Tag: backpacking

Budapest

This visit to Budapest has been astronomically different to our last visit.

In November 1993 we caught a bus from Istanbul to Budapest. The snow had only started when we left Istanbul, but several hours in it was a full blown snowstorm. It was a hair-raising trip through Bulgaria and Romania, snowing the entire way. There were moments when enormous trucks were sliding sideways down icy hillsides towards us; at one point Don told me to hold onto my bag and when he said run, I should run. What was meant to take 20 hours took 48 hours.

There was only one other English speaking passenger, and I was one of only two women on that bus. There was no such thing as non-smoking, a haze of permanent acrid smoke filled the air. After maybe eight hours, despite his protests that we were in the middle of nowhere, we had the driver make a toilet stop. Somehow we convinced him through gestures that the whole world is a toilet. Hours later at a border crossing I gave the other woman some money when the guards refused her currency and weren’t going to let her pass.

We were the only people to get off the bus in Budapest so they dropped us in a random location. We stepped off the bus into a metre of snow, with no idea of where we were. Somehow we found a tram into the city centre. We had no Hungarian currency so we couldn’t buy a ticket. Then we trudged through the snow to the cheap university accommodation, following the tiny map in our Rough Guide to Europe. It was bitterly, bitterly cold.

At the university they told us there was no heating but they’d give us some extra blankets. We turned around, fought our way back through the snow and caught the very next train to Vienna.

Fast forward 30 years to this visit. Three days compared to three hours – Budapest, what a spectacular city.

We walked the streets and saw the magnificent buildings, squares and statues. Heroes’ Square, the Hungarian State Opera building, Central Market Hall, St Stephen’s Basilica, the heartbreaking Shoes on the Danube Bank memorial, the incredible Hungarian Parliament Building.

We went on a food tour; hot langos, delicious raspberry strudel, pastries and chimney cake, tasty sausages, stew and a straight shot of pálinka that nearly took my head off.

We walked across Széchenyi Chain Bridge and caught the cable car to Buda Castle and Fisherman’s Bastion. And of course we surprised Ruth at the Christmas markets and celebrated her birthday with the most wonderful meal at local restaurant Pörc & Prézli.

Budapest, all is forgiven; we love you! You’re still pretty chilly, but no need for extra blankets.

The bathroom

Navigating showers in homes and hotel rooms in other countries is an exercise in physics, stamina and perseverance.

They’re hit and miss to start with, but the addition of multiple knobs and levers to control on, off, pressure, heat, bath spigot and shower rose needlessly complicate what should be a simple endeavour.

Our current hotel has a hand held device attached to a shower pole, in a bath tub, with three controls. Unfortunately the device is connected two thirds of the way down the pole, ready to spray water at belly button level.

Our first night I dragged it up to the top of the pole and tried to tighten it in place. It rattled straight back down the pipe like one of those mechanical climbing monkeys at the Ekka.

Don came in to help, and with his superior muscle managed to get it to stay in place. Pleased, I climbed into the bathtub and turned it on. The water pressure was outstanding. So outstanding in fact that the force of the water caused the handle to spin suddenly outwards, spraying the whole bathroom and everything in it with water. I did not notice, I was busy examining the single soap container.

‘Hey! Hey, stop! TURN IT OFF!’ Don yelled from behind me, where he had remained to supervise the results of his work.

I slammed the water off and turned to look at him. He was head to toe fully clothed and dripping wet. Like somebody had turned on him with a full throttle fire hose.

I couldn’t help it. I laughed so hard I nearly wet myself (pun intended).

Don not so much.

And then the handle slid back down the pole.

Tune in next time when I tackle ‘How to adjust your hotel room temperature when it’s freezing cold outside and boiling hot inside.’

London calling

Before I start getting into our European winter holiday, a word about London.

We absolutely hands down, no questions asked, no correspondence entered into, public transport shenanigans aside, love London. Love.

London was my first city on my very first overseas holiday with my family. Together Don and I have been to London six times. Twice we stayed for over a year. We found ourselves jobs, somewhere to live, and settled in like so many Australians before us. We caught buses instead of the underground in order to soak up the streets of London and learn how places connected. We had our local pubs, meeting after work for pints of lager and cider. We even dabbled in amateur theatre – at least to go and watch Tim and Ruth in plays and pantos. We bought winter coats and leant how to survive January when the Christmas sparkle was gone but the cold weather remained. During spring I sat in every patch of daffodils I could find. In autumn we marvelled at the colours.

We connected with people and made wonderful English friends, but we also gathered our Aussie friends close. John and Nicole, travelling the UK to play music, Lucy living and working and building a family.

When people ask us New York or London, there is no question. It will always be London.

London is familiar yet different. The double decker buses, the tube, the black cabs. Don grew up on British radio comedy, my early years were all Mary Poppins, Enid Blyton and anything Roald Dahl. Our Monopoly board was always the London version. We knew The Goodies, Dr Who, Yes Minister and The Young Ones. Too many musicians and bands to name. Live Aid. Harry Potter. Oliver, Paddington Bear.

London has The Globe, and Shakespeare in the park, and crazy arsed local pantomimes. London has the astonishing Kew Gardens, and markets filled with antiques and local designers and food and craft. London has an abundance of charity shops filled with cheap hidden treasures.

London has a gritty charm, and a majesty beyond Buckingham Palace. Tube stations are old school ornate, and everywhere there are arches and towers and old brick walls. There is Westminster Abbey, and the Thames with its multiple bridges.

In London you can get about in thrown together winter colours that imply you don’t care, or bedazzle yourself in boots and sequins to take on Abba Voyage with your girlfriends. You can go high fashion or you can rug up in rarely worn hiking boots and sturdy jackets and walk for miles through the suburbs and parks. There are squirrels and robins and hedgehogs.

Every trip we make to London we walk forever. Every visit we’ll go to the Natural History Museum, the lions in Trafalgar Square, the National Gallery, Windsor and Eton, Tower Bridge, Hyde Park and Leicester Square. We’ll check out Forbidden Planet for comics, Waterstones for books, Marks and Spencer just because it’s Marks and Spencer. We’ll buy a Radio Times from W H Smith, a Christmas teddy bear from Harrods and something random from Boots. We’ll have a full English breakfast more than once. We’ll talk football with our friends, even though I have no idea what I’m talking about. This visit has been no different.

Yep, we bloody love London.

Anyway, I write this post from a whole other European city where we’ve been for the past two days. We absolutely hands down love European cities.

A guide book and a map

Hyderabad

And then you have the opposite of the walking tour.

Today we took an auto-rickshaw to Golconda Fort, the sprawling ruins of a huge 16th century citadel in the middle of Hyderabad.

Because it’s handy to have a small guide book with a map, I bought one that may or may not have been photo-copied from a lovely old man who pestered me endlessly when we came through the entrance. I did refuse the postcards – really, I have no need for postcards.

“How useful will that be?” Don asked me.

“It’s as useful as 50 rupee,” I answered. “it’ll be handy to have a small guide book with a map.”

“For example,” I went on as we approached a long building with huge archways, “this is where they kept the elephants.”

“Does it say that in the booklet?”

“No, it doesn’t say anything about elephants in the booklet.”

“Is it on the map?”

“Yes, I think it’s building number 22.”

“So what does it say about building number 22?”

“I don’t know, there’s no corresponding legend for the map.”

“Then how do you know it’s where they kept the elephants?”

“I know this from experience and my extensive knowledge of ancient Indian architecture.”

I flipped through the booklet some more.

“Oh, wait, there’s something in here about the royal camel stables.”

“Well are they building 22?”

“There is no way of knowing this. However here’s something interesting,” I continued, “apparently there’s a mosque within the fort grounds.”

“Is it that one?” Don asked, pointing to a bright white mosque right in front of us.

“There’s no way of knowing this, but I suggest yes.”

“Well I suggest you put the booklet away and we just walk around and read the signs.”

“Fair enough,” I said, tucking the guide into my bag. “So do you think we got our 50 rupees’ worth?”

“I think you would have been better off with the postcards.”

Walking tours

Hyderabad

We’ve done a number of food tours on our travels – tasted delicious fish stew in San Francisco, local churros in Lima, famous skyr yoghurt in Reykjavik. On the first day of our India holiday in we took a Storytrails food tour of the bustling Rattan bazaar in Chennai with Karunya, sampling our way through the streets until we were absolutely stuffed with dosa, dal, hot milky coffee and sweet gulab jamon. Food tours are usually one of our first choices to explore new areas, but due to a number of factors this trip we’ve taken two city walking tours, and they’ve been absolutely brilliant.

We only had one day in Bangalore, so to get the most out of our time we booked an offbeat walking tour with Tours by Locals. Sushma took us for a local breakfast, before we set off on a fascinating walk that included the old neighbourhood of Bangalore, Dodda Basavana Gudi (the bull temple) and the hectic fresh produce and flower markets.

Today we walked around Hyderabad with the Hyderabad Walking Company. We started the morning drinking chai and eating Hyderabad’s signature Osmania biscuit at a local cafe at the base of the magnificent Charminar, before Navin took us up the steep stairs to the top of the monument to look out across the bustling bazaar area and the old gates of Hyderabad. We spent a while exploring the grand Chowmahalla Palace, then walked through Laad Bazar where thousands of colourful bangles are made and sold.

Neither of these tours felt like ‘tours’. It felt like we were wandering around each city having a conversation with a local. Both Sushma and Navin gave us time to take in each sight and experience. Each told us fascinating stories about their cities – legends that people still believe, and those that may be closer to the truth. They even took photos for us. And they were both genuinely interested in our own story and holiday.

The difference between wandering around by ourselves or being guided is pretty significant.

If it had just been the two of us we wouldn’t have had the opportunity to wander through somebody’s home in the old neighbourhood of Bangalore, or see the dhobi ghat where every day clothes are beaten and scrubbed in big open tanks before being hung to dry in the sun along the street. We wouldn’t know that the kings of Hyderabad were ridiculously wealthy, nor would we have been thoroughly entertained by the stories of their personalities, deeds and lives at Chowmahalla Palace. We wouldn’t have found our way through the crowded KR market in Bangalore to get to the beautiful flower markets, nor would we know the difference between the genuine bangles created by Hyderabad craftsmen or those made elsewhere and sold in the street.

I’m a fully converted fan of the walking tour.

Chamundi steps

Mysore

We like to use the local buses and trains when we’re in big cities, get a feel for how people commute, have a bit of an adventure working out the system to get us places.

However nothing beats walking. Walking really lets you explore neighbourhoods, buildings, shops and people. We’ve walked for miles through many cities across the world.

Yesterday we set off walking to Chamundi Hills that overlook the city of Mysore. Our plan was to walk to the entrance at the base, and then climb the 1001 steps to the temple at the top, taking in the smaller temples along the way and the beautiful views over Mysore.

With the benefit of hindsight, it’s extraordinarily apparent that neither of us had any freaking concept of a) a walk across Mysore or b) what 1001 steps is like.

“How far is it to the steps?” Don asked in the morning.

“Four kilometres.”

“That’s good, we can walk that.”

“And then 1001 steps to the top.”

“Ok, no worries.”

And off we went.

Google maps has done a lot for walking in foreign cities. Via what I can only assume is magic, you can track where you are without needing the internet. I have no idea how this works, nor do I care, I’m just grateful that it does. And so we tracked our walk to the hills – out the front gate, down the street filled with Levi jeans shops that aren’t actually Levi jeans, past the busy markets and around the glorious Mysore Palace.

Unfortunately Google maps magic shows you the way, but doesn’t tell you what the way is actually like; the roads, the terrain or the neighbourhoods.

On we trekked, past the bus depot and some government offices, across a busy roundabout and onto a major highway. Over a guard rail and down an embankment to an access road. Through a small local market. Over some ditches. Past some goats. Onwards towards some fields, now only 2km into our walk.

An auto-rickshaw driver who was parked by the road spoke as we trudged past.

“Chamundi steps?”

We were in the back seat faster than anybody could say how much, where are you from or how about that cricket, happy to be driven the final two kilometres to the base of the 1001 steps.

Now I’m going to be generous here and say we made it roughly 100 steps before our first rest. Those steps were randomly short, tall, deep and narrow. They sloped left, then right, and wound back and forth up the hill. Our next rest stop may have been after 80 steps. Then 60. I’m sure you can see what’s happening here.

As the number of steps we could manage decreased, the amount of rest we needed increased. We stood to the side each time, panting, sweating, our hearts thundering. Barefoot 80 year olds flew past us, teenagers stopped to take selfies.

On we went.

We’d been sitting on a step close to number 600 for quite a while when one of us finally cracked. I can’t remember who, doesn’t matter.

“Screw this, we’re on holidays.”

And straight back to the bottom we went.

This was not defeat, this was astute holiday decision-making in action. There will be plenty more temples available for visiting.

Ones not at the top of a fucking mountain.

THIS is lime pickle

Kochi

We had lunch at the XL Hotel in Fort Kochi yesterday. Don ordered butter chicken, I ordered a local dish – nadan chicken. Don had two beers, I had a Pepsi. We chatted about our morning exploring Mattancherry.

Then our meals arrived, and the conversation somehow became completely one-sided.

“Oh,” Don moaned when he tasted his dish. “Oh, this is good.”

“The flavour!” he exclaimed before I could speak. “It’s like it’s just that little bit more. A little bit over. It just goes over. You know what I’m trying to say?”

I opened my mouth to answer but apparently it wasn’t an actual question.

“Oh my,” he continued, “oh wow. I mean, you think you’re having lime pickle, but no, THIS is lime pickle. And THIS is butter chicken. It just is the thing. The real thing. THIS is butter chicken.”

I nodded. Yes, this was indeed butter chicken.

“So good. Is this the best meal we’ve ever had? It could be the best. I think it’s the best. This is the best butter chicken I’ve ever had,” he went on as he dipped his parathas into my curry. “Oh my God, yours is amazing too!”

He sat chewing, deep in thought, lost in contemplation of the amazing flavour that was my lunch. “So good,” he repeated, then back to his own.

He continued talking and groaning and working his way through the food in front of him until he finally leant back in his seat.

I opened my mouth to speak.

“No, no, I’m not finished yet,” he lurched back up, “I can fit more in. Wait,” he said to nobody in particular, and started scooping more rice onto his plate.

“We don’t cook rice like this. Do we?” he asked. “Do we cook rice the wrong way? We need to learn how to cook rice like this. I don’t even like rice. The carrots, the carrots in this rice are amazing!”

“Oh my God, that was so good. Ok, that’s it, I’m officially done,” he finally said, pushing his plate away and picking up the last scrap of parathas and dipping it again into the remains of my curry. “Except for this. Hey, are you going to finish that?” he asked, reaching for one of my chicken bones.

Finally he truly was finished.

“Well, that was one of the finest meals I’ve had in my entire life. Can you take a photo? No, no,” he waved me down and pulled his phone out, “I’ll take a photo. That was magnificent.”

He snapped a quick pic, then reviewed his work.

“You bet your arse that’s a good photo,” he was now definitely just talking to himself. “This will remind me how good that meal was.”

Yep, that plus this blog post.

Just India

Kerala

From the minute we returned home from our India holiday seven years ago, I’ve wanted to go back. There’s just something about India.

It always takes us a day or two to acclimatise to an overseas holiday – to recover from the flights, orient ourselves in the city in which we’ve landed and to generally remember we’re on holidays.

Chennai is a huge, busy city. We got ourselves stuck in a few snarly traffic jams, auto-rickshaws and cars stop-starting for hours. We walked several long, hot miles and spent many an occasion crossing eight lane roads where cars and bikes drove through, around and between each other. We ate cautiously and washed our hands religiously. It took us a while to find our India feet.

Now we are in Kerala, in Fort Kochi, and India feet are well and truly found. And I know that India is just as I left it.

India is a place where everything goes at its own pace, and everything eventually happens. People are friendly, accommodating and helpful, but nothing is done quickly. That doesn’t matter – you arrive at a place in your mind where nothing needs to be done quickly. Things get done in their own time.

You can just be in India. Early this morning we walked along the seafront and watched the fishing boats come in. Lots of people were out, and there was a calmness and apparent joy everywhere – girls walking with friends, people breathing, stretching and practicing yoga, young men laughing together as they swam in the Arabian Sea. Men operating the old Chinese fishing nets, smiling and calling me over to have a go. Sure, people were exercising, but nobody was running. Nobody had their head down in concentration and nobody appeared to be in any hurry to get anywhere.

Yesterday we floated the Kerala backwaters for hours; most of the time with nothing but the sound of the heavy poles hitting the water to slowly move our boat along. It was absolutely stunning, but I’ll admit we had our moments – it was a long time to sit and do nothing but take in the scenery.

But that’s what India does. Amidst the noise and crowds, it makes you sit still and take it all in – the sights, the smells, the people, the activity. So that’s what we’ll continue to do. And I’m pretty sure that when we eventually return home, once again I’ll want to turn around and come straight back.

NOW BOARDING GATE 6!

Chennai

We’ve had a great three days in Chennai that included a fabulous food tour through Rattan Bazaar and a day trip to the amazing temples and monuments of Kanchipuram and Mamallapuram. Last night we left Chennai and flew to Kochi.

There were signs all over Chennai airport announcing that it’s a ‘silent airport’ and that there are ‘no departure announcements’. Unsure as to how this would work, Don thought it best we stick close to our departure gate.

I’m glad we did. It was most entertaining.

“I wonder how you know when you’re allowed to board,” I said to Don just as a young woman leant across the counter at Gate 7 and started yelling at the waiting people.

“PASSENGERS FOR DEHLI YOUR FLIGHT IS NOW BOARDING AT GATE 14!” she bellowed. “PLEASE GO TO GATE 14!”

Nobody moved. She drew a breath and continued.

“ANY PASSENGERS FOR KOLKATA , PLEASE BOARD NOW AT GATE 7!! PASSENGERS FOR KOLKATA, BOARDING NOW, GATE 7!”

Five people made their way to the gate. The woman at Gate 6 stepped up.

“PASSENGERS FOR KOLKATA, GATE 7! NO SIR,” she yelled as a man approached with his boarding pass, “KOCHI NOT BOARDING YET!”

“KOLKATA BOARDING, GATE 7! PLEASE HAVE YOUR BOARDING PASS READY!”

“DELHI BOARDING GATE 14!”

Gate 7 Woman took over.

“PASSENGERS FOR DEHLI PLEASE MAKE YOUR WAY TO GATE 14!”

This went on for some time, the gatekeepers yelling at the crowd, swatting away passengers with incorrect boarding passes and studying five metres of paper that had spat itself out of an ancient dot matrix printer whilst they’d been yelling.

“LAST CALL FOR DELHI!” Gate 7 woman yelled.

People eventually started running – no, sprinting – to different gates, trailing small children, pillows and bags, because they had somehow missed that their plane was about to leave, even though two women had been bellowing boarding calls at them for over half an hour.

Gate 6 Woman eventually lost her shit, bundled up the paper and threw it the best anyone can throw five metres of crumpled paper at Gate 7 Woman, who disappeared down the flight corridor with it. Gate 6 Woman was now solo.

“PASSENGERS FOR KOCHI ROWS 21 TO 30 YOUR FLIGHT IS NOW READY FOR BOARDING AT GATE 6. KOLKATA BOARDING GATE 7. DELHI BOARDING GATE 14!”

Her palm flew into the air any time somebody thought they might board early. “NO SIR,” she yelled at a particularly persistent man, “ROWS 21 to 30 ONLY!” Gate 6 Woman is my new favourite person.

Next minute Gate 7 Woman was back, and OMG she now had a headset with a portable amplifier around her waist. Don had to hold me up, I was almost crying.

“PASSENGERS FOR DELHI, YOUR PLANE IS ABOUT TO DEPART. GATE 14!” she yelled into the microphone.

Then that’s it, one announcement and the headset was gone and never used again. This is obviously contraband in a silent airport.

In the midst of this chaos, a tall young man strolled through the crowd, also shouting.

“PASSENGERS FOR DELHI, BOARDING GATE 14!”

Gate 7 Woman glared at him – this was obviously not his patch – and he too goes the way of the headset microphone.

It took some time, but eventually we were all on board. It had been compelling viewing; Don and I were in row one and had thus got to witness the show from start to finish.

Without a shadow of a doubt I am now a huge fan of the silent airport.

The forgotten city

Hong Kong

Late last night we left for our holiday in India. This is our second time in India; the first time was seven years ago and we covered the north – Rajasthan, Mumbai, Delhi, Varanasi. We loved it so much we knew we’d eventually return. This visit we’re spending three weeks criss-crossing the south, and we’re so excited!

We flew out of Australia last night with a meticulously planned itinerary, a well stocked first aid kit, printed copies of all of our documents and bookings and an efficient selection of coordinated hot weather outfits.

However here we are on day one of our adventure and it turns out we completely forgot we were also going to Hong Kong. A 14 hour layover on the way over, a day and a half on our return.

I mean, we didn’t actually forget. We knew Hong Kong was in the mix. However Hong Kong played no part whatsoever in the aforementioned meticulous planning.

What we didn’t bring because we forgot we were going to Hong Kong:

Hong Kong dollars. In cash, on a travel card, in any form at all.
Warm clothes. Turns out January is Hong Kong’s coldest month. Granted, it’s not scarves and beanies cold, but it’s definitely not shorts and t-shirt weather, as I discovered when we stepped out of the airport.
Hong Kong power adaptor. When we leave India everything will need to be fully charged – iPhones and iPads, camera batteries, Don’s iPod. And then I guess it’s fingers crossed until we reach Australia.
An itinerary, a map, a guide book or a speck of online research on what we might do to fill 14 hours.

I tell you, this Kitzelman-Jarmey travel train is one slick operation.