face. He was hilarious too. My favourite was the guy playing Malvolio. I highly recommend this to anyone coming to London.
That evening, Nick and Denise showed me photographs of their trips to Bolivia, Chile and Argentina and described many stories to me. Sheesh… from their graphic narratives of the harsh weather conditions, I felt I would really need good rain-wear and warm clothes. What I had with me was not adequate.
London, UNITED KINGDOM to Rio de Janeiro, BRAZIL - 14 september 2002
Nick took me to the Borough Market in the morning. This is London’s version of a wet-market. But unlike the kind of wet-market I was used to in Singapore, the attendants here wore spiffy uniforms and everything was very classy and food items could be tried for taste. Nick bought loads of cheese, vegetables, fruits…
Just before I left for the airport, I sped through Wimbledon where Nick and Denise stayed, to see if I could buy myself some suitable warm clothes for South America. Shopping in London must be the worst idea! Things here were terribly expensive. But I did not foresee being able to buy warm gear in Brazil (skimpy bikini, yes, but warm fleece?) or good rain-wear in Bolivia. Surprisingly, I found a nice warm jumper for £9 and a water-proof, rain-proof, breathable jacket for £20. Bargains!
At the airport, I checked my backpack in and waited for my London-Paris flight patiently. Then, I noticed on the display that it had been delayed for an hour. That would cause me to miss my connection to Rio de Janeiro! I found a British Midlands counter and explained my situation.
The lady put me on the London-Sao Paulo-Rio de Janeiro Varig flight leaving later that evening. Oh, this was even better. She directed me to retrieve my backpack at the arrival hall and make my way to Terminal 3. Strange that I had to ‘arrive’ in London even before I left it. I even had to fill up the Landing Form and ‘clear customs’ before I could go hunt for my backpack.
At the Varig counter in Terminal 3, the check-in guy inquired if my backpack had ever left my side. Well, yeah… I checked it in earlier and then, because of the flight-changes, I had to retrieve it to bring it here. I found it lying abandoned near Belt 7 on a trolley, as a matter of fact. He paused a while and decided not to pursue it. It was odd, they were trained to ask these security questions and yet, did not know how to handle it if the answer was other than the usual.
Manesh was glued to cricket-on-TV again this morning. As Gisela, Lee and I prepared to head out, Manesh claimed to be busy with some reports from work and declined our invitation to join us.
We walked around the town square and visited a bookshop. As I was heading to South America soon, I was keen to find a book from a South American or at least a Latin American writer and finally settled on 100 Years of Solitude by Gabriel García Márquez.
As Gisela and Lee walked together hand-in-hand in a world of their own and smooched frequently, I was happy to trail behind them and admire the contrasting modern and old architecture of Manchester. Many times a very space-age, glass-and-metal building would be right next to a Baroque-style building. Interesting juxtaposition.
We found time to visit an art gallery. This was what was great about the UK - frequently, the museums and art galleries were free-of-charge. It had an excellent exhibition which I enjoyed thoroughly.
By 3pm, Gisela’s baby of a boyfriend complained of fatigue and moped around unhappily. So, we returned home. Manesh’s eyes were still glued to cricket-on-TV.
That evening, Gisela was finally on her own because Lee had collapsed in bed due to extreme fatigue from the very tiring day today hiking around Manchester, visiting one bookshop and one art gallery. I could chat with her a little. I had met her previously in Egypt in 2000, where she went to study Arabic.
Soon, the conversation turned to why she took up Arabic in university. What inspired her to take up this difficult language? She pondered for a moment and explained that when she was young, she was thoroughly fascinated by Tintin and his adventures, including some to the Middle East. So, one thing led to another. Hmmm… Tintin Tintin Tintin. Now, who did I say yesterday was a dead-ringer for Tintin?
Manchester to London, UNITED KINGDOM - 09 september 2002
I arrived in London at around 4pm, the last hour of which was a tedious crawl across the huge city in the horrible London traffic.
The friends that I would be staying with - Nick and Denise - were supposed to be back from their Scottish holiday the day before yesterday but last night, I had not managed to contact them. I only managed to leave a message with a lady (whom I learnt later to be Nick’s sister) who picked up the phone late in the night. So, I was quite lucky now to get Denise on the mobile phone on my first try and she gave directions on where I should take a train to to meet her.
I had met Nick and Denise in Peru in 1999 when they were on their first day of their RTW. When they came by Singapore the following year as part of the RTW, I had put them up at my place and showed them around. Actually, Nick and Denise were huge inspirations for my own RTW. It was really fantastic to meet Denise again.
As it turned out, after their trip to Scotland, they went to Paris yesterday and Nick was still in Paris for work and would be back only in few days’ time.
All over their house, they had put up enlarged photographs of their RTW trip. Gosh, they were incredible… I spent some time examining them and guessing their locations. I was not bad at this. We caught up with each other on the past events. As our interests were very similar, we could not run out of topics to talk about.
I also gave Robin a call. Robin and Louise were a couple I went on the horse-trek in Songpan, China, with. They had been really friendly and funny. We kept in contact via emails and we had looked forward to catching up in London. We agreed to meet on 11 September to visit the Natural History Museum.
London, UNITED KINGDOM - 10 september 2002
I made a photo-card and bought a 7-day travel pass usable in the London tubes, buses and trains. Excellent. Now, I feel a tad like a local.
Remember my application for the Bolivian visa in the Bolivian Consulate at Beijing? I had submitted my application for visa authorisation on 1 July. Now, more than two months later, I headed to the Bolivian Consulate in London to see if they could help inquire about my authorisation status.
I waited for about 2 hours before finally meeting the Consular. He was very understanding and helpful. He promised to fax to the Consulate in Beijing to inquire. I was to call back two days later.
I strolled down Charing Cross Road and gosh, to my surprise, this whole area was simply lined with charming second-hand bookstores. I did not know this previously. It was wonderful. I love books. I spent the entire day, just browsing in them and walking up and down the area. Books were dangerous stuff for me. I was really tempted to buy many of them. As I could not carry them all, I would have to send them back. They were not terribly cheap either. Through huge self-control and much pity, I did not buy any in the end. Sigh…
From a free magazine I picked up, I read that the ‘Earth from Above’ exhibition by Yannar Arthus Bertrand was now being exhibited outside the Natural History Museum. What a coincidence! I had first seen the exhibition in Warsaw, Poland and now, it would be exhibited at the museum that I was going to visit tomorrow with Robin and Louise.
London, UNITED KINGDOM - 11 september 2002
OK, today was THE SPECIAL day. All over Victoria station, everyone was on high alert. There were announcements repeating that all unattended items would be removed and destroyed. I was not sure if it was my imagination but there seemed to be loads of policemen crawling all over London today.
Robin had agreed to visit the Natural History Museum because according to him, that was the nearest to Central London he would allow himself to go today. I waited for them at South Kensington tube station. Louise came first. She informed me that Robin had just cut his hair and was suffering from hair trauma now. He would join us later.
After about an hour, Robin, with a really bad hair-cut, arrived. We sat at a café and exchanged hilarious stories about our trips and what was going on in their lives now. These guys were just great. We finally dragged ourselves to visit the Natural History Museum which had a rather original way of presenting their displays, thereby making them really easy to follow and interesting. We browsed through the Dinosaur and Human sections and barely had time for the Mammal section before the announcement came to ask us to scram. I was delighted at the exhibits at the Mammal section because I recognised many animals I saw in my past trips to Africa, Mongolia… Excellent museum. Free too.
We bought some bread, salad, cheese, etc… and ate dinner at Hyde Park. Soon, it got nippy and Robin flipped through the London A-Z that I had brought along and decided on the spot to run to Royal Albert Hall to try and catch a PROMS performance. £4 for a standing ticket.
Gosh, Royal Albert Hall! I never imagined I would ever live to see the interior of it. This was turning out such a wonderful day, experiencing London. Just before we reached there, Louise received a call from her mom. She explained where she was going. Then, she added, “No, mom. I don’t think the Royal Albert Hall will be bombed today. OK, mom… Bye.”
And when the brilliant concert was over, we had about half an hour to browse the ‘Earth from Above’ exhibition at the Natural History Museum before it closed. I had a thoroughly good time today.
London, UNITED KINGDOM - 12 september 2002
I had a flight ticket from British Midlands to Paris and another from Varig flying from Paris to Rio. I decided to go to Brazil on 14 September.
I futilely tried to call the two airlines to arrange my flight. I was put on hold forever. I also could not reach Denise who had told me to call her at work as she could get off work at lunch and meet me. I was on the phone for about an hour, trying all three numbers and finally, I gave up.
I calculated the time in Singapore. It was about 5pm. OK, I decided to give it a shot. I called my travel agent in Singapore. And surprisingly, I could get my trusty travel agent Samir. Hah… All the London numbers failed but a Singapore number worked. He booked the flights for me right away. Really sweet of him. He would definitely be getting a souvenir from me.
I met up with Denise near her work-place for lunch. This was the banking district, the ‘Manhattan’ of London. But even in the business part of London, it was very cozy and charming. We visited Old Spitalfield’s Market, the Millenium Bridge, Tate Modern and came by The Globe Theatre.
Robin had recommended me to watch ‘Twelfth Night’ at The Globe. We inquired and there were standing tickets for the matinee tomorrow for £5. Alright. I paid up. This would really be a quintessential English experience, I told myself - watching a Shakespearean play in a reconstructed Shakespearean theatre.
We walked along the southern banks of the Thames and when we got home, we met up with Nick (who had arrived last night) and they took me to another typical English experience - the pub. It was a traditional pub with broad wooden tables and benches. Fish and chips, the epitome of English cuisine, were served, wrapped in newspaper here.
London, UNITED KINGDOM - 13 september 2002
I had called the Bolivian Consular yesterday and the Consular explained he had heard nothing from Beijing yet. I was to call him again today. Well, again, nothing. Sigh… I guess I would have to follow up on this issue when I reach Rio de Janeiro.
The ‘Twelfth Night’ play was put up by men only, like how it was done during Shakespeare’s times. What can I say? It was excellent. It was absolutely hilarious. We laughed all the time. I did not feel tired standing for 3 hours in the yard at all. The sun cast a shadow on the yard for the entire matinee so it was really very pleasant weather. For £5, this was a cheap and fantastic entertainment in London. The actor playing the Lady’s Maid was superb with his acute comic timing. The Lady was played by a ghastly ugly man with a heavily-powdered face. He was hilarious too. My favourite was the guy playing Malvolio. I highly recommend this to anyone coming to London.
That evening, Nick and Denise showed me photographs of their trips to Bolivia, Chile and Argentina and described many stories to me. Sheesh… from their graphic narratives of the harsh weather conditions, I felt I would really need good rain-wear and warm clothes. What I had with me was not adequate.
London, UNITED KINGDOM to Rio de Janeiro, BRAZIL - 14 september 2002
Nick took me to the Borough Market in the morning. This is London’s version of a wet-market. But unlike the kind of wet-market I was used to in Singapore, the attendants here wore spiffy uniforms and everything was very classy and food items could be tried for taste. Nick bought loads of cheese, vegetables, fruits…
Just before I left for the airport, I sped through Wimbledon where Nick and Denise stayed, to see if I could buy myself some suitable warm clothes for South America. Shopping in London must be the worst idea! Things here were terribly expensive. But I did not foresee being able to buy warm gear in Brazil (skimpy bikini, yes, but warm fleece?) or good rain-wear in Bolivia. Surprisingly, I found a nice warm jumper for £9 and a water-proof, rain-proof, breathable jacket for £20. Bargains!
At the airport, I checked my backpack in and waited for my London-Paris flight patiently. Then, I noticed on the display that it had been delayed for an hour. That would cause me to miss my connection to Rio de Janeiro! I found a British Midlands counter and explained my situation.
The lady put me on the London-Sao Paulo-Rio de Janeiro Varig flight leaving later that evening. Oh, this was even better. She directed me to retrieve my backpack at the arrival hall and make my way to Terminal 3. Strange that I had to ‘arrive’ in London even before I left it. I even had to fill up the Landing Form and ‘clear customs’ before I could go hunt for my backpack.
At the Varig counter in Terminal 3, the check-in guy inquired if my backpack had ever left my side. Well, yeah… I checked it in earlier and then, because of the flight-changes, I had to retrieve it to bring it here. I found it lying abandoned near Belt 7 on a trolley, as a matter of fact. He paused a while and decided not to pursue it. It was odd, they were trained to ask these security questions and yet, did not know how to handle it if the answer was other than the usual.
Saturday, September 7, 2002
12 - Books, Cod and Two Smoky Bars (Belfast, Carlingford, Newgrange)
Giant’s Causeway, NORTHERN IRELAND - 01 september 2002
I figured Belfast would be a dead town as well on a Sunday and when I spotted a notice for a tour of the Giant’s Causeway posted at my hostel, I decided to join it.
The weather was excellent and we were first driven to a place with a rope bridge called Carrick-a-Rede. Hmmm… an example of how the authorities would and could milk tourist money out of a construction, which would have otherwise been an ordinary rope bridge across any other chasm.
Why did some fishermen sling a rope bridge across this chasm? To get to the other side. Ingenious. The road down to the bridge had spectacular coastal scenery, crashing waves, swooping seagulls and all. I registered that this was my first coastal scene since I started on my trip. Yeah, I had been meandering inland all this time, hadn’t I?
The bridge was not that scary but perhaps, someone with crossed eyes or was afraid of heights would shiver in fright and yelp for their boyfriends. This being Ireland, things would be fixed up with proper safety features (e.g. no fraying ropes and you could not put a hole through the boards like what usually happened to Indiana Jones) to ensure no tourists died. They, however, did not extend their guarantee to dogs. So, do not bring Rover along.
After an inexplicable stop at a castle, we finally arrived at the Giant’s Causeway. This unique and breathtaking structure had hexagonal-shaped rock columns packed tightly along a section of the coastline. The heights of the rock columns varied and looked like giant organ pipes or stepping stones. It was truly an incredible sight.
The story has it that Finn McCool, a giant warrior, fell in love with a giant babe, who lived on an island, and built this bridge to bring her across. Something like that, at least…
Or, you could believe the other hocus-pocus story that this structure was a mass of basalt columns formed from solidified lava. Bollocks, if you ask me.
I spent a long time at the edge, admiring the crashing waves on the unique rocks and contemplating the universe. Despite being swarmed with tourists, one could still find quiet spots to sit and stare. This place had the awesome energy to make one feel small and at peace.
I made my way to the top of the cliff for a bird’s eye view of the rock columns. The strong wind was howling away. A few times, I felt myself nearly blown off. Indeed, when I returned to the tourist centre, there was a sign saying that due to cross-winds, one should not take the cliff road today. Ooops. A bit too late for that.
Belfast, NORTHERN IRELAND to Carlingford, REP. OF IRELAND - 02 september 2002
Some semblance of life finally stirred in Belfast today, after two days of rest. The town actually looked quite pretty. There were some areas that seemed a little worn-down but still, I quite liked it here. I seriously had to ask Jane which buildings had been blown away before. I merrily hopped in and out of second-hand bookstores. Ah, scores of English books! Wonderful wonderful wonderful. I spent hours browsing in them.
By late afternoon, as agreed via emails with Jane, I took a bus down to Newry where she worked and waited for her until she knocked off from work at 5pm.
There, reunited again! We hugged. It was such a delight to see her again. We had really gotten along well during the three weeks in China. I had missed her very much.
She drove me down to the Republic of Ireland where she was living now. When we crossed the border, I did not notice… the price signs posted at the petrol stations were similar in numeric values, except that in Northern Ireland, the prices were in Pounds and in Republic of Ireland, they were in Euros.
After her China trip, Jane had rented a cottage in a charming little village called Carlingford right by a lough. We twisted and turned precariously up very narrow and steep stoned roads lined with rocky walls and finally stopped in front of her cottage.
OK, she had not had time to decorate the cottage to her own taste. So the cottage still retained the old-fashioned country-style atmosphere with pine-wood kitchen set, green-yellow checked curtains, velvet-upholstered sofa and ugly brown carpet. She was terribly embarrassed by the decorations.
I spied chili-light bulbs, fake fruits and plastic flamingos not yet set out in the garden and agreed. I thought these latter items belonged to the landlady as well but as it turned out, Jane later confessed they were hers. Gosh, she herself would have quite kitsch kitchen and garden too! Was she into gnomes as well? I feared.
The village was so tiny that for her postal address, it was just her name, the street name (and there was no road sign indicating this either… the locals just knew what the street was called), ‘Carlingford’, and ‘Ireland’. No street number or postal code. She had gone down to the post office and described where she lived and asked for a postal code. “Postal code? We don’t have that sort of thing here, love.”
Down by the harbour, some boys were plunging into the icy-cold water. “Now, boys, why do you do this?” A concerned Jane called out to them. “Good craic,” they brrred away. And here, I was introduced to an Irish word previously unbeknownst to me – ‘craic’ which means ‘fun’.
Jane wanted to introduce me to another typical Irish experience - the pub. Naturally, we had to head for some ‘good craic’ while in Carlingford. The pub was crowded, smoky and rowdy. A guy in Superman T-shirt was shouting over the counter. Ruddy-cheeked farmers and their wives sat in the corner, probably with visiting relatives, guffawed away. Lots of Irish slangs and ‘forf*#ksake’s were tossed around. Many half-pissed and very happy Carlingforders boozed away. The ‘traditional’ music, as advertised, did not turn out to be the fiddler-Riverdance-sort. It was just Irish songs sung with electric guitars plugged into amplifiers.
I was standing next to a typical, rotund Irish bloke with a crew-cut. He spoke with a huge accent and an unfortunate lisp. On learning that I just arrived from Belfast today, he immediately congratulated me for surviving it without being bombed away. He kept going ‘Woah woah’ about the recent gaellic football matches. Nope, between the mêlée created from the music, the people in the pub, his lisp and his accent, I did not understand what he was talking about half the time. Still, I put up a good bimbo show by merely smiling and nodding away.
Carlingford, REP. OF IRELAND - 03 september 2002
I woke up late. Jane had to work. She could not take time off as she had just started on this job. No problem. I pottered around the kitchen, doing the dishes and laundry – ah, country-living. In a week, one might find me making my own bread and jam. Nah… Maybe one might find Jane making her own bread and jam in a couple of years’ time.
The weather was splendid but I was very lazy and merely lounged around, reading books I dug out from Jane’s yet- unpacked boxes.
When I finally decided to head out for a walk, using a guide that Jane had given me, the sky had turned cloudy. A pity.
As I meandered up and along the country roads, I really admired the beautiful homesteads and gardens these Irish proud home-owners lived in. The houses were all perfectly painted. The gardens were taken care of immaculately. Multi-coloured flowers bloomed in every charming garden. Some had pairs of stone eagles standing in the gardens. They seemed to like to set eagles in their gardens, I did not know why but I had already noticed 5 or 6 pairs. Instead of flower-beds outside windows that I saw quite often in Austria, here, they hung lovely flower baskets near the top of their doors. I noticed a family actually left their key in the key-hole of their front door. How trusting.
I was greeted by friendly Irish folks who strolled by. An elderly man even stopped his car to wish me a pleasant walk up in the mountains. Gosh, these people were really friendly.
According to the guide, I had to turn right after I came upon ‘a stone cottage with evergreen trees’. Indeed, I came upon what appeared to be a stone cottage. But the owner had recently chopped down his trees, I supposed, as I could only see the stumps now. This guide was printed probably ten years ago. Still, with descriptions like this, it was amazing how accurate the rest stayed.
That night, it was nippy (Irish/English for ‘cold’) in the cottage. Jane tried to start the fire in her fire-place. Believe it or not, if the fire really got started, it would be my first fire in a fire-place. But she did not manage to start it. She blamed the coal and the old-fashioned fire-place. Of course.
Carlingford, REP. OF IRELAND to NEWCASTLE, NORTHERN IRELAND - 04 september 2002
Unlike yesterday morning, this morning was foggy. I tried a different route suggested in the guide and walked through ‘ferny paths’and opened ‘a wooden gate’ and went up the slope to the ‘slate rocks’. I tried to be creative and used different routes but all led to nothing except thorny bushes. I pricked myself several times. So, I obediently stayed on the suggested path.
I reached the pass and like all passes, it was windy and freezing cold. There was a big rock there, so I lay there and closed my eyes. The cloud had started to close in on the peak of the mountain called Slieve Fog. It was wonderful up here, especially alone. The mountain, the wild flowers like heather and gorse, the wind, the view of lough and the village, ah…
Before frostbite set in, I opened my eyes, took one last sweeping look around and headed down. Such was my luck that by the time I returned to the cottage, the sky had turned bright blue and sunny, the mountain peak showed its glory, and birds started to chirp.
Jane managed to escape from her office earlier today. She drove me up through the Mourne Mountains opposite the lough all the way to Newcastle, a typical Irish coastal resort.
Along the way, we stopped by a park which had a dam and a reservoir. We took a walk through the paths and woods and came upon a freshly-cut grassy slope near the dam.
Being the mature women that we are, when faced with a grassy slope, we knew we had to do something - roll down the slope. Jane took off her jacket and went down first. I placed my arms across my chest, Egyptian-mummy style and rolled down next. I did a better job than her. I changed directions mid-way and more than doubled her distance before I came to a frantic, dizzy stop.
At Newcastle, she explained that typical Irish vacations were spent in tacky coastal towns such as this, with their grannies and embarrassing family members. She showed me an arcade games gallery which was essential to coastal resorts in case of bad weather, such was the unpredictability of Irish weather. We even found a traditional old-fashioned 1970s-style chippie and ordered fish (cod or plaice, love?) and chips.
NEWGRANGE, REP. OF IRELAND - 05 september 2002
I read about a nearby sight called Newgrange and decided to loosen my lazy bones and venture out in Ireland on my own today.
I caught the bus from Newry to Drogheda. From the bus window, I knew I was already in Drogheda and waited for the driver to stop by the bus-station. But the driver kept spinning around town and when we were back on the highway, I knew something was wrong. In answer to my query, he explained that I should have told him to stop at the bus station. Well, I was actually waiting for him to stop there as I figured he would have passengers to pick up. Now, he could not stop until he got to a bus-stop further out on the highway. He suggested that I try and catch a bus back to Drogheda.
I waited patiently for 10 seconds at the bus-stop and spotted no bus. I wrote ‘NEWGRANGE’ on a piece of paper and held it out, hoping some tourists in camper-vans were heading the same way. Almost immediately, an elderly gentleman stopped and asked me to hop in. He apologized to me that he was not going to Newgrange but he drove me back to Drogheda, right to the bus station. Terribly sweet of him. I caught a bus to Newgrange right away.
There were many Megalithic Passage Tombs here in the Boyne Valley. The two main ones here were Newgrange and Knowth. Both required different admission fees. The sights were very properly restored, almost too restored. And as there were no records, the megalithic art was never deciphered. The guides kept saying your guess was as good as mine. Built by Neolithic communities 5000 years ago, they were even older than the Pyramids of Giza in Egypt.
If I had gone to one and not the other, I would have been disappointed. Both had something to offer that the other did not. At Knowth, the stone-art on the stones at the bottom of the passage tomb mound were varied and interesting but one could not visit the interior of the passage tomb. At Newgrange, there was only one stone with artwork but one could enter the passage tomb. The authorities had artificially simulated the sun-rise on Winter Solstice which would illuminate the passage tomb for 17 minutes. Intriguing.
Carlingford, REP. OF IRELAND to Belfast, NORTHERN IRELAND - 06 september 2002
I had yet another day to potter around the cottage and go for mountain walks. This was the year of living differently. How else could I live like a country girl?
I made a 4-hour walk around the mountains, woods and country roads today. Greeted ‘Hiya’ to ruddy-cheeked, missing-a-tooth farmers and home-owners lounging in their gardens or porches. Exchanged a few mumbles with hunky construction workers fixing windows, fences, whatever. Waved to drivers who passed by in their cars.
During the walk, the sky alternated between rainy and sunshine-blue at least three times. Towards the end when I was heading back, the sky really opened up and poured. I was soaked to the skin. I had thought I would be walking in the heavy rain until I reached the doorstep of the cottage. But nope, by the time I got to the steep mountain road leading to the cottage, birds were chirping and the sky was cobalt blue again. Strange Irish weather.
I had a bus-cum-ferry-cum-bus trip tomorrow to Manchester, leaving at 6:45am from Belfast. Jane made arrangements with her friend in Belfast so that we could spend the night at her flat there.
When we arrived at Belfast, Jane decided to make a spin around the Protestant area to show me how the Protestants had painted the sides of the pavements ‘blue’, ‘white’ and ‘red’ - British colours - and how they waved British flags from their windows. We stopped by a mural showing King Billy in triumphant glory, with a dying, bleeding Catholic by the bottom. Some kids were playing in that area. Jane quickly drove away, fearing they might stone her. Then, we passed by some men in brass-band uniforms. I normally would think these were just guys getting ready for a band practice. But Jane explained that they were getting ready for an anti-Catholic march down the streets. She panicked further and nervously drove off.
Later, when she thought the coast was clear, we returned to the King Billy mural and I sneaked out to take a picture. Just then, some kids came by. To take control of the situation, Jane called out to them, “Kids, do you want to have your photos taken?” “Aye!!!” They ran forward eagerly and stood proudly in front of the mural, MARCHING on the spot. I snapped a frame furtively and we left. We were miraculously not stoned.
Jane’s friend, Roisin, had gotten a fire going at her fire-place and so NOW was my first fire ever at a fire-place. She was also the hostess-mostest, lighting candles around the house, making a wonderful pasta dinner and rounding it off with a delicious apple pie dessert.
Belfast, NORTHERN IRELAND to Manchester, UNITED KINGDOM - 07 september 2002
I was placed in the attic for the night. I opened my eyes and stared at the sky-light. It was already light-blue. I continued to admire the sky sleepily. Then, out of curiosity, I decided to check the time.
My alarm clock read 6:05am. Huh?? I had set the alarm to ring at 6:00am. But it did not ring. I just happened to wake up and happened to check the time. I double-checked the clock and to my horrors, I had set it for 6:00pm! Sheesh… I was usually more sensible. In a way, how lucky I was!
A very groggy Jane put me on the bus and waved me goodbye. I transferred to a huge ferry for the ride across the Irish channel to Scotland.
There, I travelled south to Manchester. I was to visit another friend, Gisela, there. When I arrived, she was there at the bus station to meet me. She introduced me to her boyfriend, Lee, who looked a tad younger than her. I figured he was perhaps 24 or 25 years old. He was a dead-ringer for Tintin, with the curly hair in front and the mouth twisted to the side.
Back at the flat, I was introduced to her flatmate Manesh who was of Indian nationality and who was busy watching the most exciting TV programme ever - cricket.
We headed out for Indian curry that night. Due to the cosmopolitan culture of United Kingdom, one could get rather good curry here. I enjoyed the familiar smell and taste very much. Yeah, I really missed spicy food from home.
During dinner, Gisela and Lee kept making goo-goo eyes at each other, snogged endlessly and kept conversations to themselves. I believed Manesh felt a bit embarrassed by them ignoring me and made valiant efforts to converse with me. It was very nice of him. Somewhere in the conversation when the lovey-dovey couple was briefly interested to join in, I found Lee to be just 19 years old. That was a whole 9 years younger than Gisela. Gee… the age gap was a little large, I thought.
I figured Belfast would be a dead town as well on a Sunday and when I spotted a notice for a tour of the Giant’s Causeway posted at my hostel, I decided to join it.
The weather was excellent and we were first driven to a place with a rope bridge called Carrick-a-Rede. Hmmm… an example of how the authorities would and could milk tourist money out of a construction, which would have otherwise been an ordinary rope bridge across any other chasm.
Why did some fishermen sling a rope bridge across this chasm? To get to the other side. Ingenious. The road down to the bridge had spectacular coastal scenery, crashing waves, swooping seagulls and all. I registered that this was my first coastal scene since I started on my trip. Yeah, I had been meandering inland all this time, hadn’t I?
The bridge was not that scary but perhaps, someone with crossed eyes or was afraid of heights would shiver in fright and yelp for their boyfriends. This being Ireland, things would be fixed up with proper safety features (e.g. no fraying ropes and you could not put a hole through the boards like what usually happened to Indiana Jones) to ensure no tourists died. They, however, did not extend their guarantee to dogs. So, do not bring Rover along.
After an inexplicable stop at a castle, we finally arrived at the Giant’s Causeway. This unique and breathtaking structure had hexagonal-shaped rock columns packed tightly along a section of the coastline. The heights of the rock columns varied and looked like giant organ pipes or stepping stones. It was truly an incredible sight.
The story has it that Finn McCool, a giant warrior, fell in love with a giant babe, who lived on an island, and built this bridge to bring her across. Something like that, at least…
Or, you could believe the other hocus-pocus story that this structure was a mass of basalt columns formed from solidified lava. Bollocks, if you ask me.
I spent a long time at the edge, admiring the crashing waves on the unique rocks and contemplating the universe. Despite being swarmed with tourists, one could still find quiet spots to sit and stare. This place had the awesome energy to make one feel small and at peace.
I made my way to the top of the cliff for a bird’s eye view of the rock columns. The strong wind was howling away. A few times, I felt myself nearly blown off. Indeed, when I returned to the tourist centre, there was a sign saying that due to cross-winds, one should not take the cliff road today. Ooops. A bit too late for that.
Belfast, NORTHERN IRELAND to Carlingford, REP. OF IRELAND - 02 september 2002
Some semblance of life finally stirred in Belfast today, after two days of rest. The town actually looked quite pretty. There were some areas that seemed a little worn-down but still, I quite liked it here. I seriously had to ask Jane which buildings had been blown away before. I merrily hopped in and out of second-hand bookstores. Ah, scores of English books! Wonderful wonderful wonderful. I spent hours browsing in them.
By late afternoon, as agreed via emails with Jane, I took a bus down to Newry where she worked and waited for her until she knocked off from work at 5pm.
There, reunited again! We hugged. It was such a delight to see her again. We had really gotten along well during the three weeks in China. I had missed her very much.
She drove me down to the Republic of Ireland where she was living now. When we crossed the border, I did not notice… the price signs posted at the petrol stations were similar in numeric values, except that in Northern Ireland, the prices were in Pounds and in Republic of Ireland, they were in Euros.
After her China trip, Jane had rented a cottage in a charming little village called Carlingford right by a lough. We twisted and turned precariously up very narrow and steep stoned roads lined with rocky walls and finally stopped in front of her cottage.
OK, she had not had time to decorate the cottage to her own taste. So the cottage still retained the old-fashioned country-style atmosphere with pine-wood kitchen set, green-yellow checked curtains, velvet-upholstered sofa and ugly brown carpet. She was terribly embarrassed by the decorations.
I spied chili-light bulbs, fake fruits and plastic flamingos not yet set out in the garden and agreed. I thought these latter items belonged to the landlady as well but as it turned out, Jane later confessed they were hers. Gosh, she herself would have quite kitsch kitchen and garden too! Was she into gnomes as well? I feared.
The village was so tiny that for her postal address, it was just her name, the street name (and there was no road sign indicating this either… the locals just knew what the street was called), ‘Carlingford’, and ‘Ireland’. No street number or postal code. She had gone down to the post office and described where she lived and asked for a postal code. “Postal code? We don’t have that sort of thing here, love.”
Down by the harbour, some boys were plunging into the icy-cold water. “Now, boys, why do you do this?” A concerned Jane called out to them. “Good craic,” they brrred away. And here, I was introduced to an Irish word previously unbeknownst to me – ‘craic’ which means ‘fun’.
Jane wanted to introduce me to another typical Irish experience - the pub. Naturally, we had to head for some ‘good craic’ while in Carlingford. The pub was crowded, smoky and rowdy. A guy in Superman T-shirt was shouting over the counter. Ruddy-cheeked farmers and their wives sat in the corner, probably with visiting relatives, guffawed away. Lots of Irish slangs and ‘forf*#ksake’s were tossed around. Many half-pissed and very happy Carlingforders boozed away. The ‘traditional’ music, as advertised, did not turn out to be the fiddler-Riverdance-sort. It was just Irish songs sung with electric guitars plugged into amplifiers.
I was standing next to a typical, rotund Irish bloke with a crew-cut. He spoke with a huge accent and an unfortunate lisp. On learning that I just arrived from Belfast today, he immediately congratulated me for surviving it without being bombed away. He kept going ‘Woah woah’ about the recent gaellic football matches. Nope, between the mêlée created from the music, the people in the pub, his lisp and his accent, I did not understand what he was talking about half the time. Still, I put up a good bimbo show by merely smiling and nodding away.
Carlingford, REP. OF IRELAND - 03 september 2002
I woke up late. Jane had to work. She could not take time off as she had just started on this job. No problem. I pottered around the kitchen, doing the dishes and laundry – ah, country-living. In a week, one might find me making my own bread and jam. Nah… Maybe one might find Jane making her own bread and jam in a couple of years’ time.
The weather was splendid but I was very lazy and merely lounged around, reading books I dug out from Jane’s yet- unpacked boxes.
When I finally decided to head out for a walk, using a guide that Jane had given me, the sky had turned cloudy. A pity.
As I meandered up and along the country roads, I really admired the beautiful homesteads and gardens these Irish proud home-owners lived in. The houses were all perfectly painted. The gardens were taken care of immaculately. Multi-coloured flowers bloomed in every charming garden. Some had pairs of stone eagles standing in the gardens. They seemed to like to set eagles in their gardens, I did not know why but I had already noticed 5 or 6 pairs. Instead of flower-beds outside windows that I saw quite often in Austria, here, they hung lovely flower baskets near the top of their doors. I noticed a family actually left their key in the key-hole of their front door. How trusting.
I was greeted by friendly Irish folks who strolled by. An elderly man even stopped his car to wish me a pleasant walk up in the mountains. Gosh, these people were really friendly.
According to the guide, I had to turn right after I came upon ‘a stone cottage with evergreen trees’. Indeed, I came upon what appeared to be a stone cottage. But the owner had recently chopped down his trees, I supposed, as I could only see the stumps now. This guide was printed probably ten years ago. Still, with descriptions like this, it was amazing how accurate the rest stayed.
That night, it was nippy (Irish/English for ‘cold’) in the cottage. Jane tried to start the fire in her fire-place. Believe it or not, if the fire really got started, it would be my first fire in a fire-place. But she did not manage to start it. She blamed the coal and the old-fashioned fire-place. Of course.
Carlingford, REP. OF IRELAND to NEWCASTLE, NORTHERN IRELAND - 04 september 2002
Unlike yesterday morning, this morning was foggy. I tried a different route suggested in the guide and walked through ‘ferny paths’and opened ‘a wooden gate’ and went up the slope to the ‘slate rocks’. I tried to be creative and used different routes but all led to nothing except thorny bushes. I pricked myself several times. So, I obediently stayed on the suggested path.
I reached the pass and like all passes, it was windy and freezing cold. There was a big rock there, so I lay there and closed my eyes. The cloud had started to close in on the peak of the mountain called Slieve Fog. It was wonderful up here, especially alone. The mountain, the wild flowers like heather and gorse, the wind, the view of lough and the village, ah…
Before frostbite set in, I opened my eyes, took one last sweeping look around and headed down. Such was my luck that by the time I returned to the cottage, the sky had turned bright blue and sunny, the mountain peak showed its glory, and birds started to chirp.
Jane managed to escape from her office earlier today. She drove me up through the Mourne Mountains opposite the lough all the way to Newcastle, a typical Irish coastal resort.
Along the way, we stopped by a park which had a dam and a reservoir. We took a walk through the paths and woods and came upon a freshly-cut grassy slope near the dam.
Being the mature women that we are, when faced with a grassy slope, we knew we had to do something - roll down the slope. Jane took off her jacket and went down first. I placed my arms across my chest, Egyptian-mummy style and rolled down next. I did a better job than her. I changed directions mid-way and more than doubled her distance before I came to a frantic, dizzy stop.
At Newcastle, she explained that typical Irish vacations were spent in tacky coastal towns such as this, with their grannies and embarrassing family members. She showed me an arcade games gallery which was essential to coastal resorts in case of bad weather, such was the unpredictability of Irish weather. We even found a traditional old-fashioned 1970s-style chippie and ordered fish (cod or plaice, love?) and chips.
NEWGRANGE, REP. OF IRELAND - 05 september 2002
I read about a nearby sight called Newgrange and decided to loosen my lazy bones and venture out in Ireland on my own today.
I caught the bus from Newry to Drogheda. From the bus window, I knew I was already in Drogheda and waited for the driver to stop by the bus-station. But the driver kept spinning around town and when we were back on the highway, I knew something was wrong. In answer to my query, he explained that I should have told him to stop at the bus station. Well, I was actually waiting for him to stop there as I figured he would have passengers to pick up. Now, he could not stop until he got to a bus-stop further out on the highway. He suggested that I try and catch a bus back to Drogheda.
I waited patiently for 10 seconds at the bus-stop and spotted no bus. I wrote ‘NEWGRANGE’ on a piece of paper and held it out, hoping some tourists in camper-vans were heading the same way. Almost immediately, an elderly gentleman stopped and asked me to hop in. He apologized to me that he was not going to Newgrange but he drove me back to Drogheda, right to the bus station. Terribly sweet of him. I caught a bus to Newgrange right away.
There were many Megalithic Passage Tombs here in the Boyne Valley. The two main ones here were Newgrange and Knowth. Both required different admission fees. The sights were very properly restored, almost too restored. And as there were no records, the megalithic art was never deciphered. The guides kept saying your guess was as good as mine. Built by Neolithic communities 5000 years ago, they were even older than the Pyramids of Giza in Egypt.
If I had gone to one and not the other, I would have been disappointed. Both had something to offer that the other did not. At Knowth, the stone-art on the stones at the bottom of the passage tomb mound were varied and interesting but one could not visit the interior of the passage tomb. At Newgrange, there was only one stone with artwork but one could enter the passage tomb. The authorities had artificially simulated the sun-rise on Winter Solstice which would illuminate the passage tomb for 17 minutes. Intriguing.
Carlingford, REP. OF IRELAND to Belfast, NORTHERN IRELAND - 06 september 2002
I had yet another day to potter around the cottage and go for mountain walks. This was the year of living differently. How else could I live like a country girl?
I made a 4-hour walk around the mountains, woods and country roads today. Greeted ‘Hiya’ to ruddy-cheeked, missing-a-tooth farmers and home-owners lounging in their gardens or porches. Exchanged a few mumbles with hunky construction workers fixing windows, fences, whatever. Waved to drivers who passed by in their cars.
During the walk, the sky alternated between rainy and sunshine-blue at least three times. Towards the end when I was heading back, the sky really opened up and poured. I was soaked to the skin. I had thought I would be walking in the heavy rain until I reached the doorstep of the cottage. But nope, by the time I got to the steep mountain road leading to the cottage, birds were chirping and the sky was cobalt blue again. Strange Irish weather.
I had a bus-cum-ferry-cum-bus trip tomorrow to Manchester, leaving at 6:45am from Belfast. Jane made arrangements with her friend in Belfast so that we could spend the night at her flat there.
When we arrived at Belfast, Jane decided to make a spin around the Protestant area to show me how the Protestants had painted the sides of the pavements ‘blue’, ‘white’ and ‘red’ - British colours - and how they waved British flags from their windows. We stopped by a mural showing King Billy in triumphant glory, with a dying, bleeding Catholic by the bottom. Some kids were playing in that area. Jane quickly drove away, fearing they might stone her. Then, we passed by some men in brass-band uniforms. I normally would think these were just guys getting ready for a band practice. But Jane explained that they were getting ready for an anti-Catholic march down the streets. She panicked further and nervously drove off.
Later, when she thought the coast was clear, we returned to the King Billy mural and I sneaked out to take a picture. Just then, some kids came by. To take control of the situation, Jane called out to them, “Kids, do you want to have your photos taken?” “Aye!!!” They ran forward eagerly and stood proudly in front of the mural, MARCHING on the spot. I snapped a frame furtively and we left. We were miraculously not stoned.
Jane’s friend, Roisin, had gotten a fire going at her fire-place and so NOW was my first fire ever at a fire-place. She was also the hostess-mostest, lighting candles around the house, making a wonderful pasta dinner and rounding it off with a delicious apple pie dessert.
Belfast, NORTHERN IRELAND to Manchester, UNITED KINGDOM - 07 september 2002
I was placed in the attic for the night. I opened my eyes and stared at the sky-light. It was already light-blue. I continued to admire the sky sleepily. Then, out of curiosity, I decided to check the time.
My alarm clock read 6:05am. Huh?? I had set the alarm to ring at 6:00am. But it did not ring. I just happened to wake up and happened to check the time. I double-checked the clock and to my horrors, I had set it for 6:00pm! Sheesh… I was usually more sensible. In a way, how lucky I was!
A very groggy Jane put me on the bus and waved me goodbye. I transferred to a huge ferry for the ride across the Irish channel to Scotland.
There, I travelled south to Manchester. I was to visit another friend, Gisela, there. When I arrived, she was there at the bus station to meet me. She introduced me to her boyfriend, Lee, who looked a tad younger than her. I figured he was perhaps 24 or 25 years old. He was a dead-ringer for Tintin, with the curly hair in front and the mouth twisted to the side.
Back at the flat, I was introduced to her flatmate Manesh who was of Indian nationality and who was busy watching the most exciting TV programme ever - cricket.
We headed out for Indian curry that night. Due to the cosmopolitan culture of United Kingdom, one could get rather good curry here. I enjoyed the familiar smell and taste very much. Yeah, I really missed spicy food from home.
During dinner, Gisela and Lee kept making goo-goo eyes at each other, snogged endlessly and kept conversations to themselves. I believed Manesh felt a bit embarrassed by them ignoring me and made valiant efforts to converse with me. It was very nice of him. Somewhere in the conversation when the lovey-dovey couple was briefly interested to join in, I found Lee to be just 19 years old. That was a whole 9 years younger than Gisela. Gee… the age gap was a little large, I thought.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)