#day:11

[iadmireuwashingline]

Clextober 2018 - 13 days of Clexa -

Day 11 : Just a bunch of Hocus Pocus

[triblondon]

Day 11

A taxi takes us to the bus station for 6:30am. It's raining again, this time with more enthusiasm.

When we arrive there is a bus already there, and people milling around. We check in and wait. The bus leaves and another arrives, which turns out to be ours. we get our bags stowed and board in time to leave just after 7am.

The bus driver makes his way down the aisle, offering tea, coffee and 'juice', which turns out to be something pretty vile and not really the juice of anything fruit-like.

The journey is uneventful until about 8:30am when we get to the South African border. We all have to get off and go inside the Mozambican departures building to get our passports stamped, then walk about half a mile across no man's land to the actual border, where a very substantial sliding gate is open. We follow the pedestrian channel and enter the SA arrivals building where the whole process repeats itself. We already have an SA visa, and one entry and departure stamp (entry at Jo'burg airport, departure at Lanseria airport), so we just get another entry stamp.

Back on the bus.

Seems everyone made it into South Africa. Another two hours later, we're in Neilspruit. The only thing going for this outback SA town seems to be the motor industry, which is everywhere. It's like the South African Detroit. This seems promising since we want to rent a car. We are deposited by the bus at a petrol station on the corner of a busy intersection, and the sun is now shining strongly so make for some shade to apply sunscreen. An armoured car suddenly appears and two men with large guns get out and encircle a nearby cashpoint. One eyes us suspiciously and asks us to move away.

We go to the Europcar office, which turns out to be a desk in a hotel, and find it unmanned. The helpful receptionist phones a few companies for us and we end up with Avis, who also come and pick us up from the hotel.

Renting a car in Africa seems, like many administrative processes, to run on Africa time. It takes a full hour to complete all the paperwork, but at the end we're on the road at the wheel of a marvellous grey Toyota Yaris - not quite the same model I have at home, but close.

First priority is food. It may only be 1pm, but we've been up since 6am and only had bananas for breakfast. Nick spots a Wimpey on the highway, and I manage to successfully negotiate a dual carriageway to get us there in one piece. One very irritating difference between this Yaris and the one I drive at home is that the windscreen wiper and indicator controls are reversed. I curse this fact for about the fourth or fifth time as I turn the windscreen wipers on in order to turn left. Other drivers may not know my intentions but at least the windscreen is being cleaned regularly.

I haven't been to Wimpey for about 15 years. After a brief lunch of burgers, I reason that 15 years was about right, and could probably go another 15 years without visiting Wimpey again.

Finally at about 2pm, we're on the highway heading for Swaziland. It's back along the road towards Mozambique, and it takes about 90 minutes to get to the border. On the way we go through the toll gates that we came through in the other direction on the bus this morning. "I'm really getting to grips with the car" I declare as I roll to a gentle stop at the toll booth - and stall - having forgotten that I'm driving a manual. Seems it only takes a week driving an automatic to cause me to forget what the clutch is for.

We discuss the Swazi border and hope that it might be more efficient than the Moz/SA border we did earlier. Maybe even a drive-through operation.

We're waved through the first gate - a good sign, but then we're invited to park and enter the SA immigration building for our departure stamp. Back in the car we drive 100m and have to do the same again for Swaziland, including paying a £2 road tax for our car.

A billboard proclaims "Welcome to Swaziland". And we've arrived.

The first town on the road leading away from the border is Pigg's Peak, but before that we pass a sign for the Ph__________ Nature Reserve, which is on our map so we decide to stop for a visit. The turnoff is a dirt road that winds 2.5km though some spectacular scenery to the gates of the reserve, where we are charged £2 to enter.

A lodge sits at the entrance, with luxury cottages perched on the edge of views across the valley. We get a trail map from the reception guy and set off on one of the marked routes, through the densely wooded sides of the valley. Water runs everywhere, mainly through man-made channels next to the paths, and pours into natural ponds and eventually flows into the valley.

The trails are well marked. We reach the valley floor and a couple of bridges over the narrow parts of the river - only a couple of metres wide, but flowing fast and rough over huge piles of rocks.

We loop round back to the lodge. I want to know their prices for rooms but Nick prefers to press on into town. They're full anyway - seems there's a poker tournament down the road and the lodge is providing spillover accomodation.

As we drive on into town, we pass several large trucks that are carrying what appear to be sticks. They're not logs, by any means, and it's a jumbled collection of small branches piled high in a huge lorry. Just random bits of twig, by the lorryload. We thought Swiziland exported timber, but not sticks. Maybe it's for the pet market.

In town the first B&B is full, and in driving up to their intercom to establish this fact, I have stopped the car on a steep downward slope. The Yaris strains in reverse but simply can't make it back up to the road. We're considering buzzing again to ask them to open the gate simply so I can turn around and leave again, but I give it one last go with Nick out of the car, and manage to heave the Yaris back up to the road. There is, however, a definite whiff of burning rubber in the air. I make a mental note to not mention this to Avis.

The final option is the Highlands Inn, which the Lonely Planet advises to leave as a last resort. Unfortunately it is in fact the only one left. Luckily they have rooms, and they actually seem to be perfect. We get two double rooms for £30 in total. The proprietor is a very softly spoken african woman who talks so quietly you can barely hear what she's saying. The rooms are large, clean, have massses of storage and very comfy beds, so we're actually quite impressed, but the restaurant is awful, so we resolve to find somewhere better to eat tomorrow.

Nick looks up the times for breakfast, and notes that they start serving at 7:30am, which is "quite early". I disagree, pointing out that most hotels serve breakfast from 7am at the latest. "Ah yes", contends Nick, "But many don't serve breakfast at all". Right.

[triblondon]

Day 11

location:Penang

summary:In which the travellers are physically outclassed on a treacherous descent from the highest peak on the island

trip:sea04

day:11

[triblondon]

Day 11

Breakfast is always an adventure, and today it was meatballs.  We checked out of our hotel in Saint Petersburg, leaving at 10 and heading south on the M10.  The music hadn't improved.  We were aiming for Novgorod, but our first stop was Pushkin, and the Alexander palace.

Without wanting to sound ungrateful, it seemed like just another palace to me.  Sasha proudly announced that it was completely destroyed in world war two and has been restored.  Later googling suggests that this is untrue, and that whilst the Nazi's did set a number of suburban palaces ablaze, the Alexander palace was spared.  Today the palace serves as an exhibition of historical costumes, weapons and art.

Paying the 300 rouble entry, we walked around the centre lake in Alexander Park.  It was a nice enough place to stop for a break.  Still no evidence of grass cutting though - Peterhof was the same.  Do Russians not own lawnmowers?

Part of the park was cordoned off for a film set.  A woman stood shouting into a mobile phone, no doubt saying something like "darling, it's just awful".  I had an early lunch in a cafe, ham toasties, then we resumed our journey southwards.

We arrived in Novgorod at 3.50 PM.  At lunch Rob orders a ham roll, but gets what can only be described as a roll of ham, with no bread in sight. Julia orders tea and gets coffee, prompting a prolonged argument between Sasha and the waitress. The coffee is eventually replaced but we seem to have lost favour with the waitress, who is clearly upset with us for expecting to receive exactly what we ordered.

We walked towards the river and found a market.  We crossed the river, walking past the local kremlin, and found a high street.  Crucially we discovered a hi Fi shop and were able to buy a selection of CDs, any of which would be an excellent replacement for Sasha and Dimitri's music collection.  We also bought a copy of Harry Potter in Russian.  I'll be impressed if JK Rowling gets any of the proceeds.

We get back to the hotel in time to meet for dinner.  The restaurant is by far the nicest we've seen in Russia.  Service is slow but friendly, and I get Sasha to take some photos of us.  After a big meal we all walk back to the hotel, a route that involves crossing the river again.  Sasha and Dimitri, having not proven just how Russian they are for at least 20 minutes, decide to swim the river rather than using the bridge.  The current is stronger than they realise and they overshoot the landing spot, clambering out of the river in the filthy reeds.

When we return to the hotel, the London kiwis and Sasha and Dimitri join Rob and I for some cards.  Sasha wants to carry on playing split, a game I taught him but which he is rapidly becoming better than me at.  Matt sits down on a chair Robert has fetched from our room.  Dealing cards is interrupted by a loud crack followed by a bang as Matt's chair spontaneously falls apart leaving him sprawling on the floor.  Once everyone stops laughing, Rob fetches another chair, a particularly sturdy one, and Matt sits down gingerly on it.

Sasha wins easily, taking the overall score to 3-2 to Russia.  After I've gone to bed, Sasha bangs on my door - it seems we picked up each other's keys.

location:St Petersburg / Novgorod

summary:Alexander Palace, film set, exploring Novgorod, swimming the river

trip:russia03

day:11

[triblondon]

Day 11

location:Shamwari

summary:Christmas, more game drives at the Shamwari Game Reserve

trip:sa02

day:11

[triblondon]

Day 11

I'm up and out by nine, and Venice is just waking up. Shops were mostly still shut (though some were just opening), and the buskers were gone. One supply boat chugged down the canal delivering coca-cola.I walked to the station, brought the aquatic equivalent of a one-day travel card, and took a boat bus to St marks Square. I found the city's main tourist information office and asked about visiting the dolomites. Unfortunately the assistant only had information about Venice, and referred me to a travel agency. I went in search of a travel agency, doubtful that I'd get any decent information out of them except stuff about package tours.

Fifteen minutes later a travel agent was explaining to me in great detail their wonderful package tour. I escaped and sought refuge in an internet café, where within an hour I had short listed a few towns to use as my base, selected one, found train information and bus connections, and checked the weather forecast. The only thing I couldn't find was accommodation info or maps of local hiking trails.

I found another travel agent as a last effort at obtaining these, but still no joy.

"Can I at least book the train service?" I asked "Certainly, my colleague will help you with that"

She was gesturing at a woman about a metre to her right, who seemed to be equipped with exactly the same desk and computer, but was studiously ignoring me. I looked at the other woman expectantly. Eventually she looked up and said "Can I help you?". I decided I would have to play along, and explained the whole thing all over again.

We then had a big row about which train went where at what time. Eventually she conceded that the information I had printed out from the Deutsch Bahn website was correct (it usually is), and issued my tickets. This was all all somewhat ironic since I was going to miss the train whose existence I had just spent several minutes trying to prove. But I didn't know that yet.

I caught another boat bus back to St Marks Square, and thought about visiting the Basilica, but the queue did not look very inviting, so instead I joined a shorter one to ascend to the top of the bell tower. I passed on the audio tour, brochure and souvenir postcard, and paid the €6 admission (no student discount!).

At the top the view across Venice was magnificent - I stood gazing out from each side, and battling for a good position to take pictures. A group of youngish monks was engaged in a reluctant photo shoot on the other side of the small gallery with some snap-happy tourists, though they were much more forthcoming when a group of girls from an American university appeared. I was standing in the southeast corner of the tower intermittently watching this spectacle and looking at the view. I was completely unaware that it was about five seconds to two, and above my head one of the six enormous bells had started swinging. At exactly two pm, a DONG loud enough to be heard across Venice put an end to any hope of conversation in the tiny space at the top of the tower.

The bell was ringing about once or twice a second, and then another started slowly moving from side to side. Some visitors were covering their ears, and one or two headed straight for the lift to escape the noise. The rest of us watched with rapt attention as the two bells continued their powerful performance. I hoped that all six would join in, but after a couple of minutes the two active bells started slowing down as the motors driving them switched off. They kept ringing for another half minute with less and less strength until finally normality returned to the tower.

Back at the base I decided to give the Basilica a miss in favour of visiting Murano, the home of Venetian glass. A number 42 bus boat takes about 40 minutes to get there from St Marks Square. As soon as the boat arrived there was a guy loudly advertising a glass blowing demonstration in about 5 languages. I followed the crowd into a factory, and sat on one of the wooden benches arranged at one side of the room, facing a large roaring oven.

The demonstration was given by a man who said nothing at all, whilst his activity was narrated in five languages by another man who paced around the first. The two of them made a very odd pair. In not saying anything, the glass-blower gave the impression that he only spoke Italian, but also that he was a simple man devoted to his craft and might even be somewhat surprised by the sudden arrival of a couple of dozen tourists. The other man was completely the opposite - with his tailored suit, sunglasses (despite being indoors), and perfect command of at least five languages he looked more suited to a role in a James Bond movie.

I watched in utter amazement as the glass-blower, described as 'the master' by the narrator, took a glob of molten glass and turned it into a horse in under a minute. With equally astonishing skill he effortlessly produced a jug, and then the demonstration was over. I imagined that these two must do this demonstration hundreds of times a week. Was there a mountain of discarded jugs somewhere, I wondered?

I walked around the island to the glass museum, past a parade of glass shops and restaurants. The museum was well stocked and contained some astonishingly old pieces of glasswork, some from as early as the first century.

Back in St Marks Square after another ride on the 42, I phoned home and then worked my way back across Venice to my hostel. I'd done this walk several times by now so I headed east initially and circled round to the north and then west. On the way I met a trio of American girls looking for a bar, apparently near McDonalds and Burger King. These weren't very good reference points because to be honest anyone who makes a point of remembering the location of McDonalds' limited presence in Venice probably wouldn't enjoy the city anyway.

Having talked to them for a few minutes, they wanted to take my picture with them, so I took one too and continue back to the hostel. I was hoping to find Laura around, but she was nowhere to be seen so I dined alone at a very nice place just down the street.

Since I had to be up so early in the morning to catch a train to Cortina, high up in the Dolomites, I called it a night at 10:30pm. I hoped that my dorm mates would not be too annoyed when my phone started playing a very irritating noise at 6:30am. On reflection I realised that they probably would, but it couldn't be helped.

summary:I watch in amazement as globs of glass turn into horses in seconds, and I'm a little close for comfort when the bells ring two o'clock

location:Venice

trip:europe02

day:11

[triblondon]

Day 11

Banana pancakes arrived as promised, and everyone agreed that they were much nicer than yesterday's offering. A pickup truck arrived to take us to the start of our jungle trek. Charlotte managed to get the passenger seat, while the rest of us travelled cargo class. The drive was refreshing, though the guide seemed more interested in showing Charlotte his photo albums than in looking at the road, steering wheel or anything else normally indespensible to the task of driving a truck.

When we got to our drop off point, which was a dirt track in the jungle, Charlotte explained that the guide's photos were from his latest movie, in which he was a supporting actor. So our guide was also a film star. Naturally.

We made fairly good progress through the jungle, crossing the river several times on increasingly ingenious but progressively less safe bamboo bridges, doing a fair bit of wading too. After lunch, which was packed, our jungle guide led us to a nearby village, where the locals grew rubber trees and sold strange burmese sweets to farang trekkers such as ourselves. The village was built on the river bank, at a bend which was perfect for swimming.

We left to find our next stop - the location where we'd board bamboo rafts for a two hour trip downstream. When we got there the rafts weren't quite ready for us - specifically, they hadn't been built yet. Three men frantically scrambled with machetes and bamboo to complete the job, and ten minutes later I found myself on the maiden voyage of raft one, along with Lorna and a driver. Another raft followed carrying Sue and Steve, while Charlotte occupied a third.

The river was hardly benign. As we were punted slowly downstream, we encountered lots of rapids, which were very tame by whitewater standards, but on our little homemade rafts they were good fun.

The scenery was stunning, and the trip was a scerene and relaxing reward for the hard work of the morning. We passed kids playing, and people washing, and got happy waves from most.

The rafts pulled in to the bank next to a guy with a movie camera and a team of what looked like a film crew. Getting off I realised that we had docked on a film set. It looked exactly like a traditional village, but it was all purpose-built for the film. The guide was apparently picking us up from his place of work.

location:Sangkaliburi

summary:Jungle trek, bamboo rafting, bizarre location for a film set

ihave:Floated though a jungle film set on a bamboo raft

_wp_old_slug:11

trip:thailand02

day:11

[triblondon]

Day 11

I wake up late, to find Basil has already left for work. I'm not sure if he intended me to join him but there wasn't anything I could have usefully done so I'm glad I have remained here. It's just as well actually as the DHL documents dad sent me on Monday arrive at about 09:30. It's the security questionnaire I have to complete in order to work for the National Air Traffic Service back home. Question 35: Have you ever been involved in activities intended to overthrow or undermine Parlimentary democracy by political industrial or violent means? Well, I hope not, but I have a few parking tickets if that counts.

Dad has sent me a photocopy of the form with his suggestions for answers helpfully provided - I notice that while he confidently suggests I answer "No" to the question above, he doesn't apparently know how tall I am or how much I weigh. I've only been away from home for a week, and yet it seems my parents are forgetting what I look like.

I read my email, hoping to have a reply from MWeb about my internet service enquiry on behalf of Reapers. No luck there, although I read with interest an email from my sister Emily demanding to be mentioned in my Journal. Well, Emily, there you are - I'm sure it's much better for it.

summary:Working from home

location:Harare

trip:zimbabwe01

day:11