Sleeping in Hammocks

You might think the idea of sleeping in a hammock on a Caribbean beach is idyllic.  

Personally, I had my reservations due to my fear of insects, stray dogs and the dark, amonst other things.  However, when I arrived at Playa Blanca on the island of Baru, just off the Colombian mainland on the Caribbean sea, I changed my mind.  The sand was white and powdery.  The sea was warm and turquiose.  And the hammocks were cheap and literally on the beach.  It was like stepping into a postcard.  We´d met some new friends, Niall, Riva and Matt and we sat on the beach congratulating ourselves on just being there.

Arriving at Playa Blanca

Not a bad way to spend January

The day trippers left, we got the beach to ourselves (and the other overnighters, of course), we had some beers and 2-4-1 cocktails as the sun went down and we all agreed we were in paradise.  Then it started to get a bit chilly.

Now I feel the cold.  Always have, probably always will.  My dad tells me he thinks I was born in the wrong country.  It has to be what other Brits would call ridiculously hot for me to consider going outside without at the very least a cardigan, whatever country I´m in.  But we´d caught a boat from Cartagena, just across the water from Baru, and Cartagena was hot even at night.  

So I arrived at Playa Blanca with a thin three-quater length jacket and nothing else remotely warm.  And I was so cold all night it kept me awake.  Well, that and the pelican that Riva and I were sure was nesting above our heads  (the boys think it was our imaginations but what do they know?).  It was one of those nights where you just can´t wait for it be morning so you can stop trying to sleep.

Stop.  Hammock time.

Blissfully unaware that it was about to get COLD

We all agreed we'd had a terrible night's sleep and felt pretty groggy and achy (hammocks are really only comfortable for an afternoon snooze in my opinion) when we awoke, instead of full of joy at the sound of gentle waves just metres from us.  But then all we had to do was roll out of the hammock and into the sea and all was right with the world again. And I could have stayed there forever...

Actually, I say that, but two days later when we tried to leave and failed, I didn't feel quite the same way.  We fell out with our boat company over how much it would cost us to return to the mainland, and I refused to travel with them on principe. The guys who owned the hammock place had told us he could get us on a boat the following morning at 6am, so we marched back there, sat on the beach and decided it wasn´t the end of the world to have to spend another night here.

Seriously though, what´s not to like?

Six AM the following morning we were sat on the beach ready to go, soaking up the beautiful view one last time. 

Six thirty we were still there, trying to appreciate the view still but generally getting annoyed. We asked the guy if everything was ok with the boat. He said yes, then sauntered down the beach for a coffee.

Six fifty, we saw a boat speeding away from us from the other side of the beach towards the mainland. Our guy was running furiously along the beach after it on his mobile phone.

He took his time walking back to us and of course we knew what was coming. Apparently, the boat was full, of course it wasn't that he hadn't phoned them until it was too late...

There were no other boats leaving until gone three in the afternoon, too late for us as we wanted to catch a bus onto our next destination that same night.  So then the guy starts drawing a 'map' in the sand with his finger of what I believe was the island, and started explaining that - good news! - there was another way.  All we had to do was catch a motorbike to the other side of the island, get another boat back to the mainland, then catch a bus to the centre of Cartagena. And - more good news! - it would be cheaper and we would be there in an hour!

This so-called ´good news´ went down like a lead balloon and we doubted if we'd ever make it back. But as we stood around, now blind to the paradise that surrounded us, it became clear we didn't have much choice, so off we went with two strangers on the back of their little motos. I should also mention that I'm afraid of riding on bikes, after my first experience in Kavos when I was 18 with my cousin Kat ended immediately after it had began, in a ditch across the road from the rental place.  I've hardly been on a bike since then, but I really enjoyed it, and at least we got to see some more of Baru than just the beach.

We had arrived from Cartagena on a three-hour cruise boat with about 200 people on board. We left on a five-minute, small, slow motorboat.  It didn't even look like the sea we were crossing, rather a big pond and I was convinced they'd dumped us on another island.  We got on the bus with no idea of where we were or where it was going. When I asked the conductor, he reeled off a list of places, none of which sounded like Cartagena.  To make it worse it was rush hour and we were standing up amid a sweaty crowd.

But, eventually, the city skyline came into view and we breathed a sigh of relief. We were on the mainland and we were in the right city. Happy days.

Five minutes after our anxiety abated, the bus stopped in front of a road blocked off by a police car. The bus driver made an announcement we didn't understand, at which half the people on the bus got off and the other half pushed to the front and started to have a heated argument with the driver.  We sat where we were and concentrated really hard in the hope that we would get some kind of clue as to what was happening.

Slowly, it became apparent that the bus wasn´t going anywhere.  I asked how far it was to walk, too far was the answer.  We wandered up the road to where another couple of tourists were standing, and suggested to them that we share a taxi, but they explained that this was the problem, taxi drivers were striking and blocking all entrances into the old town.  Great. Our only option was to pay someone on a motorbike to squeeze between the blockades and take us to our hotel.

It all sounded a bit Mission Impossible to me (except the bikes were only 50cc), but we did as we were told and made it in time to have a quick breakfast, grab our backpacks from the hotel and board another two buses to Santa Marta, another city further up the Caribbean coast, from where we were travelling to Tayrona National Park.

If only it came with Jack and Sawyer...

Tayrona is beautiful.  The first beach you arrive at there is like the one from LOST - ocean one side, rainforest the other.  We stayed at a campsite called Don Pedro´s with our Canadian friends from Playa Blanca, Matt and Riva.  Don Pedro´s was set back from the beach with two other campsites between it and the sea, so in their own words: ´We don´t get mosquitoes here!´ 

This was lucky for us as we´d arrived at the national park without mosquito nets, bug spray or malaria tablets.  This occured to me on arrival, so I asked a fellow backpacker, ´There´s no malaria here, right?´

´Right´. He said. And that was that.

The beach closest to us was a no swim area, as several signs reminded us that over 100 people had died in these waters, and asked us please try and not become another statistic.

At the end of each beach there was a trail through the forest to another beach.  All the beaches were different, all were lovely.

lovely beach

Another lovely beach

So basically we spent our time in Tayrona walking through forests and lazing on beaches.  It was bliss, a truly beautiful place and if you´re ever in Colombia then don´t miss it.

At night, with no mosquito net, there were bats everywhere.  There was a cover over the area the hammocks were  pitched, and a bat had got stuck underneath it and was frantically flying about inches from my head.  At least after last time, we´d learnt our lesson  from being cold and brought jumpers and jogging bottoms... not enough.  Everyone else had sleeping bags, we´d left ours at the hostel in Santa Marta.  I cursed my stupidity as I shivered through the night with a sarong over my head to protect me from bats flying into my open mouth as I slept (could happen).

The next night, I rejoiced that it could be the last night of my life that I ever slept in a hammock.

Jungle Jerry

Sunrise in Tayrona

Pre-bats

Boys love it

We heart Colombia

The Full South American Experience

Well, you can't really say you've 'done' South America without having been robbed, can you?

Quito has a reputation for being one of those places you are more likely to be relieved of your possessions by a stranger, and it certainly lived up to this reputation as far as we were concerned.

Flyin´the flag, which as far as I can tell is exactly the same as Colombia´s...
 I´m sure it´s very different

We only had one day in the city, and we spent it wandering around the beautifully preserved Old Town in the sunshine taking photos. We also visited a mirador with a huge statue of La Virgen De Quito at the top and panoramic views of the city. We both agreed it was the prettiest of all the capital cities we had visited so far in SA.

Amen sista

You can´t see it, but my lovely wallet is in my bag

Say what you want about Catholics, they know how to build a good  Cathedral

I can´t remember what this building is, but it´s nice, right?

So we were in good spirits as we donned our backpacks and set off to catch a cab from the main road outside our hostel to the bus station.

As we stood waiting for a taxi I felt something wet hit my head from above. A few days earlier I had been shat on by a bird, so my first reaction was to think it had happened again. Then I looked down and saw the spit on the floor next to my foot. At the precise moment I shouted out in disgust, Tom managed to hail a taxi and the next thing I knew a girl was behind me tried to get into it, or so I thought. Amid all the confusion I heard Tom call out to me to watch my bag, but of course by this time it was  too late and both the girl and my wallet were gone.

All this took place within a few seconds, that's how good they are. Nevertheless I was still angry at myself for allowing it to happen. The spitting scam was known to me, I'd read about it in the Lonely Planet and on the noticeboards of several hostels across the continent. But instead of my immediate reaction being, 'I've just been spat on, I'm about to get robbed!' and grabbing my bag as tightly as I could, it was, 'Urgh, what's that wet thing on my head? Gross, I've been spat on!!' And hand flies to head, at which point, wallet no longer belongs to me.  

Of course it's easy to say what you would and should do when it isn't happening to you. These guys are pros.

We alerted a security guard who called the police, who took us to the station and gave us a crime report very quickly. They were even fairly sympathetic, considering how often this happens in Quito. Although I should point out a lot has been done by the Ecuadorian government to improve safety in Quito in recent years and there is a strong police presence everywhere. But of course bad things still happen, as they do everywhere.

Anyways, all that was left was for me to do was to make four long distance phone calls to the UK to cancel my cards.  One wouldn't let me proceed to an operator until I entered my card number, which I obviously didn't have, seeing as it had been stolen.  One tried to upsell a new product to me. And one kept me on hold for ages with a recorded message in a thick northern accent that said, 'Due t'adverse weather conditions we're operatin wi´low staff numbers t'day, so y'may experience longer waitin times.' And we thought we'd escaped the snow drama.

We set off for our next destination, Baños, much later than planned, but by this time we were just feeling lucky. There had been no violence or threat of violence.  And in my bag, right next to my wallet were my Kindle, camera, mobile phone and both our passports, and we were booked on an international flight less than a week later so it could have been a lot worse than $200. Also, a few weeks earlier in Colombia we'd bought two new padlocks for our luggage and at the time were annoyed to discover, once we got them home, that both sets of keys opened both padlocks, meaning anyone who had the same lock (we bought them in a shop directly opposite the hotel we were about to leave our backpacks at for a few days) could open them. But as it turned out, my set of keys were inside my wallet, so if Tom hadn't have had an identical set, I would have had to rip into my backpack for my stuff and then buy a new one.  Mysterious ways and all that.

To top it off we were about to spend four days in a thermal bath town in the mountains, so we didn't feel sorry for ourselves for too long.

Quito from above, and more importantly quite possibly the last photos taken of my beautiful Converse, before I lost them on a bus journey 

Long distance buses and border crossings

I write this blog post quite some time ago. Since then we have had many long distance bus journeys and quite a few border crossings.  Most recently we bought a ticket to Buenos Aires from the Bolivian border, a 24 hour trip. We boarded the bus, drove 30 seconds to the border... and sat there for five hours before we eventually were able to drive off into Argentina.

But before then, and at the time of writing, we´d been pretty lucky with both border crossings and bus travel.  The longest trip we´d made was our Cusco-beach trek, and even that had a five hour stop off in Lima the day before Christmas eve, where we witnessed the whole colonial centre come alive with the magic of Christmas and about a billion last-minute shoppers.  We got so carried away with the pure commercialism of it we had a KFC for dinner and a Toblerone McFlurry for dessert. 

The best thing about travelling by bus is you get to see the beautiful countryside

Our crossing of the Peru-Ecuador border passed reasonably quickly, although Ecuador, with its new and much-advertised ´modern´ immigration system, of course took twice as long as any other country.  They even had a machine to ´stamp´ the passports, and it took so long for the machine to get going they might as well have hand-carved it in stone.  

On this particular trip we were told that the bus we had caught from Mancora in Peru to Quito was direct.  However, after 10 minutes on the Ecuadorian side of the border it stopped, Tom and I were ushered off and a woman from the bus company marched us off down the street without us having the faintest idea of what was going on.  It turned out she was taking us to another bus terminal, where she booked us on an actual direct bus to Quito... that left in two hours´ time.

Such is a backpacker´s life.  Just when you think you know exactly what is going to happen, you´ve asked all the right questions, made yourself understood and understood (most) of what is said back to you, something happens that you weren´t expecting.  How you react to the unexpected event depends entirely on your mood. Either a "FFS, if they say ´directo´then why the **** do they actually mean ´stops after two hours for two hour break and change of bus?!´" or "Meh. Shall we have a wander and get some food?"

Luckily so far for Tom and I, when one of us takes the former approach, the other one usually takes the latter and politely reminds that this is just how things work in South America, and experiencing the difference is part of the reason we came here in the first place.

On this occassion we used it as an excuse to ´treat ourselves´(catch phrase of the whole trip) to burgers and milkshakes.  Well, the national currency of Ecuador is US dollars after all, so it was pretty much a cultural decision.  But I'd like to point out that although I've mentioned three fast food meals so far in this one post, usually we eat local and cheap. Honest.

We arrived in Quito at 7am the following morning and immediately bought a ticket to the Colombian border, another five hours (which turned out to be over six) away.  On this bus we met Arnold, a young Colombian guy who was travelling back home from a trip to Ecuador. We managed to have a pigeon conversation with me speaking mostly in Spanish and him speaking mostly in English, except when we didn´t know how to say something in which case we reverted back to our mother tongue while the other smiled, nodded and had no idea what was being said.  When we reached our destination, Arnold joined us for lunch and said he would accompany us into Colombia.  This particular border crossing was not like any other we´d experienced.  Until then it had gone like this: get off bus - go into the exiting country´s immigration office - get a stamp for the passport - walk a few metres across the border - go into the entry country´s immigration office - get a stamp for the passport - get on the bus. Sometimes both immigration offices are in the same building and it´s as simple as switching queues.

The Ecuadorian-Colombian  border is not like this.  You get a bus to the nearest town, Tulcan, about 5km from the border.  Then you take a taxi to the border. Then you go into the Ecuadorian office which has several queues, all of which appear to be for both entry and exit.  You join one at random and hope for the best (even our companion didn´t seem to understand what was going on). After receiving your stamp, you walk over to the Colombian office, which in our case, had a huge queue snaking right the way round the entire building.  After this you get a cab to the nearest town (Ipiales, about 5km away) and pick up a connecting bus from there.

Being English, we joined the massive queue at the Colombian office without question.  Arnold joined alongside us and then said he would go and find out whether this was indeed the correct queue for everyone - entrants, exitors, foreigners and nationals alike.  And off he went.

So there we were, queuing to get into Colombia, surrounded by police, with the bags of a complete stranger (who had now disappeared) at our feet. It was like an episode of ´Banged up Abroad´.

Luckily for us, Colombia isn´t all about the stereotypes and Arnold was back in a flash.  Unluckily, the news was that this was indeed the queue for everyone.

By the time we passed through immigration and got a cab to Ipiales it was early evening and we were knackered.  Ever-helpful Arnold had already subbed us the money for the taxi as there was no ATM at the station, and now he insisted it was best if he enquired about bus tickets to our next destination (a further 8 hours north) on our behalf. Now this is one thing I am competent at doing in Spanish having had so much practise over the past couple of months, but again, being English we were too polite to insist we did it ourselves, or to ask him to get a move on and enquire as he seemed more interested in showing us all the presents he had bought for his family and friends in Ecuador. Trouble was, by the time he finally got round to doing it all the buses were full due to it being a festival in this part of the country (more on this later).

We finally managed to sort ourselves a ticket out for 10pm that evening which meant we would arrive at our final destination, Popayan, in the early hours of the morning, almost 2 days since leaving Mancora.  I had read in the Lonely Planet that they advised not to take a night bus on this particular route as it was one of the few places in Colombia still frequented by bandits at night.  However, our Lonely Planet is three years old and Arnold assured us it was fine, so we went ahead with the booking.  Later, when we arrived at our hostel in Popayan we saw notices posted strongly advising against taking a night bus to Ipiales (where we had come from) due to "hijakings happening often".

Luckily, the bandits weren´t Blur fans so let him keep the book.

  Just before we borded the bus I discovered I´d left both my phone charger and Tom´s UK travel plug adaptor in the wall socket back in our hostel in Mancora.  This was the latest in a  long line of things I have lost since we embarked on this trip, and the most annoying as both of these items are of extreme importance.  This, combined with the fact that one of the items was Tom´s, made worse by extreme tiredness, meant that Tom was not very happy with me.  Arnold asked what was wrong and I explained, at which point he pulled out his own phone charger and asked if it would work in mine. I tried it in the wall and despite his being LG and mine being Samsung, it only bloody well did! And even better, Arnold insisted I keep it as he had a spare at home.  My faith in humanity at this point was at an all time high, especially as news that I no longer required a travel adaptor for my charger so Tom could keep the other one for his exclusive use appeased his anger no end.

As a thank you I let Arnold borrow my spare travel pillow on the bus (although I did take it back in the morning, you never know when you might need a spare after all).

We arrived in Popayan, found a lovely hostel immediately and after a shower and little rest went out to explore the town, but not before Tom finally got to check the Chelsea-Villa score he'd been eagerly anticipating for 20 hours. Villa lost 8-0.  

It was at this point we discovered we were still in the region in which  the festival was taking place, or to use its proper name, La Fiesta de Blancos y Negros.  The festival lasts several days and involves everyone running around town covering each other in white foam, water bombs, flour and black face paint.  And no one is exempt. In fact, I believe getting a Gringo right in the eye is worth five locals. And all you can do is laugh along and pretend you´re loving it, otherwise they´ll really go for you.

Just what you want to be greeted with after a two day bus ride

I´m ashamed to say I lost my sense of humour after someone poured an entire bucket of water on me from a balcony directly above where I was walking and everyone roared with laughter. Tom on the otherhand (and to my surprise) took it all in his stride, despite wearing one of his favourite shirts.  Popayan is advertised as a ´City of Gastronomy´.  Well I´m also ashamed to say that due to the mayhem outside we had pizza delivered to our hostel door both days we were there. And the same pizza both days at that.

The second day was better as there was a parade which went right past the hostel so Tom could get some great shots from the safety of the window, and I even went out again and got involved. And actually, it was great fun.

Well, if you can´t beat em...

If in doubt, go right for the eyes of the motorcyclist

Salsa!

One of those people is actually me

Tom loves Colombia, not sure why

New Zealand

It's not that Tom and I weren't looking forward to NZ.  But to us it was just a stop off on the way from friends and family in OZ, to our South American adventure; neither of us were particularly excited about going there. Even as I borded the plane, something  I always find exciting, I just wasn't feeling it.  But all that changed as we were coming into land.  I was flicking through the inflight magazine, paying no attention to the new coutntry coming into view from the window.  Then the woman next to me said, 'Excuse me, is this your first time flying into Christchurch?'  I told her it was. 

'Then look,' she said, and pointed to the snow covered Alps, huge below us.  It was the first wow moment, but definitely not the last.

They say first impressions count a lot, and ours were all good.  It was sunny.  The bus to the city was waiting right outside the terminal as we arrived.  And the bus driver was the most helpful man I think I've ever met.  He even kept stopping and getting off the bus to make sure all of his passengers knew exactly where to go next.

As we drove towards the city we passed big parks with kids playing sport.  The air smelled clean. Actually, when I think back to it I´m pretty sure I can hear someone singing 'The Hills are Alive'... you get the picture.  We just got the feeling we were going to like New Zealand a lot.

Just add Julie Andews.

The next day we got up early to pick up our campervan.  It was all very easy and laid back.  Perhaps  a little too laid back we were later to discover as it was getting dark, pouring with rain, we were running out of fuel with no sight of a petrol station... and we realised we hadn't been told what fuel the van took.  We made it to the petrol station in the nick of time and then sat in the car for 20 minutes trying to find the lever to open the door to the petrol hole (or whatever you call it) on the side of the van, in hope that the name of the fuel would be displayed there.

It wasn't, but by this time the cashier from inside the station was wondering what the hell we were doing and had come out to check we were ok. She kindly informed us our van took petrol, as all diesel cars need some sort of tax disc on the windscreen which we didn't have. Phew.

We arrived at or first stop, Queenstown, after dark in the pouring rain and the thought of making up the bed with only a head torch (our van had no external power supply option so using the lights with the engine off would drain the battery) and sleeping there rather than checking into a lovely warm hotel with a real bed was less exciting to me than I had anticipated. However, once the bed was made it was so cosy, and we slept soundly despite the rain.

Sleeping beauty. OK, he´s actually awake and posing for the camera.

The next morning the rain had stopped and the sun was shining though the curtains of the van. It had been so dark and wet when we arrived the previous night we hadn't been able to see anything of Queenstown. So when I stepped out of the van and saw for the first time the incredibly huge, snow-capped mountains (aptly named 'The Incredibles') that surrounded us it blew me away.

Talk about room with a view

Now, I've actually found this blog post quite difficult to write as no one really wants to read about what a totally amazing time we had in this stunningly beautiful country.  I know this because alot of people have told me similar stories about NZ and it's just gone over my head.  

But, I will just say that those few days I spent in a campervan, driving across the most beautiful scenery I have set eyes upon, picnicking on the banks of turquoise lakes beneath awesome mountains and sleeping under the stars with the man I´m about to marry was the most romantic and one of the happiest times in my life. Just sayin.

`

See what I mean?

The best drive. Ever.

On a different note, NZ was the place we first became disolusioned with the Lonely Planet.  The book waxes lyrical about the North Island over the South.  It doesn't even include Milford Sound or the Te Anau - Milford Highway in the highlights. For us, this drive and our boat trip through Milford Sound was by far the best two days of our trip.

And it massively bigs up a place called Rotorua, somewhere I was very excited to go to due to it´s volcanic landscapes, complete with 30 ft geysers and bubbling mud pools. Well for a start, the 30 ft geyser was hidden inside a theme park that cost a fortune, so we refused to pay. Secondly the whole place stank of sulpher, something that made Tom feel sick, but worryingly gave me cravings for egg sandwiches. Thirdly it wasn't a very attractive place... Let's just say the best thing about our time here was the Nando's we had for dinner. And I don't particularly like Nando's.

Milford Sound. Awesome.

The Lonely Planet also named Wellington as the coolest little capital in the world. Now, we only stayed a night there so can't really judge, but the whole world? I mean it was nice, it has a lovely harbour, good coffee and a cool interactive museum, but the whole world?!

Wine head followd in the morning

Auckland we did like. We stayed in a hostel that used to be the Queen of Tonga's house, and I'm pretty sure we got her bedroom. It had two walls that were entirely windows, with a view of a pretty garden and even the ocean in the distance. What's more there was a heart shaped pillow and two hot water bottles on the bed. These things make me happy. I nosed around several rooms and ours was definitely the best. In Auckland we also meet up with an old friend of Tom's from London Craig, and his wife Andrea, who've both since moved back to their native NZ. We went for a drink in a bar that could have been in Dalston for all the hipsters, though Craig assured us it was the only bar of its kind in the city.

Sittin on the dock of the bay

There's not much more to report on NZ, except to say that it's so great. But the only way you will really understand this is if you go.So go!

Oh yeah, there´s also lovely beaches...

Queenstown.

Happy.

'Strailya

When we initially talked about going travelling, it was to South America only.  But when we were invited to Jasmin and Luke´s wedding in Bali, suddenly we saw the opportunity for a real round-the-world trip.  And what better excuse to stop by Down Under and say G´day to our friends and families?

 
We both have family in Oz and have both been before to visit them.  On this trip we spent a month there, two weeks in Perth visiting my family and the East London Aussie crew, and the rest in Melbourne visiting Tom´s sisters and their famiies.

Last time I was there was 13 years ago, back in the glory days of the pound, when you could live like a king anywere else in the world.  Oh how times have changed.  Australia is EXPENSIVE!

 

So what can we tell you about 'Strailya? Well, it struck me as being in one way exactly like all the cliches and stereotypes, but in another way, full of surprises and things it should be famous for, but isn´t.

 

So, here are five things that won´t surprise you about Australia:

 
1. They do have BBQs ALL THE TIME.  However, not in the English sense.  An English BBQ is an event, a rare occassion where it is warm on a Saturday. You invite all of your friends, buy a load of booze and coleslaw and a million baps.  Someone usually brings a potato salad.  And you eat cheap burgers and sausages.



In Oz, it just means you cook your meat, or whatever you´re having for dinner that night, outside.  Good meat too.  We had a lot of BBQ´d meat and it was all delicious.  Of course, they do also do the Saturday event-style piss-up BBQs too. We went to one and it was great. But there was not a burger or bap in sight, and this was a gooood thing.

mmmmmmmm...

2. Great White Sharks eat people.  It´s on the news in WA regularly.  In fact, there´s been an increase in shark attacks on humans. Not just that but the attacks themselves are becomming more violent.  I´ve heard several times that when sharks attack people, it´s not because they want to eat them, but because they are investigating what they are, by taking a bite. And they don´t actually like the taste so they usually leave the rest. Well not anymore. While we were there I heard about one guy who had his legs bitten off by a Great White, and as his friends were trying to pull what was left of him out of the water onto a boat, the shark came back and ripped the rest of him right out of their hands. And ate him all.

Anyone else hearing the Jaws theme tune while looking at this picture?

3. They are exercise mad.  Nope, it didn't do them much good in the Olympics, but it's still true.  In Perth there is a set of steps (274 to be exact) called Jacob's Ladder that go up Mount Eliza at King's Park.  The view from the top of the Swan River and Perth city skyline is lovely, but the steps themselves are nothing special, just a set of functional concrete stairs, nothing to see on the way up or down.  In fact they are quite secluded and if they were in London they would be the kind of place that junkies would hang out behind.  But not in Oz, oh no.  They are chocoblock full, in both directions, of people climbing them for exercise.  Men, women, young, old, walking, running, two at a time, with weights, you name it.  And when they get to the top they do press ups.  Of course I jumped at the chance to get involved when my friend Erica invited me to join her morning climb on my first day in Perth and it was fun.  But we saw a woman using her baby as a dumbell at the top, I shit ye not.



4. They have a bit of a chip on their shoulder about the English (but then again, who doesn't?!).  Our friends and family excluded, we did notice this a bit. Nothing serious, just something that cropped up a few times.  On one flight I was queuing for the toilet and exchanging polite conversation with a man who was also waiting.  As soon as he heard my accent, he felt compelled to immediately tell me that although his very distant ancestry is English, he was in no way descended from convicts.  Because of course that is what I assume every time I meet an Australian. He then started, well, whinging, about 'whinging' Poms. Whatevs.

5.The country is effing huge.  When we flew from Perth to Melbourne we got jetlag. Seriously.  I actually first penned this blog post in Argentina, a hell of a long way from home. I saw wild llamas the morning I wrote this for example, not something I regularly see on say, the 271 bus route.  Yet the time difference between Argentina and London is 3 hours, the same as the time difference between Perth and Melbourne.

And here are five things I found about Australia that I wasn't expecting:

 
1. The wine is not cheap. In fact, it's cheaper to buy Australian wine in the UK than Australia. OK, so maybe not the really good stuff, but who buys that anyway?  It reminded me of the time last year when we had to take champagne to Paris from London, so we could afford to drink it there.

But the wine tasting is free, however. And with complimentary cheese.

2. The beaches are gorgeous! Is Australia famous for its beaches? I know it's famous for surfing, but when I think of countries with beautiful beaches I don't think of Australia.  But we went to some lovely ones. And the best bit is they're just there - no annoying hawkers, umbrella men or loads of bars, restaurants and shops lining the proms. Nice.

Just like Summer Bay



X Factor audition pic

















3. The birds sound like baby dinosaurs.  No 'cheap-cheap' or morning birdsong like you hear in England.  When you wake up in Australia, for a split second you think you're in Jurassic Park.






4. OK, this one is a bit embarrassing to admit, but they have koalla bears in the wild.  I thought they were all in zoos or wildlife parks.  But we saw some on the Great Ocean Road just hanging out. Loads of them. Made my day.
















5. They are a very hospitable nation.  I don't mean I was expecting them to be inhospitable, but everywhere we went we were treated like family.  And not just by our families, though they were especially amazing.  By our friends and their friends and families. We were fed, watered, laundered (our clothes that is), driven about and given guided tours. Absolutely everywhere we went we were made to feel so at home.  I'm not saying we wouldn't do the same (and we've made a lot of 'next time you're in London' promises that we absolutely mean), but there's something very laid back about it over there (perhaps the lack of British reserve?) that just puts you at ease immediately.



My Aussie family BBQ at Gary and Barb's



erm... enough said.

E3 Foreva baby

Night out in Perth before Miss Mansfield heads home

My cousin Barb makes a MEAN Margarita

Like uncle, like nephew: Tom n Roars

Hutchings' family dinner - you haven't lived until you've had one. 

The beautiful bride and the boys!

Tom and his sisters getting ready for our Big Night Out

Another day, another drink!

First night out in Melbourne

Tom's gorgeous sisters Astra and Delta

You can't come all the way to Oz without getting fed by king of the kitchen Luke Nuewen - another masterpiece.

Cheddar's leaving do - we met him for the first timethis night and then again for the Inca Trail!

Our lovely Tanya.

Tom's family minus Rory: Mica, Astra, Sean, Naomi and Delta

And of course... the Griswald's family day out to the beach! Perfect end to our time Down Under.

We left Australia feeling sad that it will be such a long time before we see all those faces again, but happy and incredibly lucky to have them in our lives.