The four of us, mum, dad and two kids, set off from Melbourne, Australia, in April 2008 with an aim to drive around the world. We used one vehicle, and, to cut a rather long story short, accomplished almost all we set out to do. We circumnavigated the globe taking in Europe, Asia and North America, and returned to Melbourne some 360 days later.

Since then, we have somewhat settled back into normal life in Melbourne. We went back to our jobs and school, reconnected with family and friends, eventually moved back into our house, and began the process of Just Getting On With It.

And you know what? It was really hard. In fact, some of the time, it was much harder than dealing with the challenges of dealing with new cultures, languages, customs and shipping agents and other road users in far-flung locales seemingly intent on cutting our lives short.

I started back at work a mere three days after driving back into Melbourne. My intention was to get stuck into it as soon as possible instead of spending time moping around without much to occupy myself. We were living at Sandy’s parents’ place, which was fine, but it meant we weren’t in our own space, and couldn’t really unpack and ‘nest’. We’d been living out of backpacks for a year, and were continuing to do so for the immediate future.

(We did have the opportunity to move back into our own house, but our mates who were renting would’ve been made a little bit homeless as their own renovation was over schedule, and besides, we rolled back into Melbourne with only a couple of drachma to rub together, so we could do with the rent.)

Work for me was a terrible shock. My immediate response, after catching up with staff members, was simply not wanting to be there and not really caring. I had the distinct sense that something was amiss, or out of place.

(Pic: Danny trying to look respectable for work)

When driving south and homewards from Darwin Sandy and I had a few conversations of what life back in Melbourne would be like in comparison with a year on the road in exotic locations, without too many deadlines or people requiring us to do things, and essentially taking a relaxed, almost cavalier attitude to daily life. We talked about the pressures of having to socialise with family and friends, of being in the same location all the time, coming back to the same house every evening, going to the same workplace every morning.

But the one thing we didn’t think about thinking about was what it would be like to not be spending almost every minute of every day together.

At work, on day two, it hit me. My partner and children just weren’t around. It felt intensely isolating and unnerving, and I had the distinct desire to race around to wherever my family was.

Sandy was at home with the children, as it was school holidays, and the children didn’t flinch. They got to hang out with friends and grandparents, and generally have fun – though there were a few times in the early days back in Melbourne when Maddy and Raffy asked if they could just stay in with us instead of visiting people or doing anything else away from us.

And so, it went. Of course things got better the more I, and we, adjusted, and I deliberately tried reminding myself that it wasn’t all that bad. I mean, it wasn’t as if I was living in the midst of a violent civil war, or that I was starving, or ill, or even unemployed or homeless. For crissakes, get a grip!

We slowly went from intrepid travellers to urban dwellers. Incrementally my beard and hair got shorter until it was all gone, and gradually I began suiting up for work again. The trip was becoming an increasingly distant memory.

SK: Maddy and Raffy adjusted so quickly back to life in Melbourne – friends, school, homework, playing … Raffy in particular thrived on routine. But for us, it has been so much harder than we thought to re-engage with life here. On one level, things like paying bills, cleaning, shopping, cooking, washing, all happen automatically. Little engagement is required. They were all the things we were doing while travelling, but always now in the same place. But on another level, the personal interest, the challenge, the passion, all seems to have leached out, and been left behind on the other side of a border somewhere.

It was rewarding to see the kids thriving at school, with friends and family, and enjoying Melbourne. Nevertheless, if someone had offered to fill the truck with diesel, pointed us north, topped up the credit card and said “go”, we would’ve been off like a shot. Doesn’t matter to where!

As soon as school started (and at the time we were fortunate to be house minding our Alice Springs’ friends’ home opposite the school) we tried hard to get on with engaging, and being glad to be here. Though as the months wore on, being out of our house was getting harder. By July, we needed to be “home” or be elsewhere. The novelty of being nomads in our own city had worn off and if we were going to be here, we wanted now to be settled. So after four months, our house finally was vacant, and we moved in. Another emotional thud, as despite really wanting it, suddenly we were home and the trip really was over.

Sitting around the table for meals and remembering “this time last year”, or our favourite place/meal/site guessing game became vital to the trip not just becoming a distant memory. And for us not losing the vividness. I am dreading 7 April, when we can no longer reflect on being somewhere other than here “this time last year”.

Yet I do reflect on the privilege of being here, in Melbourne, with a house, a job, good state education for the kids, access to all the benefits that we have. We have had the joy and challenges of travel, and the security of all the things we can come home to.

Ten months on, there has been much reflection and introspection, enjoying daily life, getting on with finding our feet. And our world map is firmly pinned to the wall with the magic numbers “2020” red penned along a tentative route…

(Pic: Reliving past glories – using our Laos barbecue)

DB: We decided that if we were indeed grieving for our loss of our relative independence, the end of the trip, and a return to the somewhat predictable and monotonous, we should endeavour to keep the trip alive in our minds as well as get out and do fun stuff as well. A rule that has been very much maintained is having a conversation about the trip at least once a day, which surprisingly enough, is easy. There is no shortage of people who want to know the details of our drive around the world, and we are only too happy to oblige. We also began to embrace all the good things about Melbourne, and the arrival of our friends JJJZ from Darwin for eight months meant we could go out with them and experience Melbourne as tourists.

There are also plans for a book. Many people who corresponded with us over the year have asked as not if, but when the book is coming out. I’ve never been entirely enamoured with reading about other people’s adventures, mainly because it makes me a rather unattractive shade of green with envy, but also because, well, there are many travel books out there that just aren’t a good read. And I certainly didn’t want to be responsible for another one.

Having said that, we received enough positive feedback and encouragement to have a crack. I began reviewing and editing pieces from the blog, thinking that I could knock it over in a couple of months by committing an hour or so after work most evenings, but soon found out that in the few instances those opportunities presented themselves I ended up with less than average work. So, I have taken a few days off work here and there to really get stuck into it, and it seems to be paying off.

One of the biggest surprises was the volume of words on the blog site. After a quick tally it seems there were two books’ worth of ramblings, which would not do. I need to halve the text before even thinking about photos and then the business of publishing and distribution. I was doing alright then for a while, slowly lessening my heart palpitations when deleting vast swathes of text, but got a shock when, after ostensibly shortening and slightly tweaking one section, I ended up with an even bigger chapter! I gave that a rest for a while and will return to it soon.

And so, dear reader, we would like to hear from you if you have any suggestions or recommendations regarding what you would like to read more or less about. Is there anything we missed? Did we dwell on other rather insignificant events you could do without? Let us know.

Sandy also decided that, given the dreaming and the planning of our drive around the world was half the fun, we needed a new dream, and a new plan. This would keep us focussed and elevate our spirits.

And so, it was decided. 2020 Cape To Cape: Cape Town to Nordkapp – South Africa to Norway. Southern-most Africa to Northern-most Europe.

Of course, by road. Maddy and Raffy will be old enough to make their own decisions about whether to come along with their crusty old parents…

Watch this space…

Day 334 – 360

8 March – 3 April 2009

3,911km

Total: 36,984km

Soundtrack:

‘Orstralia’ – The Saints

‘According To My Heart’ – The Reels

‘Bring It On Home’ – Led Zeppelin

‘Homeward’ – The Sundays

‘Birdbrain’ – Steve Abbott

‘Blue Sky’ – Mach Pelican

‘Road Kill’ – Rickie Lee Jones

‘It’s A Wonderful World’ – Louis Armstrong

‘Last Splash’ – The Breeders

‘Bound For South Australia’ – Trad., The Seekers

‘Last Post’ – Elvis Costello and the Brodsky Quartet

‘Grey Skies Over Collingwood’ – Weddings, Parties, Anything

‘Maybe The Last Time’ – James Brown

‘End O’ The Line’ – You Am I

‘The End’ – The Beatles

DB: I have been postponing writing this ‘last post’ for some time, but have now decided to bite the bullet.

What for us has been a monumental twelve months was now quickly coming to an abrupt and somewhat traumatic end.

We tiptoed into our friends JJJZ’s house in Darwin a little after 5am and got a couple of hours’ sleep before picking up where we left off almost a year ago. That is, eating, drinking, swimming, going to the markets and generally living a serene holiday life. The quiet in the Darwin suburbs was punctuated by the almost forlorn call of a local bird that sounds distinctly like the piano part in the chorus of the Reels’ ‘According To My Heart’. If you time it right, you can sing the words and the bird will sing the response, like a fleeting, enigmatic meeting of kindred 1980s Australian music spirits, with the protagonists communicating only through song before parting as quickly as they met.

Our reintegration into Australian culture had its comforts as well as its surprises, particularly coming from South East Asia. Shopping centres were full of stuff that surely nobody really needed, young men spent time and money doing up their utes and people with serious weight issues constantly emerged from the fug of fast food joints. The NT News, a rag that is mostly useful for kindling and packing crockery when moving house, continues to celebrate the supposed impending disaster that is mass crocodile infestation, this time by providing quotes from Darwin’s premium croc catcher, Robbie Risk. I kid you not. Still, while there is no shortage of events and occurrences in Darwin to raise an eyebrow, we felt a sense of belonging with even the smallest things, like knowing streets, shops and shortcuts. We again made a beeline to Mary’s stall at Parap Market for the single best laksa in the country. Listening to the Sound Relief bushfire/flood fundraiser for a few of my favourite bands recently reformed for the occasion, on the national yoof network, had us feeling more emotionally ‘home’, while the geckos chirped us to sleep every night.

In Darwin in particular we were also reintroduced to the reality of two Australias – Indigenous Australia and everyone else. Rarely do the two groups comfortably interact, and it reminded us of the need to continue the task of building bridges and reaching out. There’s a long way to go.

SK: Once they had overcome the aural shock of Australian accents everywhere, Maddy and Raffy acclimatised incredibly fast. They had been particularly attuned to our native inflections while overseas, eagerly listening for the distinctive Aussie drawl when we were in places with a large tourist body. Hearing these ubiquitous sounds was evidence that we were really home. 

At Parap Market, Maddy jokingly asked me how many dollars to the dollar. Together we marvelled at signs in English, not being charged exorbitant fees for ATM transactions, not needing maps to move around, not performing mathematical acrobatics to calculate currency conversions, and the unfamiliar familiarity of Darwin.

The kids also reluctantly used this hiatus to furiously finish their scrapbooks (visual diaries) before the end of our trip. We recalled the last few weeks through Thailand, Malaysia, (“Was the Crystal Hotel in Kota Bahru, or was that the Crystal Lodge?”) and Singapore: notes were made, pictures were pasted, memories were locked into the pages.

Darwin was also the catalyst for reconnecting all that I had severed before we left – memberships, subscriptions, insurances and so on. Phone call by phone call we were returning to ‘normal’ life.

We celebrated Danny’s birthday down by the wharf, with a Top End ‘son et lumière’ show featuring a brief display of lightning accompanied by the drumming of rain on the tin roof. It was the last trip birthday – another ‘last’.

DB: Our truck would be in transit from Singapore for a few days yet, so all we had to do was make some decisions about our eventual route home and enjoy the tail end of the Top End’s legendary wet season. When, finally, word came that the truck had arrived, Sandy and I went into action. A time on the following day, Friday, was set for us to drive the truck out of the shipping container and for customs and quarantine to do their thing. Given the strictness of quarantine conditions in Australia we were well aware of the potential requirement for us to have the truck cleaned yet again, but, even thought this would potentially cost us more time and money, we still didn’t want to be complicit in importing any biological nasties into the country.

I had envisaged the quarantine holding area to be one of clinical cleanliness and sanitation, with a team of white-coated laboratory technicians with clipboards and a look of earnest dedication buzzing around. Like the Ponds Institute. Instead, the shed where the truck would be inspected was a dusty steel oven surrounded by stacks of dirty shipping containers and marauding mobile cranes.

To enter the customs area we needed special identification and luminous orange vests, which we collected from the shipping company offices, and were met by Pat and Bob from the Australian Quarantine and Inspection Service – AQIS. Young Pat walked us over to the quarantine area, through the blazing heat and a barbed-wire gate, and across the already blistering tarmac, while older Bob drove the short distance in air-conditioned comfort. Slacker. At the truck we were met by James who represented the shipping company and who negotiated with the AQIS men. And then we got to work.

For the first time in a year, almost everything needed to be removed from the truck for inspection. Pat poured over and through boxes, containers and bags, while Bob got to work under the bonnet. I had been advised that one of the first things quarantine inspectors would check is the air filter, which would potentially identify any bugs, spores and the like that could be located elsewhere on the car. To my surprise, the air filter was checked by a most precise scientific process whereby Bob asked me when I last changed it. I told him, and he left it at that. I was now quietly confident that Sandy and I would be driving back to our friends’ place in a few minutes. But no sooner was I planning what to do with the rest of the afternoon did Australia’s quarantine’s finest pull the plug.

Bob advised me that we would have to get the truck washed again, inside and out, as he had found a dead bug in a cavity beside one of the truck’s batteries, and a crusty old blade of grass under the driver’s seat. But, to my sheer astonishment, the two miniscule items of contraband were not placed delicately in a sterile sample jar or bag and catalogued for further analysis down at the lab or obliteration in some searing furnace; Bob, after showing me the offending, brown and brittle blade of grass simply rubbed his thumb against the tips of his fingers and allowed the grass to be caught in the warm breeze that headed towards Darwin Harbour. Yep – real worried about destroying Australian life as we know it.

While I was trying to process and determine the supposed difference between letting stuff loose on one side of a cyclone fence and not the other, or anywhere else in the country for that matter, Bob came back with an even stranger development. When I asked about the process for getting the car washed again, thinking that it would need to be done within the confines of the quarantine area, he told me that we had to either negotiate that with our shipping company, or – get this – he could arrange paperwork enabling the truck to be washed off site. In short, that meant that we could get the authority to take the truck out of quarantine and away from the port, and get it washed wherever we liked, and then have it back for another inspection.

It took me a while to get this round my head. The question that kept bugging me was this: “What’s the difference between washing the truck again somewhere in Darwin, such as the local Scrub ‘n’ Go, or our mates’ driveway, potentially setting any sundry blades of grass, dead bugs and contaminated dirt free into the greater environment, and not washing the truck again at all?”

Sandy and I decided to get James from the shipping company to deal with the washing as he seemed to know what the AQIS bods would be looking for. And it was still only 2pm, so potentially we could get the wash and inspection done before stumps. With a bit of luck we would be able to hit the road on Saturday for a leisurely jaunt south to Melbourne.

But of course it was POETS Day – that bastion of Australian workplace tradition: Piss Off Early, Tomorrow’s Saturday. I remembered that a public servant’s standard workday in the Northern Territory ends precisely at 4.21pm (this is no joke – workers at Darwin’s museum would be taking their first sip of beer at the Ski Club next door at 4.22pm daily), so it turned out that nobody from AQIS would be remotely interested in doing another inspection that day. We did consider the option of having the truck signed out there and then, and perhaps never going back, but thought we’d try to do the right thing. We’d have to wait until Monday.

(Pic: When in Rome… the Ski Club, Darwin)

By first thing Monday morning James had given the truck yet another bath blast and it was looking like it had just rolled off the production line, not driven around the world. Two new AQIS inspectors came around for a squiz, and one of them found another dead bug, this time lodged in the back of the radiator. A quick conversation between a slightly embarrassed James and the AQIS mob resulted in the truck going back to the wash bay and a subsequent immediate inspection. Any more high-pressure hosing and we’d need a new coat of paint.

The wash bay process provided another shock to the senses. While James was blasting the radiator, and even using a pair of tweezers from our first aid kit to pluck a stubborn bug from its bunker, I noticed that not all of the water landing on the concrete floor ran towards the drain that ostensibly collected the foul and infecting contraband and deposited it into a secure tank. Half the water ran the other way, back down the driveway. Out of interest I followed this errant stream around the corner and past the wall of the wash bay, and discovered, to my horror, that the water cascaded down some rocks and into Darwin Harbour. The entire process, it seemed, was a waste of time, and at the same time filed under ‘revenue raising’. Funny how cane toads are a bit of a nuisance around these parts.

Ultimately AQIS gave the truck the thumbs up – literally. The official authority to drive the truck out of quarantine was one person’s vertical thumb indicating to James that all was hunky dory no wuckas bewdy mate she’s apples. No paperwork, no signatures, no stamps of approval. A sophisticated process, it seems.

Another hour of waiting for customs to give the all-clear to AQIS, or the other way around, we weren’t really sure, and finally we drove home. But we weren’t done yet. The truck was booked in for an overdue service that needed to happen before we headed out into the Australian outback again, and so it was all hands on deck to pull everything out of the truck and then a sprint to the mechanic’s for the service.

David initially told us that he couldn’t service the truck that day, even though it was booked in, because it was relatively late in the day and he had assumed we weren’t coming. But then he saw the stickers on the side of the truck, and all was right in the world again. We had a chat about the trip and his desires to do something similar, and picked up the truck later that afternoon. David also had a couple of EK Holdens in the workshop – a model very close to my heart – and a souped up FX that belonged to his daughter and that boasted automatic transmission, power windows, air conditioning and power steering – not exactly standard equipment in the late 1940s-early 50s. David and we had long chats about cool cars and exotic destinations, but as some work needed to be done on the truck, we made our getaway.

Surprisingly, there was nothing in the truck that needed any great attention. Given some of the tortuous roads and dust through south eastern Europe, Turkey and south-east Asia I had assumed that at least some of the running gear such as brakes or suspension would need a going over. Instead, all was first-rate and, with new doses of fluids for the engine, gearbox and diff, we were right to go.

SK: Our wonderful Darwin hosts JJJZ deserve a medal (or at the very least a great meal) for hosting the four of us for 2½ weeks while in the midst of packing up their house to move south. We were melancholy and anxious about the impending end of our trip, and frustrated that our car was taking its usual slow boat trip back to us. Meanwhile they were slowly but surely boxing, lawn sale-ing and giving away their possessions. (Some of which ended up coming to Melbourne with us!) I would have been tense and cranky had the roles been reversed, and so am most grateful that they maintained their trademark calm and poise in the face of pacing house guests and their own stressful times. It is hard to spend weeks being a tourist in a city you have lived in, especially when you are there waiting to go somewhere else. Nevertheless, a good time was had by all, and it was relaxing to spread out in a home, watch all the kids play, swim, read and invent game after game, and hang out with good friends. Finally in spite of shipping delays and AQIS paperwork, we were able to repack the truck, shed some of our excess weight in books, and drive off.

Our last night was spent with the JJJZ at Nightcliff beach with fish and chips and a great rolling storm – churning purple and grey clouds, bursts of lightning and big, fat drops of rain. A fabulous send-off.

(Pic: F & Cs at Nightcliff beach, with added storm front)

DB: Our plan was to head off early on Wednesday morning, but there was one last Darwin task – an extended interview on ABC radio. The four of us drove into town and had an hour-long on air chat with Leon Compton, and was simultaneously listened to by seemingly hundreds around the Northern Territory, along with family, friends and colleagues in Melbourne, many of whom were sending SMS messages to the station during the interview.

Leon insisted on checking out the truck straight after his show ended and, while he was poring over the finer details, a bloke in a Falcon station wagon pulled up. Hanging out of the car window, he proclaimed to us all that he had heard the interview and immediately decided to drive over to have a look for himself.

Lunch with JJZ at the world renown Roma Bar signified the beginning of the end – and away we went. Heading south along the Stuart Highway lead us towards magnificent Katherine, and in no time were we in our element, with the wide, open road, the big blue sky, the music cranked up and the world as our proverbial hard-shelled mollusc that is best served chilled and doused with lemon.

Heading south we passed suburbs and towns once familiar when I worked with teenagers and parents all those years ago in these parts, eventually rolling up to Katherine (Nitmiluk) Gorge. We were there some eleven months ago but were prevented from staying the night by the acrid smoke produced by the annual burn-off. This time the air was crisp and clean. Our intention was to take the children on a cruise along the river through the gorge, but the financial outlay required made us recoil. We would not get much change from $160 for a one-hour splash up the creek – a sum that would put severe pressure on the old abacus at this late stage. We wanted a short cruise, not to buy the boat. Being told that our campsite would be bumped up to an eye-popping $38 per night the following week in time for school holidays and Easter made us wonder if the Katherine Gorge National Park was being run by the mob. I looked for the usual signs: violin cases, dark suits, shirts, ties and glasses, black Mercedes Benz limos with blacked-out windows, food and beverage stalls at an AFL venue, but results were inconclusive. Hey, Pachuco.

Instead we made our way to the Katherine School of the Air. A staple of Australia’s efforts to provide education to children living in remote locations, we were shown examples of the school’s history, from ancient and clunky valve radio transmitter-receivers, to today’s digital video technology, and got a real sense of many children’s daily learning regime by watching a ‘class’ in action. Our guide, a Melbournian originally but a Katherine resident for a paltry 45 years, also presented a small joey that had been orphaned recently but was now a member of her family. That night, at our campsite, we entertained the joey’s relatives who were both inquisitive and out for a cheap feed.

(Pic: Raffy and Joey, Katherine)

On the way from Katherine we stopped in at Mataranka Homestead where a replica of the Elsey Station, home of Jeannie Gunn, author of ‘We of the Never Never’, takes pride of place, and splashed about in the crystal clear warm water of Bitter Springs, before continuing south. The thought of living a colonial existence in these climbs, as Jeannie Gunn did all those years ago, is mind boggling, but the serene setting of the springs reminded us that not all of these parts are harsh and fraught with danger. Scooting past enormous termite mounds, testament to the vitality and liveliness of the often-concealed indigenous fauna of these parts, the setting sun continued to alter the light and colour of the vast desert space.

(Pic: Raffy, Sandy and Maddy, Bitter Springs, NT)

Given we were now officially running out of time we made for the most direct route home, which unfortunately meant revisiting places of yore, but still made for exquisite road travelling. Next stop was the wackiest of outback destinations, Daly Waters. After pitching the tent we headed for the pub that is a shrine to the souvenirs of a thousand passers-by who have had their personal belongings stapled to the rustic innards of this public house in gratitude for a grouse night out.

While breaking camp the next morning, a couple who had camped next door sauntered up and, after gingerly introducing themselves, asked us “if we were those famous people what were on the wireless the other day”, or words to that effect. Sure enough, we were proclaimed celebrities, and were made to feel rather special for the journey we had completed. (None of my family were forthcoming to tell me that I had egg yoke in my beard during the entire conversation, but that’s another story.)

(Pic: The Drive Around The World card takes pride of place amongst the thousands of souvenirs at Daly Waters pub, NT)

Stopping briefly at Newcastle Waters we picked our way through the mostly deserted town that once was the centre of Australia’s famous cattle droving industry and way of life. Now the crumbling store and pub that are adorned with copies of records of stock movements over unfathomable distances are all that remain. I felt conflicted by thoughts of the supposed idyllic existence of the quintessential drover, loping along on his (and sometimes her) trusty steed, moving docile beasts from one section of the allegedly vacant land to another, and the impact on the country’s pristine environment and original inhabitants.

The land around Newcastle Waters was flooded, bringing with it hoards of water birds, fish and insects. Of course, we were unable to answer Maddy and Raffy’s questions about where they all came from, given that permanent water was so far away, or what will happen to them when the water dries up. At lunch in a small clearing near a creek we were joined by a large flock of chattering black cockatoos, whose squawks cracked across the noiseless air like thunder.

(Pic: Flooded Newcastle Waters and resident bird life, NT)

The archetypal Aussie one-fingered road wave is at the same time comforting and fills the driver with angst. For one reason or another, the further out from a substantial populated area the more likely drivers coming the other way will raise one finger from the top of their steering wheel in salute to the oncoming driver. Some drivers get a little more effusive by raising two fingers, politely, and once in a while we came across some adventurers in a rented van or camper who would provide an entire hand in salutation.

But once in a while I found myself raising a finger – again, politely – towards an oncoming vehicle, only for the other driver to disregard, or simply ignore, my attempts at outback road camaraderie. The nerve! The chutzpah! The sheer unmitigated gall! In a split second my confidence and sense of self-worth go plummeting through the floor. What, am I not entitled to a return greeting? Was it something I said? Am I a lesser driver? The desperate need for validation was palpable. Of course, a pattern appears, and we begin predicting who will and won’t return the signal. Most truckies don’t do it, as they are on the road all the time, and they are so high up (physically, but, well, you know) it’s difficult to know if anyone is in fact at the helm or not. Local bureaucrats don’t do the road wave, as they are obviously far too important to communicate with the lowly traveller. You can tell them apart by the new shiny, white, large Australian sedan or little hybrid and the distinct lack of luggage on the back seat. In a crisp, ironed shirt and kempt hair, they have a conspicuous air of being on a vitally important mission to save the world.

But most of the others are happy to acknowledge their fellow road users with the little wave. Like playing our kids’ game of ‘sweet and sour’, determining if you are sweet when you get a wave back, or sour if you get nothing, the more regular the little wave the more we felt a member of the vast community of strangers placing as much importance and gaining as much enjoyment in going from points A to B as the points themselves.

Karlu Karlu (Devil’s Marbles) was once again majestic and fantastic – the dry spheric rock formations more in keeping with the fabled intergalactic visitors of nearby Wycliffe Well than simply and impossibly formed by millions of years of erosion. This time, though, we increased the park’s population to five. Last time we had to muscle in between glorified cruise ships on wheels, but now we were the only ones there except for one other bloke a bit further up. The irrepressible flies finally flew away at sunset, but that only presented another problem. A lone dingo made itself known and was obviously attracted to the kanga bangas (roo sausages) and tofu on our barbeque. OK, it was smitten by the tofu, admittedly, but this is no time for culinary contortions. Nonetheless, it was more patient than a hard-core real estate agent, knowing full well that no matter what happened it was going to get a feed. Its all too close proximity made us jumpy, and we hastily retreated to our tent. No sooner than we began moving away from the food that it made a move for the scraps. Keeping a torch in one hand and a rock in the other, we backed away toward the tent, and lay still, watching the vivid Southern Cross and its millions of cousins through the windows and listening to the shrill howling of the hungry dingo. I didn’t sleep well that night.

(Pic: A dingo’s got us by the Devil’s Marbles, Karlu Karlu, NT)

Ernie (the Dingo) popped in again at breakfast time, but gave up pretty soon after realising that what we had to offer wasn’t going to float its boat. After a ramble amongst the rocks we again hit the road towards the capital of central Australia, Alice Springs. In three days we had gone from lush, wet and green to sparse, dry and red.

NRJG once again welcomed us with open arms and fridge to their Alice home, and opined that there was probably an easier return route to their place than circumnavigating the globe. We washed a few days’ worth of dust and road grime away and enjoyed a family’s company in preparation for the final leg of the journey. The evening chill reminding us that we were now indeed far from the sticky, sultry climes of south-east Asia and the Top End; we were now tantalisingly close to home.

(Pic: Good old outback hospitality, Wycliffe Well, NT)

SK: Being with Nicki and Rob in Alice Springs was calming and reassuring. We were touching base with old friends who were also facing an upheaval in their own planned move to Melbourne. Together we could discuss our feelings of displacement and dislocation after being somewhere else, and returning to a city that was ‘same, same, but different’.

DB: The landscape had been changing hourly, from tropical to desert in degrees so considerable and yet indecipherable it was at once acutely identifiable and obscure. The soil was now vividly red, the sky impossibly blue, the traffic few and far between. We camped at Marla with a few other lost souls and continued south.

(Pic: The eyes have it: the wide open road, NT)

SK: As the landscape dried out so did our skin. It felt like we were desiccating – out came the lip balm and the moisturiser. Sounds banal, but it was a visceral indicator of our travelling into drier climes. South of Daly Waters there were fewer clouds in the sky; just immense expanses of that blue that only seems to be present in Australia, juxtaposed against the greens, browns and reds of our home landscape. It was so hard not to think parochially, not in sunburnt country clichés. Nevertheless, there it was, laid out in all its iconic glory. Mesmerising.

DB: Maddy had begun complaining of a stomach ache, but the standard symptoms of something sinister had not manifested. A bug? Nerves about returning home? We decided to keep an eye on it and continue on.

By the next morning in Marla Maddy was in a spot of bother. Sandy got on the phone to Dr R in Alice Springs who suggested we speak to the local nurses and get them to brief him. The local nurse gave a shrug and said that we’d need to get to a doctor. That meant going back to Alice (450 kms) or getting to Coober Pedy, which was much closer (at 230 kms).

(Pic: Approaching the South Australian border, NT)

At Coober Pedy we headed straight for the hospital, joining the queue of a couple of rough looking opal miners smelling of rough liquor and looking like they could do with a decent feed. Finally, we got to see the doctor.

By this time Sandy and I were almost convinced that Maddy had appendicitis. The pain had moved to the left and slightly south – not good news, and going to the loo didn’t make a difference. This would mean an emergency flight to Adelaide for an operation. We already started talking about who would go, and who would drive south to meet up. But by the time we got to see the doc Maddy noted that there was pain in the water-passing stakes. Not good news for her, but good for us. UTI. Immediately treatable with a few pills. We checked into an underground motel with kitchen and by breakfast time the divine Miss M was as right as the rain Coober Pedy almost never saw.

(Pic: Lunch by a salt pan, SA)

SK: There we were, in a town in the middle of the desert, armed only with the magic plastic of a Medicare card. And that was all we needed for speedy and accurate diagnosis and treatment. A quick trip to the chemist where there were hundreds of medications, all clearly labelled and with a qualified pharmacist to dispense. We take it for granted. And we were so relieved to be able to do so.

DB: Perhaps symbolically, we were now slowing down with the speed limit in South Australia a paltry 110 km/h, as opposed to the much-despised recently instigated 130 km/h in the Northern Territory. Until a couple of years ago there was no speed limit outside of towns and cities, meaning, unsurprisingly, carnage was abundant.

SK: Raffy was continuing his voracious reading, averaging one book a day. We had stocked up with loans from his friend Jonah, but at this stage we were going to run out pretty soon. Luckily he was equally engrossed in the landscape, and spent hours watching the scenery change. Maddy and Raffy both noted that hour after hour it would transform; soil, trees, shrubs, even the colour of the asphalt, and so by the end of the day we would be setting up camp in a terrain dramatically different from the night before. Maddy had immersed herself in one of Jack’s books, so was simultaneously experiencing the climate in Cornwall and in the Flinders Ranges.

As we drove, we dreamed of future trips… revisiting the Kimberley, this time in the dry; a slow meander around Tasmania… We knew that anything was now possible.

DB: We set out on a still, bright, hot morning for what would be our longest single drive on the trip – all 594 kilometres of it. Past defiant desert oaks and vast tracks of salt bush and spinifex, along essentially deserted black-top, sometimes dotted with hand-painted signs on old car bonnets, the sun-bleached bones of road-kills past and odd plastic bottle trees – shrubs decorated with plastic bottles threaded onto outer branches, in the middle of nowhere, with nobody within coo-ee to be seen. Who put them there, and why? The environment continued to change ever so slightly every so often, like a ‘Necks’ album; the trees becoming slightly larger and abundant, craggy hills now providing respite from the endless flatness, the earth becoming sightly more fertile. Another ‘last’ – the final stretch of road without mobile phone contact. Approaching the Great Australian Bight our phones came to life with chirps of text and voice messages from friends and family wondering where we were, and when we’d be back.

Then, almost without warning, we found the sea again. For us, the sea has a reassuring and nourishing quality that alleviates an odd sense of claustrophobia experienced in the impossible vastness of central Australia. For one reason or another, the sea represents endless openness, a space unencumbered and plentiful. This, no doubt, comes from growing up on the coast, and probably has something to do with parents and grandparents arriving by boat and never experiencing an arid way of life. Still, the salty blue depths of sea enriched us.

Past sleepy towns whose pasts are steeped in fishing but are now often reminded of days of yore by the rusting factories and rotting piers, where retirees spent their last, sun- and salt-filled days on deck chairs perched strategically aside their aging caravans, their diaries filled daily with the late afternoon aperitif at a central location in the caravan park, shooting the breeze, cleaning and perhaps cooking the day’s catch and regaling the assembled residents and passers by with tales of the good ol’ days. The evening yarn is as nutritious as the evening feed itself.

We parked next to the single, diminutive space of reasonably green grass in the Port Germein caravan park – the rest of the grass blown inland by the sturdy sea breeze and assisted by the persistent drought that releases flora to the elements – and set up camp. The town boasts a jetty that goes on forever and a sunset that seems to never quit. The listless, solitary after-dark thwack of thong on foot from the amenities block to their owner’s own little rented patch of home speaks of loneliness and isolation. I wondered if the good folk of St Germein caravan park, and hundreds of others like it, were satisfied with their lot, if they wanted for anything substantial, and how envious I was of a life simplified and unembellished. Still, no matter our judgement about what others may or may not lack, the caravan residents welcomed the dusk by sweeping the concrete slab outside their van and tended to their pot-plants proudly and diligently. A caravan opposite saluted the dipping sun with a stereo-blast of a ukulele version of Satchmo’s ‘It’s A Wonderful World’. Yep, too right. Cheers.

(Pic: Sunset, Port Germein, SA)

SK: I felt conflicted – wanting to arrive, to have the anticipation and anxiety of arrival over and done with, and of course at the same time trying to draw out each day, make this remarkable journey last. Danny and I were fraying as well. The kids, excitedly counting the days until their reunification with friends and family, were doing fine, but we adults were in disparate spaces, sometimes at odds with each other, trying not to be affected by the final ‘lasts’. But they were there, unrelenting: each kilometre was one less, each night was one closer to the end. We alternated between supportive and negative.

DB: We passed an infinity of South Australia’s unique steel and concrete power poles. The further we went from Port Augusta, the less inclined road travellers were to use the one-finger off the steering wheel salute. The big country was behind us now. We rolled through the somewhat familiar country of South Australia’s fabled Clare Valley, full of small vineyards, cloistered townships with idyllic pubs, Victorian cottages and mechanic’s institutes.

Down by the thirsty Coorong is Meningie, a sleepy town with a caravan park on the beach where we pitched the tent and watched the sun set over the fast-depleting lake that once upon a time was fed healthily by the Murray River, but now is all but cut off from the final pathetic dribbles of the once mighty tributary. Still, we thought of iconic Australian cinema as we observed numerous Mr Percivals basking in the sun atop ancient pier pylons, or joining forces to heard small fish towards the shore before chowing down. The bill of a pelican can hold more than it’s belly can. I thought of one of my mum’s paintings of me feeding such birds not far from here when I lived a life before driving, family and travel, and wondered what it is about the pelican than mesmerises me so. Top bird. I don’t think Steve Abbott has mentioned the pelican yet in his podcast that is currently entertaining us in the truck. Note to self – ring Steve. He’d appreciate it. Not long after sunrise Raffy joined me down on the sand to salute the day and make the most of our few bucolic moments left on this trip. All that serenity, eh?

(Pic: Raffy and Danny welcome the morning sun, Meningie, SA)

Our very last night on the road – day 360 – was spent in the majestic Grampians (Gariwerd) National Park. Stopping in at a favourite locale, Mount Zero, we found the olive grove store open but deserted. Maddy, our resident gourmand, in particular, was hankering for a jar or five of mixed olives, and anything else that took her fancy, so, after nobody came to assist, we left enough cash for a couple of jars with a note on the back of one of our cards. Most of the oval goodies were consumed at the campsite that afternoon.

The kangaroos thumped by the tent throughout the night, and after a royal breakfast in the coolest weather we had experienced in months (since Turkey, really) and a skilful final pack, we skimmed along tree-lined dirt roads and past eye-popping rock formations until finally, most reluctantly, and somewhat tearfully, we found our way to the Calder Highway – scene of the first stone chip our windscreen suffered on the trip. No sooner were we reflecting on moving from bush to city that the Melbourne skyline loomed in the cool, wet, grey horizon. No-one does grey skies like Melbourne.

(Pic: Dinner guest, Mt Zero, Grampians National Park, VIC)

From the Calder to the Tulla and into bumper-to-bumper Carlton. We spent longer getting to Queens Parade from Flemington Road through Royal Park than from Mount Zero to Melbourne. Welcome home. First gear all the way. Are we really volunteering for this?

From Carlton into Fitzroy and Collingwood. Being late afternoon on a Friday Sandy luckily agreed to tackle Carringbush’s Johnson Street out east instead of the Eastern (Freeway) Carpark, as, in the words of the great Baldrick, I had a cunning plan.

(Pic: Our last bit of dirt before Melbourne, Grampians National Park, VIC)

Unbeknownst to the rest of the family, I had been texting furiously for the last couple of days, organising a little surprise. We were on our way to Sandy’s parents’ place in the east, so Johnson Street made sense. But at the last minute, I grandly proclaimed that I just wasn’t ready to go home yet, and pulled the steering wheel left towards Studley Park Boat House.

Sandy pondered “Where are we going, exactly?” while Maddy announced that she had a “funny feeling in her tummy” about all this. I really didn’t want to make anybody anxious, but I did think that we deserved a bit of kudos. After all, it’s not every day we get home from driving around the world.

(Pic: DSMR roll into Studley Park boat house, with Maddy’s friends waving us on, and with Sandy, Maddy and Raffy still wondering if Dad’s really freaked out this time.)

Rolling down the road towards the boathouse I spotted a few of Maddy’s school friends. “Oh my god!” Maddy screeched. A little further on, a horde of family and friends emerged from the only recently past deluge into the bright sunshine and, like a ragtime band at a New Orleans funeral, played us home. I felt overwhelmed. We’d done it. We were home. We were cheered and hugged, and lapped it up. We were home.

Bugger.

(Pic: Danny’s rather reserved homecoming response)

SK: Driving past the zoo, we were trying to recapture the moment almost at this same point seven years ago when Danny had blithely said “Let’s drive around the world”, to which I replied “What a great idea.” But we couldn’t quite come up with anything to match it. Raffy nominated Africa and Iceland; great suggestions but perhaps a rather difficult continent and country combo to negotiate. I think we were also weighed down by the grey mood of Friday afternoon traffic.

We had stopped for coffee in Ballarat, and so by the time we had been sitting in Melbourne traffic in the rain for an hour, I well and truly needed a toilet break. Danny’s shifty pullover into the Studley Park Boat House drive didn’t really register as odd – all I could think of was that there was a bathroom there. And there was, and in addition there were dozens of people to welcome us. It was wonderful but truly overwhelming. It also explained why Danny had spent the last two days “making notes” on his phone as we were driving.

DB: And so, here’s how it stacks up:

Total distance: 36,984km

Total distance travelled including short local trips: 38,095km

Total driving hours: 353.5

Countries: 25

International border crossings: 32

Litres of diesel: Approximately 2,540

Parking tickets: 2

Speeding tickets: 0

Prangs/bingles/fender benders: 0

Globes: 1

Filters: 11

Belts: 1

Blowouts: 1

Breakdowns: 0

Tracks listened to in the truck*: 12,062

Photos: 7,202

Lost children: 1 (briefly)

Beds slept in**: 160

Longest drive: 594km (Coober Pedy – Port Germein, SA, Australia)

Shortest drive: 34km (Nong Khai, Thailand – Vientiane, Laos)

* Includes songs, talking book chapters and podcasts

** Not counting the tent

(Pic: That’s it. It’s all over. Back where we began, Melbourne, Victoria, Australia)

The trip itself was now at an end, but our minds were still travelling. We wonder what the next few weeks will be like…

To be continued.

Day 321 – 331

1 – 8 March, 2009

568km

Total: 33,073km

Soundtrack:

‘Almost With You’ – The Church

‘The Final Countdown’ – Europe

‘Where Are You Now?’ – The Audreys

‘Not Far To Go’ – Silver Ray

‘Chaos In The Heat’ – Bill Laswell

‘Bridge To The South’ – Julian Joseph

‘Southbound Pachyderm’ – Primus

SK: Our last two nights in Malaysia were spent out of towns and on the beaches of the South China Sea. The upside was little traffic, no obnoxious hoons hanging out of car windows impolitely acknowledging the presence of foreign women, and no negotiating surprise one-way streets and blocked roads. The downside was … well, there wasn’t one.

Cherating was a typical sleepy holiday town, scattered with resorts, and with a main road bordered by shops with gaily-coloured Hawaiian-type shirts and batik dresses flying like kites in the breeze. Clichéd, yes, but at least this was off-season, and the town wasn’t crowded.

We settled at a place located right on the beach, but oddly with a cyclone fence separating the lawn from the sand. Some large tides (or visitors) had at some stage decided that this barrier was anomalous for a beach resort, and pushed a section over, enabling access to the water. Carefully clambering over the fence, we wandered down the beach in search of lunch. One of the seaside restaurants beckoned with promises of squid and fish, and we found ourselves eating in the company of a gang of Harley riders. Loud, cheerful and friendly, but dressed head to toe in black leather, we felt for them in the midday heat of monsoonal Malaysia. But image is not everything, and it was a relief to finally see bikers dressed in long pants that provided protection from asphalt rather than the more traditional shorts and thongs that the locals favoured.

Camped close by were various other international tourists who were also travelling by road. Being so close to Australia, we were too jealous to engage these visitors with EU plates on their modified campers and trucks in travel conversations. Only six sleeps to Australia. Maddy and Raffy were excited, and asked repeatedly for confirmation of the whens and wheres for the next week, whereas we were in denial, trying not to think that the overseas leg of our trip was fast drawing to a close. 

We wanted our last night in Malaysia to be special. Our last stop was Mersing and we scoured our guidebook for an appropriate last resort. We pulled up at one promising place, but after Raffy and I trawled the property looking for signs of life and finding none, we were back in the car for a second go.

With delight we pulled up at the Teluk Iskandar Inn.  We were the only guests there, and our hosts Ibrahim and Kamariah made us most welcome. Their place, which comprised a fabulous tropical house and some lovely guest rooms, sat atop a hill that sloped gently to the sea. We went exploring to the water’s edge, and came across some trees with gaudy flowers. On closer examination, these flowers were plastic bags caught up in the branches. Ibrahim explained that during the monsoon, the debris from the river that travels through nearby Mersing is flushed down the coast and is washed up all along the sand. In another few weeks, the winds will change, the beach will be cleaned by hand and will stay pristine until the next monsoon. Maddy and Raffy, well aware and indignant of the problems of beach rubbish in Thailand, were cross that yet again there was this tangible consequence of littering and the scourge of plastic bags.

(Pic: Plastic rubbish trees, Mersing, Malaysia)

DB: Perhaps unsurprisingly, a wave of regret and nostalgia came over me. This was it – the final drive overseas was upon us, and I desperately wished we would wake up and discover that we had to change course and head towards somewhere that was not home, and was overcome with melancholy. Typically, Maddy tried to save the day by asking me what my top three things about going home were. I got two – people, like family and friends, and our home – and then ran out of ideas. Not a good sign.

Still, Mersing was a nice relax after yet another day in the saddle contending with Malaysian death wish drivers. One particular young male (duh!) scallywag on a tiny, tricked up scooter insisted on not only riding way over the speed limit, but overtaking on the inside where there was no road to ride. Wearing nothing more that a T-shirt, shorts and thongs, he seemed to revel in sneaking up on cars and trucks via their blind-spot and nosing in front of them, all the while dodging various obstacles. Sliding up on our inside, he gave us a big grin – and then hit the grass verge. His eyes nearly popped out of his head as he attempted to keep the scooter upright. The road was already slippery thanks to a recent tropical deluge – the grass offering even less traction than usual. I hit the brakes and gave him some tarmac, and away he screamed, like a maniacal mosquito, harassing more drivers up the road. By the time we got to Mersing we, thankfully, were not confronted with the debris and carnage of boy and bike bits scattered across the landscape, but I don’t really have much confidence in him making it to middle age.

Eventually we found ourselves on a smooth and relatively quiet road that skirted the South China Sea that took us through the now dwindling rainforest and past a few bored monkeys. Fuel-hungry Malaysia maintains a program of bulldozing rainforest and replanting palms for oil. Over the next couple of days the landscape would become a sea of palm fronds surrounding large, unsightly refineries. This is the last time we would slide through populated areas whose main roads weren’t tributes to multinational fast food and hotel chains, and more’s the pity. After waiting at a few intersections in Mersing where the red lights lasted ten minutes or so, for no apparent reason, we found the Teluk Iskandar Inn and took a deep, meditative breath.

Getting closer to Johor Bahru the traffic (and perhaps the drivers) became thicker and more precarious. Negotiating the traffic now was less a slalom and more akin to steering a kayak through treacherous, rushing rapids. Right-turn lanes used uniformly as a sneaky way to bypass other cars waiting in line at red lights, with cars indignantly cutting off others when the lights change. I had perhaps foolishly thought that driving in a familiar country, and having so much more experience of negotiating more congested and perilous roads, would make things easier, and a couple of times I was a bit casual in my approach. I still felt exhausted after such drives.

Complicating matters was that universal penchant for changing road numbers, apparently at a whim. There must be an international confederation of bitter and twisted local government employees who get their jollies by switching numbers, like we used to do as kids with petrol station prices. One minute we were happily motoring down the number 3 highway, and all of a sudden it became the 2, which our map said went to Kuala Lumpur. We didn’t want to go to Kuala Lumpur. We had no business being there, and those gleaming twin tributes to a petrochemical’s phallus envy would just have to also deal with our absence. A couple of times we doubled-back, choosing a different fork in the road that at least initially sent us in the right direction according to our compass, but usually making things worse. Accidentally tootling into an army base got us some raised eyebrows, but eventually we trusted our instincts and the highway numbers became relatively irrelevant. 

(Pic: The old and the new, Malaysia)

The roads became wider and sometime featured extra lanes, but they don’t necessarily make it any safer. Rounding a bend, a slow, belching truck hogging the outside lane almost begs you to brake hard, like a pub drunk pointing to his chin, to see if you can stop in time before ploughing into its ample rear end, or swerve into the inside lane and hope you don’t get gobbled up by something larger, more unwieldy and carefree that’s lurking in your blind spot.

SK: Our last day in Malaysia day started serenely with a delicious breakfast under the trees with the sea laid out before us in all its plastic refuse decorated glory. A straightforward drive into Johor Bahru (known locally as JB), the Malaysian border town, was made fraught by a deluge that had visibility right down, and wipers right up. This about matched our moods, still counting the ‘lasts’. Last day’s drive overseas; last non-English speaking country; last border crossing before Australia and so on.

DB: Singapore struts about with chest out in full knowledge that they do things differently. Nothing more so than the process required to legally drive on Singapore roads. To do so, you need a sticker. It’s a nice sticker – looks rather attractive. But to get the sticker you need to go into Singapore and make the necessary arrangements. Only trouble is (and you can see this coming, eh?) you can’t drive into Singapore to get the sticker, because you need the sticker to drive into Singapore. We guessed that this process was designed explicitly to deter those pesky Malaysians from cruising in and clogging up Singapore’s pristine and most orderly roads, but many of them were coming across the border anyway, so who knows. At any rate, it is therefore necessary to abandon a car in Malaysia, go into Singapore, somehow, do what needs to be done, go back into Malaysia, hope that a) your car is still there, b) it is not up on blocks and c) all your stuff is where you left it, and drive back into Singapore. What this makes for is an expensive, interminably boring, frustrating and lengthy jaunt of a couple of kilometres and back – for a sticker. Did I mention it’s a nice sticker?

SK: Our plan in JB was straightforward (!): we would find secure parking for the truck, Raffy and I would bus or taxi through the Malaysian border into Singapore (immigration and customs stamp out/stamp in), make our way to the Automobile Association of Singapore located in the city centre and obtain the International Circulation Permit which enables us to drive our foreign registered vehicle in Singapore. (But which of course is not available at the border, which necessitates this elaborate plan.) We would then return through the border (stamp in/ stamp out) into Malaysia, meet up with Danny and Maddy – the second time we were in different countries – then all of us and Truckie would cross together (stamp stamp stamp and the exit stamp for the Carnet) from Malaysia into Singapore, and at this side of the border have our Carnet stamped in and purchase an Autopass. (Which of course we need to enable us to drive on the toll roads.) Finally we would drive to Toa Payoh, and collapse in the welcoming arms of our friends Debbie, Russel, Ezra and Ruby. Simple.

And our day did go to plan, but it was a long day, and by the end I had had enough of the bureaucracy that came with Singapore. Having already spent four hours travelling between two countries in search of permits, waiting the 40 minutes for the Autopass and being asked by four different people for paperwork which I had already presented, and having officious uniformed drones lecture me on the process which I knew verbatim already from last time obliterated the remnants of my patience. 

(Pic: The truck gets washed – for the second time in two days – in Singapore)

DB: Maddy and I spent the afternoon trawling generic shopping malls and a few of the roads around in between downpours. All shopping malls are brain-numbingly tedious, but there is something even more disturbing when explicitly Western franchises attempt to temp rather unwestern customers. The Kenny Rogers Grill seemed at once alien and empty. We both recognised that this would be a final opportunity to experience Malaysian fare, but we were also anxious about Sandy and Raffy’s travails in and out of Singapore, and getting the truck through the morass of customs.

And, once again, no matter how over-officious and seemingly superfluous the process, and no matter how many references at international borders about terrorism, drugs or even people-smuggling, the entire contents of our truck remained entirely irrelevant and ignored. At airports I have to take off my boots and my belt, remove my nail-clippers from my carry-on luggage and have my lip-balm examined by a suspicious sentinel, but a truck full of anything and everything seems to be acceptable. Go figure.

Sandy’s patience was approaching meltdown, and so at one stage the inner revolutionary took hold and she went and stood with no apparent purpose under a sign that proclaimed “No Loitering.” That’ll learn ‘em, comrade!

SK: By the way, we needed to purchase another Autopass as our previous one had been snaffled by immigration on the way out of Singapore eleven months ago, despite the fact that it is valid for five years and we were returning. But enough of the gripes. We were here. Through the border. Into Singapore. Our last country. Five sleeps to Australia. AAAUUUGGGGGGGGGHHH!

Our time in Singapore passed quickly. We washed the car twice in anticipation of strict Australian quarantine controls, repacked the car, went through more paperwork hoops for export, (back to the Automobile Association for stamps and twice to the shipping company) spent time with our hosts and friends, DRER, swam, shopped, ate, and then the car was sealed in a container, and we were at the airport. Subtly, each plane is different, so they say. Next stop, Darwin.  

DB: As previously noted, high-rise life in Singapore is a novelty in and of itself. Thousands of people living in relatively close quarters and sharing public space, but not really interacting, has its own attractions and hindrances. Couple this with Singapore’s zealous approach to law and order and things can get interesting.

(Pic: Maddy & Ruby go for a splash, Singapore)

Parking in the grounds of DRER’s condo required conferences, high-level diplomatic negotiations, summits and paperwork that would rival a United Nations standing committee. Deb had worked tirelessly, again, to ensure we had permission to sully the condo’s grace and grandeur with a grotty four-wheel-drive, and it was touch and go for a while whether we would be allowed. We required new paperwork every morning before 8am and it was made known by the security guards that they were indeed doing us a huge favour, whatever that was. They were on to us, and we better not step out of line, bucko, or there’ll be hell to pay.

That was until Mr Manager noticed the stickers on the truck and its exotic registration plate. All of a sudden the red carpet was officially out. We were celebrities! Mr Manager, the bloke in charge of the entire condo country club, made a point of saying hi to us, made a point of telling us he spent a whole evening reading our blog, and circumvented the enormous paper trail that would ordinarily have provided the opportunity for an over-excited security guard to have the truck towed to naughty vehicle hell had the documentation not been up to scratch. We were happy for our new-found star status to rub off on our hosts who, when wanting to reserve one of the outdoor barbeques (imagine the red tape!) but were initially told that due to garden works they were unavailable, Mr Manager stepped in with a wink and a grin and magically made it all possible.

(Pic: Danny slots the truck into a shipping container for the last time, Singapore)

Delivering our truck for its sea voyage to Darwin was immeasurably more straightforward than the reverse procedure last time we were here eleven months ago. Then, we not only had to travel to a more remote port, and spent hours on a wild goose-chase for the right location within the port, but discovered that our car stereo had been unceremoniously snatched. This time the port was closer to town, far more orderly and the truck was to be sealed in a shipping container instead of the rather dodgy ‘lift on/lift off’ method.

(Pic: Slowly but surely, Singapore)

The men assisting us with this version were somewhat interested in who we were and what we were doing, but it was the rather rotund worker who had me worried. It was his job to tie the truck down in the container, which is fine, except once the truck is actually in the container there is only a few centimetres of space between the truck doors and the steel walls of the container. Even I – not universally known for any extraneous girth at the best of times – have trouble getting in and out, but this bloke insisted on guiding me into the container and effectively being cornered once the truck was in. His workmates joked that he would need to remain in the container for the duration, and that I’ll see him again right there when we open the container in Darwin. But no, not to be outdone, he tied the front of the truck down in the dark, and then slowly slithered up the side of the truck to the open air and sunshine. An automobile has never had a more penetrating polish.

(Pic: Dock worker recovering from the escape from the container, Singapore)

And there it was: the last shipping container, the final Carnet stamp out of a country, the ultimate flight on this trip (although, truth be known, Jetstar really ain’t no ‘ultimate’). We were ticking off milestones like an over-enthusiastic shopper with a cross-referenced shopping list spreadsheet.

Singapore provided us with an evening sound and light show storm send-off that rattled the light globes and flooded the roads. The air was alive and dancing before our eyes, cleansed by raindrops the size of footballs. As we didn’t need to drive in it we relished the exuberance of nature. Bring it on.

Trawling airports must be one of the most brain-numbing activities in the modern world. After taking advantage of some favourable duty-free shopping, we were left with dodging vehicles that ordinarily would be used by people less mobile to get around, but here used as tow trucks for the hundreds of luggage trolleys discarded at gate lounges, and smiling apologetically to those unfortunate students sentenced to selling credit card deals from cardboard displays.

Jetstar gave us all the ‘G’day!’ and ‘Ow’s it goin’? vernacular we could ask for, and then some, but gave us nothing else. We missed out on the freebie bottles of water because, it turns out, the trolley dollies don’t actually hand them to you, you need to get off your limp patoutie and get it yourself – until they run out. I read an article recently about an airline considering charging for the use of the bathroom. Go for it, I say – and maybe UNICEF will get more than they bargained for when rummaging around for change. We declined the headphones – five bucks and you have to hand them back at the end of the flight – and settled in for our triumphant yet apprehensive return to Australia.

Day 313 – 320

20 – 28 February 2009

1,525km

Total: 32,505km

Soundtrack:

‘Hallelujah’ – Leonard Cohen, John Cale, Jeff Buckley, et al

‘Devil Gate Drive’ – Suzi Quatro

‘Maybe the Last Time’ – James Brown

‘Proton Saga Kelabu’ – Jaidi Arifin

‘Too Hot to Move, Too Hot to Think’ – The Triffids

‘Big Chief Chinese Restaurant’ – Guided By Voices

‘Real Men’ – Joe Jackson

‘Ghost Town’ – The Specials

‘Call To Prayer’ – Yusuf Islam

‘Rain’ – The Chills; Not Drowning, Waving

‘Better Be Home Soon’ – Crowded House

We teetered between that pleasant sensation that comes with familiarity and concurrently an annoyance at (literally) covering old ground. While the landscape was still wondrous and inviting, much of the joy of travel is the regular encounter with the strange, the new, the unexpected, and so at times we felt a sense of opportunity lost. But then again, the southern Thai peninsula doesn’t provide road travellers with many options; squeezed between the azure sea on the east and the ominous and fraught Burmese border to the west is Highway 4, with various small roads that head to towns and villages peeling off it. To head north or south there’s really only one option.

We continued somewhat sullenly noting the various ‘lasts’ of the trip. We were now heading south for the last time. There would be plenty more ‘lasts’ to come in the next couple of weeks.

(Pic: Prachuap Khiri Khan, Thailand)

A relatively short and uneventful but pretty drive from Cha-Am took us past the gaudy jetsetter glam of Hua Hin to Prachuap Khiri Khan. We had intended to stay at the same place we were at almost a year ago as it had a pool, and we recalled that the beach, while devastatingly picturesque, wasn’t all that pleasant to visit due mainly to the detritus from the numerous fishing boats that settled on the sea floor, floated to the surface or washed up onto the sand. Unfortunately for us there was no room at that particular inn, so we settled for the larger but pool-less hotel up the street. Fortunately, as one hotel door closed, another opened, as it prompted us to explore the area a bit more than last time, and we discovered a couple of small fishing villages and deserted white, sandy beaches. A few food vendors sat dozily in the shade of the fir and palm trees, with one seller making a spicy papaya salad for us – an essential refreshing Thai snack – and Raffy put his ingenuity to use by collecting driftwood and rope washed up on the beach and turning the debris into a swing.

(Pic: Raffy’s swing, Prachuap Khiri Khan, Thailand)

For days we had been following the harrowing news of the Victorian (Australia) bushfires and feeling quite frustrated at not being there to support people as others living locally were, in spades, and perhaps grieve. This was surely partly a dose of homesickness, but also feeling uncomfortable that people had lost homes, livelihoods, family and friends – and their lives – while some of our greatest personal concerns were whether to have the steamed or deep-fried fish with sweet chilli sauce for dinner. There have been numerous times during our voyage when we have been struck by the perspective stick and we considered the privileged lives we live compared to many others, especially in relation to our access to some basic human rights like food, shelter, relatively unencumbered access to information, education, healthcare and democratically elected governments, but the bushfires struck a different chord for us.

(Pic: Fresh squid drying in the sun, Prachuap Khiri Khan, Thailand)

The experience became even stranger for us when we sat outdoors in the shade of the hotel eating breakfast in view of the gentle blue sea, the limestone cliffs and islands in the distance and the lolling fishing boats, catching the cool breeze off the water, and watching live via the internet the memorial service for those who perished in the fires. We know from emails and calls from friends and family that people at home were enormously affected by the impact of the fires, whether they directly experienced them or not, yet at this time it was difficult for us to connect with it. Sandy and I reminisced about the old Cumberland resort that, when we were little seemed impossibly large and posh (croquet on the lawns, fruit cups at the bar, my first ‘girlfriend’ – Suzie Quatro on the jukebox, and those little bells that summoned guests for meals), but as adults seemed much smaller and faded, was reduced to ash in Marysville, along with the rest of the town. We gradually received word of friends and acquaintances who survived the inferno, and, some weeks after, those who didn’t.

(Pic: Maddy, Raffy and Sandy watch the Victorian bushfire memorial service, Prachuap Khiri Khan, Thailand)

Still, there was cause to cringe at how Aussie the service was. Whoever chose the Leonard Cohen classic “Hallelujah”, a song that is much less about religiosity, redemption or compassion, and a hell of a lot more about unrequited love of the sordid variety, should, as Aussies say, take a good hard look at themselves.

Two days later we decamped at the rustic Sunny Beach Resort in Hat Arunothai, where the four of us increased the tally of guests to, well, four. Our hut on the Hat (beach) was right on the beach, making it a Hat hut, if you like. We ate in a bamboo shelter built over the sand, the quiet breaking of the small waves the only sound around us.

(Pic: Hay, move over! On the way to Hat Arunothai, Thailand)

Raffy spied the resort swimming pool which we discovered was crumbling, cracking and currently being vacuumed, it seemed in hurried response to our arrival. We splashed about for a bit with a couple of local kids who thought it hysterically funny when one of them stuffed a T-shirt down the front of his undies and stood on the end of the rather droopy diving board. The boys kept looking in our direction, and we wondered if they were impersonating anyone in particular. At any rate I took it as a compliment.

The beach itself was a little grubby, as it seems anything facing the South China Sea is now littered in plastic debris. This is the great scourge of the region – it is impossible to ignore the impact of western commercial and consumer demands, which equates to tonnes of plastic bobbing around on or under the surface of the water or carpeting the sand. I recently read about a study that sought to measure the impact of plastic on the world’s coastal environments, where scientists took sand samples from beaches all over the globe. Disturbingly, the scientists could not find a beach in the world where the sand wasn’t contaminated with plastic particles. Our walk along the beach in the late afternoon became a Clean Up Thailand Day, with the children schlepping large, discarded rice bags full of refuse back to the resort. Still, it was yet another tranquil corner of the world that thankfully was not overrun by the loud and the flabby, and we still felt a great distance from the fast-approaching reality of home. The setting sun set off numerous insects that screeched rather than trilled, reminding us that we were now in the tropics once again. One type of creature that we have dubbed the ‘drill’ insect made this idyllic locale sound like a metal workshop, but at the same time rather comforting.

(Pic: Maddy cleaning up Thailand, Hat Arunothai)

It had all the makings of the perfect beach getaway until, that evening, I began scratching like an overzealous DJ on bogan dust. I had been monstered by sandflies whose bites wouldn’t quit for days. The assorted creams and potions we carted around the world made no difference, and so I resorted to the last antihistamine tablet that remained from my wasp-bite episode in Turkey. Of course as midge sufferers know, the bites are most itchy in the middle of the night, so soon I was not only spotty and scratchy I was also tired and grumpy. Irritated and irritable. The family needed me to get hold of more medication as much as I did.

At Hat Sichon we went back to a beach resort we patronised all those moons ago on our way north and east. The Issara Beach Resort was also deserted, save for the numerous chefs, waiters, cleaners and gardeners and the one other traveller who came and went quickly by scooter. And, once again, as had been the case throughout Asia, Raffy was a star attraction. He was quickly befriended by the son of the owner, Oi, who provided a few treats and some impromptu Thai lessons.

(Pic: Sunset, Hat Arunothai, Thailand)

In the morning we headed into Sichon town in search of a pharmacy for antihistamine medication for the midge bites, but between explaining our ailments in Thai and trying to decipher pharmaceutical terminology we were seriously struggling to make any headway. It was great that local shopkeepers wanted to help out, but showing us tablets that had names like huberfluxatybersol mesonaphiwackerbine and bebopalulapam shesmybabytol (or some such) meant as much to us as a café latte does to a dolphin.

(Pic: If you pay peanuts…: trained monkeys used to pick coconuts in southern Thailand and Malaysia are transported around in the backs of utes)

Complicating matters was the custom of selling individual foil sheets of pills that may have some information printed on the back but usually didn’t immediately come from a carton that could possibly provide more info. Finally we settled on some and hoped for the best.

I’m not one to regularly or contentedly ingest medication without at least knowing something about it, so, while sitting on a beautiful beach in Thailand I consulted with my favourite general practitioner and pharmacist dynamic duo in Melbourne via SMS who gave me the green light and dosage. The wonders of technology. I slept well that night.

(Pic: Ready, set, go – Hat Sichon, Thailand)

We were once again revelling in travelling off the beaten path and away from standard tourist haunts. Indeed, we went for about a week without seeing another westerner. Aside from compelling us to engage with locals and experiencing local cultures that were mostly untainted by western demands, it meant that we stood out like canine’s proverbials. It was almost like a scene from a shoot ‘em up Western; I was waiting for the honkytonk piano to suddenly stop mid phrase and the hushed, gravelly “You ain’t from around here, are ya boy”. Then again, we didn’t get steely glances or people taking cover behind water troughs – people smiled, laughed, called out “Allo!” and waved. Still, Raffy continued to get annoyed at the overzealous attention and learned to push away errant fingers that wanted to pinch his cheeks or ruffle his hair. They meant no harm but the cultural difference was palpable.

In the evening Oi, his dad and a number of locals who were at the resort for dinner asked more questions about our trip. I fished our world map out from the truck and spread it over an outdoor table, tracing our route with my finger. Soon, though, it became apparent that much of the world was mysterious to our audience. Names like America and Europe got a flicker of recognition, and they could certainly point out their own country and its borders, but then an old, white-haired man with a solitary tooth asked about Switzerland. Maddy pointed it out, to which he and others traced a line around where Maddy’s finger was, but in a loop as big as Europe itself. “No, no,” Maddy explained, “Here!” and she carefully indicated the small spot that was Switzerland. The crowd had swelled a bit now, and comparisons were being made incredulously of the sizes of Thailand and Switzerland.

Oi’s father then pointed out the large, lonely blob that was Australia and noted its size and distance from Thailand and the rest of the world. The old man seemed to ask for clarification, placing his finger on or about Alice Springs. He was told again what it was, slowly, and he repeated the strange word slowly. It was as if he had heard this name for the first time, and it was as familiar to him as gefilte fish.

(Pic: Perusing the map, Hat Sichon, Thailand)

We never found out why Switzerland was of so much interest to them, though. As I was falling asleep that night I thought of this group of tropical beach dwellers making a pilgrimage to the land of cheese and yodels and hooning down the piste.

A pleasant and scenic drive south was briefly halted by a police roadblock. We have encountered many of these over the year, and the only time we have not been immediately waved on was close to this very location near the start of our trip.

“Sawasdi,” I greeted the stiffly clad policeman wearing a surgical mask in a vain attempt to keep car exhaust from his lungs as he approached our vehicle. “Sawasdi kap!” was his clipped reply. “You speak Thai?” he asked, hopefully. “No” was my answer (and probably would have been even if I did).

“License!” he demanded, to whom it was presented.

“Mister Daniel!” It seemed all verbal communication was thrilling and urgent. “Ninety kilometre in Thailand!” I was doing 100, being overtaken by a variety of grey extra-cab utes who were in an enormous hurry to get, well, somewhere else. I agreed with the policeman, and he handed back my license.

“200 baht!”

(Pic: Raffy makes breakfast, Hat Arunothai, Thailand)

I questioned his intention.

“200 baht you pay me!”

I agreed, but requested it in writing. Where’s the speeding ticket?

“No, no. 200 baht you pay me or 400 baht you pay police station!”

And there’s the rub. A not too subtle attempt to fleece the falang (foreigner) for cash that goes directly into his crisp, uniformed pocket. So, I requested the ticket to go to the nearest police station, which would have been in Sichon, some thirty or so kilometres up the road. Of course, I was reasonably certain that there would be no ticket because there was nothing that proved I was speeding – just this bloke standing on the side of the road.

And all of a sudden he stepped back and waved us on. He probably thought this was going to be too hard and his game was up, or maybe someone was watching him – who knows. My 200 baht safely tucked into my wallet.

Our final stop in Thailand – another ‘last’ – was Hat Yai, a place that the children remembered most fondly and the adults rather nervously. Continuing official advice about the restive Songkhla region put us on high alert, but of course, as for when we were here last, nothing remotely dangerous happened. Maddy and Raffy were desperate to go back to the JB Hotel, which, in their mind’s eye, was large, posh and a great treat. This time round, though, perhaps due to their collective world-weariness, or more discerning standards, the JB just didn’t float their boat as much. Still, we rested well, ate well at the local hawker market and even caught some of a traditional Thai dance performance that was happening in the darkness of the forecourt of a temple. The young women moved deftly to the overdriven tune blasted from a decrepit old boom-box and under the instruction of their proud teacher. We then headed back to the JB and prepared for our border crossing into Malaysia the next day.

(Pic: Raffy and Maddy choose their Chendol, Hat Yai, Thailand)

Immigration and customs were a relative breeze, and we stopped on the other side of the border to organise car insurance and a spot of lunch at a small, nondescript restaurant. Maddy deftly ordered a seafood nasi goreng and proclaimed it one of the best meals she’d had.

As it happened, as when we drove the other way, there is a one-hour time difference crossing from Thailand to Malaysia, but there is nothing to indicate it. It was only when we noticed people sitting down to dinner in cafes and restaurants at a rather early hour did we check the time and worked it out – another ‘last’: the final time-zone change before landing back in Australia, as well as using our last guidebook.

(Pic: Traditional Thai dancing, Hat Yai)

The road traffic was also again immediately different, with the large people-carrying utes of Thailand giving way to the omnipresent, diminutive, indigenous Protons. Between cheaper fuel and a subsidised car industry – and a fervent nationalist spirit – almost every car on Malaysian roads is a Proton, which makes for a rather mundane scene. We also had the sense that Malays – and particularly the men – were more belligerent on the roads, with much attention being paid to modifying their cars, including, and often limited to, installing big fat exhaust systems that make their little four cylinder engines groan and fart, rather than roar like the beasts they would prefer to drive. So loud and obnoxious were some little buzz-box exhausts that our truck voiced its offence by sounding its alarm.

The exhaust pipes and mufflers weren’t the only things fat; for the first time in a long while we were reacquainted with a human rotundness that is synonymous with increased standards of living, lack of insight into healthy eating and the influence of a relatively new and exotic culture on a local people. There’s nothing inspiring about generously proportioned, wobbly people exiting a well-known fast-food outlet with armfuls of carbohydrates and grease.

There also seems to be somewhat of an air of resignation in Malaysia that is not as obvious elsewhere in the region. This was exemplified by what we termed the ‘thong drag’. Only a very small proportion of the inhabitants of south-east Asia wear closed shoes, with most wearing sandals of varying modes, or the simple, humble rubber thong (or ‘flip-flop’ if you’re American, due to the word ‘thong’ being yet another in the English language that has been misappropriated with a salacious bent). Here, more than elsewhere it seemed, people would walk languidly, almost as an afterthought, letting the back of the thong or sandal drag along the ground. The summers of my youth were filled with the sharp ‘clack’ sounds of a thousand thongs slapping the soles of feet on their way to the pool, the beach or ‘down the shops’, but in Malaysia it was as if those thousand thongs were a thousand little brooms relegated to sweeping the pavement.

It was also here that we were reintroduced to that noble, sophisticated and refined pursuit of men hanging out of car windows and shouting at women. Sandy and Maddy often copped an earful in Malaysia that unsurprisingly made us all livid. The comments were unintelligible, but the intent clear as a bell. Certainly a counterpoint to our recent experiences of Thai, Cambodian and Lao cultures.

We must be getting closer to home, then.

(Pic: Masjid Zahir mosque, Alor Setar, Malaysia)

The prospect of our relatively imminent return home was also indicated by reminders from my place of employ via email that I was indeed expected to clock on in only a few weeks’ time, and polite requests from my workplace for confirmation. I was extremely tempted to reply in the negative (“nah, we’ve decided to drive the length of South America now. Toodle-pip!”), if only just to stir up the proverbial possums for a while, but I reluctantly acquiesced. We were now becoming a little more than distracted by the imminent return to life back in Melbourne instead of the here and now.

Our next few nights heading south were spent at relatively unremarkable Malaysian cities and towns that, while still providing ample opportunities to wander around and people-watch, enjoy local cuisine and note the subtle or extreme differences in culture the further south we head – differences that seemed absent the first time we travelled through this part of the world. Now that we had learned much more about local languages, customs, cuisine and religious beliefs Maddy and Raffy were interested in examining and discussing with us some of their interpretations. Now that we were in Malaysia women covered their hair and face with a hijab, and some in a full burqua, and some men wore the traditional white ‘kufi’ hat. ‘Kiblat’ arrows depicting the precise direction to Mecca were again stuck to the ceilings in all hotel rooms and elsewhere, and Buddhist bells, drums and chants had given way to the Muslim call to prayer that wafted through the air five times a day. Alcohol was only served in the many Chinese restaurants that dotted the back streets, but not in the Malay ones. (However, the distinct waft of ganga a few times had us a little confused. One explanation was that dope is ‘natural’, but alcohol is ‘man made’. I’m not entirely convinced.) Indeed, it was interesting to note the number of Chinese people whose ancestors had settled in these southern lands but who maintained a strong link to their traditional customs, including conversing in Mandarin and reading local Chinese newspapers.

Through the Malaysian cities of Alor Setar, Kota Bahru and Kuala Terengganu the air was becoming decidedly thicker, the temperature toastier. The further south we head the closer to the tail-end of the monsoon season we get. At night we drifted off to sleep watching lightening in the distance.

(Pic: Maddy and Sandy get taken for a ride, Kuala Terangganu, Malaysia)

Maddy was again fascinated by the range of produce, ingredients and prepared foods, marvelling at the range and varieties that were often of a singular type at home. (Photo – Ikan billis). The aromas and signs of Malay foods got Sandy thinking of home – randang, ikan billis, sambal, chendol, amongst others. In Kota Bahru we ate at the local night market, sampling and observing local delicacies and taking in the spectacle of something that, once again, was exotic and to be savoured by us, but ordinary for the locals. Then, a little after 7pm, people began to vanish, with stall-holders packing up their wares or covering their displays with sheets or tarpaulins. One minute we were in a thriving market with hundreds of others, the next it was a ghost town. We were only half way through our meal, but wondered if we shouldn’t be a little concerned. Then, the omnipresent ‘Adhan’ – the Muslim call to prayer. Ah, that explains it. While a couple of younger stall-holders waited around, listening to music and playing games on their mobile phones, most of the people went to the mosque or elsewhere for prayer time. Those funny cats with short, bent tails took advantage of the lull in search of their own dinner, while the Chinese stall-holders sat around and continued to watch the televisions installed into their stall. Half an hour later or so the market was back to normal.

(Pic: Dinner at the night market, Kota Baru, Malaysia)

It is almost impossible to have a meal in this part of the world without at least one TV blasting some mundane and poorly produced soapy at the unsuspecting diner. Maddy and Raffy are drawn to TVs like moths to a flame and know well enough that if a TV is on then they need to sit with their backs to it so as to ensure they consume their food, not the pap. And the ubiquitous TV is not limited to restaurants – the smallest, most rudimentary and rickety food stall on the side of the road will often have a telly wired up to a bank of car batteries. Markets used to be places where customers and vendors would casually and effortlessly interact, a place to share the news and gossip. Now it seems they are areas where people increasingly exist in solitude, bathed in the bluish light of a cathode ray tube and engrossed in a distant and fanciful fantasy. And more’s the pity.

We hadn’t experienced rain since Turkey – through India, Thailand, Laos and Cambodia we, and the environs, were as dry as a Hawkeye martini – so Malaysian precipitation raised an eyebrow or two. So too did the graphic posters and T-shirts encouraging the local populace to donate money to the Palestinian cause, we supposed in the aftermath of the recent military battles there. We wondered what, if anything, most of the local population could afford, and what the more affluent Islamic nations were doing about it – help or hindrance.

(Pic: Maddy discovers 47 different varieties of ikan bilis (anchovies) in the Kuala Terengganu market, Malaysia)

We also became aware of the rather mundane and potentially unfavourable modes of architecture in these parts. We hadn’t really noticed it last time we were here, but by comparison we became aware of other parts of Asia where not only did local design and construction incorporate specific styles, motifs and customs, but also made were sympathetic to the local climate and general environment. Now that we were on the coast we were astounded that, not only were many of the more modern buildings were without any reference to local culture – these cement boxes could have been anywhere – but were stifling in the heat, their design all but ignoring the breeze from the ocean. Indeed, there were buildings that focused all of their human space inland towards the road, while cars were parked near storage areas with a sea view, next door to an older, more traditional structure where it inhabitants spent most of their time near or even over the water. Strange.

The local market in Kuala Terengganu was an enormous, multi-leveled concrete bunker where locals continued to sell produce and goods of a substantial variety but seemed to groan and sway in the sweltering stillness. A number of the women there tittered at us as we went by, we assume because of how relatively odd we must have looked – the only one of our troop wearing a head covering was the adult male. I wondered how hot it was for them in their hijabs in that stifling market with only hand fans used to make the smallest of breezes.

(Pic: Market, Kuala Terengganu)

Dodging more marauding Protons and that other traditional mode of road transport, the humble but seemingly irrepressible Datsun 120Y, we continued to head south.

Only a few days left before we tread Australian soil.

Pakxe, Laos (2), – Cha-Am, Thailand (2)

Day 304-310

January 11-17, 2009

1,530km

Total: 30,980km

Soundtrack:

‘Romance in Karaoke Hell’ – Ed Kuepper

‘Down on the Border’ – Little River Band

‘We Are The Champions’ – Queen

‘Grinnin’ In Your Face’ – Sun House

‘Cloudbusting’ – Kate Bush

‘Holiday in Cambodia’ – Dead Kennedys

‘Cambodia’ – Kim Wilde

‘Border Song’ – Aretha Franklin

‘Ken Lee’ – Valentina Hasan

‘Angka Dar Qotdam’ – Khmer Rouge

‘Too Much Monkey Business’ – Chuck Berry

‘Endtroducing…’ – DJ Shadow

The mood in the truck as we drove back to Pakxe in southern Laos from the Cambodian border was subdued, to say the least. Maddy was sad that she would not get to see the famous Angkor Wat, but understood that it seemed impossible. Once in a while one of us would utter how frustrating and unfair the whole episode had been, and coming up with some innovative, yet not all that helpful suggestions. Raffy’s suggestion of just getting a decent run-up and bursting through the border did get us thinking, but not all that seriously.

This was, therefore, one of the few times we had to retrace our route. It seemed like such a waste of time and effort to be going back to the place we left two days ago, but it seemed we had no choice. We were finally resigned to heading into Thailand and making our way south without going to Cambodia.

(Pic: Maddy biding her time at the Thai border)

While glumly heading back to Pakxe I jokingly suggested that we don’t just retrace our steps back to that city, but – hey, here’s a thought – maybe do the entire trip again in reverse! Thinking that Maddy and Raffy in particular were becoming a little homesick and weary of living out of the back of the truck for the best part of a year, I expected groans all round. But to my surprise, after a moment’s silence there came a joyous back-seat chorus of “Hey yeah!” This got the kids nominating the places they would most like to revisit, and avoid, should we spend another ten months on the road.

Needless to say, this would be out of the question. Still, it’s nice to fantasise…

We thought about trying to cross the Cambodian border elsewhere, but the amount of effort required and the possibility of another front line rejection made it difficult to contemplate. We were feeling resentful of our entire, brief Cambodian experience and thought better to simply put it behind us. Literally and figuratively.

(Pic: “You want I should check the oil ma’am?”)

An up side? Being banned from entering Cambodia once again made driving home through Indonesia a possibility. The extra two weeks or so up our sleeves meant that, notionally, we had time, which at this juncture, was worth its weight in gold. So that night Sandy and I tweaked the itinerary and made it fit. Jakarta, here we come.

We slept fitfully, still cursing the Cambodian customs worker who prevented our entry, but, strangely, the morning sun gave us cause to once again pause and reconsider. We re-entered Thailand and headed towards Ubon Ratchathani.

SK: The border crossing out of Laos into Thailand was as straightfoward as it gets. A customs official in Laos took our Carnet, hopped onto a motorbike, and disappeared to have it stamped. It was returned to us from whichever air-conditioned office away from the rabble the higher bureaucrat sat. The Thai side was equally simple, despite their penchant for photocopying and an incredible amount of paperwork. All smiles on both sides made the waiting and the stamping easy.

To us Ubon Ratchathani was a nondescript town, office buildings, industry, wats and so on, but I’m sure it feels like home to the locals. A snoozy brown river runs through it, near to which our hotel was located. We were still in somewhat of a desultory mood, which was improved by great hawker meals at the night market. 

At breakfast we heard a familiar accent, and introduced ourselves to another Victorian. He was from Kinglake, and had been in Australia the Saturday prior at his family home, battling with those terrible fires for its existence. Now, Thursday, here he was in northwest Thailand, about to meet up with a local girlfriend, a marriage proposal in the offing. Life moves on.   

DB: Heading back west towards Bangkok and then the southern Thai peninsula we stopped for the night at Nang Rong, where the Cabbages and Condoms organisation that runs our favourite Bangkok restaurant, also operates a resort. It took us ages to find it as there was no street number provided, and the person who answered the phone could only get as far as “room for today?” After a couple of laps of the main drag we thought things were maybe conspiring against us – perhaps it wasn’t meant to be. We decided to give it one more go before heading to an unremarkable hotel by asking some locals. This area of Thailand is rarely explored by westerners and so English speakers were few and far between. Sandy thought that if anyone would be able to help it would be someone in a bank.

She returned to the truck with a smirk – the bank staff thought she was hilarious. She had shown them the listing in our guide book, but of course they just wanted her to say it. “Cabbages and Condoms?” They giggled and finally one of them told her that it was out of town, about eight kilometres up the road.

And sure enough, there it was, and, it seemed, in a place that could accommodate a couple of hundred punters, we were the only ones there for the night. We ate a lovely Thai meal outdoors and by a large pond, and fell asleep to the dulcet tones of not an insubstantial group of locals in for a slap-up pre-Valentines Day meal and smoochy karaoke Thai love songs. Thais are mad for getting up in front of their peers, reading lyrics of their favourite ballads off a computer screen and missing notes like a drunken archer aiming for a moving target. No raucous “I Did It My Way” here, but serious, strained efforts at recreating a modern Thai oeuvre that simply won’t quit. Go figure.

(Pic: Nang Rong, Thailand)

There’s nothing much else to report about Nang Rong, other than it is situated at the junction of Highway 24, running east-west, and the smaller north-south Highway 348 that runs – well, will you look at that – south to Aranyapathet, which is on the border with Cambodia.

We had all gone to bed the night before trying to put Cambodia out of our minds, but in the morning we wondered “What if?”

So, over breakfast, we held a family meeting, with one agenda item: Should we have another go at getting into Cambodia?

“Yeah,” the kids agreed, with a glint of adventure in their eyes. “Why not?”

Our decision to head south to another Cambodian border was made partly due to our desire to visit the country, partly because even though on paper we had time to drive through Indonesia the weather there still looked the wrong shade of monsoon, and would seriously blow our budget, and partly because we simply did not want to be defeated by a bureaucrat who got it so wrong a few days before and prevented us from entering Cambodia from Laos in the first place.

So, with great trepidation and a dose of anxiety, we turned left instead of heading straight out of Nang Rong. Here goes nothing.

(Pic: Approaching the Cambodian border – again)

Like all border towns, Aranyapathet on the Thai side was dusty, noisy, disorganised and seemed somewhat desperate. Like at many other Asian border crossings, and unlike, say, Europe, trucks don’t drive through. They simply unload their cargo on one side of the border, and a bevy of straining, sinewy and sweating men pushing or pulling rickety hand carts haul the load from one side of the border to the other, where another local truck is waiting. We got through the Thai immigration easily enough, but we were a little concerned that customs might be a problem as we had previously nominated a totally different exit point for our truck on our paperwork. Hopefully this would be overlooked.

Traffic across the border seemed to head in any direction of their choosing. There didn’t seem to be any road markings or signs to indicate where cars or trucks should head – they seemed to float around like a group of learner drivers in a shopping mall car park. Of course, it finally made a little sense when we did clear Thai customs and headed towards Poipet on the Cambodian side of things. Reminiscent of when we crossed from Thailand to Laos a few weeks back, we needed to change to the other side of the road. However, instead of a helpful little ‘figure eight’ sign or lane markings, vehicles just criss-crossed in front of each other toward the Cambodian side.

We got through Cambodian immigration unscathed, but now it was time to get the truck through. Officials in the little customs building didn’t know what to do with our paperwork and sent us to the main Customs office – a rather palatial affair a few hundred metres down the dusty road. We drove down, turned into the driveway – and Sandy was advised that nothing could be done until 2pm. The ubiquitous Asian lunchtime. A two-hour lunchtime, everyday, where the world of customs and excise stops. Nice work if you can get it.

(Pic: Getting in on the act: so many tourists can’t help posing for photos at every opportunity)

We left the car in the Customs office car park and wandered up the street in search of food. Sitting at a small food stall on the side of the road and eating fish and rice, the young man who served us approached us for a chat. With clear, considered English he told us about the months he lived illegally in Thailand where he was promised good work and equally good pay, but where he was, unsurprisingly, massively ripped off. In the end he was being caught by Thai immigration officers and unofficially ‘fined’ almost all the money he was earning. He returned to Cambodia recently and was now working in one of the vast casinos that dotted this border town and that were almost entirely patronised by Thais. It was his day off and he was helping out a friend at the food stall. It seemed that he yearned for more, that he was capable of better things, but his pride didn’t allow him to express it to us. When asking about us I felt a little embarrassed by our descriptions of world travel and exotic locations. He found it hard to grasp – Europe and north America were almost beyond his comprehension, beyond his realm of existence, beyond his world. The difference between his aspirations and accomplishments and ours were based solely on the respective location of our birth. Comedian Bill Hicks talked about not feeling specifically proud about being an American, as he didn’t have all that much to do with it, taking a more fatalist approach to his nationality due to the location of his parents’ few minutes of lust thirty-odd years before. Maybe, he suggested, if you really wanted to describe your patriotism, there should be a picture of that image on a country’s flag…

We wandered back to the Customs office where the Deputy Chief took directions from Sandy and stamped and signed our Carnet with a flourish – and suddenly we were driving in Cambodia.

(Pic: Angkor Wat, Cambodia)

After our enormous frustration, disappointment and fury after our previous attempt to drive into this country, we all felt elated, and somewhat conceited, of not arrogant, in our success, as if we had anything to do with it. We had beaten the system, we had won the battle. It felt like winning a dour football match by a point. We are the champions. In your face, Customs Officer #346.

But of course, as we discussed in the car, this was not about victory, this was about visiting another country, another culture. We quickly forgot about past border bothers and began relishing Cambodia. We would only have a few days here but we intended to make the most of our time.

The road to Siem Reap was newly paved until it most certainly was not. International aid was contributing to it, but it meant that at times we needed to divert around bridges that were not yet complete, or hoping the ones we used didn’t collapse. Dusty, rutted and littered with rocks, the road wound through small communities, vehicles, people and animals. It seemed that, until very recently, traffic was as slow as it was infrequent, given the road conditions, and it would take a while before locals became aware that trucks hurtling along at 80 km/h or more were dangerous. We finally sauntered into Siem Reap and found a suitable hotel at our third attempt. It had been a long, hot and anxious day, yet Maddy and Raffy were troopers, never complaining and happy to observe and engage with genuine interest their ever-changing surroundings and encounters.

(Pic: Angkor Wat, Cambodia)

The following morning’s short drive to Angkor delivered us at its legendary wat, after paying handsomely for our entry permits, in US dollars. Everything in Cambodia is in US dollars, including the cash that comes out of ATMs. A local currency, the ‘riel’, exists, but is usually only used for small purchases or as change. Not all that real, it seems.

Angkor Wat, the twelfth century Khmer temple built for a king for his capital is astounding and lives up to all expectations. Steeped in serene stillness and crumbling before our eyes, we wandered around and through its vast corridors, halls and rooms wondering about the extraordinary effort and resources required to construct such a monolith. Much of the original treasures were harvested years ago and now sit in official museums and unofficial private collections, but even so I was astounded when I watched a young man try to impress his girlfriend by ripping a shard of stone off an already deteriorating column. I caught his eye and he grinned. I approached him and pretty much demanded he put the stone down, and he giggled and shook his head. As sensitive as I think I am to not wanting to shame locals, the intentional defacing and destruction of such splendorous ancient relics riles me. While the notion of dobbing gets a raw deal most times at times like these I am moved to take some kind of action, and directed a passing tour guide to the loitering vandal. He got told off and to move on. I thought deportation would have been more apt. It’s not as if locals aren’t aware of Angkor’s importance – so much so that its image is represented on the very emblem of the nation – the Cambodian flag.

(Pic: We made it – Angkor Wat)

The Angkor site is enormous, incorporating various temples, a city, ancient roadways and various other structures. After visiting the main wat we drove around to Ta Prohm, a temple with delicately carved stone structures now falling to bits and being reclaimed by the forest. It is tempting to shoot hundreds of photos but none capture its imposing majesty. UNESCO and others are contributing to safeguarding what’s left and reconstructing what they can, but the magnitude of this stone jigsaw puzzle seems almost futile.

The next day we explored Angkor Thom, the ancient Khmer capital, and its signature temple, the Bayon. The hundreds of carved stone heads peering down on us was the original Big Brother. Again, words and photos seem insignificant to describe the finery of these structures, the grandeur of the architecture, the beauty of the fine carving, the work that went into their construction so many centuries before, and the vision of the god kings who had them built. Our final temple was the exquisite Banteay Srei, a small temple with fine, intricate carvings that seemed to defy human accomplishment.

Like at the Taj Mahal, we stood in front of these incredible sites and marvelled not only at their beauty, but that we were there. This wasn’t a photo, this was us at the real thing. And we drove there. It was overwhelming.

(Pic: It often looks less like the trees have grown upwards through the stone and more like they have been poured on, Angkor Thom, Cambodia)

Still within the archaeological park, we stopped at a local orphanage where children who had lost their parents, or whose families could no longer support them, lived and learned. One of their key activities was painting, and these kids had produced some fabulous work that was for sale to raise money for more school supplies. Raffy had quickly made friends with one of the older boys, and coincidently selected his work to take home. The orphanage was paid a donation, and Raffy and Maddy presented some of the children with Australian souvenir pencils.

Leaving the Angkor sites we stopped at the side of the road to giggle at some monkeys, one of which decided to get a closer look at us by climbing up onto our truck. He was particularly interested in Sandy as he perched on her side mirror and gave the window a kiss.

(Pic: Making a monkey out of us, Angkor, Cambodia)

Spending time in the Siem Reap night market and eating locally gave us a bit of a taste of local culture, and there was no shortage of attention paid to our children – Maddy’s curly hair and Raffy’s, well, being Raffy had many people pointing, smiling and patting. Maddy finds it amusing, while Raffy is slowly becoming frustrated and annoyed at the unwanted touching. We try and protect him as much as we can, but in a crowded market it becomes almost futile.

There are many similarities between Lao and Cambodian culture, and unsurprisingly, their modern histories seem to have contributed to the way in which people now engage with the world. Maddy was interested that it seemed almost all of the locals dressed the same way, wore their hair, walked and talked the same way. Even all the pop music sounded the same, be it local or nauseating western mantras. We had a sense of a ritualistic conformity that is not seen in most other parts of the world. Maddy wondered if there were any Lao or Cambodian punks, or Goths, but we thought it doubtful. We wondered what this meant in the context of living under oppressive regimes, of varying degrees, and whether not standing out in the crowd was as much a cultural imperative as a means of survival.

(Pic: Maddy giving out pencils to the children of the Angkor orphanage, Cambodia)

Not surprisingly, the horror of the reign of the Khmer Rouge’s terror is pervasive, yet while Sandy and I didn’t want to entirely shield our children from the broad reality of Cambodia’s history, we found it difficult to have conversations about this nation without it sounding entirely gruesome and without wanting our children to be fearful.

Still, it boggles the mind that a regime that ruled for less than four years thought it fit and proper to slaughter a fifth of the country’s population. Almost all of Cambodia’s documented and represented history went up in smoke when Pol Pot decided that time would restart on his mark and that his country would seamlessly become an agrarian utopia. Their aim to intentionally completely destroy Cambodia’s customs, history and heritage was aptly described during our visit where International restorers had dismantled a section of roof at Angkor Thom with an aim to rebuild it so as to prevent further degradation. When the Khmer Rouge marched in they destroyed all documentation, which was seen as the tools of the evil educated class, including the record of which stone or tile went where, and the restorers were banished. The roof remains in pieces on the ground – a giant puzzle without so much as a diagram.

Every family in the country suffered at the hands of this despotic regime, and evidence remains of a country still trying to rebuild basic services such as schools, hospitals and basic infrastructure. While tourism may be an interim saviour of its economy, it’s difficult to know what impact this will have on rebuilding Cambodia – particularly because, as for Laos and Burma as well, true democratic process is still a ways off. Hopefully it will be positive. Nevertheless, it is quite impossible to tour this place without being affected by the atrocities of the late 1970s. People with injuries caused by leftover bombs, as we learned in Laos, struggle to make ends meet, with some of them selling books on the street. Many of the books tell stories of the Killing Fields and people’s personal accounts – sort of grotesque voyeurism. Still, we befriended a young man who sold us a book and told us a bit about himself. All the while he put the book in a bag for us, took our money, retrieved his wallet from his pocket and deftly fished out change – all without hands or most of his forearms.

(Pic: Angkor, Cambodia)

We read on foreign news websites that the long-awaited criminal trials of people allegedly responsible for the wholesale slaughter of their compatriots was about to commence, yet locally it seemed as far away as the international community was when it was happening in the first place. It is difficult to imagine the benefit to today’s Cambodians of putting a few octogenarians on trial, especially given the enormous costs involved, instead of providing opportunities for people to tell their stories and heal.

Heading back along the calamity that is the road from Siem Reap to the Thai border at Aranyapathet – again passing dozens of identical navy blue Toyota Camrys that, oddly, were left-hand drive and unregistered – we reflected on leaving yet another country in which we wished to return and spend more time, but, importantly for us, leaving the last ‘new’ country of our trip. It was here that we began making note of what would be the numerous ‘lasts’ that would hover about us like a guardian spirit – or ghost – until we get home. The last time we headed east, the last time we head west, the last time we tackle a new language, a new currency, a new culture.

(Pic: Angkor, Cambodia)

We screamed into Poipet at the border at 11.45am, making sure we didn’t have to wait around once again for the obligatory public servant two-hour lunch break, but found the customs building deserted anyway. A guard at the gate jumped on a bike and headed into town, returning a few minutes later with the head honcho big kahuna customs man, who was not too impressed about having his lunch disturbed, and made it known. Still, when it was pointed out that it wasn’t even 12 o’clock, he reluctantly and grudgingly stamped and signed our Carnet and we headed through the Cambodian and then Thai borders.

The first time we drove in Thailand in early June last year we were decidedly on edge. Everything seemed weird, exotic, perverse, unreasonable, dangerous. Road traffic seemed haphazard and nonsensical. We felt out of our comfort zone and anxious. Now, it felt ensuring and rather predictable – almost ordinary. The roads were better than in Laos and Cambodia, with a distinct lack of wildlife, walking tractors and bicycles. We were back in the land of the large, silver, extra-cab ute, and all was well in the world.

(Pic: Heading through the outskirts of Bangkok towards Cha-Am, Thailand)

We initially intended to stop at a non-descript Thai town for the night east of the marauding brawl that is the Bangkok highway system as we were unsure how long it would take to go back through the Cambodian and Thai customs and immigration barn dance, but time in the short term was on our side for once and we steeled ourselves for a big day in the saddle – more than seven hours – heading past Bangkok to the southern Thai peninsula. We returned to our recent days of frivolity with Clan de JJJZ at Cha-Am on the east coast and would spend the next couple of days sitting on the beach, eating seafood and preparing ourselves for the drive south through Thailand and Malaysia to Singapore, which would be our point of departure to Australia. We were resigned now to the fact that, aside from the weather still being monsoonal, time in the broader sense was against us, and  Indonesia would have to wait for another time.

Eating dinner in Cha-Am we felt as if we had not only covered almost 600km that day but felt we had also travelled in time. Breakfast in Siem Reap felt like days ago; wandering the ancient temples and buzzing night markets now in the distant past. The Cambodia and Laos we experienced that week felt like a different era – almost stuck in time – our vehicle more akin to a Tardus.

We still have thousands of kilometres to travel, but there is a distinct feeling that the end is looming large.

Raffy’s Luang Prabang boat

I was playing down at a Mekong beach in Luang Prabang in Laos when I had this great idea. So with my mum I walked to the end of the sandy bit of the beach and found some blue plastic tarp and then some plastic string and some bamboo, and with the plastic string mum helped attach and cut the string and made a half sink half float boat!

I rolled up my shorts and launched my boat and then I saw a hole in my boat which was obvious so mum and I did some changes.

(Pic: my blue tarp boat)

Soundtrack:

Revolution – The Beatles

Keep Yourself Alive – Queen

Beautiful Life – Something For Kate

It’s The Life – Grant Lee Buffalo

Life During Wartime – Talking Heads

There’s More To Life Than This – Björk

Time Bomb – Nick Barker

Wrong Side Of The Road – Tom Waits

Laos is great. Not only the country itself, but the people, the food and the atmosphere. My favourite town, Luang Prabang, is on the mighty Mekong River, and is probably one of the most relaxed and slow-moving places we’ve been on this trip. Driving in was easy, but like almost every Asian country (well, south east Asian country, at least) the dodgy Chinese scooters and motorbikes and cheap, crappy trucks were a bit annoying.

I’ve worked out that every country in Asia we’ve travelled through has its own style of tuk-tuks (which are basically the front of a motor bike welded onto a small trailer, in which passengers sit). In Bangkok for example, the tuk-tuks sound a bit like the sound you make when you roll your tongue in the back of your throat. The tuk-tuks in Laos are literally how I explained the tuk-tuks: the front of a motorbike welded onto a small trailer, in which passengers sit. The motorbikes that they use for the tuk-tuks look a bit like a Royal Enfields – well sort of.

A Luang Prabang Tuk-Tuk

Back to Luang Prabang. We stayed at two hotels, ‘sister hotels’ as mum likes to call it. The first hotel had a nice, big room but it wasn’t the hotel we were after. Earlier that day, mum had called their other hotel, booking a nice family room for that night. They asked her what time we’d be there, at the hotel and she said “maybe 2 o’clock”. We got there a about 4 o’clock, just to be told that they had given our room away to some other family. Great. So then we went to their sister hotel and got the nice, big room. The next morning we had to pack up and move to the second hotel-the right one.

Some of the main foods and drinks in Laos include sticky rice (naturally glutinous rice, very filling), salty grilled fish (usually round and flat), green papaya salad (in most of south east Asia), Beerlao (literally everywhere in Laos), Ovaltine (made with an inch or so of sweetened condensed milk), Lao coffee, and the usual soft drinks (which are just about everywhere in the world).

Tamarind: A Taste of Laos is a restaurant run by the daughter of one of mum’s colleagues at work. Caroline Gaylard is a waiter as well as the owner in her small, but busy restaurant, in Luang Prabang. The restaurant basically explains to tourists all about Lao food. You order a plate or two, they cook it, it comes, and then she tells you how to eat it. We went to the restaurant three times, I think, and each time was delicious. Every Friday night they do a dinner of steamed fish in banana leaves, sticky rice and a platter or two of dried (Mekong) river moss with four kinds of pastes and dips. The day before or any time before that Friday night, you have to book how ever many people and pay a deposit to get your seats. Basically all you do is enjoy the different flavours of Lao food, chat with other travellers, and have fun. Unfortunately, that evening mum had a stomach bug, and so she couldn’t come. That same night, I caught it too, and I threw up five times during the night, and so did Raffy. So for the couple of days after that, I had to stay home, along with Raffy, my younger brother who had also had caught it. Anyway, we met some lovely people at the dinner, and Raf and I even got to serve up the dessert! Many thanks to Caroline for a very pleasant evening and once again for the Vegemite!

Who wants dessert?

Dad and I also did a cooking class, run by Caroline’s partner, Joy, who was very good at his job. First stop was a market, with fresh fruit and vegetables, meat, seafood, pre-made curries and fish stews. Joy told us about different herbs, vegetables and meats the two kinds of buffalo skin, one type for cooking, and the other type for just snacking on. The cooking class itself took place at a very peaceful spot about a 10 minute tuk-tuk ride from Luang Prabang. It had a large pond, and literally everywhere you looked there was green. I could have easily done about three more cooking classes, it was so nice.

Me, chopping up some veggies at the cooking class  

For the two days before we caught the stomach bug, we ate scrumptious food, met very charming travellers, and played at the edge of the Mekong. I had once fallen into a canal in Venice, Italy, but I had no idea that I would fall in, fully clothed, in the Mekong River, in Laos. But I did. I was climbing on a rock to look at a fish in the water or something, and I must of slipped on some mud and I went in head first. Lucky it wasn’t too shallow! Mum told me after I had been taken across the road to the hotel – with mud dripping off my face and clothes – that she tried so hard not to laugh, as I came out of the water, speechless. Anyway, after we went back to the hotel, I was fine.

The day we left Luang Prabang, I was quite sad to be leaving such a delightful town. It is a town with excellent food, wonderful views of the Mekong, fascinating history, and lovely people. You wouldn’t necessarily call it a town, but you wouldn’t call it a city either. It was more in the middle of the two. Like Brugge, in Belgium, I have to come back to the place. The night market has every kind of Luang Prabang T-shirt available, but I don’t think they have made a top saying “I LOVE LUANG PRABANG”, which I would immediately buy.

Thanks for reading my post! I will possibly write another one when we get close to home.   

Day 299 – 306

5 – 13 February, 2009

1,820km

Total: 30,103km

Soundtrack:

‘(What’s The Story) Morning Glory?’ – Oasis

‘Saturday Night Fish Fry’ – Louis Jordan

‘Border Crossing’ – David Olney

‘The Great Big No’ – The Lemonheads

‘No No Song’ – Ringo Starr

‘Idiot Grin’ – Do-Re-Mi

‘Tears Of Rage’ – Bob Dylan

‘The Disappointed’ – XTC
‘They Made A Mistake’ – Afrika Bambaata

‘Nature of Power’ – Vince Jones

DB: Sandy was met at the open front door of the dusty Tha Thom Guesthouse by a girl about the same age as our Raffy. She spoke no English and our Lao was rusty, to say the least, but with pointing, hand actions and the ever-present smiles that seem to be an innate part of Lao culture we were provided with a small, dark room.

The sun was now below the horizon of forest and houses, but flicking light switches didn’t improve the situation. The girl shook her head and instead provided us with a few candles that had been melted on to the tops of empty soft drink cans. Upon further investigation it seemed that the entire town was in fact wired for electricity and all the houses had new retro-fitted cables and lights, but none of it worked, save for the few fluorescent globes hooked up to car batteries. We remain unsure if all the wiring in Tha Thom was completed before electricity actually got there, if this was a regular power outage, or if someone just forgot to pay the bill.

In the fading light we went for a stroll along the track, past small restaurants and homes with children playing joyfully out the front and animals rummaging for the last morsels of food before heading home to bed. We were parched and settled in at a restaurant for lemonade and Beerlao which, in one local guidebook we found, was recommended above local drinking water and seemed to be consumed on a similar scale. Very quickly we became a local spectacle, like the circus had rolled into town. People came and watched us from the street while children played games and performed tricks for our amusement. Raffy and Maddy began a game of football with an old plastic bottle and, in turn, made the Lao kids laugh.

A young man in a white shirt approached us and introduced himself. In his halting English we asked about each other, about where we lived and our families. It turned out he was a former local and now the Deputy Governor of the Phonsavan district. A ‘big macher’ perhaps, but eager to chat and a friendly soul for us to learn more about this wondrous land.

Between the good food, smiling hosts, the quiet and stillness of the land and the Laolao (local rice moonshine) that was provided complimentarily by the man of the house we felt sated and rather privileged. We were told that very few Farang (foreigners) come to Tha Thom, and hence we became appreciative of this special occasion.

(Pic: Being closely watched, Tha Thom, Laos)

The morning, like all Lao mornings, broke rather harshly with shrill and defiant rooster calls echoing through the town and hills well before dawn. Almost every household had its own brood of hens, scampering chicks and very large, brightly coloured roosters that strut about like a dude in a new leather coat on Chapel Street. It’s as if the roosters call out to each other at all hours, asking each other if it is in fact wakeup time, and who keep asking the question and providing answers and suggestions until the sun is in fact up, and then some. Perhaps the poultry version of “are we there yet?” I, and I’m sure our neighbours, am very glad we only kept chickens of the female variety at home. Many of these roosters are used in organised cockfights, but, unlike in Thailand and other countries, they aren’t kitted up with nasty blades on their legs to inflict even more damage.

While the good folk of Tha Thom were up and about late in the night, talking in groups, promenading and riding rickety bikes, they were again up and about when the sky was merely suggesting orange and the sun was yet to show its face. We made breakfast, including baguettes with the Vegemite donated to us by Caroline Gaylard in Luang Prabang, and hit the road.

(Pic: Maddy and Raffy refill the washer reservoir in the truck before another day in the mud and dust, Tha Thom, Laos)

The track continued where it left off – dusty and shifting in places, boggy and slimy in others, and large rocks and potholes just to keep things interesting. But eventually the track became a road of sorts and pretty soon we were making up some time heading towards Paksan.

Little did we know, but we had been spoilt by the glorious Lao countryside and villages, and so Paksan, being just another city, didn’t really shake our tree.

SK: In Vientiane we had bought a Colin Cotterill novel, ‘Thirty Three Teeth’, set in Laos, that begins with the story of a wild black bear caught and kept in a cage in the grounds of a posh hotel. We briefly toyed with the idea of staying in Paksan, so Raff and I went so far as to check out one of the hotels located on the San River. While I was speaking with the staff, Raffy had gone to explore out the back, and came breathlessly running back in. There was a bear, he gasped, in the back garden. And indeed there was. He towed me outside, and together we watched as this grand animal mournfully got to its feet as we approached its cage. As the novel was set in the 1970s, I assumed this practice was dated, but apparently keeping wild animals for the amusement of guests is still alive and kicking. (Unlike the bear which was just the former and barely the latter.)

(Pic: Righto kids, get your bathers on – this might get damp. Outside of Tha Thom, Laos)

DB: In the vicinity of Paksan, though, was the Tham Kong Lo (Tham meaning cave), where, like the average American film, A River Runs Through It. Through lush, green forest on a reasonably flat, sealed road that was for the most part deserted, the tarmac wound, climbed and twisted through mountains and valleys that were largely deserted. Sandy and the kids were a tad green by the time we stopped, but I, perhaps selfishly, had a ball. What a brilliant road! We paused for the view of ‘sala’ – extraordinary escarpments and rock formations that were mesmerising. The haze of the tropical air and the incessant buzz of insects gave the area a prehistoric aura.

Around a bend we discovered a semi-trailer laying on its side in the vegetation, Beerlao crates strewn about and a couple of rather sheepish-looking truckies squatting by the wreck and gazing back at the road. I wondered how often the driver had been slapped on the back of the head to a chorus of “You eediot! How many times do I have to tell you that the middle one’s the brake?” We would see this scene repeated a few more times to come.

(Pic: You traded the Bluesmobile for this? Near Paksan, Laos)

Ban Khoun Kham (also known as Ban Na Hin, for some reason – ‘Ban’ meaning ‘village’) is a rather non-descript town that provided us with a guesthouse of comfy beds (we had become used to using our own mattresses and sleeping bags to turn a ‘double’ room into a family one) and a welcoming restaurant. After our rocky ride through the jungle we decided to take it easy for a couple of days. The guesthouse was located out of town in amongst the trees and escarpments of the Hin Boun valley, and, even though the swimming pool that was to be completed by 2008 remained a dirt hole, the beds were comfy and the shower hot.

The 7km long Tham Kong Lo was a sight to behold – truly a river running through an entire mountain. After a leisurely 40km amble along a quite dirt road (and paying for entrance into the national park, and paying for parking – these Laotians are certainly cottoning on to a market economy) we chartered a narrow canoe and a couple of local guides and headed into the darkness. In fact it was here when language created a little confusion before all was revealed. In negotiating the park entrance fee the attendant pointed to three of the four of us and said “Hah, hah, hah.” At first I thought he was having a lend of us, and we were the big joke. But Maddy came to the rescue and worked out that “ha” was Lao for five, and that we had to pay five thousand kip for three of us, while Raffy got in free.

(Pic: Raffy and Maddy chat about the amazing ‘sala’ before them, near Ban Khoum Kham, Laos)

The boat guides – one driving the small outboard motor at the rear and one at the front – wore miner’s lights on their heads, sweeping the dark cave (which at one point is up to ninety meters wide and 100 meters high) and river with dim light to ensure we weren’t introduced to any unexpected obstacles, such as a rock the size of a London bus. We had one small torch, but the blackness seemed to simply consume and nullify any light, rendering the torch insignificant. For the most part we thought we were in the enormous, yawning cave alone.

We stopped to admire some of the eerie cave formations – stalactites and mites, strange shapes in the rocks caused by aeons of erosion from the river and long tree roots reaching deep from the cave roof in search of water – but for the most part we happily puttered along and enjoyed the pitch black experience (Sandy mostly tolerating being in a tunnel under a few million tonnes of rock, but she tried desperately hard not to think about that). At times, due to it being dry season, we had to get out of the boat and help drag it across the smooth pebbles of the riverbed a few metres to the next lot of deeper water.

(Pic: The lifejackets provided for our trip in the Tham Kong Lo  didn’t inspire a whole lot of confidence)

Upon reaching the end we came into daylight. Squinting into the initially harsh brightness we found ourselves in a wide part of the gentle river banked by lush trees and shrubs, where we stopped for a rest and where a few enterprising locals had set up stalls of food and drink, and then turned around and did it all again. 

Retracing our route back up and through the mountains from Ban Khoun Kham we again passed the fallen Beerlao truck, which, instead of being righted, seemed to be undergoing a humiliating dismantling. It was as if the truck and trailer had given up the ghost and the vultures had settled in for a slap-up meal, complete with ale. And then, not 500m further back up the mountain, a newer truck carcass lay on its side in the bush, again replete with truckies sporting hangdog faces, squatting by the lorry’s side and scratching their heads. Either Laos has too many trucks, too many cowboys or too much partaking of the payload.

(Pic: Emerging from the darkness of Tham Kong Lo, Laos)

SK: We had read about a cave, Pha Pa, recently discovered by a local villager half way up a mountain, that was full of Buddha statues thought to have been placed there over 600 years ago. Intrigued, we turned off the highway, bumped along a dusty road, and then pulled up to pay the ubiquitous parking fee. We walked through a local market at the base of the mountain set up to feed and water visitors. We then paid the cave entry, I paid to hire a traditional skirt to cover my own, and we trudged up the stairs to the cave. We were in the company of many Thai and Lao pilgrims, who once in the cave lit incense, prayed, were blessed and at every opportunity handed over currency. The air in the cave was hot and pungent; it reverberated with the sounds of gongs and murmured prayers. It had the aura of a holy site. On the drive out, however, we did muse on the coincidence of the finding of the cave and the subsequent economic benefits derived from the mostly Thai visitors.

DB: Savannakhet was essentially Just Another Town, although it did boast a number of alluring French colonial buildings and boulevards. We found a small restaurant that provided Lao barbeque, perhaps called ‘Sindad’ – we never got the definitive title – an ingenious invention where a clay pot filled with hot coals is placed in a hole in the middle of the table, and is covered by a pan that holds liquid around the edge and is raised and convex in the middle, with small holes to allow the heat through. We were then served containers of raw vegetables (cabbage, morning glory, beans, sprouts), herbs, noodles, tofu and egg, which we cooked in stock, and another dish of raw fish (while other meats are available) which we barbequed, and ate until we were set to explode. We have since purchased the aforementioned implements and plan to have a go at it when we get home. Please book in advance.

(Pic: Raffy and Maddy cook up a ‘Sindad’ storm at our restaurant table, Savannakhet, Laos)

Before heading off the next morning we turned into a local tyre barn to yet again top up the slow-leaking tyre that is, it seems, irreparable. Usually I just pull into a petrol station and use their air compressor but in Laos there is a distinct separation of trades: petrol from one place, air at another. Of course, the further into rural Asia we head the less people speak English, and our Lao is only just getting off the ground, but finally, after attempts at pointing and hand gestures, we came upon the universal word for ‘air in a tyre’.

“Psssshhhht!”

“Yes, that’s it,” I replied excitedly. “Psssshhhht!” We were treated like royalty, where, embarrassingly, other customers were promptly ignored so that our tyres should be checked. Attendants directed our truck into the workspace like the ground crew at an airport and the Senior Air Filler Guy got to work. They accepted no payment and waved us goodbye from the driveway.

Savannakhet also reintroduced us to the awkward reality of begging. In Thailand beggars seem few and far between, and similarly in the major centres in Laos, such as Vientiane and Luang Prabang. Yet given Laos is such a relatively poor country that is still trying to find its way and at the same time hold true to its communist convictions it wasn’t all that surprising that dishevelled young women holding small children asked for handouts, or when the children themselves asked for money or food.

(Pic: Sunset at Savannakhet, Laos)

We are often instinctively drawn to provide something as simple and, for us, plentiful, as food to children who are in need. There is little more heartbreaking than a hungry kid. However in Laos we needed to remain aware of the bigger picture. It seems that, even though primary school is made available to all Lao children, sometimes they are pressured into working, such as becoming street vendors selling souvenirs to tourists – or begging – to help support a family. And so it is incumbent on visitors to the country to dissuade children from leaving school, even if the short-term gain is so attractive to them, or their parents.

It is also no secret that human predators of the worst kind trawl the cities and towns of Laos, as well as neighbouring countries, in search of vulnerable children. Child abuse is a significant concern and efforts are being made by the Lao government and NGOs to raise awareness of the crime and provide opportunities for people to report suspicious behaviour. Posters depicting an adult western male holding hands with a Lao child with the slogan “Don’t turn away”, with the next image of a man in handcuffs with the title “Turn them in” are prevalent throughout the country. Laos is also a source of people forced into prostitution in Thailand, and a transit country for enslaved people from Burma and Vietnam. Not all rosy, it seems.           

(Pic: “Buddha On Board”, Savannakhet, Laos)

So, we tried being careful about not encouraging children to be on the streets and instead go to school. This, of course, was hard going when a child motions to you that they need food to eat, and provided impetus for much discussion in the truck for the next few days.

Pakse proved to be an interesting town, again full of relics of the French but also calm and inviting. We unloaded into a hotel that was, by our standards, pretty schmick, and explored. Afternoon tea at a French patisserie satisfied the soul.

We used Pakse as a base to delve into the Bolaven Plateau, noted for its coffee plantations. Our guidebooks and various advice seemed to indicate that the area was somewhat akin to the Cameron Highlands in Malaysia: undulating, scenic, temperate and a bastion of European occupation that has stubbornly stuck. Instead, what we really found was a community struggling with a single crop economy, and only very recently organising themselves to overcome the dire constraints of overzealous western corporations collaborating to pay a pittance for their wares. The new co-operative has given them a serious leg-up, but this was still a far cry from the wealthy plantations of other regions.

(Pic: Drying coffee beans in the sun, Bolivan Plateau, Laos)

Given coffee was almost the only source of income in this area, we thought we’d give it a go. We stopped in the middle of a small village where coffee beans were spread over tarpaulins to dry in the hot sun, with farmers slowly yet methodically sweeping and turning the beans to ensure they dried evenly. But our coffee experience was uneventful. We entered a dirt floor store that was simply the front room of an extended family’s rustic home and attempted to make ourselves understood. ‘Lao Caffe’ was the order of the day in most parts, but here a determined shop keep only pointed us towards that crime of coffee, Nescafe. We wondered if we just couldn’t communicate effectively, if the locals actually didn’t give a toss about this weird, exotic bean, or, like on kibbutzim in Israel, that it was simply more profitable for them to flog all the produce they had to the co-op and sell the crap to others instead.

SK: The Bolevan Plateau is also home to numerous waterfalls, which we dutifully visited, often parking next to behemoth buses garishly spray painted with Disney characters.  We trooped around these magnificent natural sites, and eventually gave in to the temptation to join the other visitors in their “I’m a tourist, look at me” poses.

(Pic: Maddy’s important life lesson, Bolivan Plateau, Laos)

DB: Further south we entered an area known as the Mekong’s Four Thousand Islands, or Si Phan Don. There’s no definitive tally on just how many bits of soil that poke out of the water here, and the tally alternates depending on the season, and how much water is flowing, but still it was as impressive as its name.

En route we made a slight detour to the extraordinary Wat Phu Champasak.

Considered the most sacred site in southern Laos, there is evidence of structures built here as early as the 5th century BCE. The entire site is enormous – over 1km in length, and is constructed over three levels with a road that supposedly leads from the site to Angkor in Cambodia.

Wat Phu Champasak had been the site of a three-day festival that finished the day before we got there. We had thought about visiting during its final day but were scared away by the crowds. A day later, all that was left were workers dismantling stages and pavilions, various stall holders sleeping in the shade and tonnes of litter, including thousands of spent incense sticks. Once again the sheer volume of refuse detracted from the overall splendour of such an ancient, sacred place.

(Pic: The view from Wat Phu Champasak, Laos)

The going was hot. In fact, half way up the crumbling, uneven stairway to the top level of the Wat Maddy and Raffy engaged in one of their first ever sit-down protests. We Shall Not Be Moved. Fair enough. Still, Sandy and I pushed on and had a gander at various ancient structures and rock formations that, if you shut one eye, squinted and then spun around quickly looked almost exactly like the elephant and crocodile after which they are now named. Most of the buildings had collapsed upon themselves, the ground now littered with blocks of stone that were once meticulously placed and constructed to form temples and shrines. Most of the good stuff, such as statues and decorative reliefs were housed in the adjacent museum, but most of these didn’t really provide enough information about them.

The road to Ban Hat was fair to middling, with the standard number of fauna, folk and modes of transport weaving through the dusty streets. It was here where the road ended and we were to board a car ferry across the Mekong to Don Khong island. It took us a while to actually find where the ferry was to meet us as there was little indication of any formal ramp or landing – just a couple of dirt tracks that sloped downwards to the river. We had seen the Lao version of a car ferry in Luang Prabang and didn’t expect much – this was not going to be any large, white liner with cafes, bars, comfy couches and a duty free shop, like in Europe.

(Pic: Wat Phu Champasak, Laos)

Sandy pointed and gesticulated with some locals and we found that we were indeed in the right place and that the ferry would come over from the other side – sometime soon. We could see a couple of vessels on the other shore but it seems they were waiting for more cargo and passengers before pushing off. No timetables here – just critical mass.

Finally the contraption came over, disgorged its contents and was ready for us and a few others. The ferry was actually three narrow river boats that at one time were probably used for fishing, lashed together side-by-side and with a flat timber platform laid on top. The engine and driving compartment seemed a late afterthought, as was the method in which you actually drive on and off the thing. The ramps were on the port and starboard sides of the platform, while the ferry travelled at right angles to it. So, the pilot would deftly slide the ferry sideways into the shore, hoping the behemoth would land in a place where vehicles could actually drive on and off, and repeat the manoeuvre on the other side.

(Pic: All aboard – the truck on the car “ferry’, Don Khong, Laos)

We loped on to the platform hoping the boat wouldn’t tip and were joined by a couple of utes and a ubiquitous south-east Asian ute-taxi – which is a ute with the luxury of a roof over the rear tray so that passengers don’t get too wet or blown away. A few pedestrians also boarded the ferry as well as a number of women lugging snacks and drinks. Ah, this would be the lounge! It was bizarre being in deepest rural Laos on a rickety boat and being offered western soft-drinks through the open window of our truck.

About ten minutes later we were reversing the procedure on the sandy bank of Don Khong and very quickly we were in the village of the same name. We chose a guesthouse and quickly settled in to their restaurant built on the river in view of some of the islands. As the sun set we watched fishermen in small, slender boats casting nets and checking traps until the only light available was two forlorn neons on the ceiling of the open-air restaurant and the moon. There were only a couple of others in the restaurant but the lights that our hosts chose to switch on were as far away from our tables as possible. This, it transpired, was not the workings of an affected grunge dive floor manager, but intended to divert the billions of tiny insects away from our repast and instead towards the opposite side of the building where fat geckos took their time to select the tastiest morsels from this vertical smorgasbord.

(Pic: Sunset at Don Khong (with a wat in the background), Laos)

We woke the next morning rather excitedly – another day, another exotic country. Today we would head south and across the border into Cambodia. The drive would take us about an hour, during which Maddy and Raffy began revising some basic Cambodian words and phrases in preparation for our newest locale.

The Lao passport control post jumped out at us like an ambush: one minute we were tooling along admiring the scenery and the next a long bamboo pole was draped across the road. I slowed down as quickly as possible without smoking the tyres but ended up just under the slightly raised boom gate and to the left of centre so as not to take the entire contraption with us. Here, Sandy organised the stamping out of our Carnet, as well as the US$1 per passport ‘Administration Fee’ (no receipt, no questions, no answers) and then a little further on our passports were stamped out. A few hundred metres south would be the Cambodian border.

The border post at Dom Kralor – really a couple of bamboo and thatch huts – was occupied by a ramshackle group of officials who probably did something in a past life to deserve to be posted out here. Nonetheless, one immigration official who stumbled through English greeted us and requested that we sort the car business out before he dealt with our passports. Interesting, we thought.

(Pic: Customs ‘building’ at the Lao/Cambodian border)

Then we were introduced to Customs Officer #346. The world needs to know the identity of this disgraceful specimen as it is my intention to have him banished to fiery gates of hell, or the Collingwood cheer squad, forthwith.

Customs Officer #346 reluctantly dragged his sorry, flabby arse over to us, along with his look of utter distain and disinterest, took one look at our paperwork and shook his sweating, jowly head. He spoke no English and directed the immigration official to translate for us. What we were told was that he didn’t ‘recognise’ our paperwork, and that we required a whole new set of bits of paper. It reminded me of the old Robin Williams gag: how do you recognise paperwork? “Didn’t I meet you last year at the Feinman barmitzvah?” I demanded to see examples of the papers he was demanding and he retreated to his bark hut to show me. Here, he proudly presented roughly roneoed papers that provided exactly the same information as that on our carnet: name, address, car registration, engine number, chassis number, contents, etc. But for his royal flabbiness, no dice. He was unmoved that every country we have visited acquiesces to this internationally recognised document, that we know for certain that Cambodia certainly does, and that there was no reason why we couldn’t drive in.

So, I requested the Cambodian forms to fill out for him, but that, it seems, wasn’t possible either.

“Leave your car here (in the middle of the bush) and go to Phnom Penh to sort it out,” was this overweight overlord’s suggestion. Yeah. Good one. Leave our vehicle and our possessions in limbo (theoretically in no-man’s land between the Lao and Cambodian borders) and try and get a lift a few hundred kilometres away – for what? The other suggestion? Talk to the Cambodian embassy in Canberra. Haw haw haw, good one.

We begged him to contact a senior authority to explain the situation, but he just laughed, flashing his gold teeth and shaking his clammy cheeks. We asked what else we could do to alleviate the impasse, with me making the US dollars poking out of my pocket rather obvious, but he simply turned on his heels.

Lunchtime.

So there we were, in a rather baking heat, and El Rotundo has sauntered off to add to his considerable girth. I asked the immigration official what he thought I should do and he suggested I go and speak with him.

And with that I essentially walked across the Cambodian border without actually being officially admitted. I found Jabba the Hut already chowing down, glancing at me with a stupid grin on his overfed, damp face and suggested we continue our conversation. He ignored me. So, I made a show of writing down his identification – Customs Officer #346. At this point he raised his glass of hot tea and made to aim for me. Top bloke. Brave, too. All I wanted was to go and spend hard currency in his country and he wanted to disfigure my face. Needless to say, I made a hasty retreat.

We were summarily and embarrassingly defeated. For the first time on this entire trip we were being told “no,” and there seemed no way around it. And not for any good reason, but simply some bulbous bureaucrat decided “no.” We knew we were in the right, and that we had the justification, means and the impetus, but that obviously wasn’t good enough. We even know of people who had driven foreign vehicles into Cambodia quite recently. That night I spoke to Jon Faine and he suggested we try again at a different border because he and Jack effortlessly sailed through only six months ago or so.

I spied the dusty driveway that left the road just before the Cambodian boom gate that went through the dust to the other side of the gate, and thought about getting in touch with my inner maverick by simply driving around the official border crossing through the scrub. Then I visualised a posse of Cambodian officials leaning out of trucks and taking pot shots at us, and thought better of it.

It has since been explained that the potential for losing face is culturally an abomination, and so sometimes some people in these parts will simply make things up in an act of self preservation. Perhaps Customs Officer #346 refused to call someone in higher authority for fear of being viewed as incompetent (which he obviously was, but he was never going to admit it in a pink, porky fit), but it struck me as a rather problematic method of running a country. If you don’t know the answer, make it up.

And so, with figurative tail between our collective legs, we turned around, sprayed dust and stones into Customs Officer #346′s little bamboo booth in our (ok, my) last ditch attempt at making a robust, defiant and albeit infantile point, and headed back for Pakse, for lack of any other plan. Fortunately the Lao immigration and customs people were happy, though slightly bemused, for us to return and stamped us back into the country, a mere 20 minutes after we had left. But we didn’t even get our US$1 per person ‘Administration Fee’ back.

What do we do now?

(Pic: Raffy and a playmate in a dusty playground in Pakxe, with intrigued onlookers)

Day 286 – 298

20 January – 4 February, 2009

1,788km

Total: 28,283km

Soundtrack:

‘Is It Just Me?’ – Wendy Harmer and Angela Catterns

‘Bombtrack’ – Rage Against the Machine

‘Stay On Track’ – Deborah Conway

‘The Dirty Boogie’ – Brian Setzer

‘Little Time Bomb’ – Billy Bragg

‘US Forces’ – Midnight Oil

‘Theme from the Dirtbombs’ – The Dirtbombs

‘Many Rivers to Cross’ – Jimmy Cliff

‘Diesel and Dust’ – Midnight Oil

‘Three-Five-Zero-Zero’ – Hair

‘Purple Haze’ – Jimi Hendrix

SK: It was with big hugs and sadness that we separated from our friends. We had enjoyed a fabulous beach holiday together; a hiatus in both our trips that nourished us.

We retraced our route north up the number 4 highway, headed for the former royal city of Ayutthaya. After a roadside stop for fishball soup for lunch, we negotiated our way around Bangkok (except for one glitch that had us heading back into, rather than away from, the city), and soon left the built up world behind.

(Pic: Obama Fever is everywhere! Ayutthaya, Thailand)

It took a while to adjust to the local signage – every country has its own idiosyncrasies in terms of what information is available about upcoming towns and routes – but we found our way to the western bridge over the Mae Nam Chao Phraya. This river is one of the three that surround the city, providing impressive access for trade and commerce when Ayutthaya was at its peak.

How many times can one find “what wat is what?” funny? Well, Maddy still does. So we bought her a guide to the dozens of wats of Ayutthaya, made her study it, and visited as many as we could in the short time we had there. On our way out of town, we stopped at the Elephant Kraal, the historic site where roundups took place centuries ago. Nearby is now the Elephant Palace and Royal Kraal, a home for working and retired elephants. We were thrilled to be up close to these beautiful pachyderms. Funnily enough, we were as fascinated with the animals as the European and American volunteers were with our truck. Four legs – four wheels; a truck – a snorkel. And almost the same size!

(Pic: Raffy gets ahead, Ayutthaya, Thailand)

After leaving Ayutthaya, we were finally into what felt like rural Thailand proper. Bound in the direction of the Thai-Laos border, we drove along small back roads, though tiny villages, past large schools, farmland and orchards. Over yet another fishball lunch by the road, Danny outlined our trip to the curious young woman who had served us.

We stopped overnight in the regional hub of Chaiyapum, coming in at the end of what looked like a big festival. Missed it by a day, but still reaped the rewards of the local street market.

(Pic: Raffy gets a tickle from the cheekiest of baby elephants, Ayutthaya, Thailand)

We were only hours away from the border, and travelling now through undulating country. We wondered what if any impact the Bangkok airport closures and changes within government had had on the people in this rural area, so far removed from the politics and machinations of the city.

After finding our guesthouse in Nong Khai, we sat on the deck overlooking the mighty Mekong, and had our first look at Laos, across the brown, slow moving river.

(Pic: The volunteers wanted to know about us, but we wanted to know about the elephants, Ayutthaya, Thailand)

DB: Our shortest drive of the trip followed, with a 34km jaunt across the Friendship Bridge, funded and built by the Australian government. Customs and carnet stamping were no great hindrance, with Sandy essentially telling government representatives on both sides what they needed to stamp and sign. We could have continued further north into Laos, but before we knew it we were in the capital, Vientiane.

(Pic: A weird ‘figure 8′ system moves drivers from the left to the right of the road when crossing into Laos)

If we thought that rural Thailand was sleepy, Vientiane – ostensibly the busiest place in Laos – was positively and happily comatose. The French had left rather hastily but in their wake were wide boulevards, francophone architecture, coffee and baguettes. While a little dishevelled, Vientiane felt warm and inviting.

We eventually found our guesthouse of choice and made ourselves at home. Laos, as we would soon discover, was a geographic wonder that provided chronological signposts that indicated periods of significance and upheaval. For example, old street names that lent themselves to deposed royalty were unceremoniously changed, and changed again. We cruised what should have been our street for twenty minutes or so looking for our guesthouse and finally stopped and asked for directions, discovering that it was on an entirely different street – recently renamed.

The guesthouse boasted a proud yet dusty library of not only standard dog-eared airport schlock but an amazing collection of cold war-era references that were a delight to behold and perhaps a snub at the prevailing regime: The Boy’s Life Book Of Baseball Stories – 1943-1962; Foreign Trade Statistics of Thailand, 1978; New Yorker Magazine, 1982; Pick’s Currency Yearbook, 1957.

(Pic: Sunset over the Mekong, Vientiane, Laos)

We took our time meandering the streets, wandering through the most polite, quiet and orderly market I had seen to date, past imposing government buildings with names like “Department For The Strategic Development Of Regional Policy Engagement And Administrative Management Strategy”, or some such, and eating exceptionally well. The Lao National Museum was an excellent example of post-communist revolution hodge-podge that seamlessly mixed local craft and geology with the Grand And Unsurpassed Victories Over The Capitalist Infidels.

While eating beautifully grilled fresh fish while watching the sun set over the Mekong was a highlight, so too was our visit to COPE (www.copelaos.org). This NGO seeks to support victims of injuries from still-live munitions that litter the landscape, as well as raise awareness of the insidiousness of some of the best of modern science and engineering whose sole purpose is to maim and kill people. It was here that the magnitude of the secret bombing of Laos became real. While it took the Americans years to admit that they had even heard of the place, Laos retains the invidious gold medal for the most bombed country per capita in the world. And, as it is so often the case, it was – and is – the people who don’t really give a flying fornication for politics, revolutions or domino effects who suffer the most. It is estimated that some eighty-million (read that number again, folks) UXOs (Unexploded Ordinance) remain active on or just below the surface of the Lao earth, which, when partnered with a community eager to till the soil to grow food and collect scrap metal for cash, leads to horrific results. Some people are of the belief that you can use the explosives as a quick fishing technique, while small children often find the small, tennis ball-shaped “bombies” attractive playthings. Efforts are being made to clear land, but as you can imagine it is dangerous, painstaking and expensive work. Importantly, while vast tracks of land that were once the lifeblood of village life remain out of bounds, many people languish in poverty. More than 75 per cent of people in the Laos People’s Democratic Republic scrape by on US$2 a day or less.

(Pic: Maddy organising our great night market dinner of grilled fish, Vientiane, Laos)

Our visit to COPE and the ensuing conversations had a profound effect on us, and in particular our children. Maddy was particularly moved by the stories of children who suffered injury or death, and the simple unfairness of it all, while Raffy, poignantly and succinctly asked, “Why does there have to be wars?” Try and answer that question without accusing everyone of being idiots or invoking fear of the big, bad world.

SK: We explored some of the wats of Vientiane, accompanied by Maddy still asking her classic joke. We’ll see how many we can get though before it stops being funny. In Haw Pha Kaeo, Raffy tallied up the different positions of the hundreds of Buddhas. In Wat Si Saket, Maddy started counting the alleged 10,000 Buddhas, but gave up. We checked the sharpness of Naga teeth, and marvelled at beautiful murals. We also visited the revered Wat Phra Luang, whose image graces many a tourist brochure for the country. To keep us refreshed, in between temples and museums and pounding the dusty sidewalks, we consumed copious amounts of coconut juice, watermelon shakes, and the ubiquitous Beerlao.

(Pic: Pha That Luang, Vientiane)

DB: We were also made aware of the Lao desire for increasing development and modernisation, and, in particular, their invitations to the Chinese to help out. To this end, we were reliably informed, with all the talk of increased trade and investment, Laos agreed to accept a staggering one million Chinese workers in exchange. And, even if Laos’ population is relatively thin on the ground, comparatively, if that’s not cause for serious concern for a country of just 6.5 million people, apparently the Chinese ‘renegotiated’ the terms of the arrangement after it was a done deal and decided that all of those one million workers would head directly to Vientiane. That, and the enormous pressure to access Laos’ pristine river systems and other natural resources to feed energy-hungry neighbours seems to hint at a potential environmental and social disaster waiting to happen. We hope the Lao authorities can see it coming, too.

After a couple of nights we headed north and entered the Lao countryside within minutes of leaving downtown Vientiane. We were now on dual carriageway roads dotted with cars, trucks, utes, motor-scooters, animals and cycles, all moving in slow motion. It was here we were introduced to the infamous Laconic Lao Traffic Merge Manoeuvre.

(Pic: We wondered about moving in to one of the many crumbling French colonial mansions in Vientiane, Laos)

Road Rule Number One in Laos is Never Be Concerned About What’s Coming From Behind. This might be influenced by the lingering communist dictum of To Infinity and Beyond, or something, or even a wholehearted faith in future incarnations, as it was explained to me once, but to turn right into any thoroughfare the only thing you need to do is turn your steering wheel or handle bars. If there’s something hurtling towards you from behind, then surely they will go around you or slow down to give you room. At first I thought it was a put on. “Surely,” I would mutter, “you’re not really going to turn in front of me.” And surely they would. Always and often. The rule is extended to dawdling along at turtle speed in the middle of the road. Not in the middle of a lane, but the road, where there would usually be painted white lines.

While motorised scooters are plentiful in Asia, it seems they are the main mode of transport in Laos regardless of a rider’s age or purpose. Entire families crowd on to the tiny things, kids ride them to school and farmers and tradespeople transport the most unlikely cargo by either sitting on the handle of a hand cart and towing the cart along or simply holding on to the timber/piping/baskets/animals with one hand or over a shoulder, and tootling along. The mostly Chinese-made scooters have tiny motors of 125cc all the way down to sewing-machinesque 50cc that sound less like a motorbike and more like a bunch of cicadas on a hot summer’s evening, which is fine in town, but on highways it means four-wheeled traffic may be speeding at twice or even three times a scooter’s speed. When they travel two a three abreast and veer into your path without looking, it makes for even whiter knuckles.

Another rural Asian phenomenon is the mini walking tractor/plough/cart/people mover. Essentially a small diesel engine with a light at the front mounted on two wheels and with handlebars akin to reins, it is designed to walk behind when ploughing fields, but canny Asian innovation now means this beast is used by farmers for everything from tilling the rice paddy to taking the extended family to the market. What it also means, of course, is that they are even slower and more unwieldy on the road than a Chinese scooter.

(Pic: The ubiquitous walking Tractor, Laos)

Of course, there’s always a yang to the slowcoach’s yin, and in Laos it is the local dignitary who must simply get around in a flashy four-wheel-drive, at 120km/h, in the middle of the road, with a screaming police escort. Why they are in such a hurry we’ll never know – maybe it’s because there’s a problem with the parquetry floors being laid in their new, massive mansion up on the hill. And I was told that George Orwell’s ‘Animal Farm’ is still banned here.

So, between walking tractors, puttering scooters, almost as sluggish trucks and utes, speeding politicians and the cast of Babe on the roads it makes for interesting driving, to say the least.

Vang Vieng seems to only exist because it’s one bus ride from the capital and another further north to Luang Prabang, and is the proud owner of a dirty big wartime Air America airfield in the middle of town that now sometimes a small corner is used as a marketplace and for the rest of the time shimmers in the baking heat as a reminder of the excesses of a misguided western foreign policy. Or, alternatively, Vang Vieng could be described as backpacker hell. It seemed everyone out and about were ‘farang’ – foreigners. We parked our truck on the main drag – a dirt track lined with a few shop stalls, restaurants and guesthouses – and found a place overlooking the river for lunch. The truck created some interest, with some Australians raising their eyebrows and smiling, Americans and Europeans scratched their heads, and the Israelis not giving it a second glance, because nothing impresses Israelis.

(Pic: Vang Vieng, Laos)

This is the place where buff and near-naked twenty-somethings with monotonous faux Celtic and shoulder-blade butterfly tattoos come to experience the true essence of a reclusive, modest, devout and congenial culture by hanging out at riverside pubs getting rat-arsed on Beerlao (which is surprisingly good) and other assorted versions of wowy sauce (Lao-Lao – rice moonshine, sometimes tolerable, usually not), jiggling to bad music, cheering like a soccer crowd and jumping in the river. Never mind that we are told that Lao people are rather discreet and reserved – strip down to your shorts to walk along the main street and party on. Our visit coincided with the iconic Big Day Out concert happening in Melbourne on that very day, I noticed, and the similarities were striking, except for the music.

Thankfully our friends JJJZ recommended a quiet guesthouse just out of town and up the dirt track from an amazing organic farm that not only creates remarkable produce but also supports the local community in learning farming skills as well as reading and writing. Travellers can get involved in teaching and farm-work (if you’re around long enough) and can get a feel of a rural Lao existence  (www.laofarm.org). We could hear the ruckus from the local skin stomp up the river and were amazed at one point to hear a Paul Kelly song, only for it to be summarily and unceremoniously halted midships and replaced by the umpteenth running of Toto’s most appalling ‘Africa’. The din grated against the stunning surrounds of the pristine river, jungle and small crops like a power saw on a nail, but, as we were assured earlier, it all stopped when the sun went down, when we were presented with the resonance of singing crickets, chirping geckos and clucking hens.

At the farm Maddy and Raffy helped feed the goats and we wandered through the mulberry plantation which is mainly used for paper production, though we were careful about not straying too far from the path, due to what we had learned about UXOs.

(Pic: Feeding the goats, Lao Farm, Vang Vieng, Laos)

Next stop was idyllic Luang Prabang, once the royal capital of Laos and getaway for expat Francophiles, and now a rather stunning, quiet village at the convergence of the Nam Khan and Mekong rivers. Our days were spent wandering the small, intimate streets of this UNESCO World Heritage town (where busses and trucks are banned from the old centre), eating, resting and being rather merry.

The town is dotted with remnants of French colonial past, with many grand though crumbling villas, some of which are now slowly being restored to their former glory. We would wake early to the drum beats of the wat across the street, but would sleep soundly due to the alleged 11.30pm curfew in the area. Nobody ever spoke of it or would confirm it, but the entire town was silent the whole night – not a nudey bogan within earshot.

(Pic: Mist over the morning market, Luang Prabang, Laos)

Being closer to the Chinese border, Luang Prabang seemed to be teeming with Chinese tourists. They drove in convoys from China and through town and were conspicuous as much by their gaudy and often inappropriate accoutrements as their blaring two-way radios. It seemed these guys desperately needed to keep in contact with the rest of their touring party at all times and so shouted at each other through their radios at every opportunity. It was most annoying at the wondrous night market, where people would browse, inquire and bargain in a tone akin to a blissful and reverential religious procession, and where the ambience would be shattered with the distorted blurtings emanating from a black box located in the vicinity of a Chinese arse.

Still, Raffy stole the show when, during dinner at a lovely riverside restaurant that at the time was patronised by a not insignificant number of tourists, he announced at the top of his voice: “I know why Americans are really weird.” We again revised the lesson about when it might not be appropriate to make disparaging remarks about an entire cultural group (in public) and when he can safely raise such issues (when only his family can hear him and we can chuckle quietly).

It was in Luang Prabang we also began secretly tittering at various examples of Laolish – or Englao – which were some of the failed attempts at writing signs and menus in English but ended up being a tribute to the failings of computer program spell-checks. We once ordered a serve of Morning Growly and were unsure of another’s Morning Gory, and had to trust the Lemon Glass wouldn’t cause any damage. Some dishes were served “prickled” (pickled) and “spikey” (spicy), and we were sometimes tempted by a dish’s “source”. Thankfully all worked out swimmingly.

(Pic: Maddy and Sandy watch mulberry paper making, Ban Xangkhong, near Luang Prabang, Laos)

Maddy, in particular, familiarised herself with some Lao words and phrases, teaching us what she had learned and often translated for the rest of us. Her grandmother Néné commented during a recent conversation that Maddy was quite the linguist, and Maddy then inquired whether that meant she like linguini.

Cheap and nasty designer knock-offs were plentiful in Laos, as they are in much of the developing world, though we were astounded by the temerity, ignorance or perhaps the deliberate comedic cultural reclamation of kids getting around in Black Flag T-shirts. It is highly unlikely that many Lao teens know of the seminal Californian hardcore punk band, but considering the militia of the same name that operated in the vicinity about one hundred years earlier, causing enormous pain and devastation upon the local proletariat, as well as the French, I’m not sure everyone gets the joke.

But some of our biggest smiles were saved for our encounters with the Tamarind restaurant. Expat Melbourne dynamo Caroline, and her partner Joy, have created an authentic Lao dining experience that comes with explanations, descriptions and feasting procedures. Caroline’s mum works with Sandy and so, after initial contact many moons ago, we were eager to indulge and delighted with the results.

(Pic: Maddy’s rather pleased with her efforts at the Tamarind cooking class, Luang Prabang)

Joy also offers cooking classes, complete with market shopping excursions, and Maddy and I jumped at the chance. After signing on just before 9am, Joy led a group of twelve budding cordon bleu to the local produce market, pointing out and describing many of the subtle differences in vegetables, herbs, spices and cuts of beast, after which it was on to his rural sanctuary where we selected, sliced, diced and Julienned the ingredients for four courses, and then steamed, grilled and fried them all just so, all of which we consumed throughout the day.

SK: Raffy and I spent most of the day by the Mekong, watching the boats go by, and building one of our own, much to the delight of a bunch of local kids. Our boat didn’t go very far, but it looked great.

DB: We also visited the innovative Big Brother Mouse bookshop that provided children’s books in Lao, English and French, and My Library, where young people in particular had the opportunity to learn English and use computers, both of which were run on the smell of an oily rag and empowered people to value education and aim a bit higher than they ordinarily would. While many young boys in particular choose to become novice monks (or the choice is made for them) it was heartening to see them learning long after dark to use modern technology in the grand and noble pursuit of knowledge.           

(Pic: Sunset, Luang Prabang, Laos)

When we thought we were reluctantly all set to continue driving through Laos, disaster struck at precisely 2.20am. I know it was that time because I checked, and because it struck again at exactly the same time the following night. Sandy had unfortunately become the unwitting host of a gastro bug that was, we later discovered, doing the rounds of the town and simultaneously the Macarena in her stomach, and she was way-laid for the rest of the night and following day. The next night, Maddy and Raffy were sick within seconds of each other, at 2.20am, and so the inhabitants of our small room in our guest house spent 48 hours or so lying very still and wishing it all away. The following night at 2.20am I thought I felt woozy but didn’t thankfully succumb (which is less a sign of resilience and more an indication that I’ll get sprung one day soon when I least expect it), but again we were once more behind in yet another revised schedule.

After all had recuperated we hit the road and aimed for Phonsavan and the extraordinary Plain of Jars. Phonsavan seemed the antithesis of Luang Prabang – dusty, haphazard, noisy and struggling. Still, as we had learned, the Lao people know how to put on a splendid repast, we discovered at the local market that there is in fact more than one way to skin a local furry creature, and we found out more about what is being done about clearing UXOs from the land.

(Pic: The Plain of Jars, Phonsavan, Laos)

The UK-based non-government organisation, MAG, the Mines Advisory Group (www.maginternational.org) is doing amazing work in raising local and international awareness about the perils of live munitions that continue to threaten the safety, livelihood and lives of people around the world, and especially Laos, and their shop on the main drag provided the information we perhaps don’t really want to know. Again, Maddy was furious at a world that was at the same time brutal and nonsensical, while Raffy’s mind began working on ways in which he could rid the world of the bombs that lie around waiting to strike the unaware and undeserving.

Still, remnants from the explosives that once rained down upon the earth here remain in full view and are almost celebrated. Adorning doorways, lining paths and hung on walls, bomb bits seem to be a way of life here.

(Pic: Pleasant home decorations, Phonsavan, Laos)

It is at the nearby Plain of Jars, in three local sites, where hundreds of very large earthenware and almost prehistoric pots are scattered deliberately across the fields. And if the jars were not enough of a site to behold, we learned that there is no definitive explanation about why they are there, who put them there or precisely when they got there. The evidence tells us that huge efforts were required to construct and deliver them, as they are not made from local sources. Then, if that wasn’t enough amazement for one area, we discovered that the region is one of the most bombed in the country, as part of the Ho Chi Minh trail that was used to bring troops, armaments and information to South Vietnam once meandered through here. Much of the collection of jars was obliterated by the US’ relentless carpet-bombing before and during the Vietnam War, and bomb craters and trenches litter the sites. MAG has cleared some of the area of UXOs, but the paths to tread are clearly marked, and visitors are strongly advised not to stray.

Our bumpy, and perhaps over ambitious drive back to town presented us with another new experience – our first blowout for the trip. Pretty good going, I thought – almost 30,000kms without changing a tyre, but then again I was cursing myself as it was only a day before when I checked the spare and commented to myself: “Pretty good going – almost 30,000kms without changing a tyre.” Curse you, Murphy.

Soon after pulling over a crowd had seemingly materialised out of the dust and scrub, with much tut-tutting, commentary and probably advice, all in Lao. I extracted the required tools from the truck and got to work. Of course, not so straightforward. Even with Raffy standing on one end of the wheel-brace, there were a couple of wheel nuts that wouldn’t budge. I went to the back of the truck to get the steel pipe used to engage up the high-lift jack to use as greater leverage when one of the local rubber-neckers decided to have a go. No sooner had he strained at the wheel-brace than the thing snapped. There he stood, most of the wheel-brace in his hands, the socket still fitted to a wheel-nut, and he with a immensely uncomfortable look on his face. I jokingly pointed at him and let him know he had busted it, but, recognising he was feeling rather mortified, gave him a pat on the shoulder and a laugh. It was the first time that wheel-brace had been used – and the last. Luckily I had a spare and used that. Soon enough the wheels were exchanged and we were off. The tyre repair in town cost less than A$7 and it was ready for collection before dinner.

(Pic: “It was his idea!” A broken wheel-brace didn’t stop us, Phonsavan, Laos)

From here we steered towards a road less travelled – south towards Paksan. The main throroughfare south from Vientiane, Route 13, was paved and used by most of the traffic, but to head south directly from Phonsavan meant taking a back road. It was this stretch that had us a little more than concerned as there were conflicting reports about the quality of the road and the time it would take to traverse. We had already encountered some pretty horrific potholed tracks when investigating the Plain of Jars, but entering some of the most remote forests of Laos became more challenging by the minute. Soon after leaving the paved road of Phonsavan I flicked our truck into four-wheel-drive, and then geared down into third, and then second. To preserve the tyres I had reduced their air pressure by about a quarter. It was hard going. Holes and trenches more akin to ravines, rocks, gravel, bulldust, mud and river crossings became the norm. I was anxious about being gentle with the truck, and at the same time wanting to make enough time to get to Ban Khoun Kham before dark, as this track was no place to be after the sun went down. And, adding to the angst, we had no confirmation about the actual distance between the two towns – something ordinarily easily gleaned from a map, but every map we looked at presented vastly different numbers, and the few and far between road signs went missing when we left the main road. Between our maps and bits of info gleaned from some locals, it was anywhere between 120 and 200-odd kilometres.

Much of the track was being continually butchered by logging trucks whose work, we were informed, seemed to teeter between the modern concepts of legal and illegal. At times we had to back up into a clearing of sorts to let a truck through – and other times I refused to budge too far into the scrub less the rear end fell into a river or went kablooee. The big, noisy, belching, Soviet-era trucks were large, butch and bruised enough, I reckoned – let them make room for a change.

(Pic: You want us to cross that? On the way to Tha Thom, Laos)

Some of the track was actually being graded, potentially in readiness for the monsoon season. However while that sounds positive, in reality what it meant was there were numerous times when we simply had to wait until the road was constructed before we knew where to drive. At times we would be met by a length of bamboo draped across the track, and, in the distance, some graders playing in the sand. Often there was simply no road to speak of – just a long, lumpy and seemingly impossible stretch of sand and dirt that seemed to indicate the way forward. More than once we would ask rhetorically, “Um, where’s the road?” Then, someone would remove the bamboo and wave us through, and if the track didn’t prove enough of a challenge, waiting for the pint-sized two-wheel-drive vans and utes to get through the quagmire or extract themselves from a bog, was. And still people attempted safe passage on little scooters, walking them much of the way.

Still, the majority of the track delivered us through lush forest and jungle, through streams and rivers, across some rickety timber bridges that creaked, groaned and complained at our load, and past small tracts of land used for crops and rice paddies. Villages popped out of nowhere and, while the adults stared perplexed, most of the children waved and ran alongside. We were even fortunate enough to catch sight of what we believe was a black bear that meandered across the track a distance ahead of us.

(Pic: About to cross a river on the way to Tha Thom, Laos)

The driving was nerve-wracking, trying to ensure we kept four wheels on the dirt and not propelling any rogue rocks into the sump, while at the same time the landscape was breathtakingly beautiful. Still, the sun was getting low, and given none of the villages had been thoughtful enough to provide “Welcome to” signs in English, let alone in Lao, we were generally at a loss as to how far along the track we had come, aside from the odometer readings, which didn’t tell us much. We drove through a number of tiny villages that presented a most idyllic, bucolic nirvana – fine looking buffalo wallowing in mud, chickens, ducks, cows, goats, pigs and turkeys all parading around joyful children, smiling adults and their bamboo and straw huts. The villages, while cosy, were not necessarily up to accommodating tourists for the night, and we hoped we’d eventually find a bed, as camping out in a UXO field didn’t sound all that inviting. As the sun finally gave up the ghost we rolled into a town a little larger than most of the villages we had passed, and spotted a guesthouse. In six-and-a-half hours we had travelled a grand total of 123km, averaging around 19km/h. Maybe Ban Khoun Kham was just up the track?

The truck was covered from axles to roofrack in thick orange dust and mud, and my arms ached. We eventually discovered that the town was called Tha Thom, which meant that, according to our maps, we weren’t exactly near Ban Khoun Kham – we were only half way.

(Pic: On the way to Tha Thom, Laos.

Varanasi, India – Cha-am, Thailand

Day 267-286

1-20 January, 2009

Soundtrack:

‘Take Me To The River’ – Al Green

‘Jump in the River’ – Sinead O’Connor

‘Night Train’ – James Brown

‘If It Takes All Night’ – Roxy Music

‘Night and Day’ – Cole Porter

‘Day and Night’ – Nina Simone

‘An Inch An Hour’ – Tragically Hip

‘Today, Tomorrow and Forever’ – Patsy Cline

‘All Day Sucker’ – Stevie Wonder

‘What A Day That Was’ – Talking Heads

‘A Place Called Home’ – PJ Harvey

‘Happy Home’ – Maurice Frawley and the Working Class Ringoes

‘Barflies at the Beach’ – Royal Crown Review

‘Sycamore and Sand’ – Art of Fighting

(Apologies for the tardiness due to a recent lack of internet access)

DB: We were awake early, if not a tad grumpy, for our dawn boat ride on the Ganges. We have read and heard much about this fabled river and were keen to take it all in, hook, line and stinker.

Again, the car ride from our hotel was akin to the Blind Dukes of Hazard on speed with a death wish, but finally we were introduced to our boatman and led through a madding throng of drivers, touts, stall holders, hangers around, and tourists. Then, boarding the boat in the half light, we began to slowly grasp the magnitude of the holy city of Varanasi, its relationship with the waterway and the confluence of past and present, sentient being and spirit, myth and reality.

(Pic: The Ganges, Varanasi, India)

I remain astounded and baffled by the sensory overload that is the Ganges, and to be honest still struggle with the level of importance in which it is held in people’s beliefs, while simultaneously it is treated as one very large refuse disposal unit. To watch people come to its shores and immerse themselves with purpose, focus and ritual is very moving – the magnitude of its water’s symbolism in the context of spiritual purification and reincarnation are irrevocably interwoven. However we were also warned, fervently and frequently, about the actual physical toxicity of this very sanctified water. The fetid liquid, particularly on this side of the river, is officially septic, in the truest sense of the word, such is the level of human and other waste deposited continually. Several large sewers empty directly in the vicinity of the long row of ghats – steps from holy temples leading to the river – adding to the already problematic concoction caused by the often hourly human cremations that take place on its shore. While ash might not be too drastic, it’s the cremations where the family can’t afford enough timber for a big fire that tend to leave bits of singed cadaver, which ultimately find their way into the water below. To top it off, dogs, cats, buffalo, goats and miscellaneous beasts of the four- and two-legged variety make the shore home, including ensuite bathroom. Not pretty.

But then again, thousands upon thousands of people are truly elated at the opportunity to visit this consecrated canal, and its importance to Hindus the world over is not to be understated. A measure of this is the number of historic ghats that line the shore, each with its own regional maharaja custodian and band of merry sadu (holy men). A veritable India Expo (and beyond), the buildings are less constructions of beauty and more imposing symbols of religious significance with a State of Origin feel.

(Pic: Washing clothes in the Ganges, Varanasi)

And then, as we were being paddled along side dozens of other morning adventurers, we heard “Oy – I know you!” We had met Meredith and her partner in the top-floor lounge of our hotel in Selcuk, Turkey. Meredith, from Adelaide, and I share connections with some colleagues and had chatted about our respective works a couple of months ago. Now, here she was with a friend in the middle of the Ganges at dawn, pointing at us with mouth agape. The odds are bewildering. We were hoping to catch up with her at the end of the boat ride, but in the cluttered flotilla we lost sight of each other.

SK: After returning to the hotel for brekky (full credit to the kids for their unflagging energy and chirpiness in the face of tiredness and early morning boat trips), we then embarked on a tour of the city with our Varanasi driver (he of the lovely white Ambassador). Having only one day to explore, we opted for expediency for a quick visit to the major temples. It was an opportunity to see around the city, as well as within some beautiful old and new holy sites. Again it was dodgem animals, with a much greater number of bullocks on the roads.

(Pic: Some happy campers on the Ganges, Varanasi)

At lunch we bade farewell to our charming driver. Spending time with him, in traffic, was an opportunity to speak about life. His family was safely ensconced well away from the city noise and mayhem, in a small town about an hour or so from Varanasi. His three daughters, similar in age to our two, were being raised by their mother. Our driver, the major breadwinner, was only able to get away from work and visit once a month. It reinforced for me what a privilege our day-in-day-out twelve month long family time together is.

(Pic: On the Ganges, Varanasi)

DB: We spent the afternoon wandering and wondering, gazing and gawking, engaging with some locals, watching where we were stepping, and dodging touts. This time, though, I was introduced to a new ploy, and didn’t really see it coming. As a westerner I have been conditioned to accept a hand offered in greeting and welcome, but no sooner had we shook than the man had deftly locked my hand under his chin and began massaging my arm. My masseur explained to me that he was simply being kind and hospitable, but after a few more minutes (of quite a nice rub) it became clear that I could really offer to pay him anything I wanted. No pressure of course, but I had the distinct impression that the meter was running.

I declined the offer to move to his stall down the way, as that could have been a lifetime investment – or the beginning of a deep and meaningful relationship, I’m not too sure – and eventually put an end to the rubbing, with a donation to the cause.

(Pic: Ah, now there’s the rub, Varanasi)

Not five steps later another man was providing me with an outstretched hand and a red, toothy grin. I had to be a little too forceful for my own comfort in rejecting his hand-kneading advances, but we managed to walk on unscathed.

A bit more wandering and we headed back to the hotel for dinner and to prepare for our ride to the train station. The plan was for us to be collected from the hotel at 9pm, get the train at 10.30pm, sleep soundly, get to Delhi at 7.30am and then our homestay shortly after, spend a full day doing last minute exploring, shopping and visiting historic sights, maybe have another go at the fantastic old Delhi market, a leisurely dinner with the Talwars, a cab to the airport, and breakfast in Bangkok.

(Pic: Sadu, Varanasi)

At least the last two worked like a charm…

We vacuumed another sensational meal at the Hotel India, packed and waited patiently for our ride. Nothing doing. Sandy made a couple of frantic calls and finally a driver turned up. It seemed he was as surprised to be collecting us as we were anxious.

The train station didn’t afford the ‘luxury’ of a waiting room, so we found a bench that wasn’t inhabited by anyone making it their home for the night (and there were a lot of them) and again waited patiently. 10.30 rolled by and the cool evening air turned a decided shade of frigid. We put on as many clothes as would permit us to move relatively freely and not roll away. And waited some more.

A buffalo appeared from a doorway on the opposite platform and stood patiently. I’m not entirely sure how it got there as it seemed the only access was via a timber staircase from our platform over the tracks. Maybe it, too, was waiting for a train? We’ve seen stranger things in India. And the platform announcements, introduced by that confounded “Ta-dah!” talked to us again about junny bunnies. We could only laugh. Thankfully there were no mynah birds – they must all still be in Agra for their conference.

(Pic: Maddy made a friend who promised to finish school if we bought some flowers from her, Varanasi)

Given our rather trying episode at the Agra train station – that ended with our arrival in Varanasi a little over a day before but felt like a few lifetimes previous – we were extremely anxious about spending another cold night in a cesspool. Sandy had made a couple of calls earlier in the evening in an attempt to determine if and when the train would arrive so that, with a bit of forewarning, we could wait it out in our hotel room and not in amongst the vermin and the shadows. She was assured that the train was on time, but no one could confirm the arrival platform. It was Platform number three. Or number four. Or number three or four.

The train rolled in only an hour and a half late, which was luxurious in comparison with our previous locomotive legend, but upon boarding we discovered that we had not been booked into the same cabin. Again, we had been screwed by our dodgy travel agent in Delhi who assured us we would be together. We thought about making a ruckus, but it was plainly obvious that all the beds, bar ours, were full, and everyone was tucked in. So, Sandy and Maddy slept in a cabin above an older Indian couple who both snored like troopers, and Raffy and I took two bunks in what originally had been the corridor but was now considered yet another cabin in an attempt to service the rapidly growing Indian population. I set my alarm for 7am in preparation for getting the others up and ready to hit downtown Delhi.

My alarm went off and I awoke to a motionless train. I wiped some condensation off a window and registered that we were in the countryside somewhere, and that indeed not much was happening. On our previous train turn we became used to standing still and silent at regular intervals, so this was nothing new. We were also accustomed to train staff providing no indication of where we were and when we might be elsewhere. Finally the train lurched forward and after a time Raffy came and joined me in watching the Indian world go by, albeit in fits and starts.

(Pic: You shoo them off – I’m busy, Varanasi)

Sandy and Maddy rose shortly after and we were offered breakfast. The others nibbled at some toast, and I selected a plain omelette that, it turned out, came with some hidden extras that were not advertised or pictured in a serving suggestion. Not long after brekky I cramped up and made a mad dash to the filthy squat toilet. Not only would I continue cramping for a couple of days but I would somehow infect the rest of the family.

And then it was midday, almost five hours late, we were still nowhere, and we had no indication of when we might leave it. As we were supposed to arrive in Delhi ages ago there was no food on board – not even chai. Finally we stopped at a train station and Sandy took the gamble to hunt down a chai wallah. She made it back just as the train staggered forward again.

SK: We got chatting with the older couple below Maddy and me. They were heading to Jaipur via Delhi, as she was attending an obstetrics conference to chair a panel. A fascinating couple, engaging and friendly, and not at all surprised about the lengthy delays. At this time of year, he said, you need to add at least twelve hours to each train journey because of the fog. So now we knew that our first trip wasn’t a lucky fluke. Some warning, when our tickets were handed over, would have been helpful, at least ensuring that our supply of snacks for the kids was more plentiful. (Our downstairs neighbours had brought ample food with them in anticipation.) And then we could also have factored in the time lags for our journey and not been in such a rush. 

DB: I could go on in detail about the following seven hours or so, but the recounting would be as tedious and nonsensical as the original experience. Suffice to say, we arrived in Delhi after dark, fought bitter battles with taxi wallahs wanting to extort wheelbarrows of money from us, our promised driver having not materialised, and got to the Talwars’ homestay with just about enough time for Sandy and I to repack our gear while Maddy and Raffy wolfed down some dinner, and for us to make it to the airport with a couple of minutes spare. I hadn’t dared eat anything since the tainted omelette until I was at least on the plane to ensure a quick evacuation, so to speak. All in all, a train ride that was to take nine hours took about 21. I wish I could have gotten extensions like that at uni. We were at our wit’s end. Another day had vanished into the ether. Our public transport experience had significantly tainted our overall India sojourn, and all we wanted to do was get the hell out. Many would suggest that it is such trials and travails that make for enhanced travel experiences and memories, and that in time we would look back and laugh. Stuff that for a joke. To date we find little to laugh about, and rather resent that our India experiences – ones we had looked forward to for years – have been irrevocably tainted. And now all we were dreaming about was collapsing in our apartment in Bangkok – the same one we were in six months ago – and not relying on a tour or transport operator at all ever again.

Gaining access to the Indira Gandhi International Airport got me thinking about our past few days. Getting onto a local suburban train on the Delhi Metro required bag searches and body frisking. Getting into the airport required the presentation of passports and air tickets – just to get in the building, and then a lengthy bag rummaging rigmarole once you got through the door. But getting aboard the long-haul trains required nothing of the sort. Nobody knew who we were, what was in our bag or what our intentions were. While I’m the last person to get overly anxious about the supposed terrorist threat that we’ve been led to believe that stalks us the world over, it was odd that India Rail was not considered a target – even just after the Mumbai attacks. Maybe those swarthy bad guys think that India Rail is doing enough on its own to put its passengers at risk, but then again, it got me thinking about innovative methods of destruction…

(Pic: The Ganges throng, Varanasi)

We exited Bangkok’s recently liberated airport and encountered a wall of cool, crisp, pleasantly fragrant and seemingly clean air. We were tired, unwashed and I was still dealing with the effects of Delhi Belly, but I smiled. There was no haggling or hassling at the taxi rank and drivers waited in an orderly queue – an airport official noted our precise destination, jotted it down on a chit, and handed it to the driver who loaded our gear, started the meter (a meter!) and hit the wide, clean, vacant roads. I immediately relaxed and dozed – and felt something was amiss.

This was not the Bangkok we experienced six months ago, or even eighteen years ago. The roads were relatively empty, the air was fresh and all was quiet. What happened here? Did the missing days on India Rail force us through some weird time/space continuum vortex and plonk us in a strange parallel universe?

It didn’t matter – we simply succumbed. We got to the apartment before most Bangkokians had thought about scratching themselves, crawled into bed and slept.

By about ten we were up and about. Sandy went down to Our Local Shop (for we felt we had built a relationship since we invested a couple of weeks here half a year ago) for breakfast supplies and – joy of joys – we fended for ourselves, all the while walking around our spacious apartment in our undies and listening to loud music and the distant infectious growl of tuk-tuks. Locals call Bangkok ‘Krung Thep’, or the City of Angels. Like the other famous one, it has its gritty, grimy, sprawling, chaotic side, but for us this Bangkok seemed to look after us like a guardian.

(Pic: Raffy and Maddy take the Bangkok plunge)

As a treat we had our first dinner at a newish Italian joint. There’s only so much curry and chilli a mob from Melbourne can endure without some soul-food. Some pasta and a couple of cracking pizzas did the trick.

And before we could blink we’d been in Bangkok over a week. We shared and overcame the tummy bug and I got a cold, but we simply revelled in standing still, making simple meals, reading and dipping in the rooftop pool. Maddy and Raffy did quite a bit of school work and scrap booking, and Sandy and I started reviewing our next leg of the journey, interspersed with watching ABC news and an episode of ‘Bastard Boys’ on the Australia Network cable channel. A bit weird, but comforting. Star Suites is, as regular readers will recall, a building that won’t feature in any glamour magazines in the near future, but we felt a connection and familiarity that felt a little like, well, home. In fact, Maddy pointed out that, at that time, she considered the apartment more like home than our own house in St Kilda. We had made a decision a couple of months back to ensure we stayed put and create a regular home environment once in a while, and this was doing the trick.

(Pic: Maddy digs in to some delicious durian, Bangkok)

SK: This new side of Bangkok made me rethink India. Call it stubbornness, but I don’t want to give up on a place that is so huge, so diverse, and seems to have so much potential. We only managed to see a small part of the country, which in itself was overwhelming in so many ways. We only had a taste of a portion of the place, admittedly it left us ill (literally), but I’d like to have another go. The deserts (desserts?) of Rajasthan await for another time.

DB: Our truck was due at Bangkok port by the end of the week, so we bided our time by going to the cinema (standing to attention for the King’s anthem – still a treat), a couple of local markets and lazing about. The days were warm and dry and the nights cool. And we still marvelled at dry-season Bangkok – the streets much quieter, the footpaths less congested and the climate much more amenable. It may have had something to do with the recent political turmoil here that has allegedly driven hoards of potential tourists elsewhere and cost the local economy eleventy squillion baht, or maybe the world just looked like a nicer place at the moment.

After four changes of arrival date, we were becoming a bit concerned about our truck being late, as we had spent months planning on meeting our friends Justine, Johnnie, Jack and Zephyr in Laos. But every day spent in Bangkok meant another day lost in our attempts to meet up. And finally we came to the realisation that it just wasn’t going to happen.

So they came to us instead.

(Pic: Justine, Zephyr, Jack and Johnnie join us for dinner, Bangkok)

Sandy and I were wracked with guilt over the JJJZ Laos trip being cut short just so they could come and hang out with us, but their decision made us supremely happy. We felt that for the first time in a while there were people out there looking out for us, wanting to ensure we were ok. We felt loved. They simply got a bus and a train (that ran on time, by the way) and less than 24 hours after they made their decision Maddy was downstairs charging up the street to embrace them.

RB: I was upstairs when I decided to go back down to meet Maddy. I pressed the button on the lift but then I saw another lift going down from level 7 so I waited for that lift and there was Maddy and Jack and Zephyr (I call him Zeph).        

DB: And perhaps as an omen, we got the call to come and collect our truck that same day.

Sandy and I made our way to the dock while Maddy and Raffy got spoiled by JJJZ.

Again, as regular readers will know, our dealings with all things shipping, docks and customs has rarely gone smoothly. Usually what should seemingly take a few minutes ends up taking hours and collecting our truck from Bangkok port was no exception.

Our rendezvous point was a 7-11 shop near the entrance to the docks. Perhaps a tad mysterious, but it will have to do. We weren’t sure if we were supposed to meet a man with a carnation in his lapel, or if we were to surreptitiously swap brief cases. Given there are 7-11s all over Thailand – often three within one hundred metres in an apparent attempt to squeeze out local independent shopkeepers – we hoped we picked the right one. Time ticked on. I fressed on some spring roles and Sandy made a call. Finally we were approached by a young man on a motor scooter. Was he the one? Maybe. Let’s find out. He beckoned us towards a car with two women in the front. They greeted us and opened the back door for us to climb in. We had been in contact with a couple of people in Bangkok via email in the previous weeks to establish details about collecting the truck, and one of them had a name that was probably the most encouraging name you could have when representing a couple of foreigners who couldn’t speak the language and were at the mercy of a variety of hard-headed bureaucrats. She was, is, and for us will always be Wallapa. To us, the Bangkok Wallapa (and definitely not the Werriwa one). If anyone was to cause us grief, the Wallapa would step in and make things right again. In Wallapa We Trust. As a token of our appreciation she now has a little toy koala dangling from her bag.

We were taken to a row of shipping containers standing in the afternoon sun and we picked out ours. It was opened for us and there our truck waited for some of our TLC. We were told that port officials were surprised not to find any keys in it. Damn straight there are no keys in it because they were in my pocket, as our one and only experience of entrusting keys to a shipping company ended unfavourably, and anyway, I had to disconnect the batteries prior to it making its voyage from Izmir, Turkey.

(Pic: Danny checks all the truck’s vital signs, Bangkok port)

I retrieved a spanner from the back, popped the bonnet and connected the batteries up. It had been six weeks since it had last started, and while I have supreme confidence in the truck’s staying power, I was anxious about potentially hearing that dull click and whir that indicates a battery has given up. Of course I needn’t have worried. Trucky fired up first try and all was well in the world. I backed it out of the container and double checked the battery connections, as well as other vital signs, and then drove the truck with Wallapa in tow to the customs clearing area. This is where the official documentation gets ticked, stamped, signed and caressed through the necessary hurdles.

And, as Gomer Pyle said, “Surprise, surprise, surprise”, there was a catch.

Deep breath. In with hate, out with love. Om.

Once again, regular readers will remember the seemingly endless palaver regarding our ‘personal effects’ when we were shipping from Turkey. While we thought we were done with it, it had come back to haunt us.

(Pic: The conference regarding our ‘personal effects’ continues – Sandy speaking with Wallapa, Bangkok port)

The Thai customs people didn’t actually give a fig about what was in our truck and what size Y-fronts I may or may not have had, but we were currently faced with two sets of paperwork for our shipping. Yep – one for the truck, and one for our personal effects. And, hit it again, Gomer, we’d been slugged twice for the one shipment because, according to the Turkish officials, there were two shipments – the truck and our personal bloody effects. Nobody else in the world has cared about our luggage, and now we were staring at a bureaucratic nightmare regarding how the two shipments could be separated, even thought it was only one.

We were taken to an office in the port complex and we waited for something to happen. We sat in a waiting room while various shipping agent bods went in and out of the office, pleading their case and exchanging bits of paper. Finally, it seemed we had a deal.

It was only when we went back to the secure parking lot where our truck stood solitarily, that things really started to heat up. One bloke with some clout was saying no, he needed two sets of paper for the two shipments, while the shipping agents were explaining that it was all one shipment, and about a dozen or so hangers on seemed to flip-flop between the two parties with looks of “on the other hand”. It was like watching a game of verbal tennis in the round. A dozen or so people stating their case, scratching their heads, rubbing their chins, exchanging paper. And all the while Sandy and I wondered what would happen if we simply slipped into the truck, fired it up and drove away. Ah, that was it – they had our Carnet de Passage and my passport. Drat. There’s always a reason to play the game.

(Pic: Repacking the truck, Bangkok)

The sun was getting low and we were concerned about either negotiating Bangkok traffic in the dark or having to come back and do the whole thing again. There was a serious impasse, and while the customs team was attempting to use the sleeper hold the shipping agents were having a go at the Heimlich manoeuvre. And then the big guns rolled in – the head honcho of the customs office who parked his flashy car, hitched it to a pole, sauntered into the fray with spurs a-janglin’, pushed back his hat and gave a look that said “Do I always have to come in to sort you peckerheads out?” Finally, sense reigned supreme and, for reasons only known to Cowboy Customs, the right bits of paper were signed in the right places, and we high-tailed it out of there and back to the apartment.

SK: Bangkok traffic six months ago had me quivering in my seat. I had palpitations at the thought of navigating through this major, monstrous metropolis. Just goes to show what a bit of experience and familiarity does. Danny and I took our appointed places in the truck, pointed ourselves in the right direction, and calmly made our way home as the sun set.

DB: We all hung out in our apartment for a couple of days, and then made the trip south-west to the beach town of Cha-am (SK: and it was a most cha-aming town). Young Jack hitched a ride with us in our newly arrived truck while Raffy hung with Zeph and his parents in a minibus. The eight of us spent a glorious five days that seemed at once to stand still and fly past in a blink. Our days were spent eating, mainly, with some Chang and Singha beer washing it down, and some existential navel gazing that potentially did the soul some good. The four children entertained themselves endlessly and the grownups got massages and foot-scrapes on the beach while vendors brought delectable prawns, squid, vegies and noodles to us. We had replaced gritty, frenzied India with salty hair and prickly skin. We were living a dream.

(Pic: Jack, Maddy, Danny and Johnnie pedal power, Cha-am, Thailand)

Our last evening together was observed by a bonfire on the beach after Raffy and Zeph in particular spent the best part of a day collecting firewood. In the morning the JJJZ would head home and we would aim our truck north, aiming for Laos.

What has become recently evident, albeit unmentioned, is that we are possibly running out of time to complete our planned journey. Ideally we wanted to drive clockwise through some of south-east Asia, and then south through Thailand, Malaysia, Singapore, Indonesia, Timor Leste and home. It was the Indonesia and Timor bit that might be pushing it. We could have simply gone south and forgotten about Laos and Cambodia, but the weather in Indonesia isn’t currently favourable, and Sandy suggested that maybe we wouldn’t get another chance to drive through Laos and Cambodia, and a drive through Indonesia could be another trip down the track.

Then again, it looks doable on paper, so maybe we just might give it a crack…

What had been a couple of difficult weeks for us turned into an idyllic sojourn. Refreshed and invigorated, we set ourselves for a great couple of months.

(Pic: Bonfire farewell, Cha-am, Thailand)