The travails of international travel

And so begins the end. My journey home, concluding my odyssey which has seen me visit or pass through 14 countries, 13 capital cities and 12 time zones. Covering nearly 45000 miles in 183 days, averaging 250 miles each day using boats, planes, cars, trains, buses and motorbikes, and seeing all four seasons in the space of six months.

My return trip began in Auckland, New Zealand. Not much of my itinerary had been pre-booked before I left England on the 19th December last year. However, I had arranged my home-bound flights. My plan was to leave New Zealand on the 13th June and fly to Muscat, Oman, via Abu Dhabi. Originally, I was to meet my brother-in-law and his partner in Muscat where he is due to begin a new job. Unfortunately, after booking the flights, Matt's plans changed slightly, meaning they wouldn't now be there at the same time as me. 

My itinerary set, I decided to stick with the basic travel plan and maybe get some diving in instead. A few days before I was due to leave, I booked the diving and some accommodation, so had somewhere to stay and something to do. However, life never quite goes to plan, as I should well know. Having been travelling for just short of six months, I've been quite fortunate in that, although often random and impulsive, my many transfers had gone as expected and I, along with my dunnage, had usually arrived together and intact at our expected destination. This was now to change.

Arriving at Auckland airport on Thursday 13th, I presented myself at the Air New Zealand check-in desk in preparation of my flight. Having divested myself of much of my belongings on my trip, either by sending home in advance or giving to a worthy cause, I only had two items of luggage. My rucksack, containing clothes and the usual travel paraphernalia one acquires, and a didgeridoo that I picked up in Cairns. As Air New Zealand's baggage allowance will only allow for one piece of checked in luggage, I had used my packaging skills from my previous life in freight forwarding, to combine the two items. This culminated in one piece of baggage within the weight and dimensions restrictions, albeit a rather odd shape. Consequently, it was classed as 'outsized' and 'fragile' so received special handling, but avoided the criminally large excess baggage fee that the airline had been intending to charge me.

Having made my way to the departure lounge and settled down with a drink and my book, I awaited the anticipated boarding time of 17:30. As the time approached, I noticed that the flight schedule board was showing a delay of one hour for my flight. This was a concern as the transfers in both Sydney and Abu Dhabi were quite tight and this would make it more so. As the time passed, the delay advice increased and, eventually, an announcement told us that, due to a technical problem, we were being switched to a different aircraft. Boarding the new plane, we eventually departed Auckland at 20:30 - some three hours later than expected. There was no way that the connections would now be met and the airline offered to accommodate me overnight  and then put me on a flight the following afternoon.

Arriving in Sydney at about 23:00, I went to collect my bag! However, it didn't appear and, following enquiries, it turned out that it had not been transferred when the aircraft was substituted. So, it was still in Auckland and was now playing catch up. I had some hand luggage, but this consisted largely of my camera, things I might want whilst travelling and some items too valuable or fragile to entrust to checked in luggage. Other than what I was wearing, I had no clothes.

Air New Zealand had booked me into the Ridges hotel outside the terminal. So I checked in and got my head down in the sure knowledge that tomorrow would be a long day. 

The onward flight was on Etihad and, boarding on time, I found myself in another delay. As the minutes ticked by, there was no sign that our aircraft was going anywhere. I had been allocated a seat by an emergency exit, which was great as it offered a little extra leg room. When the steward came to explain our additional responsibilities (ie opening the door if we crash) she was closely followed by a technical engineer who, on examining the door, tutted and sucked his teeth. Whatever was causing the delay, we were sat next to it!

We continued to wait, amid the occasional apology from the captain. After about 15 minutes, another technician arrived. He proceeded to open the emergency exit and look at the hinges and latches. Again, there was much head shaking and sharp intakes of breath. He was closely followed by a senior technician and the captain. They looked at the door and spoke to each other in hushed tones before heading back down the aisle. I and my fellow passengers were, by now, giggling hysterically. Our mirth compounded when, a few minutes later, the original technician reappeared with...a roll of duct tape! He proceeded to tear off a few strips of tape and, with great care, cover the illuminated sign that declared 'emergency exit'. When he had finished this task, he stood back to admire his handiwork and, just before leavening, turned to me and my travelling companion and, with the straightest of straight faces said 'don't use that door'! 

With the source of consternation disguised, as effectively as uneaten school dinner under a crossed knife and fork, our flight was soon airborne. We settled back into our seats in the sure knowledge that all must be ok. I always fly with the, maybe naive, certainty that the pilot doesn't want to die either!

The rest of the flight was uneventful and, with a brief stop in Abu Dhabi, I arrived in the searing heat of the Omani capital, Muscat, a few hours later.

I was still without my bags and a conversation with the local baggage handling agent confirmed that they were still in Auckland...or perhaps in Sydney...or they might be on a flight the Abu Dhabi or Muscat as we spoke! In any even, my transfer was waiting to take me to my lodgings, south of the airport.

It transpired that I was billeted in the house of Rob, the guy with whom I had arranged accommodation and diving. He is an British ex-pat who had given up sensible work to set up a business organising and running adventure holidays in Oman. On discovering my lack of clothing, he kindly lent me a couple of t-shirts and took me to a local shopping area to get some underwear. I suspect that the previous 12 hours of travelling was beginning to make its mark!

Rob was a great host and, as I was the only guest, it felt like I was staying in a mate's house rather than being a guest. On the following morning, with Rob's help, I rented a car and driver and took a tour of old Muscat. I have rarely been so thankful for air conditioning. With temperatures in the 40's (new money), within minutes of getting out of the car to have a walk around the old port, I was dripping wet with perspiration. 

On my second day, I went on the dive trip that Rob had arranged for me. As many people will know of me, I love scuba diving and, as a rule, no dive is a bad dive. We had an hours speedboat ride in the general direction of Iraq to get to the first dive site. I have to admit, the dive itself was quite average. Lovely warm and clear water and a fair bit of 'life' to see, but nothing much more than I had already seen in Thailand and on the Great Barrier Reef. The second dive started no better, but, as I said, I always take a dive as an experience. 

Now, for those non-divers reading, the next bit might get a bit technical, but I will try to elucidate. Don't worry too much about what the numbers mean, but, generally speaking one dives with a tank containing 200bar of air (or there abouts). Regulation stipulates that one should surface, at the end of the dive, with no less than 50bar. Towards the end of the dive, in order to avoid decompression sickness (the bends), one should spend the last three minutes of the dive at a depth of five metres. Therefore, it is important to time your dive so that, after your decompression (deco) stop, you hit the surface on 50bar of air, or greater.

On this occasion, as we reached five meters to start our deco stop, into sight came 4.5 metres of juvenile whale shark! These are magnificent creatures and, being plankton eaters, are harmless to humans. Usually, I am told, they are shy and keep clear of divers. But this one was curious and swam, with amazing grace, between us. It was as if it had chosen to join our deco stop and it kept at five metres, allowing us to remain in its company without compromising our safety (too much). 

Just to clarify, at five metres, once one has completed the three minute deco stop, one can hit the surface in a matter of seconds. Looking at my companions and the dive masters, it was clear, not one of us was going to surface while the whale shark was with us and we had air to breath! It was as if our visitor knew the game. He/she/it swam between us for over 15 minutes until, probably bored by our lack of ability to provide food, it disappeared into the deep blue. 

We ascended and regained our boat. Not one of us had more than 10bar in our tank. Did we care? Not in the slightest. This was one of the best dive experiences I had ever had and my only regret was that my shiny new dive camera was in my rucksack somewhere between Oman and Auckland!

The final stage of my journey home was without incident. Although, it was somewhat more luxurious than any other part of my journey. Due to a freak of opportunity created by Airmiles, my last leg, from Muscat to Heathrow, was first class on British Airways. The flight departed at midnight and, due to the time difference, arrived in London nine and a half hours later - at 06:30! The sensible thing to do, as did all of the other first class passengers, was to put the seat into its full bed position and sleep for the entire journey. Thus avoiding jet lag. 

Following a brief 'snooze' after take off, I found myself wide awake. So, finding a film to watch I settled back in my, very comfortable, couchette. As the rest of the cabin slipped into silent slumber and sailed on a silvery mist, the cabin attendant asked if he could get me a drink.

'Hum' I considered 'do you have any champagne?'

'Of course Mr Mooney, I'll bring a glass straight out. '

This set the scene for the rest of the journey and some films and several champagnes later I was decanted from the aircraft in London.

I hadn't quite done 'Full Circle', but, to quote Bilbo Baggins, I had done 'There and Back Again.' With my feet well and truly back in Albion, I have had six months of adventure, new friends, new experiences, new fears and new joys. I have had time for reflection, time for contemplation and time for consideration. I still don't know what the future holds or where it will take me. But then, who does! 

What I do know is that, for all of the miles I have travelled and all of the fascinating people I have met (many of whom I hope to keep in touch with) and all of the sights I have seen and all of the experiences that have shaped my magnificent journey, there really is No Place Like Home and, though I know there is still a great big chunk of this rock to see, and I intend to see it, I know I have the fortune that is my family and friends drawing me back...oh! And English beer.

Thank you for following my blog. I hope to go traveling again and, when I do, will  pick up the threads of this missive. 

Unfinished Tales.

This is a quick addendum to the last post. I had meant to include it, but forgot.

Like most visitors to New Zealand now days, I made a visit to the 'set' built and used by Peter Jackson for filming the Hobbiton scenes for The Lord Of The Rings and The Hobbit. It's all a bit of fun and is an interesting way to find out some of the tricks used to create the illusions of scale needed.

The guided tour took us around the set and our enthusiastic guide regaled us with stories and anecdotes about the filming of the movies. As we walked through the diminutive and very fake village, I asked whether they had many visits from TLOTR appreciation societies and similar dedicated fan groups. She said that they did and the, often, they would arrive dressed as their favourite character! One tale she recounted was of a German tourist who arrived dressed as Bilbo Baggins, complete with large hairy feet and a curly wig. He was on one of the first tours of the day and, such was his devotion to role, when the tour finished he refused to bound the bus back to the reception claiming that they had no right to take him away from his spiritual home! As he wasn't causing any harm, it was decided to let him have his day and so he was left to wander the set for the day. Eventually, as the last tour was concluded, they coaxed him back on to the bus and away.

The guide explained that, though his dedication was extreme, it wasn't that unusual. Many devotees claim to be related to or re-incarnations of their fictional characters. What was most bizarre was that this particular erstwhile Hobbit was 6' 4" tall!

Did you know, there are 4 types of Kiwi?

My first step into New Zealand saw me arriving in Auckland, the infamous not-capital of the country. Similar to Australia's Canberra, New Zealand's capital is actually 400k, further south in Wellington, but, for whatever reason, Auckland has, by far, the greater profile.

Given the region's position on one of the most volatile confluences of tectonic plates on the planet, it seems strange that the city's most obvious and striking building is the needle-like, 328m tall Sky Tower. The tallest man-made structure in New Zealand, it defines the skyline and, from it, I gained amazing views of the city and its surrounding. That was until the cloud and torrential rain engulfed the viewing platform. However (cup half empty moment), this concrete and glass spindle looks like it would topple in a high wind, let alone what might happen if an earthquake on the scale of Christchurch happened here.

Even so, whilst the ascent is via a glass floored elevator, some people who go up the tower choose the 'express' route back to street level. That is, they jump off the top! No, Kiwis aren't distant relatively of the lemming. It appears that a large slice of New Zealand's tourist industry is predicated upon the stimulation of adrenalin. If it's high, you jump off it. If it's fast flowing, you jump in it and, if it's wide you swing across it.

I was conscious that I was now on the last major leg of my tour and that, in five weeks time, I'd be heading for home. I still had many experiences that I wanted to achieve and I had people that I wanted to visit. Leaving Auckland, my plan was to head east and the south towards Wellington for the first 8 or 10 days. Cross to the south island and tour there for about 3.5 weeks and the return to the north and Auckland to meet my flight home.

As with Oz, I acquired a 'Mighty' campervan. In fact exactly the same model, layout, etc. just a bit older. I met my friend Mo, her daughter and grand daughter in auckland. They kindly drove me to the van rental centre and Mo and I continued on to Tauranga, where she lives along with her other daughter and her family. This gave me time to acclimatise as New Zealand is very different from Australia. One tends to 'lump' the two together if you live in Northern Europe, but the reality is quite the reverse. Yes there are many similarities, mainly in the people - friendly, hospitable, etc., but the landscape and, more especially, the flora and fauna are miles apart - literally and metaphorically. 

An Australian that I met in SE Asia, told me that one way to spot the difference between a Kiwi and an Ozzie was vowel sounds. He was right. In Australia (generally speaking) vowel sounds are as we might expect to hear them, albeit a little 'over' pronounced. At some point in New Zealand's etymological history, someone must have taken a scrabble set of vowels, found a similar set of vowel sound, put them in a box and shaken them up. Then picked one of each at random to match together.

So, for example, an 'e' is pronounce as we would an 'i', an 'i' as a 'u' and so on. Just to make it more exciting, this isn't a particularly consistent rule as it often depends upon surrounding consonants and, on some occasions, the vowel sound is omitted entirely. This last state was responsible for the failure of my favourite non-rude joke:

Man in pub: Year frum Ungland? Sweet as! Tull us a joke thiin.

Me: Ok. What do you call a fish without an eye?

Mip: duuno, tull us?

Me: a fsh.

[pause]

Mip: so, the syme! No difference! No much of a joke uf y'ask my.

In a similar vein, discussing this with my friends Nick and Sian, who have been living in Christchurch for a few years now, Nick recounted the difficulties he had when he first arrived in the country. A conversation with a new colleague went something like this:

Colleague: so you're the new guy, Nuck!

Nick: Yes, but the name's Nick.

C: Usn't thet wut I sod? Nuck?

N: no, you pronounced it Nuck not Nick.

C: Nnnnuck. Nnnnuck. Surry, I'm nut gutting it.

[Nick places his right index at a point about 3 inches below his ear]

N: what would you call this?

C: That's yer nick.

N: And that's my name.

C: You pommes have sam bluddy stroinge names!

Nick and Sian moved to Christchurch shortly before the first of the two major earthquakes to hit the city in  September 2010. They were living in an apartment block on the edge of the city centre and, when the second quake hit on the 22nd February the following year, lost their home and most of their belonging. Visiting the city, for me, was a strange mix of emotions. It was wonderful to see them both, find them in good spirits and to spend time with them. However, it was sad to see the effects of the event. As I was shown around the city, certain phrases became stark and disconcertingly repetitive.

'That was where [such and such] building used to be’

'This was the building that featured in the news broadcast about...'

'Here is what is left of...'

The city centre is dotted with shipping containers. Many are stacked, like giant Lego bricks, in front of remnant facades of buildings, either to hold them up, or so that, if they do collapse before they are demolished, the rubble won't go too far. Some, in testament to the resourceful nature of the people, have been placed as make-shift shops and cafes, especially in what is left of Cashel Street - previously the retail heart of the city. 

I spent a lovely long weekend with Nick and Sian, along with Sian's cousin Kerri. Both Kerri and I wanted to experience swimming with dolphins, which turned out to be a magnificent experience. On the drive out to Akaroa, where we were to do the swim, we passed through a town called Hornby. We had to stop here, briefly, as the level crossing that traversed the main highway, had been closed to allow for a passing train. Unfortunately this took an inordinately long time to complete, not because New Zealand trains are particularly long, but, being 'N' gauge, the locomotive continually jumped the tracks. This required the Controller, a wizened old gentleman with heavy glasses and a short grey beard, to amble from the signal box, lift the loco and examine the underside, remove the cigarette from his mouth so that he might blow away any dust and replace it carefully upon its rails. Then, shuffling back to the signal box, he would set the train, once more, in motion. Only to have to repeat the exercise again after the train had gone no more than a couple of feet!

I drove some 7000k around the north and south islands and found new and exciting scenery at almost every turn. I understand why some refer to the country as Godzone. I often thought about how I would describe what I was seeing to people at home. Geographically, there are many similarities with the UK and norther Europe, though it is as if the landscape is younger and condensed. If you could imaging the Yorkshire Dales with sharpe peaks and razor like ridges not yet ground down into that familiar rolling landscape. The edges of Exmoor, wild but dotted with livestock, a uniform lush green, with water carved valleys precipitously steep, where roads cling to and wind around the narrow tops. If you took a piece of green paper and scrunched it up really hard, then opened it out again without flattening it down, that might give an idea of the fresh, sharp-edged newness of the countryside. In amongst all of this will rise the occasional and seemingly random mountain. Often the result of a volcanic eruption thousands of years ago, you are never far from a reminder of the volatile and fragile nature of this land.

Then there is the south west, the Southern Alpes and Fjordland. Go look it up, google it. Superlatives escape me. This breath-taking part of the country inspired me so much that I took a flight above the highest peak, Mount Cook, and threw myself out of the plane in order to better enjoy the views!

 Special thanks as well must go to Phil & Sue in Tauranga and Steve in Wellington for showing me some great hospitality on the Kiwi leg of my trip. I hope no one takes offence at my tale of the linguistic challenges of travelling Godzone. There was a fair bit of 'tongue in cheek' and, in any case, who am I to speak, coming from 'arlow in h'Essex where 'urricane 'ardly ever get an 'H' pronounced at the beginning.

One last tale, though, that nearly landed me in seriously bad trouble. I had stopped at a small town shop - known as a dairy here. Being a fairly basic place, much of the produce was on shelves behind the counter, a bit like home 40 years ago. Having bought most of what I need, I remembered that I had planned on cooking an omelette for my dinner. Seeing 'fresh eggs' on the shelf behind the 'quite attractive' woman serving me, I asked for some. The conversation went something like this:

Me: Oh! And could I have half a dozen eggs, please.

Woman: Sex?

[pause. I didn't even know one could determine the sex of an egg!!]

Me: Erm! Three of each?

Woman: No, I wuz just asking if you wanted sex!

[Whoow now! Steady tiger!]

Me: Have you ever been to Shanghai?

Goodbye from New Zealand and see you soon.

Godzone

Shortly after arriving in New Zealand, I began getting messages from friends living in the country. Almost all said 'welcome to Godzone'. I was slightly perplexed by this and, at first, assumed that the comment related to the church going habits of the European Kiwis. I was wrong, however, and subsequently found that the term was a reference to New Zealand as 'God's own country'.

Now, several places around the globe have laid claim to this distinction, but the Kiwi version has its own charm. So, here is my take on the New Zealand as Godzone tale - apologies in advance to both creationists and evolutionists, both of whom will tut severely at my lack of reverence or adherence to scientific principle.

So, here goes...

Early one monday morning god awoke and lay, looking at the black ceiling, wondering what to do this week. Remembering that he had an Airfix planet kit tucked away in a cupboard, he decided to have a go at putting it together. God had picked up this particular planet kit at a car boot sale. It was cheap, mainly because the box was a bit tatty and there were no instructions. However, he'd already made a couple of these in the past and felt he was quite capable of completing it without guidance.

He decided that he would really put some effort in this time though and that meant a lot of tricky, intricate detail. Putting together the separate 'plates' that made up the basic sphere, God pondered whether he had used enough glue. He would need a good light source so that he would be able to pick out the finer points. He spent most of the day routing around in his garage to find a big arc light that he knew was there somewhere. It would be perfect for the job. Obviously, it would only illuminate one side of the model at a time, but that would be fine for his needs. By the time he'd found the lamp, changed the bulb, as the old one had blown, and set everything up, it was time for bed. The rest would have to wait.

The next day, god decided that he would like his planet to have a bit of atmosphere. Something that would make people want to 'c'mon in' and 'chill out'. So he created a space above the hard surface of the ball and shrouded it in a near transparent layer that he decided to call sky.

On day three, he decided it was time to put some shape the surface of his new planet. Taking some paint in varying shades of blue, he coloured in the big expanses of water - the seas and oceans. Then, with the pots of green and brown, he set about creating the 'land' bits, along with some trees and plants and 'stuff'. He realised that he had underestimated the time it would take to do this bit properly. Pushed for time, he called in his old friend, Slarty Bartfast, to help with some of the leg work. He had planned on giving him Scandinavia and Africa to do. However, he'd forgotten what a stickler for detail Slarty was. He spent so much time on the fiddly little bits around the coast line of Norway that god had to finish Africa himself. God tried to tell his friend that fjords are so last year and much too baroque for this sort of planet. Would Slarty listen?

Consequently, at the end of the third day, there were quite a few expanses of sandy beige that god said he would have to come back to. But, you know how these things work, if you don't strike when the iron's hot, you only forget.

On the fourth day, god awoke feeling that he needed to be a little more ethereal with his thinking and planning. He already had the 'big light' set up, but thought it would be fun and visually stimulating to have little specks of light that could be seen on the side of the planet away from the arc light. Taking a tip picked up from Blue Peter, pricking neat little holes in black paper did a great job of creating, what he would refer to as, a night sky.

By day five, god had tired of the main body of his self build planet. He fancied putting some 'life' into it. So he spent the day creating fish and birds in abundance. Some of his early prototypes were doomed to failure though. His first attempts at birds lacked wings and, for the Dodo, for example, this would prove a dreadful mistake. Conversely, he tested out wings on some fish and they seemed to fly with it.

Day six saw god putting living things onto the dry bits, although he did drop a few in the water and they coped. But, he had a busy day filling the planet with mammals, reptiles, and other sundry entities that would complete his Kingdom Animalia. He had fun with some of these, especially, as not having any instructions, in some cases he simply glued on the bits he thought would be interesting or funny. The Proboscis monkey has never really forgiven him for the mean trick he played on them. 

Finally, as they day was drawing to an end, god unwrapped the last two cotton wool covered pieces that would complete his new planet. These two 'humans', one of each gender, he placed on what he called 'central Africa', that seeming as good a place as any. There were only two of them, so they couldn't do much harm. And, anyway, they probably would last too long.

On the seventh day, god sat back and admired his handwork. Not bad he thought. The only thing missing was a little place of his own. Then, looking at his work bench, he realised that he still had some bits and bobs left over - lots of green covered mountains; a few lakes and a couple of glaciers; loads of flightless birds, as well as a fair few with wings; and all of the fjords that Slarty had over ordered. Noticing a big blank space in the South Pacific, just out of sight of Australia, god dropped all the odds and ends into the sea so that he would have his own little place. He'd used up all of the mammals elsewhere and there were only the two humans, so he wasn't likely to be disturbed. Not for a while at least.

Sitting back in the 'zone of his own'. God looked across at Australia and admired the, albeit accidental, expanse of red sand. It set his mind thinking about his next project. He had lots of that red left over, perhaps he could theme a planet around the colour. As he laid back in quiet contemplation of his work, he felt a rumbling under his right buttock. 'Sod it' he said, I  knew I should have used more glue.

I come from a land down under...

Sydney is a nice city (sharp intake of breath). No, actually it is. Being someone Who is hyper-critical of metropolises in general, I found Sydney an enjoyable and comfortable place to be. Arriving in the late evening, the following morning saw a health giving walk from the hotel, in Kings Cross, across Hyde Park, past York, Clarence, Kent and Sussex streets - hang on! What city am I in? Hum, lots of familiar names. Anyway, I got down to Darling Harbour, which, on a sunny Sunday morning, was a hive of activity. With family groups, couples and the odd tourist wandering around making the best of the sunshine, it was a pleasant introduction to my journey 'down under'. 

As with visiting any iconic city, I felt there were things that had to be done. A jet boat trip around the harbour, compete with hair-raising 360degree spins, seemed like an ideal starting point. Over the next three days I fitted in a walk/climb up the Harbour Bridge - a wonderful experience and, even for someone not afraid of heights, breathtaking views - and an evening of Handel's Water Music at the Opera House. Having spent so long in 'developing world' towns and cities, the clinical-like hygiene of Sydney was a welcome change. 

After a brief sojourn, it was time to hit the road again. This time in a campervan and with the intention of driving to the centre of the continent. Making my way out to the rental company was easy and I took charge of a Toyota Hiace high top van, with all mod-cons - well, a fold down bed and a gas cooker at least. I felt that I would be quite inconspicuous, the van being liveried in a subtle postbox red, with the word 'Mighty' emblazoned on the side.

Before we could truly start our odyssey, we needed to make a couple of important purchase. Namely, food, alcohol and a sat nav. Australia is a big country and, once you leave the city there are as many as two or three different roads one could take! Not for the faint hearted! However, provisions complete, it wasn't long before we were heading due west and out of Sydney.

Before I'd even got this far, I'd met a few Aussies on my travels and, when I told them of my travel plans - driving from Sydney to Uluru to Cairns - had been met with a range of responses:-

'You mad f**kwit' being one!

'Good on 'yer' being another

I had, in equal measures, been told that it was nothing but boring red desert for miles and miles and that it was an amazing experience and that I'd have the adventure of a lifetime - just watch out for the road-kill target practice.

Leaving the relative safety of Sydney, we drove west into the Blue Mountains. Having been told of a spectacular rock formation called the Three Sisters, that was to be our first port of call and overnight stay. 

Arriving at the campsite after dark, I did think to myself how handy a campervan was, compared to a tent. It was too late to do a decent hike around the park, but, we were told, there was a path to a nearby view point and that the Sisters were lit up by flood lights. Once parked up, it was just a few minutes walk to a viewing platform, from where there was a magnificent view of the rocky towers. However, I then had a blow as, within a matter of minutes, the whole area was shrouded in a heavy mist that obscured all but the 10' or so In front of me. Even so, it felt like an amazing first experience in the Australian wild and I was pleased that I came.

From here, things just got better. Within a few miles of the western edge of the Blue Mountains, we hit the edges of the infamous 'outback'. Whatever anyone tells you about the Australian outback, you will never know it until you experience it. Australia is vast, on a scale that I had not really comprehended. Vicky and I have driven across Arizona, Nevada and California, we have travelled through Peru, Kenya, Uganda and Rwanda. All of which have immense tracts of uninhibited land. But, this didn't prepare me for the three weeks ahead. Even the Siberian steppes paled into insignificance against the never ending landscape of red dust and bush that I was to encounter.

Unfortunately, for you as the reader, should I try to describe the following days and weeks, this blog would become (even more) tedious. As I said, the Australian outback has to be seen to be believed.

On a more personal point. I did feel that I had arrived at the part of my journey that I had most sought. Until now, I had had a set of amazing experiences and had spent much time exploring my 'inner self'. Standing by one's self in 40degrees heat, at the edge of a road that stretches in front and behind for 10 miles in each direction and a similar distance to the horizon on the other planes,  in the sure knowledge that there are probably no more than a dozen human beings within that circle of land, is both liberating and terrifying. To be able to hold ones arms out, turn about, shout, scream, sing at the top of your voice knowing that there was no one to whom you had to explain why! But also to realise how vulnerable and tenuous life can be in this harsh and unforgiving environment. 

I was here, thanks to modern technology, with the benefit of 'reliable' transport and the tarmac'd road I was stood upon. Only 40 years ago, less in many cases, this road was not much more than a dirt track and something as simple as a flat tyre could mean probable death from dehydration. Yet people have made lives out here and constantly survived, despite the hardship and deprivation. Then there are the Aborigines for whom a nomadic lifestyle, following the trail of food and water, had sustained them for nearly 50,000 years.

Just to consider this makes my existence seem so easy by comparison.

Where ever I went, the people were amazingly hospitable. On a few occasions, complete strangers extended invites to stop by for tea or asked if we needed somewhere to park up for the night. After an early scare, when a decision not to fill up with fuel became more than highly regrettable, regular stops at any and every petrol station became routine. The van had a range of about 400k on a full tank. There were several occasions when this barely got us from one petrol station to a other. 

An absolute highlight was arriving at Uluru (Ayres Rock). I'm not particularly into the 'mystic', but it isn't hard to see why the Aborigines saw this as a sacred place. The shear magnificence of this mammoth edifice of sandstone sitting, singularly, in the middle of an ocean of Bush and red desert is a wonder. To walk around the base and see it at close quarters was even better. We experienced a sunset and sunrise here, witnessing the amazing colour changes and shifting shapes as the light and shadow vie for supremacy. We saw a second sunset the following day, in the company of a great table of companions at an arranged dinner. Fabulous food, free flowing bubbly, hilarious company, all bookended by a didgeridoo performance and an astronomical tour of one of the clearest starlit sky's I have ever seen.

The journey from Uluru back, north east, to Cairns was no less awesome. A slightly disorientating, spur of the moment left turn to the Gulf of Capenteria made for an amazing detour. On route, we had an overnight stop at a small Queensland town called Camooweal - famous for...well nothing really! However, it was a convenient pace to find a campsite that was located directly behind one of the two pubs. 

Heading to the nearest for dinner and a couple of pints, seemed like a sound idea. However, 'fresh meat' being spotted, we weren't allowed to remain anonymous! It was the evening of the local weekly pool knockout championship. With everything to play for, the bar fast became a hive of activity and I was invited to join in. Not wanting to be rude and knowing that my pool skills were as refined as crude oil, I accepted the invitation in the sure knowledge that I would be getting an early night. 

To my surprise, I won my first match, against another travelling itinerant. To this day, I'm not sure they hadn't seen what was coming and thrown the match. However, for the next round, I drew 'The Cowboy'! The Cowboy was exactly what the name suggests. Mid/late twenties, Levis, check'd shirt, leather belt (that, in another time, would surly have sported a holster and revolver) and a weatherbeaten Stetson hat. It was also quite evident that he was the local champion and that no one messed with his shit! 

No problem, I thought, he'll beat me hands down and I can go back to my drink. No big deal. This was not the time for fortune the favour the underdog. But, being the bitch that she can be...

I won the break. Potting three spots on my next turn, I found myself leading. The Cowboy smiled. Like me, he saw that this was just a bit of beginners luck. However, after 10 minutes of play, I had potted all but one of my balls and The Cowboy still had five stripes on the table - plus, of course the hallowed 8 ball. I had broken into a cold sweat and my opponent was eying me with palpable disdain. 'What is going wrong' I thought, I should have lost by now! The room is hushed and the game at the adjoining table has paused as the other residents realise that there is about to be bloodshed. 

The Cowboy stepped up to the table. As he lined up his next shot, his irksome girlfriend - sat crossed legged upon a table next to us - whispered 'miss'. His withering look in her direction caused a sharp intake of breath from other bystanders. With a flourish, The Cowboy dropped each remaining stripe into a pocket. I was safe. But then the unthinkable happened. Mis-cueing the white, he barely clipped the black ball, sending it spinning across the baize to rest directly in front of a open drop. With my last spot resting in a similar position, I was poised to win the game. I potted my spot. I had a clear position on the black. Someone dripped a pin and the clattering sound cut through the silence like a knife.

Decision: do I pot the black and risk receiving the ministrations of a pool cue in an orifice hitherto unaccustomed to such assault! Or, do I contrive to miss and risk it being seen as an obvious move, invoking the indignation of the rest of the bar.

After pacing the table for a few moments, doing my best attempt at a Steve Davies impersonation, I decided to go for glory and hang the consequences. Bending over the table, cue held in my right hand with the tip nestling in the crux of the thumb and forefinger of my left hand, I gently brought my chin down to hover just above it, giving me a clear, unequivocal sight line to victory. Pulling back my right arm, I thrust the cue forward with just enough force to send the white ball tumbling across the verdant surface of the table. White hit black. Black took up the kinetic energy transferred from the white, continued the trajectory and then...came to rest on the very threshold of the abyss into which it should had plummeted! 

The room expelled a collective sigh of relief as The Cowboy stepped up and, neatly, dropped the winning shot into the pocket. He, nobly shook my hand and, smiling, offered condolences which I gratefully accepted. He did, of course, go on to win the tournament. So, at least, I had the pleasure of knowing that I was only beaten by the champion!

Ending the road trip in Cairns, I boarded a 'live aboard' dive boat for a few days scuba'ing on the Great Barrier Reef. This too was an amazing experience. Unfortunately, it was cut short by the advent of a cyclone that forced our ship back to harbour. However, this wasn't before I had some incredible dives and managed to get some quite passable underwater photographs.

Next stop Auckland and five weeks in New Zealand. I'm nearing the end of my journeys but there are still some adventures to be had and some great friends to be re-acquainted with. So, goodbye land of the Boomerang, Kangaroo and Kuala and hello to Godzone.

Ian'na and the King of Siam

Arriving at Chiang Mai, from Laos, was like stepping forward 20 years. Chiang Mai airport is big and new, shiny and clean. I picked up a cab to take me to my guesthouse a quarter of a mile from the Chiang Mai Gate, into the city's historic centre. The area is a quiet, leafy suburb made up, largely, of single story houses.

Walking around the city, I quickly came to understand why people like it. The old city centre is a walled and moated square encompassing a plethora of temples and historic buildings. Being a big tourist magnet for northern Thailand, it also has an abundance of bars and eating places catering for just about every palate. For pretty much the same reason, it has a vivid and vibrant night life. Almost every night of the week, there are colourful street markets selling everything from souvenirs and Thai craft ware, to fake western branded clothes and electronics. 

A friend from Kings Worthy, Nick, moved here to live some years ago and had raved about the place. Although, he has now moved on the a more tranquil part of the country - more of that later - his brother, Ed, has followed and still lives on the edge of the old quarter. As such, I quickly found a drinking partner and a source of information on what to do and see in the area, as well as what to avoid.

An objective of my Odyssey, has been to experience new and unusual things and learn new skills. Whilst in Chiang Mai, I took a trip to an elephant sanctuary and enjoyed a wonderful morning learning to be a mahout. Elephants are amazing animals and learning to ride and control one equally so. I'm always concerned about how humans might treat working animals in their care. These beautiful creatures are both well trained and appeared to have a happy relationship with their handlers - with whom they will remain for most of their adult lives. Probably the height of the experience was bathing them at the end of our walk. If anyone had told me I would enjoy wallowing in a watering hole with four playful pachyderms, I would hardly have believed them. They appeared to enjoy the experience as much as we did.

My day was topped, though, when I then visited a tiger reserve and had the (dubious) privilege of entering a compound with a near fully grown animal. Again, I was concerned about treatment, etc. but, having done some research and then experienced first hand, these tigers have been bred in captivity and have known human contact since birth. Yes, they are captive and yes, they are a tourist attraction. However, they appeared health and lively and would happily play with the handlers. Moreover, money raised at the sanctuary supports research and helps to create and maintain safe habitats for their cousins in the wild. The privilege of being able to commune with such magnificent animal was awe inspiring in the least.

After a relaxing few days in Chiang Mai, Ed and I headed south to meet Nick in Phimai, a small town in central eastern Thailand about 45 minute by bus from his village. Ed was making the trip as it was his brother's birthday and it made sense to travel together. It was great to see Nick again. He has lived in Thailand for some years now and, although I have seen him on his annual return visits to KW, it was great to spend time with him and his partner. Nick and Ed make a great double act and we had a lovely few days busily doing nothing.

In stark contrast, my next destination was Bangkok! On a recommendation from Barry, who I'd met on the Halong Bay trip in Vietnam, I booked into the Atlanta Hotel in the Sukumvit area of the city. What can I say of Bangkok? It is what it is. A big, busy pseudo modern, south east Asian metropolis. A city where you can get just about anything you want, assuming you're not too fussy about authenticity, and that really does mean everything! I never made it to a ladyboy show - being a lone male traveller, it didn't seem right somehow, but I did see some performers out and about in the street markets. I have to say, they looked the part. 

Whilst in the city, I made the pilgrimage out to Kanchanaburi, the site of the infamous bridge across the Kwai river and a part of the 'death railway'. The bridge is not the original - obviously, that was blown up by Sir Alex Guinness in 1957 - but it was both fascinating and poignant to witness now the scene of such atrocity nearly 70 years ago. To walk along the line of the, now little used, railway in warm sunshine, knowing you can return to a cold drink and a bus home, it is difficult to start to imagine the suffering inflicted upon those made to work.

From bangkok, I made a train journey to Champhon where, after staying with another blast from the past - Tony Sowton, one time landlord at the King Charles - I took a boat to the island of Koh Tao. By the way, many thanks to tony, a) for putting me up and b) for driving me to the ferry terminal at 5am next morning

Koh Tao was probably the pinnacle of my trip so far. As an island, it isn't much. Sat in the Gulf of Thailand, it has sunshine for most of the year, a northern peak that affords 360 degree views of the terrain, sand swept beaches, rocky coves, tranquil natural harbours, warm turquoise water, surreal sunrises and equally sublime sunsets, giant turtles, a plethora of tropical fish, black tip reef sharks, whale sharks, wonderful seafood...sorry, where was I? Oh, and diving! I hadn't dived for nearly four years and so was a little tentative taking my first step off a boat. By the end my time here I'd completed 20 dives, including two further qualifications. The combination of Thailand and divers meant that there was a health party atmosphere in the evenings, if you so wished. Equally, you could chill out with a cold beer and a book in a quiet corner of the island, if that suited better.

My tour of south east asia coming to an end, from Koh Tao, I took a boat and bus to Surat Thani and thence a flight to Kuala Lumpur. This was really just a staging post to my next adventure, Australia. But I can let it pass without nodding a big thank you to Fiona, sister of my good friend - and Vicky's primary room mate at Reading - Alison. Two days of chilling out in KL was about enough to get me ready for the flight to Sydney and the land down under.

Thank you for keeping up with me and my sincere apologies for being slow in getting this missive published. I hope to get Australia to you soon. I'm guessing that will be my penultimate travel blog for this trip, as it will then be New Zealand and home.