tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3761322216451103672024-03-05T07:00:00.833+00:00VillageChickTravel stories of my 13 years living in a truck/motorhome from far flung independent drives to Asia, Africa and Europe.
Also my views on social and political issues threatening our health, freedoms and well being.VillageChick2http://www.blogger.com/profile/07264408718008103287noreply@blogger.comBlogger23125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-376132221645110367.post-86369383895359442692013-01-14T18:39:00.001+00:002013-01-14T18:39:56.421+00:00<br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px; text-decoration: underline;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Newsletter III January 2006 Morocco.</span></b></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">We have finally reached sunny Morocco! All that hard work for Alan building the truck, we have finally made it, without any problems. Our first real stopping point is Taghazoute, a small town just 6km north of Agadir, on the Atlantic Coast of Morocco. En-route we saw some goats in the Argon trees just outside Agadir. The goats climb, nimbly footed up in the trees to eat the foliage and nuts. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Alas, the huge freecamp is no more, the land having been bought by an American for development, so we were forced to stay on the campsite, which is like the freecamp, but with a water tap and a perimeter fence. The campsite is fairly busy, but apparently it gets hideously busy in January. I made a bird feeder for our little spot, from an old water container and put some bread and biscuits for the birds to feed. I quickly attracted some Bulbuls, the Middle Eastern Nightingale with a beautiful song. The biggest problem here on the campsite is the French, who seem to think they still own Morocco! The Moroccans don’t have a good word to say about them, and the French with this attitude seem to make enemies very easily, caused in part by their greed over how much pitch they are entitled to claim. They all like to claim 4 times their allotted space, marked by deep trenches, flag poles and fencing. One Frenchman even took delivery of €50 worth of boulders, so doubly ensuring no one parks anywhere near his pitch. Can you imagine campers getting away with digging deep trenches and defacing English campsites? It is somewhat unnerving walking past these trenches, as we are half expecting some irate Frenchman to bob up from his trench brandishing a sub-machine gun ensuring that we keep our distance from his little temporary patch of Morocco. They are quite mad really. We have however made some new friends, and met up with old ones, and seen some more interesting homebuilds. A UK plated ex-Russian made, UK army 6L TD EVERYBODY loves “Guano” our truck. We have to keep giving guided tours of the inside. Should start charging people, shouldn’t I? …..might pay for some of the trip!</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px; text-decoration: underline;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Our Moroccan Family.</span></b></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Finally we met with our Moroccan family, Mohammed and his wife Radia and little 4yr old daughter Selma. We had been collecting items of use for the family all through the summer months, and it was nice to finally hand them over. The computer, a sewing machine and a lot of clothes and toys for children. We knew that Mohammed would give the clothes to the poorer children in Radia’s village. This year we have been invited to go and stay in Radia’s home village for the New Year celebrations, high up in the Anti-Atlas Mountains, just north of Tata. So a couple of days later we set off. The road down south was stunningly beautiful, and clung around the striated mountains and down into gorges. The scenery was all semi arid rock desert, with few trees and shrubs and no grass. Geologically it appeared to have had a violent past with the different layers pushed into patterned eruptions. The road peeked at 2320M, then down into a plateau. Radia’s village Imi-n ‘Tatelt was along an 8km piste road, which ran along a dry river bed. The track was mostly good condition, but in parts was a bit tricky and rough, but Guano coped brilliantly being a rugged truck. At the small village of 200 houses, which are homes to about 6,000 people, we were met by the reception committee, a large group of men and children, and we were ushered into Radia’s family home. The house was large, even by European standards and was made from a combination of cement covered breeze blocks and mud and daub with wooden roofing. The family was large, and included grandparents, uncles and their wives and children and even cousins and their immediate families. We were given a very warm welcome and taken to the men’s room. Women and men dined and mixed separately, but as a European female I was allowed to flit between the two. The rooms were sparse and simple, with typical Middle Eastern type carpets on the floor, encircled with cushions. You sat on the floor as there was no furniture and the walls were bare and unpainted. In the evenings we would all share thick blankets over our legs, as there was no heating. Moroccan tea was made, which involves boiling a kettle in the room on a small camping gas ring, and the sweet green tea is poured into small glasses. Tea making is a man’s job, and fetching and the carrying is the duty of the adolescent male of the family, in this case Radia’s younger brother. Then came an unending list of cooked meals and nibbles, Tarjine, (conical Moroccan cooking pot) home baked bread to dip in local honey, almond nut butter, Berber butter, Argon oil, and jam. No sooner than we had finished one meal, then another was brought to our table. After the first day we both thought we were going to explode. In between meals, we were shown around the house, which not only housed the family, but attached to an open-to-the-stars courtyard, a cow, some sheep, chickens and a couple of goats. In the back room lived the family transport, a lovely white mule. In the middle of the courtyard was a well, the family’s only source of water. The oven was an iron bowl dropped into a mud and daub corner of an open room, fuelled by wood and scrub found in the mountains. All the floors were compacted mud, and doors were ancient weathered wood. It was like stepping back into the stone-age. Yet a mere 6 months ago, the villager’s lives were transformed by the coming of electricity! (I jest not) They now had electric lights and satellite TV but no telephones. Mobile phones don’t work either as there is no mast for miles. The family were so friendly and made us feel as if we were one of them. As a treat, were taken for an afternoon picnic to a local palmery, about 3kms away down the river bed. My mode of transport was the family mule. WHAT A FABULOUS TREAT! She was about 20 years old and had no name, and quite able to carry me and the picnic in two side bags, more food of Tarjine, bread, fruit, tea (with all the cooker and kettles) and nuts. She was exceptionally well trained and was a dream to steer and stop. She walked over the bouldered river bed with ease, whilst all the men walked. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The village was split with the dry river bed running through the middle. Every year around November, the river bed becomes a raging torrent of rain water, the result of a mere 12 to 24 hours of rain. It then rages for about 3 or 4 days, during which moving from one side of the village to the other, and even driving the 8 kms of piste road into or out of the village, is impossible. The piste track is washed away and has to be remade. We were invited to the other side of the village to meet a Shepherd, Abdul. He looked ancient and under nourished, with a slight frame covered with weathered skin, but Abdul was full of life and very animated and obviously of strong constitution. His house was simple in the same way Radia’s family’s house was, and he busied himself making tea for us as we sat around on the floor. He tended to 200 sheep and goats and the shepherds took grazing the mountains in turn. Some trips he would stay in the mountains for 20 days wandering more than 30kms away from the village, living under the stars and in caves. Abdul didn't speak any English, so my Arabic proved most useful. I asked him what dangers he faced. He told me, rabid foxes were a problem, especially when they came close to the villages and near children, who all knew to keep away or get up a tree. (Rabies is a problem in Morocco) His biggest problem were Golden Eagles, who could pick their prey high in the sky, then swoop down and take in seconds a lamb or kid. Abdul also used to tend to 100 bee hives, but a couple of years ago Morocco had a locust plague and the government sprayed the locusts with some strong chemicals, which not only killed the locusts, but all 100 of his bee hives. He received no compensation from the government. He also receives no old age pension. There is no old age pension in Morocco, the elders are kept in their old age by their family, hence the large houses and family units. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">‘What do you do for food and water?’ I asked. He was now fully involved in the tea making ceremony which was at a critical point of sugar quantity. The sugar rocks of varying uneven shapes and sizes were kept in an ancient box. The whole affair had been bought into the room by one of the boys of the family. The old shepherd rummaged around in the sugar lumps, weighing up which combinations would produce just the right amount of sweetness. The toothless shepherd liked his tea sweet, as two more hefty lumps were plopped into the tea pot. Yes, this was a man’s job. A woman could not have weighed such difficult combinations out in her head, and got it just right!</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">‘My wife brings me what I need.’ He told me. His wife was even smaller than him but a little better covered and like Abdul, full of life. I had trouble envisaging her tiny frame scrambling up the harsh terrain, with all the tea making paraphernalia, Tarjine, small gas cooker, water etc. I could imagine myself doing such a task, pack on my back, scrambling over mountains, down through ravines, warding off rabid jackals, and swooping Golden Eagles only to find I had forgotten the matches! It was an unforgiving land, and there was no room for soft Western sentimentality. Survival of the fittest were the winners here. On our way from the village and down towards Tata and Tan Tan, we saw many wild camels and asses. We also saw many Berber nomads, still living in the same manner they have for centuries, in large wool tents, in the middle of nowhere, tending their livestock for incomes. In fact, these fiercely independent people, the Ait ‘Atta were the only people in Morocco, who refused to let the French rule them. They refused to speak French or to follow their rules. The French infuriated by this, tried all ways to rule them, but never won. The Ait ‘Atta have stayed independent until today.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px; text-decoration: underline;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The Circus Comes to Tan Tan.</span></b></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Our next stop was Tan Tan, a border-like town on the Atlantic Coast in the south. Every year the Paris-Dakar Rally comes to Tan Tan and creates quite a stir. It was our third visit to Morocco, and our first visit to the Circus. The Circus always used the airport for a pit-stop, to rest and service and repair their vehicles. It was a perfect place for ease of flying in parts and crew for the duration of the performance. We arrived two days before and set up with loads of other motorhomers just outside the airport grounds, lining the road into the airport. The airport was on a high plateau, from which you could see a wonderful view of Tan Tan town down below. It wasn’t a busy airport with a mere one landing every fortnight, but the Circus was to make it into a hive of activity. As the planes carrying organisers, crew, press and provisions started landing, the motorhomes started piling in and space, all 2 square kilometres of it was at a premium. We had a good spot, but realised that as more campers piled in, our place beside our truck on which was our mat, was being used as a major road, so we turned our truck around and blocked the way. Of course we didn’t block any way in particular, campers were quite able to drive the other way around us and if they went back onto the road, they could get to the other side of us much easier than scrambling past us. So we settled down and hoisted the pirate flag high above Guano, just to let others know that we were not to be trifled with. Anyway, three French campers turned up, (three couples) and immediately demanded that we move our truck so that they could get to the other side. We told them that it was a freecamp, and we were not moving for them. Not happy with this, they went and rallied support from other French campers, and quickly swelled their numbers to 30 people (24 of which it had nothing to do with), who all came and demanded that we move for them. We refused. They started shouting. (All they had to do was reverse back three or four campers and drive around a different way, but that wouldn't have been much fun.) Alan got a little upset and went for a walk, leaving me to deal with it. They then went and found two army men to come and tell me to move. I still refused to move. They then went and found a policeman to tell me to move. I still refused to move. They then went and found a policeman with pips on his lapel to tell me to move. I still refused to move, but spoke to all of the officials in Arabic, who seemed to not want to push me to do anything. They then went and found what looked like the District Commissioner (three metal rosettes on his shoulders) to come and talk to me. We had quite a conversation in Arabic, during which I smiled to him sweetly and he called me “Habibti” my darling! …….you guessed it, I still refused to move. The French by this time were beside themselves. How dare a foreigner in “their” Morocco refuse to do as they demand? The French were used to getting their own way in everything in Morocco, but they hadn’t bargained on meeting a very stubborn English woman desperate for a revolution. Thirty irate French hopping about, against <i>one</i> feisty English woman. It was just too much for them. They couldn’t cope with the fact that I never once lost my cool, never swore, and for the officials, was a pleasure to talk with. Alan then sent a text to an English friend of ours (travelling with two others) to come and give assistance. The return text read <i>“Troops on way have fought a few look for our dust trail coming fast”</i> Then two hours later, two Germans, and a Dutchman stepped in. They had seen enough and had come to my defence. They demanded that the police and the French leave me alone, that it was a freecamp and we could park where we wanted, and if the French wanted to get to the other side of me, they should just simply drive around another way. No sooner than that was sorted, our backup (a motley crew of home builds, one of them Bob who looks like a member Hells Angel and drives a big Dodge called <i>Purple Haze</i>) arrived and blazed a trail through the camp and parked up beside us. I was triumphant and went and sat down on our steps. From that moment, the Chief of Police and his minions always gave me a heart felt reception and took time to ask how I was. I don’t think the French liked me speaking Arabic. It created too much attention from the officials in my favour. Never mind, the next day, something else happened to me that they didn’t like either. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The rally was beginning to gather pace, and all the organisers and crew were wearing some very nice official clothing. As we walked around the set, I asked about 15 different people for a Paris-Dakar t-shirt, but no one wanted to give/sell me one. It seems they were like gold dust. So our back-up crew and us went and sat in the airport café for a coffee, where I confidently told everyone that I wasn’t worried as a t-shirt <i>would </i>present its self today. We all walked back to our campers to wait for the rally vehicles to arrive. As we sat beside the road, three people in rally t-shirts were directed to us. They wanted to know if we were the owners of the pirate flag. They introduced themselves as private crew of a plane for the rally, and that one of them, a German, saw our pirate flag on landing and felt he had to have it, and would I be willing to swap an official issue Paris-Dakar t-shirt for it? Alan started bargaining with them and managed to make a deal. Flag for t-shirt and official issue cap. They also threw in 3 cans of beer for us. The French were not amused seeing me being hunted and given a lovely new t-shirt and cap and 3 cans of beer. I think some of the English were not amused either, as they had also been trying hard to get a t-shirt since they had arrived a couple of days ago. We then stood and watched the rally vehicles arrive, to the eruption of cheers from the campers, first the big support trucks, from Europe and some from Japan and USA hooting their horns and flashing their lights, then the rally contestants, some battered and bruised and some with obvious engine trouble. Watching the cars roll in, we couldn’t help thinking that with all the high-tec back up team and rally vehicles bristling with electronics, it had somewhat taken the edge off the rally. Ordinary cars were not to be seen, only specially designed and adapted ones for off road use, and only special motorcycles. I think the rally back in 1979 was originally for any vehicle, now it is only for those specialised vehicles, and the £1,000’s needed for the funding. For this reason the rally has been nick-named “The Circus.”</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">We are now south of Tan Tan and working our way down to Dakhla, a further 500 miles down south. Apparently there is a beautiful lagoon there and a huge freecamp.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Love to you all and keep in touch.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Love Cindy & Alan XXXXXXXXXXX</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><b>Next newsletter;</b> Purple Haze Tours. One the road into the deep south near the Mauritanian border.</span></span></div>
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VillageChick2http://www.blogger.com/profile/07264408718008103287noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-376132221645110367.post-1326487393624785812013-01-14T17:50:00.000+00:002020-03-04T11:04:41.602+00:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px; text-decoration: underline;"><b>Newsletter II December 2006</b></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">We finally left France, though not before visiting Sigean African Reserve, which cost a whopping €22 each. We first had to establish if there were monkeys in the reserve, as they would have had a wonderful time dismantling and reassembling our motorhome! Thankfully, there were none, so we decided to take the plunge. What a surprise to find we were the only people in the park. No screaming brats, no queues, no hassle from other motorists …..and no monkeys! It was worth every cent to have the whole park to ourselves.</span></div>
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The Poos.</b></span><br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">A couple of days inside Spain we met Norman and Pauline, “The Poos” due to their vehicle registration POO 100. They were very nice people, but Mrs Poo could talk and talk and talk a constant stream of inconsequential drivel. Under duress, we agreed to go out for a Chinese with them and the evening fortuitously started with some strange happenings. As we were seated and waiting for our meals, an English man came in the restaurant and was unable to take his eyes off Alan. Apparently, he knew someone who looked just like Alan who owed him a lot of money in the UK. Satisfied that Alan was not on his wanted list, he settled down and stopped giving us the evil eye. The meal was lovely, but was tainted by the company. Mrs Poo just chattered and drivelled on, about what, escapes my memory. She could even eat and drivel at the same time. I don’t know how she did it? I was grateful indeed for the showing of a video about Richard Clayderman’s visit to China, offering stunning views of the Great Wall, and a duet with a really impressive little pianist, a Chinese girl of about 6 years old. I never realised that Richard Clayderman could be so pleasing to the senses. I was glad when the evening came to an end and we could retreat back into our truck!</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px; text-decoration: underline;"><b>Ayres Rock in Spain!</b></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Just south of Mazeron we chanced upon a very good freecamp. Apparently it was once a campsite, but got badly damaged during a very bad flash flood, and then abandoned. We parked up next to some Germans who had been there for 5 days. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">‘No problem.’ They told us. ‘Police come and go. No problem.’ <i>Great </i>we thought, as it was a lovely spot right on the beach with concrete standing. We settled down and sat outside drinking a brew. We watched as two Guardia Civil motorcyclists came and went. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">‘See, no problem.’ Our German neighbours waived to us. Breathing a sign of relief we continued our brew. We then noticed another two Guardia Civil in a car. They put their hats on before getting out of their car, which meant only one thing, business. They then proceeded to knock on every camper door and ordered everyone to move. We had to move and luckily just down the road was a stunning place we dubbed Ayres rock. There was a very large parking area where we could park and see the sea and the strange sand stone rock formations, one of which looked like a huge Chanterelle mushroom. They were quite something.</span><br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Driving further south down the coast we chanced upon a truly idyllic free camp just south of Aguilas, the sort of free camp all us hippies dream of. We had heard about this camp, but had never been able to find it, probably due to not looking in the right direction at the right time. It was very well concealed from the road, and as we drove on the dirt track towards the well protected cove, it was obvious that this was no ordinary free camp. The first vehicle that caught our eyes was a very old tractor and railway trailer. We also saw a few home build motorhomes. Also, unheard of on any free camp in Spain, was a <i>breadman! </i>The Spanish don’t seem to like freecampers, and would never be seen delivering bread to such camps.<i> </i>The breadman just happened to be there as we arrived, and as we needed some bread for lunch, we thought we would stop just for lunch, as it was only 11 O’Clock. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Being very nosey, I went and investigated the tractor and trailer. They belonged to a German couple Uli and Gitta, who had become sick of everything in Germany and went an bought a 1958 Deutz 2 cylinder air-cooled tractor for €1,500. Attached to this was an old railway trailer and with a few alterations, was made very homely with a balcony on the front. They both spoke very good English and Gitta explained to me;</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">‘We drove all the way from Germany and Uli drives, but “Bulldog” (the tractor) is very slow. He only goes at 18kph, so I sit on the balcony and shout, “Uli, can’t you make it go faster? Uli make it go faster.” but poor Uli, he can’t make it go more than 18kph so I squirt him with my water pistol.’ Now you have to imagine Gitta sitting on the balcony with her long shoulder length golden curly hair, shouting and squirting a water pistol at a tall, skinny, long haired, very handsome Led Zeppelin look-alike in a very old and very slow tractor, to go faster, followed by a very long queue of frustrated motorists who are unable to pass. Uli just shrugged his shoulders, with a <i>well there’s nothing I can do about it </i>look! We had to give it to them, almost 2,000 kms at 18kph in a 48 yr old 20bhp engine, and all on red diesel. (<i>Up the revolution!</i>) We really liked Uli and Gitta. They had dared to do something really different. Uli confessed to us, that they too had only stopped for lunch. That was 7 weeks ago. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">As we talked, another German arrived on Uli ad Gitta’s patch.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">‘Ah, this is Oliver, the Caveman.’ Announced Gitta. <i>Caveman? What was she talking about? </i> Apparently, Oliver had cycled from Germany on a soul-searching mission on his push bike! But luck was on his side when he arrived here, as Mica (another lone cyclist from Germany) had vacated some prime real estate property. A two roomed cave overlooking the cove. </span><br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Oliver, the Troglodyte invited us back to his cave. It was quite a climb up a steep and slippery slope and I had visions of myself on life-support before reaching the top. Just before the entrance to the cave was a very narrow precipice, but the view from his window seat was well worth the huffing and puffing to get to it. Oliver explained.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">‘Mica had the cave before me, and she didn’t do anything to it. Sand was coming in half way up the walls, and into the bedroom. There was nothing in here but sand. I first had to take all the sand out and I built everything from materials I have found around the cave.’ Oliver’s home improvements were a sight to behold. He had made a sunken bamboo window bench affording a view of the whole cove and all the campers, Mediterranean sunsets included. A matching legged bench, and a re-claimed wooden table, with matching wooden work station incorporating bamboo bowl holders, and to finish off, a strong bamboo broom and bamboo rattan type shower screen which was fixed out on the precipice. He even boasted running water over the kitchen sink by means of a hanging water bag, with pipe and tap. Covering the floor was a blue tarpaulin decorated with a Lidl bag as a central feature. Along the sides of the front room were shelves built from bamboo and oddments of wood. In the bedroom he had raised the floor with old pallets on which stood his inner anti-mosquito tent, minus the weather cover. Oliver was understandably proud of his creations, and liked nothing more than to sit and contemplate his beautiful view and his life. He said;</span></div>
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<a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=376132221645110367" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12px; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=376132221645110367" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12px; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=376132221645110367" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12px; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=376132221645110367" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12px; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=376132221645110367" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12px; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">‘Friends call me and ask, “What are you doing?” I tell them that I am thinking. “Thinking. What are you thinking about?” I tell them, I am thinking about life. When is enough, enough? How much is too much? How much do I really need to make me happy? But they don’t understand. They tell me that I cannot possibly be thinking all day and that too much thinking is not good. Of course I disagree with them. All my thinking is making me very happy and is helping me to understand life. Back in Germany I had no time for thinking, only working and sleeping.’ </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Oliver was a Dog Trainer in Germany, and had a little import/export business. He was glad he left everything and came on this trip. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span style="font-size: 12px; letter-spacing: 0px;">Oliver had been industrious to the extreme, so much so it all looked like something out of </span></span><span style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span style="font-size: 12px; letter-spacing: 0px;">Journal <i>Maison & Jardin Troglodyte</i></span><span style="font-size: 12px; letter-spacing: 0px;"><i>!</i></span><span style="font-size: 12px; font-style: normal; letter-spacing: 0px;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span style="font-size: 12px; letter-spacing: 0px;">As much as Oliver hated the system and wanted to be free of it, there he was furiously re-building it all around himself! We sat wondering if he noticed what he was doing. He too had also been there about 7 weeks. He too only came for lunch! He asked us if we had met the Czech family. The Czech family we were told were a family that came here every year through the winter months. They were a mother and father, Petr and Simona and their 8 children! Their van was only a standard 6 berth motorhome with a little 2.5D engine. It took me a while to fathom how on earth 10 people managed to sleep in a 6 berth motorhome.</span></span></div>
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<a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=376132221645110367" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12px; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=376132221645110367" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12px; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=376132221645110367" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12px; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=376132221645110367" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12px; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=376132221645110367" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12px; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Did they sleep in shifts? Or was their motorhome like a Tardis? In fact I still haven’t fathomed it out. Petr was a real rebel and hated the Czech system. He lived in the summer months on his own land near the German border in a national park. His home was an arrangement of 3 railway trailers (like Uli’s) around which he had built an arrangement of shelters and add-ons, all totally illegal of course, but Petr is determined to keep his house. The authorities have tried unsuccessfully to make him take it down, but he has always managed to stay one step ahead of them. He confided to me;</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">‘I am from Prague and studied computer programming at university back in the 80’s. I met Simona at university and we both didn’t like the way the system was developing, telling us how to live our lives and how to bring our children up. (they only had two children then) So I tried to change the system and ended up a political prisoner. Enough was enough, so we bought some land and I built my house, took my children out of school to home educate them and gave up my job. We live off my 2 acre plot of land, with goats and chickens and vegetables. We have a good life, but not good enough for the authorities, who have been trying to make me send my children to school and pull down my home. My way of life has caused a lot of controversy in Czech Republic. People say that I have a good degree and I should be working, but the only money I have is my Child Benefit. Together with our self sufficiency, it is enough to manage on. We need very little.’ He smiled as I looked at photos of his construction back in Czech Republic which looked a little like the film set for the Lord of the Rings, ‘For example, it is OK to build anything if it is for a film. So when the authorities came round last time to try and make me take my home down, I just told them that the construction was for a film. They told me that the film was taking a long time to be made. I just told them that the film company was experiencing financial difficulties and that they would resume filming as soon as possible. They left me alone because they don’t know how to deal with me.’ He stood chuckling to himself. He then gave me a tip. ‘The more laws that are made, the more loopholes can be found, because the people that pass the laws simply don’t know what they are doing.’ I’m not sure that I needed any such encouragement but it was so nice to talk to someone who had a different from the “norm” point of view. All of Petr’s 8 children were very well behaved and they all had some skill or other. The eldest boy of 16 yrs was a brilliant fisherman. He would get up early of his own accord and with his homemade rod of bamboo and twine, he would head down to the sea and catch, moray eels, and other fish that the family could eat. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Petr told me proudly, ‘You know my son often sits next to other campers who have very expensive equipment, but they never catch anything. My son always brings back a good catch.’</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">The eldest daughter of 18 yrs, was very good with the other children, the youngest of which was 2 yrs. She was also a good bread maker and a music teacher and taught the other children to play violin and accordion. She could often be seen on the beach giving the other children music lessons. They played typical gypsy type music, which I really like. I had such respect for Petr and his family, for they expected nothing, and were a very close family and were coping well under such negative views of others. They didn’t judge others, but just wanted to be left alone to live their lives. <i>Petr, I salute you. </i></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">That’s all for this month’s news. Love to you all, Cindy & Alan XXXXX</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px; text-decoration: underline;"><b>HAPPY CHRISTMAS AND A HAPPY NEW YEAR TO YOU ALL.</b></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">We are of course now in Morocco and shall be heading down to the Paris – Dakar Rally in January. It will be our first time at the rally and is something we are both looking forward to seeing. Weather is <i>fabulous</i>!</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Some other news; The Truck With No Name, now has a name. “GUANO” due to the condition in which it was found, covered in pigeon shit. Incidentally, Guano is going swimmingly. No problems at all and he is coping well with everything we ask it to do. We had cause for celebration the other day, as we managed to squeeze a whopping 18mpg out of it! </span><span style="font: 12.0px Wingdings; letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"> Diesel in Morocco is about 47p per L.</span></div>
VillageChick2http://www.blogger.com/profile/07264408718008103287noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-376132221645110367.post-47701972401928341232012-06-15T17:38:00.001+01:002012-06-15T17:38:35.871+01:00Inside our truck<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />VillageChick2http://www.blogger.com/profile/07264408718008103287noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-376132221645110367.post-80583553161056411892011-05-14T15:21:00.001+01:002011-05-14T15:21:28.795+01:00Newsletter December 2001<div style="font: 22.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 16px;"><b>Benidorm </b></span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">Who would have believed that 40 years ago Benidorm was just a small, sleepy fishing village, the occupants of which had never seen the likes of a plastic willy, or an inflatable plastic dolphin. Nor had they the pleasure of meeting Sticky Vicky on her rounds of the night clubs. I wonder what the old fishermen would have made of her? Benidorm has since changed beyond all recognition, with concrete mixers vomiting copious amounts of concrete to build ever-taller hotels and apartments. The old part still stands, but bares little indication as to its tranquil and little known past. The fishermen have long since gone and Benidorm is now overrun with wrinkly pale skinned beach whales, who lay spread-eagle on the sand, paying homage to that big, warm, yellow thing in the sky. Many of them are in competition to compete the cellulite challenge, (sorry ladies) which consists of pretending to ‘run’ the length of the Playa De La Levante one way, (all 2kms) then a sort of deflated hop, skip and a jump back again. They all look very focused, probably in a desperate bid to overt the onset of a major heart attack. The Dutch seem to have the right idea. They effortlessly ride their petrol or battery driven cycles along the promenade. The Spanish do things their way, by driving everywhere and parking as close to their destination as space will allow. </span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">One thing I find really irritating about Spain, is the amount of dog shit on the pavements, especially in towns around apartment blocks. Walking the pavements is a real hazard and can be likened to doing a sort of dyslexic tango with your partner, in an effort to avoid the indiscriminately dumped piles. I can imagine the sale of paving slabs to include questions such as; ‘And what coverage of dog shit would you like on your pavement Senor? 50% seems quite popular.’ In spite of its faults, Benidorm has a habit of growing on you. </span></div><div style="font: 16.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><b>Sightseeing</b></span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">Because of contracting the Benidorm Bark, (a bad cold) we have only spent a couple of days sight seeing this month. We spent a day in the hills and visited <i>Les Fonts De L’Algar</i>, a beautiful natural waterfall. It was the famous back-drop of the Timotei shampoo advert. You know the one, where a scantily clad bint washes her hair with Timotei under the waterfall, causing untold pollution to the environment! Clean hair, dead fish! But what do I know? </span></div><div style="font: 16.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><b>Launderette capers!</b></span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">United Peacekeeping Forces are soon to be told of their next mission. They are to forget Afghanistan and are to focus on peacekeeping in and around the launderette sites of El Raco Camping! It seems that hostilities have flared up between the Dutch and the English factions, with the Dutch fighting for outright control of the washing machines. Skirmishes have been reported in and around the toilet blocks caused by the Dutch jumping the laundry queues. Reports of casualties cannot be confirmed. Though it has been noticed that tensions seem to be less on cold and damp days. The Germans don’t seem to get involved. They have their laundry washed and dried and their selves showered and fed long before any Dutch or English have even thought of dragging themselves out of bed! As for the Spanish, I’ve yet to see them do any washing!</span></div><div style="font: 16.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><b>Campsite in general.</b></span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">The campsite of El Raco is one of the cleanest and best kept campsites I’ve ever stayed on. All credit to Pedro, and his staff of cleaners and site workers, who work very hard and are always willing to help. The modern toilet blocks are always spotless and there is 24/7 piping hot water. The receptionist is multi-lingual and there is a fabulous mini-supermarket on site, which not only has extremely well stocked shelves, but sells all the favourite things of the main European nationalities. Marmite for the Brits, chocolate sprinkles for the Dutch, and sausages for the Germans. Some people have been known to complain about Pedro’s insistence that everyone keeps to the campsite rules. It is the rules and quality of the site, which makes it by far the most popular campsite in Benidorm. Each time we have stayed it has been full to bursting. All those campers can’t be wrong. </span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">A small number of campers (long stays) have decorated their ‘gardens’ with gnomes and other statues of dubious parentage. One camper in particular, seems to have a problem with their garden occupants who appear to be proliferating at an alarming rate! So much so that they are spilling into the garden of next door! One evening, whilst on our way back from our weekly meal at China Gardens, I picked up all the garden occupants and re-positioned them in a line, as if they were all leaving home in a convoy. Alas, they were all herded back to their places the following morning.</span></div><div style="font: 16.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><b>Strange Visitors to our pitch.</b></span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">Having put our caravan up for sale, we have been receiving some rather strange visitors. Strange English visitors at that! One retired couple that came, the husband having noticed some Sharon fruit in my fruit bowl, appeared intrigued. So I asked if he would like to try some. I obviously said the wrong thing, because he wasted no time launching into an extensive list of foods that he didn’t like. I thought he had exhausted a rather interminable list of quite ordinary English foods as Alan and I listened dumbfounded. He continued; ‘Cheddar, I don’t like Cheddar, and brussels, I only like the small ones. Sausages, I can’t stand cold ones. I had a bad sausage once and it made me ill. I haven’t touched one since. In fact I don’t like any cold meat at all and you can’t fool me by reheating it. Spices, Oh no, I don’t like spices. Chinese, Japanese, Indian, ughhh. Italian, Oh no, not for me. Milk, I don’t like milk and I don’t like fruit. I like cauliflowers, but only the green leaves, not the florets.’ He stopped to recollect his thoughts. ‘I used to like porridge, but I’ve even gone off that!’ He then turned to his partner and give her a rather accusing look. ‘I’ve only gone off porridge in the last few years since I’ve been with you.’ He told her. ‘It’s the way you cook it.’ He added. (<i>I was beginning to wonder what we had done to deserve this!) </i>Alan and I cast a rather worried look to each other. We sort of got the general drift of what was going to happen next. We just managed to overt some verbals and messy separation, by reminding them that they had come to view our caravan! He could have saved us all the verbal diarrhoea, not to mention time, by just telling us the foods he <i>did </i>like!</span></div><div style="font: 16.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><b>Christmas Day.</b></span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">This is our first Christmas in Spain and to our surprise our row on the campsite is being transformed as I write. Our particular row seems to have been on a tinsel and Christmas light shopping frenzy, with each pitch trying to out do their neighbours. Each pitch has that many decorations and flashing lights, baubles and dangly bits, it would put Oxford Street in the shade. Campers from all over the campsite stroll down our row every evening, just to see the lights. We didn’t have any lights, but we did decorate our little tree on the edge of our pitch with tinsel and baubles. Pedro and his entourage of cleaners and ground staff woke us all up Christmas Eve, amid the banging of drums and clashing of cymbals, to give us all our Crimbo present. A bottle of champagne and a platter of fancy biscuits. We spent a quite Christmas indoors, I with a bottle of Sangria, ‘Cheers!’ and lots of goodies, watching the BBC on our satellite system. </span></div><div style="font: 16.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><b>Happy New Year to you all.</b></span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">What ever it all means. It’s all man made, isn’t it? According to Michael Palin, Ethiopia is still in the 19th Century and as most of us know, Saudi Arabia in accordance with the Lunar cycle is still in the 15th Century, so where does that leave us? There is only one time, but who’s time is the real time? Is time those sections being ebbed away on a false face of a clock, or is it the passage of life? In reality, ‘now’ is all there is and ever will be. The past has gone, never to return, the future just a figment of our imagination. ‘Now’ is all there is, yet society fools us into all sorts of insecurities under the falseness of time. Happy New Year to you </span></div><div><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><br />
</span></div>VillageChick2http://www.blogger.com/profile/07264408718008103287noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-376132221645110367.post-13929418332251246132011-05-14T15:21:00.000+01:002011-05-14T15:21:11.492+01:00Newsletter March 2002<div style="font: 18.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 16px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 18px;"><b><u><br />
</u></b></span></span></span></span></div><div style="font: 16.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><b>Homeward bound.</b></span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">Left Benidorm March 2002. We drove on the motorway to just north of Valencia and was shocked that the motorway tolls amounted to €17. (about £11.33) We quickly came off the motorway and took the road inland, climbing with overloaded Transit van and very heavy caravan en-tow, to the dizzy height of 1080M above sea level! I had hoped to see the Pyrenees as we drove through the Western pass into France, but they eluded us! We did meet a mad cyclist on the Spanish French border, who was on a mission to collect as many different €1 coins from each country in the Euro. (Each country has its own individual design on one side of the Euro coins) As we pulled into a garage, he frantically cycled up to us, to ask if we had any coins that he could collect. Was his life that empty that he was reduced to collecting Euros in order to make it more interesting! I guess it was a rather novel way of begging. (No. We didn’t give him anything.)</span></div><div style="font: 16.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><b>The Ticket Saga.</b></span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">Reached Caen and the ferry port Monday 18</span><span style="font: normal normal normal 9.3px/normal 'Times New Roman'; letter-spacing: 0px;"><sup>th</sup></span><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"> March. All we had to do was book our return place at a cost of £5. We bought our RETURN ticket in Essex 6 months ago. It was an open 12 month return for van, two people and a caravan for £210. We paid cash. We were told when we bought the ticket that if we returned outside of the winter season, we would have to pay the difference in season tariffs. We knew that the winter season changed at Easter, which was why we decided to return <i>before </i>the Easter break. At the Ferry booking office we tried book our return ferry. The woman who took our ticket pressed a few buttons on her computer screen and gave a big sigh, then called the manageress over to deal with it. The scene was displaying all the hallmarks of one of those protracted and frustrating processes, and we braced ourselves to hear what the manageress had to say about it. We told her when we wanted to sail, to which she informed us that we would have to pay £59. ‘What?’ We chorused. ‘You must pay £59 before you book your return journey, because the price has increased.’ She told us. We managed to understand from her that it had increased because of a change in season. The season had according to her changed in February. Alan picked up a 2002 brochure on the counter and checked out the dates for the new season, which was 20</span><span style="font: normal normal normal 9.3px/normal 'Times New Roman'; letter-spacing: 0px;"><sup>th</sup></span><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"> March. We were 5 days <i>inside </i>the old season, so no increase was payable. She then tried to tell us that the fares had, well, just simply increased since we last sailed. Alan was getting tired of her pathetic excuses, so asked to speak with customer service. ‘You can use the pay ‘phone over there.’ She coolly told us. ‘No.’ Said Alan, ‘Brittany Ferries are changing the rules, so Brittany Ferries can pay for the call. I’m a <i>customer</i>!’ He told her indignantly. She very reluctantly let us use her ‘phone, though not before she spoke with them first to ‘explain’ the situation. Customer Service told us that our ticket had simply risen in price since we last used it, 5 months ago! Alan told them that a 50% increase was totally unfair and that if we were to buy a return airline ticket, we would not be expected to pay a 50% increase on the return part of a prepaid ticket. Alan then looked at the prices of some of the new fares from the 2002 brochure, whilst the woman on the other end of the ‘phone continued to chelp on. A single fare was available for the van, two people and a caravan for that very week, for £106. Alan pointed this out, but between them the staff put on a show of ‘No comprendo.’ He then asked if he could speak with customer services in England in the hope that he might at least get a little more sense out of them. The woman behind the counter once again after much huffing and puffing, reluctantly put us through and we went through the same questions. ‘Oh, no, it’s not a 50% increase, it’s actually a 25% increase on the whole price of the ticket.’ She tried to tell us. This was nonsense and it didn’t wear with us. The fact that one half of the ticket was used and finished with, was of no interest to her. We actually thought that we were getting somewhere when she told us that we could cancel our return ticket and book the single ticket we had found for £106 and get £105 refund from our old ticket! ‘Great.’ We thought. ’So.’ she added, ‘You must pay £106.’ ‘What?’ We cried. ‘You just told us that you will refund £105 from our old ticket, £105 of ours that you have had for over 6 months.’ ‘Yes, but I cannot refund monies spent in England here in France. For that you must apply from the travel agent in UK.’ ’What ever was the purpose of Europe?’ We thought. It was all so totally ludicrous. We had to pay £106. Yes, we were definitely getting closer to England. It would probably be another fight at the other end for the refund, with the travel agent wanting to subtract their commission.</span></div><div style="font: 16.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><b>The Bank Fiasco.</b></span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">The following day, rather depleted of funds, we decided to change some Sterling. £40 in all, in <i>cash</i>. No problem changing cash you would think, wouldn’t you? Wrong!</span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">The first bank we queued for 20 minutes, only to be told that they didn’t change foreign currency. The second bank said it did. The woman took our 2 X £20 notes and started to search in a rather thick book, which contained all foreign notes of the world. Having found our notes, she then went and found the equally appropriate large and over complicated form to complete. She then asked for my passport! ‘I’m changing cash, so why on earth do you want my passport?’ I asked her. She didn’t speak any English, but I understood her reply. ‘No passport, no Euros.’ She put all the details of my passport into the computer. This seemed to take forever, as she didn’t seem to know what she was doing. She then started to search throughout my passport for something. ‘Address.’ She demanded. ‘What do you want my address for?’ I asked. ‘I’m changing cash. My address is not necessary.’ I once again understood the reply. ‘No address, no Euros.’ Still not satisfied, she then went and took my passport over to the photocopier. ‘No, no.’ We told her. ‘No photocopy of passport. You have taken the details, now that’s enough. Give me back my passport.’ We left without changing any money.</span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">We were sick of Caen. It was cold wet and miserable. Hasn’t stopped raining since we arrived. The campsite is all muddy and hitching the caravan onto the van will be a struggle. England is no better. Still, it’s Wednesday and our ferry leaves 16.30 tomorrow. </span></div><div style="font: 16.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><b>The Ticket Saga continues.</b></span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">The following day at the ferry terminal; we pulled up to the booth amidst a long queue to have our ticket checked. The woman looked at our new ticket, issued only the day previously by her colleague, then looked at our van and said, ‘Your ticket does not cover your van! This ticket is for a car!’ It was like a bad dream. I got annoyed and told her that it was not our problem, that her colleagues had made the problem, and <i>they </i>can sort it all out. She called the Duty Manager who was very nice about it all, considering we were fuming. (frothing at the mouth type of fuming) He explained the situation. ‘Ah, this is not a problem. You see, you should have told them when they changed your ticket that your van is a <i>leisure vehicle</i>.’ Talk about red tape. </span></div><div style="font: 16.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><b>Home at last!</b></span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">As we drove off the docks at Portsmouth, with our van groaning from the excess weight of champagne and wine bottles, (for my 40</span><span style="font: normal normal normal 9.3px/normal 'Times New Roman'; letter-spacing: 0px;"><sup>th</sup></span><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"> birthday hooley. Cheers!) two big containers of diesel, (it’s cheaper in France than UK) and a hundred and one other things, there was not a customs officer to be seen. We could have made a fortune bringing half a dozen illegal immigrants, a few stray dogs, 1,000’s of cigarettes and many other items of contraband in with us. (not that we could have fitted them in anywhere) With border controls as lax as Portsmouth’s, no wonder the UK has such a problem. I drove straight off the docks and onto the wrong side of the road, almost causing an accident. </span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><br />
</div>VillageChick2http://www.blogger.com/profile/07264408718008103287noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-376132221645110367.post-91778316335525874992011-05-14T15:20:00.001+01:002011-05-14T15:20:39.784+01:00Newsletter April 2002<div style="font: 18.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px;">From Portsmouth we headed north and eventually arrived at a small campsite attached to a Covert War/Aviation Museum, in Northamptonshire, said to be the founding home of the CIA! Living out in the middle of beyond, next to Covert War Museum we are seeing yet another side to life. The campsite owners, Vera and Bernard, hold a number of rallies throughout the summer which has brought some very strange characters into close proximity. </span></div><div style="font: 16.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">Strange Neighbours.</span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">There are a few permanent caravans around us, in one of which lives an Irish guy who drives ‘The Tortoise.’ ‘The Tortoise’ is a Ford Escort incognito, with extension plates welded all over the exterior to give the effect of a ‘shell’ which have then been painted for extra effect. Alan told him that our intended motorhome will be called ‘The Crow’ to which he asked us, ‘What pills are you taking?’ I looked at him, then looked at his car, then said, ‘Obviously not the same ones you are taking!’ He spends his weekends spraying and touching up ‘The Tortoise.’ ‘The Tortoise’ puts a smile on people’s faces. Apparently one policeman has told ‘The Tortoise’ that his extension plates are illegal and seems to be on a crusade to force ‘The Tortoise’ off the road. ‘The Tortoise’ has been taken to the MoT testing station, and has been passed as kosher for British roads. Other policemen don’t seem to have a problem with ‘The Tortoise,’ it’s just this one. There’s always one, isn’t there? The owner of ‘The Tortoise’ is now indulging in another project. A Ford Escort van! But he’s not telling us what the van is going to be. I suppose that we shall have to try and guess, as each week it becomes transformed! </span></div><div style="font: 16.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">Funny Goings-on.</span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">One weekend, the Camping and Caravanning Club had a meet in the next field, at the same time as ‘The Pioneers’ had their Easter meet in an adjoining field. ‘The Pioneers’ are a small group of people who in their spare time live as the first European North American settlers lived, with their canvas tents, billycans, axes, and campfires. To look at them you would think ‘Little House On The Prairie.’ One character ‘Gypo Jim’ came with his menagerie, 3 ferrets, a dwarf Amazonian parrot and a dog. His ‘tent’ is really a horsebox disguised as a log cabin, on which he hangs an array of basic metal outdoor 18thC cooking implements. Pride of place at the front of his tent stands his totem pole, decorated with bones, feathers and furs, all presented to him by one friend or other. ‘Each one tells a story.’ He told us. It all looked quite a sight with, The Camping and Caravanning Club with their shiny new caravans, wearing their fancy outdoor clothing from Millets, sitting on their plastic camping chairs and tables, with their noses in the air, not talking to each other. And a few feet away ‘The Pioneers’ with their rustic wooden furniture, bones, feathers, Billy cans and animal skins laughing and making welcome anyone who dared to go and say ‘Hello!’ They were great! (Basil Fawlty, from Fawlty Towers, would have said, <i>‘We have both ends of the evolutionary scale this week.’</i>) Jim’s son came to visit bringing with him two beautiful birds of prey. A Shaker and an Eagle Owl. One other member of the Pioneers, Tug, showed us how to shoot a crossbow and a bow and arrow. Jim showed us how to perfect the art of axe throwing. The Pioneers were such good fun to be with. </span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">It was nice to meet Jim and Co, but a couple of weeks after Jim and Co had left, we noticed what we thought were The Pioneers setting up camp again in the neighbouring field, with their canvas tents, billycans, totems and an array of cooking utensils, along with a few ferrets and a couple of lurchers. So naturally we went over to say ‘Hello.’ Jim wasn’t to be seen, so asked, ‘Are you the Pioneers?’ The reply was most indignant, ‘Oh no we are not The Pioneers, we are The Colonials!’ It was all we could do to keep straight faces! <i>(We’re not The Judean People’s Front, we’re The People’s Front Of Judea! “The Life of Brian”) </i>Apparently, the split happened due to those who are now The Colonials not agreeing in part to Jim’s converted horsebox, because they explained ‘The original settlers didn’t live in converted horse boxes.’ At that moment, one of the women in The Colonial group, started speeding around the field exercising the lurchers, in a fully automatic electric wheelchair! Q. Did original settlers to America have electric wheelchairs? I don’t think so!</span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">Jim has another side to the story. He tells us that the whole point of the group was to try and live, as the original European North American settlers lived. But when they gave demonstrations at fetes and rallies to welcome the public to see how they lived, The Colonials didn’t like the idea of showing the public inside their tents, and used to close them up anyone came to see. This we could believe, because The Colonials were not at all friendly and didn’t make us feel welcome. Unlike The Pioneers who gave us a wonderful weekend. Jim said that such behaviour was pointless. As an after thought. Is it any wonder that America went through a vicious civil war, when a small group of similar folk, of no more than 20 are unable to resolve their differences and end up splitting with bad feelings in the sleepy countryside of Northamptonshire? But of course, where do you draw the line as to what the original settlers had and used? To say that a converted horsebox is not in keeping with the times makes a mockery of everything else that they use. (not to mention that futuristic electric wheelchair) Jim told us that he has a horsebox because he lives on his own and has heart problems. A horsebox is an easy option for him to handle. Inside the horsebox is very basic, with a wooden shelf for the bed and one shelf for a few things. The utensils that both The Pioneers and The Colonials use might <i>look </i>authentic, but they were forged with modern methods, using metals mined in modern ways. They all drive to the camps in modern vehicles. And they all eat food bought from the supermarkets!</span></div><div style="font: 16.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">That Horrible Word, <i>Work</i>.</span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">We are both in employment now working hard towards our next winter migration. I work for a large travel company VDU-ing in the accountancy department. I’ve never seen anything like it before. The waste is disgusting. This company alone must play a key role in supporting the hamster bedding industry! Ream upon ream of top quality paper is shredded every day. Alan said that the waste at his work is disgusting also. Something has to be done about all the waste in this world.</span></div><div style="font: 16.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">Our New Project.</span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">Some other great news! We have at last bought our base vehicle for our A-Class motorhome. We have an ex-council L reg Omni minibus, 22 seater, air suspension, air assisted brakes, 2.9 Perkins diesel which takes a whopping 18 litres per oil change. Gross maximum weight is 5 ton, which is perfect for our 120 litre water tank, a full sized cooker, extra gas bottles, Alan’s extensive tool box and all of our belongings. Being a commercial vehicle, weights and long hard journeys will not be a problem. We have made some preliminary floor plans and hope to make a start on the conversion some time in the next couple of weeks. It’s all very exciting. We shall be calling our self-converted motorhome, ‘Bitsa’ because she will be made from bits of this and bits of that! We cannot and will not pay the inflated prices for the furnishings of Bitsa, so will be frequenting car-boots and skips. We shall have it completed for when we are ready to head South again for the winter. (October)</span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">We saw our old Sherpa this weekend, the one we drove to Kathmandu. It did look a sorry state, all neglected and ready for the scrapyard in the sky. The new owner still has the country names painted down the side of the van and all the stickers from the trip, although they are becoming rather faded now. He told us that so many people stop and ask him about the journey marked on the van, that he has resorted to carrying a copy of my article from MMM magazine to show them! </span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 16.0px;"><br />
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</span></div>VillageChick2http://www.blogger.com/profile/07264408718008103287noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-376132221645110367.post-11189592074912069812011-05-14T15:20:00.000+01:002011-05-14T15:20:09.457+01:00Newsletter Oct/Nov 2002<div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 16.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px; text-decoration: underline;"><b></b></span></div><div style="font: 18.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 16px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 18px;"><b><u><br />
</u></b></span></span></span></span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">‘Bitsa’ built and loaded up for our winter migration, we headed south in search of that big warm yellow thing in the sky!</span></div><div style="font: 16.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><b>The Ferry Crossing.</b></span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">We left England on the Norfolk Line ferry, it seems just in the nick of time as a vicious storm approached the South of England. I was looking forward to a big breakfast on the ferry, but as we were in the queue waiting to be served, the captain gave the following warning. <i>‘Good morning ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking. Gale force winds are now picking up speed through the English Channel, so expect a little pitching and rolling, but I shall try to keep it to a minimum. In the event of an emergency, you will hear the alarm. Please proceed calmly to the exits where you will be given a life jacket….’</i> I thought back to the news headlines of the day before. A ferry had crashed into the harbour walls! We had missed that too! I stood in the breakfast queue in a daze, as our ferry rocked and swayed into the English Channel. I suddenly didn’t want a full breakfast, knowing it would probably be thrown overboard, so ordered toast. Alan had a huge breakfast and sat in front of me enjoying every morsel. I couldn’t even manage my slice of toast and feeling very green around the gills, I rushed out on to the deck. The wind was that strong I could barely breath, and with a liberal dose of horizontal rain I got rather wet! If I was to vomit my toast, it would have been thrown right back in my face, so swallowed hard. I came back inside and sat on the floor beside the deck door, incase I needed to make a hasty exit. One young boy of about 10 years old, looked how I felt, but then he had eaten a full breakfast before we had left the harbour. It was something he now greatly regretted as he walked, with purpose along the corridor looking for the Gents. Sadly for him the Gents didn’t materialize, but his undigested breakfast of bacon, sausage, eggs and beans did, right into his swiftly cupped hands. With his regurgitated breakfast dribbling through his fingers, he continued to search for the Gents. ‘It does get better, you know.’ Came a voice standing beside me. I looked up to see a very classically dressed, middle-aged English woman. ‘I used to be like you, but it does get better.’ She assured me. ‘Really.’ I answered unconvincingly. I spent the remaining hour and a half of the crossing sitting on the floor next to the outside deck door. All credit to the captain, for getting the ferry an its occupants to France safely.</span></div><div style="font: 16.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><b>The Storm.</b></span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">The following morning the storm through the English Channel was in full swing, battering the coast of France. We were camped on an Aires right beside the ferry port in Calais and ventured out for a little walk along the quayside. We met an old woman walking a tiny Pomeranian dog. I watched as its spindly matchstick legs whizzed back and forth beneath a pompom of fluff, out of which poked a cute foxy face. I bent down to fuss it and the woman told me in French that he weighed only 1kg and was always looking for other dogs. Alan told her to be careful with the strong winds….that the dog might blow away! We all laughed, I guess sharing the same vision. Of a gust of wind sweeping the pompom off its feet, and holding it vertically waiving about at the end of the lead. The French are very friendly people. We haven’t met a horrible one yet. We don’t know why the English believe that the French hate us! It’s just not true. (they probably feel sorry for us that we can’t stand up to our pathetic government)</span></div><div style="font: 16.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><b>Into Southern france.</b></span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">Along the coastal road South of Bordeux is a vast tract of pine forest called Les Landes, which is over 14,000 sq klms. Low timber framed houses are characteristic of the area and the forests are farmed for timber and resin. We then made it to one of our favourite spots, Capbreton, where we decided to chill out for a couple of days. Capbreton is on the South West cost of France and offers one of the best surfing beaches in Europe. The area is quiet and unspoilt with a long stretch of deserted beach. The temperature was 25ºC, we changed into shorts and t-shirts and started to top up our suntans. </span></div><div style="font: 16.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><b>More Money Than Sense.</b></span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">Parked next to us were 3 British registered vehicles. The first, a top of the range all singing all dancing Mercedes camper that Rob & Jan had bought new from Italy, being a third of the price cheaper than UK. It seemed that they had spent as much again on every conceivable extra; 200W of solar power, 4 large leisure batteries, a built in petrol generator, a diesel powered central heater, microwave, satellite and all manner of alarms, and a private number plate. Yet to look at them they were barely 30 something! The real stunner came when they realized who we were and told us that my article in MMM (Motorcaravan Motorhome Monthly) about our overland independent trip to Kathmandu was the real inspiration for their trip! ‘That article did it for me.’ Rob told us. I was gobsmacked to learn that we had inspired anybody to go out and spend what must have amounted to £60,000 + to do a similarly arduous overland trip. (We had only spent £1,000 on our vehicle <i>and </i>spare parts for our overland trip UK to Kathmandu and back.) They had more money than sense. They went on to tell us that their route over 5 years Europe, Morocco, the Artic Circle, Russia and some of Eastern Europe, Turkey, then ship the motorhome to Canada, onto America, Mexico, then ship to South America, then ship to New Zealand and Australia! We wished them luck. </span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">Are we jealous? No, we are not. We really wouldn’t want the worry of such an expensive vehicle, not only being attractive to thieves, but breaking down. Although Alan is an excellent mechanic, such modern vehicles need very expensive computers to find faults and put them right. At least with our ‘Bista’ fault-finding is simple and there are no black boxes to complicate matters. Thieves would also look at us and think that we hadn’t got anything worth stealing. That suits us.</span></div><div style="font: 16.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><b>On a Shoestring.</b></span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">Another couple, Roxanne from Canada & John an Australian, were traveling in our spirit. They had a small old Nissan van with ‘Corgi Registered Gas fitter’ emblazoned all over it. The back, in which you couldn’t stand up, they had built a platform which took up most of the floor, for the bed, under which were a few drawers. They had no toilet, no cooker, and no washing facilities yet they seemed the happiest of the three couples. A couple of years previously they had driven from Canada to Mexico in another old van and loved every minute. They told us that they came to England and didn’t even last 3 days. They didn’t like the atmosphere. All the rushing around and over crowding made them depressed, so they bought the gas fitters van and headed for the ferry port and France. They were heading for Morocco. </span></div><div style="font: 16.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><b>Halloween. </b></span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">It’s a national holiday in France! Walking into Capbreton we saw hordes of children dressed up as pumpkins, Draculas, witches, ghosts, complete with faces painted. They looked a picture. They then moved down the street visiting every shop playing “Trick or Treat” to which the shop owners responded by giving them sweets. Each child ended up with a carrier bag full of sweets. The shops then shut early and for the following day. It made me wonder what has happened to the British national holidays, that they are slowly being eroded in the race for more profits, bigger and better.</span></div><div style="font: 16.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><b>Into Spain</b></span><span style="font: normal normal normal 14px/normal 'Times New Roman'; letter-spacing: 0px;"><b>. </b></span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">We drove into Spain via the top left hand corner, down to Pampalona, Zaragoza, Valencia and on to Benidorm. We made it in two days, wild camping included. If you listen to the leading UK motorhome magazines, you will be led to believe that Spain is a dangerous place for free camping. That you will get broken into unless you stay on a campsite. This on the whole, is nonsense. You are no more likely to get broken into in Spain, than in parts of UK. When free camping and travelling around any country, all that is needed is a little common sense to keep your self out of trouble and a little respect for the locals and their wishes.</span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 16.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"> </span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 16.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></div>VillageChick2http://www.blogger.com/profile/07264408718008103287noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-376132221645110367.post-4611701455760509832011-05-14T15:19:00.000+01:002011-05-14T15:19:36.559+01:00Newsletter December 2002<div style="font: 18.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: center;"><b><u><br />
</u></b></div><div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px; text-align: center;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px; text-decoration: underline;"><b></b></span></div><div style="font: 16.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><b>Around the Coast of Spain.</b></span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">Having spent a couple of weeks at El Raco Camping, Benidorm and it was time to move on. We headed down the East coast of Spain to Albir, where we met a German with a rather large, bull nosed Mercedes 911 4X4 ex-military truck. It all seemed rather cumbersome for the tarmac roads of Spain, but he had taken the truck to some unusual places. Saudi Arabia, Cyprus, Jordan, Syria and Morocco. When I discovered that he was a retired commercial airline pilot, I nick named him ‘Jumbo.’ Jumbo spoke very good English and told us that he was on his way to Morocco, for the 7</span><span style="font: normal normal normal 9.3px/normal 'Times New Roman'; letter-spacing: 0px;"><sup>th</sup></span><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"> time! As we sat talking about our similar travels, Alan fished in the Mediterranean Sea. His bait an old chicken carcass, was placed on the rock behind him. As I sat talking to Jumbo, I noticed out of the corner of my eye, Alan’s bait starting to edge its way over the rocks! I looked closer and saw a possy of the tiniest mice I’ve seen, trying with all their might to drag the bits of chicken away. Jumbo thought it hilarious.</span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">In Campello, we parked up on the beach alongside the fishing port, beside many other motorhomes, Dutch, German and French. It was a lovely spot with and interesting fish market every evening, selling squid, moray eels, crabs and nice looking fish.</span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">Our next stop over heading South along the mountainous coast line of Andalusia was Mojacar, named from the ancient hill village which lies a couple of kilometres back from the sea. Mojacar must be one of the least spoilt pieces of coast line in Spain which in the 1960’s was virtually a ghost town. However, Mojacar’s fortunes were turned around when a very nice mayor offered free land to anyone willing to build within a year! The bid attracted a lot of artists, but now Mojacar is a popular package destination with a difference. It has kept its quaint original Spanish looks, without a high rise hotel or tat shop in sight. We headed for one of the beaches and bumped into Mr Know-it-all, who lived in a large American camper. What Mr Know-it-all didn’t know, wasn’t worth knowing and launched straight into his ‘know-it-all routine. ‘Garages won’t allow you to use their water for your tanks and if you are caught working here, the Spanish police will fine you £2,000, confiscate your vehicle and send you home. In Morocco they keep you waiting 2 hours at the customs and if you don’t have motor insurance they refuse to let you in. You have to bribe them!’<i> </i>And so he prattled on, launching into some elaborate scheme about <i>how</i> to bribe the customs official, waffling on about leaving a conspicuous packet of cigarettes on the table with, (and this is most important) one sticking out of the packet! We had no intention of bribing anyone and we tried to tell him that we could handle ourselves, that we had driven through Asia and back without the need for any skullduggery. But our knowledge was falling on deaf ears. As he waffled on I noticed in the distance behind him a Dutchman taking his cat for a walk on the beach. On reaching a chosen spot the cat urgently dug a hole, pooped and scooped the sand from all directions in order to meticulously cover his dirty deed. Cats are very funny when they do this and I started giggling, only to be met with a very icy stare from Mr Know-it-all. ‘ The Gendarmes often do vehicle stop checks in this area looking for Al Khaida terrorists!’<i> </i> He’d lost the plot and it was time to find another beach. </span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">Just outside Mojacar we found a very large beach with 30 motorhomes parked up. Bitsa made it 31! We saw yet another beautiful sunset and even saw Venus shining bright in the morning sky. Living away from the rat-race you certainly get more attuned with nature. If only we realized just <i>how </i>much we depend on nature in order to exist, we just might change the world for the better.</span></div><div style="font: 16.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><b>The Breakdown.</b></span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">From Mojacar we drove towards Almeria, up some steep hills through a natural park. Half way up a rather steep hill in second gear doing only 25mph, there was a loud expensive sounding metal pop from the rear left of Bitsa and she ground to a halt! I thought it was a puncture, but on closer inspection Alan noticed that the rear stub axle had sheered in two with the wheel only being held in place by the brake shoes inside the drum. Bitsa could NOT be towed, but would have to be lifted onto a recovery truck. We didn’t have any breakdown cover and we were in the middle of nowhere. Even though both warning triangles were in the road, many Spanish cars passed us including 9 other foreign motorhomes, but not one of them stopped to see if we needed any help. Finally an Englishman in a Spanish plated Audi stopped. He took Alan back some 6 miles to the nearest town and telephoned for a crane to rescue us. </span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">Eventually a 7½ ton extending flatbed recovery truck arrived. With no common language between us and the driver, we were reduced to frantic hand signals and pointing. I don’t know about having the same currency throughout Europe, the same language would be of far more use! Bista could not be towed, so she was winched onto the flatbed that was barely wide enough. One back wheel ended up being half on and half off the flatbed and caused a few raised heartbeats. If the wheel was to become dislodged we were in deep trouble. Alan put his jack handle through the center of the wheel and stub axle, hoping that if it did move, the jack handle would at least hold the wheel upright and the chassis off the ground. The recovery truck had sunk to one side under the unevenly distributed weight of 5 ton fully loaded Bitsa. No ties were used only the winch was left attached to the back trailing arm suspension. Alan said that it was only the truck’s air suspension that enabled it to carry Bitsa.</span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">We gingerly crawled down the hill with Bitsa precariously perched on the back and were taken to the first filling station. The driver, obviously not happy doing this job wanted us off ASAP, before we fell off! On putting us down the rear wheel gave way, but was saved buy Alan’s jack handle trick. Bitsa could not be moved another inch, so the truck had to be moved forward to get Bitsa’s front wheels off the flatbed. We were all most relieved to see Bista back on terra firma. The recovery cost a whopping €250 The part + VAT + carriage cost us £300 Our emergency money gone. Sadly, we will not be going to Morocco. We are very disappointed, but it is not meant to be. Maybe next year. We were extremely lucky that the axle didn’t snap into two whilst driving at 55 mph on a bend on a motorway. </span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">The part is due to arrive any time now. We have arranged for it to be delivered to a hotel very close by. The receptionist Maria was extremely helpful. (Thank you Maria.) She let us fax the UK for parts without charge! We were told that the part would be with us within 3 to 4 days. All we can do now is wait, in the middle of nowhere on a garage forecourt. Thank goodness that my food cupboards are fully stocked, with tinned and dried foods for just such an emergency. We do have water from the garage, though they couldn’t seem to care less about us.</span></div><div style="font: 16.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><b>Eight days later!</b></span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">Still no part! We faxed the sender, asking what has happened, but he doesn’t seem very interested. He tells us that it has been sent and that’s all he knows. We wait. It’s all becoming very frustrating as no one seems to know where our part is and no one wants to be bothered to find out! Whilst we were waiting, a man in a Turkish plated car came up to us and begged poverty. Apparently he was taking his family from Turkey to England and had run out of money, and got lost it had seemed, as he had driven at least 2,000 miles south out of his way, but that didn’t seem to matter! All he wanted was £20 to reach England. We told him that all we wanted was a stub axle to reach England but he wasn’t interested.</span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 16.0px;"><br />
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 16.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></div>VillageChick2http://www.blogger.com/profile/07264408718008103287noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-376132221645110367.post-48533009132224976632011-05-12T16:54:00.000+01:002011-05-13T21:49:10.780+01:00Be Wary of Digital Deception - David Icke Website<a href="http://www.davidicke.com/headlines/48396-be-wary-of-digital-deception?sms_ss=blogger&at_xt=4dcc02c1c3595846%2C0">Be Wary of Digital Deception - David Icke Website</a>VillageChick2http://www.blogger.com/profile/07264408718008103287noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-376132221645110367.post-1718309807064889312011-04-11T17:45:00.000+01:002011-05-09T12:52:35.503+01:00Dangerous Dogs or Dangerous Owners?<div style="font: 13.0px 'Arial Rounded MT Bold'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">The government’s knee-jerk reaction to dangerous dogs.</span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">The government are presently thinking about reforming the Dangerous Dog Act 1991 which clearly prohibits the ownership of certain types of dog. This is based not on particular breeds, but “types” of dog deemed to be of dangerous heritage. It also makes it a criminal offense to allow ANY breed of dog to be out of control in a public place, or a place where it is not allowed. This includes causing fear or apprehension to a person, that it may injure them. But some people believe that by creating a dangerous breed list, it has made such dogs even more desirable. NHS statistics claim that the number of people being treated for dog bites has risen 40% in the last four years. </span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">So why are these dogs being so aggressive? Is it the “breed” or “type?” Or is the owners? Having been raised with dogs my parents had boarding kennels, competitive dog training club, security kennels, and we also bred large breeds of dog, Irish Wolfhounds and Rottweilers, I have to say, it is 99.9% the owners fault. I have also spent some of my working life as a security dog trainer and a city Dog Warden, where the dogs were the easy part. It was the owners that came with them that were the problem, with a string of excuses for their dogs bad behaviour or frequent escapes and their claims that their dogs had "rights" over and above those of people. The irresponsible owners always blamed their dogs, never themselves.</span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Excluding those who have some physical issues, such as a brain tumor or are the result of inbreeding, dogs will only exhibit “bad manners” or “naughty” behaviour if we let them do so unchallenged! It’s as simple as that. It is our complete lack of leadership skills that allow a dog’s bad/unsocial behaviour to continue. Dogs are animals, and should be treated as such. They need boundaries and rules, as would be perfectly normal in a pack in the wild, in which to live a happy, contented life. Dogs are not people and many aggressive dogs are created from a life of misguided love and affection and not as most people would believe a life of bad treatment. For example a fluffy puppy growling aggressively when you approach his favourite toy should be treated as an out-right challenge to your leadership and should be corrected there and then, but irresponsible owners see it as funny and cute, totally disregarding that it increases the puppy’s status and dominance in the household and by default encourages aggression. The irresponsible owner sees they have done nothing wrong. One of the outcomes of this is that dogs’ homes are full to capacity and are having to destroy many more dogs than normal. BBC Panorama states that a large percentage of the dogs destroyed are Staffordshire Bull Terrier types. Battersea Dog’s Home destroyed almost 3,000 dogs in 2009. My parents’ kennels had the contract for stray dogs back in the 1970s on the Bedfordshire/Northamptonshire border and had to destroy over 360 dogs a year even though they only covered a radius of 30 miles. They re-homed all they could, but 360 dogs one year becomes 720 the second year. They had to be realistic then just as we have to be realistic today. </span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">The government’s plan to introduce more ways of simply taxing dog ownership, licenses, micro-chips, completing a list of details, compulsory vets bills and third party insurance costs, will simply not work. It does nothing to promote responsible dog ownership, instead adding to the government income. Only the responsible dog owners will comply. </span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Interestingly, the rise in dog attacks seems to have increased with the rise in “animal lovers” criticizing owners who handle and correct their dogs firmly. Perhaps if a lot more owners had been firmer with their dogs, there wouldn’t be so many tragic attacks and unwanted unruly dogs. </span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Perhaps we should look at Germany, where (in addition to license fees, muzzling, micro-chipping, neutering) you are not allowed to own a dog that is considered potentially dangerous without having passed a special aptitude test that if passed only lasts 5 years and only relates to the dog that is tested with the owner. You are also not allowed to own one of the listed breeds (similar but longer list than ours) if you have been convicted of committing a crime whilst under the influence of alcohol, or have an addiction to drugs or have a mental illness or impairment. There are a list of dangerous dogs in Germany that must be muzzled at all times in public unless they have passed a special test to prove they are obedient and harmless. On top of this the penalties are very harsh for the owner if the dog causes injury to someone. The owner is accountable.</span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">The German way seems a much more effective way of handling the issue of breeds that are potentially dangerous in the wrong hands. It is centered around the real “cause” (irresponsible owners) of the serious problem and not the result of it (innocent casualties and unwanted aggressive dogs). This surely makes far more sense and encourages owners to take more responsibility for <i>their</i> actions.</span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Cindy Thompson</span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><br />
</div>VillageChick2http://www.blogger.com/profile/07264408718008103287noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-376132221645110367.post-36670007476564012011-04-11T17:38:00.000+01:002011-05-09T12:52:35.504+01:00Speed Cameras, a Sinister Twist.<div style="font: 18.0px Georgia; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px; text-decoration: underline;"><b>Speed cameras, a sinister twist?</b></span></div><div style="font: 14.0px Georgia; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 16.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span></div><div style="font: 14.0px Georgia; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">In the early nineties, the British public faced the speed camera, introduced [we were told] to cut the 3,000 deaths on Britain’s roads. Initially the fixed penalties rolled in, showing speed cameras to appear a very efficient way of policing motorists. Ten years since the advent of robotic traffic policing, the number of actual traffic police has decreased from 8,900 to 6,500. Speed cameras however, can only catch legal speeding motorists, and cannot catch motorists who use false plates, have no insurance, steal cars, or drive under the influence of drink or drugs, who amount to 1 million, and are 9 times more likely than legal motorists to be involved in an accident. </span></div><div style="font: 14.0px Georgia; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 16.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span></div><div style="font: 14.0px Georgia; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Between 1994 and 2003 of the Safety Camera Partnership Scheme, introduced to significantly lower the number of road deaths each year, over 3,000 people were <i>still</i> getting killed on Britain’s roads even though motorists had significantly slowed down. </span></div><div style="font: 14.0px Georgia; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 16.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span></div><div style="font: 14.0px Georgia; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Then something strange happened. The cameras started to proliferate and were found in areas that had never had an accident, contravening guidelines that a camera be placed in a location which had had at least 4 fatal/serious accidents in the previous 3 calendar years. As the number of motorists caught for speeding dramatically rose, so did the revenue obtained from them. In 2002 5,000 cameras netted £7M in prosecutions. Yet figures from The Department of Transport show that less than 4% of accidents are caused by exceeding the speed limit. Safespeed find that in 2001 figures taken from 13 police forces show “inattention” to be the greatest cause of accidents at 25.8%.</span></div><div style="font: 14.0px Georgia; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 16.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span></div><div style="font: 14.0px Georgia; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Paradoxically, the proliferation of cameras could actually be a factor in road accidents, if you note the “inattention figures” above. No motorist wishes to obtain a speeding fine or points on their licence, so often reacts erratically near a speed camera, by slamming on the breaks, or driving too slowly, or simply focusing all attention on the speedometer and not on the road. With the alarming propagation of road signs, sheer number of cars on the roads, and advertising signs, driving on Britain’s roads is a serious assault on anyone’s senses. Helping us poor motorists, the world car industries have designed ever faster, more responsive and powerful cars as standard, coupled by TV car programmes testing these models with emphasis on speed, handling and acceleration.</span></div><div style="font: 14.0px Georgia; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 16.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span></div><div style="font: 14.0px Georgia; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Drivers are now guilty of a robotically generated crime, the introduction of which has no basis of truth, with the punishment based on what “could have been,” and not on the actual outcome. </span></div><div style="font: 14.0px Georgia; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 16.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span></div><div style="font: 14.0px Georgia; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Children should also have a responsibility of awareness in road safety. Back in the 60’s and 70’s children were taught the Green Cross Code, the safe way to cross the road, both at school and between children’s prime time TV. No such adverts seem to be between modern day programmes.</span></div><div style="font: 14.0px Georgia; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 16.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span></div><div style="font: 14.0px Georgia; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">We have all slowed down, yet the number of road deaths has stayed at over 3,000 per year. Speed cameras therefore have had no effect at all, on the very thing [we were told] they were introduced to change. But were they really introduced purely as a revenue collector? Cameras will soon be widespread that are capable of logging your every mile, with calculation of mean-speeds on any given journey, times and dates, which will be linked to DVLA, government data bases, and insurance companies. A blatant erosion of our civil liberties. </span></div><div style="font: 14.0px Georgia; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 16.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span></div><div style="font: 14.0px Georgia; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">“If you have done nothing wrong, you have nothing to worry about” comes to mind, but the trouble with that is, insidiously, ever more decisions are being taken away from us to a point that we may well [in law] not be allowed to think at all for ourselves. You may not have to have done anything wrong, to kick the wheels of Big Brother and the Thought Police into action against you, telling you that with a negligible probability your actions <i>could</i> be dangerous/fatal so you must be pre-emptively guilty and punished accordingly. </span></div><div style="font: 14.0px Georgia; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 16.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span></div><div style="font: 14.0px Georgia; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Many laws outlaw common sense, simple decision making, truth, and concept of the individual, and the repercussions of such laws are something we should be seriously concerned about. </span></div><div style="font: 14.0px Georgia; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 16.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span></div><div style="font: 14.0px Georgia; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Speeding is just one of those laws.</span></div><div style="font: 14.0px Georgia; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 16.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span></div><div style="font: 14.0px Georgia; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 16.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span></div><div style="font: 14.0px Georgia; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Cindy Thompson</div><div style="font: 14.0px Georgia; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 16.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span></div>VillageChick2http://www.blogger.com/profile/07264408718008103287noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-376132221645110367.post-29738147615632343532011-04-11T17:36:00.001+01:002011-05-09T12:52:35.504+01:00It's Just a Piece of Cloth.<div style="font: 18.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px; text-decoration: underline;"><b>It’s Just A Piece Of Cloth.</b></span></div><div style="font: 18.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 21.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Pressure is mounting for the government to follow our European neighbours in the ban against veils in Britain, but what issues must the proposed ban address? </span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 16.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">On the side of the veil wearer they will have us believe that the challenge is to exercise their religious duties, even though it is NOT a religious requirement, but one of tradition, leaving the wearer free to choose. We believe here in the UK that we have the right and freedom to wear what we please, yet do we? What of the man in London who wore a t-shirt that said “B******s to Blair” who was asked by a policeman to take it off and turn it inside out or else face a fine and/or prosecution? What of motorcyclists who walk into a bank or shopping centres with their crash helmets on, or “hoodies” who wish to visit a shopping centre? What of their freedoms? In an age where we are obsessed with identification, as an English woman I would not be allowed to hide my identification by swathing myself in fabric and coming up with the excuse that it was based on some religion or other. Realistically, the practicalities are obvious, and other countries such as Afghanistan who have gone to the extremes of imposing the complete covering of women, have enforced appalling degradation on over half the population. The more serious side to the identification issue, is the fact that such ridiculous attire in the 21</span><span style="font: 9.3px 'Times New Roman'; letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><sup>st</sup></span><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"> C is open to abuse, the proof of which would be impossible to challenge. </span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 16.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Having travelled independently to Iran a country that enforces the modest covering of all women, Moslem or otherwise, I have experienced the issue from another perspective. During my 6 weeks in Iran I had to wear a head scarf, a loose long coat and ensure that my arms and legs were covered regardless of the temperatures outside. Had I not observed these laws, I would have been arrested and punished. One day a man started speaking to my husband and I whilst we were visiting a mosque in Esfahan. ‘What do you think of Iran?’ he asked me. I told him that I found the people extremely friendly and helpful and that we were enjoying our drive across Iran, but I didn’t like having to wear the head scarf. ‘But why?’ He quizzed. ‘It’s just a piece of cloth.’ Then my husband asked him, ‘OK, if you and your wife were to visit the UK and found that your wife had to remove her veil for the visit because that was OUR law, what would you do?’ The man was horrified. ‘This can’t be, my wife must be covered.’ ……’But it’s just a piece of cloth.’ We told him.</span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 16.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Even in other Moslem majority countries who would be considered to ‘understand’ such issues, such as Egypt, total covering is not encouraged or in some situations tolerated. I was extending my visa one day in Cairo at the huge government building that processed passports for Egyptian citizens. I was studying for the second year of my Arabic degree. As I sat at the desk of the official who was to stamp my passport, a gofer entered the room with a passport application of a completely veiled woman. The official took one look at the photograph of the piece of cloth with two eyes peeping out from a slit opening and threw it back on the desk towards the gofer. ‘What is this?’ He shouted in Arabic. ‘She must show her face. Take it back and tell her if she wants her passport she must show her face.’ He added, ‘You are wasting my time, now go.’ I can only assume that for her passport application to be processed, she had remove the veil covering her face, though for the woman this would have been little different to uncovering in public, given that forbidden men would be free to see her face. </span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 16.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">As for other women in the UK who wish to keep their faces completely covered, when in Iran I had to follow Iranian laws, so they should be able to accept our rules and regulations with the same dignity, after all it’s just a piece of cloth and England is not ruled by Islam, ……..yet! </span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 16.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">And neither do we want it to be. </span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 16.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 16.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Cindy Thompson </span></div>VillageChick2http://www.blogger.com/profile/07264408718008103287noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-376132221645110367.post-32182820790934190852011-04-11T17:34:00.001+01:002011-05-09T12:52:35.504+01:00A Rubbish Problem.<div style="font: 18.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px; text-decoration: underline;"><b>A rubbish problem.</b></span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 16.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">There has been much talk lately about recycling and wheely bins, with folk complaining and not relishing the hike in waste disposal charges. Waste disposal is a huge problem facing our future planet, and we <b><i>all</i></b><i> </i>have a <b><i>responsibility</i></b><i> </i>to help the changes, though most of us seem to think it is not our problem, but that of the council’s, or the government, or that of any one else’s other than their own. </span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 16.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Yes, we have to recycle, and yes, we must take more care about our rubbish, but there is another part in the equation that no one seems to have mentioned. Why don’t we stop making and importing so much rubbish and tac in the first place, then we wouldn’t have so much to dispose of. The world seems to be on a roller coaster making huge amounts of utter rubbish, using huge amounts of resources, then taking up vast amounts of space to get rid of the stuff. </span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 16.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">For example supermarkets could do their bit and stop buying fruit and vegetables that are unnecessarily swathed in plastic. Why does an aubergine have to be in a plastic tray, both of which are in a plastic bag? Perhaps us the customer should start unwrapping these items and leave the packaging in the supermarket for them to dispose of it. After all they chose to buy it. In our greed to have out of season fruit and vegetables we knowingly increase the amount of rubbish produced.</span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 16.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">We only have to walk down any high street in any town in the UK and see amount of rubbish on sale. We should stop buying all this unnecessary rubbish, much of which is useless and ends up in the bin, so we are not only paying over the odds to buy this rubbish, we are also going to have to pay to get rid of it! Where is the logic in that? We should start thinking about what we buy, why and of what use it served apart from decrease our bank balance.</span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 16.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">A far better way of approaching the rubbish problem to cut down on the amount of rubbish created in the first place and to stop it being produced, not moaning about it once it has been produced at a profit and sold to everyone and even bigger profits.</span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 16.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 16.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Cindy Thompson</span></div><div><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><br />
</span></div>VillageChick2http://www.blogger.com/profile/07264408718008103287noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-376132221645110367.post-54541563160361883292011-04-11T17:30:00.001+01:002011-05-09T12:52:35.505+01:00War On Drugs Isn't Working.<div style="font: 16.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px; text-decoration: underline;"><b>The War On Drugs Isn’t Working!</b></span></div><div style="font: 16.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 18.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px; text-decoration: underline;"><b></b></span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Many politicians have been waging ‘war’ on drugs for years, making policies that don’t work, and doing little to help those who are addicts. </span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 16.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">We all know how the drug chain works. Drugs are grown in Third World countries, often with aid money from the West, they are then sold on by drug cartels, who ship the consignments to drug dealers who sell them on our streets. Drug addicts however, contribute greatly to the crime rate in our country causing untold misery and mayhem. The solution, I believe is quite simple. Give the addicts their fix.</span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 16.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Put into context the costs are as follows;</span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 16.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px; text-decoration: underline;"><b>Cost of a fix for an addict at present. </b></span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 16.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px; text-decoration: underline;"><b></b></span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 36.0px; text-indent: -36.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">1)<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Police time and staff, documenting the robbery, catching or attempting to catch the offender.</span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 36.0px; text-indent: -36.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">2)<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Forensic scientist, who search for evidence that will help convict the offender.</span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">3)<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Glazier, if a window has been broken.</span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">4)<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Locksmith, if a lock has been damaged.</span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 36.0px; text-indent: -36.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">5)<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Counselling, if the robbery has been a traumatic or violent experience.</span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 36.0px; text-indent: -36.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">6)<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Insurance, whilst an insurance company might pay over and above the premium paid on the policy, they are a business and as such make a profit from all their clients who don’t get robbed.</span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 36.0px; text-indent: -36.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">7)<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Businesses who sell goods to replace the stolen items, also make money on this deal.</span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 36.0px; text-indent: -36.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">8)<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Lawyers who prosecute the offender. (they seem to make the most money from this deal)</span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 36.0px; text-indent: -36.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">9)<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Judges and jury, who judge the offender and court room staff who make this possible.</span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">10)<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Prisons and their staff, who might eventually keep the offender.</span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 36.0px; text-indent: -36.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">11)<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Drying out clinics, that will only work if the addict wants to dry out.</span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 36.0px; text-indent: -36.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">12)<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Politicians who waste valuable tax payer’s money, talking about and passing ineffective laws, which fail the law abiding citizen and the drug addict.</span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 36.0px; text-indent: -36.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">13)<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Money is also made from the sale of stolen goods on the Black Market.</span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 36.0px; text-indent: -36.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">14)<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The chain of drug dealers make huge amounts of money, along with the transporters and human carriers.</span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 36.0px; text-indent: -36.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">15)<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Customs officials at ports, who try to stop drugs destined for the streets entering the country. Many companies are involved in designing methods and machines to beat the dealers’ ever more ingenious ways of getting drugs through customs. </span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 36.0px; min-height: 16.0px; text-indent: -36.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Add to all this the fact that all these professional people cannot work without all their support staff, who have to be paid. (ie. office workers, cleaners etc.) Added to that is the tax paid on wages and goods needed to carry out these jobs and services. </span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 16.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">The cost of the addicts fix could be much less if laws were changed to help those who needed it. If drugs (not substitutes) were given by a doctor on the NHS and the cost to the tax payer would greatly reduced as the addict would have no need to offend in order to cover the costs of the street drugs.</span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 16.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px; text-decoration: underline;"><b>Alternative cost of an addict’s fix.</b></span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 16.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px; text-decoration: underline;"><b></b></span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 36.0px; text-indent: -36.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">1)<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>10mgs of dia-morphine would cost the NHS £6 to £7. 100mgs of dia-morphine £26 from a family doctor, yet to give these drugs to an addict is seen as unethical! (unethical for whom?)</span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 36.0px; text-indent: -36.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">2)<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Doctor (and his staff) to prescribe the drug.</span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 36.0px; text-indent: -36.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">3)<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Chemist and their staff to dispense the drug.</span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 36.0px; text-indent: -36.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">4)<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Education of the dangers of the misuse of drugs. </span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 36.0px; text-indent: -36.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">5)<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Drying out clinics and their staff to help those addicts who are ready to stop taking drugs.</span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 36.0px; min-height: 16.0px; text-indent: -36.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Addicts need help, not punishment. No one lives their life with the intention of becoming a junkie. Most addicts hate themselves and what they do, but until they are ready to give up and change their life, they are trapped in a cycle of crime and hostility, which doesn’t help anyone, only those who stand to make money out of it. An addict’s prime objective is not making money, or committing a robbery, but getting their next fix. Addicts are the bottom line of a chain of events that is created and supported by the system and as such they take the brunt of all the hatred. </span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 16.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Opponents of this idea will argue that drugs for addicts should not be made easily available at the tax payer’s expense and that those who are not addicts, could easily become addicts. Illegal drugs are already easily available on our streets, and the expense to the tax payer is far greater than it ever need be. If addicts were able to obtain their drugs from a doctor, the dealers would simply be put out of business and crime figures would plummet. </span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 16.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Why then are the drug laws not changed? I believe that they are not changed, simply because if they were, too many important people and businesses would stand to lose too much money. It has nothing to do with ethics, or the illegality of it all, but purely to do with money. </span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 16.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Evil will flourish, when good people turn the other way.</span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 16.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 16.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 16.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Cindy Thompson</span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 16.0px;"><br />
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span></div>VillageChick2http://www.blogger.com/profile/07264408718008103287noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-376132221645110367.post-25156713103911119482011-03-01T14:57:00.000+00:002011-04-11T17:14:39.793+01:00TRAVELS WITH OUR SHERPA. Pt 9<div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px; text-decoration: underline;"><b>WARM COKE AND WEEVILS</b></span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">The Indian/Nepali border town of Sonali was rather confusing, with the customs check point secluded and nestling in between two sari shops. We drove straight past it, only to find ourselves hotly pursued by a worried customs official shouting at us to ‘Stop!’ as we drove down the high street. The man behind the customs desk started flicking through our now rather full and busy looking passports. He was amazed at the number of stamps we had collected and asked what we did for a living to be able to afford all this travelling. Not wanting to go into our private finances, Alan replied. ‘Nothing!’ The customs man looked shocked. </span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">‘Nothing?’ He quizzed. With passports and vehicle carnet stamped, we left the customs.</span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">The Nepali side was easy and was completed without any hitches. Just across the Nepali border we had completed 12,464 miles, through 13 countries, in 7 months, had 5 broken springs, replaced 1 fan belt, had 5 punctures, 3 oil changes and used 519 gallons of diesel!</span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Nepal like India was a stunningly beautiful country. It was an endless spectacle of undulating hills, covered with a carpet of terraced, cultivated plateaus. Roads clung precariously to the valley walls at the bottom of which flowed fast milky green rivers. Small villages were scattered along the roads, many of which seemed to be barely clinging onto life. The occupants looked ragged and poor and their wooden houses looked old and tired. Some families made a living by offering refreshments to travellers.</span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Our Sherpa was ‘home’ and was pulling up the foothills of the Himalayas in style. We thought back to the person who told us the week before we left England that our Sherpa wouldn’t even make it to Dover! We believe that we are the only people to have taken a <i>Sherpa</i> van to <i>Nepal</i>.</span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Just a few miles outside Kathmandu, we spotted the new Dalima Resort, and as it was getting dark we decided to camp in the car park for the night. This was the easiest way to travel, to find a restaurant for dinner, then ask permission to park up for the night. We were never refused. The place was empty except for a security guard, who kept saluting our every move, and the manager who welcomed us to eat in his brand new restaurant.</span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">It was an impressive sight, built on a 4-tiered garden terrace, with small cottage accommodation on the uppermost terrace. The chicken curry and rice tasted good, but Alan’s Coka Cola was warm! He called the manager and asked for it to be changed for a cold one. The manager apologized, saying that he couldn’t give him a cold one as the fridges didn’t have electricity during the day, only at night. We thought no more of his explaination and having eaten our fill, retired to our Sherpa for the night.</span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">The following morning we were both very unwell, with stomach cramps, diarrhoea and feeling nauseous, but we pushed on the few miles to Kathmandu. By the time we made it to Kathmandu, we were in such a state with our illness that we didn’t even have the energy to haggle with the first hotel manager we met. He charged us an extortionate NRs 300 per night. Just to park in the car park! For that we couldn’t even use the toilet when we needed. We had caught a bad bought of Guardia, from the incorrectly kept food at the Dalima resort. Having bought a course of Flagyl at the local chemist, we were soon on the mend. This was the only illness we experienced during our 12 month drive.</span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Walking through Kathmandu can only be likened to walking back in time. ancient rustic timber framed buildings overhung, crowded dusty narrow streets, lined with hawkers of all descriptions. The hawkers not only catered for the tourists, but for the locals. Foods, handmade pots, crafted shoes, Yak’s wool jumpers, and a whole range of hippie attire. As we walked through the very dry dusty streets, getting increasingly sore throats, a middle aged Nepali man tapped us on the shoulders. </span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">‘Hash. You wanna buy hash?’ He quizzed in a rather strange way. Of course his hash was a cheaper price and a far superior grade than all his counterparts on the streets. …we carried on walking. With renewed appetites the best meal we had in Kathmandu was a huge buffalo steak at the Everest Steak House. Highly recommended.</span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Having recovered from our illness and feeling fighting fit, we went back to the hotel to try and argue the price of the car park down. The hotel manager was having none of it, but somebody from the Swiss Medical Centre just across the street overheard us and invited us to stay free of charge in their car park. This we did for a week while we explored Kathmandu. We wanted to take our Sherpa into Durbar Square for a photo shoot, but this was not possible. So we drove to the nearby Buraktapur, which also had a Durbur Square, but with fewer tourists, and we were allowed right into the middle of the Square for a photo shoot. Incredibly, some English tourists walked right past our UK registered Sherpa without noticing! Then an American came up to us and looked at our list of countries painted on the side of our Sherpa and said, </span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">‘Gee, how’d ya git through Eye ran?’ (Iran)</span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 16.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">A drive into the foot hills to see the Himalayan mountain range was a must, so drove North from Buraktapur to the Tibetan/Chinese border and the “Friendship Bridge.” The Himalayas were truly stunning, but we couldn’t decide which peak was Everest. Each peak was snow capped, crisp and clear, standing proud and poking into the heavens above. It was one of those tranquil awesome sights that you just had to sit and soak up in silence.</span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">At the Tibetan/Chinese border we were allowed to travel no further. It was a reported US$175 per day for a vehicle pass and a Chinese chaperone. We weren’t even allowed to walk onto the “Friendship Bridge” which didn’t seem very friendly to me! We had to be content with a night spent at the Tibetan/Chinese border. The following morning we stopped at another impressive looking restaurant. I played safe and ordered porridge. I’m rather fussy about my porridge. I like it thick with creamy hot milk poured over the top. When it arrived, it looked perfect. But having eaten a few mouthfuls, I thought it had an unusually crunchy texture. On closer inspection, to my horror I discovered weevils wriggling in my porridge and swimming in my creamy buffalo milk! I sent it back, asking the chef to do it again. He did just that, but with fewer weevils! I haven’t eaten porridge since.</span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 16.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">On our way out of Nepal, we stopped over in Royal Chitwan National Park. The Tiger Tops resort wanted to charge us US$50 per night to park up in their grounds, but Ganesh, who had just opened the “Tiny Shop” invited us to stay on his property. Ganesh was just starting a backpackers stop over, with meals and guides into the park. He had a row of small rooms to cater for the budget travelers like us. Ganesh charged only a fraction of the price of Tiger Tops and only Rs75 per meal cooked by his wife, compared to the Rs300 at Tiger Tops. We were squeezed into his garden, where we stayed for 4 days. Ganesh was born in the park and knew all the animals and places to see them. He was very knowledgeable. It was a quiet time for the park and we had Ganesh’s undivided attention. He took us for walks in the park, where we saw Hog Deer, Golden Pheasants, Paradise Fly Catchers, Rhino, Vultures, Mongoose, and we even identified footprints at a watering hole of Tiger, Rhino, Civet Cat, monkey, and Sloth Bear. Ganesh took us on an elephant ride where we saw Rhino and almost saw a tiger. The elephant ride was rather uncomfortable as we had to sit astride the 3 tonne male tusker, but it was an excellent way to see the animals as they didn’t seem to see us only the elephant. The elephant of course posed no threat to any of the animals and we were amazed at just how sure footed and steady it was, climbing up and down steep banks and across some deep rivers. Another day we were taken on a canoe ride and spotted 3 Caracol on the riverbank. Alan kept wobbling the canoe, which was rather worrying. It was a fantastic few days. We were so impressed with Ganesh, that when we came to pay, we doubled the bill. A first for us, but we felt it was worth every penny.</span></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmultyb2CuSKunpDpczSvZJcOccWyC6TAu51RYMgKaq-8SBQN4M6WGYf7uw6CY0a__-gzhWtSVlfYontw8NyaAO86fry3-P3tw_3p1B1U9WP_ZkIVFY6RyyqkPhmJIMM6yF96-rg9TIZQ/s1600/Pt+7+Photo+13.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="215" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmultyb2CuSKunpDpczSvZJcOccWyC6TAu51RYMgKaq-8SBQN4M6WGYf7uw6CY0a__-gzhWtSVlfYontw8NyaAO86fry3-P3tw_3p1B1U9WP_ZkIVFY6RyyqkPhmJIMM6yF96-rg9TIZQ/s320/Pt+7+Photo+13.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Feet from the Chinese border in Nepal. Chinese hills in background.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgC67JxAwg1M51f7pBCSjmVIs_89ncVDxNcltrRfx_0Dj45axoS0O7KqHxdnHb_Hhljd9ZiSolZ6kr09wUE8gVP1WNQ1C21AyZhn_rexPA2sTZfywExXJkrcmKsFX82zDXKk-HjpNSMPQo/s1600/Pt+9+Photo+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgC67JxAwg1M51f7pBCSjmVIs_89ncVDxNcltrRfx_0Dj45axoS0O7KqHxdnHb_Hhljd9ZiSolZ6kr09wUE8gVP1WNQ1C21AyZhn_rexPA2sTZfywExXJkrcmKsFX82zDXKk-HjpNSMPQo/s320/Pt+9+Photo+1.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Indian/Nepali border nestled between 2 sari shops!</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-W8Shwx-JBKTVsvIqoFqnO_zKSAIPu8eN1UamtNYYxthH4xLtP-BSOUouYSiodR6zvIhrF3t0eWi2GAl-mo507MA_qxeC1we2abetnz-ETGfDrx7V38Tp2FxrOba3ee8y7w1XifnOxUE/s1600/Pt+9+Photo+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="220" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-W8Shwx-JBKTVsvIqoFqnO_zKSAIPu8eN1UamtNYYxthH4xLtP-BSOUouYSiodR6zvIhrF3t0eWi2GAl-mo507MA_qxeC1we2abetnz-ETGfDrx7V38Tp2FxrOba3ee8y7w1XifnOxUE/s320/Pt+9+Photo+2.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Into Nepal.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4MH6iM8ju-oMVpzZz3aQtLRM3LpLd9GYL0xQWgvaEa8C2rMbWwgc7ig3W925mMxFH2Vm5POyU750_LqhOXAqE-M1Sj80E8Jbe6kErkSpkxgGf7j49xi1MTJE9Pc3ZwZD74Tq3Dk0V9RM/s1600/Pt+9+Photo+3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="216" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4MH6iM8ju-oMVpzZz3aQtLRM3LpLd9GYL0xQWgvaEa8C2rMbWwgc7ig3W925mMxFH2Vm5POyU750_LqhOXAqE-M1Sj80E8Jbe6kErkSpkxgGf7j49xi1MTJE9Pc3ZwZD74Tq3Dk0V9RM/s320/Pt+9+Photo+3.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Local transport.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXA4uKYW-WLKJfNs4yIKWiZei_N2b9ATaUl71Hr3vOh7-75wwi7heDWh4l3thYLQHQvIH9lRxMiLRFjgHyYyo56mqhz0VkdxJTw7kYeiYiWtTMRcwG68fDUbGPY3okv0t_ydE2NXsWsRI/s1600/Pt+9+Photo+4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXA4uKYW-WLKJfNs4yIKWiZei_N2b9ATaUl71Hr3vOh7-75wwi7heDWh4l3thYLQHQvIH9lRxMiLRFjgHyYyo56mqhz0VkdxJTw7kYeiYiWtTMRcwG68fDUbGPY3okv0t_ydE2NXsWsRI/s320/Pt+9+Photo+4.jpg" width="216" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A Sadu in Kathmandu.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZL5Iuktw8IxXWYovDp2pMbLx-ZogtaygmpFLN9BWnAriVTuYGia9RpWsuEOOvsWmkormyyMCUA5ySfUnENDYD_NxKV8aKrqei6hBGAgxyAiw83h2YuWQMhxIHfrmQfbz3HUvqfOtxsaU/s1600/Pt+9+Photo+5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZL5Iuktw8IxXWYovDp2pMbLx-ZogtaygmpFLN9BWnAriVTuYGia9RpWsuEOOvsWmkormyyMCUA5ySfUnENDYD_NxKV8aKrqei6hBGAgxyAiw83h2YuWQMhxIHfrmQfbz3HUvqfOtxsaU/s320/Pt+9+Photo+5.jpg" width="222" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Swayamnbhu Nath Kathmandu.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLl1XrzN1-TJ0oO1wSBjREspY1SVTbgzt-_HBsWep_Q_swplxWlIiX7xoggKxM_rYevOa_n56cDsZH4lcostzjNxMmq6WE3tDtFtESTw5bEWj54NzyY0z5j5juKB3OJTDwGYSHV54mP6Y/s1600/Pt+9+Photo+6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="129" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLl1XrzN1-TJ0oO1wSBjREspY1SVTbgzt-_HBsWep_Q_swplxWlIiX7xoggKxM_rYevOa_n56cDsZH4lcostzjNxMmq6WE3tDtFtESTw5bEWj54NzyY0z5j5juKB3OJTDwGYSHV54mP6Y/s320/Pt+9+Photo+6.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A local in kathmandu.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIHqq3XTTLTTBdeHoqnV7BDdGfEbF40SOcV_-cfzb3-rZpxrvXHPavoTJdx4FmJN6_IutTvWjx1qdbBuN7HPYKDtp_R4Nx07GPNIeN8AXnnyrfpH0AAbjk64dG3_TjPKL63bpTIW52L9A/s1600/Pt+9+Photo+8.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIHqq3XTTLTTBdeHoqnV7BDdGfEbF40SOcV_-cfzb3-rZpxrvXHPavoTJdx4FmJN6_IutTvWjx1qdbBuN7HPYKDtp_R4Nx07GPNIeN8AXnnyrfpH0AAbjk64dG3_TjPKL63bpTIW52L9A/s320/Pt+9+Photo+8.jpg" width="224" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sherpie in Bhakatpur.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFXBtQSxh8LVBaHUe-YjJssdl_f7P5nZ1s57j-9OJ0wp6LrvJrDGJ_4ugIBec-TNbDfPYgy3bb1-3qXuv2mzeeOBatEg0hj6G8fzCA2Ak33Qtnc_uGiWnLJwMTWBIca1LDB4-TB-Ezays/s1600/Pt+9+Photo+11.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="165" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFXBtQSxh8LVBaHUe-YjJssdl_f7P5nZ1s57j-9OJ0wp6LrvJrDGJ_4ugIBec-TNbDfPYgy3bb1-3qXuv2mzeeOBatEg0hj6G8fzCA2Ak33Qtnc_uGiWnLJwMTWBIca1LDB4-TB-Ezays/s320/Pt+9+Photo+11.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Himalayas.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfbg8VRgB3gkLBEJ9CB7UCuXT2ttiqJeFO1ms0FwIDwMQWVGsBjMnY42nCwJJdZFyb8IyQ3dv4RMVufprNQBe509EGx1VFXSxe71Gs75JjHLyo0iT4FaRHHJFXQ8a3a9rZqdpOcXIyggg/s1600/Pt+9+Photo+12.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfbg8VRgB3gkLBEJ9CB7UCuXT2ttiqJeFO1ms0FwIDwMQWVGsBjMnY42nCwJJdZFyb8IyQ3dv4RMVufprNQBe509EGx1VFXSxe71Gs75JjHLyo0iT4FaRHHJFXQ8a3a9rZqdpOcXIyggg/s320/Pt+9+Photo+12.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Sherpie" in the "Himalayas" ...get it?</td></tr>
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</span></div>VillageChick2http://www.blogger.com/profile/07264408718008103287noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-376132221645110367.post-18835202046148907952011-03-01T14:49:00.000+00:002011-04-11T17:14:39.793+01:00TRAVELS WITH OUR SHERPA. Pt 8<div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px; text-decoration: underline;"><b>ELEPHANTS AND CELEBRATIONS.</b></span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">En route to Jaipur, we stopped at Amber, to visit the rather splendid Amber Fort built in 1592 on a hill overlooking the town which was once the ancient capital of Jaipur State. We parked up and watched the elephant taxis arriving carrying their breakfast of dried grass in their trunks. The elephants were the main mode of transport carrying tourists up the steep hill to the fort. We went and bought our tickets from the booking office, which cost 400Rs (£5) and we were given elephant number 10. Her name was Powan and she was a sprightly 25 years old. I rather thought she looked fed up of the whole scene, having to ferry tourists up and down the steep hill many times a day. Her eyes looked sad. She was draped in a large piece of red floral material, on top of which perched our seats. The driver had the best seat, sitting astride her neck. We climbed aboard from an elephant stand and set off up the hill. John the photographer shouted, </span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">‘One photo, 100Rs, ready for when you return.’ We agreed and he took our photo. It was a very steep climb and took about 20 minutes to complete. As we reached the top we were amazingly met by John, waiving our photo in his hand! Now that was what you called an express service. At the top and at the entrance to the fort, the doormen wanted too much money for allowing </span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">us to take our cameras inside. If we didn’t pay we would have to leave them in what looked like a very unsafe place outside. We refused and they refused to let us in. It was stalemate. We climbed aboard Powan again and made our way back down the hill. Near the bottom Powan started swinging her trunk about, accidentally knocking my flip-flop from my foot. I called to an Indian passerby, </span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">‘My flip-flop, I’ve dropped it.’ Pointing to where it lay. The Gandhi look alike just stood staring at the situation. I tapped the driver on the shoulder half expecting him to have to climb down from Powan to retrieve my flip-flop. With just one word from the driver Powan stopped, reversed until she was level with my shoe, then sort of pirouetted on the spot and picked up my flip-flop with her trunk and gave it to the driver.</span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Later whilst we sat in the our Sherpa deciding what to do next, a very scruffy, longhaired, bearded man came up to us, to say ‘Hello.’ He didn’t beg for money and I thought he was drunk as he reeked of alcohol. He walked away, only to return a few moments later. He had forgotten to tell us about the dancing ladies. </span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">‘Very good dancing ladies.’ He told us, then walked off!</span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">In India there are an unusually high number of roaming cows. They wonder at leisure all over the road eating any rubbish they can find. Newspapers, discarded vegetable matter and any other food, and cardboard. They are natures recycling plants on legs. I asked one Indian where did they all come from? He told us that people in India own cows, like Westerners own dogs. They keep them for their milk and that whilst they wonder around all day, they all know where they live and return home at night. They were ‘homing cows!’ A cow is a sacred animal in India and must not be harmed or killed and as a result is accommodated and respected by all Indians.</span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">In Jaipur we decided to visit the Zoo. It was a large Zoo with a wide variety of animals. They had a rather large crocodile collection and we were lucky enough to see them getting fed. As we stood watching another visitor coolly told us that only two days ago, one of the big males had escaped and managed to break his way into the enclosure next door, where he attacked, killed and half ate one of the rare Blue Cows. The keeper found the gruesome remains the following morning. It was time to move on.</span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">It was while in Jaipur that we met a rather special Hindu, whose philosophy on life was to have a profound effect on our lives. Cheetan was a tall and handsome Prison Governor, who we came to call our Guru. He told us that knowledge comes only from within, and not from books, which hold only information. It’s what you do with information, which makes it knowledge. He believed that everyone’s destiny was pre-ordained and that there was little point dwelling on the past, which cannot be changed, or the future, which has yet to happen. One should be concerned with the ‘now.’ He told us that everyone has a soul at different levels of awareness and that wrappings are shed as awareness grows. He said that people all over the world are fed garbage by governments and the media and waste so much time and money on petty pointless rules and regulations. </span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">‘Wisdom is not taught in schools any more.’ He told us. ‘The children are just taught to regurgitate mostly false information.’ We had many deep conversations with Cheetan. His philosophy made such sense. Cheetan confirmed and strengthened what we knew deep within. He also gave us inner strength to stand up and be different and to make a stand against the West’s false and plastic throwaway society that was on the slippery slope to self-destruction.</span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">It was December in Jaipur and the temperature was a humid 85°F. As we stood in the sweltering heat, we were looking for something that might cool us down. I saw a shop advertising ice cream, just what we needed, so I went to investigate. I was astounded by the shopkeeper’s reply. </span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">‘Oh no ma’am. It is now winter. I am not selling ice-cream!’</span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 16.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">‘Why don’t we get a tok-tok rickshaw to the main market?’ I said to Alan. We flagged one down. It was driven by an old wizened, toothless man, who when we asked how much, he promptly told us the right price of 30Rs. We climbed aboard his tok-tok, which must have been as old as him. It was rusty, full of holes and clattered, coughed and spluttered as we mingled with the Jaipur traffic. The extent of the rust was rather worrying. Whilst this guy was old, he wasn’t taking any nonsense from the other motorists. This became apparent when someone tried to cut him up, causing him to take evasive action. Gripped by road-rage, like someone possessed the old man clattered down a gear and lurched his tok-tok forward in hot pursuit, weaving and ducking a diving around any vehicle that dared to get in his way, whilst waiving and shouting at the accused. We had a most entertaining drive for 30Rs. At our destination he turned to us and asked with a wide toothless grin, </span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">‘Good ride, you enjoy?’ </span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">‘Yes.’ We told him, glad that we were still in one piece. </span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">‘I’m 65 years old and in good health. I’m strong.’ He added, squeezing his matchstick arms. He certainly had a strong will. No doubt of that.</span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Back in Delhi, it was the Sikh Tri-Centenary celebrations. Sikhs from all over the world came home to celebrate 300 years of their relatively new religion. It was a carnival atmosphere, with floats carrying the Sikh religious leaders, free food and refreshments, followed by dancing horses, camels, and elephants. One elephant led the procession and Alan was invited to sit on it through the streets of Delhi. As we stood and watched, we became engulfed by a sea of bright orange turbans. Everyone was very friendly and kept giving us food and milk shakes. A couple of elderly Sikhs became attached to us, inviting us to be part of the final celebrations. They showed us around a marquee, which was a flurry of activity. Huge vats of dhal and other vegetable dishes were being cooked and groups of women were making unleavened bread. For some reason unknown to us, we were guests of honor and were given seats on the stage where the holy Sikh book was carried on beside us in front of hundreds of people. One Sikh called Satnim even invited us to go and meet his friend Sonia Gandhi, but Alan declined adding later that he didn’t want to sit and listen to a load of old political drivel!</span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">India was a fabulous place and we can’t wait to return. In India, people accepted you for what you were and not what they thought you should be. Unlike the West, you are not judged by your wealth or looks, but your wisdom. India encourages you to contemplate things that really matter and to accept that everyone can be different, yet the same. This helps us to understand who we are and to accept that none of us are <i>better </i>than the next, but just different.</span></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNIaDP8fB4tj_idu3vFX06yaMOUGT9JV4_pRe7y19UbuCKAomn_YxcBc5JtkhnhG3Ul6ppdGpR_tjHCVwxgYDG_MC6eZc6a5KCM29qoUrSEn8hI6AG6JCfFtYsU2otZP-qQkTpu_-SbJo/s1600/Pt+8+Photo+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNIaDP8fB4tj_idu3vFX06yaMOUGT9JV4_pRe7y19UbuCKAomn_YxcBc5JtkhnhG3Ul6ppdGpR_tjHCVwxgYDG_MC6eZc6a5KCM29qoUrSEn8hI6AG6JCfFtYsU2otZP-qQkTpu_-SbJo/s320/Pt+8+Photo+1.jpg" width="283" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Elephant taxis arriving at the Amber Fort.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDD37FQrQ42xQaxECQBlPs5mSTrm-TOHiKIm8CB46BtLzLIXUBImy0hvWKlCUhGD-_Ai_PTEfRwOK-_SUd5JPghrDLnz2OFX6C8y9R1aDCzIoI1UCsiX39btd95lVHCVSvsaVuHsIGdAA/s1600/Pt+8+Photo+3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDD37FQrQ42xQaxECQBlPs5mSTrm-TOHiKIm8CB46BtLzLIXUBImy0hvWKlCUhGD-_Ai_PTEfRwOK-_SUd5JPghrDLnz2OFX6C8y9R1aDCzIoI1UCsiX39btd95lVHCVSvsaVuHsIGdAA/s320/Pt+8+Photo+3.jpg" width="220" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The live refuse collectors, the "homing" cows.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXLzwxzAbbNjPiHTyJD5apgfss7o380-fFeHN_2eYv4ypirYlmLX9f7a5-uL8di_0_Y0Uq05Ijrp5ygZUN4f2yqlgwpJ4AA4wXdXbRoqWX12a6QmOaQUk7SH5MKAcy2bU5wsm5kzQoAmY/s1600/Pt+8+Photo+7.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="203" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXLzwxzAbbNjPiHTyJD5apgfss7o380-fFeHN_2eYv4ypirYlmLX9f7a5-uL8di_0_Y0Uq05Ijrp5ygZUN4f2yqlgwpJ4AA4wXdXbRoqWX12a6QmOaQUk7SH5MKAcy2bU5wsm5kzQoAmY/s320/Pt+8+Photo+7.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Women making bread for the Sikh celebrations.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_eFysOgdz2IE1zMdPucq3CRLEs17En8JWspEF3jraLg9Ejl0zOJZrqJ4OpVhXkFRxMVW4mrxU71vRfffM91rrH5xd6NL-c83l6efyM1i3Qt2VyjjBznjz8XnRSf-HxnUcC_KvNFmcQyI/s1600/Pt+8+Photo+8.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="197" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_eFysOgdz2IE1zMdPucq3CRLEs17En8JWspEF3jraLg9Ejl0zOJZrqJ4OpVhXkFRxMVW4mrxU71vRfffM91rrH5xd6NL-c83l6efyM1i3Qt2VyjjBznjz8XnRSf-HxnUcC_KvNFmcQyI/s320/Pt+8+Photo+8.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cooks attending the Dahl for Sikh celebrations.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqk4ACI7NcdRuMQ5bqNbXBGmfKkL27MWJsbue94_RQrv34ZOzl2Hr2cIh5B4y-O2f1BW3DmvbxTk8OSAixAeNjECLIs1yWILm23y7fHGJoEC2OQG9-fOGoENqIPOCfyJfRk5xYqF2RrvI/s1600/Pt+8+Photo+9.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="204" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqk4ACI7NcdRuMQ5bqNbXBGmfKkL27MWJsbue94_RQrv34ZOzl2Hr2cIh5B4y-O2f1BW3DmvbxTk8OSAixAeNjECLIs1yWILm23y7fHGJoEC2OQG9-fOGoENqIPOCfyJfRk5xYqF2RrvI/s320/Pt+8+Photo+9.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Camped on a beach in Goa. Sherpie in the middle.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAf1kKKw7-x0e4IqXsC7oyGCMGx0_UkNHxtFTrYU8DNYr2dD8H3dDoNwoMLwsuabb-OfY9kdL4AGFQo3CXJZ_lesNIcMCpCbbsHb0L_LZBA1QP2gX8SO9ansFeJaJOLsAqlTHkXgR4Xuo/s1600/Pt+8+Photo+10.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAf1kKKw7-x0e4IqXsC7oyGCMGx0_UkNHxtFTrYU8DNYr2dD8H3dDoNwoMLwsuabb-OfY9kdL4AGFQo3CXJZ_lesNIcMCpCbbsHb0L_LZBA1QP2gX8SO9ansFeJaJOLsAqlTHkXgR4Xuo/s320/Pt+8+Photo+10.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Christmas Day with all other overlanders in Goa.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOGBiuhmpyaK5TBNeGjZXY79QtNro7UrVYvV8f8F0uo_T1b-gM6OsuBr4oIfXlGCMxHUhmMyXtNdBI2rz8xmMH4OJ-FKEMpjf_i4V8FQkB1Pl-nPsRThTyfQN_6fiCgW8u9zydB____s0/s1600/Pt+8+Photo+11.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="209" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOGBiuhmpyaK5TBNeGjZXY79QtNro7UrVYvV8f8F0uo_T1b-gM6OsuBr4oIfXlGCMxHUhmMyXtNdBI2rz8xmMH4OJ-FKEMpjf_i4V8FQkB1Pl-nPsRThTyfQN_6fiCgW8u9zydB____s0/s320/Pt+8+Photo+11.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Having our evening shower.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhX5X_l6ix5i_v2g4OmNhx_VfTTA3mw0m6aNqEpF2NVq0fVzV1nyHaf2crCrLXwYpO-Rjm2HcGVd5rr5zJZRPdR-14bKcWZXX59BmshNYHQUbKLtp-fjjlc3ZEwLa5HFuPM2nUla2Hkk80/s1600/Pt+8+Photo+15.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhX5X_l6ix5i_v2g4OmNhx_VfTTA3mw0m6aNqEpF2NVq0fVzV1nyHaf2crCrLXwYpO-Rjm2HcGVd5rr5zJZRPdR-14bKcWZXX59BmshNYHQUbKLtp-fjjlc3ZEwLa5HFuPM2nUla2Hkk80/s320/Pt+8+Photo+15.jpg" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hampi temple complex.</td></tr>
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</span></div>VillageChick2http://www.blogger.com/profile/07264408718008103287noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-376132221645110367.post-20813232957337806872011-03-01T14:42:00.000+00:002011-04-11T17:14:39.793+01:00TRAVELS WITH OUR SHERPA. Pt 7<div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px; text-decoration: underline;"><b>TAJ MAHAL AND MONKEY BUSINESS.</b></span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Driving from Delhi Campsite to Agra, we came to a fork in the road. With no indication as to which road we should take, we asked some people standing around. </span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">‘Agra, which road?’ My question was met with a myriad of glazed looks. ‘Agra, Taj Mahal, which way?’ I repeated. </span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">‘Ah, Agra. No, this no Agra, this Delhi.’ Came the reply. As if we didn’t know. </span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">‘Yes, this Delhi, but which way Agra?’ I repeated. </span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">‘No this Delhi.’ One insisted pointing at the ground by his feet for emphasis. Over hearing our request, a very thin knowledgeable old man, without any teeth stepped forward from the crowd and offered to put us on the right road. He pointed precisely between the two roads, adding in a very definite tone, ‘Agra.’ </span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"> ‘Two tickets please.’ We asked the man in the ticket office of the Taj Mahal </span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">‘Fipty Rupees.’ Came the prompt reply from a man with a waggling head in the depths of the tiny ticket hut. </span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">’50 Rupees!’ Alan exclaimed. ‘We were told it was only 15 Rupees.’ </span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">‘Yes OK then, fipteen Rupees.’ He said rather sheepishly as a muffled laugh came from inside the ticket hut. The Taj Mahal is a truly stunning building, magnificent from every conceivable angle. The fact that it was built for the adoration of a woman, only deepens its beauty and splendour. The story, which led to the existence to this awesome building, is rather sad. The construction of the Taj was started in 1631 after Mumtaz Mahal, wife of the Emperor Shah Jahan, died giving birth to their 14</span><span style="font: 9.3px 'Times New Roman'; letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><sup>th</sup></span><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"> child. So distraught was the Emperor from losing his beloved wife after 17 years of blissful marriage, that he built the Taj Mahal as a token of his love to her. Built on the edge of the River Yammuna, it took 22 years to complete. 20,000 stone masons from afar afield as France, Italy, were under instruction of the main architect who was from Shiraz, Iran and whose name remains a mystery. Ancient records refer to the semi precious materials used brought in from all over the world. The marble walls are adorned with inlayed Ko’ranic inscriptions and floral designs, of which a flower could be composed of up to 48 pieces of precious stones. The four minarets, which stand 40.23 meters, lean outwards by 6°, so that in the event of an earthquake the towers will not fall onto the main building. The finial was covered in 44,000 tolas of pure gold, which was plundered by the British troops in 1803. No expense was spared to build what was to become the finest mausoleum ever created by man, much to the disgruntlement of the Shah’s subjects. When the Taj was completed, it was agreed that the stonemasons could continue to live in houses they had built around the main entrance. Generations later and stonemasons still live there and are employed to carry out renovation work, as well as providing stone inlay pieces for tourists. The story doesn’t end there because Shah Jehan never recovered from the loss of his beloved wife. So deep was his grief that the Shah locked himself away for five years. For his own death he planned to build a mirror image of the Taj Mahal, in black on the opposite side of the River, but when his son and heir heard of this, he had the Shah deposed and imprisoned in the Red Fort, believing that he had gone mad. It was in the Red Fort that the Shah spent the rest of his miserable days, looking out along the river at the final resting place of his beloved Mumtaz.</span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">We left Agra and made our way towards Sariska Tiger Reserve. The road out of Agra provided some sad sights. We were appalled to see a number of magnificent Himalayan Bears, being goaded and prodded by men holding sticks and pulling a length of chain which was firmly fixed to a ring on the end of the bear’s nose. These were so called ‘dancing bears’ which were illegal in India. As we approached the bears the men forced them to ‘dance’ in our path, causing us to swerve to avoid them. One bear was proving to be a handful and was fighting his handler. I realized that being angry with the men would not be helpful. They were only doing something that had been done for centuries, to put food on the table for their growing families. In the past we all loved to see the performing animals in the travelling circuses and would not question for many years the fact that many of the circus animals were kept in degrading unhealthy conditions for our own pleasures. </span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">We stopped further down the road at a market to buy some provisions. As we walked through the market I almost tripped over a man. His appearance I found most shocking. He was shuffling along in the dirty, dusty street on his back. He had lost his toes and fingers and had deep festering raw wounds over at least 30% of his thin undernourished body. All he wore was a loincloth and no one took any notice of him. In fact the locals were more intrigued with my reaction to him, than with his awful situation. As a Westerner it is almost impossible to comprehend how a man could exist under such conditions. I felt helpless and very sad and walked away feeling I should have done something. Such sights in India are common.</span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">One section of the road to Sariska, went through the middle of what looked like a man made lake, with a couple of roof tops poking out of the water. We gingerly carried on, to discover the road had disappeared into the middle of the lake! Not knowing how deep it was and unable to turn around as the road was too narrow, we decided to wait for another vehicle. We didn’t wait long before a truck squeezed past us and we watched as he drove onwards over the hidden road. We decided to follow, keeping to the path made by the truck. At first the water didn’t seem that deep, until we saw the rear axle of the truck disappear under water. Our poor Sherpa van was not an off road vehicle and we braced ourselves, fully expecting to get stuck. </span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">‘Oh no.’ I groaned. We did make it to the other side, but only to be greeted by one almighty bang from under the van. A rear back spring had snapped clean in half. It was the first of six to break in India. We ended up having to have the main ones specially made which was very time consuming, frustrating, and costly by Indian standards.</span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">At Sariska Tiger Reserve we decided to splash out and spend the night in the government run Tiger Den Hotel. We asked the receptionist if he had a room. After 20 minutes deliberation and much paper shuffling, he decided that a room was possible, but which one! This posed a few more minutes deliberation and booking alterations, in what appeared to be an empty hotel. ‘What on earth is the problem?’ I quizzed, having stood for what seemed an interminably long time. It had been a long day and we needed some rest. ‘OK, I give you room 211.’ He said handing us the key to room 121. We followed him to room 231, and crashed down on the bed almost immediately, only to be woken a few minutes later by what sounded like a dog whining at the balcony doors. We ignored it, but the whining became more urgent accompanied by a forceful rattling of the doors. Alan leaped out of bed and started to fill a bucket with some water. </span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">‘What are you doing?’ I mused. ‘I’m going to get the little buggers.’ Retorted Alan. </span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">‘Wait. Let me help.’ I said half asleep and falling out of bed to fill another bucket up not knowing what would greet me the other side of the door. We stood there poised by the doors then opened them at the same time as blindly throwing the water onto the balcony. The monkeys scarpered, but one was too slow and got a liberal dousing of cold water. He screeched the loudest. In the kafuffle I ran out onto the balcony and trod in something wet and sticky. It was the monkeys’ latrine!</span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">We did eventually fall sleep. The following day we saw a magnificent wild tiger, which came almost as close to us as the monkeys!</span></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6OOTJ8WvrMgbRMGduW8g8Zctou6Mjkx1pEKEFPOKZDOu3raLJ9NElarUHyA3FkKDEcQSyaj-C3qenNZsQkyCJoeGZaNwfnVl-mOxCx1BhknpFpVRq0Ww4xP-juIhsR2jH5JXSOFSQHl8/s1600/Pt+2+Photo+14.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6OOTJ8WvrMgbRMGduW8g8Zctou6Mjkx1pEKEFPOKZDOu3raLJ9NElarUHyA3FkKDEcQSyaj-C3qenNZsQkyCJoeGZaNwfnVl-mOxCx1BhknpFpVRq0Ww4xP-juIhsR2jH5JXSOFSQHl8/s320/Pt+2+Photo+14.jpg" width="211" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">One of the naughty monkeys.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1eN3b06m-hl5s2buTfFFk2gVTzIPKWeLzDz4Jkt8lPUpgkhmDfZne0R71x_WfNuqzU9whOOOHfOzJECZQKYng0OBBQMEF6eBYWoPdEy8EIr6Aip-cy2nSLwAX9VY3o5Wy3lyWoxC7P1c/s1600/Pt+7+Photo+3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="114" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1eN3b06m-hl5s2buTfFFk2gVTzIPKWeLzDz4Jkt8lPUpgkhmDfZne0R71x_WfNuqzU9whOOOHfOzJECZQKYng0OBBQMEF6eBYWoPdEy8EIr6Aip-cy2nSLwAX9VY3o5Wy3lyWoxC7P1c/s320/Pt+7+Photo+3.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Taj Mahal.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHf_SZGT7WjXm4TTOgwcFjj0WXnh1pfXHQzp4TI5q30qkDB29tuuBKfGaEXbEzmGhTzFy00zCMYqa9rTQyvqvAIeG84YPJzNJeOkmOBhRJJujheXRfY5c0ERAPGp_8vzODkrVWO1CWNEo/s1600/Pt+7+Photo+8.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="113" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHf_SZGT7WjXm4TTOgwcFjj0WXnh1pfXHQzp4TI5q30qkDB29tuuBKfGaEXbEzmGhTzFy00zCMYqa9rTQyvqvAIeG84YPJzNJeOkmOBhRJJujheXRfY5c0ERAPGp_8vzODkrVWO1CWNEo/s320/Pt+7+Photo+8.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Red Fort, Agra, India.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbVsEecbgLt876ABzCKO_WdoF6lMO5vLaiayn3AhwLJZIMgg63H-7qbNYmLDF3tb9Gy1MnYCoFxZ4vhyphenhyphenGmwtSXiADodCHX2grsi-GbhHO1txgN6LHtYc94fIHo9au2gVKQM9IF2e0j3cs/s1600/Pt+7+Photo+9.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="113" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbVsEecbgLt876ABzCKO_WdoF6lMO5vLaiayn3AhwLJZIMgg63H-7qbNYmLDF3tb9Gy1MnYCoFxZ4vhyphenhyphenGmwtSXiADodCHX2grsi-GbhHO1txgN6LHtYc94fIHo9au2gVKQM9IF2e0j3cs/s320/Pt+7+Photo+9.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Taj Mahal, as seen form the Red Fort.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYCtcRMJ24UWNhjPVwrTFq-xLJWRqv4uGOMAQigAJxEVB_oMJ2NQ8nYFst3toumlit5A87-wYqtdDFbyG6pwKs4jzz6DnmY6heBLUwZCthN6OIb1m_xxESkVWlJKPMvSMwIE2EcEbKNfE/s1600/Pt+7+Photo+11.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="125" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYCtcRMJ24UWNhjPVwrTFq-xLJWRqv4uGOMAQigAJxEVB_oMJ2NQ8nYFst3toumlit5A87-wYqtdDFbyG6pwKs4jzz6DnmY6heBLUwZCthN6OIb1m_xxESkVWlJKPMvSMwIE2EcEbKNfE/s320/Pt+7+Photo+11.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">One the road in India.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZqXRac6HFuVVGNmpTvFu-LAnkdmAFtio2bUZcZkzLfFeGhx2HTn7XrN33JQc3UjN8Hn1iedvrtXBQeSJ8_7zG0x9DH2SU0LHMdSN35HJzdSRgXSp98YH_FMLinOlSyzc9fjTnrY_5EwE/s1600/Pt+7+Photo+12.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="204" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZqXRac6HFuVVGNmpTvFu-LAnkdmAFtio2bUZcZkzLfFeGhx2HTn7XrN33JQc3UjN8Hn1iedvrtXBQeSJ8_7zG0x9DH2SU0LHMdSN35HJzdSRgXSp98YH_FMLinOlSyzc9fjTnrY_5EwE/s320/Pt+7+Photo+12.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Shooting a tiger with a shaky camera, Ranthambore Tiger Reserve.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2hwtXvAQENWYp76kNJH9AqztcckpU_k6SfC5aHtHlskjAb_44SIwEWZG-A3tERghARdyL1XeSUJl8T2-9nKdbwj1FLLuGHEHxFRbMfB0ckj92W_ja-kZZ9Ix1DnTeEDx-dmZaYlAPnxs/s1600/Pt+7+Photo+13.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2hwtXvAQENWYp76kNJH9AqztcckpU_k6SfC5aHtHlskjAb_44SIwEWZG-A3tERghARdyL1XeSUJl8T2-9nKdbwj1FLLuGHEHxFRbMfB0ckj92W_ja-kZZ9Ix1DnTeEDx-dmZaYlAPnxs/s320/Pt+7+Photo+13.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Getting springs fixed in Sariska, India.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">How many on a rickshaw?</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0K0Ap_Zp6nZkaAOyUBQQWSHyNewZmyGernijW2HraKL6nvcfwVDF-Na8Ie6GIVxU-SUKzRIgvqM7BTG3LcuAXQB9tCYQV4lBVW9S_ARcJFWreSdNau3cv7L5RXgFlHhDA8RzES_WI7Z8/s1600/Pt+7+Photo1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="113" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0K0Ap_Zp6nZkaAOyUBQQWSHyNewZmyGernijW2HraKL6nvcfwVDF-Na8Ie6GIVxU-SUKzRIgvqM7BTG3LcuAXQB9tCYQV4lBVW9S_ARcJFWreSdNau3cv7L5RXgFlHhDA8RzES_WI7Z8/s320/Pt+7+Photo1.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Delhi campsite.</td></tr>
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</span></div>VillageChick2http://www.blogger.com/profile/07264408718008103287noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-376132221645110367.post-33944833862026936812011-03-01T14:34:00.000+00:002011-04-11T17:14:39.793+01:00TRAVELS WITH OUR SHERPA. Pt 6<div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px; text-decoration: underline;"><b>NOVEMBER 1998 AMRITSAR. THE PUNJAB. INDIA;</b></span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">The Golden Temple in Amritsar was high on our list of <i>‘Not to be missed’ </i>and having found a small guest house car park to spend the night in our camper, we spent the rest of the day looking around the beautiful Sikh Temple. Built in the 16thC the Temple stands in a ‘tank’ (or pool) of constantly changing fresh water, called ‘Amritsar,’ meaning “tank of nectar or immortality,” and although the water didn’t look that fresh to us, it was home to some huge fish. The Sikhs welcome and encourage everyone to spend at least 3 days in the calm and thought-provoking atmosphere of the Temple grounds, and offer a free bed and food. The Golden Temple is affectionately named because of its complete covering of gold leaf, which is said to weigh many tons. Glass boxes are placed around the grounds for visitors to donate any unwanted gold towards ongoing restoration. </span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Instead of walking back to our camper, we decided to flag down our first cycle rickshaw. Our peddler was old and thin and should have been taking life easy. He wore a cut of worn out material wound around and tucked precariously around his waist and legs and on his feet were what looked like remnants of plastic flip flops. Slung over his shoulder was another length of material, which he used to periodically to mop his sweating brow. </span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">‘Tourist Guest House, near the railway.’ We told him. </span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">‘OK.’ Came the reply, with the customary waggle of the head. We assumed that he knew what he was doing! We gingerly climbed aboard the rather rickety rickshaw and set off amongst the hustle and bustle of Amritsar traffic. We passed cart stalls selling all manner of items, linen shops, restaurants, hardware shops, and sari shops. We dodged around cows with a death wish, wandering aimlessly amongst the manic traffic. Motor rickshaw drivers who weaved all over the road, and buses whose capacity for passengers seemed limitless, with ‘hanger’s on’ taking things a bit too far. We pulled alongside one bus and just missed one of the passengers as she scrambled to a window, just in time to poke her head out and vomit down the side of the bus! Thankfully, she missed us, but caught someone else. </span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">One shop caught my eye “Le Pâtisserie” which sold an array of interesting European pastries. Our peddler was working hard and seemed to know all the short cuts, weaving, ducking and diving through the narrow jumble of busy streets. He continued peddling once more passing “Le Pâtisserie.” </span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">‘That’s the second time I’ve seen that shop.’ I commented to Alan. We both sat there silent trying to soak up the assault of sights, smells and sounds coming from all directions. Some minutes later, after much peddling and brow mopping, </span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">‘That’s the <i>third </i> time I’ve seen “Le Pâtisserie.”’ I told Alan, this time poking him to make sure he took notice of my observations. Alan had had enough. We had been on a 20-minute ride to cover what was only a 5-minute walk! </span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">‘We are just going round in bloody circles.’ Said Alan, as he lent forward to tap the shoulder of what was becoming an increasingly tired and dizzy rickshaw peddler. ‘I’ve had enough of going round in circles. You don’t know what you are doing.’ A heated exchange was now taking place, with neither party understanding the other, amidst a gathering crowd who seemed to think the incident most amusing. I rather fancy that the cycle rickshaw peddler was on a bet. A bet that he could take some foreigners around a said circuit at least three times before they noticed.</span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">One day in Amritsar we had a puncture, but it was no problem, as within sight was a puncture repairman. He sat on his hunches outside his dilapidated wooden hut surrounded by old tyres, blown up inner tubes, a water bath and a past its best compressor. He didn’t understand any English, so we pointed to an obviously flat tyre and pointed to the tyre man to fix it. Surely he would understand what we wanted, wouldn’t it? No, he just sat there waggling his head. We tried again, but to no avail. A passer by who had overheard our efforts shouted something to him, where upon he jumped into action and mended our puncture, by <i>sewing </i>a patch on the sidewall of the tyre. The tyre man’s neighbours had offered us some tea, though something a little stronger would have helped to soften the blow of watching our brand new tyre being assaulted with needle and thread. Alan gave the tyre man another job. He showed him how to check the tyre pressures with our fancy digital pressure gauge and told him what pressure was needed all round and left him to it while we finished our teas. Ten minutes later tyres all pumped and teas finished, we set off on the road again, but the ride was so bumpy that it was making me feel very sick. It had to be the tyres, so we stopped to check them out. They were supposed to be 50psi, but each and every tyre was a different pressure, with readings ranging from 25psi to 85psi! This was India where everything was no problem, which would test your patience to its limits. We managed to deflate the tyres as necessary and the patch lasted the 11,000 miles back to England without any problems. But when we took our Sherpa for its MoT test back in England, the tester almost had a heart attack when he saw the patch. </span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">‘Get that tyre off straight away. It’s very dangerous and could blow at any minute.’ </span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">‘Yeh, sure.’ We told him in a chilled out sort of way. ‘No problem!’</span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 16.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">One afternoon, whilst driving the trunk road we stopped at some roadside services. Not the sort of sanitized services we have in the UK, but large and clean with plenty of parking spaces. Next to where we parked was a young Indian snake charmer, who was perhaps no more than 8 years old and was charming a real cobra with a wooden flute. As I knelt down to get a good photo, the snake turned and swayed in my direction. It was time to go.</span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">On the Aires was a large well furnished restaurant, which boasted a tasty menu. We went in and sat down and thought it odd that we were the only customers in what was a very busy Aires. The waiter came and gave Alan a menu and ignored me. We made our order of chicken and rice, and 2 cold coffees with ice cream, then sat and waited. The waiter returned and told us that he didn’t have chicken and rice, so Alan ordered another dish. </span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">‘No sir. We don’t have that either.’ So we ordered yet another dish.</span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">The waiter came with 2 drinks and to tell us that he didn’t have the last dish we ordered either.</span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">‘Well what do you have?’ Asked Alan as he sipped his drink. ‘And what is this?’</span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">‘That is vanilla milkshake sir.’ Answered the waiter.</span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">‘But I didn’t order vanilla milkshake, I ordered cold coffee and ice cream.’</span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">The waiter looked at Alan with such a shocked expression and added.</span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">‘What’s the matter? Don’t you like vanilla milk shake?’</span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">We were confronted with experiences like this throughout India, every day, which tested your limits of endurance, and pushed you, even if you didn’t want to go there to teeter to the very edge of your sanity. If you were the type to get stressed and hot under the collar for anything that threatened to ruin the smooth running of your day, you would be very sadly disappointed in India, for India is like an unsolved puzzle. You will never be able to make sense of it, however hard you try. A seemingly chaotic order applies, which will always defeat your efforts of logic to beat it. India changes the way you think, and the way you live your life forever. The most striking difference is that Indians are accepting of their lot in life. A tea boy seems to take great pride in making and delivering tea to thirsty people. He realises that his job is important and a welcome addition to others in their day. In the West making tea would be seen as a lowly job and not worthy of any respect. In India it is a vital job, the stopping of which could bring the country to its knees. We westerners can never accept the present. We are always striving for bigger, better and more, regardless of the cost to others, the mark of a capitalist society. Paradoxically, the majority of Indians have little or nothing compared to us, yet they are disproportionately happier than us. This is the puzzle westerners have yet to solve.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxIzhOara275cLX48Nu1cvbrAuSfy_jgay_dVCaEbtKiXYZPrtqWsxG1x35irsOta7C2HfszAi9eGEJaENccG71uf_ap2Xg4JXDAH02SzqAAYdmRztWEzyCeCO5yYehtNorymTxqSVJHI/s1600/Pt+6+Photo+11.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxIzhOara275cLX48Nu1cvbrAuSfy_jgay_dVCaEbtKiXYZPrtqWsxG1x35irsOta7C2HfszAi9eGEJaENccG71uf_ap2Xg4JXDAH02SzqAAYdmRztWEzyCeCO5yYehtNorymTxqSVJHI/s320/Pt+6+Photo+11.jpg" width="301" /></a></div><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Into India from Pakistan.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">50 rupee bank note.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPpeWStLqki16QzntEQaSeyh7AVGv4qMb7NXHj8vWQmWYw7bZubc2GDobck7u8xkvhvlMCT4Bihj9cClKzwai4_SvP50Si9cRjkwyyT4lzaGY4GY9adKn_8uD95-5lk9n7dbiZiOyMPS8/s1600/Pt+6+Photo+4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="201" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPpeWStLqki16QzntEQaSeyh7AVGv4qMb7NXHj8vWQmWYw7bZubc2GDobck7u8xkvhvlMCT4Bihj9cClKzwai4_SvP50Si9cRjkwyyT4lzaGY4GY9adKn_8uD95-5lk9n7dbiZiOyMPS8/s320/Pt+6+Photo+4.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Golden Temple Amritsar, India.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgV93CllfZ3svWpSrGdoWuiRUKvZqMuewbCFRHYshNFW6V0h-aFaPOuFEIOjq_Tmzh8s60rl42MbGyX_AptGCiIKKKc9PgyxlTyc6vh8L5gh0HjhIo5bhUIOGB7O98z3Pd8nF5s305zM0I/s1600/Pt+6+Photo+5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="124" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgV93CllfZ3svWpSrGdoWuiRUKvZqMuewbCFRHYshNFW6V0h-aFaPOuFEIOjq_Tmzh8s60rl42MbGyX_AptGCiIKKKc9PgyxlTyc6vh8L5gh0HjhIo5bhUIOGB7O98z3Pd8nF5s305zM0I/s320/Pt+6+Photo+5.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">On the road in India.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6cnA-t9c5o4XmW0gXe_HeQklbeMQw8dOy2hWj0YDezemHdmAtFIUDky1YskOrpM1NT-RAP7OsePVZine7wrJ8KKiQZcQbPUg7L_YejfU2lQMBt4Bnl4QvxUuGaq_rJPFKdtUE_-POl9U/s1600/Pt+6+Photo+10.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="196" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6cnA-t9c5o4XmW0gXe_HeQklbeMQw8dOy2hWj0YDezemHdmAtFIUDky1YskOrpM1NT-RAP7OsePVZine7wrJ8KKiQZcQbPUg7L_YejfU2lQMBt4Bnl4QvxUuGaq_rJPFKdtUE_-POl9U/s320/Pt+6+Photo+10.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A young snake charmer.</td></tr>
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</span></div>VillageChick2http://www.blogger.com/profile/07264408718008103287noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-376132221645110367.post-7243600357620747312011-03-01T14:29:00.000+00:002011-04-11T17:14:39.794+01:00TRAVELS WITH OUR SHERPA Pt 5<div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px; text-decoration: underline;"><b>HONEYMOON IN A BRITISH EMBASSY SAFE HOUSE</b></span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 16.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">We had just driven up the Khyber Pass in our Sherpa campervan with an armed guard and were now on our way home alone through the North West Frontier Province, Pakistan, skirting the border of Afghanistan. We didn’t realize it at the time, but Pakistan was in the depths of a military coup and we shouldn’t have been there. All credit to the security services and the Pakistani Police Force for ensuring that we were safe during our previous police escorts. However, it seemed we slipped through the net when we ventured into the Afghan border areas just north of Quetta. All we did was look on our map and chose the road from D.I. Khan to Quetta. Little did we know that it would spark a massive international cover up, ensuring that we would never be able to tell our story.</span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">It all started with the main road from DI Khan to Quetta being blocked by flooding, so we were directed by locals down a dirt track, which turned out to be 80 miles of rough dry river bed, each one of which we had to wade in to test the depth and move boulders aside, before taking the plunge and driving through. It took us 11 hours to complete this part of the journey. During this time we didn’t see a house, or an animal, just a group of men in a Toyota pick up, driving in the opposite direction, all carrying semi-automatics at the ready. They looked a little bemused as to what a couple of lost tourists were doing in such a desolate place, but let us continue our journey. At one point the terrain was so rough that we thought we would be unable to make it in our non-4 X 4 campervan, but we pushed on as it was getting dark. We finally reached tarmac at a very small checkpoint and started to rejoice. Though not without being scrutinized by a rather shady group of armed men, who stood blocking the road ahead! The men were friendly and insisted we had tea and biscuits. </span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Under the cover of darkness we reached the small town of Zhob, and were promptly surrounded by locals, who for the first time during our stay made us feel uncomfortable. Two policemen appeared from nowhere demanding to see our passports. Then a man on a motorcycle intervened and said that everything was OK and did we need a hotel. The whole of Zhob followed us to a small hotel in the center of town where the police insisted that we fill in some forms. As we sat in the police room, the two windows and the doorway became a mass of inquisitive faces, all wanting to get a glimpse of us. It was a little intimidating, given that most men in the area carried automatic weapons for their protection.</span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">With our forms completed and passport details taken, we parked our Sherpa in the hotel car park and asked if we could buy some food. The hotel didn’t have any food, but another young man offered to take us somewhere in town who would be able to cook us something to eat. He was calm and gentle natured, explaining that he wanted to be a tourist guide and move out of Zhob. His friend who tagged along was very different and took control of the conversation, making his views on politics and religion known to us in a very forceful manner. He kept telling us that the West was bad, that Bush was bad and that he didn’t accept Blair, shaking his fists in the air for effect. </span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">‘Osama bin Laden and Islam for the world.’ He told us. ‘Osama is my hero.’ He added. When I started asking him questions about Osama, why was Osama his hero, and what had he done to be given the title hero, I understood that Osama had done much to help people in this area, building schools, etc and providing work and hope in an area that had little. On the way back to our Sherpa, the second young man mentioned bin Laden a number of times to others, making it obvious that he and the townsfolk knew bin Laden. He was also very guarded about where he lived and what he did.</span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">We believed at this time from information fed to us from the West, that bin Laden was a very wanted man and that the reward for his capture or location was standing at $5 million. Not in the mood for tribal entertainments, we decided to leave very early the following morning. </span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">We made it to Quetta, the last main town before the Iranian border, and managed to find a Dawn newspaper, the English national paper of Pakistan. In the paper was an article [<i>More foreigners visit Afghan border areas.] </i> I read with interest and was horrified to see;</span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><i>[Dera Ismail Khan, May 14: More foreigners nationals have been noticed visiting the DI Khan and Tank areas lately for some unspecified reasons especially following the visit of two US consulate officers from Peshawar May 6. The two US consulate officials during their stay in DI Khan and Tank had met the commissioner and the political agent, South Waziristan. The latest visit to this remote southern district of NWFP on Thursday was the Australian High Commissioner Mr Geoffrey Allen and his wife.]</i></span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">We actually saw the Australian High Commissioner being driven past in a cream Mercedes, with a police entourage in Pashawar a couple of days previously. What was he doing in an area that is a law unto itself? The Afghani who told us who they were at the time, also told us that a Swiss Embassy offical was also visiting the area. </span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><i>[….The foreigners in the area had the same destination, Zhob in Balochistan, which is situated near the Afghan border with Pakistan. A non-metalled road connects Zhob with the Afghan province of Ghazni and has been frequently used by visitors both local and Afghans. The road from DI Khan to Zhob, known as the Fort Sanderman Road…….is considered unsafe for travel without a proper armed escort.]</i></span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">We did ask in Peshawar if we needed a permit and a guard to travel this road and we were told ‘No.’ We passed numerous police check points, and no one stopped us.</span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><i>[Meanwhile, other foreign nationals were also in DI Khan at the same time…….Mr Alan] </i>(my husband Alan) <i>[and Ms Cendy</i></span><span style="font: 15.0px 'Times New Roman'; letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><i>]</i></span><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><i> </i>(they had miss spelled my name. Cindy) <i>[</i>……<i>passed the night in their vehicle No S176 ESU </i>(the registration was actually F176 ESU) <i>within the Rose Hotel’s premises.] </i>The next part of the article shocked us <i>[</i>…… <i>Some intelligence agency people said that somehow the foreigners seem to have discovered the hide-out of Osama bin Laden and a further probe was on.] </i>We were indeed right to assume that bin Laden was well known in the area. Coming from the intelligence agency that this indeed was a secret hide out of bin Laden, then it must be fairly common knowledge. Then why was he never captured? The article also stated that US Commandos had been seen setting up a base in North Western parts of Pakistan in the early part of 1999. What were US military doing there, preparing for the planned US invasion?</span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Alan decided to contact the British Embassy in Islamabad.</span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">The British Embassy at first didn’t believe that we were even IN Pakistan and told us to get the very next flight out. Leaving our vehicle in Pakistan we would have been faced with a whopping import duty bill. So the British Embassy Warden was sent to collect us under armed guard and take us to a safe house, while the situation was investigated.</span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">We stayed in the safe house for a week and were not allowed to venture anywhere without an armed guard and a driver. During this time we were invited to a garden party for ex-pats where one of the American aid workers told me that he had had to move his office in Kandahar because Osama bin Laden had set up office next door! I was gob smacked. This man was supposedly the most wanted terrorist in the world, yet it was bordering almost common knowledge to where he was. It didn’t make any sense.</span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">At the end of the week in the safe house, we were offered an armed escort for the drive to the Iranian border. We made it into Iran and back to the UK without any incident even though we had reason to believe that we were being watched.</span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">On arrival back in the UK in 1999 following an article in one of the national tabloids calling for the capture of bin Laden, I telephoned Scotland Yard and told them our story. I was given a number and told that they would probably want to interview myself, and my husband. I never heard from Scotland Yard again. We had found the hide out of the most wanted terrorist in the world, and Scotland Yard would only <i>‘probably’ </i>want to come and interview us! I wrote to the FBI and the CIA c/o the American Embassy London, telling them that we had a very interesting story about bin Laden. I didn’t even receive an acknowledgement. I then wrote to the FBI at the Pentagon, USA, but again I didn’t receive any acknowledgement.</span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Other national papers told me that our story wasn’t newsworthy enough! I think that week Beckham had had a hair cut and there was a solar eclipse.</span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">After 9-11, I contacted the BBC news desk who were reporting that Osama bin Laden was behind the attack and must be found. They told me they didn’t want to know!</span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I then contacted the foreign editor of the Observer newspaper, which was stating that bin Laden might be hiding in Pakistan. He told me in a most rude manner that, ‘Bin Laden didn’t hide in Pakistan, but lived in Afghanistan in a cave!’ ..then slammed the receiver down before I even had chance to ask when he last visited Pakistan.</span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">This naturally led me to question what is the truth.?</span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">In the light of the later US and UK invasion of Afghanistan on the premise of ousting the Taliban and capturing bin Laden, I surmise that it would not be conducive for the British government to acknowledge us or our findings, given that they spent £millions of tax payer’s money on the invasion, the result of which was carnage to many more innocent people than Taliban members. They didn’t find Osama bin Laden with their billions of £’s of high tech equipment and the manpower of supposedly the best armies in the world to do so. However, two innocent tourists in a 10 year old campervan, on a tight budget, did easily stumble across one of the secret hideouts of the most wanted terrorists in the world. </span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">We have yet to receive a cent in reward money. </span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I therefore;</span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I question the hunt for bin Laden. </span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I question the $5 billion reward for his capture. </span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I question the so-called war on terror, and the reasons behind it. </span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">If I question all this then I must also question the system that created this. </span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 16.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Of course this is only my opinion, which is born from actual events and outcomes. What else can I base my opinions on? </span></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAVyT95eAbyqHeJz0PQ8MGCd9BN9Md-g5g9KLaC_Gpt9BSQYL0LLH2z0-TO-_EO8hnZpwZUriXYYcpluOY29aZaQ2dTMst5JlV4VqWEjrT6k7XGf7xsrN6qmOAE3ZQQ3ZpIqbJkDkiZkw/s1600/Pt+5+Photo+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="204" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAVyT95eAbyqHeJz0PQ8MGCd9BN9Md-g5g9KLaC_Gpt9BSQYL0LLH2z0-TO-_EO8hnZpwZUriXYYcpluOY29aZaQ2dTMst5JlV4VqWEjrT6k7XGf7xsrN6qmOAE3ZQQ3ZpIqbJkDkiZkw/s320/Pt+5+Photo+2.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">80 miles of rough river bed along the Afghan border in Pakistan.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEhniRwdB6BZoLsYtbXmGSoaR9rMvTCnaZCuyHlXuCWRMiC2XpVdMCZqHjwpeQGWK60aLKzt3C6Gouop92A7bcqD8JmTMlYbXIsJNUrkdP1RyOi_UTOiDIw-qyuiuYFsIJgG0u5pvT2jY/s1600/Pt+5+Photo+3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEhniRwdB6BZoLsYtbXmGSoaR9rMvTCnaZCuyHlXuCWRMiC2XpVdMCZqHjwpeQGWK60aLKzt3C6Gouop92A7bcqD8JmTMlYbXIsJNUrkdP1RyOi_UTOiDIw-qyuiuYFsIJgG0u5pvT2jY/s320/Pt+5+Photo+3.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">More river beds.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjI7fYRJwo05Etfh85SDp1KLa0O9cEBNM0-TQk4os8S8CtSmDrtM978OfBT9WRpdqoRK3OXadDWlL-xThhS9FFE24tyXKCGg7lAykkeUzvU-jnueZ2oCTt80ZFhFo-_14D6U8-YcG0nyUA/s1600/Pt+5+Photo+4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="199" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjI7fYRJwo05Etfh85SDp1KLa0O9cEBNM0-TQk4os8S8CtSmDrtM978OfBT9WRpdqoRK3OXadDWlL-xThhS9FFE24tyXKCGg7lAykkeUzvU-jnueZ2oCTt80ZFhFo-_14D6U8-YcG0nyUA/s320/Pt+5+Photo+4.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Off roading in our Sherpa.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnlEQdfF2_nOWH1OFFmied9krfK2GNE-AhNFcVZgaV878LlyumhApnTdy4UgaMKiz5fODDS2vNzbXhTcDfJKWm-Tuggl36Iu2Svw7mVeyp5y-RDbxgLuAOvk0s1yHTtvxYay2Q7OraukI/s1600/Pt+5+Photo+5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="219" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnlEQdfF2_nOWH1OFFmied9krfK2GNE-AhNFcVZgaV878LlyumhApnTdy4UgaMKiz5fODDS2vNzbXhTcDfJKWm-Tuggl36Iu2Svw7mVeyp5y-RDbxgLuAOvk0s1yHTtvxYay2Q7OraukI/s320/Pt+5+Photo+5.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tarmac at last near the Afghan border, Pakistan.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjT3dmelqSCeUS9b50p1ObwqFJnb19O0K-he5RfRPqRMaxH46IHvytt4NFMyXQcgw2SYdc4SD0guT6ICr145IgbqfeqQCR3UgmXpdcoc_TGPmjIb7I-if3X44uus56mtHePWQzFKzeCDAE/s1600/Pt+5+Photo+6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="202" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjT3dmelqSCeUS9b50p1ObwqFJnb19O0K-he5RfRPqRMaxH46IHvytt4NFMyXQcgw2SYdc4SD0guT6ICr145IgbqfeqQCR3UgmXpdcoc_TGPmjIb7I-if3X44uus56mtHePWQzFKzeCDAE/s320/Pt+5+Photo+6.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Locals stop us going any further!</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNN84WIaoLOwgHE3PmvkPv9waw4Tz0E-K58YdHnPVz4zwNsq5EiLa3M8s6Z-caZzfY-lvpLBHaaeVjB1-mrf2oRTajrhDmUeZVwuLovik6n9a9n2qqahrBxApji1KHYnah000pUAcYr04/s1600/Pt+5+Photo+7.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="211" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNN84WIaoLOwgHE3PmvkPv9waw4Tz0E-K58YdHnPVz4zwNsq5EiLa3M8s6Z-caZzfY-lvpLBHaaeVjB1-mrf2oRTajrhDmUeZVwuLovik6n9a9n2qqahrBxApji1KHYnah000pUAcYr04/s320/Pt+5+Photo+7.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The track leading to nowhere.</td></tr>
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</span></div>VillageChick2http://www.blogger.com/profile/07264408718008103287noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-376132221645110367.post-29785623581211982522011-03-01T14:22:00.000+00:002011-04-11T17:14:39.794+01:00TRAVELS WITH OUR SHERPA. Pt 4<div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px; text-decoration: underline;"><b>UP THE KHYBER PASS</b></span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Having driven down from the Karakorum Highway, we were heading for the next major town of Peshawar, just a few miles from the Khyber Pass, the gateway to Afghanistan. Just outside Peshawar, the traffic came to a standstill. In the distance we could just make out a railway crossing with the barriers down. As we patiently waited in the traditional English way, (Pakistan drives same side as UK) we watched in amazement as vehicles fed up of waiting on the left side of the road, started clogging up the right side of the road. Alan turned to a coach driver who was now alongside us on the wrong side of the road facing the wrong way and asked, </span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">‘Tell me what happens when the train has gone and the barriers are lifted and traffic coming the other way has the road blocked by you?’ The coach driver smiled. </span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">‘This is Pakistan.’ Came the reply and added as an afterthought. ‘Don’t you have railway crossings in England?’ </span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">‘Of course we have railway crossings in England.’ Alan told him. ‘We invented them!’ </span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 16.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">We found The Tourist Inn Motel in Peshawar and parked up in the grounds. The motel was offering jeep trips up the Khyber Pass, but being very independent we wanted to take our Sherpa. To do this we had to have a vehicle pass and an armed guard, both quite easily obtained from the Political Agent’s Office at a cost of RS100 (£2). Our armed guard’s name was Puja, who carried a machine gun and knew only four words of English. Puja took care of our safety and presented our paperwork at the frequent checkpoints. Part of our journey out of Peshawar was through the huge Afghan refugee camp, which started back in the 70’s when the Russians invaded Afghanistan and sent Afghanis fleeing from their homeland into neighboring Pakistan. The camp looked full to bursting point holding over a million refugees and was growing daily as Afghans were now fleeing the harsh rule of the Taliban. I tried to imagine the feeling of being forced out of your homeland into a strange country that doesn’t really want you, to live in some awful camp, with very basic necessities. The faces of these people spoke volumes. Despair, loss of dignity, little hope. </span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Apart from a couple of photo stops, we snaked up the winding road without incident to the brow of the Khyber Pass, where Puja motioned us to stop. </span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">‘Taliban.’ He told us, as he sat in the passenger’s seat fingering the trigger of his AK45. He sat nervously scanning the surrounds for any possible threats. We couldn’t see any threat, only a rugged vista of the Suleiman Ranges that is the Khyber Pass. We had stopped at Michni Checkpost, high on the range with a stunning view of the Durand Line, better known as the Khyber Railway on the right, built by the British during the 1920s. Ahead beyond the pass was Afghanistan a troubled country of tribal warfare. </span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">As we sat soaking up the tense atmosphere on a crisp but warm day, I couldn’t help noticing along the left of the pass and in full view of a police check point, a steady though sparse line of men almost bent double under the weight of some cripplingly heavy items.</span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">‘Who?’ I asked Puja. </span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">‘Smugglers.’ He told me with a surprised look on his face. <i>Didn’t I know?</i></span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">We were astonished to see these men staggering up the rocky terrain away from the roads humping all manner of household items fridges and televisions in the most torturous method on their backs. Smuggling was a thriving industry, a necessity it seemed through the Khyber Pass, all to do of course with evading taxes, only these smugglers were passively encouraged. Goods brought into Pakistan from as far away as Karachi, were driven up into Afghanistan and then smuggled straight back into Pakistan, laboriously, item by item, paradoxically avoiding crippling taxes. It was like something out of comedy sketch, with heavily overloaded, yet highly decorated Bedford trucks trundling into Afghanistan, the contents of which were then strapped to the backs of men who staggered back into Pakistan, as the empty trucks returned to Pakistan for another load! The lucky ones were smuggling Chinese bicycles and had devised a system where they tied two bicycles to a third, which they freewheeled down the hills of the Khyber Pass. They were paid Rupees 50 (£1) per bicycle. </span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I watched as the men, not all of them young, staggered over rocky and unforgiving terrain. Why couldn’t they hitch a lift back on the empty trucks instead of walking all that way? It was a strange set up born from need, yet convoluted in its execution. </span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Our drive up to the Khyber Pass was unforgettable and without problems, until we entered back into Peshawar, where we became caught up in a rather unfortunate little incident. We were driving along a dual carriage way on the inside lane and Alan stuck his hand out of the window to indicate that he was overtaking a donkey cart. No one in Pakistan used vehicle indicators, instead they seemed to re-wire such lights to make their vehicles more decorative. As Alan signaled, he noticed a Toyota car in the distance behind us. Knowing that he had time to pull out, he made his move, but the Toyota driver had other ideas and speeded up to our bumper blowing his horn, flashing his lights and intimidating us. Alan gave him the finger thinking that it might quieten him down. Unfortunately it had totally the opposite effect. Road rage it seemed was a global problem. As we pulled back the Toyota driver came up alongside us and could be seen shaking his fists and shouting angrily. I just hoped that he didn’t have a gun! In an attempt to lose him Alan made a sharp left turn, which gave us a short reprieve, but a few blocks down the road he caught us up again and carried on the pursuit with renewed fervor. This chap wasn’t friendly and I sheepishly looked to our armed guard for some guidance. It was then the Toyota nutter abruptly pulled up in front of us, causing us to skid to a halt. Alan jumped out, closely followed by our armed guard, and me. The Toyota nutter was a well dressed, over fed, fat bastard and spoke very good English and I hated him from the minute I saw him. </span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">‘Why didn’t you use your indicators? You didn’t use your indicators and you gave obscene gestures to my brother. No one gives obscene gestures to my brother.’ He said shaking with rage and waiving his finger provocatively in Alan’s face. His brother an equally well dressed man and positively skinny, probably due to his big brother ensuring that he had the larger portions, timidly stood in his brother’s shadow, with a <i>‘Don’t look at me I’m invisible’</i> expression on his face. </span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">‘Actually, I did indicate, I stuck my hand out of the window, but you chose to speed up and I gave the finger to <i>you</i> and not your brother.’ Retorted Alan. </span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">‘How dare you do this?’ Said the nutter gearing his self up ready to strike the first blow. ‘I’ve travelled the world and everyone uses their indicators.’ ‘No they don’t.’ I chelped, as I bravely positioned myself between Alan and the nutter. ‘I’ve yet to see anyone use their indicators in Pakistan.’ </span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">‘Darling, let me handle this.’ Interrupted Alan as he protectively brushed me aside. For just a moment the possessed Toyota nutter stood lost for words with a look that said, <i>‘Can’t you keep your wife under control?’</i> He turned to his brother for some back up. Support was not forthcoming. His skinny brother remained silent and invisible. We were now attracting quite a fast growing audience, with pedestrians and road users unable to overcome the urge to stop and see what all the commotion was about. </span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">‘You made obscene gestures to my brother…’ He was some rich kid having a major tantrum. I was expected him to start stamping his feet and roll around on the ground because he wasn’t getting his own way, but with my camera in hand ready to capture the moment, he sadly disappointed me. The whole scene was beginning to turn ugly, mainly due to the Toyota nutter not having a sense of humour. Our armed guard put his hand on Alan’s chest and gestured for us all to get back in the Sherpa and go. As we did we left the Toyota nutter chuntering on to an unsympathetic audience, who were walking off and leaving him and his brother to it. Our armed guard summed it all up with one gesture. <i>‘He was mad!’</i> Of our 6 weeks in Pakistan, the Toyota nutter was the only hostile person we had the misfortune to meet.</span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Pakistan was a fabulous place for those who had the guts to try it and I am glad that we were not influenced by unfounded western precautions and preconceptions which would have totally spoilt our visit by creating barriers. I realized that there are many people in the West, who spread rumors about other countries, of which they know nothing about, nor have ever visited, even calling themselves “experts.” In the West we have become so reliant on these “experts” that we fail to even try and see things for ourselves, in the process failing to see anything at all. It is this ignorance that creates religious and cultural barriers, often denying us wonderful friendships and adventures.</span></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2Ej117f-9NFj9juhFdVvnGOVSIzFW1kpDRehDtZsMDbcG_SyL7Uaqe-F90PZxmRSusZqnHSUL2kRiXzitDaNk3sgk-1gWKcn8OVCvH4JNOiVe2K0nKUgj8UDN_9vkb8L60MNRT8VtU4I/s1600/Pt+4+Photo+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="216" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2Ej117f-9NFj9juhFdVvnGOVSIzFW1kpDRehDtZsMDbcG_SyL7Uaqe-F90PZxmRSusZqnHSUL2kRiXzitDaNk3sgk-1gWKcn8OVCvH4JNOiVe2K0nKUgj8UDN_9vkb8L60MNRT8VtU4I/s320/Pt+4+Photo+1.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Peshawar market. Pakistan.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrzySd9FC_6z98JDD_Qw_5cbbul89aLqYjedwZZU1YZw-JBPUgqF8CGrkDLg95-wQhwZr6lZds2jgk-lqL8dshAbgJKL3tTid9bipxVwjil8dqWZXeEbUbWbU17rhxAcq5v4kUqEVXQz8/s1600/Pt+4+Photo+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrzySd9FC_6z98JDD_Qw_5cbbul89aLqYjedwZZU1YZw-JBPUgqF8CGrkDLg95-wQhwZr6lZds2jgk-lqL8dshAbgJKL3tTid9bipxVwjil8dqWZXeEbUbWbU17rhxAcq5v4kUqEVXQz8/s320/Pt+4+Photo+2.jpg" width="222" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Peshawar town Pakistan.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGj-7rZBzDPbWs-Poa-TIHVJzPwpI7pteR6rtnp3ZlLuPHqEluAxiYtJYWe-fkfWXj65RdUynGoa_7VpBBg1YmivjHRBypfLMuJItcpmP8tE2Xx5wTxwBWdYdZaDj06E9BwICEDYwE_qo/s1600/Pt+4+Photo+3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="222" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGj-7rZBzDPbWs-Poa-TIHVJzPwpI7pteR6rtnp3ZlLuPHqEluAxiYtJYWe-fkfWXj65RdUynGoa_7VpBBg1YmivjHRBypfLMuJItcpmP8tE2Xx5wTxwBWdYdZaDj06E9BwICEDYwE_qo/s320/Pt+4+Photo+3.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Police check point up the Khyber Pass. Pakistan.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOLqETmW4fqNzZvLua5K9HqrY5_Pi4WmnNQjdE45ow3DDLneUtbtK_xbaWc8xcDigqe7y5T4t9XCOqA-Ji7tUNsI9tgYhBY8l8NT7xA2WnjnQtvKwjwDlQGQaD2SCqh_IIfkOFNqdLzG8/s1600/Pt+4+Photo+4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="221" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOLqETmW4fqNzZvLua5K9HqrY5_Pi4WmnNQjdE45ow3DDLneUtbtK_xbaWc8xcDigqe7y5T4t9XCOqA-Ji7tUNsI9tgYhBY8l8NT7xA2WnjnQtvKwjwDlQGQaD2SCqh_IIfkOFNqdLzG8/s320/Pt+4+Photo+4.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sherpie and our guard up the Khyber Pass.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEho4Hy-Y2W9TuEBlpJgxdE6FV59eTWj6D0Tdi1vTnsyvXwmIBaM4MIuTIayizbJ9ou7Q_SSxk3Rc8ggLIeJNlBmuqzci8Wy5YO69fXFZanOrYjGLkqXzemxBhPPw-rIUby67N9Vtx0u9Zg/s1600/Pt+4+photo+5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="132" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEho4Hy-Y2W9TuEBlpJgxdE6FV59eTWj6D0Tdi1vTnsyvXwmIBaM4MIuTIayizbJ9ou7Q_SSxk3Rc8ggLIeJNlBmuqzci8Wy5YO69fXFZanOrYjGLkqXzemxBhPPw-rIUby67N9Vtx0u9Zg/s320/Pt+4+photo+5.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Khyber Pass, Afghanistan in background.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTTAooIQGt1LhscU6cHKMK8Vkg5KEGzoRS07lmEnx2wv5iTNReoyHHq_7gqJ3DL3_nlqkQ6aaIM__rxu5Ws9gWx_9rniHQDNZWdnL0ItVdYXwgvVD-tru8uzSaq5fB6PDRuulCW4RnPQI/s1600/Pt+4+Photo+6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="218" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTTAooIQGt1LhscU6cHKMK8Vkg5KEGzoRS07lmEnx2wv5iTNReoyHHq_7gqJ3DL3_nlqkQ6aaIM__rxu5Ws9gWx_9rniHQDNZWdnL0ItVdYXwgvVD-tru8uzSaq5fB6PDRuulCW4RnPQI/s320/Pt+4+Photo+6.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Khyber Pass.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUYMFwfAQyZadDoq45B-tS0MFbaaaUjzN21T8o2vE7ecs-AKjzJy67_NdR2ZZ-A1EeWe8umttIVthHxrEzDKZ-VvUeeJauGwbFD8f_ZlTcYkZfMyXacuVAqaet7ka-WithRqkQjb929uc/s1600/Pt+4+Photo+7.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="140" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUYMFwfAQyZadDoq45B-tS0MFbaaaUjzN21T8o2vE7ecs-AKjzJy67_NdR2ZZ-A1EeWe8umttIVthHxrEzDKZ-VvUeeJauGwbFD8f_ZlTcYkZfMyXacuVAqaet7ka-WithRqkQjb929uc/s320/Pt+4+Photo+7.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">1,000 Afghani note.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYBH5qLOTdr_1HmuhxoEAmvI7RRdwnzhni5rZ_pGtn-rXy3RD7xVG3ViCPgUz0mdKMLeutl_xldwdvgr_P1vQ6MOPuQ1Hnx11oK_XBJP2YO8W-R_RgPcQMvlrCMJcOFUYKu6OByv0j8CE/s1600/Pt+4+Photo+8.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="221" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYBH5qLOTdr_1HmuhxoEAmvI7RRdwnzhni5rZ_pGtn-rXy3RD7xVG3ViCPgUz0mdKMLeutl_xldwdvgr_P1vQ6MOPuQ1Hnx11oK_XBJP2YO8W-R_RgPcQMvlrCMJcOFUYKu6OByv0j8CE/s320/Pt+4+Photo+8.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Smugglers up the Khyber Pass.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJak52FdsiNBVNUsQNqkGMaEI3PLeaF1Xjo-tPy_70_dmnGOlmuTVfDELDA_ws5oefNo_UbRj9AsPrdjLqKIcvlBuIM_7buPiIlps6_Swjj_zqyf7wym8-kpPVVQ_912MtQU1eJP1kIeU/s1600/Pt+5+Photo+11.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJak52FdsiNBVNUsQNqkGMaEI3PLeaF1Xjo-tPy_70_dmnGOlmuTVfDELDA_ws5oefNo_UbRj9AsPrdjLqKIcvlBuIM_7buPiIlps6_Swjj_zqyf7wym8-kpPVVQ_912MtQU1eJP1kIeU/s320/Pt+5+Photo+11.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">3 local boys came to say hello.</td></tr>
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</span></div>VillageChick2http://www.blogger.com/profile/07264408718008103287noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-376132221645110367.post-24907095712110626602011-03-01T14:14:00.000+00:002011-04-11T17:14:39.794+01:00TRAVELS WITH OUR SHERPA. Pt 3<div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px; text-decoration: underline;"><b>PAKISTAN. STUCK IN THE BALUCHISTAN.</b></span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Pakistan was by far our favorite country. It came top of our list for hospitality, adventure, value for money and stunning scenery. All the negative things that were told about Pakistan by the West, just didn’t happen to us or other travellers we met. That we would get robbed, shot and that the men would have little respect for me as a western woman. It wasn’t true. Every Pakistani we met, (except one) couldn’t do enough to help us and make our visit a happy one. My only disappointment was that I didn’t meet many women. Women led a very traditional life, staying at home looking after the family. In some rural areas, women only ventured outside when wearing a <i>Burqa, </i>a sort of complete covering of a huge round table cloth, with a material mesh window for the face. <i>Burqas </i>were not so common in the cities, where women, held jobs and dressed in a more relaxed manner. I adopted the traditional <i>Shalwar Khamese,</i> baggy long trousers, covered by a long dress, and had no problems.</span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Pakistan is not for the faint hearted. But for the rough and ready seasoned traveller who know to expect the unexpected. If you are open-minded, down-to-earth and dress conservatively, you’ll have a wonderful time.</span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Our first impression of Pakistan at the Iranian/Pakistan border was how filthy it looked. Rubbish, mostly plastic was strewn all over the streets, piled high in some places and men urinated on the rubbish piles, adding to the unsavory odours of rotting rubbish and dead dogs. On top of that the border town looked run down, dingy and had a very healthy population of flies.</span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">As we sat in the overcrowded customs room, in the sweltering heat, I couldn’t help noticing a rather fancy arrangement of twigs and pieces of moss covering the entire and only window. </span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">‘What on earth is that?' I asked the official stamping my passport. </span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">‘Oh, that’s our air-conditioning unit.’ He proudly exclaimed. </span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">‘Well you’d better get it turned up then.’ Quipped Alan as he mopped his brow. The official then ordered one of the office minions to turn it up. This was achieved by flicking water on the arrangement, allowing it to evaporate, so cooling, if only feebly, the temperature of the office.</span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">From the border we had to cross the potentially dangerous Baluchistan Desert, the only road being a rough broken tarmac track, of roughly 300 miles. Having made sure we had a full tank and plenty of water, we set off. The Baluchistan was just miles of semi-desert scrub land. In parts, desert storms had covered the track, making driving in a non-4X4 difficult. In the event of a break down, RAC recovery didn’t stretch this far! The route was quite well frequented by Iranian truckers carrying fuel and other provisions into Pakistan. We had met up with two travellers, a Brit called Lorraine and her partner from New Zealand, Shane. They were in a Land Rover and agreed to travel with us for the crossing. Also traveling at the same time were a German couple with two cats. They had got held up at the border due to their suspicious cargo. Religious statues rapped up in bandages! They were on a religious mission for the Catholic Bishop of Madras. They told us that they had done the same trip 4 years ago, in search of the meaning of life, but didn’t find it!</span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Our desert crossing was going well until we decided to try and drive from the old road to the new road, which had just been built but not officially opened. In between the two was an area of soft, deep sand, which didn’t look good. We watched Shane and Lorraine make it to the new road in their 4X4 Land Rover, then we (Alan) tried. I knew what was coming, that we were going to get stuck, but my predictions were falling on deaf ears. All I could do was grip my seat and wait for us to grind to a halt. We did get stuck, being unable to move backwards or forwards. I was informed that my quip, ‘I told you so.’ Was typically female and that I couldn’t have possibly have predicted the results of momentum, speed and weights involved, in such a difficult manoeuvre! Shane tried to pull us free, but couldn’t do it, mumbling something about his clutch. A huge 6X6 Volvo construction </span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">truck coming the other way tried, but our super duper heavy duty towing rope from a well known car accessory shop, snapped 4 times. The German couple eventually caught us up and pulled us back with their multi stranded, metal tug boat rope. </span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">At the Sind/Punjab border we were stopped and asked to wait for an escort. Apparently a military coup was looming and there was civil unrest, and as visitors we were to be kept safe at all times. As we waited at the state border Zafar, a very friendly policeman insisted that we partake of refreshments. A tea slurping, biscuit eating, uniform swapping, photo session ensued and we were so busy enjoying ourselves, that we didn’t notice a Toyota Jeep with a sub-machine gun mounted on top, underneath which sat six more armed police. </span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">‘Your escort has arrived.’ Proclaimed Zafar. </span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Our escort lasted three days and took us to Lahore. It travelled in front of us with the sub-machine gun being pointed in all directions and the other armed police hanging out of the back of the jeep, guns in hand, ready to stop anyone who dared to come between us. So that we were not held up in towns, road blocks had been set up and the public held back by more armed police, who saluted us as we swept through the town. We were being treated like royalty. The most impressive manoeuvres were the rolling change-overs. Every few hours a blockade had been set up with the next escort waiting to take over, all executed with military precision. It was impressive. We parted with our escort at the YWCA, Lahore and parked up in their gardens. Lahore was a very dusty, dirty, polluted, crowded, chaotic and smelly city, but the people were most friendly. </span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">We decided to drive the Karakorum Highway, the high road to China. The road grips the valley walls through the Karakorum Mountain range, home of K2. The KKH was originally built in 1959, to link Gilgit, some 840 kms away, to the rest of Pakistan. Later it was extended from Gilgit to Sust and into China. At the peak of construction 25,000 men were employed to build the road, which included; 24 bridges, 70 smaller bridges, 1,708 high class culverts, using; 8 million tons of dynamite to move 30 million tons of earth and rock. After the addition of 80 million tons of cement the KKH was finally completed in 1978. The chief engineer is said to have stated that, ‘No road has been more difficult.’ Whilst the construction was an incredible achievement, it also had a dark side. It left 400 dead and 314 seriously injured, though many of those involved would argue that the figures were appreciably higher. Due to weather damage and seismic activity, repairing and keeping the KKH open, is an ongoing process. The road is often impassable during the winter months. We had to drive over numerous landsides and negotiate rough tracks to avoid sliding glaciers. The scenery was awesome and we were made most welcome, wherever we stopped.</span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Half way up the KKH, our clutch got stuck in 2</span><span style="font: 9.3px 'Times New Roman'; letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><sup>nd</sup></span><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"> gear. We managed to crawl to the next village, where the local tailor took control. He summoned a small garage into action, with the remainder of the village coming to watch. With a flurry of activity a couple of young lads instantly took the gearbox out, mended the clutch and had us ready to roll again within 1</span><span style="font: 14.0px 'Courier New'; letter-spacing: 0.0px;">½</span><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"> hours, even though they had probably never seen a Sherpa before. The job cost a mere $10 and the gearbox didn’t give us a moment’s trouble, all the way home. </span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Pakistani trucks and buses must be some of the most highly decorated in the world. The hours invested to painstakingly decorate with painted pictures, attachments of chains, baubles and dangly bits, is mind-boggling! The vast majority of truckers would blow their fancy horns as they passed us, at the same time giving us a heart felt smile and wave, to welcome us to Pakistan. </span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Pakistan made our hearts smile. They were proud of their country and accepted us as we were. Whilst they might appear to be living in the past, their acts of concern and hospitality are far superior to ours in the West. Never would they ignore one of their own or a foreigner who needed help. What a pity I am unable to say the same for the English!</span></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFhr4R4v_MJZGRHYnphyphenhyphenRsN56q8Gjb45UQtrLJvQAb50iA-7tIdslDXo4Z0keBNKvco-cbsHxJ14m9L1RLpazxqKXBlBSVqcERP_5i55OUDlA6IfTuDAFzsft2ksCSwEk78ER9X9Dej6w/s1600/Pt+3+Phot+8.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFhr4R4v_MJZGRHYnphyphenhyphenRsN56q8Gjb45UQtrLJvQAb50iA-7tIdslDXo4Z0keBNKvco-cbsHxJ14m9L1RLpazxqKXBlBSVqcERP_5i55OUDlA6IfTuDAFzsft2ksCSwEk78ER9X9Dej6w/s320/Pt+3+Phot+8.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Police border post, Sind/Punjab border.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTfZLHUrBqo23ZdHZCm69yDcc5XSVwa42O3BIOALmKyL-wfaSnklCj3Etz0I08thAFNIfHvmoJ3UPW0bRzsZMlpsLuNAoSg-1CovHGdzBPmW1_Jgk6BONp5foN5oTMVqJVgBjBPOmMdhI/s1600/Pt+3+Photo+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="187" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTfZLHUrBqo23ZdHZCm69yDcc5XSVwa42O3BIOALmKyL-wfaSnklCj3Etz0I08thAFNIfHvmoJ3UPW0bRzsZMlpsLuNAoSg-1CovHGdzBPmW1_Jgk6BONp5foN5oTMVqJVgBjBPOmMdhI/s320/Pt+3+Photo+2.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">5 Rupee note.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAfoqMx_0BXZHzPSaezPgNej5bzJSmLFSFCRdJNBHJmeyN_09_4kcVT8nKVAi9hhZTPRwTe7lkvudal1NHwhfczTWErCklRsX2qdcTvsq2TaRDuhECzpUe9X86ikNS6BnLL2-ArZ65s_g/s1600/Pt+3+Photo+4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAfoqMx_0BXZHzPSaezPgNej5bzJSmLFSFCRdJNBHJmeyN_09_4kcVT8nKVAi9hhZTPRwTe7lkvudal1NHwhfczTWErCklRsX2qdcTvsq2TaRDuhECzpUe9X86ikNS6BnLL2-ArZ65s_g/s320/Pt+3+Photo+4.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">377 miles of Baluchistan Desert, Iran/Pakistan border.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Getting stuck in the Baluchistan.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbeFcJ7-Xyw97z0JyNcHab9NWTGNjm-j7Aqu1EIMM0zcsYKhnyJRR8kXHF2ASjJ3ri5YIO436hJFUaWJ2vN4mM4w1QNC8p3UxYxd8qZrOohDwwYY_nccdk9nwk1oRlxDkD0wx34ptiwC8/s1600/Pt+3+Photo+6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbeFcJ7-Xyw97z0JyNcHab9NWTGNjm-j7Aqu1EIMM0zcsYKhnyJRR8kXHF2ASjJ3ri5YIO436hJFUaWJ2vN4mM4w1QNC8p3UxYxd8qZrOohDwwYY_nccdk9nwk1oRlxDkD0wx34ptiwC8/s320/Pt+3+Photo+6.jpg" width="209" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Local Baluchistan bus.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our escort from Sind/Punjab border.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2FH5PFnsDgQFg6DvNXI8bJcnQ3kwEvAyRX_ZtZb_THGjoMucTcgnjpGkwxSH6TTiXWnXsPEh074US3UIpr6rPYrGjkNLZuX5ZgAUfgW2EamfvyWWDQY50EuRElhpV2WBL9k0sqqlMKiY/s1600/Pt+3+photo+11.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2FH5PFnsDgQFg6DvNXI8bJcnQ3kwEvAyRX_ZtZb_THGjoMucTcgnjpGkwxSH6TTiXWnXsPEh074US3UIpr6rPYrGjkNLZuX5ZgAUfgW2EamfvyWWDQY50EuRElhpV2WBL9k0sqqlMKiY/s320/Pt+3+photo+11.jpg" width="220" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sherpie up the Karakorum Highway. KKH.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgg2eikfk5IYsdTJZ09D3Ejw1LakdqEiKx8YnCkweUTHpZt9EEsDvdr9hm3l09aCs9NDSq-CoJ6iW-5lVS8eLmehhAWbLCVNjIDxnep4zwLz9COtKMBvfFM5vK3j9uEaE1hPCJgykOY4pI/s1600/Pt+3+Photo+13.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="209" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgg2eikfk5IYsdTJZ09D3Ejw1LakdqEiKx8YnCkweUTHpZt9EEsDvdr9hm3l09aCs9NDSq-CoJ6iW-5lVS8eLmehhAWbLCVNjIDxnep4zwLz9COtKMBvfFM5vK3j9uEaE1hPCJgykOY4pI/s320/Pt+3+Photo+13.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Rush hour traffic up the KKH.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7VDd3u1yaIwyj0HGPTpMa3kKOICd37NCt_hgmfIXqYMOaTBZzbTxAvMLesbzV6U9enc3iIwlYP-LbhGTw2ATraaZXgNogN_EnSbFkqcMO_fR66_pFVXVKQsgjCcGc-JL9cdGVfAB16Wg/s1600/Pt+3+Photo+17.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="206" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7VDd3u1yaIwyj0HGPTpMa3kKOICd37NCt_hgmfIXqYMOaTBZzbTxAvMLesbzV6U9enc3iIwlYP-LbhGTw2ATraaZXgNogN_EnSbFkqcMO_fR66_pFVXVKQsgjCcGc-JL9cdGVfAB16Wg/s320/Pt+3+Photo+17.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A Pakistani trucker and his highly decorated truck.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVlHudKQFknIM8bAMnIe1Ox_eAXZFXMgrtPb4iOLD9-OlXb73x_FrQ-1Wfqg_0WLnL6AAUHkhTJyKAuuC6A9kwoDv4OqgxXlXv2rxIzs3Xa-adUHlnvNzRxN4o2IT742WBYPq01p_faT8/s1600/Pt3+Photo+18.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="207" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVlHudKQFknIM8bAMnIe1Ox_eAXZFXMgrtPb4iOLD9-OlXb73x_FrQ-1Wfqg_0WLnL6AAUHkhTJyKAuuC6A9kwoDv4OqgxXlXv2rxIzs3Xa-adUHlnvNzRxN4o2IT742WBYPq01p_faT8/s320/Pt3+Photo+18.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">More of the truck.</td></tr>
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</span></div>VillageChick2http://www.blogger.com/profile/07264408718008103287noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-376132221645110367.post-17324405352230094862011-03-01T14:05:00.000+00:002011-04-11T17:14:39.794+01:00TRAVELS WITH OUR SHERPA . Pt 2<div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 3.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px; text-decoration: underline;"><b>IRAN</b></span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">We approached the Iranian border with a little fear and in trepidation. I was suitably frumpy, shapeless and covered, with hijab (head cover, law for all women) and munto (baggy coat). Contrary to Mad Max’s information it wasn’t the women that were separated from the men, but the drivers from the passengers. The most bizarre part of customs was having an official ask if we had contraband in the form of a pack of playing cards! </span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Iran was the first country to stamp our important Carnet de Passage document for the waiver of our vehicle import duties.</span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">The first thing we had to do in Iran was re-fuel. Filling stations were full of old petrol Land Rovers, old Hillman Hunters, very old Hillman Hunters, and new Hillman Hunters. They were every where! Rootes, the British company sold Hillman Hunters in kit form to Iran from 1969-87 during which time Iran could not import fully assembled cars. After 1987 Iran bought the rights to the Hillman Hunters and started to make them under the name of <i>Peykan</i>. Filling our tank, four Jerry cans, and two litre bottles of coke, we received a handful of change out of a $1 bill! (Diesel was 1p Litre!)</span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">We only had a five day transit visa which we had been told could not be extended. Iran was 1,628 miles across via the shortest route. Visiting Isfahan and Shiraz would add roughly an extra 703 miles. Roads were excellent driving roads, in fact better than many English ones, considering that Iranians didn’t pay any road tax! They were mainly dual carriage ways between large towns, and Iranian truckers would always flash their lights and sound their musical horns as soon as they noticed that we were a foreign vehicle. </span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Tehran is a huge sprawling city, with a population of about 10 million. People, and was our rendezvous with our friend Hissam. We had arranged to meet him at the toll gate just outside Tehran. </span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">As we approached the toll kiosk the attendant asked us where we were from. </span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">‘England.’ we told him. </span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"> ‘You are very welcome in Iran, the toll for you is free.’ </span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Hissam was a psychologist and worked for a rehabilitation centre in Tehran, which helped those with drug and alcohol addiction and those who had attempted suicide. <i>...........Alcohol addiction in Iran!</i> With the importation and sale of alcohol strictly prohibited anyone caught doing so would be faced with a prison sentence and possibly death. Hissam explained that alcohol being impossible to buy, industrious Iranians simply brewed it themselves. He told us, </span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">‘Since the revolution the strict changes of law and conduct have left many people feeling confused, angry and rebellious. They end up being very depressed and frustrated and look for an escape. Addiction is simply a way out for some people.’ Hissam in a sombre mood continued. ‘Iran was a beautiful, very wealthy and developed country during the time of the Shah. Although things were not perfect, Iranian citizens enjoyed freedoms then, that they can only dream of now. Can you imagine what it must be like for a man not to be able to sit next to his wife on a public bus or to be able to take her for a game of tennis or even to be able to take his family to the beach and swim with them? Still today these things are not possible. Men must sit separate to women on public transport and on the beach women and girls must bathe under the covered section of the beach away from the men and the boys. All of these restrictions put tremendous pressures on carrying out a normal family life.’ </span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">En-route to Empire Park we passed a large housing estate West of the city, known as Ekbatan Flats. They were built in the reign of the Shah and it is said that when viewed from above, the lay out of the flats reads in Persian, <i>Javid Shah </i> ‘Long live the Shah.’ Apparently when the Ayatollah came to power he wanted to change the message to <i>Javid Khomeini</i>, ‘Long Live Khomeini’ but the project proved too costly and complicated and was abandoned. The Ayatollah also tried to change hospitals, by making them either for females or males, but with the mass exodus of professionals after the revolution, this also proved too problematic and had to be abandoned! </span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Located in the North of Tehran, Empire Park (or National Park under the Shah) is home to some beautifully manicured lawns and gardens, a complete contrast to the drab, dusty streets of Tehran. At the weekends families and friends came by the car load to picnic and enjoy the peace and tranquillity of the gardens. The park though well kept today, must have been a sumptuous and ambitious project in the days of the Shah with its fountains and waterfalls, small lakes and aviary. Surrounded by trees the Shah instructed that each one be fitted with identity plates, giving origin, age and type. After the revolution the mullahs had all the plates removed, claiming that it was petty nonsense! </span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">We were now beginning to enjoy Iran and her people and as a consequence wanted to extend our visas. At the <i>Alien’s Bureau </i>(should translate Foreigner’s Bureau) we had to complete three duplicate forms and hand them in accompanied by three photos. The official took our paperwork, but then handed mine back. </span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">‘What’s wrong?’ I quizzed. </span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">‘I cannot accept these.’ said the official. </span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">‘But why, what’s wrong with them?’ I asked.</span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">‘Ma’am, it is forbidden under the regulations of the Islamic Republic of Iran for me to accept a photo of an unveiled woman.’ </span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">‘But you’ve just taken a photocopy of the same photo on my passport and that is a picture of me unveiled.’ I went on but with little effect, ‘Surely <i>that </i>must be in contravention of the regulations of the Islamic Republic of Iran!’ I was told that it was just silly rules and that the official granting the extensions was a very religious man and that he might not like my face unveiled and as a consequence may not issue the extension! </span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">‘It’s not a problem, you can walk a few streets away and get your photo taken and return.’ Two and half hours later we had completed the task.</span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I asked Hissam, why as a professional he didn’t leave Iran along with the millions of other professionals who escaped the Ayatollah’s strict and repressive regime. His answer was short and simple. </span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">‘Iran is my country. If all the professionals leave, there will be no one left. Some one has to stay and help the changes.’ We silently drove back to Hissam’s house, resigned to the fact that we would once more have to visit the ‘<i>Alien’s Bureau’</i> in a couple of days time to collect our visas. </span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">In Esfahan, we were parked a little distance from the main square, so we flagged down a Hillman Hunter taxi. We gave our destination to the driver and before we barely had time to get in and shut the door, there was a screech of tyres and we were thrown back into our seats by the accelerating car. What followed resembled a clip out of a 007 movie as the taxi sped through the streets of Esfahan at breakneck speeds, swerving and weaving in and out of the main traffic. Suddenly he swerved into a covered alleyway and accelerated through a maize of ancient narrow market ways, sending pedestrians, cycles , and donkey carts, jumping for their life! At the mercy of centrifugal forces, we were thrown from one side of the back seat to the other, eventually screeching to a halt in the main square.</span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">We sat in silence as the driver watched our faces in the rear view mirror.</span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"> ‘You are welcome in Iran.’ He told us.</span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">The main square in Isfahan, Meidun-e Eman Khomeini, built in 1612 and covering an area of about 20 acres is the second largest square in the world. The largest being Tiananmen Square, China. Shops and mosques line the square with blue tiled onion domes and minarets standing out in front of a back drop of clear blue skies. Lush green lawns dotted with healthy green trees brought the square to life. If you focused on the buildings it was easy to believe that you still in the year 1612, since which little seemed to have changed. </span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I liked Iran and her people, and we were shown acts of friendship throughout our travels in Iran, which were heart-felt and genuine. One day we were driving between towns and a gentleman passed us in a Hillman Hunter waiving a teapot out of his window! He simply wanted us to stop and drink tea with him. But I was shocked to find that Iran, a ‘cleansed Islamic regime’ had so many problems, just like the rest of us. I somehow expected Iranians to live perfect lives under the strict religious code of conduct, that professed to know what was best for everyone in the name of Islam. I understood that Islam and Moslems are not always the same and that Iranians were struggling with the oppressive regime of the Ayatollah.</span></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2LCdsKhJtGBYviTz1hleQwqQjU7kuv1dH_2jy4-EMVIVeya99_zvV3bn852ivK4wxrudXwHteZT2LpbyFYfobjX8byNRiWcwxtBgOaHS35laivr8OesbCvrRLoI22hUcLy4Fm_rcwdhc/s1600/Pt+2+Photo+6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="128" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2LCdsKhJtGBYviTz1hleQwqQjU7kuv1dH_2jy4-EMVIVeya99_zvV3bn852ivK4wxrudXwHteZT2LpbyFYfobjX8byNRiWcwxtBgOaHS35laivr8OesbCvrRLoI22hUcLy4Fm_rcwdhc/s320/Pt+2+Photo+6.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">On the road in Iran</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfOm8pQFnGTUbalXC4kNybkiPl-FKwmMxxBaRQymb8DyilOie7Cz8_7ZXzExJGmJP-wfWWj3BPGOtFJOUuc0_vqWXrdCZth35pWBbZYeVFYWYj1tjS-IEWiVMzmtXQnUkIA2MM2GPpZ8U/s1600/Pt+2+Photo+7.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="201" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfOm8pQFnGTUbalXC4kNybkiPl-FKwmMxxBaRQymb8DyilOie7Cz8_7ZXzExJGmJP-wfWWj3BPGOtFJOUuc0_vqWXrdCZth35pWBbZYeVFYWYj1tjS-IEWiVMzmtXQnUkIA2MM2GPpZ8U/s320/Pt+2+Photo+7.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Iman Square, Esfahan, Iran. Sherpa under 6th arch from left.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkoB7G4AQaS3Tkj1N9neFJeDkc8cCL7qMjfBuoJifgwmDMNgvRZvEwP8zOQSnUQgTEUlH987rHqNOwMsvalvQcjHqrjNJWEHQVOI7pEU0AWOzeWxQxHPe7PDkFyr55pJNz5SkKkM_vGJs/s1600/Pt+2+Photo+8.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="199" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkoB7G4AQaS3Tkj1N9neFJeDkc8cCL7qMjfBuoJifgwmDMNgvRZvEwP8zOQSnUQgTEUlH987rHqNOwMsvalvQcjHqrjNJWEHQVOI7pEU0AWOzeWxQxHPe7PDkFyr55pJNz5SkKkM_vGJs/s320/Pt+2+Photo+8.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Blue Mosque, Esfahan.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiMjM-o2FiX6Wm9GxA-sEl_Al3XwNtqpkLK_X4dXCSbbjGjWBJ47Xb_mRm3tH6AQAZ5DO_F-Ln657-76G94OXl95Ohc6Cn9-zfsMM4Smw_wyCqdmU8cI4HHFp_LaRVCNKeUeR_MCF7x3M/s1600/Pt+2+Photo+10.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiMjM-o2FiX6Wm9GxA-sEl_Al3XwNtqpkLK_X4dXCSbbjGjWBJ47Xb_mRm3tH6AQAZ5DO_F-Ln657-76G94OXl95Ohc6Cn9-zfsMM4Smw_wyCqdmU8cI4HHFp_LaRVCNKeUeR_MCF7x3M/s320/Pt+2+Photo+10.jpg" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Blue Mosque, Esfahan.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcNHtVQL0e_-GTyLufRutgL-ymzu93VxuHbStLCuN5PAv55v1EO5PwjYlkIwylokF6iDvIdiSluNWp0MulzLCxmis7px9l6DVHHycciOe4FCY1xBOUSoUab2rTd4nk9fcgTWPJ4Zf6FRY/s1600/Pt+2+Photo+12.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="175" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcNHtVQL0e_-GTyLufRutgL-ymzu93VxuHbStLCuN5PAv55v1EO5PwjYlkIwylokF6iDvIdiSluNWp0MulzLCxmis7px9l6DVHHycciOe4FCY1xBOUSoUab2rTd4nk9fcgTWPJ4Zf6FRY/s320/Pt+2+Photo+12.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Friday prayers.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUH9Y3TxhTRcNi5r2IGakBu2oIHkpcOEcaZf8B4kzDot6mW_RPu0cbRlOw53jKRms_NMpYaZf-dhVPcKzZM3ZnZ1EjR1OgZ5pB6GMTMt_-JIgYK5TYsq0dvr5fjkbB_wKjvOHeU-6m4aQ/s1600/Pt+2+Photo+15.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="199" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUH9Y3TxhTRcNi5r2IGakBu2oIHkpcOEcaZf8B4kzDot6mW_RPu0cbRlOw53jKRms_NMpYaZf-dhVPcKzZM3ZnZ1EjR1OgZ5pB6GMTMt_-JIgYK5TYsq0dvr5fjkbB_wKjvOHeU-6m4aQ/s320/Pt+2+Photo+15.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bas relief Persepolis, Iran.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfZll0UQnbZwXqzwTrhwFMR5E3u2SrWQe4Sz03Vhr7VN5wOsKPqyluQ0r6golAZVrtN1iQJ_diDjuSSIWYl5QQEC6Pl2-cureIhrptLroJN9jVOEkTyy6_03J5_70i3oc3E2SuHx0T4C4/s1600/Pt+8+Photo+17.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="100" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfZll0UQnbZwXqzwTrhwFMR5E3u2SrWQe4Sz03Vhr7VN5wOsKPqyluQ0r6golAZVrtN1iQJ_diDjuSSIWYl5QQEC6Pl2-cureIhrptLroJN9jVOEkTyy6_03J5_70i3oc3E2SuHx0T4C4/s320/Pt+8+Photo+17.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Salt lakes near Shiraz, Iran.</td></tr>
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</span></div>VillageChick2http://www.blogger.com/profile/07264408718008103287noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-376132221645110367.post-58773720952309628772011-03-01T12:58:00.000+00:002011-04-11T17:14:39.795+01:00TRAVELS WITH OUR SHERPA. Pt 1<div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px; text-decoration: underline;"><b>NO PROBLEM.</b></span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Sick of the rat race in England, my husband and I decided to sell up and buy a camper van, and drive to Kathmandu, Nepal! We bought a 10 year old ex-British Rail ‘Sherpa’ canteen van, which cost £850 and with a few minor adjustments made it into a basic but comfortable camper. Some friends envied us, wanting to do the same but were too afraid. Others laughed at us. ‘You’re both mad. You’ll never make it to Dover in that!’ I seem to recall one of them saying smugly. But we did make it to Dover and Kathmandu, in fact 22,366 miles, 18 countries and 12 months later we arrived back on Dover docks all in one piece. Our route; England, France, Belgium, Germany, Czech Republic, Slovak Republic, Hungary, Romania, Bulgaria, Turkey, Iran, Pakistan, India, Nepal, returning via Greece, Italy, Austria and Holland. But were we really mad? Had we bitten off more than we could chew? The thought did cross our minds as we left the dismal August weather of England behind, along with the familiarity of our homeland and boarded the ferry to France. We were doing the whole trip on a wing and a prayer. We only had a handful of spare parts and a few good maps of Turkey, Iran, Pakistan and India. We had no satellite navigation, no RAC breakdown recovery, no mobile cell phones, no medical insurance, no life insurance, no jobs, no home to return to, no back-up plans, and not much money. And unlike Michael Palin, we had no BBC backing for when things went wrong. On the face of it, things didn’t look good. But we had faith in ourselves and our abilities, despite all the advice from well-meaning friends and family to the contrary. Our fears soon evaporated, as we watched the White Cliffs of Dover disappear behinds us, and faced up to the arduous journey ahead. I religiously kept a diary every day of our travels, which documented the hilarious, dangerous and sometimes sad occasions of our epic journey. My personal quest was to find the meaning of life and to find out if there really was more to life than a seemingly never ending cycle of work, eat, sleep, a mortgage, and a pension. I found far more than I bargained for. </span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Our route through Eastern Europe was to put it mildly, rather rapid. It took us both about a month to relax and enjoy the journey, instead of rushing around with the idea that we had to be there yesterday. The pressures of modern living, were initially proving a little hard to shake off. Buy the time we had settled into a relaxed travelling mode, we found ourselves at the Bulgarian, Turkish border. It was our first real border crossing and one which we will never forget.</span></div><div style="font: 18.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><b>Turkish Delight.</b></span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">After the grumpy Eastern Europeans, Turkey was a breath of fresh air. As our little Sherpa chugged up the leafy hills into no-man’s-land, it felt as though a huge depression had been lifted from our midst. At the large immigration/customs building, </span><span style="font: 16.0px 'Times New Roman'; letter-spacing: 0.0px;">w</span><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">e had to go and obtain an impressive array of stamps, stickers, signatures, and pieces of paper, from an equally impressive array of helpfully unlabeled doors, windows and apertures, which even the Indians were unable to match. It was by far the longest border crossing of our trip, taking almost two hours to complete. I am sure one of the stamps was to welcome us to the Turkish Millionaires Club, as we had changed £20 to 9,700,000 Turkish Lira.</span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Our first stop in Turkey was at a campsite on the Silivri Coast just before Istanbul, which resembled a refugee camp. Large canvas tents pitched closely together, covered with extra sheets of tarpaulin to protect the canvas from the effects of the sun. The men sat around talking to each other, and the children played around the camp and on the beach, whilst women sat outside their voluminous tents, preparing the evening meals. We were welcomed by Pedro, who found us a place to park behind all the tents. No sooner than we had parked, than women and children came with offerings of food, drink and friendship. Although no one could speak any English, we were made very welcome by everyone, and no one would accept any payment for our stay. We later realized that it was a Turkish campsite, where Turkish families from Istanbul would come every year for a week for two, bringing most of their household furniture with them on trailers towed by tractors, to put in the tents literally bringing everything but the kitchen sink.</span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Istanbul was a huge sprawling city, in which we had to obtain our Iranian visas. We camped at Atakoy Campsite on the coast and rode our cycles into Istanbul. This was a tad risky with the melee of traffic jostling for position, but it seemed the Turkish motorists were used to cyclists and gave us a wide berth. We obtained our Iranian visas each costing $50 each in just a matter of days, with minimum fuss. In fact we wondered why everyone warned us it would be difficult. It couldn’t have been easier.</span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Back at the campsite, a worrying situation was apparent. A young blonde German cyclist was pitching his bivouac just feet from our camper, his frame lean to the extreme, that his trousers were prevented from falling down by a piece of string. Being a very inquisitive person, I went and introduced myself, only to find to my horror that this young man had cycled from Germany and was on his way to INDIA! </span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">‘I must be moving early tomorrow. I have to get through Turkey before it gets too cold and into Iran before it gets too hot.’ </span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">‘Why don’t you catch a bus?’ I asked. He wasn’t impressed with my idea, and rushed off to the toilet block for a well earned shower. We woke the following morning to find only a patch of flattened grass, where his bivouac had been. I worried about him and hoped that we would pass him somewhere on the road. Another character on the campsite, was Mad Max, a German who wasted little time informing us why our Sherpa wouldn’t make it to India. </span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">‘You have no bumper, only a plastic one.’ He said kicking our standard Sherpa bumper with his big German feet. ‘There are so many cows in India, that you must have a strong bumper.’ He told us waiving his arms about for effect. ‘Pah! You only have single leaf suspension springs. They won’t last a day. Of course you must understand that the roads in India are very rough and springs break easily.’ He then stood back with arms folded and laughed. Mad Max, and his wife it seemed, had driven to India in their 30 year old Mercedes camper van 12 times. Their first drive was back in 1976, but this year they had only been as far as Iran. Mad Max didn’t like the Iranian’s restrictive rules and regulations, and warned us that we would be in for a tough time. </span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">‘Of course, when we started driving to India, there were no tourists, just travellers, who blended in and didn’t demand changes. Now the route is full of tourists, who have spoilt everything. Tourists are not travellers.’ Mad Max then gave us some maps and pointed to some good stopovers and which were the good roads in Pakistan and India. I took this as a compliment that we were indeed fellow travellers following the old hippie trail.</span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">We visited all the major sights in Turkey, spending a full 6 weeks working our way around the stunning coast. One of our favourite sites was Ephesus, of which only a very small part has been excavated. Ephesus was an old Roman port city which was once Asia’s capital, and boasts an impressive library, theatre, market place, houses, fountains to name but a few. Walking through its cobbled streets, fires your imagination to times past. </span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">It was in Turkey that I decided to write the names of the countries we had driven through on the side of the van. On seeing this list, the doorman at the gates of The Virgin Mary’s House, said to be the final home of The Virgin Mary during her later years, asked.</span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">‘I write “Viggin Mary House” he told us. I handed him a marker and watched him carefully write “Viggin Mary House.”</span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">As he stood back and admired his work, he said ‘Ah, entrance now for you free.’ Then waived us in. </span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 16.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span></div><div style="font: 14.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I was beginning to understand that travelling was not about sight seeing, but meeting and learning from others, sharing their company and accepting their differences. </span></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYWtlG175wYrcxj95d-Z6y0COaUvKQ6VTC6_68YKSq2XGGSn2AcnPUYDPDFOfdhrzmi_WFF7j2U14PDVjzn_b98b48Y3rXZPT0R4HF1nRAqSWzAYD2jTXBdJl-NC6HYG541Luc0NRd2mo/s1600/Pt+1+Photo+15.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="207" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYWtlG175wYrcxj95d-Z6y0COaUvKQ6VTC6_68YKSq2XGGSn2AcnPUYDPDFOfdhrzmi_WFF7j2U14PDVjzn_b98b48Y3rXZPT0R4HF1nRAqSWzAYD2jTXBdJl-NC6HYG541Luc0NRd2mo/s320/Pt+1+Photo+15.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our Sherpa in Cappadocia, Turkey.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cappadocia, Turkey.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiv2cozx6MXo5Lh2YsY0eD1b2bS09x-9GRF9-SYw5k19zVg83IH4vJ3ikZBMaAF5evQonIk8b-RwW3ccmt1Kf4OQpgFrAnCjmn-kRgv9WMrmkMZC-ACHRPFepuxoNP4EUizdouzddnfXSY/s1600/Pt+1+Photo+18.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="101" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiv2cozx6MXo5Lh2YsY0eD1b2bS09x-9GRF9-SYw5k19zVg83IH4vJ3ikZBMaAF5evQonIk8b-RwW3ccmt1Kf4OQpgFrAnCjmn-kRgv9WMrmkMZC-ACHRPFepuxoNP4EUizdouzddnfXSY/s320/Pt+1+Photo+18.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dogubayazit, near the Iranian border in Turkey.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Getting a service in Turkey.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mt Ararat near the Iranian border, said to be the final resting place of Noah's ark, in Turkey.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mad Max and his 30yr old Mercedes.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-lC6F6Z2uzj0ShA-IEfsaPjRm5VxI7N43-GtLEu99xG5RTFGHF4bVc3DodGrXvCRFEvjqaCw864-u5HMN3tiRGACtdxW-0o23OziHz82GwY6ZE79zevvaKNcjbMSVYeDY7b-FVuVEWHQ/s1600/Pt+1+Photo+14.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="228" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-lC6F6Z2uzj0ShA-IEfsaPjRm5VxI7N43-GtLEu99xG5RTFGHF4bVc3DodGrXvCRFEvjqaCw864-u5HMN3tiRGACtdxW-0o23OziHz82GwY6ZE79zevvaKNcjbMSVYeDY7b-FVuVEWHQ/s320/Pt+1+Photo+14.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Daylan Tombs, turkey.</td></tr>
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</span></div>VillageChick2http://www.blogger.com/profile/07264408718008103287noreply@blogger.com0