And he said you ...Walk like an Eqyptian

The plane touched down in Cairo and I was not sure if I was ready for the adventure that was waiting for me.

On the ground I purchased my Egyptian visa easily before getting in the line for passport control. It seemed I had picked the wrong one (as I always do) and the people in front of me were screaming and raising their voices about something. Eventually i got to the front and I was greeted by a very strange looking man...had I stepped onto the set of Frankenstein instead of the tarmac at Cairo Airport?

The man who stood before me was tall, very tall, with deep dark sunken eyes. Most disturbing was the horrible open wound in the middle of his forehead- a gaping whole, with skin upturned and peeling away to reveal a massive egg shaped bump. I could not concentrate. It took me a while to work out that the wound on his head was probably and most likely a result of a particularly vigorous call to prayer session.

Soon after i was meet my Mustafa- the 26 year old owner of my hotel. Mustafa was keen to start some chit chat with me and we talked all the way to center of town. As he drove i watched the road and said silent prayers for our lives- the traffic was insane and it was 1:00am. Whilst there appears to be marked lanes on the roads- cars seem to ignore them and weave in and out and then to the center to try and fit 3 lanes in a space built only for 2.

When i was not hanging on for dear life, Mustafa used the time to give me a free Arabic lesson but i quickly discovered (as most foreigners do) that there is just not enough phelm in my throat to pronounce the words correctly.

In the morning, i ate breakfast (half a stale bread roll with jam)and set off in search of cash and the Egyptian museum. Being a Friday, the streets were almost empty and i discovered that in the Arabic world Friday is thought of like a western Saturday and everything is closed, deserted.

After a while of walking, I noticed a large group of men sitting on a rather large outdoor carpet praying in unison with some loud speakers (apparently the mosques are so full on Saturdays that lots of people pray outside), aside from that the streets were quiet and a perfect place to take in the City.

With my map in hand i set upon navigation to check i was walking in the right direction and stumbled across my first middle eastern problem- nearly all the street signs are in Arabic making it impossible to navigate with out asking someone what the street sign actually says...

Out of the distance, i noticed a large, imposing colonial style building painted a shocking shade of what was once gleaming bright pink- muted to a more subdued garish shade- it was the Egyptian museum.

After getting eyed up by what seemed like 1000 police who waved, smiled, hissed and probably called me rude names i was in.

Inside this once grand building I was overwhelmed by the enormity of the collection-objects are everywhere. The building dwarfs me and i don't know where to start first.

The tiles are old worn grey lino and the display cases look if they were built 100 years ago (they probably were)- the state of the building is depressing and i wish i had with me a magic wand to brighten the place up.

There are few signs to follow so i decide to stalk an American tour group until i start getting funny looks... i replaced them with another group and then decided just to wader aimlessly and look at what catched my eyes.

I noticed a couple of cabinets with 3000 year old mummies in them that have broken glass sides which have been replaced with polystyrene. Thankfully the decay of the building does not detract from the collection of some of the worlds most valuable artifacts. To give you an idea of size, they say that if you spent 1 minute looking at every piece in the museum it would take you 9 months.

With only a few hours before museum fatigue would set in- i made sure I saw what was buried in Tuten Karmen's tomb and the mummies (which are really creepy).

Next stop, a wander through Cairo's streets. Walking around I felt small, anyone would. The city is enormous- bigger than big. When I arrived Mustafa said there were 25 million people living in the city (although a quick google search says there are only about 15 million but i did find out it is the densest populated place in the world). There are an infinite number of cars, people and the noise level is unbelievable- a car honking symphony is the cities sound track.

It seems as though the whole city is in muted colour- a palette of browns, khaki and burnt orange colour everything and it feels as though the city is in desperate need of a good wash. Everything is dusty, old, dirty and colourless. The streets here are rammed with people- men mainly stand on corners in groups or drive around. Men must out number the women here by 100 to 1 out on the streets and my auburn hair insures i am in the minority.

The roads are full to the brim with cars- often there are so many that stand still that it looks like a car park. Crossing the road feels dangerous- slow purposely and with intent is my strategy. Sometimes i shadow a Cairene and walk closely to them.One man commented on my style... 'you walk like an Egyptian' and the song stuck in my head for most of the day.

Arabic music can be heard sometimes above the car horns and the smell of the shisha wafts above me, at other times all you Can smell is rubbish and piss.

As i walk, my eyes are down cast- i dress devoid of sexuality and look like a prude... my hair is tied back in a bun, i wear an over sized shapeless shirt and baggy long pants.

I caught the metro in the ladies carriage and am amazed at how people(women) push and shove to get in... i am also amazed at the fashion- men women and children are all dressed like it is a UK winters day, scarves, gloves and winter coats are in Vogue even though it is pushing 25 degrees. I am sweltering.

For lunch i stop at a popular kebab house and watch a women in a burka style outfit eat... i catch myself staring and remind myself that it is rude... but it is fascinating. It appears to be a delicate procedure- first she cuts up her food into the tiniest bite sized chunk imaginable before turning her head slightly and lifting her veil so quickly with out showing any skin- it is elegant and you could blink and miss it.

I get frustrated when at the train station people push in front of me to out fox me...they crowd me and talk about me. I hate feeling claustrophobic and this city certainly is at times... the suffocation makes me want to cry but i don't. Instead i lift my down cast eyes and walk tall ... for a second.

Hot tired and with a sore arm (see London entry... that i will write below)- i find the hotel and head there for some quiet time... it takes me 10 minutes walking up and down the street to locate. Everything looks the same and it feels like there are thousands of people all on the street at the same time.

I chat to Mustafa and arrange to go to the pyramids... i also tell him that i want to see some belly dancing and he arranges for his young brother Karem to accompany me- i am unsure why this happens but it is nice to be in the company of a local... i try and teach him some English. He is pleasant, generous and nice. He also ensures i catch the right cab home.

Before the belly dancers come on we are warmed up by some Sufi dancers (if you call what Sufi's do dancing). the first to get up is a midget and it is weird. Dressed in a white shirt with large over sized skirts he stands and spins and makes his skirt go up... the crowd love it but i an indifferent.

Next we have a taller Sufi dancer who fans and lifts his skirt high above his head. He lifts his skirt right off his body and spins it as if it were pizza dough.

Finally the star belly dancer gets onto the stage, she is dressed to kill in a lethal jeweled bikini top and skirt with the highest split i have ever seen. She moves gracefully and the men ogle her, i ogle her. It seems that you cant help looking at her. I wonder if her parents know what she does for a living? Is it acceptable here or is she thought of like a stripper?

XXX

London

36 hours in London was never going to be enough time... with a list as long as my arm of things to do...I did not know where to start.

I made a plan and set off early, managing to achieve most of my goals by lunch time- new trainers (as mine got wreaked on the volcano), new bras (seemed ridiculous that i only had two black ones with me in Mexico), a restock of medicine (zantac for my temperamental stomach) and a stock up of toiletries (was not sure what would be available in Africa).

I caught up with my dear friend Warren for lunch (so nice to see him)and stopped by my hairdresser to try and do something with my blonde tresses (my hair faded to gold on the beach in Mexico).

I arranged a very small farewell party at my old favourite pub and was delighted with the turn out...it ended up at 5:00am in Mayfair with me falling out of a club... (literally fell over as it was very cold and my ballet shoe flats with out grip slipped on the black ice that had formed... not knowing it at the time i managed to get a severe bruise on my left bicep... and my arm is still sore!)

Thursday was a wipe out... i was so hung over i did not do much but pack, feel sorry for myself (my head hurt) and head to the airport.

As soon as i was on board i fell asleep only to wake 30 mins from Cairo.

The Mayflower

With time on my side an Ra safely back in Sydney, I decided to head to Peurto Escondito (PE), a small beach resort located on Mexico's Pacific coast about 500 or so kilometres south of Accupulco.

Famed for being the home of Mexico's surfing culture, the beach has monster swell, the fastest breaking waves in the world, as well as a few bars and numerous backpackers hostels which house surfers from all over the globe, desperate to have a crack at the giant surf.

I chose to stay at The Mayflower on the recommendation of Ra's entourage in Guatemala. The Mayflower is a small popular hostel of about 40 beds near the fising port and main street, 10 mins from the real surfers paradise.

With plans to stay a few days, I ended up spending 10 days at the Mayflower, and Mexican life became routine... i would wake and eat either scrambled eggs or hot cakes (depending on my mood), spend a few hours at the beach, read my book (finished two in a week.... Paul Theroux's 'Dark Star Safari'... he is excellent but an arrogant git and a lovey book called 'Purple Hibiscus'... both in preparation for AFRICA), sleep in the hammock, read some more and maybe take another swim before an afternoon nap and getting ready to hit Puerto's nightlife... which consisted of a couple of surfy bars where thongs (the footware) were considered tre chic, frequented in the main by Mayflower guests.

Life in PE was nice an extremly relaxing after 7 weeks on the road...a town with long sunsets and an endless array of stars with plenty of beach to enjoy them on.

Whist i was there, i avoided writing my blog, not for lack of interest but life seemed so simple, plain and boring that i did not want to let you down... it felt like i escaped from the world... i did however keep writing in my little journal... just never felt to share the thoughts.

To enjoy my days (in between beach and hammock), i spent a lot of time talking to the guests of The Mayflower and below is an introducion to some of the characters, simple vingettes that allowed 10 days to pass with out my even noticing.

In no particular order of relevence or interest ... here goes.

First, there is Avian, the sleazy 27 year old Israeli who rubbed me up the wrong way the instant i met him by denyng that Egypt is a part of Africa, amazed with his geograpy educaton (or lack there of as Israel boarders Egypt) he was determined to spend an entire week telling me that i was wrong thinking that is neighbouring country could be in an area widely known as North Africa because they played soccer in the Asian league. It is for this reason that Avian thought it would be wise to ridicule my education for the entire week with taunts of.... here is the girl who thinks Egypt is a part of Africa... it was infurating me. In between Avian would try and flirt with me and spend as much time as possiable near me... always forcing me to make some excuse to leave... hard in a beach town where all there is is the Hammock, internet, sand and surf.

Next there was Nicko the handsome swiss guy who smiled a lot. Tall, dark haired and muscular Nicko had a large Che Guevera tatoo on his left shoulder. Nicko struck me as being interesting and i was keen to talk to him and hear of his adventures...unfortunatley language was a massive barrier... his english poor and my spanish worse. I did find out that he was planning to spend a month living with people of the Zapista movement in Chapis ( a rebel group that gained prominence in the 1990s... google them for more info) as some sort of human shield.... (was ot sure that things were so bad there that they needed swiss protection). Nicko was a permentant fixture of The Mayflower and an exceptional cook.... lucky for me i must have smiled at the right moment as i managed to get a few meals cooked by him.

Next there was Matt, an almost albino english man who had been on the road for 10 months, of which two were spent at the Mayflower picking up girls, drinking and learning to surf in his spare time. Whilst i was at the Mayflower it felt like i was at Matt's house, he made it is point to welcome everyone and give some good advice... ie the beach is dodgy after dark, on Mondays go to X bar, last week someone got mugged at X etc etc. Matt's motives were travel were unclear, i think half of the reason was because he hated the UK so much he would do anything to avoid the place... which is fair enough.

And then there was Carl, the Canadian nutter from Vancover who beieved in UFO's, connecting with stars and talking to aliens. At first glance Carl seemed liked your everyday individual (aside from harry high pant trousers).. it was not until he started talking that the strange stuff dribbled out...slowly and in a soft voice meant to convince you...perhaps thats how Hubbard got his converts...

Which brings me to Brandon, an oakie from Oklahoma. Brandon was one of the most interesting people I have met on my trip so far. 6 foot 5, lanky and aged 28, he had quite a few unusual stories to tell. First there was the one about his time as a figher pilot in the airforce (never met one of those before).. he nickname was goose... dissapointing, as i thought he had mavrick written all over him, before his career was wreaked by a near fatal attack (is that what you call it...) of Crohns disease and he was discharged before ever entering battle. Next there was the time he spent living and working in Antartica and finally if that is not interesting enough... there was the time he decided to walk across america... Brandon was the type of person i wanted to talk to, certain somewhere in his story i would get the script for my novel... it was almost too unbelieviable.

Finally there were Kelly and Jordan, English friends travelling together ( I am sure he fancied the pants of her). Kelly and I hit it off immediatly and within a few days we were spending all our time together... Kelly is a soul food friend, one i hope to have forever. With a mutual love of partying and lazing on the beach our routines merged slowly into one and we would gossip for hours... (me talking code columbo), kelly talking about the boyfriend she had left behind and Jordan... did i think he liked her... clearly YES... it was great to have a girl to chat too. I think that is because girls tend to travel in tight knitted groups making them almost inpentrable for an outsider.


i will continue this post... lap top has no battery...

Life's a beach...

Dramatic coastlines, yellow sand and big surf were my first impressions as my fokker 100 flew over the town (i almost said city but it is tiny, teeny weeny). With low cloud cover_ fluffy marshmellow shaped clouds hovered about the shore and the plane just bounced along,every now and then hitting an air pocket.

Palm trees and tin huts dot the inland hills and it feels a million miles from the mania that is MC.

The airport is more like a landing strip than anything else, situated in a tropical paradise, the terminal is small, more like an air conditioned shed in the middle of heaven.

The light is blinding and the humidity fells well over 100% if that is possiable. I am soaked through even before i get into my taxi. My diver seemed like a particular jolly individual, smiley, chatty and we grin all the way to The Mayflower my digs for the week (or two) that i will stay in Peurto Escondito.

Xochimilco

Located on the outskirts of the City is a world heritage site and the one thing I was really keen to do in MC (after reading an article about this in The Times) is Xochimilco.

Xochimilco is a network of canals flanked by gardens that you see by catching a brightly coloured and decorated gondola.

I was excited about gong, my first MC adventure that would force me outside my comfort zone.

First I walked to the metro, negotiated my tickets with ease (it helps that all fares are the same price- approx 20 cents Aussie). Next i found my platform, waited about 3 minutes and boarded a metro train to the end of the line.

I was lucky to get a seat (all that London Tube training) and set about reading the newspaper in Spanish. I take great pleasure in reading the paper in Spanish- espically when at the end i have actually understood something. It is often hard to work out the words but when i concentrate it is possiable.

The cities metro is very clean, efficent and up their with the world's best.

At each stop, a hawker selling cd's enters the carriage with a ghetto blaster in their back pack and tries to sell you the best of some Spanish/ Mexican pop singer for a shiney gold 10 peso coin. It is like watching TV and i enjoy it.

Next i change into a 3 carriage light rail train and head to end of that line. More crowded than the metro there is no room for the entrepeners and we sit/stand like sardines till we reach Xochimilco.

As I exit the station a wave of dry heat hits me- i dig deep for my sungalsses and walk slowly to the wharf. I pass a Luhre Libre ring (wreastling WWF style) and a local market selling a bright array of fruit.

I am followed by some harmless boys on bicycles who i assume are trying to get a comission from me. Politley i ask them to stop following me about 5 times before i tell them to F&%k off in Spanish. It does the trick and I am free to wander the streets at my leisure.

At the wharf.. i am surprised to see no one but a few tour operaters and a Mexican family. I ask them in y best Spantalian if i can join their tour and am delighted when they oblige me.

The mother and father sit and smile at me and it is not long until Tanya their youngest daughter (age 16) asks my name. She is stunning, tall, slim and with cheek bones that you would die for. She is fascinated with me.

Her smile is bright and her eyes are clear.... and her english is better (marginally better) than my Spanish.

It turns out that they are from Chapis, my favourite state in Mexico. The family are taking a 3 day holiday in the capital- their first time and they are kinder than words.

After about 10 minutes the father treats us to some Maranarchi music. The band are on a boat similar to ours and they row up very close and belt out some classics for 70 pesos a pop.

It does not take long for Tanyta, Daisy (their older daughter) and Fernando (the son) to start dancing and before long i am joining in with them... busting our best moves down the river.

Mum and dad stay sitting but clearly they enjoy our fun.

After 2 hours battling to express myself i make a move to depart... but not before i am invited in a way it would be too rude to refuse to a taco luncheon.

The smiles and giggles my presence evokes is priceless... i feel privledged.

As i make my way to leave, Tanya asks me to come and stay and the father ask me if it is ok if the kids come for a holiday to Australia when they are older... could they stay in Sydney with me.

With a hug and kiss i am off... leaving my Mexican family for my amigos at the hostel.

Amore Mexico City

This place is amazing....

At the start of this adventure, I decided that I would not go to MC- I was too scarred that I would get stolen.

But given that I am determined not to let fear dominate my trip I took the plunge and I am so glad that I did.

MC is a thriving metropolis and one of the largest cirties in the world. Famous for nurturing artists like Frida Khalo and Diego Rivera, kidnappings and hosting the Olympics in 1968. I was eager to uncover as much as I could.

The first thing I learnt was that the locals (all 25 million of them) refer to MC simply as Mexico.

The next thing that you notice is how friendly and attractive the people are. Taller than their fewllow countrymen of the South and Yucatan peninsula, they are robust and gorgeous.

Finally, I learnt that like Venice the city is sinking.

The city's size in incomprehensible- it is hard to grapple with the fact that more poeple live here than live in all of Australia combined.

Ra and I decided to stick on a well worn path- concentrating of the Reforma (the Champs Elysis of MC and home to the cities famous Republican monument... a tall colum adorned with a golden angel), Condessa- a trendy, artisty suburb that used to boast Kerouac as a local and the Centro Historic quarter.

What you cant help but notice on arrival is that the city is like one huge, giant, living art gallery.

Statues, sculptures, outdoor photo exhibitions dominate every quarter and then there are the murals (a government inititivne in the 1920's and 1930's that allowed the cities public buildings to be adorned with murals by Mexico's finest artists). It is sensational and a full blown colour assult on the senses.

MC might be my favourite big city of earth- it has the color of Mumbai, the bustle of Bangkok and the coolness that is Berlin.

The city is incredibly inspiring- Could MC be my muse? I know that since arriving here I have taken some pictures that I am proud of and started a new chapter of my never ending novel....

After Ra departed for San Fran- I have kept myself busy making new friends. Firstly Pascal from St Galland, a 28 Swiss man whose trip is about self discovery (but then again isn't everybodies?). Traveling with Pascal is the instantly likeable Samuel, a 30 year old carpenter (like Jesus as he told me) who is from the same Swiss village as my cousin Jen's husband. Samuel is travelling outside Europe for the first time.

Next was kiwi Mark, a tall athletic looking guy who was very nice. Mark's story was similar to mine.. he had recently quit his job in venture capital and was on his way around the world. Mark was interesting and handsome in the boy next door kinda way... he was extremly well travelled (his father was a diplomat) and used to play soccer for a UK club and New Zealand.

The end.

Raging Bull

Our flight from Oaxcana arrived in Mexico City (MC) at 9:00am. On route to collect our luggage at the airport we met Miriam a 50 something academic from Washington DC who specialises in Yiddish culture. Miriam was keen to share a taxi with us to the center of town and we were more than happy to oblige.

Miriam was in town to give a paper at a conference on Yiddish language and surprised me by calling a Mexican airport offical a 'mother fucker' for his poor directions to baggage claim.

After we lost Miriam we checked into the Palace Hotel-please dont let the name be deceiving. It is a gorgeous colonial building in the heart of the Centro Historic District, it is also very run down, shabby but home to the hottest shower we'd had so far.

We were keen to make the most of Ra's 2 days in MC and with no time to spare we jumped into a registered cab (apparently it is too dangerous to hail one from the street). First stop was Plaza Mexico- the world's largest bull fighting arena. On the bill was Jose Thomas one of Spain's best Matidors followed by home town hero Arturo and the new kid on the block Octavio (who was making his debut).

With tickets secured via the help of some scalpers we jumped a cab and headed to Frida Khalo's blue house.

The house is a pilgrimage site for art lovers the world lover. It is located in trendy outer suburb Coyacan and painted thew most vibrant cobalt blue ever created. The house was Frida's childhood home and later the place she shared with her husband legendry artist Diego Rivera and where Leon Trotsky sought refuge.

At the entrace there is a nice coutyard with a pretty garden and bright sunshine yellow chairs decorating white formica tables.

Unfortunatley the inside of the gallery is a little dissapointing. Instead of being a celebration of Frida it is just another showcase for her domineering and more famous (in Mexico) husband Diego's work.

It seems that both in life and in death Frida is defined by her relationship to one of Mexico's best loved sons. In a purely subjective sense i do like Diego's work, it does not challege in the way the Frida's does... he uses a cheery pallete to get his messgae across...

After a couple of hours we caught a cab back to the bull fight- both beaming to be at such an event with 50,000 supporters at our side.

At 4:00pm sharp, 3 men on horses enter the areana, followed by a rainbow if Matadors and their assistents. After a quick parade around the stadium (and to much ovation) the first (of six) bulls bursts into the arena. The bull seems agitated, agressive and huge (a whopper at 500 kilos).

The first stage of the fight is quite staged and exisits for comedic value to the viewers, it consists of the matador's assistants taunting the bull with large pink and yellow capes. They work in teams of 2 and 3 in an attempt to confuse and irrate the bull whilst displaying their brightly coloured robes for our amusement.

Next the most brutal part happens, two men on heavily padded horses dressed like brightly coloured knights enter the stadium each carrying large lances in their hands. The use the lance to stab the bull around the shoulder. The bull resists, goes biserk and tries to dismount the horse but it is obvious that both the horse and the knight have done this before.

Next the jokers enter again, this time with a more sinister look in the eye. Each are carrying 2 things in thier hands that look like 10 pin bowling ball pins which they use to stab the bull... the pins act as flags as to where the wound is.

It is pretty gory, the bull has blood running down it's back from a gaping wound behind it's head.

Finally after about 30 inutes of joking and ritual, the Matador enters the ring- dressed in a tight white sequined number, his buns look like rocks and he reminds me of a young, fit Elvis.

Red cape in hand- he has 16 mins to kill the bull. He utilises his skill to direct the bull around the ring and it looks like he is dancing, proud and peacocking.

The crowd applaud vigerously with chants of 'Olay' when he does something good. Ra and I cheer too- typicall aussie style with oi oi oi , woohooo etc and quickly are befriended by the two ladies sitting behind us.

Anna and Leonora, are lifelong torro fans and they explain the rules and the importance that the event has.

A quick scan around the ground confirms that all in attemndance are upper middle class dressed in the Sunday best. Tne afternoon proceeds in the same way- bull after bull until the last is slayed at 7:30pm. The man in black enters the ring only after the Matador has completed his final lunge(stabbing the bull behind the neck so it falls to the floor). The Man in black slits the bulls throat. Next a two horse drawn charriot enters and they attach the bull and drag it from the areana- if the bull is spirited and allowed a good fight it is cheered- if not the crowd boos.

The end.

Oxacana

Tour de Mexico

It was almost as if Ra and I were out to test our endurance... we had barely recovered from climbing the volcano and we decided that it was time to climb another mountain... this time on a bike.

We headed into town and picked up two mountain bikes, a map and we were off.

I was confident i would be ok- given my cycling experience of riding in London (which considered of riding to work 3 times and around Regents Park 8 times) and experience on the continent (a easy day of riding in France a few months back).

The beginning was easy- the first 5 kilometres were either flat or down hill and the only tricky bit was navigating a roundabout.... this would be a walk in the park.

We commenced the ascent after about 30 mins and cocky and egotistical as ever- i thought we would be fine.

after about 30 minutes of riding in an upwards direction we were off our bikes and positioned our self so we could walk them up the hill.

In charge of the map and directions, i decided it was time to make out turn onto the dirt track as directed.....


TBC

Palenque

With one last set of ruins on the agenda we got up at 5:30am (an achievement since we had been at our own margarita fiesta till midnight the night before)and boarded a mini bus that would take us on the 5 hour drive to Palenque. Located in Chiapas deep in Zapista territory- the drive along mountain ranges and through teeny tiny towns was enough too keep you occupied.

We stopped at a couple of waterfalls for breakfast and swims (and a KP vomit mid morning, motion sickness i think) and reached Palenque in time for lunch.

The ruins are located in a clearing on the edge of dense forest- toucan and monkey territory.

Like Tikal and Tullum they are stunning. I can´t put my finger on exactly what it is but they are special, they are the most beautiful I have seen on this trip. It might be the fact that the inscriptions are still clearly visible or the fact that some of them are open and you can walk inside and imagine a time when life lived within the walls but they are amazing.

The Maya were such a sophisticated civilisation that I knew nothing about before this trip. I still know very little but hope to read up on them so i can beef this blog up with more detail for you.

The drive back was pretty scary, at times the roads were completely blanketed in fog and you could not see more than a few metres ahead. We drove past 2 overturned trucks and we could not help but think that bad things happen in threes... who invented that anyway?

Our driver was a legend, a jolly, fat Mexican with a moustache who joked about who he was going to marry- sometimes me sometimes Ra...

Lots of love

KP

XXX

San Cristobal

Back in Mexico we headed to San Cristobal, a little town located in Mexico´s poorest state Chiapas. San Cristobal was the town that is a central part of the Zapista movement and was temperally taken over by leftwing rebels in the 1990´s.

The state is home to 13 indigenous tribes, each with the own unique language, tradition and dress.

The City is about 2500 metres above sea level and much colder than anywhere else we have been. The streets are wide, brightly coloured and feel more Mexican than anywhere else we have been in Mexico (if that is possiable)- a million miles from the tourist havens on the Yukatan Peninsula.

Here the men wear cowboy hats (not a sombraro in sight)and have moustaches. The people are amazingly friendly and patient with our basic Spanish. Our vocab is expanding daily and I even think I had my own conversation yesterday... well two sentances in a row... a massive improvement.

After a lazy day exploring the coffee museum, town square and watching the forgetable new Keanu Reeves flick at the local Cinepolis we organised a bus trip to some indigenous communities located about 20 kilometres outside of centre.

The first group we visited were Catholic in faith and traditionally flower growers by trade. Here we sampled some fresh tortillas and beans for breakfast and tried their home brewed medicinal rum ... more like metho than anything else to my unsophisticated palate.

Next we visited a community that belived in poligomy and whose faith had roots in both Christianity (brought to them by the Spanish colonists) and part on their ancient beliefs... I felt privledged to be able to share it but also some what voyeristic too.

The group utilise the Catholic church, a massive white wash structure errected in the town square sometime in in the 1700´s as a place to pray for they sick and offer their sacfrices. According to our guide, the group do not belive in traditional medicine- instead they offer 5 days of prayer to the gods (said in church)and on the 5th day a live chicken is slaughtered.

Families cluster together on the floor (there are no pews) covered in pine needles and repeat prayers for their relatives. Occasionally they pour the medicinal rum onto the floor as an offering all whilst lighting hundreds and hundreds of candles.

It is a stunning place, feels spiritual and has a wonderful inviting energy.

Outside the church is a run down square with a cross covered in green tree branches and a market selling fruit, embroided goods and barefoot children begging for your loose change.

It was a humbling experience.

Siging off- your KP


XXXXX

KP´s thought for the day.

In Guatemala most people travel on old US school buses called chicken buses. They are repainted psychedelic colours and hotted up too.

I asked my friend Nat why they were called chicken buses and she said it was because you are can take your live stock onto the bus...

I came up with my own theory- they always try and play chicken with you when they overtake.... think we came close to at least 4-5 head on collisions thus far.

Some people we've met along the way...

The people that you meet on an adventure have the capacity to make or break any trip. Thankfully we´ve been blessed with lots of interesting people who you´d never meet anywhere else in the world.

In no particular order- I thought I would introduce you to some of the characters we´ve met along the way.

First on my list is the Texan. I should say I have never met a Texan before...

Aged 22, Republican and an English Lit University graduate who lived in the Dallas Fortworth area. He was tall, about 6 foot, skinny and wore little silver glasses. He was an animal lover with a cat called Josie that he owned with his long term girlfriend who he is going to ask to marry him in Feb. He had rarely travelled outside of America and possessed a naivety that I wish I had. His eyes were wide and I could tell he was trying to take in as much as possible. He was interested in my thoughts and opinions not because they were particularly erudite but because they were different... I questioned him on politics... his thoughts on Bush, Republicanism (is that really an ism) and was surprised by some of his answers. It seems that Bush is less popular in Texas than I imagined and he doubted he will get the ticket tape parade on Jan 20th that I had predicted.

Travelling with the Texan was the one with the eyes. American and older than my oldest sibling (think a sexy Bruce Willis). The man with the eyes was tall with eyes that felt like they looked inside you. Greeny yellow in colour with olive skin and a bright white smile to match, he was my own McDreamy. I was drawn in immediately and sometimes I think i caught myself staring at him. The man with the eyes is a high school teacher living in Columbia, fluent in Spanish and exceptionally charming he was the Texan´s god father who was taking him to Guatemala as a graduation present.

Next was Stanford (not his real name),a camp 40 something ex New Yorker and now permanent retired resident of Floria who wore fluro green jeans, cream linen jacket and sunglasses with purple lenses... think that says it all.

After Stanford we met Deet, a 71 year old eccentric American, graduate of North Western and expat living in Antigua. Deet moved to Guatemla 16 years ago, practices Esalyn massage and works in sex education clinic. Deet reminded me of my grandmother on my mothers side- she was hilarious and left a lasting memory with her dirty joke.... its hard to find a good man but good to find a hard man.

Next on my list are the Greeks, an extended family comprising about 15 people travelling together and always popping up where ever we seem to be. Our first encounter with them was on the Belize-Guatemalan boarder where they rudely pushed in front of us, spoke loudly and wore more bling than Beyonce. We made up our minds quickly. Next we saw them at the airport in Flores where they acted with their usual level of decorum,the abhorrence solidified. Finally, we bumped into them in the markets in Chichi and burst into laughter- putting bets on where they would pop up next.

Finally, there are the boys, Ra´s entourage. Ra meet the boys (two 20 year old Aussie cousins) in a dorm in Cancun, since then we´ve seen them everywhere, Talum, Flores and Antigua. They climbed the volcano with us and thankfully stood behind me so they could pick me up every time i fell (which was often),I think it was more about the comedy value I was providing than chivalry- either way they are both good guys who now we´re back in Mexico we will miss.

Think that´s about it.

Adios.

KP

XXXX

Pana

After a day at the Chichi indigenous markets in the Guatemalan Highlands north west of Antigua we caught the bus to a town called Pana which rests on the shore of Lake Atilkan.

Surrounded by doormat volcanoes it is hard to imagine a more perfect setting for a town this side of heaven.

Pana is not a stunner in itself- it consists of a dusty main street littered with cafes, restaurants and full of hawkers trawling for gringos to sell them the same woven souvenirs that are all over Guatemala.

The hawkers in Pana are more persistent that anywhere else we had been to in Guatemala, we had instances where they would pull up chairs and sit with you until you brought something or donated.

There are quite a number stray dogs too- mangy and unhealthy looking with sad eyes that watch you eat al fresco.

We decided to catch a water collectivo to nearby San Pedro partly because we heard that it was a nice town and partly because i wanted to explore the lake on water- it is incredible.

From the centre of the Lake the mountains and volcanoes that surround it rise to the sky extending over 3000 metres. Because of the way the sun was shining when we visited the mountains were blue, sky blue.

After a lazy day exploring sleepy San Pedro, the quietest little hamlet imaginable, we sat at the dock drinking Cuba Libres until sun down and caught the boat back to Pana so we could put our dancing shoes on.

Asta La Vista

XX

Woman Masters Mountain and More......

If i am proud of anything I have done in my life this moment jumps straight into my personal top 10.

Yesterday, i climbed an active volcano.

Hard to imagine and even harder to relive.

On arrival and Mount P- a monster standing 2500 metres I thought it would be impossible until we walked, crawled and staggered up the face of the volcano until we were at the summit watching sunset and toasting marshmallows.

There were times when i was sure i would not make it, exhausted, hot and with failure in my head and then it happened...

More beautiful than words, with hot lava underfoot. We had made it!

XXX

The GC

So I know that I said I would not let fear dominate my trip. It is a big statement from a girl who is afraid of the dark.

On touch down in Guatemala City (the GC) I think you would not really be a human if you were not afraid. It has one of the highest murder rates in the world and it is one of the most dangerous cities on the planet (well that is what my trusty British Tourist warning said). I did not want to become a statistic.

We were instructed by our shuttle bus to wait inside the terminal until our driver collected us.

The airport is very shiney and new and we sat on the tiles, playing eye spy until Emmanuel found us promptly at 8:00pm.

The sky was dark overhead, we were herded into a transit van and my hands were shaking. I am not a sissy but the GC's reputation precedes itself.

We flew down the highway reaching speeds of more than 150 kms an hour, overtaking every car in sight. I was alarmed that most of the cars had very dark tinted windows- there was no way of telling if you were passing a car full of bandits or a mum with her kids.

After about 20 mins we stopped at a servo to re fill, I did not like it. A man dressed in a cow boy hat, checked shirt and big belt stood guard with a massive shot gun pointed every which way with intent and i realised it was true- there are more security guards in the GC than police.

I asked myself if the car stopped at the servo strategically to put off any would be robbers who may have been in pursuit- so many scenarios ran through my head.

Once we had refuelled we were back on the road and i wondered if our driver thought he was auditioning for Sandra Bullock's role in Speed. We arrived in Antigua in record time, safe and sound.

XXXX

Tikal Ruins

After a tough day on the road getting to Flores, we rose early and headed to one of Guatemala's most famous tourist sites- the Tikal ruins.

After a paranoid night spent anticipating calamity, I arose in great spirits even though it was only 6:00am and determined not to let my fear dominate my trip.

The thoughts of doom and gloom that occupied me only the day before vanished in my dreams.

Famished, we boarded the bus before i had the chance to sample Flores' Eggs Revolting (scrambled eggs in Spantalion).

The road to Tikal is scenic, green and interesting. Whilst my eyes were begging for sleep I could not help staring out the window. I wanted to remember everything, take still photographs in my mind to tell you. We passed villages painted aqua (like everything here), lakes that looked inviting and as we draw closer it was apparent that we were heading into the jungle.

As a child of the 80's one cant help drawing comparisons to The City of Gold and that is the best description I can give. They are the ruins of an ancient city, a town that once housed more than 100 000 people in their peak in approximately 700AD. They were ruled most famously by King Moon Double Comb (aka Lord chocolate) who brought prosperity and left his mark designing a number of temples in his own honour.

They are located deep in the jungle and as soon as we got of the bus we were beyond excited to see our first Mayan treasure.

With map in hand we walked slowly up the winding path till they we got our first glimpse of one of the 50 or so relics, a staggering pyramid shaped temple almost reaching the heavens at a height of 60 metres. Certainly, skyscrapers in the ancient world.

We strolled through the lush surrounds and delighted on the the enormity of our discovery-it was a feast for the senses. Monkeys played in the canopy overhead, Lima's wondered at our feet and Toucans serenaded us. I could not help thinking that Guatemala was fantastic.

The monstrous visions that my imagination presented me with the day before were beyond my comprehension.

After an exhausting 6 or 7 hours climbing, photographing and touching each and every structure we boarded a bus back to Flores Airport on track to the Guatemala City (the GC).

Adios.

From Mexico to Guatemala.

4:30am is never a nice time to get up, it's in between time- not quite night and not quite morning. Times no mans land.

I felt surprisingly chipper despite feeling that the alarm clock robbed me.

We packed quickly and headed for the bus station en route to Flores via Belize. We were a little early for our bus and had time for one last order of Eggs Mexicana.

The bus station at Chetemul is an incredibly clean, organised and efficient place. The floor of black marble tiles remarkably spotless, the white paint fresh and the signs /timetables on wall show the correct information.

Our first stop at sunrise is the Belize boarder. We are herded off the bus into a shelter where our passports are stamped and bags searched (mine more thoroughly than most). All in all it is simple painless experience.

We drive across the country and stop in Belize City and I note that most of the people on the streets are Black and not Indigenous or Latin looking as I had expected. Afterwards I read up on Belize's history and understand why. The hours pass quickly enough, we play my favourite travel game, 20 questions intermittently and before we know it we are again at the boarder with Guatemala.

If the entry into Belize was smooth, our exit to Guatemala proved to be our first testing experience. On arrival at the boarder we were faced with imposing heat and the sweet clung to me. Tempers were fraying. It seemed that certain people were queue jumping by paying officials to stamp their documents before those that lined up.

We were becoming weary travellers and the hard part was just beginning.

A man with a machine gun was delegated crowd controller and it made it quite clear that he knew all that his job entailed.

After an hour baking in the sun, we got to the front of the line and were faced with a difficult and rude official who demanded a bribe to let us in. I had heard about this on the British travellers advisory website which said that if this happens one is to stick to their guns and demand a receipt. With my Spanish or Spantalian as we started calling my mix of Italian/Spanish, we requested the official receipt, an argument ensued and we were waved a way with a rude gesture, fee unpaid.

Things escalated further when after a few steps we realised that Ra's passport was not stamped at all and without an entry stamp we would certainly have difficulty leaving and would be in a more precarious position.

We returned to the counter and difficulties arose, the passport controller refused to stamp Ra's passport unless we paid a fee, eventually we got the stamp and hurried to our bus. It was frightening and alarming to see this happening.

Once on board the bus, hot and bothered it was not long until the next calamity struck... a flat tyre barely a mile from the border. We were hopeful of a speedy change and hopeful that we would get to Flores before nightfall.

******

This next passage was written on board the bus

If you asked me what I thought about Guatemala 3 weeks ago, I'd probably have given you a blank expression, on a good day I might be able to locate it on a map, name it's bordering countries and tell you that the mother tongue is Spanish.

I guess your next question is why on earth an I going here?

I guess I could answer it in part and say that I am here because my friends wanted to go, typical pack mentality but that would only be true to an extent as at heart I am a traveller, a wanderer and an adventurer who wants to see everything, smell everything and try everything once.

So here I am on a bus to Flores.

As the bus goes deeper into Guatemala I am scared, every car that approaches could be filled with bandits and it is not a nice feeling. I stare down at my worn black hardcover notebook and turn turn quickly to the most well thumbed page easily, seems I have read the British Travel Advisory warnings so often that know them by heart. I am not sure why I am bothering to re- read it, but I do.

It is there in black and white, Guatemala is dangerous, it is very dangerous and it is scary to be here on a crowded bus.

Cars and trucks overtake us rarely, feels like we are alone out here. The sun hangs low overhead and the smell of burning wood is in the air. We pass the occasional house, square, flat roofed, small and box shaped, perhaps only space for one or two rooms.

The scenery is not as I imagined, now I have had 3 weeks to dream my destination. We pass lush green fields that have the occasional palm tree but foliage is generally scarce.

Near the horizon is a mountain range blue in colour as the sun prepares for slumber and it is nice to have something familiar to gaze at.

Some fields that we pass are dotted with cows and as we pass through villages kids come out to wave as our beat up bus honks its horn.

The going is slow, we stop consistently for speed humps, pot holes and it feels like a race against nightfall.

Stupidly we have not booked accommodation in Flores our destination close to the Tikal ruins and I hope I don't live to regret it.

The window next to me is open and a nice breeze is blowing, it has subdued the tempers of earlier in the day and the smell of burning wood hangs in the air. Most people are asleep but i can't as there is too much to see, too many impressions to form.

I think we are getting closer to our destination and the cars that overtake us are less threatening now. We are just in time as the sky is starting to fill with her colours and I am confident we will beat the night.

*******

The bus pulls up in Santa Elena, Flores neighbouring town. We are asked to pile into mini vans that will take us to hotels on the island (Flores sits in the middle of a lake).

I am uneasy, we are chaperoned by 3 men and are accompanied by 3 other people. The Guatemalans tell us they will take us to a bank. Goose bums rise on my neck and I am certain that this is abnormal and will make us a target- rich cashed up tourist fresh from a visit to the ATM. I had read about express kidnappings where people are made hostages after going to the AT and i am frightened that we will become statistics.

I check to see if they are packing guns, but i am unsure what to look for- there is nothing obvious, no bulge where there should not be. Maybe i am being paranoid but scanning the others faces tells me we are all thinking the same thing.

The drive into Flores itself is short. Thankfully our driver and his two amigo's intentions are honourable.

We catch the last on the sunset from the roof of our hotel before getting an early dinner and getting ready for our second
5:00am start.

Love KP

Cheery Chetamal

With a desire to see the Tikal ruins in deepest darkest Guatemala, we begrudgingly left Cynthia´s warm hospitality and the Lobo Inn for the Mexican boarder town of Chetamal.

The bus ride was surprisingly comfortable, air conditioned, reclining seat etc and allowed me time to devour my first holiday read Disgrace by the South African writer Cotzee. It is exceptional, won The Booker prize and is highly recommended.

On first appearences, Chetemal seems like a sleepy village full of friendly souls. The buildings are painted bright colours, think lots of oranges, turquoise and yellowy golds(there goes another thing on my list). The town is run down and probably not a place one would normally stop but for it´s proximity to Belize´s boarder. We booked into a very orange, garish hotel, just off the main street and located conveniently next to a net cafe.

We wandered the streets for a while in search of food and some Doxycycline for me. As I booked this trip in a hurry and because my NHS doctor in London would not give me a travel consultation I was not aware that I was in need of malaria medicine in Guatemala until a few days ago.

We approached the first pharmacy and asked for the antibiotic commonly known as doxycyline, we received a quizzical look and tried our best Spanish to explain it was sometimes known as Vibramycin.

The pharmacist looked even more puzzled and started to blush before going into a back cabinet and producing a vibrating condom. Priceless, sometimes you can not even imagine moments so funny. Before I knew it tears of laughter covered all our cheeks and we left having gotten the a big belly laugh.

We leave bright and early tomorrow for Tikal and will cross firstly into Belize before skipping across the whole country landing at Flores before sundown. I am very nervous about tomorrows travel particularly the boarder crossings but have an old travellers soul now and hope it will be smooth, easy and not at all confrontational... I will report back on my safe arrival.

With love to you all.

KP

Talum

The collectivo (similar to a communial taxi- where people split the fare) to Talum stoppped on the highway and asked us where we needed to go. We handed him the piece of paper with the name and address of Lobo Inn on the front. He motioned us out of the taxi and we were shell shocked.

We took two steps forward and saw next to us the somewhat faded sign Welcome to the Lobo Inn, positioned precariously on the motor way, with an old catus out front. We walked hesitently up the gravel drive, certain that this place was the biggest dump in all of Mexico... but then again looks can sometimes be wonderfully deceiving.

We were greeted by the engamatic and gregacios Cynthia, the heavily pregent proprieter and her German husband Lobo (which translates to wolf). Cynthia could be the warmest host i´ve ever encounted- she joked with us and showed us to our room. The room seemed quiet, clean and overlooked a courtyard with green plastic garden furniture. ´

We had arranged to meet Ra´s Australian friend Nat who lives in New York and her busty, beautiful Dominican girlfriend Ros who had arrived just before us. We hit it off over a few beers before deciding to head to Talum´s Mayan ruins and beach.

We borrowd some bikes fro Cynthia and set off down a gravel track, overtaking hords of bleary travellers on foot.

It was incrediably hot day, it was hard to blieve it was possiable to be near the sea when the air seemed so thick and heavy.

We walked through the ruins quickly, perhaps a little too quickly beacuse the beach was calling. It is a little like Angkor Wat in Cambodia, not quite as beautifully preserved but the setting is spellbinding.

The major reminients sit on a cliff top over looking a small cove complete with a white sand shore and bluest blue water the world has ever seen and we know instantly that the Mayans certainly had good taste.

We spent the rest of the afternoon lazing at the beach before going back to Lobo to prepare for New Years Eve.

When we arrived at Lobo, Cythia invited us to spend the evening with her family. We accepted and were so glad we did. The food was fantastic, traditional and made with the best ingrediaent ever...love. We feasted on turkey, pork with the most delicious orange glaze i´ve ever tasted.

After dinner, we shared a bottle of tequilla before glamming it up and heading to a club on the beach called Akim.

The bar was beautiful, flanked by lush trees on both sides, with a thached roof complete with strobe lights, DJ´s, Band and a cute margarita making bar tender on a mission to mix us the best cocktails in Mexico.

We set the dance floor on fire with our tequilla induced moves... made friends with the crowd, befriended some band members and well I am sure you get the idea, Needless to say there were sore heads all round when we got home in the morning.

Stung

After a night out in Playa which consisted of yummy and very spicy Tacos served by a man with a very large moustache (maybe I was right), Ra and I decided to hit the Beach with a 6 pack of the Mexico´s finest Dosequis ale- and catch up properly. We relived the old times of Abercrombie street and started making plans.

It was a balmy night and we were happy sitting under the stars when a group of fire twirlers and a band kicked off a little up the beach. Keen to get involved we investigated and joined the party, staying out till midnight.

On arrival back at Hostel Rios we saw that a party had kicked off- seemed that rios doubles as a nightclub after dark. On arrival in our dorm we saw some kis tucking into some tequila, sitting there flirting amongst themselves- we felt so old. Playa del Carmen just is that kind of place... it oozes PARTY, so much so that people are content to sit in a smelly dorm just to be near the action.

It is filled mostly with rich tourists, well ones that can afford to pay similar prices to that in the good old USA and it does not feel at all forgien. Most people speak English and whilst friendly enough seem keen to short change you at any opportunity.

After a deep sleep I woke early (jet lag) and went for a swim at the end of our street- the sun was just rising and it was stunning. The water a shade of aquamarine i have never seen before. The bars along the shore were just setting up and it felt like i had the Carribean sea all to myself.

We decided to head to the island Cozmul about a 1 hour ferry ride from Playa. I was not sure what to expect at Cozemul, I thought it might be even more built up than Playa, more glamorous, more of that sameness that is a beach resort town but I was in for a shock.

The wharf leads to a quiet treeless market square with the usual souvenir shops on the edges selling sombreros, macaranas and hammocks with a few cafes and bars.

We settled into some Mexican style eggs (delicious) and decided against renting a scooter in favour of taking a oat trip off shore to some of the islands famous reefs to snorkel.

We boarded the Cozemul express eco tour after paying 25USD and met Alex the Mexican guide. The other passengers were a mixed bunch- all Mexican but ranging from toddler to grand parent. I used Ra´s phrase book to try and strike up a conversation but failed miserably and probably sounded loud, abnoxious and silly.

After about 10 mins of speeding out to sea the boat began to fill with water and come to a rather sudden halt, too sudden. Alex started handing out life vests and told us to put them on...scarred is not the right word but we were certainly a little apprehensive that perhaps we were on our own Titanic. We scanned the horizon and noted in could not be more than a few hundred metres if it came to it.

After a long pause we were back in business and ready to roll, we never got an explanation for the stop but it seemed somehow normal, somehow Mexican and just the way things roll here.

We visited 3 sites, saw an exceptional array of fish including a rather scary menacing one that kept giving me the eye. It was not the biggest fish I have ever seen but it would not leave me and i was paranoid. I noticed the sun illuminate it´sparking little teeth and I wanted away pronto.

I ended up getting stung by 1 possibly 2 jelly fish on our last dive and now look like i have some skin condition all the way down my right leg.

Adios.

See you later Dull As

I awoke to much brighter spirits, the fear and uncertainty that were yesterday left in my dreams. I slept very well at The Comfort Inn- in fact,my mattress could have been mistaken for a cloud.

I spent most of the morning in Dulles airport and I now know why it is pronounced Dullas because it is exactly that- dull, dull, dull. The only interesting thing are the bizarre sky buses which look like demountable class rooms on wheels, not just any wheels but big wheels, like demolition derby sized wheels... other than that it is just like any other airport in any other city.

The shops at the airport are frightfully bad. Mostly they sell overpriced Obama memorabilia, seems like everything from Hope water to Change key rings are for sale and that´s not to mention the vast array of Obama T-shirts, hoodies, inauguration souvenirs etc etc. It is almost like the airport´s merchandise is branded Obama. I did not see any White House spoons, West Wing almanacs or Capitol Hill ... anything.

I was also disappointed that I did not see any Josh Lyman look alikes.

Before I left DC I wrote some thoughts about what I thought Mexico would be like- It was not an exhaustive or well thought out list just the usual stereotypes which I thought would be able to focus my first entry on the country.

1- Blinding white light.
2-Colourful- primary colours mostly.
3-Moustaches a plenty (24/7 Movember)
4. Sombrero worshippers-locals wearing them even though they are not at the SCG watching the Australian openers collapse against The Proteas.
5-Drunk- a nation in a tequila/Corona fuelled haze.
6-Slow- a place where time stands still.

After a non eventful flight (well non eventful if you count sitting next to the most loved up couple in the history of couples smooching their way across the Amercian South) . I was greeted by extremely efficient customs staff and left the airport in record time (there goes number 6 on my list) into the arms of a Ra embrace.

After a minute outside I reached into my bag in search of my over sized sunglasses (at least I got number 1 right) as I was blinded by the light- It is like Sydney sunshine; intense, hot and magic.

We stood outside the airport for about 20 mins catching up and deciding on a plan. We were thinking about going to Isla Mujures (the island of women) but thought the better of it as Ra had heard that accommodation was scarce and took the safe option and utilised our booking at Playa del Carmen.

We took a shuttle straight to our Hostel and were greeted by Rio (a Chinese looking Mexican??) who showed us our beds. We then set off to find somewhere that sold a metal chain so we could lock our bags together in the absence of a locker. I was shocked to be directed to a Wallmart, after walking past a McDonalds, Subway and Burger King ... my initial thoughts were that I could be anywhere-feels a little Byron Bay and a lot like Thailand etc etc. The world is certainly getting smaller.

I am looking forward to seeing a more authentic Mexico, one that embraces it´s heritage and I am sure that I will as we get off the well worn tourist path.

In my short stay here I can say I was surprised that it is not more colourful but I am sure it will be- it just is not the artists palette of vibrance I envisaged. I have only seen a couple of mostaches and I am yet to see a Mexican in a sombrero...

Will comment on the drunkenness of the nation after I have tasted some of it´s finest Tequila tonight. Ra and I have our party pants on and will report in tomorrow.

Lots of Love

KP

The Journey

The journey has begun now, I am sitting on a deserted tube carriage on my way to Heathrow.

Walking out of my flat for the last time was difficult. My room became just a room, someone elses room. All the things that made it mine were missing, the memories hung in the air and I stood still and breathed it in as London moments flashed before my eyes. I was late and had to go quickly before I became too absorbed in reminiscing on what had been.

It is really sad that all of the people that made London so special for me weren't there to see me on my way. I have never set off on a trip of such magnitude with no one to take me to the airport. Such loneliness is testament to how far I have come and speaks volumes on why I need to go home.

I got angry with myself this morning, my backpack weighs a ton, definitely more than 20 kilos (i found out at check in it is 24.9... OMG).I left the flat with the intention of being a lush packer complete with various posh lotions and potions that I know now I will never use (a massive cull is in store).

I felt nauseous on my walk to the train station, a massive knot filled my tummy, bigger than a large balloon and I was not sure I would make the last 200 metres. I sat down briefly and pondered the situation before grimacing with the weight and walking on- head high.

That brings me to now, where I sit on a desolate carriage alone with my thoughts.

*****

I am now at the airport and getting ready to board. The knot from earlier today is back and my hands are shaking. Am I doing the right thing? Nerves I never knew I had have come to the surface. I am listening to my ipod as I write this- Joni Mitchell is playing and she's struck a chord with me.


******

I have now landed at Dulles International Airport (pronounced Dullas... not Dulls as I imagined). I was meet at the airport by Ian my tracksuit pant wearing Texan shuttle driver. I was the only passenger and we spoke not one word in the 30 minute drive here to the Comfort Inn. That was strange and so unlike me.

On arrival, I checked in and told reception I was starving- every bit the all American girl with a big toothy grin encased in scarlet lips with red nails to match directed me to Papa Johns the local pizza joint. It was sterile and the manager was on the phone to his ex wife Kathryn screaming about a custody dispute.. Welcome to America! I got a small take away pepperoni pizza which was massive and mostly uneaten.

Now I sit in my apricot coloured room waiting for the morning which will lead me to Mexico.

I cant wait to see Ra at the airport. I long for her embrace to take away the sadness that is leaving London.

Much love from the Comfort Inn Dulles International Airport.

XXX

Saying Goodbye

It is never easy saying good bye to your loved ones- and that has not been truer than now.

These last few weeks in London have been tough, I thought that I was doing really well and then on my last day at the office as I walked out of reception for the last time- tears crawled up my throat and poured down my cheeks. I've cried a few times since, even though I am not sad to be starting the adventure of a lifetime. My sadness comes in waves and it is not knowing if, when or ever I will live in London again which is the cruelest part for me.

I have never felt a massive affection for London, never felt the love I have for Syders but now that I am leaving I have spent time reflecting on all the things I have achieved here. I have (in the main) enjoyed my time, created lifelong friendships and had more opportunities to learn and improve myself that one could ever wish for in a lifetime. It is the differences to Sydney and Australia that makes London so special.

I have spent the last few days in Oxford with my dearest friends here in the UK. Christmas was a lovely affair, full of everything English and even though it was not a white one- it was perfect, complete with carols, turkey, puddings, banoffee pie (OMG- it is so good), presents and family.

I am at home now- I will spend my last 36 hours doing the final pack, cleaning my room and ticking off the last minute things from my list.

I am meeting Ra at Cancun Airport on the 29th after spending 13 hours in Washington DC.

Until then- KP

Twenty Boxes

I thought I would start blogging again- I really enjoyed it last time and only stopped because I felt that life had become too mundane.

Blogging for me is about describing some kind of adventure (I think the title gives this one away) and whilst living in London doing the Monday to Friday grind i felt a little bored with my own daily musings (but i guess that is why some blogs are amazing) the writer has the skill to make the uninteresting interesting etc etc.

It is freezing cold in London and I am currently packing up my life into 20 boxes ready to be shipped back down under to Sydney where I will land on June 4th.

I am in the midst of planning the grand tour- my personal Opus which will see me travel through Mexico, Belize and Guatemala- across to Switzerland, London (for 2 days) and then across to North Africa and down to Kenya, through Tanzania, Malai, Zambia, Uganda, Rwanda (for the Gorillas only), Botswana, Namibia and South Africa- where i will fly to my beloved hometown.

Right now i am overwhelmed- My room looks like a tip and I have so many things to do... namely fit my life into empty brown boxes, organise hotels/hostels, try to tie up loose ends at the office and get in the mood for Christmas.

It promises to be a crazy last few weeks. Bring it on!

I hope you will enjoy the adventures of KP part 2.

Lots of love

KP

XX

Ps- I land in Mexico on December 29.

Christina-The Most Beautiful Yacht... EVER

TBC

Portifino

TBC

Cool Picture- London View of City Skyline

Just wanted to upload this pic- i quite like it- taken with my phone whilst walking over Waterloo bridge (i think??). In the background you can see the London CBD skyline. I work behind all the cranes. On the left is the dome is St Pauls (where princess Di got married... i think) and the on the far right you can see the Gherkin (a famous building home to lots of bankers and lawyers).

KP

My Rash

As mentioned earlier please see a picture of my rash on my arm....Yuk, it ended up covering me fro head to toe... and quarantined me from my office-It has almost entirely gone now and i think it was actually hives at the grand old age of 26 ... funny last outbreak of this happened when i was about 10- a reaction to my throat infection.

You know you have made it when....

You know you have made it when....you get invited to the same party as Claudia Schiffer, Helen Boheme Carter, Slash and Kim Catrall- despite the fact that you are ZZZ list, well actually nothing list!

That was how I felt when 'a pants man' aka Ben invited me to the Royal Academy Summer Show Preview.

Held on Piccadilly opposite the Ritz, it is said to be one of the most 'important' art openings in the world...and the thing everybody should go to after Cannes darling.

I frocked up after work in the bathrooms and wore a lemon yellow dress on loan from my flatmates wardrobe and met Ben at Green Park Tube (the only way to travel) before strutting the red carpet that was actually yellow. My level or co-ordination had reached a new level.

It was a spectacular event, so extravagant and opulent i felt a little out of place but did my best evapourate into the crowds.

The food was delicious- i made a place for myself at the oyster bar and ate like no one was watching me. The art was a bit of a let down, it was miss matched and hodge podge and nothing really took my fancy and whilst i am not the most qualified judge, Ben was the prettiest picture there (so corney- but he is undeniably beautiful).

I am not sure what exactly that I have made and do not fear, I am not a changed person for hanging around a load of beautiful wankers- and laughing at them behind their back for their use of ladee da language. To me the night felt like a debutantes ball without the frilly white dress, bad hair and ugly boy to escort you. My London coming of age party of soughts.

The night was cut short though by the presence of a unsightly red rash on my extremities, nothing the beautiful people really want to get close too (except Ben that is), a head ache and sore throat. The next morning at the doctors (quarantined from work), i discovered I had a strep throat and a rash to match.

Never fear, i am recovering quietly at home and will be back to good health in no time.

Brilon

I have always wanted to go to Brilon, my sister in law Maren has talked about it for years and it is the now the home of her parents and also where my brother got married over 10 years ago.

I had heard of it's beauty for years and was keen to see it for myself. It is stunning, idealic and relaxing.

Roddy and I picked up a posh hire car at Frankfurt airport and headed down the autobarn.

On arrival, night was falling and i was over joyed to see my euro family again and even more excited to see Mars and my god daughter Noonie and nephew Jules.

The next week was spent lounging, eating cake, taking country walks and playing with the kids.

It was the injection of home after almost a year away that i did not know how badly i needed. I felt at peace with the familiarity that only your family can give... I even joked that if i ate anything more i would need to get rolled on to the plane back to London.

The time we spent went far too quickly but i cherish the memories and look forward to more lazy summer days with family.

Brother Bobbi comes to town

I met Roddy at the airport straight after arriving from Istanbul- his flight from Tokyo arrived a few minutes after mine and we quickly set about making the most of our time in London.

First stop my flat to deposit his 60 kilos of luggage (it must be a family trait to travel heavy). We visited some old bookshops in charring cross and Notting Hill before taking in the photographers gallery.

It was a short visit less than 24 hours in total before we boarded a flight bound from Frankfurt to pick our our hire car and head to Brilon, in the North Rhine district where Maren's family (my sister in law) have a country house.

Tavla Town

The sound finds you even when you least expect it. Dow a dark alley on the footpath, there is no escaping the gentle rattle of the dice and you know that you are in Tavla town, any backgammoners paradise... KP Welcome to Istanbul.

Istanbul was unlike anything i had expected, i thought that my 5 days would be reminiscent of something out of Arabian Nights, perhaps a little like Ali Baba but i was wrong. Istanbul is a sophisticated secular European city that is exciting, charming and interesting.

Arriving at the airport i was delighted to see Paulius, dressed every bit the successful aristocrat we jumped into a cab to trendy G-hanger (ok it is not spelt that way), a cool neighbourhood filled with rich turks and X-pats.

I was gobsmacked- Paulius had always has had nice digs in Oxford but this was something of another dimension- with 270 degree views of the city, a post card panorama that encompasses the Blue Mosque, the water, cruise liners and a sunny outlook, i felt like i had stepped onto the set of 'lifestyles of the rich and the famous'.

Paulius set about making me a gin and tonic and we relaxed on his terrace, overlooking the city and watching the night come alive with fairy lights, call to prayer and sunset.

Next we opened a bottle of champers and set about celebrating our reunion in style, we successful to an upmarket restaurant called lips of the seas (where the two seas met - it happens in Istanbul apparently) and together we sipped cocktails till dawn.

Next day, i awoke with a fairy extreme hangover, but with no rest in sight, Paulius and I tackled the major sights, a fantastic host, Paulius told me of the Romans, the architects, the sultans and the harem like a professional. We saw my favourite building this side of Angkor- Hagia Sophia a Byzantine church renovated into a mosque some 1000 years ago, the blue mosque and the head quarters of the Ottoman empire.

Next it was my turn to teach Paulius something and i gave him my skills at tavla. We sat on the Galanta bridge and watched the sun set. Paulius with impressive instinct and natural intellect was a master after one game and was soon my equal and even sooner my tormentor, beating me consistently within 30 minutes.

The next day we went on a boat ride to asia and that took in the mighty bospouhrs and afterwards we had cocktails and a quiet dinner before I persuaded a Turkish man to play me at gammon.... I was out with something to prove. At first the gent laughed figuring me to be easy oposition but he was soon surprised when some of my NC skills came into force and i gammoned hm twice before defeating him 5-4. I was then asked to play a local legend, i nicknamed him the champion and before i even begun i was defeated- the guy was something of an enigma to me and whilst the games lasted on average 3 minutes i feel that i learnt from his greatness at the table and i achieved what i set out too in turkey.

The next day with Paulius at work, i went to the grand bizarre and was slightly disappointed- it was significantly less consuming than expected. I purchased a new backgammon set and a couple of prints for my London flat before meeting Paulius in the eve to sip one final bottle of champagne before i headed back to back to London and into the arms of my brother.