Pakistan: Sukkor & Multan. Just your average Pakistani beating.

My head throbbed. My jaw ached. My limbs burned. I had been punished by 11 Pakistani men.

We spent the previous day in Sukkor, a city on the Indus River. I walked across the river on a two mile bridge that was built by the British in 1914. Ok enough bridge talk. I rode on a donkey cart after an offer from an ecstatic local He refused to take any money highlighting how lovely the Pakistani people are.

Hooray for Donkey rides.

At the hotel I was unfortunately placed next to a room holding a party… that lasted until 2:45am. You know when you're kept up by a party? You know how your alarm clock ticks over as you mentally calculate your lack of sleep? And you know how your anger just festers and festers? Yeah well that was me.

A giggling drunken tour member came into my room exclaiming that he was so drunk and was only going to get two hours of sleep and so was I. I was about to turn into the incredible hulk. After 93 minutes of sleep, I came down to breakfast and someone (who wasn't at the party) asked me if I slept well. I spewed a monologue of hate against mankind and giggling drunks. Why am I writing this non travel related matter in my blog? Not sure, maybe because it's therapeutic and relaxing. You can all be like Dr Phil. Geez I'm dramatic. Dry your eyes mate.

We moved onto Multan and stopped for lunch at the desert town of Sibi – the hottest town in the world. Last summer averaged around 53 degrees / 127 farenheight. Not satisfied with the bus toilet I relieved my bowels behind a dirt mound next to a train track. Halfway through my number two a 16 carriage train passed me (I was more focused on finding an impromptu toilet to hear the oncoming train). So there I was, squatting and waving like the queen to a train of beaming Pakistani's. What dignity.

In Multan Bilal organized a soccer game against a local team and I was designated right midfield. My previous soccer experience wasn't good. I remember watching televised soccer as a child and seeing off-the-ball players placing their arms on their heads to breathe air into their tired lungs. So when I played that's what I did… for the whole game. I my whole little league career I only touched the ball once – when I accidentally walked in front of a throw in.

But against this team I was committed. I ran, I shouted for the ball and I went in for the tackle. But my body started to tire. My lungs burned, my legs throbbed and I was going to faint. So I subbed myself off… after four minutes. I didn't even touch the ball. Our team lost 4-0 and as we clapped the other team off I decided to permanently retire from soccer.

Beaten 4-0 by Multan FC.

That night we had an enthusiastic but unnecessary police escort to an ancient site where Alexander the Great got shot with a poison arrow. Multan is one of the oldest cities in the world that retains its original name. I caught a rickshaw back to my hotel and went to sleep. There was no party to keep me awake. And I was happy. The universe was balanced again. (I have no idea what I meant by that!)

Pakistan : Quetta. Ok, this is getting ridiculous.

I am bigger than Jesus.

Well not really, but hey John Lennon said that and, taking his lead, I can say that I'm like the Beatles. (Wow, what a horrible transition. Does that even make sense?)

Yep, I'm like the Beatles, except replace the screaming teenage girls with fundamentalist Muslim tribal farmers sporting AK47's.

After a 16 hour drive on a dirt road we reached Quetta, the capital city of the Balochistan region. The Balochistan region takes up 45% of Pakistan's area but only has 6% of its population. It's a desert region populated with tribal people and exiled Taliban. It's considered Pakistan's most backward region and it shows in Quetta.

In Quetta you have open sewerage and decapitated goat heads strewn across the streets. The main forms of transport are donkey, rickshaw and donkey (oh, I just mentioned that). Being so close to the Afghan border I would imagine Quetta would be like downtown Kabul.

And then you have the locals… The official population of Quetta is 500,000 but this swells each day as the mountain tribes come to town to sell their goods. They also come to gawk at tourists. Seriously, I know I have crapped on about my celebrity status but this was unreal. Walking through downtown Quetta, I stopped to admire a disemboweled pig hanging in a shop window and after 20 seconds I turned around to see literally 50 tribesmen swamping me. They weren't asking me if I liked 50 Cent or Pakistan. They just stood and stared and as I walked off they started to follow me.

Swamped in Quetta

I ran to join the other tour members, one of which had walked into the town's only mobile phone store. Each member had their own entourage which merged to create complete mayhem. The crowd swelled and boxed us against a brick wall like a police line up. We were unable to move until four policemen parted the crowd and I escaped to an internet café complete with Windows 95 and a dial up modem powered by an exercising hamster.

We also went to Quetta's main tourist attraction – the Pakistan National Rock Museum (I'll pause while you drown in jealousy). Screw the world's greatest brick dome, this was mind-blowing. I loved looking at sedimentary and metamorphic rocks. I don't have time for igneous rocks.

The amazing Pakistan National Rock Museum

Returning to the bus we saw it was completely surrounded by a mob of inquisitive tribesman. Our driver Jean Paul was trapped in the driver's seat and was furiously shouting at the locals. They'd released the pressure from the bus doors and were trying to force them open. It was like a scene out of Night of the Living Dead. I'm not sure what their intentions were as they didn't look like thieves. Maybe they just wanted to shake Jean Paul's hand and ask him if he liked Pakistan?

Bilal reassured us that they were only curious. Pakistan is a country of 160 million but only gets around 5000 tourists a year – even less in the remote town of Quetta. The locals only see a western face once every few years, so it's understandable they want to see the infidels up close.

Swamped at the bus.

Also, on the way into Quetta I read an interesting article in National Geographic about the rise of Fundamentalist Islam in Pakistan. Basically, all the exiled Taliban are lobbying the Pakistani government to adopt Fundamentalist Islam. To pursue this, they were protesting, setting up anti west Islamic schools, and spray painting billboards bearing women's exposed faces.

Bilal dismissed the article, saying that although there was a faction of fundamentalism it was very small (it got less than 5% in the last election). If you believed the west, Quetta was supposed to be the heart of fundamentalist anti-west Islam, (It's less than 100 miles from Kandahar, the Afghan capital of the Taliban). but all I saw were pleasant bus curious locals more intent on showing you a rock museum than launching Jihad.

Wow, I've come to the realization that you can't believe everything you read. There I said it. Am I the first to say it? Probably. I think I invented that saying… (Awkward silence)… Ok maybe not, but I still believe it.

Geez, thanks Bilal.

Iran/Pakistan/Afghanistan border: Ohshitistan

Iran/Pakistan/Afghanistan border: Ohshitistan

The 2007 Iran Lonely Planet guide advises that no traveler venture past Bam towards the Pakistani border as the British consulate has placed a heavy travel ban on the area as it's a brutal desert populated by roaming ex Taliban bandits. It's the land of children bearing machine guns (for self defense) and tribesman offering the chance for $20 to shoot go to their opium field an shoot AK47 at a goat ($50 for a rocket launcher). This was our next destination.

There are rules for traveling across this region: you must have a military escort and travel in a convoy to provide more targets for shooting bandits theyby increasing your chances of survival.

We spent the night at an Iranian border town. It was the same deal as Kerman and Bam, it's on the smugglers highway and populated by gangsters and other unsavory types. We headed out at 5am for the Pakistani border and soon enough we had a series of military escorts which would interchange every few hundred meters. These escorts had varying degrees of safety. Some escorts would have two soldiers diligently manning an anti aircraft gun, others were more interested in smiling and waving at us than looking for bandits.

Military Escort

Bandit territory

Our tour leader nearly passed out with stress as a male tour member, for a laugh, decided to dress up in a woman's burka, a sure fire way to piss off an exiled Taliban. Another member had his camera confiscated by an angry Iranian solider for inadvertently taking a photo of a military base. Having the responsibility of looking after 40 people, where only a wayward snipe or a rocket launcher would finish us off, his stress was justified.

We were escorted to the Pakistani border. I'd unexpectedly been to Pakistan ten years earlier. I was an unaccompanied 15 year old on a flight from London to Sydney (yes, flying is much quicker) when the plane made an emergency landing in Karachi, Pakistan's largest city. I spent the next 24 hours holed up in a hotel with the only other unaccompanied passenger – a 16 year old Dutch girl. Being romantically retarded, nothing happened. I ordered lobster thermador (I figured the airline would be paying our expenses, it wasn't) and went to sleep. Interesting.

Entering Iran I was given a small pink slip to present on disembarkation. I had lost it. I was worried that I wouldn't be able to leave Iran; I would have to live with Valli and be doomed to give tours forever. I stepped up to the window, ready to use my library of excuses but the guard just waved me through. Talk about an anti climax.

Once in Pakistan we met our guide Billal who the perfect antidote to Valli. He spoke impeccable English, talked sparingly and was open for intelligent discussion on any Pakistani matter whether it be government, religion or cricket.

The previous day the democratic candidate for prime minister, Benazir Bhutto, was parading in Karachi before an estimated audience of 1.5 million people when a bomb exploded killing 139 people. The masses were angry at the military government (dictatorship) who in turn were angry at the popular demoractic Bhutto. It was about to kick off in Pakistan. But Bilial reassured us of our fears and said our crossing of the desert should be bandit free.

As we raced across the desert, a funny thing happened; we listened to Lionel Ritchie's classic All Night Long. Looking out the window as the great expanse of nothing the tunes of Lionel were surprisingly serene and uplifting. As a smile crept across my face, I didn't seem to care about roaming bandits and exploding donkeys and we safely made it across the desert. Mr. Ritchie, I salute you.

Iran. Bam : I feel the earth move under my feet. I see the mosque tumbling down.

10 seconds. 50,000 dead.

That's the duration and death toll of the 2003 earthquake that devestated the eastern Iranian city of Bam - our next destination.

It hit at 5am and most of the population perished because they lived in shaky mud brick houses. The quake left a population of 30,000 dead and over 17 nations under the direction of the UN set up aid camps offering free food and shelter. As Bam is located near the Afghan opuim fields, within a week drug addcits looking for free food and shelter swelled the population to over 120,000. The earthquake also destroyed 85% of Bam's ancient citadel which was the filiming locatin of rthe iconic pod racing scene in Star Wars Episode 1.

Wow. For once I listened to Valli. His tales of helping earthquake surviors as a translator for the Norweigan relief team was genuinly engaging.

As for my experience with Bam... Uh, well I listened to Valli, saw some ruins and won a belly flop competiton in the hotel pool.

Ah earthquakes and immaturity. Have those words ever gone together? Not sure.

Iran: Yazd and Kerman. Hey Hey it's the Taliban.

Hmm, Iranian TV is a funny old thing.

You'd have a two hour documentary on aluminium water pipes in Northern Iran, then a troupe of singing children set against a montage of orchids and yaks followed with another documentary on steel water pipes in eastern Iran. You'd even see the occasional children's game show. Girls aren't allowed to participate in these shows but is that a bad thing? At least they aren't cringing at their 21st party when their parents show their cute but embarrassing game show appearance. Yep Iranian TV may not have sex, drugs or violence but hey it does have yaks, boys and water pipes.

So we drove to the nice but unremarkable city of Yazd. We stayed in the Meji Traditional hotel - the only hotel in the world that's a UNESCO world heritage site. Originally built as a sultan's house, it dates from the 16th century and has an amazing courtyard. If it was transplanted to the west it would instantly be the hottest nightclub in town. I would put my house on it. (If I owned a house.) But it wasn't in the west. It was in remote Iran. So it was only filled with western backpackers fantasizing about it being in their hometowns.

Meji Traditonal Hotel.

Tired of fantasizing with other backpackers, I returned to my room and caught a bit of Iranian TV. But instead of a yak montage, I saw Al Jazeera in English. Al Jazeera is the Arabic news channel offering opposing views to western news sources like CNN and Fox News and through their Arab links received tapes from Osama Bin Laden and Al Qaeda. They recently started their English news service composed mainly of ex BBC news presenters.

Tonight they were showing tapes from the Taliban forces in Afghanistan. The Taliban were the ruling government before 9/11and were disposed by US forces for harbouring Osama. The exiled Taliban were angry and used guerrilla tactics to fight US troops in an attempt to regain power. The news reader announced that the Taliban had launched a propaganda war and were filming their fight against US forces. The reader also said that viewers may find the following images disturbing, but after a few days of sex, drugs and violence free Iranian TV, I was keen to see some excitement. I wish I hadn't.

The TV cut to a group of Taliban fighters perched high on a cliff looking over the road below. An Afghan police car is seen driving on the road towards the fighters. The Taliban then pull a dynamite strapped donkey out from behind a rock and with precision timing push the struggling donkey off the cliff and it explodes on the police car bursting it into flames. This attack was in an area we were visiting. I better watch out or falling donkeys. Wow. Could someone please turn the yaks back on?

The next day we visited the ancient city of Kerman and I went to a five mile long bazaar filed with metro sexual mannequins and gawking Iranians. I bought an authentic pair of Diesel shoes for only $10US! Salmeh the shop owner assured me they were real. What you don't believe me? Take that back! Don't talk to me like you're my real dad!

I love Iranian mannequins

Kerman is also relatively close to the Afghanistan border and is the start of the Smugglers Highway. A large quantity of the world's heroin is produced in Afghanistan and travels through Iran to the west. Valli sternly warned the bus "Please Kerman, don't go outside hotel. Bad Iranians gangsters with heroin around and you will be shot". Valli then cheerfully swayed into the history of Kerman. "King of Kerman bad man. He made his parliament eunuch by cutting some balls. He is jealous of people of Kerman so he cut out eyes and for years the 16,000 peoples of Kerman were blind. Thank you!"


A city of blind people? Imagine that! Please note I'm not going to make any blind jokes (but even if I did, they wouldn't see them).

Cue canned laughter. Sorry that joke was in poor taste.... awkward silence... Ok onto the next entry.

Iran: Esfahan and Yaz. Help I'm a celebrity, get me out of here.

Ah, the price of fame. Yep, I've finally realized that you can have too much of a good thing. Well, maybe not too much of a good thing. How about too much of a thing? Am I even making sense? 36? Sorry I've been sitting on this bus for too long and I'm suffering from cabin fever and a numb left butt cheek.

So we headed out of Tehran to the southern city of Esfahan. We also changed tour guides as Hussein was replaced by a man named Valli who also eerily looked like Sean Connery. Were they brothers? Did James Bond make a secret trip to Iran in the 1950's to breed new spies/travel guides? Unlike Hussein, Valli was more diplomatic and cautious to criticize the government. He was more interested in pointing out ancient sights than pleading the goodwill of the Iranian people.

Valli.

Valli was extremely passionate about Iran and knowledgeable about it's history but unfortunately his English was poor and delivered in a comical Borat style (I like!). At first the bus was attentive to his microphone announcements ("Hello, I is Valli, I is very pleased to meeting you. Look left see Mosque from 6th Dynasty), but we soon realized that he loved the microphone and was willing to point out anything ("Look left and you see pigeon tower where their shitting is collect for fertilizer), finally people just tuned out ("Look right and see bridge that used for walking across river).

But we did appreciate Valli's enthusiasm. He revealed that in a previous life he was an aeronautical engineer trained in Chicago and after 35 years in that profession he discovered his true passion of showing off the bridges and bird poo of Iran. Seriously, though he truly loved his country, regardless of it's government and I appreciated that. If Australia was taken over by a fundamentalist Islamic government I'm sure I would still have a sense of nationalism... well as long as they didn't ban meat pies. Valli also had a daughter who ran an Iranian restaurant in LA. He hadn't seen her in 15 years as the government wouldn't give him a visa. He missed her terribly but still respected his government. True patriot. Actually, if my government wouldn't let me visit my family I think I would hate my government... Even if they gave me meat pies, including those nice mushroom filled ones.

So we arrived in Esfahan and I was gobsmacked by its beauty. It's the main tourist destination of Iranians (as they can't leave the country) and it's easy to see why. It is a town built over the river (Valli: "This river has the water, so boats can ride on it. Thank you" ) and had brilliant gardens, mosques and bazaars.Valli offered a seven hour walking tour ("Is good yes?") but I chose to wander the streets taking in the green scenery and smiling at Iranian women.

Esfahan.

At lunch two Iranian children were sitting at another table gawking at my western appearance. They appeared to be sisters and not to disappoint I started my usual let's-impress-Iranian-children routine. I did my magic fingers trick... they were stunned. I followed it with a detachable thumb trick... they squealed with delight. For my grand finale I grabbed my used straw and appeared to shove it up my nose. At that moment their mother came over and caught me mid act. She gave me a death stare, and I sat there dejected and embarrassed with a green straw dangling out of my left nostril. She grabbed her daughters hands and whisked them away as they were furiously waving at me with their free hands.

Surprised Iranian children. Wow, he stuck a straw up his nose!

As I continued walking the streets my celebrity status started to get tiring. Suddenly from behind a dumpster appeared a middle aged man named Alzbah. He was the professor of Geography at Esfahan university, spoke four languages, and wrote the Lonely Planet entry for Esfahan. Amazed at a Westerner in his beloved city he gave me a impromptu tour of its sights. He enthusiastically showed me the bazaar, a camel pen, and his grandfather Shoriz's tablecloth shop. Shoriz was 87 and had been stamping table clothes since he was nine. To prove this he showed me a newspaper clipping from 1931 showing a young Shoriz clenching a stamp above a tablecloth, in the same exact posit on as he was holding now.

Alzbah finally released me after a four hours and en route back to my hotel I was surrounded by 12 enthusiastic teenage boys. They couldn't have been more than 13, and they started asking me if I liked rap music and if I knew the rapper 50 Cent. Not understanding the words "No I don't know 50 cent" I just smiled and agreed in the hopes they would leave me alone. They knew what hotel I was staying at and through their broken English I determined that they wanted to join me in my room, drink (forbidden whisky) and hopefully seduce some women. I walked uncomfortably, trying to think of an excuse to ditch them when I saw another tour member named Lauren. As she walked past me I clenched onto her like a baby gorilla and declared to my toddler admirers that she was my girlfriend and that I had to take her back to my hotel to NOT drink whiskey and seduce other western women. Lauren played along and effectively saved me from my entourage. My hero.

As I said you can have too much of a good thing.

Iran. Tehran and Qom. Smiling at Iranian girls? How Baazar!

Iran. Tehran and Qom. Smiling at Iranian girls? How Baazar!

I have always found Tehran fascinating.

It's such a dark horse of a city. The belly of the anti west beast. Having spent the last two years in NYC, I was keen to visit the city on the other end of the ideological spectrum.

Tehran is a city of 14 million and has the third largest stadium in the world. Would anyone know that? No, because it's one of the world's largest metropolis ignored by the western media. The city itself is amazing. Crazy traffic, overly friendly Iranians and ridiculously cheap food. Apart from one of those cities in western China, I reckon that Tehran is the largest city in the world where western faces are gawked at. Other highlights included the abandoned US Embassy and a huge bazaar that contained countless string and metal pot shops.

Walking the bustling streets I was asked by some eager teenagers to come with them to a restaurant for a great meal and maybe beer. Although the prospect of being a western novelty was appealing, thoughts of the Istanbul mugging made me decline.

The bus progressed to Qom and the town was dead (it was a Sunday afternoon). Having hours to kill we sat in the main roundabout and smiled at the gawking locals.

It was there I found my new favourite pastime: making eye contact with Iranian women and smiling. In such a sexually suppressed society just the act of smiling at a girl seems taboo. So having an Iranian girl return a smile, gives you a thrilling sense of rebellion.

It's funny how Iranian women are dressed differently. Traditional girls are dressed in a full black burka while more rebellious girls are dressed in black western clothes with a headscarf showing a glimpse of hair. Yet all different types of girls can muster a smile.

What a hobby!

Iran. Tehran: One of the funniest moments ever. (Maybe you had to be there.)

Iran. Tehran: One of the funniest moments ever. (Maybe you had to be there.)

I couldn't stop laughing. I was convulsing in coach seat 12B. I had just witnessed a piece of fundamentalist comedy that could only occur in an Islamic republic (dictatorship).

Forget the Italians, Indians or Thais - Iranians take the gold medal when it comes to the world's craziest drivers. What's this a zebra crossing? Red lights, huh? Traffic flows in different directions depending on your side of the road? Ha, you amuse me.

We were stuck in traffic about 10 miles out of Tehran. Gridlocked in one of five lanes on a three lane highway, we decided to watch the documentary Coyote Ugly. Basically it's a gritty documentary about one girls quest for stardom on the mean streets of New York. It's final line is "Gee I never knew dreams could really come true". Pity coaches don't carry sick bags.

Coyote Ugly


One scene was a rather tame sex scene between the two main characters and halfway through it we noticed that we were sandwiched between two Iranian coaches. The Iranian coach windows were filled with face planted Iranians sporting genuine Home Alone faces in disbelief at the display of flesh before their eyes. Women were pointing and giggling, men were on their cellphones calling their friends to tell them what they were seeing. It was complete mayhem.

Both coach drivers timed their speed so their passangers could watch the whole scene and our bus was in hysterics watching the Iranians satisfied smile. Yes, western films may have been forbidden but Iranians are human beings and sure wanted their dose of flesh.

Classic stuff.

Iran. Tabriz and Soltaniyeh : Hey Baby, I'm huge in Iran.

Iran. Tabriz and Soltaniyeh : Hey Baby, I'm huge in Iran.

I've got my rucksack, my orange money belt and my travelling neck pillow... Now strike a pose!

They say the world is a book and by not travelling means you only read one page. They say travelling broadens the mind and gets you away from it all. Sure "They", come out and show yourself! One of the best things about travelling is unexpectedly becoming a celebrity.

We arrived in Tabriz, Iran's second city. After watching a scintillating Iranian TV show about water pipes we headed for a kebab dinner. we were interrupted no less than 13 times by eager Iranians keen to improve their English and to receive compliments on the beauty of Iran. There was definitely no anti wstern sentiment.

The next morning as we headed out of Tabriz three tour members decided to find an ATM. En route they were stopped by three Iranian policeman who flashed their badges and demanded to search them for drugs. One of the travellers Sue (60 year old, cockney, passionate soccer fan and once sung a duet with Rod Stewart) told them to "Fuck off" as they dipped their hands into her money belt and started sniffing a wad of her cash.

A cop then turned to the other two male travellers and screamed in broken English "When are you going to the Airport? Airport! Airport! Airport!" Alec (19 year old, British and born feet first) shouted "I don't have an Ipod!" He was confused. They let the trio go but they relieved sue of all her money ($300 US). Turns out they might have been fake cops. They were the exception to the rule of the lovely Iranian.

Crusing through the Iranian desert our guide announced that we were making an unscheduled stop at the greatest brick dome in the world! Now growing up on the mean streets of Sydney, it was only my passion for brick domes that gave me the drive to escape the ghetto. I had seen the 14th greatest brick dome in the word (a disused toilet cubicle in Central Park) and the 53rd (bricks that had fallen on a friend's backyard gazebo) but to see the world's greatest? Wow!

Much to my disappointment the dome was surrounded by scaffolding. Apparently it had been under construction for the last 200 years. Hmmm. The best thing about the dome was the gaping mouthed locals. They were taking photos of us and we convinced them that one of our members Mike (19 year old, British, and once arrested at gunpoint in Argentina) was David Beckham. "David, David, I love you" screamed a gang of prepubescent girls. Mike/David signed his email on their forearms (David_Beckham@hotmail.com) and they tried to abduct him into their beaten up mini van. David made a quick escape.

It surly now must be the greatest brick dome in the world after an appearance of David himself!

Baby, I'm not kidding. I'm huge in Iran.

Iran: Welcome to a dictatorship. Everybody smiling?

Iran: Welcome to a dictatorship. Everybody smiling?








A bus from London to Sydney passes through many exotic places. On the Ozbus Internet booking form my eyes passed over exotic places like Kathmandu, Quetta and Dali. But only one place caused my involuntary action to click Book Now - Iran.

I was excited by Iran. Not sure why. Maybe because it was a dark horse, no one really knows much about it and the western media only demonises it. I don't agree with it's fundamentalist Islamic government, it's Iran's sense of mystery that I find appealing. It may be horrible, it may be beautiful. Who knows? I was about to find out.

About 30 km past Dogubeyazit we reached the Iranian border and were greeted with a large billboard of Allatoyah Khomeini's stern face above the words Welcome to the Islamic Republic of Iran. For me the words welcome and the Allatoyah's stern face didn't mesh.

We spent five hours at the border. Why? Not sure. Maybe the guards were bored. Once we got through we met our state appointed tour guide. He was a tall, grey, middle aged Iranian who looked eerily like Sean Connery. "Good Afternoon, my name is Hussein" he boomed into the microphone. "Yes, I know I share the name of Saddam but that is because I was given a fucking Arab name!" He was hilarious, It was like he just learned to use the word fuck. It was his new toy he wanted to show off and he littered it through everything.

Hussein was happy to speak to westerners and pleas that Iranians were good people suffering under an Islamic government. He said that life was better under the Shah as it was somewhat western and democratic but when the Ayatollah Khomeini led revolution hit the country in 1979, Iranians suffered.

AyatollahKhomeini

Hussein told us government restrictions include:
1. No access to foreign networking websites such as Facebook, Bebo and Blogspot. (Hence my delayed blog.)

2. Iranian banks are not connected to foreign networks. (My visa card doesn't work.)


3. No foreign books are allowed in. (I secretly gave Hussein a worn copy of Catch 22.)


4. Iranians aren't allowed to leave the country. well, technically they can, but it's very difficult. They have to get a signed letter from the police of their intended destination saying they are leaving for a valid reason. The Iranian government then asses whether the traveller has enough assets to ensure their return to Iran. Then, and only then are they allowed to leave the country.


5. No unmarried couples are allowed to be together unless they are escorted by a family member. Hussein told the story of his 20 year old son who started dating a girl. Hussein told his son that she was not to come over his house without him there. Hussein went away for the weekend and, on the third date, his son snuck her into his house after dark. The neighbours reported them to the police and the government told Hussein that his son must marry her or face prison time. Not to be a young man in prison, Hussian's son married her and they both received 60 lashes from the government.

6. There is no homosexuality. Seriously. The government recently stated that not one Iranian is a homosexual. Maybe their scientists proved it? In Tehran two 17 year old boys were recently executed for sodomy. Maybe they were the last homosexuals?

7. Women have no rights. By law they are considered half human and must cover there skin at all times (only showing their faces and hands). Women have no birth control, must be escorted everywhere by a relative, must ride at the back of the bus and cannot shake men's hands.

So after Hussein finished I muttered " Oh shit, I've wandered into a dictatorship".

Having said that, the actual Iranian people are beautiful, welcoming, friendly and surprisingly tolerant. People would stop us on the street, alarmed at western faces and ask us if we are enjoying Iran. Also, the scenery is stunning and the petrol is cheap (for $1US the bus received 200 liters/ 50 gallons.)

Also their president Mahmoud Ahmadinejad is a very inter sting character. He is intelligent and articulate, and although some of his ideals are dodgy (ban on homosexuality and holocaust denial) his thoughts on the west are engaging and thought provoking. Not sure if I agree with them, but it's definatly food for thought.

Mahmoud Ahmadinejad

I'm going to enjoy my time in this dictatorship.

Somewhere in Turkey and Doğubeyazıt: Kurdish Kamping with a Doggie Biscuit.

Somewhere in Turkey and Doğubeyazıt: Kurdish Kamping with a Doggie Biscuit.

Guess what?

I hate camping. Yes, that's been covered in previous blogs but I have another reason that's even more alarming than encountering a Hungarian thief. In eastern Turkey we had a 15 hours drive ahead of us. Our Belgian driver insisted on doing it in a single day but the thought of the bus spiralling down a Turkish ravine caused us to set up camp on the side of the road.

Setting up our tents in the darkness we heard a spray of gunfire in the surrounding hills. In a panic we set up our tents in two circles (guys on the outside) and yes, it would have been more sensible to move to a gunfire free zone, but do you know how annoying it is to pack a sleeping bag unnecessarily?

We weren't attacked by a Kurdish rebel or a Hungarian thief for that matter, but looking at the map the following morning it turns out we we camped only 50 miles from the Iraqi border. Oh dear.

The next day we travelled to Doğubeyazıt and en route we missed a lake ferry by only five minutes and had to wait two hours for the next ferry. Deciding to swim in the lake I enthusiastically jumped in and cut my feet on the broken glass. As I bobbed in the water, checking my feet I heard a deep horn and looking around I saw the ferry (an hour ahead of schedule) storming towards me. I got out and saw the bikined (Is that a word?) tour members throwing themselves into large shrubs at the risk of offending a boatload of Muslims.

Arriving in Doğubeyazıt (yes, it's pronounced like the dog treat) on the Turkish/Iranian border, it was even more evident that we were the only tourists there.

It was there I learned how to communicate with the local kids:

1. Smile and hold up both index fingers.
2. Bang your right index finger into your left index finger.
3. As you bang put down your right index finger and raise your left middle finger.
4. If done correctly, it should appear like your right index finger has magically passed through your left hand to appear as your left middle finger.

Wow, me explain things good.

Anyway local kids think it's mind blowing and if you also show them a video Ipod they pass out with excitement.

Oh, and Doğubeyazıt is close to the tallest mountain in Turkey and the location of what scientists believe is the original location of Noah's Ark. Interesting.

Doğubeyazıt

That night we partied as we finished off out remaining beer (120 cans) as it would be confiscated at the Iranian border. The next morning as I lay hungover in my tent, a still drunken tour member shouted to his equally drunken friend "Wake up man... Come on! We've got to go to Iran today!" I burst out laughing. That's the most random drunken comment ever.

Sober up boys, we're going to an Islamic fundamentalist state.

Turkey: Göreme and Kahramanmaraş: Ballooning In Bedrock.

Turkey: Göreme and Kahramanmaraş: Ballooning In Bedrock.

Now I consider myself a risk taker.

I've bungee jumped, fallen asleep on the subway and even drunk milk without looking at the expiry date. But when I'm floating in the stratosphere in a creaky basket, why do I turn to Jello?

Our bus arrived in Goremi, an ancient Turkish town whose inhabitants lived in stone houses dug out of the surrounding cliffs. They did this not because they saw The Flintstones and said "Hey we can live like that", rather they built them to protect the Christian residents from the invading Muslim Moors. Not content to look at them from street level, I decided to take an early morning balloon ride over town.

Leaving at 5am, I watched the eastern Turkish sunrise perched a mile above the ground - and I was petrified. Not sure why, maybe because the only thing separating me from plummeting to my death was a rickety basket and the Irishman next to me intentionally shaking the basket with a mischievous grin. But the scenery was absolutely stunning. I stared at it like a staring starer. I've never experienced such ins tense fear and awe. It would be like viewing a Van Gough on the sinking Titanic. Wow... Horrible example. If you think of something better please let me know. I'll edit it.

After another beating from a Turkish bath we headed for Kahramanmaraş in the Kurdish area of the country. Walking it's streets I noticed that we were the only tourists there. Well It was hard not to notice the locals pointed fingers and gawking mouths. This town was decidedly more Muslim as women were more covered up than in Istanbul. I was dismayed when two girls in our group exited the bus, one wearing tight yellow hot pants, the other wearing a low cut top. The hot pants wearer got one block before the stares and hisses of the locals forced her to buy a sarong. The low cut top girl ignored the locals and walked around exposing her bountiful bosom. Questioning her motives afterwards, she said that she didn't notice - she's used to men staring at her breasts.

Yes, she had a point. Her asses ts transcend race, color and creed as all men have penises and therefore will look at breasts. But as we are going to more fundamentalist areas (northern Pakistan anyone?) I for see a Muslim woman giving her a slap for her cultural indiscretion. Not sure if I would blame her. When In Rome.

Other highlights of Kahramanmaraş included a statue. Yes, a statue. But this wasn't a boring European statue. These Kurds know how to sculpt. It was a statue of a Turkish solider pointing a pistol at an enemy soldiers head. The enemy soldier was on his back begging for mercy as he clung to his shrieking wife. Talk about drama. Drama Indeed.

PS: Damn, I can't find an image of the statue on Google. I'll upload a photo later.

Turkey: Gallipoli/Troy/Ephesus/Pamukkale. Clean Soldiers Wear Dresses.

Turkey: Gallipoli/Troy/Ephesus/Pamukkale

Clean Soldiers Wear Dresses.

So what do you do after you've been mugged? Be made an example of.

I recounted my Istanbul mugging on the bus microphone as a stern warning of the consequences of getting into a strange Turk's car. The other passengers oohed and ahhed in the right places and when I finished they collectively supported me saying that I had the right philosophy on the matter. It seems we are all becoming quite the family.

Our bus headed to Gallipoli in southern Turkey. Gallipoli is considered a sacred place for all Australians and New Zealanders as it's where our armies were defeated by the Turks in WW1. Defeated is a polite term... Ass kicking is more appropriate as over 160,000 ANZAC (Australian and NZ soldiers) died in the space of two years. Australians celebrate this defeat on April 25th (ANZAC day), where we acknowledge the futility of war and pay respect to the fallen solders.

For further reading you should watch the 1982 film Gallipoli starring a young Mel Gibson. Wow, I'm sounding like a high school history teacher.

The actual sights of Gallipoli were interesting, we had a young Turkish tour guide named Bruce?? I later found out he called himself Bruce to appeal to Australian tourists, but other Irish tourists swore his name was Patrick. Now that's commitment. I think he was playing to his audience. Never really thought of the act of name seduction but I suppose that's why you travel. I'll see how far name seduction gets me in Australia.

So we saw ANZAC Cove, where the troops accidentally landed after misreading their maps and then Bruce/Patrick took us to the Australian grave site. It was quite the moving experience gazing into the gravestones of young dead soldiers. A lot of them were my age and younger. Were they like me? I'm sure the would have agreed in the stupidity of name seduction.

The next day we went to the ancient city of Troy, which over thousands of years had been demolished and rebuilt several times, the most memorable being in the 1870's when German archaeologist Heinrich Schliemann, convinced the original ruins lay under it's current ruins, used dynamite to flatten Troy only to find no ancient ruins at all. Henrich had destroyed what was left of Troy, leaving a pile of uninspiring rocks. It's definitely not like the Hollywood movie starring Brad Pitt. The only Trojan horse there was located in the children's playground. Hardly convincing. It definitely wouldn't fool the Persians.

We spent the night in Ephesus at Atilla's, a backpacker resort run by a Turkish/Australian aptly named Atilla. During a long bus ride it was revealed that a tour member had a threesome with a pre-op transsexual (you work it out) and in his honor we held a transgender party. The women dressed up as men (complete with painted facial hair) and the men became women. I learned some very valuable lessons... In a dress I look like Sinead O'Conner and there is a reason why women have these very useful things called handbags. These handbags have names like Louis and Dolce (now that's name seduction) and, more importantly, hold things like eye liner and change. When I was wearing my flowery ensemble I lost about $40 in change, apparently dresses don't have pockets.

After a night of heavy drinking and loose change we crawled on the bus and went to some thermal springs at Pamukkale. These springs were used as ancient baths and were built into the side of a mountain.





They were simply breathtaking. At the baths were some moustached Turks (surprise) and some Russian models on a photo shoot. Several male (and female) tour members were bewildered and took subtle shots of them out of the corner of their viewfinder, while others aimed their telephoto lenses squarely at these women's assets. Basically buses make for cabin fever. Hmmm.

Istanbul: Mugged and Assualted by a Turk.

Istanbul: Mugged and Assualted by a Turk.

Why do people travel?

Is it to broaden horizons? Get away from it all? Or just to fill in that "Where I've Been Map" on Facebook?




Not sure where my travel intentions lie, but I don't recall asking for an obligatory assault and mugging.

Following an afternoon of savage beatings by Akmahl the Turkish Mass use, I decided to have a few beers at a backpackers hostel. It was there I met Neil, a gardner from the north island of New Zealand. Neil was a very large man in his late twenties, and after striking up conversations about rugby, the merits of New York versus London and the chaos theory (not really) he suggested we jump in a cab and head to the nightclub area of Istanbul. I saw this as perfect opportunity to get some breathing space and enthusiastically agreed.

We were walking towards a taxi rank when a beaten up Volvo pulled up and a middle aged man stuck his head out and spoke to us in Turkish. Niel said that we don't understand Turkish so the man reverted to English. He said he was Ali, a businessman from northern Turkey and was in Istanbul to buy a machine for his textile company. He was also going in the same direction as us and offered a free lift.

Normally my spidey sense would have tingled but Neil was a very big guy and he grilled Ali into swearing that he wouldn't charge us for the ride. Ali agreed. Now we all know you shouldn't get into cars with strangers. And that's a good point. But we did.

Ali driving us to his "good place".

Ali drove us through the streets of Istanbul, happy that he had some company for the night. He knew a great nightclub that he went to last time he was in town. He swore it was filled with beautiful women and if we didn't like it we could simply leave. Unsure of our Istanbul geography or what the good nightspots were, we agreed. Ali seemed genuine. But you shouldn't get into cars with strangers who offer to take you to "good" places. We did.

We arrived at an unnamed club with a tacky disco dance floor (think Saturday Night Fever), a tacky looking group of gorilla bouncers and tacky music dating from the start of the millennium. We took a seat at a table and, like a team of ninjas, a group of girls bearing low cut tops materialized.

Taken aback by our ambush, I gathered my thoughts, turned to the girl next to me and made trivial conversation. "So you do like Turkey?" I smiled. She just smiled back... Maybe she was the silent type. "Uh, do you like, um, stuff?" She just sat there smiling. I was positive that she wasn't a mannequin, I mean she just used her ninja stealth skills to ambush my table and I swore I saw her blink. I was deep in my mannequin vs human thought when a Turkish bouncer barked at her. She promptly stood up and was replaced by an equally beaming young girl who said in impeccable English, "Hello handsome".

With Forrest Gump like reflexes I thought "Gee Andrew...(Pause)... These girls are prostitutes". My thought bubble popped as Neil turned to me and said "Whatever you do don't buy them a drink or anything, they mark up the prices in these places and sting you on the way out". I diligently followed his advice and only made polite conversation with them. I spoke to a Tatiana from Belarus and my Belorussian conversation consisted of naming the capital Minsk ("Yeah, I want to go there one day, Honest"!) and showing my admiration for their star soccer player Alexander Hleb. She seemed pleasant enough.

After a few drinks we asked for the check - which came to $1600US! I was in disbelief, I only had three vodkas. Neil was getting agitated, he stated that we have no intention of paying and started to storm out. So six Turkish bouncers grabbed us and threw us into the boss' office. The boss was a tiny Turkish man with a moustache (surprise) and a bad case of Napoleon syndrome. He insisted we bought four bottles of champagne and disrespected his women by not buying them drinks. We again told him we had no money to which he clicked his fingers signalling the bouncers to hold us down as relieve us of our valuables.

They searched my pockets which contained nothing but a few receipts. They were about to leave me alone when one of the bouncers suggested to check if I had a money belt. I did. I had an elaborate money belt in a dashing "please mug me" orange. They searched my belt pockets and stole $400US in different forms of money. Thankfully they missed my credit cards which were hidden in a covert back pocket.

They found Neil's cards and frog marched him out of the office to the nearest cash machine. They forced me to stay to avoid Neil running off... which would have been a test of Neil's loyalty as he had only known me for 90 minutes.

I was left alone with a scary bouncer, intent on proving his authority. "You stupid tourist. You come Turkey and disrespect me!" he shouted in broken English. With that he threw a few blows to my lower ribs and I fell on a couch wincing with pain. "You stupid!" he screamed as he punched my forearms. It's funny how people react under pressure - some panic, others get aggressive whereas I just shut down.

I was scanning my options: I didn't know my location, if I fought back he could have brought his friends and most importantly my skeleton figure would be no match for his neanderthal stature. So I just silently stared at the office floor because if I gave no response, I gave him nothing to argue with. He was trying to intimidate Helen Keller.

Neil came back escorted by some bouncers. They wanted to shake our hands but I refused. (Wow, I'm a rebel.) Having taken all our funds they threw us out onto a deserted street where we pooled our change to get a taxi home.

And a funny thing happend on the way home - I smiled. Thinking about it I only lost $400US, I was still alive and I was healthy. I may have a few bruises and sore ribs, but I also have a loving family and have met many honest, genuine and caring people in Sydney and New York. I'm lucky enough to live in a country with a great living standard, and if I had to take advantage of tourists on a daily basis to make a living then I'd probably want to hit some skinny Australians too. I was on a bus to Sydney - they had to live their lives in Istanbul. I also felt sorry for the prostitutes that had to make conversation with customers knowing full well they would be assaulted in the main office. What an existence.

Neil and I trying to act hard after being mugged.

Do you think the bouncers have sore knuckles? Do they save save on gym fees? How many calories do you burn from assaulting tourists?

Also it was my stupidity that got me into Ali's car. Lesson: Don't get into cars with strangers and beware of Belorussian prostitutes.

So really, it's all here in the final score.

Turkish neanderthal bouncer with a great left hook : 0

Andrew the bruised, skinny and stupid tourist with great family and friends: 1

Game Over.



What an experience!

Istanbul: Touched by a Turk.

Istanbul: Touched by a Turk.

Can I just say hooray for toilets!

Apart from disposing of our waste (which is quite nifty) they signify cultural change.

Example: Turkish toilets involve squatting over a hole and disposing of used toılet paper in a trash can. This can only mean Turks have poor plumbing and healthy bowels. Well, not sure about the healthy bowels, but they have bowels that empty quicker than... uh... something quick (insert your own speed metaphor). See, as you're squatting, you're bottom muscles lose control against the gravitational pull. Issac Newton would have been proud. Wow, wasn't that last paragraph pretty shit (cue canned laughter).

Anyway, we were held up at the Turkish border because the main guard wanted to finish his entire Turkish paper before stamping our passports. Why did he do it? Because he could.

We finally arrived at Istanbul: The city formerly known as Byzantine and Constantinople. Muslim. Blue Mosque. Where Europe meets Asia. Islamic prayer five times a day. Population 12 million. Horrible traffic. Why am I speaking in short sentences? Because I can.

Wandering around Istanbul I surprisingly only got ripped off twice. I overpaid for a kebab (no, I wasn't drunk) and a haircut. Tired of the whole having hair thing I had my head shaved. Now, I have an adult sized head but a torso of a 12 year old boy. It's because I have an abnormally fast metabolism - I can't put on weight. Women have said to me they wanted my body. I would get excited only to realize that they ACTUALLY wanted my body, fast metabolism and all. Very embarrassing.

With my shaved head I looked like a hospital patient. I considered wandering the streets of Istanbul holding a drip in the hope of not being ripped off, but my non Turkish appearance warrants a 250% markup on all souvenirs, no matter my state of health.

I went to a genuine Turkish bath (only a 125% markup) and received a deep tissue massage from an overweight, middle aged, moustached Turk named Akmahl. Akmahl gave me a savage beating. Knowing exactly where all my knots were, he wouldn't stop until they were pulverised. I wouldn't have been surprised if he brought out a crowbar and started laying into my lower back. After Akmal pulverised me into a blob of flesh, I oozed back to my hotel for an afternoon siesta.

If I hadn't willingly lied on massage table, his actions would constitute assault. But this assault never felt so damn good. So good I wouldn't even lodge a police report. Wow... Did I just think that or type that? Does that sentance even make sense? How awkward.

Bulgaria - A City of Guns and Roses

Everybody sing...

"Take me down to a Bulgarian city, where the guns are cool and the roses are pretty. Oh won't you please take me home."

Sorry. No really I'm sorry. In the above paragraph I murdered the opening lines of the Guns and Roses hit song "Paradise City". But it has a point. Honest.

Our bus headed into Bulgaria. Yes, Bulgaria What was my knowledge in Bulgaria? Um, in Bulgaria a nodding head means "no", and a shaking head means "yes". Really confusing. Does that mean a Bulgarian can commit any crime overseas using a "no means yes" argument? I don't know any Bulgarian gangsters, so maybe this argument doesn't hold up in court.

Also Ditmar Berbatov - an amazing football striker - comes from Bulgaria. He learned his English watching the Godfather. Interesting. Does he talk like Marlon Brando? Not sure.

We drove to the central Bulgarian city of Kazanluk, famous for being one of the world's largest producers of Roses and the AK47 machine gun. Now see my above Guns and Roses reference/quote. I'm witty. I imagine Kazanluk would be an ideal city for both soldiers and the hippy's that stick roses down their gun barrels. Wow, hello random thought.

In Kazanluk we went to a club that had a "no guns" symbol on it's front doors. It was similar in design to a "no smoking symbol".

After that, I went to sleep and drove to Turkey the next day. Unremarkable really.

Move along everybody. Nothing to see here.

Bucharest: A close encounter of the furry kind.

Talk about anti-climax.

Driving into Bucharest I saw it was populated by Romanians going about their daily business - it could have been any city. It wasn't the dramatic den of thieves or the crack of Mount Doom as I had been told.

What I saw were odd monuments like the Palace of the Parliament. Built by former dictator Nicolae Ceausescu, it practically bankrupted the country and is the second largest building in the world after the Pentagon. Interesting.





There was also a mini Arc du triumph and thousands of large ex Soviet blocks of flats. Not so interesting.

Arriving at the campsite after dark we went to a restaurant down the road. After a lively Romanian dance show and a admittedly poor meal (gulag food anyone?) I decided to head back to my tent early. Walking down the pitch black road I heard rustling in the surrounding woods and thinking it might have been the Hungarian thief I armed myself with my mobile phone light. Out of the darkness I saw a small brown terrier running towards me. I froze. It wasn't the small terrier that scared me, it was the five large wild dogs chasing it.

Realizing that the dogs wouldn't be scared by my latest ring tone or even a syringe full of Ribena, I ran like a screaming school girl. Sprinting back to the restaurant I scaled the fence with dogs nipping at my heels. Why weren't these dogs at the Hungarian campsite?

So besides a close encounter of the furry kind, Romania was very good to me. The scenery was stunning, the people were beautiful and the gypsy boogie man was never seen. It sure taught me a lesson about labeling a group "they".

Maybe I should marry a gypsy and adopt a wild dog. Now that would serve me right.

God, I sound like the final scene from an episode of Full House.

Romania - Cluji and Brasov. How to protect against Gypsies 101.

Romania - Cluji and Brasov. How to protect against Gypsies 101.

Gypsies. Friend or Foe?

Living in Sydney and New York I never came into contact with Roman Gypsies. I have learned they're a nomadic people originating from Egypt and have been persecuted for last 500 years. I also learned that being nomadic and unskilled, their main source of income is petty theft and they're not to be trusted. (I know it's dangerous to use a "they" mentality.)

An Australian friend recently traveled to Romania's capital Bucharest. On the tram into town he was held down by seven gypsies who relieved him of all his valuables. That could be put down to foolishness, but several days later he took a cab only be driven out to the countryside and being forced to pay $150 Euro to avoid being stranded there. That was bad luck. Romania is the Gypsy homeland (over 2 million of them), so I was on guard as I crossed it's borders.

Our first destination in Romania was a university town called Cluj. We arrived in the midst of their annual Septemberfest which involved 22,000 students getting drunk and festive. This festival could easily be seen as copying Munich's famous Oktoberfest, but as Germany's beer festival is also held in September, you could give the Romanians credit for actually reading their calenders correctly.

Driving into Cluj, the "gypsy/crime/stabbed in the neck and left for dead" rumors circulated the bus. People were gripped by Hysteria. One certain crazy Irishman had a theory which ensured our safety... walk around with syringes of Ribena. Yes, he was deadly serious. I didn't have much confidence in his plan. I'm sure a gypsy would see blackcurrant juice in a syringe more as a way of getting a third of their daily intake of vitamin B+C than getting AIDS.

In Cluj we ventured to a nightclub called Karma filled with festive Romanians and cheap tequila. I spoke to an economics student named Monica. In impeccable English she told me our fears were were unwarranted. Cluj was a small country town with an equally small gypsy population. And yes, students may be poor (we've all been on that spaghetti's/baked beans diet) but they didn't resort to crime to fund their education.

Bucharest was different. Being a native Romanian Monica said even she was scared to get out of her car in the capital. For instance in Bucharest her handbag was stolen out of her car - while she was still in it! Pulled up at traffic lights an opportunistic gypsy smashed her passenger window and grabbed her bag... interesting!

Another problem plaguing the capital is wild dogs. The notorious dictator Nicolae Ceausescu encouraged (forced) Romanians in the 80's to move from the country into the capital. These rural folk found their beautiful grey-on-grey communist apartments couldn't fit Fido, resulting in packs of wild dogs roaming the streets. Apparently these dogs aren't Lassie, but rather aggressive rabies carriers that you wouldn't like to meet in a dark alley.

The next day we headed to the the town of Brasov. Located in Transylvania, it's a tourist hub for the nearby Bram's Castle. This castle was the residence of 12th century tyrant Vlad the Impaler (who, you guessed it, liked to impale people) and more famously, the inspiration for Bram Stoker's classic novel Dracula.

Brasov was quaint, actually it was very pretty, dare I say gorgeous. Located in the mountains it had a large white sign bearing the town's name. It was like the famous Hollywood sign. Was the sign simply there to remind the residents where they lived? Or maybe Brasov was in direct competition with LA? Really who would win? Brasov is absolutely stunning. LA absolutely isn't. LA has an army of motor cars and Brasov has an army of wild dogs. You decide.


After a festive night in Brasov which included a nightclub filled with Romanian toddlers (no bouncer checking ID) and Billy Ray Cyrus hairstyles we headed for Dracula's castle.

I have never read Dracula nor seen any of it's numerous movie adaptations. Actually my only meaningful vampire exposure had been watching that counting vampire off Sesame Street.



So I wasn't really into the whole blood sucking thing. But as castles go it was impressive. Vlad knew how to live in style. If alive today, he would definitely appear on MTV Cribs. The castle didn't contain any Dracula references - that was left to the city of tourist stalls surrounding it. A willing vampire could buy fake fangs or even a dancing Dracula toy. It wasn't touristy at all. Honest.





Leaving the castle we drove through the absolutely stunning, gorgeous, beautiful (I'm having fun with the Shift F7 key) Romanian Mountains. Everywhere you looked was a post card. Seriously it was beautiful, stunning, wondrous... ok I'll stop.

And the we drove into Bucharest... duh...duh. (cue ominous music.)

Hungary: How to catch a thief with a crazy frog.

Hungary: How to catch a thief with a crazy frog.

In life there are many great questions.

What is the meaning of life? What is the secret to true happiness? Why doesn't Tarzan have a beard? And now, more importantly, Who invented camping?

Yes, I know camping wasn't exactly 'invented'. But is it just me or didn't we evolve from caves, to hovels, to big houses with dandy things like ice dispensing fridges? So why do we revert back to our neanderthal selves by intentionally sleeping in sub-cave accommodation commonly known as tents?

You could say "Andrew you're getting back to nature" or "you're getting away from the hustle and bustle of the city". Or you could just say "Geez Andrew, your blog is just full of bitching. Seriously, why would I take the time to read your blog if you're just going to be negative? Now go sit in the corner for ten minutes and think about what you've done"... (10 minutes pass)... Ok, good point. I rephrase. I hate camping in dodgy Hungarian campsites.

There's the rain, mud, and the shared toilet that has a Jackson Pollack inspired stream of shit blasted across it's walls - but they're a given. No, I have a valid reason. Honest.

Arriving at our campsit I saw that the security was decidedly dodgy. The only thing that protected our tents from the neighbouring housing estate was an old, rusted fence. It was lined with laughable barb wire that could easily be scaled with a blanket.( I have seen my fair share of prison break movies.)

So after a day of sightseeing in Budapest we quickly discovered that some of our bags had been stolen from our tents.It was around 11pm. Our group went into a frenzy. Four bags were missing. When were they taken? Was the thief in the area? We were frantically searching our tents when a certain crazy Irishman claimed to hear footsteps in the surrounding forest. All hell broke loose.

Someone screamed "Let's get them!" and our group sprinted into the pitch black forest. (Think Blair Witch.) High on adrenaline I followed. Other members were armed with study torches and large stones... I was armed with a Motorola razor. I split up from the rest of the group and found myself guided by the faint light of my mobile phone.

As I was aggressively inhaling oxygen into my tired lungs, I thought what would happen if I actually came across the thief? My mobile had no credit and the dial button didn't work. Maybe I could distract him with my latest wallpaper? Or paralyze him with an annoying crazy frog ring tone? Lucky for me I didn't catch the thief. No one did.

The bags were found (open) a few hundred meters away from our site. They were lying next to the dodgy fence which now had a huge, gaping escape hole cut into it. As I stood admiring the hole, four of our tour members shot through it hoping to catch the thief.

Following them through the hole, | saw they had caught a tall, lanky, middle aged man (which was admittedly the first person they saw) . "STOP PUT YOUR HANDS IN THE AIR" they screamed. Petrified, this is exactly what he did. Turns out he wasn't the thief, rather an innocent Polish steel worker. He was walking home from work when he was unexpectedly surrounded by four adrenaline high Irishmen. The Pole practically called the police who promptly arrived.

Budapest's finest concluded that the theft had been made during the day, and although the bags were dumped and searched through, the thief had only stolen a hair straightener.

So next time you're in Budapest and see a suspicious criminal with artificially straightened hair, please look him in the eye and tell him: "Andrew Marriott hates camping."

Thank you.