Well, it’s been a while since I last rambled on here! Have I been a lazy cow? Not at all! Months have whizzed by while I’ve been tied up with work, preparing for trips and immersed in various other writing projects. Still, absence makes the heart grow fonder! Or something like that…
So how did I fare on the Inca Trail? Aside from feeling I’d aged by about four decades as I wearily plodded towards the trail’s highest point, Dead Woman’s Pass, fine! Anyone considering following in my footsteps (not to mention those of the Incas and about a zillion other tourists) might like to check out my ‘warts n’ all’ guide for some honest advice on how to prepare, pack and cope: http://www.simonseeks.com/travel-guides/inca-trail-survival-guide-how-prepare-pack-and-cope__118868
I’ve recently soothed my ‘itchy feet’ with a cultural trip to Krakow (including a visit to the obviously grim but fascinating Auschwitz-Birkenau), but the need for an adventurous trip grows stronger by the day…
Travelled to Chitral and Gilgit back in October 2009, with a friend.
Flew on a stupid multi connecting flight - saved £50 though!! Was it worth the saving? NO!!! (Heathrow > Karachi > Quetta > Islamabad) (1 hr stops in Karachi and Quetta) Then arrived on the 10th, stayed in the Punjab - in hot sunny and sexy Sarai Alamgir! Yeeeeaaaa!!!! (Where I have some friends)
Then on the 12th flew to Chitral - what a flight!!! The views were amazing, and the first view of the Hindu Kush is quite staggering., and nice new aeroplanes too!
The Airport turned out to be as large as a branch of KFC and we had to retrieve our own luggage! How things should be!!!
We met Imran (aka Chitralguy from Lonely planet Thorntree and Flickr) at the airport, and Mr Noor the driver, and legend!! If he were English, he'd be made PM!!
After, breakfast and a browse through town, admiring the views, the quaint mosque and the beautiful old fort we registered with the local Cop Shop and made our way to the Chitral Gol National park.
Crossing over the 'Friendship Bridge' that divides The People's Republic of China (aka Tibet) with Nepal, was an emotional experience. The contrast between the two countries slaps you in the face immediately. Having been effectively herded around China by innumerable officials, once you cross that bridge you are on your own. In Nepal there are no special forces to push you in one direction and no great mass of humans to follow. So we found ourselves standing on a heap of uncollected rubbish, a cow to one side, chickens to the other, trying to work out where immigration was. A quick ramble down towards some shack-like buildings and we quickly found the immigration hut. 'Welcome to Nepal', beams the very well groomed official as he takes our passports, gives them a quick look over and stamps his stamp of approval. 'Is that it?', we ask, by now used to the third degree and thorough bag searches. 'Yep, have a lovely stay here in Nepal'. Fluent English? A smile? Great. It suddenly occurred to me that for the first time in a long time we were free to do as we wished, unwatched and unrestrained. So off we skipped into Nepal.
The contrasts didn't stop there. Nepal is the poorest country we have been on the whole trip and, though parts of China are still lost in poverty, the country appears wealthy in its infrastructure. On entering Nepal the smooth highway turns into an off road roller coaster and the houses that line it are mostly made of mud and corrugated iron. Rubbish fills the streets, power cuts occur for 6 hours every evening and lives are lived out of doors for the world to see. Consequently, everywhere you look there is something fascinating. As we bumped along for 5 hours from Kodari to Kathmandu vivid colour, penetrating noises and intoxicating smells were splattered across our senses with not a moments respite. Lush green landscapes, bright orange houses, red, yellow, green and blue saris floating in the breeze, beautiful smiles and a deep blue sky. Temple chants, cows, goat bells, cockerels, children playing, dogs fighting, water gushing and people laughing. Giant pots of steaming spices, rotting piles of fly covered rubbish, freshly ploughed fields and cowdung mingled with the black fumes from brightly painted, ancient trucks battling with the hills. The plentiful, genuine and wide open soul of Nepal was evident right from the start.
Wandering around Kathmandu is to walk back in time. The Durbar squares are labyrinths of ancient red brick and intricately carved wooden temples, palaces and shrines, all jumbled together in a space that was once a kingdom of its own. And in lots of ways it still is. Time has not eroded the purpose of these central points. Women still come to wash at the giant stone wells, old men still meet on palace steps to contemplate life, and families still gather to present gifts and sacrifices to their gods. Pashupatinath, the holiest Hindu site in Nepal, was the only place where the openness of life became a little too much. After stumbling our way through a maze of shrines, temples, cows and monkeys we eventually descended onto the shore of the Bagmati River. On the bank opposite us a dead women was brought down on a bamboo stretcher, cleaned by her relatives, covered in wood and burnt, until the ashes were ready to be swept into the holy water of the river. It was not long ago that widows would practice sati here, throwing themselves onto their husbands funeral pyres. This was considered the highest form of service a wife can provide to her husband and offered an escape from the social perils of being a widow. Our experience at Pashupatinath would have been an interesting one, but it became depressing once we explored the perimeters of the complex. Litter fills the banks of the river, meditation caves ooze the smell of urine, faeces of all varieties litter the floor and monkeys sinisterly stalk the shrines. We decided it best to make a move on catching a glimpse of a rotten dog being eaten by another on the river bank upsteam from the cremation sites.
Voss, its a place in Norway, home of sheeps head dinners, bland food and extreme sports. Every year thousands of extreme people travel up or down to Voss for the world famous extreme sports week. You don't have to be extreme to attend, and lets face it, most of the people rocking out the hoodies just pretend to be extreme. You can spot them a mile off, milling around drinking beer and talking shit. Almost identical to extreme sports people infact, its all about the shoes!!
So, Voss. If you are feeling extreme, head to Voss, well head to Norway first, then to Voss. It is situated a few hours drive East of Bergan, the rainy city. So head to Bergan, but you can get to Voss from any other part of Norway, they do have roads and trains, despite pushing on being a 3rd world country. 3/4 of the population own a tractor, the other 1/4 own the oil!! I digress!
Following swiftly on from my last post. We rocked up at a ski resort called Folkenfonna, a glacier only open in the summer. It sits not far from Voss, 2 hours drive ish, and 3 hours north of a small town called Odda. Its small and plays host to hoards of slalom skiiers rocking out the 80s lycra look! It also attracts the cool kids. So feeling somewhat out of place in the flip flops and tevas, we approach the slopes with caution! Despite 3 seasons as a ski guide in the Alps, I still felt out of place, maybe it was the fact my clothing was practical, and not loosely fitted and hanging below my arse cheeks.
Tuli in Botsawana, Southern Africa is not known as The Land of Giants for nothing. With giant boulder-strewn rocky outcrops, the mighty Limpopo River and the largest land mammal in the world - the African elephant - this vast and dramatic wilderness is a photographers dream or indeed a nature enthusiasts dream.
Posted by: RaftingCraig in Untagged on
Jul 7, 2009
'Is that the boat? I'm sure we couldn't see the boat before!' came a concerned voice from the passenger seat.
Looking up I become slightly concerned, 'It's that Fluid Solo again, its always that boat, Joe, its always Joe and his boat. Maybe we should stop, check it out!'
'Maybe we should, I'm sure we couldn't see that boat, is that the Fluid? Trust it to be Joe's boat. Why is it always Joe?'
This August I will be joining a special horde of world class riders and adventurers in the inaugural Mongol Derby, (see http://mongolderby.theadventurists.com/) a crotch-pounding 1000km race across the Mongolian steppe aboard a series of native, semi-wild and very tough horses. It makes the Guiness Book of Records as the longest horse race ever staged, and early analysis suggests it will be among the toughest.
I will be navigating, foraging, finding water for me and the neddies, coping with extremes of heat and cold, fending off wolves, washing in rivers (If i can afford to make a pit stop...), and introducing the nomads who have herded up some 800 of their precious horses for our racing pleasure to my Wuthering Heights rendition after a round or two of fermented mare's milk.
I am just back from a decent run round Hyde Park. Googlemaps says 10kms, which feels about right. The sun was still out and strong so I worked up a good sweat and thoroughly enjoyed having no watch on, no train to catch, nowhere specific to be. Tonight was supposed to be a riding night, but events conspired and I found myself in London, with, wait for it, a spare couple of hours. Lloyds had still failed to send me a new cash card after purse-theft last week, and having hammered the credit card in the interim and maxed it out completely (oops!) I was once again at a financial impasse, and, facing imminent nationalisation or stealing the money from our house kitty which is supposed to be for tin foil and loo roll, i......stole a tenner from the kitty for the train home. I felt guilty though! And it turned out that I couldn't get any horses lined up for this evening anyway. Actually, I don't mind. I am sat out on my little balcony for the first time, the herbs are looking plush and miraculously the wifi seems to stretch out here. I have just eaten my first meal not in front of an offensively cumbersome excel model since the weekend, and it tasted all the sweeter. Now clean and showered, and ready to slog my guts out all over again tomorrow- weights circuit #2....
This week has mainly been about non-equestrian reconnaissance. As my Dad likes to remind me, time spent in reconnaissance is never wasted, and there are a great number of contingencies which I can cover off right here in SW9. So, from the top....
Learning Mongolian- yes, I have been trying to get some useful language under my belt. It was recommended to me last night that I learn the Mongol for "call your dogs off!"- apparently this is by far the most useful greeting when approaching a nomad's ger, (yurt) as the advanced welcome party is likely to consist of a slavering rabid dog, trained to attack me, and no doubt then eat me and do something very resourceful with my skin, hair and teeth. So, repeat after me- "NOKHOIGOO!!"
Am currently up to my eyeballs in Def14As. For those of you uninitiated in American SEC filings, it's the really, really long one, which describes, in eye-watering detail, just how much Executive teams in corporate America are earning. I will be mostly plugging all the relevant numbers into a clever model which will spit out, hopefully before the bell goes (and the axe falls) on Friday night, whether these Free Market Titans make our client look underpaid or not. The deadline is already looking a trifle ambitious given the volume of extra-curricular stuff on the agenda, hence operation Data Monkey now.
A big weekend in the saddle, with four different rides (well, five if you include a quick guest-slot on Tucker on Sunday morning- a straw-poll of two determined that the Mors L'Hotte double bridle suited him better). I have picked up another spare ride; on account of my silky skills in the saddle on Owl, I have graduated to her very zippy stable-mate Sky, a twenty-one year old pedigree Arab who likes to party, and who piaffe-passaged round the local farmland to the amusement of her very generous owner Kate Parker.
I also had some sublime evening riding on Thursday night, just after my last bulletin. I arrived off the train to Basingstoke, where Mum had left me her car, complete with riding kit and little picnic basket of coffee and sandwich. Zipped round to livery yard where Logan, who I am stealing from Tamsin Thorne while she looks the other way and does her GCSEs, was innocently grazing as the sun set. I had a bit of a job locating the little fella as he had his fly sheet on in jousting charger style, but he gave himself away with a wary look in my direction and I fished him in and tacked him up. Church Brook Farm is a lovely yard in Tadley with beautifully manicured cantering tracks which we took full advantage of as the sun sank below the horizon. Had a bit of a moment. Ah, the romance! Snapped out of it when a deer got up and leapt out in front of us, sending Logan launching sideways and me grabbing a fistful of mane. Drove home to Local Hero theme, all was right with the world.
It's Monday morning and i have landed in a heap at my desk again, though the feeling of crash landing is happening earlier and earlier with each passing week. Over the course of the weekend I have laid waste to my parents' house in my quest to squeeze every minute of Derby training from the time I had. Here's a quick inventory, to add to my working week of Monday circuits, Tuesday x-train and weights and 9pm ride on Tucker, Wednesday 6am ride, Thursday running sprint intervals and weights. Zzzzz....
Dressage tests- 3. Wins, 0, placings, 3. Total times my mother expressed dismay at the professionals who beat us being "pot-hunters", and the judges who put us second being "in their pocket"- c. 12.
No, nothing to do with the footwear I purchased in my last instalment. More to do with the fact that my Peruvian adventure seemed unbearably far away…
And when life feels quite uninteresting, when you’re hit by a case of the ‘stuck in England’ blues, when you’re supposed to be saving money for a ‘big’ adventure – but then an email bursting with last-minute deals slides into your inbox, there’s only one thing to do: tell yourself that you deserve it / life is short / you HAVE been working incredibly hard lately, blah blah blah – grab your credit card and take the plunge!
Besides, if all those facets come together it’s practically a sign, isn’t it? Well, if you want it to be one, that is…
So that’s how I found myself flying out to Port El Kantaoui, Tunisia with my boyfriend for a supposedly conventional, relaxing holiday. (With Peruvian adventures not really being his cup of tea, it’d also be a chance for us to do something together, I reasoned. See? No shortage of excuses!)
“Uh…do you two not want to see the beach or the pool?” joked the travel company rep when we handed her our excursion booking form. “No one signs up for that much in a week!” “We don’t do things by halves!” I jovially retorted, disguising the fact that I was secretly wondering whether we’d been overly optimistic and a tad rash in deciding to tour most of the country in six days. Particularly when it transpired that almost every morning would entail a 5am start (the exception being a 4am one…)
The coach journeys this involved were almost interminable. But let’s make one thing clear: interminable doesn’t necessarily mean boring. Particularly when said journeys bore a greater resemblance to magical mystery tours than fully-explained ferrying from known points A to B. For we hadn’t reckoned on having Tunisia’s answer to Borat as our guide…
Trips tended to follow a pattern. The first half hour of a journey – the bit when everyone’s eyes are still open and most tour guides are waxing lyrical about the cultural and historical delights in store - was generally spent in an unorthodox silence. Oh well, we thought, maybe that’s the way it’s done in Tunisia.
Miles of arid countryside would fly by, the early morning sun beating through the coach windows; you’d snuggle into your seat and slip some shades on. Eyelids would seemingly bear the weight of the world as the proverbial Land of Nod beckoned irresistibly...
And that was precisely the point at which Borat Mk II would launch into his commentary. His monotone commentary. In Arabic. And German. Then Dutch. And French. It would probably have required consumption of a gallon of Red Bull and a pile of Pro-Plus to remain conscious by this point. By the time he got round to English (a term used loosely!) those Brits still in the land of the living wore frowns, questioning eyebrows or merely stared at him blankly.
The coach pulled up at a kerb. The Arabs, Germans, Dutch and French grabbed their belongings, descended the coach steps and bounded out into the bright Tunisian sunshine. We Brits observed the goings-on, picked up our bags, gathered in a group on the pavement and tried to piece together the random words of English we’d been able to understand.
We were in a village. That much was clear.
“Uhm, so what are we doing now?” I asked Borat, trying to catch up with him. “Thees is village” he replied. “Sidi-“ (I didn’t catch the rest). “Coach leave three-fifteen.” Well that cleared that up… He directed us up a hill, then disappeared in the opposite direction.
Oh yes, this supposedly conventional, relaxing holiday was quickly becoming quite an adventure…
People are starting to stare. As I thundered over Hungerford Bridge to Waterloo last night for another riding double whammy in the Shire, people seemed to be giving me a wide berth, and literally slowing to watch me stride past. No, it was not a good hair day. Far from it. On Monday lunch time, flush from a weekend's excess, I signed up for a circuits class called Last Man Standing at the gym. Memories of rowing ‘land training' came flooding back, including the odd reflex which appears to happen only to me, of starting to cry when in the middle of a medley of squat jumps. Hopefully none of the Men Standing noticed. Anyway, time galloped on in the haze of press-ups, burpees, dead lifts etc, and I had to forego a shower and wobble back across Trafalgar Square to the office in the interests of time. One of those special ‘get naked and wave your arms around under the air-con' showers (in the gym, not the office). Bit scummy, I know, but all good training.
My walk has got progressively funnier since then really. Another gym session yesterday lunchtime didn't really serve to loosen me up. Bruno the fitness guru prowled past and turned my cross trainer up to make me sweat a bit more. And proceeded to grill me on my navigating and fending for self skills (as yet these only exist on paper). He is apparently ex-military and can teach me all sorts of useful stuff besides hamstring curls. I love this guy!
By last night I had a kind of Simon Schama walking lunge on- and this despite consuming most of a foil of Nurofen. Hmm. Anyway- add to the Schama 2 hours in the saddle, with about 6 hours sleep in between, and you have yourself a very, very funny walk. Competing Tucker on Friday and Sunday, so some useful practice under out belts this morning. Will not be doing any more squat jumps between now and then....
It's been a decent first week's Derby training. In a flurry of adrenaline i went to the gym TWO DAYS RUNNING in my lunch hour at work. This is another military-style operation which involves a series of calculations of the sort "how sweaty am i going to get/ how many more minutes can i keep this up/ when will colleagues notice i am awol/ what chance of seeing Carlos the fantasy spinning instructor if i just loiter by this here weights stack a little longer?".
I explained the concept of the Derby to one of the trainers whilst on the ergo, and he said we could do a training session to target my riding muscles and also consider some other stuff to get a programme together for me. So day two involved some strategising. Obviously, losing weight will be a priority, he said. Was that so obvious, i mused, whilst trying to make a plank with elbows on one swiss ball and feet on another. Hmmph. Lots more fairly undignified exercises followed, generally involving an unstable surface (half Swiss ball) and pulling a cable weight in a big arc across the body to make my core muscles work extra hard.
Other homework: all endurance work to be done outside, ideally in the heat of the day, to get used to the kind of water loss i'll be dealing with. I was able to simulate this most effectively today by going for a long run in Oxford with a steaming hangover, hence compounding the dehydrating effects of sun and sweat to a level i can only describe as 'blinding'. A big group of friends had gathered for the memorial dinner of Elis White, whose sudden death last year was the catalyst to my adventures in India, and hence my Derby entry. We had the kind of night he would have thoroughly approved of, and I am sure he had a good laugh at my wobbling 6 miler this afternoon, while all my mates had another Bloody Mary.
Posted by: RaftingCraig in Untagged on
Jun 3, 2009
Busy times, busy times. I'm finally back in Norway, rafting and kayaking, working my 4th season in this great country. Sitting in a call centre in the UK I found my mind wandering to what could have been. Why was I there, temp agencies, office work for an Adventure instructor, no thanks. Ah yes, money. After the Canyon that some call Grand trip, I was running short of cash. Beset by injury, I became a slave to the monotony of existance living. I took it upon myself to redirect my life, and for the good.
1 week later I was catching a ferry to the gusty green pastures Denmark, 18 hours on a ferry. The entertainment must be exotic, beer cheap and the staff friendly. Shorty after boarding, we conduct the usual wander around the boat for 10 miuntes finding our cabin, look around the cabin...bed, fold out bed, light, exit map, coat hook, shower, sink and toilet. Assured that I have not missed anything of importance in the cabin, I suggest we head to the bar.
En route to the bar we encountered theentertainment, a high roller bringing in the big bucks I guess. Super Mario himself, minus Louigi and a bad Italian accent. The kids entertainment hour, superb. Up the stair we go, to the bar. A lofty barman appears, lets just say customer service was not his strong side. A short argument and fresh beer later, the quiz starts.
