The purchasing of the ticket was comical as my first destination was far too expensive for this Kiwi’s pocket so I asked for a ticket out of Tibet. With said ticket in hand I went and looked at the map to see where I was actually going. 25 hours should get me half way to Beijing I thought and smiled happily, only to have it wiped off my face when I discovered I was only going to make it to the edge of Tibet and just into mainland China.

Now back to my Cultural Revolution and Tibetan permit gripe. I'll make it quick but I do have to explain why I traveled half way to Mongolia when I wanted to be heading South to Laos. So from Lhasa the only way out of Tibet without paying a nice Chinese man $100 a day plus permit costs, is to take the new and Ultra modern Lhasa express 1754km in the wrong direction towards Russia ….. and that is what I did. Now full credit to the Chinese. The railway, which everyone said was impossible due to the amount of tunneling and the fact that it had to be built on ground that is frozen year round, turn out to be very possible and running like clockwork. They even give access to your own personal oxygen mask just incase the altitude disagrees with you.

"When China awakes, the world will tremble." I believe Monsieur Bonaparte once said. Well to quote another much taller person " Traveling across China in a hurry sucks!"
So here I am, eleven o'clock at night, in a place called Xining (I am sure this translates directly from Mandarin to Kiwi as “whoop whoop”) with two Chinese girls who spoke English and two blokes from Germany also trying to get across China as fast as possible. Now dear reader, having a local that speaks English in China is gift from god himself, because after standing in line for 1 hour you generally find that no one speaks a word of English and sure as hell won't try and sell you a ticket because it is just too dammed hard. With the girls, we found out in seconds that there were no trains for 4 days and they had standing room only (16 hour trip)
At the bus station we found out it was closed and we had to come back at 6am to find out that there was a bus available in 3 days to Xian. Then finally that there were only two hotels in the whole city that would accept foreigners and they were both dives that I wouldn't let my dog sleep in. Another bonus was that we went to a restaurant and actually got and knew exactly what we were eating and the girls ( bless their cotton socks) even paid for the feast.

So 20 hours after I left Xining I was untangling my back pack from a sheep carcass in the rain at the Xian bus station. The 14 hours sleeper bus ride had taken an extra six hours, two of which were loading 30 odd sheep carcasses on board. A sleeper bus… how wonderful I hear you say, yeah sure if you are five foot nothing, but more about this later. First stop was the train station to find that there were no trains to Kuming for four days. It was here that I met Raymond and Jenna from Amsterdam while standing in line dripping wet with my back pack on. They were being annoyed by a guy well before I had turned up and were relieved that he now had me to hassle. This went on for 15 minutes, him talking in Chinese and us telling him that we didn't understand. He keep trying to touch us and being once bitten twice shy about pickpockets and wanting to be anywhere but queuing for a ticket I snapped at him and told him under no uncertain terms that he should leave. (Well that is the printable version and I am sticking to it!) Now the immediate area around me froze as everyone stopped what they were doing and looked in any direction but mine as the Chinese do not like confrontation one little bit. After an hour of standing in line I found that the next train to Kuming was in four days, so Xian it is.

The Center of Xian was surrounded by the old city wall and was quite an amazing sight. This wall was a reconstruction of course and was 7km by 2km and up to 30m high in places. It was interrupted by the occasional watch tower with traditional slanting roofs. Inside the walls housed a buzzing paced city with neon lights, golden arches, and air conditioned shopping malls and a slightly older drum and bell tower.

Xian’s main attraction is the Terracotta Warriors which although are hundreds of years old were only discovered by a farmer in the 1970's. He was awarded 30 Yuan for this amazing find ($4.20) which was a month salary. The life sized warriors are just like they say, made from terracotta and are in three locations in battle formation to protect the emperor of the times mausoleum. Most of the statues have been re-buried as they do not know how to preserve them and till they do, this is the best technique. Now don't worry about our wee farmer, I saw him in the flesh, he is trotting about in a new suit and charges you 30 Yuan to sign a book about the warriors with a big bright brand new smile on his face.

From Xian I said good bye to my Espresso drinking partners Jenna and Raymond and hopped on the train to Kuming to arrive a day and a half later (36hrs) and actually managed to get a night bus that night which took me closer to Laos and my closing deadline of meeting my Dad in a week. I wondered about sampling deep fried food on a stick and generally killed time till my bus a 7pm.

Settling in on my bed in the cramped sleeper I started to feel a little under the weather. Now these buses consist of bunk beds along both windows and then another row of bunk beds in the middle forming two Isles. Your feet go under the persons head in front of you into a steal slanting box that forms the pillow for that person. For the general demographic of China this is fine but when a 6 foot kiwi gets in there, it’s another story. We pulled out of the bus station and are on an express way within minutes, the opening scenes of Rambo 3 are playing and Stallone has even learned Mandarin. Then it happens, my stomach twists inside out and I am trying to make a bee line for the on board toilet. This is easier said that done as I untangle myself from my blanket and head butt the top bunk opposite me, then flapping my wings about elbow the poor women in the bunk above me, and then just because I don't do things by thirds, I managed to stand on the young guy on the bottom bunk opposite. With more pressing things on my mind I crashed down the stairs only to find that the toilet on the bus was locked. The bus attendant not speaking a word of English of course looks at me trying to rip the door of its hinges puts two and two together and then saunters down the bus. I swear to god, I'll do it on the bloody step I yell at her with no increase in her urgency. Now, by this stage I am providing the whole bus with more entertainment than Rambo ever could. I mean just me being on the bus creates a stir let alone running about like a bull in a China shop.

I emerge from the not so sound proof wee box of a toilet to 60 peering eyes and 30 smiling faces and walk red faced back to bed only accidentally banging one other person on the head. So........ two more panicked arm thrashing passenger bashing runs, two more slow attendant bringing me the key walks (She locked it every time!! ) and two more red faced returns, “ just let me off on the side of the motorway thanks” walks of shame back to my bed. Curse that tasty deep fried street food on a stick!

****

I woke up in shock to find an empty bus. Sleepily I stumble out side and find my back pack sitting on the ground beside the bus, “ this is Jinghong then”, I say to no one, making a mental note that I have to stop talking aloud to myself. I contemplate staying here but the draw of Laos spurred me on. Before I know it I am whizzing through the jungle following a dirty brown snaking river smiling and enjoy the sights that rural China has to offer. 6 hours of this and my final stop Mengla appears. I wonder about nibbling on BBQ street food (Yeah I know… slow learner) watching the Friday night proceedings with aerobics in the main square, Karaoke being screamed from bright neon lit bars and families out for walks.

Two final hours of winding through the jungles and the border guard stamped my A4 "group Visa and took it off me. I then left the modern border check point having traveled for 103 hours on public transport from Lhasa without any proof in my passport that I had ever been to China. 20 minutes later I was sitting in a roadside bamboo hut enjoying a cold drink watching a young child play barefoot in the red dust. I returned an infectious smile from a local passer by that didn't leave my face, relaxing and thinking how good it was to be back in Laos.

You Gotta Go There To Come Back! remains copyright of the author djrkidd, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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***

Now, Ladies and Gentlemen, had the forced organized tour that the Chinese Government makes tourist do, so that they can visit their occupied territory, kept up like the last two paragraphs it may well have been worth the money.
However, maybe to some readers delight, the Friendship Highway became just that …. a good highway. The accommodation moved from damp dark dorm rooms (alliteration he he) with leaking roofs and toilets that were a 50m walk away and didn't flush ( they just filled up with shit ) to twin rooms with TV, aircon and hygienic seals on Western flush toilets. The food remained crap with a piece of bread and a boil egg for breakfast, then … “get out here, you have five minutes to take photos!" and “spend your money in the restaurant as I get commission!” and thus the exciting 4x4 adventure turned into an everyday organized tour, … except it had 60 independent travels who didn't want to be on it.
My Aussie tour mates and I did laugh at our non English speaking drivers' consumption of cigarettes and cans of Red Bull. Pumba, as we had affectionately come to name him did add some excitement when he managed to back the landcruiser into me while I was taking photos from a view point and hence forfeited his tip. (Maybe he did speak English after all !!!!)

So, cynical of "China's Tibet"? Yes very! Don't get me wrong people, the country in stunning with dramatic mountains, beautiful lakes and breathe taking vistas. The Tibetan people are amazingly friendly and curious, and brighten your day with beautiful smiles. In the more remote places they are pushing their noses up to the window of restaurants, like kids at a candy shop, looking at what is going on with all these odd looking foreigners…. especially the one with the blond dread locks who they think is the Yeti.

After coming from India and Nepal where everything is for free, ( even when you are getting ripped off) this stepped up to being heavily discounted in China. I was arguing over the price of a bottle of water with a Chinese shop keeper. My argument was that the clearly marked RRP on the bottle was 3 Yuan and that his asking price of 8 was a little steep even for the Himalayas. His argument was if I didn't like it to piss off back to my own country. My counter argument was: “why didn't he do the same!”

Following the irony we arrived one of the most remote and holy cities in the world, Lhasa. I had been looking forward to this moment the whole trip only to have it crushed by multi story concrete buildings, neon signs and Karaoke bars. The fact that it is illegal to bring a photo of the Deli Lama to Tibet and if you try the smallest protest such as wearing a “Free Tibet” tee shirt you will be band from Tibet and Mainland China for life. However, apparently, it is perfectly fine to have hard core porn and sex toy stores on every corner. (Well at least in the area of our tour provided hotel.) I am sure that this is an intricate part of the "cultural Revolution" that I just do not understand.

In the old city Tibetan culture is still struggling along with the hard core carrying out the pilgrims circuit by clapping their hands above their heads in a sort of leg less star jump, then dropping to their knees, then lying down on the ground at full length making sure that they bump their forehead quite hard on the ground. They then stand up and take one step and repeat the whole process, a very committed, all be it, time consuming, and by the look of the bump on their forehead a painful act. The temples set in amazing locations and albeit repetitious are stunning. They mainly consist of a few thousand Buddha's, a couple of gold Stompa’s, enough money offerings to finance the whole trip over again, monks with shaved heads in maroon robes talking on cell phones and drinking coke, and are lit by rancid yak butter candles, the smell of which is hard to get used to.

At this Sera Monastery, they have a stone garden where the monks are allowed to blow off steam and practice their patience in a debating session. When I first got within ear shot of this place I thought the Chinese army was putting down a riot, well, I will let you watch the video of this very peculiar debating practice.

The Potala Palace, the Deli Lama's residence, and you know when he comes to visit. It is an incredible structure, dominating the sky line of Lhasa, although possible more interesting for what you don't see as you wander through 30 of it's thousand or so rooms. But at the end of the day, I think it sucks when you have to deal with the frost nipped faces of Tibetan nomad children on 5000m snowy pass in the middle of nowhere trying to sell you prayer flags. Or when you walk down the streets of Lhasa and the only people begging for money are Tibetan.

Rancid Yak Butter & Altitude Makes Me Cynical. remains copyright of the author djrkidd, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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I walked along chatting with the bus attendant who was very concerned for my well being carrying my small pack. I had to explain that I was training for climbing mountains and then he happily continued with his guided tour as we walked the kilometere to the next bus. I settled in only to go another two kilometres then repeat the process walking 3 km to the next waiting bus. I can only imagine that this bus was caught in between the landslides and now acts as a ferry. I arrived at the small town of Dhunche at about 4pm finding that my pillow of a sack of onions was quite comfy for the ten hours roof top bus ride from the hot dirty streets of Thamel in Katmandu. The roof was a good laugh; the Nepalese thought it was the funniest thing they had ever seen to have a foreigner up there with them. They would joke away and nip down every time we stopped and come back with a tasty, and some times not so tasty, treat for me to try. The best joke was every time we came to an army check point they would check the bus even though there was only a very small Maorist presence in the area I was trekking. The Soldiers would make everyone get down off the roof and cram into the already overloaded bus. We would sit anywhere we could find room from the dash board to the steps. This would only last for as long as the road was straight and the second we got around the corner the bus would stop and a mass evacuation to the roof would take place.

In Dhunche the driver kept saying: “no boss, no boss!”
"Well you didn't need your boss to get here did you mate" I said waving my ticket to Syabru Besi at him only to realise that he was actually saying “no bus” not “boss”. Slightly embarrassed I asked how long to walk to Syabru Besi to find out it was another 3 hours further down the valley. I set out to a chorus of "nameste" from little kids who followed me along the road then asking for sweets or pens (Yes even in the Himalaya there is Western corruption). One child, must have been 3 years old, she stood there looking at me with her big dark eyes, I was towering above her and she stood to attention in her bare feet, placed her hands together as if praying and bowed saying “nameste”, she was the cutest thing I have ever seen, all two feet of her, in this village perched on the side of the hill in the Himalaya.

Had a quick stop at an Army check point that got the blood pumping a little more than the usual thin mountain air. After checking passports and trekking permits the questions turned to money. I suddenly thought, “ hmmm 5 armed, bored, soldiers and I am in the middle of nowhere and let’s face it….. a mobile ATM. However my imagination was soon put into check as they showed me a short cut down the side of the hill and were offering me cheering moral support which echoed across when I made it to the other side of the valley. At this stage I was chatting through a guy that spoke English to school kids dressed in their Navy Blue bottoms and pristine white tops carrying their school bags and getting wet in the rain. Now that the road was out they had to walk the 3 hours to Dhunche to attend the only school in the area … how is that for commitment!

***
The Police officer signed me into his book at the beginning of the track, just below was the convergence of two of the fastest flowing rivers I have ever seen. He looked me up and down then tilted his head to the side and said "Where is your guide? It is very dangerous to trek alone!"
"Ah I am from New Zealand man, I'll be right. You know Sir Edmund Hillary he taught me everything I know!" I grinned cheekily
He looked at me quizzically, "You know Tenzing Norgy?" I sighed. His wrinkled narrow eyes lit up and a huge smile that only a dentist would love spread across his weathered face. "Yes Yes the second man to climb Everest!" he beamed. "Yeah him" I smiled shaking my head really wondering who was right and who was wrong.
"Okay Okay Sir you enjoy your trek" he said shaking my hand. I walked off chuckling to myself wondering what really did happen up there that day.

The trek up to Lungtang took two days from Syabru Besi at 1460m I followed one of the wildest rivers I have ever seen through the hot humid leech infested jungle. Luckily the leeches did not like the Marmite bred blood stock of the Kiwi, but seemed to feast on the odd trekker that I met along the way. With the wet season in full swing the track was full of land slides that in some places plummeted into the white water far below. Even with the latest hiking equipment I found myself in some precarious situations, only then to marvel at the porters supplying the villages negotiating the same terrain in Jandals (Flip Flops) with 40kg loads supported by the foreheads. These Guys work for pretty good money by Nepalese standards at 500 rupees ( 7.70 USD) a day. I steadily climbed out of the lush jungle and discovered weed is just that, as it grows everywhere and anywhere. I finally stopped just out of the tree line at 3000m at the Tibetan guest house at Ghorayabela.

The owner was a very gracious and polite man who had come over the border from Tibet during the "Cultural Liberation" and had never returned. His wife lived 1 hours walk (Two for the normal human) in the next village down the valley and he would walk down to stay the night only if he did not have any guests staying. It was here that I teamed up with an American couple who had been teaching English in Japan, Megan and Dennis. They both shared the same love for the outdoors so we hit it off right away. When I say teamed up, I really mean that I left at the same time the next morning and tagged along with them for the next week.

Most climbing literature states that a climber should not gain more than 300m net altitude gain per 24hrs, meaning that you can climb as high as your body will let you but you must come back down to 300m above where you started that day. With this in mind we climb a total of 850m in four hours and promptly I felt like crap when we arrived in Kyanjin Gompa (3850m). I sat in our smoky tea house drinking milky sweet tea that had been cooked off a yak dung fueled fire. A comedy developed, an old lady, in tradition Tibetan dress, was chasing a cat about that was determined to get inside her hut. I had developed a sharp pain in my stomach a few days ago and it seemed to get progressively worse as I got higher however the bonus was that it only hurt when I breathed so it was optional if I was in pain or not.

We attempted to walk to Lang tan base camp but decided to turn back after we reached the glacier with bad weather and the altitude kicking our ass, we walked back down, and were offered cups of tea from people huddled around their fires inside stone Yak huts sheltering from the storm.

***

We tried throwing rocks into the river to create stepping stones but looked in horror as we realised it was a futile effort as the current of this dirty brown torrent washed away the 20kg rocks we were struggling to move. Out of frustration I took a flying leap and was 100% sure I was going to make it to the small island, I was 100% committed when I found the rock I had used as a take off platform moved from under me, and I less than gracefully landed with one foot on the safety of the island and one foot plunging into the cold raging water. Fortunately only my pride was hurt in my attempt to keep my feet dry and I suppose I did prove that Kiwis really don't fly!

A porter ,struggling under his load, gave us directions to the start of the trail that lead to the summit of Tsergo Ri. After yesterday’s effort we flew up the mountain and reached the yak huts half way up in no time, it’s amazing what a bit of acclimatisation does for you.
We reached the summit in a white out and sheltered under a rock at 5000m, clutching my side and eating peanut butter and granola, as the rain started. We we're considering snaking a trekking peak a little higher but the risk of a $1000 fine and the fact I had forgotten my gloves and was losing feeling in my fingers made drinking hot tea in Kyanjin Gompa much more attractive option.

Leeches, Mud and Thin Mountain Air remains copyright of the author djrkidd, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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Varansi, from the trafficked streets is no different to any city in India, it is just the usual seething mass, busy, dirty and frantic. Step into the heart of this holy Hindu city, in this maze of ally ways winding its way along the Ganga, from ghat to ghat, you are exposed to life in its rawest form. Once you have squeezed past the cows that meander around unbothered by anyone you are greeted by men dressed in bright orange on their pilgrimages to the river to bathe and collect the holy water, their smiles are bright and their welcomes friendly.

On the other extreme are the cremation ghats. Your eyes burn from the smoke from the dead. The families sit and watch as the attendant carries out the grizzly task of burning the bodies. Of the group of only men, the appropriate family member has their head shaved, apart from a little tuff at the back as a sign of their mourning. This is a men only affair as it is feared that if women attend they may cry, thus trapping the soul of the deceased in this world.
Even once they have past away, the dead still have to endure the lack of privacy, as they did during their life in India, the bodies are burnt side by side on the river’s edge in full view of those who care to watch. Of course how well you are cremated depends on how much wood your family can afford to buy, thus partially burnt bodies are set adrift into the Ganges as well as the very poor and the very young.

Then ofcourse life goes on along the banks of this dirty brown river, full of rubbish and weeds. There are holy men giving their blessings, the world’s poorest asking for a hand up, people bathing and drinking, washing their clothes and their dishes. There are holy ceremonies, temples, children playing and people just hanging out being social all along this great body of water, the Ganga. This would have to be one of the most amazing places that I have ever seen in my life.

Mats came back to the hotel, waking me up from my mid afternoon nap saying that a bus was leaving for Katmandu tomorrow. Mats and I had met on the train after I engaged him in conversation with my perfect Swedish; it went something like this..............

"Hej"
"Hej"
inaudible Kiwi/nowhere near Swedish mumble
"AH do you speak English?" with a quizzical look from Mats

Now we were off to the Kingdom Himalaya a lot sooner than I had planned. The bus turned out to be a Land Rover and they managed to fit thirteen backpackers in with their entire luggage on the roof, half covered by a tarp. I was having mixed emotions about leaving India. As frustrating as it was sometimes, I enjoyed the uniqueness of the country and challenges of traveling there. By no means did I reach spiritual enlightenment but then that was never the point of me traveling there, unlike so many people you meet along the way.

The Land Rover pulled into a corrugated iron covered shack, where we stopped for lunch. As we walked in the owner pulled the lid off a fry pan of food that was swarming with wasps.
"Ah you’re right mate, I'll just have that" pointing to a curry that the wasps were not so interested in
While we were sitting eating, the heavens opened and it poured down for 20mins. I watched as our back packs half covered by the token tarp got soaked.

I got up to pay and had to remind the guy that there was a menu on the wall behind him with the prices of the food on it. He apologized as if he had merely made an adding up error rather than bluntly ripping me off. Waiting outside I watch as a man looks in the back windows of the Land Rover seeing if he can get his hands on anything, two minutes later the same guy is walking around with a stick pretending to be blind and asking for money. The driver wants money from everyone before he continues the drive to the border.

We are surrounded by traffic like a log in a current as we enter the border town. I was joking with kids waiting for my back pack when I noticed it running down the road on a guys shoulder.
"Hey I'll carry that myself mate, thank you."
We fill out our visa applications by candle light and as walk out the gate of immigration control, a young guy looks up and says "Welcome to Nepal" with a huge beaming smile.
His grin is infectious and I find myself smiling back excited to finally be in the country I have been dreaming of visiting for years.

Life on the Ganga remains copyright of the author djrkidd, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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I managed to watch a whole episode of “Friends” before Karolina walked into the hotel room, in my book this means that I had made it with plenty of time to spare. The 10 hour trip from the Pakistan border had been better than a feature length movie, I was trapped with my face pressed up against the window of the non air conditioned bus…. this was all I could afford with the few rupees I had in my pocket. Every few seconds something new and amusing would appear and the best thing was there were no ads.

Karolina was over for a two week stint, so our first challenge was to book a train ticket up North towards the Kashmir region. After sitting sweating on the platform for an hour our second class sleeper train finally departed. We arrived 12 hours later at the station. We had to change trains. Karolina had woken in the middle of the night to find a man trying to steal her money belt. Tired and groggy we jumped on the first train we saw, an hour later we realised we were heading back to Delhi. This resulted in a four hour wait at some random station and then five more hours sitting on hard seats as the smaller metre gauge train climbed through the forest to Shimla our final destination which took 20 hours rather than the 13 we had planned. Shimla was spread out on a forested ridge and plunged all the way down to the valley floor. There was no flat ground, you had to climb up or down to access any point you had to go. However this place was a breath of fresh air after Delhi, with the only real hassle coming from the monkeys who were a little too big for their boots.

After two attempts we finally got a bus ticket to Manali, this would have to be one of the scariest bus trips of my life. The road plummeted for hundreds of metres with nothing stopping you from flying off the edge at any moment. The driver would get a run on, going down the hills and then brake heavily at the last minute. He would blindly overtake at any moment which often ended with the bus skidding to a halt and narrowly missing a head on with a truck coming the other way. To my disgust Karolina managed to sleep for most of the journey while I sat white knuckled holding the seat in front of me.

It was a harmless suggestion I made to Marco, a Brazilian guy, that we had gone hiking with. "If you want a photo in the current just swim out and then swim back to shore, you'll be fine mate".

Before I knew it Marco was being swept down river at an alarming rate in frigid glacier melt water. I was running after him try to get in a position to throw my backpack, that conveniently had two empty drink bottles that would have to do as an improvised floatation device. His girl friend Racal was happily taking photos of Marco getting swept away, still not realising the danger. Before I could get close enough Marco saved himself by clinging onto a boulder and get across to calmer water. This was about ten metres before the rapids started properly and went for a few hundred metres. Relieved smiles all round and a good story to tell at the pub resulted.

img=http://www.travellerspoint.com/photos/88996/DSCN2067.jpg]p

The drive up to the pass was slow due to the monsoon washing out the road and overturned and stuck trucks blocking the way. The army frantically worked to fix the road. Soldiers man handled rocks in typical Indian fashion as a bulldozer sat lifeless 20m away. The delays were not a problem though with the climb into the Himalayan foot hills providing some of most beautiful scenery of the trip so far. Then off to the Rohtang pass, at 4000m but still, as we drove through Rohtang a game of cricket was well in progress. Having come from 2000m the short climb to the top of the pass left me breathing like I had just ran up the hill and not slowly walked. The wind caught the blessings from the prayer flags on the summit and blew into the distant snow capped Himalaya.

Manali was a break from "India proper" but before too long it was back on an overnight bus to Delhi and then a train to Agra. The only tickets that were available was in the 3rd class carriage, and, not wanting to be in Delhi a second longer than we had to, we bought them. I knew I was trouble when a police officer stopped me with one foot in the door and asked to see my ticket, when he saw that I was actually getting on the right wagon he rolled his eyes as if to say “well, be it on your own head,” and waved good bye.

Already there was no room in the main section of the carriage so Karolina and I camped in the doorway by the toilets. Soon we were joined by about twenty others in the small area. Sitting waiting for the train to leave I watched the rats darting around outside a shack where a railway worker was cooking. We were surrounded by a family, from grandparents down to a five year old son. Karolina took turns with the rest of the group to use the fan to ward off the mid-day heat. Two tribesmen stood by the opposite door dressed in purple, with long white beards and turbans. The turbans were set with a red stone in the middle and they were holding spears with sharp metal ends that were as tall as the owner. The four hour trip turned into a test of endurance in these cramped hot conditions. I had the Grandmother of the family resting her head on my knees and coughing her lungs out. I truly believed that she was going to die on that train right there in front of me. Now in a country as populated as India it is hard to find any privacy even for the most personal things such as going for a shit and it's not uncommon to see people on the side of the railway tracks going for gold in front of whole train load of people and thinking nothing of it.

Agra was another traveller's hell hole, but hey, you don't come to India and not see the Taj Mahal now do you! A day of being tourist was in order, seeing the impressive mausoleum, the Taj Mahal, that is made of a Mooney white Marble.
The next day the monsoon had caught up with us, it was 5am and we were trying to get to the train station in the down pour. As usual the first Rickshaw wants way too much because his mate is whispering in his ear, wanting his cut. Another bloke turns up and takes us for our asking price. As we drive off the other two can't get their rickshaw to start in the rain. I can't help but grin at them and mouth some unprintable word at these scammers.
Before I could bask in my own glory too long, a minute down the road our rickshaw drove through a puddle and also cut out. I helped push the three wheeled contraption out of the ankle deep water. Before I knew it, two guys from the hotel are demanding money from us, thinking that we were doing a runner without paying. After explaining that there is only one back pack and that there is no way in hell that I am handing over 2000 rupees to a couple of doughnuts on a bike at 5 in the morning another rickshaw appeared and once again we were gunning along to the station. This is the magic of Asia, you never have to look too hard to find what you want.
A quick good bye to Ina and I turn back into the rain and continued my trip once again to face the sub continent by myself.

Welcome to the largest democracy in the World. remains copyright of the author djrkidd, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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Taftan was my introduction to Pakistan; this small border town was on a featureless sandy plain. Over decorated trucks were parked everywhere on the dirty littered streets. I checked in with the army who surprised me with his up to date knowledge of the world cricket situation and then hopped in the back of the Toyota pick up which I had co hired with three other Pakistani guys to cut the 20 hour bus ride down to an 8 hour slog through the desert.

The driver thought he was a cross between Barry Crump and Possum Borne as he tore across the dessert at one of the two speeds that the pick up owned: stopped or flat out. Our only defence from wild camels running in front of us was the driver leaning on the horn.
He would mumble in Urdu at every check point as I slowed him down. I was the only one who had to fill in forms so the army could trace my progress if I failed to turn up somewhere along the drive.

The rocky flat landscape was only interrupted by the occasional mud brick fort or small oasis town with its lush palm trees giving shade to the occupants.
We stopped in one of these towns for lunch. I never thought that rice, lady finger and chapatti could taste so good when sitting on hard dirt floor in the middle this hostile place I had been so often warned against travelling through.

We were hurried back in to the pick up by the driver. He whipped along the single lane of tar seal, then pulled off at the last second to avoid on coming trucks. This move was performed all the time travelling at 120km per hour. Off to the side of the road huge dust twisters formed, maybe 100m in the air. We all looked at each other asking the same silent question, will these things do any damage if they cross our path?

Finally we wound down the hill into the city of Quetta, the capital of Baluchistan on the Pakistani side. At the bus station I was to find out that the bus had already left and that the next one was at 5pm the next evening. Great 22 hours in a town 150km from Kandahar with a large Al-Qaeda presence.
Now I would like to say that the whole trip across Boluchistan was rough and dangerous seat of your pants travelling. However a friend of a friend in Quetta picked me up and delivered me to the only hotel that had rooms and that foreigners were allowed to stay at. This consisted of a 5 star resort that was guarded by high walls and an army of armed police officers. You had to pass through a vehicle check point where your car was searched then before you could get inside you also had to walk through a metal detector.

This peace of mind came at $300US a night, however Ashid pulled some strings and got it at the budget crushing price of $150 US a night. So after giggling to myself and jumping on my king sized bed I had the first decent hot shower in weeks, got some washing done and helped myself to the minibar which I was shocked to find suffered from Prohibition. After gorging myself on the BBQ buffet I came back and watched two movies in English on HBO then fell sleep on down pillows with "you can't afford this" doing circles in my mind.

I went for a wander to stock up on some cash; I went into 4 different banks till I found one that changed traveller’s cheques. Every one of these banks was guarded by 4 or 5 armed officers and everywhere I went the situation seemed tense after the bombings in Islamabad the night before. With a pocket full of Rupees I was walking passed a bank when "BANG"......... I dove behind a concrete post as the bank guards all went to ground pointing their weapons every which way. The Pakistani guy who had been walking in the opposite direction and thought the concrete post also made a great safe haven looked me in the eye and we both started laughing at each other as we relished that it was just a tyre blowing out.

I was sitting on the cramped and dilapidated bus at 5pm, my back pack on the roof. There were another 20 Pakistanis ready for the 23 hour bus ride to Lahore. The road was rough and I must admit I was glad that this part of the drive was done at night due to the wash outs that had already claimed 5 different trucks and buses along the route. In the 23 hours we stopped five times in order to pray. Abdul, the young guy sitting next to me, took me under his wing and fed me spicy potatoes and chapatti from his own packed lunch and helped with the English barrier when it came to chatting with other curious bus members who basically wanted to know what a Gora was doing in this part of their country. At one point, while sitting eating spicy rice with my hands, I look around the restaurant and surveyed the other 60 or so people doing the same and feeling really at ease to be back in Asia.

I had arranged to meet with friends working in Lahore, Abdul lent me his cell phone to ring and arrange a meeting at the bus station. This proved a little harder than first thought as the bus station was a sprawling chaotic mess. In the end Abdul waited over an hour with me till Marks driver picked me up. It turned out that Abdul was not a student as he had told me at the beginning of our journey, he was actually a police officer and concerned for my safety.

Two hours later I was sipping my first beer in a month and enjoyed listening to Kiwi accents while being pretty happy with myself for still having all my fingers and toes.

The begining of the end if I wasn't already in the middle! remains copyright of the author djrkidd, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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Three days it took to get that piece of paper through that slot in the window. Three days of mauling in 45 degree heat like an All Black at the world cup. Three days.... only to be told "No Sir, you must apply in Islamabad" by the white collared official who was dealing with all 73 Visa applications that day.

"No I'm not going to Islamabad it's too dangerous!" I stammered in frustrated disbelief.

"Then book a flight to India" he retorted
"Can't…. travelling overland" I replied.
"We don't issue visas to people travelling overland, it's too dangerous" He smirked envisioning the danger.

"Yeah but..." I trailed off as I saw the look of nonchalance on his face and lost my purchase on the window to be spat out of the crowd like I had been caught in an avalanche.

At this point I could hear the clock ticking as I had to meet a friend in Delhi in 10 days and hadn't even got the application through the window. As a last ditch effort I rang Mat from the New Zealand Embassy who I had met on the first day of the visa sager when I had to get a letter of Introduction three days ago and had the following conversation.

***

"Ah Yeah Kia Ora Mate I need a Letter for these plonkers at the Indian Embassy" I muttered into the intercom in my thickest Kiwi accent.
"Yes okay sir, are you a New Zealand citizen?" was the reply.
'What do you think you doughnut'......... "Ah yes sir" I replied
Now being on my own little patch of Aotearoa in the Middle East things still went as smoothly as I had hoped. I had my letter in two shakes of a lamb’s tail and Mat even come out and had a chin wag about my trip that went along these lines.

"So where are you from?" he asked.
"Te Kuiti" I beamed.
"Oh yeah I'm from Taupo, do you know such and such? Wow travelling overland that’s quite a trip"
"Yeah I know, once in a lifetime" I smiled
"Pakistan is really dangerous at the moment I don’t advise you to travel through it. Balunchestan it's the Wild West down there."
"Yeah so I heard" I smiled meekly
"So I am going to finish up here in a month and study in the states?
"Oh cool"
"Islamabad is about to kick off, some gun men have taken over a mosque and Quetta that was where that guy had his head cut off"
"Righty ho, I'll be right mate"
"So how was London?" he asked
"Yeah good"
Be careful around Zahiden people have been getting shot there lately
"Will do mate, well thanks for the letter".........'and the pep talk'.

***

"Yeah Mat, Dave, hey these guys won't give me a visa aye" I seethed down the mobile phone I had borrowed from a guy who had been queuing with me for the last two days.
"Alright mate give me 15 minutes and I’ll see what I can do for ya" he replied.

14 minutes later I was in an office being yelled at by an Indian man in a blue shirt.
"I have just had your Embassy on the phone telling me that we are putting you in danger by sending you to Islamabad" he yelled.
“You are!" I said flatly, looking directly into his eyes.
"Okay so what do you want?" he screamed.
"A tourist visa" I retorted meeting his volume.
"When do you want it?"
"Sunday, and I want to pick it up in Zahiden!"
"Zahiden?" he said turning a scarlet
"Yes Zahiden Sunday!" I said not believing where this was going.
"Fine" he said showing me out of his office
"Fine" I said still matching his raised voice.

***

Sitting in a hotel room in Shraiz feeling a little nervous doing my last minute preparations of hiding 70 quid in my shoes and stashing my passport and remaining money down pant’s internal pocket I shouldered my back pack took a deep breath and headed to the bus station.

"Are you sure you want to go to Zahidan Mister" the ticket inspector asked?
"Ah yes" was my quizzical reply.
A few hours into the journey the two young lads started up. After the usual where are you from questions I was asked to give my opinion on sex, religion and politics in that order. In these guys opinions, you just went to a bar, snapped your fingers and the girls in the West would come home with you. Their English and the stubborn pre-conceptions made it very hard for me to break this change of thought. In fact he was convinced that if I took his email address I could give it to girls in my country and get him a wife.

I had to laugh when they found out that I planned to go to Pakistan from Iran. The second one started up "why you go there, its very dangerous many bad people!" I felt like saying funny they said the exact same thing when I said I was heading to Iran. At this stage the Pakistani guy sitting beside me spoke up in defence of his country and before I knew it a heated debate over Islam had raging for half an hour with lots of gesturing at me with no explanation, I sunk lower and lower into my seat and watch the never changing desert scenery.

The next morning as the sun rose over the rocky horizon I noticed a mud brick tower on a slight rise just on the side of the road. Outside were four Toyota pick ups one with a 50 cal. machine gun mounted on the roof. As we passed a man dressed in a white Baluchi with a turban came off the tower yawning and stretching with an Ak47 in that same out stretched hand. Then to my absolute horror a second man out the front of the tower broke into a smile as our eyes locked for a split second as the bus whizzed by. These guys definitely weren't solders and I spent the next thirty minutes trying to ward off a heart attack.

Zahidan was a dusty frontier full of mud brick houses and shifty looking bearded men and nervous boy solders. I had to wait outside the Indian embassy for 3 hours until it opened a 9am. I made friends with the police officers guarding the Consulate and sat and drunk tea and showed them photos of Iran. The first clue I may have been over my head was the machete sitting besides the driver’s seat in the policeman’s personal car. Then the next shock came when the policeman’s replacement came, as this man was getting changed into his uniform for his shift he asked his mate to pass over his side arm. To my horror I watched as this man pointed the weapon at his mate’s head slowly squeezing the trigger. From my vantage point on the floor I could see that it had bullets in the breach, all I could do was hold my breath and wait for the bang. The policeman’s child who was sitting on the bottom bunk thought that this was a great game and was giggling away with his father holding the gun. Then he spun and faced me broke open the revolving breach holding the 6 bullets tipped them into his hand passed one to me for a look then passed the ammunition and the gun to the new policeman, all the time laughing and smiling like it was a water pistol. I quietly excused myself and went for a walk to find breakfast.

Back in the consulate I was the only one there and was seen to with a minimal wait. To my dismay I was told the consulate knew nothing of me and that I should come back in the afternoon. I had hoped to cross the border this day minimizing my exposure to this area which was only a hundred kilometres from the Afghani border and drug smuggling and bandits were rife.
Returning in the afternoon I was told to come back tomorrow and I could get my visa. I then spent the rest of the afternoon walking around in the 50c heat trying to find a place to stay. I walked across town and was waiting outside the consol bang on 9am. My man told me that I could get my visa in the afternoon, which, due to the border closing at 4pm meant one more night in the bustling metropolis of Zahidan.
This time a young bolshie man from the Gulf area walked me to a cheap hotel that flipped out when I couldn't produce a passport or visa. (It was in the Consulate) They also confined me to my room saying that if I wanted to go anywhere I was to arrange a police escort through them. I found this laughable seeing that I had been walking around town for a day and a half now without being taken hostage and making home videos for any wantabe terrorists.

My usual three policemen picked me up in the morning, two of them armed with AK47's and all smiles. They drove me out to the edge of town passing all the black market fuel sellers with a blind eye. Petrol is rationed to 3L per day so there is a huge demand for black market fuel which they sell blatantly at extortionate prices right outside the gas stations. We parked up on the edge of town; I watch families washing and collecting water from a communal tap. I was then ferried into another car with 3 even younger cops. The driver thought he was in a Die Hard movie and took off wheels screaming. He had me at the taxi stand in 5 minutes flat, took down my details, took down the taxi's details that I was to travel in, manhandled me into the taxi office out of sight of the gathering crowd and then left me there to wait till the taxi became full.

I waited nervously as the driver signed in with the police at the first check point. It was like the moment you hang your legs out of the plane during a sky dive you really don't want to make your body leap but you know in reality that you have passed the point of no return.

They are called Go Forwards because they don't go backwards! remains copyright of the author djrkidd, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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***

The Train was stifling as I fought my way into the small 4 person sleeper, an older couple followed me in so I threw my pack on the top bunk and sat in the corner and sweated while they fluffed about. As we pulled out of the station they turned to me and asked "where are you from?" Then burst into big smiles and laughter at my reply. This was followed buy the seemingly more frequent question of "what on earth is someone from New Zealand doing in the former USSR?"
"Ah" was all I had managed when Slovene answered his own question on my behalf "you're on an adventure" he boomed slapping his thigh with his hand and beaming at his wife. With that I was adopted by my new Georgian parents who then helped me negotiate the rather slow and all in Russian Georgian/Azeri border and of course showed me the usual local hospitality of feeding me up to my eye balls on bread, cheese, egg and cucumber. "This is for you, here eat some more" fussed Slovene's wife in true mother hen style till I could hardly move.

As I stood outside waiting for the others to make their beds I was giving thanks that they did not follow the other local custom of Chacha (the local Vodka ) which, to be honest, could double as varnish remover. I rubbed my poor stomach and shuddered at the other night that had seen me passed out on the tiles in my guest house in close proximity to the toilet. I thought the battle was won when the 500ml bottle was drunk over dinner only to be horrified when Gaylar, the baker from across the road, produced a two litre coke bottle filled with the stuff and re-filled the more decadent glass bottle he had on the table. Try telling someone that was probably bottled fed on Vodka from birth, that, no, you really can't drink any more. You get a look that says they think you want to stop breathing oxygen.

***

I recognized one of the five from my own cabin, the other man thrusted the bottle at me and bellowed "you come drink Chacha" while pointing at me with his index finger from his paw like hands.

"Ah crap!" I shuddered and then shrugged, well a Kiwi's got to do what a Kiwi's got to do, and in the name of international relations I took up the last seat in the cabin and knocked back the shot that was placed into my hand in one go, as per local drinking law. After asking my name and where I was from it was like I had arrived at Auckland and was drinking Battery acid and eating strong sausage and bread with my 5 oldest friends. One of these guys with a beaming smile managed to name three major cities back home, came out with "James Cook" the stumbled out into the corridor and did a cracking rendition of the Haka. The ransom was pretty light, as this time when the bottle finished, that was it and I was made to swap skype address so that they could call me. I sure that the conversation at the time seemed like it was flowing quite nicely and with that I was freed and allowed to wobble my way back to my bunk.

***
Driving through the desert of Azerbaijan watching the oil pumps rock back and forwards like hammers, I was fuming. I had been ripped off by the money changer big time, the first taxi driver wanted $20 for the ride and when told where to go he decide to keep my back pack hostage in the boot. However, tip to future taxi drivers, when you have someone's stuff locked in your car don't point at that person swearing at them with the keys to the said car in the same hand, because said Kiwi will grab your keys, unlock the boot, retrieve the back pack, throw the keys in the boot, smile, and say "later sucker!" and of course waves as the Kiwi drives by in a cab for quarter of the price while the former cab driver is still dicking around trying to get the keys out of his locked car. The bus station had been a mass of people, fumes and noise but I managed to get a ride to the Iran border. Now as we drove through the desert that stretched as far as the eye could see to my right and to the glittering blue Caspian Sea on my left, on a bus without air conditioning, all I wanted was a bottle of water. But all I could do was sit there fuming and roll the dry lump of meat I had for a tongue around my mouth. I couldn't not use any of my small notes because they were ripped. I thought US dollars would be king but whenever I pulled these ripped bills out of my pocket they screwed their noses up like I was offering them used toilet paper.

***

As the third police officer checked my passport within 100m of where it had just been stamped more out of curiosity than a matter of security I thought that their actions summed up my very short experience of Azerbaijan. Walking down the road with the bored policemen at my back , supervising the holes that were being dug in the road that joined Azerbaijan with Iran, I began to get a twinge of excitement that I have not felt in a long time. Normally when I cross a boarder I am slightly nervous or sometimes indifferent but this time I was smiling to myself as the metal plates, on the bridge across the bread filled river that forms the countries divide, banged and shifted under my weight. The day was perfect, warm and cloudless. Birds were singing and I even caught my last glimpse of the Caspian glittering light blue diamonds.

The first Persian I met was the berka clad immigration official who, as per my preconceived perception, looked at my passport, then at me and yelled "where is your pass port?"
"That is my passport" was my bemused reply
"This is not passport! Where is your pass port?" she scowled giving me that look that only a woman can
"Well princess I don't know what to tell you!" I chuckled abusing the language barrier.
Finally someone came and translated asking where I was from and what my name was with that information I was stamped in and on my merry way to the customs hall.

I was met again by another black clad young lady who looked at my name and asked me giggling, why I have three names in regard to my two middle names my parents blessed me with.
"Well my Mum got a little carried away when I was born" I smiled a little embarrassed. She then went on to read out my name and explained where I was from to everyone in the hall and after the commotion settled she turned to me and gave me the warmest smile I have ever seen and said "Welcome to Iran David."

***

Hamid caught my eye as I walked into the bus station mainly because he look so out of place with his very western style of clothing topped of by a pair of aviators. He hung back watching me buy my ticket, like a four year old would from behind a mother's legs. Later he appeared while I was eating my first Kebab which consisted of mince meat and had a few uncooked onions thrown for good measure. He helped me change some money after a fun session of him trying to use his few words of English and me my few words in Farsi. Hamid was then leafing through my guide book and saw a picture of a water pipe, he pointed and I nodded and before I knew, I had been thrown in the back of a taxi and brought to a tea house. A mint flavoured pipe was produced and he soon had me drinking Cay in the Persian way of holding a sugar cube between my teeth and sipping at the hot brown tea that comes in a small tulip shaped glass. With the use of photos, sign language and the phrase book we managed to communicate rather well and the only cost to me (because he refused to let me pay a cent) was that I was paraded down the main street to be shown off to his friends. Hamid then carried my back pack to the bus and put me in the front seat behind the driver. This turned out to be far from ideal for an overnighter as the bus was equipped with a fog horn from the USS Abraham that was used far too often. He then shook my hand and waved me off like a mate from London at the start of this trip.

***
I had just endured the horror of another squat toilet and was washing my hands when the old timer next to me started up in Farsi making a gesture of flipping something over in his hands and using my confused smile as consent. He abducted me, he almost frog marched me to a restaurant across the road. I was met by the wide and confused eyes of his three sons. These young men were the pride and joy of their Father who enthusiastically mimed what his boys did with a beaming smile while looking very chuffed. From his actions and the fact that all their hands and forearms were filthy, I guessed that these guys were wielders. The food soon appeared and it was the world famous Kebab again which I was then shown how to eat with my hands, after shyly starting with a fork. I was sitting there, when suddenly all eyes were on me, it took a while to twig but they were all waiting for me to finish my drink before they got up to leave. Such manners and hospitality, I could not force the 10 000 riel note into anyone's hands to cover the cost of my meal.

I could write many paragraphs about random abductions that turn into free guided tours, meals in people's homes or just tea and a chat, about amazing politeness and humbling hospitality along with an incredible sense of welcome that I have received from this, the axis of evil! In fact since I have been typing this blog the taxi driver that gave me a lift has come back over half an hour later and given me the post cards that I left in his car. He had a joke that the heat must be getting to me as he found out that I gave the exchange guy 60 dollars instead of 50 which he then gave back to me with the Rials I had asked for. Another man persisted with me when I smiled and said sorry I'm not sure what you are saying, ignoring him by keeping on typing, he then reappeared a few minutes later with a delicious meal of chicken and rice and a cold drink from the birthday that is going on, gave this to me, smiled and went and sat down again. I had a blood nose while sitting here and when I went and got a tissue you would have though I had been shot the fuss that was made over me. Check out these kids in the video I was reading my book and they come over and just chilled out asking heaps of question and the now and then would break into song and dance.

So yes Iran has a crap government and if that is a reason to invade a country then, certain so called "super powers" should have been attacked a longtime ago. The people here are truly amazing and if anyone should be shot it is the tools in the CNN and BBC that lead the so called free people of the West, including myself , to believe Iran is a country of AK47 toting Islamic extremist who want to destroy the US at all cost.

Right I have had my rant so I am going to get of my high horse have some tea and hope that I get kidnapped again, its fun! I seriously hope anyone that reads this seriously puts their preconceptions aside and considers Iran as a travel destination. As put by one back packer, if there was a "back packing scale of difficulty" then Iran would be at the bottom.

Kidnapped in the Axis of Evil remains copyright of the author djrkidd, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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It's been seventeen days since “VISA! VISA! VISA!" Was yelled at me by the bear of a man with sweat dripping from his forehead, as he slapped my passport with paw- like hands.

"He didn't need one comrade," I said, cringing at my own bad joke, nodding at Dutchie who had just been stamped in without a problem.

"YOU VISA" He yelled unbuttoning the second button of his Soviet style uniform in a vain attempt to fight the rising heat inside his tin hut.

"Well, can I buy one?" I smiled rubbing my thumb and forefinger together using a language that knows no boarders and praying that I had not waited an hour in the hot sun, fighting my way to one small window through a maul of people only to get sent back to Turkey.

"Wait over there" pointed the somewhat more composed colleague of the first boarder guard.

After the exchange of some rather worried looks from my latest travel companions Jeroen and Tieuwen, it turned out that, ironically, all I had to do was walk across the boarder into Georgia and exchange some money for the local Lari and come back and pay for my visa.
Fighting my way back to that same window my mate stamped me in, even though my visa didn't correspond with my passport saying my name was Robert. Bemused the three of us watched the going ons under that hot tin roof as we were shepherded through search area by grim looking boarder guards. People fought and yelled as they jostled for position to have there bags searched. One woman was screaming hysterically as she went from guard to guard pleading her case only to be turned away with a solemn shake of the head and then increase her wailing by another octave.

"Jeese lads, didn't think I was going to get in there for a moment" I grinned from the front seat of the Mercedes taxi that was taking us from the boarder to Batumi.

I let the jab about how good an EU passport was lie, while I enjoyed the ride along the coast and contemplated if the Black Sea was appropriately named.

The idea of course was great in theory! Instead of back tracking to Ezerum in Turkey and picking up my visa for Iran, I would arrange to get it sent to Tbilisi. This would allow me to explore more of Georgia and even get to tack Azerbaijan onto my route. One week I was told by the visa agency to transfer collection points, perfect! With that I arranged my Azerbaijan visa and everything started to fall into place.

"Don't lose count lads!" was the common call as we counted the stops to the bus station. Seeing everything is in Georgian ,which has no aspect of the English (or in fact any European Language about it ) even the Metro has the distinct possibility of getting you lost.

Walking across the dusty tarmac pad that formed the bus station was like another world compared to the modern laid back Rustavali area in the middle of the city. Beggars and street vendors intertwined for our custom. Little tornados of dust and litter swirled around us as we negotiated the Mini Buses spread across the area like an army about to invade. Of course the lack of a common language made for frantic hand signals that sent us across the far side of the chaotic sprawl. I had to contend with taxi drivers who would beep their horns and run over trying every trick in the book to get your custom. "No mini buses to Kazbegi' or "the next one leaves in 3 hours" and they sure don't know where in the bus station they leave from. Finally we found our man, then painfully waited in the green Marshuka in the heat surrounded by a weeks worth of groceries, lengths of wood and other space hogging supplies for there to be enough passengers for us to depart.

The spectacular drive to Kazbegi along the Old Military Highway was interspersed with remote towns, high mountain passes, random stops at water falls to get drinking water and sheets of dried fruit to snack on forced upon the three unsuspecting foreigners. Finally after four hours along a winding, avalanche prone roads, that were covered with a patch work of potholes, towered over by bright green mountains with grey snow covered tops, we were taken to a guest house. Of course we had to endure an unintentional tour of the town as we dropped off every other passenger at their door step and the driver stopping to shoot the breeze and discuss his exotic cargo to friends along the way.

Kazbegi is situated in the North of Georgia 3 miles from the Border with Russia, which unfortunately for the Dutch lads who were heading that way was closed due to the ongoing tensions in the Chechen province. Besides the Russian jeeps driving around, and the impromptu rubbish dump the river has become, the small town reminds me some what of Mt Cook Village back home. Surrounded by mountains with Mt Kazbegi itself making an impressive backdrop and overlooked by a monastery perched on a hill an hours walk out of town.

With visa requirements looming and flights to Moscow for my Dutch travel colleagues, it was squeezed into the back of a moron Lada with the man's sister sitting in the front for the bumpy ride back to the capital on none existent suspension. Of course money had to be collected from the local shops as well as boxes that were precariously attached to the roof followed by a quick fuel stop at some guys shipping container having consulted the price at the petrol station first. A twenty liter container was produced and emptied into the Lada as the fumes filled the back seat and added to the tension of getting home in one piece. However we wound our way down the steep pass without incident and I even managed a chuckle as we started to head down the flat pot hole free highway with out a sheer drop in sight and the Georgian pair in the front put on their seat belt explaining that there were police patrols.

I collected my visa for Azerbaijan and then set myself in the routine of checking my emails expectantly for the visa authorization code so I can go to the Iranian embassy collect my visa and head to Baku. I have a coffee shop, where the girl smiles and says "double espresso David? I'll bring it out to your table." I have a beggar that leans on his crutch and pinches the skin of his throat between thumb and forefinger in the local sign for food. His eyes smile behind his bearded face despite his hard life on the street. Even though he takes it as a matter of fact when I give him money it is my source of karma that I will get my visa today. The Routine that I left behind in the UK and that I always think that I crave after a series of over night bus trips and town hopping is now driving me insane and all I want is to get back on the road again.

"So you want to come over to the baker and have some dinner?" Carlo suggested after wondering across to buy local cheese bread called Kuchapuri for dinner. Carlo was from Holland and was riding East on his motorbike. The Baker to whom he referred was called Gaylar and although he spoke only a few words of English he had shown us the local hospitality on a few occasions with dinner and a few beers.

It was a hot night and the small bakery was made even hotter by the stove as I walked in and surveyed the potentially messy scene before me. I was met by two large topless hairy Georgians, a girl called Nena who hadn't escaped the usual hard face gifted to the Caucus women and an older smartly dressed man called Trango. A meal was laid out on the small red plastic table more distressing than the site of topless barker Gaylar and his Friend Darto was the bottle of Vodka that had just now been opened. The better seats were gifted to Carlo and me while Darto steadied himself on a coke crate and beers were poured and food was served.

I would have given the first bottle twenty minutes before it was finished. Due to slight communication difficulties every time a conversation line was exhausted a toast was proposed and the Vodka had to be drunk in one go according to the local custom. Well flattered by the hospitality we felt obligated to supply the next bottle and flagons of beer and well let’s just say by the time the meal was finished and the second bottle of paint stripper like spirit with it the group was happily communicating through an international slur!

A brief conversation in Georgian was held and then Darto bellowed 'David, Carlo you leave now" thinking we had escaped with minor causalities we headed back towards the home stay only to be swept up and separated into two waiting cars. After a quick joy ride of the city stopping on the hill to take in the impressive view of Tbilisi at night we ended up at a restaurant that consisted of terraces on split levels over looking the river running through the centre of the city. Another meal is ordered and of course some beers and of course another bottle of Vodka was produced and another round of toasts were made.

Darto got up and sang a Georgian ballard and was surprisingly good, dancing took place and more toasts were made till the bottle was extinguished. This was followed by another tour through the city which through an alcohol induced haze I did show some concern when even our driver put on his seat belt and I scratched around to find that none were fitted in the back. After this random and pointless joyride around town we were unceremoniously dumped outside our home stay and I gladly crawled into bed.

It's been the same routine all week, the novelty of being a foreigner has worn off. I don't want to have my photo taken by curious strangers. Today, after another night of stress induced fitful sleep, I went to the Metro to find that the prices had doubled when I handed over my 1 lari didn't get any change. I tried to explain but after wasting my breath stormed off in a rage that I had paid two and a half times the new fee. A laughable thought with that same hindsight, as it was less than 30p I was so upset about, when I usual pay 3 quid for the same journey in London. Walking down the street I didn't get any of the challenging stares from the young men I passed, today I was the one shooting daggers and I was given a wide berth. However today when I checked my email there was my parole notice in the form of a visa authorization code and with that, the stressed melted away. I had a good laugh at myself and realized that Georgia is not such a bad place to be stuck in after all.

Tbilisi My Prison remains copyright of the author djrkidd, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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I had the feeling of condemnation as the cook went out and helped carry more of these bags from the boot of the car parked outside in the 30 degree heat. Then all I could do is laugh as the burly Greek owner pulled one of the heads out of the bag and made some sort of eating gesture to his fingerless colleague while allowing a pool of blood to form in the middle of the diner floor which, of course, was mopped up with immediate effect from the staff and customers alike, walking it around.

Hoping for the best, I high tailed it to my boat, comforted in the fact İ had a few magic potions in my first aid kit incase of such eventualities, and sat on the deck, itching some rather large welts from whatever parasite I had been sharing my bed with, while admiring my new Pakistan visa, giggling.

Besides looking at some old columns, my main reason for even stepping foot in Athens was to buy myself some travel insurance in the form of visa for Pakistan and in turn, away out of Iran.

Dressing appropriately and after walking around some random suburb of Athens for an hour I entered the Pakistan Embassy which consisted of a 4 by 6m room and about 50 Pakistan nationals filling out forms at one end, fighting their way to the glass booth at the other end, then waiting for their name to be called out and repeating the process. After fighting my way to the front I acquired the required forms and despite some harsh stares from those around me, filled them out stifling a laugh at the redundant number dispenser on the wall with the sign 'Please wait for your number to be called.'

Returning the forms to my new mate I was asked to come inside to be asked a few questions. ''For your own safety Sir'' the guy said in perfect Queen's English.

After a verbal examination, including reference to my sanity and lack of preparation, I had to dance around the fact of not having a visa for India ....and why didn’t İ do all this at home. Eventually after talking about the beauty of Pakistan and the future of the cricket team I was told to come back tomorrow with an address of someone that lived in the country.

Bright and early I turned up to drop of the address and crack on with some sight seeing in my usual uniform of shorts, tee shirt and jandals, see photo below. However the five minutes turned into 3 hours as I sat there getting death stares, wishing my shorts would grow into trousers and my jandals into shoes. Finally a friendly face appeared at the window beckoning me to come around to the door and once again to enter the embassy proper.

Already a little apprehensive all I could do was giggle when he told me that the Ambassador wanted to meet me before he issued the visa and welcomed me inside with a bowing hand and only a cursory glace at my attire.

You know that dream when you go to school naked? Well that’s basically what this was as İ sat before this immaculately dress man thumbing through my visa application and passport.
'Are you David James Robert Kidd?' he asked in that perfect English looking at me through spectacles perched on the end of his nose.
'Yes' İ replied feeling like I was 16, and in the principal's office with that big dumb grin on my face.
A few more identification questions and again with itinerary for my own safety etc etc.
Then, 'David, what is the purpose of your visit to Pakistan?'
'Well you see sir, my government has sent me to act as a spy!' ( Now I know I shouldn't say crap like this but I was over come in the moment.)
'Yes, that’s right; we want to know why you are so good at cricket because quite frankly we are tired of losing!' İ said before cracking a big smile and holding my breath gauging the reaction of the two officials.
After a shocked stare, a little chuckle emitted from the ambassador’s mouth and the other man followed suit. I then went on to explain the true purpose of the trip, followed by some small talk about our two countries and İ walked out Visa in hand. I waited till I was on the street in front of the armed guards of course to yell out 'He Scores!' and do a little victory dance. I could see them weighing up whether to arrest me or shoot me on the spot and high tailed it to the metro.

***

I had just finished taking a few photos of the sun set from the Stern of the ferry when I went from wondering if I was going to be sick, to running to the toilets, collecting all my worldly possessions in a fluid motion knowing dam well that I was going to be. As I reached the sanctuary of the toilet door I was shocked to find them locked. Well nothing for it but a very impressive (if I do say so myself) projectile vomit over the side resulted. Who would have thought seagulls enjoyed kebab?

No worries I thought as I sorted myself out in my own private corner of the deck, I have all sorts of stuff in my bag, only to open my first aid kit and to find I had left half of the contents, including my anti nausea tablets, on the top bunk in a back packers in Spain. CRAP! The result, I was curled up for 8 hours on the damp toilet floor below deck feeling extremely sorry for myself and providing some mild entertainment for the rest of the passengers as I made a pilgrimage, every 10 minutes, to hug the porcelain like a long lost friend.

***

Now only I can ask for a ticket and have the name repeated to me, pay perfectly good money for the ticket, get on a boat and be surprised when I get off at 4am that I am on the wrong Greek Island, one 300km North of where I wanted to be and feeling like death warmed up. I was faced with another ferry journey and 6 hours of buses to get to where I want to be. Now don’t any of you start up with that "it’s not the destination it’s the journey" verbal diarrhoea! That is only said by glue sniffing hippies who have been stuck in places like Goa or Nimbin for the past decade and are too stoned to go home. If Choıs had an airport I am pretty sure I would have been on the next flight home.

Sitting on the dock in the dark, Ipod on, feeling like I had cracked every one of my ribs I started to come right. As the sun rose I could make out the out line of some hills in the distance..... Asia! there it was one month late but within reach.

The first thing to reach my ears as I stepped onto Otogar was an "Alright Mate" in a thick cockney accent. I couldn't believe my eyes as I walked through the resort town of Bodrum, I thought I may have been done again by get on the wrong boat and ending up in the UK. The prices on the menus were quoted in pounds sterling, the streets were full of bright red people walking around in swim suits and the pubs full of men covered in tattoos, knocking back pints, talking football and abusing the power of the pound in their so called paradise and then happily stumbling out to the hired scooters and riding home legless.

22 hours after leaving Athens I downed my first proper meal of a donor kebab..... I know, slow learner, you might say but that was the only thing that was in my price range. I crashed on my mattress on the roof of my hostel, again the only place catering to my budget. I was woken up at 04:45 by the Turkey that I remember, as the call to prayer screamed at top volume from the minarets of the mosque next door.

İt´s not all beaches, cocktails and topless foriegn ho remains copyright of the author djrkidd, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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Warning bells were ringing the second I couldn't see Tirana on the bus timetable and minutes later it was confirmed by that sick feeling in your stomach as the words “there are no buses to Albania"! rolled out of the ticket booth girl’s lips.

You know the feeling, I mean the one when you realize you are a million miles from home all by yourself in a foreign country and all your best laid plans are falling apart around you and no one gives a shit.

Sitting on my back pack in the corner of the bus station in Podgorica, Ipod turned up full (Music is the best therapy some very wise traveller had once taught me) working out the logistics of getting to a border 50km away in the middle of the mountains with no public transport. This was when a guy approached me and offered to drive me to the border for 25 Euro. Of course I tried to get him to drop the price to which he bluntly replied "do you see anyone else offering you a lift?”

"Do you have the saying, up shit creek without a paddle here?" I asked.
"You want a ride or not" he blink at me with a look of confusion on his face.
Before I knew it my back pack was in the back of his pride and joy ,1987 Mercedes, and we were racing along long straights surround by kilometres of vine yards on either side of the road. My man gave me comprehensive instructions on Albania: don't eat off the street, don't wander around at night and don't take photos at the border. However the key tit bit was that I had to somehow get from the border to the town of Shkodra, something that had not been mention in the negotiations at the bus station.

Sweat was running down my back as I walked passed the line of trucks and approached the smiling but slightly puzzled border guard. Without even checking my photo he gave my passport a stamp and then demanded 10 euro for the privilege of entering Albania, I did think about pointing out the fact that he had already given me the visa but after eyeing up his side arm and the remoteness of where I was, I thought better of it as I crossed the border and found myself thinking I had made it to Asia already, as I dodged potholes, broken down cars, donkeys and rubbish thrown everywhere.

As I walked down the road that followed the shores of Lake Shkodra trying to thumb a ride, I was kicking myself for not stocking up on more water as buildings in the distance blurred and did a little dance in the heat wave emitting out of the potholed road stretching out in front of me. It wasn't long before another Mercedes driver pulled over and offered me a lift to Shkorda. "10 Euros" he demanded!
"Come on man, how about a student discount" I ask quickly becoming demoralized by my euros being sucked into this Balkan vacuum.
Ha Ha, he laughed "look where you are" he waved with his hand, "you don't want to spend a night out here my friend".
So with both drivers adding up about the safety at night along this highway, and believe it or not, self preservation is quite high on my priorities, I gave in and slumped in the back seat enjoying the air-conditioned comfort as we flew down potholed roads, blindly overtaking any slower moving road user while leaning on the horn every three seconds.

We rattled down the unsealed main street of Shkorda until we pulled up beside a clapped out mini van which I was told to go sit in after being given a coffee flavoured sweet for the road from my driver.
An hour later the wagon was full enough to depart and once again I found myself holding my breath as we carried out the standard driving techniques of Albania, this time as the driver drummed away to some hard house CD which comes to be the norm on this form of transport.

Finally we reached Tirana and I was deposited on the side of the road at some busy roundabout on the out skirts of town. I asked a guy that was on the bus with me to show me where I was on my map and then asked him how to get to my hostel.
"Ah just jump in the taxi with me I am going that way myself" he said with a beaming smile. After waiting for me to change some money, we drove across town making the usual small talk. I just thought he was trying to scam a free taxi ride but didn't really care as I was grateful for the help.
Upon arrival my new mate, Arnu, paid the taxi driver and then proceeded to ask around five different shops as to where my hostel was. After walking me to the door and refusing payment for the taxi he wished me a good stay and wandered off on his way. The best thing was that over the next few days this was the kind of help I received on so many occasions everywhere I went. Under a country that at first glance is frantic and worn, there are amazing genuine friendly people that show hospitality like nowhere else I have been.

Albanian Economics 101, the “I have You By the Balls” theory remains copyright of the author djrkidd, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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This single lane road wound its way up into the lush green Bosnian mountains following an electric blue river a few hundred metres vertically below us. This road turned from a single car width of tarmac into what would be best described as a farm track. The only thing stopping us from plummeting over the edge was the occasional rusted length of guard rail and the ability of the driver to smoke cigarettes, chat with his mates and tune the radio while occasionally concentrating on the job at hand. Every so often we would pass a sign with a picture of falling rocks. These had been used for target practice with a good few bullet holes in them. By the looks of the football size rocks lying on the road, they had not just been put up by some roading contractor to prevent them from having compensation being bought against them. As we passed over a narrow wooden bridge I held my breath as the driver concentrated long enough to avoid the rather large hole that had rotted through the bridge which dropped away to nothing below.

Once I got used to the fact that my life was no longer in my hands I just sat there and marvelled at the spectacular views, lush forest, powerful rivers and snow capped mountains only to be interrupted by the occasional stopping and letting down passengers in what could only be the dictionary definition of the middle of nowhere.

After a quick passport check at an out of the way boarder post we crossed in to Montenegro and slowly worked our way down to the stifling hot planes of Podegrocia. The capital city was in stark contrast to the bus trip, dirty, polluted and bustling with 20 year old mercs.

***

Kotor is nestled inside the shear cliff of a fjord, two hours from the capital. Its a beautifully kept old town and is over looked by an impressive fort sitting 260m above, precariously perched on the mountain side. I was a little put off when I arrived at the bus station not to be met by my usual bickering crowd of ladies waving room brochures. However after wandering through town doing my best “lost back packer routine” I was adopted by a lovely elderly couple who once again showed fantastic hospitality and sent me off in the direction of the fort on the hill.

So with a blazing hot Balkan sun I started making my way up the 1300 odd steps that follow the town walls to the fort itself. Of course trying to preserve my limited tee shirt supply and put off the inevitable washing for another couple of days I took my shirt off. After a good 30min climb I reached the fort gates and could hear voices coming from within, not wanting to offend I though it best to put my top back on and walked up the final stairs only to be met front on by a topless girl soaking up the sun with her boyfriend...... some days you just can't win aye.

After snapping a few photos of the view.... (no…. the panoramic view Levi!) I climbed down the opposite side of the wall as I was told that this side was a bit of an adventure, by the bloke on the gate. It must have been “take the piss out of the Kiwi” day again, as adventure was a slight over statement, more like a mission, as I fought my way down the steep bluffs through waist deep grasses, blackberry and stinging nettles to return to Kotor for a very well earned beer.

Topless At The Top. remains copyright of the author djrkidd, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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I was starting to doubt my decision as I exchanged nervous smiles with two Canadians on my bus. We pulled up to the check point and a guards with an AK47 come on the bus screaming and dragged us all off, searching us and our luggage before stamping my passport and frog marching me to the waiting bus on the other side of the razor wire fence.

The first things you notice are bullet holes in the wall of every building and that one in 10 houses are actually habitable. Many check points later, and avoiding smoking wrecks of cars and UN armoured patrols, we reached the capital only to run for the cover of the bus station as we were rocked by a nearby explosion and watched wide eyed with ears ringing at the familiar dance of bright red tracer rounds cracked overhead flying in all directions as they deflect off anything hard they hit.

Well maybe over a decade ago this would have rung true but for now it’s just a good yarn. Bullet holes in every building you pass maybe, but long gone are the UN, now replaced by an unarmed and low profile EUFOR. The country is rebuilt and instead of a city filled with people fearing for their lives I stumbled across a city full of upbeat smiling people enjoying life in bustling pedestrian main street filled with the usual cafe culture of any other capital that springs to mind. So thanks to everyone that showed fear for my safety but you are still living the BBC news reports of the mid 90's.

Before we know it, the owner of our hostel had Liam, Even and I in a taxi heading to the outskirts of the city to see the Tunnel museum. This was the site where, quite literally, under the nose of the UN, the people dug an 800m long tunnel under the UN held airport which connected the people of Sarajevo with the rest of the Bosnia free territory. This becomes a vital supply link for the city running in food, weapons and allowing escape. They even ran electricity and phone cables through as well as a fuel pipeline.

The city itself is just like the news reports I remember, well ,minus the war. It is a city full of high rise apartments with trams trundling along and surrounded by hills that seem to collect fog like a back packer collects bed bugs. As you walk around there are still plenty of reminders of the troubles there was, as I said, there are bullet holes in every building as well as the occasional building gutted by the shelling that took place. Also as prominent reminders, there is what they call “the Sarajevo Rose”, this consists of red cement being poured into the holes left behind by the shells on pavements around the city.

The old city is a maze of cobbled streets and single story wooden shops selling the usual tourist wears, though for a couple of Euro, you can pick up some of the tastiest Bosnian dishes out. This is mainly BBQ style, with tasty meats and a huge helping of delicious veggies.

After a short but very humbling stay I awoke at 6am and made my way through the heavy rain and mist to catch the tram across town to a bus station in the middle of nowhere and hopped on a dilapidated blue bus from the 1970's and headed through the mountains to Montenegro.

The Road To Sarajevo remains copyright of the author djrkidd, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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So off the bus and surrounded by a crowd of screaming ladies, I know I know, I should be used to it ,but these ones were all over the age of 50 and segregating me from safety better that lions on the Savannah. After negotiations I was bundled off by the English speaking Matron to an old dear of about 75 whose only words in English are “super” and “no problem”. Now having done this travel gig for 3 years warning bells normally ring when someone wants money and the only repetitive sentence they can say is “no problem no problem”. However this old dear had a secrete word in her arsenal, and after shaking my hand with sticky fingers, from the bag of empty bottles she was carrying later, explaining them as all Kuna (local Croatian currency) she dropped the bomb … Raki Raki. So like a moth to a flame this Kiwi was dragged off to this lady’s apartment. This turned out to be a cosy little place that she rents out with 4 beds, a bath room and TV. I kid you not, she sleeps on the terrace under a tarp, with a camping stove.

So like most Kiwis I don't give a dam where I lay my head as long as it follows my golden rule....... It must be cheap! This place fitted in with this rule like a glove and the passport details were handed over while she poured her and me a good stiff shot of this stuff before mentioned Raki. “Cheers” she smiles, and knocks it back like water with that little twinkle in her eye that you get with wisdom. Dave on the other hand still recovering from the night before did everything he could not to spit this........ well ....paint stripper across the living room floor for fear of it removing the varnish.

After the payment was made and insisting that I wear a pair of slippers instead of my jandals around the house (Yes she won that battle of wits too and found a pair big enough for my hoofs) she insisted that one more shot was had in a tone that made me feel like a child that had just been caught drawing on the walls.

Now lets talk about hospitality plus, she placed a big bowl of biscuits on the coffee table then ran off to come back waving a loaf of bread and, what I thought was jam, under my nose. “Yes please” I said politely (dam you mother for installing me with 24 years of good manners!!) to the bread, and she also put out a plate with two of the softest floury apples you have ever seen. Now did I mention I am severely hung over after goodbye drinks with my Swedish mates? As I pull the lid off the “jam” I find to my horror that it is actually pork (I think) paste with big lumps of fat floating about. I sat there giggling at some thing Elisabeth had said one night at a bar in Rimini "Life is like a pair of flip flops you never know what your going to get on your feet", how true. Right! deep breath! I slowly dig in under her watchful eye, only to have her come bounding in smiling with a handful of spring onions to accompany my pig paste.
I watched the news in Croatian and struggled through a whole loaf of bread and paste while being carefully supervised by my new best friend. Who knew you could eat the entire spring onion bulb, stalk and all. I have chewed an entire pack of gum and still have a bad taste in my mouth …. got to love travelling hey.

Hospitality Plus....... remains copyright of the author djrkidd, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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13 hours later the train rumbled down the hill over looking a stunning vista of terracotta tiled roofs and light blue Adriatic Sea as it pulled into Split. I had managed to get a whole cabin to myself and had a great sleep across three seats all the way from Zagreb. It was slightly disconcerting to find the door was open slightly when I woke, but my valuables were well hidden so happy days.

I arrived at my hostel which turned out to be a bloke by the name of Marin's apartment with three rooms kitted out with bunk beds. This place was awesome, like having your own house rather than a dirty hostel. Marin had it sorted, he was in his late 20's and did web design from his "hostel" which he ran as a side line. After checking me in he turned to me and said "Dave these friends of yours that are coming, you can look after them when they arrive, I’m going wake boarding" and off he went.

No worries, the girls didn't arrive until the afternoon so I was off to explore. First was the local fruit market to sort out dinner, it took an hour of wandering around bargaining and trying the produce but I came back with bags full of the freshest fruit and veggies ever. Besides the locals were very friendly and it was great fun having a bit of banter and just shooting the breeze. The currency took a bit of getting used to, from good old simple Euros, to Kuna, which come in the hundreds. I had to keep my wits about me though I was laughed at when I handed over three times too much money for a coffee and she gave it back to me telling me "it's okay its early in the morning".

I walked around the old city, then the boutiques sporting the latest fashions, and eating ice cream on the ultra modern waterfront under a blazing Croatian sun. Then it was time to pick up three very tired Swedes from the station. The girls stumbled off the train struggling under their back packs in usual fashion after their 18 hour journey from Venice. This included a sleep in Zagreb train station were some joker had threatened them for money. Well, Rayen and Elisabeth for money, Ullrika had slept on her back pack right through the whole ordeal on the ground besides them. So with the team reunited and Mr T returned to the rightful owner, plans were made to spend time on an Island off the coast called Hvar.

***
After stepping off the ferry we walked along the water of Hvar (eyeing up all my future yachts) and found the lovely lady holding a sign for us so she could take us to our apartment. Then it was off to the beach for a swim in the cool clear water and to relax in the sun. This was basically the routine of the next week apart from small variations such one day we hired scooters and explored the Island. This was fun although a little nerve wracking to start with, for Dave, who found himself responsible for driving on the wrong side of the road with screaming Swedish girl on the back. However after five minute and spectacular coastal views it becomes the highlight of our stay.

Of course the night life was sampled, while walking along the water front we stumbled onto a group of Germans having a dance outside their yacht; of course we joined in with the plan of getting on board for a few free drinks. This plan failed however when there was a rather large splash and after running to the waters edge to investigate I discovered a French guy by the name of Ben being fished out of the sea after he had the same idea to get on board but had tried to accomplish it "Rainbow Warrior Style" by climbing up the mooring line. This cost him his passport, ipod, wallet and driver’s license but won him the sympathy of the girls so we all went out for a few drinks.

***

So after an enjoyable week in Hvar it was back to Split and to the harder realities of travelling, having to say goodbye to really the cool people you meet along the way. After trying to get on three different buses mine finally turned up and goodbyes were said and I left girls to their retail therapy in Split and headed south to Dubrovnik.

“Ka Kite Ano” girls I look forward to night clubbing in Gothenburg in March. Enjoy the rest of your trip.

Island Life In Croatia remains copyright of the author djrkidd, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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Now I have slept in some dodgy places before, mainly with the army, however I discovered this night that its not so easy to sleep without two of your mates on guard duty and not having the comfort of a automatic machine gun with enough rounds to start world war three should anyone come by. So the next few hours were spent waking every five to ten minutes at the slightest sound. However, as I found the next day, Slovenians are some of the friendliest people I have ever met and the only thing I had to worry about was being laughed at by passers by rather than waking up without my worldly possessions.

Come five o'clock I was forcibly removed from my possy by the cafe owner who then made me a double espresso to start my day, smiling and giggling to himself the whole time.

Ljubljana itself is a very pretty town established on river with patches of forest scattered everywhere and a very impressive Castle on the hill overlooking the city. I spent the day wandering around looking at the wares in the huge weekend market they had going on and being entertained by bands and other performers out and about for the Marathon that was being run. After a very nice day it was back to the train station to get the night train to Zagreb and then eventually Split in Croatia to meet back up with the girls and return the very useful Mr T to Ullrika.

A "Night Out" In Ljubljana. remains copyright of the author djrkidd, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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Much to my amusement the girls who had arrived a few hours before me had spent their morning walking around trying to find accommodation and had not come up trumps. All four of us waited for the once hourly bus out to the middle of nowhere, so as to stay at this hostel that was literally in the middle of a field. After Naples it was refreshing to have some fresh air and watch the pheasants strutting about the place. Ironically fresh air was what I needed most between having a room mate that smoked weed in our dorm and another guy that had the worst toe jam on the planet ... I am talking make you gag stuff here.

Not much happened here at Bologna, a few churches and a tower that is on a lean, man it took the Italians a couple of goes to learn about consolidation thats for sure. After two days it was back on the train to Rimini and for one of the best Hostels to date go to the Sunflower. The train trip was spent dodging strange guys showing us readings in English they had written down from god knows where and races along the platform when the train stopped from one carriage door and back again before the train left. Yeah don't know what I would have done if I got left behind okay.

Rimini was cool, basically kicked back on the beach and finally got rid of that London tan… yah! Our hostel had a bar with a happy hour that had started at the whim of the Argentinean manager.

Now traveling with three girls has the benefits of any guy trying to chat them up in that he also has to ply you with the same free drinks. Before I knew it shots where going left right and center followed by cheap beers, Elisabeth was off to bed and Rayen, Ulrika and myself were piled into the hostel tour van with this crazy South American that went by the name of Martini. He took us to a night club in town of course via the sister hostel first for more shots. A very fun night was had even if we lost our room key that had a 20 dollar deposit on it.

After four days of Kiwi roasting on the beach the team was off to Venice to wander around the maze of streets and canals. My main aim was to get a train to Slovenia and then on to Split to meet up with the girls again. When I got to the ticket office I was given the great news that the only train arrived at 2am in Ljubljana. That will have to do I said and was pretty happy when Ulrika offered me her sleeping mat she called Mr T as it made her back pack look like a "T" when she had it strapped on top. With that it was goodbye to the girls and on the night train to sleep in the train station.

Living the sweet life, in small town Italy remains copyright of the author djrkidd, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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So it was off into town to soak up some of that sun and check out the usual sights, Coliseum, Forum and the Palatine hill. This was followed by fighting our way through the crowds into the Pantheon. The Pantheon still manages to amaze me even if there are 2000 other people under its dome. Of course the Trivia fountain and the over crowed Spanish steps were also visited. I neglected to throw another coin in that dam fountain this time as someone had expanded on the myth that if you do the second time you marry an Italian girl.

Next day was the Vatican museum (Ange you'll get a laugh out of this) 4 hours standing in the pouring rain was what it took to get in. For those of you that have been, the line went right back around to St Peters by the second set of columns. So after checking out the Popes art collection which I have to give Raphael's work a big thumbs up and have to laugh at the irony of being told to be silent in the Sistine Chapel over a booming loud speaker (every two minutes in three different languages). Of course no trip would be complete without a visit to the Basilica and then it was off to Piazza Novena for a nice dinner.

***

After goodbyes at the train station Karolina was on the bus to the airport and I was heading south to Naples to have some pizza, a quick look around and then a ferry to Tunisia to get into the thick of my trip.

After dodging scooters and a fine on the metro for not validating my ticket using the "If I talk really fast you can't understand me Mr Ticket inspector plus I'm a dumb tourist" technique. I walked through the door to be met by the words “Buongiorno I'm Giovanni, welcome".

Now Giovanni’s is a hostel set up in his apartment, the second you walk in you are made to feel welcome. Giovanni sits you down, highlights a map with what you have to do, what trains you need to catch and what time you need to be on them. He highlights the best pizza place in the world and finishes by saying " Now you know Naples is not a safe city so stay out of these areas" then proceeds to high lights in blue 50% of the city leaving a corridor in the middle for you to get out an see the sights.

Having had worse mission orders given to me in the army it was with my map that I was kicked out into the streets of Naples to go and see every museum as it was 1 Euro entry day. Then I arrived home and have a huge slice of lasagna placed in front of me cooked by Giovanni himself. I don't think there was a day that I was not given a meal of the best pasta I have ever had and a glass or two of wine to wash it down with. This would be followed by the guitar being brought out and a bit of a sing song being had.

The next day saw me wandering around the streets of Pompeii. Pompeii is the ruins of a Roman city that was caught in the 79AD eruption of Mt Vesuvius. The city was totally preserved under 6m of volcanic ash and this place is huge it would be 1 kilometre squared and you literally walk around it streets and go inside the homes of the Romans. There are amputheres (see the photo below) and forums and the creepiest thing is where the archaeologists have poured a plaster in to the voids left by the bodies of the dead and you can see the expressions on their faces, their hair even the folds of their clothes.

In the afternoon Dave decided to go and climb Mt Vesuvius, being a Kiwi I could not bring myself to get the bus up so I walked from the train station. After 2.5 hours I battled with clouds on top for my summit photo and then wandered back down to the car park.

I waited for the bus which was whistled out by the inspector and told to get on. As I jumped on the driver asked me for my ticket "ah I don't have one I walked up" I mumbled.
He started making a motion with his hands which I took to be to get off the bus.

" But ...But" I stammered dreading having to walk another 13km back to the train.
to which he replied "Just sit down please" obviously feeling sorry for the sweaty mess standing in front of him and trying to get me on, on the sly.
So after a big day of sight seeing and "mountain climbing" it was off to the best pizza place in town, and I tell you what , this pizza was only 3 Euros tasted amazing and was so big it hung over the plate. In fact I ate here for the next three nights in a row.

I don't know what made me check but something just didn't ring right in my head about going to Tunisia. Valeria was a young Italian girl who worked for Giovanni at the hostel, her opening line to me was "Dave what is the 8th wonder of the world? A Kiwi with a return ticket!" So we got on great guns. Conveniently she had been living in Syria and spoke Arabic and French so I got her to ring the Embassy just to check what the story was, but the visa for everyone but New Zealand citizens was very clear. As she hung up that phone she turned to me with a smile of a teacher talking to a five year old. "Yes you can have a visa but it will take 12 days", she informed me.
"Hmmm that's no good I have to be in Libya in 7 days". I said through clenched teeth.
"Okay tomorrow we will go down there and see what we can do, normally it is easier if you are there in person." she offered with that same smile informing me that I was an idiot.

So first thing the next day I was on the metro heading to the embassy which was deep in the blue no go zone armed with my translator, passport photos and other required documents feeling very confident.

10 minutes later I walked out of the embassy having been told that I could not get a visa at all because I was not a permanent Italian resident. When the guy asked me where I was from, insisting that we use English (to show off in front of his colleagues), I said New Zealand. After five minutes and Valeria telling him in every language that she spoke he finally worked out where New Zealand was then told me that I needed to get my visa back home. "But there is no Tunisian embassy in New Zealand" I bluffed!
"Then you must go to Australia" he said with a shrug.
"It's a 4 hour flight" I screamed figuring out the reason for the Perspex screen separating us.
"And Allah willing you will get your visa" was his only reply.
"Maybe I could pay a penalty "fee" for the visa here" I suggested much to Valeria's dismay.
"No I can't help you" he said.
"Whatever happened to Africa being corrupt" I mumbled to noone as I stormed out the door Valeria in tow.

So that was that idea over before it even started. There was only one thing for it beer, the best pizza in the world and a phone call home to tell Mum and Dad how unfair the world is, a concept that I am sure they were not familiar with till that moment. A bit of tough love from Dad to the effect of stop your moaning and get on with the bloody trip and I was saying goodbye to Geovanni and Valeria and on the next train north to catch up with some mates and crack on with my new route along the Adriatic Coast.

The home of the Pope to the home of the Mafia remains copyright of the author djrkidd, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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So Milan is a big city, with confusing bus systems and an impressive Duomo (that’s a church Levi you uncultured thug I have even added a picture for you!!) and the best Panini of my life and a lots of expensive clothes.

From Milan it was a short day trip to Lake Como for a bit of outdoor action. Having climbed the hill behind the town to reach the light house at the top I was pretty disappointed to find that it was so hazy I could barely see the town let alone the Swiss Alps as you are meant to. However thanks to the photo board on top of the hill I can show you what it was meant to look like, minus the words suspended in the sky.

From Milan it was a short train ride to Florence...... my future home. I love this place. While wandering around town I bumped into the Canadian girls, Laura, Lauren and Kristen from Madrid. Feeling sorry for me, as I had left my money at home, I was spotted a fiver and it was off for lunch. As with everywhere I go it was a public holiday and the restaurant we wanted to go was closed. I noticed a sorry looking traveller crouching over a lonely planet in the gutter. I asked him if he was lost but it turned out he was looking for the same place as us. Quick snap he was dragged off to the next available eatery by the girls and me. Arnaud was from Paris and had been travelling around Europe for a couple of months. I liked him right away as he could understand me and my Kiwi drawl and so after a lunch of Pizza and rather large beers we were off to explore Florence.

Now my ability to drink was matched equally by Arnuad's ability to sight see, after lunch the cheeky bugger (who was spotting me the entire entrance fee due to my wallet sitting on my bed) had me running up 400 odd steps to check out the view from the Duomo tower. No problem, a few more pints will crack him I thought, so after getting stuck in to a happy hour down some back ally I was left open mouthed catching flies as he suggested we check out some church just around the corner. He then had the nerve to put a guide book under my nose and forced me to learn stuff. However the Kiwi had one more trick up his sleeve "Hey Arnuad, why don’t you come back to the camp site and Ill give you the money that I owe you …plus it’s a nice spot for a bottle of wine on the terrace" A few hours later I cracked a sadistic little grin as I handed him a bus ticket and he wobbled his way towards the bus stop to get home. (Kiwi 1 Frenchy 0)

The next day I met up with Arnuad at Mario's, the restaurant we had both planned to go to for lunch. This place is open from 12 till 3pm and as I walked in I was lucky to get a seat. After choosing cheap but very tasty pasta from a menu on the wall we walked out to be greeted by a huge queue and a waiter taking names.

So our game of cat and mouse continued for the next few days as I tried to drag him into pubs and he drags me in to museums and churches. All jokes aside though, the statue of me (Michelangelo’s David) was amazing and the last judgment on the Duomo dome was very good even if it is said to be terrible as far as renaissance art goes.

I got to do a day trip to the leaning tower of Pisa, and well what do you know …. it is really leaning …. although I thought the 15 Euro to go to the top was just a bit too steep.

Finally what trip would be complete with out my three Swedish friends and their camping kitchen? My final night was spent with Arnuad, Ulrika, Rayen, Elisabeth and Ian , who we met in Valencia and we bumped into the girls at the train station. As usual the girls whipped up a quick pasta and few bottles of wine were consumed and a fun night was had in an olive grove under the stars in Florence. 6am saw Dave stumbling out of his tent to catch a 7am train to Rome to catch up with Karolina.

La Dolce Vita remains copyright of the author djrkidd, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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As the sun came up I finally got a good view of the "beach" man it's not a beach like any I've seen in Oceania it was a flipping quarry. Seriously rocks the size of my fist. So after saying good bye to my Aussie companions from the bus I was soon dodging the usual dog shit on the streets in France and off to find my hostel.

***

So after getting the low down it was off to Cannes with three Americans that I met in the Hostel to find some sand and try and get rid of that London tan I have developed over the last two years. Cannes is a nice we town but well out of any back packers budget. There were small boutiques everywhere selling Prada all that great back packing attire.

***

The Swede’s turned up the next day and I had an email invite to meet up as they were going to cook me dinner. Being a true kiwi I can’t pass up a free feed so I was in. After meeting the girls at there hotel we went down to the beach where they cooked up a Pasta meal on a camping stove which we ate with a few beers much to the amusement of passer byes.

***

So once again I am sitting in the reception of a hostel with no idea where I am going or where I should stay. Then the two American girls from the beach said they where off to Milan.
"Sounds good I'm in" I said and with that walk out and jumped on the next train to Italy.

Nice is Nice remains copyright of the author djrkidd, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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"We'll catch the 6am Ferry tomorrow morning."............ Yeah Right!

So at 9am I was sitting on the boat enjoying my double espresso, dropping subtle hints to the Ben and Karima, two English backpackers I had befriend on the train the day before, who where heading to stay at their holiday house in the South of Spain, that I had no accommodation in Spain.

No such luck and the long haired Kiwi was unceremoniously dumped at the bus station to find his own way to Granada where I was yet to have a place to stay. I knew I was in for a hard time as I walked out of the doors of the bus station and the rain was starting to fall.

I had two hours of walking around the narrow medieval streets of Granada in the pouring rain having door after door shut in my face and being haunted by the grinning face of the guy at the information desk who had informed me that the bus station was open all night. I walked into a Pensiòn and what do you know "Una habitaciòn individual para una noche" followed by many hand signals was replied to with a "Si" and then me being dragged up the stairs to my room to dry my sorry Kiwi arse off before any check in procedure was entered into.

After a day checking out the Alhambra, I found this huge fortress over looking the city with great views of the Sierra Nevada range, and then it was back to the bus station and on the night bus to Valencia.

***

I dragged myself off the night bus, had the customary double espresso, and managed to locate my map. Soon I stumbled into the hostel pleased to be given a bed at 7am.

By 7pm that night a rather large group of us had gathered and a night out was planned. Two Kiwi lads, Ricky and Lloyd, three Swedish girls Ulrika, Rayèn and Elisabeth and a few other odds and sods from around the globe, It turns out Lloyd and I used to play rugby against each other at high school.

A few beers in, I’m talking with the lads in the first pub, when the Swedes jump behind us with looks of disgust as three 40 year old Dutch men chase after them. I look up only to see the lads giving them the hard word to which I add my 1 euro cent,
"yeah go away man, they don't want to talk to you!"

After a bit of Kiwi bashing they returned to their table and I didn’t think anything more of it.

"Right next pub" came the call.
I whipped off to the toilet before we headed off; being Europe the toilet consisted of a room 3 by 2m with a toilet and a urinal.

As I stood in front of the urinal I had that sinking feeling, you know the one when you step out and realize a car is coming or when you look out of the plane window and the engine is on fire.

Next minute I am getting shoved from behind, I calmly do up my fly and find all three of my Dutch mates standing behind me. I try to leave but the instigator locks the door and bars my exit. Hmmmmmmmmmm this is going to hurt is the only thought to cross my mind.
"So Kiwi, you want to fight do you?" the guy standing across the door asks in perfect English.
"Yeah! right, three on one that’s fair!" I retort, trying to get him to stand down on morals alone.
"So why won't you let us talk to those girls?" he persists.
"Because you’re an ugly bugger!" I whip back with that custom kiwi smile.

Now I was always told at school that my mouth would get me into trouble one day and I know I should have said anything else but stuff it, today was as good as any ....... beside, I was also full of Dutch courage!

Just as the talking was coming to an end there came the knock on the door, this guy had the nerve to open the door stick his head out to tell the person that we wanted to be in there and we are just having a chat.

"Stuff that Bro kick the flipping door down" I yell only to see the Kiwi lads appear and drag me out of another tight spot. So without skipping a beat it was out of that pub and off to another with my trembling hands hidden in my pockets to have what turned out to be one of the best nights out to date.

Next night was a rather unimpressive night on the water front watching the Americas cup opening ceremony. However when the Spanish come to fireworks, oh my gosh, you have never seen anything like it. It was amazing. To put it in proportion, I would say, every New Years Eve display since I was born, all at once.

***

The guy refused to serve me, so I wrote down in Spanish what ticket I wanted, but I missed the first bus. However I did eventually manage to get myself to Barcelona. Being Sunday nothing was open and I had to find my way to the hostel using the bus maps at every bus stop I came to. Finally I found number 155, the address was a building site. Having walked around for two hours, all I could do was sit down on my back pack, put my Ipod on and laugh (and be stared at by every passer by). Eventually I was pointed to number 135 by a lovely young girl who possible thinks all people from New Zealand are idiots and there you go, another dorm room filled to the brim with 10 unwashed travellers from all over the globe.

Now unluckily for me the Swedes also arrived in Barcelona the night before and it was quickly arranged that we should meet for Spanish drinks which turned out to be jugs of Sangria followed by a night club on the La Rambla and then Dave being attacked at 10am by a screaming Spanish banshee with a mop telling me I had to check out. The plan was to go to Nice, however sporting a decent head cold and an even better hang over, it was off to find a new hostel with some vitamin C tablets.

***

As I sat on my back pack in the bus station eating my loaf of bread and cheese I was approached by an Aussie trio who were also taking the night bus to Nice. When the bus finally turns up it is packed and the driver was running around screaming instructions to us in Spanish. The Aussies hadn't checked in (Yay! not me for once) and the bus driver nearly frog marches them off to the ticket office. For a minute I thought they weren’t coming. I sat down in the back seat with one guy from Tunisia (who smokes pot every time the bus stops) on my right and one of the Australian girls on my left. I'm the kiwi breast in the sandwich. After12 agonizing sleepless hours, we are finally dropped off on the side of the road in Nice at four in the morning. The only option for us is to sit on the water front and watch the sun rise, good times.

Out Of Africa But Not Out Of Trouble remains copyright of the author djrkidd, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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Now its 30 degrees and this thing is looking like the Piccadilly line at rush hour, Karolina and I fight our way on but there is no where else fit apart from where the two carriages join. "No problem it will clear after a few stops" it is translated to me through a Swiss couple from a German speaking Moroccan gentleman. So four hours later as we pull into Marrakech we are still sitting on our back packs trying to stop them from touching the shit and piss that has trailed from the overflowing toilet that makes us gag every time the door is opened. So even though I have spent the last 4 hours being thrown around in a tin can, that is hot, cramped and stinking, some little sadistic bone in my body loves the adventure. We watched the green coast of Casablanca turn into the red rocky foot hills of the Sahara, with random mud brick villages appearing from nowhere and the barren landscape only broken by the occasional sheep herder and his flock in the middle of no where looking for the odd stalk of grass. We arrive in Marrakech ready to see what is now in store.

The next day we hit the town with two English students, Ali and Elliot, these two doughnuts have hitch hiked from London to Morocco as part of a charity event called Link. and an American guy called Dwayne and a Spanish guy called Elfant I think. The problem was he didn’t speak English and everything had to be communicated through Ali or Elliot who spoke French with him. Dwayne was in his sixties and lived in France as a base to learn Arabic. So along with Karolina and me we formed a rag tag group to go and explore Marrakech. Marrakech's heart is the Medina. This is based around a huge square with its maze of Sauk’s running off it, drawing in many a lost tourist who then try their luck with the local salesmen. This Medina comes into its own at night when it becomes a melting pot of colour, noise, spice and action as the restaurateurs try and convince you to take a seat to dine on anything from Cous Cous tanjine, boiled sheep’s head, spicy snails, freshly squeezed orange juice or ginger tea which is claimed to be a powerful aphrodisiac.

The snake charmers play their flutes "calming" Cobras and chase you with whatever snake they can lay their hands on. Men with monkeys throw them upon you to take a photo only to refuse you that price offer of 20 dirham (2 euro) and then demand 200 dirham. There are acrobats and musicians playing traditional music and little kids, that could use a good bath, still out at midnight begging for money. Of course there are the peddlers in the markets selling everything from traditional Kaftans to the latest cross trainers.
However after 3 days of dodging taxis, dodgy sales men and horse drawn carts it was time to head north to Casa for Karolina fly home to Stockholm and for me to carry onto Spain.

Out Of Africa remains copyright of the author djrkidd, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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At the change station I walked through the under pass and caught the eye of a young Moroccan guy who I asked for directions. After he got me on the right platform we got chatting. His name was Siam and he was a student who lived locally. We talked about surfing and my trip. He asked what hotel I was staying at in town which I thought was a little strange so I made one up. He then did the usual sale of hash to which he brushed off as a way of life in Morocco when I refused. Soon enough the train arrived and conveniently he was going in the same direction as me.

He left me with his bag and whipped outside and came back with a Moroccan girl dressed in trendy European styled clothing, another clash of ideals I have noticed here. He sat there and babbled away in Arabic to this girl which didn't worry me as it meant I didn't have to make an effort coming up with conversation in easy English. All of a sudden at the next stop “old matey” jumps up and says “Dave, we have to get off here!” I protest a bit but he says that there was an announcement and that there was a problem with the train because of the strike, coming from the UK transport system. This was more than feasible, so I blindly follow until he starts leading me outside the station saying that he wants to get a coffee. I tell him that I have to get to the airport now! To which his reply is to throw his bag at me and start kicking it going on about fighting Marrakech and funnily enough forgetting all of his English. Then he starts yelling "go get the train then see if I care!"
"Bro you need to lay of the hash" was my only reply and I was quite relieved to lose this nut case and get out to the airport, where Karolina would now be waiting for me.

It took a few moments to cross the road as I had to dodge the stream of blue and red taxis racing around at break neck speed. As I step up on the curve on the other side I felt to where my wallet should be..... After a quick pat down it was nowhere to be found.

"Bastard!!!" I screamed across a busy car park full of locals going about their day in an unknown part of Casablanca. As I spun around on the spot I saw Siam’s blue shirt about 100m away across the square. Without even thinking I run out in front of the traffic which came to a screeching halt, horns blazing and Arabic being screamed out the windows. Now, without a word of a lie I covered that 100m in 10 seconds flat still wearing my Jandals (For the international community, flip flops, thongs or sandals). Siam still hadn't seen me coming as I tackle him into the middle of the road in front of another screeching taxi. This was the final straw and man I went to town on him until I was dragged off by the taxi driver that fortunately spoke excellent English and asked what was going on.
"He stole my wallet" I yelled going through his pockets..... Nothing, I panicked …oh no I have beaten a guy up for no reason. Quite a big crowd had gathered by this stage and I was starting to fear for my life, then to my amazement they turned on him and hello there was my wallet down his pants. (Yeah I did think about letting keep the wallet)

"Thank You, Merci, Shurkan" I managed to get out as I started to return to the Train Station. As I crossed the car park there was a bloke leaning on a taxi, I asked him to take me to the airport, as Karolina didn’t know where the hotel was and I didn't have a phone. He said no, I tried offering him double to which he still said no and finally I told him that guy over there just tried to pick pocket me pointing to the still rather large group of guys laying into Siam.

While sitting on the platform waiting for the airport train that ran hourly, two big Moroccan guys strolled over the tracks neglecting to use the underpasses and came right up to me. Then, the one I recognized as the taxi driver, told me that I have to come with them to the police station to sign some paper work, it turns out he was an under cover cop.
"Hang on there big fella lets see some ID please" I’m not going down twice in one day. He pulls out a pair of hand cuffs "I can buy those in the market then go round and rob tourists too champ!" I say rather cynically. Finally he digs out an ID out of his wallet and I get dragged out of the train station for the second time in a day.......... Yes it did occur to me later that I had and still have no idea what a proper Moroccan ID should look like.

As I walk through the door to the station I am confronted by Siam screaming his innocence. He even has the nerve to tell me, in his selective English, that if I get him off we can go for coffee and everything will be right.

First of all, I was a little put off by being in the same room as this guy, but after five minutes the guards gave me the thumbs up for my handy work.

We had to wait for the Captain dude to turn up so I used my spare time entertainingly.
"So Siam, you know what is going to happen to you in jail mate? two years just for trying to steal a wallet, man it sucks to be you"
"Siam you better give me double the money you stole or I will tell them you're gay mate, man the death penalty sucks dude."

“Sergeant have you searched him, …. he offered me hash"
Five minutes later, a big bloke wrapped in paper appears.
"Dude, you are having a bad day"

After an eternity the Captain turns up, Siam continued his usual routine of wailing and trying to plead his innocence. All of a sudden “smack, smack, slap,” I look up and the Captain in beating the living day lights out of him using his diary and what to you know it doesn’t leave a mark. So, the five minutes that I was told this would take on the platform, has now taken about 40 minutes and now they want to take me to the main station in town.

Despite my protest, Siam, the translator and myself where put in the back of a van and driven down to the main police station. No problem I thought, I will be able to email Karolina from there and sort this mess out. It was during this trip that I learned that the translator was not a police officer but just a local guy who used to drive taxis and had learned English while doing so; he was there off his own back helping me out. During our conversation he brought up a reoccurring theme "Why did you follow him? You can't trust anyone, this is Africa man."

When we arrived at the main station I am confronted by a 5m by 8m concrete room with white peeling walls and two desks with typewriters sitting on them and a few chairs.

I explain what had happened for the 6th time and it was recorded down on the type writer using carbon paper to make it triplicate.
The Translator went to the shop and bought me a bottle of water out of his own pocket and then another guy turned up and acted as a witness. This guy I recognized from the crowd of guys that had swarmed around and he had had to make his own way down to the station just to give a statement on my behalf.

Every time someone new walked through the station Siam would scream his innocence, to which the answer was a lot of yelling in Arabic and then a couple of clips around the head. However I did notice that afterwards they would show him compassion by giving him cigarettes if he asked for them.

Finally I signed a police report totally in Arabic, (it did cross my mind that this was an elaborate scam for me pleading guilty to every unsolved crime in Morocco this century). I jumped in the front seat of the police car beside the Captain and automatically put on my seat belt. He looked at me quizzically and then said through the translator "you are in a police car no one is going to pull you over".
"That’s not the point.........." I trailed out smiling and mumbled something about going to jail in New Zealand.

Three hours later I pull into the airport train station. Even though I just want to run around and try to find Karolina I force myself to help a lady with her bags off the train just to prove that there is a sense of civility in this country. As the doors open I hear the sweetest sound ever, my name called out in a Swedish accent. As luck would have it Karolina had spotted my day bag through the window as the train pulled into the station. She was just about to go into the city and find a hotel, as it was, it took us nearly two hours to get back into the city.... cursed strikes.

This is Africa..... A reoccurring Theme remains copyright of the author djrkidd, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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Having caught the bus from Seville to Algeciras and then the Ferry to Tangier I walked down the gang plank two hours late but in high spirits only to be met by a customs officer who sent my newly acquired English mate Christian and I back onto the boat to get our entry visa. Not surprisingly, there were the four other English speakers that I had met on the crossing also waiting, not having understood the French, Spanish and Arabic instructions to get our stamps on board.

This was all a good laugh until the passengers heading back to Spain had all boarded and the doors were shut. After much confusion, being led around the boat about three times, we finally got our visa and were kicked out via the car entrance in the middle of the port and made to walk to the terminal.

From here a nice taxi driver sorted the six of us out with a ride to where we were going, this involved four in the back seat and the American student and I sharing the front seat. As we approached the police check point I turned to the driver and asked if this was okay, picturing my first night on the dark continent being in a prison cell. He simply smiled at me and said "Of course my friend this is Africa" then simply drove around the car in front which was being searched by the police, and drove straight through the check point without even a look of bother.

So, being locked out of my hostel, but sitting in a cafe drinking mint tea and chatting with the cafe owner, I learn that there is going to be transport strikes throughout the country, with no taxis or buses and only limited trains starting the next day. Having to meet Karolina in Casablanca I thought it best to get there right away.

***
I took a seat, escaping from the chaos of the crowded bus station, full of yelling people, revving engines and the smell of diesel fumes. I felt a cold damp feeling creep through my jeans. The seat was soaking wet with what I could only hope to be water. As luck would have it in this land of contrast, they actually had allocated seating, so I was promptly moved to my seat at the back of the bus. I sat next to an old man in his Caftan and two big old ladies in their traditional gab with green lines tattooed from their lower lip to their chin.

A few hours into the trip I woke up to be offered half of an orange that the lady beside me was eating, I accepted gratefully. Later on I came out of my doze and again she gave me half of her egg sandwich, which I tried to turn down but it turned out I didn’t have a choice in the matter. My new best friend then went on to offer me half of her loaf of bread which I managed to decline only for her to reply in sign language that I was much too thin in her eyes.

***
Casablanca, or Casa as it is commonly referred to, is the commercial city of Morocco. You can, in the space of minutes, be walking around the ancient Medina hassled by locals, to walking down pedestrian streets that could easily be in any major city around the world. I befriended a Canadian guy called Corey who was studying in France and spoke fluent French, a handy skill to have as French is Morocco’s second language. It had occurred to me that Corey was never keen to walk into the Medina at night and I couldn't work out why. The next morning we decided to go do a little shopping, within seconds of walking into the Medina a local guy came up to us and shook our hands (very standard stuff ) until he held me in an arm lock while he turned to shake Corey’s hand. Instinctively I broke free and kept on walking but this guy continued to follow as and kept on touching me. Corey calmly spoke French to him while I got more and more stern. Then all of a sudden he stood in front of me looking me in the eyes all the time reaching into his back pocket hissing through his teeth
"I'm going to kill you, I'm going to kill you"
To which I replied in full Kiwi drawl
" Mate! you can piss off!"
After a few more unprintable expletives he went away yelling in French "I really need a cigarette"
Five minutes later while sitting at a cafe having a coffee another guy walks passed saying
"Hello how are you?"
"Good, how are you?" I replied
"F##K You, You go to hell" he yells in reply.
Corey and I giggle “nice people around here aren't they"

I just can't believe this place one minute people are so welcoming and then the next they make you want to get on the next plane home.

This is Africa remains copyright of the author djrkidd, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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Portugal remains copyright of the author djrkidd, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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