Last Day in India

It’s midday but, with the winter solstice just a couple of days away, the warm watery sun is casting evening long shadows across the well kept lawns of the Safdarjang Tomb. The red and white sandstone tomb sitting serenely in the quiet grounds is said to be the last of the great Mughal buildings. The large off white dome, home to sprouting grasses and a multitude of pigeons, sits atop of the square and beautifully proportioned edifice.

It is the quietest place I have been in Delhi, in fact probably anywhere during this India trip, with barely 60 people in the grounds. A few foreign tourists walk around the building with their cameras slung around their necks and one hand clasped around the Lonely Planet. The majority of the elite band of visitors in the grounds are young couples sheltering from prying eyes at the furthest points from the entrance gate, beneath the trees which are spaced out evenly across the spotless lawns.

Lying on the grass here, watching the black kites swirl over head in the deep blue cloudless sky and listening to the bird song and the chirping sound of the playful chipmunks I feel as relaxed as I think I have ever felt. The sounds of the roads, the dust and chaos is just a few hundred metres away, but like any good garden you can quickly forget where you are.

My last day in Delhi has been blessed by this beautiful clear sunny day - it is like the best of June in England - calm, warm and cloudless. Lying back with my head on my rucksack, looking at my ‘not to scale’ map, I make a decision to miss out on the railway museum several kilometres to the west and instead head east for the less geeky Purana Qila fortress.

The walk from the tomb takes me across a wide but not too busy road to Lodi Road and I dive left into the Lodi Gardens. The screaming school children, shouting picnickers and the sound of tennis balls on plastic cricket bats are in sharp contrast to the tranquility of Sadfarjangs Tomb. The gardens unlike the Tomb (5 rupees for Indians) are free but the main reason for the bustle and popularity is this is a place of meeting and play. Multitudes of large blankets are spread out across the grass demarcating each groups space, they are dotted with bright cushions and heavy bags full of food and drink for the families and friends. The fathers, brothers and sisters all play cricket games with only the stout mothers and grandparents keeping away from the games, close to the food.

The park is home to the several ancient tombs and mosques of note, but unlike those paid for sights these ‘protected’ monuments are far from looked after. While the younger children run around playing roughy and noisily through the mosque and tombs, older children have climbed up and sat on top of several of the buildings roofs and around one of the tombs lies a couple of condoms.

To be completed...

Goa

A lickle write up of my week in Goa will be up here soon. Well, sometime in the next week.

Rajasthan Week 2

Well not yet, but shortly....

Udaipur

This was to prove my favourite town of my trip to India. If you have seen Octopussy (unfortunately a Roger Moore 007 and not Sean Connery) then you have at least seen some of it on the TV or big screen.

Jodphur

Yep, so good they named an item of clothing after it, and yup they do have plenty of horses around here.

Jaisalmer

The last big town on the way toward Pakistan, with a most impressive and large crumbling fortress.

Bikener

Yep another town and another fort/palace.

Mandawa

No palaces, lots of havelis (they be north Indian mansions to you).

and back to Delhi...

Rajasthan Trip - Week 1

Note: I had wanted to update my blog regularly while in India (which would give more bite-size chunks), but due to the lack of wi-fi across the place I have not been able to do this. Given that I found wi-fi widely across Sumatra, Laos, Cambodia, Malaysia and Borneo I have been surprised how rare wi-fi is here (found in only two of my eleven hotels here, and bars just not having it at all).

The plan, such as it was, was to travel around Rajasthan by train and coach driven by both desires and whim. Once I was in Delhi It was soon apparent that this was pretty impractical, or at least would eat into a lot of days, and may not be the most relaxing of trips. I should probably have been booking trains before I got in the country, or at least as soon as I arrived. There is generally no option of just turning up at the station for the inter city trips.

I did a bit of research on the net, and Dr Google told me that a lot of people get a driver for the trip. After due consideration it did seem a good option really, despite it costing me more money than I anticipated. The doctor told me that the driver with all the fuel, tolls and his accommodation would come out at about £22 a day for an air conditioned car (it costs me that to go in and out of Liverpool city centre from mine).

Micky at the hotel I was staying in had asked me to give him the opportunity to quote for any trips, so when he came out at the same price I went for it. The next thing then was to confirm where to go to and get a sensible itinerary together. The first visit had to be Agra, which is not in Rajasthan, but is several hours south east of Delhi in Uttar Pradesh - for the Taj Mahal - before heading into Rajasthan for the historical cities and for a chance to look for tigers in a national park.

My itinerary was firmed up over the next couple of days and finally comprised:

Agra (1 Night)
Ranthambore (2 nights)
Jaipur (2)
Pushkar (1)
Udaipur (2)
Jophur (2)
Jaisalmer (1)
Bikaner (1)
Jhunjhunu (1)

This first blog covers the trip as far as Pushkar...

I was picked up on the Sunday morning to go to Agra by my driver for the next fortnight - Bampy - which rather ominously was actually pronounced bumpy. Equally ominously even before we left the city he was angling for the tip at the end of the trip. For every time he mentioned it I would surely reduce said tip!

The journey started poorly with the little Tata Indica struggling to get out of the city centre, as most the roads around the city were closed for a marathon or some such event. They are not big on diversion signs here, so it was a question of driving around until an open road in an appropriate direction could be found, along with all the other lost traffic. Ultimately a trip which usually takes four hours took six - this was to prove par for the course over the fortnight.

Agra

A visit to Agra is for the Taj Mahal of course, but the massive red sandstone Agra Fort shouldn’t be missed, ideally visiting it first for an initial view across the river meander toward the Taj Mahal. It is quite similar to the Red Fort in Delhi in some ways and off a similar scale. One difference is that the British didn’t knock the bulk of it down in the mid-19th century.

I ended up going twice to the Taj Mahal, once on a rather mad Sunday afternoon, when thousands upon thousands of locals had come to see it. I was delayed a little getting there when Bumps disappeared for 15 minutes. It turned out having closed the door in the toilet it somehow got locked on the outside (glad that happened to him and not me). When I finally got in to the Taj Mahal the sun was already coming down quickly and the queues both inside and out the grounds were massive. At the Taj building itself queues snaked around several times both on the upper level and then down the steps before again snaking up, down and around - there were thousands. The queue was ‘controlled’ by about three people with uniforms, sticks and whistles. Every time they turned to blow their whistle and raise their stick at some queue jumping bad boys, others would jump across the snake trying their luck in the queue opposite.

After 5 minutes or so of watching this (I had accidentally cut in half way through the queue as it was by going the wrong way up a stair case to the upper level - oops) I realised it would take at least an hour to get in to it. I would have time the next day before going on to Ranthambore, so I decided to leave the queue and to use the Sunday to take in the outside of the buildings, and come back again on the Monday when hopefully the queues would be more manageable.

The place is so familiar of course from posters in Indian restaurants, films and television but it is far from a disappointment to see. The design of the building, the beautiful white marble and its setting is just perfect. One thing I didn’t realise is that the four identical towers all lean away from the building in order that if the worst happens they would fall away from the building. Well, that’s the story anyway. The stones and intricate design and carvings are just right.

When I did go on the Monday there were no queues to get in to the grounds or the mausoleum, which was a surprising result. The inside is a lot more understated, it is a mausoleum after all, but for the intricate stone carvings. I managed to get some good shots in the morning, when I could grab my camera of the guide who was showing me around - he was keen to use the camera.

Following the visit and a late breakfast it was a six hour drive on to Ranthambore national park, for a tiger safari the next day. The roads varied from really good English rural type through to topographic and structurally challenged boneshakers - not conducive to speedy driving for Bumps or a good sleep for me.

Ranthambore

The morning safari left at 6.30am, so it was up at the ungodly hour of 5.45am for a breakfast in my room. It was tipping down outside, and the first day in India that I would need my waterproof poncho (probably the only day). Boy did it tip down and it is pretty much unheard of at this time of year, after the monsoon. Unfortunately tigers don’t particularly enjoy padding about the place in the rain - why go out in it if you don’t have too? They only need to eat about once a week, so unless they were lazy last week then they could afford to wait a couple of days for the rain to abate.

My safari was in a Gypsy (jeep) with five of us in the back, with a driver and a guide at the front. The guide turned out to be a top guy, literally - he had been featured in the BBC ‘Land of the Tiger’ series, just a month or so ago. Tiger expert as he was he couldn’t find us one, and none of the other Gypsies or Cantors (trucks) saw one all day either (which I was glad about).
The safari though I found to be very enjoyable, I don’t think I have ever been as tense or alert as I was sat there scouring the park for the tigers. Instead all I got to see were spotted deer, samba deer (the tiger’s favourite super sized snack), wild boar, an antelope (springbok type), and birds of various type - I didn’t even get to see the crocs. As I said though, thoroughly recommended and definitely go for the Gypsy (which costs 50% more than the Cantor (truck), as it carries a maximum of six guests, while the Cantor is overloaded with an inevitably louder crowd (thereby reducing the chances of you getting to see a tiger - or indeed anything else!).

The following day when I was off to Jaipur it was tipping down again in Ranthambore and they closed the park because of the state of the roads within it. I pity the poor souls who came for that day - as there is not much to Ranthambore but the park - and they still got up before 6am to find that it was closed.

Jaipur

The road to Jaipur was diabolical for much of the route. It largely comprised one lane of broken tarmac with stone or mud either side, which was needed frequently as the little Tata had to dive off when being overtake or getting out of the way of oncoming bigger vehicles- the rules of the road are simple ‘Big vehicles have priority’. In some places there was no tarmac at all - just mud and standing water of unknown ‘Dr Foster’ depth. At one point we had a stand off with a car facing us waiting for us to go first to show the safe route through deep mud, which in places were evidently over a foot deep, visible in tyre tracks where large wagons had ploughed through it. We won; they went first, made it over, and we went the opposite way without getting stuck.

In the large busy city of Jaipur (>2.6 million) I stayed in the hotel Glitz, which was okay but not exactly glitzy. They did have traditional Rajasthan dancing every evening which was a sight. Unfortunately it did mean that you could not just pop down for a quiet meal and a Kingfisher. One of my favourite pints back in the UK is the Indian Pale Ale (IPA) called Jaipur, brewed by Thornbridge. I was not expecting to find any IPA here, and unfortunately was disappointed to be proved correct. Oh Thornebridge, sort yourselves out with an export opportunity.

In Jaipur there was plenty to see and I had a guide for the one full overcast day I was there. While it was a grey day, not great for my photographs, at least it was finally dry. My poor Nikon DSLR was suffering the effects of getting wet in Ranthambore and while it could still take photographs I could not view or edit them effectively as the cursor buttons would no longer work. Could have been worse I suppose.

One of the highlights around Jaipur is the Amber Fort, which is 11 kilometres north of Jaipur in the town of Amber (duh!), the fort was the seat of a raft of Rajasthani Mughals before they moved the capital to Jaipur. Construction of the hill top above the defensive man-made lake commenced in 1592, for Maharaja Man Singh. It was lovely inside and looking down from the large square at the entrance toward the lake you could see a line of brightly covered elephants taking tourists up the steep road to the main entrance to the fort - we had driven up, to the goods entrance, and saved a substantial sum in the process.

The fort/palace is well worth several hours of your time. The first place to visit on the way up in to it is the small Siladevi Temple, which is devoted to Kali. All the way until the 1980s a goat was sacrificed here daily. Public sacrifices are no longer permitted by law, however it doesn’t save any goats as it just means that they are sacrificed elsewhere in private! The courtyard with the summer and winter rooms (or Hall of Victory and Hall of Pleasure) is particularly lovely. The architects and engineers were pretty hot at making things cool through the use of clever natural ventilation and the use of water.

On the way back in to Jaipur we stopped for a quick photo opportunity of the Water Palace, a vast marble edifice in the middle of the large lake between Amber and Jaipur. It is currently derelict but is destined to be turned into a Casino next year.

After a quick lunch of my new favourite curry - a Rajasthan mutton dish called lal maas - we went into Jaipur Old Town, or the Pink City. We first headed to the Jantar Mantar a larger version of the fantastic astronomical observatory which I had seen in Delhi. Jaipur incidentally is named after the warrior-astronomer, who constructed this, Maharaja Jai Singh II (1693-1743), and yes he was the same talented bloke who constructed the one in Delhi. Then it was off to the City Palace across the road. Finally it was a brief visit to a textile factory, where I saw some men making textiles (the women work at home - the men obviously can’t be trusted to) where I looked at their beautiful wares. Did I bend and buy any?

All in all a full and enjoyable day of sightseeing.

Pushkar

The next day it was off to the Hindu Holy city of Pushkar. It was only a three hour trip on ‘National Roads’, which of course took four hours. Each year they have a mammoth camel fair here and I missed this years by just one week. It must be a very different place then when thousands come here for a week of trading, racing, and partying out in the desert around Pushkar.

Pushkar is a very different place to other towns and cities I have visited. Much more laid back and quiet. It was going to be a different Friday night for me though for Pushkar is a dry town and even worse.....vegetarian too. So no beers and no kebab then.

In some hotels they can surreptitiously pass you beer for your rooms or even get you some bhang (mary jane) but there is no good reason to put them in that position, especially if only there for a day. The biggest problem in the town is avoiding getting blessed, which inevitably comes at a cost. If I ever come back here I will be burdened with a wife and at least two sons, if the blessings do their stuff - perhaps if I had found a beer later this would have been cancelled out in some karmic deal and this fate would be avoided.

The reason this is a place of pilgrimage is the Holy lake, where Bhrama is said to have visited for some rather interesting story-istic reason, which I won’t go in to. The Bhrama Temple near the western end of the lake is one of only a very few in the world. It is not the most photogenic of places. Like most Hindu temples rather than being built for a single entity it is more like a collection of shrines to a range of Big Gods and some smaller gods, and the pilgrims who come may have their own affinity to one or another - or else visit a different one depending on what they are after; as different bods may help deliver money, health or kids. At their chosen shrine the leave flowers, petals and sweets to the idols. Due to all the sweet stuff about the place it is buzzing with flies and wasps. As Hindus believe all life is sacred they are left alone to their sticky heavens.

Following blessings here and there I headed for a walk around the western and southern sides of the lake, which is not that large. Indeed the whole Pushkar is a breeze to do on foot. A cup of coffee and some water and I was set up for watching the sunset over the hill to the west (would have been the perfect place for a pint), topped with a silhouette of the Pap Mochani temple. I sat with a German guy (Jan), who was doing a similar trip to me on his tod, but by public transport.

Then it was back to the hotel for my first non-Indian meal over here - a passable Vegetarian lasagne.

Wrong Spice

Loving the food here. I am a tad worried about it though; as I am in danger of becoming one of the few people who come to India and gain weight! I know, I should not count my salmonella chickens. One tip: a daily banana lassi is a must. Only had one day with none Indian food, when I was in the vegetarian town of Pushkar I went for Italian options.

Yesterday had a wonderful chicken curry in the Legends of India on Connaught Place. They warned me it was spicy, but it was fine (and most enjoyable). The English are used to this stuff more than most of our European friends, who predominate as tourists here (hence the warning I assume). Strangely most the tourists in Delhi and Rajasthan appear to be French. I have no idea why.

Talking of spice, my flights to and from Goa are with the budget airline Spicejet. Mixed thoughts on them so far and largely negative, though they do do some things right. I received a text as I got back to Delhi from them to inform me my flight on Monday had been cancelled and to ring them to rearrange. The phone call was dealt with well and I was not on hold for too long. I ended up deciding to go a day early. In any case I had only gone for the Monday option in case there were any problems causing delay in my Rajasthan trip, so to be honest it could be viewed as a bonus (I can save my Delhi Railway Museum trip for my return!). They will even give me a 3000 rupee (£40) voucher for my trouble (roughly the price of a one way flight) - unfortunately I think only for use against flights with them, so unlikely to be used by me.

This morning another call (automated) and my flight on Sunday has been delayed by 3 hours. Not ideal. At least the communication systems are good, and early. Rather than spending an extra 3 hours in the airport I can chill in the hotel watching the Ashes 2nd test and go for a nice lunch (including a banana lassi of course).

Delhi

After an uneventful trip with Emirates via Dubai I arrived in Delhi. A touch of Delhi Belly by proxy afflicted me while in Dubai but I got to the hotel without embarrassment. The hotel was the West Inn, which I had booked via Trip Advisor before I came out. Whilst several miles west out of the centre it is helped enormously now by the recently completed Metro, with a stop at Shadipur only 5 minutes walk away. The metro is fabulous and you can get into Connaught Place, the circular marble colonial centre of the not so old city, in about five stops.

The city itself appears a mess of buildings on buildings that either havent been finished or have fallen into disrepair - looks like a lego nightmare after some serious stomping and a fire or two. Mind you the buildings are often in better repair than the roads, which are largely more holes than surfacing. To put the place in context Delhi is populated by 50% more people than London, some 11 million people. Thankfully they don’t all try to use the metro, well not all the time at any rate. I suspect that before the metro was in operation I would not be enjoying my location anywhere near as much as I am. The hotel's wi-fi is a boon too.

If I wasn’t able to use the Metro then I would be relying on rickshaw drivers. The options are pedal or auto, but to be honest other than for very local the pedal option isn’t inviting. Seeing the strain and difficulty the cycle rickshaws go through, not to mention the danger, I would rather walk. The driving here is fun if you

Walking along the road it is best not to have eyes in back of your head, or to look back. It is too frightening and may affect your decision making when walking - just keep going as road-users will generally try to miss you, not by much mind and you commonly feel cyclists, motorcyclists, cars and rickshaws brush against you. That reminds me, I should locate the nearest decent hospital just in case. The fumes are quite bad and I have constantly got a bit of a sore throat, but I’ve been to worse places, which is probably down to better quality fuel these days rather than the vehicles.

As per the warnings both in the guidebooks and from the staff at the hotel, around Connaught Place as a WASP you attract dozens of friendly locals wanting to practice their English, or to be more precise to take you to stores or ‘official’ tourist offices where they will get commission for delivering you to them. Just stand firm and don’t worry about ignoring or offending the blighters!

Connaught Place is a concentric circle of bright white colonial properties, filling with expensive shops, definitely for the tourists and richer Indians. It is currently undergoing a lot of work on the paths, which are being relaid with marble and granite flooring. Will look very grand on completion I am sure. It is not exactly coffee shop friendly in the main, but there are a few about, in fact I don’t think I have seen a Starbucks here (which I dare say is a positive thing).

Walking around is not too bad at this time of year, but must be ruled out for much of it due to the excessive heat. If you had any impediment though it would be impossible with the surfacing and pavement problems. Kerbs in some places are a good half a metre tall, so with avoiding bikes, auto-ricks and cars as well it can be a hop skip and a jump to get across in one piece.

Delhi is a sprawling and essentially a pretty ugly metropolis with the odd well hidden island of beauty and interest. For all of it’s faults though it is a busy city and very much alive, seething with it’s energetic citizens. The city has been built, knocked down, allowed to degrade and then start again countless times - it is apparently the ninth incarnation now, so there is Delhi, New Delhi, New New Delhi and, well you get the picture. Right now it could do with some town planners, architects and engineers sitting around a rather large table with a big pot of coffee and a giant blank piece of paper (several billion rupees would come in handy too no doubt) to come up with some long term plan.

As I found in the rest of my traveling here the Indians really don’t have much truck with their past, at least not at the moment. It is to all intents about the here and now and then maybe the future; but for the past, it has gone so who cares? This means that some wonderful buildings and evidence from every Delhi of the past have been allowed to be demolished or fall into disrepair, falling away from plain sight. Even glimpses of its glorious past will become harder to see, which coming from Europe where we treasure our past seems a real shame. Whether they will ever shed a tear about that it is difficult to say - it is not something peculiar to the current time, so maybe it is a psyche thing ingrained through generations.

One of positive things about it now, which I was think driven at least partly by this years Commonwealth Games, is the Metro, which is pretty excellent for the areas it covers. It is cheap and pretty clean. The are still constructing some of it so it is expanding ultimately to cover the airports too, which will vastly improve the arrival experience into the city. Mind you getting a taxi to your hotel is as good as any ride at Alton Towers, and a good deal cheaper.

Metro etiquette has not developed yet, personal space here is an unknown concept, so if you suffer from claustrophobia or don’t like being up close and personal with dozens of people then maybe the auto-rickshaw would be your cup of chai. One thing in India everywhere is that blokes are happy to de-water themselves at the drop of a hat anywhere - any verge, wall, patch of ground is considered available for use. The odour of urine can hit you anytime when walking around. Unfortunately this apparently can include the metro, though I never saw this, but because of this to separate the course vulgar men from the delicate ladies the first carriages of all the metro trains are for women only. Sad, strange but true.

More to follow on the sights that survive etc...

India Trip - Prologue: Why India?

A few years ago a trip to the ‘sub continent’ was not even on my radar as a possible destination. If truth be told I am not sure why it became one, Incredible India! as the advertising goes kind of grew in my noggin’ as a place to visit, at least once.

It’s such a massive place that it didn’t matter about planning so much. However long you came here or where ever you end up, you can but scratch the surface of this vast country. So with that in mind, planning came down to booking the cheapest decent flight I could find (by decent I mean not involving Air France). I therefore ended up in Delhi, flying with Emirates via Dubai, yet again. After seeing some of the Commonwealth Games mess I was not sure what to expect, but at least I knew it would be cooler by then. I am at a loss to know why they held the Games then, when the outdoor temperatures were so high (in the 40Cs for the Marathon, stupid).

So why did India come into the running for me, when there are so many other places I also want to go (still haven’t done Vietnam, not to mention south and central Americas, or north America too). Well, the history of the place with the melting pot of peoples, religions, and architecture make it a fascinating place. The place is awash with forts, palaces, temples and people. Oh yeah, awash with people. Nearly forgot.... curry! My beloved curry. India definitely does have some stuff going for it.

Flying first to Delhi it was clear, after cursory research, that a tour around Rajasthan was the way to go. Sandwiched by Delhi and throwing in a nice tasty morsel of Goa, the trip would seem to make itself. Of course I had to pop to one more state, just to the east of Rajasthan and south of Delhi, as it would have been unforgivable not to visit the Taj Mahal while so close - so Uddar Pradesh for one night then.

My total Indian experience is to comprise some 34 nights, with 14 in Rajasthan (including Agra), 11 in Goa and 9 in Delhi over the three times I would pass through the place.

I will post when I get the chance, but early indications are that wi-fi is sporadic at best, so not good for me at this stage. Also a bit worrying for India as one of the upcoming BRIC countries - how could wi-fi be easier to find in Borneo than in a supposed future power house of the world's economy?

I won’t post many photos here as it is not the forum for them, but there will be plenty (too many) on my mobile.me site at:

gallery.me.com/zevonesque

Blog Updates...

Dire. No wi-fi in the hotels in Agra or Ranthambore. Anyway, here is hoping for better luck from tomorrow, when I go to Jaipur (unfortunately not home for Jaipur IPA) so I can put some blog and photos up.
Agenda since Delhi to home:

• Delhi
• Agra
• Ranthambore
• Jaipur
• Pushkar
• Udaipur
• Jodphur
• Jaisalmer
• Bikener
• Mandawa
• Delhi
• Goa
• Delhi.

Liverpool for Christmas.

Arrived, I have arrived

Not sure about psycosomatic stuff, but I was suffering with stomach cramps on the second plane. I thing House (or preferably Cuddy) wold diagnose it as Delhi Belly by proxy or something. Anyway, seems to have died down now I have vacated myself. Enough already!

The hotel (West Inn) seems nice. Good guys and gals on the reception, and they were expecting me - which is always a bonus. Free wi-fi is very handy too of course and worth at least an extra star to the rating. The road it is on looks like you would expect a Delhi road to look - chaotic, messy and dangerous. This will be fun! At least I am right next to a Metro stop for getting into the old town, fort and Connaught Place et al.

Main difficulty it seems will be getting badgered to arrange visit stuff through the 'in house' travel people. I understand this happens at every hotel. Anyway, time for a quick nap. Or a long one.

India

Well, the day is here. Not much planning done yet but I am off to Delhi today with Emirates. Hopeful the Rolls Royce engine will hold up on the A380 as far as Dubai.

Booked my hotel for New Delhi for three nights, but not sorted anything out yet. At the moment the plan, such as it is, involves a few days in Delhi followed by Agra for the Taj Mahal then a leisurely jaunt around Rajasthan. After that I may pop up to Amritsar or just go down to Goa for a week. We will see.

Taking my 'reserve' laptop too, so should be able to meet the requirements of the OU course on the hoof as well as updating the blog. As I won't have my phone this may be the best way to keep in touch!

.........

Made it to Dubai in one piece, with a pretty uneventful flight. Half watched two films - Inception and Despicable Me. Inception seemed to last for ever and was hard to follow who's dream I was in! Despicable Me seemed to start well but go down hill, but I suppose that may have been me flagging.

The plane was not a A380 but a Boeing 777-300ER. No idea what the 300ER bit refers to, but the engines worked okay and only a bit of turbulence toward Dubai, when one of the stewardessess had to come and sit next to me - not because I was a quivering wreck, but because I'd managed to grab one of the few seats in the centre with empty seats next door. Result.

Dubai airport is as chaotic as ever and definitely needs more bars (put it this way; I am on coffee).

Flight to Delhi from here is only three hours (it was seven from Manchester to Dubai). I better start reading the Lonely Planet so that I can find out where I am going. I must say having the LP on the Kindle along with a raft of other books and the daily paper is brilliant!

Some Photos from last couple of days in KL

Just a few pics from last couple of days including the famous Petaling Street in Chinatown and the Batu Caves 10km or so south of KL, where there are a variety of bright, dare I say gaudy, Hindu shrines up in and around the limestone caves and cliffs.

Lake Toba

Berestagi up in the Karo Highlands wasn’t special, pretty much a one street town with a War Memorial at one end and a Cabbage Memorial at the other (really), but I would go back just for the attraction of these accessible volcanoes. I had arranged my journey to Lake Toba with the local tourist information centre, which was really an agency for its own tours. I decided to combine it with a couple of sightseeing opportunities, which could easily be accommodated on the way down to the ferry port of Parapat.

The night before I travelled the agent ran after me in the street to ask if it was okay if I let another couple come with me in the car. I had no problem with this, particularly as it would substantially reduce my costs; originally exorbitant for the distance I was going. Needless to say the couple were from the Netherlands.

The drive to Parapat took us through a richly diverse agricultural land with coffee and tobacco growing in fields adjacent to potatoes, tomatoes, oranges and cabbages. Drying cloves and other spices were laid out on large rectangular sheets in the gardens and driveways. As we passed through various villages they all seemed to have some celebration or event on, and the kids not attending these were practicing their marching and raising the national flag in readiness for the National Day celebrations, which were to take place some three days later. It was a busy and vibrant Saturday morning.

We drove into Merek, a traditional Batak village 10km or so south of Berestagi, to find the town and its people resplendent at a wedding, and those not there were readying themselves for the subsequent festivities. Virtually the entire village were there. Invitations must be a nightmare with the complexity of relationships in the clans here. You can have several fathers in addition to your paternal one, and these can even be younger than you. Misaddress an invitation and you probably risk starting a blood feud or a clan war.

In the village we get out to walk around the traditional longhouses and get a chance to go in to one of them. These longhouses are very different to the Kelabit ones in Borneo. I would have called them Tall-houses myself, as while perspective is difficult, they certainly look taller than they are long. These outrageously high roofs are there to accommodate the smoke from the cooking rather than choke the inhabitants. The architects have been slow to appreciate the use of chimney flues; or I dare say negligent.

Rather than the 33 families that were in the Bario longhouse there were just 8 families in the house we visited, but the floor area they had was still tiny in comparison, and there was no equivalent separate communal area. Indeed the whole house would really be considered a communal area. There are no walls between the living space, with the only dividers between family areas comprising the cooking areas of which each family had one each. The only formal separate areas were curtains separating the sleeping quarters from the living/cooking areas. Heaven knows what happens here if you fall out with your neighbours in this cramped living space.

Two things I liked about the place was that cobwebs were left in place untouched, as these act as natural mosquito nets (who’d have thunk it!?) and the place was left black from the cooking fires, as the soot covered timbers prevent termites (to borrow a famous advertising phrase, ‘Pure Genius’). So mum, next time you see my house bear in mind that I have no need to cover myself with Deet or burn mosquito coils and don’t worry about the house falling down following an aggressive termite incursion. If I had any house cleaning products at home I would be throwing them out on my return.

The kids in the house and the village were not fazed by us visitors and cameras and if anything played up to it. There was alarge scale marble game going on outside the longhouse, which one of the Dutch women got involved. Marbles seem to be a universal game, very much like Soccer (you can see I’ve been away).

Leaving the village to the post wedding festivities we headed for the Sisoso Piso falls. The waterfall was very impressive emanating from an underground stream several metres below the lip of the sheer cliff. The narrow falls spill into a small plunge pool and the water then pootles off much more sedately south, the hundred metres or so to Lake Toba. The views of the falls and the lake vied for the best view, but like the 2005 Euro cup final, it was a high scoring draw – though the Dutch couple seemed singularly unimpressed by either and were more interested in scoring a packet of Chitato’s and a bottle of Sprite (unfortunately while Malaysia has the lovely and ubiquitous ‘100 plus’ the Indonesian equivalent is ‘Pocari Sweat’, which tastes pretty much like it sounds – avoid!).

Following this visual pit-stop we continued our journey south and called in at ‘the Kings Palace’. Unfortunately I failed to jot down the name of the place, but we had now passed out of the Karo Batak region into another Batak clan region, where even the language is different (so pretty much like going along the East Lancs from Fazakerley to Salford really). There had been kings here from the 17th Century, though to 1947. It wasn’t clear what happened then, but I suspect it involved blood-shed. The kings’ massive residence housed himself, his guards and various wives and children. The adjoining property was full of prospective wives and concubines at his beck and call. I suspect that the guy had little time for politics and chit-chat and probably missed out on hearing any buzz on the upcoming movement toward Republicanism. The massive wooden buildings were an impressive construction feat using massive timbers from the surrounding forest. Kudos to the architects, engineers and the brute force and ability of the construction team – especially to take the weight of all of the king’s retinue.

Other than one ‘panorama’ stop above the lake (again the ladies weren’t interested) it was pretty much straight on to Parapat along the jungle road, which was now only occasionally interspersed with coffee plantations. We arrived at the port in time to catch the Saturday market melee, which was every bit as chaotic as you may expect in south-east Asia, which made the vehicle movement for the last few hundred metres sporadic and tortuously slow. The ladies got off to wander around the market for the half hour before the ferry, while I drove off with the guys to find an ATM, having been unable to locate one in Berestagi which would actively welcome my card. Luckily the first ATM we got to, around the other side of town, was Andy friendly and gave me my requested 1.2million rupiah. Yes, 1.2 million the last of the big spenders. Well, not really, that equates to about £85, with the current exchange rate of 14,125 rupiah to the pound. They are currently discussing devaluing the currency by knocking some zero’s off. Don’t debate it; just do it (to borrow another advertising slogan – perhaps I should consider sponsorship for this blog?).

Avoiding the market on the way back we got back in time for me to catch the same ferry as my earlier Dutch companions. The ferry had some more Dutch on board of course and a couple of Scandinavians and one American (who presumably was lost), but the majority of the passengers were locals going to or from work or the market.

The trip across to Tuk Tuk, which is a small peninsular on Samosir island, took about thirty minutes. After stopping at the main ferry terminal, read ‘tiny crumbling concrete jetty’, the boat makes request stops at several of the hotels private jetties, including the Hotel Carolina which I had booked via email the day before. In the travellers bible (LP latest edition), the hotel is described as the ‘swankiest in town’, but then qualifies it by saying this term is ‘relative’. Still, it proves to be in a stunning location and has been designed to make the most of its lake aspect. My ‘deluxe’ room has twin beds, one for me and one to spread all my gear on, an average bathroom with nose height shower (the Indonesians are short), a fridge for my beers, and a lovely veranda to sit back and watch the world go slowly by. For the £10 a night it was hard to complain, though I met a German/Canadian who loved the place but wouldn’t stay any more since hiking up the price by 30%. Get a life, just think how much of a bargain it was before and move on.

To give a little background Lake Toba is a massive crater lake from what must have been one of the worlds’ great volcanoes. It is the biggest and highest freshwater lake in south-east Asia, and Samosir Island, which sits inside the lake, is the size of Singapore (circa 45km long). It is not in fact an island with an isthmus joining the mainland on the western side of the island, roughly 180 degrees around from Tuk Tuk. Incidentally, along with bikes (not too many), cars (a few), motorbikes (not many), and scooters (everywhere) the one thing you won’t see here is Tuk Tuks; strange but true.

The altitude of Lake Toba is such that it is relatively cool for the tropics and very much ‘Andy friendly’ (I do seem to have spent at least half my trip around the equator at a thousand metres or so). If the term ‘laid back’ had yet to be invented some cunning linguist sat back here for a few weeks, with a fridge full of Bintang and the odd bottle of Arak, would no doubt have come up with the term, or something equally evocative. Failing that with the said vibe he could have been lazy and just said it was ‘relaxed’. It is very much the place to bring a library and sit next to an appropriately stocked fridge while kicking back with your feet on the veranda rail. Alternatively, if you are that way inclined and have enough time, you could always get some people and tunes together and fry up some of the locally legal (for some reason) magic mushrooms.

The locals, just like the LP bible says, do wander around with guitars strumming away and those without are just as likely just to burst out into song at any given time; quite refreshing (as they all seem to be able to sing, and have not yet been infected terminally with Euro-pop or the musical cancer that is modern R&B).

Along with Bario, this place is on my shortlist of places to come back too (along with a library of course).

I hired a bike on one day (yes, a pedal one!) to get out to see a few of the local sights including the King’s Tomb (a different one) and the Stone Chairs. The latter place was used 3-400 years ago to ‘try’ and convict various felons, usually from adjoining tribes, where the elders would decide how guilty they were before cutting the poor blokes skin in preparation for rubbing in chilli and garlic – tenderises the meat dontcha know – and then chopping off their hat holder. And yep, they did often eat their victims, presumably with some nasi goreng and a banana lassy (or a durian CenDOL) to wash it down with.

Incidentally women were never tried for a crime as they were seen to have been too busy with all their chores to have had time to commit a one! The devious women of Sumatra have obviously not boasted to the men about their multi-tasking abilities; so they could literally get away with murder. Clever.

I quickly mastered the bike, like they say you do never forget how. In case you haven’t tried it what you do is walk up the hill with said bike, then climb on to it and freewheel down the other side, and repeat - until you are where you want to be, or at a bar, or back at where you started. Other than remembering this correct sequence (freewheeling up-hill just doesn’t work from a standing start folks) my main problem here was signposts, just like Bario, there aren’t any. So I managed to go about 300m south passed the tomb, and then I went a kilometre north passed the turn-off for the chilli and garlic stained chairs. Still, this created opportunities to legitimately stop and ask directions from a cold drink joint, where it would be rude not to stop for a coke or a Bintang and chat to the locals. By sheer coincidence the drink would take almost the same time as it took me to regain my composure and get my breath back prior to my return the saddle.

One thing you can’t get over while pedalling or walking around the place is how many cafes, restaurants, hotels and shops there are here; with no-one in them. The place has apparently fallen of the tourist map (apart from in Holland, where everyone has failed to get the memo that Indonesia is shut). It is amazing how all these places can stay open with no visitors. If you do stop for a drink in a place you feel guilty not buying anything else. I got guilted into buying a sandwich in one place and the chicken and avocado on homemade bread was gorgeous, and did not feel any guilt about being surrounded by the brothers and sisters, which were pecking around my feet. An avocado tree 20 metres away held the biggest avocados I had ever seen too (ooh, Matron!).

The Carolina itself seemed to have a few westerners, including the Dutch couple from Berestagi, but mostly housed holidaying locals. Unfortunately they seemed only to come for a day or two at the most and they didn’t seem to eat at restaurants. Once more Dutch arrive in Tuk Tuk (or the rest of the world gets the mysteriously missing second memo that Indonesia has re-opened for business) then there are plenty of eating and drinking (and mushrooming) options waiting here.

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From here I travelled further south (in fact my first time in to the southern hemisphere) to Bukittinggi by the only available method – a 15 hour overnight coach, leaving Parapat at 4pm and arriving at 9am. Not sure yet if I want to get into that journey or destination as it is still burned red into my brain (and purple on to my bruised arse after 15 hours on a thinly cushioned seat completely unsuitable for the journey over the uneven and unendingly winding jungle road).

This was very much the homeward leg, with just a short but terrifying drive the hour and a half south to Padang airport and KL to follow. Four days later it would be back to dear old Blighty; football at a decent time and dark none-fizzy and tasty beers (at predictable prices*).


* You may have heard about the Big Mac Index, where countries prices for the delicacy are quoted in an attempt to gauge local costs. Well, given that I eat less Big Macs than I drink pints I propose an Andy Index, which would just give the price of local beers - this would be much more useful as a barometer of costs for understanding how expensive a country visit will be to me and most people I know (can’t think of anyone I know who regularly eats Big Macs).

Thanks to the twin joys of Islam and high alcohol taxation (and blatant profiteering in some places (see Singapore blog)) beer prices in all these countries are not particularly cheap anywhere with prices ranging from approximately £1.50 a pint in Borneo to a gigantic £7.50 in Singapore (even in KL you can find yourself paying £5.80 for a pint of Tiger outside of Happy Hour).

Poland and Romania from my visits earlier this year are still easily winning on the Andy Index; and of course have better beers.

Anyway roll on Thursday and my £2.60 a pint will be spent in the Dizzy watching Liverpool beat Trabzonspor; hopefully.

Sibayak

Gunung, or simply, ‘Mount’ Sibayak stands at just under 2100m and is one of two volcanoes above the town of Berastagi in the Karo Highlands to the south of Medan, where I was traveling from. The other volcano is Gunung Sinabung, which is another 400m higher. The volcanoes are the main attraction for most tourists coming to Berastagi, including me. It is a long time since I completed my geology degree and even longer since I was a kid fascinated by the books showing the power and visual attraction of these mountains, but I will always take a chance to visit them.

I didn’t notice until someone mentioned to me the following day that I had chosen to walk up Sibayak on Friday 13th, but not being superstitious it wouldn’t have affected my day had I known, touch wood.

Everyone I met had said just one thing, ‘Leave early’. I never actually asked why but I just assume that this is to get there before the afternoon clouds and rain drop over the mountain to rid you of a decent view of the crater and the views back over the town. So I duly set my alarm for 7.15am thinking that 8 or 8.30 is early enough for anyone, and must be what they meant by early.

At 7.15 I opened my eyes to darkness, but to be fair they were effective curtains. However on drawing them back I discovered it was indeed still dark, but with a streaky appearance and it was also somewhat louder than any weather should ever be. It was sheeting down. I decided a little too easily that another hour in bed was the decision of a wise man. Really, it was the judgement of a lazy one.

I eventually surfaced for breakfast at which point I chastised myself, whilst consuming my cold egg and barely toasted bread. In the UK I wouldn’t have put off a walk for rain, so why here? I knew I would be kicking myself later if the sun burst over the mountain at 11 then rained come the afternoon. No matter though, decision made, no rewind; and in any case the extra hour was quite welcome.

Leaving the hotel at 10am my second decision of the day was to walk all the way from my hotel rather than catch an opelet (minbus) up to the entrance to the mountain road. My thought process for this, if there was any, escapes me but it did add about three miles or so to my walk.

As ever though walking around gets you closer to the people and the streets (or fields) than being in a vehicle, so it was a chance to take a good look and get a feel for the area. The highlands here benefit from the rich soils and temperate climate thanks to the volcano and the elevation. It is very much the market garden for Sumatra and exports fruit, veg and livestock to Malaysia and Singapore. Some of the fields have a nice English feel to them, being planted with tomatoes, potatoes, spring onion and carrots, but these are juxtaposed with orchards of orange and fields of coffee and chilli, so not quite Ormskirk.

Within these fields or on plots immediately adjacent to houses were small burial plots evidently for individual families. These tended to have just two or three above ground burials which were surrounded by brick walls and variously painted or covered in glazed tiles. They are all Christian burials with some having large catholic images of Jesus or his mum, others don’t have anything but a simple cross (I expect these are probably the less showy protestants then). Some of these plots are remarkably kitsch, and I saw one which had a full sized painted statue of one of the occupants next to his coffin (I assume), he was resplendent in a neat grey suit and a rather eerie smile. While the area is home to the Bataks, who are largely Christian, at night with the curtains closed it doesn’t sound it with all the competing loudspeakers of the various small mosques dotted around the town – not sure if it was going on longer with it being the start of Ramadan or not, but it was an unholy racket (I know, sorry not PC).

Getting back to the burial plots I assume that this is a throwback to the culture of the Batak, rather than because the churches don’t have the real estate for cemeteries. The people here were of course animist prior to Christians coming here with the tidings that the silly sausages had been praying to the wrong gods for generations. While they are well and truly Christian now with both catholic and protestant churches aplenty the people do hedge their bets and still keep animist symbols such as water buffalo horns or sculptured heads of them on the top of the house, to guard over them. If there are serious concerns they will talk to their pastor or priest then go and have a word with their local shaman too. As long as one of them delivers then it is no doubt worth that extra bit of effort.

Umm, I was going for a walk before I transgressed wasn’t I….. so, once I had passed out through the north west edge of town and the fields I took a left up to the registration office for the walk up Sibayak. Here you sign an entrance book, so they can match a name to the body or something. Well, not really but they do not tire of telling you that people have died or gone missing for days on the mountain here, to some extent this is designed to get you to hire a local guide. Mind you I say that a little lightly, if you are going up any route other than the road up (which I was taking) then a guide probably is essential. As well as filling in the book you pay the princely sum of 1500 rupiah entrance fee (all of 11p).

A couple left up the road as I signed in, and I saw from the book that they are from the Netherlands. I am told later that up to 80% of the tourists in Sumatra are Dutch, while it seems a tad high, I have met an awful lot over here and it is certainly in excess of 50%. Indonesia is a former Dutch colony, and I am not sure but there may be more Dutch here now than when it was a colony.

After parting with a couple of ropey 1000 rupiah notes I start on up the tarmac road, with the couple in sight ahead of me; for a while at least. I soon begin to take breathers, masked as water or photo stops – not quite ‘head in hand, what am I doing here’ stops. The Dutch couple from then on are glimpsed infrequently ahead of me on the occasional long straights.

Walking on my own seems easier than walking accompanied – for I am not feeling like I am slowing anyone down or bothered that I am panting like an old dog in the summer sun within 5 minutes of walking up a shallow incline. I suppose both of those mean I am not worried about embarrassment. Still you need to motivate yourself to continue, while your other self is saying ‘look you’ve given it a go, no shame in stopping now’, or ‘who’s to know?’. On Sibayak though the motivation was that it was an active volcano, and ended the walk 40 minutes shy of the smoking vents, crater lake and sulphur deposits would be a poor second, and as Shanks said, ‘second is nowhere’.

The worst thing about this particular walk is that there are far too many ‘downs’ on the way up the mountain. As far as I am concerned there should be no downs in a hill walk until coming back from the top, any earlier dips can only mean steeper climbs later and even worse the niggling knowledge that on the way back down the mountain there were going to be some ‘ups’ to negotiate. It is patently wrong and it drew a few curses from me whenever I turned a corner to see a steep slope downhill on the outward leg.

Anyway I persevered and despite declining distances between ‘photo’ stops I got closer to the top. At one point I met an English girl coming down by herself and asked how far, and she indicated about an hour. This I felt was not the best of news, as I had thought it would be about 40mins. But I got on with it and it was only a couple more turns before it was the end of the road, at a ridiculously large car park, where the road ends. Here you have to scramble up a 5m white cliff of ash to reach the path above and the last leg of the climb. The path evidently used to comprise concrete steps all the way to the top, but now comprises occasional patches of concrete and some good water filled holes – all the more fun to negotiate. Two more stops for ‘photos and water’ and I was within sight of the steaming vents at the top of Sibayak and shortly after the distinctive bad egg smell of the hydrogen sulphide wrinkled my nose. The climb here was both more gentle and easier because the end was finally in sight.

As the guidebook says, it is everything you want and expect in a volcano, with numerous vents on all sides busily steaming away and the yellow stains of the sulphur deposits, there is even a small but perfectly formed crater lake. The only thing missing is lava, but to be fair if you were seeing lava on a strato volcano like this then facing the walk back would be the least of your worries.

As I sat above the crater lake a few guys and gals from Medan were setting up a camp in a hurry as the clouds came down and the rain began. Thanks to my lie in I had timed my walk to perfection. Fifteen minutes of clear viewing and then time to put away the camera. I then saw the Dutch couple for the first time in an hour and a half making their way down. On my descent I caught up with them and we had a good chin wag about the usual – where you going, where you been, what’s been best, where to avoid, etc. They turned off left at the junction to go to the hot springs on the other side of the mountain, while I continued on the return leg, to face the known ups and downs.

The rain which had been off and on all through the walk turned to a new setting: torrential and constant. Despite my hardy poncho I was soaked through and resigned to it; I think the water must have wicked up my sodden trousers! The walk had taken five hours door to door, and when I got back to the hotel bedraggled, very much in the style of a drowned rat, I was in dire need of a warm shower. Needless to say after ten minutes of staring at the ceiling and recovering on my lovely bed I staggered in to the bathroom to find that there was no warm water for a shower. But if that was the worst that Friday 13th could bring me, well then life is great!

Singapore - August 5th to 8th

It is only a 60 minute flight from Borneo, but this could be thousands of miles away. There are temples here but these are mostly constructed with steel and glass and dedicated by the followers of Money. The laid back nature and general green-ness of Kuching and Sarawak is in stark contrast to the clean, authoritarian, money-making glamour of the city/island/country that is Singapore.

In the centre, around the Central Business District (CBD) and the rejuvenated quays (read: shops, restaurants, bars) it is attractive; in a new, disinfected, clinical un-littered way (I am sure my mum would appreciate that part of it), however after even just a couple of days here it is a little unsettling, partly because of this.
It is a ‘1984’ society, and I will definitely be posting this after I have left this place. Conformity at all costs, even perhaps the ultimate one. A couple of weeks ago a British freelance journalist was arrested here after simply writing an article on the use of the death penalty here. Not sure what has happened to him since (sorry, that means I am not sure, as I haven’t checked the news; I am not suggesting that he has been disappeared or anything – it’s not Chile or the USA after all).

Even Little India and the Chinatown(s) here are clean and un-littered, if still mad busy and cluttered. The signage here ‘advertising’ the fines are fun, if a little intimidating: $500 for drinking or eating on the train or platform, $1000 for smoking; $500 for stepping over the yellow line on the station; $1000 for riding your bike in an underpass, etc. The number of closed-circuit cameras at the train (MRT) stations are incredible, that said sadly probably not dissimilar to England. Policeman are noticeable, if only by their absence. One suspects that there are plenty about, but that they are asked not to wear their uniforms unless for a special occasion.

Talking of special occasions, I have timed my visit perfectly to miss several big events. On Monday it is the National Day, celebrating 45 years of Singapore’s existence. There are flags and new stages, and even stadia, everywhere in readiness for the event. The ubiquitous posters extol ‘Live Our Dreams, Lift Our Flag’ or even ‘Live Our Dreams, Lift Our Productivity’…. if that doesn’t make you think of 1984, then you haven’t read it. There is no ‘I’ in Singapore. How this squares with the massive financial centre here and the money that has built this place…. err okay, it just doesn’t.

The inaugural Youth Olympic Games then start a few days later, which is big news here, and then the Singapore Grand Prix is only a couple of weeks away too. So I am leaving before it all gets too gooey on the TV (it is already too sugary to watch in a (you guessed it) 1984 Newspeak way). I suspect that there is never any criticism on the TV here. Or indeed any news that hasn’t been rubber stamped first. Cue: big false smile.

I stayed in an area called Geylang. I had read the guidebooks and ‘TripAdvisor’ and knew what to expect. Okay in the day, whilst a little lively and sleazy in the night time. Not the end of the world to get a hotel you can afford. To be honest, not as bad as I thought it may be, just a couple of times you get asked ‘Do you want a girl?’, and at the end of the day just say ‘No’ (or ‘yes’ if you are inclined). There is no danger associated with the area. Prostitution is illegal here, but it is one of the few activities which doesn’t have much associated signage and a fine associated with it. The hotel next to mine proudly displayed its room rates as $45 a night, $10 an hour, $15 for two. Though perhaps I am reading the wrong thing into this and there is just a local need for emergency napping.

One good thing about the place is the appetite for beer, including local good ones. Yes!, there are local breweries that don’t just make Heineken, Carlsberg, or Guinness. Proper ales, stouts and pilsners. It is just a shame about the prices. The prices are heavily influenced by taxes of course, but also by the money in the place. The bars on the Boat Quay are mostly horrendously dear, backing on to the CBD. But you can get a bargain if you are happy to drink Tsingtao or Chiang in a restaurant. The price of a beer can vary from $2 to $15. To complicate things further some places don’t give their prices with the taxes included. So you can get a ‘++’ (or ‘plus plus’) on top of your bill, which adds 10% then 7% to your bill! Be very careful! Or maybe just shrug and hand them your credit card. Incidentally on Boat Quay there is a ‘London Pub’, which charges silly money for pint but which was always packed with ex-pats when I walked straight passed which purported to sell ‘Draught Old Speckled Hen’ and adjacent to this was Harry’s Bar, which apparently was a favourite hang-out of Nick Leeson before he took down Baring’s Bank. On reflection, that should have been seen as an emergency flare with respect to banking activities shouldn’t it?

I found a place called the RedDot, which was advertised as a brew-pub, though of course didn’t brew any beer in house. That said, definitely worth a visit and I tried five of their eight beers, all of which were eminently drinkable if a tad on the expensive side of stupid. The biggest problem with the place if you looking downstream of the Singapore River and inland is that next door is the Manchester United Café. How many people are they alienating as potential customers?
Like Borneo, England is big over here. You see more locals wearing England shirts than you ever do in the UK. Of course, Liverpool, Man Utd, Chelski and Arsenal are popular too. Didn’t see any Aston Villa or Everton shirts.

Up there with the temples to Money making are the cathedrals of Shopping. You can virtually cross parts of the city in air conditioned frigidity through mall after mall. Sure they sell the same stuff next door? I popped to an IT mall called the Funan Digital City just between St Andrews Cathedral (a real one, not a mall) and the Singapore River. After a couple of hours checking out the deals I plumbed for a netbook with a 2year extended warranty. Hate having to buy a PC thing but wanted the ability to do stuff on the hoof with pictures, internet and writing. So a dirty job done. Four hours later I was back in the place as the power pack didn’t work. Grrr hate PC’s.

An incredible sight at the moment in the city is the Marina Park development. It comprises three hotel towers, which are topped by an apparent cruise liner, called the Skypark. I went down there, but decided not to go up to the Skypark in the end – it was $20 and you had to walk around and get out. There was a ‘no loitering’ condition, which meant no sitting down AND the cafes, bars and restaurants were not yet open. So I went off to the adjoining shopping mall (where else?), which was another crazy place with a water feature down the centre of it, which had gondoliers taking customers up and down the mall. Trafford Centre, eat your heart out.

A positive side effects of being a minted city is that you can do things that can’t be done in the average place, such as liberally sprinkle top sculptures around so amongst others I got to see a great Salvador Dali and Henry Moore while I was here (Newton and the Lovers respectively).

On my last afternoon after walking from the Marina Park I found the not to be missed Brewerkz microbrewery on Robertson Quay. Great beer with an interesting price structure - as the cost goes up as the day goes on from as little as $4.50 a pint between 11-3pm, rising progressively up to $15 a pint between 8-11pm. Drink early and run. Finished my Iain Banks novel ‘Transition’ and passed it on to a guy at the next table called Buzz (my second Buzz this holiday, with Toy Story 3 in Dubai!). He had to be American, and was from Chicago way; he was working as an art teacher in Singapore and had done for 13 years. Hope he enjoys the book, I found it a good read, but didn’t want to carry the weight around (I left a Terry Pratchett with an English teacher in Kuching for the same reason).

After a quick squizz at the Raffles Hotel I popped into an adjacent bar called Lot, Stock and Barrel and started writing this up on my new netbook. I then went back to Geylang to pick up my stored luggage and to get a bite to eat at a restaurant called ‘Liverpool’, before heading to Changi airport for my flight to Sumatra and my first visit to Indonesia.