The Greatest Year of My Life

One year ago I looked out the window of my comfortable office in Sydney and thought, “This isn’t quite right”. I now type this looking out the window in my hotel room in Yangon, Burma – and reflect on 2012, the most incredible year of my life.

At the start of this year I left the place that employed me for eleven years, seeking something different. I packed my bags and took off for a year of global travel, not knowing where I would end up.

I started in -30C weather in China for the ice festival in Harbin. In Jilin I heard accounts of North Korean corpses floating down the Tumen River. I witnessed the rare sight of North Korean tourists in Shenyang, censoring themselves in front of South Koreans.

Later by bus, train, truck, and jeep my friend James and I made a treacherous journey from Beijing to cross the land border into Mongolia. We continued all the way up to the border with Russia where our cameras stopped working because of the cold. After peering over into Siberia, I flew to the Arabian Peninsula to see turtles nesting in Oman. I then dashed back to the cold in northern Europe, to be rescued by a kind Norwegian while attempting to trek to the border post of Finland/Sweden/Norway. I had "aurora anxiety" and went husky sledding in Finland, before resting in London. And it was only March!

After driving to Wales for a lovely time with friends in the mountains, the Middle East leg began. I learned a thing or two in Gallipoli and went hot air ballooning over Cappadocia in Turkey; ate eleven times at the same restaurant in Beirut, Lebanon; was interrogated by an Israeli security agent; put the yarmulke onat the Wailing Wall in Jerusalem; caught the bus with the locals to cross from Palestine into Jordan; and was dazzled by Petra

As the summer heat came I escaped to North America. After being detained by US immigration, I drove up the entire length of the west coast with help from the lovely K. In San Francisco we flew over the Golden Gate Bridge in a light plane – one of the greatest thrills of my life (thanks to Tia and Alex). I feared for bears when my car broke down in the redwood forests in northern California. I amusingly saw Seattle fans barrack for Miami during the NBA Finals. And Portland, oh how I loved Portland.

I hopped across the border to Vancouver to join my friend Calvin’s final days in Canada. In July some painful cross-country train rides awaited – improvised theatre in Chicago, swimming in Boston, seeing THE Star Spangled-Banner at The Smithsonian in Washington DC. In Hollywood I sat in front of the television for the London Olympics Opening Ceremony, only to find out NBC would be broadcasting on a ten-hour delay!

The whole time the teenage ambition of professional writing nagged away at the mind. I kept it up during the travels, but readers of this blog would have noticed in July the posts abruptly stopped.

On a hot summer’s day in Chicago I was in my hostel room checking my e-mails when I opened a message that would change my life. The University of Hong Kong had awarded me a scholarship to complete a Master of Journalism. The course would begin in September.

As if my very fortunate circumstance of travelling wherever I wanted whenever I wanted wasn’t intoxicating enough, someone wanted to pay for me to do what I always craved!

Travel plans I had for the rest of the year were hastily dumped and I headed for Hong Kong (via Sydney). Sri Lanka, Iraq, North Korea, Burma, Scotland, Madagascar, and Timor-Leste would all have to wait.

The Masters course has been intense, and adjusting to life in a new city has been a challenge. But learning the craft of journalism has been an absolute labour of love. I often pinch myself to check this isn’t all a dream.

First semester ended tomorrow and I arrived in Yangon, Burma this morning. I am here to work – tomorrow is the first day of an internship with a prominent English language newspaper.

So I’m back on the blog. Despite the four-month silence, my year of Unpredictable Delights has continued unabated. Tonight I stare out the window at the Yangon traffic and think to myself, “This feels just right”.

Are you here for World Domination?

When I was making plans for a second visit to Portland, Oregon I noticed a curious phenomenon. Every cheap hostel and hotel bed seemed to be booked out. One of the hostel staff told me that there's a big conference on the weekend I was in town. Yikes.

Two weeks later I arrived in the City of Roses and was on a walking tour of the local art galleries. One of the other tourists, a British lass named Tamsin, asked "So... are you here for World Domination?"

What? World domination? But I don't have a cat in my lap to stroke. And I'm not evil enough!

Portland, Oregon - Mt St Helens in the background.
Tamsin then explained that the conference that booked out all the beds in Portland was the World Domination Summit. It is meant to be a gathering of creative and not so creative types who aspire to an unconventional life in a conventional world.

Hearing my story of walking away from my previous life and funding a year-long trip around the world, she had thought that I may have been involved in the conference. The founder of the summit, the writer of the The Art of Non-Conformity blog, is closing in on an ambition to visit every country in the world - and teaches people how they too can "dominate the world" with their own "non-conformist" ambitions.

And of course, this fellow's home town is unorthodox Portland!

Portland, Oregon: Hawaiian food cart
Over that weekend as I walked around the city I realised conference attendees were everywhere. As I had lunch at a Hawaiian food cart, the people next to me were talking about their social plans over the summit. One was a charismatic Canadian woman, same age as me, who quit her corporate lawyer gig to travel around the world. She has now been on the road for years and funds the lifestyle with travel writing and speaking engagements. Naturally she was a speaker at the World Domination Summit.

It was heartening to hear of other folks around the world who had taken the chance to change up their lives. I knew almost everyone, at some stage of their lives, felt the way I did the end of last year - but to meet others who had actually taken action was gratifying. And in all places, Portland.

I ❤ Portland

Thursday July 5, 2012

Upon hearing my accent at a tram stop a local lady asked "Do you work for Nike?"

Even after visiting so many wonderful places around the world, for years I had always maintained that the only place I’d like to live in outside of Australia is New York City. But now please allow me to add to that exclusive list – Portland, Oregon.

Mt Hood watches over Portland.
Well, I would live in Portland if they’d let me. I’m likely not hip enough. I love that they have so many vegan burger joints, but I really like downing a Big Mac or two now and again.

Just like how I’ve always felt New York City should be a separate country to the rest of the United States, left wing Portland also has that feel. The place has a European ambience unmatched by other American cities. As this video from the sitcom Portlandia declares, the dream of the 90s is still alive in Portland.

Is it organic? Is it locally produced? These culinary questions are completely redundant in Portland, as they’ve already been answered. It’s actually more difficult to get non-organic food! May I please get some pesticides sprayed on that salad?

Portland food carts, yay!
Now a trendy fad around the world, the modern food cart concept began in Portland. Upon my first visit to the downtown cluster of carts (Alder and 10th) I was stunned by the number and variety of cuisine on offer, not to mention that almost every meal was less than $10. I could spend a month in Portland trying every cart! Just going around the block casually I found:

More Portland food carts, yay!

  • Egyptian
  • Hawaiian
  • Thai
  • Japanese
  • Korean
  • Mexican-Korean
  • Indonesian
  • German
  • Cuban
  • French
  • Indian
  • Argentine
  • Vietnamese
  • Greek
The Euro Trash food cart. You can even buy Foie Gras here.
  • "Whole Bowl"
  • "Euro Trash"
  • Italian
  • Chinese
  • Mexican
  • Scottish
  • Southern USA
  • USA BBQ
  • Ethiopian
  • Polish
  • Lebanese
  • Caribbean


Did you know bookshops still exist? Yes, a place where one can exchange money for bound printed paper! Apparently while the rest of the world moves online there are still small independent bookshops doing business in Portland.

Do you remember these?
Those who led the city in the 1960s and 1970s were visionaries. In an era when other cities were competing to build up their skyline and freeways Portland exercised planning restraint. Even downtown Portland now contains very few skyscrapers, and a traffic jam is seldom seen.

Downtown, riverside park.
Public transport is thorough for a city of two million people, again the result of forward thinking policies from decades ago. While the rest of the world was tearing down their trams Portland had them installed. Buses, light rail and streetcars now zip around frequently. The free zone within downtown is an ingenious idea for tourists, locals, and the environment alike.

But why catch a bus when you can cycle? Bicycles are everywhere. The only other city I’ve seen more bicycles is Beijing. As an outsider it’s extraordinary to see an American city with more bikes on the road than cars. But this is Portland. On the streets there are young ladies riding in sundresses, middle-aged couples pedalling for leisure, and even a semi-legal nudie ride takes place annually.
  
The city’s only major league team, the Portland Trailblazers basketball team, is the ultimate underdog. To basketball fans the number of misfortunes and mistakes the NBA franchise has made is infamous. To the layperson only one fact needs to be presented: Portland is the team which overlooked Michael Jordan in the 1984 draft.

If you’re a fan of The Simpsons, creator Matt Groening grew up in Portland and named many of the cartoon’s characters after city landmarks. My treasure hunt of those locations is blogged here.

Portland is arty farty.
There is a vibrant creative scene in Portland. Not only is Portland Art Museum impressive for a city its size, small art galleries abound – especially concentrated in the Pearl District. The first Thursday evening of each month is a “free day” for Portland galleries, and includes an open-air art market where local artists sell their work.

Portlandia, an anthropomorphic representation of the city, can be seen in downtown as the second largest statue of its kind in the United States, after the Statue of Liberty.

Portlandia statue.
There are apparently no old people in Portland. The only folks of advanced age I saw were tourists, lesbians, or tourist lesbians. ­The city is disturbingly youthful, like as if a bouncer is monitoring the entrance.

Oregon has no sales tax. People from Washington state pop over to Portland to shop and dine.

The City of Roses has natural beauty too. Bike riders whiz by at Portland’s pretty riverside park and the mighty conical Mt Hood looms over the entire metropolis. And obviously the Rose Garden is a major attraction.

Harp player busking at the Rose Garden:
So Portland.
After we'd established that I didn't work for Nike nor Intel, the (Caucasian) Portlander lady told me about her adopted Native American daughter. She is grown up now, and after registering in her tribe she receives social benefits unheard of for the rest of the US population such as free healthcare. When her daughter expresses guilt for receiving the government assistance even though she has not had an indigenous upbringing and has no practical affinity with the Native American culture, the Portland lady responds "Don't you feel guilty - it's reparation for all the suffering endured by your parents, grandparents, and ancestors. No amount of welfare will ever make up for that. Your forebears would be proud that you're doing so well."

Perhaps it's the people I like the most in Portland.

Let's get nuts II

Saturday July 14, 2012

Part I of Let's Get Nuts is here.

It's 6am and I'm typing this on the train from Chicago to Boston! This train isn't supposed to have wifi but the snack/lounge car seems to have reception so I've setup camp on one of the tables.

Somewhere in Montana, as seen on the Empire Builder train
I'm really starting to regret investing so much in American overnight trains. It is IMPOSSIBLE to sleep properly in economy class. I so despised the idea of trying to get comfortable in my cramped seat that I reluctantly returned from the snack car at 4:30am. By which time the person next to me had annexed my seat to make herself more comfortable and my pillow was on the dirty floor! Arghghgh! After reclining for an hour I gave up trying to get some shut eye and decided to return to this table to watch the sunrise and be productive on the computer.

Fargo, Minnesota, as seen from the Empire Builder train
The Empire Builder, at the Twin Cities.
While I was reclining trying to get to sleep I thought: I've spent $750 to travel around coast to coast in the US. I could have spent that much in airfares and done the same - except I wouldn't be stuck in cramped quarters for days, trying to get some/any sleep. At the time of booking a USA Rail Pass the idea seemed very romantic - see the countryside, save on accommodation costs. But reality has hit hard. Hmmmmm, hindsight at 5am is lucid.

I complained of the discomfort on Chinese trains back in January, so it's only fair now to express my displeasure at American trains for a balanced world view!

The Simpsons in Portland


Friday July 6, 2012

When I arrived in Portland for my second visit I saw a street sign that said "Flanders St". As a long time fan of The Simpsons I chuckled to myself, as it reminded me of the do-gooder neighbour.

A few minutes later I encountered a sign indicating "Lovejoy St". Hmmm, could this be a coincidence? I hurried to the hostel to do some research.

To my delight I found that the creator of The Simpsons, Matt Groening, grew up in Portland, Oregon. And it was no coincidence – he named many of the characters after Portland landmarks. I then had little choice but to visit as many of those as I could. The pictures shown in this blog article were all taken by me during the “treasure hunt”.

MONTGOMERY BURNS
The wealthy owner of the Springfield nuclear power plant had his moniker derived from Montgomery Park and Burnside Road. The former is a massive office building and the latter is the main east-west thoroughfare that divides the city into northern and southern halves. Groening has mentioned in interviews that as a child he thought that the brightly lit Montgomery Park sign was what his prayers went to. And the sign really is huge – my photo was taken from five blocks away!

REVEREND LOVEJOY
The apathetic Christian leader of Springfield was named after Lovejoy St – my picture was taken in the northwest quarter of Portland (hence the “NW” prefix).

KEARNEY
Kearney, one of the bullies at Springfield Elementary, drew his name from Kearney St – again the NW prefix indicates my photo was snapped in the northwest quarter.

MAYOR QUIMBY
Groening was inspired to name the corrupt, horny, and perennially elected mayor of Springfield with the Kennedy-esque accent after Quimby St. The northwest quarter was again the site of the photographed sign.

NED FLANDERS
The NE Flanders St signs are the most vandalised and stolen public property in Portland. Many times a “D” is scribbled onto the end of “NE”. Although I was staying at a hostel metres away from NW Flanders St, I walked for an hour to a desolate industrial area to see the much sought after NE Flanders St sign. This was turning out to be a true Simpsons pilgrimage.

EVERGREEN TERRACE
Matt Groening’s childhood home was on Evergreen Terrace in a wealthy neighbourhood in the forests behind the Rose Garden and Japanese Garden, west of downtown. It took me an hour of hiking up the windy streets through the woods to get to Evergreen Terrace. The Simpsons live in house number 742 in Springfield, but in the Portland street there is no such number. The house that Groening was raised in by his mother Margaret, father Bart and sisters Patty is still there, but the family has long since moved away.

TERWILLIGER
Bart’s long time nemesis Sideshow Bob’s surname is seen in the university district, where 6th Avenue turns into Terwilliger Boulevard.

BART SIMPSON
Bart was not labelled after any Portland landmark – the name is an anagram of “brat”. However on the footpath outside Groening’s old high school, Lincoln High School, he has drawn a lovely picture of Bart in the wet concrete. The photo also shows my wristwatch, just to prove that I was present and it’s not a picture plucked from the Internet.

MILHOUSE VAN HOUTEN
Van Houten Avenue is in the northern suburbs of Portland. This was the only treasure I couldn’t reach, as it was over 10km from downtown – far too cumbersome for a tourist to commute to!

Take Me Skiing In Lebanon

Thursday May 3, 2012

"Hello, how are you?" said my friend Adam as he befriended yet another Lebanese soldier.

We were walking back to our hotel after dinner in the small tourist town of Bcharre, deep in the mountains in northern Lebanon. The famous Cedars of God and the best ski fields in Lebanon are just up the slope from the town centre, and the spectacular Qadisha Valley is down the slope.

Me with Bcharre and Qadisha Valley below.
The people of Lebanon like to brag that on the same day they can go out to the beach for a swim then out to the mountains for a ski. Adam was determined to achieve that double, if not on the same day but on the same trip.

Two days earlier during lunch we had asked the restaurant owner if it was still possible to ski. He was pessimistic, "The lifts closed just last week."

But after a few minutes a lightbulb went off in his head. "You can ask the army."

What? Ask the army for what? "Ask the army if you can ski on their slope. They sometimes allow foreigners to use their lift. You can ski with the soldiers."

The closed lifts at Cedars of God - we missed it by a week!
Adam's eyes lit up! From then on we approached every soldier we could find to see if we could sweet talk ourselves onto the military snow. And soldiers are easy to find in Lebanon.

Like busy hookers we solicited as many military personnel as we could the next two days - but had no result. We had even visited the military ski training centre up at the Cedars and spoke to the guards, to no avail. But even after all that Adam had not given up hope.

On our way to dinner we had met three blokes on duty (I don't know what they were patrolling, they just seemed to be standing in the middle of an anonymous Bcharre street) and Adam spoke with them for a few minutes establishing rapport. Everyone in Lebanon seems to have a cousin in Australia, it was easy enough for us to get a conversation going.

Ski training centre for the Lebanese Army,
at Cedars of God.
After yet another filling Lebanese meal we walked back the same path and encountered the same checkpoint. Adam wanted to resume the conversation with the trio, hoping to get on that elusive slope.

"Hello, how are you? What a beautiful night!" Adam began, with the zeal of a evangelist. It was a crisp night in the mountains, and a near full moon lit the sky like an aurora.

The soldiers stared back at Adam with a strange look. They didn't seem to be as enamoured with him as earlier. Adam tried his best to keep the conversation going, but it turned out to be a very awkward five minutes.

We finally gave up, said our goodbyes to the military folk, and trudged back to our hotel. Adam sighed "Geez, that was hard. It was like as if they didn't even remember me from two hours ago. I really thought I had a chance with those guys."

I had to put Adam out of his misery. "Adam, you know they weren't the same guys as before dinner? They changed over while we were eating."

Do bears have mobile phones?

Monday June 11, 2012

I chuckled like a mad man. Australian comedians Tony Martin and Glenn Robbins were entertaining me on the car stereo. I was enjoying a drive on the windy roads through the gorgeous forests of northern California, heading to the magnificent Redwoods. I chuckled again as Martin and Robbins made fun of Kim Beazley.

While I laughed I noticed that under the din of the comedians there was a deep-throated rumbling noise. I thought "The car must be struggling going up these hills. She'll be apples soon." I then looked at the dashboard where an unfamiliar yellow warning light had come on.

Oh Christ. I was on a narrow two lane road in the middle of a forest - it took me a couple of minutes to find a shoulder big enough to park the car. I anxiously opened the glove box to refer to the manual. What could this warning light mean?!

Northern California forest, and my car.
And there it was: insufficient tyre pressure. I alighted to check out what was going on. The rear right tyre was completely flat. I had been driving metal to asphalt for the last few minutes.

What was I going to do? I picked up my phone to contact the car rental company, but there was no reception. Of course, why would there be a signal here? Do the bears have mobile phones?

I'm fine with travelling through pariah countries, places where no-one speaks English, or crime ridden cities. However I'm concerned about bears. Did you know even though they're hundreds of kilograms they can move faster than humans? How can one not worry about encountering one of those beasts!

I had to change the tyre as fast as I could. Which wouldn't be a problem if I knew how to change a tyre. Fifteen years of driving and this was my first flat. In the middle of a Californian forest.

I opened the manual and laboured my way through each of the steps. In retrospect changing a tyre is very easy. But doing it for the first time, reading from a manual, I kept thinking "If I don't do this properly I'm going to be eaten by bears."

After the longest 45 minutes of my life I had dirt and wheel grease all over me, but the temporary spare tyre was successfully installed. Phew. I didn't get attacked by a bear or raped by a trucker. One kind motorist did stop to offer assistance, but by then all was under control so I thanked him and waved him off.

I felt a masculine sense of reward for having been through that rite of passage. However the temporary can only be driven for a limited distance, at a limited speed. Now I had to somehow find a way to get a permanent replacement tyre.

It took me another thirty minutes to drive out of the forest, where I found a lonely highway diner. I asked the teenaged shop assistant if there was a telephone I could use. She pointed me to a pay phone outside.

A pay phone! Back in Australia whenever I saw a public telephone I wondered "Why is that there? Who uses a public pay phone these days? Doesn't everyone have a mobile phone?"  Now I knew who uses public phones - foreigners in trouble!

I spoke to the rental company who advised me to find the nearest tyre shop and that I'd be reimbursed for the expense upon the return of the car. Unfortunately I was in such an isolated and sparsely populated part of the United States that they could not tell me where the nearest tyre place would be. I would have to drive around on the temporary tyre until I came across one.

Another twenty minutes away a petrol station attendant was able to point me to the "local" tyre shop, another twenty minutes drive away. With the spare tyre I couldn't drive any faster than 70kph, driving the locals crazy.

Finally I reached the tiny dusty village of Redway - population 1225. I had now driven 55km on the temporary tyre, likely nearing its capacity. Fortunately the tyre shop was able to work on the car that afternoon. While the tyre was being taken care of I went next door to the Great American Hamburger restaurant for a meal.

Garberville, USA: just up the road from Redway.
At the burger place a 13 year old local girl enthusiastically commented "I like your bag!". I was carrying a satchel that I had purchased in Mongolia, featuring embroidery hand-crafted by a Kazakh nomad. It's definitely a comment-worthy bag, although perhaps the novelty may have been that there are no blokes seen with satchels around these parts. "Thanks, it's from Mongolia." I replied.

"Phwoah, I like your accent!" the girl yelped. Maybe I'd seen too many films, but alarm bells started going off in my head. A stranger in a small US town, starts talking to gaol bait, gets into a "misunderstanding", then has to fight the entire local population to escape. I'm sure I've seen a movie like that.

Fortunately my burger arrived and I was able to get away. I returned to the tyre shop where a local asked if I was from New Zealand. He was very apologetic when I corrected him although I did say "It's no insult to be called a Kiwi". I drove away with my new tyre and switched Tony Martin and Glenn Robbins back on, glad that I was able to spontaneously sample rural America off the tourist track.

Where are you from... really?

Saturday May 12, 2011

The people of the Middle East are the friendliest folks you'd ever hope to meet. Strangers will willingly help you, welcome you, and invite you to their homes. As a foreigner you could not travel to a more amiable region.

However there is an odd phenomenon that I have encountered on my journeys to Arabia, the Levant and Iran, which I never experience in Europe, Asia or North America. Ninety five percent of my conversations in the Middle East would begin like this:

local: Hello, welcome to (this country). Where are you from?
me: Australia.
local: [looks confused] No, where are you originally from?

How does one answer that? I'm very proud of my Korean heritage and have nothing to hide in that respect, but I'm also very proud to be Australian. And this question is a rejection of my first answer, a denial of my nationality.

Me and Eli, our driver in Lebanon
Don't get me wrong, this is a VERY minor inconvenience. I would much rather have this problem than be a person of South Asian appearance constantly being picked for "random" searches at airports (like Sharukh Khan), or, heaven forbid, be an Indigenous Australian traveller having to bear the heartbreak of being asked "No, where you originally from?"

Obviously the typical person in the Middle East does not know enough about Australia to understand that it is a multicultural nation, and follows an explicit policy of multiculturalism. The irony is, of course, that the countries in the Middle East are some of the most ethnically diverse in the world - an Israeli could be of Jewish, Arab, Armenian or Ethiopian ethnicity; an Iranian could be Persian, Kurdish, Arab, or any number of other ethnic backgrounds.

Of course, the local in this situation is being hospitable and does not mean to cause any offence. And while I would like to make the person realise that the question is inappropriate, I'm not in the habit of picking confrontations with locals while I'm a visitor to their country.
Me and Adam at Qadisha Valley, Lebanon

So while I would love to come back with "Excuse me, would you ask a black American which part of Africa they originally came from?" or "Why do you not ask my lilly white companion Adam which part of Europe he is originally from?", most of the time I would tell them what they expect to hear.

But many times, when I think it's not too blunt, I would educate by letting them know that Australia has peoples of many colours, just like Britain or the United States. I hope that piece of information would plant a seed in their mind about what multiculturalism means, and contribute in a small way to future peace in this region.

My first time in a DO NOT TRAVEL zone

Sunday May 6, 2012

Tyre (Sur in Arabic) in southern Lebanon is a hotspot. A hotspot for Hezbollah, a hotspot for regular fighting with Israel (just 30km away), and a hotspot for Palestinian refugee camps. Tyre is so hot that the Australian government classifies the area as "DO NOT TRAVEL". This was my first excursion into a location with such dramatic designation, and after reading my friend Gabrielle's account of her visit naturally I was curious as to what we'd encounter.

Tyre, Lebanon: market area
Gabrielle strongly recommended we visit Tyre with a local. However, my Australian friend Adam, American friend Tia and I decided to go unaccompanied. We thought that choosing an arbitrary stranger off the street and naively asking "Can you take us to Tyre?" would probably be asking for trouble.

We caught a mini-bus down to the city, a mode of transport very common in the Middle East. The usual chaos of Lebanese traffic and driving had us reaching for our vomit bags - the bus almost smashed into an oncoming Mercedes, and to this day I don't know how our driver managed to slide out of the way on the gravelly surface. The youths driving that old Merc' are very lucky they're not tomato juice now.

As we approached Tyre the Shi'ite and Hezbollah influence of the region became evident. Large portraits of the Iranian figure Imam Khomeini started popping up on buildings; military checkpoints began slowing our progress; and UN peace keeping (UNIFIL) armed vehicles joined the traffic.

The only time I was nervous during the entire day trip was when two UNIFIL vehicles drove directly in front of our mini-bus. For some reason I'm at peace with government travel warnings about artillery fire but my mind kept replaying the advice "Do not drive close to UN vehicles as they are the targets for roadside bombs". I kept a careful eye on the UNIFIL trucks like it was filled with delicious ice cream.
Tyre, Lebanon: Aww, coloured chicks for sale.

Upon landing in Tyre all I could think was that it was a lovely seaside city. From the families enjoying snacks on the seaside promenades, to the busy souq, to the young women dressed in western clothing, to the young men swimming in the beautiful Mediterranean water, nothing raised any alarm. I thought "What's all the fuss about?!"

We walked through the souq, where the merchants were enjoying a busy Sunday afternoon. There was some staring of the obvious foreigners, but no more so than in other parts of Lebanon outside of Beirut. And they were definitely friendly curious stares, not a menacing "What are you doing here?" glare.

Later at the corniche one particular teenager tried his best to impress the three foreigners by doing wheelies on his motorbike. On the beach many locals were basking in the warm weather; some women were dressed in summer gear while others were playing on the sand in full head-to-toe Islamic garb. Young men were swimming and giggling, while older men were fishing off the rocks. It was all very Lebanon.

Tyre, Lebanon
After officially not purchasing any pirated DVDs in the markets (How do they have Hollywood films that have not even been released in western cinemas?) we enjoyed lunch at a seaside restaurant. Unfortunately there was an argument about the bill there. It escalated to an ugly moment where the owner just said "Don't worry about it" and tore up the bill - some sort of reverse psychology or guilt trip, we gathered. We left a pile of money which was a compromise between what they thought our total was and what we thought, and walked out of there. We semi-anxiously joked to each other, "Hmmm, he might call his Hezbollah mates to come get us. Let's walk quickly!"

Tyre, Lebanon: Roman Hippodrome
Tyre hosts a couple of fantastic Roman ruins. After visiting those we skirted around a massive Palestinian refugee camp - reportedly seedy lawless places where extremism arises - which is a no go zone for normal Lebanese folk let alone foreigners.

By then we had enough of walking in the heat and decided to return to Beirut. We came to a busy intersection where there were mini-buses lined up. Two operators were literally pulling us back and forth to get our business. They tried to out-do each other on price and was trying to convince us that the rival was not actually going to Beirut. Then they began emphatically shouting at each other, presumably for feeding us lies about the other. For the consumer the scene was fantastic. Why don't Gerry Harvey and Rus Kogan yell at each other on the street in Australia, that would be hilarious!

The larger bus promised us a ride for 2000 pounds (AU$1.33) while the smaller operator bid 4000 pounds ($2.66). Aside from the price our natural instinct was to go to the bigger bus, thinking "We won't be kidnapped in a big bus, surely."

Adam and Tia boarded the bigger bus, but just before I hopped on, to be 100% sure, I asked "This is DEFINITELY going to Beirut, yes? And it's 2000 pounds?". The operator then said "Saida for 2000 pounds. Beirut - 4000 pounds."

I barked at Tia and Adam and we were out of there! The smaller bus was glad to see us back and welcomed us on board, with the driver justifiably grinning that he didn't lose customers to the big boys who had attracted us misleadingly.

After another nauseating mini-bus ride back to Beirut our adventure to the "Do Not Travel" zone was complete, with no physical or mental scarring.

Two Kebabs in Old Istanbul

Friday April 27, 2012


Thanks to the terrific folks at the Istanbul Eats blog I visited some of the best eateries in the Old Town in Istanbul. These places were unknown by tourists and obscure to even many locals.

Read more at the KebabQuest blog...


Two Things I Didn't Know About Gallipoli

Tuesday April 17, 2012
ANZAC Cove, Turkey
In recent years there's been an explosion of Australian and Kiwi visitors to the Gallipoli Peninsula in Turkey. As such I won't go over the usual ground of how solemn and sad the place is. But there were two major points I learnt on my excursion there:

1. TRENCHES ARE STILL THERE
Before the trip, in Gallipoli I expected to see memorials, cemeteries, and the coastline of the landing. But I had no idea that the trenches from that horrendous World War I campaign still remain in full view. After almost 100 years of erosion they're not as deep as they originally were, but are still surprisingly distinct - you can't miss it.

ANZAC communication tunnel, in the trenches
Seeing the Allied and Turkish trenches within just metres of each other sent a chill down my spine. Both sides would shoot at each other, then would throw each other cigarettes and snacks during the quiet times. For all the visitors it was a vivid visual aid in imagining what the terrible battle conditions were like.
ANZAC trenches

2. IMPACT ON TURKEY 
Hill 971 (Kocaçimentepe) - the highest point on the
peninsula which the Turks crucially held for the
entire campaign except for two days, when Kiwi
troops temporarily intruded.
In the background is an Ataturk statue.
As a kid growing up in Australia we're taught thoroughly about the contribution of the Gallipoli campaign to our national consciousness. However I didn't realise that the defence of the peninsula had an even more profound impact on the identity of modern Turkey.

As the Ottoman Empire declined the British and French thought it would be just a matter of time before they could swoop in and conquer, like they had for the rest of the Middle East. The under-resourced Turks were the massive underdog when the Allies started their advance into Turkey.

The incredible defence of their homeland against all odds in the bloody Gallipoli Campaign impacted on the Turkish national psyche in an immeasurable way. It was a boost to its self esteem that allowed it to take on the modern world with its head held high.

The Gallipoli campaign made the Turkish commander Mustafa Kemal Ataturk a national hero. He eventually became the first President of Turkey, and set its course as a modern secular democracy. Airports, bridges, and streets are named Ataturk; his statues are everywhere; every Turkish banknote bears his portrait.

We should be taught this in Australian schools. The Turkish people shed just as many tears for Gallipoli as we do.
Ataturk quotation commemorating lost lives on the Allied side.
Statue depicting Turkish soldier carrying wounded Allied soldier across No Man's Land 

Aurora Anxiety

Thursday March 22, 2012

I was on a five-hour bus ride to the village of Inari. The sun had now well set so the rural forests that were so pretty in daylight now started looking dark and creepy. The windy roads cutting through the eerie landscape seemed too icy and snowy for a beastly coach to manoeuvre through. But Finnish drivers are skilled and the endless scenery of pine trees whizzed past in a manic blur. I kept looking out the window to check the night sky was clear. Yes, Venus was shining like a distant lighthouse.

I only had two nights remaining on my aurora chasing tour of Lapland; and with the weather forecast predicting snow for the next day I knew tonight was my last chance to see the Northern Lights.

A weak aurora similar in intensity to what I saw before arriving in Inari.
[photo courtesy of Yumiko]
Lapland is the remote region north of the Arctic Circle in Finland. I had come to the area a week earlier to fulfil a lifelong ambition: View the aurora borealis in all its glory. I did see a weak version of the lights on the fourth night. But rather than satisfy my craving the entrée only whet the appetite for a more spectacular main course.

The aurora (solar activity) forecast was “moderate” for the evening. There was not a single cloud in the sky. All the favourable conditions were coming together. As I sat on the bus staring at Venus my heart was beating out of my chest at the prospect of a wonderful display.

Finally we arrived in Inari just after 10pm and the bus growled to a stop right in front of my hotel. There were just two passengers alighting – a female Japanese tourist and me. She looked in a particular hurry to get off the bus. “Thank you, kiitos!” she yelped as she ran off into the hotel like her life depended on it. “The poor woman, she must be desperate to go to the bathroom”, I thought.

I checked into the hotel and settled in my room. A refreshing shower was just what I needed after the long bus ride. Afterwards I opened my computer to check the aurora forecast web page, and saw that solar activity had picked up substantially. “This is my night!” I excitedly exclaimed to myself.

Trembling with anticipation I dressed to go outside – no trivial procedure for a walk in subzero temperatures. At 11:10pm I made it out to the balcony of the hotel. It was in a marvellous location facing northwards, where there was just the vast Lake Inari providing a thick blanket of nothingness all the way to the horizon: The perfect setting to spot aurora activity without the distraction of street and building lights.

On the freezing balcony a different Japanese woman, Yumiko, was already enjoying the crisp night air. She asked me “Did you see the aurora tonight?”

I thought that perhaps her English was less than perfect and she meant to ask whether I had come out to see the aurora. “I’ve just come out to see it. Was there something earlier?” I enquired innocently.

“There was a very bright show that finished just a few minutes ago. You didn’t see it? When did you get to Inari?” Yumiko replied, without realising her words were like daggers to me.

“I arrived an hour ago and have been busy checking in and looking at the aurora forecasts in my room” I said, thinking at the same time “This is not happening”.

Then our conversation was interrupted – the Japanese woman from the bus entered the balcony. Yumiko pointed, “She was on the same bus as you but ran off to catch the aurora. It was so bright she could see it from the bus.”

My heart sank. I had come all the way round the world from Australia and missed the bright Northern Lights by just minutes. No – not just minutes but by circumstance. I felt let down, and had no one to blame but myself. All I had to do was simply look north after getting off the bus.

The bright aurora that I missed. You can see the red fringe.
[photo courtesy of Yumiko]
Yumiko informed me that the eruption began at about 9pm and was in full swing by 10pm, when the bus arrived. I had apparently been in my room while one of the greatest natural phenomena on earth was unfolding outside. She showed me photographs she had taken that night and they were just like the awe-inspiring ones you see in books. The aurora was so bright and dynamic that there were flashes of neon red mixed in with the usual green – a highly unusual and prized sight.

Yumiko had come to Inari five years earlier for her first aurora-spotting trip, and enjoyed it so much that she returned to the same hotel in 2012. Even with all her aurora experience Yumiko rated that night as the second best Northern Lights display that she had seen. And there was absolutely nothing wrong with her English, as that is what she teaches to high school students in Osaka.

More of the bright aurora that I missed in Inari. Yay!
[photo courtesy of Yumiko] 
Hoping for a second show I stayed up until the early morning. But there would be no encore. Mother Nature had taught me a stern lesson that she will not be tamed to fit anyone’s schedule. As I shivered in the dark wilderness of Finland kicking myself over my awful luck, I felt humbly small in a very large universe. Life is short – don’t spend it in your hotel room.

Shut up, there are South Koreans in the room!

Saturday February 18, 2012

Paul, Jim and I are geeks. Specifically we are North Korea geeks. We're fascinated by everything about the most reclusive country in the world. We read voraciously about it, we dine at North Korean restaurants, we speak the language - the more they try to keep us out the more we crave her.

In fact we all met in North Korea. Paul, who is Canadian; Jim, an American; and I were all on the same tour on a visit in 2010 and have kept in touch since then.

Paul and Jim are westerners-living-in-Beijing so they kept abreast of my whereabouts in China and eventually joined me for a weekender in the north-eastern Chinese city of Shenyang. And it was only natural that we headed to a North Korean restaurant for dinner on our first night together.

Rainbow Restaurant - Shenyang, China
As the three of us entered Rainbow Restaurant we were amazed to find that it was packed with North Koreans. This may not sound like an extraordinary observation at first, but consider that the North Korean government does not allow freedom of movement for its citizens within the country, let alone allowing them an overseas holiday. Jim and Paul are veterans of the DPRK eateries in Beijing but even they were awestruck by this unusual sight.

And of course all eyes were on us too. It is very rare for westerners to be walking into a North Korean restaurant in Shenyang. They had one eye on us and we had one eye on them - it was just like visiting the DPRK all over again.

Kim Il Sung badge
We knew that the customers were North Koreans as they all wore the red Kim Il Sung badge. In North Korea all citizens receive this badge upon turning eighteen and adults wear it on a daily basis, at least in public, lest they be perceived as disloyal to the country.

We sat at a back table mesmerised by this sight of North Koreans outside of North Korea. It was just us ("the foreigners"), one table of three South Koreans next to us, and the rest were Badge Wearers. We guessed that they were one big tour group, all members of the very elite - how else could they afford an overseas trip from a starving country, let alone be allowed out?

All three of us ordered in Korean as the waitress stood in amazement. She wasn't expecting that out of the foreigners (well at least not from the white fellas sitting next to me)! And the staff were now curious about what we were about. They were delighted to hear that we had all visited North Korea and that Jim and I could speak Korean fluently. Paul's Korean is more basic, although he now holds the distinction that he has been to North Korea TWICE (lucky man!).

The band at the Rainbow, all North Korean staff.
In North Korean restaurants in China there is usually a musical show put on by the staff. It must be a requirement from the DPRK government when it licenses these venues that they show off North Korean talent to the outside world. The Rainbow was no different, as the live band and the singers started their set of Korean and foreign songs.

The show was very well appreciated by the "home crowd": There was much clapping along and appreciative applause after every number. Throughout the performance one North Korean man was particularly enthusiastic. I'm not sure if it was inebriation or nationalistic zeal (perhaps both?) but he was standing out front with the singers at every opportunity singing and dancing along with them. He was having a terrific vacation, good for him!

But when the set ended controversy reigned. The final song was a gentle number on how lovely "our home" North Korea is. After getting caught up in the emotion of that, upon its conclusion our Enthusiastic Man spontaneously started a rendition of a more brash nationalistic anthem (i.e. praising the Dear Leader and all that). He began inciting the North Koreans to stand and sing with their hands on their hearts. And the crowd obliged - it was an extraordinary scene as almost the entire restaurant began to rise in unison.

Singers at the Rainbow;
Audience in foreground are all North Korean customers
The staff realised what was happening and decided diplomacy was more important in the outside world than blind patriotism. They quickly stopped the Enthusiastic Man, and quietly advised that this was inappropriate. The restaurant management obviously did not want to offend or make anyone uncomfortable.

But the trouble didn't end there! As the North Korean diners had the wind taken out of their sails and began to sit down, another man took the microphone and started speaking in broken English. He too was immediately stopped by the staff, but from what we could gather he was trying to welcome the foreigners and perhaps explain the song that they wanted to sing.

From the to-ing and fro-ing between the customers and the staff we surmised that the restaurant management were not worried about our "foreigners" table, but the restraint was exercised for the sake of the table of three South Koreans. They understood it would be inappropriate to sing patriotic North Korean songs in front of the Southerners. Fair enough.

As Jim, Paul and I finished our meals we shared our mutual delight at witnessing what we had that evening. Sitting alongside North Koreans outside of their country is wild enough, but to have micro-diplomacy played out before us was even more extraordinary. It was an excellent night out for the North Korea geeks.