We bypassed Perth altogether in favour of  its famously funky neighbour, the small town of Fremantle. Our time there was uniformly lovely.  We ate fish and chips on the beach at sunset, whiled away a particularly pleasant afternoon playing some sort of Italian version of boules in the Little Creatures (Oz’s best beer) brewery/pub, and checked out Cottesloe beach, a dazzling stretch of sand populated entirely by implausibly attractive teenagers with enviable tans. One of the many reasons for laid-back Fremantle’s popularity is the profusion of delightful restaurants to be found there, each with tables spilling out on to the pavement; we couldn’t help but treat ourselves to a delicious Italian meal. And Rottnest island – imagine paradise crossed with a rather upmarket Butlins – lies just off the coast. We caught a nausea-inducing catamaran across the water and hired bikes to explore the coves and yet more gorgeous beaches. I weighed up cycling 30 k against lounging on the sand, and, unsurprisingly, chose the latter whilst newbie-cycling-supremo Sam tackled the gruelling, if ever so pretty, route around the island. And despite the enervating heat, and the fact it was full of long-termers, our hostel, the Old Firestation, was relaxed and friendly – a perfect way to say g’day and g’bye to Australia.

Arriving in Bali was a shock to the senses – but an altogether pleasant one. After the development and Western-ness of Australia and New Zealand, the explosion of colours, sights and smells re-ignited my passion for travelling. It felt just like being back in South America. And it rocked. I was so excited in the cab from the airport to our first stop, the relaxed coastal town of Padangbai, that I could hardly sit still. We drove past scenery the likes of which I – an Asia virgin – had never seen before; rice paddy fields, magically ornate architecture and exotic-looking statues of multi-limbed gods and godesses. The weather was distinctly tropical – hot, humid sunshine giving way to torrential downpours.

Bali is cheap cheap cheap, and brilliantly set up for travellers. It’s tiny, so it’s easy to get around, accommodation is high quality and plentiful, and the food is simply delicious. We luxuriated in our own room, open air bathroom and next morning’s breakfast of banana pancakes and fruit served on our own balcony, in the midst of absurdly lush gardens. Bali is the only Hindu province in Muslim Indonesia, and the vibrant, colourful culture was instantly easy to appreciate.

We spent just one night on mainland Bali before catching a boat over to Gili Trawangan, one of three tiny beach islands off the coast of Lombok, the next island along in the Indonesian archipelago. With white-sand shores, great snorkelling, friendly locals and travellers not to mention a dazzling array of fantastic restaurants, cafes and bars, many many more of each than you’d expect for a place so small, it was no wonder we ended up staying 8 days. Although we had not-so-cleverly decided to visit Indonesia during the rainy season, for the most part the weather held, and we were treated to at least a couple of hours sunshine a day. When it rained, however, it poured, and the tiny streets were soon flooded, meaning we waded from ‘town’ back to our bungalow through knee-deep, stinking water – rain mixed with copious horse droppings from the ubiquitous (except for at that moment, natch) horse and carts. Luckily, as well as the beach, Gili Trawangan offered a few distractions; covered gazebos stuffed full of cushions just perfect for getting cosy and playing highly competitive games of yaniv and scrabble, cycles for hire in order to (very quickly) explore the tiny island, and even, winningly, one bar with gazebos fitted out with tvs and dvds. Spending just a couple of quid on food covered a free movie, right on the beach. Each night, a different bar hosted a party – the best being upstairs at the Blue Marlin, where a great sound system blaring old school classics, and supercheap paintstripper local vodka kept us dancing til the early hours.

After eight days though, with skies getting greyer and giant storms more frequent, we set off for our next destination.

Ubud, although far from a party scene, is entirely intoxicating. It’s Bali’s arts and cultural centre, and with its maze of attractive streets lined with quirky, fashionable, shops, mouthwatering restaurants and agencies offering an array of activities  it’s easy to see why some people never leave.

On our first day there, Sam and I joined Eco-Educational Tours on a cycling trip through the Balinese countryside. Our fun-packed day began with a hearty breakfast of nasi goreng – Indonesian style egg-fried rice – pancakes and fruit at a posh restaurant overlooking a stunning volcano crater, its smouldering peak visible in the green distance. From there we were driven to a coffee plantation, where we sampled the world’s most expensive variety of the drink – one made from beans picked from the poo of luwaks . I AM TOTALLY SERIOUS. Apparently, buried deep in the shit of these weaselly fox-cat-creatures  is a delicacy. And it tasted, well, of coffee. An anti-climax maybe, but it easily could have been worse.

We picked up our bikes soon after, and began a three hour, mercifully downhill route to our destination. It was jaw-dropping. We cycled past temples and villages, beautiful, clear-skinned and doe-eyed kids lining the roads and shouting their hellos, insisting on high-fives from the members of the group able to extracate their hands from the handlebars without a death-swerve into the road, and bright red flags advertising various political parties standing in the upcoming Indonesian elections. We stopped at a family compound to see how Balinese people who live outside the tourist centres live. This family were pretty poor by our standards, and their wood-fire stove and bamboo weaving business reminded me forcefully of our time in the Ecuadorian jungle. The compound, which housed a small temple in the corner, was decorated by the leaf, incence and flower offerings that the Balinese routinely leave for their huge pantheon of  deities.

Our next stop was at a rice paddy field, where we watched the women beat the stalks to free the grains. It is hard, hard work in the unrelenting sun, and we had masses of respect for the wizened, incredibly strong women carrying it out.

Following the optional 45 minute uphill portion of the ride, for which I *may* have ridden in the car, we were presented with a lunch of indescribable yumminess. Balinese specialties of smoked duck and chicken, sati-esque gado-gado, tempe and tofu were all on the menu, and we stuffed our faces, highly impressed with this exceptionally professional organisation. The tour group were lovely too, including two jammy French teachers – in Bali for an educational conference (yes, they were working VERY hard…), an older lady who worked in international development and lived full time in Jakarta, and one fellow backpacker, still high from his recently finished six-week Goan adventure.

On the way back to Ubud, we stopped at the Sacred Monkey Forest Sanctuarly , an aptly named tract of ancient land home to around 400 long-tailed macaques. These monkeys are far from shy, sniffing out any food visitors have on them, and delving into pockets and bags to locate it. Within the parks environs are also a pretty temple and some algae-covered, fantastical statues – komodo dragons and plenty of nighmarishly beautiful demons hidden amongst winding staircases and behind huge and bulging trees.

The next day, we enrolled on a cooking course, eager to recreate the tastebud-tickling cuisine we’d enjoyed so far. Although the lesson wasn’t quite as hands-on as I’d have liked, we still had fun traipsing around the pungent market and learing the secrets of lots of specialities.

Although we’d heard Ubud was rainer than much of the rest of Bali, the weather-gods were clearly smiling on us, as day after day dawned hot, bright and sunny. We were glad we’d splashed out for a pool (ahem) and spent the afternoons lazing by it, topping up the tan, just for you folks at home next week…

The rest of our time in Ubud has been spend shopping for long-overdue presnents and souvenirs, drinking local wine in restaurants and taking it easy. In fact, three hours trekking in and out of stores in the blazing heat made my muscles ache. There was nothing for it but to indulge in a traditional spa treatment – and at less than a tenner for a full-body massage, traditional spice wrap and flower bath, it would have been rude not to. I floated out of the treatment room two hours later.

Readers, I apologise heartily if this post comes across as smug. I ADORE Bali, and am only too aware of the fact that I’m writing this in a sweltering internet cafe with but four-days left of this trip of a lifetime. If I’m milking it, cut me some slack. And laugh at my jobless shivering next week, when I’m back on your freezing shores…

xoxo.

PS – our memory card is playing up – so still no photos. SARRY!!!

(HMMM… Am writing this on a FREE hostel computer, just before we leave Oz for good – and it’s banned uploads, so I can’t give you any photos. You’ll just have to imagine… or hop on Facebook.)

One of Melbourne’s many, many charms is that this glorious city is a mere forty-minute car ride from one of the most spectacular drives in the world – the aptly named Great Ocean Road. Since Sam and I had decided on a home-date that was far too near for either of our liking, it seemed churlish not to splash out on hiring a car, and drive, drive, drive…. The Great Ocean Road runs along Australia’s gorgeous south coast from Torquay – a small, decidedly un-English town who’s claim to fame is that it is birthplace of surfing – to Adelaide. We weren’t going that far, but planned to take in the jaw-dropping scenery, freaky-deaky animals, some inland rainforest, and of course, the Twelve Apostles rock formation, one of the most photographed attractions in the country.

Our first stop was the pretty, up-market seaside town of Lorne, but on route to it, we detoured to Anglesea (no, Ozzies can’t be bothered to think up their own names for towns) where kangaroos are a 5* guarantee. Some of you dear readers are aware of my slight obsession with kangaroos. I know many many facts about them. And now I have seen one, well, three. That they were kinda small, semi-tame, and living on a golf course did nothing to dampen my enthusiasm. I thought that they wouldn’t be the last kangas we’d see, as the winding beachside road was studded with signs like this.

SEE ABOVE COMMENT!!!! You know the kinda thing I mean, right?

(In actual fact, I managed to miss the two roadside ones Sam saw as it was DARK and I was driving at 100kph. I did glimpse an ex-kanga bleeding onto the ground though. Kanga = roadkill down under…)

The three days of driving, from Lorne to Apollo Bay to Port Campbell were as breathtaking as we’d hoped. What’s more, having a car stereo was a serious novelty, and our 80’s megamix singalong would have given Simon Cowell an aneurism. Around every sweeping curve of the road was another unbelievable blue sea view. When the cars in front of us skidded to a sudden halt, we were treated to the sight of uber-cute koalas, hugging their trees, and knawing on their little paws. Ahhhh. Still, I store fathomless depths of fascination for odd animals, and kangas and koalas weren’t enough. I was after platypuses. So we booked a boat tour to find them. WHAT A RIP OFF.

For a start they are *practically* invisible, incredibly shy and NO FUN WHATSOEVER. We sat in two kayaks tied together on a markedly chilly evening searching for, and I’m not exaggerating here, silvery streaks in the water which were, apparently, fabled platypus. (That’s the plural. That is also all we learnt on the tour…) These animals are venomous like reptiles, suckle their young like mammals, and lay eggs like birds. They are the oldest living mammal in the world by an unthinkably large margin. But they remain, to me at least, utterly elusive.

A highlight of Sam and my road trip (other than the sound of our sweet voices joined in song and the music video of Road to Hell that despite our recording 10 separate versions from the window remained shit) was seeing the 12 apostles. They are huge rock stacks out in the water, which eerily change colour at sunset. After seeing them once in the daytime we headed back that evening for more. And along the coast, smaller stacks mimicked them, some almost as beautiful, all set in blindingly blue pounding surf.

We headed back to Melbourne for Christmas though, keen to spend the day with friends.  We were invited to a waifs and strays sort of Ozzie Christmas at some friends of our lovely hosts, and were treated to the following:

• Glorious sunshine all day long.
• Copious amounts of fizzy wine and cocktails.
• Cold turkey and MOUNTAINS of proper veg.
• Real gravy.
• Kangaroo sausages.
• Lots and lots more than this.

We ate our weight in Xmas food, which is how it should be and the universe went to bed happy. And fat.

Boxing day was spent in that familiar hungover stupor, made a zillion times better by the fact we were in Australia, so could have bbqs, play Trivial Persuit and inspired pop-themed board game Spicks and Specks, and consume all the most important food groups (blue cheese, red wine, posh chocolates, white russians) outside in the garden.

Our hosts Tina and Kate spent the next few days showing us the best Melbourne, who is a temptress of a city and utterly seduced both Sam and I, had to offer. From delicious dinner in the laneways (it was our anniversary), relaxing on the river, lawn bowls (a sport not only for those a little longer in the tooth down here), fish and chips on the beach at St. Kilda, fantastic galleries and even better shopping literally everything we did was brilliant. The girls were especially great when I had some sad news from home that made me feel very far away indeed.

New Year’s Eve was rather different from my last four, where I was a hostess with the mostest at the 3 The Verge NYE spectacular. Going to someone else’s party was a damn sight less stressful. Deonie and Jo – more friends of Sam, Tina and Kate, live in a rambling hippy-ish house down the road with a touch of the commune about it. There was a yurt in the garden, live bands, DJs and even a conveniently placed hill across the street from where we could watch the city’s fireworks. Needless to say, we danced til dawn.

Of everywhere we’ve visited, Melbourne is the place I’d love to live. I’d love to get to know it better, to find its hidden nooks and crannies. I was completely charmed by the place.

Still, with Perth and Bali calling, we simply couldn’t stay forever…

Big Cities, Blue Mountains

Safely back on Sydney soil, the weather turned against us and the city was drenched in a supposedly summer downpour. Clearly, the solution was to go shopping. For design-you-own havianas, mainly. We met up that evening with Simon Houghton, an old friend from London and had a most enjoyable catch up drink or few. It was a satisfying novelty to talk about friends from home with someone other than Sam.

We’d moved to a new hostel, as we were feeling that we’d been a little unsociable since arriving in Oz. It was a mistake. A 28-bed dorm filled entirely with eighteen year olds is never a good idea. Especially when one of the pimply, flabby, male inhabitants decides to sleep au naturel and give you an eyefull of, erm, shock, first thing in the morning… The much-advertised free wine and cheese night did not live up to even my low expectations. Goon – the boxed urine-vinegar that poses as wine in these parts – is entirely to blame.

Still, our not-really-very-troubled-at-all souls were soothed by tackling the Bondi to Coogee beach walk – a two hour tramp along the gorgeous coast, through seaside villages and beaches packed with the archetypal Sydney surfers. It was h-o-t out there, and we rewarded our strenuous efforts with a dip in the freezing sea at the other end.

Despite our apparent failure to make friends in Sydney, one of eastlondoncurl’s favourite parts of travelling is meeting new people. In Inca capital and Peruvian tourist magnet Cusco, we made the acquaintance of Sydneysiders Ingrid and Matt at a huge party on a hill overlooking the town. It was a fortuitious event, as the twosome took fun just far enough that night, and invited us to stay at their place whilst they showed us around when we got to Sydney. Pizzas and cocktails at their plush pad on bar-strewn Oxford Street gave way to a night of devilish dancing at The Colombian, and heavenly relaxation on their balcony overlooking the city. What 28-bed dorm? we wondered…

Once recovered from the weekend, we took ourselves back to the Botanical Gardens to marvel anew at the lush views and point and squeal at the preposterously loud and large bats, curiously wide awake mid-afternoon.

Bats are so damn weird. What made mice evolve with wings?

Sydney is huge, and the Blue Mountains region, a two hour train ride away, is considered a far suburb by some. It’s an area of outstanding natural beauty, and Sam and I headed there the following day.

Roses are red, mountains are blue.

The scenery really does have a bluish tinge, at least from a distance, and close up the rainforest, canyons, and famous Three Sisters rock formation didn’t disappoint.

The Three Sisters

The jungles of South America felt a world away, as we entered slick Scenic World, the home of the world’s steepest railway, cable cars, skytrains, and boardwalks all perfectly placed to give tourists unbeatable, if slightly crowded views.

Sam gets arty.

In case you were wondering, despite it being December 20th it really doesn’t feel like Christmas. It’s not just the sunshine; Aussies are far more laid back about the festive season. Decorations and carols are there, but minimal. Blue Mountains residents have cleverly got round this, and the long winter that’s uninterrupted by Santa, by inventing Yulefest, a July mock-Christmas held each year. And for that, I have the utmost respect for them.

We spent two days in the Blue Mountains, hiking along the Grand Canyon walkway, visiting cutesy towns like Leura, and gorging on waffles and cream teas.

 Everyone we spoke to was incredibly lovely and helpful, but nevertheless the place had a touch of the twilight zone about it. Perhaps it was the almost-deserted, old-fashioned and decidedly creepy guesthouse we chose…

Back in Sydney for less than 24 hours, we crashed again at the flat of brilliant Ingrid and Matthew before catching our early-morning plane to Melbourne. And there, once again hostels became a distant memory, as we were enjoyed the hospitality of Sam’s friends from her last trip to Oz, Tina and Kate. Their flat, in the Brunswick district of the city is cosy, sun-filled and full of interesting knick-knacks and photos.

After a nap, we headed out to Fitzroy, an area famed for its independent shops, bars and restaurants. For some reason, possibly because I was inexplicably equating it with Wellington in my head, I didn’t have especially high expectations for Melbourne. But after just half an hour in town I was entirely sold on the place. We hadn’t seen much of it but it was immediately clear that this city was funky, friendly, independent and lots of fun. Fitzroy’s Brunswick Street is brimming with great bars, cheap, unusual clothes shops and beautiful, stylish people. Plus we discovered a bar called Ginger’s with literally the best cocktail list I have ever seen. It would have been quite, quite rude not to spend some of the cash we’ve saved by avoiding hostels on trying a few. The taste lived up to the lavish descriptions….

Australia

Australia the movie by Baz Luhrmann? Turgid, interminable, saccarine dross. Australia the country? Huge, sprawling, and judging from a mere week in its borders just lovely…

After a romantic reunion on the streets of ever-so-English Christchurch, the girlf and I left NZ in a blaze of aeroplane chemical trail and relieved laughter. Our destination was Sydney, where Sam once spent a charmed six months, where she fell in love (with the city…), and to where she took tentatives steps toward m0ving . ‘Til London and I got our claws in that is. So expectations were high as the plane swooped in over water that gave way dramatically to a gleaming, throbbing city, the likes of which New Zealand can only dream.

Sunset over Sydney skyline

When we’d got rid of our bags at the surprisingly nice, if optimistically named, Mountbatten Hotel we rushed to see the iconic sights that would let us know we had truly arrived in the Australian capital. Sam’s old flat, her first, second and third places of work, and, that’s right, Sydney Harbour Bridge and the Opera House. The latter of which just looks a little too perfect, as if it’s superimposed there. It’s just so iconic that in the flesh it almost doesn’t seem real. And the bridge is huge. I found myself a little dazzled; it was hard to believe I was actually there. Clearly, this was something to celebrate (the being there, not the lack of credulity, that is).

Not just a postcard

And celebrate we did. We had arrived on a Sunday which would have been a no-go for Wellington (that’s the last NZ dig, I promise), but here in Syndey, the party simply never stops. God, just being in a city was such a buzz; the people thronging the streets, the stylish crowds, the traffic, the noise – all of it was totally enlivening. A quick change later saw us sauntering up Oxford Street, a road lined with gay bars and clubs pumping out the beats as if Sunday’d never happened. We’d found out about a fun fundraiser for the next day’s World Aids Day – drag, great music and a suitably flamboyant, up for it crowd saw us dancing our hearts out til the early hours… What a welcome to the city…

Where better to recover than the famous Bondi Beach? The weather was uncharacteristically cloudy, but the cover was high, and the sun shone through anyway. It was definitely warm enough to sunbathe and watch the beatiful people go about their everyday, surftastic lives.

After Bondi and an early night, the next day saw us properly soak up the sights. The Australia Museum was pricy but gave an insight into the tense race relations of this huge country; possibly as fascinating for what was left out of the permanent Aborigine exhibition as what was included. We meandered through the botanical gardens, its exotic, vivid flora a perfect backdrop to the skyscrapers, bridge and opera house. This is where one finds the very best views and we dutifully took at least a thousand snaps of ourselves with the usal backgrounds, every one of which featured our faces completely in shadow.

Flowers, bridge, Opera House, skyscrapers MONEY SHOT

Seeing the city with someone who knows it was a definite bonus. A lone traveller knows little of cool suburbs and resident goings on, but Sam took me to New Town, a once grungy, now somewhat gentrified area about a 20 minute train ride from the centre. I liked its down and out but on the up atmosphere, the cool boutiques and occasional op-shops, and especially the sunny roof-top bar we stopped for a midi and a schooner (that’s Ozzie for half and a pint…). Discount Tuesdays at the cinema prompted us to stick around to see the previously mentioned Australia. Well, when in Rome and all that. It was a mistake. Cheesy, simplistic and, by the end dull dull dull, we were forced to cheer ourselves up with a delicious thai meal from one of the simple restaurants nearby.

Sydney boasts many beaches, and we headed off on the ferry to Manly to, once again, see how true residents soak up the sun. The ride itself was stunning – what a commute to work for some! – taking us past all the now-familiar sights. Manly itself felt surprisingly British; I have no idea why but it strongly reminded me of my late grandma, who never, as far as I know, set foot in the Southern Hemisphere. It was charming, dotted with fish and chip shops and a little rough around the edges. We watched enviously as the local high school kids came to the beach for their games lesson in Beach Volleyball, and walked round to Shelly Beach – a perfect shallow bay – where hoardes – ok, a few – Sydneysiders were soaking up the last rays of the day.

Shelly Beach, Manly

It is easy to see why the Girlf loved it so much, why people take the plunge and relocate their lives to this other side of the world. Even after just a few days it’s clear to me that  the quality of life is just better here. There’s so much more space and so much more sunshine. But it is just so so far away. If  only someone would drag Australia to Spain’s longitude and latitude, we mused, chomping on lemon pepper chips as we wandered back to the ferry.

That night we headed back to New Town to visit some of Sam’s favourite ex-haunts. Once more, great dancy music which is, I’m sure, highly unfashionable back home these days, a stupid amount of hot, gay girls getting down and copious alcohol combined to make this a memorable night. Although my banging head and churning stomach as we got the 7am shuttle bus to the airport the next morning was remembering it for all the wrong reasons…

Still, it’s hard to be pissed off when you’re on route to paradise. Specifically, Byron Bay, an hour’s flight (or 14 hours on the bus – you choose) north of Sydney on the Pacific coast, is a place adored by every single person who has ever been there. And no wonder. Miles of white sand, blue waters and unbeatable weather. Except for for our first four days there, where the sun struggled valiantly to get out from behind the clouds. *Luckily* there’s a giant ozone hole over Oz so we tanned it up baby, right through the grey.

Semi-deserted Tallow Beach, Byron Bay

There isn’t much to say about lovely Bryon Bay. We were in a fantastic, if slightly grubby hostel, far enough out of town that we could hire bikes to get us around from time to time. We visited hippy mecca Nimbin for the day – a weird psychadelic stop-off stuck somewhere in the early seventies. Byron was overrun with Schoolies – 17 and 18 year olds who have finished school and go for an annual blow-out with all their mates. It meant that we avoided the nightlife, although some of the kids were awfully sweet, and chillingly cool. We headed out for an afternoon of live music at the Beach Hotel though, met some very nice, highly intelligent Australian men (I know?!) and had a bit of a dance. We learnt to boogie board – some of us better than others… What a life; catching waves, drying off, catching some more waves. We watched a lot of movies. And then, suddenly, an entire week was gone and we were on a plane back to Sydney.

Well, I say on a plane, but actually I almost wasn’t allowed on the plane as when I was pulled out of the queue for a random security check apparently my bag and clothes contained traces of…. explosives. What?! Luckily a thorough search revealed that, weirdly enough, I didn’t have any dynamite on me, and after delaying take off for around half an hour, the ever so lovely security guard let me through. Phew…

I am the Lone Ranger, and my pack is Tonto as I strike out across the wilds of New Zealand’s South Island withouth Samantha to keep me company. *Sob sob* and all that jazz. I was more than a little apprehensive at the prospect of two weeks travelling solo, despite the fact that I had a hop-on/hop off Stray bus pass (fabulous Chrismakkah present Mum and Dad, thank you!) and wouldn’t actually be alone very often. Or so I hoped…

Wellington gave me its customary send off (driving wind, sheets of rain – oh I’ll miss you, fair city) and I boarded the ferry to Picton – gateway to the South. The further we got from Welly, the better the weather. Funny that. Picton is another small town which gives credence to the ‘NZ is 50 years behind the UK’ thinking. Nestled in foresty hills and right on the coast, it was a lovely place to explore the shoreline. I took my pod on a long walk with glorious views – the first of many – winding along a hilltop track that looked over the blue water.

Pretty Picton

My first night alone in a hostel was rather fun. It is true that travelling by yourself means you are forced to chat to more people. Had Sam and I been in a hostel for just one night we may well have just spoken to each other, but I quickly made friends with two cute, young guys – one Israeli (always a good bet, even if only for the reason that I can tell them ‘todah rabah’ when they pass me the salt, and they’re impressed) and one Czech. Sequoia Lodge hostel was one of the best; I’m finding that NZ accommodation is fantastic compared to SA – this one offered a free outdoor spa pool and free nightly home-baked chocolate pudding.

I picked up the Stray bus the next morning and was pleased when it was more of an oversized mini-bus than a huge coach with drunken 18-year olds puking/flashing their bums out the windows. It seemed a nice group too – if rather too European for my tastes. (I am a Bad Traveller. My fave nationalities to meet on the road are: Brits, Irish [kinda the same as Brits, sorry guys], Israelis, Canadians, Dutch, South American, Australian, Kiwi, American, German. In that order.) Our first stop was an impromtu wine tasting about an hour south of Picton, before heading off to Abel Tasman national park.

Stray drivers are annoyingly often called by nicknames. Ours was Thumper. He was a tad irritating, but clearly very knowledgable and gave great advice. There is definitely an element of the school trip to Stray – less so because you can hop on and off the bus at whatever time you’d like, but it could be far worse. The advantage it has over driving yourself is that the driver is also part-tour guide, and points things out along the journey that the average traveller would miss.

When we drove into Abel Tasman the sky was still a shocking blue, the sun hot, and I had a skydive booked for the morning! Aaarghhhhh! When I woke up, it was a little cloudy, but according to all the instructors, fine enough to jump. I was the only one from my bus leaping from a plane that day, but there was another group at the skydive centre who were all vascillating between bowel-crunching fear, and well, bowel-crunching excitement. Luckily, the guys I went up with had both dove before, so they were pretty calm and I just didn’t get that scared. There was a wobble when the plane took off, but after that I think my brain disassociated from what was about to happen – ie that I was going to fling my breakable little bod from 13,000 feet to the hard hard ground.

Because I got high...

Pushing off from the tiny plane to the sheer nothingness of the air below the was the most incredible feeling. The view along the coast was magnificent, not that I knew what was going on for the first 20 seconds of a 50 second free-fall! Wow wow wow. As soon as I touched land I wanted to go straight back up and do it again. Thank you once again to everyone who clubbed together for the gift. I haven’t had a full list of who sent it to me which is why there’ve been no individual thank yous but here’s a big fat one to everybody. THANK YOU!!!

Buzzing, that afternoon I hiked up the coast, past implausibly pretty beaches doing their best impressions of Tayrona. I knew NZ was gorgeous but I’d been thinking snowy peaks not golden beaches.

Abel Tasman is soooo prettty

The evening in the lodge was pretty fun – there was another bus there too, and everyone chatted and drank oh-so-merrily around the fire. I’d booked in a sail and walk trip for the following day, so with Alex, Hannah and Sinead from the bus I swapped on to after staying an extra night in AT (bye bye Europeans), set off early to walk down to Anchorage Bay to pick up the catamaran which would let us see this beautiful national park from the water. The views were gorge, but what with the wind (ah ha, it’s a sailboat. I seeeeee……) it was also utterly freezing. We huddled up in blankets to keep warm.

Brrrr.

My new bus driver was Rob; also fun, but far less experienced than Thumper. He was excited about our next stop – Barrytown - but would only answer our questions with an enigmatic ‘What happens in Barrytown stays in Barrytown.’ We did learn that there was more or less compulsory fancy dress though. I rolled my eyes and thought ‘uch I am soooo not up for that with people I only met yesterday’as we drove along the ‘wild’ west coast and past the weirdly beautiful pancake rocks.

Lemon and sugar on my rocks, please

Once in BT, the shots and the jaegerbombs started and I began to see the entire issue of fancy dress a little differently… Barrytown is a hick hamlet, and the only entertainment on offer is dressing up. Even the locals came down to the one pub to don leotards and fairy wings and dance around on tables with the backpackers. Clearly, BT was THE place to be that night. For the mentally unhinged.

WTF?

Next morning we went cultural, learning how to make traditional maori bone carvings. They stunk (fancy breathing in crushed bone, anyone?) but we had fun being all crafty and that…

As we left Barrytown the rain came. And didn’t stop for the next three days. We were heading to Franz Josef Glacier, one of the stops that I knew would be an utter highlight of the trip and something I was hugely excited about. Imagine my disappointment then, when we found out the glacier had been closed all day, and there was only scant chances of groups getting a chance to trek on the ice tomorrow – when we were all booked in. We worried all evening, but when we went down to the visitors centre in the morning we were given our crampons and overcoats and ferried straight to the  glacier itself. Woohoo!

Ice Ice Baby

Even the first glimpse of a slightly dirty river of ice nudging its way down the valley was breathtaking. Once we’d trekked the 2.4 km to the face itself – longer than normal due to a dangerously swollen river – and actually began to climb, it was even more so. Guides went on ahead and cut steps in the ice for the first part; we hauled ourselves up them with ropes and a prayer. It took about an hour to get past the grubby ice and onto the bright white and blue parts. It was like stepping into another world, like being in the stomach of a great crystal. As the weather worsened, we felt like intrepid explorers fighting our way through this glittery ice world. Despite the constant rain, it lived up to every extravagant expectation. I can only imagine how stunning Franz Josef looks in the sunshine, although the low cloud and mist did lend the scenery an eerie magic of its own.

As Cold as Ice

We were hugely lucky too. It continued to pour, and nobody was allowed on the ice for the two days after us either. All we missed was Makarora (or something) National Park – a mountainous region of pretty walks and great views. Apparently. When we got to the lodge there the next day the rain was so thick it was practically solid – and the other side of the road, let alone the looming mountains became utterly invisible. We holed up in the pub, played yaniv and drank wine by the roaring fire, and even got accidentally involved in some Kareoke….

We have the X factor

The weather broke by the time we drove into the especially lovely town of Wanaka. With an alpine charm all its own the place is dotted with fragrant mauve flowers, and dominated by snow-capped mountains and a huge blue lake.

I am photographer supreme

What’s more it is the home of Puzzling World – Disneyland for the game-lovers amongst us. Stray bus-mates Sinead, Alex and I tackled the 3D, two-storey maze (for an hour), before moving inside to a truly bewildering array of exhibits, tricks and illusions. There’s even a common room outside with puzzles on every table. A perfect way to while away an afternoon.

Absolutely A-Mazing

Our next stop was Queenstown – the adventure sports capital of the WORLD. The only difficult thing was deciding which of the thousands of high-adrenalin activities to tackle. The town itself is also hugely attractive, right on the water, with the aptly named Remarkables mountain range its backdrop. As well as trying the bar that inexplicably sold cocktails for shots out of teapots (random much?) I opted for jetboating (travelling at high-speed along the river for an hour) and couldn’t resist the lure of trying hang gliding again in such a beautiful setting….

Tomorrow it’s Christchurch, my very last stop in NZ. I will meet up with Sam again (hurrah) and on Sunday fly to Sydney (hurrah again!).

I’ve *loved* the last two weeks. It’s been fantastic travelling alone, although definitely not something I’d be up for for longer than a month or so. I’ve been lucky to have a great group on my bus, but even then there are times I got lonely and I definitely missed sharing all the great stuff with Sam. Ok, enough pukesome stuff…

See you in Oz, bloggettes… xxx

Art Deco Weekend

Woohoo! Wellington is fading into the distance and the real blogging – about actual exciting things and stunning sights can recommence. Hurrah!

To celebrate being, once more, a free agent who doesn’t work, I ventured up to Napier, Art Deco capital of THE WORLD with the girlf, Laura and Mark. Friday was blazing and Laura and I set off in the car to pick up our other halves from work a whole hour early and start the drive. I’ve not been behind the wheel of a car for 8 long months, so didn’t trust myself to navigate the city (other cars? No thank you…). But once Mark had steered us through the suburbs of Wellington I took over. God, I love driving. Especially when the roads are  the sort that car advertisers dream of. Or use. Everyone else proceeded to get very drunk on wine and – in an interestingly offbeat choice from Mark – imitation Baileys. Which was fine by me, up until around 10 minutes before we arrived and I started to feel somewhat left out of the fun.

Sam and I were rather impressed with Archie’s Bunker hostel. After 5 nights in dorms we were thrilled to be back in our own room – which was flooded with morning sun AND had its own TV and DVD player. We spent what was left of the evening playing a decidedly half-hearted game of poker, and checking out the Brighton-esque beach.

A little like Hove (actually?)

I didn’t have a chance to see the city the next morning. Firstly, Laura and Mark are far more efficient than Sam and I and, by the time I’d emerged from the shower they had raided New World supermarket for picnic food and found out the very best wine-tasting route on bikes that Napier had to offer. Napier is in Hawkes Bay, a sunny, warm region studded with vineyards. Needless to say, we were thirsty to visit them. Ha.

I like to ride my bicycle

In about 70% of the places we have visited, Sam and I have said to one another ‘We really should hire bikes here…’. However, we are lame, and a little bit lazy, and so it took the get-up-and-go of Laura and Mark to make us actually do so. We collected the bikes from the hostel – Sam and I not trusting ourselves on the implausible tandem – and pedalled off. It was clear from the outset that this was a gorgeous way to see the country. Our ride took us past pebble beaches that gave way to glittering sea, through fields and meadows and the occasional strip of houses. And of course, many vineyards.

Mission Vineyard - the poshest place Sam and I have been all year

Almost all of the tastings were free – and delicious; apart from one Syrah which tasted of alcoholic play-doh. And we learnt plenty. The experts were friendly, interesting, and not at all patronising to those of us who knew less than not very much about wine. Pinot is clearly my favourite – either of the noir (preferable) or gris variety. It was hard not to buy everything, but I was well aware of the fact that I won’t be making any further cash on this trip – so we limited ourselves to one crisp bottle of the afforementioned Pino Gris.

After 4 hours of cycling, and a perfect picnic by a river, my thighs began to seize up. Biking may be fun but it’s HARD. And I am not. Still, bar one or two embarrassing incidents – (falling in a ditch, utter refusal to bike up big hills, possibly inappropriate footwear) it was fabulous fun. And who needs to be able walk tomorrow anyway?

That evening, a combination of hot sun, wine and excessive exercise ensured that our little quartet was so tired it could hardly lift one of its eight stiff legs. We managed to stay awake long enough for a bbq on the hostel balcony and only half a game of yaniv before giving up and turning in.

Sunday was the day to explore the town. And what better way to start than with breakfast? Sam and I treated ourselves to the kind of yummy cafe brekkie we used to have in the heady days of London when we had proper jobs and weren’t skanky travelling layabouts. It was another beautiful day (they seem to come thick and fast once OUTSIDE of Wellington….) and we explored the town with gusto. Everyone says that NZ is like the UK in the 50’s. I’m not sure that’s entirely true, but wandering in Napier was like stepping back in time. The city was flattened in an quake in the 30’s and rebuilt completely in the then-popular Art Deco style. It is just lovely. The buildings are all so cool, and so pretty, and colourful – especially with a deep blue sky behind them. It’s also a magnet for vintage shops, each one stuffed with jewels and costumes from another era. I loved it – we wandered about the wide boulevards, had a cafe lunch and popped to the beach for a while to read our books and relax.

Old-school

 

And the news is... this building

 

Plus, Napier is home to the best-located mini-golf course ever, with sweeping views over the bay. What’s more, I beat the others hands down. Ok, more like only by 2 points (par?) but still. Glory is mine.

Mini-golf = game of kings.

It was a gorgeous weekend; and so lovely to be with Sam and friends as the following day, I began to tackle the south island. Alone….

Returning to Rosemere

The world is starting to resemble a tube train at Epping – All Change Please. Not only is there now a new leader of the ‘Free World’ in a certain Mr. Obama (yay!), but even New Zealand’s Government has changed hands. Shunning the lurch to the left of their American cousins, Parliament here is now under the control of John Key’s National party. They’re like the Tories. But possibly less posh. National resoundingly won Saturday’s General Election, stripping Helen Clarke, Labour PM for many many years, of her position. I was entirely impressed with the time, money and effort NZ spends on encouraging its citizens to vote. There were enrolment desks on street corners, and ads on every TV and radio commercial break. Bethnal Green could learn something…

John Key also says Yes We Can

 

But I digress. As if these great events on the world stage weren’t enough, Sam and I have also decided to rock the boat – and sail it emphatically away from Wellington.

You could all see it coming, no doubt. This city lurks somewhere at the bottom of our list of fave cities (this list is only mental, blog readers who despair of the recent spate of awards will be pleased to learn…) and so, in the immortal words of Cher from Clueless, we’re outy. We made the decision after the recent long weekend – when, despite a rather good one, we both felt low, bored, and simply couldn’t see the point in staying. Once the decision was made, we moved like lightning and within days we’d found someone to take over the lease in our flat, given in our notices, and booked the next leg of our trip. Woohoo!

Instantly, our moods lifted. And, as is often the way, things started looking up. Not enough for us to stay, clearly, but certainly sufficiently for us to be able to look back on our time in the NZ capital fondly…

Halloween helped. I love the annual fancy-dress fest, and, unable to find any suitable material on which to practice dressmaking wizardry, I settled on a zombie costume from 2 Cheap on Manners Mall. I also read lots about genius Charlie Brooker’s Dead Set on the internet. (Does anyone have a copy of this I can watch when I get home btw?). Sam and I were off to a halloween-party-on-the-day-AFTER-halloween thrown by Jess, the previously anonymous girlfriend of our hostel-mate Graeme. Jess and three friends live in a GIANT flat in town – with a lounge that would easily have fitted an ogre, never mind witches, 70’s throwbacks, knights in armour, olde worlde ladies, God’s gift to women (apparently…) pirates, cowboys, a pirate-cowboy (okayyyy then….) ghosts, and, memorably a scarecrow.

 

Gangsta Roman, Grrr Jodie, Groovy Chris, Geeky Mark

 The only problem with holding a Halloween party on November 1st is that if, like me, you need to visit the cashpoint in the middle of the night accompanied only by other guests whose costumes are hidden beneath their coats, people look at you a bit funny. Still, being the living dead, I guess that was the least of my problems.

 

Pirate of the Carribbean

Despite the blood and guts it was a most enjoyable night – and when Sunday was warm and sunny, we spent all day in the garden, very well aware of the fact that we wouldn’t have one for very much longer. Until Mr. Evil Bee flew in, it was all lovely. Then he stung me, and the next day, one of my feet was a normal size, the other threatened to block out the sun in Hataitai. Like something out of a Halloween tale it grew and grew, until I was forced to go to the doctor, get a shot which knocked me out, and start a course of antibiotics until the puffiness stopped. Ewwwww. NOT very attractive. But possibly marginally more attractive than Jodie as a Zombie…

Weirdly, NZers celebrate Guy Fawkes with all the gusto of home. Now that Laura and Mark have a car, we elected to  avoid the crowds on the harbour, and drove round to the opposite bay to watch the fab display from behind. It rocked. We oohed and ahhed appropriately. Who knew you can get fireworks in the shape of planets and hearts? Modern technology, eh?

The rest of my week was oh-so-cultural – due, entirely, to working at a theatre and thus being the willing recipient of a fistful of freebies. The first were tickets to the Royal New Zealand Ballet production of Don Quixote, where Laura and I drank wine and marvelled at the mesmerising sets and dance.  I *had* offered to review  the show for online artsmag Lumiere – for which I am writing, sporadically. Luckily they said it would be a conflict of interests, as on taking my seat I remembered I know nothing whatsoever about ballet and simply saying ‘It was pretty’ doesn’t offer much in terms of incisive critique.

Could I carry off a tutu do you reckon?

The very next night I took hostel-mate John as my date to The Little Dog Laughed at Downstage – a smaller, more avant-garde type theatre than the St. James just up the road. (Wellington is extremely small.) I can’t recommend the production highly enough. It was funny, self-referential, excellently written and bitingly acted. And it was tender too; no mean feat considering that essentially, it’s a semi-fictionalised account of TomKat’s relationship to date. With willies.

 

And the dish ran away with the spoon

 

A crew of folk from Rosemere Hostel had all moved out of the hostel and in together in a large house with a sunny garden and roof perfect for perching on. We spent almost the entirety of the weekend there – eating fush and chups, having a bbq (without an actual bbq), and sampling all the rather strange varieties of flavoured beer on offer at the local New World supermarket.

 Sunday saw us right back where we started from – in the hostel. I felt curiously sad as we moved back in. We really did give this place a chance, and it hasn’t worked, and we’re off. I feel strangely moved by our enthusiasm and how quickly it’s been extinguished. Or maybe I just felt sad because we no longer had our lovely private room and even lovelier ginormous bed with sea views and were back in squeaky bunks. Still, I was only going to be there for a few nights – Sam rocks by moving back into the hostel so that I didn’t have to pay for half the room AND hostels when we split up – geographically only  of course – for me to do the South Island…

Rocking Rosemere

And so with just ONE MORE DAY of work until I’m back on the road, it’s hasta luego from Eastlondoncurl…
xoxoxo

Eastlondoncurlontour’s South America Awards – part 2

Hello and welcome back to this, the second installment of Eastlondoncurlontour’s South America Travelling Awards. Ladies and gentlemen, hold onto your hats because today, we leave the comfortably cosy hostel setting behind and venture out into the real world. That’s what travelling’s all about, after all. A virtual fanfare please! Here is part 2 – awards for Trips and Places…

TRIPS AND PLACES

BEST BEACH
Nominees: Parque National Tayrona, Colombia; Playa Blanca, Cartagena, Colombia; Lopez Mendes, Ilha Grande, Brazil; Florianopolis, Brazil.

And the winner is…

 

PARQUE NATIONAL TAYRONA, COLOMBIA
Tayrona Park has a special place in the heart of Eastlondoncurlontour, so it’s no surprise that this lush location scoops the top spot in the beach category. Whilst Playa Blanca is exactly what a Caribbean beach should look like, Lopez Mendes is long, wide and lovely, and Floripa (as those in the know call it) boasts both a laid back vibe and cheapie surf lessons, Tayrona’s beauty is jaw-dropping, mouth-watering and gob-smacking. It is mandatory that all visitors, when disembarking the speedboat that cuts through crystal water on the hour-long journey from Taganga, stop and stare in wonder for at least ten minutes before hauling their backpacks accross the beach to the hammocks. Many comment that the place cannot be real, there must be CGI or photoshop at work somewhere.  Truly, Tayrona is pure paradise.

Best beach ever

BEST NIGHT OUT
Nominees: Club 69, Buenos Aires (Argentina); Le Boy/La Girl, Rio (Brazil); Carnival – the Second Night, Medellin (Colombia); Birthday Beats, Santa Marta (Colombia); Lapa, Rio (Brazil).

And the winner is…

 

LE BOY/LA GIRL, RIO
Club 69 put up a fierce fight in this closely contested category, with its camp extravaganza of a live show, feelgood, beat driven music and crazily friendly crowd. Lapa’s sultry street party showed us the sexy spirit of Brazil. Carnival shocked us with its unexpected modernity and a ceiling that opened to the lightening sky at 8 am. And what, we wondered, could beat a birthday bash in a low-down dirty Colombian dive so steamy that the paint melted off the walls? I’ll tell you what -  the gay scene in Rio. Not world-renowned for nothing, Le Boy is a 3-storey, pumping powerhouse of a club, complete with semi-naked men gyrating on podiums chained to the ceiling, and the perfect post-party vista of a sunrise over Copacabana beach… We began at next-door neighbour club La Girl, where Brazilian babes watched themselves – and everyone else – shake their booty in the ubiquitous mirrors…

Que prefieres? La girl, le boy, o los dos?

 

BEST ORGANISED TRIP
Nominees: The Inca Trail – SAS Travel, Peru; The Pampas in Rurrenabaque, Bolivia; The Salt Flats of Uyuni – Tupiza Tours, Bolivia; Rio State Final, Maracana Stadium – Mellow Yellow, Brazil.

And the winner is…

 

THE INCA TRAIL – SAS TRAVEL
For many travellers, the Inca Trail is South America, and although the wonderful wildlife of the pampas, the otherworldly, empty beauty of the Salt Flats and the infectious passion of the footie fans at the Maracarena provided stiff competition, it is no surprise that the trek to ancient Peruvian city Machu Piccu wins this category.  Its photo graces the cover of guidebooks galore, and tackling the gruelling trek is the apex of many a backpacker’s experience. Faithful blog readers will remember that Eastlondoncurl and girlf *may* have tried to get out of walking for four days up punishing passes with only the thinnest of oxygen to breathe. But, we pulled on secret reserves of superhiker strength to be amongst the best, yes, the best in our group. And we sure lucked out with that group. It was their cameraderie and support as much as the stunning scenery and sense of mysticism which made the trek so memorable - and led to this award.

The real centre of South America?

WORST NON-HOSTEL EXPERIENCE
Nominees: The Salt Flats, Tupiza Tours, Bolivia; Food-poisoning, Florianopolis to Rio bus, Brazil; Evil La Paz tummy bug, La Paz, Lima etc etc etc; Chest X-rays, Quito, Ecuador.

And the winner is…

 

THE SALT FLATS TOUR, BOLIVIA
With an honourable mention to The Food Poisoning Bus
It is undeniable that the salt flats of Uyuni, along with the coloured lagoons, sulphurous geysers, hot springs, and rainbow rock formations that surround them ache with beauty. Unfortunately, after 3 days in a jeep with suspension issues (there was none…), it was my arse doing the aching. When a screw holding the wheel to the car sheared off as the desert sun set – and we were thrown off the track on to a mercifully flat roadside – we gave thanks that the accident happened then, and not the day before when the roads were bordered with hundred metre cliff drops. When the car broke down 7 times in one day, we were glad we travelled in convoy. When we saw the plentiful grub all the other groups had compared to our miniscule meals , we were pleased we’d packed Alpha Whores to nibble on. (They’re Bolivian biscuits, atch…) And when we arrived in Uyuni, we were simply relieved to be in one piece. No, American-tour-mates, we WON’T be leaving a tip. 

Surely not MORE car trouble? Que sopresa!

 

FAVOURITE LOCAL
Nominees: Archie, the Salt Flats Tour; Jorge, Rurrenabaque Pampas Tour; Jorge, Head of the Tribe at Irshim; Roberto, Volunteer Coordinator at Arutam; Isaac, The Inca Trail.

And the winner is….

 

JORGE – HEAD OF THE TRIBE AT IRSHIM, ECUADOR
If it takes 4 hours to trek a path knee-deep with mud to reach the home of a remote Shuar tribe in the Ecuadorian Amazon, you expect the tribe leader to look and act the part. Jorge, with his long dark hair, Indian-style headband and stunning family didn’t disappoint. We spent candlelit evenings listening to his stories of Arutam - the ancient spirit of the jungle. In eerily flickering light, we learnt of the ladders which once joined heavens and earth, heard myths of men turned to eagles at the sound of a siren’s song, and played with Jorge’s beautiful – if grubby – daughters. The multi-talented tribal chief can not only play the fiddle, the guitar and the flute but also let us battle to the death until dinnertime  with Shuar spears.

 

Jorge gets dressed up

BEST MEAL
Nominees: Steak at Desnivel, Buenos Aires, Argentina; Feast at Casa Hood after the jungle, Banos, Ecuador; Ice Cream at the Ice Cream Parlour, Ilha Grande, Brazil; Adams Ribs, Quito, Ecuador.

 And the winner is….

 

DESNIVEL, BUENOS AIRES
After three weeks in the jungle, forcing ourselves to swallow plantain for the five-hundredth time (that DAY), we treated ourselves to a culinary celebration at Casa Hood in Banos. It totally tickled our tastebuds. Stumbling across a NY deli-style restaurant which served CHOPPED LIVER in Quito meant we denied ourselves lunch to cover the cost of dinner there. And the ice cream parlour in Ilha Grande, with 40 flavours, 30 toppings, and 20 kinds of sauce provided some possibly-not-too-healthy meal options on our way back from the beach. But Argentine steak has its own two-page section in the bible. I mean the Lonely Planet. And no wonder. We chose our cut of meat from the menu, watched it cooked oh-so-simply over an open grill, and devoured every dripping, delicious mouthful. The meat was implausibly soft and impossibly flavoursome – and rich, oaky red wine provided the perfect accompaniment.  

Desnivel? De-licious more like....

AND NOW, THE MOMENT YOU’VE ALL (ahem) BEEN WAITING FOR….

FAVOURITE PLACE OF THE ENTIRE TRIP.
As with Part 1’s ‘Best Hostel’ final category, here, Eastlondoncurl will explain why each of the nominees made it so close to the top….

Rio de Janeiro, Brazil
With its dramatic setting – dark green jungle hills plunging into an azure sea, Sugarloaf Mountain and Christ the Redeemer casting its gaze over the gorgeousness, the glamour, the sleaze and the crime – Rio is one of the world’s great cities. The metropolis stretches for miles along the coast and up into the mountains. Rio boasts beautiful beaches, pumping, perfect nightlife, a superb selection of sights to see, and a sexy, sultry spirit. Rio is mad hedonism; it is favelas and football; it is beauty tinged with darkness; it is a South American highlight not to be missed.

Rio de Janeiro

Ilha Grande, Brazil
On Ilha Grande – literally Big Island in Portuguese – there is nothing as vulgar as a car to disturb the peace. Tarmac is totally taboo – streets here are packed with sand, and flanked with tiny shops selling nothing but beachware and dive gear. It basks on the Atlantic with beautiful beaches, the afforementioned ice-cream parlour, some fabulous hostels, great weather and eye-popping views.

Ilha Grande

Parque National de Tayrona, Colombia
I’ve written so much about the delights of Tayrona that you’re probably all sick to the back teeth of the place. Unless you’ve been there that is. And then you’ll know the joys of an early morning swim in the clear water, the sense of relief when the sun dips behind the clouds for a moment, and the heat lets up, how it feels to scramble up on and then jump down from the rocks, and the taste of a coconut you’ve opened with your own bare hands.

Tayrona Beach

Cusco, Peru
The capital of the Inca Empire, Cusco is a delight of a city – especially when you’re a weary traveller, less than fresh from a month in Bolivia. The streets may not be paved with gold, but years ago the fronts of all the churches and monuments were. And though they’ve been stripped by greedy conquistadores, the sights remain regal. In Cusco, you can feel history. You know, somehow, that you’re treading in the footsteps of an ancient and powerful people. The sun is always shining. Add to this easy, entertaining nightlife, Macchu Picchu, raves on a hill and some of the best fellow travellers in South America and you can see why Cusco easily makes the top four.

Cusco

 

And the winner is…..
Tayrona National Park!

Please may I live here?

 

More actual NZ news on the way….

Glaring Omission

Eastlondoncurlontour is dismayed at its own glaring omission from part one of South American Travelling Awards. Best Fellow Travellers without even mention of Holiday Hotel Cartagena? Crazy Lucy and Jodie, irepressable Debs and all the others made Cartagena and Playa Blanca a hot, sweaty, messy kind of a dream. The best kind, you’ll agree. I hang my head in shame.

Stay tuned for  part two, chicos y chicas… xxxx

South America Awards – Part 1

Brrrm ba da booom! Ba boooooom! That’s the textual equivalent of a drumroll, and this is your official welcome to Eastlondoncurlontour’s Award Ceremony of Travelling South America. I am well aware that this may not interest all of you. But what the hell – this will crystalise my nostalgia and make my otherwise workaday day more amusing for me. And Sam.

Essex girls may remember 1999’s edge-of-your-seat, utterly unmissable Kibbutz Awards which I just found tucked away in my hotmail account (for a DECADE!) and which were the inspiration for this post. I’d also like to thank my parents, God, and all the fans… Right, enough of the acceptance speech, let’s get to the prizes…

So, the categories (to be said a la Ross in the Friends Game Show Episode talking about Monica’s towels) are:

Hostels
Best bar
Best Breakfast
Best fellow travellers
Worst hostel experience
Best Hostel

Trips and Places
Best beach
Best trip
Worst trip
Favourite place
Favourite local
Best Meal

HOSTELS

BEST BAR:
Nominees: Milhouse, Buenos Aires (Argentina); Loki, La Paz (Bolivia); Pit Stop, Medellin (Colombia); Stone of A Beach, Rio (Brazil).

And the winner is…..

LOKI LA PAZ
Fighting off the competition in a very strong category, with Milhouse boasting DJs and drinks nights, the Pit Stop’s great atmos and Stone of a Beach’s rooftop spa pool, Loki La Paz sweeps in and takes the bar honours. Benefitting from Bolivia’s bargain basement beverage prices, the bar at Loki is a centre for South American hedonism. What’s more, we were lucky enough to enjoy it with a certain Kitty, Boulanger and Malcomia… With its decadent decor, perfect pool table and long benches for meeting other travellers, even the over-loud music and too-smoky atmosphere can’t dull its shine.

 

Loki Bar. Loki is the Norse god of mischief, fact fans.

BEST FREE BREAKFAST:
Travelling from lovely location to lovely location is hungry work, especially for a girl who guzzles her breakfast like me. To tempt travellers, hostels often offer a free morning meal. Some, however, are better than others…
Nominees: Hostal de Sammy, Santiago (Chile); Mellow Yellow, Rio (Brazil); Stone of a Beach, Rio (Braziil) Moon and Stars Pousada, Ilha Grande (Brazil).

And the winner is:

HOSTAL DE SAMMY, SANTIAGO
It’s telling that only the richest of countries we visited were even nominated in this important category. After (s)he’s crossed the border into Bolivia a traveller is lucky to get even a stale piece of bread and jam (thanks, Loki La Paz) thrown in for free. Our other nominees put up a good fight with their ham, cheese, fruit, toast and cake options, but Charles of Hostal de Sammy made his brekkie stand out from the rest.  Three kinds of freshly home-baked bread, expertly cooked eggs, buttermilk pancakes and fistfuls of fruit is what it takes to win this fiercely coveted award.

Mmmm

BEST FELLOW TRAVELLERS
Nominees: The Point, Cusco (Peru); Aquario, Ilha Grande (Brazil); Milhouse, Buenos Aires (Argentina); The YHA Sucre (Bolivia)

And the winner is…

MILHOUSE, BUENOS AIRES
In Ilha Grande our crew rolled about 20 deep, with a winning mix of Yaniv-master Israelis and Brits. In Sucre, the guys at the YHA were uber-friendly and welcoming and made the city a delight. And those pleasing peeps at the Point were really the gang we’d first met at Milhouse. But it’s that BA institution that swipes the prize as there, Sam and I managed to meet the folk who’d remain some of our faves for the entire trip. We played poker with deceptively sweet-looking hustler Sarah. We made a pact with North London boys Jez and Fayez that if they managed to spend our duff pesos they’d owe us a beer. (It took them four months to pay up….) We had a ridiculous Sunday session with Alex and Ben. Whenever a Milhousonion popped up on the journey, a good time was guaranteed.  

Milhouse - ran by fave Argentinian, Mariano

 

WORST HOSTEL EXPERIENCE
Nominees: Mellow Yellow, Rio; All of the salt flats hostels, Bolivia; Hostel Wadi, Copacabana (Bolivia); Sol y Mar, Mancora (Peru);

And the winner is…

SOL Y MAR, MANCORA
Yes, at Hostel Wadi we slept only fitfully, having to ensure that not a single limb escaped from our sleeping bags lest it brush against the stinking sheets. Yes, we were forced to move rooms 4 times in a single night to escape the bedbugs, AND have all our luggage fumigated at Mellow Yellow. And yes, in the unheated Salt Flats hostels, temperatures plunged so low that if we needed the loo in the night we had to break the ice off the bowl before weeing. But none of these compares to the sheer horribleness of being attached by hundreds of locusts/cockroaches (we’re not sure now) whilst in our bed. As chain hostels Loki and the Point have now opened brand spanking new houses in the Peruvian beach resort, I’m thinking Sol y Mar’s days in the sun are numbered.

A plague on both your beach huts

 

BEST HOSTEL
On a trip such as this, the place you stay is make or break. Hostels have a huge influence on whether you enjoy a location. They’re information gold mines, meeting hubs and the starting point for numerous nights out. The best of the bunch will ensure memories of the place they’re situated stay forever sweet.

Much as how, in the Oscars, each of the Best Film nominees are profiled before the big announcement, here’s the inside info about Eastlondoncurlontour’s top hostels in South America.

Hostel Inn, Iguazo (Argentina)
Whoever had the idea of turning a giant casino into one of the coolest hostels in South America got it right. Hostel Inn sits lavishly on the road from Puerto Iguazo to the famous cataratas (waterfalls) and offers a sparkling swimming pool, giant lounge area, pool AND table tennis tables, free interet usage and what I’d wager is the best hostel bbq on the planet. Argentine meat is heaven on a plate. As if this isn’t enough, the kitchen is partly open-air, there is a twice-weekly free samba show and a bambu cocktail bar by the pool. Mine’s a caiparina, cheers.

A very cool hostel

Hostel Aquario, Ilha Grande (Brazil)
To reach Hostel Aquario travellers must carry their backpacks accross a stunning stretch of sandy beach, hopping over streams which wind their sinuous way to the sea. Our double room was more like a hotel than a hostel, with a bright orange flower on the wall, oh-so-comfy bed, and private bathroom. When we were quiet we could hear the waves lapping on the shore.  Although their BBQ party wasn’t a patch on Hostel Inn’s it was still pretty darn tasty.

Pequenos pieces of paradise

Hotel Bambu, Canoa (Ecuador)
With bamboo huts arranged around resort style gardens, fragrant with the scent of exotic blooming flowers, daily cocktail hour, table tennis, plentiful hammocks and mozzie nets as standard, it’s no wonder that Hotel Bambu trapped us in lovely Canoa. Views of the beach from the deckchairs and the best food in town helped this gorgeous place wrestle its way into the top five.

Bambu-zled by loveliness

The Pit Stop, Medellin (Colombia)
I’ve already detailed how this hostel just got everything right in the blog, so here’s a quick recap. A big, clean TV room, open 24 hours with a dazzling array of movies. A huge, spotless kitchen. A pool. A bar open 24-7. Excellent bathrooms. Comfy beds in a spacious dorm. Friendly, cool, and not to mention hot staff. A secret house at the back for post-club fun without waking up the rest of the hostel. Goodlooking fellow travellers. A monster supermercado down the road. Seriously, who could ask for more?

Not the pits stop at The Pit Stop

Mellow Yellow, Rio (Brazil)
It is a mark of the sheer quality of Copacabana Beach’s Mellow Yellow that it makes the top 5 DESPITE its troublesome bedbug infestation. The knowledgable, friendly staff give all the best info on where to go and what to do, and the hostel runs unbeatable trips and tours. Transporting 40 travellers to the Macarena Stadium for the Rio State final was an impressive feat of logistics and a Latin American highlight. The bar is buzzy and atmospheric, the TV room basically a rundown cinema, and the chillout room warm, cosy and hammock-strewn. There’s even a spa pool; no wonder the Mellow Yellow Tshirt is one of the most coveted fashion items on the Gringo Trail.

They call it Mellow Yellow... because that*s its name...

 And the winner is….

The Pitt Stop, Medellin
For all the reasons above…. (I just COULDN’T give it to the bedbug place….)