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 …