Parking, Police and Panic

Ready yourselves dear readers this is probably the most traumatic tale that I have ever told. It's a whopper. Hopefully you will find it hilarious, unfortunately although I can see the funny side I am not laughing yet. Perhaps I never will be ...

This time my travels took me to the exotic Covent Garden. Wild.

Imagine the scene: 6pm, Sunday, late February. I'm in my car looking for a parking spot.

Those of you how know me will know how much I hate parking at the best of times and this certainly was not the best of times.

There is nowhere to park. Round and round we go (me and my gal pal). Nothing. Round again. Nothing.

Tourists blindly step out into the road, rickshaws whizz past, it is getting dark.

I am starting to feel quite fraught. I go up and down any road I can find. I don't care anymore I just want to get out of the car. Up. Down. Round. Nothing.

Eventually I turn down a wide road, parked cars line both sides and it has a string of taxis down the middle that ends with a HUGE lorry.

Obviously I am not going to get a space down here. I drive to the end only to find it is a dead end: a series of bollards separate me from a huge outdoor market with people swarming in, out, everywhere.

I panic. My friend soothes me.

It is a one way system on either side of the taxi rank so I must turn around the lorry and make my way up the other side of the street. Sounds simple but I can't get round the lorry. I can't get the angle right. Oh god. Oh god. Oh god.

My face burns with the imagined faces watching me. I see two policemen in the throng. Oh god. I am freaking out now.

Policeman One knocks on my window. I lower it - it stops halfway - stupid old car - I manually yank the window down - puffing with effort and embarrassment. I can feel my cheeks burning crimson.

'Are you OK love? Do you need a hand?'

I nod.

'We've cleared a space for you -'
I look back and they have indeed removed all the rickshaws and gawking passersby from the area.

Both policemen then proceed to give me detailed instructions on the angle needed to get around the lorry.

I cannot understand. I cannot make the wheels do what they want. Then the lorry driver appears in high-vis. He too cannot get my brain to compute the required angels.

I am on the verge of tears. My friend - choking back a fit of giggles - tells me it will be OK.

WILL IT? My brain screams.

I want to curl up into a little ball and die. Eventually the two policemen and the lorry driver realise that this is never going to happen.

They let me turn around on the spot - swinging wildly into the cleared pedestrian area - and give me an escort - one policeman walking in front and one behind - back down the one way street and finally off to freedom.

I thank them with tears of shame, joy and relief stinging my eyes and then I flee the scene of the most embarrassing moment of my life ....

I never did find that parking spot and I am never going to try and park in central London EVER again.

Trapped behind a thin veil of politeness

This journey is one of two halves. The first six hour bus ride was the best I've ever had. Truly incredible: sleeper seats so long my feet couldn't touch the bottom even if I tried, with cushioning more comfortable than many beds I've slept in. At 2am I was not only reluctant to get off but checking into a cheap-and-not-paticularly-cheerful hostel was actually a downgrade from my bus bed!

The next day I did part two: another six hour bus ride. This could not have been more different. A cramped bus with hard seats that could be made to recline the maximum of an inch, whilst I was sitting next to the most annoying person that has ever ever ever ever ever existed in the world ever. Ever.

She was the personification of when autocorrect keeps changing your word even though you typed what you meant to type each and every time. Or when the self check-out machine freezes and the shop assistant can't seem to see you and all you want is your single loaf of bread. Or when you make a cup of tea only then to realise you have no milk. I could go on but I think you get the picture: she was a nightmare.

She kept sighing very loudly at odd intervals making me jump. And she had no sense of personal space at all whatsoever, she kept bumping me and leaning on me – literally leaning - on me watching my phone screen over my shoulder.

I start to feel a need to react but I cannot make a scene – I am far too British for that – I can't say or do anything outright. But passive aggression, now that I can do : as long as there is at least a thin veil of politeness to hide behind I can show her who's who.

I start sighing. Very loudly. Okay I lie, not that loudly, but loudly enough for her to notice – maybe.

This amuses me briefly, but the 'victory' was short lived as I start to need a wee. The bus has stopped a few times for people to wee but this consists of people jumping out and weeing in fields by the road, can I bring myself to do that?

But what if my bladder bursts?

Oh my god I need a wee. I need a wee so bad. 

And just when I think this journey cannot get anymore painful. The crowning moment.

I feel something touch my arm. I turn back to see what it is.

It's a toe. A horrible old cracked toe … touching my elbow.

I'm done.

Photos taken at Ta Prohm Temple : Cambodia

18 hours in silence : from Mui Ne to Suratthani

It began with emotional goodbyes, leaving my little crew and striking out on my own. It really felt as if I were flying the nest, which is weird because I only met these guys a few weeks ago and I left home a few years ago ... nevertheless bravely I board my bus. 

I felt fine, quite sad, but physically fine, and yet after my short bus ride into the city I woke in agony. My throat felt as though it had been home to a pair of feral weasels who didn't get along very well, and it hadn't so it was very odd.

After an uneventful first flight, I find myself pondering how many days of my life I have now spent in Bangkok airport, as I lug my backpack to the closest restaurant, waiting for checkin to open. 

I sit down and oh my god they have mushroom soup and it's cheap too! I order it and an exorbitantly expensive orange juice. Warm fluids and vitamins: just what I need.

Shortly I am presented with a thimble full of mushroom soup and a vast goblet of orange juice: it's quite comical really.

After checkin I spot a sushi restaurant, why not? And oh my god they have mushroom soup too! My soup thirst not quite quenched, I cannot resist. However what arrives is (incredibly) even smaller than my first portion. I shot my soup and leave.

Next I spy a pharmacy. Now this is what I need.

I buy some Strepsils, in the most ridiculous packaging I have ever encountered. I've ranted about this to many people and they all believe me to be belligerent but I will leave that for you to decide.

The Strepsils came in a small non-resealable foil wrapper.

Who the hell eats a packet of Strepsils in one???  In fact you're specifically advised not to. Although, admittedly, in this case you might have to because they melted in the heat and become one gigantic Strepsil: ridiculous! I mean really who designed this packaging?

Somehow I survive this disappointment and eventually arrive in Suratthani, but my problems were far from over. I had already paid for my bus with my airline, but where to get the ticket? 

When every sound you make is barely audible, not even a whisper, just a faint rasping punctuated by intermittent squeaks, communicating with people with limited English is very difficult. 

Eventually, with a lot of gesturing, I get by, and18 hours after I set off I find myself hoarsely screeching in delight (not unlike a baby owl with a broken voice box) as I spot my friends. 

I then proceed to drink until dawn and head off to the infamous full moon party ... so I'm sure I'll be right as rain very soon .... 

Alcohol Poisoning on a Plane

After weeks spent in the serenity of Indonesia's small islands and Myanmar's quiet towns our arrival in Hanoi's downtown was overwhelming. An area reminiscent of the Greek party islands, populated entirely by places offering cheap drinks and playing thumping dance music.

You know the kind of places you need to drink to enjoy, lest you notice all the sweaty drunk people dancing to the same three songs on repeat, asking each the same three questions over and over again.

Now I know I've painted a pretty picture here but having not partied in the best part of three months imaginably I got pretty overexcited. At our hostel they were offering FREE drinks. FREE. How could I say no?

I won’t bore you with the details but suffice it to say the night quickly got messy….

       

Cut to the next morning: I am violently awoken by my friends, essentially rolling me out of bed. The storm has passed, flights are running, we need to leave NOW.

Oh my god. In a flurry fuelled by adrenaline I stuff my things into my backpack, shoving it all down, no sense, no order, just pushing and shoving. As I clip it up I realise something is missing.

Where is my phone?

Where the fuck is my phone?

My phone with my bank card and ID inside it…. Shit. Shit. Shit.

I don’t know, I don’t understand and we have to leave.

I get surprisingly calming hug from a giant Canadian, and then we’re off.

Here begins the worst trip of my entire life.

        

It felt as though my head was trying to give birth to my brain. In the taxi, having the kind of existential crisis that can only be triggered by an intense hangover, I start to feel nauseous.

My stomach appears to have been replaced with the drum of a washing machine. A top loader that could eject items at any moment : don't worry I'll spare you the grisly details but suffice it to say I was in a bad bad way.

Thankfully my friend is prepared and thrusts a plastic bag into my hands….I sit in the back of the car feeling very sorry for myself.

Somehow we get to the airport. At check in the woman looks me up and down and asks my friends if I am ill: I clearly don’t look fit to fly - I didn’t feel fit to fly to be honest - but I put on my best smile and (amazingly) she gives us the all clear.

I spend the remainder of our time in the airport tooing and froing from the bathroom, questioning what life choices I have made to leave me in this position.

The answer is not good ones …

On the shuttle bus I curl up on the floor trying to soothe myself, unsuccessfully. On the plane I am much the same until blessed sleep relieves me briefly, I wake as we touch down.

       

Thankfully this story has a happy ending : we arrive at our beach front hostel, I wolf down a plate of cannelloni (with real mozzarella) and fall asleep in a hammock.

And it gets even better!

I wake up to a message saying that my belongings have been found by a beautiful human who returned them to me a week later.

So really alls well that ends well, although there is a moral to this story : 50p mojitos are definitely a false economy. 

Nineteen hours

The journey from Hoi An to Da Lat was always going to be a big one, but I had no idea quite what I was letting myself in for when I set off.

It began with myself and a handful of young British travellers standing in line for the bus and being, fairly almost violently, queue-jumped by a large group of old Croatian holiday-makers.

“fairly almost violently queue-jumped” : I doubt anyone has ever said anything so quintessentially British before.

Few seats remained when we eventually boarded: whisperingly lamenting our British conduct, because of course we did not want to create any tension by complaining audibly.

I had the final free seat, or rather bed (this was a sleeper bus): which was one in a set of three conjoining bunks, two of which were already occupied by an Asian couple.

I climbed up, inelegantly (of course), and resigned myself to being the big spoon in the weirdest cuddle puddle that I've ever being involved in.

I settle in as best I can and decide to watch 'The Godfather'. I have never seen this before (I know, shock, horror) and so I feel that this is as a good a time as any.

It was not: I could not follow the plot at all.

It was not a great copy of the movie and Marlon Brando's mumbles were all but entirely drowned out by the bus's engine. I struggled through, but I did not enjoy it as much as I'd hoped.

I only found out afterwards that the sections that are in Italian are supposed to have English subtitles: who knew?

This was not some quirky mysterious director's decision, which seems quite obvious now...

There was a brief interlude in my struggle: I was in the seat next to the toilet and a small queue had formed, whilst a man was waiting (patiently I am pleased to note) he began to lean on what I can only assume he thought was a pole.

It was in fact my leg.

I sat there, not wanting to say anything, slowly feeling my leg go numb, suffering full moments of pain to avoid two milliseconds of awkwardness: the longer it lasted, of course the more intensely I could not say anything...

We arrived in Nha Trang at 6am for a quick healthy breakfast of Pringles and coffee. Then our second bus arrived: only this time we were picked up by a small van, the very image of one my grandfather used to drive many moons ago.

This changeover was a baffling affair, with very little English spoken on the driver's side, and my Vietnamese being so, well, non-existent. We got in the van and hoped for the best.

I was convinced this van was taking us to a bigger bus, a sleeper bus. It was only when we hit the mountain roads, leaving the city behind us, that I was forced out of my denial.

When will I learn that even when you are so so sure, you really never know what your next 'bus' will be.

We sat in this van for the best part of 6 hours.

We arrived in Da Lat some nineteen hours after our original departure.

They say you learn a lot about yourself when you're travelling. I feel that this is certainly true of this journey: I found myself: I am an awkward over-polite Brit: funny how I had to come all the way to Vietnam to discover this. 

Mingalabar : Myanmar's thriving nightlife

                             

Night life is Myanmar is essentially non-existent: ten days into our trip and aside from falling down drains nothing exciting had happened to us after dark. Please don't get me wrong it is a beautiful country, one of the best places I've ever visited, but if you're looking for a wild time (or even a mildly thrilling one) don't come here.

The one exception to this was an evening spent at Inle Lake.

Me and my two travel buddies headed out to a restaurant for dinner, a little local place above a clothing shop. We ascended the staircase, dimly aware of some commotion above us, and no sooner had we emerged than we were invited to join a group of - predominantly Irish - guys already several bottles deep.

It turns out that bottles of whiskey (served by the restaurant!) were about 90p a pop : to put that in perspective that is roughly the same as two cans of coke.

Needless to say the evening became very exciting very quickly, and our plans for a meal rapidly dilapidated into a liquid dinner. The lads invited everyone who appeared to join the table and before long we were a huge group: Spaniards, French, Americans, Scandinavians: very continental!

We were having an extremely jolly time, things beginning to get a wee bit messy (and it was only 8pm) … when suddenly, from nowhere, some club bangers start playing.

We were shocked: Could this be nightlife in Myanmar?

No. Well not the nightlife that we expected anyway. It turned out that the music was coming from the roller disco across the road.

Immediately the lads were well up for it.

OK, I said, I'm game.

Now I have never roller bladed in my life, no thats not quite true, once when I was about six years old I got given a pair of plastic roller blades, fell over instantly and never used them again.

But I was being bold and adventurous … and all the fellas were doing it ...

                             

I laced myself in, stood up, and the fear was immediate: I can't stand in these: why did I think I would be able to stand in these? Why did I think that this was a good idea? Have I even met me? 

Of course I couldn't stay on my feet for more than seven seconds, much to the hilarity of the throng of local onlookers that ringed the side of the rink. The crowd pressed thick around the edges, we were the only westerners on skates, me the only western woman. They cheered me on, laughing – I will only assume with me, not at me – as I gracelessly tumbled around the rink, like a baby giraffe …. on roller blades.

I was down far more than I was up, but I had the best time, it was hilarious and the whiskey definitely helped to mask any bruises, till tomorrow at least. I was however confused: why was no one else was falling as much as me?

It was only afterwards that I found out that the lads all had previous roller blade experience.

'I haven't roller bladed for a good year now …'

'I used to go every weekend'

I mean what on earth! No one told me I was the only novice! I was lured into this.

Even so it was still a great night in Myanmar soaking in the local culture, soaked in the local spirit… 

                             

                             

And then she was Yan-gone!

After nearly three months travelling solo two of my bestest girlfriends arrived to join me in Yangon, Myanmar.

As you can imagine there were high levels of excitement, and we wanted to celebrate our reunion in a bar drinking beer and playing cards (not a particularly demanding request …. or so it would seem).

The kind of bars that have lounge-style seating and draft beer are few and far between in Yangon. However, after much searching online, we pick a place and head out.

It's a good 45 minute walk but we are enjoying ourselves, nattering away, taking in the new sites, reflecting on the area's ambience of colonial decay, dodging traffic on the busy roads, glancing at the various dishes, knick-knacks, fabrics and pretty dresses on the street-side stalls.

About half way it begins to pour with rain. A real deluge.

We are getting a weary of the walk, ready for a cold drink, when my friend excitedly exclaims, pointing, 'There! I think that's it, that sign -'

But before she could finish her sentence: Whumpf! She was gone. Disappeared entirely, swallowed by the pavement.

Then suddenly, as if from nowhere, her head popped up, and as she hauled herself towards us, she was simultaneously reprimanding us 'Help me up then!'.

Bemusedly we grabbed her, only then realising what had happened. She had fallen into a five foot deep drain, that had been completely hidden by the lack of street lamps.

Now, in what happens next I cannot stress enough my gratitude for the kindness of strangers.

Three incredible ladies from a nearby stall rushed to our aid.

I told my unfallen friend to look after our friend, whilst I (gallantly) said I'd get her handbag from the drain. They both stared at me, 'It's fine I'll sort it', I delegated. I was shocked and needed us to have a game plan.

As they sat whilst these women washed her legs, cleaned her wounds and bandaged her up (they really were saints), I stood at the side of the canyon with my torch in hand thinking why did I offer to do this?

The bottom was filled with sludgy water so I couldn't very well get in and if I did, how on earth would I get out? My friend's rapid escape from its depths was explainable only by adrenaline...

But I was too embarrassed to go back empty handed, I wanted to help. Uselessly I looked for a stick, nothing. Could I use a ladle from the food stall? I thought wildly: no that would never reach .... and who would let me dip a cooking utensil into that?

I was getting desperate when out of nowhere a man (or perhaps some sort of super hero) appears, he does not speak, he gets his torch out and I point out the bag I am feebly attempting to reach. Without a word, I mean it, not a word, he lowers himself down (into the murky waters), gets the bag out and gives it to me, then he turns around and leaves, whilst I am dumb-foundedly thanking him.

People are truly wonderful.

My friend was surprisingly OK in the end, just a few scrapes and bruises, although we never did make it to the bar. We came back to the hostel and had imitation Pringles for dinner and played cards: not quite what we were expecting, but I was grateful for a calm ending to what was undoubtedly the most dramatic day of my trip ... so far (I've only been with these two for a few hours).

One good thing to come out of this experience, dear readers, is that it makes good fodder for my blogging, and I am sure that I will have many posts to follow this one, if our first day together is indicative of the rest of our trip.

And one thing I can say for certain about my friend is that she, most certainly, travels further than any other tourist. 

7 hours

The seven hour train journey from Surabaya to Yogyakarta was, quite frankly, a test of endurance that I was ill-prepared for. I had turned up for a marathon without even owning a pair of running shoes : actually not unlike how I would turn up to run a marathon, but at least then I'd have a sense of the horror I was in for.

I got on the train and it was rammed. My seat was as the back, I squeezed along, vaguely aware that I was whacking fellow passengers with my backpack's many straps. Squeeze, squeeze, squeezing along. At one point I dropped my bottle of water loudly and had to bend most inelegantly to pick it up. Generally I was just making a bit of a scene.

I finally found my seat but there was nowhere to put my bag. Shit. More squeezing as I pushed together other people's luggage and harrumphed my bag onto the rack above us. Phew.

Now I can relax I thought. Little did I know the ordeal was only just beginning.

The 'seats' were arranged in groups of 6, I say 'seats' because they were actually small padded benches, very small for six people. Very very small. I was sitting with a family of a four and a young woman on her phone: me between the young woman and the smallest child.

I settled in as best possible, which was not easy as these trains are clearly designed with osteopathic torture in mind. The seats lean forward ever so slightly, so that your upper back is thrust in front of your hips, and there is literally nowhere to put your arms.

Even worse than this (yes, it gets worse) the chairs are so thin that whenever the person behind you moves to adjust themselves they inadvertently push against you and so you must move to adjust yourself, starting a silent war. I soon found myself genuinely hating the man behind me.

Finally, it was just oh so very cold: the aircon cranked up so ridiculously high that I was shivering in my small summer dress.

I got my book out, but before I could finish the first sentence the mother opposite me was forcibly coaxing a palpably embarrassed child to pose for photographs pretending to be asleep on my arm. 

Then, immediately as this ended, the one other white person on the train: an old Australian man, came over to formally introduce himself to me – because I too am white. Amazingly this racial identification was not indicative of common interests, and eventually I was allowed to settle somewhat awkwardly into my book : elbows tucked firmly into my sides.

This relative peace did not last long: soon the child started being very audibly sick into a thin (perilously thin) plastic bag. We were travelling backwards, and was suddenly struck with the horrific thought that I might too be sick: I stared at the page no longer able to concentrate on the words, a carton of chocolate milk swirling around within me ....

This was the first half an hour of a seven hour journey.

Thankfully somehow I was not sick and the children soon fell asleep: something that proved impossible for me.

All in all, when I emerged from the train, some seven hours later, icicles forming in my hair, back stooped and stiff, like some sort of deformed snow man, it is safe to say I've never been happier to leave anywhere in my entire life.

The pestilential pup

Myself, my bestest gal pal and her man, were sitting on the fabled paradisical white sandy beach of Koh Samui, Thailand.

However this was not the picture-postcard setting that we had anticipated on our sun-soaked boat ride over from the mainland, as the salty sea-breeze had lightly stirred through our hair, cooling our faces, whilst we hungrily devoured the surrounding scenery.

Our actual experience was more akin to an out of season trip to Grimsby, although perhaps somewhat warmer.

We hit up the beach as soon as we'd checked into our hostel, but now the sky was a blanket of grey cloud hanging oppressively low, the sea a reflection of the above. Grey. Grey. Grey. We shared a dishevelled sarong, far too small for three, watching the waves crash before us with heavy handed force.

As we sat here, sipping lukewarm beers, contemplating our next move, the dog arrived.

We were the only people on the beach, unsurprising considering the conditions, so this raggedy, bald-patched, frankly pestilential-looking pup made a beeline straight for us.

My bestest gal pal was terrified, she hates dogs, even clean, well-kept, pooches fresh from a visit to the vet.

'Don't look it in the eye, if you ignore it, it will go away' was her man's sage advice as the dog sauntered up. So this is what we did. With the dog all of a foot away from us, searching our faces, we strenuously avoided eye contact.

We looked up, we looked down, to the left, to the right, anywhere and everywhere except at the mutt. This lasted, honestly about 15 minutes, 'its not working' my pal trembled. Yet we continued. Feeling increasingly ridiculous as the time passed.

This dog remained, well dogged, in its persistence. Another 15 minutes passed.

In the end my pal's man shooed the dog away and it scarpered instantly, leaving us in the the blessed peace of our greyscale slice of paradise, after what was perhaps the most awkward half an hour of my life.

Boat to Gili Air

At the crack of dawn I gingerly descend from my bunk bed, change, cram my remaining belongings into my backpack, hoist it over my shoulder and leave. Bound for the neighbouring island feeling excited and nervous: new place, new people, new experiences await me.

After about fifteen minutes my ride arrives and a two hour journey dozing in the back of a minivan ensues. Pretty uneventful.

I am then dropped at the port, alone, my driver (after reminding him that my fare included the boat ticket) buys said ticket, hands it to me and leaves without so much as a backward glance.

Ok. I can do this.

This port is small but busy. Mostly trade: people packing bananas, pineapples, crates of cola onto small boats. I pluck up the courage and ask a trader where I should be, he gestures to some boats but tells me I have to wait a bit.

A bit passes, then a while. I grab a coffee and a chocolate. I'm milling around and decide to ask someone how much longer I must wait - she cuts me off 'that's your boat there, you have to run'

Oh god. I hate running at the best of times and this certainly wasn't the best of times. Sunglasses perched perilously on my head, scolding full cup of coffee in hand, backpack on back, rucksack on front, I run ... People begin shouting all around me 'hurry hurry' : I am I was thinking.

Now these boats don't actually come all the way to the shore ... So I had wade (in trainers and socks because no time to remove them) mid-shin deep to get to it.

Then I couldn't get up. Shit. Wet, heavy and now bright pink and panting. I handed a man my coffee. I still couldn't get up. I offered up my hand and he pulled me on board. Phew - I made it.

I faced a boat full of staring faces, 95% of which belonged local traders and families, watching this red-faced overladen woman struggle to seat herself.

I perched on a box with an old lady - she didn't seem pleased to share but I had to sit. So sit I did.

The journey was maybe half an hour but it felt like years. Where I sat the side of the boat came barely above my ankles and I swayed dangerously with every wave, envisioning myself falling overboard and then sinking beneath the weight of my bags, pulled down like a drowning beetle.

Needless to say this did not happen. I made it. And the destination made the journey worthwhile : although this may not have been the case if I had fallen overboard ....

My Oscillating Pod

I have never been known for my elegance. Some people are graceful: everything they do is a fluid motion of class and sophistication. Others (like me) can't even perform the simplest task without resembling a great lumbering bovine creature in human clothes. I'd wager that you've never seen anything less elegant then me attempting to get into a bed suspended from the ceiling.

When I arrived at my hostel my first reaction was extreme excitement: the dormitory room consisted of eleven beds with bamboo frames, suspended about a foot and a half above the floor by thick ropes, on each corner net hangings were artfully bundled and tied together with little bows. Adorable. I could not wait to get in.

However, this was my first day on the island and having much to see and do I resisted the urge and went exploring.

When I returned it was past dark. I realised at once that I should have tested the bed out in the daylight, but I hadn't so I had to make the best of it.

Wary of waking my bedroom buddies I gingerly clambered onto the bed. Immediately it began to swing violently beneath me, oh god, I thought I was going to crash into one of my neighbours: back and forth, side to side, I was being buffeted to and fro. Meanwhile, incomprehensibly, everyone else's bed was completely motionless....

I then struggled, with my eternally fumbling fingers, to undo the hangings and clip them together, to thus seal myself within my oscillating pod. This took ages and still I was swaying dangerously, when I eventually lay down I was feeling sea-sick: waves of nausea rushed over me echoing the waves of my hanging bed.

It was only then that I noticed the fan. Great, I initially thought, but the cord was so high up.... I would have to stand.

Getting to my feet like a new-born giraffe, knees shaking with the tension, legs spread like some sort of ill-prepared surfer, I rode the waves, turned the fan on, almost toppled over onto my neighbour, mercifully managed to keep my balance, and return to a seated position with a bump.

Then I was lying back down, still swinging as wildly as a 1970s suburban house party, feeling sicker and sicker. Eventually the motion calmed and I was rocked peacefully asleep, glad that it was at least too dark for anyone to have seen what a scene I created.

Hostel Lyf

There's a lot to be said for staying in hostels, the main benefits being the price and the chance to meet people, and given the choice, particularly travelling alone, I would always choose a dorm over a private room.

However, that said, it is an undeniably weird experience. Sharing your room with several other people you've never met before, it is unusually intimate for first encounters.

And for me, I think the weirdest thing about hostel life is saying goodnight to strangers.

I'll set the scene. I'm sitting in my bed, top bunk, a guy enters, he's the bottom bunk to my top, we talk a bit, do the usual introductory questions, where you from, where you going, whats your name etc. etc. It's a bit awkward, he's standing up and I tower above him, very aware of the fact I'm in my pyjamas.

Then he says he's going to sleep. I say me too. He asks if he can turn off the light. I say yeah sure. He turns it off and gets into bed. I start thinking should I say goodnight, or is that weird? Or Is it weird not to say goodnight? Ah I don't know, and now I'm overthinking it, ahhhhhh

So I say goodnight, he chuckles and says goodnight, phew! Disaster averted.

But then, about ten minutes later, he sneezes

So automatically I say bless you

But I'm stilling feeling kind of awkward so I sort if whisper it ...

And now I've made it weird, I lie there cringing in the darkness, although what this poor guy is thinking I don't know....

eventually blessed sleep arrives and relieves me from my embarrassment

Climbing Sigiriya

We arrived in Sri Lanka with a clear route planned in our minds : go East : Colombo – Kandy – Batticaloa.

Day One

On checking out of hotel in Colombo a friendly tour manager convinced us to take a three day guided tour across the country, essentially an enhanced version of our route. Now I've always been easily swayed: you don't need to be able to sell ice to an eskimo, or even to someone who really needs ice, because you can, more likely than not, just offload whatever you're selling onto gullible old me.

But in this instance I am glad that we were persuaded because it proved a fantastic way to see the country: temples, elephants, oxcarts, herb gardens, to name but a few of our pit stops.

We had, however, massively underestimated how physically gruelling it would be. Up at 6 a.m., non-stop activity till gone 7p.m., sleep and repeat. It was exhausting.

It all came to a bit of a head for me on

Day Three

We had spent the morning climbing a steep stone pathway to the cave temples, with no water, wearing jeans and hoodies (you have to cover yourself up and this was all we had). I genuinely did not think we'd make it – I don't think I could have been warmer wearing a outfit made of clingfilm in a sauna – but somehow we did it.

Then, no rest for the wicked, although thankfully changed into cooler clothing and armed with plenty of water, we set out to the climb Sigiriya Rock. An immense, 200m tall, red, yellow and grey boulder that was carved out for kings thousands of years ago. A mighty 1,200 steps stood between us and the top: oh and swarms of wasps known to be angered by human voices...

But we were resolved. We were going to do it.

Except I'd seemed to have forgotten that I have a paralysing terror of heights. I have to shut my eyes on escalators if they don't stand against a wall. Seriously what was I thinking? We reached the bottom, yes the bottom, and I looked up to see the rock falling towards me. I felt queasy already.

And yet it actually started fine, it was going well even, incredible views and a peppy guide chocked full of interesting information made walking through the sand-coloured carved walkways, dare I say it, fun.

That is until, about a quarter of the way up, we had to cross a metal bridge attached to the side of the rock, with grated flooring that you could see through. And then, it gets worse, I had to climb up a spiral staircase – of 50 steps – with the same see through floor and merely a thin mesh net encircling it.

After about five steps I tried to go back – but I couldn't – too many people – I had to go forward. Panicking, tears began to sting my eyes, I felt nauseous, I literally have nightmares like this I thought to myself. I began to crawl. Inching myself upwards. Staring at each step. Crossing my eyes to blur the view below.

We emerged into a make shift room off the side of the rock looking at ancient frescos. I saw nothing. Blinded by terror. And suddenly we were descending down an identical staircase.

Unbelievably it was even worse going down. Eyes shut I groped my descent.

Eventually we reached the bottom and I threw in the towel, ran across the scaffold walkway and scampered down the rock wiping away my tears.

A traumatic experience no doubt, but that said I'm bloody proud of myself, that was the scariest thing I have ever done, and I'd never have imagined I could have made it that far. 

The Automatic Car

In Australia when I told people that I could drive they would ask 'can you drive a manual?', and I'd look at them incredulously, even piteously, thinking 'well duh! I said I could drive!'

But automatic cars are the choice out there, and although as a 'manual driver' I felt my superiority keenly, when it came to driving my first automatic car I could understand their popularity; it was sooooo easy.

Me and my man friend were leant a relative's automatic car to explore the Victorian countryside (Victoria the state, not the era....).

All was going well; we were enjoying the sunshine, a few days off work, out of the city, away from the hostel, stunning lush countryside, coasting along, and then we spotted them: dozens of kangaroos.

Stopping in a teeny tiny country lane we jumped out, clambered through some bushes and watched the, rather intimidating, marsupials, completely engrossed.

Suddenly a great honking sound pierced the air.

A lorry, god knows what it was doing there, was trying to get past our car.

Shit!

We clambered back through the bushes, and emerged looking decidedly suspicious.

With an apologetic nod at the judgemental driver we jumped in the car. It would not start. Oh my god, it would not start. We tried everything. Nope. Not even a whirr. Shit. My man friend was now signalling to the lorry driver as if to suggest I'm just a dippy woman. I was panicking. I'm a nervous driver at the best of times. I was becoming fraught. Shit. My man friend was not helping.

Mr. lorry driver eventually jumps down and walks over to us. Getting out of his way I let him slide into the driver's seat. The car starts immediately, of course.

'You have to have your foot on the brake to start the car, love' .... 

Barcelona Part Two

When we left off last time, me and my bestest gal pal were sun-frazzled digging up our wallets in the sand, this adequately sets the tone for what was about to follow...

Later that day we decided to head to da club, and in the queue for da club we met some men from Switzerland.

We were drinking in the queue, as you do. But when we got to the front of the queue we were refused entry, apparently drinking in the queue is not the done thing in Barcelona.

Lamenting this refusal, we decided that the beach was the place to be; this fabled beach of vibrant nightlife, music, bars, fairy-lights, DJs till dawn.

But that is just what the beach was: a fable. Nothing really goes on at the beach.

Discovering this, the Swiss men decided we should all go skinny dipping. They were unswervable.

We decided that the easiest course of action was to pacify them, so we acquiesced and under the understanding that they must go in first and we would follow, they stripped and ran into the waters. As soon as a safe distance was reached, we legged it.

****

Later that night we met some guys from our local area and all headed to the beach to 'sup some beers in the sand.

All was going well, until, upon arrival at the beach, we were confronted by some angry semi-clothed Swiss men adamantly demanding that we return their wallets, or, at the very least their trousers...

It looked bad. We looked bad. But we hadn't stolen anything, although our swift exit upon their entry to the sea, of course looked suspicious...

We wormed our way out of it, although I'm sure the Swiss men didn't believe we hadn't done it, and we managed to 'sup our beers in peace.

This story perhaps doesn't paint us incredibly favourably, but maybe now, dear readers, you will understand why we had buried our own wallets in the first place …