10/27/10

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The Deccan Odyssey, by BJ (Part 5) 25th May '08

After what seemed like a very short night, our train arrives at Daulatabad, where the traditional Indian greeting is augmented with a dance group made up of young men and boys, their facial makeup including lipstick apparently creating an identity crisis for many of them.  But their enthusiasm was infectious and we were soon caught up in the festive mood.

From the station we travel by coach through the ancient city of Daulatabad, today little more than a village and a collection of ancient ruins, to the 12^th century Fort of the same name.  Built on top of a solitary hill rising some 200 metres above the Deccan plateau, the Fort is famous for its complex series of defences, which over the centuries proved to be impregnable. 

As we climb the hill, we pass through huge Elephant Gates set in the outer walls and then the path narrows as it approaches a long, slender draw bridge spanning the stagnant green waters of the moat, some 12 metres below and once infested with crocodiles.     Beyond the moat, the narrow passage way continues to weave it’s way through the towering fortifications, restricting potential invaders to single file and making it impossible to overwhelm the defenders by sheer numbers.  Final entry to the Fort is by way of a climbing, circular tunnel, completely devoid of natural light, with varying floor levels and hidden steps to trip the unwary.  Only as a result of treachery were these defences ever penetrated.

From the Fort we travel by coach to the Ellora Caves, about 30 kilometres from Aurangabad.  Set in a high, sloping, basalt cliff, the caves which are spread over some 2 kilometers, are all man made, carved from solid rock to form a series of magnificent monasteries and temples!

In total there are 34 caves at Ellora, dating from as early as 600 AD and representing the three major religions of Buddhism, Hinduism and Jainism in an amazing display of tolerance that was characteristic of ancient India.  The caves were declared a UNESCO World Heritage Site in 1983 and it’s not hard to see why.

Approaching from the car park, the scale of this place slowly sinks in as the outline of temples come into view, protruding from the face of the black, basalt cliffs.  Surrounding these temples, huge square voids project back into the sloping cliff like modern day quarries, hinting at the size of the courtyards surrounding these monuments.  People can be seen roaming the sloping cliffs, peering into these temple complexes from above, their ant like appearance putting the enormous size of this undertaking into true perspective. 

Without doubt, the largest and most impressive of the caves at Ellora is the Kailasa Temple, a Hindu Cave.  Covering an area twice the size of the Parthenon in Athens and one and a half times as high, it is simply overwhelming.  It has been estimated that some 200,000 tons of solid rock were carved away to form the Temple and surrounding courtyards, the whole process starting at the top with the roof, slowly working down the walls to the floor level.

Steps lead up into the first temple building, like a large entrance hall, which spills out into the internal courtyard and on into another series of multi level temples. Huge stone elephants guard the courtyard, its vertical walls undercut with galleries that surround the temple on three sides.  Not content to just hollow out caverns and rooms, the ancient artisans that created these architectural wonders have sculptured incredible detail into every column, wall, ceiling, and courtyard, making them every bit  the equal of any other temple complex built by more traditional methods. 

Of all the caves at Ellora, the Hindu Caves are the most impressive, but numerous others are well worth visiting if time permits.  Cave Number 12 for example is a three story cave, entered via a courtyard and which contains a large seated Buddha.  The walls of this cave are also carved with relief pictures, similar to the Hindu caves.

But with time against us, we have to leave the caves and return to the train which has moved to Aurangabad Station, where we settle into the now familiar, nightly routine.

The following day finds us at Jalgaon Railway Station, headed for another series of caves, this time the Ajanta Caves, about an hour away by coach.

Carved between the 2^nd century BC and the 6^th century AD, the Ajanta caves were lost in time for centuries, covered by thick vegetation and only accidently re-discovered in the 19^th Century by a company of British soldiers.

Carved into the horseshoe shaped walls of a river valley, from solid basalt rock like Ellora,  the Ajanta Caves have also been declared a UNESCO World Heritage Site, but for significantly different reasons. The Ajanta Caves, all 30 of which are dedicated to Buddhism, lack the architectural grandeur of Ellora but make up for this with the incredible murals and artwork that adorns their walls and ceilings.  The Ajanta Caves house one of the worlds great masterpieces of ancient art, depicting every day life as well as the religious teachings of Budda, most of it more than 2,000 years old!

Our guide takes us to the best of the Caves where the artwork is in varying states of decay with some sections completely missing, but what does remain is quite stunning.  Only natural light is now permitted in these caves, often making it extremely difficult to see the artwork clearly.  Video and flash photography of course are banned, severely limiting one’s ability to record these masterpieces.

But although there is no denying the significance of the artwork at Ajanta, one should not loose sight of the architectural and engineering achievements that have been created here.  These massive caverns, some of which project into the hillside 50 or 60 metres and are perhaps 20 metres in width, are supported by precisely spaced columns of stone, in row after row of perfectly straight lines, all left in place as the surrounding rock was chipped away.  And whilst their structural necessity is unquestionable when it comes to supporting the massive basalt roof, they are not just left as structural supports; each column is beautifully finished with superb craftsmanship and detail. 

From Ajanta we travel back to the train and depart for Nashik Station 185 kilometers from Mumbai, arriving late in the afternoon.   With a Police guard in tow, complete with a highly visible automatic weapon, we head for town.  It’s the only time we’ve had the presence of such a guard but Nashik, on the banks of the Godavari River, is one of four major sites in India where the Hindu religious pilgrimage known as Kumbh Mela  occurs every 12 years with millions flocking to the river.  Whilst no such pilgrimage is taking place during our visit, there is obviously some sort of security risk to which we’re thankfully oblivious.

The late afternoon stroll through the back streets and along the river banks of Nashik proves to be one of the highlights of the trip.  Along each side of the river, steps lead down to the water where locals are performing ritualistic cleansing and lighting small candles supported in lilies that drift off on the slowly moving waters.  With the sun setting behind a skyline of ornate temples, the sight of dozens of flickering candles adrift on the river, is pure magic.

Above the steps the local markets are in full swing as dusk moves in and dozens of bright red lamp shades add to the colour of the produce on sale.  We mingle with the local crowds, enthralled with the array of products on offer and captivated by the charming, friendly nature of the sellers.  Our guard and our ‘minders’ from the train are kept busy trying to keep track of everyone’s movements as we spread through this huge,  open air market.

But eventually we’re herded out of the markets, through the Kala Ram Temple, built in 1790 and back into the bustling streets where our bus awaits.  It’s been a delightful evening and we head back to the Station for our last night on the Deccan Odyssey.

Early the next morning the train arrives back in Mumbai and after a relaxing breakfast, swapping of e-mail addresses and the usual hugs and kisses, we leave the Deccan Odyssey behind and head to the Taj Hotel for a well earned rest and a bed that doesn’t move.  

The Deccan Odyssey has been an enjoyable trip and far more relaxing than the Palace on Wheels.  Whilst the majority of the trip, particularly the journey south to Goa, lacks the major sight seeing attractions found in Rajasthan, the Ellora and Ajanta Caves certainly make up for this and are well worth the journey. 

Two train trips, back to back, of the same intensity as the Palace on Wheels may well have been too hectic, so the relaxed  pace of the Deccan Odyssey was for us, a welcome change.  Travelling through this fascinating sub-continent by luxury train has certainly been a great way to see what can only be described as Incredible India!

The Deccan Odyssey, by BJ (Part 4) 11th May '08

Early the next morning the train arrives at Kolhapur City and a surprise awaits us.  Before disembarking for the day’s events we’re gathered in the Conference Car where the men in our group are fitted with bright, Saffron coloured turbans!  Anne objects to being left out of the fun and as we’re such a small group, she is soon fitted with her very own. 

The Saffron Turban is a speciality of Kolhapur, offered to guests from other areas as a sign of high respect.  Each one is individually wrapped, from some 4 metres of cloth.  

Feeling more appropriately dressed for the Gay Parade rather than a day of site seeing, we disembark.

Our tour takes us to the Kolhapur Palace or the New Palace as it’s often known.  The Palace is still the private residence of the Maharaja but large sections have been opened as a Museum, displaying everything from antique royal furniture to weapons and hunting trophies.

Built in the 1880’s from black polished stone and highlighted by a 45 metre high clock tower, the Palace is typical of the era with noticeable British influence.  Some of the displays however are starting to show signs of their age and in need of important maintenance. I suspect the deterioration is simply due to a lack of funds, perhaps brought on by the change in Government policy that resulted in Maharajas being stripped of royal titles and consequentially, income from local taxes.

As we leave the Palace, bus loads of school children arrive for a visit and suddenly we’re the centre of attention as they all strive to have their photo taken!  Once again the feeling here is one of friendliness and not the harassment of Rajhastan, where everyone wants a piece of the tourist dollar.

Passing back through town we stop to visit the exquisitely carved Mahalaxmi Temple, parts of which date back to 700 AD.  The Temple is one of 6 extremely significant religious sites within Hinduism, where it is believed that one can either obtain salvation from desires or have them fulfilled, a very interesting concept that perhaps accounts for its popularity.  We’ve arrived here on a Public Holiday and the crowds waiting to enter the Temple are enormous.  We satisfy ourselves with the outside tour, our desires unfortunately, remaining intact and unfulfilled!

Our next stop is at the Town Hall, where an amazing demonstration of ancient military skills is put on for our benefit. The Sword and Lance, for which this area is famous, are the two main weapons featured and there is no denying the skill and the courage of the young performers involved.

The martial arts display is followed by a short cultural Play, the theme and story line escaping me, but again, the enthusiasm of the performers certainly rates a ten out of ten.

Lunch is served back on the train as we depart for our next destination.

Early that evening we arrive in Pune, a city of 5 million people, 150 kilometres to the east of Mumbai.   We’ve come here to visit the Raja Dinkar Kelkar Museum.

Established in 1975, the Government run Museum houses over 20,000 priceless artifacts collected and donated by Dr. D.G. Kalkar, which provide an interesting glimpse into everyday life in India from the 17^th to the 19^th century.  Collected during some sixty years of travel across the sub-continent, the collection ranges from ivory, metal, wooden and fabric items housed in glass showcases to massive wooden doors and carved panels which adorn the staircase and entrances to the showrooms. 

Later that evening, after a long and tiring day, the train departs for Daulatab.

The Deccan Odyssey, by BJ (Part 3) 2nd May '08

The train arrives at Karmali Station (Old Goa Station) in time for breakfast. We’re no sooner seated in the Dining Car when a couple of local guitar playing ‘cowboys’ appear to serenade us. The musical welcome continues on the Station Platform as we disembark and head for our bus. There is a real sense of Portuguese influence in both the appearance and music of our entertainers, an influence that makes its presence felt through out this region.

First stop on our daily tour is at the ruins of St. Augustine Church, once the largest Cathedral in Goa.  Constructed by the Portuguese in 1602, little remains today except for isolated remnants of Cathedral walls and a solitary tower rising to a height of 46 metres.  But despite the decay, the grandeur of the old building is still plainly evident and is the subject of ongoing restoration.

As the morning progresses, the churches keep coming, with the Basilica of Bom Jesus next on the list.  Located about 10 kilometers from the City of Panjim, this World Heritage Cathedral was completed in 1695 and  is considered to be one of the best examples of baroque architecture in India.

But perhaps of even greater significance is the fact that the Basilica contains the body of St. Francis Xavier, who died in 1552 whilst on a sea voyage to China.   The body, kept in a silver casket with glass viewing panels, apparently is remarkably intact considering its age and is publicly displayed every 10 years.  For those with a need, the next viewing will be in 2014!

A short walk from the Basilica is the Cathedral of Santa Caterina, one of the oldest and largest churches in Asia.  Commenced in 1562, the stunning white building was completed in 1619 and is some 80 metres in length.  Again, the Portuguese influence is plainly visible in this beautiful church and its surroundings.

Our next stop is in the heart of Panjim, the capitol of Goa, where we browse the local markets.  It’s noisy, crowded and at times smelly but incredibly colourful. All the usual items found in any Asian market are here, but the sight of dozens of small, young sharks on sale in the fish section, is sad and disappointing.

From the markets we head to Fontanas, the Latin Quarter of Panjim, where the streets are lined with colorful buildings and street names are displayed on blue and white tiles reminiscent of Portugal or Argentina.

The heavy Portuguese influence in this area is really not surprising when one considers the fact that Goa was occupied by the Portuguese for some 450 years, only being reclaimed by India as late as 1961.

Lunch is provided at the magnificent Taj Exotica Hotel.  Set on 55 acres next to the pristine Arabian Sea, the Resort exhibits a rich colonial atmosphere and was to play host to a 1500 guest wedding reception on the evening of our visit, the reception area being set up on the lawns adjacent to the beach.

Later that afternoon we return to the train at Madgoan Station, somewhat relieved to escape the sub-tropical heat and humidity of Goa, relaxing  in the air-conditioned comfort of our cabin with tea and coffee delivered by our Coach Boy, Harish.

At 5:00 pm the train departs, winding its way through rice fields, coconut palms and idyllic villages, the bright colours of the women’s Sari’s contrasting vividly with the lush tropical green of the country side.

As night falls we commence the slow climb into the mountains to the east of Goa.  Two additional diesel locomotives have hooked onto the rear of our 21 carriage train to assist in the climb. 

Slowly but steadily we crawl higher up into the coastal mountain range, the wheels screeching as the train snakes around torturous curves, first in one direction, then the opposite as we follow the contour of the steep ridges.  Harish tells us were approaching a spectacular water fall and opens the carriage door so we can get a better view in the darkness.

A half moon casts an eerie light onto the dense, virgin rain forest that covers these mountains, at times overhanging the track, threatening to reclaim the land from the railway. There’s not a light or a village in sight, not a sign of habitation for miles. Harish sits in the open door way to prevent us falling out and we marvel at this emptiness in a land of over 1 billion people and at the dark ridges of these mountains that tower high above us, outlined against the moonlit sky.

And then suddenly, the jungle clears, and there directly opposite us is this ribbon of silver, twisting, disappearing and then reappearing, as the falls tumble through the dense foliage, from the very top of the mountain into the black depths of the gorge far below.  Slowly the train turns around the ridge and we pass right by the falls, this time on the other side of the carriage and the roar of the water can clearly be heard. A solitary dwelling, illuminated by a dim light, sits on a rocky outcrop overlooking this incredible scene.

We close the door on the forest and adjourn to dinner, a glass or two of wine and then retreat to our cabin. Tonight the train will travel all night and tomorrow promises to be a long day.

The Deccan Odyssey, by BJ (Part 2) 1st May '08

The train is moving again, but we’ve enjoyed a much needed rest whilst it was stationary during the night.  Although we now feel like seasoned train travelers, sleeping on board a moving train when the track work is not up to modern, high speed ‘TGV’ standards, can be very difficult.

A leisurely wake up call the next morning with coffee served to our Cabin in fine Silver and China is followed by a wonderful breakfast in the Dining Car. Waiters hover everywhere, the traditional Taj Hotel service enhanced by the lack of guests. 

Our fellow passengers, a delightful family of four from South Africa and two guys from Kazakhstan, one of whom is a Professor of Law, join us for breakfast as we rattle our way south.  All of us are in shock to some degree to think this 21 carriage train, snaking its way across the Indian sub-continent, is just for the eight of us. The staff may have tried to make us feel like Maharaja’s on the Palace On Wheels, but in comparison, this is really like being royalty.

We arrive at Ratnagiri Railway Station, a little under 400 kilometers south of Mumbai and step off to a welcome of flowers, red dots and charming people.  Somehow it all seems a bit too much just for the eight of us, but the Deccan Odyssey is just another Taj Hotel and runs no matter how few guests are booked.

The morning is spent touring the local village and lookouts along the truly magnificent Konkan coast, before paying a visit to the home of Lokmanya Tilak, known by the western press in 1907 as “the father of the Indian uprising”.

Credited with arousing major uprisings against the British, he was deported to Burma in 1907, where he remained for 8 years.  Following his death in 1920, his role as head of Indian nationalism was taken up by none other than Mahatma Gandhi.

Lunch is provided at the Ganapatipule Beach Resort where we spend a couple of hours relaxing on the uncluttered, pristine beaches of this coast.  The temperature hovers around 30 degrees and the waters are warm and clean.  Yes, clean! 

After lunch we’re invited to visit a nearby Hindu Temple and offered various means of transport for the short journey.  

“Miss Adventurous” of course selects the bullock drawn cart, the model pre-dating suspension systems that almost necessitated a chiropractor’s visit to re-arrange bones and body parts after the short trip!  But as it was so appropriately pointed out to me, it was an experience.  I had no argument with that, it was the value of the experience I was at odds with!

But a relaxing cruise up the quiet backwaters of a nearby river later that afternoon, past isolated villages and thick tropical vegetation, soothed our aching bodies.  We stepped ashore in a small community where local village people smiled and willingly posed for photos without demanding money and a walk through the local market did not result in being constantly harassed to purchase unwanted goods.  It was a very refreshing change to the crowded, touristy destinations of Rajasthan. 

The following day is very similar, with the relaxed change of pace from the Palace on Wheels, highly appreciated.  We spend the morning visiting Sindhudurg Fort, located in the sea a short boat ride from the small coastal town of Malvan.

Built in 1664, the fortress was constructed on a small rocky island that barely protrudes above sea level and covers some 48 acres.  It’s a delightful setting with the 9 metre high walls constructed so as to cleverly conceal the only entrance to this unique fortress in the sea.  Although this was once a major naval base of the Maratha Empire, little exists here today apart from the walls and an ancient temple.

Lunch is provided at the Tarkarli Beach Resort with plenty of time provided to relax on the warm sands and bathe in the clear waters of the Arabian Sea.  The Chef, the food and even the China, comes from the Deccan Odyssey.  Nothing is left to chance - having a guest come down with Delhi Bellie is just not an option the Management is prepared to risk. 

Again we cruise the back water creeks and visit local villages before enjoying a cultural evening at the Shilpagrama Art and Craft Centre where dancing, puppet shows and the art of preparing local cuisine, is all demonstrated.

Later that evening, we board the train for dinner and the short, overnight run to Goa.

The Deccan Odyssey Pt 1 by BJ (19th April '08)

With the first of our two Indian train trips completed (see Rajasthan By Train) we’re driven to Delhi Airport to board our domestic flight to Mumbai, where we’ll pick up the next train, the Deccan Odyssey.  Named after the Deccan Plateau, a huge expanse of basalt and granite in southern India over which the train travels, The Deccan Odyssey will be home for the next 8 days whilst we travel south to Goa and return. 

Our flight is on Jet Airways, one of about seven domestic carriers now operating in India and much to our relief, appears to be a well run, polished operation with good equipment and great staff.  Apart from running delays that appear to be a standard feature of air travel in India because of the smog, we have an uneventful flight.

Mumbai  has changed from the days when we last visited as crew members and it was known as Bombay, with refurbished airport terminals, massive high rise buildings towering up to 65 stories high and of course the ever expanding movie world of Bollywood.  In all directions, modern, towering office blocks and apartments dot the skyline, heralding a new dawn for an ancient city.    But in so many other ways, there is little change.

The drive into the city from the airport is still a nightmarish struggle through the undisciplined chaos that jams the streets.  Poverty, on a level that re-defines the word, is still all around.  The old shanty towns of decaying cement structures, rusty corrugated iron and plastic sheeting, still line the roadside and the putrid muddy banks of the stagnant, black water canals that twist through the outer city.   Half naked children play in the piles of rotting rubbish that surrounds these shacks whilst mangy, disease ridden dogs roam amongst them, scavenging for anything they can eat.  This is the reality of India, but it is only a part of this great sub-continent and is something that should not be allowed to distract from the overall picture.

Our transport arrives at Mumbai Station, amidst a mass of black and yellow Morris Oxford taxis who’s origins date back to the 1950’s.  The main concourse of the Station is littered with people sprawled all over the floor waiting for trains, but there are other shapeless forms apparently sleeping,  despite the oppressive heat and the fact that it’s only mid afternoon. 

As we step out of our vehicle we’re immediately spotted by Deccan Odyssey staff who thankfully rescue us from this depressing scene and escort us to a private waiting area.  On the way, as we weave through the hordes that litter the concourse floor, we’re acutely aware of the silent, but intently curious stares our presence attracts.    At the waiting room we’re greeted with the traditional Indian floral leas and red dots on foreheads and at 4:00 pm, along with a small group of fellow passengers, we’re taken to board our waiting train.

Twenty one coaches, in royal blue and black stretch along the length of the platform, each coach named and monogrammed with the Deccan Odyssey’s crest.   As we walk past the long line of carriages, I’m struck by the lack of Staff and people on the almost deserted platform.   This is so unlike the scene that greeted us at the Palace on Wheels and just doesn't‘ seem right.  But eventually we arrive at our carriage where Harish, our Coach Manager, dressed in Royal Indian Military costume, greets us and takes us on board. 

The Deccan Odyssey, run by the Taj Hotel Group, has only been operating for about 5 years which is reflected in it’s modern décor and facilities.  Although the cabins (4 to a coach) are similar to those on the Palace on Wheels, they appear larger,  more modern and stylish, and far better appointed with telephone, internet connections and fully tiled ensuites.

After unpacking and settling in, Harish, takes us on a tour of the train.  We walk through a couple of accommodation cars before arriving at the Health Club which features a small gym, a beauty centre for manicures and hair styling, complemented by a massage and sauna facility,  all fully staffed and waiting for business.

We then move into the Conference Car, set up as a library with tables and chairs, a selection of reading material and a large screen, plasma TV.  Two beautifully appointed Dining Cars follow before we enter the Bar Car where we sit and enjoy a cold beer whilst the train commences it’s journey south.

It’s then that we discover the reason for the lack of activity on the platform when we boarded.   Anne and I are sharing this 21 carriage, 5 star Hotel on wheels with just 6 other passengers !  

All of this luxury, all 21 carriages complete with some 25 staff (reduced from the normal 40) , are here to serve just 8 people heading south to Goa !  The staff are quick to point out however that  we’ll pick up a further 10 passengers in Goa for the return journey,  but that will hardly over tax the facilities !

We’ll have 8 days and 7 nights in pure luxury on board this traveling Hotel, with daily sight seeing arranged in a similar manner to the Palace on Wheels, but for us, it will be a refreshing change from the large groups encountered on the previous train..

Dinner is served at 8:00pm and  we sit back with our complementary bottle of wine, enjoying a delightful mix of Indian and Continental cuisine served to traditional Taj Hotel standards.  At around 9:00 pm, some four and a half hours after leaving Mumbai, the train comes to stop.  I comment to our waiter, thinking it’s just another stop on a single track system, made to allow the passing of opposite direction traffic, only to be told,

“Oh no Sir, the train will stop here for 6 hours to allow you a peaceful nights sleep”. 

It will be that way for the first 3 nights !

Only in India …..

8Rajasthan By Train (Part7), by BJ. (19th April '08)

This morning a visit has been arranged to the Ghana Bird Sanctuary near Bharatpur and requires a 5:30 wake up call!   Thankfully, it’s not compulsory.

It’s been a very dry monsoon season for the past couple of years and the usual massive numbers of birds attracted8888 to these wetlands have decreased dramatically.  Besides, it’s likely to be cold in the old fashioned rickshaws provided for the visit (“I really don’t need to take a jacket”) and I’ve had an unusually restless night thanks to the somewhat violent rocking motion of the train.  I decide on a raincheck, pull the covers back up and enjoy a couple of hours of deep, motionless sleep whilst Anne departs to check out our fine feathered friends.

Bird numbers were disappointingly low and Anne is back on board by 8:00 am for breakfast.   I make a leisurely entrance into the day feeling far more human after my additional sleep and join her for coffee as the train gets under way later in the morning for the City of Agra.

We arrive in this famous City just before midday with high expectations.   Apart from being our last stop on the POW tour, Agra, located on the banks of the Yamuna River, is the location of the Taj Mahal!

With heavy smog forecast for late afternoon, our schedule is quickly changed and we head directly to the Taj Mahal to make use of the fine weather conditions in the middle of the day.

Completed around 1648 from white marble as a mausoleum for the favourite wife of Mughal Emperor Shah Jahan, the Taj Mahal was declared a UNESCO World Heritage Site in 1983 and draws thousands of tourists daily, both locals and foreigners alike.  So much has been written about the Taj it’s difficult to add to the descriptions, but whichever way you look at this structure, it’s truly a magnificent work of art.

Over 28 precious and semi-precious stones are inlaid into the white marble of this building to form intricate floral patterns and panels of script, the craftsmanship so exceptional the patterns at first appear to be painted.  The massive central dome, over 17 metres in diameter rises to a height of 65 metres and appears to changes colour as the sun’s rays filter through the clouds and ever present smog. 

Unfortunately, the main tomb containing the graves of the wife, Queen Mumtaz Mahal and the Emperor Shah Jahan, is in the lower level, now permanently closed to the public.  Even more annoying is the ban on still cameras inside the structure and the fact that video cameras have to be left a staggering  200 metres from the monument!  Our highlight turns into a disappointment, at least for me with my new HD video camera and a developing hobby of making documentaries.

But it’s a wonderful sight, viewed from any angle or any distance.  We’re fortunate to have visited around midday with the best light conditions, but for those that can afford the time, there are some stunning effects to be seen in the early morning mist that rises from the nearby Jamuna River, and at sunset.

Reluctantly we leave the Taj, it’s gardens and crowds and head for lunch at the usual 5 Star hotel.  The usual shopping stop is made to admire the local handicraft products and then it’s on to Agra Fort often called the Red Fort of Agra.

Constructed from red sandstone by the Mughals during the mid fifteen hundreds, Agra Fort is surrounded by double walls, some 2.5 kilometres long, rising to a height of 21 metres.   Listed as a World Heritage site, it is historically the most important fort in India.  

The country was governed from here by a series of great Mughal leaders and in 1857, during the Indian Rebellion, a large battle took place here that resulted in the end of the British East India Company’s rule of India.  This event signified the beginning of a century of direct rule by Britain.

Apart from the fortifications, Agra Fort contains numerous palaces, temples, gardens and magnificent halls.   One of these palaces, the Musamman Burj , a large octagonal tower over looking the Taj Mahal, was home to the Emperor Shah Jahan, builder of the Taj, when held  under house arrest by his son for the last seven years of his life.

We’ve arrived here late in the afternoon and with all government controlled sites closing at 5:00pm, time is quickly running out.  We’ve seen the major sites, the Khas Mahal in white marble, the Jehangiri Mahal in red sandstone and numerous other buildings, but the Red Fort of Agra has far more to offer.  

We tumble out of the huge gates of the Fort as the military guard starts securing for the night and head back to our busses, turning to snap that one last photo as we go, acutely aware that this is the end of our journey.

Back on board the train it’s drinks and dinner as usual, with e-mail addresses being swapped and promises made to keep in touch.  As the train departs for its final overnight run back to Delhi, we adjourn to the Bar and celebrate the successful conclusion of a wonderful week in Rajasthan, on board The Palace On Wheels.

Rajasthan By Train (Part6), by BJ. (8th March '08)

After a short early morning run our train arrives around 7:30 at Udaipur, known as the City of Lakes and located nearly 600 metres above sea level in the foothills of the Aravalli Mountain Range.

With breakfast behind us, we stroll along the platform, through the usual greeting committee of trumpets and flowers, before boarding our waiting busses.  Our first stop today is at the Garden of Maidens.

Built by Maharana Sangram in the mid 18^th century, the Garden of the Maidens is a wonderfully lush, green oasis in the chaos of the city.  A series of pools, one covered with flowering Lotus plants, are surrounded by manicured lawns and rose gardens, cut off from each other by huge trees and walled courtyards that are typical of the discreet areas frequented in days of old by ladies of the court.  Beautiful fountains rise from the pools and gardens throughout the park, all of them operating simply on natural water pressure.  Strolling through these well maintained gardens is a relaxing interlude, particularly after the almost constant line up of Palaces and Forts.

But then it’s back to our usual routine, with our next stop at the City Palace, on the shores of beautiful Lake Pichola.

First established in 1559, the City Palace has grown over the years into an incredible profusion of courtyards, terraces, balconies and smaller Palaces, all clustered together to form a magnificent spectacle.  Set into a hill side and rising high above the city, the Palace dominates the eastern foreshores of Lake Pichola , with an almost medieval, European atmosphere. 

A massive, triple arched gate, known as the Tripolia and built in 1725 leads the way into this architectural wonderland.  In every direction, intricately carved windows, balconies and arches look down onto a maze of courtyards, beautifully decorated with tiles, mosaics and coloured glass panels.  Various rooms of the Palace have been restored to their former glory in spectacular fashion whilst others function as a museum, displaying all sorts of antiques, paintings and furniture.

Perhaps one of the most amazing exhibitions is the Crystal Collection, displayed on the first floor level of Durbar Hall.  Originally ordered by the ruling Maharana in 1877 from the Birmingham based company F. & C. Osler, the huge crystal collection did not arrive in India until after his death. 

Considered as a bad omen, his descendants left the collection in the original packing cases, unopened until 1944!   Since that time it has been on public display and includes everything from complete dinner services to vases, fountains, a bed and dining table, all made from crystal in the UK and transported to India!

 As much as each Palace we visit resembles the previous one in the wonderfully detailed architecture, each one is also uniquely different, the City Palace of Udaipur being no exception.  If anything, The City Palace of Udaipur is perhaps one of the best we’ve seen so far in India.

 Lunch is provided at the Shiv Niwas Palace Hotel, in the crescent shaped courtyard adjoining the City Palace.  Originally built as the private residence of the Maharana, to accommodate and entertain his guests, the complex has been restored to its former elegant state and converted into a luxury hotel.

With lunch out of the way we settle down to a relaxing cruise on  Lake Pichola.  Nestled between the arid, treeless peaks of the towering Aravalli Mountains, the lake softens this otherwise harsh landscape and produces a welcomed cooling effect during the long hot summer months. 

 We cruise slowly up the eastern shore line, past the towering City Palace that looks down onto broad expanses of steps leading down to the water, where groups of locals bathe and wash their cloths.  It’s a scene as old as time itself.  At the northern end of the lake, a river is spanned by a bridge, bearing some vague similarities to the Rialto Bridge on the Grand Canal in Venice.  Perhaps this is the origin of Udaipur’s other nickname, the Venice of the East.

 We turn to the south and travel past the magnificent Lake Palace, originally known as Jag Niwas.  Constructed in the middle of the lake in 1746 and covering some 4 acres, this stunning, white Palace consists entirely of marble and now operates as a luxury hotel under the Taj Hotel group.

Beyond the Lake Palace is another island Palace, Jag Mandir, our destination.  Built during the early sixteen hundreds as a hideout for a wayward Prince, the Palace courtyards look out across the waters of the lake through rows of magnificent arches set above a long line of white marble elephants.  We’ve come here to enjoy afternoon tea, the cooling breezes and the wonderful views. It’s little wonder that Udaipur is one of India’s major tourist destinations.

Back on the train and under way by 5:30, we enjoy some pre-dinner drinks, a meal fit for a Maharaja and an early night.  Tomorrow will be a very early start for those with an eye for birds.

Rajasthan By Train (Part 5) , by BJ. (24th Feb '08)

Throughout the night, the Palace on Wheels (POW) rattles and bumps its way back across Rajasthan, heading east to the small town of Sawai Madhopur, about 130 kilometres south east of Jaipur.  It arrives here at 4:00 am, but our quiet time is soon interrupted by a very early, morning call.

We’re up at 5:30 in time for a quick coffee and then off the train to our waiting transport.  There’s no welcoming committee this time and no air conditioned buses. 

We climb into small, open topped, four wheel drive trucks, fitted with rows of seats.   It’s still dark and the seats are covered with dew but there’s an old blanket on each seat to be shared by couples.  We wipe the seat dry and wrap the blanket around us.  We’re nearly 500 metres above sea level and it’s cold in the pre-dawn darkness, about 5 degrees.

Our local wild life guide climbs aboard and were off, racing along the narrow bitumen road, 11 kilometres  to Ranthambhore  National Park, one of India’s Project Tiger Reserves.  With luck, and that should be spelt with a capital L, we just might see one of these magnificent cats in the wild.

Arriving at the Park early is critical, as it’s not just the 100 guests from the POW that are here, this place is packed every day with tourists from all over India.  The Park limits access, both the numbers that can enter and the time of entry, but sightings are most common in the early dawn as the tigers move to water to drink or to hunt.

Arriving at the Park entrance, frozen to the bone from the chilly blast of cold air roaring through our open vehicle (“we’re going to India, I don’t need a jacket”), we’re allocated Area 3 and head off into the thickly wooded hills.  It just might be our lucky day as Area 3 has the reputation of providing the most sightings.

There are 37 tigers currently living in this 390 square kilometre Park, comprising open grass lands, numerous lakes, gorges and dense forest.  As we crawl over the rough, dirt tracks, our guide stops the vehicle frequently to listen for warning calls put out by other animals when they sense the presence of a tiger.  These calls, if we hear any, should lead us into the right area.

We pick up bird calls from time to time and reverse our route, crossing paths with other vehicles as we traverse the open grass lands where dozens of deer stand motionless, watching us pass in the early morning light.  Patches of mist rise above the lakes and streams where wild boars stop to drink, the long elephant grass at the waters edge providing ideal cover for a stripped predator.  It’s a peaceful, beautiful landscape, but it’s eerie.

It’s on one of these frequent stops whilst listening for calls, that a real emergency strikes!  A female passenger, a young French woman in the back of the truck, announces in heavily accented English,

 “ I ave  to pee.”

Our Indian guide chooses to ignore the rather embarrassing statement, pretending instead to be totally absorbed in listening for animal calls.  The woman’s desperate declaration is made again, this time louder, ensuring that she has everyone’s attention, including the guide. 

The woman begs to be let off the truck and find a tree or nearby ridge to hide behind whilst satisfying natures call, but the guide is not happy.  Although we’re in relatively open grassland with a few scattered trees, the very animal we’re searching for could be lurking just metres away in the long, dry, straw coloured grass and not be seen.

Reluctantly, but with no other options available, he lets the woman off the truck on the proviso that she stays up against the rear of the vehicle.  His obvious concern highlights to us all, the potential for a sudden and potentially deadly attack.

Suddenly everyone is chatting in nervous embarrassment as the poor woman hides at the back of the truck, our conversation helping to drown out the sounds of natures call.  Her relief is obvious, in more ways than one when she climbs back on the truck. 

As the morning drags on, the chances of spotting our tiger dwindle.  We’ve seen every type of bird, deer, wild boar and even a crocodile hiding in a small stream near the edge of the track, but it’s now highly unlikely that we’ll see a tiger.  It’s just getting too late in the morning.

Slowly, we’re making our way back past one of the lakes on our final search of the morning when we pass another vehicle in a hurry, heading the opposite direction.  Tigers, as in plural, have been spotted!

We quickly turn around and race after the other vehicle, nervous excitement spreading through the truck as we bounce and lurch our way over the rough dirt track in a cloud of dust.  As we fly over the crest of a hill, vehicles can be seen gathered near a stream below, their occupants pointing excitedly into the bushes.  At the same time numerous other trucks are converging onto the scene from all directions, the noise and flying dust surely sufficient to drive our shy quarry into permanent hiding.

As we arrive at the stream, our driver jockeys for the best position as everyone strains to find the elusive animals in the dense bush!   People are pointing and voices are raised as directions are shared, but there’s nothing, just dense green leaves hanging down to the waters edge.

And then as if a veil had been lifted, the unmistakeable colouring of an Indian Tiger at rest on the opposite bank of the stream starts to filter through the dense foliage.  Not one tiger, but two magnificent animals are in view!

They’re largely hidden by the foliage but there’s sufficient detail to clearly distinguish the two animals.  One gets up and moves, its camouflage instantly lost as it does so, clearly displaying its huge head.  It’s believed they are two of a group of three cubs, nearly fully grown, the third cub almost certainly hiding nearby.  

With the distance, the dust and the crowds, photography is difficult but we manage to capture a bit of colour.  Our eyes however have captured a truly remarkable sight, one that hopefully will continue to become more common place and one that will never be forgotten.

By 10:30 we’re back on the train and enjoying a wonderful late breakfast, still high on adrenalin from the mornings sighting as the POW heads for Chittorgarh.

We arrive at 4:00 pm and head for Chittorgarh Fort, located on a hill top, 180 metres above the town.  Slowly, our bus makes the long climb up the hill, passing through seven narrow, but massive gates that guard the approaches to the Fort.  It’s Sunday and the traffic is a chaotic on this ancient, narrow roadway.

Built in the 7^th century, Chittorgarh Fort is one of the most historically significant Forts in Northern India and is spread over 700 acres, housing magnificent examples of Rajput architecture.  

Sacked on three occasions by Muslim rulers between 1303 and the mid fifteen hundreds, the Fort was to be the scene of incredible sacrifice by both soldiers and women, both groups refusing to fall into enemy hands.    This defiant determination resulted in the death of some 13,000 women and 32,000 soldiers during the second siege in 1535.

Temples, old Palaces and fortifications are scattered all over this hill top which is also home to hundreds of monkeys giving the whole area a distinctly Indiana Jones atmosphere.  Most striking of these structures is the Victory Tower, standing some 37 metres high and constructed from red sandstone and white marble.

Built in the mid 14^th century, the 9 level towers commemorate King Kumbha’s victory over the combined Malwa and Gujarat forces of Mahud Khilji.   For those not suffering from claustrophia, the tower can be climbed, up a narrow, dark passageway, 157 steps to the top!

After an entertaining Light and Sound Show set amongst these awesome ruins, depicting the Forts violent history, we return to the POW for dinner and an early night.  The train stays parked at the Station all night, not leaving until 5:30 the next morning for the short run to Udaipur.  It’s a great chance to catch up on some much needed sleep.

Rajasthan By Train (Part 4) , by BJ. (11th Feb '08)

It’s 7:00 am when the Palace on Wheels (POW) draws into Jodhpur Station on the south eastern edge of the Great Indian Desert.  After a leisurely breakfast we’re on our bus heading out for the day by 8.30.

Established in 1459, Jodhpur is Rajasthan’s second largest city and is commonly known as the Sun City or Blue City, due to the indigo tinge of the whitewash used on many of the buildings. Our first stop here is at Jaswant Thada.

Built in 1899 in memory of Maharaja Jaswant Singh II, Jaswant Thada was constructed from white marble and functions as a traditional cremation ground for Jodhpur rulers.  Beautifully carved gazebos, multi level gardens and a small lake are all located within the grounds, which also provides great views of the magnificent Mehrangarh Fort, our next destination.

Sitting high on a solitary hill top, 150 metres above the city, Fort Mehrangarh rises through the haze to dominate Jodhpur’s skyline.  Thick stone walls, up to 36 metres high, rise vertically on all sides to enclose an area of over 5 square kilometres, making it one of India’s largest and best known Forts.

Commenced in 1458 by Rao Jodha, the Fort was cursed by the only hill top resident at the time when he was forced to leave his home.   In an effort to neutralise this curse and it’s threat of severe water shortages, history tells us that Jodha buried a volunteer, alive, in the foundations!  The sacrifice was in vain, as the Fortress suffers from water shortages to this very day, a fact more likely attributed to it’s geographical location, rather than a curse.

Most of the Fort as it stands today, dates to the mid sixteen hundreds and contains several magnificent palaces, such as the Pearl Palace, the Flower Palace and the Mirror Palace, all of which function as Museums.   But the Chamunda Mataji Temple complex within the Fort, houses an idol of the goddess Chamunda, transferred from the old capital of Mandore in 1460 and worshipped today by most of Jodhpur’s citizens.

It’s quite a climb to the Fort, up the long steep access ramp, through the huge entrance gate, the massive archway protected by two solid doors, imbedded with protruding spikes to discourage the use of elephants by attacking armies.  For those not able to make the climb, an elevator has been installed to whisk tourists to the first level within the Fort, one of the very few devices found in India that caters for the handicapped.

Once inside, the beauty of the Fort is just overwhelming!   Palace walls rise high above the cobbled pathways, set with row after row of scalloped archways, intricately carved balconies and honeycombed windows.  The beauty and elegance of the detail carved into these ancient structures is simply magnificent.

Inside, an exquisite collection of royal costumes, elephant carriages, musical instruments and furniture occupy the many rooms and hallways, all stunningly decorated with mosaics, tiles and frescoes.   One of the best collections of fine Mughal art work to be found in India today lines the walls of these Palaces, alongside the finest examples of Marwar paintings and ancient weaponry.

From the many terraces and balconies on all sides, the blue buildings of the city of Jodhpur spread out into the desert haze of the valleys far below.  It’s little wonder the Fort rates as one of the most popular tourist destinations in Rajasthan.

The morning has disappeared before we know it and we’re soon boarding our bus for the short trip to the Umaid Bhawan Palace for lunch.

Located on Chittar Hill overlooking Jodhpur, the Palace was completed in 1944, after 16 years of construction by some 5,000 workers.  With 347 rooms, it was the world’s largest private residence when constructed for the Maharaja Umed Singh and features a large central dome, over 33 metres high.  The whole building is even more unique in that it does not use any cement or mortar, relying instead on a clever system of carved, interlocking stones to hold the structure together.

The Palace is today divided into three sections, one comprising the residence of  Gaj Singh, who inherited the property and title of Maharaja from his father at the age of four.  The title and other privileges were removed by an amendment to the Indian Constitution in 1971. A public Museum forms the second section and the third, our lunch venue, is rented by the Taj Hotel Group.

Set on 26 acres of land, the Palace covers some 14,000 square metres and is stunning.  Polished marble floors lead to the huge domed area which serves as a central lobby, past a cavernous dining room and a ball room that lay off to each side.  Immediately below this lobby area is the huge indoor swimming pool and spa, looking like sunken baths from the Roman era.

Beyond the Dome the building open onto a wide terrace set with towering columns and utilized as an outdoor restaurant.   Broad steps, stretching the full width of the terrace lead down to the manicured lawns and gardens, an outdoor swimming pool tucked behind the magnificent rows of flowering bougainvilleas.

After a lunch that is truly fit for a king, we have time to enjoy the pool facilities or just stroll around the Palace grounds before returning to our train at 3:00 pm.  It’s been a short, relaxing day for a change and we enjoy the scenery as the train gets underway for our next destination.  Tomorrow will be a very early start.

Rajasthan By Train (Part 3) , by BJ. (29th Jan '08)

We awake early the next morning as the train continues on across the sub-continent of India, through terrain not too dissimilar to that of outback Australia.   Short, scrubby trees scattered across a flat, arid landscape covered by dry, brown grass is interspersed with the odd sign of humanity trying desperately to scratch a living from this harsh land.

At 9:00 am we pull slowly into Jaisalmer Station, some 800 track kilometers  west of Delhi and just 75 kilometers from the Pakistan border.   Founded in 1156 and known as the Golden City, Jaisalmer lies in the heart of the Great Indian or Thar Desert, on an old trade route that still functions today. 

With the music, floral leas and red dots of the Welcoming Committee behind us, we board our buses and head off for the days sight seeing.

First stop is the old City Fort, located on top of Trikuta hill and overlooking the city.  Our buses can’t make the climb as the cobbled stone streets and lanes are just too narrow and crowded,   but it’s a fascinating stroll through this ancient city, past the usual hawkers, snake charmers and even a balancing act, hastily put together as we approach.

Built from yellow sandstone which reflects the golden rays of the sun, the Fort is home to over one quarter of this cities population.  Shops, restaurants, temples and hotels are all located within these ancient walls, interconnected by narrow passageways full of intrigue. 

Magnificent, terraced structures known as Haveli or mansions dating back to the early 1800’s tower above narrow lanes and spacious courtyards, their windows and balconies carved with incredible patterns and intricate detail.  Hand written signs advertising restaurants and hotels compete for attention amongst the dozens of small shops selling local wares, whilst all around, pockets of daily life go on seemingly unaware of the steady flow of tourists that stream past their doors.

This is an India far removed from the decay and filth of the big cities.  This is magnificent India, colourful and fascinating, just as it was in the days of old.   

Leaving the Fort we stroll back through the markets and board our bus for the short trip to  Lake Gadissar.  A small man made lake in the centre  of Jaisalmer, it  was constructed around 1156 as a rain water reservoir and is today the location of many small temples, some of which rise directly from the water. 

From the Lake we adjourn to the train still waiting at the Station, for lunch and a brief siesta, before leaving on a forty minute bus trip into the desert.  We’re here to see the sun set over a sea of magnificent sand dunes that stretch in an unbroken procession to the west.    Climbing aboard our Camel (Rocket), we lurch off into the desert in true Lawrence of Arabia fashion!

The tops of the dunes all around us are dotted with people, locals and tourists alike, who flock here daily to watch the huge red orb sink slowly through the permanent dust haze of this region and disappear below the horizon.  Bands of locals and gypsies put on impromptu song and dance routines, in a futile attempt to compete with natures display, all in the hope of earning a few tourist dollars.

Back on the bus after tea and coffee in the desert, we head for the train to freshen up and change for dinner.  Tonight we’ll dine at the Fort Rajwada Hotel and be treated to a cultural show.  The 5 Star Hotel and dinner is splendid, as we’ve come to expect in India although the cultural show, entertaining as it is, becomes a little tedious.   An extra glass or two of wine helps to compensate.

Back on the POW we crawl wearily into bed and at 23:45 our train departs for our next destination.

Rajasthan by Train (Part 2), by BJ.

Relief comes at 3:00 am when the rocking, lurching motion of the train finally comes to a halt.  It had stopped at other times during the night as the Palace on Wheels (POW) waited on sidings to allow scheduled passenger and freight trains to pass on the mainly single track system, but this was the final stop of the night.  We had arrived at our destination, Jaipur and at last we were able to drift into a couple of hours of welcomed, undisturbed sleep.

Breakfast is served at 6:30 in the small lounge at the end of our carriage by our two personal attendants.  Pastries, breads, fruit and eggs to order with real bacon (not beef bacon) and grilled tomatoes are complimented with steaming hot coffee and tea.  The service is faultless although the lounge is somewhat cramped.

We’re escorted off the train at 7:30 to be met by a welcoming committee, floral leas and a pair of beautifully decorated elephants!  These welcomes, in one form or another, become a standard feature at each destination.  Although there are just over 100 passengers on board the train, we’re split into 4 groups for the duration of the trip and quickly herded onto our fleet of air conditioned buses.

Jaipur, the capital of Rajasthan, is situated in barren, desert like country, surrounded by towering hills some 265 kilometers south west of Delhi.  Commonly known as the Pink City, a name derived from the pink colored sandstone used in the construction of the old city, Jaipur was founded in 1727 by the great warrior-astronomer, Maharaja Jai Singh, the Second.  Today, pink stucco is commonly used to imitate the sandstone used in the past and so maintain the cities colourful image.

Jaipur is also known for it’s series of broad, regular streets, 34 metres wide, which divide this city of over 3 million people into six main areas.  Based on ancient Hindu architectural concepts, the city is considered to be one of the best laid out in Northern India and a credit to its founder.

First stop on our tour is the Hawa Mahal, or Palace of the Winds, Jaipur’s most well known landmark.  As seen from the street, the five story structure is little more than a façade, built from pink sandstone in 1799 with rows of multi faceted windows, delicately cut out in a honeycombed fashion.  The structure forms the women’s chambers of the City Palace and was constructed to enable ladies of the royal household to observe the everyday life of the city without being seen.

In the broad street facing the Palace, camel drawn carts mingle with Tuk Tuks, trucks, and motor cycles whilst hawkers and snake charmers compete for space on the pavement and the attention of the tourists.  Our bus load of camera wielding travelers swarm onto the street, adding to the chaos as they jockey for position, hoping for that perfect picture.   It’s a relief to climb back on the bus and head out of town.

Our destination is the old city of Amber, the former capital of Jaipur state and the location of the Amber Palace.  Located some 11 kilometers from Jaipur at the entrance to a rocky mountain gorge, the magnificent Amber Palace / Fortress complex is perched majestically on the high mountain ridge that overlooks the ancient city.

Access to the Palace is by means of a long and narrow, stone pathway that winds up the hill side, presenting a formidable climb, but the task is made easy for us - we’re provided with elephants!

There’s quite a line up at the boarding station but the POW appears to have some priority and we’re ushered in from the side.  Brightly decorated pachyderms mill around in front of the boarding platform whilst others, responding to the prods and calls of their handlers or Mahouts as they’re known, join the line of animals waiting to load up, their numbers swelling as more and more elephants return from the Palace.  Before we know it, it’s our turn and we climb aboard, onto a large padded cushion in a square metal framed basket strapped to the animals back and hang on!

The lumbering beast sets off on the climb, joining the long procession of animals lurching their way up the steep incline.  We hold tight trying to get accustomed to the irregular, swaying motion, and it’s not too long before one relaxes and starts to enjoy the ride.  The trip to the Palace takes about 15 minutes and is a lot of fun.  If nothing else, it’s certainly very Indian!

But entering the Palace through the towering arched gates on our lumbering steeds, is like stepping back in time!   We enter a huge courtyard surrounded by a high parapet wall where a continual line of elephants unload their passengers. Unfortunately, the center of this courtyard, which in earlier photos is shown to contain trees and gardens, is undergoing renovations, but this fails to detract from the overall impact. Arriving here, in this majestic Palace on the back of an elephant, suddenly seems totally appropriate.

Although originally commenced in 1036, most of the present day structures were completed in the 17th century, the combined Rajput-Mughal architecture being considered as some of the best examples to be found in India today.

Our local guide leads us through a never ending series of climbing, winding, descending passage ways, through tiny rooms and spacious courtyards, where each turn provides stunning views of the Palace’s architecture or the city far below.   Room after room is decorated from floor to ceiling with magnificent frescoes and mosaics, whilst tiny enclosed balconies with small, latticed windows protrude from high Palace walls set with intricate patterns carved into white marble.

It’s a huge complex, full of mind blowing features such as the incredible Hall of Victory, set with tiles and mirrors amidst a series of beautiful arches.  The Amber Palace is simply breathtaking, both architecturally and from it’s location, providing a fascinating insight into the grandeur of India’s old world of the Maharaja.

Our trip back down the hill is by Jeep, if one uses the term loosely, the elephants providing uphill transport only.  Perhaps the elephant ride was a much safer option as most of these mechanical marvels dated back to the Second World War and appeared to be in desperate need of retirement.   It was with much relief that we reached the bottom safely and re-boarded our bus!

We head back to Jaipur for lunch, stopping on the way to view the Jal Mahal Water Palace, set in the middle of a man made lake.  Built in 1799 as a pleasure spot for the ruling royals and used for such things as duck shooting parties, the Palace is now abandoned, the first four floors being underwater. From a distance however it looks idyllic, but on closer examination one discovers the water of the lake is a bright, unhealthy green, littered with rubbish and with water-hyacinths encroaching on all sides.  Our guide tells us there is now a plan to utilize the lake for water sports.  The mind boggles ….

A lack of appetite at the thought of lunch amidst the poverty and litter of Jaipur, quickly dissipates as we arrive at the Raj Palace Hotel, a stunning, immaculate, 5 Star facility where a buffet fit for royalty awaits us.   It’s a standard that is maintained throughout the trip. Having guests come down with Delhi Belly is just not an option for the people who run the POW.

Back on the bus, we head for the Observatory, set up in Jaipur by Jai Singh in 1728.   Of the five observatories he is credited with building, the Jantar Mantar in Jaipur is the largest and best preserved.

A strange cluster of sculptured shapes, scattered across the open spaces of the park, all have specific purposes, such as indicating star positions, calculating eclipses and measuring time.  A massive sundial, over 30 meters high, is the centre piece of the Observatory and is amazingly accurate.

Final stop on our first day’s tour is at the City Palace in Jaipur.  Occupying more than one seventh of the area within the Walled City, the Palace comprises courtyards, temples and museums as well as being the current residence of the present Maharaja of Jaipur.  Typical of the Rajasthan and Mughal architecture of the period, the palace is a kaleidoscope of coloured mosaics and frescoes.

Highlight of the Palace lies behind a huge set of brass doors which open to a courtyard containing the magnificent Hall of Private Audience – a simple but elegant structure of scalloped archways trimmed in pink and white and mounted on double columns. Two giant silver containers are on display here, reputedly the largest vessels of their kind in the world and were used by the Maharaja Madho Singh to carry water from the Ganges on his journey to England.  Behind this courtyard and rising high above the walls, stands the seven storey Moon Palace, the present Maharaja’s home.

Tied, but excited by our first day’s sight seeing, we arrive back at the Station and board the POW at 6:30 pm, flopping onto the lounge at the end of our carriage.    Mohan, our cabin manager is waiting for us and plies us with hot towels and cold drinks.

Dinner is served at 7:30 as the train pulls out of Jaipur Station heading for Jaisalmer, our next destination.

Rajasthan By Train (Part 1), by BJ. (14th Jan '08)

The station is already busy when we arrive, passengers seated on rows of seats fitted with white covers and set on red carpet that’s been laid out especially for the event.   Facing the seats, a group of local musicians sitting beneath a colorful welcome sign set the mood with typical Indian music whilst porters and tour guides swarm around, sorting out baggage and tickets.

Surprisingly the station is otherwise deserted, empty of the crowds I had expected to see but perhaps it’s due to the large number of uniformed and armed security guards that seem to be patrolling the platform.  After all, this is Delhi, India, with a population of 16 million and one would expect the railway station to be crowded.  But this is not the main terminus in Delhi and the train we’re waiting for is not any ordinary train, it’s the Palace on Wheels (POW).

First established some 25 years ago, the Palace on Wheels was created from the grand railway carriages originally used by the Maharajas of old India, refurbished to take tourists on a spectacular journey through the many wonders of Rajisthan.  Today’s train was purpose built in 1995 in the tradition of the old carriages but with more up to date facilities.

At 4:30 pm, all 21 carriages of our train arrive, some 750 metres in length!   Slowly it crawls into the platform, a large diesel locomotive drawing the long string of yellow carriages, each ornately decorated in brown and gold trim and bearing the trains crest.

In traditional Indian style, we’re welcomed to the Palace on Wheels with a floral lea, a turban for the men and a head scarf for the ladies, plus a big red dot like a target or perhaps a gunshot wound, in the middle of our foreheads!

The Palace On Wheels

We’re then escorted to our carriage, named Dholpur, where our carriage manager Mohan, decked out in regal Indian costume greets us and settles us into our compartment. 

There are 14 coaches for accommodation, each consisting of 4, twin berth compartments with ensuite bathrooms complete with showers and a small but comfortable lounge area at one end of the carriage where breakfast is served each morning.  Two beautifully decorated Dining Cars and a spacious Lounge / Bar Car make up the rest of the passenger facilities, with the remaining 4 cars containing generators, stores and crew accommodation.  The train operates an all inclusive tour of 8 days / 7 nights from Delhi, traveling mainly at night and stopping during the day for pre-organized sight seeing.

As the train commences its journey, we relax over a glass of red wine in the cozy lounge at the end of our carriage, our minds racing with expectations.

With the train winding its way out of Delhi and daylight fading, we gaze silently out of the window at the poverty that surrounds this huge city.   Between the railway tracks and the adjacent roadway, family groups can be seen huddled around small fires to keep warm in the chill of the night air, their home and only shelter provided by a simple plastic awning stretched between nearby trees.  All around, a sea of rubbish stretches in every direction.  The extreme contrast between our environment and that of so many of these people, gives us cause over the coming days to often wonder what they must think of us, in our Palace on Wheels. 

We join our traveling companions that evening for a wonderful dinner of Continental and Indian favorites severed on fine China and silver ware, complemented by a variety of International wines served in good crystal.  The Dinning cars are beautifully decorated in the tradition of the Orient Express and the service is nothing less than 5 Star.

Tomorrow’s sight seeing will be a long, busy day requiring an early start, with breakfast served in our lounge area at 6.:30 am.  It’s been an exciting day, full of wondrous new discoveries and experiences and  with the promise of even greater delights ahead of us, we shower and hop into bed as the train rambles on through the night. 

A City of Contrasts, by BJ. (11th Jan '08)

Like a huge red ball, the early morning sun struggles to penetrate the heavy layer of smog that shrouds this city of 16 million people.  In the half light of early morning, the streets are already throbbing with the never ending flow of traffic, the tranquility shattered by the constant blaring of horns.  A distant mosque adds to the noise, calling through the haze to the faithful, beckoning them to prayer.

Overhead, Black Kites are already circling on weak thermals in search of their prey, competing for food with the stray dogs and packs of monkeys that roam the streets with immunity.  On the edge of the road, a cow and its calf sit peacefully surveying their world, oblivious to the chaos their presence creates as the traffic fights for a path around them. 

Street sleepers emerge from under piles of cardboard and rags to prepare for another day of futility, whilst others lay undisturbed through out the day in exhausted sleep or perhaps in the stillness of death.  The deformed and disfigured shapes of beggars, wrapped in bundles of torn, dirty rags, lie sprawled on street corners and in their favorite doorways, desperately pleading to anyone who will listen. 

Tree lined streets lead though blocks of low rise apartments surrounded by high concrete walls, the tops draped with barbed wire, the bottoms stained with urine and other human waste.  A worker sweeps furiously to clean the dirt and dust from a driveway whilst ignoring the crumbling footpath on either side, littered with unseen mountains of rubbish.

But elsewhere roads wind through manicured parks with acres of well maintained lawns and gardens, and then plunge into huge reserves of raw, untouched forest.  Ancient ruins of temples, mostly religious, some serving as burial sites, rise through the masses of green foliage on a scale and grandeur that rivals the ancient ruins of Rome.

Through the haze a huge stone arch rises in striking similarity to the Arc de Triomphe in Paris, but carved in large letters across its face is a single word, “INDIA”.  Built in 1921 by the British as a memorial to Indian Soldiers killed in the First World War, The India Gate stands 42 metres high and sits at one end of  the Rajpath, or Kings Way in New Delhi.  At the opposite end of the Rajpath stands the imposing structure known as Rashtrapati Bhavan, built in 1929 as the home for the Viceroy of India during British rule.  Today this magnificent building is home to the Indian President.

But Delhi is a city of amazing contrasts.  The poverty and decay of the Old Delhi streets, teaming with road side stalls selling everything from  goat meat and live chickens to shoes and sarees,  are crowded with motor cycles and Tuk Tuks, the three wheeled motorized buggy seen all over Asia, some literally stacked high with young children heading to and from school.    Above these streets, an unbelievable network of electrical cables, looking like wind blown remnants of a spider’s web, tie the maze of crumbling buildings together as if helping to hold them up.

But not far from this scene, the cement and granite structures of 5 Star hotels rise above the squalor.   Immaculately dressed doormen open taxi doors and welcome their affluent guests to the other side of Delhi.  Workmen currently swarm over many of these hotels, frantically upgrading rooms and facilities to standards equal to those found anywhere in the modern world.

These 5 Star towers of decadence offer incredible breakfast buffets, catering for every taste from Western to Asian and Indian, with a variety of quality food that quickly turns this early morning event into the main meal of the day.  But it’s difficult to witness the abundance of food in these establishments and the waste, without reflecting on the desperate need of others not too far away.  Whilst watching a nearby table being cleared, Anne and I reflect on an event we experienced in Quito, Ecuador during our South American holiday.

We sat eating a Pizza at a roadside café in the city and found ourselves under constant but mild harassment by a teenage shoe cleaner.  With the wrong type of footwear for shoes polish we couldn’t’t understand the teenager’s persistence and reluctance to leave us in peace. 

It was only as we were about to leave, having finished our meal that the boy made his intentions clear and came closer, clearly driven by desperation.  He simply wanted the crusts of our pizza which we had left on the plate, fully aware that they were about to be collected and thrown out. 

But Delhi is really an interesting destination, full of historical monuments and ancient ruins from the past.  We’ve not scheduled sufficient time here to take in all this city has to offer, but what we have seen has been a pleasant surprise.

Unlike other big cities in India, the traffic, although hectic, continues to flow and the intensity of the crowds found in Mumbai and Calcutta, don’t appear to exist here.  Temperatures, particularly during our stay in early December, were delightful with days around the mid 20’s and nights of 15 degrees centigrade, but, certainly avoid the summer months.

India is exploding into the 21^st Century with an intense and almost fanatical desire to compete head on with the rest of the world.  Tourism is strong, with everything on offer from back packing adventures for those wishing to get up close and personal, to the very top end where one can sit back and be spoilt with the charm and opulence of old India and the days of the Maharaja.   

It is this Maharaja’s empire that has drawn us here, where we will join a couple of luxurious train journeys, the first of which departs from Delhi for an eight day extravaganza through Rajasthan, known as the Palace on Wheels.

A Quick Fix, by BJ. (6th September '07)  -  Apologies - pictures to follow - G

It’s still early spring, but the sun beats down with relentless fury from a cloudless blue sky onto the rich reds and browns of a  rocky escarpment that rises abruptly from otherwise flat terrain.   Massive gorges cut their way into this dry, ancient rock formation, where the near vertical walls honeycombed with the effects of erosion and rising hundreds of feet, are intimidating and overpowering. 

Nothing stirs in the mid day heat except for the masses of tiny yellow and mauve wildflowers, swaying in the gentle easterly breeze blowing in from the surrounding desert.  It’s a harsh, beautiful landscape and a  glorious monument to mother nature as old as time itself, where the silence is broken only by the calming sigh of the breeze in the Desert Oaks.  This is the Kennedy Ranges National Park, 1,100 kilometers north of Perth, Western Australia……..

“So where are we going this year, and when ?” says Ken Hart as he sips his beer at the regular Cathay Retirees Lunch in July.

“I’m not sure we’ve got time for a bush trip, we have so many other commitments coming up”, I reply.

“Iris and I were thinking of heading up to Useless Loop or Steep Point, near Shark Bay for a few days.  Why don’t you come with us?,” Ken suggests.

I’d been getting restless, thinking of the bush and wanting to get away somewhere but we just didn’t seem to have time.

“Hmm… I definitely need a fix,” I told Ken, “but it would have to be the end of August, early September and only for about 10 or 12 days.   Let me have a look at the maps and see what we can fit in.”

And so the seed was planted.  Very quickly a plan was hatched, Clarrie Turner agreed to join us and we were headed north just a few weeks later.

We drive leisurely through the small country towns of Coorow, Three Springs, Mingenew and Mullewa, the location of the ‘Outback Pub’ in which Anne and I had the misfortune to overnight some time back.  The country side is green from recent rains and wildflowers are starting to appear but it’s still a little early this far south. 

Camp is set up that night amongst a cluster of Mulga Trees, just off a quiet country road in the Chapman Valley, east of Geraldton.  It’s a clear, crisp night and we settle in to our first night in the bush with the warmth of a generous camp fire and the ambience of an almost full moon.

The following day we continue to Northamton and along the North West Coastal Highway to the Murchison River where we turn east, heading towards the tiny community of Murchison Settlement.   The wildflowers are in full bloom up here and the landscape is alive with colour.

That evening finds us camped on the banks of the Murchison River, a truly delightful setting in the heart of the outback.  There’s no doubt, these remote outback settings are as addictive as a cold beer on a summer’s day, and I could feel my fix taking effect as I gazed over the mirror like waters of the river.  It was good to be back in the bush.

An easy drive the next day on good gravel roads takes us through the small town of Gascoyne Junction, 170 kilometers east of Carnarvon, where we refuel before traveling the final 60 odd kilometers to the camp site on the eastern side of the Kennedy Ranges.  There’s nothing here in the way of facilities except for a bush toilet, but it’s the only readily accessible site in the National Park, with walking trails into three spectacular gorges.  We’ve come here in the hope of traveling a rarely used track that traverses this ancient mesa.

Archaeological evidence gathered from more than 100 sites, suggests the Kennedy Ranges were occupied by Aboriginal people some 20,000 years or so before European settlement in the late 1800’s.  Declared a National Park in 1993, the area today is officially described as “offering a wilderness style experience to the more adventurous visitor.”  It’s a fair description. 

We spend two nights camped here whilst we explore the walking trails in the nearby gorges, each one distinctly different but all of them draped with a wonderful tapestry of wildflowers and the occasional fossilized tree branch laying amongst  the huge boulders.

Magnificent examples of black iron stone, shattered by an unknown prehistoric event, reveal their intricate, internal layers, as smooth and well defined as a modern day casting for some complicated piece of machinery.  In stark contrast to this hard, polished surface is the sandstone, so soft that the touch of one’s hand causes it to crumble into grains of red sand.

Subjected to only 8 inches of rain each year, the soft sandstone walls of all of these gorges have been eroded by the flow of water to form incredible rows of pockets or holes, ranging in size from just a few centimetres to large caves and overhangs.  It is this unique honeycomb effect that makes them so special.

A strenuous, one hour hike into Drapers Gorge is rewarded by one of the only permanent water sources in the area.   A series of rock pools leads the way to a large, deep swimming hole at the head of the gorge,  providing the only  means of removing the red dust from our hot, weary bodies. 

But eventually it’s time to head north and search for the track that leads over the Range. Although the route is officially open, it’s use is discouraged (actually closed to public access according to one or two signs), owing to it’s remoteness and as a result, is rarely traveled.  We are also told of a recent crossing by a local policeman who managed to set his vehicle alight in the tall, dry spinifex grass that covers the track.  It’s a serious warning and one that has us all more than just a little concerned.

The long dry stalks of the spinifex are highly inflammable and sometimes grow as high as the engine bonnet.  When it grows in the centre of the track it breaks off as a vehicle passes over and can quickly accumulate underneath until it bursts into flame from the heat of the exhaust.  Instances have also occurred where people have simply parked on top of clumps of spinifex, walked away to take a photo, only to turn around and see their vehicle on fire ! 

We’re all armed with long hooks to rake the offending stalks from beneath our vehicles and refillable water sprays to combat any outbreak of fire.  Both Clarrie and I have first hand experience of the dangers of spinifex having spent some 40 minutes on a previous trip under a Mercedes 4WD extinguishing a fire !

As we move north from the camp, we follow the escarpment along a rarely used track that we’ve located on our topographical maps.  We’re using lap top computers linked to GPS to give us a moving map display, the only way to have any chance of following this type of route.  But the charts have not been updated since 1996 and as we discover, our track disappears about 12 kilometers north of the camp site !

We’re forced to back track, leaving the escarpment behind as we move further east through the bush to rejoin the main road heading north to Mount Sandiman Homestead.  It’s disappointing but not entirely unexpected.  The author of a local 4WD Magazine spent 2 hours lost in this area last year, trying to find the start of this very same track.

After a series of false starts, we arrive at Hewitt Well , at the start of the climb onto the escarpment.  But the climb turns into a non event, being just a steady incline on an easy going, sandy track.  Before we know it, we’re on top, looking out across the vast flat expanses of the surrounding landscape.

Winding our way across the escarpment we startle a  group of feral goats that decide the easiest escape route is along the track in front of us.  Despite using the horn, our head lights and repeatedly accelerating and charging the animals, the goats maintained their possession of the track !  Only after a couple of kilometers and when showing sure signs of exhaustion, did these big horned goats give up their stubborn claim of ownership and turn off the track into the surrounding spinifex.

On top of the escarpment the track passes through a large area of sand dunes up to 18 metres high but follows a relatively easy route through the valleys, only occasionally taking the more demanding climb over the ridges.  But in this part of the country, sand dunes are spinifex country and once again we’re treated to a pleasant surprise.

Although the spinifex cover is dense, it’s green, making it far less prone to ignite but even more reassuring is the fact that it’s not as high as expected.  It appears as if there’s been enough recent traffic on the track to keep it short,  eliminating the risk of build up beneath our vehicles.

It’s a pleasant, relaxing drive, through dunes, spinifex and wildflowers and a few hours later, we commence the rocky descent down the western side of the ranges, negotiating numerous wash outs but nothing really demanding.  On reaching the bottom, we set up camp for the night amongst a garden of magnificent wildflowers and  wonder what all the fuss was about with this track. 

Perhaps it’s just the difficulty in finding the way in and out for there’s really nothing else hard about the route.    The Kennedy Ranges National Park is currently not high on the list of favorite destinations for travelers but as we discovered, it’s full of great surprises and very definitely worth a visit.

The following evening finds us enjoying the delights of down town Carnarvon.  It’s a Motel, hot showers, a real toilet and proper beds !  Pure luxury !

With a population of just over 9,000 people,  Carnarvon is an important agricultural area and home to a NASA Space Tracking facility established in the 1960’s.  It was through this facility that the world first heard Neil Armstrong’s famous words, “One small step for man, .....”.

With showers and laundry behind us we head north along the coast to Point Quobba, past the Memorial dedicated to HMAS Sydney, lost with all hands in the area in 1942 and on to Red Bluff, one of the  popular fishing camps along the coast.  That evening finds us 160 kilometers north of Carnavon at Three Mile Camp, on Gnaraloo Station, a destination for very serious wind surfers !    The ‘breaks’ are huge, all with very appropriate names, such as Tombstone !

We enjoy a couple of nights in this beach side environment, a refreshing change from our normal, desert like habitat, soaking up the sun and surf.  But a relaxing lunch on the beach rapidly turns into a serious rescue when an inexperienced driver bogs his vehicle in the sand whilst trying to retrieve his dingy.

Hopelessly stuck in the sand, with waves washing in around the wheels, the vehicle was rapidly sinking and fast approaching the ‘right off’ stage when the Boys From The Bush leapt to the rescue !   Whilst Ken raced for his vehicle and started reducing tyre pressures, a Snatch Strap was quickly attached to the stricken vehicle. 

With little time to spare, Ken hooked on to the Strap and catapulted the luckless vehicle to safety.  It was a very valuable lesson, particularly for me, as I had never before witnessed the speed in which a stranded vehicle could become completely overwhelmed by the sea and lost.  Needless to say, the owner was just lucky we were there at the time and very, very grateful !

We turned south the next day, back through Carnarvon and down the North West Coastal Highway to the Overlander Roadhouse where we turned west into the Shark Bay Marine Park area.  This is home to Monkey Mia, the famous Dolphin Resort where wild dolphins come in to the shallows to inter-act with people.  Our destination this time is Tamala Homestead, on the way to Steep Point. 

We check in at the Homestead, are quickly offered ‘Pensioner Rates’ (must have been the way we looked) and are soon headed for the ‘Beach Hut’.  Located some 15 minutes drive from the Homestead and on the opposite side of the main road, the ‘Beach Hut’ is a pre-fabricated, container like, workers accomodation, just 50 metres from our own private beach on the southern shores of Denham Sound. 

There are five individual bedrooms, each containing two, wire sprung, steel framed beds.  A cement floor verandah runs across the full width of the building.  There’s a fresh (but slightly salty) water supply at a nearby tap and a bush toilet.    An old wood burning stove is set into a cement foundation in the ‘courtyard’ at the front of the Hut, with a modern day gas BBQ (minus a gas supply), perched on top.

This is posh for bush accomodation and the price is simply amazing  -  $3:30 Australian per person, per night !

The next morning we’re off to Steep Point.  A good dirt road takes us part of the way before entering the Park area where sand tracks become the standard, only 4WD vehicles are permitted and tyre pressures must be reduced to 20 psi. 

We stop and pay our entry fee at the Rangers home where signs threaten tyre pressures will be checked and fines imposed for infringements of the 20 psi rule.  Advice is given on the condition of various tracks and we move on.  Our tyres aren’t checked.

Steep Point is the Western most point of Mainland Australia and sits high on the rugged Zuytdorp Cliffs that rise hundreds of feet above the huge rolling swells of the Indian Ocean.   The Cliffs are named after the Dutch ship of the same name that was wrecked on the coast just south of Steep Point in 1712 with 286 people on board, some of whom survived the wreck, but not the Australian outback.   Their camp site was discovered in 1927, scattered with silver coins and artifacts, but it was only 30 years later that the site was connected to the wreck of the Zuytdorp.

We drive along the cliff tops, stopping to soak up the views and watching the huge swells smashing against these formidable cliffs with monotonous regularity.  At one location, holes in the cliff top vent plumes of spray high into the air, driven up hundreds of feet by the awesome power of the sea far below.

Turning away from the cliffs we find a magnificent secluded beach on the quiet waters of Denham Inlet and stop for lunch.  The white sands are completely undisturbed by prints of any kind and lapped by turquoise waters that are unbelievably clear.  This is pristine, unpolluted planet earth, as rarely seen today.

We sit and look across the narrow passage to Dirk Hartog Island, the site of the first known landing of a European (Dirk Hartog) on Australian soil in 1616.  It’s an incredible feeling, to be gazing at a sight that would have changed imperceptibly from that seen by the Dutch Captain nearly 400 years ago.

Early the next morning we awaken to a thick fog which surrounds our beach hut.  Perhaps the weather is changing and it’s time to head home.  For now at least, I’ve had my quick fix.

Travel Update (2nd Sept '07)

If you scroll down hundred of years you will find an article by Dave Baines which has a paragraph as follows:

"There are several agents offering their services to the airline industry. We have used Dargal. com, who have advertised in the company news letter, Canadian  Interline 2000, and lately on the last few cruises, Kazzrie Jaxen, Kazzrie@theinterlineshop.com an attractive and personable lady who works from Costa Rica, but offers a more personal service. She took the trouble to travel to meet us in San Jose. If you put your name on the mailing list you will get enough info on future cruises".

I've had an email from Kazzri and she tells me that her new address is:

interline@kazzrie.com

Amend you records as you see fit.

Graham

The Lady In Green, by BJ. (28th April '07)

Although I've made the trip many times, I still enjoy the experience of crossing the Nullarbor Plain and joining that small, constantly changing community of people who travel the Eyre Highway, linking Perth to the East Coast.

Twenty four hours a day, a steady stream of vehicles make their way across the Nullarbor Plain, a flat, featureless expanse of semi-desert, that separates Perth and Adelaide. The majority are commercial vehicles, big trucks and road trains, followed by Grey Nomads towing every variety of caravan one could imagine. And then there are the transients, those people who are re-locating from one city to another, often with all their worldly possessions jammed in the back of their old family car. And of course there are the nutters, like me, who just enjoy the trip.

But regardless of which category the travelers fall into, they all stop from time to time for fuel and food and it's on these occasions, at the various Roadhouses along the route that some very interesting characters can be encountered.

The Mundrabilla Roadhouse is located some 1,300 km east of Perth and 1,300 km west of Adelaide on the Eyre Highway and I pull in for lunch.
 

A high rocky escarpment lies to the north behind the Roadhouse which looks out across a flat coastal plain dotted with stunted trees that protrude from a carpet of bluish grey shrubs. It's not an unattractive landscape, but it's a harsh one and there is no other sign of civilization apart from the Roadhouse.

There's a big rig sitting in the parking area, the driver checking tyres and a 4WD with caravan parked next to the Toilets, but no sign of the occupants. The whole place looks deserted.

I walk into the shop and ring the bell at the empty counter. No one comes. I ring the bell again, and again, but still no one appears. Eventually a phone rings and a woman rushes in from the kitchen, apologizing profusely for keeping me waiting. It's Ok I tell her, answer the phone and as she does so another woman appears.

They could be sister's except one is about two foot shorter than the other, but their wrinkled, leathery faces looking like crumpled pages from a Sydney Street Directory, are stark testimony to a hard life in the bush. Whilst the 'cook' attends to the phone, the other woman ignores me. But then a third woman appears, only too eager to help.

She has a foreign accent and a complexion that doesn't fit the environment so I guess she's a tourist topping up her bank balance whilst experiencing life in the outback. I order a hamburger with chips and coffee then move to the adjoining dinning room and that's when I see her.

She's making herself coffee at the self help, 'Free for Driver' coffee bar and she moves away as I approach. Her dark green track suit pants hang limply from the waist like pleated drapes on a window frame, with no visible sign of a body beneath them. The long sleeved, round neck top, in a lighter shade of green hangs just like the pants and does nothing to disclose her female form. She is painfully thin but I try not to stare and make myself a coffee.

The dinning room is empty apart from the two of us and I take a table at the far end, next to the window. She sits at the opposite end by herself on a stripped cushion to soften the harsh laminex seat against her bony frame, a mug of coffee cradled between her long thin fingers as she stares intently out of the window at the dusty car park.

The 4WD and caravan depart and then another truck, this time a road train called 'The Mac Muncher' rolls to a stop in the midst of it's very own dust storm. I wonder if the driver frequents MacDonald's or is the name simply a slur on Mac trucks because he drives a Kenworth. He'd go hungry out here looking for the Golden Arches so I guess it's the latter.

My thoughts drift back to the lady in green and I notice a large cushion, decorated with a frangipani print, sitting on top of a folded blanket against the wall behind her. Next to the blanket is a plastic laundry basket full of Folders, the type used to hold loose pages. It seems an odd collection of items.

I study the woman, trying to guess her age. Fashionable highlights streak her shoulder length brown hair in contradiction to the complete lack of any recent attempts at grooming The unruly mop hangs over her forehead partly obscuring her eyes but it's unable to hide the gaunt, narrow face, her large nose and prominent cheek bones accentuated by hollow cheeks. She could be 10 or 12 years either side of 35, it's impossible to tell.

From a large brown shoulder bag sitting on the table she produces a wallet and franticly flicks through the contents searching for something. A number of 'plastic cards' are visible, including one with a photo ID, perhaps a driver's licence, but the searching continues, on and on and her lips move constantly in silent yet never ending conversation. Her hand moves up to the side of her face, as if trying to shield her silent conversation from others but the facial movement is still plainly visible and relentless. I'm embarrassed and look away, but my curiosity keeps drawing me back like a moth to a light.

The two truck drivers come in, help themselves to coffee and settle in at a nearby table. They casually look around the room, glancing at me and then the lady in green, with the same lack of interest they would show in an empty beer keg. The short sister comes into the dinning room, looks around, tidies the coffee bar then exits without even a glance at the lady in green ! It's almost as if she doesn't exist.

Perhaps I've been too long on the road, but I don't understand why she looks so unusual to me but no one else seems to even notice her. I guess these people take this sort of thing for granted but my curiosity is screaming for answers.

How did she get here ? Where is she going and how ? Why is she so thin and what's with the strange collection of belongings. Her clothes and appearance would suggest she's almost destitute but there's 'plastic' in her wallet. If this were the middle of a City, where the unfortunate homeless are common place one would simply dismiss it, but out here, in the middle of nowhere, it just didn't make any sense.

Suddenly she stands up, searches through her laundry basket and extracts a folder, flipping through it until she finds the page she wants. Picking up her shoulder bag and the folder, she walks out of the room.

Some fifteen minutes later I finish my meal and walk out through the shop, wondering where she's gone, but the lady in green is nowhere in sight. I'm curious but at the same time concerned and I stroll around the outside of the Roadhouse, wondering if perhaps a chance encounter might produce an opportunity for conversation and some answers, but I'm out of luck. There's no sign of her.

I climb into my truck and head west but it's well over an hour before I can stop searching for answers and concentrate on the journey ahead. Even that evening, sitting in a restaurant over 600 kilometers away, I could not help wondering about the Lady in Green and those unanswered questions.

A Day Off In Whistler, by BJ (18th March '07)

The first two pictures are on the way to Lillooet, the last two in the town - G

Like so many, I’ve been skiing at Whistler, north of Vancouver in British Columbia, for more years than I care to remember, but never seem to tire of the place.   Already sporting more than 200 plus runs spread over two mountains, more areas and runs are being opened on an almost annual basis.  Providing the snow is here and this year is one of their best, it’s a wonderful destination for all skiers, regardless of ability.

Whilst there may be some who can ski all day every day for the duration of their holiday, it certainly isn’t me !   A day off every so often to rest those burning legs seems to occur more frequently as the years go by, but just how do you fill in those ‘days off’.    One can only walk through the village so many times.

If you’ve not already done so, rent a vehicle for the day and take a trip to Lillooet, a small gold mining town from the past that is nestled in a beautiful valley about 131 kilometers north of Whistler.  As an old saying goes, “It’s not the destination that’s so important, it’s the journey”, and it’s certainly appropriate here.  The drive is simply spectacular !

About 30 kilometers north of Whistler is Pemberton, a small but rapidly developing community spread out beneath a circle of magnificent mountains.   Connected to the outside world only by the railroad until Highway 99 reached it in the mid 1970’s, Pemberton is primarily a farming community but today is rapidly expanding as an accommodation option for those that work in Whistler.

Beyond Pemberton the road travels through the tribal lands of the Lil’wat First Nation people, following the Birkenhead River through prairie country dotted with tall Poplar trees before arriving at the vast expanse of Joffre Lake.  After briefly following the Lake, the road turns away and begins to climb to the Cayoosh Pass in Joffre Lakes Provincial Park.  On the two trips I’ve made to Lillooet, both in March, the road was ‘Open’ and clear of snow, but check with local authorities if you’re not sure.

The road climbs steadily to around 4,200 feet above sea level as it reaches Cayoosh Pass and follows the path of an ancient Indian Trail which was later developed into the Gold Rush Trail favored by prospectors in the 1850’s.   Sapper Duffey, a private in the Royal Engineers, was the first European to travel this route and described the 11% grade on the climb as “too intimidating for further consideration”.  Originally built as a logging road, Duffey Lake Road as it’s known today, was opened to the public in 1975.

As one goes over the pass the terrain changes.  The densely forested slopes of the mountains give way to massive, almost barren, rock faces that plunge at amazing angles to the winding river in the bottom of the narrow gorge.   High on these rock faces, water falls hang in frozen beauty, awaiting the warmer weather which will once again rejuvenate their spectacular flow.   At lower altitudes, snow melt cascades over the debris fields of avalanches both old and new, washing rocks onto the highway just as fast as patrolling work vehicles can clear them away.

The Highway continues to descend, winding around the walls of the gorge until the terrain opens to the emerald green waters of Seton Lake, with the BC Rail line snaking around it’s edge. 

Lillooet, today with just 2,700 residents, sits on the banks of the Fraser River in a magnificent valley and was once an important centre on the old Gold Rush Trail, boasting a population of 15,000.  Distances along the old wagon trail to the Cariboo and Barkerville gold fields were measured from the  ‘Mile O’ marker, located in Lillooet.  Today  Lillooets serves as a major rail and road junction and is increasingly feeling the impact of growing tourism. 

A variety of eating choices exist from local Hotels to Diners, all with just a touch of Wild West atmosphere, whilst the odd Antique / Gift Shop provides browsing territory for the women.  But it really is the trip more than the destination that makes ‘lunch in Lillooet’ a wonderful way to spend a day away from the ski slopes of Whistler. 

The Mighty Pajero (11th Dec '06)

I couldn't leave this one out - G

Well guys, I'm afraid I'm the bearer of sad news.

It is with heavy heart that finally I have to report the tragic end of a glorious career. Well perhaps there were a couple of failures along the way, but ......

I refer of course to the brilliant services provided by the one and only Toyota Recovery Vehicle, otherwise known as my Pajero ! At long last, after more than 10 illustrious years of service to the world of Toyota, the time has finally come to hang up the Pajero keys. It is indeed a sad day.

No longer will the 'little red truck' be seen dashing over sand dunes, wading through crocodile infested rivers and leaping to the rescue of terrified Toyotas stranded in dry salt lakes. It is without doubt, the passing of a great era, a time when many a vehicle ventured into the Australian Outback with confidence, knowing the 'Mighty Paj' was never far away. It's unlikely the Outback will ever be the same again.

The good news is the mighty Pajero is to be replaced and the services previously provided by the retired Mitsubishi will be taken over by another vehicle.

With due regard to the feelings of Toyota drivers, at times embarrassed by the ever friendly services of the Pajero, it has been decided that the new Recovery Vehicle should at least come under the same badge as those to whom it may assist in the future.

Accordingly, I have to announce the arrival of the new Recovery Vehicle, a Toyota Prado. Hopefully, the new Prado will uphold the traditions so heroically established by it's gallant predecessor.

Seriously guys, I couldn't bring myself to buy such a nice new vehicle with a rattly turbo charged diesel under the hood. Quiet enough in cruise and even under heavy acceleration, but under light to medium acceleration it rattles like a petrol engine that is pinging or suffering from pre-ignition.
I'm told this noise level has come about by the engine being lighter in construction than the previous one, but what ever the cause it reminded me
of the Toyota Mini bus I used to drive for Peel Health Services ! So I've
gone back to petrol, 4.0 litre V6, automatic.

P.S. Please be advised that due to an increase in operating costs there may be a small increase in recovery fees in the future.

Take care.

Cheers,

Brian.
 

The Last Frontier, by BJ. (27th Oct '06)

To the west, savanna grasslands stretch endlessly towards a coastline edged with impenetrable mangroves, infested with saltwater crocodiles and sea snakes. In all directions, forests of termite mounds rise from the dry, straw coloured grass like miniature sky scrapers in some alien city. Grazing cattle shelter under scattered trees, seeking temporary relief from the oppressive heat.

To the east, mountains rise out of a turquoise sea, draped with the lush tapestry of tropical rainforest. Pools of fresh, clear water spill over rocky escarpments creating spectacular water falls and rapids as they rush to feed big rivers that harbor the mighty Barramundi.

This is a landscape where big snakes abound and wild pigs roam, equipped with sabre like tusks that could disembowel man or beast in an instant. It is a harsh land, where few people live. It is the Cape York peninsular of Far North Queensland.

Covering some 115,000 square kilometers (twice the size of Ireland), this remote wilderness area at the northern tip of Queensland is often referred to as Australia’s last frontier and was our destination on a recent 4WD trip.

Leaving Perth in company with Ken and Iris Hart, Anne and I headed for the Cape on the most direct route, a distance of some 4,500 kilometers (2,800 miles) through Alice Springs and Mount Isa….

The sparse population of the Cape is served by so called Developmental Roads that link the various Aboriginal Communities and tiny townships to civilization in the south. Jagged rocks, severe corrugations and huge potholes filled with a fine, powder like dust known as Bull Dust, are all standard features of these roads which extract a heavy toll on our vehicles.

Both of us suffer punctures from the sharp rocks, with Ken’s tyre being completely destroyed in the process. A shock absorber is sheared from it’s mounts on my vehicle, but luckily it occurs whilst enroute to Weipa, site of the world’s largest Bauxite mine and a friendly 4WD Shop, where repairs are quickly carried out.

Much of the land on the peninsular is comprised of Aboriginal Reserves, all of which have very severe alcohol restrictions. We’re warned repeatedly by locals on our way north to treat the matter seriously, but most of our planned route avoids these areas. It’s only at the very top of the Cape, when we cross the mighty Jardine River that we’ll come into contact with these restrictions.

Small quantities of alcohol are generally permitted but we’re carrying 4 litres of wine in excess of the limit. And what is the penalty if caught ? For the First Offence it’s a fine of AUS$37,500 with the Third Offence carrying a massive $75,000 fine !

It’s serious stuff and definitely not worth the risk. We find a convenient spot in the bush to hide our excess wine and pick it up, untouched, on our return south 5 days later !

North of Weipa, at a Road House known as Bramwell Junction, the true challenge of a trip to the Cape begins. It is here that the old service track for the Overland Telegraph Line commences.

Completed in 1886, the Line provided an essential communications link to settlements in the far north, including Thursday Island in Torres Strait, remaining in service until 1987. A rough, narrow track running along side the line (known as the OTL) and used by crews to maintain the service, today forms the basis for one of the most adventurous 4WD trips in Australia.

Although only 120 kilometers long, the track has been severely eroded by rain and the passage of hundreds of vehicles that make this pilgrimage every year, making travel extremely slow. For us, it’s an overnight trip !

Washouts and creek crossings are too numerous to count with the occasional big river thrown in for good measure. Our first day on the track is relatively uneventful and we set up camp next to the Dalhunty River where we’re entertained by ‘the boys’, (two lads from Victoria) attempting to climb out of one of the River’s tougher exit tracks.

With so many vehicles traveling this route one is never alone for very long. In fact there’s a well known saying that originates from traveling on the OTL.

“When in trouble, sit tight and wait for a Victorian to arrive – they have all the toys”.

The next day we come to realize just how true this is !

Gunshot Creek, some 15 kilometers north of the Dalhunty is perhaps the most notorious crossing on the OTL and as we discovered, it was to live up to it’s reputation.

Numerous approaches to the creek have been eroded by vehicles to the point where they resemble excavations made by a Front End Loader or similar digging device ! Barely the width of a vehicle, a series of deep chutes plunge almost vertically into the muddy overflow of the creek ! It’s truly an awesome sight!

The only alternative to these ‘chutes’, a much easier approach track, was completely blocked by a 20 meter tree that had collapsed directly across the route just seconds after a preceding vehicle had passed ! There was nothing we could do except sit back and wait for the cavalry to arrive - I mean the Victorians.

Well, not quite. Our very own Ken in his trusty Land Cruiser decides to try the ‘chute’.

Crawling slowly forwards in Low/Low gear, differential locks engaged, engine just idling, Ken eases over the top and starts the descent. Seconds later, as he’s half way down the chute, the rear of the vehicle seems to come completely off the ground and the Land Cruiser, with Ken now just a startled passenger, slides unceremoniously to the bottom where its face plants in the deep muddy water ! Somewhat sheepishly, Ken sits trapped inside grinning, whilst we attach a rope and drag him free with no damage apart from a slightly bruised ego.

But then true to form, the Victorian arrives and sure enough, he has a chain saw ! We manage to cut the fallen tree and drag it to one side, opening the much easier and far less dramatic approach to the creek.

After the antics of crossing the Gunshot, we happily retreat to the delightful setting of Fruit Bat Falls for lunch and a cool (croc safe) swim at Twin Falls !

Although the creek crossings keep coming with such delightful names as Mistake Creek and Cannibal Creek, the remainder of the trip north proves to be uneventful, with just one exception, Cypress Creek.

Straddling this deep, steep sided ravine is an old log bridge, where the term bridge is used very, very loosely indeed ! A makeshift series of logs, bamboo and metal planking has been lashed together with bits of rope to very roughly conform to the wheel tracks of most vehicles.

It’s something from an Indiana Jones movie and simply walking across is a feat in itself ! When it comes to driving across, having someone guide you over this engineering marvel, is absolutely essential.

But at last we reach the top and head for Cape York. At 10 Degrees 41 Minutes 18 Seconds South, it is continental Australia’s most northerly point and looks out over the islands and blue waters of Torres Strait. We take the usual touristy pictures and head back to Seisia to set up camp.

The next day we take the Ferry trip to Thursday Island (T.I.) and enjoy a much needed rest.

On our return south, we take the OTL Bypass Road, pick up our excess wine and come across a large semi-trailer sitting on the edge of the road. Stopping to see if everything is OK we discover the truck is bogged in soft sand. All attempts to extricate the vehicle under it’s own power prove futile.

The ‘Boys From The West’ leap to the rescue but a valiant attempt by the mighty Pajero to drag the truck free also fails. Quickly deputizing Ken’s Land Cruiser as an ARV (Assistant Recovery Vehicle), we both hook on the front and between us drag the huge truck back onto the centre of the road and firmer ground !

Further south we turn east on the Frenchman’s Track and head for Chilli Beach, near the Lockhart River. But the track holds one major obstacle for us, the Pascoe River.

Although we’ve crossed this River earlier, the crossing on the Frenchman’s track is deep and fast flowing. It’s a serious crossing and I decide to ‘walk it’ first. The water is deep, up to my crotch, 85 cm deep (33 inches) to be precise !

There’s a large rock on the left and the bottom slopes off to deeper water on the right. The trick will be to stay close to the large rock.

Ken, with his snorkel protected diesel goes first, in case he has to pull me out. His vehicle lurches on the uneven, rocky bottom and he hits the big rock ! He backs off, clears the rock this time and exits the river without further incident.

With no snorkel and being petrol powered my Pajero is at much greater risk but we had already crossed Nolan’s Brook on the way north which was deep, but not quite this deep ! I wrap a water proof ground sheet over the front of the vehicle to prevent the bow wave flooding the engine and plunge in !

The water rapidly increases in depth and I watch in helpless fascination as I see it approaching the top of the Right Hand Mud Guard, the location of the engine’s air intake.

Perhaps it’s my pre-occupation with the air intake or just the uneven bottom, but I also slam into the submerged rock. The water level is lapping the bonnet – I know I’ve got very little time left if I’m to avoid a catastrophic engine flooding.

I back off, then quickly move forward only to slam into the rock again ! The next attempt results in another collision. The third time proves lucky and one very, very relieved Pajero driver eventually pulls clear of the Pascoe River.

I mentally put a very big ‘Tick’ next to ‘River Crossings’ and decide that I don’t need to experience them again !

We continue down the east of the peninsular through Lakefield National Park, stopping at an old historic farm house, about 100 kilometers north of Cooktown. As we walk back to the vehicle I notice the tell tale signs of a radiator leak on the ground – a large puddle of green engine coolant !

It looks like a leaking core. We add some of Ken’s magical radiator leak fixing elixir, top up the water and push on. It eventually gets us to Cairns and civilization where a new radiator is installed.

Although Cape York is finally behind us we still have a long way to go before we eventually get home. Completing just over 16,000 kilometers (10,000 miles) we arrive home safely, some seven weeks after our departure.

Etiquette for the English visiting Scotland. (1st July '06)

The tourist season is upon us and it may be timely to remind visitors, especially of the English persuasion that certain rules of etiquette should be adhered to. A few of these are as follows:

Traveling from Down South (Englandshire way). Please find below a list of DO's and DO NOT DO's in our fair country. I hope they are of some help in allowing you to understand our social rules and etiquette.

It is considered bad manners for tourists to pay for drinks in Glasgow Pubs. The biggest person in the bar (referred to as The Numpty) will be only too happy to pay. i.e.:

BARMAN: "That will be twenty pounds sir."

TOURIST: "The Big Numpty over there is paying."

BARMAN: "That will do nicely sir."

BIG NUMPTY: "Welcome to Scotland!!"

In Highland pubs always ask for plenty of water when drinking the local single malts, this tells the locals that you like it so much that you want to make it last longer. After your first sip announce to everyone in the bar in a loud voice "This is pish!" from the Gaelic Piesh Na' lavvy meaning Water of God.

Thurso is Scotland's largest hypermarket and multiscreen cinema complex and is only a short taxi ride from Glasgow.

The Scottish Police force actively encourages tourists to take their hats as souvenirs.

Braemar is famous for its miles of sandy beaches and has some of the best surfing in Europe.

Balmoral Castle sits on top of Ben Nevis near Sauchiehall Street in Edinburgh. There is a cable car from Edinburgh zoo to the top of Ben Nevis. Because of its height it offers all year round skiing and there is a revolving restaurant on the roof of the castle.

Often you will see men in bowler hats marching about playing the flute and banging a drum. This is a multi denominational religious ceremony and the object of this procession is to collect pictures of religious leaders which must be stuck to the drum. Any images, particularly those of the Pope will be greatly appreciated.

There is a nocturnal thistle called a "Spiky Jessie" which is found on Calton Hill in Edinburgh. As these flowers only open at night a trip up the hill is recommended. Just tell a taxi driver that you want to go up Calton Hill to take pictures of the Jessies coming out and he will be happy to oblige.

The Latin inscription on Edinburgh's coat of arms says "You'll have had your tea?"

The most popular hotel in Glasgow is called The Barlinnie.

Old people are banned from Scottish towns on Tuesdays and Thursdays. If you see any gently restrain them until a police officer arrives. This may also provide an opportunity to get a hat as a souvenir.

Glasgow operates a policy of plain clothed street bankers. As it is well known that carrying small change can tear people's pockets, these bankers will approach tourists and ask if they have any spare change. Once given this money they will exchange it for coins or notes of a higher denomination. In order to deter criminals, these Banker often dress in a scruffy unkempt manner but they are all highly trained in finance.

Edinburgh zoo has an adopt an animal scheme and tourists may take home any animal they wish.

At many beauty spots you will find musicians playing the bagpipes. They are employed by the Scottish Government to provide tourists with spending money which can be found in bowls beside them. Feel free to take as much money as you want.

William Wallace escaped the army of Oliver Cromwell by jumping over The River Forth at Perth on a bicycle.

If you go to a concert by The Royal Scottish National Orchestra it is considered impolite not to shout "Hoots!" during quiet sections of music.

Celtic are known as the Gers due to being formed by Gerry O'Malley a Fruit importer who was the first man to introduce citrus fruit to Scotland. So if you walk into a pub filled with people wearing green and white say" Up the Gers, I'm proud to be an orange man!" and you will receive a warm welcome.

Policemen are known by the old Gaelic word "keech"

"Jobbie" is a word meaning a lot of effort has gone into producing something i.e. when you have enjoyed a meal, tell the waiter that it tasted like a great jobbie.

THE LONG IRON ROAD, by BJ (Episode 10) (6th June '06)

Anne and I are both tucked into bed and sound asleep when the 11:55 pm train for St. Petersburg departs Moscow Station.  With only 8 hours to St. Petersburg we try to maximize our rest.

Awake at 6:30, I find the landscape draped in fog as I peer out at the passing country side, but it soon clears and we’re left with stunning blue skies.  The train arrives on schedule at 8:00 am and we head off to our Hotel for breakfast before starting our City tour.

St.Petersburg, Russia’s second largest City is located on the Neva River delta, sprawling across a series of islands connected by up to 300 bridges spanning the river and minor canals alike.   Home to some 4.7 million people, St.Petersburg is a relatively young city, being establish just over 300 years ago, in 1703.

But St. Petersburg was Russia’s Capital for more than 200 years and today still represents the cultural centre of the country.   Built largely on swamps, the city developed around a complex series of canals, resulting in it often being referred to today as the Venice of the North. 

First stop is Birzhevaya Place on Basil Island.  Originally intended to be the centre of port facilities in the new city, the Spit on Basil Island was marked by two massive Rostra Columns built as ancient light houses.   

Adjacent to Basil Island is the magnificent St Peter and Paul’s Cathedral on the Fortress Island of the same name, with its beautiful gold spire rising to more than 122metres.  Completed in 1733, the Cathedral is the burial site of nearly all of the Romanov Monarchs.

Then it’s on to St. Isaac’s Cathedral with its massive central dome, over 100 metres high, covered with more than 100 kilograms of pure gold.  Completed in 1858, it is the largest church in St. Petersburg and one of the largest domed buildings in the world.

But the most eye catching church in St. Petersburg has to be the Church of Savior on Blood.  This magnificent ‘onion domed’, structure, commenced in 1883, was erected on the site of Alexander 11’s assassination and contains over 7,500 square metres of mosaic masterpieces which completely cover the walls and ceilings of this incredible church.

However, the crown of St. Petersburg has to be the State Hermitage.  A collection of 6 buildings, including the Winter Palace built in 1754 that houses Russia’s prized works of art.  This is the Museum to end all Museums!

Containing over 3,000,000 items, the Museum represents the world’s cultural development from earliest times up to the 20^th century.  Gallery after gallery is lined with the paintings of the world’s greatest Master’s.   We have a 4 hour whirlwind tour, touching only on the highlights, but it’s enough to gain an appreciation of the shear scale of this collection.

Our visit to St. Petersburg has coincided with the annual City Founding celebrations and Nevsky Prospekt, the main Street, has been closed off for a massive parade.  The crowds are unbelievable, lining the footpaths, packed onto balconies and perched on window sills, all in an effort to get a better view.  Water tankers parked across side streets to block off traffic have become impromptu grandstands, with dozens of people standing all over them.  

Despite the free flow of beer and vodka, the crowd is well behaved, intent only on having a good time and celebrating their cities anniversary.  Whilst the parade is enormous and hugely entertaining it provides us with a major problem.  We need to get back to our hotel to prepare for an evening at the Ballet and that means crossing Nevsky Prospekt!

The parade just keeps coming and search as we may, we can’t find an under pass.  At times the parade stalls and comes to a halt and some locals brave the police cordon and make the dash across the street.  We decide to try but immediately Anne and friend Carol are stopped by the Police.  There’s some shouting and wild sign language, then suddenly the two women are being whisked across the street. 

I yell to the other two guys with me, “GO, GO, GO!” and push through the crowd and police line.  We’re off, running across the road and through the parade.  As we reach the other side, the police step back and let us in without hindrance.  We’re amazed but we’re over and the women are all giggles!

It appears they somehow convinced the non English speaking policeman they had a flight to catch, and as they were hustled across the road they managed to convey to him that there were five of us in their group!

The night at the Ballet goes off without a hitch and the next morning finds us at the Pushkin Palace, about an hours drive from St. Petersburg.   Also known as the Summer Palace, the 18^th Century structure was heavily damaged during the German siege of St. Petersburg in the Second World War.   A massive reconstruction program has slowly restored the building and its magnificent rooms to their former glory.

We finish our St. Petersburg visit with a relaxing canal tour, before our final group dinner and preparations are made for departure in the morning.

The Long Iron Road is not an easy trip as both the traveling and sight seeing is fairly hectic, but thanks to out guide and travel company, it’s been a wonderful experience. We’ve both enjoyed the trip immensely and would highly recommend it.   

And before you say “ Oh, I couldn’t do that, it would be too difficult ”,  just give a thought to our traveling companions Mary, at 81 years of age and her husband Harold, at 87, both of whom carried their own bags and never missed an outing  !

THE LONG IRON ROAD by BJ (Episode 9) (6th June '06)

Moscow, a city of some 12 million people is a vibrant, throbbing, fashion conscious, cultural overload, the equal of most cities in Europe !  Wide, tree lined streets are jammed with cars that create massive ‘parking lots’ or unbelievable race tracks as Mercedes, BMW’s, Toyota’s and even American Hummer’s, hurtle along at incredible speeds.  Pedestrians have no rights and Road Rules just don’t come into play. 

Giant onion domes topped with Orthodox Crosses catch the eye where ever one looks, their sparkling  gold coverings reflecting the sun’s rays.  Red brick churches, granite faced shops and office blocks line the multi- lane streets, but again this is not a high rise city.  Most of the buildings are no more than 6 or 7 stories high. 

But scattered throughout the city are the Seven Sisters, a series of seven monstrous high rise buildings designed and built under order of Joseph Stalin.  It seems that one of the Sisters is visible no matter where you are in Moscow or which way your looking.

However the heart of Moscow and the centre of tourism is Red Square and The Kremlin.  This is a display of such size and grandeur, immaculately presented with a richness in colour that leaves one completely overwhelmed !   It’s just a magnificent spectacle.

A huge red, castellated wall surrounds the Kremlin, topped by massive towers and shielding magnificent yellow and white official buildings.  At one end of the massive, cobble stoned Red Square is the imposing red and white structure of the History Museum and at the other, the incredible, multi coloured domes of St Basil’s Cathedral !  Stretching the full length of the Square facing the Kremlin, is the Gum Department Store, the shopping domain of only the very rich.  The size of the Square and the surrounding buildings is awesome !

Facing the Square, and in the shadow of the Kremlin Walls, is the red granite Mausoleum of Lenin, who has remained here in State since his death in 1924.  We line up with hundreds of others to join the somber procession through his tomb.

Red Guards are everywhere and the crowds are strictly controlled.  We’re briefed not to joke or even smile and to stay strictly on ‘the path’.  To step off the chosen route will immediately trigger a warning blast on a Guard’s whistle. To step off a second time, risks being shot, at least that’s according to our Guide. 

We hear lots of whistle blasts but never the rattle of gun fire.  Somehow I think our Guide’s read one too many spy novels.

We enter the square, unadorned granite structure of the mausoleum and  immediately we’re plunged into darkness, the wall to wall black carpet absorbing what little light filters inside.  Struggling to see, we move into the completely black passageways and carefully descend the steps leading down into the tomb.  Only the dimmest of lighting exists and we move forward by feel as eyes struggle to adjust.  On each landing, an expressionless Guard watches our every move, their dark green uniforms and hats blending into the black walls, leaving only their stark white faces visible,  ghost like in the darkness.

And then suddenly, there he is, appearing to be suspended in space, the black surrounds of his casket and it’s supporting structure almost invisible to the eye in the dim light.  Subdued lighting shines directly onto the body, clad in black suit, white shirt and red tie.  His white face and hands appear to glow in the darkness.   It’s a grim and sobering sight.

After leaving the Tomb we stroll through the magnificent malls of the Gum Department Store, on our way to visit the Kremlin.

Passing through the enormous walls of the Kremlin and entering the paved courtyards, one is immediately overwhelmed by the sights.  Official buildings line the roads and courtyards, their white window frames standing out against the brilliant yellow walls.  Huge cannons from a past era edge the buildings behind magnificent green lawns and trees.  It’s a wonderful kaleidoscope of colour.

At every corner, the glittering gold domes of Russian Orthodox Churches appear. Ahead of us, dozens of priests, in gold robes and hats of varying colours, gather in a procession to escort a religious icon as it’s moved between churches.

Once again our direction of movement is strictly controlled by means of painted white lines and the shrill blasts of a whistle.  But just to be allowed inside this amazing symbol of Communism, is an incredible feeling. 

We stroll though the immaculate parks and gardens of this great fortress, past a tree planted in memory Jurii Gagarin, the first Russian astronaut .  Our Russian guide tells us he became more popular than the President and consequently met an untimely death in an arranged plane crash.  

But perhaps the highlight of the Kremlin tour is the Armory.  Housed in a magnificent yellow and white building, one enters through the cellars, where massive curved ceilings hang low over head and the heat is oppressive.  It looks as if it’s going to be a tough couple of hours in these claustrophobic cellars, but then we’re ushered through security and up a narrow staircase to the main entrance.

Marble walls rise perhaps 15 meters to massive domed ceilings, supporting  the most amazing chandeliers.  A white marble staircase, about 4 metres wide and draped with red carpet leads up to the first level where some of the most incredible riches are on display.

This is not a display of military hardware, as one might suspect from it’s name although some weaponry is located here.  This is a collection of artifacts, jewelry, clothing and old horse drawn carriages that simply has to be seen to be believed.  

Faberge Eggs, Jewelry, Gold, Silver and China artifacts of all types, plus Christian relics and gifts to the Tsars by foreign countries, are all here.  The scale and incredible wealth of these displays is equaled only by the stunning beauty of some of these items.  Enormous gold plates, huge drinking challises, and jewel studded, gold book covers adorning ancient manuscripts, fill the display cases that line the beautifully decorated halls of the Armory.

The weaponry  that is displayed here is also very special.  Beautifully engraved, pearl inlaid dueling pistols and magnificent swords and rifles from all corners of the globe compliment incredible suits of armour.  These were all gifts to Royalty and they were all very special indeed.

The following morning we set off to explore the Metro, Moscow’s incredible underground railway system.  Commenced in 1935, the Metro’s Stations  were designed to double as massive bomb shelters, in similar fashion as the London Underground was used during the Second World War. 

But Moscow’s underground stations weren’t just designed to be ‘bomb proof’, they were designed as highly decorated, palatial chambers.  Most of the floors, walls and columns are made from highly polished red and white granite, some with decorative chandeliers hanging from arched ceilings inlaid with intricate mosaics whilst others are adorned with bronze statues in the central hall or set into the corners of every arch way.   One of the most stunning  stations is highlighted by illuminated stained glass panels set into the walls of the central hall between each arch that leads to the platforms.

Long, non stop escalators rapidly deliver passengers to and from these subterranean palaces, plunging up to 140 metres below ground level through semi-circular tunnels.  It’s an amazing sight, but this is an incredible system that has trains arriving at stations every 90 seconds and handles 9 million passengers every single day ! 

After a couple of hours of riding trains and negotiating the crowds, we pop back up to the surface and stroll down Arabat Street, the City’s well known pedestrian mall and Market area.  But then it’s off to St. Basil’s Cathedral.

Commenced in 1555, St. Basil’s is one of Moscow’s most famous landmarks, sitting at one end of Red Square.   The Cathedral, instead of being one large open structure, houses nine separate chapels, interconnected by a maze of narrow, twisting passage ways.   Golden Icons and intricate floral patterns dating from the 17^th century line the ancient brickwork of the walls, whilst original lanterns using mica instead of glass, hang on long chains from the high ceilings.

We finish the day with a leisurely cruise along the Moscow River before preparing for departure from this incredible City.

That evening we board the 11:55 pm train bound for St. Petersburg on the final stage of our journey on the Long Iron Road.  

THE LONG IRON ROAD, by BJ (Episode 8) (4th June '06)

Ekaterinberg, a City of 1.3 million people located in the Ural Mountains just 60 kilometers inside Asia, was established in the 1700’s with the intention of becoming a major industrial centre.  Today it is just that, with large armament manufacturing plants and technical educational facilities.  Until 1991, it was a closed city and naturally has a large military presence.  The American U2 pilot Gary Powers, was shot down here when conducting his infamous spy flight in 1960.

But today the city has a very European feel - wide tree lined streets and footpaths with street side cafés and bars.  Along Lenin Prospekt a very French atmosphere exists, perhaps because of the trees and low rise apartments of only 4 or 5 stories. 

Despite an average salary of only US$200 per month, people are generally smartly dressed, but in stark contrast to their sense of dress, are their drinking habits.   A well dressed and attractive blond in her early twenties sits at the bus stop drinking beer straight from the bottle !   Elsewhere a young mother walks her toddler through the park, also swigging from a bottle.  It’s so wide spread, you look out of place if you’re walking down the street without a bottle of beer or vodka in your hand !

A morning City Tour takes us to the Church of Blood, built in memory of  the last Russian Tszar, Nicholas, The Second and his family, who were assassinated here in July, 1918.   Built on the site of the house in which the assassination took place, approval to commence construction of the magnificent Russian Orthodox Church was given in 1997.  Once commenced, construction took just two and a half years. 

About thirty minutes drive north of the City is the sight of the graves of  Nicholas and four members of his family.  Now considered to be a religious shrine, a series of seven Orthodox Churches have been built at the location in honour of the family who have since been canonized.

The Churches have been constructed from logs, in the style of traditional structures in Siberia and decorated with magnificent religious icons and incredible chandeliers.  The original excavated grave site is marked by a memorial cross and surrounded by an elevated covered walk way.

It is now widely believed that the bodies of the missing two children, Alexander and Anastasia, were burnt.

We pay a quick visit to the European / Asian Border, 60 kilometers to the west of Ekaterinberg, where the crossing is celebrated with Champaign and Certificates, compliments of our local Guide, before we head back to our Hotel for an early night. 

The next morning, under grey skies and light rain, we make our way to the Station to board the 9:05 am train to Moscow and settle into our two berth compartment for the twenty four hour run.

Leaving Ekatinberg behind, the rolling, tree covered hills of the Urals stretch on forever.  Mile after Mile of forest continues to cover this huge country, the light green leaves of the Silver Birch contrasting with the darker shades of the Pine trees to form beautiful patterns across the hills. 

The towns keep coming as well, the same old wooden buildings where living conditions appear to be only marginally improved the closer we get to Moscow.   But Spring has arrived in all her glory to this part of Russia and the countryside is bathed in shades of green, broken only by the rich, dark soil of cultivated fields and vehicle tracks. It’s hard to imagine this landscape blanketed in white and locked in the deep freeze of winter.

By early afternoon we’re out of the mountains and back amongst  wide open expanses of cultivated plains, set under a clear blue sky.  Towns are showing a slight improvement in living standards, or at least  we thought so, and then you see something that shatters those thoughts.

At  Yanaul, still some 1,200 kilometers from Moscow, a little old ‘Grandma’ wanders the Station.  With a  bright blue jacket buttoned tightly against the cold wind and a red scarf pulled over her hair, she shuffles along in worn boots that slide in and out beneath her long black skirt.  Her wrinkled face wears a look of despair as she clutches her hand bag in one hand and a loaf of bread wrapped in plastic in the other.  She’s unable to find a buyer for her bread, despite the going rate of only  60 cents US !

She’ll stay here all day if need be to add her small contribution to the family income.

Along the side of the track, the distance from Moscow is shown in Kilometres.  At 18:45 we pass the 1,000 km mark.  The train is due in at 9:25 am.

An older Russian gentleman traveling in our carriage makes friends with us and our traveling companions Mike and Mandy, from Canada.  With broken English plus Anne and Mike’s broken Russian, picked up from Lonely Planet’s guide to the Trans Siberian, we establish he’s a retired Rocket Engineer. 

He’s a friendly guy, making sure we have food and drinks.  Socializing on the Trans Siberian is all part of the experience.  He is somewhat surprised to see me taking video out of the train windows and although it’s no problem today,  lets me know that twenty years ago I would have been taken away in handcuffs.  In the evening we lock our compartment door early, to avoid the inevitable Vodka party.

The next morning we awake at 5:30.to find  the grey skies and drizzle have returned..  We’re 220 kilometers from Moscow and passing through swamps and wetlands that look more a part of Alabama than they do of Russia.

Dead, leafless trees  reach up towards the sky from the still, black water that surrounds them, like a scene from pre-historic times.   A veil of mist hangs close to the surface where patches of thick green slime surround small islands of grass that struggle to stay above water level.

At the next station, the vendors are already there, despite the early hour, offering everything from sets of fancy colored glass ware to small chandeliers !  We’re obviously in a glass producing area but I have no idea who would be interested in these products.

Most of the vendors are neatly dressed guys in track suits, perhaps in their 30’s but there’s still the odd ‘Grandma’ clutching just two or three items and hoping desperately for a sale.  I wonder how many times a day they walk up and down these cold, windy platforms.

At least we make one ‘Grandma’ happy when Anne gives her a plastic bag full of ‘goodies’ for which we have no further need.

Once again, as if on schedule, the clouds lift and we arrive in Moscow  at 9:25 am with brilliant blue skies .

The Trans - Siberian leg of the Long Iron Road is finally complete.

THE LONG IRON ROAD, by BJ (Episode 7) (4th June '06)

As the train makes its way out of Irkutsk, we settle in for the longest leg of out trip, some 50 hours on the Long Iron Road to Ekaterinberg.  The carriage is hot, having been locked up at the station without air conditioning for some time, but with outside air temperatures at 12C, it soon cools down once we’re under way.

We cross the mighty Angara River and head out through massive railway shunting yards and into the suburbs of crumbling cement apartment blocks and old wooden houses.  But before long, the cities and towns are largely left behind, giving way to rolling hills coved by endless forests of Silver Birch.  Dozens of grass fires burn unchecked, leaving a patchwork of scorched black earth across the rolling brown hills.

From time to time, the same old style wooden houses appear in townships that look so poor, clustered around abandoned factories or power stations that belch black smoke into the atmosphere.  It’s a sobering sight, seeing the conditions under which these people live. 

But perhaps these people are just as comfortable and happy as those living in ancient stone cottages in some old Italian village, a village that we would see as ‘cute ‘ and ‘appealing’.   Maybe it’s just the drab, unpainted timbers surrounded by the bleak landscape which has yet to recover from the winter snows, that gives us the impression of severe hardship.  After all, some houses even have a Satellite Dish, but somehow I feel the hardships we imagine, are real.

As the train continues through these villages we realise that most of these houses appear to rely on an old fashioned well in their back yard for their water supply.   It would appear the hardships are indeed real.

With evening approaching we arrive at Zima, home to a huge marshalling yard and railway workshops with dozens of locomotives lined up for maintenance.  The shear size of this railway network is staggering, in fact this section of track, between Zima and Moscow, reportedly has the busiest freight network of any railway in the world!

Further on we pass enormous stock piles of logs, stacked perhaps 5 or 6 meters high and stretching for a couple of kilometers !  Although it’s 10:00 pm, but still daylight, crews are still busy loading these logs onto dozens of freight cars that sit idly in the sidings awaiting locomotives to haul them away.  Over the next 24 hours we pass many more of these giant stock piles of timber.

As darkness sets in around 11:00 pm we finish our Vodka and hit the sack, but it’s not a restful night despite the creature comforts of our compartment.  The track has still to be upgraded and the train rattles and shakes it’s way across the Russian Steppes!

By 6:30 the next morning we give up any further attempt to sleep, pull back the curtains and stare out at a landscape little changed from the night before.  The sun appears over the horizon as a big red ball, trying desperately to penetrate the smoke and mist haze that hangs low over the country side.

Acres of cleared land stretch across the largely flat terrain, separated by clusters of Silver Birch.  Some of the fields are cultivated, others just huge expanses of straw colored grass, the end product of Russia’s massive logging industry.

Numerous small Stations flash past, each with the Station Master, more often than not a woman (Station Mistress?), standing ceremoniously on the platform, displaying a circular white disk.  I suspect it’s a signal to the train crew that the next section of track ahead is clear, although with today’s radios and automatic signaling I would imagine it’s more of a symbolic courtesy than a practical means of communication.  What ever the purpose, it’s as much a part of the Trans - Siberian experience as the unsmiling face of our uniformed Cabin Attendant vacuuming the corridor or tending the coal fired hot water boiler.

The whole Russian railway network runs on Moscow time, from one side of the country to the other.  Time Tables, Station clocks and all clocks on board our train display Moscow time.  I suppose it makes sense, after all, you could hardly expect Russia to operate a nation wide network of trains based on GMT !

The day passes with vistas of endless expanses of Silver Birch forests, stretching as far as the eye can see, over a landscape as flat as Australia’s Nullabor Plain.  Towns become more common and larger, but still consist mainly of old wooden houses.  

We climb steadily through hills, crossing the Yenesy River on our approach to Krasnoyarsk Pass, a city that was closed to foreigners until recent times because of its industrial significance.  The Station is large, it’s buildings impressive and well maintained, sporting a huge mural of Stalin on one wall.   A lot of the industry inspired by his generation now stands idle, the buildings slowly decaying.

As the sun swings to the west, the ‘unsmiling one ‘in the Cabin Attendants uniform comes along the corridor, closing all the curtains to keep the sun out.   Our protests about not being able to see the view are lost on deaf ears - besides, it’s her carriage and she runs it with an iron fist! 

Twice in the last 24 hours, our unsmiling host has bustled up the corridor and through the compartments wielding her vacuum cleaner with aggressive determination in her efforts to keep her private domain ‘ship shape’.  She offers us DVD’s to play in my Lap Top Computer, Key Rings and Post Cards, all in an effort to supplement her income.  I wish I could help, but I know I’d be paying a huge premium if I were to buy these items.   I politely decline and shortly after Anne tells me there are no more tissues in the toilet.  Probably just coincidence ……

At Mariinsk, another large station we stop for twenty minutes and Anne buys bread and pastries from the many vendors that line the Platform.  It’s a way of life when traveling the Long Iron Road.

 It also appears as if our Cabin Attendant has changed shifts here, for we now have a slim, brunette, the smiling one, to replace our dumpy, unsmiling blond.  And the toilet tissues suddenly re-appear….!

As the day draws to a close we head to the Dinning Car for dinner.   What greets us is totally Art-Deco, 1930’s style!   Frosted Glass panels set in chrome rods divide the booths with heavy, braided curtains hanging from the windows. 

An unsmiling waitress directs us to a booth and drops a menu on the table.  It’s written in Russian and English, with only about half the items available.   We order Fish for Anne and Beef Stroganoff for me, plus two beers and suddenly the waitress is all smiles!   We must have done something right, but have no idea what it was!

The meals are small, very small but as we’re only sitting all day, perhaps they’re adequate.  After dinner we adjourn back to our compartment and discuss the world’s problems with our traveling companions over our nightly ration of vodka.

As dusk settles, the towns and cities seem to be getting bigger.  By bed time we’ve arrived in Novosibirsk, the largest rail terminus in Siberia!  It’s very apparent that the backbone of Russia’s transportation system is its rail network and unlike a lot of abandoned industrial sites scattered across the country, the railways are very well maintained and run to precise schedules.  

There’s a three hour time change on this leg of the trip, so we hit the sack early as we head into our second night.  Besides, we had visitors and the vodka ran out!  Life on the Long Iron Road can be quite a social event.

We awake early the next morning to be greeted by a grey, overcast sky and light rain showers.   It’s only 5:00 am but the sun is up somewhere, hiding behind the clouds.  The train is traveling fast, on good track and it’s a relatively smooth ride.  Sometime through the night there’s been a shift change and the dumpy, unsmiling one has regained control of our carriage.

The landscape is largely flat with occasional towns but mainly it’s just huge expanses of open fields, broken up by groves of Silver Birch that go on and on forever.   Cultivated fields stretch to the horizon, the deep furrows of dark brown soil looking like soft rolls of corduroy draped over the plains.

Spring has arrived early here, the grass is lush and the trees have developed their new coats of light green leaves.  It’s a pretty sight in the half light of early morning.

At 5:50 am we pull into another nameless Station, already busy with people setting up market stalls, with vendors on the platform hoping to pick up some early trade.  The town looks more developed than those seen yesterday.  Houses are more substantial with a larger proportion made of brick and cement, and the back yard Wells appear far less frequently.

An hour or so later the clouds lift.   The carriage slowly comes back to life as people begin a new day, shuffling down the corridor to the bathroom, toothbrush in hand, gathering hot water for coffee, or heading to the Dinning Car for breakfast.  The trolley girls start pushing their wares through the carriages, selling drinks and pastries.  It’s become a familiar pattern.  In many ways, traveling the Long Iron Road is a bit like camping out!

Throughout this section of the journey, the train races across massive steel bridges spanning many of Russia’s mighty rivers, all of which flow north to dump their huge volumes of fresh water into the Arctic Sea.  The only exception is the mighty Volga, which flows south into the Caspian Sea.

Occasionally we pass local cemeteries with brightly painted fences marking off the various plots, decorated with large tombstones and Russian Orthodox Crosses.  Floral tributes adorn many of the graves and some even have ‘picnic tables’ and benches painted in the ever popular Aqua Blue, permanently set up within their fenced enclosures.

Just after 11:00 am we arrive in the City of Tyumen.     Although there’s still a scattering of old wooden houses in the suburbs, the City itself is largely multi-story office and apartment blocks and is a major centre for oil and gas.   After a twenty minute stop we’re on our way again on the final leg of this stage of the trip.  It’s a four and a half hour run to our destination, Ekaterinberg.

We arrive on schedule, just over 50 hours after leaving Irkutsk and head straight to our Hotel for a shower!  None of us are too surprised to learn our Hotel was once the home of the KGB.  What was surprising was the fact that the whole second floor was ‘missing’!

From the outside one could easily think it was only a four story building, but the Lift had Buttons for Floors 1,3,4 and 5.  So then we tried the Stair Well.  The Second Floor is there alright but hidden away behind tightly locked heavy steel doors!  

And it’s been that way since the building was renovated for present day use.   It’s an intriguing introduction to Ekaterinberg and one for which no explanation was ever offered.

It’s just another of those cultural experiences on the Long Iron Road.

THE LONG IRON ROAD, by BJ (Episode 6) (3rd June '06)

The City of Irkutsk is home to some 700,000 people and straddles the Angara River, the only river that drains nearby Lake Baikal.

We’ve arrived early in the morning from Ulaan Batar Mongolia, and after quickly refreshing in our Hotel, we head out for a walking tour of the city, but the weather is bitterly cold.  A temperature of only + 5C is reduced further by the chilling effects of a gusty northerly wind and occasional snow flurries.

The City is considered to be the ‘Paris of Siberia’ and is a show place for the classic old style wooden houses of the region.  Built more than 100 years ago, these beautiful old structures with highly decorative window frames and eaves, are dotted through out the City. 

Largely constructed on an unstable land mass above a natural underground water reserve, their inadequate foundations have resulted in  most of them slowly subsiding below street level.  The window sills of some ground floor windows are now flush with the footpath and yet most of these houses are still occupied. 

Built before the advent of plumbing, residents of these old wooden houses relied on hand operated pumps, scattered throughout  the surrounding streets, for their only water supply.  Buckets would be filled and carried back inside the houses, regardless of the weather. 

This practice, which has been going on for more than one hundred years, can still be seen today.  Just like a picture from a history book, little old ladies dressed mostly in black, can still be seen today struggling back to their sinking, wooden houses, under the weight of two large buckets of water obtained from the local pump. 

But the City also has it’s trendy shops, bustling markets, museums and churches.   Pedestrian malls are full of well dressed people shopping for everything from mobile phones to Nike shoes.  Mini skirts with long leather boots mounted on crazy stiletto heels are popular with the younger women, some classically Russian with long blond hair, others sporting brilliant copper coloured red hair which seems to be the current fashion.

The following morning we depart Irkutsk by bus for Lake Baikal, some 65 kilometers to the Southeast.   The drive takes us along the shores of the Angara River, through the newer housing estates, where large, modern brick homes are being constructed.   There is obviously money here but only for the minority. 

But we’re soon in the country, traveling  through huge  forests of Silver Birch, their black spotted white trunks a common sight in Siberia.  We stop briefly at the Wood Carving Museum, where early wooden houses have been preserved along with a collection of reconstructed replicas of old churches and military forts.  It’s gives us an insight into the life styles of both early settlers and present day villages in this part of the world.

Lake Baikal, 450 metres above sea level, is the second largest lake in the world, next to the Caspian Sea and holds some 20 percent of the worlds fresh water.  Over six hundred kilometers long and averaging 50 kilometers wide, the lake is in excess of 1,600 metres deep, making it the deepest lake in the world.    More than 300 rivers and streams feed the lake which supports a huge variety of marine life.

Completely frozen during winter, the ice had only broken up some two weeks before our arrival although traces of it still remained in places.  Opposite us, on the Eastern shores, a wide expanse of this ice could still be seen in the distance, backed by snow capped mountains that rise to over 2,000 metres.

We travel to the small community of Listvyanka, near the mouth of the Angara River, where we stay overnight in a local Chalet.  The town has become a popular summer holiday destination for locals from Irkutsk as well as tourists, catered for by numerous Chalets. 

The township is old and generally run down, with old wooden houses displaying their brightly colored window frames.  These ornately carved window frames, so common on these wooden houses are considered to be status symbols - the more ornate, the higher the status.  It’s no wonder the frames are painted whilst the rest of the house is left bare.

We enjoy a relaxing evening stroll through the village, a visit to the markets and an early night.

The next morning we head back to Irkutsk for lunch before making preparations for our afternoon departure by train for Ekaterinberg.  The Station is neat and well organized and we have little trouble making our way to Platform 5 for the 4.25 pm train. 

Anne and I have a two berth (First Class) compartment with a “Mini-Bar”, pictures and mirrors on the walls, carpets on the floor, plush blankets on the beds and an LG Plasma TV !   The toilet however is still the standard Russian stainless steel version at the end of the corridor, but at least it’s clean and there are tissues.

We settle in and crack our bottle of South African Shiraz bought in the local Irkutsk bottle shop.  This leg of the trip will take us about 50 hours so we’ve stocked up on the essentials of life - chocolates, biscuits, cup noodles, plus our Shiraz.  For good measure we brought along a bottle of Vodka - it seems inappropriate not to have Vodka when traveling the Long Iron Road.

THE LONG IRON ROAD, by BJ (Episode 5)

The Station at Ulaan Batar is unusually quiet, by far the least crowded of any station so far. We board the 7:35 pm train bound for Irkutsk and settle in to our compartment for the 33 hour trip.   Anne and I have paid extra for a twin berth cabin so find that we have two additional bunks unoccupied, making it easy to store our luggage. 

The train departs on time and begins a slow but steady climb out of the valley and onto the high Mongolian Steppes.  The City is soon left far behind and once again we’re treated to vistas of sweeping grass plains and mountains burnt brown by the winter snows.  Wild horses, grazing stock and isolated villages dot the landscape as night descends.

There are 10 compartments in our carriage, each one with four bunks.  Our group shares the carriage with a younger group of travelers, some of whom are in the party mood and it’s not too long before conversation, food and alcohol  is being shared. 

We will have two nights on the train and tomorrow promises to be a long day, negotiating our exit from Mongolia and entry into Russia.   We turn in to bed, lulled to sleep by the rocking of the train and the occasional laughter from the younger set up the corridor.

Daylight peeps into the compartment past the closed window blind as one slowly stirs in the morning to the realisation that the train is stopped yet again.  But this time there’s no chatter of passengers or station attendants, it’s perfectly quiet and the motion of the train does not re-commence. 

It’s  6:30 am - I dress and leave the compartment, walking to the end of the carriage where I climb down to the platform.  It’s completely deserted and behind me, attached to the carriage I just left,  are two more carriages and nothing else!  No locomotive and no sign of the other six carriages that left with us from Ulaan Batar!

We’ve arrived at Suhbaatar, the exit point from Mongolia and our three coaches are the only ones continuing into Russia.  The rest of the train has been ‘dismantled’ whilst we slept, so we now sit and wait for the Mongolian Immigration and Customs Officials to come to work!

We discover the train had arrived here at 4:15 am and it’s not until 9:50 am that the Officials board the train and commence our outwards clearance.  Although the toilets on board are locked (standard practice at Stations), we’re allowed off the train to access "pay per visit" toilets and washrooms on the platform.

Formalities are completed without incident, a locomotive is connected and the three coach train moves off  for "No Man’s Land" after sitting stationary for well over 6 hours!

Like the Berlin Wall used to be, ‘No Man’s Land’ stands as an impenetrable barrier between Mongolia and Russia. Only 18 kilometer wide and uninhabited, it takes us 40 minutes to cross.  As we approach the Russian side, electric fences and Watch Towers appear, manned by armed guards. Eventually we arrive at a Russian Outpost where Officials board the train, welcoming us to Russia but at the same time sternly warning us that we are now in a Russian Security Zone and must remain totally within the carriage!   The tone of the message is intimidating.

The Officials stay on the train for the short, 10 minute trip to Haywkn, where Immigration and Customs forms are completed, passports collected for scrutiny and our compartments searched.  Our two berth compartment indicates that ‘we have money’ and we’re treated very politely by the Officials, a significance that is lost on us at the time, but explained to us later by our guide.

Even so,  we’re now virtually held prisoner on board the train along with everyone else, with Guards at every exit as Immigration and Customs officials, in impressive green uniforms glistening with shiny brass buttons, big leather boots and even bigger hats, parade up and down the corridor. For more than 2 hours we’re not permitted off the train, and being at the Station the Toilets remain firmly locked!  

It’s as if the Cold War has never really ended! It’s an  amazing way to treat people who have already been approved by their Government (by way of Visa’s) to enter their country and inject hard cash to an otherwise cash strapped economy. But we’ve not been singled out for ‘special treatment’, this is just the usual routine when entering Russia by train  from Mongolia and luckily for us, we had been warned what to expect.

At last, with formalities complete, passports are returned and we’re allowed off the train, some two and a half hours after arrival. There’s an immediate rush for the toilets, but the sight that greats us is simply appalling! 

Broken, disgustingly filthy and dingy, the toilets looked like something from a Second World War concentration camp. It’s hard to understand how any country can allow such an image to be exhibited at an International Point of Entry.

Finally, a Russian locomotive is attached and we’re on our way, well over 12 hours after arriving at the Mongolian Exit Point, just 18 kilometers back along the track! 

As the train leaves the Station at Haywkn we gain our first glimpse of a Russian village. Most of us just stare silently  in disbelief at the depressing sight that unfolds before us.

We pass row after row of old, bare wooden houses with no evidence that they’ve ever seen paint except that some have brightly painted, decorative window frames, usually in aqua blue or bright green.  Even some of the roofs are wood although most are tin, in varying states of disrepair. Most are surrounded by high wooden fences, the vertical palings jammed closely together and also unpainted.  

The streets are mainly dirt, and there’s a complete lack of vegetation to be seen in the town.  The open spaces pretending to be Parks are studded with leafless trees sprouting from the bare earth.  But if vegetation is in short supply, there’s no shortage of rubbish,  piles and piles of it lie everywhere! 

As we leave the town behind, we continue through fertile valleys, along magnificent river banks edged by mountains covered in green pine trees, but the same drab villages continue to appear with almost monotonous  regularity. Town after town passes by, all with the same bare wood houses and piles of  rubbish. Although a lot of these houses are so called "holiday cottages" for City people in the North, it’s still a depressing sight.

In one town a group of workmen apply the standard Aqua Blue paint to a rusty metal fence that surrounds a huge scrap metal yard, but the rust is already showing through the thin, barely dry paint.  With piles of litter around their feet, their efforts to tidy up the fence appears to be pointless.

A few blocks of multi level apartments appear, but most are neglected, with decaying cement balconies and roofs of tin that look like patchwork quilts. One can’t help feeling sorry for the people who have to live here. 

About two hours after leaving Haywkn, and with only a few minutes of warning, we plunge into the most horrendous dust storm! As we push on through the reducing visibility, the train slows as winds rapidly increase to an estimated 100 kilometers per hour! 

We pass alongside a lake where the surface is being whipped into a frenzy of white capped waves and clouds of white spume are carried away on the wind. At times the train stops and the wind is so fierce it rocks the carriage violently.

As we continue through this worsening storm,  a thick black cable, broken away from nearby power lines, whips up alongside our window !  It snaps and lashes the side of the carriage before disappearing, only to reappear moments later at the dinning car behind us, smashing one of the windows. Some of our group are having dinner at he time and are entertained by the spectacle as the train crew proceed to remove the broken glass with an axe !  It’s all part of the cultural experience on the Long Iron Road!

The dust storm eventually subsides and we prepare our beds for the night as  the sun starts to settle. By 10:30 pm we arrive in Ulan Ude, a major city where our Trans Mongolian train joins the Trans Siberian route and turns west.

We awake the next morning in the midst of Pine and Silver Birch trees of the Siberian forests, with light snow falling as we cross a high mountain pass. It’s a pretty sight and seems very appropriate for this part of the world.

Descending through these forested mountains we pass village after village, all in substantially better condition and much larger than those seen the day before. It’s almost like a different country.

Brightly painted houses with neat vegetable gardens sit in orderly rows along tidy streets. What rubbish there is, has generally been dumped in piles outside the towns in hollows amongst the trees. Small industrial sites start to appear and huge freight trains hauling logs or oil, with multiple locomotives at the front and rear, pass in an almost continuous procession.

At last, the City of Irkutsk appears as we wind our way along the banks of the Angara River. We pull into the Station at 8:09 am, right on schedule. It’s  +5 C, clear blue sky with a brisk northerly wind, a typical Spring  day in Siberia.

THE LONG IRON ROAD, by BJ (Episode 4)

Mongolia, with a landmass similar to Queensland Australia, has a population of some 2.5 million, over 1 million of which lives in the Capital, Ulaan Batar.  Located 1,500 metres above sea level, Ulaan Batar’s average temperatures range from -25C in winter to around +25 C in Summer, but extremes can peak well outside these figures.   During our visit (in Spring)  we enjoy  maximums of around + 16 C with overnight lows of around -2 C.

Under Russian rule for more than 50 years, the City exhibit’s the scars of Communism everywhere, with decaying buildings, broken footpaths and poor roads.  This is a City where manhole covers are frequently found missing - not watching where you’re walking or driving can lead to a very nasty accident !

But since the end of Communist rule in the early nineties, the country has been desperately trying to rebuild.   Although this process is slow, signs of progress are starting to appear.

We commence out tour of Ulaan Batar at the National Museum which gives us a great  insight into the history of Mongolia, from it’s earliest times, through the Communist rule, up to the present.   The day is completed with a  Mongolian Cultural Performance of music, singing and dancing, followed by a delightful Mongolian dinner.

The next day, after an early morning visit to an ancient Tibetan Buddhist Temple,  we head out of the City to experience life in a real Mongolian Ger, the round Felt covered huts of the Nomadic Tribes.

Our Ger Camp is located some 65 kilometers to the north east of Ulaan Batar, amongst the hills of the Terage National Park, 2,200 meters above sea level.  It’s a specially built Camp for tourists, consisting of some 24 Gers with a central Toilet / Shower block and dinning facilities.  We’re lucky the weather is cold as the showers are out of action !

The inside walls of our Ger are lined with bright yellow silk like material, with thick wool carpets covering a linoleum floor.  In the center of the hut, a small metal stove radiates heat from the wood fire, it’s metal chimney exiting through a clear ’skylight’ in the centre of the roof.   A central table with tiny stools complements a small wash stand and three beds located around the walls.  A low, brightly decorated wooden door opens to the South in keeping with tribal customs.  The low roof and tiny furniture creates the feeling that it’s really a village for Snow White’s Seven Dwarfs ! 

Set beneath a towering rocky outcrop, the Camp looks across the gently sloping grass lands of a wide valley, the short, dry brown grass providing little nourishment for the flocks of goats and sheep that graze here, tended by local shepherds.  Surrounding the valley, the rocky outcrops of mountain tops rise up majestically to heights of well over 2,500 metres.  Despite the lack of colour, the area is peaceful and stunningly beautiful.

We spend hours, wandering these magnificent hills and valleys, and climbing the rocky outcrops.  It’s wonderfully relaxing after the hectic routine of our tour to date. 

For those more energetic souls, horse riding and Golf is available at the nearby 18 hole course, complete with Greens made from artificial turf, but we’re more than happy just to relax and catch up on some sleep.

Throughout the night as the temperature drops, local staff come into the Ger to stoke the fire with fresh logs. There’s a tendency for them to overload the small stove and before too long bed covers are being discarded and doors flung open  as the heat becomes stifling !  It’s a great pity these stoves don’t have thermostats !  

The following day we visit a local family and discover our tourist Ger is not so unlike the ‘real thing’.    When we arrive, the husband is burning the hair from a collection of cow’s hoofs and a sheep’s head  with a blow torch !   We know we’re in for refreshments but desperately hope we’re not looking at them !

On entering the family Ger, we take up seats on the beds surrounding the central stove and table.   We’re offered cow’s milk tea, a white, salty,  hot drink and fried biscuits made from flour.  Definitely an acquired taste !

The family’s few possessions adorn the walls and brightly painted furniture.  It’s their summer camp, returning with their herds back down the valley to the outskirts of Ulaan Batar for the harsh winter months.

We return to Ulaan Batar the next day, grab a welcome shower at the Hotel and then head for the Train Station once again.  We rejoin the Long Iron Road, onboard the 7:35 pm train, bound for Irkutsk, Siberia.   It will be a 36 hour trip.

THE LONG IRON ROAD, by BJ (Episode 3)

The 7:40 am train for Ulaan Batar Mongolia departs Beijing on time and we’re impressed by our compartment.  A twin berth cabin, with an extra window seat plus access to a washroom shared with the adjoining cabin.  Deep brown wood paneling lines the cabin and single corridor.  At one end of the corridor, a clean ‘sit down’ toilet and at the other end, adjacent to the attendants compartment is a coal fired hot water boiler, for coffee, tea and cup noodles !

Slowly we leave Beijing behind, climbing steadily into the mountains to the northwest.   About an hour later, glimpses of the Great Wall appear, snaking over the mountain tops high above us.  We climb steadily over a high mountain pass and commence a descent on the northern side, the vegetation becoming sparse as we enter this much drier region. 

A large valley opens before us, edged by mountains and dotted with Poplar Trees, their bright green foliage adding a welcome flash of colour to an otherwise barren, brown landscape.  Donkeys forage in the dry, lifeless soil whilst farmers toil tirelessly in their struggle to maintain their fields.  Small brown brick cottages surrounded by high walls topped with broken glass and set with distinctive red entrance gates, dot the country side in groups clustered between the trees.   In the distance, sections of the Great Wall continue to appear along the base of the mountains to the east of the train, in varying stages of decay.

As the day passes, we notice the village houses start to appear with chimneys.   As many as six tiny brick chimneys are squeezed onto each small roof.  It’s an amazing sight - in one village, no chimneys, then in the space of what seems like just a few kilometers, the roofs are bristling with chimneys, a very positive indication that we’ve suddenly plunged into a much colder region.

Lunch is provided in the Dinning Car - Beef Stew and rice with a few vegetables, not to Anne’s liking at all but it fills the hole!  If the quality left something to be desired, the flavour was at least appetizing.

As the afternoon progresses, we climb back into rolling hills with farmers tending herds of sheep and goats next to the twisting river, far below.    Little do we realise, it’s to be the last green vegetation we’ll see for quite some time…

An hour later we enter the Gobi Desert.  Stretching out before us, for as far as the eye can see, there’s nothing but light brown sand dunes.   And this is real desert, not like those in Australia where more often than not, low scrubby vegetation can be found.   Out here, there’s no sign of vegetation! 

Occasional townships of dusty brown dwellings which blend into the surrounding sands appear at random and with no visible reason for their existence.  Trucks and motorized carts move slowly across the desert on a narrow road that masquerades as the main highway, but like the townships, their numbers steadily decrease. 

Racing across this desert, the train whips up clouds of dust just like an Australian Road Train traveling in the Outback, marking our passage with a plume of dust left high in the air.   Despite the double glazed windows, the dust soon starts to seep into the carriage, laying a fine coating over everything.   Photography becomes difficult as the clouds of dust swirl up outside the windows, sometimes completely obscuring the landscape.  

The dust becomes so thick it forms a cloud in the carriage, clearly visible when looking down the length of the corridor!  It gets into noses, eyes, hair, beds, everything!  This could clearly be a major problem for an Asthmatic!

At last Dinner time arrives and we head back to the Dinning Car, but the ‘menu’ is just a variation of lunch, with sausage substituted for the beef!  A definite drop in quality.

By 9:00 pm we’ve reached Erlian, where Chinese Immigration board the train to complete exit formalities.  They’re polite and efficient, but still show a degree of paranoia as the Official checks under our bunk for stowaways!

Thirty minutes later, with formalities complete, the train is shunted into the workshops for a wheel change!

China operates on a gauge of four foot eight and a half inches which is fairly standard, but Mongolia and Russia operate on five foot gauge. 

So the 14 carriages are broken up into two columns, raised by a series of massive jacks and the bogies rolled out from underneath.    The slightly wider Russian bogies are then rolled in from the opposite direction, the carriages lowered and reconnected.  The whole process is carried out efficiently and completed in about two hours with lots of shunting and banging, all done whilst we remain on board.

Then we’re off again, across ‘no mans land’ to the Mongolian Immigration and Customs stop at Dzamynude.  We arrive soon after midnight and again the train is boarded by Officials.  Although we’re handled politely the train sits stationary for over two hours as the process drags on, finally departing at 1:45 am.  At last we can go to bed!

We’re provided with sheets, pillows and a blanket but the bunks are hard.  It’s like trying to sleep on the dinning room table, only half the width, but eventually fatigue takes over and we drift off to sleep.   By 8:00 am the following morning an attendant is knocking on doors advising that breakfast is available in the Dinning Car.  It’s a very short night, but we tumble out of bed.

Opening the door to the Dinning Car, we stand in complete shock!   The Dinning Car has been completely remodeled - it’s as if we’ve changed trains in the middle of the night! 

But then we realise they’ve simply switched in a different Dinning Car whilst we were under going our wheel change!  Ornate wood carvings line the walls and ceiling, whilst Mongolian weaponry adorns the bulkheads and silver tea pots with cups sit on every table.  It’s all very charming.

A breakfast of omelet, pancakes, bread, juice and coffee is served for US$7:00.  Despite the lack of sleep, there’s a good chance we’ll both survive the day!

The Desert continues to slide past the windows, even more desolate than yesterday.  For miles, there’s nothing to see but the light brown sands broken only by a single power line running along side the  ‘Iron Road’ and a tangle of  wire hanging from dilapidated posts that form the remnants of a fence as old as the sands themselves.

Isolated herds of horses appear from time to time, grazing on the short , straw coloured grass that struggles to grow in some of the valleys.   Occasionally two humped camels appear, still wearing their long shaggy winter coats of dark brown wool and accompanied by new ‘spring’ calves. 

An endless procession of trains pass  in the opposite direction, some passenger but mainly freight trains, most loaded with enormous quantities of timber from Siberia.   Villages appear out of no where, often nothing more than just a hand full of buildings and a tiny Station.

At last the train starts winding its way down the valley that leads to Ulaan Batar, twisting and turning as if following a cork screw.     The tight, long curves continue for nearly thirty minutes, at times almost doubling back on themselves as we slowly descend and the suburbs of Ulaan Batar finally appear.  

Rows of Gers, the round, Felt covered structures favored by these nomadic people, start to appear next to the track whilst more conventional buildings loom behind them in the distance.  Broken fences, pot holed streets and dirt footpaths run along side piles of rubbish.  It’s a depressing sight, but not totally unexpected.

As we move further into the city, things improve but only slightly.  The Gers start to disappear, the buildings get taller, the footpaths are mainly paved, but the condition of the streets are much the same. 

At last the train pulls into Ulaan Batar Station, 35 hours after leaving Beijing, some 2 hours late.  It’s a battle with the crowds again as we board the bus and head for our hotel and a very welcome shower.  

Another section of the Long Iron Road now lies behind us.

THE LONG IRON ROAD, by BJ (Episode 2) (31st May '06)

Like silent sentinels, they stand in rows stretching into the distance, their sightless eyes staring into the  past.   Larger than life, the stern expressions of these fearsome warriors are intimidating as they stand shoulder to shoulder in trenches like soldiers from the First World War.

But these soldiers have stood here for more than 2,000 years, guarding their Emporer.   They are the Terra-cotta Warriors of Emporer Qin Shihuang’s Tomb.  Described as the Eight Wonder of The World, the Warriors were discovered in 1974 by a local farmer digging a well !

Three separate pits have now been excavated, containing over 6,000 terra-cotta warriors, horses and artifacts, all buried for centuries in a massive series of tombs.   From Foot Soldiers to Field Commanders and Generals in War Rooms, every contingent of a full scale army is here and in such life like detail ! 

But it’s not just the shear numbers and detail of these warriors, their weapons and suits of ancient Armour that are so amazing, it’s the techniques that were used so long ago to create these hollow, terra-cotta statues.  Whilst full size replicas of the warriors are made today in a nearby factory, the Chinese are still unable to successfully re-create replicas of the hollow, terra-cotta horses ! 

But Xian, home of the Terra-cotta Warriors was also China’s ancient Capital and today is a booming metropolis, home to some 7.5 million people.   Wide, tree lined streets with modern shopping complexes stock everything from local Chinese products to the big brand names from Europe.  The History Museum houses a wonderful collection of art works spanning centuries of Chinese culture and is well worth a visit.

Stretching some 14 kilometers around the old city are the magnificent ancient City Walls.  Built in the 14^th Century and standing some 12 metres high, the Walls provide an ideal platform from which to view the City.   Bicycles can be hired on top of the Wall for an excellent self conducted tour. 

In the midst of this old city is the imposing Bell Tower, built in 1384 and used in ancient times to signal the opening of the City Gates in the mornings,  whilst nearby a similar structure, known as the Drum Tower, would signal the closing of the Gates in the evenings.

And it’s all incredibly clean !   Sure, there are old sections of the city with piles of rubbish as can be found anywhere, but in general the city and it’s tourist attractions are cleaner than most western equivalents !  It’s an impression that has been with us since entering China and one that has greatly impressed us.   

After two hectic days in Xian we board our over night train for the 12 hour trip to Beijing, once again battling the crowds that seem to be a feature of all Chinese Railway Stations. 

Early the next morning the train slowly winds it’s way through the suburbs of  Beijing as a weak sun emerges slowly above the horizon  to penetrate the grey misty smog that hangs over the city.   We check into our Hotel for breakfast and a quick shower before heading  off on a City tour. 

Beijing is a modern, bustling city of some 15 million people and covers an area the size of Belgium !  It’s a huge City, but for us tourists, it’s the usual stops, Tiananmem Square, the Summer Palace and a seemingly never ending string of Temples. 

Everything here is on a grand scale, from Tiananmen Square which can accommodate a staggering  1 million people to the huge government buildings that dwarf the military personnel standing guard at the entrances.  Despite the thick grey mist that limits visibility to well under a kilometer , Beijing is an impressive place and once again, it’s incredibly clean !

The following day finds us about an hour and a half out of Beijing at the Ming Tombs, where a total of 13 Emperors were buried in a complex of huge caverns from the 14^th to the 17^th century.  We have time to visit just one of the Tombs and descend the 27 meters to the stark, stone burial chambers.  Looking more like a series of railway tunnels at a subway interchange,  the curved roofed chambers, some 6 meters wide and 6 meters high  are empty except for some large stone chairs and replica coffins of the Emperor, the Empress and Emperor’s Concubines.

Next stop is the Great Wall !   Commenced in the 3rd Century BC, construction continued on and off for more than 2,000 years until it stretched as an impenetrable barrier for more than 6,300 kilometers across northern China. 

As our mini-bus slowly climbs the mountains to the north of Beijing, glimpses of this incredible structure come into view.   Like some medieval dragon, the Wall climbs then descends, twists and turns, as it follows the ridge line along the top of the steep, rocky mountains.

A large tourist complex has been established next to the Wall with the usual collection of souvenir stalls and food vendors, all trying desperately to do business.  We ignore them, and climb the steps to the top of the Wall. 

Clouds of  mist swirl up the valley and over the top of the Wall, intermittently obscuring the lower sections from view.  We follow the Wall towards a nearby mountain peak, the gentle slope soon giving  way to steps as the steepness of the incline rapidly increases.  It’s not an easy climb, with irregular steps made from rock, worn smooth by centuries of use and made slippery from the misty rain.    We make full use of the more recently installed hand rails to negotiate the final climb to the Watch Tower at the mountain peak.

In the distance the Wall continues down the next valley then up again, climbing towards another mountain peak , only to be lost in the mist. 

The sight seeing continues early the next morning with a visit to the Forbidden City, adjoining Tiananmen Square.   Home of the last Emperor and the setting for the Hollywood movie of the same name,  the Palace and it’s surrounding grounds are simply enormous ! 

Covering more than 720,000 square metres, the Forbidden City consists of some 800 buildings containing over 8,000 rooms !  Magnificent yellow tiled roofs, supported by intricately carved eaves painted in greens and blues, sit high above the bright red columns of dozens of Palace buildings and Temples. 

The shear size of the Forbidden City requires almost continual renovation and rejuvenation,  resulting in some buildings and exhibitions being closed from time to time, but regardless of which sections are closed, it’s a place not to be missed. 

We finish off our time in Beijing with a visit to the Pearl Markets, the Temple of Heaven and a wonderful dinner of Peking Duck. 

The next morning we’re up at 5:30 and heading for the Train Station.  Despite the early morning departure the crowds are still there, hundreds of people waiting to board trains for destinations all over China.

We board the 7:40 am train and settle in for the 33 hour trip on the Long Iron Road to Ulaan Batar, Capital of Mongolia.

THE LONG IRON ROAD, by BJ (Episode 1) (29th May '06)

The train moves slowly out of the station, twisting and turning like a snake as it negotiates the points and switches that lead to the mainline.  Slowly at first, but then with an ever increasing sense of urgency, it winds it’s way through the suburbs where high rise buildings crowd the landscape like trees in a forest, competing for a share of the sunlight. 

Squeezed between these concrete giants, isolated pockets of green swarm with children at play, some waving, some just staring as the train rushes past.   High above their heads, laundry hangs from dozens of apartment windows like flags proclaiming the arrival of some unknown festival.   It’s a familiar sight and one that is as much a part of this great city as the huge rock face that towers high above us as the train plunges into Lion Rock Tunnel.

Anne and I have joined a small group traveling by train from Hong Kong to St. Petersburg, Russia.  It’s a 28 day, 12,800 kilometre trip, with numerous stops and excursions along the way.  Today we’re headed for Guangzhou and Xian, on the first leg.

Arriving in Guangzhou an hour and a half later, we clear Customs and Immigration then head out for some local sight seeing.  We have a few hours to fill in before catching our next train, so there’s time to grab a quick lunch, visit the Chen Clan Temple and the local markets before heading back to the Station.  Our train departs Guangzhou at 5:00pm, for a 27 hour trip to Xian. 

It’s Golden Week in China, a National Holiday and the trains are packed.  One could be forgiven for thinking the whole of China is traveling by train!  Guangzhou West Station is like a zoo - hundreds of people jam the entrances and public areas!  It takes us the best part of forty minutes to make our way inside and finally reach the Platform.  As we quickly discover, to attempt this trip without a Guide even at the best of times, would be a nightmare of insane proportions!

Our train is made up of 18 coaches and we’re in luck, we have a four berth compartment in Coach Ten, next to the Dinning Car.  Although we’ve paid extra for a Twin Berth option, the Chinese Railway system does not permit it on the first two sectors, but half of our group is sharing a six berth compartment without doors or a ‘sit down’ toilet so we don’t complain - we’re definitely in luxury compared to them.

The train departs on time and moves quickly through the city and into the country side.  Rice fields, vegetable gardens and duck ponds stretch out on either side as the train rushes on between an almost constant stream of nameless cities and towns.   Train Stations flash past, too quick at times to catch the name and vacant except for the solitary figure of the Station Master in full uniform, standing dutifully at attention on his marked square, clutching red and green signal flags tightly to his side.  It’s somehow reminiscent of an age gone by and a past regime.

Attendants move up and down the carriage selling food, drinks, toilet paper and novelties to amuse the children.  We’ve self catered on the advice of our tour guide - it seems to be the better option although Anne samples the local cuisine and is pleasantly surprised.

At Happy Hour (mine) I go to the Dinning Car and order a beer.  My satisfaction at being understood rapidly turns to dismay as the attendant hands me a can from the shelf behind him - it’s room temperature (25 degrees C) and there’s no option!

The train climbs steadily into the hills as darkness descends and it’s not too long before we all decide to hit the sack with my Cathay Pacific First Class PJ’s making somewhat of a fashion statement in the carriage!

The night passes slowly as the train speeds on through the darkness, the smooth steady motion gently lulling one to sleep.  Occasionally one is woken by the roar of an express train passing in the opposite direction, or the total silence that descends when stopped at some deserted station.  The night seems to go on forever!

Early the next morning as the rising sun struggles to climb above the morning mist and haze, the carriage slowly comes back to life.  Weary travelers climb out of bunks and shuffle to the wash room as the aroma of instant coffee and cup noodles spreads slowly through out the carriage.  It’s a routine that is to be repeated numerous times over the coming weeks.

The endless procession of fields and cities continues to roll by.   Construction of some kind seems to be going on everywhere - new buildings, new highways and new train tracks.  Massive pylons support an endless web of electrical power lines that spread across the landscape in every direction, whilst elevated highways rise up out of the fields on a regular basis to cross the railway, rushing traffic to and from unknown destinations.  China is most definitely a country that is exploding in its rush to catch up with the 21^st century.

The train rushes on, steel girders of a huge bridge flashing past the windows as we cross the murky grey waters of the mighty Yangtze River and plunge into the city of Wuhan.  Enormous factories and processing plants pour out huge volumes of smoke and pollution into the atmosphere, the stark, neglected structures looking like dinosaurs from the industrial revolution.  Stock piles of coal are everywhere, leaving little doubt as to the source of the smog that hangs in the air.

As the cities and factories are slowly left behind, the landscape opens into vast fields that stretch as far as the eye can see.   It’s some time before we realise we’re looking at wheat and not rice, something that was completely unexpected in this part of the world.   The only reminder that this landscape is really China and not Australia comes from the characteristic style of the villages scattered amongst the crops.

The landscape changes yet again as the train meanders through a vast network of canyons carved by centuries of erosion through a huge plateau of flood plain soils.  Every square meter of level ground is cultivated, and where the land is not level, terraces have been created to make it level. 

Every few seconds, a new canyon or ravine opens as the train continues on, revealing snapshots of a civilisation as ancient as time itself.  Village houses, constructed of local bricks or mud, blend into the vertical brown walls of the canyons, in stark contrast to the lush green natural vegetation and cultivated fields.  Hundreds of caves, dug by local villagers in the vertical brown walls of these terraced canyons, serve as store rooms and additional accommodation, adding to the mystical image of this fascinating landscape.

As darkness descends once again, we finally arrive in Xian to be greeted by an incredible swarm of humanity that surges around the Train Station.  With a local Guide leading the way, we somehow manage to safely negotiate the crowds and traffic, making our way to our bus and ultimately our Hotel. 

The first stage of our journey on the Long Iron Road is complete……

AN ACT OF LUNACY ?  -  by B.J. (8th Dec '05)

Growing old has it’s advantages, not the least of which is the right to do things others may just happen to perceive as an act of lunacy.  People expect you to do odd things as you grow older and then excuse it by muttering something like “ I think he’s lost the plot”…….. 

The air rushes past at 200 kilometers per hour, roaring in my ears, dilating my nostrils and tearing at my clothing.   My nose feels like it’s bleeding, like it’s wet but it’s just the effects of this horrendous blast of air.  

The view is spectacular, from the turquoise patchwork of the Great Barrier Reef to the tropical green mountains of the Atherton Tablelands.      Houses,  roads and farms start to increase in size, slowly at first but then at an ever increasing rate.    Slowly the seconds tick by, 15 seconds, 30 seconds, a full minute goes by and it feels like eternity.  

There’s a warning tap on my shoulder, a shouted alert that’s lost in the roar of the wind and then a sudden deceleration as the parachute opens and I’m hanging suspended, 5,000 feet above the lush green sugarcane fields of Far North Queensland.

Being laid back is kind of nice, just reading books, relaxing by the pool and enjoying a nice wine with dinner, but one can only take so much of a good thing before boredom sets in and the urge to do something different takes over.  And so it was in Port Douglas this year, when Anne and I decided to try Sky Diving.   After all, we had been Scuba Diving for years, so why not try Sky Diving !    Bearing in mind the bit about growing older, it seemed like a reasonable idea.    A few phone calls and it was all set up.

At the Sky Diving headquarters in Cairns we fill out the mandatory paper work resolving everyone of responsibility except for ourselves and accepting the rather obvious fact that “sky diving can be dangerous” !  We’re fitted out with a harness, introduced to our tandem partners and given a quick 5 minutes instruction on the procedures!  We’ll be jumping from 14,000 feet, with a one minute 9,000 foot free fall!

I’m relieved to see my partner is a more mature, ‘straight’ looking guy with no ear rings.  I didn’t fancy the thought of being snuggled up to and nibbled on the ear in the middle of the free fall!

At the airport we board a specially converted Cresco 750 Turboprop aircraft built in New Zealand, originally for aerial crop spraying.  A clear Perspex  side door has been fitted,  and grab rails installed in the cabin roof for the Jumpers.   There are no seat belts, in fact there are no seats and definitely no cabin service !   We climb in, sit on the floor and hang on!

We’ve picked a great day with good visibility and very few clouds.  We have a full load, four tandem jumpers and a camera man to record Anne’s jump, but we climb rapidly to 14,000 feet.

The clear Perspex door slides open as the aircraft slows to around 80 knots and the camera man climbs out, positioning himself behind the open door. Then it’s my turn!

With my tandem partner secured tightly to my back by means of the special harness, I slide up to the open door, put my feet outside on the step and fold my arms.  On the count of three we roll clear of the door and drop into space, rapidly accelerating to over 200 kilometers per hour !   Adrenalin starts pumping big time, as we plummet towards the earth!  

Anne is next and rolls clear of the aircraft just seconds later, her camera man dropping away with her to film the descent.

No sooner has my parachute opened and I see the camera man go plummeting past us, the first real impression of the speeds involved !  It’s truly quite frightening.  (182 feet or 55 meters per second).  He delays opening his parachute until 2,000 feet so he can be on the ground to film Anne’s arrival.  (At 2,000 feet, if things were to go wrong, he has less than 12 seconds before hitting the ground, a very sobering thought!)

The rest as they say, is history.  We drift around for about four minutes, taking turns at steering the parachute and then come in for an uneventful landing.  Surprisingly, jumping off the Sky Tower in Auckland at just 630 feet seemed more of a challenge, but perhaps we’re just becoming more accustomed to these random acts of lunacy!

Reflections On A Tropical Paradise, by BJ. (8th Dec '05)

Christopher Skase, one of Australia’s most notorious business and media tycoons of the 80’s, turned a $15,000 investment into a 2.2 billion dollar empire known as Qintex, in a little over 10 years!  But just as his rise to power and fame was rapid, his fall was even quicker.  

The disintegration of Qintex  was trigged by a failed  bid ($1.2 Billion) for MGM-United Artists studio in 1989 and was to leave creditors holding over $1.5 billion in debts with Skase personally owing more than $172 million.   Fleeing to Spain in 1991 to avoid more than 60 charges relating to Company Law, Skase was to die from cancer in 2001, still fighting extradition to Australia.

But during those heady days of the 80’s, Skase was to have a vision which resulted in the remarkable transformation of a sleepy North Queensland fishing village, into an international holiday resort for the rich and famous, as well as the not so rich, (Cathay retiree’s) ! 

The tiny community of Port Douglas, located on a narrow peninsular of land, nestled on the shores of the Coral Sea some 60 kilometers north of Cairns in Far North Queensland, became the focus of his attention and today owes it’s bustling tourist trade to the extravagance and foresight of Christopher Skase.  

But just what did Port Douglas have to offer that so inspired Skase ?   Well to start with, the town is the closest stepping off point to the Great Barrier Reef and also to the World Heritage rainforests of the Daintree and Cape Tribulation National Parks.  Add to this a mild, dry climate during the Australian winter months with average temperatures of 16 to 25 degrees Celsius, and you start to see what fired his imagination. 

Skase was to put Port Douglas on the map by creating a Five Star resort known as the Sheraton Mirage.    Located on 130 hectares of landscaped tropical gardens with direct access to the fabulous 4 Mile Beach,  the Mirage complex incorporates its own 18 hole golf course and over 2 hectares of magnificent swimming pool ‘lagoons’.

To complete the make over, more than 1,500 African Oil Palms were imported by Skase and planted along the road leading into the town.   These mature palms, now dripping with beautiful ferns and edged with manicured lawns and gardens, have become a magnificent landmark of Port Douglas. 

Add to all of this a main street that today still has the odd block of uncleared,  tropical vegetation, lots of casual eating establishments, a couple of old North Queensland style Pubs, and your starting to get the picture.  Throw in a modern Marina complex with a scattering of trendy shops for the Japanese tourist, numerous dive boats running day trips to the Reef and then top it all off with lavish tropical gardens surrounding dozens of low rise apartment complexes, all within easy reach of the restaurants and 4 Mile Beach, and the picture is just about complete.

Whilst there can be little doubt that the Great Barrier Reef and it’s proximity is the main attraction,  the laid back life style of Port Douglas has to run a very close second.  What ever the attraction is, Port Douglas has certainly seen more than it’s share of international celebrities over the years.

 Bill Clinton for instance, has twice visited this tropical paradise, once as President of the USA and again as a private citizen.  Our very own Roy Sumerville actually spoke to Clinton on 4 Mile Beach the day after the devastating 9/11 attacks on New York.   And more recently, John Travolta and his entourage stayed over at the Mirage for a few days in November having flown into Cairns in his personal B707, decked out in Qantas livery! 

But quite apart from all the visiting celebrates, Port Douglas is still just a sleepy little town, full of laid back charm and easy living.  So keep it in mind when next visiting Down Under or wanting to escape the Southern Hemisphere winters, besides you just never know who you’ll see at the corner restaurant.  It might even be Anne and I – we’ve been regular visitors since the mid 90’s .

MIller's Musings - Subic City Sucks Jan 1996 (8th Dec '05)

This is where the cool breeze blows in from Subic Bay and the old ways do not seem relevant, where the girls grow teased hair and speak a variety of bar room vulgarities, and for whom all life's promises come together with a short affair with a foreigner. Many work with little or no pay, waiting and hoping to find a permanent relationship—a foreigner who will take them away.

This is the last stop from provinces where girls cannot find work, who have heard the "glamour" stories told second hand, and who are desperate enough to try anything.

Here they try to find a future, and try to find it in the only places they know to look: the bars and parlors of Barrio Barretto and Subic City in the Philippines.

If you think this reads like Joan Didion's "Slouching Towards Bethlehem" you're right—only I was slouching toward Subic City. I had been staying in the Half Moon Hotel on the outskirts of Barrio Barretto and thought I'd work my way down the highway while sampling the delights of the various bars.

***

At 9 AM I got off the jeepney by the California Hotel in Magsaysay Drive and walked along the dusty road shoulder by an open drain past the Holy Infant Jesus College and ramshackle huts and shops. Most places were barricaded shut with pieces of wood and corrugated iron. Many were for sale or for rent.

My first stop was Capt'n Gregg's. At that hour of the morning, not surprisingly, it was closed. I had been there on an earlier trip and thought then that it was the most up-market place on the strip. It was a straight bar and restaurant with good food and a fine display of diving souvenirs.

And yet, like other reputable places, Capt. Gregg's has been caught in the anti-bar campaign mounted by the city elders. A year ago the Barrio was showing signs of life: buildings were being restored, new shops were opening, and there was an atmosphere of hope. No longer. The city elders have managed to turn back the clock, and with it the hopes, not only of local businessmen, but of residents as well.

A recent article in a Philippine paper, the Foreign Post, should be compulsory reading for all do-gooder politicians. The article was about Bill Maxwell, a black American. Maxwell said "the price of liberty is tolerance for things we find personally offensive." Amen.

Just past Capt'n Gregg's, on the right, I came across an antiseptic white building. This is Barrio Barretto's catholic church. It comes complete with painted white front, a bell tower that houses a single bell ringed with loudspeakers, and of course, a statue of Mary. She wears a blue shawl, has blond hair and blue eyes, and carries a small bundle. Around her feet crawl four babies wearing blue and white nappies.

The building looks as if it has been imported from Mexico, dunked in whitewash, sanitized, then set down in the midst of a slum.

I continued my walk: past the turnoff to the Lord Jesus Medical Clinic, along the open drain that was now starting to come to life, and down a ramp to Tides Bar by the waterfront. Behind the bar a mangy white dog lay asleep on a stage that butted up against a crude concrete sink. Above the sink a rosary draped itself around a pink shell. A baby's bottle half full of milk stood at the end of the bar.

Above the bar was an advert for the Elephant Patrol—"Elephant Patrol Watering Hole" it read and showed a picture of an elephant (more like a stumpy legged camel) with a firecracker stuck to its snout while it stomped something that looked like a running rat

Many bars in the Olongapo area have this sign. I asked the waitress what it meant. She was a bit vague but thought it identified a gathering of foreigners who sit around drinking and who occasionally belt coins on the bar. This is the signal for much hooting and roaring. At the end of the hilarity the loser buys a round. Weird.

But there was no hilarity in Tides. Perhaps it was too early, or perhaps it was because the tide was out and the sea breeze that wafted in carried with it an aroma of sewage. Perhaps they should rename the place "Low Tides."

At the far end of the bar a hawker was trying to hustle an elderly American woman into buying some "genuine American silver dollars." The woman looked hesitant but her daughter and son-in-law were ready to bite.

But the focal point of Tides was the way two middle aged Americans wore their baseball caps—the right way around. The effect was like passing through a time warp.

Tides, however, was about as lifeless as the dog asleep on the stage. I paid my bill and left.

I walked down the road to the Night Rider. The previous night it had been the swingin'est place in Barretto with music, two pool tables, and a bevy of attractive girls all modestly dressed.

Some girls had played pool while others had posed themselves around the bar putting finishing touches to their make-up, or spraying lacquer onto hair already set like concrete. But there had been no dancing. The city elders have denounced dancing as sinful. If the authorities make dancing taboo today, what will they ban tomorrow?

But this morning the front bar was empty so I went through to the beach-side bar. Here the manager was upbraiding the staff over a 105 peso shortfall from the previous night's takings. The girls sat grim faced shuffling receipts and order forms.

A regular came in to say goodbye.

"When you comin' back?" the boss asked.

"'Bout a year I reckon," the regular said.

"Good luck, but don't expect to find us open."

New restrictions on bar operations have decimated turnover, forced many bars out of business, and driven others seven kilometers down the road to Subic City. Those that remain in Barrio Barretto face hard times and can no longer afford to pay their girls. Today a girl is lucky to get a one peso commission on a customer beer. Even on a fifty peso ladies drink she only gets ten pesos.

I crossed the road to the Midnight Rambler, a big bar with a corrugated iron and plastic roof and walls of latticed bamboo partly hidden by plants. The bar held center stage. Two pool tables squatted at the far end near a sign: Pool competition—entry fee 100 pesos. The Winner buys all players a drink. That's an incentive to win?

The ambiance was pure Hell's Angels. Two road bikes were parked inside the main door while up in the rafters were two more—an old Triumph and a Yamaha.

Photos were everywhere, most depicting foreigners in various stages of undress and drunkenness. But the monotony was broken by a "Week Marriage License," photos of Alana Dock taken in 1945, a photo of hooded Ku Klux Klan members with flaming torches, and a hangman's noose dangling above the bar amid beer wraps for sale. And of course, another advertisement for the Elephant Patrol.

Over by the comfort room (toilet) a stuffed bird perched on a swing, its plumage so bedraggled that it was difficult to identify. It could have been be a native chicken. On the other hand it could have been a turkey.

Across the "pure lahar sand floor" was a separate kitchen with its own specials board. I looked for the special that went with "all the sand you can eat" but it must have been out of stock.

I had intended to eat (someone had told me the food was good) but before I got around to ordering, the "music" drove me out. Midnight Rambler has a reputation for "a large selection of top-line music." Perhaps it has, but when played at a zillion decibels it's hard to appreciate.

***

Later that afternoon I took a jeepney to Subic City. We drove out of Barrio Barretto past the Seventh Day Adventist and the Baptist Bible Missions, by the Po Junk Shop that blends so neatly into the surroundings you could easily miss it, then by the NMJ Sea Foods (Our Fish are so Fresh you'll slap their face).

Here the road runs by the shoreline and I had occasional glimpses of Subic Bay, once the most beautiful natural harbor in the Philippines despite the collection of bars that grew up to give comfort and succor to American sailors.

During the time of American bases the girls called Subic City "Nasty City," and ranked it far below Barrio Barretto or Olongapo. Subic was "Sick-Town," a place more like a western cow-town than a city, and once the semen sink of the Philippines. Today, three years after the Americans were thrown out, it is worse, despite the proliferation of religious sects.

In fact there seemed to be more religious sects than bars and I couldn't help but wonder why so many had descended upon Barrio Barretto and Subic. Their presence hadn't done much good—I had seldom seen such a God forsaken place.

The only soul hustlers I saw were two clean-cut young foreigners with white shirts and ties who did their best to ignore the cries of "Hey handsome" from the Blue Note Bar, but finally looked up and waved.

But, for the most part, walking through Subic City was like taking a stroll through a ghost town. Buildings and bars were boarded up, many in the final stages of decay: roofs caved in, entire fronts gone, walls plastered in graffiti.  Faded names hinted at past delights: the Blow Heaven Bar, Head's & Tails, Kinky's.

Some had been renovated but a quick peek through the door showed a boring sameness: sleazy interiors, a pool table, and a bevy of bored girls.

Trampers Bar is almost at the end of the strip. Inside I found three old women talking at the end of the bar. They had Chinese features and could have passed as sisters. I ordered a beer. Through an open door behind the bar I could see a bakla (a local poof) poncing around. He was dressed in jeans and a bra. Two girls hovered nearby like vultures and one finally alighted on the stool next to me.

"What's your name?" I asked.

"Want short-time?" she replied.

While I was pondering this misunderstanding the bakla minced over to the bar. "What's your name?" it asked.

I threw some money on the bar and fled.

Back down the strip, past the Department of Health's Social Hygiene Center and the Independent Faith Baptist Church, I climbed the stairs to The Shark's Pit. At the second floor I was greeted by a girl with scrambled hair and front teeth like barn doors. I declined her offer of entertainment and settled for a beer.

Across the road I could see into the Blue Note bar. The front was adorned with a string of lights and people were sitting on the verandah sipping drinks. Perhaps I had finally found a touch of class.

Then the resident bakla turned up so I headed across the street to the Blue Note.

I was mildly disturbed by the welcome sign: "To our valued patrons we reserve the right to throw your arse out." Still, I ordered a beer, and while waiting for my "World Famous Hot Dog imported from America," took a look around the bar.

Tables and chairs were stacked on what used to be a dancing stage. On the far wall a picture of a skull advertised the Devil's Breed Motor Cycle Club, Honolulu. Another photo showed a woman's bare bum with a British flag tattooed on each cheek, and a caption that said something about "Yankee Doodle Dandee." I felt my appetite fading.

Outside, the group on the verandah was doing its best to attract customers: when a foreigner walked by the girls would jump up, do a little wiggle and shout "Hey, handsome," then go back to picking nits out of each others hair.

A girl in a yellow towel appeared behind the bar and started cleaning her teeth in the sink. This was accompanied by a stench that you don't normally associate with toothpaste. By now I was feeling squeamish so went to the CR only to discover that the sink behind the bar drained straight into the men's urinal.

To say I was impressed would have been the understatement of the century. I abandoned my "World's Best Hot-dog" and caught the first jeepney back to the Half Moon Hotel.

Subic City sucks! It is a city in name only, a city on the edge, filled with girls trying to cut both their losses and their hopes while following a trail to nowhere. This is the flotsam from years of persecution dating back to Mayor Lim's closing the bars in Manila's Ermita district.

If early Christian history has a lesson, it is this—kick a fire, then watch it spread.

Golf Anyone? (21st March '05)

Received from Bob & Shelagh Dewar 

Our son Rob has been planning on running golf and wine tours in Western Australia for a couple of years.  At long last he has found a partner and together they have formed a company.  We are enclosing his web site in case you feel like a unique holiday in the beautiful south-west corner of WA.

We have played on all the golf courses he mentions and have visited all the wineries and can highly recommend them.

Anyway, have a look at the site and pass it along to any friends that might be interested in a dose of sunshine and adventure.

http://www.confluence.com.au/mrvgwt/

Regards Bob and Shelagh

Ramblings - Me (20th March '05)

After trolling the Cathay Retiree website to find out what seats were available from LHR to HKG, early January, we decided to give it a try on the Wednesday morning flight CX252. Wait listing for the flight on the website was a doddle and after a fairly early start with a taxi ride from Hampshire to Terminal 3 we arrived to find the check in area deserted. Great, thought I, we’re bound to get on. However, on checking in a good couple of hours early we were asked to come back an hour later. What I’d failed to realize was that the hordes of paying passengers had checked in three hours before departure.

But, to our delight, after an hours “heart in the mouth” wait we were check into first class.

I must say, the flight on an Airbus "A Something", it had four donks, was terrific, comfortable, spacious, excellent food and really friendly cabin crew. I’d be going some to find any criticism at all, maybe only the dolls size loos, surprising for such a delightful aircraft.

With, what I believe was a good tail wind, we arrived at CLK ahead of schedule at seven in the morning. Albeit, and to my complete surprise, it was colder than when we had left London, Low cloud and heavy mist were apparent and to crown it all it was chucking it down pick handles, as our antipodean friends would say.

Never mind, it won’t be too bad in Tzimsy after checking into a decent hotel. But, it was not to be. After hurried telephone calls to quite a few of the old haunts, the Sheraton, Hyatt, Holiday Inn, even the Peninsular amongst others, and a visit to the airport hotel booking desk we were horrified to learn that there was hardly a room available in all of Kowloon or Hong Kong, and then only at the most ludicrous rates, the Marco Polo, hardly a five star, on Canton Road, a massive $2,800 + 13% per night. The reason - a mammoth toy and games fair and convention.

But, Cathay to the rescue, a quick phone call to the Headland Hotel, freebee shuttle bus trip and we were checked in at four hundred bucks a night - music to my Scottish ears.

After a suitable rest period we decided to partake of a libation at the bar. I have to say, I’ve always found it a clinical sort of place. Air-conditioning far to cold and lights far to bright. Anyway the beer was cold and wet although a bit too strong for me. Had a look around and and found absolutely no one we new. Hardly surprising since I’ve now been retired for ten years - how the time flies.

However, at about 19:30, Ron Wyldebore appeared. That was a relief to see and chat to someone we knew. He’s still working, albeit part time, in the simulator. Time passed quickly and so did my brain cells, too tired, we’d been up for about thirty-five hours, had four pints of high octane Carlsberg plus the usual west to east shell shock.

Next day, Friday, at least the rain had stopped but we could not believe the poor visibility. Smog, I believe emanating from factories in Guanjou, or however you spell it, I still think of it as Canton.

I had a bit of business to attend to in Hkg so we decided to spend a few days there, visit a few favourite restaurants, pubs etc. What a let down, our favourite Korean and Vietnamese restaurant all previously located around the Austin Road, Hillwood Road areas had gone. What to do, into the Kowloon Bowling Green Club. Fortunately an old mate was ensconced at the bar so we a pleasant few drinks and a yak. It all passed to quickly and a glance at my watch told me we’d better get back to the Headland and partake of their room service menu.

The next day, after a full day in town, we arrived back at the Headland early and visited the bar once more. I have to say, I find it so very clinical, not helped by an air-conditioning system that would freeze a witches whatsit. Also, still partaking of the odd horrid fag, I found I had to leave the bar and stand outside in artic conditions with the rain still drizzling down, along side a few other strangers who required the dreaded weed. I would have thought that Cathay would have had just a wee bit more sympathy with a dying breed. Anyway the thought of dying from exposure and frost bite put me off a bit and I decided to catch the bus to the terminal and seek out a decent drinking establishment. To my delight, I found one, and this will appeal to my fellow Aberdonians. There’s a small but quite comfy little Irish pub tucked away at the corner of the arrivals concourse, almost at the entry to the Regal Hotel. It sells decent beer and offers quite nice bar snacks, and get this, show them your Cathay ID card (retiree – fine) and you get a whopping 30% discount before 20:00 and 20% thereafter.

Next day a visit to the Aero Club found us being royally welcomed by Michael and the other staff. Met a few blokes at the bar, some new, and some not so new, but had a interesting couple of hours reminiscing, followed by a good meal, still up to the old Aero Club standards.

A few days later, time to have try at getting to Perth. This was preceded by the usual drama at staff check in, but, in the event, we managed to get seats in business class as planned.

We had a wonderful time in Perth, mostly thanks (again) to Anne and Brian Buncombe’s generosity in allowing the use of their South Perth flat.

Much of the time was spend getting to know the grandchildren again, not to mention a fair bit of baby-sitting. It was, of course, all great fun. We managed the monthly lunch at the Albion Pub with the regular ex-Cathay worthies. A few photos are appended. Also, we went to a fantastic Chinese New Year banquet, held in superb restaurant and organised by Sheila Dewar. Great food and great company, thanks Sheila.

So, all in all, Perth was a great break. One thing that did not go according to plan was to do with computers. You may remember that I mentioned that I would be carrying a wireless equipped lap top which, with a connection to my son in law’s broadband ISP would allow me to update the site. Not to be, Wanadoo or as they should be rightly named, Wanadoyou, blocked all attempts that I made to connect to their server. After much emailing to and fro, it seems I can only access when physically connected to their ISP in the UK. The best laid schemes of mice and men etc. So to the hundred of you (one actually) who sent me articles, I apologize.

Now the rub, and I would like your response to this. I’m thinking about going private with a domain and server, away from Freeserve/Wanadoo all together. The advantage would be that I could access and update the site from anywhere. I could also pass the great work on to a successor, if one turned up. It should also allow Front Page extensions, like hit counters etc.  What’s the rub, I hear you asking, well, about a hundred quid a year. Not an awful lot of dosh and a few small “donations” per annum would cover it. No, no sting at the present, but what do you think, a quick email would give me the temperature of the water and whether it was worth pursuing?

However, onwards, business class back to Hong Kong, another few days R & R, albeit in similar grotty weather conditions, tempered by a constructive visit to the Golden Shopping Arcade in Sham Shui Po. Weary feet leading to Someplace Else where, also, the food is as good as ever.

Finally checking the retiree website only to be depressed at the chanced of getting out of Hkg. Surprise, surprise, we wait listed on the Monday afternoon flight, appeared at the airport and got checked through right away, first class, bags gone, clutching two boarding passes and still thinking I must be dreaming. Not so, I’m at present sitting in first class with a glass of wine and churning out this dribble for your edification. I should get it on the site in a day or so after recovering from the not so bad journey. 

Cheers - Graham.

Into The Witch’s Cauldron - Brian & Anne (26th Dec 04)

The helicopter turns into wind and descends slowly towards the barren landscape below.   Thirty knot winds drive a relentless procession of waves onto the nearby shore as we drop between towering cliffs and settle unceremoniously onto the moon like terrain.  As the rotors come to a stop we step out into the hostile environment, equipped with hard hats and gas masks.  We had just arrived at White Island, New Zealand’s most active volcano!

Located in the Bay of Plenty, the Island is some 48 kilometres off shore and erupts on a regular basis every couple of years, the last explosive event being in 2001.   

"We're due for another one", Sam our pilot remarks casually, as if commenting on the weather and the likelihood of another shower. "Thermal activity has been increasing in the last couple of months and a few new vents have opened up"

One wall of the crater has been blown out, creating a rocky but gently sloping valley leading to our landing site near the ruins of an abandoned Sulphur Mine.  Established in 1885 the mine continued to operate until 1930 despite the death of 11 men in 1914 during a violent eruption.

.

We head off for the crater, picking our way between piles of rocks giving off wisps of steam like discarded slag heaps from a furnace.   A brittle crust of dry volcanic dust covers the high ground but the valleys between the rock piles are wet and soft, the result of recent rain and seepage from the volcano’s lake.  

"Watch where you walk” says Sam, " you can easily sink to your knees if you're not careful."   Instantly, Sam becomes our unchallenged leader and we follow obediently in his footsteps!

 As we make our way up higher, numerous small vents start to appear in the rocky mounds, giving off jets of steam.  Some are gentle with soft white plumes drifting on the wind, whilst others emit an almost invisible blast of superheated steam and gas with a continuous dull roar like a blow torch.    Deposits of bright yellow sulphur coat the high pressure vents and the air hangs heavy with the pungent odour of hydrogen sulphide (rotten egg gas).  Sam points out the latest vent which first appeared a month before our visit but has now grown to nearly half a meter in diameter. A constant and almost deafening roar accompanies the huge volumes of steam that shoot high into the air from its gaping yellow mouth. 

The clouds of steam and gas become thicker as we climb slowly towards the crater over a completely lifeless landscape.  The roar of the vents and the wind is continuous, broken only by the crunch of our boots on the hard volcanic crust.   Images of our planet in the beginning of time flash through one's mind.  This is really an eerie place.

Sam stops on a flat ledge and we move up to join him.  The swirling clouds of steam clear momentarily and there at our feet, just a few meters below, are the boiling, emerald waters of the crater lake!  Like a witch’s cauldron, the waters heave and swirl as currents rise from the depths whilst a continuous veil of steam dances across the surface. 

The lake is more than 23 meters deep but only a month ago the water level rose suddenly by more than a meter.   Along with the opening of new vents, the change in water levels has given rise to speculation that an eruption may not be far off.  Not a very comforting thought considering our position.   Perhaps we’ve lingered long enough.  

Reluctantly we retrace our footsteps to the ‘chopper’ and tick off yet another one of New Zealand’s extreme adventures

.

As a foot note, my internet research has just turned up the following information on Hydrogen Sulphide.    Apart from its unpleasant smell,    the gas is very toxic and one’s ability to detect it by smell rapidly diminishes upon exposure (and this we experienced), so one can be exposed to dangerously high concentrations without being aware of the danger.

And what is the danger?   I quote.  “A single breath of gas containing 0.1% of hydrogen sulphide may cause coma “!     I guess we were lucky this time but perhaps we should have worn those gas masks instead of just carrying them on our arms like useless bangles.

You Don't Have To Be Crazy, But it Helps. - Brian & Anne (19th Dec 04)

The glass doors slide silently open, allowing the cool breeze to enter and tug gently at my clothing.  I step up onto the platform, tightly gripping the stainless steel hand rails on each side as I move slowly forward.   Every ounce of self control I posses is focused on the task.  Half a meter from the end of the platform I stop and look down, 192 meters (630 feet) to the streets of Auckland far below! 

Half an hour earlier, Anne and I were standing in the Observation Deck of Auckland's Sky Tower admiring the stunning views, having arrived that morning for an 18 day tour of New Zealand.  An electronic message board flashed, announcing "a jumper in 30 seconds" and then shortly after, much to our amazement, a woman suddenly appeared outside the glass windows suspended by a thin wire cable!   She hung there, screaming, and then seconds later plummeted to the footpath in a semi controlled free fall!

"Absolutely no way!" I said as I shook my head in total disbelief at what I had just witnessed.  This was our first exposure to the kind of things New Zealander's call fun.  

Whilst flying has never been a problem, I've discovered I now have a serious problem with heights and even a 12 meter mast on a yacht might as well be Mount Everest as far as I'm concerned!

But not so for Anne! Ten minutes later Anne is being kitted out for the jump of her life !

I wait below on the footpath, video camera running as she steps off the platform high above and drops vertically to the base of the Tower.  I can't believe she's just done that, and then having enjoyed it so much, she backs up for a second jump! 

Some time back I wrote an article about exploring Cocklebiddy Cave on the Nullarbor Plains and used the following quote from a television commercial for motivation.  "When was the last time you did something for the very first time?” Perhaps it was time to once again step outside the square I lived in!

Near panic hits me as I look down at the streets below and I instantly divert my gaze to the horizon, trying to imagine I'm in an aircraft.  Brad, the Jump Assistant is talking to me, explaining what he's doing as he checks my harness and connects the cable and safety wires but I'm really not paying attention.  I'm not capable of paying attention; I'm completely absorbed in my own little battle, fighting to keep control.

"OK Brian, I want you to step up to the end of the platform now.  Good, that's it, now just lean forward." says Brad.

What!  Lean forward he says!   This is shear madness!    I can feel the cable on my harness holding me as I lean out over the void, 192 meters (630 feet) above the ground.  

"Go on the count of three” says Brad.  “Three, two, one, GO!”

The cable releases as I step out and plummet down, then almost instantly I'm jerked to a bone jarring stop two floors below the jump platform.  "Look up" yells Brad as he hangs over the platform and manoeuvres to take my picture. Then without further warning I'm released again and hurtle downwards, the speed of my descent increasing as I go.

Just when life in a wheel chair seems inevitable, the cable rapidly slows my descent and a firm but very survivable landing is achieved, not too dissimilar to that carried out by a certain B707 First Officer in Jakarta some years back!  (Now that's got you thinking).

"You want to do that again?” inquires the Ground Assistant.  

"You bet, but this time I'll enjoy it!”   I think I may have just cured my fear of heights! 

Walking back to our hotel that afternoon we kept looking up at the Sky Tower and the platform from which we had jumped.   We just couldn't believe what we had done.    But we were in the land of extreme sports and as they say, when in Rome .....

Thought you were supposed to wiser as you got older - G

Cabernets At The Cape - Brian Bawcombe (18th Nov '04)

"They'll be 20 wines to taste in total, but we'd ask that after the first 7, you move outside to the marquee where we'll receive comments." 

They've got to be bloody joking !  I'll be lucky to hear anything let alone say anything after I've tasted this lot !

Anne and I along with 13 other couples including Frank & Oggie Laity,  had been invited by our good friend 'Doctor Don" to the "Cabernets at Cape Mentelle" in Margaret River,  270 kilometres south of Perth.   There's about 180 people in total at the event, with many from overseas.

The weekend started with a wine tasting and superb lunch at the Watershed Winery, after which we checked into Basildene Manor in very high spirits on Friday night just in time for Happy Hour, what ever time that was !   As the night progressed the wine continued to flow , with good jokes and great company until discretion decided it was time to quit, particularly as tomorrow was to be the highlight of the trip.

'The Cabernets at Cape Mentelle' is an exclusive, blind tasting of twenty of the worlds best 2001 Vintage Cabernets.   Gathered from all over the world, they came from such outstanding vineyards as Chateau Lafite Rothchild and Chateau Margaux in France as well as other major wine regions like the Nappa Valley, Tuscany, Clare Valley, Coonawarra, McLaren Vale and of course Margaret River.

This was a first for me, but having had previous experience with such wonderful wines as Chateau Le Box Rough Red and some Portuguese Rose from Macau, I felt I was pretty well prepared for the event.  

We moved into the Cellars, where tables were set up with rows of glasses in groups of 20 on white table clothes, the first 7 containing their titillating samples.   Like being in church, a hush descended over the 180 participants, but then in turn each glass was raised, sniffed, swilled,  and then spat into nearby buckets ! 

What a waste, but not for this ole' boy !    Hell no, let it be known, I swallow !  

Hmm.. but after number 17 I was starting to have some difficulty writing down my comments although I was still able to clearly identify the contents as Red.  Now surely that had to be a good start !

What followed was the most fantastic day of fine wines and food, with the odd appraisal by visiting wine makers, journalists and connoisseurs from as far a field as the UK and France, to help educate us mortals in the appreciation of good Plonk !  

What ever happened to " it smells good, it tastes good, it is good" ?  Simple language that seems to have been lost on these poor souls that live and breath the fruit of the vine.

The following day saw us at Vasse Felix, again for more wine tasting and the most wonderful lunch before heading for home (on our chartered bus).

It's been a long time since I've had such a great weekend, and with the difficulty these days of obtaining replacement body parts, I kind of hope it will be some time before I have to repeat this experience

The Cruise Industry - David Baines (23rd Oct '04)

Graham, I mentioned to you some of the advantages offered to serving and retired airline staff  by the cruise industry. We have been sailing around quite a lot lately and there are some special price reductions offered for us if you have the right contacts, and I thought some of our ex-company layabouts might be interested

Our first cruise took place when I was supposed to retire from Cathay and booked a cheaper cabin, small, cramped and inside, on the Canberra whose departure from Hong Kong coincided with my  retirement date in March 1986. I was persuaded to stay on for another year ( we are scraping the bottom of the barrel ) and CX flew us back to Hong Kong as soon as we reached Southampton, but since then we have done nine other voyages with other cruise companies at airline prices, and we went off in September to sail from Vancouver to Florida via the Panama Canal, and expect to be in Barbados enroute to Valparaiso at Christmas

What we do enjoy about cruising is the opportunity of seeing a variety of places without having to pack a bag every night and having to move from place to place in less comfortable transport. For those who haven’t tried it there are caveats. It used to be that passengers paid realistic fares for the accommodation and onboard expenses were minimal. On the Canberra, dealing directly with P & O, we paid, from memory, about 65,000 HK$, (say 8400 US$) for a much inferior cabin, for the one month voyage on the Canberra, wine was about US$6:00 at the table and we drank at every meal except breakfast. Today the fares are much cheaper, but many things on board seem to attract a high extra charge, indeed one lady managed to run up a bill on the M/V Costa Riviera’s Health and Beauty Club that amounted to about 45% of the cruise fare. It was adjusted down after negotiation. On today’s ships the cheapest wines on most cruises start at about US$25 when the obligatory 15% tip is added on, which is difficult to pay after living in Andorra where wine is frequently given away with the meal. Some cruise lines object strongly to personal alcohol being brought on board, and Princess Lines, otherwise my 2^nd favourite shipping line, vigourously x-rays hand baggage carried on board at enroute stops, ostensibly for weapons, but at the one place up the Amazon, Boca de Valeria, where knives, spears, and poison arrows were on sale in the village, but no alcohol, the x-ray inspection was suspended when re-boarding. (there’s a clue here somewhere). They don’t seem to x-ray baggage for booze when you are joining, and I usually have 4 bottles in my large suitcase.

The other area of criticism is the ship’s excursions that are offered at enroute stops, and on the first voyage in retirement we sailed around the eastern Med. and paid US$ 109 per person to tour the Pyramids near Cairo on a forty passenger bus, where most of the journey centred round a cartouche factory that made gold plated amulets with the wearers name in hieroglyphics, and while we spent about 35 minutes at the Great Pyramids, the selected souvenir shop with special  prices (specially high) was allowed 1h:15m. From then on we arranged our own excursions by taxi at our own pace and about ¼ of the ship’s price.

Carry insurance. Veronika with a sore eye, needing eyedrops on the Oosterdam saw the ship's doctor who later presented a bill for US$204 including $60 for two and a half mls of Voltarene which sells in Andorra for Euros 4:55 for 5 ml. later I looked up to the mast to see if they were flying the Jolly Roger instead of the house flag. A friend travelling with us in the Med, and having an undiagnosed stomach ache, spent two nights in the ships ward and a day trip to a Dubrovnik clinic for an x-ray, was instantly cured when the bill arrived. $2500.

While I seem to be complaining about the pricing structure there are some ships that seem to charge a more realistic fare and give the booze away free, but I’ve not sailed with them and cannot comment, and with the cheaper fare and higher additional charges it at least allows the passenger to be selective

If there are daily ports of call, the ship board entertainment tends to fall off as the majority of passengers go ashore but for those days that are spent at sea, there is enough to satisfy even the most jaded tourist, although many are used as revenue earners, such as the casinos, bingo games, spa treatments, and even a $2 fee for the “guess the daily mileage” competition. (QE2) There is always an art auction, but for others there are lectures which can be interesting, I’ve even given some (astronomy and cosmology), quiz shows, films, Satellite TV in the cabin, and usually a well stocked library. It is possible to eat 24 hours a day, following breakfast with a mid-morning snack, lunch, afternoon tea, dinner and if the midnight snack isn’t enough there is usually free room service all night. Before our trip on the Canberra I exercised and dieted to 190 lbs and treated myself to 3 new suits from Sam the Tailor. When we reached Southampton, none of them still fitted, so beware.

How expensive is it? I expect to pay 25% to 45% of the published fare and unlike our airline status these aren’t on standby.

For example the cruise last month with Holland America’s Oosterdam (disappointing after sailing on the Rotterdam) for 23 days is US$ 3750 or $165 per day including meals, and entertainment. I arrange our own airfares. Tipping is actively solicited on most ships, and it ranges from $3 to $10 p.p.p.d It is not obligatory, but the tipless steward is probably the last person to handle your baggage when disembarking,  Literally.

Other fares range from $1400 for a week around Corsica on the Star Clipper, mostly under sail, and $6717 got us a mini suite with balcony for 33days on the Holland America, Rotterdam, our favourite ship so far,.for a 33 day cruise from New York via Greenland, to the Baltic with a two day stop in St Petersburg. The balcony on the return journey being on the north side of the ship wasn’t used much.. Our trip at Christmas, 15 days, is booked for $1800 for a superior ? cabin (All prices for two people)

Our most interesting journey on the Royal Princess, from Buenos Aires (well worth a visit) via Rio (a bit disappointing) and Manaus (1000 miles up the Amazon and a three day trek through the forest) and on to Devil’s Island (delightful spot. Where do I check in?) through the Caribbean to Fort Lauderdale. 33 days for , from memory, $5600. Princess had good floor shows in the evening’s entertainment.

If we have to fly a long distance to board the ship, we don’t do it for a short cruise.

There are several agents offering their services to the airline industry. We have used Dargal. com, who have advertised in the company news letter, Canadian  Interline 2000, and lately on the last few cruises, Kazzrie Jaxen, Kazzrie@theinterlineshop.com, an attractive and personable lady who works from Costa Rica, but offers a more personal service. She took the trouble to travel to meet us in San Jose. If you put your name on the mailing list you will get enough info on future cruises.

My e-address is on file and if any of our old chums want further comments on cruise lines, ships and ports of call, we haven’t seen it all of course but are willing to comment, and like some of our old management I never let my ignorance of any topic prevent me from giving an opinion.

The Pheonix ( Pajero) Arises - Brian Bawcombe (23rd Oct '04)

Out Of The Ashes .....

"Your vehicle is ready Mr. Bawcombe".  At long last the words I've been waiting to hear.

It's been a tough few weeks since the Pajero "spat the dummy" leaving us stranded in Kununurra.  We've had a lot of serious decisions to make along the way, not the least of which was what to do with the Pajero keys !

Repair or replace, and if the answer is replace, with what ?  Everything from crankshafts to engines and complete vehicles has been contemplated over many a glass of Margaret River Red.   And just when you think you've reached a decision,  a 4WD Magazine hits the shelves proclaiming your recent preference in replacement vehicles is not as good as it's major competitor ! 

But what of the poor Pajero, dumped unceremoniously in the 'Emergency Department' of the local Ford Dealership ?   

Workshop Supervisors, Head Mechanics and Apprentices assemble around the stricken vehicle, with fingers probing, heads shaking and eyes lowered.  The prognosis is not good.   

"I've seen this condition before"  declares the Service Manager, "and it's usually fatal.   We'll definitely need to remove the engine and strip out the crankshaft".

The chatter continues, and with it an image of my hard earned retirement dollars rapidly decreasing !   It appears that major surgery can not be avoided !   It's all too distressing, and I head for the comforts of home and a glass of Shiraz.   It's time for some serious thinking.

Replacing the vehicle seems like the obvious choice, besides, I've had a really good run from the Pajero and it's no longer a youngster.  With a new vehicle I'd have the benefits of improved reliability and warranty, and I could also convert to diesel, but then I'd have the additional expense of setting it up to "really do the job".  Bull Bar, Long Range fuel tanks, heavy duty springs and shock absorbers, radios, dual batteries etc.   Hmm... not to mention trashing another new vehicle in the bush with all those scratches.

Decisions are finally made and relayed to the Service Manager.   It's been difficult, but he agrees we're taking the right course of action.  Only time will tell.

I arrive at the Dealership to be ushered into the "New Car Delivery Bay".   There, in all it's glory sits our old Pajero, looking as sweet as ever !   Crankshaft repaired, timing belts replaced, injectors overhauled, radiator reconditioned and polished from top to bottom.   Our old vehicle is looking like a bunch of red roses !  

"You'd be mad to get rid of it," says Steve, Workshop Supervisor. " It's too well set up for what you do and there's really nothing wrong with it.  It looks like a new vehicle". 

Driving home I have mixed emotions.   I've passed up the opportunity to get a shiny new vehicle but then I feel at home in the old Pajero and now she sounds as sweet as a nut !

I must admit, I'm glad they cleaned it up.  Sometimes the dust and dirt that collects all over the vehicle, both inside and out, just makes you feel like dumping it, and then when it  fails mechanically in a serious manner as it did, one just wants to walk away.  

But if I did, what would the Toyota Fleet do without a Recovery Vehicle ?     Oh Lord, it's hard to be humble ............

Darwin Report By Brian Bawcombe (10th Oct '04)

Hi Graham,

Just back from the bush - report attached for the Cathay web site.   Not a happy ending this time but hey, sometimes it happens !

Will send some pictures to go with it in a second e-mail (to follow).  Use which ever ones you like. ( See below - G)

Both well but busy getting things back in shape at home.  The Pajero arrives in Perth to-day - we'll see what happens when I get it to a workshop.  Our good friend, Colin Lane is the local Ford Dealer and his guys are going to do the job - they've seen the problem before.  In the worst case it might mean fitting a new engine, expensive but as Colin says, I would pay all most as much on Stamp Duty on a new vehicle so maybe.

Trust all is well in the UK.  Take care.  Will be in touch.

Best Regards,

Brian & Anne.

Disaster Strikes.

A large black dog lies spread eagle on the shaded concrete floor at the entrance to the workshop, seeking whatever relief it can find from the oppressive heat.  We step over him and out into the blinding sunlight of the surrounding yard, kicking up small clouds of dust as we go.  It's the end of the dry season and the red dirt that covers the ground is as dry and fine as talcum powder.  The wind, like a blast from some nearby furnace, provides no relief  from the 39 degree temperature and serves only to spread the red dust over everything. There is no escape from it, everything is covered in dust - boots, clothes, vehicles. 

Mal climbs onto the bull bar and sticks his head under the bonnet of the Pajero, reaching down to the main drive belt pulley on the front of the engine.  It wobbles loosely in his hand, like the unrestrained breasts of an overweight belly dancer.

"The harmonic balancer is stuffed, mate," says Mal, owner and head mechanic of the Kununarra RAC Depot. 

"So how long will it take to fix ?" I ask, hoping for good news.

"Depends," says Mal, rubbing the stubble on his chin.  " If we can get a new one, a couple of hours". 

 Getting a "new one" in this case means flying one in from Perth (if they have one) over 3,500 km by road to the south !  

It seems like we left Perth ages ago, but it's only been a few weeks since we set out to explore the 'top end' with the usual mob (Iris and Ken Hart, Clarrie Turner and co-driver, Keith).  Darwin and the nearby National Parks of Kakadu, Litchfield and Katherine Gorge were our primary objectives but first we had to reach Alice Springs, in the 'red centre'.    Avoiding the black shinny stuff as much as possible, we headed out across the Gibson Desert on such famous Len Beadell tracks as the Gunbarrel Highway and the rarely travelled, Garry Highway. 

But right in the heart of the Gibson Desert's beautiful spinifex country, we stumble across a most delightful and remarkable family.   Earlier reports picked up on Ken's HF radio alert us to the plight of a vehicle with a broken spring, some twenty kilometres south of Windy Corner on the Garry Highway and we catch up with them just as they're about to re-commence their journey.

With a beaming smile that could disarm a battleship and child like excitement, the mother of three well mannered and beautiful young kids is almost overwhelmed by our arrival.  It appears we're the first vehicle they've seen in 6 days ! 

Stranded by the broken spring on their Off-Road trailer, they had camped here whilst her husband drove into Warburton, 400 kilometres away over some of the roughest and most remote tracks imaginable, to pick up replacement parts.  It had been a two day trip for him, leaving her alone with the trailer and kids in the desert.

Anne quickly assesses the situation (as only Anne can ) presenting the kids with a packet of delicious chocolate biscuits, straight from our refrigerator !    We then discover the husband had tried to buy chocolate for the kids as a treat, in the aboriginal community of Warburton, but there was none available.   Christmas, thanks to Anne,  had just arrived in the desert !

We push on, still blissfully unaware of the misfortunes that are yet to descend on our own little group of travellers. 

With most of the rough stuff now behind us, we're heading north from Alice Springs on good sealed highways, feeling very content with our lot when the first real disaster strikes.   Ken blows a tyre !  Whilst replacing the tyre at the next town, Clarrie discovers he's also picked up a puncture as well, on the very same stretch of  highway. 

As the days go on, so the failures continue.  Broken radio antenna, loose battery terminal, loose battery, all rather minor but then I forget to remove some camera batteries from overnight charge on the inverter and the next morning I've got a real problem.

My vehicle has been locked electronically using the Remote device, with keys in the ignition and selected to 'Acc' so the refrigerator keeps cool, all standard procedure.  But the inverter I accidentally left running has flattened the battery and now the Remote wont unlock the doors !   Five minutes work with two screw drivers and we've removed the small 'quarter' window from a rear door and gained access.  Hmm... it's really that easy to break in !   Putting the glass back in however, proves to be a bigger problem but a 3 hour round trip back to Katherine and some professional help gets the Pajero back into service.

Technically, everything seems to settle down after this and we're lulled into a false sense of security as we meander through the spectacular top end.  Swimming in the crystal clear thermal pools of Mataranka, surrounded by thick groves of palm trees, home to thousands of fruit bats or relaxing on a cruise through the incredible Katherine Gorge, the sights and available activities are almost limitless.

In Kakadu, the wetlands of the South Alligator River provide glimpses into the primeval world of nature.   The setting sun, turned into a huge red ball by the permanent smoke haze that hangs over this land, casts eerie shadows over these murky waters as Saltwater crocodiles (or Salties) some as long as 5 meters,  slide silently into the river and begin their nightly patrols.  These predators are considered to be the most dangerous of all crocodiles - real killing machines.

Aboriginal art, painted on rock walls, capture the history of these ancient people in amazing detail whilst spectacular rock formations dot the landscape.   Places like the gorge at Twin Falls are simply stunning, whilst the  towering cliffs at Jim Jim Falls, over 150 meters high, are overpowering as they loom high above an enormous 'croc safe' water hole at the base of the falls.

Smaller, fresh water (or Johnson River) crocodiles also inhabit the Top End and although they can grow up to 2 meters in length, they can only eat very small prey, rendering them virtually harmless to man.  A nasty bite could still be inflicted however, if they were annoyed.   A lot of the Top End bush swimming holes are inhabited by these fresh water crocodiles.

The City of Darwin, re-built after it was largely destroyed in the 70's by Cyclone Tracy,  is today a very pleasant destination.  We enjoy a couple of great days just relaxing and sampling the numerous good restaurants and pubs before heading South and back to the bush.

Litchfield National Park, just to the south of Darwin is a place of rugged beauty where spectacular water falls, gorges and swimming holes abound, even at the end of the dry season.  When in the Top End, a visit to Litchfield is certainly a must.

We continue further south, back tracking through Katherine and then west on the Victoria Highway, heading for Western Australia and home.  But a lunch break at a Roadhouse on the Victoria River reveals Gregory National Park to the south of the Highway and a final chance to pick up some 4WD trails on the way.   We decide to take the 300 kilometre detour, unaware of the fate that lies in store for us.

The gravel road is in good condition although large quantities of loose jagged rocks are piled up in rows between the wheel tracks and as usual, thick clouds of blinding, choking dust swirl up from behind our vehicles as we head south to the start of the Humbert Track.

Approaching a bend in the road I cross the central ridge of loose rocks, looking for a smoother ride and suddenly I'm out of control, heading for the bush at 90 kilometres an hour !   I come off the accelerator, hoping to let the speed wash off as I try gently to regain control before taking up residence in the scrub.   It's like the truck is on ice as it  finally slews back parallel to the road and I regain control  less than half a meter from the edge !  

"What the hell is going on ! "  I yell, or words to that effect but the tell tale signs of a tyre blow out quickly materialize and we roll to a gentle stop.    "Oh well, I guess it's my turn and at least we're not parked half way up a tree"   Unfortunately, my rather flippant remark  does little to re-establish Anne's faith in my driving ability.  In between long outbursts of almost unintelligible but extremely vocal Korean, I pick up odd hysterical phrases in English about  "viewing trees in side windows, not front windscreen  ! "   Hmm...Seems the land of the morning calm is experiencing storms.

With a quick wheel change soon behind us and the second spare still in hand we head off, but not too far.  This time it's Ken's turn,  but travelling slowly behind him through a gate, I spot the deflating tyre before serious damage is done.   Again we effect repairs and continue on to the start of the Humbert Track.  

Forever mindful of the wonderful techniques instilled in me by a certain Mr. Barlow during my early days "in company", I glance down at my instrument panel and casually scan the scattering of instruments and warning lights through the film of red dust which has now settled over everything.  Much to my horror and total disbelief, I discover I've got a warning light on !!!

"Hey guys", I call on the radio, "I've got a Generator light On"   

"Disconnect  ! "  yells Ken, or did I just imagine he said that.   Hmm... starting to hear voices these days.   Bad sign I think. 

A quick inspection fails to show any obvious faults except that the light only illuminates with the air-conditioning switched on and there may be a loose drive belt, but the engine is too hot to get one's hand in to check.

"No problem" I announce, "We'll just leave the aircon off, besides we'll be stopping very soon to set up camp.  I can look at it then". 

With the promise of another hot day, the belts are re-tensioned in the morning.    We'll be grateful for the air-conditioning.

Having remembered my old training I'm now doing regular scans of my instruments when suddenly, a further 10 kilometres up the track, the generator light is back on, this time to stay.  It has to be a slipping belt so again it's re-tensioned but this time, engine start produces instant and total failure.  The main drive pulley on the engine completely disconnects from the crankshaft.

The realization that the Pajero is now completely disabled, over 100 kilometres away from the nearest civilization, hits home and very little further reference is then made to the term "Toyota Recovery Vehicle".

Clarrie kindly offers to tow me to Timber Creek, through 40 kilometres of extremely rough 4WD tracks and wash outs, plus an additional 60 kilometres of gravel road.  These are real friends ! 

Warning:  Avoid this experience if at all possible !    No Power Steering, no Power Brakes, no air-conditioning and temperatures inside the truck reaching 45 degrees !    At best, my forward vision is restricted to the back door of Clarrie's Toyota, but often the dust becomes so thick that Clarrie's vehicle is not even visible although we're only separated by less than 4 meters of chain.   Clarrie's reluctant to slow up too much for fear I can't stop as we slide into dry creek beds with me literally standing on the brake pedal and hauling on the hand brake.   Then as Clarrie tries to power up out of the gully, there's a bone shaking snatch of the chain, catapulting us up the hill !

When we hit the road, we lengthen the chain hoping to travel a bit faster, but it occasionally drags on the road throwing up stones and pretty soon I've got a broken windscreen !  So it's back to one chain and 30 kilometres an hour  !  The Pajero is eating dust, big time !

Back on the Highway at Timber Creek we call in the services of the RAC.   Whatever happens, this is unlikely to be a quick fix so the decision is reluctantly made for the Hart's plus Clarrie and Keith to head for home.  The once mighty Pajero is picked up by the RAC and transported 225 kilometres to their Depot in Kununurra.

It's 10 am Wednesday morning.   We've been in Kununurra since Monday and assuming the part has arrived from Perth we should be on the road tomorrow, heading for home.  The phone rings.

"Hi, it's Mal here, at the RAC Depot.   We got your part yesterday and started to strip things down this morning, but ....."    My mind did not want to hear that word 'but'.   This could not be happening, a simple job once the part was here.  What was going on !   

"..... no matter what we try, we cant get the bolt loose."   The offending bolt holds the pulley on the crankshaft and it had come undone sufficiently to allow the pulley to detach from the shaft, but now the bolt was jammed solid !

"..... so the engine will have to come out, strip the crankshaft out and then we'll see if it's reparable or if we need to replace the crankshaft. "

I really can't recall my exact reaction to this stunning piece of information, but it most likely wouldn't be printable here anyway.  Suffice to say it was subsequently decided to have the disgraced Pajero taken to Perth on the back of a truck, where better facilities and expertise is available to tackle the (not unknown) problem, perhaps without the necessity for major surgery.  

In the meantime, Anne and I 'enjoyed' another two enforced days in Kununurra before we could get a flight out to Perth !

Just for the record, I'll update you on the final repairs when completed.   But it may well be that the time has come to finally hang up the Pajero keys !

Brian, you should be (are) a travel writer, but, what have you done to my trusty Pajero???

Czech This Out (28th June '04)

Rose and I have finally arrived back home after an epic two week drive through Europe to Prague.

We started by crossing the Channel by SpeedFerries new catamaran service between Dover and Boulogne. A fraction of the price charged by the cartel of P & O, Sea France and the Eurotunnel, it took only forty minutes in comfort. If interested, their website is "speedferries.com". I, personally, will use them again, weather conditions permitting.

Drove though torrential rain and finally gave it away in Gent, a nightmare of a city to drive through due to a new one-way street system. But, however, appreciated the rest, good food and pubs.

Next day, a marathon run to Kassel in Germany where we spent two nights recovering. Followed by another, similar marathon run to Chemnitz, also in Germany but just to the north of Prague. Both Kassel and Chemnitz are not worth a visit, I think because they got flattened during the bombing of WW2, and are typical post war new towns.

The two and a half hour run down to Prague the next day was on basic country roads and was delightful.

Checked into the Mercure Hotel in the Old Town area of Prague and cut a reasonable deal for staying longer than five days. I had the bright idea of flashing my Cathay Retirees Card and for the first time ever got a positive response, ending up paying only €82 a night. First time in nine years any hotel that I've used has given a discount on the card.

Anyway, for those of you who have visited Prague, you will know what I mean, but for others, what a fantastic place. Without doubt the most interesting city I have ever visited. Architecture, scenery, food and of course the marvelous Czech beer, leave nothing to be desired. Wonderful, friendly people and cheap, cheap, cheap - how about 60 p for close on a pint of the best beer in the world. If you've never been, go, go, go, but fly, don't drive.

I'll try to add a couple of photographs when I get them sorted out - took about five hundred - that's the problem with going digital

The drive back was alright but we took a more southern route, skirting Maintz. Did an overnight in a fantastic old worldly German Gaste Haus (hope that's how you spell it) in a lovely village, the name of which I can't pronounce, never mind spell. From there, we went non-stop to St Omer in the Pas De Calais hoping to get back across the channel a day earlier. Not to be, Boulogne harbour was closed due to the massive storm of a week ago.

Embarked the next day to listen to the skipper saying that conditions on the channel were pretty severe but all would be alright - shades of some pretty marginal Cathay captain's P.A's I've heard in the past. Anyway, much to our surprise, the crossing was fairly decent, with the catamaran really cutting though the swell. The only rolly-polly bit was when it had to slow down before entry into Dover.

So, glad to be back although we look forward to our next visit to Prague.

Latest Travel Tit-bit From Brian Bawcombe (14th May '04)

Back In The Bush.

Stretching 1,400 km from Laverton, Western Australia to Coober Pedy in South Australia, the Anne Beadell Highway is a far cry from the image of multi-laned, concrete and ashfelt super roads one normally associates with such a name. Carved through the Great Victoria Desert in 1962 by Anne Beadell’s husband Len and a small dedicated band of workers, the “Highway” is one of a network of 4WD tracks he created through the remote desert regions of ‘outback’ Australia and was the focus of our latest trip in the bush.

In company with Ken and Iris Hart, we abandon the sealed roads soon after leaving Perth and take to the bush as we head north east for the Helena and Aurora Ranges. The going is easy as we rapidly leave civilization behind, with scenery quickly changing from small towns and farm land to mining communities and thickly wooded hills.

Next morning, whilst taking a coffee break and congratulating ourselves for “discovering” such a great, isolated track so close to Perth, I climb a small rocky outcrop nearby and get the shock of my life. On the other side, not 200 meters away, is another 4WD group enjoying their own coffee break ! It seems even Western Australia is starting to get crowded.

Leaving our newly found friends behind, we continue to head north towards Menzies, but the track rapidly deteriorates and it soon becomes obvious that it’s rarely traveled. Overgrown and eroded by wind and rain, the track completely disappears at times forcing us to travel ‘cross country’ between the small sections that are still faintly visible. Whilst Ken’s Toyota and his Recovery Vehicle (my Mitsubishi Pajero) are both GPS equipped, it’s Ken’s Lap Top computer with moving map display that finally guides us through this desolate area. Constantly pushing through small trees and dense undergrowth soon leaves both vehicles looking like they’ve been rubbed back in preparation for a new paint job (and they probably need it), but a far less obvious and more serious problem had started to choke the very life out of the Toyota. It will be another 7 days before it’s discovered !

Three days out of Perth and 1,000 km later we reach Laverton, at the western end of the Anne Beadell and enjoy the comforts of camping in a Caravan Park before heading back out into the bush.

The western end of the Anne Beadell is almost like a highway and travel is fast and easy on well maintained tracks. The sand dunes on the Great Victoria Desert lie in an East / West direction so the majority of the trip is in the valleys between them.

About 200 kilometers east of Laverton lies the abandoned homestead of Yeo, restored to some degree and providing comforts like a well, shower enclosure and bush toilet. The homestead is a popular camping site and provides a glimpse of the harsh conditions that early settlers to this part of the world endured.

We pause for coffee at Neil Junction where our track intersects the Connie Sue Highway (another of Len’s tracks, named after his daughter) and sign the visitors book only to discover that both Anne Beadell and her daughter Connie Sue, had been through this area a little over a month before. Whilst Len died in 1995 , his wife and daughter often travel the tracks he created.

Further to the east we turn north for a few kilometers to visit the wreck of a twin engine Cessna which “ suffered a power loss “ and crashed whilst en-route to Warburton. With part of the starboard wing ripped off and both wing tip tanks torn away and ruptured, but no evidence of fire damage, one would have to suspect the loss of power was somehow connected to a severe shortage of fuel ! Hmm.. mustn’t jump to conclusions. Today only a shell remains, with anything of value having been stripped out long ago.

About 600 kilometers from Laverton we call in to the brand new Road House set up by the local Aboriginal community but manned and operated by Peter, his wife and three children. We soon discover that visitors like us provide a very welcome opportunity to engage in simple pleasures we take for granted, like conversation. With about 900 kilometers remaining to Coober Pedy and track conditions expected to deteriorate, I fill up with 190 litres of fuel before heading off.

To the west of Coober Pedy, the track enters the abandoned town site of Emu, in the Woomera Prohibited Area, a large military test site established after WW11. Emu, selected and surveyed by Len Beadell, was the location of the support base for two Atomic Bomb tests carried out by the British in 1953. Plaques mark the Ground Zero locations of both blasts and whilst it is safe to visit these sites, signs warn of higher than normal radiation levels and recommend limited time be spent in the area. We don’t need any further encouragement to move along !

Not far from Emu, is the Dingo Clay Pan and the 300 Mile Peg on the centerline of the Woomera Rocket Range. The Range was set up to test experimental rocket designs during the 50’s and 60’s. It was this facility and the requirement to track these rockets that resulted in Len Beadell pushing his ‘Highways’ across the continent.

We back track along the centerline of the Range and discover the 250 mile Peg but the going is tough through heavily overgrown tracks and the Toyota seems to be loosing power. Ken suspects his turbocharger is not working, but there is little we can do at this stage and push on to Coober Pedy.

At last the opal fields of Coober Pedy come into view and we head into town and straight for the nearest Motel - it’s been quite a few days since we’ve seen a shower !

Next day Ken is still complaining about "EPR shortfall” and sitting behind him on engine start I notice lots of thick black smoke pour out of the exhaust. “Hmm... a bit rich I would think”, says the engineer in me. At last, the problem that started on day two of the trip surfaces, literally.

Ken’s vehicle has been fitted with one of those black snorkel devices, attached to the mud guard and running up the side of the windscreen like an upturned elephant’s trunk. Great for keeping the air intake above water level when crossing rivers, but on the heavily overgrown tracks we encountered, it simply turned into the business end of a 6 cylinder, turbocharged garden mulcher ! Ken’s snorkel had been steadily consuming all manner of vegetation until it finally became completely choked and the tell tale evidence was plainly visible, protruding from the gaping intake like an abandoned eagles nest !

But finding the problem and fixing the problem were two completely different ball games. “We’ll take the filter off the bottom end and poke the rubbish through” says Ken, but not in this life time ! The snorkel was packed full of vegetation, jammed solid for it’s entire length !

We try poking it with a length of garden hose, a ‘straightened out’ wire coat hanger and even borrow the Motel’s vacuum cleaner, but nothing works. Removing the snorkel from the vehicle looked about as complicated as brain surgery as half the mud guard had to be dismantled, so this was quickly voted out.

In the finish an access hole was cut in the side of the snorkel and enough greens to feed a small horse were finally extracted. Satisfied that all was clear the access flap was bent back into position and secured with - yes, you guessed it - speed tape ! A wonderful invention. All future encounters with the green, leafy stuff were handled by rotating the top of the snorkel so that it faced rearwards.

Traveling back to Perth via the Nullarbor Plain we once again abandon the ‘black stuff’ and pick up the old Eyre Highway and then a series of dirt tracks which enable us to visit some of the hundreds of caves in this area. All of the caves we visited feature large sink holes in the surrounding limestone, some of which are inaccessible without serious climbing gear - not for this novice - but others have relatively easy access. The caves vary tremendously as well, from small overhangs to some very extensive systems such as Cocklebiddy Cave, visited on a previous trip.

But with the aid of some internet research, I turned up 3 caves listed as the ‘Nullarbor Deep Caves” and we planned to visit two of them. We find the first cave is totally inaccessible (for us) with sheer rock walls descending 15 or 20 meters to the bottom of the sink hole and the cave entrance. We’re disappointed but head off to the second site.

This time we’re in luck and discover a gently sloping wall on one side of the sink hole. We climb down to the cave entrance which is partially blocked by rock falls from the wall above, but ducking under a low rock ledge, we easily gain access.

Abrakurrie Cave is simply stunning ! At it’s narrowest point it’s some 30 meters wide, the floor drops away to a depth of 70 meters below the surrounding Plain, whilst the roof opens up from a minimum of 15 meters to a staggering 30 meters above our heads.

There is only one passage, the walls being smooth and easily followed even if one were accidentally plunged into darkness by equipment failure. We decide to explore and leave a large lantern about 150 meters inside the cave, where it curves at 90 degrees away from the entrance. This is the furthest point at which daylight penetrates and the entrance still remains faintly visible. Another 90 degree turn in the opposite direction completes a large ‘ S ‘ bend which then opens into the main cavern.

With spare torches turned off and kept as back up, we continue through this huge cavern to the very end of the cave, some 500 meters from the entrance. It’s like some enormous cathedral, or Waterloo Station, or an aircraft hanger. We simply can’t take it all in, our lights are no where near powerful enough to fully illuminate it’s vastness.

The air hangs heavy with humidity, the floor scattered with rocks and the bones of animals washed in during floods and trapped by the darkness. We switch off our lights momentarily and are plunged into this total ’ cave darkness’ - there is zero light and eyes will never adjust - not something one wants to experience if it’s an unplanned event !

We want to linger and soak up the magic of this massive underground theatre but we don’t want to push our luck or worry the Hart’s waiting patiently outside. Reluctantly, we retrace our foot steps and climb back into the brilliant sunshine outside. This is definitely a place worth revisiting.

Apart from the thrill of exploring caves the Nullarbor is an absolute delight for wild life. Dingoes are in abundance and kangaroos in mobs, dozens at a time, race across the flat and treeless landscape. We even catch a fleeting glimpse of the elusive wombat as one rushes across the track in front of us, startled by our sudden intrusion to his world.

Oh, and just for the record, The Toyota Recovery Vehicle did not fare so well this time - two punctures, a broken Radio Antenna, a loose radiator hose, and a broken head light protector. And the Garden Mulcher, I mean the Toyota - broken head light protector, loose battery terminal and of course the mobile birds nest.

I guess it’s about 2 : 1 in the Toyota’s favor but as they say in the movies, . . it happens !

Plus A Piece From Ken Hart:

Graham - What a clever fellow young Bawcombe is!!  Not only does he plan and prepare the trip, but he produces an excellent account of our epic.  Moreover, his criticism of my wonderful Landcruiser is so gentle that I will refrain from casting aspersions on his brave little Mitsubishi.  I will say though, if you enjoyed the book watch for the film.  It is a little known fact that Brian is not only an erudite author; he is also a very competent film producer. 

We were very fortunate with the weather for our journey into the outback:  the daytime temperatures were in the high twenties, ideal for travelling, while the night cooling allowed us to appreciate our campfires all the more.  Here, once again, Brian proved a stalwart. During the trip he was both instructed and examined in the art of campfire husbandry by the talented 'Ranger Bill' (AKA Iris).  I understand he passed with flying colours and is now entitles to the appellation  'Assistant Ranger (Pyro)'.   Well done. 

Camping under the stars is a large part of the attraction of Outback travel.  And here the moon played its part.  On the first week it shone through most of the afternoon and went to bed early leaving the sky to the millions of bright stars -  skies you can only find in the clarity of a desert.  During week two, the moon grew to its full size and rose just after nightfall,  adding romance to our campfire reveries.

I've append some pictures of Brian's fires and the moonlight. (See above)

Yours Ken Hart

Once I Had A Secret Love (19Feb '04)

Way back in the days of the old Cathay13 site an interesting article on travel in the Australian outback, complete with photographs was contributed by Brian Bawcombe. One picture was omitted, possibly for recriminatory reasons, But now, I just have to insert it.

True love will always prevail.

Return Of The Pink Panther (19th Feb '04)

Any of you who can't remember Alan Miller alias The Pink Panther has either lead a very sheltered life of wasn't with Cathay very long. Besides a highly successful career as a Skipper with Cathay (I could relate a tale of his first flight, on a Convair 880, with Roger Stuart as F/O and me as F/E, but that's probably best kept a secret) Alan wrote for Fragrant Harbour. Now for the first of a series of oracles (I hope) I give you his:

HONG KONG GLIMPSES: A JOURNAL, MARCH 2 - MARCH 8, 2003.

The Holiday Inn Golden Mile. A room similar to the one I had back in October '01, smaller, but with the same view - the arse end of Chungking Mansion with pigeons crapping on the window ledges. I feel instantly at home.

Walking around Tsim Sha Tsui and taking in the smells. Not like the smells of Manila - smells of urine and filth - but smells of Chinese cooking, so varied and so tempting. I'm hungry already.

Even Ned Kelly's Last Stand has its old familiar smell. My daughter-in-law, Nicole, said it was the smell of stale beer and rotting wood and she's probably right. At least it's consistent. And so is the old Chinese waitress with the Aussie accent who calls everyone "darling."

Unlike the Philippines where the dogs and the roosters wake me every morning at three, nights here are quiet. When I get back to OZ my priority will be to find a quiet environment.

Pommie in the Kangaroo Pub, well groomed, hair brushed back, grey glasses, posh accent, dark suit, white shirt with tie, condescending attitude. He wags his finger at the waitress, "No, no, no, no," he blabs. I don't know what he's on about but the waitress walks by me and whispers, "He's an arsehole."

Walking down Haiphong Road toward Silvercord when I sense my wife and daughter who are back in the Philippines. I'm across from the Ornamental Garden Park where they used to play on the swings and the slides while I was seeing my bank manager. I'm suddenly lonely and wish they were here now.

Rick's Cafe: sitting here, the only person in the place, ignoring the music but looking at the faces on the posters - Humphrey Bogart, Lauren Bacall, Marilyn Monroe and others. And James Dean with blond hair brushed back, eye to eye contact, a stern "don't dare me" look, red '50's jacket, holding a cigarette in his right hand with finger pointing left and left hand indicating his crutch. Trying to paint my own reason onto those faces long gone. It's like this every time I come here - the song playing now, "Move Your Body Real Close" is appropriate - even though those bodies have long gone, although in this place they seem to have been resurrected. Weird but true. It also takes me back so many years to the old Rick's Cafe that my sons, Dave and Gwam, used to frequent. While thinking about the old days comes the song, "Oceans Apart" - how true - so lonely, and as miserable as the weather - cold and wet.

The most annoying things about Tsim Sha Tsui are the Indian touts. I had the same problem last time. They are everywhere. If they're not trying to drag you into their tailor shops they are trying flog you fake watches. I usually make no eye contact and ignore them, but once in a while I am forced to say something like, "Piss-off rag-head."

"Ah, but I am not wearing a rag head I am telling you."

"No, it's between your ears."

The next most annoying thing is the number of Americans and their loud mouths.

The Kangaroo Pub: The American Bunch - a woman speaks, "Heart pounding and couldn't breathe - knew from the first time I saw him I would jump his bones." Shrieks of laughter. Serial bullshit with each trying to outdo the other with their romantic and "funny" stories. Peer pressure gone mad - and these are supposed to be adults - a scene right out of the worst of American soaps.

A guy from the other side of the bar comes over. "I believe you're the Pink Panther," he says. He's Garry Standen who later introduces me to another Cathay pilot, Kev Beech. Kev reckoned that I did his final command check. He said that on the final sector to Hong Kong I went back to first class and didn't reappear until just before touchdown. How's that for confidence?

Early afternoon in Wanchai. Stop for a beer in The Old China Hand. It's changed and now has an open front with a street view. Boring. Reminds me of an Aussie public bar. Go to a new place called the Mes Amis. No draft Carlsberg so I order a bottled one. Forty nine Hong Kong dollars for 330 millilitres! That's over 10 Aussie dollars! At Bali Hai in the Philippines I can buy almost 12 bottles for that.

Crossing the walkway to the Wanchai Star Ferry and look back at the Luk Kwok Hotel, the hotel that was used as the model for the film "The World of Suzie Wong" and I'm instantly back in 1960.

In 1959 when I was working for Qantas in Port Moresby I read Richard Mason's book, "The World of Suzie Wong." I didn't realize it at the time, but that book was to change my life. I had a weeks vacation and decided to give Hong Kong a look. I looked, I liked, and I stayed - and I have lived in Asia ever since.

Crossing from the World Wide Plaza to the Peninsula Centre and have to walk through the corridors of a building that is under renovation. The walls are decorated with some of the best photographs I have ever seen. All of Hong Kong, tightly cropped, each with a specific depth of field, and each conveying its own message. Reminds me of some of those my son took back in October '01. If I had a camera I would photograph the photographs.

Rick's Cafe: 18:10 - freezing with strong smell of disinfectant. Eyes watering and nose running - pew! No DJ and I'm the only person here again - I wonder why.

The DJ arrives, plays a few songs that mean nothing, but then, "I Still Have The Blues For You." Suddenly my mood is changed and I'm back as part of the place as I used to be.

The P&O cruise ship Aurora docked yesterday. Today the QE II docked, dwarfing the Ocean Centre. Item in the South China Morning Post says that the Ocean Centre is not big enough to take the P&O Queen Mary and it won't be coming to Hong Kong.

Red Lion Inn: At the bar. He lights a cigarette. Bald, glasses. "My girl friend here is Bavarian," he says to the bloke perched at the bar next to him. From what I can see he means barbarian: she smokes, is fat and bloated, hair like a floor mop dyed red, and wears dirty grey running shoes. Back to the bloke - Aussie accent, dark shirt and trousers with flip-flops - a real class act.

About 10 Thai girls work here and they are all expert "under-the-table gropers", much to the amusement of the passers-by, since the door is always left open. Innocent customers off the QE II looking for a quiet drink get quite a shock. So do their wives!

The plaque reads, "On this spot in 1859 nothing happened." This is Someplace Else in the Sheraton Hotel where Jennifer, my 5 year-old daughter, lost her balloon. Now I'm seated at the balloon table next to a Yank - he's on his mobile with a loud, high-pitched voice - "That would be so wonderful, yes, yes. Oh, nice! You are so kind." His meal arrives. Set down. "Oh perfect, perfect, how can I ever thank you?" Later gets up and minces up the stairs. A raging poof.

When I arrived on Sunday the temperature was about 20 with a little drizzle. Now, four days later, it's down to 10 with a strong NE wind. Just bought a pullover but the wind simply rips through it. This is the coldest I have been in 13 years. It's almost too cold to go out for a beer. Almost.

It's my last day and I still haven't seen a Chinese girl I would call beautiful. To me they have several problems: their rat's-tail hair cuts, their unsmiling faces, their lack of eye contact, and their rush to get someplace unimportant.

Back in the Philippines:

The L.A. Cafe in Ermita, Manila, on the site of the old Rosie's Diner - a bloke, skinny as a rake, head thrust forward with jutting nose and a chin like a second nose, but inverted. He's sitting at the circular bar smoking while a Filipino "masseur" massages his right hand, then his neck and upper back. Puffs smoke and looks at himself in the mirror. Smiles. Another raging poof.

It's mid afternoon and already the place is packed with hopefuls, prostitutes, and poofs. A girl in a red dress comes to my table. "Hello," she says. We make small talk and when she figures she isn't onto anything she goes out the front door. I can see her through the window checking her chances. She comes back. "Hello," she says as if she had never seen me before.

p.s. Alan's now ensconced back in Oz, hope we hear from again soon - G.

Useful Travel Web Sites.

www.dargal.com Interline Travel, could be of use.