Around the world at 3mph

Thank you and Goodnight (for now...)

2010-05-17T09:18:00.000+01:00

At 1:30 last Saturday we pedaled back into Hyde Park, to the very spot where the adventure began 20 months ago. Over 52,000 miles, 598 days and hundreds of vehicles later we had done it: 3.6mph around the world without once jumping on a plane.

We had been imagining the day even before we had cycled off on the trip in September 2008. We had pictured sunny days, rainy days, windy days and everything in between. Lots of people, nobody there, just family, maybe just sneak in and don't tell anyone. We bid goodbye to our final hosts on the trip and navigated the suburbs before stopping for an hour in Greenwich. We stood on the edge of the hill above the Maritime Museum with the city laid out below and the moment swept over us. Surrounded by groups of tourists, weekend joggers and a group of Japanese school children we sheepishly asked for someone to take a photo of us before nibbling nervously on some cake in the tea room by the observatory. We were so close, but we had said we'd be there at 1 and so sat with a stomach full of butterflies. Finally it was time to ride the last miles under grey drizzly skies. Isle of Dogs, Tower Bridge, Waterloo Bridge, Big Ben, Buckingham Palace, a nervous sweep round Hyde Park Corner roundabout and then into the Park. Who would be there?
So nearly done. So much emotion, a few tears from the back seat but we rounded the final corner to be welcomed back in style. Friends, family and even some unknown blog fans surrounded us and instantly we were filled with the warmth of home through an onslaught of booze, hugs, silly grins and squeals. It was an incredible magical moment for us both and the whole weekend of being thrown back in and amongst loved ones was one we hope never to forget. We are now convinced more than ever that it is the people that make home home so its pretty lucky there were so many of you there!

Hol: It is now a week since putting the bike down and I am yet to feel inclined to get back on it for a while. Having a wedding to plan and life to shape should satisfy any lingering desire for adventure for at least 6 months. If anyone felt sorry for us missing Christmas two years in a row then you can take it back; we have just had 7 back to back Christmas days. Food, generosity, drinks and home comforts on tap. Those that perved enviously at our toned bodies last Saturday can rest assured that our old selves are quickly coming back to shape. Alongside all this feasting we have also been trying to throw away most of our previous lives, which living out of a bag for 20 months makes you realise you don't really need. Unfortunately for parents who are still stuck with our possessions, an alarming proportion of them seem to be fancy dress orientated and therefore pretty hard to give up. At least they have now been labeled as fancy dress so not to cause too much embarrassment in case the world has grown up in our absence.

So considering that the last week has been filled with 4 of our favourite pursuits; hanging out with those nearest and dearest, eating, drinking and discovering silly things from the past, being home is yet to be a rough ride. That said, some things have been rather challenging to get our heads around. When you are away from home everything is unfamiliar, which means its the smaller things that fill up your mind. When you have a challenge to complete, making sure you complete it in one piece is your entire focus. Simply put, we have spent the last 18 months entirely focused on what now seem simple tasks; how to communicate, reading a map, where to eat, not spending money and finding a bed for the night. On being back in familiar lands suddenly all these things are cleared up for us rather quickly, which means are minds are worryingly free to contemplate other things. Life being so easy can seem rather stressful. That said, whizzing along at 70mph in a car through rain and up and over hills without even feeling a thing on the legs was hugely welcome and I'm becoming slightly obsessed with baths, showers and the washing machine.

Nick: Now that we're down in Devon with some space to ourselves we have a bit of time to reflect. It hasn't been the huge shock some people suggested it would be. Yet the change in life creeps up on you unexpectedly. The inevitable questions of what job, where we will live etc. are regular subjects at all tables, but the main pressure to answer them is from us. We are looking forward to the next years of our lives, but then suddenly you remember where you were 6, 12, 18 months before and you are jolted back as if from a dream. Did we really sail the Atlantic, hitch on rusting banana boats, cross the Pacific, guide ourselves through the glaciers of the Himalayas, cycle 6,000 miles, nearly drown in a kayak...? The list goes on, but at the time it all just seemed to move with inexorable momentum guiding our feet along without our input. There are sudden rushes of pride in what we have done. We made the decision to do it, we planned every detail, we saved the money, we finished it. We saw it through in good and bad times and got back in one piece.

It's mind boggling to look back on. Then at another moment you just think it was Hol and I, on our own out there on our own very personal adventure in a very big world. I have no regrets about our decision to go on the trip. People time and time again said how they wish they had, would if they could, still plan to go. We are back where we started but with so much shared experience between us. To think back to us as a couple when we left and look at us now, it is as if we didn't know each other at all. Now there is so much we have seen, shared and discussed that even if all else was lost, the chance to get to know my future wife as well as I have has been worth all the effort.

Hol: So I think we should at least attempt to wrap up the blog with some wise reflections from traveling the globe. On coming home we are more than ever reminded that this adventure was essentially a selfish undertaking. We didn't raise money for charity, we're not going to write a book and we're not trying to save the world from the perils of air travel. Before settling down it seemed like a good plan to run away from structure, pressure and familiarity for a while. Its as simple as that and the main things we've learnt along the way are equally simple:

People are good, a very small proportion are bad. By opening yourself up to this goodness you get a lot more out of the world than you do by being constantly worrying about the baddies.
Belongings should only be collected if they are going to be used or enjoyed regularly and must never become a burden. The world around us tries very hard to make things complicated so you have to make a conscious effort to keep them simple.
Kindness is the most important quality in humans. However big or small the gesture, it is universally recognised and appreciated. From now on we are both determined to take people in when we can and give away stuff to those who need it rather than hoarding it for ourselves. I am also going to stop ignoring lost tourists on the streets of London – it really means a lot to be offered help by a local before asking.
Exercise, regular bowl movements, living within your means and an appreciation of simple pleasures are the key to happiness.

Nick: It may not seem much to learn having spent 20 months and £30,000. However, if we can remember even a couple of things from this trip and still remember them in 50 years time then I reckon it's worth it. Thanks to everyone who has helped and supported us on the way. You have made the trip what it is. One day we hope the repay even some of the favours, gifts, help from you all. For those in foreign lands you must never hesitate to get in touch if you ever come to the UK. Thanks also to everyone who has wished us well on emails, texts, comments on the blog or just old fashioned letters. There were some ups and downs and knowing we had good friends back home made the idea of finishing back where we started feel like just the right decision. I hoped for some pithy quote to end our travels that would sum it all up. However, nothing captures the sense we have now better than just to say, “Thankyou”. A thousand times to a thousand people. “Thankyou”.

Some reminders of the trip if you get (extremely) bored:

Photos: this has links to all the albums from the last 20 months
The map: You can click on here and see our whole route on Google Earth

The last 1%

2010-05-13T16:57:00.001+01:00

We're home! Alive, safe and happy. But before we let you in on the ups and downs of completing the adventures and bore you with the nerdy facts, here's a bit about the end of the journey, written on the penultimate day of the tip.

Hitting France 5 days ago felt like a momentous moment. From there a quick hop, skip and jump over some hills and The Channel and we're done. But as is the way with challenges, the last 1% always seems almost too much to handle. The weather turned the moment we left Germany. 40kmh head winds brought with them freezing grey skies and soggy wintry days. The land became void of services and we cursed the French for their laziness as shelter and food throughout the days grew scarce. The landscape closed in and nasty, steep hills seemed never ending. Our legs grew heavier every day and Carlos started to fall apart.

Our minds and bodies were impatient to get home, but also trying to hold on to the joy of the adventure. Not surprisingly confusion and exhaustion often bubbled up into stroppy exchanges. But doom was not meant to be. One evening we stumbled across a local fair in the ancient French market town of Charlville-Mezieres. Wine, beer, cheese, stew and cake seemed to be flowing from every corner of a square filled with men in medieval costumes and rosy faces (not our kind of thing at all really...). The perfect setting to swig a litre of wine and give ourselves a good talking to: These last few hundred miles may seem long but we've got to soak up the adventure rather than get stuck in a mad rush to get home.

So it was we got to Dunkirk in one excitable piece. We managed to arrive at The Channel 40 minutes before the professional bike teams competing in the Tour of Dunquerque did so were rather appropiately cheered on by all the local villagers in the last 10 miles of France. Soon we were looking out over an expanse of gray, choppy water, now all that seperated us and England. But before any tears could drop onto French soil we go about finding our ferry, a windy and truck filled 20 miles out of town. Our first slice of England slapped us in the face at border control as we pedal up to a fat, balding man at English customs.

'Do you need our passports?'
'Na I just sit here doing nothin' all day luv'

Ah, sarcasm, its good to be back. From here on the strangely familiar scents, tastes and sounds of home inch closer with great haste. The ferry becomes a mini playground of remembering England; weak cups of tea, sachets of heinz conidments, soggy chips and cheap sausages, newspapers, television we understand, the ease of conversation, picking up regional accents, pounds, funny looking plugs... A map of South East England and a route into London to be planned. Before we know it the white cliffs of Dover loom up in front of us. Tears rise up but get quickly swallowed. Our goal is Hyde Park and we seem to have an unwritten understanding to hold emotions and celebrations back until then.

For most people, returning home from a big trip is amazingly smooth; land in an airport, get greeted by loved ones, ushered into a car and plonked back home. The end of this trip is rather more extended. Home isn't landing in England, home is seeing loved ones and putting down the tandem having completed a full circle around the globe. This involves two days of cycling in England. Arriving in Dover was therefore an overwhelmingly confusing moment. So confusing was this non-event of arriving on English soil that it was one of the most despairing few hours of the trip. For a dark, dark moment, I thought I hated England. Roads are full of pot holes, traffic is too fast, there are so many humans, too much stuff everywhere, people rushing in all directions, boys with stupid hair swigging back booze on street corners, lippy school kids, impatient bus drivers. Suddenly the tandem felt silly and out of place, we're used to being weird outsiders but it felt all wrong being so in our own land.

Within 20 miles of Dover all this mess in my head was cleared up. After failing to find a campsite we ended up spending the night in Sue and Jim's B&B in Ashford. It took being welcomed into an English home to feel at home. A kettle, tea bags, biscuits, toffees, a visit to the local Chinese buffet, an hour shouting at ignorant politicians on the TV and a massive, incredible English Breakfast in the morning and my chi in England is restored. Thank God for that! From here on England got better and better. We ditched impatient driver filled roads for rabbit warren lanes through the North Downs. As we darted up and down over forested hills and fields full of blue bells and blossom it felt good to be back in the shire. It turns out England is pretty brilliant - village shops full of shortbread and weirdos, fish and chips on every corner, charity shops selling literally anything for 50p, pubs full of locals, warmth and ale and sunshine that is so unlikely you smile every time you see it.

Once we hit the M25 we resisted continuing on to London, a day earlier than planned. Swanley Community Center staff spent the best part of an hour trying to find us a local camping spot and after several cups of tea and no success pointed us in the direction of the best B&B in town. 10 minutes down the road Antonio and Pauline welcomed us into their spare apartment. After explaining our trip we were plied with kindness once more; tools to fix the still falling apart Carlos, chocolates, sweets, biscuits, fresh coffee every hour, sausage sandwiches and another massive breakfast. Thankfully, it turns out you don't have to go too far to find the generous souls of the world.

12 days to go... Tandeming through the Iron Curtain

2010-04-26T16:36:00.001+01:00

We should be sailing into view of the white cliffs in 12 days. It's been a long time away, but the weather has been fine for the last week and the landmarks keep ticking along. Suddenly we were half way across Europe having made it to Budapest, then we were through the line of the Iron Curtain, then we waved goodbye to the Danube. Soon we will be heading across the Rhine, into Belgium and then we'll be looking out across the English Channel for the first time in around 600 days. Our heads are full of everything from impatience, to jittery excitement to confusion. But the simplicity of cycling home is keeping us going; everyday we pack up our panniers, hop on the bike and keep heading another 100km or so closer to our end goal.

But the last 4 weeks haven't been all that easy. Hol and I have had to re-learn how to love the tandem. We had looked forward to getting back on Carlos for months, but after 3 weeks of steep hills leaving Turkey, breaking bike bits, horrendous roads in Romania and wet weather in Hungary we still hadn't hit our stride. It was partly due to a 'so near yet so far' feeling as we inched across the map, but we had also forgotten how poorly suited one's ass is to perching on a wedge of metal and leather for 5 hours a day. I am glad to say that as we sit munching on cake in Schwabing Hall in Southern Germany we have once again hit the rhythm and life is good.

I think our initial troubles were in part due to the fact that Hol and I have different approaches to riding the bike. I feel that a laden Carlos is the size and weight of a small car and should therefore be on the road. Hol feels that as there are bike lanes criss-crossing Europe in a finely woven web we should be on those. The first weeks were full of repeated grumbles as the bike paths along the Danube turned into unpaved levées and you felt like you were spelling your name out riding through people's back gardens and on narrow pavements. I favoured racking up the miles on busy roads, Hol liked the more loopy, leisurely approach. This led to alternate moments of frosty silence from the front or back of the bike. As we come to a halt on the edge of a rutted forest track Hol will pipe up with something positive about the nice clean air, birdsong or spring blossom. In the same way, as we are passed by the fifth large articulated lorry in as many minutes caking us in filth I will shout into the wind about how great it is to leap across the map. The frustrated one simply lets out a sigh just audible enough for the other to take it on board.

However, after a wonderful day off in Budapest staying with a family friend from Devon we found our bike chi again. The roads in the West are quieter, better surfaced and the bike paths resisted the temptation to disappear down rabbit holes and farm tracks. We also started camping again. It was like the old days in the States as we followed the Danube around the 'Golden Bend' and West into Austria. We had imagined there to be a clear shift in the roads as we crossed the line of the old Iron Curtain, but the suddenness of change was even more than we could have expected. Austria has to be the most ludicrously bike friendly country in the world. In fact it got kind of creepy how organised everything was.

Small towns were immaculate to the point of almost being sinister; where was the local village drunk, the awkward goth teenagers, the crappy charity shop in the middle of town? It was too fixed and controlled. I don't want to be down on Austria as it was a beautiful country with a huge amount going for it, but people were so serious, smiles scarce. People don't go for a stroll, they go 'Nordic walking'. This is simply walking with ski poles. We chortled when we saw the first people doing it, we were concerned when we saw a group of students being taught how to do it(?), we despaired when we found paved 'Nordic walking' trails through the countryside. Everything had been laid out for efficient convenience to the extent that we managed to cycle all the way through Vienna without riding on a single road as specialist tracks, populated by nothing more dangerous than a rogue unicyclist, let us float through the capital. These people seemed to have everything sorted, but yet nobody was smiling... at all.

We pedaled onward through one immaculately tended, but eerily sterile, village after another, past ancient castles, vineyards and all the time criss-crossing the Danube as it slowly narrowed as we neared the source. Before we knew it we were entering Germany. I had been wondering about spending time in Germany and had to confess to not being sure if I would like it. I can't trace this feeling, but am sure it is deeply wrapped up in the historical relationship with the UK. However, the shift as we crossed the border near Passau was almost comic. Everyone was suddenly waving and smiling at us. Maybe they were all grinning at the sight of the scowling Nordic walkers on the other side of the river, maybe it was that everywhere here has large beer gardens and sausage stands. On our first night in Germany our gap toothed campsite owner insisted we tried his local most (scrumpy), before giving us a blanket off the antique tractor to keep us warm and waved us on the way the next morning after offering to help with everything he could. And since then we have just had an incredible time going across Southern Germany. The landscape is stunning, the history of the towns and cities is mind boggling and the overwhelming impression is that the Germans are the closest race to the British we have seen on the whole trip.

They love nothing more than sitting in a pub garden in the sun eating sausages from a BBQ and drinking large quantities of beer. They choose to shun suncream resulting in extremely sunburnt faces on the first warm day of the year. They love whizzing around on motorbikes, cars and anything with wheels, wings or on water at the weekend. It is a version of what a certain type of person strives to make England; efficient, better tended and cleaner. All the roads are smooth, well sign-posted and all the towns are well planned without being deserted like Austria. There is also the added bonus of people wandering around in an extraordinary mix of what I can only really call 'Euro-style'; hugely suspect mullets, exceptionally dodgy tracksuits, occasional huge moustaches and some far too tight t-shirts. Sitting in the sun at the Schwalbisch Hall festival knocking back a few beers yesterday was eerily like being home, but maybe with more mixed ages in the pub from toddlers to Grandparents. I wonder if it is just having been away for so long that makes this land seem so similar to home.

We have around another 4 days before getting out of Germany and into Luxembourg and Belgium. Having had a bike stolen in Belgium in the past I will most likely be sleeping with the tandem as a pillow. The thought of being this close to the finish and something going wrong is a horrible one, but each day at a time, and before we know it it will be time to stop...

Going home, going home, going home, going home...

2010-04-10T09:23:00.000+01:00

If we told you about our 1,400km from Istanbul to Novi Sad in Serbia 48 hours ago it would be a different tale. The last two weeks have been one of ups and downs; Glorious spring sunshine alternating with freezing, rainy headwinds; smooth and quiet then pot holed, truck filled roads; quaint villages full of humble rural life and depressingly deserted, boarded up industrial towns.

For the first week I couldn't shake the stuck record of, 'We're going home, we're going home, we're going home, we're going home, we're going home' from my mind. We cycled through lands that felt impenetrable through language and cultural barriers. In Turkey people looked at us curiously, shrugged, smiled then gave us a welcome cup of chai before getting back to their tasks. In Bulgaria people gawped in utter confusion for so long that there was no time to see their reaction once they had processed what they were seeing. In Romania we whizzed through ancient villages getting heckled by gangs of boozing men in guttural tones that weren't clearly positive or negative. One man seemed simply to bark at us. In Serbia on the other hand, reactions to the tandem have been more finely tuned.

Yesterday we had been cycling for 1,300 km and 12 days without a day off. We had pegged Novi Sad as our day off destination and had a nice steady route planned to get us here, avoiding the apparently doomful traffic of Belgrade. We were therefore a bit tetchy and tired when we pedaled into Pancevo yesterday only for there to be no room at the inn. Our choices were another 115km to Novi Sad or traffic misery into Belgrade. We decided to slump down in the main square to eat some sugar and make a plan. Little did we know a plan was already descending upon us.

'Hey hey, cyclist, cyclist', a man in a full length black leather coat, flip down mp3 fitted shades and grey curly barnet taps Nick on the shoulder.

'Me, me cyclist, come come see', We get ushered to one side of the square, reluctantly heaving the tandem when really we just want to collapse and not have to deal with any suspicious looking men in long coats. 'See, look, me... Stockholm, Regensburg, Athens, Tulcea.' Our weary faces lift as the man shows us a board of photos of his cycling trips. This isn't just any oddball, this is a cycling oddball, which means we can relax.

Ten minutes and zero English later we are pushing Carlos into a small garage on the outskirts of town and being ushered into Dusan's one room pad next door. A map of all his cycling trips plasters one wall, Mount Olympus posters adorn the other and in pride of place sits an oil painting of his 20 year old Specialized 'Epic' racing bike. In between speakers that take up about half of the room and a table tennis score board lie stacks of books he's written about his cycling adventures. It's from this moment that we realise we have stumbled across another gem of a human being and roll with the brilliance of it. Before we know it we're collapsed on the bed-cum-sofa being taken at top speed and volume through his live music DVD collection: Pink Floyd Live in Pompei, ACDC in Munich, Roger Waters Super concert of The Wall in Berlin, Walter Trout (?), Jimmy Winter ('White Jimi Hendrix, albino man'). and last but not least, Jeff Wayne's War of the World's Live tour. Of course.

Before it gets too weird that we have no means to communicate other than the medium of Rock, his 21 year old son Niki arrives. His excellent English and long flowing locks suggested that he might have grown up watching a few too many of his Dad's DVDs.

'My father says you can stay here tonight, he must go and talk on the TV now and later he has to train the local table tennis team and then tonight he is out of town so you can have his bed.' Wow. Its more bizarre than we can ever have hoped for. But free, warm bed – brilliant. After missing a train into Belgrade we spend the afternoon with Niki exploring Pancevo and eating hamburgers twice the size of my head (the Serbs are incredible hamburger makers). After days of cycling through places and being desperate to ask questions its good to get an insider's view of this part of the world. Frustration with politics but an appreciation of things getting better and a definite intrigue at the future role of the EU comes over strongly. But most telling, for this soft mannered Serb, Canada, a paved cycling path and house in the mountains is the dream.

As we head off for a post burger beer a vision in white flashes across the road. Its Dusan on the aforementioned Epic in full white cycling gear (were the gloves with silver floral detailing made for women?) tearing through the streets of Pancevo as if it's a time trial track. Amazing! For the first time the tandem wasn't the most conspicuous thing on two wheels in Eastern Europe. After some exchanges in Serbian Nicki asks 'Er my Father is wondering if you would mind talking on local television with the tandem. Only if you are not too tired, no problem if you would rather not.' Our response was fairly positive. Its not every day you get the opportunity to feature on Serbian TV with your beloved tandem. An hour later we were parked in the middle of the town square being interviewed by an enthusiastic TV reporter asking such questions as 'Are you tired?', 'Why are you in Pancevo? Do you have enough money?' and 'Do you like White Snake?'

After all that excitement we get some much needed kip on the sofa before its back into action again at 7am with the return of Dusan. The TV is on at full volume with Jean Michel Jarre live in Houston blasting out and some cheese pies for breakfast. Nicki and the vision in white lycra ride with us half the way to Novi Sad, kindly, if a little dangerously, protecting us from trucks and giving us a slip stream (tricky with a fully loaded tandem and two tiny racers). Half way through the ride Nicki turns to me and says, 'Today you have made my father very happy, all his life he has been with women who do not like cycling. He always wants a women who likes cycling, who understands, and today he has seen you on the bike and so he knows they exist and this makes him very happy.' After a photo shoot in the middle of a puzzled looking Serbian village, we say our goodbyes and all wish each other the best of luck in the future. I have a feeling we might see those two rocking up in London one day in some phenomenal cycling gear with big grins.

Novi Sad was bombed extensively by NATO in 1999 to put pressure on Milosevic to end the Yugoslav regime, but has since reinvented itself into a youthful city full of cafes, restaurants and and drinking holes. Perfect for our day off and to top off the Serbian hospitality our hostel owner welcomed us with a massive grin and glass of beer, full of joy because tomorrow he gets to look after his lambs in the fields. There is a local speciality here called 'lescovacki voz' (Leskovac train). This is essentially a 'train' of meats brought to you throughout the evening. It would seem churlish not to try it... From here we head pretty much due North to Budapest, West to Vienna and then hit the straight line to London through Germany, Luxembourg, Belgium and France. ETA into Hyde Park is 4 weeks time today on the 8th May, but as with all great adventures, you can never be too sure what might get in our way or speed us up en route.

From Babushkas to Baba Ganoush

2010-03-26T22:15:00.000Z

After receiving a heroes welcome by travelers and hostel owners in Irkutsk and waving goodbye to our fellow ice warriors it was time to board the Trans-Siberian and chug our way to Europe. Four days (86 hours) sitting on a train is as long as it sounds, not helped by the monotony of the landscape – 5185 km of flat white plains sprinkled with birch trees. But as we passed through the nothingness and blizzards of Siberia we weren't completely void of entertainment. Babushka (Granny) Victoria was our cabin mate for the entire journey. A small owl like lady with a sprinkling of gold teeth that managed to boss us around non stop, despite a complete language barrier; 'don't lay your head at that end of the bed', 'you must put your bed away now', 'get me some tea', 'wash my mugs', 'take your shoes off' and 'put more warm clothes on'. Tiring at times, by the end we were quite fond of our adopted Babushka, especially since we showed her the map of our trip and she beamed her gold teeth and gave us an enthusiastic double thumbs up. Other Russians came and went from the cabin, a glamorous lady, a stocky mountain man type and a young guy from the far East who had already been married 3 times and seemed determined to get us drunk. Each left with what we suspected was an earful of wisdom from Victoria after some heated discussions and occassional 'yes Babushka, no Babushka'.

Stepping off the train in Moscow was an exciting moment as we re-entered Europe after 14 months away. Unfortunately the crossing of the Ural's didn't yet bring balmier weather. Only after 2 days of wandering around in -8 degrees did we start to realize why the streets of Moscow are suspiciously empty. Rush hour seemed to be the only time people were forced to go outside, but even then bundles of furs, huge collars and high heels darted between heated underpasses, bars and gaudy metro stations faster than the animals they're wearing. But this eerie lack of people could not detract from the gold domed historical splendour of the city. The highlight, by a long way, was the exhibit of the Tsars' treasure in the Kremlin. Where else in the world can you see 1,000 year old battle helmets alongside priceless sleighs for princess' that were designed to be pulled by dwarves? The opulence of Russia's past did not fail to entertain.

If there's one conclusion we took from our Trans-Siberian experience it was that Russia is vast, more vast and full of nothingness than you can really comprehend. The saying 'you cannot understand Russia, you can just believe in her' suddenly made perfect sense as we questioned how on earth those in the far East of the country could feel at all related to those in the West. But somehow they do. A mutual love of vodka, cold meats, kebabs and a constant battle with the elements seems to unite these people more than most nations in Europe. The fact that Russian's are so fiercely Russian is an extremely attractive quality. They are not trying to be America, or China, or Europe, but do their own thing in a refreshingly no bullshit way.

After a quick 2 days in Moscow we rode the 26 hour train to the Ukraine. Snow gradually melted, the landscape turned brown and everything looked a bit more depressing. From the train, the Ukraine looked like a country that has battled hard for independence and then not quite known what to do with it. On pulling into the graffiti ridden, run down and grey suburbs of the black sea resort Odessa, I was slightly concerned about where on earth I had made my little sis come to visit us. But Odessa is not like the Ukraine we witnessed from our train. The mafia run this place and consequently its wealthy and glamorous, but with plenty of seedy roughness around the edges. From watching Madam Butterfly at the beautifully ornate Opera House to the sexy cave girl dancing with seals at the dolphinarium to stocky women with beards chopping up carcasses at the huge food market, Odessa was an ecelctic joy.

Yet however good the Ukrainian's are at cold beers, meats and mafia fueled luxury living, they quickly proved to be completely useless when it comes to a ferry service. We planned to hop down to Istanbul across the Black Sea on the regular ferry service that boasted all your meals as well as discotheque and cabaret lounge. Instead, 12 hours of sitting on the dock was followed by 48 hours of going at a miserable 4 knots meaning Luce missed 2 flights and we got into Istanbul seasick, cold and a bit miserable. But that's all behind us now and its time to look onwards and upwards. Nick's Dad and Hils met us off the boat and the last 2 days have been filled with feasting and buying bike parts in bazaars, in a city we will definitely one day return to. All in all its been perfect preparation for the 2,300 mile bike ride ahead. Tomorrow we will set off on our loaded tandem across the Golden Horn and cycle across Europe through at least 9 countries. It's a long awaited moment. Carlos is fully loaded and every mile covered is one closer to home.

Colder, harder and more brutal

2010-03-10T05:47:00.002Z

The moment of stepping on the train in Beijing was momentous. It was the moment where we recrossed our path from September last year and started making progress towards Hyde Park again. There would be no more weaving back and forth round the deserts and mountains of Asia. It was time to head home.

The train groaned and grumbled North through steep valleys lined with frozen rivers before emerging onto endless white Mongolian steppes dotted with solitary gers and fur clad herdsmen. From there we finally crossed into Russia and turned West towards Lake Baikal. We knew it was getting colder outside because after Ulan Batuur whenever we flushed the loo out onto the tracks below a frozen cloud of steam erupted through the pan. Luckily, the cabins were as warm as the hospitality of our Russian companions who welcomed us in for smoked fish in their compartment as we saw the first glimpses of the lake. Sergei looked intensely at me and said simply, 'What do you think of beer?'. Unsure about the depth of response this question required I simply nodded, at which his face erupted into a huge grin and he brought over 2 large bottles that were dispensed into jam jars, coffee mugs and medicine measuring cups to toast our travels and imminent marathon.

Getting off the train in Irkutsk to meet up with Tim, Eoin and Grainne the breath was knocked out of us. The thermometer read -15 degrees centigrade and the cold stole the heat from toes, ears, noses and fingers with terrifying speed. Not only did the frozen air take our breaths away but so did the fact we appeared to have stepped into a James Bond film – full length fur coats, fur hats, long slick hair, big make up and 6 inch stilletho heels seemed to be the norm for every woman on the streets of Irkutsk.After being surrounded by small Asian people for 6 months seeing tall white people everywhere was a shock to the system. It took a good 12 hours to stop thinking we must know these people or they must be able to speak English, just because they had the same faces as our own. We boarded the minibus to Listvyanka on the shore of Lake Baikal with high spirits, but a suitable undertone of nerves. The ice marathon was in 2 days time.

But signs were good when we arrived at the lakeside resort. We were shown into a traditional Siberian wooden cottage with newly stoked wood burner, ancient Soviet kitchen and bedlinen, frozen (broken) toilet and it's own banya complete with sticks to beat yourself with as you sweated away. You realise that when the weather is this cold, you need to do heat well. We could have sat around in our pants it was so warm and Alexandrey's mother regularly bustled in with more wood to ensure we were toasty.

The day before the race we briefly ventured onto the ice to try out our gear. Layer upon layer of clothing to cover as much skin as possible. Thermals, fleeces, windproof jackets, neckwarmers, balaclavas, hats, multiple socks. Luckily the Yaktrax shoe grippers seemed to work a treat and we jogged across the sheet ice feeling pretty confident. Seeing the people hacking triangles out of the metre thick ice to go diving simply confirmed this was a place for lunatics. It also didn't take long to realise what an epic undertaking this was. Crystal clear sheet ice spanning into the distance as far as the eye can see until it meets a frosty blue horizon is one of the most breathtaking sights of the trip.

The briefing the night before was the chance to meet other competitors and was everything we could have hoped for. The event was managed by Alexei; a mustachioed Russian who had the perfect balance of folklore, impatience, wry smile and respect. He would say things like 'Baikal living animal, we can never know what will happen' and explained how 'many earthquakes every day' and so 'often some cracks. Just use common sense rule'. The mostly rather serious German competitors alternately huffed and puffed at the lack of fixed info, with Alexei unmoved. On discussion of the weather he explained they consulted 5 very technical weather stations, but also, 'some special people in village who come out of house, look at sky and birds and make good understanding'. -15 degrees and clear skies were to be the order of the day. Alarmingly though he did mention that there would be around a foot of snow on the far side of the lake where we started.

Next morning all feeling pretty good and with the promised beautiful clear day. We all downed a shot of frozen vodka and then 5 hovercrafts took us over the ice to the far side of the lake. We soon began to realise quite how big the lake is. 646km long, 1647m deep and it holds one fifth of worlds fresh unfrozen water (more than the five Great Lakes combined). The hovercrafts set off on sheet ice on the finish side, but gradually patches of windswept snow built up. Everyone gradually went quieter and quieter as we had been thumping along for over half an hour and had not even reached halfway yet. By the time we got to other side I hopped out to have a final pee and sunk more than a foot deep into the snow. I stumbled, sinking deep into the snow over to Hol only to see that she was casually stood on top of the unbroken crust. Bugger. Back in the hovercrafts to keep warm we wait for 30 minutes before being cajoled out of warm jackets and heated cocoons for 40 or so people line up. Alexei stood up and rapidly explained that 'Caterpillar was meant to crush snow track for running. It broke.... GO!'. A brilliant strategy to stop people complaining, and soon a line of people is strung out ahead. Incredibly, some runners managed to go sprinting off, but I was left slipping and sliding in the thick snow and suddenly it dawned on me quite what we had got in for.

I had a nice race plan to try and get to half way (21km) feeling within myself and then press on the for the second half and see what happens. However, the thick snow put a halt to any hope of that as my legs ached, my lungs struggled for breath and it took what felt like an age even for the first 5km marker to come around. Quickly, I went from thinking of putting in a good time to just finishing the race. Eoin was in the distance seeming to skip over the snow with elven abandon, and I also waved Tim off ahead as I knew I had to get some kind of pace I could last at. Suddenly, my head was filled with questions of ruining my knees for the ride home, worrying about how Hol would cope behind me, whether I should just do the half marathon. The impossibility of getting any kind of rhythm had caused any confidence to evaporate in a puff of frozen breath and the last 4 weeks of no training seemed foolhardy. I set my sight on the next food stop at 14km and slipped and stomped onwards as the competitors spread out around me.

By the time I had got to 14km and the second feed station I had settled on just completing the race and so stopped for longer for some strong black tea, energy gel and dried fruit. Feeling a bit merrier after that I aimed for half way which came around all too slowly. Luckily the snow begun to thin and patches of ice began to make the going easier. Jogging painfully into the half way point, the women in the hovercraft looked alarmed and another competitor started taking photos of me. My face felt pretty slow to move and like it was made of honey that had been left in the fridge. I looked in the hovercraft mirror and saw it was covered in ice. My nose had a large stalagmite of snot hanging from it and my right eye was pretty much frozen closed. She made me painfully wipe it off with a hanky and I plodded on. A few km later though both my quads seized up over the course of ten painful steps. Crouching exhausted and alone on the ice in the middle of Baikal was a memorable moment. Nobody else in sight, the ice stretching off in all directions. I looked down through a metre of crystal clear ice riven with cracks and there is just an incredible deep, deep blue below. As if to salute the moment, the ice suddenly makes a huge booming, splintering groan beneath me. Alexei had explained that cracks can appear at any time. I wasn't about to hang around to test him.

I got up and started stomping/power walking and trying to swing my arms to keep blood in them. With knees unable to handle more than around 75m of running without seizing up, there was little I could but stomp on. With 14km to go Hol whizzed up in a hovercraft with a beaming face having finished the half marathon. It made me feel so much better to know she had done it and was safe and warm and, judging by her face, very happy. What a legend. How many people would come out here and do this kind of thing with their other half I pondered as she zoomed off again to the finish? I'm a lucky man.

The final two hours were more stomping and stumbling with parts of my body gradually going numb. Without being able to run and the sun beginning to dip, my body temperature dropped and hands, nose, ears all began to lose feeling once and for all. You could see hotel at the finish from around 2 hours out, but slowly it inched closer. Despite thinking I would not be tired having not been able to run the whole thing, when I crossed the line I suddenly collapsed completely frozen and broken. My face wouldn't function and my speech was slurred. Hol helped me inside, whipped off my gloves and I sat comatose on the floor of the hotel lobby. Trying to force water down I started throwing up and realised that maybe I had put in enough to be content with the effort. Painfully I kept throwing up for the next 3 hours, unable to keep anything down.The main shame was not being able to take advantage of the free meat stew and I also missed getting to see Hol collect her medal. Along with Grainne, she came 3rd in the half marathon!!!!!!!! What a result.

Her knee had been almost unwalkable on for the last few days but running through soft snow must have done it some good and it decided to fix itself from the start line. This was such a relief that Hol pretty much smiled the whole 2 hours 59 minutes of her race. Eoin had come 4th with top foreign finisher in 4hr10m, Ginger had come in at 4h50m and I had struggled in in 16th place at 5h14m. Humbled, broken and vomiting it felt like we had all done something pretty special and that Siberia and Lake Baikal are things to respect.

The rest of our time in Listvyanka was spent wandering the town's street eateries and loving Siberia. The fresh smoked omul fish with cold beers, giant shashlik kebabs and multiple bottles of Baikal vodka all got taken down with a hunger worthy of our recent exploits. We even squeezed in some skiing for an afternoon on perfectly snowy and empty slopes overlooking the lake. The atmosphere in the town was all the better as it was a national holiday. The Russians at play have a great set up. Wrapped head to toe in warm furs, hats and jackets they filled their time having giant outdoor picnics, towing each other round the icy lake in their cars, drinking, ice skating, doing doughnuts in their hovercrafts and generally enjoying the finer things in life. There have been so many brilliant moments of surreal Russian life. Just snapshots of exactly what you imagine the country should be like.

Popping out for a pee from our little cottage I spied a large bosomed man silently smoking a cigarette outside the banya in a small towel. -30 degrees in the dark Siberian night? No bother. Then you spot someone spiralling their lada in loops on the lake as the sun goes down next to a women walking onto the frozen lake in immaculate furs and knee length high heel boots. The glamour, white faces and cold have all been shocks in equal measure. The stories of Russians being dour, inhospitable and grumpy has yet to be proven. So far people have been incredible. Interested, smiling, welcoming. Moscow may prove to be different, but then London isn't exactly the friendliest place for a tourist who speaks no English. 2 months or so until we are planning to roll back into London. The pace has upped now we're tearing across Russia, but I think it is somewhere we are going to come back to. Roll on Europe...

If you are interested in what we wore on our feet then check out Yaktrax. These things strap onto the soles of your shoes and meant we could skip around on ice and snow without falling flat on our faces. The Russians who won it seemed to have some advanced sliding technique, but for normals these were like wearing running spikes on ice. Genius...

Living the expat dream in Shanghai

2010-03-08T09:57:00.000Z

Getting a call from an old mate Shawry saying he was working in Shanghai for 6 months couldn't have been better timed. We were in the thick of the no-heating Nepali winter with filthy clothes, chilblains and were low on money. Our visit to see Chris for a week became a beacon of warmth and hospitality between a frozen Tibet and an even more frozen Russia.

After spending 50 hours with our noses pressed into the ceiling of a train from Lhasa, we were always going to be a little spun out on arrival. However, we were still totally unprepared for what awaited us. We jumped in a taxi as it took us toward Chris' flat. Our instructions were to 'Just ignore the useless security guard on the gate' and then 'walk past reception like you own the place'. Usually this would be relatively easy, but arriving in an immaculate tower block with a suited concierge sat behind a sparkling marble edifice Hol and I would have stuck out less if we were naked. However, smiling optimistically we made it past and let ourselves into a beautiful flat. Hot shower, temperature control, a giant TV. A different world.

The tone was set for our time here by Shawry's welcome note on the floor. There were maps with places to eat on, spare clothes, spare phone, washing machine instructions, guide books, some local booze, some pocket money, food in the fridge and more. Within half an hour the washing machine was dealing with 12 weeks of ingrained filth, we were clean and fresh and ready for food. Stepping out into the city blew us away. Towering glass skyscrapers, Rolex, Gucci, Burberry shops, glistening malls with spotless restaurants. A sparkling Ferrari burbled past worth the annual income of 1,200 Nepalis! We had boarded the train in Lhasa with people literally crawling in the dirt in the hope of some salvation and release from the bleak lives they have been cursed with, and here people are being encouraged by chiseled Western models on every billboard to spend £5,000 on watches. All the memories of our last 5 months clashed in total culture shock confusion with where we were now. We huffed and puffed at the cost of a salad in a cafe frequented by trendy businessman, but then ate it and were waxing lyrical about the taste, the freshness and colour of our first salad in months. The people around us wolfed down their regular snack lunch without thinking and looked askance at us wondering where the hell we had surfaced from. However, I still maintain that I can't remember enjoying a salad more than the Wagas roasted vegetable creation that day. I hope never to become blasé about work lunches again.

The week was spent in a blur. Shawry would head off to work and Hol and I would rise off the sofa to explore the city. First priority was finding a running machine which we finally managed to avoid paying £60 for and shook out 2 weeks of sitting on trains and minibuses. Very necessary, even if it did involve dealing with enthusiastic gym managers selling memberships. Alex shook my hand 15 times and repeatedly said 'You craaaaziest man ever come to my gym. Nobody do two hour on running machine. Nobody. You crazy, craaazeee man. Ha ha. 6 month membership you and lady...' From here we explored the narrow streets of the French concession, the cloud topped towers of Pudong and a raft of local backstreet canteens. Our life was split between cheap wanderings in the day and luxury at night when Shawry returned from work.

One of the fascinating things about the time in Shanghai was learning about the ex-pat life. We went out a couple of times with friends who were working for various multi-nationals based there. There was one night in particular where we got the feel of what it was like. A Paulaner German themed bar in a smart district of the city was churning out pints for £7.50 to a crowd of mostly white men and a sprinkling of wealthy Asians while a Filipino 3 piece band belted out heavily accented Tina Turner hits. Chatting to the guys, there were common themes of finding the working culture very difficult at times, but the money and the lifestyle being good. They don't miss home, to the extent that they challenged us repeatedly about why we want to go back, and they spend a lot of time and money living it up in the ex-pat bubble. The appeal is clear in the beautiful restaurants and high pay, but the division between 'us and them' would be hard to deal with full time.

One guy there in his 30s had his newly married Chinese wife with him, but we didn't realise as she was sat on a different table with a few of her Chinese friends and didn't mix. Also, in the office most white people will be earning around 10 times as much as the local Chinese they manage. Add to this the culture of saving face, and the message that comes back repeatedly is that working life is lacking dynamism and the ability to get anything done as employees are terrified of doing anything wrong and so do nothing. In the bar there were middle aged men leering over young Chinese women who smile politely and go along with it. Shanghai has a historical reputation for it's loose morals and the foreign influence. It seems that under the tailored suits this still lives on in a newer form...

With the true Shanghai experience in mind, Shawry one night suggested we go to a massage parlour. Having heard about the GPs (Gentleman's Paradise) my heart lurched a bit. It was a three way invitation with Hol as well, but I had to check. Shawry reassured me that this would be far from anything seedy though. Having never had a massage other from butch rowing physios, the chance for a foot massage was welcome. When we arrived in the smartly lit spa we were shown into a room with three huge armchairs, a flat screen TV on the wall and cups of chrysanthemum tea. We whipped into pyjama bottoms, threw on a DVD of Sherlock Holmes from the pirate movie emporium next door and sat back. For the next 90 minutes we had necks, backs, legs and feet pummeled, rubbed, picked, oiled and finally cupped as the masseurs softly chatted and we watched the film. For less than the price of the cinema tickets that were our original plan, it was a phenomenal experience, if a little alarmingly luxurious. What happens in the G.P.s I am glad to say still remains a mystery.

One of the promises of our time in Shanghai was a night on the town. We hadn't been out properly since July in Colorado and Hol and I were both nervous and excited. We started the evening with some G&Ts before borrowing a whole set of Shawry's clothes and moving over the road to an 'eat and drink as much as you like' Teppanyaki restaurant. For £20 we had round after round of delicious sushi, fresh grilled king prawns, dumplings, lamb chops, noodles, fresh roasted fish, not to mention a round or ten of sakes and beers. It was interesting to note that all the clientèle were white, despite it seeming like a local place. Old habits... From here Shawry whipped out a stack of post it notes which was our itinerary for the evening. Next stop was a place called 'New Heights' which overlooks the financial district of Pudong and we sat sipping drinks the best table in the house, then it was onto another of Shanghai's trendiest bars called Glamour. At this stage the sakes seemed to be kicking in as we were asked if we would like to be moved to another table away from the free cupcakes. Then finally it was on to a club where we happily fell into old ways of drunken revelry, dubious gyrations and silliness.

Having spent the night being taken round and royally treated by Shawry we began to be even more confused by Shanghai. The city is home to wonderful tree lined neighbourhoods with beautiful old buildings, phenomenal bars and restaurants and things are done with a style that is totally alien to the rest of China. The old impact of trading concessions with European nations a hundred years ago had their effect, but the recent developments seem to have escaped the full force of Chinese urban planning. It doesn't seem to make sense. Are the bars run by Europeans who explain that saving 20% on décor by having faux wood plastic seats will make everything look shit and nobody will come? Does Shanghai have some aura that stops Beijing from interfering with it? On returning to the capital and it's 12 lane central streets, crap buildings and historical reconstructions that look like a discount Disney land, your heart sinks. How can one place get it so right, and one so wrong. Maybe it is just a matter of time before Shangahi succumbs. Expo 2010 is just round the corner and the old promenade along the Bund is being torn up. What will replace it i can only guess at. I fear fake concrete Chinese style bridges, toy trains, semi broken lamps. I have to admit that I struggle to stomach China in many ways. The argument that they have lifted thousands of people out of poverty is undeniable, but I have never seen a country so devoid of grace, beauty and sensitivity. The flashes of ancient brilliance are buried by the new government. It was summed up on our final night in Beijing when we were in a bustling nice restaurant having some Peking Duck. Around us people were ordering as much as they could and leaving half of it. The man on the table next to us turned in his seat and hocked up a huge chunk of phlegm and just spat it on the restaurant floor at our feet. The surge to show new wealth and development comes at the cost of simple grace.

Our time in Shanghai was spectacular. Shawry raised the bar when it comes to hospitality and leaving to get back on the road was as hard as ever. We can only hope we can one day return the favour when he arrives in a smelly unemployed mess in London sometime. Next stop Mongolia and Russia...

Since our blog was blocked in China we have posted this from Russia. 50 hours of chilly Gobi, icy Mongolia and bitter Siberian forest brought us to the destination for the big ice marathon on Lake Baikal. The date for the ice marathon has passed, but you will have to wait for Hol and I to have a moment to type up our impressions so far of Russia and give you the run down...

High Altitude Mind Muddling

2010-03-08T09:41:00.000Z

February marked the arrival of Charlie and Caths for 2 weeks of hardy adventuring over the Himalayas and also the time for us to say goodbye to Nepal. After being settled for 4 months we were ready to point ourselves homewards. But before we left Kathmandu we managed to squeeze in a Bollywood wedding feast with the VSN gang, a trek to watch the sun come up over the Langtang mountains and more Dal Bhat than one should eat in a year. The combination resulted in a week of pure joy and the shits. A suitable departure from a land that provided us with great highs and a few rather tedious lows.

We once asked an American women who had lived in Tibet for 6 years for her impressions. She paused, then sighed and said, 'If you are not confused about Tibet then you are not looking hard enough'. After keeping eyes very wide open for two guided trips across the Tibetan plateau we think its safe to say she's hit the nail on the head.

'We're off', Nick announces as we heave our worlds onto our backs and head across the Friendship Bridge back into China. This time, I said to myself, I am going to make a big effort to like China. I spoke too soon. Ten minutes later we were told by an officious PRC army man to wait 3 hours at the gates of immigration. We weren't allowed to go through without our guide. Our guide was missing. We collapsed resigned in a hungover heap on the fag and spit soaked floor to observe everything that swirled around us. Most entertaining was the gaggle of women in front of us who were shifting nervously, keeping one eye on the border officials and the other on their snotty nosed children. Before long we realised they were busy smuggling crates of fake Johnnie Walker Black Label whisky. The tiny women each strapped twelve one litre bottles around their waists before covering themselves in saris and waddling and clinking back into Nepal. All they got was a friendly pat on the back as they swayed past the Nepali border police.

'We're off', Nick announces for the second time as we meet up with our guide, Lopsang. The first hurdle, immigration, completed with a bit of relief, the second hurdle, icy roads winding above 500ft drops, would be tackled in the morning. In his new ridiculously oversized down jacket, Nick quickly took on the role of Gandalf, leading three slightly rum-fuddled hobbits into the forbidden kingdom. Cue an epic 7 days of mysticism, mountains and being bloody freezing.

The Western obsession with Tibet is not unfounded. On driving across the Tibetan plateau it is hard to believe that 2.7 million people manage to eke out a life on this high altitude desert. Rural Tibet's continuing medieval life only magnifies this. Clusters of traditional mud and wood houses litter waterless, frozen and brutally windswept plains. The crumbled outlines of forts at dramatic vantage points hint at both wars gone by and the sheer civilisation-eradicating power of the mountains. Young men still walk for empty miles lugging goods from one settlement to the next, kept warm by giant furhats and knee high felt boots. A horse and cart delivers the weeks' barley to a toothless, dusty miller. Children stare at you with hollow black eyes, not playfully or curiously, but as if looking at something from another dimension. As Everest looms in the distance and the road sweeps through dilapidated villages, you quickly become transported into another time.

But worlds collide so sharply here that you have to constantly adjust your views. Just as you've got accustomed to the old, up jumps the new. One night we bedded down in icy, shared rooms of a traditional guest house. 120km later we were driving past shopping malls, computer shops, and the concrete and glass fronted hulks lining the 6 lane streets of Shigatse. The small guest house was a magical world of hand painted bright walls and ceilings, traditionally dressed families and communal cooking around a dung fire. We even had a mute monk tucked up round the fire watching us intently. The new hotel in Shigatse was made up of a broken TV, dim lights and chill impersonality. But we had to admit that a warm shower and sit down toilet does beat squatting over the iced up poo gulley the previous night. That morning we huddled up for 2 hours outside the traditional guesthouse waiting for our minibus to start. A small, grubby girl spent the entire time throwing stones around a dusty track for entertainment. In Shigatse Chinese children took it in turns to whizz around the marble paved main square on an electric remote controlled car.

China's 'development' in Tibet is rooted in attracting Han Chinese to set up shop there. Not an easy feat, given that its one of the most inhospitable places on the planet. It is not surprising that money drives Chinese people to move here. Money and a promise of all the services they could ask for in the hinterland. Consequently towns in Tibet are made up of polar halves – the Tibetan old towns and the Chinese new. The Tibetan side is always a collection of traditional buildings, buzzing with human life, people praying, communal eating and children playing. Tibetan people were born there and continue to live there. This is naturally how communities exist and develop though time. On the Chinese side nothing is natural. Poorly built concrete is going up faster than residents are moving in. Towns immediately have a horribly depressing, ghost like feel. Gyantse, 175km from Shigatse, looks ancient and impressive from a distance. A huge fort rises above the town and a gathering of Tibetan houses huddle beneath an impressive monastery. But on arrival we stepped out of the minibus into piles of litter and human waste, which drifted hopelessly around town in the biting wind. A 10 year old boy with a deformed face grabbed Nick's trouser leg repeating relentlessly 'money, money, money'. As you turn to look down the road stray dogs are more populous than humans, a dead one lies in the middle of the pavement and some Tibetan children are using the gutter as a toilet. The Chinese have brought with them running water, toilets and rubbish disposal schemes. Maybe this town got left out, or maybe the Tibetans were never shown how to use them. Either way, the development of small villages into towns had happened too quickly.

And all this confusion is even before you've stepped into a 1400 year old monastery. We visited five on our tour and not once did I get bored of the sensory overload of these places. Shaven headed monks float through whitewashed, cobbled streets in long maroon gowns. Bannisters and walls are rubbed smooth by the passage of pilgrims for hundreds of years. The sounds of chanting pilgrims, banging drums and the smells of incense fill the air. Queues of people from all over Tibet stand patiently before entering the chapels and temples and lay down gifts to the gods. Giant gold and bronze statues flicker in the soft light from yak butter lamps. Turquoise and coral adorn the belts that keep felt or fur cloaks around old pilgrims' bony bodies.

All walks of Tibetans travel for miles to pray at these holy places. But it's no ordinary prayer as they prostrate themselves along roads, pavements, public squares and dusty alley ways. Reaching up to the sky and then falling in a wave motion right down to the floor, over and over again, for hours, days, weeks. People who can barely walk shuffle too and from the floor in arthritic pain, while toddlers copy them unaware of what or why they are doing it. By far the most harrowing sites in Tibet are where this ancient religious world collides with the oppression of the Chinese. Hobbling pilgrims get roughly searched by policemen before being allowed to worship their gods. In Lhasa the pilgrims share the holiest prayer circuit in Tibet, The Barhkor, with gun toting PRC army men. Whilst pilgrims drag themselves clockwise around the tiny cobbled streets, their moment of walking with god, 12 army men stomp around anti-clockwise, their comrades watching menacingly from the surrounding rooftops. But worst still, some circuits are entirely built over by the Chinese, leaving pilgrims to risk their lives prostrating across busy traffic intersections. One of the greatest displays of subservience we have witnessed anywhere in the world. If not for the presence of the communist aggressor maybe we would all be horrified by the fact people put themselves through so much for a religion they know so little about.

Tibet's huge monasteries used to be the biggest in the world, housing up to 10,000 monks. In 50 years this number has dwindled to around 500. Understandably, there is not much attraction for monks to study in a land where all the religious leaders have disappeared and so most have fled to join the other 100,000 or so Tibetan exiles in India or Nepal. To give you an idea of the Chinese control of the religion, the 2nd most holy lama behind the Dalai Lama is the Panchen Lama. He is chosen by consulting a holy lake which gives you the direction of the village he is in as well as clues such as the colour of the door, the number of cattle the family own including their markings. However, after the death of the 9th Panchen Lama, Beijing decided they didn't like the new one chosen in Tibet so they found their own who now lives in Beijing. Our guide explained that nobody now knows where the Tibetan lama is. However, having already spent 5 months in jail as a political prisoner he was reluctant to go into too much detail. Some of the elements of China's work here makes you shudder. All houses are given a Chinese flag to fly above their door, if they don't they are put on the list of political troublemakers. At the time of the PRCs 60th Anniversary soldiers outnumbered Tibetans 8 to 1 in Lhasa.You can only learn Tibetan up to 10years old in school, giving the language little hope of survival. The Potala Palace, once political and spiritual heart of Tibet, is now a museum. Whilst politely acknowledging the existence of every Dalai Lama since the 6th Century, it quietly ignores the one that is still living, the one that fled for fear of being kidnapped over 40 years ago. Monks that work at the Potala palace are no longer allowed to be called monks, they are simply workers. Tibetan's have no access to information about their once spiritual leader but still they bow down to his old thrones at the Potala Palace and all the monasteries. A nation of subservient people, be it to the Dalai Lama, invading Mongolians throughout history, greedy Tibetan landlords or the Chinese government. These people have been bowing for as long as they can remember.

We left Tibet with more questions than answers. How much fresh fruit and veg, running water, electricity, roadways, infrastructure and investment does it take to justify crushing an ancient culture? What would Tibetan's do with themselves if they were 'free'? Is the Dalai Lama a massive coward for running away from his nation? What is China so paranoid about?

All this confusion was only heightened by leaving Lhasa to spend 50 hours on a train heading East to the swanky, cosmopolitan, successful city of Shanghai. The same country, the same time zone and the same government but world's apart. But Nick will fill you in with more on living it up with a mate Shawry in Shangers. For now its time to pack – in 12 hours time we'll be boarding a train to Irkutsk in Russia to throw ourselves across a hopefully very frozen Lake Baikal!

26.2 miles of sheet ice and vodka

2010-01-19T13:39:00.001Z

Several months ago whilst sat in a youth hostel in China we found a discarded and dog-eared Russian guidebook. Leafing through this Hol read about a Winter Games Festival in Irkutsk. A quick consultation of the Oracle (my all encompassing trip planning spreadsheet), and it became clear that we would be there bang in the middle of it. Spectacular luck. Delving around on the internet and we then found an invitation to join the VIth Annual Lake Baikal Ice Marathon. This is the point in the film version of our trip where off-key strings will start reaching a crescendo, the sky will darken amd a roll of thunder will reverberate in the background. Inspired by the irresponsible amounts of brown sugar on the porridge I was eating I immediately proclaimed we should enter. Oh dear...

The small issues of where we would train, the fact that neither of us had run anythink like a marathon before and that the whole thing was across the frozen surface of the world's deepest and oldest lake could wait. To prevent any back out we employed the same trick that got us on the trip in the first place and emailed lots of people about it. However, in the cold light of day we began to realise what we had undertaken to do. One of the few websites we found where someone had thawed their fingers out enough to write up their experiences was by a russian ultra-runner called simply 'Gorkov'. It wasn't reassuring. He wrote:

The wind was blowing from the south, so the left side of the face required some attention, had to rub it from time to time. The temperature must have been around -10C, not too bad.

-10 degrees centigrade... in the middle of the day... Not too bad? Holy Jeez. Also, what the hell does 'some attention' mean? Oh, he also said he had to stop and check a compass he had on him when the weather 'deteriorated'. Being lost on top of a giant lake in a Siberian winter? Never before had this been top of my to do list. Considering that I developed chilblains sitting typing at a keyboard in Kathmandu, many would call this undertaking foolish. Yet somehow we have two more people stupid enough to join us, and even a kit supplier to help us get over the ice with their specialist ice running footwear: Yaktrax.

So it is that Tim, Eoin, Holly (for the half marathon) and I will all line up on the icy start line on the 7th March. The course stretches a full 26.2 miles from one side of the lake to the other and, depending on the wind, the course is either up to around 5" deep in snow or is sheet ice. On a good day they say you can see the other end of the course from the start. Other people call this a bad day because of the mental strain of running for hour upon hour through a totally featureless landscape without looking like you are getting any closer to the finish. I assume this is why every 5km there is a refreshment stop. Not your usual Lucozade or Powerbar type fare here though. Hot tea and Vodka.

However, despite all our worries we have managed to crack on with some training. This in itself hasn't been that simple either. Air pollution is a serious problem in Kathmandu. Particulate matter concentrations of heavy metals often exceed threshold values at which human health is severely affected. And the worst time of year? Winter. The bowl shape of the Kathmandu valley traps the cold air causing it to stagnate, the brick ovens fire up and choke the air with black smoke, and the fine dust from the roads gets thicker and thicker with no rain to wash it away. Our first runs we were plagued by sharp chest pains and asthma like symptoms, in part due to the fact the whole city is 1,400m high, but since then we have found certain back roads that have fewer trucks on. That said there are still times when you have to run through clouds of thick black diesel smoke and dust, being chased by a rabid dogs whilst leaping over piles of burning rubbish.

On the bad days the advisories that say even staying in Kathmandu for a couple of days is a bad idea ring in your head, and you question the value of doing the marathon. But then 2 minutes later you turn a corner and you are running towards pink tipped 8,000m peaks tousled with cloud and the sun is dipping behind ancient temples and gold roofed monasteries. Some of my fondest memories of Kathmandu will be running around the valley. Eager kids running alongside you calling your name, misty mornings with the sounds of distant worship carried along rivers, and teams of traditionally robed monks having furious football matches on dusty fields.

We now have under three weeks left working at Volunteer Society Nepal before two of Hol's girlfriends come out. She has been craving lady chats for around 16 months now and we are both getting very excited about the prospect of starting our return trip on 13th February when we will head back into Tibet en route to Russia. I am sure the marathon training handbook doesn't read, "Have large number of rude sounding cocktails and beers with long absent friends in Kathmandu, sit in jeep for a week, sit on train for 3 days solid, go on beers with other friend you haven't seen in 17 months in Shanghai, sit on train for another 3 days solid, run marathon". However, this seems to be our only option. It'll be a huge relief to have finished it and be sat at the, no doubt vodka laced, Gala dinner on the evening of the 7th March. In our heads it is then just a hop, skip and a jump back to Europe and, as long as our knees hold up, we should be in rapid shape for the trip back across Europe on Carlos the tandem. Magic.

Trekking to Annapurna to welcome in 2010

2010-01-10T07:38:00.026Z

Back in the poor and jobless days of October, there was a nasty moment
when we weren't going to make it into The Himalayas during our Nepal stint. Luckily though, after 6 weeks of working, we managed to justify a Christmas and New Year break in the mountains. So, after a little too much Marmite, chicken tandoori, Nepali beer and brownies (the strange combination of goods indulged in over Christmas) we headed off into The Annapurna region for 9 days of walking.

When we set out on our trek on Boxing Day we were not sure if the weather would permit us to reach Annapurna Base Camp, the highest and most exciting destination of the trek. If it snows at base camp there is a high avalanche risk and being without a guide, we weren't going to take any chances. Being the snowy season, we were braced with optimistic phrases about how unimpressive base camp would have been anyway. But we needn't have worried. On the day we planned to head into the big stuff we awoke to a clear, crisp sky and it remained that way for the next 24 hours.

Walking into the snowy bowl that makes up Annapurna Base Camp, which is surrounded by some of the highest peaks in the world, was one of the most breathtaking moments of the trip. We gazed and gazed and gazed and still couldn't take it all in. Rock broke away from under our feet as we gazed down a 50m cliff to a sea of boulders, brought down from glaciers thousands of years ago. Whisps of cloud flew off the tops of the icy peaks, as if to warn you against even attempting to reach such inhospitable heights. Mile wide glaciers moaned and groaned as the sun went down and came back up. Semi-frozen streams cracked and creaked their way through the snow. At sunset colours turned from blues and whites to pinks and oranges until a full moon tinted everything silver. Melted ice crashed down from mountain ledges and froze solid again when darkness came. Nick and I walked through this colossal land completely alone. Never before have I been so silenced by a landscape.

On New Years 2008-9 we were just picking up the trade winds somewhere off the Atlantic coast of Africa. This year felt almost as remote, sipping on whiskey in a dark stony teahouse, shrouded in the cold mist of the Himalayan foothills. Despite being in bed by 9pm the evening was a charming one. We had a handful of entertaining fellow trekkers to chat too (unsurprisingly, a couple of very enthusiastic Dutchies were the pick of the lot), hot coals to warm our feet by and a huge plate of Dal Bhat to fill our hungry bellies. At 7am on the first day of 2010 we awoke to panoramic views of The Annapurna Range, while golden cloud floated through the valley below us. In Nepal it is considered a very good omen if the first day of the year is clear, which is a relief. All in all, a pretty spectacular way to see in what is set to be a terribly exciting year.

In case any of you haven't heard yet, 2010 is the year of our homecoming and of me becoming Mrs Tuppen. For a long time such exciting (and a little terrifying) events have been a long way off, far too far away to begin to comprehend. Cycling back into Hyde Park has been an unconceivable moment, out there in the futuristic and unknown year of 2010. Suddenly, on the turning of the year, this all changed. Our mindsets did a complete u-turn. We are now on our way home and getting there feels incredibly close.

With this in mind, we skipped along the ancient trails of the Annapurna region full of joy and wonder at everything that passed in 2009, and everything to come in 2010. As if this wasn't mind boggling enough, our backdrop never ceased to leave us in complete awe.

Returning to civilisation after this blissfully simple world of walking from A to B, was a bit of a shock. Minds quickly filled with the admin of getting home; sending passports to the UK to collect our Russian visas, listing every single country we've been to in the last 10 years for the Russian authorities, training for an ice marathon, completing work in Kathmandu, getting permits to travel through Tibet, making sure Carlos is ready for Istanbul... The list goes on. But after an initial panic and finding a bargain happy hour, we happily sunk into our tasks.

One of our more enjoyable tasks was to visit some orphanages in Pokhara where some volunteer buddies were working. One orphanage proved rather entertaining. As hard as we tried to explain that calling a children's home 'The Innocent Children's Center at The Love Company' was not the best idea, the name remains. And despite having been told not to ask for financial aid from volunteers, the manager of this orphanage spent the last week trying to persuade one poor Dutch lad to buy a $700 buffalo for the kids and to fund his retirement. On hearing this we were slightly alarmed to notice that not all the kids had beds. In stark comparison, the other orphanage was a wonderfully homely home kitted out with all the toys, games and comforts kids could want. The answer to such success was a clever chicken farming scheme rather than depending on the wealthy Western folk.

After soaking up all the warmth we could from the Pokhara sun we headed back to our Nepali home in Pepsi-Cola, Kathmandu. A warm welcome from the kids and a plate of 20p momos from our local, quickly made up for the smog and cold. Increased electricity outages and the arrival of a comically talkative and heavily bearded Irishman have hindered work progress considerably. But there's still 30 days left to make our mark in Nepal... we'll see how it goes.

For those of you that want to be persuaded to go trekking, more photos of the mountains here

A Very Merry Christmas; if the Maoists allow it

2009-12-22T09:47:00.009Z

3 days to go until our second Christmas away from home. Things have been getting interesting in Kathmandu. The Maoist party in Nepal have called a 3 day nationwide bandha (strike) forcing all traffic off the roads, all businesses to close and our movements have been restricted to within walking distance of our house. It's been a surreal experience.

The Maoists, who won the majority of votes in elections in 2008, resigned from government after the president overruled their decision to sack the army chief. The former rebels say the president's move was unconstitutional. Their programme of civil and parliamentary disruption is aimed at forcing the government to debate this issue, something the government refuses to do. We got our first real taste of this when returning from town on Saturday. We were making our way towards the central bus station, which is enough of a test of the nerves at the best of times, when we saw smoke rising in the dusky light. Coming round the corner to Ratna Park we witnessed a mass protest with thousands of people marching the streets with flaming torches, chanting and shouting anti-Government slogans. The effect was dramatic, but thankfully the mood was not. Nonetheless, with traffic grid-locked and darkness falling, we decided being inside a taxi was a safe bet and so we jumped in one and waited for the roadblock to lift. A sudden revving of engines temporarily transformed the street into a Formula One grid, however, the illusion only lasted for around 12 seconds as everyone bolted off the line only to grind to a halt 50 yards further on.

Our sighing taxi driver wove his way through ill-lit backstreets, clattering over discarded flaming torches whilst ghostly figures loomed out of the haze of smoke, dust and fumes. Occasionally we saw flickering faces deep in discussion, until the road eventually disgorged us somewhere on the outskirts of town. 2 hours later we made it back. Exhausted, but glad to be in more familiar surroundings.

Since then the mood has lightened with 3 days of strikes feeling more like a holiday than anything else. 2 nights ago there was suddenly cheering and hooting and we thought the strike might have been called off, but last night we were woken in the middle of the night by what sounded like air raid sirens. In the absence of up-to-date news, this has meant just making do. We have spent the last few days welcoming in heaps of volunteers, playing with the kids at the orphanage, painting new classrooms and planning Christmas. And this morning, when one of the volunteers needed to get to the airport to fly home, we just walked. Jason and I set off in the thick morning mist to walk the deserted main roads into Kathmandu. The usually choked streets were devoid of any vehicles save for speeding UN vans, Red Cross jeeps and ambulances. It felt like a war zone, but the peaceful smiling faces remain the same as those welcoming us when we arrived in Nepal. You just want to know what the people are talking about as they huddle round their small roadside fires to keep warm. Is the talk full of political opinion and dissent? Or is it simply people enjoying three days off to catch up with family and friends? Exactly how people are responding is unclear, although it is unquestionable that this is crippling the economy of Nepal and can only make things worse.

However, we now have a bus ticket that should wing us to the slightly warmer Pokhara tomorrow morning. Asking Rupa about whether there would be much traffic, her response was simply, "After bandha... Ha, ha, ha". Indeed. After two days of leisure including HOLLY'S BIRTHDAY on the 24th (Ahem) we are planning to guide ourselves up into the Himalayas to Annapurna Base Camp. I can not think of a better tonic to the claustrophobia of the bandha than a couple of days of lounging, bathing and feasting before strapping on a pack and heading into the snowy mountains. We just hope we aren't sat at the same desk tomorrow evening with no prospect of getting away.

In the meantime... Merry Christmas to one and all back home. Not (that) long until we are back and this time next year we hope to be sharing yule logs, booze and crackers with you all.

Latest photos:
http://www.flickr.com/photos/hollyandtups/sets/72157622904249007/

Not Christmas, but almost as good

2009-12-09T11:46:00.018Z

Today was the closest we will probably get to a big family Christmas this year, in the form of a Hindu house blessing ceremony. Tej, our boss, and Rupa, his wife, have been living in their new house for a couple of months now. A recent bout of bad luck (hopefully nothing to do with us being here) has persuaded them to get the house formally blessed. So the Brahmans were summoned and they declared Monday 7th to be the lucky day for the blessing. From here on luck should flow freely around the house and all those living within it.

Preparations started early yesterday morning with the grinding of grains to make flour for about 300 donuts. Such culinary expertise continued late into night, only to start up again early this morning. It later became clear that the importance of this feast was not only to serve up to 200 hungry humans but to also please the apparently quite greedy gods. At the crack of dawn today it was all go; the party tent arrived, giant cooking pots got steaming, vegetables turned up by the bicycle load and the household put on their finest.

The blessing ceremony took place in the form of Pooja (Hindu prayer), which started at 8am and went on for an extremely dedicated 6 hours. This all took place in a room on the bottom floor of the house, which was transformed into a den of holiness for the day. The once mundane room was filled with incense, offerings of money, potatoes, flowers, rice, 5 very stern looking Brahman, the family of the house, a huge bonfire, holy water, every spice under the sun and never-ending chants. At the end of the ceremony the Brahmans walked around the house blessing everyone and every corner with a sprinkling of holy water chanting 'peace here' (in Hindu). For the finale a huge sheet of white silk was hung from the roof and water and flowers were poured down it to Tej, Rupa, Riza and a very confused Tiya (2 years old) waiting 3 stories below. Chains of flowers, bananas and donuts were hung around the house and then everyone got stuck into the vegetarian buffet, curd, sweets and milky tea (at last!). You cannot help but be entirely captivated by the mystical sounds, smells and colour of it all. So laptops were shut and we soaked up a day of blessings, feasting and entertaining the little ones. I am now particularly excited about instigating all of the above traditions for our new pad warming party on return to the UK.

We have been in Nepal for five weeks and now feel very at home. Our home is a remarkably peaceful suburb of Kathmandu called Pepsi-Cola Town Planning, inspiringly named after the adjacent Pepsi factory. Time has raced by at an alarming rate, reminding us of the woes and joys of routine, staying in one place and having a job to do. No doubt a gentle reminder of what to expect on arriving home in about 5 months time. Despite some initial trauma linked to space (lack of it), snot (an overload of it) and smog (trying to train for a marathon in it), things are now looking very rosy. Not only have we been blessed by the gods, but our adventure tales got published in a real magazine and we achieved our first work related task in 14 months. VSN's new website is now up and running at http://volunteersocietynepal.org.

To have completed the website feels like quite an achievement, especially since the process only involved one or two 'storming out' moments. All this burying ourselves in html and entering the world of cyberspace nerds compensates a little for ample time spent away from computer screens in the last year. Our next challenge is to send the website racing up search engine rankings (any advice much appreciated!) and to spread the VSN word around Nepal and beyond. But its not all work. Between teaching kids to talk proper and all the marketing faff many an hour is spent sipping whiskey at our local, The Hut, dodging rabid dogs on runs and watching the world go by from our roof terrace. And then weekends (only Saturdays off shock horror) take us to such cultural delights as Kathmandu zoo, the tailors, the best fried eggs in town and guesthouses with fire places in remote hillside villages. So with all this we should remain nicely occupied until trekking and feasting time in Pokhara come Christmas!

Yum-Yum Noodles vs. Saving the world

2009-11-22T03:21:00.019Z

As Hol said in the last blog, our jobless arrival in Kathmandu was less than pleasant. Having spent too much of our budget on extra strength margaritas in Colorado, fixing Carlos in Vancouver and just existing in Japan, we were left with the challenge of spending 3 months in one place whilst effectively living on £1.25 a day each. Not much fun.

The chasm of pennilessness stretching out in front of us was threatening never to be filled. We had flung hopeful emails to all corners of the Asian subcontinent (Hol's mysteriously tending towards Goa) in the pursuit of work with not a whiff of a suitable response. This was until we arranged our first meeting with Tej, the Director of Volunteer Society Nepal. We had stumbled across an advert whilst in Xining asking for someone to write a marketing plan for the charity and it seemed to suit the skills of both Hol and I. So it was we uncrumpled our only shirts, considered the merits of creasing our jeans and proudly gripped our new notepads and biros as we waited outside the Kathmandu Guest House. Tej arrived and after an hour of discussion over lemon tea it appeared we had a job offer. It sounded perfect. Both of us working on developing a new platform for Volunteer Society Nepal. How would we recruit more international volunteers? How do we present the organisation online? How do we develop all the materials for the organisation to run more efficiently when we leave? We went straight to the pub to celebrate and got drunk after one beer.

The next day we were grabbing some breakfast and checking emails when an email pops up from the ad agency Outreach Nepal. I had found these guys advertising a full time post for a Nepali employee and had emailed them saying I was in town for 3 months and did they want a consultant. A very long shot. Not having thought anything more about it, I was now faced with the prospect of an interview with their MD Ujaya in ten minutes time at a cafe that was 12 minutes away. Dirty shorts: tick. Smelly yellow novelty t-shirt: tick. Dusty trainers: tick. Sweating on arrival: tick. Job offer at the end of it: tick. Despite an up and down discussion where at one point I suggested it wasn't a good idea, we now had the second option of me working as a copywriter and creative consultant on their accounts and Hol researching foreign handicraft exports. Wow. The 24 hour turnaround was total. Glorious, gainful employment. Mental stimulation. Budget relaxation. Splendid.

The next 10 days were spent pondering the options. In the end VSN won out. Tej seemed like a top bloke, full of enthusiasm. The accommodation was in a nice place away from the hectic centre and smog of Kathmandu. It was a morally good thing to do. And we got to try our hand at website design and teach kids if we wanted to. Also, the more I looked around at the prevalent marketing output in Nepal I began to wonder about the level of work I'd be doing. The leading noodle brand Yum Yum noodles had spent literally tens of rupees developing their tagline, 'Yummy'. Then there was the Real juice slogan, 'It's really... really... nice'. Our decision was made. We were destined for the suburb of 'Pepsi-Cola Town Planning' the day after waving the mother's goodbye.

We have now been here for 3 weeks and the time has flown by. We have eagerly thrown ourselves into work from the first day. This slightly took Tej by surprise I think, but having not opened an Excel spreadsheet in anger for 14 months it felt good to be up and pivot tabling again. We have our own 'office' on the 1st floor of Tej's house where we live. It has a grand Chinese (falling apart) desk which Hol and I both work on opposite sides of. The addition of a small kettle, instant coffee and some tunes and suddenly it felt like we were up and running. The internet is sometimes painfully slow, there is no heating which necessitates woolly hats and novelty slippers at all times, and we work on Sundays, but we are stuck in and loving it. We confidently pronounced we could build a website during the interview, and there was an awkward few days when this became patently untrue. However, since then we have taught ourselves, with the indispensable aid of the unknown multitude of nerds posting 'how to' guides on the internet, and we are well underway. You can fully expect a range of tear jerking emails, letters, tweets, pokes etc. to flood your in-boxes sometime in the near future.

As well as the work for VSN we have also been thrown into teaching in the local school. At the start of the 2nd week we had a meeting with the principle to discuss the ethos of the school, ways of working, curriculum, timings and methods. This meeting lasted roughly 2 and a half minutes. Before we knew what was happening we were in front of a class of 12 expectant teenagers and 45 minutes later a small segment of the youth of Nepal had a rudimentary knowledge of tandem mechanics, 1930's Norwegian sailing boats and the wildlife of Yellowstone park. Not strictly on the curriculum, but you never know when you will need to escape from an enraged hoary marmot on a hand brazed Santana tandem with nothing but a three strand rolling hitch to your name. We now teach 2 periods a day and I have to confess to really enjoying it. There is minimal lesson structure to keep to and so we just freestyle through the text books. The kids are great and the concentration and behaviour are a world away from how schools in England are portrayed (at least by the Daily Mail). On top of this we were also asked to help teach Gurkha recruits in the final days before their selection tests in Pokhara.

The Gurkhas have been part of the British Army since 1815 and are a proud part of Nepal's history. To become a Gurkha for a young Nepali is seen as not only a well respected job, but also one of the best paid. Around 20,000 Nepali men between the ages of 17 and 21 apply for the 230 places available each year. Acceptance means 15 years guaranteed employment, £1,200 a month, a pension and the chance of a British Passport. To put this in context, the headmaster of the school we work at gets £200 a month. It is estimated that around 30,000 families in Nepal rely on these salaries. The selection tests range from the physical; minimum of 14 chin ups and a 5km run up a mountain with 25kg of rocks on their backs in 48 minutes, to the mental; GCSE standard Maths and English tests, to the dental; no more than 2 fillings and no gaps. We helped the recruits on dictations, mock interviews and other English tests. It was pretty humbling asking these guys why they want to join, why they are willing to die for the British army, and also realising that for many of them this is their 3rd or 4th attempt. They were all so earnest , some very nervous, all sincere, but they also all beamed back the minute you smiled at them. Taking the role of the interviewing officer gave us a small glimpse into their motivation, which only reinforced respect for these young guys who are training so desperately for 10 months to get in. Some good pictures here

After the final class the people who ran the training center insisted on taking us out for some snacks and tea. The personal trainers, the manager and the English teacher all bundled into a small restaurant and were laughing, joking and asking lots of questions about us. Over chicken and milky tea they all happily regaled us with stories of training, Nepali wedding parties and everything in between. Once again Hol and I left after two hours totally disarmed by the friendliness of the Nepali people. This is a country that was in the grip of a civil war up until a few years ago which saw 12,000 people brutally killed. Yet in their character is only warmth, hospitality and a clear self respect. There is no trace of self consciousness, cynicism or bitterness that can charaterise more developed countries. Before we left one of them spent 5 minutes saying goodbye and saying how happy and grateful they were. They made it very clear that they particularly wanted to write us a thank you letter as well when they got back from final selection. These people sometimes talk about the famous British manners, but one can't help but feel they have adopted and exceeded them.

There is lots more to talk about to do with the orphanages, the smaller schools we have seen and also all our contact with various NGOs working out here, but that can wait for another blog. All that can be said, is that this country is perhaps the friendliest we have been to and we are very happy to have chosen it as our base for the next 3 months before we embark on the final leg home. Right off for some Dal Baht and then a jog around the airport and along the Bagmati river. I think I'll stick upstream of Pashpatinath temple where at any one time there are around 6 corpses being cremated and swept into the water.

Catching up on some soul food in Nepal

2009-11-17T08:37:00.010Z

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.

Despite this immediate joy and relief, after too many days of inhospitable landscapes, arriving in Nepal was an emotionally challenging time. First off we experienced a minor culture shock on arriving in Thamel, the tourist bubble of Kathmandu. Here everything is geared towards the Westerner; English is fluent, food is international, the streets are filled with ethno or hiking-clad white folk and everyone wants to sell you something. So from having virtually no contact with anyone for 30 days we were suddenly being communicated with left, right and center. But this was quickly got over. There was a deeper problem. The whole crux of our trip is that it is a journey. We set out to carve a single line around the globe taking us far away from, and back to, home. When on that line, progressing towards home, we are full of purpose. Once we move off the line we quickly become disorientated and despondent with the trip. This is the crisis we found ourselves in when we arrived in Nepal.

We came here to find work for 3 months. This is because we have to wait until winter thaws before we can cycle back from Istanbul, and because our budget is looking a little worse for wear. But in order to come to Nepal we have to double back on our line. It sounds small, but for the first three days in Nepal the horror of this wracked my mind. How could we have ruined our perfect line? So I desperately sought out remedies. Pakistan and Iran, exciting? Yes. Feasible without causing near heart attacks to parents? No. Skirting Iran by freighter towards to Suez Canal? Pirates. Crossing the Indian-Chinese boarder? Closed. Crossing the Burma-Chinese boarder overland? Closed. Getting a boat from India to Malaysia? Smashes our budget. So with all other options ruled out, I had to come to terms with the line crisis. But then there were still no jobs, Kathmandu was teeming with tourists and not being able to afford to go trekking left us pondering why the hell we were here. But the biggest panic was that we only had 4 days before the mother's came out to see us. We had to get rid of this black cloud before they came out, instantly detected it and worried for the next 6 months.

Luckily, the 20th October was our saving grace. In the space of 24 hours we had received two exciting job offers, escaped the horribly manic tourist hub, found the heart and soul of Kathmandu, found a restaurant that fed us delicious food for 50p, found out that tours back into Tibet were half the price of our one over here and worked out that we could go trekking without a guide and therefore afford to do it. Black cloud gone, bring on the mothers! The two weeks that followed emotional airport welcomes were a haze of falling in love with Nepal, catching up with home and planning a wedding.

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.

But no time to linger on dark interludes. Once we had stuffed o ur heads with culture it was time to head to the mountains. The bus trip from Kathmandu to Pokhara and back is as joyful as the one from the Tibetan border. Except this time I got to sit next to Mum; a new bus partner for the first time in a ridiculous number of bus journeys. The next 8 hours were a surreal mix of thinking we must be chatting in our kitchen back at home to being shaken back into Nepal by a jolt or bump of the bus. Pokhara was our haven of relaxation for the next 5 days. A lakeside resort that feels more like a village than the second largest city in Nepal, dominated by paddy fields and forested hillsides. On arrival we were welcomed by 5 enthusiastic Nepali staff all beaming at us, 'Ah Mr Nick, it is a pleasure to have you stay in our hotel, welcome to Pokhara!', and things just got better from there.

Sitting on the shore of Phewa Lake in Pokhara is one of my favourite spots of the trip.Whilst soaking up the sun one looks onto brightly coloured women washing clothes, unconscious children diving in and out of the water completely naked, men building and repairing boats, red robed monks strolling back to their prayers and buffulos grazing in and amongst it all. One morning we whetted our thirst for trekking by getting up at 5am to watch the sun rising onto the Himalayas. Half way up the ancient cobbled pathway to the designated sunrise view point, a shop owner ushered us onto his roof terrace. Here we received our own private viewing of the pink, orange and misty mountain show over a very welcome cup of coffee (Nepali) and flapjacks (UK). We spent a magical couple of hours taking in the gradual awakening of the land before us. A maze of stone pathways guided us down to town, through hillside farmlands and small settlements. The sounds of farmers chanting whilst they gather hay in the fields and the occasional cockerel filled the air as we stomped in and out of the low morning cloud.

Whilst the mothers were with us such active excursions were obviously done with interludes of copious amounts of wine and one too many Nepali thalis (rice, spinach, vegetable curry, lentils, naan and radish). I was particularly grateful for some female company, which prioritized talking over anything else and meant I could go shopping guilt free. And both of us appreciated two weeks of hot showers, good food and relaxation at a time when our enthusiasm for the road was waning.

So our first two weeks in Nepal was a perfect introduction to our first country of residence in 14 months! But more on screaming at kids, blagging our way through website design and chicken feasts with the Gurkha's to follow...

More photos of Nepal on flickr here

How grateful we are to the People's Republic of China to be able to travel to Tibet and see the real situation there for ourselves

2009-11-04T03:04:00.014Z

“Over a long period of time, Tibet was covered with a mysterious veil. People always felt that Tibet was so far away and beyond the periphery of one's knowledge, and even that all things related to Tibet were a great mystery... However, the mysterious veil was gradually lifted after the peaceful liberation of Tibet in 1951.”

So runs the introduction from Eyewitnesses to 100 years of Tibet: Interview whith [sic] eyewitnesses. Holly and I were very lucky to find this book, published by the China Intercontinental Press, in a hotel on our final day in Tibet. We had heard many things about unrest and 'cultural genocide' in the Chinese province, but by the time we had left thankfully the record had been set straight for us about many of the incorrect things we had heard in the West.

Our first experience in Tibet was on the world famous train across the Qinghai-Tibet plateau to Lhasa. Thanks to the incredible engineering feats of the People's Republic we traveled from Xining to Lhasa in just 26 hours. Before it's construction this would have been an arduous journey of several months. The road climbs to 5,100m in crossing the plateau and in order to be built certain areas of the track needed to be sunk into permafrost. In order to maintain stability the ground is therefore artificially frozen year round. Hundreds of kms of mighty bridges span giant rivers and take the train past sapphire blue lakes. We had heard some people say that many workers had died in the construction of this railway. However, the people who claimed a life was lost for every 2km of track were very wrong. The announcements on the speaker system of the railway informed us that “nobody died of high altitude diseases or plague” due to multiple temporary hospitals and stringent measures such as heated toilets so people wouldn't catch cold. We were also happily corrected about the rumours we had heard about the railway's significant impact on the fragile eco-system of the Tibetan plateau. This relieved us very much as we rode this “world beating sky road to Lhasa”.

On arrival in Lhasa it became clear the accusations of social problems in the capital of Tibet were also not true at all. Instead of an ancient mountain capital we found wide concrete roads, lots of cars, modern concrete and glass buildings; a busy modern city. The police and army were making the city very peaceful and we now understand why the Tibetans must be so pleased with the changes. Our thoughts were confirmed in more extracts from Eyewitnesses to 100 years of Tibet:

'Of course the citizens of Lhasa are delighted. Zholgar, working with the sanitation bureau said joyfully, “through developing a market economy, Lhasa is even closer to the hinterland, various new products add richness, their prices are continually being lowered and living standard get better each year.”'

“Zhasang, a Tibetan whose parents performed slave labour for a manor in Lhasa before the peaceful liberation... describes [the changes] as being like a dream”.

Also, we didn't realise how happy the Tibetans were as a consequence of the large scale relocation of Han Chinese to the region. The scholar Balsang Dainba explains how Tibetans have been so grateful for new foods becoming acceptable, “Over many years [Tibetan diets] were limited to meat of beef cattle and other large animals and we dare not eat fish or frogs due to our stifling religious culture... we made irresponsible remarks that the food [of people outside the Snowland] was nothing. This showed we were too pigheaded and exclusive.”

It was such a pleasure to find the truth and that the Tibetans were so happy.

As we left Lhasa and drove through the valleys of the Himalayas towards the Nepali border we passed many small villages. Before us rose the awe-inspiring bulk of Mt. Everest as we crossed passes up to 5,300m high. But what was even more amazing than the mountains was that making their way into the teeth of the freezing winds were occasional solitary goat herders. They appeared to be living truly nomadic lives passing from scrub to scrub with nothing but a simple tent to their name and eking a subsistence living in the harshest of environments. Yet it made me feel a lot better to know that he has a warm house built for him by the People's Republic with a colour television and fresh water. I think he just chooses not to live there at the moment.

Cedain Pucog, a Tibetan historian writes “I have heard some people overseas believe former Tibet had humanity and its civilians were very happy, but today's Tibet has no humanity and it's civilians are miserable, and have no human rights. I, as an old Tibetan, living half a lifetime in both old and new Tibet, was deeply surprised to hear these words, and I feel a responsibility to introduce some true facts drawn from my own experiences”. We read how before the peaceful liberation in 1951 serfs would have their eyes gouged out and would be used for target practice by their landlords. The thought of the repression of these poor people by a far more powerful and wealthy master is terrible. Thank goodness this has changed since the People's Republic of China were welcomed into Tibet in 1951.

Photos of Tibet: Click here
Slideshow: Click here

The Silk Road: 5,100 miles of riot police, kebabs and desert

2009-10-23T03:16:00.011+01:00

Dropping our dust covered bags after 38 straight hours of bus travel we prepared to sign into the Kashgar Old City hostel. A man dressed in the black uniform of the People's Republic Police force, flanked by two aviator wearing heavies, followed us in. These three had challenged us at the bus station and it seemed had followed us across town. The leader was swinging a spiked black truncheon menacingly. Before we can grab the long dreamed of beer from the fridge next to us we are ordered to sit down:

“Passports. What job do you do?”
“Advertising”
“[Pause] You can't stay here. You go Qini Bagh Hotel”
“But we have a reservation here...”
“No you go now. NOW.”
In the most measured tone I could muster having not slept for 2 nights, “Do you mind if I ask why?”
“Your safety. National Day”
“But...”
“GO NOW!”

This was our cordial welcome to Kashgar. We had traveled for thousands of miles to get as far from the grasp of the People's Republic as we could, but it seemed that the further we went from Beijing the tighter the grip had become.

Kashgar is a legendary oasis settlement where the Silk Road splinters into the mountains of Tajikistan, Pakistan, Afghanistan and Kyrgzstan, and I had dreamed of visiting it for as long as I can remember. As a child there is little that fires an imagination like tales of camel trains being swallowed without trace in shifting sands, murderous bandits lurking hidden in icy mountain passes and people running unimaginable risks across the deserts in pursuit of undreamed of wealth. So it was we laid an ambitious plan to retrace the route from Beijing via Xian, to the far west of China's troubled Xinjiang ('New frontier') province and then do a loop round the southern edge of the Taklamakan desert. The route would take us as far along the silk road as our visas would carry us and would also lead us well off the tourist route and into a rarely seen part of China. 20 days was the plan and when we looked at the distances, potential sandstorms and delays involved we soon began to not only question our own sanity, but we also begun to appreciate the scale of the undertaking of those who had traveled the route over 2,000 years before us.

After a 2 day stop in the smoggy disappointment that was Xi'an we boarded the train to Jiayaguan in the Hexi Corridor. This narrow strip of land running up to the North of China winds between the Tian Shan and Qilian Shan mountains and the Gobi and Taklamakan deserts. The Chinese refer to the town as the mouth of China. To the East of it lay civilisation and to the West nothing but barbarians, desert demons and the promise of a lingering death. Leaving the town and seeing the Western extremity of the Great Wall crumbling into endless scrubland it was tempting to agree. Wedged in my 5'4” sleeper bus bunk surrounded by an army of smoking, hacking and spitting companions I tried to imagine the trains of camels and their drivers wrapped to withstand dust storms, heat and bitter cold as they plodded at a camel's pace across the featureless land. It was a struggle.

The scale of the journey they did needs some kind of context. It is 2,700 miles just from Xian to Kashgar; roughly the half way point along the Silk Road that stretched all the way to Rome. This is about 3 times Lands End to John O'Groats or the length of our whole ride from Mexico to Canada on the tandem. But the difference is that there is nothing there... The Taklamakan translates as 'the desert that people enter and do not leave' and it was hard to disagree watching the scorched scenery slip endlessly by. Swirling dust devils are the only things to break the vista of stone and sand that stretches to the horizon. Dried gulleys and sections of washed away road hint at occasional flash flooding, but to our untrained eye there is simply nothing for 38 hours of constant bus travel. To try and comprehend what it must have been like for these early traders makes your head implode and it seems anything we undertake ourselves is a cotton wool wrapped walk in the park in comparison.

But we did finally make it to Kashgar after 14 hours by train, and 49 hours on various buses. We disembarked warily as the region had a recent history of unrest and our arrival coincided with the 60th anniversary of the founding of the People's Republic of China. In Beijing and for the dominant ethnic Han Chinese this meant mass celebrations and a no expenses spared showcasing of China's industrial, economic and military might. In Xinjiang it meant a flexing of the already significant military muscle in place to keep the area 'safe'.

In Xinjiang the population is primarily Muslim and tensions between the Han and the native Uighurs have run high since the 1950's. This has been due to the ruling Communist party flooding the region with Han Chinese. The Taklamakan sits atop large reserves of oil and natural gas and the control of this is seen as a vital foundation for China's rapid development. The Communist Party claim they have invested in the region's infrastructure, the Uighurs claim all the opportunities are reserved for Han immigrants and their ancient culture is being bulldozed to make way for identikit Chinese concrete towers. In April this year there were uprisings in the province's capital Urumqi. Quickly put down by the military, Beijing puts the death toll at just over 200. Other sources claim closer to 2,000. The multiple police checkpoints along the roads in the province and our welcome to Kashgar were just the tip of the iceberg, but on exploring the streets we uncovered a fuller and sadder story.

The traditional main square in Kashgar is the Id Kah mosque. Prayer time on Friday and the thousands of people swarming into the mosque are watched over by around 750 heavily armed troops. They are hunkered down in machine gun nests, formed in lines behind riot shields with taser-tipped batons and sat in a line of trucks surrounding the square. We are gob-smacked. The local population seems to have a weary resignation. I surreptitiously snap some photos from a couple of streets back and then wait while Hol goes to investigate a fetching orange Adidas bumbag. I notice the two armed men approaching from across the street. My mind flicks to the photos on the camera and I wonder about sliding out the memory card, but the suspicion of a blank camera seems even more risky. I pretend to not notice them, but they weave their way towards me. I notice the fixed bayonet on the end of his rifle:

'You. You are taking photos. Show me camera now.'
'Oh, ok fine. I was just taking photos of the mosque'

The first 3 photos show the mosque neatly framed by heavily armed men, but luckily the mosque remains central. I offer to delete them swiftly and soon it is photos of donkeys, kebab sellers and Hol grinning on the Great Wall.

'OK, no photos though. No photos of military or trouble for you.'

Jeez. Luckily, we still have a camera and they didn't even find the ones of the machine gun nests in front of the giant Mao statue from earlier in the day. Ha ha! Fools. It was pretty scary though and we were careful to be well clear of the square before whipping out the camera again.

Walking the city was a bizarre experience. The population speaks an Arabic toned Uighur dialect totally different from the guttural Mandarin of the East. Beautifully embroidered skull caps adorn the men whilst silk head scarves, long skirts and heavy eye makeup make the women look like fairytale Romany gypsies compared to the garish synthetic materials of Beijing's population. Flat breads and mutton kebabs replace fried rice and impaled scorpions and there are children playing in narrow crumbling adobe back streets peopled with wood-turners, blacksmiths, cobblers and bakers. Individual characters, smiling faces and a sense of history stirs in all the back streets in a way we hadn't felt since landing in China. However, rounding a corner the future loomed ahead of us. A huge swathe of old town was laid flat and hunkering in the middle of the destruction was a wrecking ball wielding rusty crane. There was a large sign next to the site in Uighur, Mandarin and English. It proceeded to explain how the local government had consulted with UNESCO and locals to ensure a sympathetic reconstruction of the area, but we then saw the first swathe of new buildings.

Narrow streets had been widened into 4 lane traffic choked boulevards. Small workshops had been replaced by concrete and glass shop fronts lit with the ubiquitous hospital glare of energy saving light-bulbs. Original wood-worked banisters and intricate detailing had been replaced with crap Chinese reproductions all in concrete. The delicacy, history and character had been replaced by cheap imitations devoid of any local craft or soul. Colourful billboards were posted round town showing the plans for the old town and seeing wrinkled old men bent double, eyes straining to see what would happen to their homes made you want to cry out. Maybe we see the crumbling streets as a romantic piece of history, but for the inhabitants the renovation promises better conditions and quality of life. However, the uprisings in the region and seeing what pains the government takes to justify their changes you sense this may not be the case. We returned to the hotel to catch on TV parades of ballistic missiles file past Tiannamen Square and legions of Chinese waving plastic flowers in celebration of 'China on the Move', but in Kashgar Friday prayers continue as they have for hundreds of years while their city is swept from beneath them.

Glad to have seen Kashgar at this stage in it's history, we left to skirt the southern edge of the Taklamakan Desert back to Xining. A journey again of a couple of thousand miles and a total of 62 hours on local buses, jeeps and sleeper coaches. The China we saw here was one of medieval oasis villages with women bent double picking cotton, ruined towns reclaimed by shifting sand dunes, expanses of barren deserts, distant snow capped mountains and solitary factories pouring smoke into frozen skies. In Hotan we were once again moved hotels by police while the local garrison did bayonet training in the main town square. In Charklik we waited for hours in the freezing pre-dawn before 12 of us squeezed into a jeep for a cross desert slog through a martian landscape of dunes, cliffs and liquid dust. Then in Shimiankuang we found the most god-forsaken place on earth. After traveling for 7 hours through uninhabited desert we see clouds of smoke rising from the horizon. Approaching we find a town with everything coated in a choking layer of white dust. The town is built around China's largest asbestos mine. The landscape for miles in every direction had been ripped up into piles of white rock and dust while machines crushed the earth and jetted plumes of fine white powder into the air. Our bus plucked people from amongst this alien landscape totally devoid of colour and clean air. They appeared as specks of blackness as they waited for the bus by their crumbling houses. Abandoned shells of vehicles and factories only added to the apocalyptic feel and to know the deadly effects of the asbestos laden air gave us a terrifying insight into China's working practices. To live and work in the middle of a high altitude plateau in a town of several thousand, hundreds of miles from the next habitation mining asbestos for a living? Any complaint I have ever had of cramped commutes or long working hours evaporated as I wondered what twists of fate had led these people to this place.

The southern leg of the route took us into the least populated areas of our whole trip so far. Places you think no human should ever need to work. But where there is money to be made, there will be people there to do so. Nodding donkey oil wells littered the landscape as we crossed the plain between the Altun and Kunlun mountains, and sure enough the town of weather beaten and grimy faces was sure to follow. The scale and scenery of this area where so few people travel, the attractions are admittedly few, is stunning. You travel for mile upon mile seeing nothing but a ribbon of dirt or tarmac road stretching away in front of you, but for some people this is their whole world. You wonder what their impression would be of our lives if they passed through it?

Photos: http://www.flickr.com/photos/hollyandtups/sets/72157622638386878/

Slideshow:

'China on the Move'

2009-10-19T14:14:00.009+01:00

10 miles offshore in the East China Sea it is apparent that we're approaching somewhere big and busy. As we chug into Tianjin Port our precious eco-conscious minds are gravely disturbed. Vast fishing nets swallow up anything and everything within a mile radius. A 5 mile long queue of rusty ships unburden themselves of sludge and sewage into a brown, scum-covered ocean. Closer to shore dredgers are busy dumping soil on metal flat beds in what looks like an attempt to turn the useless sea to more industry holding land. Finally, a huge port rises up in front of us; miles and miles of industry of every kind, the details of which are masked by a smog that bleaches everything to a dull grey. We must have arrived in China.

Before we can fully take in the extent of the port, we're whisked through immigration and climbing into a taxi to a station that we hope will led us to Beijing. The journey is an instant eyeopener to the scale of things in China. The roads are monster 6 lane affairs. Traffic is managed by death seeking, florescent wand waving cops, who seem to spend more time dodging trucks than directing them. Taking a shortcut by driving down the wrong side of the highway is totally legit' here. On either side of the road huge tower blocks are being built, all at least 15 stories high and no more than 20 feet apart. The development stretchess uninterrupted into the distance. The building work only adds to the grey haze that we now realise is not a feature of the port alone. As if to counteract my negative impressions brand new trees and topiaried bushes line the roadways. Amongst the smog and dust they look painfully unnatural, desperately clinging onto a very precarious life. The combination of spherical plant life, huge red bill boards full of forced smiles and aggressive 'Welcome to China' neon signs, it feels a little bit like entering a Butlins-esq resort. It turns out that that early impressions weren't far off.

In Beijing we quickly suffer from the communication breakdown that would effect our travels for the next 30 days. We are pointed to a bus and promptly seem to go around in circles for 2 hours unsure of quite what is going on. Our jaws drop as we pass huge floodlit squares filled with people, tower blocks garnished in enough neon to relive the 80s 10 times over and boarded up 'undesirable' neighbourhoods. Finally we reach Beijing Central Station and can place ourselves on the map. People flood the area shouting, pushing, shoving, spitting and laughing. Police roam amongst the crowds waving taser ended batons menacingly. We suddenly realise that it is the day when rail tickets for the week long holiday coming up are released. 50 or so ticket kiosks have queues of at least 100m deep. 200 million people are due to travel around China in the next fortnight. But before that can sink in and cause any panic about buying our own rail tickets out of Beijing, we hurry to the safety of our hostel.

At our hostel we are pleasantly surprised to find we had a TV in our room (just as well given that facebook, our blog and flickr are all blocked!). Needing respite after our hectic journey we open a beer and put it on. No break from China here! We flick through the channels and our options are the news, entitled 'China on the Move', a war drama about the communists fighting and being awesome at it, a drama about Mao's private life, a documentary about Mao, a documentary about Hu Jintao, another communist war drama or a showcase of Chinese nukes on the Chinese Military Channel. Wow. Neither of us have ever had such a quick cultural introduction to a country as this, and all within the comfort of our own bed. We opt for China on the Move (given that its the only in English). Highlights of which included:

'American wishes America could be China, even if its just for a day'

'South Korean wives dislike their husbands'

'China leads the way in international climate change'

'60,000 doves to fly over Tianammen Square on 1st October', one man 'just wishes he could give back [to the PRC] more than his 5 doves'

'Mao is trendier than ever'

And the horribly overt display of the brilliance of China didn't stop there. We managed to time our travels with the 60th anniversary celebrations of the founding of the People's Republic of China. Not only was this the busiest traveling week in Chinese history, with an estimated 200m train journeys planned, but it was also a chance for the PRC to demonstrate the glory of their state on a mass scale. The round the clock celebrations were in our faces everywhere we went. From nuke heads being showcased around Beijing, kitsch plastic flower waving parades, thousands of red pot plants lining the streets or huge banners of Han Chinese people dressed up as the 52 different ethnicities of the nation. The Chinese government did everything possible to ensure that celebrations were peacefully watched on TV or seen on banners. Participation on any other level was reserved for VIPS. I don't think you could ever experience a country more polished, scrubbed and painted red (on the surface) than China for this occasion. And so it was in this context we begun our very long journey into the far flung Western desert lands...

Willy stew and obese wrestlers, it must be Korea and Japan!

2009-10-11T17:49:00.025+01:00

We had built up the moment of arriving in Asia for months; the end of Western comforts and the start of the overland adventure home. It began well. After 2 hours of creeping through the industrial bedlam of the Kwangyang steel works freight terminal we landed ourselves a cheap hotel room. This was a surprise to us as the customs official said we were the first ever passengers to disembark at the freighter terminal and no one in town could speak English. Not exactly a well worn tourist trail. But the room came complete with its own slippers, hairdryer, styling combs, hair gel, tooth brushes, computer, neon lights and water cooler. Result! However, early optimism was lessened somewhat as I struggled to come to terms with having to eat what looked like penis broth and later turned out to be intenstine sausage.

Since that moment the whirlwind of Asia has been relentless. From the industrial backwaters of Kwangyang we hopped on a bus to cosmopolitan Busan; the gateway to the Korean Peninsula. Here we spent 3 very content days staying right next door to the huge Jagalchi fish market. For over a mile outside our hotel the streets were lined with overflowing tanks and buckets containing snapping crabs, inert urchins, phallic sea slugs, writhing eels, disgruntled lobsters and a thousand varieties of fish and molluscs. The worst thing we saw was the skinning of eels... alive. Once skinned they were left to wriggle around a plate until someone took an interest when they got thrown into a blender and whizzed up into some kind of bloody slop. Despite this, we braved some sushimi which involved the chef hauling an unsuspecting red giant from a tank and holding a knife to it's belly and waiting. We asked how much and promptly opted for something half the price. Big red goes back and 2 smaller ones are hauled up gulping for air. Before we even nodded guts were on the table and razor sharp knives sent the fish from tank to table in about 2 minutes. A little too fresh at first as our stomachs took a moment to adjust, but adding wasabi, soy and spring onions into the mix and the result was spectacular.

Pondering our imminent departure to Japan after only 5 days in South Korea we sat sipping the local rice wine, 'sojo' on the port side with hundreds of oldies, families and business men. We decided we liked the locals as their kids came over to try and teach us Korean and they smiled, laughed and chatted away. Shortly, one young man also came to chat to us who had incredible English and turned out to be one of the nicest people either of us have ever met. He talked about impressions of the English gentleman, Shakespeare, humanity, history, our travels and our love and commitment for each other. Before leaving he spent about 15 minutes just saying goodbye, blessing our futures and our happiness together which was so touching that tears ran freely down my face the moment he left. I think we may come back to Korea someday. But this was only to be a short sojourn as we boarded a hydrofoil and zoomed at pace to Japan. From there our traveling speeds only got greater as we tore up Japan on the high speed shinkansen trains for the next 10 days. Nick pretty much wet himself with excitement every time we got on one of the bullet trains and I was grateful that Nick's bro Ben was with us to share in the interest when mine was waning.

First impressions of Japan were of efficiency and tidiness, so much so that you feel inclined to tip toe around. You also very quickly get a sense of a thirst for modernity colliding with the very traditional. On our first evening we watched florescent dancing water displays in a huge mall with an artificial canal running through it and then headed back to our traditional guesthouse, with its tiny wooden corridors, bonzai planted courtyard, futon beds, shoes off and communal bath culture. It was summed up by on our first train journey when we saw the platform attendants bow to the high tech trains as they left the station.

Despite only having minimum time in Japan we managed to squeeze in a lot of things we have been excited about for the whole trip. Hiroshima was first up. Having both read John Heresy's horrifying account of the bomb we were intrigued to see how it was portrayed on site. It is an incredible place and between a very informative and harrowing museum and beautiful park memorial we were left with lots to ponder over. Like Einstein's role in encouraging its creation? Like the notes circulated in US government outlining the necessity of the bomb being seen to end the war to avoid awkward questions about the use of billions of dollars of tax money? Like how long Japan can be expected to obey their no military clause 9? To see beyond the city we spent the next day climbing to the top of the sacred island of Miyajima where the poor locals, out in their Sunday best, were given quite a shock at the sight of Tuppen sweats induced by the muggy temperatures. Luckily the bum scratching and bit picking monkeys meant we weren't the most disgraceful creatures on the island.

In an attempt to find a more random Japan we headed to a small island called Ikuchi Jima, home to 'Sunset Beach', which was more off season Bognor than Baywatch. But it was still a worthwhile stop, if only for watching Ben's reaction when his dinner was presented as 2 eggs, a bowl of uncooked vegetables, a pile of noodles, a variety of sauces and a hot plate after a crucial miming error. Next up was a cultural overload in Kyoto where we got lost in a magical mountain of shrines, gazed at geisha's in Gion and enjoyed bottles of sake by the river. In an attempt to avoid temple overload we whizzed out to another coastal town to see how the Japanese holiday. This time were we welcomed off the train by conductors in Hawaiian shirts and taken to 'Paradise Beach'. After enjoying a cliff side onsen bath and the white sand beach we were very entertained for the evening watching students run around in their bath robes, slugging back beer and throwing fireworks at each other. The last week of our Japanese stay was spent in Tokyo, a much anticipated destination. Wandering around never ceased to amaze, but obvious highlights were watching the night close in from Tokyo tower, admiring tuna auctioned at dawn in the fish market, eating tiny kebabs with giant beers in street stalls and celebrating a year of being on the road with some fat slapping, bum wagging sumo action.

As we traveled the country we couldn't believe how urban it is. From the train lines arrowing between tiny paddy fields and huge apartment blocks, there does not seem to be an inch of land left alone. Even when we tried to escape the civilized and headed to some remote coastal towns there were huge ports, bridges and radio masts everywhere you look; even lifts operate on cliffs so people can easily get up and down. There is constant artificial noise. Beeps, jingles, buzzes, speaking ads, announcements and singing vending machines. On top of this we were bombarded by the screeching enthusiasm of school children when they spot some tall white folk or the giggles of teenagers on hearing that Nick and I are engaged. But despite the bizarre nature of such communication, it was great to have so many people wanting to practice English with us. A 60 year old women chatted with us for an hour on a local train, walked us to our port to catch the boat and even bought us a box a cakes to say goodbye, because she was so thankful that she got to speak to English people.

Japan was always somewhere we were intrigued to visit and we left more intrigued than ever. It is a country that has all the development and wealth of the West but has evolved within a completely different tradition and culture. On the surface it puts the West to shame on most fronts. People are quiet, civilized and kind. There isn't a trace of litter anywhere to be seen. There is no obvious presence of authorities and very little crime. No one seems to have an ounce of fat on them and 60 year old women look about 40. Young people always seem very happy and excitable but are never threatening or out of control. There are vending machines selling beer for one quid on every street corner, but very little drunkenness. On the ferry out of Japan there were 4 other Westerners on board and we all expressed woe at why our societies had got to where they are now when Japan seems so perfect. The answer suggested to us by a young Japanese passenger was the calming influence of Buddhism.

But we couldn't help thinking that this 'perfect' society was partly held together by cultural undercurrents that we would find oppressive. There's an implicit judgement in the air if you step out of line. All the hype, noise and mania of the youth seems to be an immediate backlash against an agonisingly restrained older generation. In the city, men dominate the bars and clubs, where the younger men fawn on their bosses or senior colleagues. There are enclaves of seediness dotted all over the big cities, serving the wants of business men who otherwise lead restrained lives. One Sunday we found a sunny spot in the park and sat down to watch everyone lolling around on picnic blankets only for a policemen to turn up and angrily nudge everyone who was lying down ordering them to sit up. I was horrified that people's peace and quite could be shattered just like that!

We have now spent a week in China and can't help but draw some comparisons. In some ways people in the two countries seem to be the complete opposites. In China people are generally loud and boisterous, they will empty their noses or throats anywhere and everywhere and will eat anything and everything. From feeling oafish, sweaty and scruffy in Japan we seem quite clean and sophisticated in China. People here aren't oppressed in their behaviour but then the level of propaganda has far, FAR outweighed our expectations. But more on that to come.

Speaking of propaganda, we cannot get onto our website in China so sorry for the delay. In 5 days time we are heading over the Himalayas through Tibet to Kathmandu. Once there we will be back online and will update you with our 30 day epic, albeit very dusty, silk road adventure to the far flung West of China and back.

If you want to see more photos of Japan and Korea here they are:

http://www.flickr.com/photos/hollyandtups/sets/72157622227432459/

http://www.flickr.com/photos/hollyandtups/sets/72157622251067889/

365 days, 25 countries, 248 vehicles...

2009-09-14T06:50:00.002+01:00

1 year down and we've made it to Japan overland, the long way around. So far we have been carried along by tandem, side car, foot, train, bus, car, sailing boat, dinghy, tram, cable car, kayak and freighter. Many thanks to the numerous people who've helped us get this far. We are now fully equipped with our Chinese visas and so all going well we will be cycling back into Hyde Park next May. Here's a few pics from the adventure so far!

Crossing the Pacific: best read in 2 sittings

2009-08-31T13:48:00.019+01:00

The freighter was one of the first things we got really excited about when we were planning the trip. Sat in a kitchen on a rainy London Sunday in 2006 we looked at the 2 oceans we had to cross. Gambling we could crew a boat across the Atlantic, it seemed freighter travel was our best bet for the inhospitable Northern Pacific. We were about 60 years too late to work for a cheap passage, but there were companies who could arrange a passenger berth for us. But whilst we begun to get excited about the destination, we got distinctly unexcited about the prices. €100 a day before you have even added port fees. In the end we settled on Vancouver to Gwangyang in South Korea as this was the shortest crossing we could get. Our route would take us from Vancouver across the Gulf of Alaska, into the Bering Sea, between the North and South Islands of Japan and onward to the southern tip of South Korea. This is a diary of our time on board, the length is a reflection of plenty of time to kill...

TUESDAY, 18th AUGUST: Boarding the ship

Despite our plans to be ready well in advance we got a call from the port agent yesterday bringing the time we had to get on board forward by 24 hours. Enjoying our final moments in the West evaporated as we scuttled our way back and forth across Vancouver collecting rucksacks, boxing the tandem and changing dollars into won. But we made it on time to the Vanterm container terminal. 'Checking in' was bizarre. The taxi driver wove his way between the swarm of articulated lorries tearing in and out of the port and dropped us by a tiny reflective windowed booth. I craned my neck round to try and see into the letterbox sized opening and a large lady loomed out of the gloom. She checked passports and let us cheerily through the chain link fence to wait for bizarrely titled 'Bunny bus'. We sat expectantly for a few minutes, but instead of a big eared, fluffy minibus, a grizzled Canadian wearing a dirty Stetson rolled up in his pick up and offered us a lift. Sweeping away a stack of empty coffee cups, Hol and I both squeezed into the front seat. This was more like it. He took us on a quick tour and we got our first look at the Hanjin Madrid.

My first thought was, it's not that big. After seeing lots of photos I had expected to be blown away. Maybe it was the 3 giant cranes effortlessly whisking containers on and off the deck, but it didn't seem as imposing as I thought. However, drawing alongside was a different matter - it seemed to block out the sky. The truck dropped us at the gangplank and that was it. The heavy machinery and relentless port activity swirled about us unabated, but nobody was there to tell us what to do. We had been waiting for a minute or two nervously chuckling to ourselves before a small head poked out from above the gangplank. This turned out to be the steward, Adrian. Being 5 or so floors up we couldn't really hear him, but his smiling Filipino face grinned wider when we stepped onto the gangplank and so we took this as our invitation to come aboard. Our feet had left Western soil for 7 months!

Adrian showed us to our room. First impressions were that it was huge with an en-suite bathroom, a big double bed, and a lounge with desk, sofas, armchairs, a TV and a fridge. We quickly settled into unpacking and before long there was a knock on the door. In swept a large man with a spectacular amount of swept back (and up) hair that complemented a cracking bushy tash. A kind of Germanic Ron Burgundy. He was wearing socks under leather flip-flops and a cloud of cigarette smoke followed him into the room and had the look of someone who doesn't like bullshit. This was Captain Kruse. A brief welcome and he was back out of the door. We continued settling into our room before our first dinner and a quick recce of the other decks.

WEDNESDAY, 19th: Heading into the Pacific

We got up early as we were scheduled to leave port at 0800. After breakfast we stood on the top deck watching the sun glint off the tug boat as it bullied the bow round into the channel. There was a lot of activity on the bridge itself, so we figured we should check we were allowed up there. “Ze ving is fine, but not in ze bridge. OK?”, growled Captain Kruse. The front of the boat, or “the wessel” as the German crew referred to it as, inched around until it pointed to the delicate span of the Lion's Gate bridge. The engines engaged and we slowly started out of the harbour. As we headed towards Vancouver Island the boat seemed to roll slowly despite the calm weather, but nothing to worry us as we watched small boats flee out of our way. At Victoria the pilot casually disembarked down a perilous step ladder and then it was out into the open ocean past a parade of 10 or so grey whales. The sun is shining, we are on our way to Asia and all is well after Day 1.

THURSDAY, 20th: The start of the press up challenge and the food

What a night's sleep. I think the constant rumble of the engine cancels out any other sounds and I didn't even turn over until the 0700 alarm. Today was the day I would start my 5,000 press ups in a week challenge. Laid down over a few too many beers in Colorado I had been slightly nervous, but there was never going to be a better time to crack out 850 or so press ups a day. 150 before breakfast and it was underway.

Before boarding, one of my main concerns had been the food. More specifically, would there be enough. We are served 3 meals a day, but until yesterday we had no idea how big they'd be. Walking into the Officer's Mess there are three 4-person circular tables laid out. We are on one with 2 place settings which is to be ours for the duration. It is a shame not being on a shared table with the crew as this seems the obvious time to get to know them, but after seeing the massive breakfast buffet I was in no mood to complain. Laid out today were a choice of 3 breads, 4 cheeses, cold meats, various jams, honey and Nutella. There was a also fresh coffee, orange juice, yoghurt and a bowl of fruit. Along with the choice of cereal this surely should be enough, but Adrian popped his head round and asked us if we wanted the cooked option; salami cheese toast. Yes sir. This seems as if it is going to be the norm for breakfast with the hot options on the weekly menu ranging from Bacon and Eggs, Apple pancakes, Steak and even something called 'Stramer Max'! Hunger is not going to be a problem. Obesity, maybe.

Looking at the meals we have lined up, every lunch and dinner we have a starter of fresh salads, cold meats and cheese. The main courses range from roast duck with red cabbage to tenderloin steak or slow roasted pork knuckle. This is often complemented by various soups, and we even had smoked salmon and caviar for lunch. This shouldn't give you the idea that this is 5 star cooking. It is more hearty fare with a dose of flair. That said, mealtimes are going to be a definite highlight in breaking up the day. Speaking of which, we also had a fire drill this afternoon. Lifejackets and helmets on, down to the muster station and we stand around like a pair of lemons while the crew dons firefighting gear, sprays a hose over the side for 20 mins and the get in the lifeboats. Bizarre, but a change from press ups

FRIDAY, 21st: It's how big?

We arrive at breakfast to find a sign saying 'RETARD 1 HOUR TONIGHT'. Not sure what would be expected of us during this hour, but we later found out this was the instruction to set clocks back. Despite the comedy of being welcomed in by this sign whenever we enter the mess, meal times are strange affairs. The Filipino crew eat in one room and the German Officers in another. The segregation seems archaic to us, but is apparently 'essential for discipline'. Whilst the Filipino room is often buzzing with life, ours can be eerily silent. Everyone gets served up their food by Adrian, gobbles it down and then heads off with a cursory “Bis Spater”. Since we are on a table of our own, it is often hard to chat to anyone other than ourselves. We haven't worked out whether this is us being cautious or just what the crew are like. Maybe we have just been in North America for too long and amongst the constant chit chat and friendliness have forgotten North European ways? We have tried to ask Captain Kruse a few questions, but the response often seems curt:

“Good afternoon Captain.”

“So zen, are you feeling ze seasick yet?”

“No, we're doing fine actually. Do you think it is going to get any rougher though?”

"What is rough for zis ship? It is no problem. Ve can go in a Force 12 if ve have to”

“You said it was typhoon season in Japan. Are there any you are keeping an eye on?”

“Zey are typhoonz! Zey go in all directions. But I will not steer into zem OBVIOUSLY.”

With little progress on that front we decided today would be a good time to find out more about the ship and so we snooped around various charts up on the bridge:How big:278.8m long, 40.3m wide; 56.3m from the bottom of the hull to the top of the bridge.The boat weighs 60,000 tonnes and carries 5,700 containers at any one time.

The Engine: a WARTSILA NSD(!) producing 74,700hp. It can go 28.3kt at 100rpm, but spends most of it's time at 21kts at 80rpm which is the most fuel efficient speed. The WARTSILA burns bunker fuel which is so viscous it needs to be heated to around 80 degrees before it even flows into the engine. At cruising speed the engine burns 130 tonnes of it a day. With engines full astern it will take 7.6 minutes and 1.76 miles to stop meaning falling over board is a terrible idea. This engine is also widely credited in the container ship community as having the best name of any marine engine developed in the last 5 years.

Swell and weather: A force 12 is no problem for this boat. In the 50kn winds we were in today we rolled about a maximum of 3 degrees from upright, but if the swell cycles match the roll of the boat this can get up to 30 degrees.

Time on the bridge is a nice break as we check our progress on the charts, look at the forecast, chat to whoever is on watch and get some fresh air. The temperature has been dropping rapidly as we head North and thick jumpers, hats and jackets now the order of the day

SATURDAY, 22nd: The Aleutian Islands. Extra bonus!

A dim silvery light pervades the sea and I can't take my eyes off it as I sit back in a deck chair, soaking up the icy cold Alaskan wind. Excitement is high. Today we pass through the Unimak Channel – a narrow gap between two Aleutian Islands taking us out of the Gulf of Alaska and into the Bering Sea. The fact that we are going to see land on this voyage was only known to us when we got on board and checked out the charts. It now seems obvious that the ships passage would head North so to take into account the curvature of the Earth, but we hadn't really worked out that this would mean seeing land some of the way across.

By mid afternoon we can see the faint outline of land. A mass of snow shrouded in cloud shimmers off in the distance beyond a sea that is now being whipped up by 40 knot winds. It suddenly strikes me that this might be the most remote place I will ever see on Earth. As we draw closer to land over the next 2 hours huge flocks of birds fly in formation alongside the boat and the giant fins of Orcas can be seen gliding in and out of the water to our bow. As the clouds clear a huge, perfectly conical volcano peak is revealed in the distance. It is caked in snow and gleams a brilliant white as wisps of dull cloud float over its top. As we get closer huge green foothills come into focus, sweeping up from battered cliffs to rocky peaks. It feels brutal in mid-summer, the thought of this in Winter is grim. We are at the wildest extremity of Alaska and the emotion of cruising through this untouched and wild part of the world will remain for a long time. Celebrate by doing 1,000 press ups.

SUNDAY, 23rd: A Change in the weather, boredom

A long day. The weather has turned and rain is relentlessly lashing the containers outside the window. You can't see much through the rain and all sound is muted except the deep rumble of the engines and constant hum of air conditioning. Cocooned in the room you become more aware of being stuck on board. Time is marked by chapters read, press ups pressed and meals eaten. Hol has turned into a dormouse and slept away the day. As if to make the day seem even slower they have stopped the engines turning as we are ahead of schedule. We are just sat hundreds of miles from anywhere letting minutes tick by. Highlight was a steak and banana split lunch. The only downside is thinking I have to press up all the weight I'm gaining from the food each day. Not sure if my boobs are growing from the press up challenge or just gaining a layer of Bering Sea blubber.Manage to destroy 2 t-shirts in the ship's washing machine as well. Bugger.

MONDAY, 24th: The lost day

During the night we passed over 180 degrees longitude, the international dateline. Consequently we have lost a day and Monday this week doesn't exist. We're now 12 hours ahead of GMT and the furthest from home you can physically get. Each step from now on is closer to home! This does mean the week long press up challenge needs to be done in 6 days.

TUESDAY, 25th: The first foray into the Officer's Rec

Finally feel like we are getting somewhere with the crew and suddenly the drinks invitations pour in. Last night at dinner the Captain initiates conversation with us: “So you are happy just in your room?”. We reply that, we've got lots of books and have been spending lots of time on the bridge and on our deck, but this just gets a slightly disapproving grumble from Kruse. We're not too sure whether this is an invitation to spend more time out of our room or what. Luckily someone on the other table follows it up with: “Later we have drinks in the rec room so you should come along”. Hurrah! The great silence ended and we were invited to chat!

In the Rec room it became apparent that some of the crew hadn't stopped drinking since that morning, which made it an enlightening evening. After a graphic account of how best to stay faithful to a girlfriend while at sea for 4 months the conversation moved onto the excitement of having a woman on board to a muddled account of ship politics. We also found out that passengers on the boat are usually loaded; the last one was the Financial Director of Microsoft traveling with his son. It quickly became clear that the captain and crew were a bit confused to see two scruffy backpackers on board.

WEDNESDAY, 26th: Scaring ourselves on the Foc'sle

The end of the 5,000 press up challenge! It is a relief not to have to watch the carpet rise and fall 840 times every day. In pursuit of new things to do we went up to the foc'sle this morning. It is surprising how we have such a free run of the ship. Walking down to upper deck (confusingly the lowest deck) we found a thin track running up to the bow. It felt like we were a couple of kids daring each other to go further as we gingerly crept along the side of the ship. 6 layers of containers towered above us emitting a ghostly creaking and moaning with the roll of the ship. To our right a drop straight into the icy ocean as it raced past. With only a hip high safety rail you very quickly become aware of how easy it would be to topple in. Chatting to the crew they mentioned a lady who fell in without a life-jacket and was found treading water 25 hours later. However, that wasn't in the Bering Sea; 3 hours is about the limit here.

The weird thing about walking up to the bow is that with each step forward the engine vibrations and noise fade away so that by the time you reach the bow you can only hear the rush of the water and wail of the wind amongst the containers. Up at the bow we found steps going up to the prow of the boat. We were completely hidden from the bridge and so I decided to investigate and discovered giant anchor winches, mooring lines as wide as your chest and a step to look right over the bow. I tried to lean right over to see if I could see the bulb at the front. I almost crapped myself. Hanging over and looking back the sense of speed gets you. If you fall you are swept under 60,000 tonnes of speeding steel and that is before you hit the 7m tall propeller at the other end. Not a nice thought and I was back up pretty quick.

After the bonding of the previous night we thought that meal times might be a bit more lively. But alas, with the absence of alcohol everyone went back to their sullen selves. That said, we did get an invite to the Rec room again so we bought a crate of Becks from the 'slop chest' (ship's offy) and headed back down. My heart sank as we walked in and there was barely a grumble. There are no seats left at the bar and so we perch on the end. Thankfully after a while everyone warms up again and we start discussing our trip and the life of a seaman. By the sixth beer politics is thrown into the mix, 'Why do the British still support the Monarchy? Why do we still have a House of Lords? Why we haven't joined the Euro?'. It was good to be getting our teeth into some good European discussions after the cult of Obama.

THURSDAY, 27th: Touring the engine room with Chief

We have been planning to go to the engine room for the last few days, but it has been postponed each time. Today we are 30 hours ahead of schedule and so the engines have stopped to lose some time. It apparently gets a touch noisy down there and so this was deemed the best time to for a tour. We were handed some heavy duty ear defenders and the Chief Engineer opened the door into a steel cathedral. The floor dropped away to reveal a huge space about 5 stories deep and hunkering in the middle was a colossal block of oily steel, pistons and dials. I had feared it would be like a modern car engine with everything hidden away under a plastic shell. Far from it. This was a working engine and it was clear all parts had to be accessed by burly men with hammers and wrenches with the minimum of fuss. We weaved our way down between towering exhaust ducts, miles of piping, through blasts of hot air and past countless smaller generators, coolers, heaters, extractors and scrubbers. Chief had been quiet around us so far, but this was clearly his element. A broad grin spread across his face as he proceeded to point out the mind boggling array of hardware on show. Before we even got to the engine itself he had explained what 20 or so car sized chunks of metal orbiting the Wartsila did. The 2 generators that provided electricity for the ship? Both the size of a 2 story terraced house. Massive.

After 40 minutes we went into the control room which is best described as something from a late 70's Bond Villain's moon base. The ship is only 6 years old, but there are no flat-screens or touch screens, just solid functional walls of dials, chunky banks of lights and solid looking levers. Every conceivable metric is fed to the monitors on the control deck; temperatures, pressures and even down to the viscosity of the fuel. However, talking to Chief who has been working on ships since 1967, despite all the automated monitoring of every thump of the 10 cylinder monster there are also greasy thermometers sticking out of the metal and a well stocked workshop to fix it all with a bit of brute strength.

At 1600 the engines were turned on again and we ventured out onto the floor to get an idea of how loud it is when running. Loud, almost unbearably so. The vibrations when standing right next to it run right through your bones and you begin to sense the power being generated to move 60,000 tonnes of metal across the North Pacific.

FRIDAY, 28th: First sight of the mystic East

After 348 days on the road we got our first glimpse of Asia. At midday we passed through the Tsugaru strait between the North and South Islands of Japan. Hol was excited about the prospect of small fishing boats with people in straw hats on them, I was keen to see people checking into capsule hotels. Unfortunately the weather wasn't helping. We got views of mist shrouded hills rising steeply from the coast with towns and villages clustered along the shore. It seems Japan is saving it's charms for when we land on its shores in a week. We only had a glimpse of Japan, but it made us feel the freighter leg is going to be over all too soon. We need to make the most of conversations in English, big breakfasts and comfy beds! This afternoon we played with Richard's remote control helicopter on the ping-pong table and later on more beers with the crew. Feel like we are getting to know them a lot better which is cool. I even gave my copy of Pumping Iron to the Polish 2nd Engineer after an in depth discussion about body-building, Arnie and Jean Claude van Damme.

SATURDAY, 29th: The Long Awaited Party

The day dawned bright this morning, which is a relief as this is to be the day of the big party. Everyone had been going about with a certain spring in their steps the last 2 days. Even Adrian had been nervously grinning to himself in his marigolds and apron at the mention of it. At lunch Kruse outlined the plan... a whole suckling pig BBQd on deck. Holy Crap. He then proceeded to lecture Adrian in the kitchen: 'Ze ice for ze beers at seventeen certy. Ze pig must be cooking by two certy. No bullshit!' This is the first party they've had for 6 months and so we were lucky to witness it.

1530: I have just come up from the gym and happened across a bizarre scene on D deck. The aforementioned pig was being vigorously spun by one crew member while chef and another Filipino in an LA Lakers vest were slow dancing together around the BBQ. Even though I was dripping sweat in gym kit I was immediately offered a beer by Alex, a particularly friendly crew member with a head like a cannonball. This could turn into a big session...

Well it didn't disappoint. We headed out about 5 o'clock and started having a few drinks with the officers. There were excitable shouts from down below from the crew and before long a feast of biblical proportions got ferried up. Salads, breads, fruit, puddings, rice, pastas and the hog. If that wasn't enough, another BBQ gets fired up as Kruse explains that the hog is insufficient. Soon steaks, sausages and chicken are all joining the party. Everyone sat down and feasted as beers, vodka and Fundador brandy started doing the rounds. Conversation flowed, we felt very welcomed and even Kruse had a massive smile on his face all night. The music really set the tone for the night. The first CD was called 'Power Disco', to which the chef threw around some serious moves, and it just got better from there on. In the Navy by YMCA was a non ironic favourite of the Filipino contingent. Karaoke inevitably followed on, but we managed to dodge a Sonny and Cher duet. Things were wrapping up by around 12 by which time heads were beginning to droop and we made our excuses. My main concern is a hazy recollection that I was invited to play basketball sometime tomorrow with the Filipino crew? Oh dear.

SUNDAY: 30th: The Immersion suit

Hungover. Main excitement for the day was getting to try out the immersion suits we had in our room. These are thick neoprene suits you chuck on if going over the side in cold waters. You are meant to be able to survive for 24 hours in freezing water as opposed to around 24 minutes. Not much needs to be added other than a picture. I reeeeally want one of these for fancy dress parties.

MONDAY: 31st: Arrival in Kwangyang

A nervous day as we prepared to leave the comforts of the ship. We woke to find jagged cliffs and tiny islands littering the view and we gradually crept closer to land. The pilot joined and guided us between smoking steel plants and mile upon mile of container terminal. Pulling alongside we looked at the skyline of blocks of flats and wondered where we would be spending the night. As it happened a very efficient port agent whisked us away to immigration, customs and even dropped us at a hotel. He was excited to tell us we were the first passengers EVER to come through Gwangyang container terminal. However, after he left we soon realised he was the only person who spoke English in town. We just managed to order some food by pointing, but we don't even know 'thankyou' or 'noodles' yet. It feels incredibly alien with people sat cross legged on the floor in restaurants and hopelessly unintelligible signs but it is such a rush after the cocoon of the boat.

However, after all the strange moments on the ship we felt sad leaving the crew behind as they came to wave us off. It took a bit of settling down, but heading off into the unknown it felt like we had made some good friends on board and would miss the company. Oh well, onward to Busan and the hydrofoil to Japan!

Paddling (and peddaling) to near death

2009-08-18T01:48:00.011+01:00

11 months in, 9 months to go and life is good. Killing time in Canada has been a joy. The kindness of strangers has once again left us with a warm glow, the excitement of Asia is imminent and we are still cherishing warmth and dry land after a near death kayak incident.

Before boxing up the beloved Carlos we thought we would dust off our tent, camping stove and cycling shorts and take him for a spin around Vancouver for a couple of weeks. We headed North up The Sunshine Coast where we weaved our way between forests, hippy communes, hidden coves and rocky beaches. Then we jumped on a ferry over to Vancouver Island where we rode a wetter, but much flatter terrain for a few days. Conscious of being away for the bike for 7 months we gave it our all and sprinted up and down both coasts. Never before has a fully loaded tandem been pushed so fast! All in all between old winding roads, genuine pubs, fish and chips, being back in the tent and picking blackberries we felt very at home.

We also remembered how great the world is to you when you're touring on a bike. We received free coffees on wet mornings, a free breakfast bap when asking for milk for our cereal, a free bike check up and numerous other wonderful people lifted our spirits higher and higher everyday. On our penultimate day the heavens opened. Soaked to the bone and filthy from the roads we battled the elements, lamenting the soggy night ahead. As we neared the campsite a woman in an all in one cycling suit on an old racer pulls up alongside.

'Hey there, where you guys heading?'
'Oh just up the road a bit to a campsite by Comox Lake'
'Well why don't you come and stay with me, life's short hey, its nearer and drier'
'Errrrr Hol what do you think?'
'Yeh cool'
'Great, follow me. You traveling around the world or something?'
'Yeh actually'
'Cool well I know what its like touring so you'll appreciate a dry room for the night.'

Nick turns to look at me with the face that means, 'how awesome is it when random stuff like this happens', I give him a similar look back and we pedal our way through the commuter traffic to the home of Sarah and Berend. Debates about the fate of the first nation populations, religion, middle America, home education, travel, vegetables, touring and all sorts followed a few glasses of home brewed wine before we hit our hugely appreciated dry bed for the night. In the morning books, inspirational speeches and contacts were exchanged and off we pedaled, beaming. Little did we know that we would be staring death in the face a few days later on.

In between our cycling jaunts we tried out a different kind of tandem, the double kayak. Hiring one for three days and camping in the wilderness turned out cheaper than hanging out in Vancouver, so we had no excuse not to give it a go. After a balmy and calm day kayaking in Tofino a few weeks earlier we thought it would be a walk in the park. So we cycled up to Heriot Bay on Quadra Island, part of the Discovery Islands, which make up Canada's incredibly fragmented and wild West coast. We got kitted out, advised about weather and just as we lifted the kayak into the water the renter of the kayak asks 'Oh, you guys know how to do self-rescue right?'. '(Shit), No'. Cue a few hasty phone calls as we wait to see if we can still go. We explain about sailing the Atlantic and Nick rambles on about rowing and growing up in boats... Luckily, it's a go.

The weather wasn't quite as welcoming as Tofino, but as the mist and rain swept across never ending alpine covered hills, this only added to the atmosphere of being alone on the water and in the wild. The first couple of days were awesome. We paddled within a few feet of crowded seal colonies, had bald eagles swooping just above our heads, explored starfish filled rocky coves, picnicked on deserted beaches and gave the top deck a pretty good work out. Both nights we camped on our very own tiny island, a rocky outcrop with a flat mossy patch the exact size of our tent, some rocks for a kitchen, trees for shelter and a couple of tidal beaches. We had to rig up a system of rollers out of drift wood to get the kayak high up on the rocks for the night, but this made Nick happy as gained good man points and got in touch with his inner Egyptian slave. Awaking alone on this island, with just a couple of curious seals for company was incredible.

The weather was grey, gusty and damp for the duration, but we avoided any big seas by staying in sheltered channels between smaller islands. However, on the last day we had to get back to the main island. The only route back was across two long exposed sections of water with an island in the middle, about 3 miles in. Monday dawned a grim day; we could hear the predicted winds of 30+ knots whipping the trees above the tent and spattering the canvas with noisy raindrops. When we got out and packed up the water ahead was alive with white horses.

We quietly headed out and within an hour or so we came to the end of the sheltered coast and looked up close at the rough stuff we had to cross. You could see the faint outline of Breton Island through the rain, between that and us there were rocky outcrops with huge waves smashing against them. The waves would be hitting us side on and the wind would be blowing hard in our faces. My stomach knotted itself when I realised how potentially dangerous this could be. Nick was talking a lot trying to reassure me; it was clear he was nervous to. Neither us were keen to look at it for too long and so after a quick chat about the importance of keeping a steady rhythm and not stopping halfway across we went for it. The second we rounded the headland the waves starting crashing over the boat. The first time a wave broke over me was terrifying. Nick was shouting encouragement over the sound of the wind and we crawled on into the teeth of the sea rolling precariously over the waves. The rhythm kept us going and we were so desperate just to get out of there that there was no point thinking of anything other than paddling. It felt like a long 45 minutes until we reached the slim wind-shadow of Breton Island and the seal colony we had bobbed around just two days before.

Finally touching the beach of Breton Island was a massive relief. We were both freezing and soaked to the bone, but high on the adrenaline of making it. Whilst I gulped down a pile of chocolate digestives (forever the comfort eater), Nick went to check out what lay ahead from the other side of the island. On joining him I quickly realised it was rough, if anything, rougher. We didn't know if we were lucky to have made the last leg. Maybe the kayaks can actually deal with this no problem? Or maybe we were out in something that even pros would not even consider. Sitting around in the rain getting more and more cold seemed fruitless; I started to shiver uncontrollably from a mix of being drenched and building nerves. After a quick call about the weather and on finding out it wasn't likely to change later in the day, we decided we had to just get on with it. We walked the kayak back into the choppy water, passing a beached seal skeleton (not a good omen). As we steered the kayak back into open water what we saw didn't look welcoming. The rain was coming down harder, clouds shrouded the view of land, there were no other boats out and the white horses reared up in front of us. Before we had got back in the kayak Nick turned to give me a kiss. At that point I knew it wasn't just me that was completely bricking it about what lay ahead.

The wind hit us side on as we left Breton island behind. Not being able to see land on the other side due to the rain also did nothing for our confidence. Luckily there were several buoys along the way which became good targets. We were both mustering everything that we had just to make headway against the wind, whilst keeping a close eye on the waves breaking to our side. About half way we dared to think we might make it. But, just then disaster struck. We both saw the wave coming and knew we were going in. Two huge waves came together and crested right on top of the kayak. Slowly and unavoidably we flipped over. Under water we both scrabbled holding our breath to release our skirts (waterproof cover things keeping you in the kayak), slid out from the boat and bopped up and down in the waves clinging onto the kayak. My initial reaction on coming up to air was to panic, Nick quickly told me to do the opposite and before my brain could get the better of my body I calmed everything down and we took a moment to think.

The sea was foaming around us, the low sky was filled with racing clouds, land was invisible, there were no boats in sight and waves were crashing over our drenched and freezing selves as we clung to our only way out, which was now essentially a surfboard. The vulnerability topped anything we had experienced even in the Atlantic. My priority was to get back in that boat as quickly as possible. We managed to flip it back over and examine the damage. It was completely full of water so before we could contemplate getting back in we needed to pump it out. Nick started pumping water out of my section first. Treading water with both hands trying to pump was exhausting. All the water that he pumped out just sprayed straight in my face. He tells me to move to the other end of the kayak but I can't even contemplate moving in case I lose the boat or my paddle. I also remember just wanting to stay as close to Nick as possible. Eventually, with Nick steadying the boat in the swell I manage to get in and start pumping from inside the boat. Its not easy since waves kept just crashing over us and re-filling it. I also had to try and keep the kayak facing the wind to stop us flipping in again. It took everything I had to try and move the kayak against the wind. If we flipped again I don't know if either of us would have the energy to do anything about it. As I sat in the boat Nick was still treading water at the back pumping and clinging onto his paddle.

View The day we nearly died in a larger map

At one point the boat swung with the wind and Nick lost grip. All I could see was Nick, paddle in one hand and pump in the other drifting off on the waves. He couldn't swim with his hands full, but couldn't let go of either if we were to get back. I didn't have the strength to move the kayak on my own. He's never looked so small. Somehow he got back to the boat and after 45 minutes of treading water and 3 failed attempts to get back in the boat without flipping it, we were both back in the kayak. The boat remained half full of water and rolled ominously in the 6 foot waves. But both of us were completely focused on just getting the hell out of there. I got a sudden fear about jellyfish at my feet. But they were numb pretty quickly so the worry passed as we just focussed on paddling.

90 minutes later we were battling our way through the wind into the harbour. We must have looked ridiculous. Nobody had opted to go out on the water and in comes this drenched and half sunk kayak. We instantly ditched our camping reservation and booked into a hotel room right above the pub. Perfect. It took us most of the evening to really relax and reflect on what just happened. After a few ales and a stack of chips we're high on our adventure and surviving the sea – the tale was already taking on mythical proportions. I quickly started philosophising about the importance of testing your limits to appreciate the small things in life. We both decide that that was definitely the scariest part of the trip so far. Even snapping a mast 1500 miles from shore was not as terrifying as bobbing around next to that tiny kayak with no life lines other than our own strength and effort. The next morning the water is completely still and the sun is out. Two old timers that we met on our second day rolled in after a beautiful mornings paddle, having sat out the storm the day before. I think they thought we were completely insane after recalling our exploits and then waving goodbye from the tandem. Still, at least now we know the boundaries of kayak travel, I'm not too keen to test out rough seas in one of those ever again. Maybe it was just the Pacific giving us a warning shot before we set off to cross it on Wednesday in a 282m behemoth.

We are going to be under the command of our German Captain Kruse for 11 days and some several thousand miles. We will eat 3 meals a day with the crew, we have our own cabin, a stack of books, a 5,000 press up in a week challenge and plenty to think about for when we arrive in Asia. The culture shock is going to be undeniable when we pull into Gwangyang on the southern coast of South Korea on the 31st August. From there we will plunge headfirst into a world of un-intelligible signs, noodles and temples. Good times.

Canada: it's a woppa

2009-08-02T19:55:00.036+01:00

3 mph is slow. Really slow. In fact we were recently told it is about the same as a swift walk. Before we left I remember people saying it is going to be hard getting used to that pace. However, we seem to have coped pretty well and barely noticed slowing down to our sometimes glacial progress westwards. But with the arrival of Holly's dad Andrew and sister Lucy we were strapped back into the normal holiday speed and have needed a week to recover from the whirlwind.

One or two week holidays are often a case of cramming in as much as you can in a short amount of space. The process is akin to starving yourself for months before unleashing on an eat all you can chinese buffet, rather than our trip which is more like picking a few blackberries on a woodland stroll after a nice light lunch. Don't get me wrong the eat all you can chinese buffet is up there with the film Big Trouble in Little China and the revolving Japanese loo seat as some of my favourite things to come out of the East, but all three can be a shock to the system. That said, our trip to Vancouver Island and then into the Rockies was spectacular, epic, colossal and countless other words to explain the sheer scale of the Canadian wilderness.

First stop was Tofino on the West coast of Vancouver Island. Without question this is one of the most beautiful places we have been on the whole trip. It is a land of untouched, desolate beaches, deeply wooded tidal inlets and crystal clear water alive with seals, orcas, grey whales, kelp forests and starfish. It is also home to the majority of the world's remaining old growth forests; called ancient woodland in England. Giant red cedar trees up to 1,600 years old tower 100 feet into the canopy while whole ecosystems of moss, ferns, and even whole other trees take root and grow up from their trunks. The sense of age in these wooded groves on the edge of the Pacific is overwhelming and details such as the fact these trees are stood in just 1 foot of soil confound your understanding as you crane your neck upwards to see the Ospreys and bald eagles nesting in their tops. We left after just a few days sensing we had seen somewhere unforgettable and totally different from anywhere else we had been in the world.

From here we turned the wagon East and headed back into the mountains. First stop was Whistler where we strolled through alpine meadows filled with wild flowers and watched downhill mountain bikers leap and bounce 20 feet in the air as they plummeted down the mountain. Then it was back into the car for a trip through the Okanagan desert to Wells Gray National Park and it's famous waterfalls before we really got stuck into the famous Canadian Rocky Mountain National Parks of Jasper and Banff. I have to confess a nervousness of going to visit such famous tourist destinations at peak season. But I had foolishly conjured an image of a seething mass on Brighton beach and a choked A3 during summer bank holiday. The Canadian Rockies just swallow giant RVs, campers and coach tours whole without batting an eyelid. They are colossal. It is true they are not as high as the Colorado Rockies, but the effect of ancient glaciers has been to carve valleys so sweepingly broad that the road ahead just dwindles into a thread and you can drive for miles along the primary routes without seeing more than a handful of other vehicles. In the main resorts there was chat of numbers being 40% down this year but they could be 1040% up and I imagine it to feel the same.

We climbed mountains, we kayaked electric blue lakes, we weaved our way between grazing elk and our chins barely left our laps as we gaped constantly at the vistas unrolling in front of us. By the time we pulled into our final destination in Calgary we were spent. We were crammed full. We had driven through a coffee table book of the Canadian Rockies and couldn't take any more. It was an amazing couple of weeks. The scenery was astounding and the chance to spend time with both Andrew and Luce after 10 months away was worth as much as the scenery again. Stories were recounted over hand picked local wines, I witnessed the bizarre spectacle of Luce and Hol beginning their intensive lunge and squat routine and I got to properly know my future father and sister in law. Great! (That isn't even kissing ass, it really was great - which is a relief).

Since then we have spent a week in Kelowna staying at a friend Scott's house. Scott is a guy I rowed with at Oxford who then went onto win an Olympic Silver medal in Beijing, his mum is preparing to climb Cerro Aconcagua (elevation 22,826') this year, and also staying were Tracy who also got a bronze rowing in Beijing, and Mike who was a family relation in town for a reunion who is a committed Vegan and 'raw food' advocate. A pretty impressive group. It has been a great week hanging out making new friends. There have been stories of respective travels, Olympic tales and we have also learned not to throw away apricot stones as there is a kernel in the middle high in proteins and essential oils. Another highlight was being in town for the Center of Gravity festival. This was down on the shore of the lake and was a mix of pro beach volleyball, slam- dunk contests, music, wakeboarding, dirtbiking and bikini modelling. The new zoom on the camera got put to good use from both Hol and I and it seems only fair to put in a couple of shots to make sure we don't get any sympathy on our travels. Sometimes it really is easy.

We're now heading back to Vancouver, dodging the forest fires that are blackening the skies North of Kelowna, and will be back on the tandem to fill the time before we get aboard the freighter on the 19th. We are now over half way through the trip and it really feels like once we cross the Pacific we are heading home. It's still a long way to go and it will seem strange leaving the comfort of English speaking lands for Asia, but we are fired up and ready for Part 2: South Korea, Japan, China, Nepal, India, Mongolia, Russia, Ukraine, Romania and the rest... Holy Jeez.

Amtrak, Greyhound and drug busts

2009-07-14T19:49:00.017+01:00

We completed the bike a bit earlier than expected and so used up the remainder of our US visa exploring the US tandem free. We jumped on the Amtrak for overnight trips from Seattle to San Fran and San Fran to Denver and did a 46 hour slog on the Greyhound from Denver back to Vancouver.

Before embarking on this loop of America's West everyone warned us about the trains – full of weirdos and not very comfortable. The opposite was true. Trains are pretty up market in the states, which is not surprising given they cost 4 times the amount of the Greyhound and most domestic flights. Even if you don't opt for the luxurious all meals included sleeper car you have plenty of space to spread out. Weirdos were of the soft and harmless variety – eco warriors, old couples looking for an adventure, those afraid of flying and those that are simply too large to fit on aeroplanes. In front of us were three ladies discussing the benefits of 'erbs' and bragging about eating dandelions from their garden for 5 hours, whilst behind us an obese women fed her children chocolate to shut them up whilst telling them off for how fat they look. Between such eavesdropping delights, an observation cart with live commentary about the intriguing and stunning places we travel through and some good books the journey pases incredible smoothly and quickly.

From the moment we walked into Denver's central Greyhound station we knew the bus was going to be considerably weirder than our Amtrak experience. The first person I laid eyes on pretty accurately sums up Greyhound clientèle. He had grey hair that merged into a food ridden beard which hung just above the collar of his white wife beater, equally food ridden and covered in holes that resembled bullet marks. He wore a cap that announced he was an Iraqi war veteran across the front, that he supported McCain and Palin on the right and that knowledge was power on the left (oh the irony). As he sat waiting for the bus he was mumbling to himself in a variety of angry tones in between munching on the contents of his nose. I later grew rather sorry for all the US army recruits on the bus who had to sit for 46 hours watching their possible future in this man. As it happened they spent too much of the bus journey worrying about their next fag to notice. I turned to Nick, 'I think baby carrots and humous was the wrong choice of food for this journey'.

As our eyes wandered beyond ex-army hobo man it became clear it wasn't going to be a relaxing journey. Hugely obese guys crammed in as many last minute burgers as possible whilst their girlfriends screamed at them for looking at 'skinnier bitches' asses'. Angry men bragged about just being back from the war zone whilst little old ladies (lord help them) put on their hygiene masks and loaded their walkmans. Mexican families prepared their worldly belongings whilst their kids hammered on vending machines in search of free candy. Within 5 minutes of standing in a Greyhound Station I saw more of America than most do on a two week holiday.

After 30 minutes or so its time to get on the bus. We instantly longed for the luxury of Mexican buses. The difference between being rich in a poor country and poor in a rich one suddenly sprang to mind. As we were all crammed into our seats we headed for the front of the bus – choosing the troubled elderly over the troubled youth. The next 46 hours was a blur of trying to take in all that was going on around us without looking too much like visitors at a zoo. Within 15 minutes of leaving Denver one of the guys just back from Afghanistan threatened to shoot the driver for not letting him off to have a ciggi. At every stop girls with everything and anything hanging out of their hot pants flirted with whatever guy had the loudest mouth. The bus quickly filled with rotting fag, burgers and piss smells. Drivers swapped shifts and all looked like they had seen a bit too much of life. Conversations were often about why people were on the bus, which invariably led to gory accounts of dramatic truck collisions and drink driving incidents. The crowd seemed to get more juiced up as we got nearer the end of the journey. At one gas station in Washington one of the guys tried to throw some punches at a local and about 5 people had to pull him off, reminding him about how close he was to doing more time. He couldn't have been older than 20 and had returned from Iraq a year ago.

About 2/3 of the way into the journey our sympathies for our fellow passengers grew. Age, race and sex didn't matter to these guys. They were all up against it and that made them stick together throughout the 46 hours or so. Everyone chatted to everyone else and were in it together, it was a temporary team and old ladies even commented on what 'good hearted' boys the younger lads were. And to some extent they were right, these guys had just come back from war and were now lost in a world of poverty and boredom. Even if the bond was through fags, war and car crashes, at least everyone was getting on and making the most of a pretty shitty journey. I quickly sucked up my middle class judgment and regretted staying in my own bubble. Sadly when you are stuck with the same people in claustrophobic circumstances for a while the excitable wanting to know and experience everything and everyone can sometimes give way to a desire to keep heads down and just get through it.

So we arrived in Vancouver knackered and dazed. All we wanted was a shower and a quiet bed to get some horizontal time in. Little did we know it was only going to get weirder. We had booked a weeks accommodation through a random website that lets out rooms in houses. Off we headed into the depths of Vancouver's suburbs only to realise that the address we had been given didn't exist. The house number we were given was a crossroad, not a house. Up and down the road we trundled knocking on houses looking for 'Paul Waikong with rooms to let'. After 4 hours of scratching our heads and somehow fighting off extreme tiredness related moods we found the house that matched the photo on the website. We had knocked on the door of it earlier and a small Chinese man had told us to go away. This time two Canadians opened the door.

'Hi we've got a room booked here for a week.'
'Ha ha good luck!'
'Er ok... We came along earlier and a Chinese guy told us to go away but we're sure this is the house. Are there any rooms?'
'Yeh that was the landlord. There are rooms here. You know there's no power here right?'
'No...'
'Yeh a week ago the police busted this place for growing $1 million worth of marijuana plants in the basement and have cut off all power.'
'Well is there a room for us? We're a bit knackered.'
'Come on in!'

So we have spent the last week staying in what must be the closest to a 60s squat house I have ever experienced. The basement has been ripped out, there is random crap lying everywhere and at night a BBQ is our kitchen and candles our light. The house is home to about 15 people. The Canadian couple are the most long term. Hannah laughs hysterically one minute and screams at people for using her things the next whilst her quiet musician boyfriend sucks up abuse left, right and center. Two other Canadian guys seem to be involved in some kind of swinging activity with Hannah and boyfriend and both seem to like the drink a little too much. Next is a Hungarian couple with a baby who are out here for work. They suffer the brunt of Hannah's anger because they don't recycle, even though I tried to explain to her that with a small baby in a strange city with no power you can kind of understand why sorting rubbish is not their priority. Then there's the landlord, Harvey, a small Chinese man who doesn't know what is going on and has a variety of Chinese children walking in and out of the house daily. The living room is also home to three Lithuanian guys who like to hang out on the web or working out in their boxers. Nick bonded with this lot early on after seeing photos of them dressed as Hawaiian girls on a night out and spending the next couple of hours discussing fancy dress and motorbikes. All in all its been much weirder and entertaining than a hostel and though a quiet bed will be appreciated we'll be quite sorry to leave tomorrow.

After such a weird and slightly exhausting few days we are now blessed with some family time. Papa, sister Gee and her fella Al have rocked up in Canada for a two week tour of rainforests, wild beaches, lakes and mountains. So far we seem to have spent most of our time admiring 'produce' in Vancouver's grocery stores and searching for the biggest starfish amongst the harbour rocks. Not a conventional tour of the city but each to their own. I have no doubt that the weirdness will continue but at least it is now of the familiar variety.

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times

2009-07-07T17:48:00.005+01:00

Having spent the last 9 months with almost exclusively each other's company, Hol and I are pretty good at passing the time on our own. For example, we recently purchased a challenging cross-word book and yesterday, whilst awaiting the kick off of our 43 hour Greyhound extravaganza from Denver to Vancouver, we spent an enjoyable hour or so perusing novelty underwear in TKMaxx. I like to think we can find a thriftily good time in any city we come to. However, last week it all changed with the arrival of 7 friends from University. They were accompanied by bicycles, outsized bottles of Bourbon and were surprisingly dis-interested in helping us solve 57 across: 'some game endings' (5 letters)*. Looking back at the last 7 days it is a hazy blur, but it was truly epic.

Traveling on a budget for a long period of time makes you stretch out the excitement in everything you do. If you are going out for a meal you plan it well in advance and savour every last mouthful. If it is a movie you wait for exactly the right gloomy, rainy afternoon and the right film before parting with your dosh. 7 people straight from successful London jobs with only a week to spend their hard earned cash reminded us how much you can pack into a week, and also how good it is having your mates around.

When Angus, Henry, Reevo, Smithy, Scotty, Hutch and Steph arrived off the plane they had already been up for around 24 hours. However, a quick shower, a sharpener in the bar and burger later and any thoughts of an early night were rapidly dispelled. Before we knew it English accents had attracted Hen parties from across the Midwest and sambuca was being sipped from certain people's belly buttons. Classy. There was never any real let up from there. Up at 6.30 the next morning to watch the British Lions, off to Boulder to put bikes together and ride up the first of several mountains. Back for a shower, dinner, everclear laced Margaritas, a nightclub, a late night invitation into a deserted art gallery by some 'friendly' young men, all finished off with splashing in public fountains before bed.

The reason we were all out there together was because one of the group, Justin, grew up in Longmont and also had a cabin out in the wilderness of South Park. Cue 3 hours of drive-by moonies, water fights between cars and a final leg down a dirt road until we hit the cabin. This was truly one of the most beautiful places we have been on the trip so far. In rolling green plains with snow capped peaks all around us we unloaded 3 days worth of booze, BBQ meat and supplies. It was the perfect setting to catch up with friends over long evenings interspersed with lung busting high altitude exercise.

Over the week we climbed passes on the bike over 12,000', we summited Mt. Oxford at 14,000' and managed to get significantly better and then worse at horseshoes. It was non-stop adventure and chat for 7 days all topped off by going to a Colorado Rockies ball game. But all too quickly we were in the cars driving back to the airports to wave goodbye to everyone. It seems strange that leaving England last September I felt strangely un-emotional. The excitement and adventure lay out ahead of us and had been building up for so long that there wasn't really a hint of sadness as we pedaled off. Then when my dad came out, saying goodbye seemed really hard because you realise in that sudden contrast what you miss from home. It was even harder saying goodbye to everyone flying off last Saturday.

We were stood there in the airport just 9 hours from England. Having just listened to planning for all the weddings, stag parties and good times we would miss back home we felt miserable. All too soon Hol and I were sat on a windy bench waiting for the bus nibbling on carrot sticks and longing for the week not to have ended so quickly. I always told myself it would be hard being away for so long, but I have very rarely felt it so acutely as the other day. There are usually challenges to be met, the next place to think about and the knowledge that the novelty of getting home will wear off very quickly. However, there was something about saying goodbye the other day that had me choked up pretty badly and I found it hard to shake off the feeling.

However, I am glad to say that having now left Denver it feels a lot better. Since then we have got our first proper experience of Greyhound buses which Hol will do justice to in a full blog soon, and also accidentally got involved in auditions for American Idol. We went in to the theatre just needing a pee and were almost thrown on stage in front of the judges. I figured something from Manowar's back catalogue would shake things up but mercifully we were too late to sign up.

Now the sun is out, we are headed West again and Hol's family is due out in a few days. I even have a new pair of flourescent yellow pants from our wanderings in Denver. Roll on the next ten months!

* the crossword answer is 'mates'

NERD FILE: El Paso to Vancouver

2009-06-12T18:24:00.018+01:00

For the last 2 months I have spent a unreasonable amount of time studying maps or glued to a speedometer being alternately fried to a crisp in the desert, huddled in snowy blizzards or sheltering in the tent from blood thirsty mosquitoes. I never seemed to learn, as Hol did early on, that knowing exactly how high we have to climb will not make the pass lower, that knowing the hourly wind shifts for each day will only make you more angry when the supposed brisk tailwind is slowing you to a crawl going downhill, and that the supposed water stops on the map only have a 50:50 chance of materialising in the heat. I still don't understand why map makers haven't yet come up with a symbol to mark a deserted trailer with a bourbon sluggin', gun totin' owner that differs from the one they use for 'town: population < 100'

Total Distance: 2753.6 miles
Days on the road: 53 [46 on the bike]
Total Time Pedaling: 192h 26m
Longest Day: 115.2 miles, 7h 20m of pedalling
Highest Pass: Red Mountain Pass, Colorado 11,007 ft
Longest Climb: 5,100ft vertical gain from Durango to Silverton over Coal Bank and Molas Passes
Top Speed: 49.2 mph (dammit)
Worst headwind: Gusting 45mph 2nd day riding to Radium Springs, New Mexico
Coldest Night Camping: Fontenelle Creek, Wyoming -7 degrees C
National Parks: The Black Canyon of the Gunnison, The Tetons, Yellowstone, North Cascades
Best signpost: Next to a Wendy's advert saying Home of the famous 3/4lb cheese triple we found a vet in Sedro-Woolley advertising the Home of the famous $25 cat neuter

Having chosen to ride up the spine of the Rockies also meant we took in our fair share of passes. In the course of crossing the continental divide 8 times we took in the following passes:

Coal Bank Pass, Colorado: 10,630 ft
Molas Pass, Colorado: 10,879 ft
Red Mountain Pass, Colorado: 11,007 ft
Indian Creek Pass, Utah: 9,100 ft
Francis Creek Pass, Utah: 8,400 ft
Bondurant Pass (The Rim), Wyoming: 7,900 ft
Craig Pass, Wyoming: 8,262 ft
Virginia City Pass, Montana: 6,950 ft
Badger Pass, Montana: 6,760 ft
Big Hole Pass, Montana: 7,630 ft
Chief Joseph Pass, Montana: 7,264 ft
Lost Trail Pass, Montana: 7,014 ft
Tiger Pass, Washington: 3,300 ft
Sherman Pass, Washington: 5,575 ft
Wauconda Pass, Washington: 4,310 ft
Loup Loup Summit, Washington: 4,020 ft
Washington Pass, Washington: 5,477 ft
Rainy Pass, Washington: 4,855 ft

High Points: Meeting someone who claimed to ride at 65mph on the flat on their bike and pedalled so hard smoke came off his wheels, seeing the Black Canyon of the Gunnison for the first time, almost every down hill, every tail wind, 5 days off in Jackson with new friends and family.

Low Points: Agonizingly cold hands coming down in a blizzard into Silverton without warm gloves, the 4th puncture and wheel about to collapse after riding 108 miles with only another 7 to go Vernal, running out of water in the desert.

Luckiest moments: Our tyres delaminating and collapsing just as we pulled into Durango. We had just come flying down a twisting 4 mile descent dodging oil trucks and RVs and it was home to the first bike shop in miles and miles.

Scariest moment: Front tyre blowout after hitting a rock at 40mph coming down the main road from Lost Trail Pass, being chased by packs of dogs in New Mexico.

Thanks to my Dad for sending our gear over to El Paso, Charley and Kamala for getting us on our way, the hosting from Stuart and Veronica in Alburquerque, Jason and Devon for the bed and the survival kit in Durango, Breton for letting us sleep in his airstream in Montrose, KP for the free overhaul for Carlos in Vernal, Dick and Nancy for the brilliant guided tour of Jackson, Sally for our R&R base in Vancouver and many more who made it such a flippin' sweet trip.

So that is about it for now on the bike.

We are now ready to do a more leisurely return loop into the US. Having spent so much time in small town America, it's time to check out the cities courtesy of Amtrak and Greyhound. It's going to take a little bit of adjusting. Day 1 in Vancouver and looking for books to read, we strayed into 'Little Sisters' second hand bookshop. I faltered at the door at the rainbow feather boas and arty black and white male nudes, but Hol had dived straight in. The fact that I was genuinely looking for a copy of Lord of the Rings seemed apt, but I managed to just stop Hol before she engaged the assistant in hunt on my behalf.

We are told the US rail system is the preserve of over talkative freaks and weirdos and so I can only think we will fit right in. We have a couple of days in Seattle before a 23hr ride on the Coast Starlight to San Francisco on the 15th and then a 33hr ride on the California Zephyr to Denver on the 24th.

We have also got our final sea leg booked aboard the HANJIN Madrid. A little different from Lista Light as it weighs in at 69,000 tons, is 278m long and cruises at 27 knots. We'll be setting sail from Vancouver to Gwangyang in South Korea on the 19th August for an eleven day crossing.

So... we made it

2009-06-10T05:38:00.007+01:00

2750.1 miles and 53 days of riding. I don't want to be melodramatic, but I think its safe to say that was an epic adventure.

The closing stages weren't easy ones. We hadn't looked to closely at the map of the Northwest of the USA before but it looked to us like that page of the atlas had been screwed up, thrown in the bin, retrieved and then been just slightly uncrumpled and left, well... lumpy. However, we were keen to get to Vancouver for Nick's birthday and so rode 21 consecutive days from Jackson Wyoming over 5 states and many, many mountain passes. Knees, bike and bums did surprisingly well at holding up despite noises, both literal and metaphorical, from all. Money saving for the upcoming city times meant we also stuck to camping on rec grounds on the edges of towns with no showers and such. Canned chilli dinners became more frequent as fatigue after long days stifled our 'one pan' creativity. Smells got worse, clothes crustier and conversation mono-sylabbic as we gradually retreated into a pedaling machine not all that fit for the civilized world. Scorching days of up to 100 degrees beat down on us for longer as the sun rose earlier and set later the further North we got, and we found ourselves desperate for shade at the end of the days. The damper climate also bought out the insects. This all compounded with an attack of hay fever and consequent sleepless nights meant that we were spandex zombies as we autopiloted our way through the suburbs of Vancouver.

But determination was very high and with fitness levels at a peak we were eating up 90 mile days regularly. The challenge of time brushed all doubts to one side and whatever our aches and pains were telling us we were set on living it up in Vancouver to see in Nick's 28th year. After two days of feasting on Greek, Japanese and Belgian meals, cookies and cakes, sparkling wine, cocktails, Tanqueray and tonics and pints of Guinness it was well worth the rush!

So for all the drama above, the last couple of weeks of the trip were as spectacular as any. Following fast flowing rivers out of Montana we found hidden green valleys sprinkled with European villages with cherry and apple orchards, vegetable patches and wild flowers, whilst the snowy peaks of Canada loomed vast in the distance. Our most surreal night was definitely when we returned to our campsite next to the river to find preparations in full swing for a local paramedics training afternoon. 50 civilians were being made up to look as if a drunk gunman had gone on the rampage whilst panicked students tried to save their lives. We couldn't have asked for a better afternoon's entertainment. When you have a very friendly 10 year old with a hugely realistic gun shot wound to the face asking if we had been to see the live Dr. Who show in London there is little that seems wrong with the world. We even got a free BBQ dinner after telling people our tales.

Then we crossed over into Idaho for 2 days and followed the Pend Oreille lake. It looked on the surface like Lake Maggiore until we found a roller disco on the other side playing Hall and Oates on loop. We both got very excited on seeing such a huge expanse of water after being so land locked for so long. This was only just pipped as highlight of Idaho by seeing a rotund (pushing 20 stone) woman whizzing about on rollerskates in a white wedding dress. Our one night in Idaho we found a camping spot right by the lake in the town of Sandpoint. It was prom night, there was a brew pub and it was folk night at the local whisky bar. It suited us very well. The night ended with Nick getting chatted up by a local girl who 'accidentally' split some of her drink over him whilst I boogied to the tunes in a whiskey haze. After much dropping in of the word fiancé we ended up getting invited to a tofu breakfast which was hastily skipped in the morning when we woke up with steaming hangovers and a 65 mile day in front of us. The only consolation was that 3 pitchers of Mick Duff's IPA meant we were probably the only people ever to stay in a tent within 20 feet of the main east to west coast trainline of the US and get a solid night's sleep.

Washington was as mixed a state as the whole journey thus far. Everyday brought on the challenge of a new mountain pass and varying temperatures. Just when we thought we were well entrenched in the green, forested lands of the North we cycled through another dry and boiling desert and popped out the other side to climb up to snow level Alpine mountains again. Very confusing. Then we finally hit the North Cascades National Park. Our final land mark for the trip and the 6th mountain pass in 5 days. We conquered the 17 mile 4,000' climb to Washington Pass (5575') smoothly and so pushed on for another 75 miles of a headwind that meant you had to pedal hard downhill and fight to stay vaguely out of the middle of the road. Huge Alpine covered mountains with steep dropping valleys and water spilling out over rocks everywhere you turn. It was a magical and dramatic day of awesome passes, enchanted streams and terrifying wind. The perfect accompaniement to our current reading of Lord of the Rings (you can imagine how flippin' cool we look in a campsite reading matching editions of The Hobbit and Fellowship of the Ring of an evening). Once we made it through The Cascades the mountains gradually became foothills and before we knew it we were on flat farming plains that stretched out towards the Pacific. For the first time in weeks we didn't have a huge mountain range blocking the path in front of us.

On the last day we had 46 miles to cycle over the Canadian border and through the suburbs of Surrey, Guildford and Richmond into the heart of Vancouver. We ended up cycling over 70 miles as we struggled through road closures and one way systems. The closure of the only bike friendly bridge into the city meant we got stuck on the very bike unfriendly freeway for a while before hauling Carlos over a giant suspension bridge, squeezed between a huge drop one side and rushing trucks on the other. All in all it was a pretty terrifying day that eventually took us to a spot in the sun overlooking the Pacific only to see the ice cream van pull away as we walked towards it. It was only after a pitcher of beer and a plate of Nachos in our hotel before we could calm down and really contemplate what we had just completed.

It seems strange to have finished it now. We lived on the bike for just under 2 months checking wind, inclines, tyre pressures and applying copious amounts of vaseline to all manner of regions best not discussed. Arriving in a big city is a huge shock to the system but a good one. It feels like we have made it half way round the world and when we looked across the harbour and saw a Hanjin container ship that is sister to what we will be setting sail in for South Korea it felt like a big milestone. Time to rest.

More photos here for those who are interested:

Wyoming and Montana: snow, grizzlies and geysers
Idaho, Washington and British Columbia: alpine wonderland, more mountains, Nick's new shiny red cycling top

Also, Nick will be posting a nerd file of cycling trivia sometime soon.

The big and small of Spring

2009-05-27T18:11:00.012+01:00

2000 miles done and dusted, we have finally left the desert behind us and its time to head West.

Since arriving in Wyoming and traveling up into Montana, the last 2 weeks have been filled with awesome mountains, alarmingly close wildlife encounters and incredibly generous hosting. On arriving in Jackson excitement was high. A highly anticipated destination being home of the Grand Teton Mountain Range (French for The Big Boob), gateway to Yellowstone and where we planned to have 5 days off the bike with our first Tuppen visitor. On arrival we were welcomed in by Dick and Nancy; a friend's aunt and uncle who had offered us a place to stay. From the photo of us on the tandem on their fridge to the string of gifts on our departure, this couple offered us all the warmth and comfort of a real home we miss so much on the road. Being proud long time residents and genuine cowboy and cowgirl, they gave us an expert tour of town and the surrounding mountains. We were fed intriguing tales of days in the wilderness, whilst being quietly in awe at how well Dick could pull off a big buckled belt, cowboy boots, tight denims and tooth pick. Hanging out with strangers and feeling completely at home is now one of my favourite pastimes.

It then felt even more like home when Nick's dad rocked up in Jackson for 4 days of big feeds, good booze, lots of chinwagging and a bit of wilderness trekking. It was a perfect break with clear skies and warm sun, but to top it off we came within 5m of a wild Grizzly crossing a road on the first day, saw a second one on a hillside in the middle of nowhere on the second and had a guest Moose to dinner on the third. It was a humbling experience, but the downside was Nick could no longer calm my nerves about camping by saying 'bears are so rare we will never see one'.

Over the course of the four days iced lakes thawed, snowy trails became trekable, aspens came out turning the hillsides bright green and wildlife frolicked in the plains after a long cold winter. Spring sprung right in front of our eyes and we soaked up every minute of it. From Jackson we cycled into Yellowstone where we found our way blocked by some terrifyingly huge bison a couple of times, saw another bear, went from 6 feet of snow to hot grassy plains to geyser fields, all in one day's ride. From there its been mountains and valleys, green, rainy, head winds, tail winds, snow and sun all the way up to Missoula.

But despite such joys, it is suddenly strange being in the largest town we've been for about 5 weeks. The city girl in me has been crying out for civilization as we crawl from small town to small town. Unfortunately Missoula hasn't really lived up to expectations, being the largest city in Montana it seems to be full of awkward youths looking for a high life that just doesn't really exist out here. There are bling covered teenagers playing loud music, cars racing each other down the roads, hippies walking around with no shoes, drunks on corners and other weird goings on. We now rather miss the friendly feeling of the 100 population settlements out in the mountains and it is making us focus on the finish line.

Suddenly the challenge is starting to take its toll. With fitness levels peaking, Carlos in working order and knees seeming to hold up, physically the remaining 700 miles feel like a done deal (touch wood). So with that challenge softening the mental strain sets in. We've seen so much on our way up already the brain becomes a bit saturated. We've been through deserts, canyons, along rivers, through gorges, in blizzards, in forest, through national parks over mountain peaks. It feels like we've seen it all and so now its tempting just to get our heads down and bash out long days to get there. But we've got to hold back and soak up the last 700 miles. We both know how much we will miss the bike and the physical challenge once we have stopped. When you are pedaling it feels great and when you find a good camping spot you look back on the day with a big grin. But if you stop pedaling and you aren't in quite the right place the evening can be a dark place. There's only so much tinned chilli and rice one can take. And we still haven't learned that going for a walk around deserted small towns probably won't result in finding a pub full of friends.

Nonetheless, the hugeness of this country does not cease to amaze and fascinate me. Every mile we go a little closer we get to understanding what makes this part of America tick and why it is so different to us. This nation has got everything. They can do whatever they want and see every variety of landscape on their home turf. Holidays are short and so weekend or evening leisure time is everything. Since everyone has so much space toys are plentiful – boats, quadbikes, motorbikes, mountain bikes, kayaks, RVs, junk to tinker with, tools for making more stuff etc. There's not a whole lot of incentive to get on a plane and see the world, something that I now completely understand. In fact its a bit odd that we spend so much time trying to escape England when we could just settle in and soak up everything its got to offer. Maybe easier said from afar, or maybe everyone else is and we're the big hypocrites.

Gas guzzling is another issue that horrified me to begin with but I've now sussed out. There is no public transport in small town America, distances are huge and there's more than likely to be snow in your way for some of the year. Cars are definitely excessive but comparing it to suburban 4 wheel driving in the UK is a long stretch. The American psyche revolves around freedom and no one wants to be told they 'can't'. Hence no one wears helmets on motorbikes, gas is guzzled, plastic is plentiful and anyone can buy themselves a gun (all of which still make me flinch). But this is just the culture out here, its not as if America wants to destroy the world. In fact most want to preserve it (especially the hunters, which took me a while to understand) and are very proud of their beautiful land and wildlife. That openness that we often mock for being fake or weird (or definitely would do in London) is genuine friendliness and its great! We have felt welcomed in everywhere, are always helped out if stuck and everyone wants to go out of their way to make our time here a bit better. That is everyone except the donut munching, gun swagging Texan that nearly refused me entry to the US.

Speaking of which, that leaves me with only two real problems in this society. Firstly, perhaps the one reason that America has gained such a bad rep in recent years. In a worryingly large number of small towns in America the only news channel you can receive is Fox News. 24 hours of scare mongering and sensationalist reporting of half facts, if facts at all. I will not linger on it for fear of a rant not suitable for this blog. Secondly, a fast food culture has led to a huge number of people wanting and expecting life to be as easy as possible. Because there is endless space companies have provided just that. You can get your dinner, do your banking, grab a coffee, get gas, collect your mail, get groceries etc whilst barely leaving your car. In short, if you're lazy and gullible then you are doomed to die obese and terrified of the rest of the world.

So only about 700 miles to go until we hit Vancouver. Plenty more mountain passes and by all accounts a lot more rain. We are grateful for the Montana Standard's attempt at portraying a varied weather pattern but we have just about managed to read between the lines:

Today: 63/40 - A chance of afternoon thunderstorms
Tuesday: 66/37 - Spotty storms after the noon hour
Wednesday: 71/38 - A slim chance of a thunderstorm
Thursday: 70/40 - A stray afternoon storm possible
Friday: 72/41 - Isolated afternoon thunderstorms

The Birth of Quad-zilla (and latest photos)

2009-05-13T00:04:00.009+01:00

There comes a time in every young man or woman's life when something happens that changes the world irrevocably for them. The air they breath smells cleaner, the glowing light of a sunset seems brighter and the colours of a rainbow seem richer than ever before. From that moment on it seems they can achieve anything if they set their mind to it. A new world of possibility stretches off into the distance ahead of them. Holly experienced this moment around a week ago lying in a motel somewhere in Northern Utah (ahem, it's not that kind of website I'm afraid)

“Shit!”, exclaimed Hol at about 6am.

I was woken from an unusually warm slumber as we had decided to take a break from camping in sub zero temperatures. My eyes adjusted to the gloom. It seemed important as Hol was sat bolt upright in bed, wide eyed and mouth agape.

“Have you felt my legs?” she continues. I lie their confused.

“They're MASSIVE... No seriously Nick, wake up.... They're absolutely MASSIVE!”. I fumbled around and gave them a tentative squeeze, and I must confess, long gone were any remnants of long bus trips and lying on beaches and in it's place there was this compact, ginger highly tuned cycling dynamo. I had been pleased that we were getting fitter and fitter and eating up the mountains with seeming ease, but it became clear that behind my back over the last 1,400 miles Hol had undergone a miraculous transformation from vino sipping, crisp munching, burger terrorizing hedonist to a finely honed turbo on the back of the bike. The realisation was so sudden that she insisted on running up and down in the car park marveling that the aforementioned legs and ass refused to wobble at all. It was an emotional time for both of us.

Since that revelation we have continued tearing up the miles. Pre departure we had been given some simple warnings from a buddy Smithy who had cycled from East to West coasts a while back. “Beware the south. Beware the Dogs. Beware Utah. Do not fear the mountains” Hol had only just escaped the dogs, we didn't need convincing about the South and had conquered the highest passes of the trip. This left Utah. As we crossed the state line after having a great time in Colorado, the road immediately changed to broken asphalt and gravel and there was a 40mph headwind. Smithy seemed to be an astute prophet. However, Utah was spectacular even if the roads were crap, buying beer was a mission and people didn't seem to like outsiders. Amongst other things we rolled down the epic canyon of the Colorado River to Moab where the opening scenes of Mission Impossible 2 and Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade were filmed, we did our biggest day yet at 115 miles and broke a new speed record of 48.9mph leaving Hol a little jumpy and the (bike) rims steaming.

We have also found the people of Utah to be an odd mix. There was the UPS delivery guy in Green River who asked us our route and told us, “You damn crazy to ride that road. That's the most dangerous road in America. Full of craaaazy people who don't know how to drive. You'll be lucky to make it alive”. A touch dramatic, lightened only slightly by his ironic farewell of “Have a nice day”. As it was we cruised along with only a puncture and a bit of sunburn for our troubles.Then there was our new best friend KP from Red Rock cycles in Vernal. We took Carlos in who was rattling and groaning with the wheels about to collapse from too many mountains descents and crap roads. We got the bike a full service, new pedals for Hol, new tubes, new chain oil, gears checked, straightened wheels and new cables amongst many other things and he wouldn't accept a cent from us. He was so excited about the trip he just wished us well and best of luck. Incredible kindness.

We are now in Wyoming and have enjoyed shorter rides as we take it easy to meet my Dad for 4 days off in Jackson. We seem to be dodging bad weather with horror stories always being relayed from our stop 3 days ahead. Blizzards, storms, hot hail amongst other things. But so far we have had calm sunny days in Wyoming as the Teton mountains close in on us from both sides. That said camping has become a real test. We are up on the plains at 7,000ft and average temperature at night is 1 or 2 degrees below. As the 'comfort range' of the mega-compact sleeping bags is from 8 to 20 degrees it means wearing all we can in bed and zipping the bags up so just a nose is poking out. Twinned with a diet of canned chili, fig rolls and prunes I now shiver whenever we see a cookery book of Utah's speciality; the Dutch Oven.

In summary all is well and we can't wait for a few days off. Levels of fitness are climbing ever higher, levels of maturity are stooping ever lower. This was thrown into sharp relief when touring the Mountain Man museum in Pinedale today. It's hard not to snigger at the opening panel that says 'for hundreds of years... the hatters of the civilised world had raised a cry for beaver'. When they are then referred to as 'little hairy dollars' or there is a sign pointing to an authentic 'beaver muff' in the clothing section it's hard not to chortle. Hope all is well back in England. Reading The Hobbit is making us both long for proper ales and green rolling hills. Send our love to the shire.

Photos of the last 4 states are here for anyone who wants to catch a look as well:

Texas and New Mexico
Colorado and Utah

Extreme tandemage

2009-04-29T01:27:00.006+01:00

Absolutely incredible mind blowing stuff. I have lost all feeling in the majority of my fingers. My bum will probably never look the same again. When Nick and I finish a days ride we look more like long lost arctic explorers than youthful cyclists. My body hasn't experienced this level of physical exertion since being made to do the bleep test back in '96. Consequently we have both shed that stone of fried chicken and rum from our Caribbean days and are gaining buns of steel. Adrenaline and excitement are rife as we spend most of the day high on endorphins or that half a litre of syrup we poured over pancakes at breakfast. Life is sweet.

After a fantastic stay with some long lost relatives in Albuquerque and a day off the tandem resulting in a cultural adventure around ancient Indian Pueblos and the artsy cafés of Santa Fe, we got on the most direct route North out of New Mexico. The 550 highway was our home for four days of desert, blue skies, red rock canyons, head winds and more desert. The miles drifted by and we lived and breathed everything that road had to offer, which was not much apart from colossal breakfast burritos, oil trucks, monster road kill and dust. But on our third day the never ending orange land in front of us was replaced by an enormous white block of mountains. The San Juan Mountains we were planning to cross. Suddenly the challenge we had set ourselves smacked us both in the face and a nervous anticipation hung over us until those snowy peaks were conquered.

The moment we left New Mexico everything changed. The land turned green, trees had leaves, river beds were filled with water and snow dominated the sky line. Our first stop was Durango where we planned to get the bike fixed up ready for the mountains and spend the afternoon scaring ourselves with how big they looked. It was also the first place we had arranged to go and stay with some warmshowers.com hosts; people who put touring cyclists up for a night. Durango turned out to be the best place we could launch ourselves into the mountains from. The bike shops gave Carlos a good seeing too, numerous people told us we we should be 'stoked' and were 'awesome' for attempting the passes on a loaded tandem and we received free cookies at local cafés. Not only that but our hosts welcomed us into their family BBQ feast for the evening, took us out for an enormous breakfast in the morning and cycled out of town with us for 12 miles to the foot of the mountains.

The last three days have been filled with obscenities and exhalations of joy being shouted out from both ends of the tandem. Those massive and intimidating mountains were exactly that and we both loved (pretty much) every minute of the ride over them. The first day we cycled 52 miles from Durango to Silverton over the 10,630 ft Coal Bank pass and the 10,879 ft Molas pass. On the gradual part of the climb we had an entourage of 30 or so people on racers training for a race in a couple of weeks time. Each one would stop and chat as we pedaled and puffed our way up the climb. It made the first part of the day go surprisingly quickly and before we knew it it was time to face the 6 miles of hairpins. Head down, autopilot on and up we go. About 6 inches of snow fringed the road and gradually started to pour out of an increasingly cloudy sky. We reached the top in a thick blizzard and huddled in the shelter of some Portaloos. The thermometer read -4 degrees C. Before we could contemplate the achievement of getting up the pass we prepared for the chill of the way down. Just as we were looking our most mental yet with socks on hands, jeans around necks and jumpers for hats under our helmets a load of tourists jumped out of their cars and abruptly took some shots of 'the crazy folk tandeming through a snow storm'. Ahhhh fame. Nothing warms you like a steaming hot cup of ego!

After an hour of racing downhill into the blizzard we arrived in the bleak mining town of Silverton, frozen to pieces. After automatically opting for motel over campsite we jumped into the only open restaurant ordered two giant burgers, stacks of fries, two pints of Guinness, two shots of rum and waited to thaw. Surprisingly enough the only time I haven't been ID'd ordering booze on this trip was wearing Nick's socks on my hands and a helmet. The blizzard must have aged me worse than I thought.

After sleeping and thawing we head back out up the mountains. This time the sky was blue and the sun was out and despite a flat tyre 30 seconds in we felt prepared for the 11,010ft Red Mountain pass. The whole day was one of the most spectacular of my life and there is little I can write to describe it. On the way up we felt strong, at the top we were cheered on by an entourage of motorcyclists and on the way down we gasped with joy and excitable fear. At the bottom the mining town of Ouray was a haven of sunshine and warmth with spectacular views of the mountains we had just crossed. Smug and content we grabbed some lunch and headed off North into a warmer and flatter Colorado.

Today everything aches; especially since we decided to take a little detour up a 3,000 ft climb to the Black Canyon of Gunnison this morning. Luckily we both had about 10,000 calories worth of pancakes this morning and so made it up to view the 2,700 ft deep canyon in one piece. Unfortunately the breakfast calorie fest wasn't entirely burnt off in the climb and on first seeing the canyon I screamed 'oh my ***, sh*t, f***.....' to the dismay of several tourists enjoying the peace of the canyon just around the corner. No one can hate a tandem for long though and soon they were all admiring our mornings climb.

Despite all the cracked faces, chapped everything and the shadow of an encroaching plague, Carlos is giving us the ride of our lives and we're soaking up every minute of it.

An American Welcome

2009-04-20T03:21:00.011+01:00

It's only been 5 days since waving goodbye to the warm hospitality of Charley and Kamala, and although we already have chafed bottoms, chapped lips and ridiculous tan lines we are still smiling 300 miles down the road.

We knew it would be tough going, especially as when we set off there was an extreme weather warning of high winds and minimal humidity, but I don't think we could have pictured the sheer scale of where we were riding. Nothing could have prepared us for riding 60 miles with only a handful of corners and no water and food stops. After battling into 40mph winds for 4 hours or so we arrived parched and knackered at Big 8 foods, collapsed on a bench in the first bit of shade we'd seen all day and made some sarnies. Then we met 'Hank' (we never actually learnt his name). Without a word from us he walked up and launched into the most brilliant introduction to American weirdness we could have hoped for. As I rubbed thickly encrusted salt from my wind and sun battered face he embarked on an unbroken monologue starting with his ice driving exploits of the last 10 years. From then on it just got better...

Seeing we had a bike he told us how he was going to be sent to the '72 Olympics to cycle for the U.S. if his coach at high school hadn't messed up the forms. He was a dead cert for a medal because '[he] could cycle at 50mph'. But 50mph wasn't his top speed, no sir, and if you're thinking that was downhill think again. His top speed was when he raced his friend in a car for 2.5 miles on the flat and overtook the car even though it was doing 65 mph. We just sat there nodding not quite sure what to say. We needn't have worried, he just kept talking as we ate. Luckily he didn't kill himself on that 65mph run although he did wear right through the sole of his best cowboy boots trying to stop. But that wasn't all he had... As if we may have written him off as merely a cyclist, he continued to elaborate on the strength of his upper body.

He was once in the gym with a father who was coaching his son to be in Mr. Universe that year. This guy was apparently doing reps with 300lb dumbells. Hank's friend saw this and egged Hank on to lift some more, knowing that Hank 'was rangy, but all steel'. Hank couldn't resist. He cooly walks up, adds another 200lbs and does 5 reps, naturally with only one arm, and then 3 above his head just to show what he could do. We were lapping up the stories silently and about 30 minutes in he just kept going. By the time our allotted hour's story time was up he had just finished with him being in knife fights at school, but kicking the knife away with a roundhouse kick, and how he was also a pro swimmer for a time, but just drives trucks to pay the bills. Then as soon as it started it was over. He got a can of coke from the machine and walked off to his truck. Hol and I just sat there before bursting into hysterics. We then stopped soon after just in case he came back and roundhoused us into tomorrow.

We thought this may have just been a one off, but people out here have been the stars so far. The next day an extraordinarily camp Mexican American we'll call 'Philipe', stood up and flamboyantly announced to the diner we were sat in, 'on behalf of everyone in my country, I want to thank you guys [the British] for the Beatles, and also an absolute ANGEL... called Lady Di. Now you folks have a nice day'. And we did; even if it was a little weird when 9 miles down the road he pops out from his car with his flies undone and tells us we just have to go the hot springs in Truth or Consequences.

There have been countless more brilliant moments already. There was the lady who runs the 'Grocery Cupboard' in Radium Springs who 'just melts away when she listens to [our] accents' and Bill the lonely RV park owner who is 'just damn worried about them Iranians'. The size of everything out here is mind blowing from supermarkets to trucks, desert to junk yards, trains to RVs and sodas to pancakes. The speed with which we are climbing up the map seems non-existent but for now we're just taking each canyon as it comes. 2,500 miles left to go and who knows where the next Hank is. We can't wait.

Meet Carlos... the newest member of our team

2009-04-15T03:17:00.008+01:00

After an incredible bus ride up through the dusty open vastness of Mexico, Hol and I were nervous and excited about the prospect of getting a bike and getting on the road. Looking at dust devils skirting across the plains we suddenly realised what we were about to undertake; 2,500 miles of some of the worlds hottest deserts, tallest mountains and deepest canyons. However, before we could even consider the first pedal stroke we had to negotiate the most 'dangerous city in the world' and the most infamous security guards this side of Mahiki's.

Ciudad Juarez hit the news recently because the local drug cartels have become so powerful that the military had to take over. This was to curb the alarming crisis where the local police force was being continually bribed or beheaded and turning up in shallow graves in the desert. One story we heard was how two people narrowly survived a gang shooting only to be gunned down in their hospital beds by the same gang. Nice place. We hastened past the tens of hundreds of heavily armed police, the scariest one was when I went to take a pee at the border to find one sat in full body armour like a character out of Judge Dredd waiting for his mate to come out of cubicle 3. I wondered what Spanish for 'Freshen freshen up for the ladeez' was but decided against it. Then it was merely a hop, skip, and a 10 minute interrogation about visits to Morocco to get into the U.S.

Last night we spent in the Americana Inn motel next to the Red Parrot '24 hour ladies' strip bar stuffing ourselves with Chinese food and watching TV. And this morning we bought a tandem! We had met Charley and Kamala Land (strangely the surname as Kat who was on board Lista Light) on the internet when they replied to an ad on a tandem message board. We couldn't quite believe they were in El Paso and selling a bike that looked almost perfect. If it didn't fit then we would have to travel to the next option we had found... in Philadephia. Luckily we saw it, rode 14 miles round the dunes and hills of Horizon City and have now attached speedos (to the bike), pannier racks and given it the once over. We can't believe the luck we've had and Charley and Kamala are absolute legends. They have 3 tandems as well as ours and knowing the routes like the back of their hands we have been given maps, hints and access to an Aladdin's cave of a tool shop complete with several sets of Texas Longhorns on the wall. We are locked and loaded and ready for the off tomorrow.

We can not wait. It's going to be epic (and painful)

PHOTOS: Latest shots of Central America are here for anyone who wants to check 'em out.

Gang warfare, giant bulls and a human foetus... Which continent?

2009-04-11T15:38:00.019+01:00

We are now just a 36 hour bus journey away from entering the USA and coming to the end of 6 weeks in Central America. We never really had any huge plans or aspirations for Central America. We just needed to travel up through it. If you read or watch anything about this continent it is most likely to be connected to emigrants chasing the American dream, violent drug cartels or the exploitation of land. I had read about all of the above and so was half expecting to come across harrowing scenes as we traveled overland from Panama to the US – exactly the same route as approx 350,000 metric tons of Big Mac patties, 600 tons of cocaine and thousands of desperate emigrants each year. In reality you mostly have to search your imagination to see such things and we have felt safe throughout the journey. That said it has had its moments...

On our first night in Central America we bedded down in an apartment in Casco Viejo in Panama City, eager to escape the crowd we had been traveling with for the last week. The apartment was located 100m short of the imaginary line between the tourist safe zone and the 'red (danger) zone'. It was a mere 5 minute well lit walk from all the hostels, shops and restaurants and so we were assured there would be no real difference. Heading back to our apartment on the first night we were even reassured to find the area littered with policemen and vans, admittedly they were arresting a guy, but it was better than nothing. Five minutes later with the door to our apartment clicking shut behind us gun shots were being fired right outside. Nick raced to the balcony, whilst I cowered behind him and found a gun fight going on between a gang and some police right where we had just been walking home. An interesting introduction to the continent. We later learned that due to the gentrification of the old town the gangs are being moved out of their slums in the old colonial buildings and unsurprisingly don't like it. Change has to come though and gradually the government will have their way and the gangs will have to go elsewhere; a problem that I'm sure encroaches on the majority of Central American cities as they become increasingly developed for tourism. Just as foreign investment pushes indigenous people off the land, it also pays for the gangs to be moved out of the cities. Its not surprising that somewhere along the chain someone kicks up a fuss.

After 10 days of volcano climbing, swimming hole dipping and marveling at the size of bull's balls in Panama we headed to Costa Rica: The only nation in the world without an army and the most stable of all Central America. Rich in nature, as its name suggests, and with an infrastructure that reflects the early investment of The United Fruit Corporation, it attracts lots of tourists. Luckily a fun filled touristy fortnight was what we were looking for and so we had a great time. That said, as with any developing country pitching for tourist dollars, aspiration crime is a big problem here and sad to hear about.

So it was at 3a.m. last Friday with only 9 days left before we enter the U.S, we boarded our first of two 'Tica' buses that would take us up to Guatemala City. Over 60 hours we crossed four borders and dealt with eight sets of immigration officials – not my favorite people at the best times. Expecting the worst, since it was the weekend before Semana Santa, Central America's biggest religious festival, it actually went remarkably smoothly. Every border became slightly more familiar, littered with toothless money changers, dusty dogs and huge women with ogre like faces and tiny legs trying to sell you their home cooking. Perhaps the most shocking part of the journey was the choice of films shown on the bus. Films ranged from violent to extremely violent, covering gang warfare in US prisons (Felon), child kidnapping (Man on Fire), and prostitution (Taken), child rape (Where the Heart Is) and a healthy dash of drug warfare. Not an obvious pick for a 1pm family bus trip through lands renowned for some of the above. Turns out that the most intimidating part of this bus trip was witnessing the Hollywood interpretation of the sun filled and peaceful lands we were traveling through.

Before we knew it we were in Guatemala, on a bus with no clutch winding up dusty roads to Xela. Guatemala is how I expected Central America to be. Instead of the rather bland good roads, large scale farming and modern towns of further South we were suddenly in highlands studded with small shacks, brightly clothed farming families and their green patches of crops. Entering Xela town square was also the first time we had seen any real history since Colombia. So despite another attack of bed bugs and a 24 hour virus that locked us both to toilets at various intervals, we lapped up Guatemala.

Highlights were two failed outings and one very successful one. After only half understanding people's directions in Spanish we failed to reach some mountain side hot springs, but found a mountain and ended up letting off some steam in a Guatemalan body building gym. We spent an hour on the exercise bike looking at a signed picture of a 80's aerobics instructor with a stars and bars thong wedged a little too far up her bum. Then, after missing a bus to a highland village we stumbled across Xela's biggest market. Packed to the brim with clothes, bikes, machinery, sausages, fruit, honey, etc this shopping experience made our Moroccan market adventures seem like a trip to Marks and Sparks. And then there was the successful outing: The Xela Natural History Museum. At first it was a bit of a disappointment as rooms were just filled with random old plants, broken typewriters and dusty football trophies. But then we found the treasure trove. Suddenly we were confronted by a creepy menagerie of every single stuffed animal you could imagine in some rather unnatural poses. After thinking that the miniature goat with 8 legs eating a snake was as weird as it could get we came across a small cabinet of pickled foetus'; rat, snake and... human. Bizarre, a little gross, but strangely intriguing...

After four days of such joys we hopped on two buses (both with various parts missing), a minibus and a collectivo taxi to San Cristobal in Mexico. The journey took us through the most dramatic scenery yet as the road spun through valleys, plunging into deep gorges and climbing back up to ridges bridging forested highlands. The border crossing was a little strange since everyone was dressed up as clowns or in wrestling masks for Semana Santa. Even the Mexican army were in holiday mood as they waved us through, rifle in one hand and snow cone in the other.

I am now sitting writing this from our bed in San Cristobal, looking onto a little balcony where Nick is sipping on a beer whilst reading Defoe. We spent the morning wandering around the plentiful churches of this beautiful colonial town, which prompted yet another debate about religion, its value, its corruption and why we both believe what we believe. After a siesta we went to watch a documentary about the rebellion Zapista movement in the Chiapas region of Mexico. The combination of a rather wooly rebellion manifesto, 'peaceful' demonstrators armed to the neck with guns and a confused indigenous people wanting both their traditional way of life yet access to brand new schools, hospitals and banks meant that we ripped plenty of holes in the film. I have rarely felt like such a pretentious snob and so we have planned to have a margarita and beer heavy evening and are listening to some Bon Jovi to undo such sins.

Getting scared by frogs in Costa Rica

2009-04-01T18:23:00.009+01:00

For the last 10 days Hol and I have been accompanied on our travels by two friends from home; Chris and his much better looking other half Charlie. Godders (Chris) loves a chinwag, and so it was no surprise that by the time we got from airport to hotel we had been filled in on recent engagements, various missed parties and a liberal dose of sporting updates. What was also a wake up call for Hol and I was hearing about the scale of job losses first hand. We had been sat thousands of miles away thinking it was just a stack of media hype with only a few bankers and blue collar manufacturing jobs getting hit, but with talk of mass restructures with 30% redundancy in the kind of jobs Hol and I had been involved in, we realised why people continually repeated how we had chosen the right time to go away. From now on, no more grumbling from our travels! So relinquishing planning responsibilities to the two new arrivals, we let holiday spirit replace penny pinching as we set off for our Costa Rican adventure. It has been a cracking 10 days.

After hearing only the budgetary complaints of grimy, shoe string backpackers down in Panama, we were unsure of what Costa Rica would be like. It's an extraordinary place. First we whisked up to La Fortuna to see Volcan Arenal; one of the world's most consistently active volcanoes. We perused the various tour options and although sorely tempted by 'Mr Lava Lava's guaranteed best time of your life in the world', we plumped for a 'see lava, see waterfall, walk in forest and soak in hot springs all in one mega experience'. We were duly entertained by a sprinkling of spewing lava, some lightly rumbling ground and a couple of canopy bridges. But we were particularly excited about 'Baldi hot springs'. Billed as a touch of Vegas in the jungle we excitedly donned our speedos, but not leaving the thriftiness behind we avoided the $7 beers at the swim up bar by sneaking in a bottle of rum wrapped in a towel and just buying cokes. Godders and I immediately tried the hottest pool and burnt our legs. In hindsight the fact that a woman was heating her baby's milk bottle in there should have been a clue. Less hot pools provided respite from sore limbs and we finished the night with some dramatic drunken watersliding which cleared new passages in my nostrils I never knew existed.

From here it was off to the world famous cloud-forests of Santa Elena. At $25 per person for a guide and not wanting a big crowd we decided we would just walk around ourselves. Nervous we wouldn't see anything we crept onto the trails at 6.30am with nothing but optimism and a small leaflet of local fauna. Within 2 minutes I look up and say, “Errr chaps, I am pretty sure that is a resplendent quetzal”. Now I imagine, this may mean nothing to most people, but for the last month we had been past multiple 'Quetzal trails' from which descended legions of glum, khaki clad birders who had traveled all the way to South America just to see these 'flying dragons'. Sure enough, a consultation with the leaflet confirmed we were looking at one of the rarest and most impressive birds of paradise on earth. A strong start. We then spent the next 5 hours spotting hundreds of birds, ants, butterflies, giant milipedes and occasionally scaring Godders by saying we had seen a tree frog; an inexplicable phobia that provided hours of entertainment. Just before we left we bumped into a guided tour going the other way. The guide in a jocular tone says, “spotted any quetzals?”. When we replied that we had in fact seen two the audible groan from the tour group lent us a smug edge on the trip home.

We have now finished the trip amongst fire dancers and hippies on the Nicoya peninsula. Campfires on the beach, swimming in waterfalls and getting lost in the forest after dark have filled the days. It has left us realising what an incredibly diverse country Costa Rica is. All of this is only a few hours from place to place. It is a little more expensive, but then instead of the $2 turd, rice and beans you get elsewhere in Central America, you have to pay $4 but get a massive plate of salad, fresh fish and various bits and pieces of deliciousness. It really is a case of you get what you pay for and unless you are scrimping every penny then Costa Rica is the place to come. We now leave Godders and Charlie and head North on a 60 hour bus journey to Guatemala where we will spend a few days. And then... U.S.A.

We can't quite believe we are such a short distance from the U.S. From when we left England it always seemed like an impossibly distant oasis of development, the English language and ease of travel. We are now only ten days away and from there it is just a few months of cycling and walking before getting on the freighter from Vancouver to South Korea on August 19th. We have a rough idea for a cycling route which is below, but we need advice from anyone of places to go or people to see on the way. At the moment, we plan to go from El Paso up towards Santa Fe, skirt west of the Rockies towards Aspen before heading up to Yellowstone and a short hop north west up to Vancouver.

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It isn't a detailed plan as yet and we need to fill in some gaps. Therefore any suggestions of things we should see send them to hollyandtups@yahoo.co.uk or post a comment on the blog. If all goes to plan we will be riding our new steed, a shiny red Santana Noventa (already nicknamed Carlos), out of El Paso on the 15th April. From there, we just keep heading north. Can't wait.