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.