The year is over and I am back, although, I’m taking some time out to visit the folks and help out during shearing while enjoying the sun in sunny Queensland. I have to be back in Sydney for the 26th and start work again on the 1st of April (which could make the fool of me). So I had better tie up the last of the year away, as I remember the last email had us just about to enter Cuba.
You would think that by this stage of our journey we would be old hands at entering a new country, but not so. Perhaps I was a little unnerved by too much information about Cuba: the peso economy (local) and the dollar economy (for the tourists), the government sanctioned hostels and the not so legal ones, the tales of people being forced into government run hostels at immigration, and heaven forbid if they weren't COMMUNISTS. However we were determined to follow by the backpackers creed and live ‘like the locals’, which also means local prices. We touched down and were immediately confronted with a huge queue (more of that later), and Soviet designed immigration booths that looked out of some cold war movie. They towered to the ceiling, with narrow, dark aisles and a thin with a slot below, through which your passport vanished briefly from sight. I had made the error of not filling in the visa correctly and all my apprehensions clouded my thoughts. But that done I was through a door to the other side. A short nervous wait for Ros, who presently appeared, and we were out. Into an old Russian Lada for a taxi and we were on our way to a house stay recommended by an English girl (Tara) we had met months before in Peru. Once into central Havana we passed between the crumbling colonial fascades of the narrow streets all the while being watched. No matter how much I tried to sink back into the seat, dark curious faces peered in, more African than the familiar Latin and a little intimidating. Unbeknownst to me Ros was silently thinking, “Don’t stop, just don’t stop.” It was then, as if by queue, that the driver stopped to quiz some bare chested men on the whereabouts of our request. Finally after circling the suburb, as thoughts of being injured ran in ever closing circles in my mind, we were left on a doorstep in what I would have described as a ghetto. We buzzed, no answer. We buzzed again, no answer, and we turned to the only salvation of a backpacker: our guidebook. Just as we were about to leave there was a clicking from the door, so we pushed it and to our surprise and obvious delight it opened revealing a long string leading up a flight of stairs. It was attached at one end to the lock and the other disappeared around the corner at the top into some mysterious hand. Once we made it to the top we were surprised at the contrast of the interior to its cover and were at once swept away by the generosity of our hosts. Although they were full, there was Omar their son, our salvation. So it was coffee a chair and smiles all round. We were presently whisked away in a ‘50s American auto to be plied with food, rum and cigars and all the friends they could bring. We were now unmistakeably in Cuba.
Ros has managed to pass a local in every country we have visited (The Universal Girl), and with my Mexican tan we managed to pass off as locals. So now we were queuing for the local buses, eating from the local takeouts, which never consisted much more than cheese pizza, and generally paying pesos whenever we could. Everywhere there were queues so it’s not surprising that the Cubans have uniquely mastered the art. When queuing you simple find the last person and you have your place marked. When the bus comes, or it’s your turn, simply step up and you are allowed in. Queue-jumpers common to any 3rd world country seem to have been eliminated. The people in Cuba seem genuine and friendly (away from the continual “pssst” from in the tourist centres where you can’t even photograph a car without paying) despite the efforts of the Cuban exiles in the USA. The Cubans themselves seem to harbour no grudge against Americans even though their history is one of persistent interference from their northern neighbour. As for Aussies, well Cathy Freeman has taken over from Skippy and “Australian Crawl” as our most well known ambassadors.
Jaisalmere was an old fort that did not become a museum or hotel and is now a bustling little desert town where tourists flock to ride camels in the Thar Desert. Here we decided to watch the sunset on the walls of the fort from a popular point outside. When the time came to go we struggled sleepily out of our hotel down the narrow winding alleyways avoiding cud chewing cows, past the psychedelic carpet and clothing stalls, between saffron or red turbaned locals with huge handlebar moustachios plying a myriad of antique wares, peeking through an open door onto a group of women veiled and wailing seated about the walls of an otherwise empty room, to finally stop in our tracks staring bug-eyed at a man in a green tunic walking just in front of us with beady eyes and seriously hairy pointed ears like some gnome. We checked ourselves, was I dreaming, was this some fairy tale Tolkein world, no just a guy with so much hair on his ears he had twisted them into points at the top. We hurried to a rickshaw and then to the hilltop, used as a Hindu cremation ground for centuries, and watched the sun glow golden on the sandcastle buttresses and walls of the old city of Jailsalmere.
Escaping India was a little like our Miami experience. We had our flights changed but not our tickets. So when we arrived on the day we were schedule to leave they would let us in the terminal and no one was prepared to let us take our flight. So we argued for a few hours then gave up. Took a taxi back to Delhi, jumped on the next train to Mumbai (10hrs) then waited at the airport for our flight (5hrs). By the time we flew into Bangkok we were ready for a shower and a whole lot of sleep.
From Bangkok we bused to Siem Reap to join the tourists and visit the ruins of Ankor Watt. The Ankor itself is a fantastically huge temple but it is the bass reliefs on the lowest tier that are most interesting and were apparently used to teach Hinduism to the locals, being pictorial accounts of a few the Hindu books. We decided to rent a motorcycle to get around the huge site that holds a great number of watts in various states of repair. It was more like the Mayan ruins of Tikal than the temples we had seen in India, but perhaps on an even larger scale. One ruin, the ‘Bayon’ is a temple of giant faces smiling serenely at you wherever you turned. It was fitting because the smiling children waved at you all throughout this country despite its obvious hardships. We discovered (much to Ros’s delight) an authentic Cambodian restaurant serving fantastic spring rolls and deep fried fish in sweet and sour sauce. An Aussie (Mark and Robyn) couple just starting their travels kept us company there and we entertained each other with the stories of our travels (as you do).
From there we got the wrong boat to Battenbong and ended up in the capital of Phenom Penn where we went to the ‘Killing Fields’ and the prison of ‘S-21’ all the while seeing the victims of land mines, who are outcast by their own, begging with a that ever present smile. Then to Battenbong across one of the worst roads of our travels and all I can say I am glad I was in the cabin (small as it was) than on the back of the ute to be generously covered in dust and baked in the sun along with the 20 other passengers squeezed in with their luggage. Then it was back to Siem Reap, on the boat we should have been previously, that powered down the river past fishermen and other craft and then on to the lake to bounce away to shore.
Cuba
Ros has managed to pass a local in every country we have visited (The Universal Girl), and with my Mexican tan we managed to pass off as locals. So now we were queuing for the local buses, eating from the local takeouts, which never consisted much more than cheese pizza, and generally paying pesos whenever we could. Everywhere there were queues so it’s not surprising that the Cubans have uniquely mastered the art. When queuing you simple find the last person and you have your place marked. When the bus comes, or it’s your turn, simply step up and you are allowed in. Queue-jumpers common to any 3rd world country seem to have been eliminated. The people in Cuba seem genuine and friendly (away from the continual “pssst” from in the tourist centres where you can’t even photograph a car without paying) despite the efforts of the Cuban exiles in the USA. The Cubans themselves seem to harbour no grudge against Americans even though their history is one of persistent interference from their northern neighbour. As for Aussies, well Cathy Freeman has taken over from Skippy and “Australian Crawl” as our most well known ambassadors.
London
The Indian Embassy
We had grand plans for our week in London, but like all plans there was the inevitable spanner. We thought we could take in some of the sights, get the train to Paris, ride the Millennium Wheel, see a play, or just go to a museum. But we hadn't planned on getting to India so soon, and what I mean by that is: our whole India experience started with the unavoidable Indian bureaucracy at the Indian High Commission. Although Liz and Dez, our generous hosts, did give us a drive by tour, all we really ended up seeing was the inside of the embassy. It looked like we were going to be spending an extra week before a whole lot of pleading and a many more pounds we had our visas and would be spending Christmas in India.India
The Main Act
The thing about India that struck us the most was that we quickly became a tourist attraction ourselves (especially in those not-so-touristy areas like Gujarat). There is nothing quite so unsettling (especially for Ros) to be sitting in a bus station surrounded by 40 pairs of staring eyes 5 metres from you face. Then, if we (Ros) were to tell them where they should point their noses they would close in with another 50 of their friends. Even if we walked out of the circle and sat quietly somewhere else our ‘adoring fans’ would just follow as if some irresistible force bound them to us. Still India has visions and living history that is eye boggling, just the people get you down at times (especially if you can understand what they are saying about you). We saw great sea tankers being dismantled with acetylene torches hammers and ant-like colonies of men; temples of marble carved on every surface until pieces were transparent; forts that were scenes of heroic battles, still pitted by cannon balls and marked by the hands of women and children that willing threw themselves onto burning pyres as their husbands and sons rode in their thousands to certain death; women in rainbow saris digging roads to lay fibre-optic cable (to paraphrase Gandi: ‘machines should not be used at the expense of people’ so what can be done by hand will be); and everywhere the colour of bustling life bursting from the seams spilling onto the fabric of a chaotic landscape but interspersed with ever-present death.
Escaping India was a little like our Miami experience. We had our flights changed but not our tickets. So when we arrived on the day we were schedule to leave they would let us in the terminal and no one was prepared to let us take our flight. So we argued for a few hours then gave up. Took a taxi back to Delhi, jumped on the next train to Mumbai (10hrs) then waited at the airport for our flight (5hrs). By the time we flew into Bangkok we were ready for a shower and a whole lot of sleep.
Cambodia
Ankor Wat
From there we got the wrong boat to Battenbong and ended up in the capital of Phenom Penn where we went to the ‘Killing Fields’ and the prison of ‘S-21’ all the while seeing the victims of land mines, who are outcast by their own, begging with a that ever present smile. Then to Battenbong across one of the worst roads of our travels and all I can say I am glad I was in the cabin (small as it was) than on the back of the ute to be generously covered in dust and baked in the sun along with the 20 other passengers squeezed in with their luggage. Then it was back to Siem Reap, on the boat we should have been previously, that powered down the river past fishermen and other craft and then on to the lake to bounce away to shore.
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