Supersize

Oh God, I am getting FAT!
The other day I discovered an underwear shop near the Warorot market. My ancient pink bra has been giving up the ghost for a while now and poking me horribly with its underwire. So I decided to replace it. Inside the underwear shop (no, let me rather call it a lingerie shop – it sounds much nicer) I found myself in a treasure trove of beautiful colours and laces and satins and prints and patterns. The bras were piled up in mounds (yeah, yeah - pun intended) – it was a tiny warehouse of pretty items. We pay so much for clothes in South Africa. You can get a stunning bra here for less than 100 baht. That’s about R25. We’d pay between R200 and R300, at a conservative guess, in SA. (Yeah, choke in horror.) So there I was, pawing through the piles of drool worthy undies like a dirty pervert when the Thai lady shop assistant approached me and cheerfully steered me over to the other side of the store, saying “Big sizes this side only!” Humph. I’m really not that big. In SA I’m kind of average, perhaps tending towards the smaller side of average. Turns out that in Thai bra sizes I’m a 38. THIRTY EIGHT??????? Holy crap! I feel like a porn star. The rest of me is not a thirty eight. Even when I got really porky and put on twelve kilos a few years ago (courtesy of dodgy home cooking supersize portions, a hectic schedule at Varsity, torn ligaments in the ankle and the resultant year and a half off exercise) I was still not a 38. 36? Perhaps. 38? Never.

Vanity leads me to append here that I have since lost ten of those twelve kilos. The two that refused to vacate my thighs, citing entitlement to permanent residence as a result of squatting rights (quite trendy in SA) remain a thorn in my side from which I cannot seem to rid myself. But even these two unwanted residents do not push me into serious plumpdom.

Now, at the end of last year, I changed my method of birth control due to concerns about whether or not I would be able to access the stuff in small and strange countries. Glossing over the itty bitty details, I noticed some changes. Some of these changes were good. Two changes in specific made me very happy. My boobs. Freed from their hormonal prison, they got bigger. Yay! But they did not get huge. They are far from what I would call huge. Which is why I was so startled to learn that I am a size 38 bra in Thailand. To me, a size 38 bra implies huge. It would seem that size 38 also implies huge to the Thais. Because the vast majority of size 38 Thai bras are engineered to control dangerous criminals. Straight jackets are also rendered obsolete - you strap a psych patient up in one of these things and there’s zero chance of self-inflicted damage. The Thai size 38 bra is stunning from the front – a symphony of different colours of lace. And then you turn it around to see straps that could be used to tow ships. Clearly size 38 breasts need to be drastically controlled, in case they whip out machine guns and lay waste to cities. (I’m getting an Austen Powers reference here…) It’s a bit mad. Looking at the back part of those bras I felt like Giant Western Freak Lady.

Pretty lace bra:



Egad! The other side! Those straps are thicker than my wrist:




All was not lost, however, and I did manage to track down a few pairs of massive-huge-step-aside-Pammy-quick-call-in-the-military-these-things-are-out-of-control-size-38 bras that had pretty cups and semi-normal straps. Chortling with glee I paid my R19.17 (at today’s forex rates) per bra and raced home to try them on one by one and stare in fascination at myself in the mirror. The other thing about Thai bras is that they are all padded. All of them. Really padded. Like – a lot. Thai bra manufacturers seem to believe that unruly size 38 breasts need to be controlled with industrial strength webbing and a cattle prod. Why then, WHY (I cry) do they pad them? Surely these (in the minds of the bra manufacturers) obscenely, abnormally huge protuberances don’t actually need to be emphasized and encouraged? But logic has clearly deserted them (perhaps temporary insanity induced by the thought of such massive gazongas) and size 38 bras are indeed padded. So yeah – I went home and put on my padded bras and little vest tops and peered at myself in awe in the mirror for the evening.

N told me the other day that he thinks that maybe, just maybe, the padding makes me look a little bit too large. I think he may be right. But hey – hopefully that will be remedied soon. When I lose weight. Because I appear to be getting fat. Gah! Not again! How can this be happening to me? (I shall ignore the obvious explanations, which involve the incredibleness of Thai cuisine and the utter lack of exercise over the past month and instead plump for the Moon being in Venus. Or somewhere. Or something. Because then maybe it will sort itself out without me having to stop eating or start exercising.)
Over the past week or so, I found myself to wondering (idly) whether I should perhaps be doing more exercise. Then last night I was changing (yes, to go to dinner) and I caught sight of myself in the mirror, in one of the new padded bras. “Hmmm”, I said to N “They do seem to be bigger than usual, don’t they?”
“Yes” he replied appreciatively, glancing up from his work.
“Hmmm. Well as long as the rest of me isn’t also getting bigger.”
And then I saw his quick, almost guilty sideways glance and I KNEW!
“Oh god! I am! Aren’t I?”
Slightly alarmed “Uh-oh – am I in the shit now?” look from N.
“No really – am I getting fatter?”
(What’s a guy supposed to say?)
He said “Um, do you want the truth?”
This elicited a squeal of dread, shock, horror, dismay and total and utter panic.
He handled it quite well, though. I was reassured that it “isn’t much, just a little bit all over and not all in one spot” and that it “doesn’t look bad” and that it “feels nice”.
This has tempered my initial horror but a low level dread remains. I am faced with the terrifying prospect of curtailing my intake of delicious Thai food. I really don’t want to have to do that. But the alternatives are too alarming to consider. I cannot swell to a size 40 bra! If I went into a lingerie shop and asked for a size 40 I might be captured by the shop owner and sold to the Thai Bra Lords for scientific experiments.

Ton Sai

Blogger’s Guilt is tormenting me. It has been far too long since a regular blog occurred on this page. To punish myself, I promise to take myself out of my room and down to the beach, and to seat myself at the bamboo tables of the beach restaurant. I will contemplate the sand and the lapping waves for a short while and think about how bad I have been. I will then order a coconut shake and drink it. To show myself how serious I am, I will refuse the decorative purple flower that comes with the shake. (Maybe. Unless it would hurt the waiter’s feelings.) Once I have forced the shake down, I will further reprimand myself by eating a Thai green curry with chicken. If, by the end of the meal, I feel that I have not yet learned my lesson, I will have to play hard-ball and get a pancake with honey. If that doesn’t work then clearly I’ll have to do it all again tomorrow.

I have decreed Ton Sai to be the food capital of the world. I have fallen madly in love with Thai food. The green curries, the tom yum soup, the seafood, the chicken with oyster sauce, the ginger, the chili, the spicy plum sauce on steamed fish, the sticky rice with mango. The list goes on and on. And I am drooling. My only problem with Thai food so far, is the intensity of spiciness. My tongue spontaneously combusts somewhere around the level where the average Thai starts to warm up. Most of the time it’s ok, because you can ask for “little spice.” There was one occasion where the language barrier triumphed - I got no spice at all and the seafood soup ended up a bit bland. And sometimes the Thai concept of what a “little” spice is and my concept do not entirely match up. This means that I end up sweating, sneezing and sniffling my way through the meal. But damn – it’s pretty fine torture.

To my immense dismay, N eats the same thing almost every meal. He eats a chicken pad thai. It appalls me to see a thrilling menu spread out before him like a culinary adventure and every night it’s “Chicken pad thai, please.” I may have mentioned before that N is not exactly a reckless diner. I have to guinea pig everything first.
I am congratulating myself wildly because I have recently engineered a foray into tom yum territory. I had tom yum seafood soup. I did not tell him it was seafood. I gave him a spoonful with no tentacles, eyes or wavy feeler bits hiding in it. I bullied him into eating the spoonful of soup and he admitted he liked it. His repertoire of chicken pad thai and chicken with cashew nuts has now been expanded to include tom yum chicken soup.

Tom yum is spicy, hot and sour soup. It comes with veggies and (in my case) seafood. You can also have it with noodles. It is absolutely delicious. It is head explodingly spicy. Every time we order it we pester the waiter to ensure that there is only a LITLE bit of spice, please! And it still sometimes borders on blistering the tongue. Last night the waiter thought it was terribly funny to bring the tom yum and set it down with a cheerful “Tom yum soup – extra spicy!” And then he cackled all the way back to the kitchen at our faces. Ha ha! Very funny…

I have booked myself onto a half day cooking course. I am terribly excited about it. To my great surprise, N has agreed to come with me. I am sure it is only because I mentioned that one of the dishes you can choose to learn is pad thai noodles. It looks like it is going to be great fun. First we will learn about the main spices and ingredients that go into Thai foods (ginger, chili, lemongrass, oyster sauce, fish sauce and so on) and how to blend them. The course includes at trip to the local market where we will get to hunt the spices in their native territory. Then we rush back to the cookery school (Smart Cook Thai Cookery School) like maniacs, clutching our spices and rubbing our hands in glee and we learn to cook mouth-watering Thai food. And another quite fun thing is that they take photos of us and post them on their website (www.smartcookthailand.com) on the gallery. We will be cooking on Wednesday 02 December, once we leave Ton Sai.

It’s hard to believe we’ve been here a full month already. (Which reminds me exactly how long I’ve been a slack blogger.) Most of that time has been spent in Ton Sai. Ton Sai and Railay are two tiny areas in the Krabi province of Thailand. They are like little beach towns, only the word “town” is an overstatement. Railay is more developed, with some hotels and upmarket restaurants and a lovely beach. Ton Sai is a short walk away. To get from Railay to Ton Sai you wait for low tide and walk across the rocks or else you scramble up the jungle path, over the hill and down the path on the other side.
In this photo of Railay West Beach at low tide, you can see the patch of jungle between the sea and the tall cliff, wherein the jungle path lies. It’s steeper than it looks in the picture.


When you get to Ton Sai, it is just a couple of dirt roads lined with restaurants, laid back bars and some resorts. There’s a climbing school and a minimart or two. And that’s about it. You cannot access the area by road, only by boat, because of the limestone crags that rise up behind them. There are to be two bakkies and a couple of motorcycles that live on Ton Sai. It must have been an exciting trip getting them here. Railay has a couple of tractors to manage the transport of the baggage of the well heeled tourists from the boats to the shore. Ton Sai is definitely the more budget side of the area. We’re staying in Ton Sai. Obviously.

View of Ton Sai Beach and Railay West Beach in the far background:



We have a room in a small concrete block called the Garden View Resort. It’s nowhere near as charming looking as the other places in Ton Sai but we like it for other reasons.
One of the Garden View cats:


We have managed to fully mosquito-proof it. That is no small feat. The mosquitoes here are horrific. They are everywhere. They don’t stop biting me. We have sticky-taped up every hole in the ceiling and the insect coverings over the windows. We also have a fan that works and so our room is cool all day long. Our toilet flushes and we have a working shower. But best of all, we have almost 24 hour electricity. Our electricity goes off somewhere in the wee hours of the morning and usually returns some time before 9. Electricity here is dependant on generators. Power blips are frequent. Sometimes our fan turns languidly and sometimes it sounds like an aeroplane propeller. The lights dim and brighten like we are in the middle of a haunting. It’s very atmospheric. Many places only have electricity during the night. So sorry for you if you paid extra for a fan room. Guess you won’t be using in during the heat of the day. We have two large beds in our room. I guess they must be three quarter size. Either that or else they are Thai size double beds and we are just large Westerners. Our shower is cold and that makes my life a bit miserable. But it would be the same at any of the other resorts. Note – when I booked our hotel in Bali I booked a slightly more expensive room to get hot water. N scoffed and said that no one in Asia pays for hot water because it is always so hot here and you don’t need warm showers. Well, let me tell you that little piece of homespun wisdom only applies to men with short hair! Anyone who has had to stand naked under a stream of cold water for the time it takes to wet, lather and rinse long hair once for shampoo and once for conditioner will tell you that warm water is nice, even in the tropics. I am thoroughly delighted that I pooh poohed his "advice" and insisted on the warm water room for Bali.

Ton Sai Beach at sunset:


I find myself with much to say (unsurprising, given the month of slacking off) and not enough time to say it. I’m dropping off to sleep and so I will leave the rest of it for another post. I leave you with one of my favourite photos. It was taken at sunset as we walked across the rocks at low tide to get back to Ton Sai after swimming at Railay. I think that there are dragons in the rocks in Ton Sai…

SA to Thailand Installment 2

The hotel I stayed at in Malaysia was the Concorde Inn, cunningly described as “strategically located, only three minutes away from the Kuala Lumpur International Airport.” What this means is that you need a shuttle bus to get there.
Fortunately the shuttle bus was free and this fact had played a large part in my calculations as to where to stay. I only had to wait 20 minutes before the bus arrived and then I was whisked off to the hotel. We passed a couple of road blocks manned by police with bloody great guns. “Ah,” I sighed contentedly “I feel right at home” while the American tourists looked apprehensive.
I checked in and went to my room, fending off a pack of overeager porter types, who were all desperate to carry my backpack for me. I declined this service, since I have carried the dratted thing all by myself for five months through Europe and this is the lightest it has been for a long while, thanks to AirAsia’s stingy 15 kg luggage allowance. Also, I did not have a single Malaysian Ringgit on me for tipping or any other purpose. My brilliant plan was to not spend any money in Malaysia at all. (Apart from the hotel fee, but that was paid for by credit card.) Complimentary transfers from and back to the main terminal at the airport and a complimentary breakfast, meant that the only hole in my plan was getting from the main terminal to the low cost carrier terminal (LCCT) the next morning.

I got to my room and it was functional but unexciting. “Each room”, the Concorde website had gushed, “comes with an unobstructed view of our lush gardens.” This meant that I could pull back the curtain (singular curtain, since the window was about 1 metre wide) and look past a solitary palm tree, 5 metres of plain grass, over a hedge and into the car park. Admittedly the car park was lush with cars but I can’t help thinking they must have been confused when they wrote the description.
I dropped my pack and turned on the light. “Let there be light!”
But there wasn’t.
Nor was there plug power or aircon (Kuala Lumpur is stinking hot and humid, in case you were wondering.) I looked outside. Other lights were on. Not a power failure then. Back inside. Nothing. I hunted the room to look for clues but didn’t find any. The trip switch was untripped. What the???
I eventually resorted to calling the reception for help. The lady was very keen to help but her English was fair (I’m being generous) and my Malaysian non-existent. She told me to put my door card “in the black box behind the door.” There was a black box behind the door. It contained the trip switch and there was nowhere to insert any card. After much confusion the receptionist said she would send someone to help me. After she hung up I figured out that what she had meant was the white box next to the door. You slide the door card into this white box and magically the electricity works. Let there be light! And there was! Great excitement!
The maintenance man arrived at my door and I sent him away with an apology for dragging him out unnecessarily. I plugged my computer in and logged onto the free wifi (another consideration in my choice of hotels.) I connected to the network but my internet refused to work despite much fiddling. I resorted to the receptionist again. She gave me the password. “Um yes, thank you for that, but it is not even asking me for a password.” Confusion reigned. She sent the maintenance guy out. She hung up. I returned to my computer and refreshed for the umpteenth time. Suddenly and inexplicably (don't you love IT?) it worked and asked me for the password and I logged on successfully. I had to send the maintenance man away for a second time with an apology for dragging him out.

In my great thriftiness I decided to have a cup of tea, since this meant I did not have to spend any of my non-existent ringgits. I boiled the kettle. In my attempts to juggle the kettle plug and my laptop plug I knocked a glass off the tray and it smashed on the tiled floor. Ah, crap. I decided against calling out the maintenance man to clean it up in case he attacked me out of annoyance. I swept it up as best I could and left it in an out of the way corner. (I fessed up when I left and they said no worries.)
After a session of internet admin, I got to bed late and still utterly exhausted. This travelling thing really takes it out of one.

In the morning the hotel redeemed every one of its (mild) imperfections with the best breakfast spread I have ever seen in my life. Numerous cereals, acres of fresh fruit, yoghurt, muffins, cookies, bacon, sausage, toast, hash browns, French toast, porridge with sambals and chives, three kinds of fruit juice (I had starfruit juice – tastier than the fruit but leaves a less tasty aftertaste), tea, coffee and a host of other Asian breakfast thingies things I could not identify.
I stuffed myself. All my cares dissolved. I ate and ate. Breakfast ended with a race between the last piece (number three) of French toast and the check-out deadline. The French toast won. All of my cares returned with a vengeance when I tried to get up and I realized with horror that I had put on about 7 kilograms over the course of breakfast. I waddled off to my room to fetch my pack and waddled swiftly to the complimentary shuttle bus, fending off porters emboldened by my new weakness. Leaning slightly towards the side I was sitting on, the bus trundled us the “three” (ten) minutes to the airport. I found myself in the international terminal needing just 2 ringgits to catch the shuttle bus to the LCCT. It was so frustrating! 2 ringgits is about R4. Gah!
Due to time considerations (drat that last piece of French toast and the maple syrup it swam in) I had to abandon all of my wild plans to procure 2 paltry ringgits. These plans (some courtesy of friends) included selling my copy of my South African Men’s Health to a passer by; lurking in a shop and paying someone’s bill with my credit card in return for the cash and swapping the magazine for a bus ride. I drew the line at begging. In the end I rushed over to the money changer and exchanged 5 measly USD for 16.50 ringgits. Smarting from the injustice of the world and the failure of my brilliant no-money-in-Malaysia plan, I found the shuttle bus to the LCCT, all the while repelling evil private bus sales people who tried to sell me tickets on their busses for 30 ringgits.

The shuttle bus took us past the requisite armed road blocks to the LCCT. This is where AirAsia flies from. AirAsia is Asia’s Kulula/EasyJet/Ryanair. The LCCT is great. It swarms with people but is easy to navigate and the whole machinery moves swiftly and slickly. Sadly, AirAsia is not great. They are cheap. But they are crap. They are the fly in the ointment of the LCCT. N flew the same route as I did (LCCT to Krabi) the day before me. His flight was delayed by 2 hours. His plane arrived an hour late. Once they had boarded they were delayed by another 40 minutes as the AirAsia staff ran around in panic and tried to figure out which of the passengers/terrorists had snuck aboard without a ticket. Consternation reigned until these rocket scientists eventually figured out that they had simply counted incorrectly. Oops.
My flight was also late. I was delayed by about an hour. This does not bode well for the next three AirAsia flights that we have booked.
As luck would have it, I had three empty seats to myself. I laid my weary head down and slept. Unfortunately the flight was short and so was my nap. When the flight landed, I charged off the plane as if the AirAsia staff had bitten me and flew to the passport control area as quickly as I could. This was because N had warned me that he ended up at the back of the queue and waited for over an hour to get his passport stamped. Due to this knowledge and my subsequent sprint, I only spent 15 minutes in the queue. I got my pack quickly and after changing money and buying a bus ticket to Ao Nang, I trotted out into the smogshine (Asia is full of cloud and smog and haze.) I was in Thailand!

When I bought the bus ticket, the ticket ladies had told me that the bus was leaving in five minutes. Full of alarm at potentially missing the bus and waiting another hour, I continued my mad dash until I located the bus and flung myself on board. I settled into the seat and congratulated myself on having caught the bus by the skin of my teeth. And then we waited. And waited. Turns out that five minutes is a relative thing in Asia. Kind of like “now now” or “just now” in SA. Turns out that busses here wait until they have enough people before they depart. And so we waited until we were just about full. Then the driver came to each of us and asked where we wanted to go.
Now here’s the thing. N was in Krabi. He suggested that instead of me going to Krabi, I go to Ao Nang and he meet me there because the boat ride to Ton Sai is cheaper. He told me to meet him “in Ao Nang where the boats leave to go to Ton Sai.” So I said to the bus driver that I wanted to go to the place in Ao Nang where the boats leave to go to Ton Sai. “Ah! The Pier!” he said and wrote down “Pier’ on his piece of paper. That sounded very logical to me.
And off we set. We drove out of the car park, onto the road and back into the car park and back to where we had left from. We picked up another two puffing passengers and left the car park for the second time. Guess I needn’t have panicked about missing the bus. Guess I would have had time for a loo trip after all…
The countryside in Thailand often reminds me of Kwazulu Natal. Ok, apart from the craggy limestone cliffs that rise out of nothing. We drove through pseudo Natal and I felt more and more relaxed and at home. We had a slight glitch when an older couple alighted from the bus at their accommodation point only to find out, when the man checked his wallet, that he had paid for the bus ticket with three 1000 baht notes instead of three 100 baht notes. He was furious and was adamant that the ticket ladies would have known instantly of his mistake and that they just took the money and played dumb. (I think he was probably right, too. The ATM at the airport only dishes out 1000 baht notes.) Thus began a long saga where he demanded that the bus driver phone the ticket office and make the ticket women return his money. The driver phoned. Whoever would have imagined that the ticket ladies vehemently denied the whole thing? This led to an impasse, where the old man refused to get off the bus and declared he was going nowhere until the driver phoned the tourist police and summoned them to the scene. Since he was half in the bus and half out the bus at the time, this posed a problem for the driver. I settled down for a long wait. Eventually it was agreed that the driver would take the couple back to the airport and they could fight with the ticket people and the tourist police in person. The journey resumed. We drove through Ao Nang and the driver told me to get out on the curve of the road and said that I would catch a boat from that spot. I think he was in cahoots with the restaurant owners in that spot. I settled down to wait for N. And I waited and waited and waited. I walked up and down in case I had missed him. And I waited. After an hour and a half of waiting, I managed to elicit some vital information from the devious restaurant owners who had been trying to entice me inside to wait there and eat their food. When it was plain that I was not coming in to eat, it suddenly occurred to them that “Oh wait!” the boats also leave from another spot just down the road!
Gnashing my teeth in fury and exhaustion and frustration and unhappiness at having to carry my luggage all the way back down the road I had just traveled in a bus, I set off. It was after 3:30pm now and breakfast was but a fond (oh so fond) memory. I had to stop on the way at a roadside food vendor and I indulged myself in my first ever authentic piece of Thai food. I had a Thai pancake with mango. They take a piece of dough about the size of a matchbox and mash it flat. (As flat as a pancake, in fact… hahahaha!) Then they toss this paper thin thing into a wok and fry it. They add slices of mango to the middle of the pancake and they fold the edges over, flip the pancake and cook the other side. They take it out of the pan, cut it into squares and drizzle it with sweetmilk (runny condensed milk.) You end up with a crispy pancake covered mango, sticky, taste bomb. Delicious!

Fortified, I rounded the corner and found a long beach. At the close end was a spot selling tickets to go to Ton Sai. I hunted for N. No N. I looked up the loooooong beach and there were boats everywhere. Turns out the boats leave from all over the place. I was disheartened and weary and tired of walking up and down with my pack in my hot jeans (I travel on the planes in jeans) and I just wanted to collapse in a little heap and whimper for a long time.

To cut short a long tale of misery, N eventually found an internet shop and Skyped me on my cell phone (so much for his contention that it is stupid and useless for me to have brought my phone with me…..) and then proceeded to yell into the phone a bunch of stuff that I could not hear because of the noise of the boat engines. By dint of smses and screamed phone calls I found him at the far end of the long beach. He had bought tickets already and we got to the boat about three seconds before it was due to leave. What he had neglected to tell me was that when you travel by long tail boat you have to wade out to the boat. My jeans and I were both less than impressed with the lateness of this news. If I had had any idea, I would have had a pair of shorts handy. The jeans and I waded grumpily onto the boat and then sat sadly at the back, wet, sticky and so exhausted we felt like falling overboard and not coming up.

Long tail boats moored off Ton Sai:


The ride to Ton Sai from Ao Nang is very quick and we pulled up to the beach in the most magical setting I have seen for ages. I will wax lyrical about it in another post because this one is already far too long. For now, I will simply say that “a little slice of paradise” might well be a cliché, but it is apt.

Ton Sai beach at sunset - view of the right hand side of the bay:


Ton Sai beach at sunset - view of the left hand side of the bay:

SA To Thailand Travel Summary

The night before I flew I got to bed late. Shopping, admin and packing took me to 2am. Even so, I just didn’t get to everything. Being sick set me back hugely in terms of available time in SA, since I spent quite a few days recuperating.
I woke up on Thurs 29 Oct after just four hours sleep, and began to deal with copious amounts of admin. My car insurance is now back in my name. My credit card is sorted. It appears (after MUCH calling around) that I will not need a visa for my transit through Australia en route to New Zealand. Despite trying at intervals for a few hours, I could not reach the Vietnamese embassy to enquire about visa procedures. They just didn’t answer the phone. Their website is pretty crappy too.

Kevin arrived to fetch me at 10:00 and very kindly dropped me off at Jhb airport after nearly killing me a few times in the traffic. I spent a few boring hours strolling about the duty free area. Isn’t it great that you don’t pay tax when you buy from the duty free? And the only trade off is that things cost four times what they do in the high street shops. Bargain!!!! My only distraction during the dreadful duty free hours was a call from Bron J. Thanks Bron, it was great to chat!

My flight departed at 14:00. Since I flew Emirates, I had a mammoth travelling session. First I endured a 9.5 hour flight to Dubai airport. I watched Ratatouille – totally cute. I do love that rat! I tried to sleep after Ratatouille, but the combination of the crying child and the surfeit of good movies proved lethal. I gave up and watched The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe - a nice movie but not a patch on how I imagined it when I read the book. I watched a couple of episodes of Dexter and that brought us to Dubai. The air hostess collected the headphone sets three minutes before the end of episode two of Dexter, leaving me champing in a fury of suspense.
Dubai airport is slick and efficient but it’s still not my first choice of where to spend three hours. One thing about the airport that made me very happy was the abundance of charging stations. This is where one can plug in one’s laptop and use the free airport wifi. Each charging station is fitted with a bank of universal plug sockets, so even my bizarre Italian plug fitted. (Bizarre Italian plug because I had to replace my laptop transformer in Italy after my original one got lost in Mallorca.) I didn’t get to sleep in the airport. I cannot fall asleep when I know that someone might scarper with my luggage, no matter how remote that chance might be.
My second flight was from Dubai to Kuala Lumpur. It was 03:00 when I staggered onto the plane, wide eyed and staring from exhaustion. The drinks trolley and then the snack trolley chased away any lurking possibility of sleep. (Dexter was not on offer on the flight and so to this day my suspense remains unassuaged.) Eventually I put a Moby cd on repeat and slept for a whole two hours. I could have cried when I was woken up by the breakfast bustle. Having flown into the rising sun (well no, not literally or else I wouldn’t be typing this) we gained a few hours and it was just about lunch time when we landed at Kuala Lumpur.

Kuala Lumpur is rather scary, as airports go. The thing is, you have to fill in this arrival card thingy. The arrival card quizzes you on all the stuff you are bringing into the country. Anything derived from plants, animals or fish is a big no no. Anyone who has been to Africa recently must report to Health Control. Ditto anyone who has coughed, sniffed, sweated, had a headache/fever/sore throat/shortness of breath etc etc etc within the past six days. Anyone importing any form of dodgy drug will be the lucky recipient of a beheading. (Or however it is that they implement their capital punishment in Malaysia.)
Trying to forget my recent bout of flu and the resultant headaches, fevers, sore throat, breathlessness, coughs and sniffles, I made my way to passport control. Ignoring the fact that I had come straight from Africa, I deliberately didn’t see where the Health Control people lurked. Reminding myself that if I started to sweat they would probably start off at the very least by quarantining me for swine flu, I pretended I didn’t have about 40 kinds of tablets in my luggage. I mean, yes they were all legitimate (antibiotics, cortisone, pain killers, anti-inflammatories, sinus medication – I am a walking pharmacy right now) but who wants to explain that to a surly looking border official while they tap on their desk with their menacing rubber gloved finger? Particularly when you’re a rock climber who is also carrying a massive stash of finely cut powder chalk. “What do you mean it looks like cocaine???” Putting my pot of Redroe fish paste out of my mind I sauntered nonchalantly past the customs blockade. Once past them, I managed to stop myself from breaking into a run by imagining a pack of ravening Alsations bringing me down in the middle of a crowd of screaming, pointing onlookers. I reminded myself that dogs can smell fear. It appears, though, that they can’t smell fish paste, Pro-nutro, milk powder, Aero or chocolate spread. Unless they’d already eaten.

Flushed with the success of my narrow escape from the border guards of death, I made short work of organizing the bus ride to the hotel, checking in and fending off the porters who queued up to help me carry my luggage to my room. I didn’t have a single ringgit on me for tipping and anyway, I’ve carried this pack for five months now, I’m damned if I am going to pay someone else to carry it from the bus to the hotel room.

Since N is whimpering at me pathetically from the other side of the room about how we need to watch a dvd on his computer now before we retire for the evening, I will cut my story short here. Stay tuned for the next riveting installment of Bronwyn’s travels from SA to Thailand!

Apologies, Excuses and Disclaimers. And A Bit Of An Update:

I’m back. I am riddled with blogger’s guilt at having been AWOL for so long. I really am. And I’m sorry. (The apology bit.)

But it truly wasn’t my fault! (The excuses bit. Wait it’s not over...)
I went to Ireland. The tour was brilliant. I had bundles of fun. But the days were so busy that I barely got time to check my email, never mind blog. Then, possibly as a result of running around so much, I got sick. Boy did I get sick. I spent 4 days in Dublin languishing in a hostel bed wishing I could be outdoors taking photos. Wishing I wasn't feeling like death warmed over. And feeling the waves of hatred and resentment washing over me from those backpackers unfortunate enough to be allocated to share my room. Such negative energies did little to dispel my disease and I got worse and worse. I certainly didn’t feel like blogging anything.

The plane trip home was a nightmare. I spent most of it coughing in my seat or else running to the loo to cough or wash out my eye. The eye that decided that since I was down it would kick me, and produced a splendid infection. I could feel the waves of horror washing over me from the poor souls who thought it would be a good idea to sit in the back row and drew the short straw of being next to me. They clearly thought they were on the fast track to swine flu. The (small) portion of the night that I was not coughing in my seat or in the loo, I spent pretending to the flight staff that I was fine and dandy. Well, I didn’t really want them to quarantine me in a fit of N1H1 over-zealotry did I?

Back in Jhb I spent the next couple of days recuperating, going to doctor and the dentist and the pharmacy and generally spending all of my Asia accommodation money on medical bills.
After that I was so far behind on my admin and general "stuff wot must get done", that there was less than no time to blog. Unfortunately, things like visa procurement take precedence. Boring, boring….

And now for the disclaimer.
As much as I would love to retro blog and swear that I will update you as to everything I saw and did in Ireland, I’m not going to. Because then I will feel so incredibly guilty if (when) I don’t get to it. So sorry (dammit – another apology) I’m not going to…

Moving on swiftly, in an attempt to distract you, here’s the plan for the days ahead:
Travel from SA to Kuala Lumpur airport. Curse ill timed Air Asia connecting flight. Squander vast sums of money on Malaysian hotel for one unexciting night. (This is the current stage in my story.) Catch connecting flight to Krabi, Thailand. Attempt to navigate self to Ao Nang. Attempt to track N down once I'm in Ao Nang. Boat trip to Railay/Tonsai area. Live in beach bungalow and rock climb for a month or thereabouts. (Shame, poor MEEEEEE!!!) Go north for a bit to Chiang Mai and maybe visit one of N’s friends. Potentially go to Vietnam for two weeks around xmas time – another friend visit. Make our way to Bali for three(ish) weeks. Part from N, who goes back to Thailand for a couple of weeks. Return to SA solo for two weeks of friends, family, admin and recuperation. After that, New Zealand. But no more about NZ for a while. It’s just Asia, Asia, Asia for the next three months!

I Went To London

The Great Irish Trip has begun. The first step on the way was my transit through London. Gareth (my friend from way back when we were young) picked me up from the airport and took me back to see his house (very cute English house on a street where people still greet each other) and his family (also very cute.) They fed me delicious vegetarian take aways and then Julie suggested (when she heard that I’d never been to London before) that G take me on a lightning quick tour of the London sights. So we hopped into his Prius and set off smugly to central London. Smugly because when you drive a hybrid you get to drive through the central zone and you don’t have to pay the congestion tax. I saw Abbey Road and the famous crossing, Baker Street, Buckingham Palace – home of the anachronism that is the royal family, the Eros statue, W Abbey, the bridge, the tower and the clock.

Because it was late and we didn’t have much time we didn't manage to get out and investigate everything properly but I was just glad to have seen anything at all. I certainly wasn’t expecting to - it was a very pleasant surprise. We managed to find free parking and, feeling smugger by the minute, nipped out to take a photo of me and the clock job. Right pretty it is at night!
Me and the clock thingy. I didn't realise how small it is. But then again, I am quite tall.



I was also hugely excited to discover genuine red busses, genuine red post boxes and genuine red telephone booths. So I took photos of those too.

Look! A genuine London bus! And it's in front of quite a nice building, which makes the photo rather pretty.


And look! A bus and the clock in the same photo! Excitement!


G uprooting a genuine red phone booth. I considered reporting him but decided not to because he is a very old friend. And he let me sleep at his house.


Having taken these photies, we set off for a quick drink. We found yet another free parking (no mean feat in London, apparently.) Smug-drunk, we nipped into The George. This is a superbly atmospheric genuine English pub, complete with black wood and tiny rooms. According to pubs.com it is both "traditional" and "historic." I had a genuine English cider. On tap, of course. And then, aware that Julie was soldiering on bravely, alone with two demanding tots of the non-alcoholic version, we went home. We stopped only to purchase wine and beer.

G and I talked and looked at photos late into the night. The early start necessary to get to Gatwick left me with less than 5 hours sleep. This was compounded by Rachel meowing pathetically outside my door at 03:30, until I opened the door and said “Good grief cat! Ok, come on in.” Whereupon she looked me up and down and stalked off down the hall. Gah! Cats.

After my short sleep (but damn – it was good to sleep on a comfy mattress!) I woke at 06:15, feeling like I’d been run over by a genuine red bus. It might have had something to do with the genuine English cider.

G dropped me off at the airport and the Irish adventure commenced. More about that in another post, because I am dog tired and must get some sleep. I fell asleep twice on the bus today and missed valuable tour guide information. Bad me.
So that was my London-In-An-Evening. It was great. I have changed my mind about London. I realize I only saw a small part of it, but I think it’s a pretty, pretty city and I will definitely be back. Next time I will be armed with a real tourist visa instead of this pretence of a “Visitor In Transit” thing that chases me out of the country before 48 hours have passed.

I'm Going To Ireland!!!

Okaaaaay! It’s been a few short days since my last blog post and much has happened. We left Paklenica and spent two days in Zadar. I found Zadar fairly boring, my complete lack of surprise. The old town is pretty. Just like every other Croatian old town. Churches, clock towers, restaurants, souvenir shops – ok, we’re done here…. And then I had a bit of a melt down one evening because tickets to Ireland and accommodation etc were going to be too expensive and I was going to be stuck in Croatia for the next three weeks with nothing to do and nothing to see and I was totally, desperately, head bangingly bored and miserable and had really set my heart on going to Ireland.
The next day I woke up and decided that although it is going to be ridiculously expensive, I am going to Ireland. I have now brought forward my ticket from Croatia to London and booked another return flight from London to Dublin. I found myself a 6 day tour of southern Ireland, with a group called Paddywagon and have booked myself onto that too. (Thanks for the idea Bron J!) I am really excited and looking forward to it. The only thing is that I will be going alone. N is not keen to do a group tour with other people and that, coupled with all of the extra expense, has convinced him to stay in Croatia as planned. He is not quite as desperate for greener pastures as I am.

I am flying from Croatia this Sat, arriving in Dublin on Sunday. I will be spending the Sat night in London to see one of my best friends from my varsity days. I’m really looking forward to that too. It has been way too long.

In between Zadar and now (we are in Pula at the moment) N and I drove to the Bijele Stijene and Vela Draga. Bijele Stijene is a beautiful set of mountains topped with white limestone features. Vela Draga is a valley with some climbing and more limestone. Vela Draga is home to some spectacular rock pinnacles. I will try and blog some more about them as soon as I can and even post a picture or two. I don’t have time right now. I would like to spend some time with N, since I am abandoning him for Ireland in three days.

Where To from Here?

Ok, I am BORED!!!! I want to go home already.
This feeling has come upon me relatively swiftly and surprisingly. We have climbed Paklenica out. We’ve done all we can/want to do here. Perhaps if I were not gimpy, there would be more scope for us. But I have done most of the easy stuff. There are some pretty cool looking routes in the 6a+ or 6b range. But I know that right now I would fall off those routes and I am terrified of the consequences for the ankle. I am being sensible and so I will not climb any more. As for N climbing harder routes – well, Paklenica has a lot of fantastic easy routes, but not a lot of the sort of routes that he likes. So we are a bit stumped. And, as much as we have discovered the joy of walking into town for Toblerone, sitting around the campsite for another 8 days with only grocery shopping to distract us is not what we’re up for.

Realising that I was bored with Paklenica made me consider the question of “what now?” and I came to the conclusion that I would not be unhappy to go home early. I am all campinged out. The novelty of living in a tent has worn thin. I would love to sleep in a bed. I would love a kitchen of my own to cook nice food. I am over scuffling for oven space with fellow campers. I am over washing my clothes by hand in a basin or the shower. I am sooooo over it.

Thus, we have accelerated our plans. We leave here (tomorrow) a week earlier than originally planned. We have changed the car booking. We will stay in Zadar (IN REAL ROOMS!!!!!!) for two days and then drive north. On the way to Pula, we plan to stop in and see the White Rock mountains (Bijele Stijene.) From there we want to stop in Rijeke for a day of beach and a day of climbing. Then on to Pula for a day of Pula and a day trip to Rovinje. Unfortunately, that only takes us to October 03. I’m afraid I am a bit unenthusiastic about seeing it through to 15 Oct. Make no mistake, Croatia is a beautiful country. I would recommend it to anyone as a vacation destination. (Despite the evil troll that works at the Croatian embassy in SA.) But two months is too much for me. I have seen an overwhelming selection of pretty coastal cities, Roman ruins, old medieval towns, ancient city walls, gorgeous cathedrals and impressive architecture. There comes a stage (oh, I know this sounds spoiled and people are going to snort in horror at my ingratitude) at which another Roman ruin is just another Roman ruin. The next old town and cathedral is the same as the last. I don’t want to trawl across the country to see one more picturesque sight. I’d quite honestly rather go home and see my family and friends.

But - I can’t. Bloody BA wants to charge me an extortionist rate to change my flight. Apart from the R750 penalty change fee, they will charge me a thirty pound (that’s a lot of Rands) “service” fee because I have to go through their contact centre to change the reservation (despite the fact that it’s their website’s short comings that necessitate the contact centre intervention.) No one told me this when we booked the tickets. Plus, they will knock me for the difference between my old fare and the new one. Due to “availability issues’, quoth the consultant, fares are more expensive now. I would need to pay more because the space on the earlier plane is now going for a premium rate. Sadly, the fact that the seats still available on my current flight are going at the same rate as my desired flight (I checked on the website) makes no difference. They will charge me the more expensive rate and then sell my space on the original flight for the same expensive rate. I know that this is the way the air travel world works, but it kind of sucks. And it means that I will not be going home early. I am waiting for a confirmation email from BA, but I suspect the final figure will be somewhere in the region of three to five thousand Rands. Plus the R750 penalty fee. Plus the thirty pound “service” fee. Humph. I am stuck. STUCK!

We have maxed out our Schenen visa days and so we can’t go anywhere else in Europe. Places like Russia are a joke in terms of us getting last minute visas. Beurocracy, thy name is Russia. We briefly considered the idea of going somewhere in the Middle East that doesn't necessitate visas, but I will not - WILL NOT!!!! - spend my female tourist dollars in any country run by a bunch of mysogynistic bastards who have institutionalised discriminating against people like me. I wouldn’t have minded going to the UK to visit friends or cousins, but I only have a transit visa (48 hours in the country) so it is out of the question. N could go. He has a ten year multi entry visa. Lucky him! But I don’t have the luxury. I am now casting covetous eyes upon Ireland. South Africans don’t need a visa to go there for short visits. And it’s a place that I have always wanted to go to. We didn’t consider it before, because it is expensive for those of us earning in Rands, but it might just be the answer I am looking for. I would love to see Ireland.

So now we have a couple of decisions to make. Is it worth the extra money on air tickets? Are there cheap accommodation options? Where to go, what to see…
I am starting to get quite excited about it. Hold thumbs that we get to go, and let me know if any of you have any bright ideas!

Croatia - Paklenica Begins

I have that warm fuzzy feeling. The morning’s climbing was good. The ankle is improving nicely. It’s evening now, and there is a light drizzle. I’m looking out at the fine mist from the warmth of the kitchen area, which smells delightful from everyone’s cooking. N and I are sharing a big bowl of tasty soup and munching on hunks of whole-wheat bread, spread with thick slices of butter. I’m supping red wine gently from a real glass. (It’s a treat to drink from a real glass, ok?!) I’m dunking the bread in the soup and the combination is tasty and delicious. (Yes, I know tasty and delicious are the same thing but it’s really tasty and I think I say “really” too much.) There’s something about the combination of good food and good wine on top of a day of good exercise that is... well – good.

We like Paklenica. On the first full day here we slept a bit late and then wandered up to the national park. It’s a kilometre’s walk from our campsite to the gates of the national park. We were mildly disconcerted to discover that from the gates it is a further 2 kms to the start of the climbing. None the less, the walk is pretty much on the flat and personally I think we need the exercise. N has a disgustingly sweet tooth and I find it very hard to watch him eat chocolate without joining in. In fact, I insist on half. This is why a 6 km walk every second day or so will do the both of us a world of good. The first day was a bit of a wash out. Literally. N nipped up one climb. I tied in and set my paw upon the rock and the heavens opened. N darted up the climb for the second time in order to clean it and then we retired to the souvenir shop to watch the rain bucket down. Not quite what we had in mind when we walked our 3 km. When the rain stopped the rock was wet. We started to walk home but I decided that it would be very silly to waste the day. We returned to the crag and climbed 3 dead easy routes. While I was on the third one the rain came down again. This time it was too much and we gave up. We fled from cave to cave between showers of rain and eventually made it back to camp damp and unimpressed. The next day it rained in the morning and the afternoon and so we walked to town for groceries instead of wasting an entrance fee to the park. Now at least we have more lunch options. Food is so important to me. It’s so much more than just a means of staying alive. (Although staying alive is not to be overrated.)

Today we made it to the park nice and early. Well, sort of early. Relatively early. Ok, early for us. Before lunch. We climbed 6 routes, all of them pretty easy. I am still top roping out of fear of falling on the gimpy ankle. The gimpy ankle is coming along nicely. I can now put weight on it from all sorts of funny angles. Which is great. But make no mistake, it is still a gimpy ankle. It is nowhere near as flexible as it should be and nowhere near as strong. Even top roping easy climbs is a bit of an adventure, as I have to pull off the most bizarre moves to compensate for not being able to use my right foot properly. I think that the people at the foot of the climb must look up at me and wonder what the hell I am doing, as I grunt and contort and heave myself all over the place, totally ignoring the obvious right foothold. By the end of my 6 routes, my fingertips were rubbed raw. Interesting fact – if you climb enough you can lose your fingerprints, albeit temporarily. So, as climbers, we do not have to use gloves should we choose to steal your silver. How’s that for funky? (Not that I have put my theory to the test, but I am sure it would work.) My desperately sensitive fingers called for a lunch break. I listened. We ate. I had some of the best tomato sandwiches I have had in a very long while. N claimed (while curling his lip in disgust) that it was out of sheer desperation for real food. I disagreed. They were just good. You should try eating tomato sandwiches on a rock next to a stream after a morning of satisfying climbing, to see what I mean.

After lunch it began to drizzle again. N and I trotted home. By this let me not mislead you. We did not jog. We walked. I blame it on the gimpy ankle. I am sure that I would jog 3 km with a backpack of climbing gear if my ankle were only sound enough….

We took a quick walk in to town to buy chocolate and bread and then we made supper. The supper that lead to the warm, fuzzy feeling. The warm fuzzy feeling has outlasted supper. We are now finishing off the chocolate (dammit – best we walk another 6 km tomorrow) and I am finishing my wine. I think that it is just about time to head off to the tent for a well deserved snooze. I am sure that my fingertips will magically regenerate overnight and tomorrow morning we will be back at the park, flinging ourselves at more climbs. Paklenica has got some of the nicest easy limestone climbs that I have been on. The rock isn’t that awful cheese grater stuff. I’m really enjoying it. Hopefully we will soon recover some of the climbing fitness that was just beginning to manifest itself when I went and threw myself down a mountain in Italy.

Anyway, it’s nice to be feeling perky and happy again. Long may the warm, fuzzy feeling last!

Croatia - Krka

After ten days in Omis we decided that it was well and truly time to move on. This was confirmed when I pulled my backpack out from under the tent flap and discovered a light coating of spider webs. When your pack is full of cobwebs you are being a lazy traveler. I dusted them off and packed. Hey ho and off we go! I heaved the heavy pack onto my back and tried to clip the waist band buckle. The receiving end of the buckle was full of a horribly dense spider web, complete with horrible green spider. The pack and spider went one way and I went the other, with a bit of a yelp. It took quite a lot of poking with a twig to dislodge the would be stowaway but eventually I set off sans spider.

I have decided that this lounging around thing is all very well, but I likely won’t be in Croatia again soon and I had better make the most of my time here. Thus, I decreed that we would be visiting a national park. I selected National Park Krka as the lucky recipient of our presence. Having been blesed with hind sight, I would have made a day trip of it. However, not being blessed with foresight, we set off to the Krka region to camp for three days and visit the park. We made our way via bus to Camp Marina, which is a couple of kilometres from the national park. We descended from the bus to find ourselves in trailer park country. We hadn’t realized that no one sane actually camps there for more than one day. This is because there is nothing there. Camp Marina (like Camp Krka next to it) is a one star campsite in a one horse town. Actually, the campsites are the town. There is no shop at the campsite. The nearest shop is three kilometres away. The woman from the campsite told us two, but she was wrong. It was three. This turned our doable four km walk into a six km slog. We walked six km to get groceries. When we got to the shop the selection was poor. The restaurant at the campsite was closed at lunch time and managed to confuse our supper orders. Busses are infrequent. The campsite is clearly geared towards mobile home campers, who bring everything that they need with them. The nicest thing about the campsite was the showers. The water was hot and the pressure was good. We spent a relatively uncomfortable first day at Camp Marina doing admin on our computers.

Trailer park purgatory at Camp Marina:




The next day we went to the park. We walked there, of course. Just a couple of kilometres. On the way, we discovered what I believe to be block houses from the war. I can't believe that this country was viciously at war for its independence from Yugoslavia, less than twenty years ago.

N climbing anything he can out of frustration at not having cliffs:


The Krka national park is worth a visit, for the novelty of it. It is situated around the Krka river, which flows through a karst landscape. Layman’s description: the water is heavily laden with minerals. The minerals leach out of the water and into the plant life (algae in this case.) Apparently this happens in many karst rivers, but in Krka the petrified plants (called travertine) have formed themselves into a set of seven beautiful waterfalls.

Travertine falls without the water:


Wooden paths have been constructed and tourists get to walk an eight hundred metre course about the park and look at the lakes and the falls. I shall let their beauty speak for itself:







The best part was swimming in one of the lakes below the lowest falls. I am the rightmost small blob in the water:


There are other areas in the park apart from the travertine falls, but we didn’t feel like coughing up even more money for a boat ride to get there. Having walked, gawped and swum, we left. Well, we walked back to Camp Marina. I reckon we clocked up more walking distance in the two days at Krka than we did in the ten preceding days at Omis.

We couldn’t handle another day in trailer park purgatory, so we cut our stay short. This morning we left Camp Marina and made our way to national park Paklenica. We are staying in Camp Marko, which is one km from the entrance to the park. The vibe here is much nicer than Camp Marina. There is a kitchen, so we will be able to cook again. Well, I will be able to cook. N will be able to pretend that he is incapable of cooking and suggest that I cook…
The reason we have come to Paklenica is the climbing. Paklenica is reputed to have some of the best climbing in Europe. N is refusing to believe that Croatia will be able to compete with Spain and France in terms of quality of climbing. Hopefully Croatia will prove him wrong! Will keep you posted….

Croatia - A Nothing Much Week

Omis. Apparently it used to be a pirate town. It’s nowhere near as exciting as that these days, but it’s still a nice enough spot to spend a few days of your holiday. The only place I have seen pirates is the numerous curio shops, all trying to sell t-shirts sporting a very Calvinesque pirate boy and an exhortation to come over to the dark side. Or something like that. Maybe it’s something about the Dark Rider. I’ve been tempted by the t-shirts. I dare say that if I had more than a 15kg baggage limit on Ryanair for my next flight, and didn’t have to lug all my stuff around on my back, I might have fallen prey to the tourist bug and bought a pirate shirt.

Omis has a small fort. I visited it for the view across the town:

The fort of Omis, just about invisible against the mountain:

Side view of the fort:

The fort is small but impressively situated.
It was built on a knife edge ridge, which makes it extremely difficult to attack.

We’ve been here for a week. The camping is cheap so it’s a nice break for our wallets. I have discovered that tinned lentils are actually quite tasty and they’re also nice and cheap. My other cheap lunch is tomato sandwiches. Bead, butter, slices of tomato and a sprinkling of salt. (Thanks for that idea, Grampa!) And I have discovered a reasonable take away joint where the cevapi (cevapcici on a bun, with salads and sauces – kind of like a Croatian schwarma only tastier) is only 15 Kuna. That’s about R21. Not too shabby for supper. N has discovered the pizza place next door to the cevapi place. It sells big pieces of tasty pizza for 10 Kuna (approx R15.) He is now constantly torn between cevapi and pizza. So Omis has been relatively good for our finances.

We haven’t bothered with the beach here. We were drawn by the climbing. There are a couple of crags very close to town (5 minutes walk, on the flat, from our campsite) with easy climbs.

View of the main crag from the town:

We were hampered in our climbing plans by my wicked cold. I spent a few rather miserable and snuffly days feeling weak and unwilling to do much. After that we ventured to the crags once or twice.

The main crag:

This is the first time I’ve climbed since The Ankle Incident. I can’t use it at any funny angles. I can’t stretch it. I can’t smear. I’m working a lot harder to get up much easier climbs than I used to. And I absolutely cannot afford to fall on it. So it’s top roping only for me. It is, none the less, truly nerve wracking.

Me teetering nervously about on a fairly easy climb:

N has to climb a bunch of tediously easy stuff to set up the top rope for me and then it takes me an age to squeak and yelp my way up. I really shouldn’t be climbing at all on this ankle. Because if I do fall on it again, I am going to make it a hundred times worse and that will be it for climbing for a few months. Eek. But that said, I think its doing me good to climb. It’s working the ankle in ways that it otherwise would not be worked – at all sorts of funny angles, and I can feel it strengthening up a bit. So that, at least, is positive!

Contemplating life at the end of a top rope:

The other thing that has put a bit of a spanner in our works is the wind. Over the last 4 days the wind has come up in a big way. We’re hoping this is just a localized thing and it will let up once we leave Omis. No wonder tourist season ends at the end of August! The tent has taken a serious weathering. The three guys next to us did not fare as well. Their tents couldn’t cope and kept capsizing. They had to move to a more sheltered area of the campsite.

Yesterday we went climbing despite the wind. We got to the main wall and found a bunch of other people. We weren’t feeling very sociable, so we carried on to the crag around the corner. We were slightly more in the wind there but preferred the wind to the crowds.

The view from the less crowded crag:

We climbed a couple of routes which turned out to be harder than we (I) really wanted. I was climbing the third route of the day in the howling wind (hair slapping me in the face, chalkbag being sucked dry, trying not to get blown off my holds) when there was a loud crash and thud. N bolted towards the cliff and I squooshed myself as close to the rock as possible. The wind had blown a rock off the cliff, which crashed through the tree next to us, thudded onto the ground and rolled into the road. That was it for the day. It was just way too close. I finished the route, eyeing the sky above me suspiciously, and we packed up and left.

It has been a bit of an unexciting week, hence the lack of blogging. The camp site is fine. The town is fine. The climbing is ok but hardly mind-blowing. We’ve just kind of muddled about not doing much at all. I think it would have been different if I didn’t have a gimpy foot and a wicked cold. N has done a lot of work. I’ve finally done my tax. A million curses on poxy SARS. May the fleas of a thousand camels, blah blah. I SO resent giving them my money. I’ve put a few photos on Face Book. The highlight of the week has definitely been my wifi discovery. I discovered a spot where the wifi is free. N and I have been heading off there religiously for the last couple of days to upload photos and download some large files. We will be heading off there very soon in order to post this and retrieve our email.

"Borrowing" the internet:

We leave Omis in a day or so. The plan is to climb tomorrow morning. Hopefully the wind will be somewhat less vicious and we won’t have rocks blown onto our heads. We don’t know exactly where we’re going when we leave here. Perhaps to the Zadar region and then we’ll look for camping near the Paklenica national park, where is rumoured to be some of the finest climbing in Europe. Such fine climbing will be a bit wasted on gimpy here, but I’m sure there will be some easier stuff that I can use to strengthen up the foot a bit more.

Perhaps I have been slightly unenthusiatic about Omis. Let me not totally mislead you. There are some pretty places here. The port was lovely at sunset:

Croatia - Ship Supper

I have been hankering for a ship dinner for a few days. We’ve walked past it twice now and it looked like fun.
There’s a ship that docks in the harbour each night. It’s a restaurant ship. I first saw it two nights ago and was very taken with it but I though it was just a once off tour ship that had stopped. I stared at it wistfully and then walked on. Last night I saw it again as we walked to get ourselves some take away cevapcici (a kind of sausage almost like boerewors – very tasty.) I stared after it longingly but N wasn’t biting and he scurried past it as fast as he could, clearly fixating on cevapcici.
When it was still there on our way back home I couldn’t take it any longer and I informed N that the next night I would be eating there. That he didn’t have to come with me, but I wanted a ship supper. N looked worried and said that it looked like it was full of smokers and very noisy. I said that he had all of the next day to debate whether or not he could handle it, but I was going to have dinner there come hell or high water.

The next day dawned rainy and oh look – I’m getting a cold. I spent much of the day sleeping off the nasty lurgy and wondering if I had been just a bit excitable about my high water protestations. N informed me grandly that he would grace my dinner ith his presence if he was allowed to bring his ear plugs and if I waved the smoke away from him the entire evening with something like a magazine. I only just managed to quash the fantasy where I throw him overboard. Fortunately the rain had stopped by the time dinner time swung by. I dragged myself off my sick bed. N dragged himself away from his computer looking like the doom of nations was nipping at his heels. Halfway down the street (what a pretty sunset – see picture below) he set about bemoaning the fact that he had forgotten his ear plugs. Thank heavens. The idea of dining with a non-responsive person complete with orange sponge sticking out of his ears was just about too much for me.

The sights we have to endure here in Makarska:


The ship restaurant thingy was funky. It’s a boat that seems to do tours during the day and then at night it docks and becomes a fish buffet restaurant.

The funky ship:


Tables on the deck:


The fish is cooked at the back end of the ship (the stern) by a man who looks just like a pirate. The man is not stern, the ship is. Has. Has one. A stern, that is. N was very excited. Not by the stern, but by the cook's pirate headgear. I told him it was just to keep hair out of our food but N was having none of that pesky realism and declared that clearly the ship had a pirate theme. Whatever – anything to distract him from the earplugs. The whole place was slightly rough and ready, which, I must say, was part of its charm. N played it safe (he is not exactly a reckless diner) with something that looked and tasted like crumbed hake. I branched out and had a half portion of the calamari (but these were whole crumbed squids, not the sanitized little rings) and a half portion of the mackerel. I really liked the mackerel. It was an entire fish, about a foot long. When the lady drenched it with olive oil I had inner conniptions but as it turns out I needn’t have. The whole thing was delicious.

Dinner:


The view from our table:


The kitchen (galley - HARRRR!) at the back of the ship:


Once I had finished my meal (and it was a goodly helping of food.) I had a moment of terrible regret. The regret was incited by the sight of a gigantic plate of mussels being carried past. They looked truly delicious. I managed not to sink a fang into the mussel bearer. I wish I could have tried the mussels too but I think there was scope for me to gain an instant 10 kg if I’d been allowed to indulge my every whim on that ship. When we were finished our food and I was finishing my wine N began to get restless for ice cream and so we headed off.

N had his usual two scoops of dulce latte - caramel stuff. I had a scoop of lime and one of a creamy vanilla. Both were delicious. After gobbling them up on a bollard at the harbour, I endured the waddle home. I’m super tired and somewhat less than 100% well. I’m hoping to get a decent night’s sleep because tomorrow we leave Makarska to go to Omis and hunt down some climbing. I’m not sure how the injured foot (feet) and fluey body will cope with any sort of physical exercise – I guess we will see tomorrow.