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From Swahili for the Broken-hearted by Peter Moore:
[...]
I didn't faint, but at the end of it all my yellow vaccination card had more stamps in it than a library copy of Lady Chatterley's Lover.
[...]
Crime was also a major concern. With so much poverty in Africa, a backpacker, even one as destitute as myself, was regarded as a walking ATM [Automatic Teller Machine].
[Prologue, p. 6,7,9]
[Chapter 1, Cape Town, South Africa, p. 13]
[...] The scenery was suitably spectacular. [...]
I don't know why I expected it to be any different. I was on the Garden Route and a place doesn't get a name like that because it is a long stretch of bars and strip joints. It gets called the Garden Route because it has significant tracts of indigenous plants like proteas, gladioli and agapanthus as well as tea shops and craft fairs for the folk who like that sort of thing. Unfortunately I was still a couple of decades away from the uncontrollable urge to collect teaspoons.
[...]
I had fancifully thought that travelling in the off-season would see me benefit from all kinds of special deals. I imagined grateful hotel owners offering me luxurious hotel suites with Jacuzzis for a dollar or two. Or desperate restaurateurs feeding me magnificent meals for a pittance and then throwing in a complimentary jug of beer to reward me for my custom. I would have the golden beach to myself, undisturbed by the maddening crowds of gym-junkie Afrikaners in tiny Speedos. But by the look of things I'd be spending my time in Plettenberg Bay in my room playing Solitaire on my laptop.
[...] The [bungy] jump was from the apex of the concrete arch that supports the bridge.
[...] A group of four guys waited for me on the arch. There were a couple of Kiwis, an Aussie and a South African and they acted like they had been mainlining Pepsi Max. I don't think they'd been very impressed by the way I'd crawled rather than walked upright across the arch from the walkway.
They explained the whole process and the dangers involved with an enthusiasm that frightened me even more.
"Attaching bungy to nothing in particular," said one.
"Check," said another.
"Tie it around jumper's leg in exaggerated manner so he thinks we really give a shit about safety."
"Check."
"Roll a joint to smoke while we leave him just dangling there."
"Check."
They didn't really say that of course. They said lots of technical things to put my mind to rest. [...]
I had rather fancied that when I jumped my whole life would flash before my eyes. Or at the very least, the three months I dated a Spanish girl called Inez. But all I remembered - and too late, as it turned out - was that I left the key to the padlock on my backpack in my top pocket.
[Chapter 2, The Garden Route, South Africa, p. 39-45]
[...] my next stop, the tiny mountain kingdom of Lesotho, struck me as a very Tolkien kind of place. [...] I challenge anyone to look at those mountains from Bloemfontein and not think they are full of orcs and goblins.
[...] Maseru is the capital of Lesotho [...] Even the parliament building is unassuming and looks more like the sort of place a poultry farmer on the outskirts of Sydney might build after he subdivided his property and came into a bit of money.
[...]
Lesotho is known as "The Kingdom Without Fences", but perhaps a more accurate description would be "The Kingdom Where Cattle Are Allowed To Wander Freely Into The Path Of Oncoming Vehicles".
[Chapter 3, Lesotho, p. 47-49,52]
I missed the Umhlanga at the Royal Kraal at Lombaba by one day [...] I had a vague idea when the festival was on, but [...] fate decided that I wasn't ready for the sight of 20,000 semi-naked women.
[...]
Before I could say anything more, Steven started explaining the taxi system within the township. "There are 38 suburbs in Soweto," he said. "And each of them has its own hand signal if you want to wave down a taxi as it goes past you. You make an 'o' for Orlando, and 'o' with a finger down for Orlando West, and crossed fingers for Crossroads. If you want to go to Orange, you pretend to pick an Orange."
[...] To be honest, I had been a little cynical about the whole Nelson Mandela deification thing. Don't get me wrong, Mandela is a great man. [...] But like the Dalai Lama, he seems to attract the devotion of people with scary smiles and a very tenuous grip on reality.
[Chapter 5, Johannesburg, South Africa, p. 87-88,93-94,96]
I could understand his aversion to the Australian cricket team. [...] But diss the Crocodile Hunter? Crikey, the guy's a legend!
[...]
On my last morning in Kruger I decided to have a little bit of fun. "Look," I said, "There's a Jaguar."
Paul instinctively slammed on the brakes. When he was driving he'd rely on passengers to spot something he'd missed.
"Where?" asked Paul, still not thinking straight.
"Just there on the road," I said, pointing to a fine example of Coventry engineering. "It's an old XJS, I think."
I thought it was funny, and it got a laugh from a few of the other passengers. But Paul was furious. I'd made him look like an idiot - there aren't any jaguars in Africa, they're endemic to the jungles of South America - and at the end of the tour he didn't actually stop to drop me off at Nelspruit. I got more of a slow-down-a-little-open-the-door-and-kick-the-Aussie-out kind of farewell.
[...]
I was really looking forward to going to Mozambique. It's a country with a name that is laden with promise and excitement. Crossed by two legendary rivers, the Limpopo and the Zambezi, and the setting for many a Wilbur Smith novel, it's the kind of country you could mention you've been to at a dinner party and before you know it you're standing in the lounge with one foot on the coffee table, cradling a brandy balloon and thrilling a captivated audience with tales of your derring-do. Well, that's the effect it has on me, anyway.
[Chapter 6, Maputo, Mozambique, p. 100,102,103]
[Chapter 7, Harare, Zimbabwe, p. 121]
[Chapter 8, Victoria Falls, Zimbabwe, p. 137
[Chapter 11, Dar es Salaam, Tanzania, p. 187
An hour later I set off to conquer the highest mountain in Africa wearing a pink fleece that looked like it was a cast-off from a Sheena Easton film clip. The your company had supplied it [...] and the colour was bright enough to snap synapses [...]
[Chapter 13, Mount Kilimanjaro, Tanzania, p. 207]
I was the only person who ate that night [...] The next morning Eyasu sat next to me on the bus [...] I asked him why he hadn't warned me.
"Injera always tastes like that," he said. "Everyone else is fasting for Easter."
[...]
There was one final clunk before the sheep flew off the back of the bus in a manner that suggested it had jumped. It landed in the path of an oncoming van. The van didn't have time to swerve, but the sheep rolled out of the way like Jackie Chan in a Rush Hour 2 outtake.
[...]
I had chosen to stay at the Tropical Hotel because it was central and my guidebook described it as a "clean cheapie". What my guidebook didn't say was that it was Ethiopia's most heavily patronised brothel. [...]
[Chapter 16, Southern Ethiopia, p. 255,258,259]
There was St Tekla Haimanot, a chap who prayed for seven years standing on one leg. Saint Gebre Kristos was a bloke who knocked back the perks of being a prince to take up a life of chastity and a dose of leprosy. Abuna Samuel was partial to riding about on a lion. And of course, the country's patron saint, St George, was out and about slaying dragons. I looked at the frescoes, tracing the stories and deeds of these good Christian saints and thought of my sister. She worries about the effect of Harry Potter on her kids' young minds. What would she make of this stuff?
[Chapter 18, Lalibela, Ethiopia, p. 281-282]
[...]
My favourite was the internet cafe just off Talaat Harb. There was a picture of a duck attacking a computer with an axe stuck above each terminal. "You usually nervous mee!" the duck screamed. "Too slowly computer!" I wasn't exactly sure what it meant. But after half an hour on the computers at this place I certainly knew how the duck felt.
[Chapter 21, Cairo, Egypt, p. 326,337]
From The Full Montezuma, by Peter Moore (Bantam, Australia, 2000):
[Chapter 2, Mexico City, p. 10]
"If there are any known terrorists on board, would they please make their way to the front of the bus."
An uneasy silence.
"No? There are no terrorists on board?"
Again, silence.
"No Zapatistas among you lot?"
Uneasy shifting in seats.
"Are you sure? I'm only going to ask once."
Silence.
"Okay. Well, have a nice day!"
I've never understood the purpose of these kinds of roadblocks. I'd come across them before in other troubled areas of the world - Colombia, Rwanda, Denmark - and exactly the same thing happened at all of them. A soldier got on board, stood up the front of the bus and made an announcement, and when nobody stepped forward, got off again.
Why don't the soldiers ask for identity papers or at least walk down the aisle eye-balling passengers in the hope that one will crack and make a run for it? But they don't. They rely on the honesty of the terrorist to own up and make their way in a quiet and orderly fashion to the front of the bus.
Of course, I couldn't understand a word of what the soldier had said, so I'm merely speculating. They guy could have simply been asking if anyone had a spare cigarette.
[Chapter 7, Palenque (Mexico), p. 94-95]
The driver, on the other hand, thought he was playing Grand Turismo, and was making up for being assigned the worst-specced vehicle (Old American School Bus, Third World Edition) by driving at the peak of his abilities. He flew out of the city centre, past the Americanised outskirts with their drive-through McDonald's and shiny new malls and up the steep, windy road into the mountains as if he were on a time trial. He raced past other buses and hunted down smaller, nippier vehicles. With large trucks, he waited until a sharp bend would approach, and then took the corner with them, side by side, as if this dangerous manoeuvre would gain him extra bonus points. The GND [Girl Next Door] surmised he was on a suicide mission - his family had left him and he was spending Christmas alone. Now he had snapped and he was taking us all with him.
[Chapter 11, Copán (Honduras), p. 181]
[Chapter 12, Feliz Navidad (Antigua Guatemala), p. 185-186]
[Chapter 12, Feliz Navidad (Antigua Guatemala), p. 190]
[Chapter 12, Feliz Navidad (Antigua Guatemala), p. 194]
[Chapter 12, Feliz Navidad (Antigua Guatemala), p. 198-199]
[Chapter 14, Guatamalan Highlands, p. 220]
It didn't take long to see why the bus was in the state it was. Just outside of Fray Bartolomé de las Casas the road deteriorated into the worst stretch we'd seen in our journey so far. It was corrugated, potholed and dusty and shook my fillings loose. When we came upon stretches where it had rained recently, it was muddy and boggy. By the time we finally hit tarmac at Modesto Méndez the GND and I were shaken, stirred and basted. [...]
[Chapter 14, Guatamalan Highlands, p. 229]
"I wish you wouldn't do that," the GND said.
"What?" I asked, thinking that perhaps the careless way I had handled the bag offended her.
"You swear every time you pick up your bag," she said. "It's embarrassing."
To be honest, I hadn't even noticed I was doing it. I knew I was annoyed by the weight of my pack (it was currently coming in at just under 25 kilos).
[...]
"Well, I think it's unnecessary," she said. "It's like you've got Tourette's Syndrome, that swearing disease."
"But I only get it when I pick up my pack," I argued.
"Well, okay, it's baggage-related Tourette's Syndrome."
[Chapter 16, Honduras, p. 261]
[Chapter 16, Honduras, p. 268]
[Chapter 17, El Salvador, p. 272]
[...]
On our last night in Cahuita we ate at Miss Edith's [...] run by a West Indian woman with braids by the name, funnily enough, of Miss Edith. As a West Indian, she spoke English, but when we tried to order our meal, she wasn't sure that we could. "What?" she said, screwing up her nose. "What the hell are you saying?"
We repeated our order, this time more slowly.
She still couldn't understand us. "Where are you people from?" she asked. "England or something?"
In the end we made our orders in really over-the-top American accents and she got them first time. [...]
[Chapter 21, Costa Rica, Too, p. 356,357]
It was more an obstacle course than a border crossing. We were forced to shuffle along the narrow gap between the trucks and the side of the bridge, clinging to the rigging of the trucks like Spiderman so that the weight of our packs didn't send us tumbling into the shallow river below. To make matters worse, many of the planks were rotting or had fallen away, and while makeshift measures had been taken to patch the bridge for trucks to cross, there were still holes big enough for a pedestrian to fall through. The only thing missing was a pack of crocodiles circling in the water below, waiting for their next feed.
[Chapter 22, Panama, p. 364-365]
[Chapter 22, Panama, p. 366-367]
[Chapter 26, Yucatán (Mexico), p. 442]
From The Wrong Way Home, by Peter Moore (Bantam, Australia, 1999):
[Introduction, p. ix]
Ivanhoe smiled weakly. Taking this as a sign of encouragement, I continued.
"Why do they put rear window demisters on Skodas? To keep your hands warm while you're pushing them! Ha, ha. How do you double the value of your Skoda? Fill it up with petrol! Ha, ha. What do you call a convertible ..."
"Please," interrupted Ivanhoe. "I drive a Skoda. And really, they're not that bad. Now if you don't mind, I'd rather like to finish my book."
[Chapter 1, London, p. 14-15]
[Chapter 2, Prague, p. 22]
There were others days when you'd find me just sitting on a platform on the Metro, staring at the LED clock at the end of each platform. Rather than tell commuters when the next train was due, these clocks taunted commuters by telling them how long ago the last train had left.
[Chapter 2, Prague, p. 23,25]
[Chapter 3, Budapest, p. 29]
I lingered at the entrance of the embassy, hoping that a guard would come along and challenge my right to be there and, after a meaningful game of charades, point me in the direction of the visa section. As it was, I wasn't challenged until I reached the ambassador's bedroom, and then only by a terrified maid brandishing a toilet brush. Thank heavens I had my passport handy -- I was able to wave it around frantically, pleading "Visa! Visa! Visa!" before she could land any serious blows. She frogmarched me to an even more remote corner of the embassy, where the ambassador was sitting at a desk in the dark. He stamped my passport immediately without question or cost, and the maid escorted me to the gate.
[Chapter 3, Budapest, p. 37-38]
[Chapter 4, Budapest, Too, p. 43]
[...] There were bronze boys waving flags. Metal people were punching the air defiantly. And there were more metalworkers than you could poke a stick at. [...]
The best piece, and the most famous, was a huge bronze man running, a coat draped over one arm and a flag held high in the other. It was at least 10 or 12 metres tall and had previously stood outside the Parliament buildings. [...] It had a poetry and a spirit that was undeniable.
[...] Apparently, in Hungary it is against the law to go putting up the symbols of oppression -- whether they be swastikas, hammers and sickles, red stars or the logo of the Australian Tax department [...]
[Chapter 4, Budapest, Too, p. 47-48]
All the families got off at Siofok, a small town only an hour or two south of Budapest. As they got off they gave me half-quizzical glances, wondering, no doubt, what I was staying on the train. Some gestured towards the platform and said 'Siofok', thinking that perhaps I hadn't realised that I'd reached my destination. When I answered 'Zagreb', alarm swept across their faces and they hurried off, shielding their children from me as if my madness was contagious.
[...] At the border, a succession of grey-uniformed people from both Hungary and Croatia got onto the train with the sole purpose of staring at my passport. They only ever looked at one page, and with an intensity that suggested they were trying to turn the pages with the power of their minds alone. Exhausted, and seemingly defeated, they handed my passport back gruffly and got off the train. I amused myself through these lengthy psychic sessions by saying things like, "I think you'll find my papers are in order, officer" and "I'm here on business".
[Chapter 5, Croatia, p. 52-53]
[Chapter 5, Croatia, p. 59]
[Chapter 5, Croatia, p. 61]
[Chapter 5, Croatia, p. 63]
The bullet hole in the window next to my seat was perhaps the first indication that I had made a mistake.
[Chapter 6, Bosnia, p. 71]
[Chapter 7, Albania, p. 92]
[...]
The most interesting part of Mirindi's house was the toilet. Not only was it the first hole-in-the-ground variety of my trip, it was also the most extraordinarily innovative English-language laboratory I had ever seen.
Ever since I spent nine months in Japan teaching unsuspecting businessmen how to speak English with a broad Australian accent, I've taken an interest in the various methods employed by others to teach the language. But I had never seen anything like Mirindi's. In his determination to learn English, Mirindi had papered the walls of the toilet with pages from English magazines and books. Interestingly, the only publications he had been able to get his hands on were the Book of Mormon and Penthouse Forum. On one wall, Jehoshaphat was telling the Mormons to come out of the desert. On the other, J.L. from Ohio was relating a tale that involved a brunette, crotchless panties and a carrot. I christened it the Mirindi method, and firmly believe that soon English language classes all over the world will employ it.
[Chapter 7, Albania, p. 95]
[Chapter 7, Albania, p. 96]
The driver and his two passengers were Albanian [...] Although the highly incendiary nature of the jerrycans full of petrol concerned me [...] I eventually relaxed and let myself enjoy the ride. Just before Trpejca, however, the Albanians started arguing amongst themselves.
At first the argument was verbal. One of the passengers yelled at the other passenger, who then yelled back. After a few seconds of silence, the whole process started all over again. Periodically, they would turn around and smile at me from the front seat, just in case I thought they were yelling about me.
The yelling didn't bother me. I had my Walkman and the scenery to distract me. But when the aggressive gesticulations that accompanied the yelling deteriorated into crow pecks on the head and thumps on the arm, I became a little concerned. I was worried that an ill-directed blow would catch the driver on the chin and send us careering down a cliff to the lake below as a rolling ball of flame.
The rougher it got, the more often they turned around to assure me, with forced smiles and raised eyebrows, that although they were trying to kick the shit out of each other, I was not in any danger personally. Soon the fighting deteriorated into a wrestling match. By Ohrid, the two passengers had each other in a headlock.
The Albanians were stopping in Ohrid. [...] They dropped me off at the tourist office and drove off, each waving to me with his free hand as he hit the other with his other hand.
[Chapter 8, Sofia, p. 108-109]
[Chapter 9, Istanbul, p. 127]
[Chapter 9, Istanbul, p. 132]
"It was a situation I grew to recognise over the next three months," he wrote. "At my lowest point, when things were at their most desperate and uncomfortable, I always found myself in the company of Australians, who were like a reminder that I'd touched bottom."
[Chapter 9, Istanbul, p. 135]
[Chapter 10, Esfahan, p. 147]
[Chapter 10, Esfahan, p. 148]
The bus sat in the heat for an hour. [...] I wandered off to get a warm Coke [...] and returned to find a village of colourfully dressed gypsies, and all their worldly possessions, including pots and pans, blankets and a tricycle, in my seat.
[Chapter 12, Pakistan, p. 174-175]
[Chapter 12, Pakistan, p. 179]
"Well, it can only get cooler from here, then," I said, perhaps a little to sharply. [...]
"Oh no!" he said. "This whole area is hot. Dambooli is the hottest place in Asia too!"
[Chapter 12, Pakistan, p. 181]
[Chapter 12, Pakistan, p. 183-184]
[...] The bungalow I was put in even came with its very own resident Iranian refugee.
You know the fellow who tried to shoot the Pope? Well, this gut looked just like him - a thin wiry bloke with close-cropped receding hair and a terminal dose of earnestness. He sat muttering in a corner of the bungalow, with a quilted blanket and a plastic bag filled with forms, books and various other scraps of paper. On my first night there I made the mistake of asking him why he'd left Iran.
"Political complex!" he snapped. "UN form! German! Good family! Problem!"
Sensing - correctly - that I didn't understand, he slowly repeated what he had said.
"Political ... complex. UN ... form ... German ... Good ... family ... problem!"
I tried to understand what he was saying, but I couldn't. I couldn't even understand what he was doing in Pakistan. Any self-respecting refugee looking for a better life or even a bit of political freedom would have headed to Europe, not Pakistan. I tried nodding my head sympathetically, but this only seemed to make him angrier.
"Political ... complex. UN ... form," he said through gritted teeth. "German ... Good ... family ... problem!"
I kept nodding, not altogether sure where all this was going or even if I would get out of it with my life. Seething with frustration, he fished around in his bag, found a form in a language that I didn't understand and thrust it in front of my face as if it would suddenly clear things up.
"Blessing on Boris Yeltsin!" he cried. "Blessing on Boris Yeltsin. Boris Yeltsin he my friend!"
[...] I suggested he go to the Russian embassy.
"No! No! No!" he yelled. "Political complex. Germany!"
To escape, I pretended I was going to have a shower [...]
[Chapter 12, Pakistan, p. 186-187]
In contrast, the bus I caught to Islamabad was prepared to make some sort of statement. It looked like a giant Hawaiian shirt [...]
[Chapter 12, Pakistan, p. 185]
[Chapter 13, Afghanistan, p. 203-204]
The ear cleaners are an annoying feature of visiting Kathmandu. They haunt all the major tourist sites and are more difficult to shake off than a Mormon on a bike.
[Chapter 15, Kathmandu, p. 231]
[Chapter 15, Kathmandu, p. 233]
I don't know what it is about bus drivers, but they invariably have the worst taste in music. You'd think that if you were responsible for the entertainment of a large, captive audience, you'd take the time to choose something that would appeal to a wide range of people. It has been my experience, however, that bus drivers go to one of two extremes. They either play ear-piercingly bad heavy metal music or sickeningly bland ballads.
This guy chose the love ballads - soppy, sentimental sounding Chinese love ballads. Most of the passengers groaned when they heard the opening bars, and wrapped pieces of clothing around their heads to block out the noise. They guy sitting next to me, however, was so pleased with the driver's choice that he sang along. His voice was flat and off-key, but that didn't stop him giving it the full Celine Dion treatment. Periodically - for no apparent reason and in a manner in no way connected to the song that was being played - the twins would start yodelling. I spent the rest of the journey to Lhasa with the uneasy feeling that I was trapped in a lunatic asylum.
[Chapter 16, Lhasa, p. 247-248]
[Chapter 17, Chengdu, p. 261]
Thinking that perhaps she had somehow misunderstood me - a reasonable conclusion, considering my Mandarin abilities - I went through the process more slowly and deliberately. Once again she shook her head and said no.
Andy had warned me about this on the bus. When faced with something out of the ordinary or something a bit too much like hard work, Chinese public servants will often say no. It's much easier than actually doing something, and if they get ticked off for it, they simply claim they couldn't understand you. It was obvious that this woman just didn't want to go the the trouble of, firstly, finding out the cost of a foreigner ticket to Xining, and secondly, filling out the various forms needed to issue it.
There was only one way around this problem, and that was to make refusing to sell me a ticket more difficult than selling me one was. Now, luckily, this is something I do have a God-given talent for. When she refused to sell me a ticket for the third time, I stood my ground at the window and in pathetic, poorly pronounced Mandarin said ,"Where is the ticket office? Where is the ticket office?" over and over again. Eventually, she covered her ears, screamed and then issued me a ticket. [...]
Before I could get on the train, though, I had to run the gauntlet of scowling Chinese women in brown uniforms with red stars on their epaulettes. The first stood at the doorway to the platform, looking closely at my ticket, checking that I had been sufficiently ripped off before. Then she let me proceed to the only train at the station. Another woman, dressed exactly the same, and with a sour countenance not unlike that on girls' faces moments after I ask them to dance with me at discos, blocked the door to the train. [...]
At first I thought the compartment was on fire, but once my eyes had adjusted to the haze I realised that it was smoke from the cigarettes of my fellow passengers. [...] The youngest member of the group, a boy of ten, sat in the luggage rack, his feet dangling over the edge, smoking a roll-your-own of impressive proportions. [...] I decided to put up with it, just as I had in Turkey and Indonesia and every other place where 99 per cent of the population seem to have a two-packs-a-minute habit.
[...] The next morning I made my way to the dining car to escape the smoke. Along the way I was introduced to another startling Chinese custom - spitting. As part of their morning ablutions, most of the passengers were dredging up phlegm from the furthermost corners of their body and depositing it with a lazy aplomb on the floor, walls, doorways and windows of the carriage. They dredged with such intensity that I thought they were about to bring up yesterday's lunch, dinner and breakfast and a major organ or two. [...] At first I picked my way tenuously through the carriage, trying carefully not to let my foot fall in a pool of Chinese spittle, but it proved impossible. Instead, I careered through the carriages, slipping and sliding as if I was walking on ice.
[Chapter 17, Chengdu, p. 262-265]
The Naxi are also famous for being one of the few matriarchal societies in the world. Women inherit all property, women run the judicial system [...] Even the Naxi language bears testimony to the fact that it is the women who wear the pants in this society. If the meaning of a word needs to be enlarged, the word for female is simply tacked onto the end. Hence a big night out in Naxi is a female night out. The Chinese have tried to change this of course, but [...] It's the women you'll see running all the businesses [...] And it's the women running the lucrative sidecar taxi services.
My first dealings with the female sidecar Mafia came when I wanted to go out to Baisha [...]
I clambered into the sidecar, obviously made to Chinese dimensions, and sat there uncomfortably for 10 minutes with my knees under my chin. At first I thought we were waiting for more passengers, but when a little old lady who had been sitting on the pavement all along clambered aboard I knew that I had been put in the sidecar for the amusement of all the other sidecar owners. The day's entertainment over, we set off down a bumpy dirt road, past rustic barns and into the Chinese countryside.
[...] When we finally reached Baisha, I watched what the little old lady paid and gave the driver exactly the same amount. She indicated for me to pay more, but I refused. She was furious, and started spitting and cursing. When I walked off, she followed me, trying to run me over. I ducked off down a laneway and hid behind a pile of mudbricks until she gave up and drove away.
[Chapter 18, Dali, p. 282-283]
Luckily, there was an air vent above my nose. I pushed it open to give my nose an extra couple of centimetres and happily suffered the water that dripped in on my faced from the heavy rain outside.
[Chapter 18, Dali, p. 282-283]
[...] The bus journey was also one of my most eventful in China. One of the passengers spent the entire trip yelling at the driver. And when we hit a cow, a representative from every colourful ethnic minority within 50 kilometres, it seemed, popped up to survey the damage [...]
[Chapter 18, Dali, p. 283-294]
It felt as though we had been sucked into a Nintendo 64 game called Mutant Mekong River Racers, and our driver was determined to get the highest score. [...] At one point he skidded over a mid river sandbank and we became airborne. I don't think it helped us to go any faster. I just think he liked hearing the engine go "rrrrreeeeeeee!"
[Chapter 19, Laos, p. 305]
[Chapter 20, Ko Phangan, p. 316]
[Chapter 20, Ko Phangan, p. 317]
[Chapter 21, Malaysia - Singapore - Indonesia, p. 337]
[Chapter 24, Uluru, p. 375-376]
[Chapter 25, Sydney, p. 383]
From No Shitting in the Toilet by Peter Moore (Bantam, 1977):
Mmmm. If you're having problems discovering yourself in a place where you can actually read the signs, what makes you think that it's going to be easier where they're all in a foreign language?
Seriously, though, if you're keen to find out that in reality you're a short-tempered, egotistical racist who can't handle the pressure of finding a room for the night without wanting to hit somebody, then this is a perfect reason. Travelling gives you plenty of opportunity for discovering those kinds of personality disorders.
[Chapter 1, Why?, p. 6]
[Chapter 2, When?, p. 12]
No, it's not your new lover, it's a travel guidebook. [...]
[Chapter 5, Guidebooks, p. 37]
[Chapter 6, Packing, p. 52]
Sometimes it may be worthwhile getting an obscure visa, say for Afghanistan or Angola, even if you have no intention of going there. [...]
If you plan to play along with this misconception it may be wise to avoid any question about the country you were supposed to have visited. If questioned, just shrug your shoulders. If really pushed, indicate that it was such an ordeal that you would rather not talk about it. Any visible scar that you may have should be absent-mindedly rubbed at this point.
[Chapter 11, Visas, p. 98-99]
Halfway through this flight the plane dipped sharply 90 degrees to the right and then 180 degrees just as sharply to the left. The incident would probably have gone relatively unnoticed except for the fact that the flight attendant abandoned the food trolley and ran screaming to the cockpit to see what had happened. I spent the rest of the flight clutching the armrests, realising just how much blind faith in your pilot contributes to a sound and peaceful flight.
[Chapter 12, Planes, p. 111-112]
Is the pope a Hindu? In western countries you'll find it bland and expensive. In the Third World it is cheap and alarming. (It is alarming that you don't know exactly what it is you're getting, what it will taste like or whether it will kill you.)
The Budapest Metro, Hungary
[...] The train was empty except for three men scattered further down the carriage nonchalantly reading newspapers.
The instant the doors slid shut, however, the three men jumped up and surrounded me, pulling up their jacket sleeves to reveal the dreaded red armband of the plain-clothes ticket inspector. It had been such an elaborate and precise sting that I was genuinely sorry that I had a valid three-day pass in my pocket. The inspectors were pretty disappointed, too. They slunk off to another carriage, their spirits broken.
[Chapter 13, Trains, p. 121,126]
Not unless you have some kind of death wish. From the ferries that ply the English Channel to the boats popping between the islands of Indonesia, it is universally bad. On the channel ferries it is bland and expensive. In Indonesia, you'll be struggling to identify it and if you do, you'll rather wish you hadn't.
[Chapter 15, Boats, p. 143]
Mini-vans have two departure times: minutes before you arrive and a couple of hours after.
No matter how full a mini-van appears, it will wait at least an hour in the tropical sun before leaving. If you leave the van to sit in some shade or get a cold drink, its driver will demand that your get back into the van, insisting it is about to leave. Needless to say, it doesn't.
What are tuk-tuks?
Tuk-tuks are three-wheeled, bug-shaped conveyances driven by possessed demons intent on ending their own lives and taking you, and the whole planet, with them. They should be avoided at all costs.
The name "tuk-tuk" supposedly comes from the noise that emanates from these little two-stroke monsters. It makes them sound cute and cuddly and infers [sic] that riding in them is a soothing experience akin to an hour or so in a floatation tank. Nothing could be further from the truth. It's just that the Thai people had a hard time coming up with a name that encapsulated the tuk-tuk experience, although "those ugly, unroadworthy, fume-belching, life-threatening, limb-crunching, overpriced things with three wheels that sound like a jackhammer on speed" goes pretty close.
If you ever do have to use one, I hope for your sake that it doesn't crash. I once saw one in Thailand and it put me off them for life. As it sat spinning on its roof on one of Bangkok's busiest thoroughfares it reminded me of a turtle turned on its back. But then that could have just been the effect of the limbs of the passengers thrashing about wildly as they tried to get out of the wreckage.
[Chapter 16, Other Modes of Transport, p. 151-152,154]
The Kenyan army officers guarding the lonely border post at Kiunga wouldn't let me cross into Somalia unless I left all my valuables with them at the border. They claimed that the Somali Shifta bandits would kill me if they thought I had anything worth stealing. I suspected that they would sell it the moment I got beyond the first rise. Unfortunately, if I wanted to get into Somalia - and who doesn't? - I would have to trust them.
As it turned out, I returned a week later and found all my belongings intact. I must admit, however, that I was disturbed by the fact that they seemed genuinely surprised to see me.
[Chapter 17, Border Crossings, p. 174]
Offending people abroad is pretty much the same as offending people at home. Topics like sex, politics and religion are a lightning rod for robust disputation the world over.
Thankfully, the world being the weird and wacky place that it is, there's any number of more colourful ways to upset local sensibilities. In Asia, using your left hand to eat the evening meal is enough to insult even the most gracious of hosts. In Iran, you can get into strife for looking at someone's wife. In some parts of Africa, you're in trouble if you don't. And in Paris, your mere presence is enough to upset most Parisians.
[Chapter 21, Trouble, p. 209]
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