Plenty

Welcome to the land of plenty!

A land ripe with plenty of coconuts.

I'm still perfecting my coconut shaving techniques.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Where everyone has plenty of kids.

 

All of whom can climb coconut trees in seconds and effortlessly use a machete before they can walk.

There is plenty of muscles to help out whenever you need it.

There are plenty of fish in the sea (and plenty of fear of sharks in the sea, so if do go in, you have plenty of room to splash around)

  

 

There are plenty of friends to be made.

Left to right: Latisia (Qamia), Ben (Austria), Debra (Taveuni), me (South Africa), Damian (France)

There are plenty of people who invite you to share their homes and their villages.

There's plenty of food.

And plenty plenty of sugar.

Vatu Lele village

Malau village

Korowai Settlement

There are plenty of new skills to learn

 

And plenty of beautiful places to see.

And plenty of ways to get there.

Taking the ferry from Buca Bay to taveuni

Taking the morning school bus to Lobasa

 Plenty of amazing sunrises and sunsets

But there's also plenty of cyclone damage.

Plenty of poverty.

Plenty of sickness and medical problems.

There's plenty of hard work to be done.

Every single day I have been taken in and housed and showered and fed and served and  and overloaded on love and sugar and smiles.

(I'm not sure why I'm still carrying a tent and a cooker)

It's funny how those with the least always give the most.

 

 

 In Fiji they don't have the newest gadgets.

They don't have the biggest houses.

They often don't have shoes, or fancy name-brand clothing.

They share beds and bedrooms.

They share everything.

But you can ask any Fijian if they have enough, 

and the answer will always be the same:

They have PLENTY!

Robbed, Raped, Beaten

I might have mentioned before how much I hate busses. And I do. I despise them – but sometimes you have to suck it up, [wo]man up, board them and live the nightmare… sometimes.  This was one of those times.

With only 2 days to make a wedding, I could put off the long trip to Koh Samui no longer. I wondered over to my side of the road travel agent who spoke no English who led me to a random ATM and motioned for me to wait. Being an obedient traveller I did but it was a little bizarre lurking around a cash point. Others arrived in drips and drabs and within the hour the street was abuzz with ‘ferangs’ heading to Southern Thailand.

Two hours of lurking later the bus arrived and we set off on the 12 hour over night trip to Surithani where we were hearded like zebra into minivans heading in different directions. I happened to be sentenced to the wrong bus and after a friendly Thai woman intervened the driver said – “no problem, I first drive Phuket then take you Samui…” – these two places are on opposite sides of the country. The friendly woman intervened in Thai again and the, a minute of jabberish discourse later yelled “nobody give him money. Somebody call the police.” And there was a mild onset of panic .

Twenty minutes later though the remnants of my bus were offloaded at a food stall and I enjoyed a private shofar ride to a ferry port where I enjoyed the finest instant coffee and a billon mosquito rapings. By 8am the rest of my VIP bus arrived, stuffed into the back of a tuktuk... somehow I always manage to be separated from the pack.

Instead of a boat, a bus arrived to drive us further off the beaten track to an actual ferry point from where we rehearded into boats and sent to islands near and far. By 2pm, 19+ hours after leaving Bangkok, I finally touched down in Bangkok. Another hour and a half later, I arrived at my budget hotel, checked in and B-lined the shower!

As I opened my bag I knew something was wrong… my toiletry bag was near empty was the first hint… my underwear was amiss… I poured the contents of my life onto my crooked double bed and began a sort… It was official – I’d been robbed.

You hear about I all the time – people’s luggage being rummaged through while you’re sleeping, but you never expect it to happen to you. I mean, in 4 and a half years of aimless world wonderings, my stuff has never been touched – EVER… now all of a sudden… I began the list of missing items:

My emergency cash fund – just in case my hand luggage was ‘borrowed’ – thankfully they left behind my second passport and my camera…

Earrings

The majority of my toiletry bag

My headlamp

My knife

Half of my first aid kit

My only good bra- My ONLY good bra. And this is when reality really sank in … the rest was all replaceable, but a decent bra in these parts is impossible to find… and how do you wear a travel bra to a wedding?? What kind of freak steals underwear anyway??

If I hated busses before, words cannot express my feelings towards them now… After 21 and a half hours of travel I’d been raped by bugs and mosquitoes, bizarrely robbed by strangers and with every other wedding guest flying to Koh Samui, I had been beaten by all on their 2 hour flight. But I was finally there and I had to put my miseries behind me – The celebrations were about to commence!

Avoiding Death, Elephatitus, and Busses. (In that order)

It was a rough day watching my little Mao (the Chinese tyrant bicycle) be loaded onto the roof of an unroadworthy bus and sadder still watching former cycle buddy, Rohan, pass us three times. It was only once I was on the bus that I grappled with what I'd just signed up for - a 250 km journey that would take 9 hours. According to my googled calculator, this comes to about 27.777777777 km/hr and my Grand mother drives faster than that. I instantly regretted the decision but the rusty doors were bolted shut and the shockless bus was on the crawl.

It gets worse too - by the time I arrived a good many lifetimes later, I felt like death. And once I'd checked into my "China-Food Hotel" and found what used to be a mirror, I discovered that I looked it too. I had elephantitus or something very similar. To put it bluntly, I looked like the incredible hulk - not green or anything but swollen to the point that my eyes ears had almost dissappeared. My legs were tree trunks. My arms Oprah-Winfrey wings. My belly looked like one those African kids with the kwashiorkor and my neck had been swallowed by my shoulders. Worse still my throat had swollen shut and I was struggling to breathe. I climbed one flight of stairs and had to sit down - I was pretty sure I was about to die. Don't worry though, I didn't.

Trying in vain to find a pharmacy or some elephant tranquilizers (which would have possibly worked better) I was talked into booking a tour and I really am not sure why but for some reason it made sense at the time. Regret!!! I spent the whole night tossing, turning, gasping for air, throwing up. Repeat. The morning had me swollener still and I had no painkillers. I had no medication and I had no time to find any because I was already late for my pretty expensive tour.

I’m not sure why I thought a tour of ancient fields of clay jars would have been good anyway. Yes they were big and old and ruinsy, but they were really just pots – old school vases with stale water inside of them instead of pretty flowers. In my state I had little appreciation for the “mystical valleys of Paksovan” and even less for the never-ending bumpy dirt roads that shot spasms up my spine.

6 hours of old pots later I finally made it to the doctor. He wasn’t there. His wife phoned him for me and I tried to explain in a language that wasn’t anything close to English what my symptoms were. The wife handed me a pack of orange pills and another one full of yellow ones and told me to have one of each at every meal. I still have no idea what either are. But I’m hoping for the best…

Then I took the second set of necessary precautions for my near demising state and dragged myself on to a place renowned for recovery – Vang Vieng. It’s the kind of place where everyone has cuts and bruises and broken limbs and accidental amputations and weird drug addictions and massive life problems and well, there I was just about normal.

A couple of hard days of zip-lining, floating down the river, ladder jumping, beer pong, dancing, staying up till ridiculous o’clock the afternoon and relaxing in a hammock I was almost as good as new!

Two things I’ve learned from all of this:

1)    Busses are very bad for you.

2)    Beer is probably necessary.

Battered Buttocks

My bum is blue.

Let me rewind a little so that you don't mistake me for a wierdo...

It was a dark and stormy day down in Can Tou, Southern Vietnam and I was boarding a bus. A local bus. A little orange bus that had Teddy stuffed into the luggage department for the first time ever... I was headed for Saigon, a trip that should have taken 3 1/2 hours maximum. 4 hours in I had one man drooling on my left shoulder after he mistook it for a pillow whilst the woman sat in the aisle next to me had donated me one of her plethora of children - the one who I can almost assuredly say needed a nappy change - and placed her on my lap... 7 hours later when I finally arrived I found myself lost and confused in the biggest city I'd visited in a while, swarmed by motto drivers that both wanted my money and my bear. While lurking the streets in search of anything English, I swore I'd never take another Vietnamese bus.

... This is how I found myself the proud owner of Percy, my 97cc fake Honda Dream lovingly referred to as the "Family Vehicle" in Saigon. Little Percy raced over hills and rice paddys and carried me the 2254 km to Ha Noi, the capital (I think) where I handed him over to Australian Ian who I hope is treating him with all the love and compassion deserved by such a humble [slightly gay] steed!!

It was only after he was out of my life that I discovered that there is only a bus towards Laos - no trains or boats or ox wagons - only busses!! I began to panic. I mean it was unbelievable - how dare they limit their transportation options? Dangnabbit. I wasn't taking any of it!

It dawned on me that hitch hiking was probably my best option but I was sternly warned not to do it alone so I began the hunt for company. I plastered posters around the city and on-line and became that annoying person that joins your table and disturbs your meal to pester you about things you couldn't possibly want.

I'd been in Ha Noi for almost ten days already and needed out. The only other person I knew who wasn't taking the bus was Rohan and he'd just purchased a bicycle...

It was over lunch on Tuesday that his friends led me to contemplate the cycle - no mention of course that he had actually done long distance cycling before or that he fitness levels resembled that of a Kenyan olympic sprinter. But the idea was there...

On Wednesday I awoke sold on the idea and roamed the streets in search of a worthy steed (I was hoping for pink or green or rusty), some luggage carriers and a bell (you can't have a bicycle without a bell). And then I was set - what more do you need??

Thursday (Yesterday I think) was departure day, and I woke up excited-to-the-point-that-you-almost-wet-yourself only to realise that there was no physical way to strap all my earthly belongings to my bike let alone pedal them over mountain ranges. Departure was delayed as I shipped 11.36 Kilograms of useless hogwash to mum in China and then delayed again as I discovered Teddy missing. Perhaps I shouldn't have put him in the shower... now everyone wants to cuddle him. Whore.

Post officing... enjoy mum!

About 34 km into yesterday's cycle Rohan taught me that bicycles have gears (I'm still a little perplexed by them though) - but after 80 something Km we pulled into Ho Bihn and celebrated life with a quality feast involving copious amounts of Com (rice) and tofu.

Today was a bit of a different story. It was about an hour into this mornings ride that I realized why most people invest in cushioned bicycle seats and why everyone obtains some level of fitness before attempting to cycle through mountain ranges and why you don't see anyone else with a giant Teddy bear strapped to their bicycle. I of course had acquired neither and of the latter I'm not too fond at present. I'm proud to say however that after today's 71 km cycle (At least 65 of those uphill), I've become a skilled walker of the bicycle and with my knees refusing to bend and my bum an unhealthy shade of whale skin blue, I've got to do it all again tomorrow. And the next day. And the and the one after that. Potentially for the next very very long time.

I said it before in the days of lonely motorbike breakdownages, but this is why most people take the bus... 

HANOI: It's always good to not be Dead.

Phong Nha... somewhere in Vietnam

It really is good to not be dead. I'm grateful for every minute of undeadliness and hope to maintain it for quite some time to come.Years even.

2254 km of epicness from Saigon, I've arrived in Hanoi. And despite the four flat tyres, the snapped swing arm, the dismantled chain guard, the destroyance of my shocks, the driving straight through a road block, the death of my battery and my spark plugs and my hooter, the getting pinned under my bike twice - once in the middle of the Ho Chi Minh highway - and the incessant rain, I've loved every second of it - every single second!!! I still can't actually believe it's over. I made it to Hanoi. Percy made it to Hanoi!

Driving with a gang has been amazing too. Coming down the Hai Van Pass brought saw the most spectacular sunset of my life and having people to share the incredibleness with was a must. As were the thousands of jaggered cliffs that littered the vast green grey terrain.  

Sunset at the bottom of the Hai Van pass

Every time we stopped to ask directions or recount near death experiences with cows and busses; school kids would flock to admire our dirty bikes, whiter skins, and Teddy

The final 15 km were the hardest of the trip. The roadworks had busses and trucks and bulldozers and livestock merged on a single lane pot-holed track where more motorbikes than there are cockroaches in Africa raced to random destinations carrying their families and fridges and goats. Only 5 km out of town I lost the gang and spent a couple of hours searching the old city for our preascertained finish line. But at 17-54 on a Sunday, with only 6 minutes to spare on happy hour beer, I pulled into Hanoi and parked my Percy alive - an accomplishment I still can't fathom!

Ian, new rider of Percy

Two days ago I sold my beloved scooter to Ian, the tallest Australian I've met in a while and he's just began the racing to Saigon to make a flight. I do hope Percy treats him nicely!

All I have left now are a few cuts, burns, scars and bruises as memories.

It's hard to believe that despite the stampedes of cows and cars and busses that have run at me I'm still alive  - I must have cheated death more times in Vietnam than any other country I've visited before. And it's not over yet either - I still need to flee the country - I'm not sure where to go from here - but it still won't be onto a bus... life's too short for busses!!!

Saying the final goodbye's in Hanoi...
please note how I hold two drinks in hand to try and cope
with the emotional torment