The Philippines: Very "Pleasing"...

The realization that we had 10 days allotted for the Philippines was a bit of a shock. What the hell were we going to do there for all that time?? With the benefit of hindsight I now know that I could happily have spent triple that amount of time there. My original lofty plan was to travel to the "Last Frontier" of the Philippines, Palawan. However, the prospect of the extra faff involved in getting there and the fact that electricity on the island is cut off at 9pm lead us down the path of least resistance for a lovely beach and dive sites. Hello Boracay!

A couple of days in Manila were first though. A city with a face only a mother could love and aromas not experienced since La Paz, but still interesting to wander around. Even the most inauspicious little restaurants and office buildings were guarded by men with guns as big as themselves, and every 4th building seemed an Entertainment Theatre, all on a recruitment drive for "18 year old girls with pleasing personality". Well, quite.

Watching a few minutes of local TV made the premium placed on physical perfection obvious. According to adverts selling various lotions, potions and treatments, if you aren't tall, thin, with long legs, a fulsome bosom and thick lustrous hair you may as well drag your ugly ass into a ditch and wait quietly to expire. So much for a pleasing personality...

The Filipino people love to sing, with a particular fondness for power ballads. Wherever there is a radio playing there are people singing along. To pass the time before the flight to Boracay I was perusing the display of pencil cases in the only shop in the airport. Aerosmith's "I Don't Want To Miss A Thing" came on the radio and the girl behind the till joined in with much enthusiasm and emotion. I stayed for the whole performance, mostly because I was enchanted with her free-form changing of the lyrics, particularly the chorus: "I miss you baby, and I don't want to miss my shoes!". Indeed, who would?

Arrival on Boracay Island and a bewildering array of short hop transport legs dumped us on the famed White Beach: 7km long and apparently where the island got it's name from. The consistency of the soft white sand is said to be like cotton, the local word for cotton is "borac". With an unerring instinct for substandard accommodation we cheerfully checking into the Orchids Resort for a week. The disappointment was incremental:
Day 1: Hotel breakfast gave me food poisoning
Day 2: Noisy and early morning renovation work begins on the other rooms
Day 3: Becomes obvious that the room will not be cleaned
Day 4: Smell of mould becomes omnipresent
Day 5: Insect population boom in bathroom
Day 6: Mystery monster noises at 4am
However, I really didn't care as just outside the hotel was this:The Filipino people of Boracay were a joy: friendly, polite and helpful. Even the beach touts flogging blag watches, genuine pearl earrings and boat trips didn't hassle you and were generally very laid back. Apparently it's an effing nightmare during high season though! It was a week of relaxing in the sun, swimming in the deliciously warm waters of the Sulu Sea, reading, drinking cheap rum & cokes and watching glorious sunsets.

After a very bad scuba diving experience in the Galapagos (of the negative entry, strong current, "oh my god I'm going to die down here" variety) I finally faced my fear and booked a Scuba Review course at a 5 star dive place - Calypso. This basically involved a dive instructor (the lovely Jade) gently and patiently taking me through things I already knew but needed a confidence boost on in a controlled pool environment. He dealt with my slightly scary intenseness very well - Q: "YOU'RE NOT JUST GOING TO F*CK OFF AND LEAVE ME DOWN THERE ALONE ARE YOU??" A: "Relaaaaaaaaax".

Despite rising panic my good soldier instinct kicked in, I did as I was told and before I knew it I was rolling backwards off a speedboat and into the deep (well, 24.4 meters). It was a wall dive and with Jade's help I was relaxed enough to enjoy the experience and the sights. I did get the fear though when I spent too long looking up at the wall and the life teeming above me, but just looked at a clown fish grooving around in some soft coral until I calmed down. Another demon slayed - RAH!

Another lazy day followed, but gave myself some sport by snarling at Old Man Sex Tourists smugly parading around with the young and pretty Filipino girls. I understand that if everyone is of a legal age then both sides are getting someting they want out of the deal, but I still find it terribly distasteful. Look at that, I have some moral fiber! Next day another dive, and an amazing one at that. Amongst other things, saw loads of beautiful coral, stingray, lionfish, scorpion fish and frog fish. Really enjoyed it and didn't have to cling on to Jade's hand once!

On the last night on Boracay we dined at Hobbit House. Yes, the front of house staff was entirely made up of dwarves and midgets. So many people didn't even bother to eat have a drink there, just get their photo taken with the Persons Of Restricted Growth out front. I even saw two Buddhist monks having a snap taken, so although they obviously had no worried about the effect this may have on their karma, all that was going through my head was "Exploitation, exploitation, exploitation!". Paul had no such concerns.
Repaired one last time to the Red Pirates beach bar for a night cap in the pillow pit. I have been to some fantastic drinking establishments in my lifetime: sophisticated city cocktail lounges, cozy country pubs, grand and imposing establishment bars, seedy dives, the Littlest Bar and plenty of relaxed beach bars, but this place beats the lot. The combination of location, effortlessly cool and tranquil decor & ambiance, laid back staff, a drinks menu totally 6 items and 2 sleepy ginger cats on the bar put it in a category all its own.
I fell in love with Boracay down that raffish end of the beach and now I can finally see how and why people "drop out" of the socially acceptable norms of decently paid 9-5 job, mortgage, shiny car and half a dose of happiness at the weekends. I will return to the Philippines and Boracay, I highly recommend you do so too. And in return for a flight ticket there I might even show you where the Red Pirates is...

Australia: Crocodile Hunter-less

The Australian leg of the trip almost didn't happen. Presenting ourselves at the Qantas (Queensland And Northern Territory Air Service) check-in at Christchurch Airport our passports were swiped and found sadly lacking in the Australian Visa area. Ah.

Having done no research into Australia, or even investing in a basic information pamphlet meant that we were 100% unaware of the fact that a visa was necessary (an attitude hangover from the Colonial heyday obviously). Luckily as we now have the new fancy biometric passports we could purchase the visa at the airport and have them digitally scanned on to the passports. So "thank you" to the thieving Ecuadorian bastard who relieved us of our old style ones.

So, another minor crisis averted we were on our way to Australia. I struck up a nice rapport with a flight attendant, so he made sure my champagne glass was never empty and stuffed a box of chocolates into my bag when disembarking in Sydney. Result!

The next day it didn't really sink in that I was in Australia until I coughed my first glimpse of the Sydney Harbour Bridge and the Opera House. It was just the kind of day you'd expect Down Under: sunny and delightful despite it being the end of their winter. We took a ferry out to Manly and sat on the beach watching the rather lackluster surfers bobbing up and down without any apparent intention of riding or catching or whatever it is that you you do with waves. Perhaps they were the wrong sort of waves, what do I know anyway? That night we met up with Liz, our new pal from the Galapagos boat, at the Opera House Bar, watching the hordes flying foxes flapping around over the Harbour Bridge as we flapped our jaws.

The next morning we climbed said Bridge, which was not nearly as scary as I thought it would be. Quick Bridge Fact Blast for you:
* 6 million rivets hold it together
* The Opera House is times as heavy as the Bridge, despite only being half its' size
* It was known as the "Iron Lung" of Sydney as it kept so many people employed during the Depression years
* Only 16 people died during construction (I ask morbid questions). During the construction of the Brooklyn Bridge, which took place at round about the same time, 27 workers lost their lives. So in your FACE Depression-era American Bridge Health and Safety Standards! Seriously though, you'd think it would be more wouldn't you?Once we'd clambered down and got out of the frankly ridiculous jumpsuits they make you wear we hopped on a flight to Melbourne and into the arms of our hosts Ox & Kate. Melbourne is a very architecturally diverse city with more public art per square meter than I have ever seen. My favourite building was Council House 2, a completely self-sustaining building. Those tube things on the outside are for collecting rain water to cool the building. I found this very groovy. Melbourne is also a city dedicated to food, drink and sport, especially drink. The entice populace seemed to be utterly slaughtered by 7:30pm on a Friday night.

Ox very kindly sacrificed his usual football (soccer) spectating to take us to a Footy (Aussie Rules) game: St Kilda Vs The Western Bulldogs at the Telsta Dome (capacity 47,000). I was supporting St Kilda because A) I was told to, and B) they had the most attractive outfits. Most of the British Readership will have seen at some point this marvelously violent and chaotic game on TV, but honestly, there is at least 20 times more violence and chaos going on when you see it live. Mayhem. The pitch is a MASSIVE oval, there are easily 50 people on the pitch at any given time, only 36 of which are legitimate players. Once you've factored in the referees, linesmen, coaches, first aid people and water boys who can apparently just mill about and disrupt play you really don't know where to look!The levels of gore during play have calmed down somewhat since the 1980s but there is still enough argy-bargy and jumper-punching going on to satisfy you if you're into such things... Just look at this psycho: Star Nutter for St. Kilda, Fraser Gehrig. He still looks hard as nails despite wearing lycra hotpants. The shorts are worn that skimpy and tight to avoid them being pulled down during rough tackles. Excuse me, I think I need to go and splash some cold water on my face...
I completed my Footy experience by having a "Four and Twenty" pie. On the packaging it claims it is a "meat" pie. I didn't pluck up the courage to read the ingredients list, but hey, I ate one and I never have to do it again.

Next day, despite cumulative hangovers we drove out to the Yarra Valley for some wine tasting. To be fair, Kate drove and watched the 3 of us drink wine - thanks again Kate, very much appreciated! Taking her hostessing duties to the next level Kate had a very special activity in store for us: penguin chasing! not actual chasing you understand, because that would be cruel. Instead we just shone torchlight in their faces, subjected them to flash photography and generally disturbed their peace. Kate is a trained and responsible penguin-botherer though, so it was all above board.

An unseemly early flight took us out of Ox & Kate's hair and on to Ayers Rock. I'm not being culturally insensitive: the airport is called Ayers Rock, the actual "rock" is Uluru, OK? I think the pilot on that flight had been sent to special Australian Quaintness School as in his short pre-flight chat to the passengers he managed to use the words "beaut", "dinkum" and "no worries". No "cobber" though which was a disappointment.
Obviously the huge red monolith is very impressive and full of cultural and religious significance for the Anangu people, but I still don't see why that makes it OK to charge $60 for the cheapest bloody buffet dinner at the resort. Just saying. The anangu don't like tourists to climb Uluru and encourage you not to. You can see their point: would you think it's appropriate to absail down the Wailing Wall or do a double pike dive into the waters at Lourdes? Instead we walked around the base which was good enough for me. You get to appreciate its size, texture and real shape this way. I had always thought it was a smooth loaf shape, not so. Still had to touch it just once though, so many apologies to any Anangu people who may read this...

At the Silence under the Stars dinner we watched the sunset over Uluru and Kata Tjuta (aka the Olgas) to the sounds of the didgeridoo played by some white bloke claiming to be aboriginal. I think he was using the same logic process that half the population of Boston uses to claim that they are Irish. Saw my first kangaroo that night - in an appetizer. Delicious, unlike crocodile which is surprisingly bland (lacked bite.. oh forget it). After dinner and astronomer talked us through the star constellations, fascinating stuff. I got a bit misty-eyed and emotional when he pointed out that what I had thought was a light cloud in the sky way actually the Milky Way.

The next stop was Queensland and the Tropical Escape B&B in Mission Beach. The lavish and extensive website suggested and exclusive mini-hotel but was in actual fact a Homestay at Dot and Bill's place where they had converted 3 ensuite bedrooms into guest rooms. It was very nice, don't get me wrong, but it was more like staying with a friend's Auntie: trying not to make too much noise, making sure not to leave the towels on the floor and offering to help with the washing-up.

Had planned for a couple of days relaxing on the beach with a book, but the weather had other ideas. Went for an aimless drive instead (PARTY!) and came across a cassowary and her chick. These are big shaggy flightless birds, a bit like an emu but with a multi-coloured Mohawk and lethal massive claws on their feet. They are endangered: only 1200 left in Australia so were happy to have seen them, but also not a little scared even in the car as they look HARD and have a reputation for being testy. Took a beachside rainforest walk that afternoon. I was already a little spooked by the signs saying "DANGER - CROCODILES" and warning you to stay away from the water's edge, so when there was a crashing in the undergrowth and an enormous cassowary within feet of us I called time on the nature walk.

On to Airlie Beach where we had planned to do a "live aboard" sailing trip around the Whitsundays for 3 days. Unfortunately that area of Queensland was suffering from an unusual weather pattern, that in layman's terms is known as "shit". The whole town was just full of bars with glum faces peering out at the sky trying to will along a patch of blue. Not ideal conditions for the open water so sacked off the live aboard. Luckily the afore mentioned Liz was also there with her boyfriend Ben so we managed to have a good time despite the weather and not exactly fitting in with the 18 year old crowd at Paddy Shenanigans and the wet t-shirt competitions. Did a day trip out to a dead section of the Barrier Reef (thanks for nothing FantaSea!) and another one to Whitehaven Beach which was glorious - softest sand I have ever felt.

Back to Sydney for a couple of nights, just enough time to do some admin and meet up with another face from the Galapagos, Vicki. The night ended up like this
so as you can imagine the 4:15am start the next day to catch the flight to the Philippines felt less than special. Top fun though!

I know we only saw a small fraction of Australia and came at a bad time of year but I don't feel any strong compulsion to return, unlike so many people I know who can't wait to move there permanently. Didn't see a koala, but did eventually see a kangaroo. Dead, upside down in a ditch. Ho hum.

A short rant about EMO "music"

Whilst in New Zealand it was with dismay that I listened to "commercial radio" for the first time in ages. Whilst at work I was protected in the comforting bubble of BBC Radio 2 and although i'm sure my cube neighbours didn't share my enthusiasm for Steve Wright in the Afternoon at least it wasn't full of this tedious pap that "the kids" seem to be listening to these days. Endless indistinguishable bands with their heartfelt jingly-jangly whingings about the girl they fancy that won't look at them and how their parents, like, totally don't understand them.
Panic! at the Disco - f*ck off.

These pale, spineless milksop boys should grow a pair, listen to (for example) Led Zepplin and AC/DC albums and learn how to use their guitars to play some proper ROCK. THAT'S how you get the girl. Look at this man:
Not the prettiest you would agree. But I would imagine the lag time between Lemmy wanting the girl and getting the girl is approx 3 minutes.

Again, Panic! at the Disco - f*ck off

New Zealand Vol. II: 3068km, 8 extra kilos of belly & innumerable litres of wine...

After 18 days of fun in the North Island we boarded the InterIslander ferry timed, at the recommendation of Laura T, to do the Cook Strait crossing at sunset. Most picturesque.

Just in case our kidneys had started to recover, started the 1st day in the South Island with a self guided vineyard tour of the Marlborough region. A glass of champagne (pardon me, Methode Traditionale) with a Bee Gees soundtrack in Cloudy Bay got the day off to a buzzy start at 10am. I bonded with the initially standoffish cellar door manager at Serasin Estates over a shared love of the Everly Brothers. Amazing what dubious and far-ranging musical tastes can do for you. Now, if I can only strike up a conversation with a diamond merchant who is bang into Erasure and Bad Brains we're sorted... Another stand out point of that day was getting my first bowl of green-lipped mussels. Good lord, each one was the size of a child's hand (and nearly as tasty...).
And so, full up, slightly lit up (just me) and delighted with the scenic beauty of the area we rolled into Nelson. [A couple of days of non-eventful pottering ensue and so...]

On to the 429km slog to the West Coast, where we were warned to expect "real weather". If this means ENORMOUS rain then we got it. Apparently it's like this most of the year but I can't help but feel we were cheated out of some breathtaking mountain views, but hey, if you visit a country in the height of its Winter then what the f*ck do you expect?

The destination was the Franz Joseph Glacier, immediately rechristened the Franz Ferdinand Glacier. The options for diversion in the area are:
1. Walk up to the glacier and look at it
2. Climb the glacier
3. Take a helicopter flight over the glacier
All pretty much glacier related wouldn't you agree? And so, you would presume that any visitor to Franz Ferdinand would be aware of its icy nature, wouldn't you? Well, to prove that the statement "there is no such thing as a stupid question" is sometimes false, I would like to share with you the following story:

At the reception of the Franz Ferdinand Holiday Park the owner/manager was being harangued about the finer details of climbing the glacier by a middle aged lady of peevish disposition. She was being just generally low-grade annoying until she came out with the following gem: "Is it slippy climbing the glacier?" THINK, you dappy bint - the definition of a glacier is a slowly moving mass of ice, exactly how much traction do you think you're going to get??? Maybe 2.5 weeks in a campervan had made me slightly tetchy (actually, no maybe about it), but still, a lesson to us all: engage brain before opening mouth.

I digress. It was with much excitement that I strapped on my crampons and followed our cheerful Essex-Lad guide up the terminal face. To get the most out of the crampons you really had to slam your feet into the ice, so I was lost for a while in a Godzilla stomping through TokyoGlacier is encroaching at a rate of 1 meter PER DAY, almost as if it was trying to sneak up behind people and catch them unawares!

Another long stint of driving followed with only the occasional period of panic when one drawer, cupboard fridge or other would decide to burst open and vomit its contents throughout the van. Lively times for the co-pilot.

Lake Wanaka was the destination, and it did not disappoint. I made the ill-advised decision to get rid of the stale bread by feeding it to the ducks and gulls by the lake. I obviously didn't learn my lesson in Tahiti: FEEDING FRENZY! Slightly unnerving to see the baguette-lust burning in their eyes, but it gave Paul a good laugh.

The next day dawned bright, cold and clear-skied, the perfect day to ski Treble Cone. After a nerve wracking switchback drive up the mountain we got what appeared to be an excellent deal on an equipment hire & lift ticket package. However, this "deal" entitled you to skis with special sponge coated edges. And that's not just a bad carver blaming their tools, OK? It was a great day though, just look at the views:

After getting a nice man to cut a kilo of dead candy-floss hair from my head we headed out into the hitherto unknown Central Ortega Pinot Noir Wine Country. While some of the tasting rooms lacked the grandeur (think Portakabin on an industrial estate) of other more established places we had been, we did get a look inside someone's riddling room*.

The campervan's cellar thus replenished we arrived in QUEEEEEEENSTOOOOOWN!!! Dude! Awesome! Rad! Etc etc etc. Queenstown does not feel like a real town, the nature of the place results in a Whistler Village resort feel instead. Still steadfastly sticking to my 'no effing bungee' rule, we decided on 2 XTREME (dude) activities: Shotover Jet and the Canyon Swing.

Shotover Jet was hilarious good fun with relatively little danger of damage to physical or mental health. Basically it's a very, very powerful speed boat that can blat along at high speed in 4 inches of water, spin you around 360 degrees, and make you scream your head off when you think your driver Troy is going to drive you straight into a cliff face. Wheeeeeee! After this we squelched off to a local micro-brew pub, sat round a fire pit and traded logic puzzles and bad-taste jokes with some local lads.

Next day was meant to be the Canyon Swing, but I was secretly delighted when it was fully booked. Not to be deterred from doing something really dangerous and stupid Paul booked us in for the following day at High Noon. This meant we had an empty day in Queenstown with nothing to do but go fishing or do a bungee jump - all other activities were cancelled due to non-stop rain. So, we did what 82% of the rest of Queenstown did and went to the cinema. Have you seen "My Super Ex-Girlfriend"? If not: DON'T.

***WARNING - Mam, don't read any further, go and look at this for a while instead http://www.mycathatesyou.com/ WARNING OVER***

On to the day I was sure I was to meet my maker: the day of the Canyon Swing. Now I know these activities are meant to be fun, but the idea of launching myself into a 109 meter canyon attached to a rope seemed fraught with possibilities of physical injury, namely (don't ask me why) my eyes popping out of my head. I was unable to speak or express emotion all morning, gripped tight in the jaws of terror. Paul on the other hand was beside himself with excitement. I asked one of the staff Johnno if indeed, anyone's eyes had ever popped out, or even if anyone had over pissed themselves with fear. Being a kindly Aussie he spent a good few minutes answering my earnest questions with pure wind-up answers, until the vice-like grip I had on his hand began to cause him considerable pain, and he realised I REALLY was frightened.

Our group shuffled out onto the platform where they had the Nevermind album blaring out. Now, believe me, you do not want a Nirvana soundtrack to throw yourself into a canyon - too many negative connotations. A music change request was made, the Prodigy came on and the group mood lightened considerably.

Apparently I would make a good soldier, because in times of extreme emotional excitement (let's say, terror) I will follow instruction to the letter, not question authority and complete my mission whether I want to or not. Once safely strapped into my harness I was led out onto a ledge (in a voice 3 octaves higher "are you sure everything's attached properly? is that tight enough? what do I do with my hands? am i going to be ok? promise?") and told to not look down, don't hang around too long and just step off ("just" - ha!). So the good soldier did as she was ordered. For the first part of the 60 meter freefall there is no air in your lungs to scream, but that doesn't last too long and I managed a good manly roar for most of it. Then you're swinging through the canyon in a 200 meter arc at 150 kph, which made me laugh and laugh and laugh. I was hoisted back up to the platform and immediately announced my intention to do another jump. Such is the power of adrenaline!

But next up was Paul, who had decided to kick proceedings off with the "Pin Drop" - the scariest style of jump. As I say, a few weeks in a campervan puts you in a slightly odd frame of mind... Of course he loved it too and signed up for a second jump.

Back in soldier mindset I asked Johnno what style of jump I should do next. "The Chair!" he proclaimed, and so the chair it was. I initially thought he was taking the piss when he brought out a rickety plastic garden chair with a tattered seat belt attached, but oh no, no joke. I had to balance on the edge of the platform, leaning back on the back two chair legs, ready to tip myself backwards into the canyon. Laughing adrenaline had been replaced with my old friend terror and for a while I couldn't find the courage or leg strength to tip myself off the ledge. However Private Craig always follows orders, so after one last "Go on tiger!" from Crispy the safety technician (comforting, non?) I bellowed "F*CK IT) and off I went. A very odd but exhilarating experience to watch a chair leg, then a rock face, then the sky, then a river rotate past your vision as you tumble through the air.

Paul's second jump was the "Elvis Cutaway" I’ll let a picture do the talking: Adrenaline surged for the rest of the day, and I wouldn't be entirely surprised if one or both of us had used the word "dude" in a non-ironic fashion.

A calming couple of days in Christchurch followed. Everyone says it is a very English town, but I think this is just because there's a river called the Avon you can punt on, and all the streets are named after English towns or counties. Nice place though. From Christchurch we were flying on to Sydney, Australia, so it was time to relearn the art of stuffing 80 liters of crap into a 65 liter backpack. Fun! Although still nomadic while traveling in the van it was comforting to have the form of routine and familiarity that the mobile home provided.

Farewell sweet campervan: it was the best of times; it was the worst of times. Alas, we never did figure out how to turn on the hot water.

*look it up yourselves.