Kono mosque at dusk (looking from the balcony of my guesthouse)
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Tag Archives: backpacking
To celebrate 20 years on the road – across the planet – I’ve decided to begin a series of advisory posts: 2 > WHAT TO TAKE … Sure I know there’s plenty of advice out there on this particular theme – and it’s subject to individual needs and the purpose and duration of their trip but what-the-hell here’s my offering for those on the road for many months, this list mostly based on the contents of my backpack now spread across the floor of my hotel room here in downtown Freetown, Sierra Leone.
> DOCUMENTS – hidden money-belt with a Passport that has plenty of pages anda long life (6 months or less until expiration will be refused visas by most embassies).
> Up-to-date vaccination passport – especially Yellow Fever certificate.
> Emergency cash in US Dollars, Sterling or Euros hidden beyond your main money-belt; get bank cash advances or better still global ATM access to your travel funds at home via a VISA credit card but make sure it has a pin number and get two cards, one stashed for emergencies (Note: Mastercard & Amex are not that widely accepted beyond the West); WATCH OUT – Traveler’s Checks are largely useless or a real hassle to change in much of the Developing World.
> Passport photos ready for visa applications.
> Travel Insurance can be good for piece of mind – both medical cover and personal effects … BUT depends on your outlook and budget.
> Copies of documents on paper and also maybe on a pocket flash-drive and/or also stored in an email account.
> Backpack (my 40-can-expand-to-a-55 liter) with fold-away dust/rain-cover; the pack body is rugged, tall and slim – as opposed to wide and bulky – which is better for squeezing into crowded places like buses, stations, etc. For security, in rooms and in transit, all the zippers can be padlocked. And I also use an additional combination-lock and wire to secure my pack to a pole, inside a cupboard, etc.
> A Daypack / sling bag is essential for small trips and hikes and when taking your valuables with you onboard transport when your main pack may be flung on a bus roof or in a taxi boot. My daypack is rugged, slim, 20 liter with rain-cover. And the pack is attached to my main pack by snap-chain and carried in front when on the move to new locations. (For my purposes my daypack is well-padded to hold the few consumer items I own: Nikon DSLR camera with lenses & accessories; small video camera; 10” laptop @ 1.5 kg, with extra 120GB ext. drive; MP3 player; etc. But what you need is most probably much less weight and hassle: So unless you are a pro-photographer or totally nomadic like me and live out of your backpack – the ELECTRONICS I would recommend you travel with include a MP3 player, compact digital camera with portable storage, and maybe a mobile phone).
> ESSENTIAL ITEMS include flashlight; sunglasses; hat or cap; sun-block, alarm clock; Swiss Army Knife (for opening beer, tinned food, wine, and survival in wilderness); 2 liter water bottle (collapsible to save space) and a water purification solution; compass; 2 pens with some writing paper; maps; guidebook & local language phrasebook; paperback book; light stainless mug and water heater element (very useful when you stay awhile and want to domesticate oneself by boiling water or eggs or to make tea or coffee or instant noodles or packet soup); inflatable neck pillow for sleeping on transport; ziplock plastic bags to waterproof & compartmentalize everything for quick, easy searching and packing of small items; earplugs; and depending the climate – mosquito repentant and net, silk sleepingbag liner &/or a small compacted sleeping bag; needle and thread; candle & lighter; photo of your family to show interested people …
> CLOTHING is a matter of personal need but I have the following presently in Africa – and can buy others when needed in colder climates or a work situation – 2 loose, pocketed trousers with zip-off legs; 3 t-shirts; 2 shirts, 4 underwear; small quick-drying towel; rain poncho (that can also be a ground sheet for sleeping rough); sarong (for relaxing about but also to use as a shower dress or towel, head-cover or scarf); study hiking sandals; and for cold snap emergencies: thermal top and bottoms, thermal beanie and 1 pair of socks (I will also carry hiking boots, more socks, a gore-tex jacket and tundra fleece if traveling beyond the tropics).
> MEDICINES – not an exhaustive list but have at least most of this: pain-killers like Paracetamol or Asprin; antihistamine; anti-shit pills – Immodium for stopping the flow on a journey and Flagl for serious bowel problems; a course of Malarone post-exposure anti-malarial pills (it’s impractical over all these years for me to take daily tablets to prevent Malaria); sleeping pills (for light sleepers – like me – on long flights or overnight buses); anti-cold/flu tablets and throat lozenges; antiseptic, plasters, bandage, tape, safety pin, butterfly stitches; condoms; eye-drops; multi-vitamins; as for carrying an anti-biotic, take a general one but often it’s okay to find a specialized A/B locally, like I did in Yemen & later Morocco, when I got a hellish dental/gum infection. AND, along with this main first-aid kit I have a small purse of these items that stays in my daypack for immediate access. NOTE: If you have special needs / prescriptions – bring them all with you.
> TOILETRIES – again we have different needs but watch out this stuff can get weighty so keep bottles / packets small like sachets of shampoo and small soap; toothbrush, paste, floss; nail scissors & clippers; deodorant; comb & gel; razor, blades, tiny mirror; cotton buds; toilet tissue – have small bundles everywhere including in trouser pockets; moisturizer – essential in hot dry climates – is contained within your sunscreen. For re-supply all this stuff is readily available world-wide BUT if you have special needs then bring them from home.
> Packing it all in – have it organized so it flows easy – best with side-zipping packs as opposed to top-loading. And as mentioned earlier have everything compartmentalized into plastic transparent bags for easy identification and access, fast packing and extra water-proofing. Needless to say have stuff that you may need accessible or at the top or stashed in a side pocket – like a poncho for a sudden downpour or a guidebook ready to locate yourself when arriving in a city or finding a flashlight in black-outs. Obviously wrap clothing around fragile stuff and make sure bottles like mosquito repellent are in their own plastic bag to avoid contamination.
Now that all is said – Good luck: Pack and Go …
> PS: If you’re a traveling surfer or mountaineer then obviously there is much more you can take … other things that I don’t carry but others like are a washbasin plug – missing so often, so you can wash clothes, and a line of string and pegs to hang the washing on; personally, for a few dollars I employ a local to do my laundry.
To celebrate 20 years on the road – across the planet – I’ve decided to begin a series of advisory posts. First let me outline my experience … I have hitched the Sahara in 1991, north to south, across Algeria down into Niger; have gone overland – which was mostly hitching – from England to India, via Europe, Iran & Pakistan, in 1990; I’ve hitched across the Tibetan Plateau and over the Himalayan high passes into Nepal in 1994; I hitch-hiked across the desert from Jordan to Iraq in 1989 and across Northern Kenya into Ethiopia in 1994, and there’s also been dozens of smaller journeys in numerous countries ranging from New Zealand to Vietnam to Morocco to Scotland to Uruguay, etc, so here are some tips:
Hitching on trucks – the only way – from northern Kenya into Ethiopia, 1994
> While hitching is usually to save on transport costs often it’s the only viable means of transport, especially so in remote developing world regions where you may ride on top of a cargo truck, and if this is the case then 99% of the time you will be expected to pay, so agree on a price before you hop in/on.
> Maintain eye contact with the driver even as he passes – often it’s at this point that they will slow, and stop. Always have your sunglasses off so your eyes are exposed, and smile slightly.
> Some people think that dress appearance helps/hinders the effort –maybe; all I know is that in my teens/20s/30s I was a long-haired dude in colorful, alternative clothes and this did not hurt my chances.
> Make sure you can carry your backpack for a few km, easily and without effort; heavy, bulky bags are a nightmare. Travel light.
> For marathon journeys carry some white A4 paper and a RED marker to write – in clear block letters – your destination and hold it above your head for each passing car to see. Often a joke can work or maybe a smiley face. EG: when I was stuck in Luxembourg I wrote my final destination – INDIA; that got attention and soon a ride out of a tough spot.
> Chose your hitching spot with care. Walk or get a taxi or bus to the edge of town, the city, the village. No one will stop at a bend or a busy intersection. If it’s very hot find a shady area. Don’t walk too far if the area is – like an endless desert. Find a good spot and be patient. Make sure the driver can see you at least 100 metres away and then they can assess you on the approach.
> Start your trip early in the morning – at dawn – if the distance is great, the land sparse, the road empty, and you should always have at least some water, and some light snacks / biscuits, maybe some salami or a tin of tuna, for emergencies.
> If it’s a long journey and the climate – EG: Europe – is temperate or cold carry a sleeping bag and plastic ground sheet so you can sleep anywhere alongside the route if you get stranded. And if it’s hot, off course carry extra water and use a hat & sunscreen.
> Always carry the essentials like a torch, map, rain-jacket or poncho, Swiss Army knife, a compass, tissue paper, basic medicines, etc.
> Hitching in Europe is illegal and dangerous on most major highways, so wait at petrol and restaurant parks and approach drivers directly or wait at the exits.
> Because the driver has picked you up often they will want conversation / company; so introduce yourself, your country, your journey and ask a few questions – if there’s no common language use charades, hands – and if the conversation continues fine, or maybe the driver prefers silence … You will assess this within the first 5 minutes. Be warned that numerous conversations during lots of short rides can get tiring but you’re obligated to be polite to those that are doing you this favour.
> Sometimes it’s best to decline offers of short rides in favour of waiting for the perfect ride BUT often you have no choice or it’s too late in the day or few vehicles pass – so then take any offer.
> I’ve never had a really bad experience hitching but use common sense: avoid drunks, families are good, and if you’re female then be extra careful and use your intuition – if it feels bad – don’t ask why? just follow the vibe – and decline the offer.
> Remember: hitching the Developing World along major routes is often unnecessary as cheaply-priced buses and shared-taxis will ply all the main routes (but this is less so in parts of Africa).
> Hitching can be a great way to encounter the locals and often people will go out of their way for you – EG: buy you a meal, smoke a joint with you or offer you a place to stay, sometimes detouring off their route to take you closer to where you want to be.
Have confidence, be wise, and get on the road …
I’ve decided to begin a series of advisory blogs to celebrate 20 years on the road – across the planet: 1 > Travel advice 101 for backpacking in the Developing World, written here whilst in Freetown, Sierra Leone, West Africa: the first rules and probably the somewhat-fuckin’-obvious ones but one has to start somewhere, yeah? Okay.
> Get interested in a country or region, read, surf the web but don’t plan too intensely; better to have plenty of time and see what happens … be flexible; go with the flow. Plans change.
> Travel as light as possible: a heavy, bulky backpack will be your worse enemy … Besides: you can always buy cheaply and discard as you travel.
> BUT: bring all important items from home before you leave: EG: prescriptions/medicines, specialized camera / electronic items, guidebook, personal essentials …
> Buy quality footwear – hiking boots or x-country-sandals – if you want to get the miles without pain (but for about-the-town or beach then cheap jandals /thongs are okay). Likewise make sure your backpack is good – so zips or seams won’t bust within months.
> NEVER save money avoiding vaccinations – get all that are necessary. And travel insurance is good for piece of mind but not essential (if you are on a tight budget; take ya chances).
> Buying your flight via the internet is often the cheapest; but not always! Research.
> In most cases smile, wave, or say Hello / greet all people who meet your eye (unless avoiding touts or hustlers; or you’re a woman avoiding sexual harassment).
> Never carry the bulk of your money, credit card, passport in an obvious money-belt but rather one hidden beneath your clothes, and also use additional secret emergency stashes in a zipper-belt, in a shoe, or in a bag, etc. For dailytransactions rather than a wallet have small money in a plastic bag stuffed into a front pocket.
> Don’t wear a watch or expensive-looking bling; ethnic jewellery is okay.
> Best to avoid tap water unless purified or otherwise told its okay. Likewise salads washed in the same water – but peeled fruits are fine.
> Street food is cheap, yummy and essential to the experience – just chose carefully – busy means good, fresh, high turn-over; but all the same you may get a stomach upset simply from the change of diet.
> Rest assured you’re not alone: internet cafes are across the world – in most most major cities towns – and usually cheap with reasonable speeds.
> NEVER – no matter how convincing – get involved in get-rich-quick schemes or other great proposals – they are always scams.
> ALWAYS negotiate a price before using a taxi, rickshaw or motorcycle-taxi.
> It’s always good to learn at least Hello & Thank You in the local language.
> Don’t have fear about what might happen – unless it happens, which most-often, it doesn’t. Have confidence and fun, and get out there!
old fortress town of Essaouira
Am sitting here with aspirations to be a (more) complete bum, waking up late towards midday, having an omelette, orange juice and coffee and then a beer and then lying on upon my bed, staring at the ceiling, daydreaming, drinking red wine and sucking hashish cigarettes across the afternoon and evening and wondering about everything and nothing … Been 5 days of this now – on the desert Atlantic coast in Sidi Ifni, and really the past 3+ weeks have been this haze since arriving in Morocco; only the location has changed, as the blur has been constant.
Has taken a bit of software-reprogramming jumping straight into Morocco since leaving my comfortable, easy, dull existence as an English teacher in Korea, and the only continuum is large consumption of alcohol … mostly to enhance the enjoyment of my new life situation and recently partly cos I’m having writer’s block, or simply I can’t be fucked writing. I start a paragraph, a story with good intentions to blog and within 10 minutes it’s like: Why bother? You really wanna read this shit … ?
Anyway, if you’re still reading coming to the mess, bustle, heat, madness that is Morocco couldn’t be different from the calm, orderly, cyber-tech city of Seoul but I knew what I was in for as I was here in 1991 and experienced much beauty and chaos. Now the experience is quieter, away from the north, the tourist centers, the touts, the carpet sellers, the-Hey-mister, friend-need-something?
What I really needed when I arrived was to fuck … but before that happened I spend a week alone, smoking hash in a traditional room of a family town house in Essaouira, my window overlooking the main market thoroughfare across the old walled, coastal fortress town. All I did was eat grilled meat with salad taken back to my room, and stared out the window, drinking beer & red, and smoking up the whole week wondering where I was? Where I’d been? Where am I going next? I was the prefect zombie – mute, relaxed and not attacking anyone – but I’m sure the locals thought me insane: sitting at his window for 7 days, staring at the world.
Okay, I did get out for a few hours – walked around to take some photos, used the internet, talked alittle, bought food, water, alcohol, hash.
Yet the single craziest – they were a few – thing that happened that week from the view from my window, a few meters above the street was this that I wrote at the time:
An old veiled woman is shrieking outside on the street below, screaming at a smiling young man working within a small-scale building site. He can’t stop smirking; meantime she’s throwing stones from the pile of gravel at him, now in the direction of all the young men. It’s crazy, then over. But within minutes she has returned and now grabs a large rock and heaves it as the boys are laughing but yelling a cautious tone – maybe: careful, careful, no, easy lady – as she spits venom and continues the stone throwing assault as others watch as and walk by. I begin to video this scene. I saw the initial clash and it seems that something stones, sand shoveled, a loose beam narrowly missed the old woman and she I assume, said watch out, or be careful, ya trying to kill me? Off which the youth cheekily replied, what’s it matter – you’re nearly dead! Or as I imagined something to this effect as she went crazy.
And crazy she went further – she returned minutes later below my room where it stands above the covered, narrow alley, with a wine bottle and smashed it against the curb. She began throwing shards of glass at the young men; one perpetually smirking – he couldn’t keep back his grin if his life demanded it. She was eventually coaxed away by a middle-aged male … But later returned again, to throw more stones and shout.
>>> VIDEO: watch this crazy incident here
And now back in Sidi Ifni, I feel that’s enough writing … More wine and hash please, waiter.
travel article published 1996 & 98 / travels 1995
In a cafe in sun-burnt Eritrea, over a quiet beer, the hotel owner’s daughter Lucher, 25, told me she has killed four men.
That she carried a pistol as the radio operator in a commando unit. That she received medals and a military pension as reward for her seven-year stint with the EPLF (Eritrean People’s Liberation Front: as one third of Eritrea’s soldiers were women in their 30-year war against the Ethiopian Army). Now seven years since the war ended, Eritreans face the future with the same confidence that won them independence.
Young girl with sheep on the plateau of Matara, just north of the Ethiopian border, 1995
Eritrea is Africa’s newest nation. It comprises of nine ethnic groups, with an evenly split Muslim-Christian population of 3 million. Eritrea is roughly the size of the England but mountainous and arid, sharing land borders with Sudan, Ethiopia and Djibouti and 960km of desolate coastline opposite Saudi Arabia and Yemen.
The name Eritrea is derived from the Latin for Red Sea, for Eritrea’s origins began in 1890 as an Italian colony, and its status remained so until the British Army defeated the Italians in Abyssinia (Ethiopia) during the Second World War.
In 1952, the United Nations made Eritrea an autonomous federated state within Ethiopia – despite Eritrean calls for independence. Later Emperor Haile Selassie annexed Eritrea as Ethiopia’s 14th province, dissolving the parliament in the capital, Asmara, banning the Eritrean flag and languages. The struggle for Eritrean independence began in 1961 when poorly equipped rebels attacked an Ethiopian Police post. From that spark, this David vs Goliath struggle ignited into a long, bloody guerilla war.
In the 1970s the Ethiopian Communist regime, having deposed of Haile Selassie, conducted mass executions and torture which stiffened Eritrean resistance. In the 80s political intransigence by Ethiopia’s military leadership, combined with drought conditions, brought severe famine to the northern provinces – including Eritrea (hence Live Aid).
Yet despite the odds, Eritrean guerilla armies inflicted crushing defeats against the Ethiopian Army – one of Africa’s biggest, supplied and supported by the Soviet Union. In May 1991, 30 years since the start of conflict, victorious Eritrean forces entered Asmara.
Asmara, home to 400,000 people, is a pleasant highland city of Italian and Islamic influence, where grand cathedrals and art-deco architecture mix with mosques and markets. Asmara’s mainstreet – renamed Liberation Avenue – is lined with palm trees, expresso bars, mod-con stores and boutiques. Asmara’s streets are safe, clean and uncrowded; the taxis are old yellow Fiats and the traffic flows are quiet and orderly. Unlike most developing world cities, there’s no overwhelming pollution, no visible poverty, and no one hassles you for anything. Asmara is one of Africa’s gems.
Asmara was spared the ravages of war but down on the desolate Arabian coast, the 16th – 19th century Ottoman-Turk seaport of Massawa, once known as the Pearl of the Red Sea, was a major battlefield in 1990. Today many of the gracious old coral buildings are bullet-pocked; others are holed or completely destroyed. But along the mainstreet there remains the run-down, two-storey, Sicilian-style villas, with whitewashed walls and long street-front verandas, arched Islamic windows hidden by shutters.
Beneath the shriek of seagulls, in the stifling humidity, passing donkey and cart, there I am, trying to find a hotel in war-worn Massawa, walking a dirt lane of high walls and darkened doorways, when I hear “Hello friend!” I turn, see no one, and continue. Again someone calls. I turn to see a young woman waving, a smiling face in an alley of tattered, burnt-out buildings. I am invited inside, to drink coffee.
She has rich-brown skin, black eyes, long-braided hair and her name is Suzanne. Her home is a dark concrete space without windows or electricity. The interior is lit by the glare from the open door. Behind a spring bed with slumped mattress, hangs a tatty curtain dividing the room in two. On the cracked cement floor is a kerosene burner, pots and pans, mats and boxes and, on another bed, there stares a beautiful young woman. She looks African yet Arabian with alluring, mysterious black eyes. Her breasts are barely concealed as she plaits the hair of another woman, who could be – but isn’t – her mother.
Only Suzanne speaks English and as she roasts coffee beans and boils water, she tells me she spent the war in a refugee camp, in the Sudan. Now, she hopes to get the electricity reconnected to her home. Faded magazine pictures stuck to the bare-concrete walls remind Suzannne of her dream: That distant glamour of The West. She asks if I’ll come back later, tonight? It’s obvious how these women make ends meet.
One week later out west, towards the deserts of Sudan, near the town of Keren, I visit the Mariam Darit: a 108-year-old chapel built into the hollow of a massive baobab tree.
Inside the shrine there stands a statue of the Virgin Mary. The elderly caretaker tells me the statute had originally come from an older church destroyed last century by ethnic conflict; but then, for many years the statue disappeared, lost until it resurfaced in the river near this huge hollow-trunked tree.
And so this shrine was built. Strangely, however, when the Virgin was rediscovered in the river, it changed from original white marble, to fresh shining ebony. In this barren but beautiful land, the leafy, shady grounds surrounding the shrine of the Virgin Mary remain a favourite spot for families to picnic.
Across Eritrea the future shines bright.
> photos of Eritrea
Located in the central Ethiopian Highlands they remain one the least recognised man-made wonders of the world, yet once the Medieval rock-hewn churches of Lalibela were known as “The Jerusalem of Ethiopia.”
Within the compound of the church of Saint George – Lalibela
From my diary:
Outside the local mosque I greet people with (the Arabic but universal-Islamic/Muslim greeting): Salaam Aleikum / Peace Be Upon You; to their replies: Aleikum wa Salaam / And Peace Be Upon You.
For hours many smiles and long, curious looks or exclamations in Swahili: “Jambo!” (Hello) or “Mazungo!” (white person).
Two elderly tribal women stopped and stared. Ali, an English-speaking Muslim, laughed when he heard what they said to one another: He translated what they said of me: “How can a woman have so much facial hair?!”
Two small girls, watching from some metres away, found the courage to shake my foreign hand. They soon began plaiting my hair as Ali and I continued chatting, still seated on a log in a muddy lane alongside the village mosque.
A young woman stopped to talk. Soon she invited us to her house. There we met Consolota’s two sisters and four young brothers. She said her family was small; some here had 20 – 24 children (polygamy is common). Consolota had recently finished high school exams and heaps of Good Luck cards were strung above this room of bare concrete floor with two tattered sofas. The shack’s mud walls painted white - cracked but decorated with Jesus and Virgin pics. Consolota apologised for their poverty.
She made us a tasty meal of fried rice and tomato with lumps of meat. Afterwards, when we were wandering back Ali said Consolota had told him in Swahili that she liked me. “She was a tough woman, from the Meru tribe” he said. “She can suck all the water” (oral sex). And he recommended that I sleep with her.
I replied “Could get too complicated; maybe she wants to marry me.” “No,” insisted Ali, “she just wants to try a white man.”
On the way to my (rundown) hotel-room I pass one of the staff and she greets me with “I would like to spend some time with you.” I smile and continue. Then as I unlock my cabin door she shouts across the courtyard “I am coming.”
“Are you?” I reply (with a whiff of sexual inneuendo that was lost on her). She enters my room and gazing round, smiles and informs me she’ll return …
She’s now returned, having watched me wash my hair in the basin outside. “You have lovely hair,” she says. “Can I be in your company?”
I don’t answer.
“I want to sleep with you. I love you.” It seems she learnt English from T.V soaps. She has all the one-liners. I’m stumped. I haven’t asked her but now she’s making my bed. She’s no princess, rather big, with a braided mohawk, and wearing a t-shirt which states – Jesus sets you free.
I reply “But you don’t know me,” trying to put her off, “I could be a bad man -” But no … she responds “When I first saw you, my heart jumped.”
Outside a church disassembling its Sunday mass a self-declared “Christian” approached me. He wanted to talk life. I thought okay, what-the-hell. He asked many questions as he led me to a quiet, outdoor cafe. There he told me his story.
He, a Rwandan who’d trekked across mountains to escape the tribal massacres, was on a Kenyan transit visa and needed to get to Dar es Salaam, Tanzania, where he’d an uncle at the university who could help him. He asked me for money – $40 – so he could continue his journey, and I was replying no, sorry, when two men approached our table. One guy in a suit; the other dressed casual. Neither smiling.
They flashed ID – SECURITY / POLICE !
I thought – What-the-fuck? The bulky, casually-dressed dude took the Christian away as the other smaller, suited guy declared that the guy had been arrested. That he was a wanted terrorist! I thought this some kinda bad joke. And scoffed. The officer got shitty. He demanded to see my passport. I told him it was back at the hotel. He started asking questions: What was our business? What had we talked about? How did I know this man? He got aggressive; threatening me to take this situation seriously, to co-operate.
The big man returned. They said they’d been watching us with binoculars from that tall circular tower – Nairobi’s landmark. They accused me of supplying him with false traveller’s cheques, then of giving him drugs. I started to shit myself: corrupt cops who wanna frame me for anything that pays.
The small, shrewd copper told me of the marijuana penalties. I replied I didn’t smoke. ”Not even cigarettes?!” demanded the other. ”No.” They inspected my hands. No stains. I couldn’t fathom whether they were convincing con men or corrupt cops.
And was that “Christian” part of it? They told me to stop lying, threatening – “Do you want to talk here or at the station.” I replied “Here”; knowing that if these guys were cops it’d be very
difficult / very expensive getting released from a station, especially if they began the paperwork. I continued being polite, patient but firm.
Maybe I can get rid of them with a small bribe?
They insisted I show my traveller’s cheques, to compare mine with the suspects. If they didn’t match, then I was clear. I didn’t trust them. And was reluctant to reveal my hidden moneybelt (luckily, I’d left my visible moneybelt with my passport back in the hotel). I didn’t budge. I was to be charged.
They asked how I felt about spending time in a cell.
As they escorted me across the park another man appeared. The boss. I went through my story again. He too demanded to see my traveller’s cheques. A car was now waiting. I knew if I got in the car – or was forced, I was in for some serious trouble whether these guys were cops or con men. I then decided to show them my stash, and with their permission I walked alittle way off and out of their view I pulled a $20 cheque from my hidden moneybelt. I reckoned I could handle losing 20 bucks. I showed them the Amex cheque, a distinctively Australasian issue because it had – Westpac Bank – printed across it in red. This I pointed out: that the suspect couldn’t possibly have the same issue. It stumped them.
They wanted a couple of bucks – for beer, then said I was free to go.
During that hour I remained uncertain of their real identity. It seemed likely they were con men yet, as corrupt cops they fitted that ruthless stereotype typical of Hollywood movies depicting the Third World. Either possibility seemed plausible …
*
PS: a clipping from a Kenyan paper I came across while there: The Daily Nation: letters to the editor: POLICE MARRED HAPPY TOUR
[I and a fellow Kenyan recently toured Tanzania for five days ... as might be expected, we bought a few things, including three t-shirts, five cloth materials, a food mixer and a souvenir. We set off for Nairobi ... our luggage and papers were checked at the border and okayed by immigration officials. We then boarded a matatu (taxi-van) for Nairobi. We got to a road block in Kajiado and were asked to open our bags - only my friend and I. The police found in our bags the items earlier mentioned and asked us to produce "permits" for them, which, of course, we did not have. They asked the driver to leave us behind but he instead pleaded with them to have mercy on us. The police said they would consider it if my friend and I bribed them with Sh500 each. My friend and I were scared ... the police finally conceded a Sh100 discount and accepted Sh400 from each of us. The second nightmare came just after Maasai Girl's School, where we found another road block. The same process followed and bags were turned upside down again. Two policemen took Sh300 from us ...]
> photos of Nairobi & Kenya
Never did I anticipate problems adjusting to altitude, but since Golmud and then that cold, uncomfortable, 28 hour bus trip to Lhasa, the capital of Tibet, I got progressively worse with what was AMS.
Nirvana surge express (c) MRP ART
INFO: “Acute Mountain Sickness (AMS / altitude sickness) is caused by the reduction in atmospheric pressure with altitude, meaning less oxygen reaches the muscles and the brain, and the heart and lungs must work harder to compensate. Most people who ascend rapidly to heights above 2500 metres have a period of unpleasant acclimatisation. But individual susceptibility to AMS is highly variable. Males are more susceptible than females. Youth and fitness do not prevent AMS. Symptoms are “Headaches, dizziness, fatigue, loss of appetite, nausea and a general feeling of being unwell that is often compared to having the flu or a hang-over … Most cases of mild AMS will improve with rest. This often takes only 1 or 2 days. Warning signs for severe AMS include: Unsteadiness on one’s feet, inability to sit upright, severe headache not relieved by aspirin, shortness of breath at rest, and mild AMS which does not resolve in 2 – 3 days.”
I had been drained since Golmud (3000 metres) and dead since arriving in Lhasa (3600 metres). I spent 10 days in Lhasa feeling like shit.
THE FOLLOWING IS FROM MY DIARY:
Wow, Lhasa – TIBET!! Yet my europhia is short-lived. Something’s wrong with me. Was starving – no ‘real’ food for a few days – so I ordered a yak burger (two large steaks with fried potatoes and vegies). But as I stood waiting, suddenly dizziness, along with the feeling of a massive weight being exerted on my shoulders – like pistons pushing down on each shoulder. I sat down. Head on my hands on the table; spinning. Sally nursed me until her meal arrived. Mine still hadn’t shown – just as well, cos I’d lost my hunger.
Now, fully-clothed – thermals, t-shirt, shirt, scarf, woollen Tibetan jacket – I lie between sheets beneath an elephant-heavy duvet; and still I shiver. On the opposite bed Sally smiles, slouched casually in leggings and sweatshirt. I ask a favour of her. Sal replies – “Are you sure you’re hungry?” “Yeah, I feel okay – as long as I’m lying down; no dizziness.” Sally laughs at the idea of me lying down and eating. 10 minutes later she returned with a plate of french fries. She watched – amused, as I ate while remaining horizontal. (Who says nurses have seen everything?) A full stomach feels great.
*
Between 7.30 and 10 P.M I felt like death. A drilling gouged into the top-most part of my skull. A throbbing, needle-pricking pain in my brain as I alternated between cold shakes and wet sweats. I couldn’t decide whether to drop Aspirin or Valium. (I took the latter and was informed later that sedatives are the last things, along with alcohol, I should be taking while adjusting to altitude.) The pills kicked-in and was feeling mellow. Warm. Had stripped some of my layers off. Content, drifting gorgeously, when I farted. Straight away I knew: I reached down with toilet paper. Brown and stinky. I staggered along the corridor – out-of-it on altitude and Valium – to finish the fart. During the night my bladder ached me awake. Woke again in sweat-soaked sheets. Then needed another piss. A night of up and down the corridor, of cold and then way-too hot.
*
Walked for an hour this morning before exhaustion forced to bed. Sometime later Ross (Scotland) and Dave (Canada) arrived at our room. Lots of madness to tell me what I missed out on – they’ve had some wicked sessions with Thomas. They all went to a party held by Aussie geologists the other night. Mega FREE beer. Dave doesn’t remember pissing on a sleeping someone in his dorm. Or how he managed to pass-out beside an Aussie woman, nor did he recall her boyfriend removing him from their bed. Anyway, it’s their last night in Lhasa before they head to Shigatse, and I have to join them for a few beers … but am I up to it?
*
Woke with a busting head – and I didn’t even go drinking last night. Throbbing got so bad I took a handful of Aspirins. And then Digestics, but even these stronger pain killers only eased it slightly. Daggers piercing the top of my skull. Have lain in bed all day, wanting to shriek from the knife thrusts – but they don’t last long enough, just spit-seconds. Lightning pains. Even to cough or turn my head I get short sharp jabs. Running my hands through my hair causes discomfort.
*
Late afternoon: Aching body. Smashed head. Eyes throbbing and then the shits struck. Real task to dress, lock the room and walk to the toilets. As I squatted everything swirled. Am leaning hands against the wall, head on hands and spinning. Legs unsure as I crouch above the hole-in-the-floor. Twice I nearly fainted. Am washing my hands and looking out the window to the street of solid white-washed buildings, flowerboxes beneath their thick black window surrounds, when suddenly the scarlet robed monks, the colourful cycle rickshaws; everything’s gone grey – colourless silhouettes. Nothing but glowing white. Losing feelings … passing out … darkness.
Sally found me passed out on her bed. Soon Dave and Ross – they’d missed their bus! – arrived. Their humour and some sleep has helped. I feel okay … Woke in the night dripping wet. Armpits, chest hair, legs and face a waterfall. Sheets like baby’s diapers. Felt cold much later; put on a t-shirt. Then very much hot and wet, again.
*
Ate breakfast (first food in a day). Was feeling okay, but had trouble shaving. Black-outs every 5 -10 seconds. Sally’s gone to check another monastery; I’ve decided to work on a recovery.
Got ugly in the afternoon. Was reading Heart of Darkness with my back against the balcony railing, sitting half in shade and half in sun. But these bits either fried or froze. No happy medium. My body took me to the very extremes. Meantime others strolled in t-shirts, shorts and sandals. I went back to bed. Got cold. Covered myself with Sally’s sleeping bag and an extra jacket and duvet. I shaked, shivered uncontrollably for 30 minutes. (The creaking spring bed gave the impression to anyone outside that lovers lay bonking berserk where I lay shaking.) I muttered unflattering sentiments. Dickhead! Wimp! Weasel! Loser! And laughed. Warm went to hot and overheating fast, so I stripped down, my face the colour of beetroot, my body weak and frying. Sally returned to a cold, feeble freak who wanted more socks.
*
More midnight pisses. It’s gotten to the stage where getting dressed and wandering the corridor for a pee is too much effort. I now piss in a bowl in the room, steadying myself with one hand holding the door jamb and knowing that those first few seconds I feel will feel dizzy, standing with my vision briefly disappearing; and that’s when I’m most careful to get it in the bowl – and not, on the floor or my feet.
*
Felt okay this morning. Made my way to the Nepalese Consulate by minibus. Walked the last few hundred metres and became dizzy. Rested head against street railing and threw up the soft drink I’d started. Sal led me back … to bed.
*
Another wet-night awaking induced by sweats. Drenched. Hung out the damp bedding to dry. Ate scrambled egg – needed some energy. Felt confident I’d adjusted. Walked 20 metres to buy some water.
*
This afternoon I met Katie, an Aussie who’d cycled with two male companions from Islamabad in Pakistan, up the Karakorum highway and into China, then cycled across western Tibet to Lhasa where she now rests, waiting for her companions to recover from Giardia. Their final stage is to Kathmandu, Nepal. They’ve spent a month at 4000 metres and have no need for their altitude pills (Diamox). Katie has kindly given me the bottle. I’ve dropped my first Diamox. (Apparently it alleviates the swelling – (water on the) – brain, which altitude causes. Side effects include, needing to piss alot.)
*
A massive headache. Downed paracetamol. Rubbed Tiger Balm across my forehead. Tried Chinese folk music – played at low volume on my walkman, to soothe and distract. The pain persisted. And in desperation I prayed / meditated, fingering the Celtic cross around my neck and muttering the affirmation – “Move to the top of my skull, and into the sky. Move to the top of …” – while visualising the pain disappearing. Something, or a combination of something’s, eventually worked.
Pilgrims at the Jokhang monastery – a holy of holies within Lhasa (c) MRP ART
I feel alright, but usually do first thing in the morning. 100%??? Or is this just another temporary recovery? Yet another sick mind game which this illness keeps playing with me?
Mid-day: I’m disorientated, dizzy, weak and have a pounding head. One of the Tibetans working in this hotel has suggested she arrange a doctor’s visit. Through the window I watched him climb the veranda stairs. He had a Red Cross badge pinned to the lapel of his tatty suit. And he put his glasses on seconds before entering the door, like he’s eager to make it known he’s a doctor (and not a black market medicine salesman). Who knows? He entered the room smoking a cigarette. He placed a thermometer beneath my armpit, counted my pulse, felt my forehead, checked my tongue. And from my answers to his questions via an interpreter, he gave me many medicines.
I’m to have 500ml of Glucose (mixed with two other solutions) pumped into my body via the needle in my arm. The Tibetan woman has used one of my boot laces to tie the plastic drip bag to the light bulb above my bed. It will take 90 minutes for me to absorb this medicine. Meanwhile, flies harass me – flying up my nose, landing on my eyes, and in my fuckin’ ears! Fuck you! (For the entire week of being in bed I’ve been dive-bombed by flies. I’ve squashed many; but there’s 100’s – and they never leave me alone.) When I’m well, I’m determined to kill them all. The only joy I have now, is to watch the air bubbles in the bag suspended above me and feel liquid pulsing into my arm, and looking out the dusty, fly-guts-stained glass, to the glaring whiteness of what I know is clear blue sky.
I believe I’m ill. The doctor’s left me two vials and a syringe to inject into my butt – I said Sally could do that, no problem. He’s also given me a host of multi-coloured pills. Five different varieties. I’m to swallow a total of 27 pills daily.
*
Today, rebirth, I think. More energy. And no headaches or dizziness. The only side-effects from the feast of Chinese pills was that I felt my skin being pulled from around my eyes, and twitches and tightness. But mostly I felt sedated, mellow, calm, like a slow motion zombie.
Despite me convincing myself that I was on the mend, I met Eugene, a Dutch tour guide who said otherwise. He’s had 8 years experience in China and the Himayalan region. And according to his assessment of me – after consulting his medical manual – my condition lies between medium and severe AMS. Eugene’s advice is to leave immediately for a lower altitude, the nearest place being Kathmandu at 2000 metres and hundreds of kilometres south in Nepal.
>>>>> flash of PANIC: I’ve no travel insurance. I don’t wanna be hospitalised; don’t wanna be flown to Kathmandu or Chengdu or worse, flown home. I can’t face leaving Tibet, not without seeing Lhasa – let alone any other place – and not, after all the effort of getting here. The thought of fleeing Tibet makes me very depressed. I haven’t really improved. Am fooling myself; this recovery was merely temporary. However, I know I’m not getting any worse.
*
I don’t want to write, but I must record my feelings now, as I lay like a vegetable, again. While I’m far from dying, my body refuses my brain’s commands. Sure, I can write while lying on my side, and eat, drink, talk, read – just alittle; but when it comes to standing up, showering, peeing, hanging up my towel, fetching a mug of hot water, then it becomes a task. And if too many tasks mount up, I’m totally sapped. I lie in bed unable to move – cos my body refuses. Yet my mind remains sharp. In this comatose state I’m aware of nothing around me. Well I am, but I’m not. Travel conversations drift from outside, colourfully painted rafters stretch out above me, doors and sky, they all vanish. My surroundings are dead, and I’m dying the same way; fading temporarily from life as my mind surrenders. Nothing matters. Not even the fact that, I’m on the roof of the world – in mysterious Tibet.
*
The hotel manager suggests I try traditional Tibetan medicine. The Chinese doctor’s recommended another I.V. drip. Meanwhile I try more Diamox.
*
Some progress. On the way the sun was blinding – even with shades, as I walked thru the market – sun in eyes I saw no faces, no details, just silhouettes coming towards me. My vision went completely a couple of times. I had to stop. Blind for some seconds, before walking, dodging my way with Sally leading me to the Jokhang Temple: Tibet’s holiest shrine: 1300 years old—————–but … on all the drugs, the experience became detached, surreal. I was not there.
*
I had to get out of the room. Getting crazy stuck in bed. I swallowed Diamox and felt okay as I wandered narrow, dusty backstreets – high walls of white-washed stone with black framed, deep inset windows with flowers boxes beneath sills. Many smiling, friendly faces. A few growling dogs; but most lay asleep in the sun. Saw no other foreigners. Met a local woman who invited me into her home. Drunk two yak butter teas, then she offered me stuff for sale. A large ceramic bowl, jewellery … I was starting to shiver. Ended up buying her personal knife. (A small blade with bone handle studded with bits of turquoise in an ornate sheath attached to a solid silver chain clipped around her waist.) She would’ve been in her late 20’s. She’d long black plaited hair threaded with coral and turquoise beads, and a large amber broach above her forehead. She wanted me to stay awhile longer; being suggestive … But I indicated to her – I had to go. I was beginning to shiver uncontrollably, despite it being a sunny day, despite being warmly-dressed and inside her home. Went back to the hotel in a rickshaw with a killer headache. Sal arrived later with grapes and chocolate. (This nightmare would be twice the shit without her.)
*
Dave, Ross and Thomas showed up in our room this evening, after each returning from separate trips. Ross had stayed in Gyantse and Shigatse, while Dave abandoned his plan to sneak across the border and into Bhutan. Thomas had gone to the Rongbuk Monastery near the Everest Base Camp, trekking via some villages, but on route the second day he’d unknowingly passed the village he should’ve stayed in that night – his guidebook was inaccurate, and he ended up sleeping on a slope that night! Luckily, he had a minus-20 sleeping bag. He said he’d froze all night, eagerly awaiting dawn.
Sally and I have said good-bye to the others, tomorrow they’re returning to China. All five of us have shared some fun times. Thomas and I were teary-eyed as we said good-bye, well knowing that out of all the chance meetings we’d had over the past 4 months, that this would definitely be the last. (He’s heading onto Beijing for the Trans-Siberian to Moscow, then home to Copenhagen.) It was a touching, see-ya-forever moment.
*
More brief vision loss and days of pill popping, feeling faint, walking slow, restful visits to the Sera Monastery and the Potala – the Dalai Lama’s fortress-palace – and I was feeling okay, not brilliant, but okay with the help of Diamox and Sally’s nurturing.
After 10 days in and out of bed, I was now desperate to travel further, to see and experience a slice of Tibet on my way to Nepal.
