Category: places

How to Get Across Napoli City With 55,000 People When the Trains Aren’t Running

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Ornate arch and fountain on the Bay of Naples

The football stadium capacity is 55,000 people and it seems that most of them are standing with us here in the dark. The two policemen in front of the locked train station are also in the dark as to why it’s shut, but what they can be sure about is that we all need to find alternative ways to get home. The relatively small amount of taxis are snapped up at the speed of flat screen televisions on a Black Friday Sale, and the crowd assembling around the bus stops looks as though Taylor Swift is about to sing there. My Better Half and I decide to walk along to the previous stop to see if we can get on a bus before it reaches the masses.

I love Napoli. A city built on Greek myth, infinite humour, and three highly explosive volcanoes. Big city streets are intertwined with narrow stone-paved lanes, strung with washing lines and the noise of Vespas weaving in and out below. A walk along the expansive promenade affords you all the shades of blue the Bay of Naples has to offer, with the Castel dell’Ovo and Vesuvius in the background, while a dude selling socks from a sports bag cheerfully stops for a chat.

The streets are as busy here at midnight as they are at midday, and couples my parents’ age go for a stroll, eating ice-cream from parlours that stay open until 1am. Every few steps there’s a cafe serving the local elixir in warmed espresso cups, and you can choose to buy a ‘caffe sospeso’, a free coffee to be claimed by a less fortunate stranger, which is a community tradition that started here in the 1800s.

This is the birthplace of Enrico Caruso, Bud Spencer, pizza, and my Better Half. He grew up on the slopes of Vesuvius, within a family of exceptional people, whose first question whenever we visit is always “have you eaten?”. Regardless of your answer, within minutes the table is covered with cheeses, meats and bread, and someone will have disappeared to get cakes.

female statue and a balcony street scene
Statue of author on the bathroom scales at Castel dell’Ovo, and a Napoli lane

The football stadium is on the other side of the city from where we are staying. We stand at the previous stop and watch the bus speed straight passed, already packed with people squashed up against the windows. The Taylor Swifters are now largely hanging out in the road. We watch from a distance as the bus has no option but to stop, and it’s promptly engulfed like a meat-wagon in a zombie apocalypse.

“And it’s too far to walk?” I ask for the fourth time.
“Yes,” Better Half replies calmly.
“Not much chance of getting a taxi eh?”
He smiles.
“Any camping shops open do you think? Could get a nice tent and a couple of sleeping bags?”
We start walking back to the zombie apocalypse.

The city began it’s life as ‘Parthenope’ in the 8th century BC. It was named for the suicidal siren who, according to legend, washed up on the rocks of Megaride after failing to seduce Odysseus on his epic journey. Refounded and renamed ‘Neapolis’ (New City) by Greek settlers 200 years later, today’s citizens still refer to themselves as the Partenopei.

Napoli’s strategic position in the Mediterranean meant many fought to occupy it. Over the centuries, Byzantine, Roman, French, Spanish, and Austrian rulers have all claimed their place here, each leaving an extensive wealth of architectural and cultural heritage. There are seven castles, four royal residences, more churches than you can shake a jewelled sceptre at, ornate villas decorated with mosaic and bronze (above and below the sea), Pompeii and Herculaneum, and the world’s longest actively running Opera House.

The least welcome of invaders were the German forces who came to destroy the city and deport its men to concentration camps during World War II. On September 28th, 1943, the shooting of a local 12-year-old boy, Filippo Illuminato, sparked a spontaneous civilian uprising. Men, women, and children fought German soldiers in the street, built barricades with furniture, and attacked the barracks. It took four days for them to send the Nazis packing, and when the Allied Forces arrived on October 1st they found the city had already been liberated by its own people.

Back at the apocalypse, there’s still a lot of zombies, but no-one seems too stressed or ready to eat one another. Napoli played Paris Saint-Germain tonight in the Champions League, which if you’re not familiar with European football, is quite a big deal. The game ended 1-1, and throughout the day there’s been an energetic camaraderie on the streets between the locals, visiting Parisians, and regular tourists. Many are wandering about now, stood around chatting, Googling “how do we get out of here?”, and waving at anything with wheels.

Football crowd at Napoli
The bus stop crew spotted a taxi in the distance

It is of course beneficial to be with a native in these types of situations. Although he’s lived abroad much of his adult life, my Better Half has the region’s magma in his blood and a magnetic connection to his hometown’s volcanic soil. He instinctively knows where on the pavement we should stand to encourage good fortune.

Superstition and religion are firmly stitched into the fabric of Napoli. In a ceremony dating from the 14th century, the dried blood of their Patron Saint, kept in an ornate vial, is twice-yearly brought out to a cheering public. San Gennaro was a bishop, executed during the Christian persecution, and if his reliquary blood melts during the ritual, it is a sign of upcoming prosperity, while remaining in its dry state is a bad omen. It is said that bringing out the relic during a 1631 eruption stopped the lava flow in its tracks. The years the blood hasn’t liquefied coincide with an earthquake, a cholera outbreak, the start of WWII, COVID, and the Nazi invasion.

In recent years, Napoli has enjoyed a touristic renaissance, thanks in large part to the long-awaited win of the National Football League in 2023. In a crescendo of celebrations over the course of many weeks, the city and its inhabitants were painted blue and adorned in flags and banners with such exuberance that it caught the attention of international media and travel magazines. Tourism boomed, and areas that were previously run-down have been transformed by new business, with visitors realising that the city is more than just the gateway to Capri, Sorrento, and the Amalfi Coast.

A car pulls up next to our lucky spot. Driver Ciro and his pal were on their way home, but thought to stop and charitably offer up available space in the car to strangers. Peering into the tangle of arms, legs, and faces, the available space seems to be dangling from the rear view mirror. Our fellow opportunists all breathe in, and we squash up, with me sitting on my Better Half’s lap trying not to grab anyone’s body parts while searching for a seat belt. There’s people in the luggage compartment at the back. They think it’s hilarious. They’ve come from Argentina, on a pilgrimage to watch a match in the spiritual home of their national hero.

The entire city is an open-air shrine to Diego Maradona. The arrival of the Argentine football player in 1984 was met with shock and euphoria, as Napoli had never won a league or major title at that point, while Maradona was already a renowned world-class talent. Diego grew up in poverty. He was an outspoken critic of social and political injustice, a defender and hero of the working classes. For both the man and the city, it was love at first sight, and with him, Napoli won the league twice.

Now seeing as we’re over capacity, Ciro lets us know that if we see the police we should all put our heads down. This could be interesting as mine is wedged up against the front passenger’s headrest with little room for manoeuvre. We weave in and out of the busy roads, and all go silent, therefore rendering us invisible as we sail passed the police. There’s now a party atmosphere in the car, and I imagine this is what contortionists do for fun on their birthdays.

We drop people off at different locations, and when the door opens they spring to freedom as though exiting a circus clown car. There’s space on the back seat now, but the Argentinians are having a great time in the luggage compartment. We get out for a group hug when we find their hotel, and wish them smooth return travels. Ciro drops us off last and is happy to finally be going home, so we thank him profusely and insist on paying him for his trouble.

So how do you get home after watching a football match in Napoli?
Well nowadays there’s Uber, and you can pre-book a taxi of course, that would be sensible.
However, for a more authentic ‘full immersion’ experience I would suggest:
-Make friends with the locals, you may end up in a cool back-street cafe, or on the sofa at their place with Mama making you spaghetti alle vongole.
-Follow a groovy-looking group of folks and discover Napoli’s eclectic music scene.
-Smear yourself in olive oil in order to reduce friction while squeezing onto the bus.
-Start singing Enrico Caruso’s “O Sole Mio” and wait to be adopted.
-Carry a tent with you, pitch it near a bakery ready for breakfast time, and camp out until the trains start running again the next day.

Napoli harbour and Vesuvio
Vesuvio was useless at hide and seek

How to Rescue a Japanese Gentleman From a Bathroom in Bali

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A statue in an Ubud garden

When the banging started, I just thought some building work was going on. By the time my Better Half got back from the shop, he was greeted by my inquisitive face peering down the stairwell, trying to figure out where the racket was coming from. Once the shouting began, like a bargain Sherlock Holmes purchased on Temu, I finally deduced the problem. Our neighbour was trapped in his bathroom.

We are in a guest house in Ubud, the cultural hub of Bali, in Indonesia. The pavements are a ninja assault course, and the traffic is dreadful, but otherwise, this is a marvellous place to visit. Around 30km inland, although popular with tourists, Ubud maintains a more traditional Balinese vibe than the busy south coast resorts of Kuta, Seminyak, and Canggu. Town streets contain western-friendly warungs, cafes, spas, and modestly priced homestay accommodation through ornately-carved wooden doorways. Shops sell locally made arts and crafts, while on the outskirts are rice fields, waterfalls, and a Sacred Monkey Forest.

Our homestay is at the end of a 30-metre-long pebble-stoned walkway, which, after the first few steps, magically takes you away from the traffic noise and bustle of Hanoman Street. It is a peaceful oasis with giant leafed monstera plants, frangipani trees, and a stone fishpond. The immaculate incense-scented garden is full of wildlife, the sound of bird noise, and a nice Japanese man currently pounding on a bathroom door with such force I’m starting to think he’s in there with rabid dog.

The four-studio apartment building is on two floors, and we’re on the top. Each studio has sliding patio doors to enter. We find our neighbour’s patio doors locked, with the keys dangling on the inside, blatantly mocking us through the glass. So after failing to get passed door number 1, the lovely landlady’s lovely assistant goes to fetch a locksmith.

We shout through gaps in the door frame for him not to panic, and that we’re going to get him out. He can’t hear us, so he continues to panic and ram the bathroom door. Our downstairs neighbour glides up gracefully, as she’s into yoga, and that’s how she moves. She also shouts through gaps in the door frame for him not to panic, and that we’re going to get him out. He can’t hear her either, so he continues to panic and ram the door. She sends positive energy through both sets of doors while we wait for the locksmith.

Founded by revered Hindu priest, Rsi Markandeya in the 8th century, many visitors come to Ubud for its renowned holistic heritage. While on a legendary journey, the venerated sage Markandeya was drawn to an area at the meeting point of two rivers. Discovering a unique spiritual energy and abundance of medicinal plants, he named the place Ubad, the Balinese word for medicine. First a sanctuary, then temples, and a water distribution system to enable rice-growing were built, and a thriving community emerged. Ubud became famous for medication, wellness, and spirituality.

Yoga and healing are a big thing here, from locals providing sessions in their gardens, to luxury retreats. I’d probably still be doing it myself if I hadn’t popped a disc overstretching my cobra a few years ago. Our rescue team yoga friend seems very nice. She’s from Australia, and I didn’t catch her name, but she looks to me like a Melanie.

Nowadays, many Westerners have jumped on the wellness bandwagon, particularly since Julia Roberts came here to Eat, Pray, and Love in 2010. Lamp-posts are covered in laminated flyers advertising courses for kundalini awakening, invoking your inner god/goddess/shaman, visceral lengthening, advice from a 24-year-old life coach, and how to become a certified clairvoyant hypnotist. But I’m not about to rain on anyone’s crystal sound bath, whatever floats your well-being boat.

Fine, just not Henry VIII

Lovely landlady’s teenage daughter joins us on the balcony. With no opening window or other way out than to break down the door, we try shouting again, to no avail. He still can’t hear us, is still panicking, and ramming the door with such force, I’m starting to think he’s in there with a raging baboon. His last bang shook the small shrine on the front wall so much that it knocked the incense sticks off onto the floor.

The incense is part of a ceremonial offering to the gods. They are placed on top of small woven leaf trays, called canang sari, with coloured petals, crackers, and tokens, which are then flicked with holy spring water from a frangipani flower. The canang are usually made by the lady of the house, and it takes an hour to put 50 of them together, which are then placed in temples, home entrances, shop doorways, pavements, and even cars and bikes. This daily ritual is to show gratitude and maintain the peaceful balance between humans, nature, and the divine.

Melanie is currently concerned about the tense energy around the patio doors. She attempts to cleanse it and waves her arms while flicking her fingers. Her hands inadvertently flap about in front of my Better Half’s face. He didn’t even flinch, though I think she sensed an atmospheric drop, and instead moved away to give me a helpful tutorial on how to breathe in stressful situations.

Tourism began in Ubud in the 1930s while the island was still under Dutch colonial rule. An artistic renaissance, encouraged by resident artists Walter Spies and Rudolf Bonnet, attracted anthropologists, musicians, and literary celebrities of the time, such as H.G. Wells, Charlie Chaplin, and Noel Coward. Traditional Balinese arts and crafts were adapted to make exquisite souvenirs for the influx of international customers. Local artisans, silversmiths, bone and wood carvers, and fabric designers created and sold at the art markets, much as they still do today. The array of work is amazing, and there are workshops to learn batik, painting, and jewellery-making, with the added bonus that the Balinese are far too nice to laugh at your efforts.

The locksmith arrives!
And thank heavens, because the force he’s throwing himself against that door, I’m starting to think he’s stuck in there with a claustrophobic tiger. I gently usher the lovely landlady’s teenage daughter to one side, because her first experience of seeing a naked man doesn’t need to be a frenzied, soaped-up 60-year-old Japanese tourist.

The first lock is broken off with huge pliers, and we all shout as the patio doors slide open. He finally hears us, much to the relief of the bathroom door, which now has a large crack in it. The locksmith goes to work on the offending lock, while Better Half and I go to sit back on our side of the balcony, as it’s now a little crowded in the room, and my next experience of seeing a naked man doesn’t need to be a frenzied, soaped-up 60-year-old Japanese tourist.

The traumatised gentleman is released from his ceramic cell and wrapped in a towel, with emotional support Melanie on hand, sharing her breathing tutorial and grounding techniques through Google Translate. Our lovely landlady gives him a cold beer, and we all celebrate his newfound freedom.

So, how do you rescue a Japanese man from a bathroom in Ubud?
-When there’s no window to climb through, you call a locksmith.
-If you find yourself on the wrong side of the bathroom door, shout and bang, but try not to panic.
-Squeeze shower gel, or something oily, in the stuck part of the door to loosen it.
-If you insist on leaving the keys in the lock of the outer door, arm yourself with a klaxon and enough food for three days. Take your phone in with you, and a locksmith, and thoroughly check the bathing area for baboons before entering.

Join me next time when I’ll be explaining how to extract $400 from someone looking to harmonise their inner child using quantum bloc realignment and a bamboo jaw harp.

Ceramic Cell Block H

How to be the Highest Person in Spain Without Taking Drugs

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Volcano and a blue sky

Like countless others before me, the first time I saw the mighty volcano was through an airplane window. It was dusk, the sky was all shades of purple, and just as Mount Teide’s silhouette loomed large, the guitar riff of Pink Floyd’s ‘Shine On You Crazy Diamond’ kicked in through my headphones. It made quite an impression.

Years later, when I stood on the summit, I wondered if anyone could see me from their airplane window, but instead of their own Pink Floyd moment they had gotten some random nutter waving a football scarf.

The Canary Islands archipelago was created by volcanic eruptions spanning 20 million years, and sits in the Atlantic Ocean one hundred kilometres from the coast of West Africa. At 3718m above sea level, Tenerife’s Mount Teide is not only the highest point in the Canaries, but since the Spanish conquered these islands in the 15th century, it is also the highest point of Spain.

I came to Tenerife on holiday in the early 90s. I met the love of my life in a nightclub, and made the place home for a good few years. Whenever I returned from a trip, Teide welcomed me back, and while submerged in daily life on the coast, the mighty Mount was always visible.

Living in the tourist industry bubble, it’s easy to forget the incredible natural beauty that bought you there in the first place. So today, my two dear work colleagues and I are going to do what we’ve been explaining to hotel guests for years, and walk to the peak.

From the southern beach resorts it is an hour’s drive upwards on increasingly pine-fringed, winding mountain roads. The Teide National Park is a UNESCO Heritage Site and spans 190km2 of forested volcanic landscape. In all my years, this is the only place I’ve seen clouds rolling across the road in front of me.

At 1240m altitude, we drive passed vineyards that are organically irrigated by cloud cover. These bodegas consistently produce award-winning wines, and you can stop for a tasting with locally sourced traditional tapas, cheeses, beans, and goat meat. But that’s a treat for another day.

Above the clouds is a sky of uniquely vibrant cerulean blue. We pass the picturesque village of Vilaflor at 1400 metres, and Pino Gordo, the famous 800-year-old Canarian Pine. With the car windows open, you feel the temperature and air quality change as you ascend. With them closed, the bright sunlight tricks you into thinking it’s still hot outside, and stepping out of the car you’re greeted by an invigorating freshness, like being drenched by a virgin mojito.

Entering Las Cañadas, we have reached 2000m altitude and are now driving inside the 45km crater perimeter. The road levels out onto a grand expanse of lavascape, mineral-tinted rock formations, and Teide himself in the distance.

The iconic Tenerife image adorning many restaurant and hotel walls (and the old thousand peseta banknote), is the gravity-defying Roque Cinchado, or ‘God’s finger’, with the Mount as a backdrop. That view is from Los Roques de Garcia, which also has an amazing vista of the original caldera, remnants of ancient lava tubes, walking trails, a Visitors Centre, and the National Park’s only hotel.

We stop here to take in the majesty of the thing we’re about to scramble up. I spot a pair of feral Influencers. They ignore the signs to stay on the path and protect the endemic flora, to climb up for a photo shoot on a rocky ledge. I silently hope, rather uncharitably, that the Park Ranger fines them, or at least they don’t disturb any plant life as they slip off into a ravine.

Teide has been fascinating folks for millennia. The indigenous Guanches, who inhabited the island from the first century AD, called it Echeyde. They believed a dog-headed devil named Guayote was trapped inside the mountain, spitting fire and causing chaos when he was angry.

Guayote’s last tantrum was in November 1909, and although classed as an active volcano, the experts are happy to confirm he is currently taking a very long nap. It is common knowledge, but I decide not to remind Becky and Laura until we reach the top.

I have made the climb before, back in the days when I first moved here. Myself and several fellow ‘twenty-somethings’ bounded up with youthful exuberance, hangovers, inappropriate clothing, and most likely a couple of cheeky beers. That may make my previous comment about Influencers seem hypocritical, but health and safety rules were instinctual back then. We left no rubbish, touched no plants, didn’t build rock stacks to pose with, and the only damage sustained was to our kidneys. So there.

Now it’s more organised, and in the interests of conservation and safety, only 200 people are allowed to the peak daily. The cable car ascent takes 8 minutes to reach La Rambleta platform at 3555m, where we’re met by Spain’s highest public telephone, and a panoramic view of the crater with the ‘sea of clouds’ lapping up at its sides. From here, we need to flash our pre-booked summit passes at the nice man in the checkpoint hut to proceed upwards.

Depending on the cooperation of your thighs, it can take about 40 minutes to reach the peak from here, following the rocky path with its twists and varying gradient. The temperature combines laser-guided sunbeams with the brisk chill of an alpine ski resort, so it is the ideal place to get sunburn and pneumonia at the same time. There’s the odd flat rock that can be sat on to take a break and acclimatise to the changing altitude and thinness of the air.

Halfway up, Laura admits to feeling a little dizzy and breathless, so we sit for a while, taking the opportunity to appreciate the enormity of the view. A helicopter pops up and hovers just below us.
“Oh crap, the Feds are onto us, run for it!” I quip hilariously to zero reaction.
“Do you think someone’s in trouble?” Laura asks.
“It’s probably a training exercise,” offers Becky.
We agree that one of the trail guides must have forgotten his lunch and has just had a cheese and bacon baguette delivered en route, so continue upwards.

We cross over on the trail with a couple making their way down. They are beaming energetically. “It’s worth the effort!” they tell us. We swap pleasantries and smiles, as you always do when you see a fellow human in the middle of nowhere.

Laura needs to stop again, as the dizziness is getting the better of her.
We sit.
“What are you two doing? Keep going,” she says.
“No, come on, we’ll sit with you,” we say.
“I don’t know if I’ll get to the top, you two go.. go on,” she says.
“Look, it’s not far, we can wait and see if you feel better,” we say.
With a few choice words, Laura made it very clear what she thought of that idea, so instead of selfless camaraderie, we took her advice and “buggered off”.

The thought of reaching the top is exhilarating, and although probably looking more like an elderly antelope on its last legs, I pushed on feeling like a young gazelle.

The last part is steep and rugged. There’s a sulphur-smelling puff from a crack in the black sandy rock.
Charming.
You come all this way just to be farted at.

The sense of achievement is an amazing buzz, especially when we look back to see a determined Laura lunging up the trail behind us. The moment should have been accompanied by the Rocky theme tune, but she settled for the pair of us cheering her on instead.

The three of us are on top of the world’s third-tallest volcanic structure.
No phone signal, no white noise, no concrete, no pollution, and no people. We are 7500m from the floor of the Atlantic, and it’s beautiful.
Daily life’s problems temporarily dissolve. The loved one who passed away not long ago feels near. It’s as though the pure air and altitude has bought us closer to heaven.

We have our energetic beams, and laugh about finding real peace while standing on top of something highly explosive. We take our time, and the customary “we did it!” photos and start the journey back down telling anyone coming up that “it’s worth the effort.”

The last time I saw the mighty volcano was from an aeroplane window. That was nine months ago, as my better half and I left the island to go and look for adventure elsewhere. The reason for that, is a story for another time. We will return someday, but to make it our home once more, or just for a visit, right now is uncertain. The one thing for sure is that I’ll be looking for Teide to welcome me back as he always has, and I’ll still hear Pink Floyd when I see him.

So how do you get to be the highest person in Spain without taking drugs?
The second highest point of Spain is on its mainland. Mulhacén Mountain, in the Sierra Nevada range measures 3479m height, so you’re going to need an exceptionally long ladder to accomplish the task.
-It’s Teide or bust really, and plan your trip well in advance as there can be a couple of months waiting list for summit passes.
-Weather conditions greatly affect the running of the cable car, so it’s advisable not to wait until the last day of your holiday to go up, in case you get postponed.
-Wear layers, a hat, take water, wear sunscreen, sturdy footwear, and one of those inflatable dinosaur costumes, just to see if other hikers think they’re hallucinating.
-The trek is much more enjoyable with good company, and if your football team is rarely at the top of anything, don’t forget your scarf.

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Eight Things to Prepare Yourself for in Southeast Asia

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Painting of a Balinese lady on a bathroom wall, written from Ubud with love.

What to know before you go

Southeast Asia! These are the lands of gods and smiles, with incense-scented alleyways and tiny plastic restaurant seating, where wrinkled ladies in straw hats offer you strange fruit and the wearing of elastic waisted elephant pants won’t get you laughed at. For first-time travellers to the region, you’re in for a treat, and without wanting to spoil the surprise, these are eight things you should prepare yourself for.

Street Sellers

Twenty-something years ago, when I first backpacked in SE Asia, stepping off a bus surrounded by tuk-tuk drivers was akin to entering a zombie flesh-eating festival wearing a pork chop necklace. Now with the advent of online taxi-booking apps it’s not nearly so much fun, however street sellers are still plentiful and very enthusiastic. Whether it’s a tuk-tuk, trinkets, peanuts or an umbrella, these people need to earn a living, but when you’re not interested saying “no thank you” in the native language or sticking a bag on your head doesn’t always do the trick. The best way is to make eye contact, smile, say thank you with a nod, and keep on walking.

The Bum Gun

The handheld bidet shower, known to its friends as the ‘Bum Gun’, is a marvel of personal hygiene. You’ll find it wall-mounted next to the toilet and it’s designed to leave your designated area daisy-fresh after ‘dropping the kids off at the pool’. Caution is advised. Random rogue bum-guns may look friendly but contain the type of excessive water pressure that could strip your driveway paving of a lifetime’s accumulation of moss in milliseconds. A test squirt is advised before proceeding to the delicate zone, but once you’ve gotten the hang of it, you will wonder how you’ve lived without one.

Child Poverty

The sight of child street sellers and beggars is heartbreaking. I worked at a Cambodian NGO called “Let Us Create,” whose goal is to get these kids out of harm’s way and into school, and I will speak volumes on the subject given the opportunity. The money you give to child sellers goes to parents or guardians who will keep sending the child out to beg while they keep coming back with cash. These people live hand-to-mouth, and it’s very hard to help parents see that education and future employment are the way to pull them out of poverty when their child brings in a couple of dollars every day from tourists. Your intentions are heartfelt and admirable, but if you really want to help the kids please donate to a local NGO instead.

Traffic

If ever crossing a road should be accompanied by the soundtrack to ‘Mission Impossible’, it’s Hanoi, and the trick is to keep walking, making your intended route clear, while resisting the urge to cry. Asian driving has evolved over centuries from bicycles and cyclos and is quite different from that in the West. They seamlessly blend into one another at speed, instinctively knowing where to criss-cross, and frequently carry five-on-a-moto with baby as the filling in a ‘family sandwich’ squashed securely in the middle. Here is not the place for your first experience riding a scooter unless it’s in a relaxed and quiet resort with an international driving permit, insurance and a crash helmet, or you have a ‘Go Fund Me’ page ready to post.

Air-conditioning

To counteract the tropical heat, air-con is widely utilised in many establishments and modes of transport. Frequently set to the temperature of an Eskimo’s mittens, walking into a shop from the humidity of the outside can feel as though you’ve been slapped in the face with a bag of frozen shrimp. To adapt to the dramatic ambient shift, simple acclimatisation training can be achieved by walking in and out of any Seven-Eleven Convenience Store in five-minute bursts. Consider carrying a hooded sweatshirt on long bus journeys, which in the case of a more relaxed air-con temperature can always be rolled up and used as a pillow.

Abundant Smiles

“The Land of Smiles” is Thailand’s motto, and they’re not wrong. The heart-warming beam is the basis of Southeast Asian culture as a show of respect, positivity, and social harmony. Another reason for the smile is ‘loss of face’ and the avoidance of conflict. Losing one’s temper in Asian society is seen as lacking self-control and dignity, and the reciprocating smile is out of embarrassment on behalf of the shouty-person and an attempt to diffuse tension. So the next time you read an online review that claims “I calmly complained to the receptionist and he just stood there grinning at me,” you know how that really went down.

The Squirts

The year was 2005, and in a beach bungalow on the island of Koh Chang, an unspeakable horror of colon chaos unfolded. I emerged from the bungalow bathroom after four days, squinting in the brightness of the day, shocked, relieved, and slimmer. I speak from experience my friends, and I’m here to tell you not to be afraid of street food, ice, and salads while in SE Asia. If you choose popular stalls and cafes with a regular turnover of ingredients, don’t eat anything that still has a pulse, or drink Thai whisky straight from a bucket of dubious hygiene at an all-night beach rave, you’ll no doubt be fine. Take diarrhea tablets, activated charcoal tablets, and rehydration powder sachets in your medical kit just in case, and thoroughly enjoy the vast array of the indigenous menu.

Customary Courtesy

We don’t wish to offend our hosts, and little research into the local customs of the area you’re visiting makes for responsible and courteous tourism. For example, menstruating ladies or people in mourning should not enter a place of worship in Bali, and offering something in your left hand anywhere in Asia is not the done thing. The left hand traditionally is in charge of ‘personal hygiene’ if you get my drift. The giving and receiving of money should be done with the right hand, or when in Cambodia, with both hands, or the left hand supporting the elbow of the right. It might seem odd, but do this in supermarkets and watch the cashier smile. The rule that you shouldn’t wear yellow in Malaysia isn’t strictly true, that was related to an uprising some years ago and won’t get you arrested, unless you’re wearing yellow Crocs with matching socks and it’s the Fashion Police.

From the diverse natural landscape and ancient monuments, to the low cost of a good meal and accommodation, the generosity and serenity of those living with next to nothing, to the amount of times and places you hear Ed Sheeran being played, prepare to be amazed while travelling Southeast Asia. What you can’t prepare yourself for is how different you feel when you arrive back home.

And how much you miss the bum gun.

Packing for 6 Months Budget Travel in Southeast Asia

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vintage camera on top of suitcase

I stared at the humongous pile of stuff on my bed and then at the new rucksack slumped up against the wall, then back at the pile. I’m sure out of the side of my eye, I saw the rucksack tremble. I went and got myself a coffee to prepare for the task ahead and gave the rucksack an invigorating team talk. The last time I backpacked was 17 years ago to Thailand, Vietnam, and Cambodia, so I’m not new to this, but deciding what was coming with me on this grand adventure had to be considered, especially since we didn’t know when, or even if, we’d be coming back.

I have included an exact list at the end. It isn’t difficult of course, you take the stuff you want, but these are a few helpful notes for the budget backpacking virgins out there regarding the stuff you’ll likely need. I should mention that while I took much time to pack and re-pack, my better half, who’d not backpacked before, accomplished the task at the speed it takes Usain Bolt to get the lid off his fruit juice.

BAG OR SUITCASE?

Cases are cumbersome and take up hands when you could be holding a cheeky travel sandwich. With a rucksack on the back, and a backpack on the front, you’re still hands-free to wave your tickets at people and not have to bend down to drag a wheelie case over broken pavements and random dog poo. Rucksacks are also more comfy to rest your head on while waiting for trains and less likely to bounce off the other side when some dude launches it on the roof rack of a minibus. Incidentally, if there are two of you travelling, your bags can be combined as one 25kg baggage allowance on some airlines like Air Asia.

SO IT’S A BAG THEN

I have a 50-litre rucksack and it weighs 12kg fully loaded. It sports padded adjustable straps, handy outside pockets for the items I don’t want buried, and a rain cover. I’ve seen that packing cubes are the thing now, I separate my stuff in bags which can later be used as a shopping or beach bag. Leave yourself some space to fit in purchases and souvenirs.

If you’ve never worn a rucksack before, I suggest filling it and having a practise, specifically to gauge your new girth while wearing it to save injuring small children and the elderly every time you turn around. A small cross-body bag that fits in the front backpack is your faithful companion for money and cards, phone, charger, power bank, passport, glasses and shades, which will be glued to you during your travels.

CLOTHES

Unlike my native Europe, where summer and winter seasons are reasonably defined, Southeast Asia is surprisingly varied. It’s dry season in Cambodia when it’s bucketing down in Bali, and northern Vietnam is cold. Layers are essential since where you’re going is hot and sticky, but you’ll also be spending time on a plane or bus whose air-con is set to ‘Svalbard’s fridge’, and encountering monsoon raindrops that soak to the bone in seconds.

Temples, holy sites, and Asian cultures require respectful dress, and you should cover your knees and shoulders in some areas. In general, bikinis aren’t appropriate for waterfalls or walking around the street, and Muslim countries prefer tourists to dress modestly, particularly during holy festivals like Ramadan. You will see people dressed inappropriately as some don’t realise, and sadly some don’t care, but to not offend the locals, it’s best to keep your magnificent flesh under wraps when required.

A pair of trusty trainers you’ve already broken in, some comfy trekking-type sandals and flip-flops are the core footwear requirements. Aside from the flip-flops, it’s best to get these before you go rather than having to shop for them here. The multi-purpose items are a hoodie, which rolled up, makes a decent pillow, and sarongs. The latter can be a towel, picnic blanket, scarf, curtain, shoulder cover for holy site visits, skirt, and impromptu bed linen when you discover dubious sheet cleanliness in your sleeping quarters.

GETTING LAUNDERED

You can find laundry services in most places, and where you stay will most likely do it. They range from an actual laundrette, to the landlady scrubbing your grubbies in a large tin bowl and leaving them to dry in the sunshine. If you give them Grandma’s hand-made lace blouse, it may come back the size of a drinks coaster, and white t-shirts tend to lose their dazzle, so if you’re taking special gear, be prepared to hand wash it yourself. I do my smalls and lightweight tops and stick them on the drying rack when there is one. Cotton clothes are always best, as anyone who’s spent a sweaty night stuck to polyester sheets can testify. Cotton is light and breathable and dries fast, and linen is cool unless you’re fussy about creases.

MEDICAL KIT

The medical kit tends to increase with age. Ours contains ibuprofen tablets and gel, paracetamol, antiseptic cream, vitamins, diarrhoea pills, charcoal tablets, antihistamine, rehydration powders, plasters, dressing and tape, safety pins, eye bath, some cotton pads, a teeny bottle of Betadine, cold and flu tablets with decongestant, earplugs, and nail scissors.

You can of course, buy many of these things here. While sun lotion isn’t cheap, you can usually find Factor 30 in traveller size bottles in supermarkets, and unless you’re particular about your ‘deet rating’, Asian mosquito repellents like ‘Soffell’ or ‘Off’ are good enough. Tiger balm-type products are cheap here, and back in the day, I remember the Cambodian locals using it for everything from a pimple to a severed limb. It is effective in easing headaches, nasal congestion, muscle aches and pains, toenail fungus, and itching bites; however, I would suggest taking any severed limbs to the nearest medical facility before applying.

TOILETRIES

I use small refillable bottles. Solid soaps are good when you’re on the move as they weigh less, don’t leak into your gear and avoid the liquid allowance on flights. Make-up tends to melt in the heat, so I just use eye pencil and waterproof mascara to avoid scaring people when I’m out in public. The most useless article you can take to Southeast Asia are hair straighteners, unless of course you’re thinking of using them as a travel iron or to make tiny toasted sandwiches. Take hair accessories to pin-it-up/pull-it-back instead, or like me, just accept that your head may look like a caveman’s armpit on occasion.

THE STUFF

L.E.D torch – from bathroom visits on the overnight train, to traversing broken pavements in the dark. I have one with an attachable head-strap in case I decide to take up coal mining.

Universal sink plug – for hand-laundry and gent’s shaving, and yes, we have stayed in places without a sink plug.

Plug adaptors – for 2-pin/3-pin sockets, a three-way socket extension, and a double USB charger are my weapons of choice.

Lengthy luggage belt – impromptu washing line.

Pegs – for laundry, holding stubborn curtains together, and keeping food bags closed.

Padlocks and a chain – for the bags while travelling, and to make the wardrobe a ‘D-I-Y safe’ when you don’t trust reception with your valuables.

S-shaped hooks – for when there’s nowhere to hang your stuff and keep toiletry bags from dangling in water.

A pack of playing cards.

Yahtzee scorecards and dice.

ELECTRONICS

I have an ancient Kindle loaded with books, a battered iPad with music and games for the plane, a tiny Bluetooth speaker, headphones, a small laptop, a portable hard drive (mostly to load photos as my phone storage is quite useless), a USB stick with films on, an old phone with more music, and a power bank (as now my phone storage is full the battery life is also quite useless).

THE BOTTOM LINE

So now, eight months on from the humongous pile of stuff on my bed, we’re still living out of our bags and currently in Indonesia. Looking back on what I’ve listed here, I can say that we’ve used everything, although we only played Yahtzee once in a power cut and I lost, so that’s gone back in the bag until it behaves.

My newbie backpacking friends, so long as you have your money, passport, diarrhoea treatment, a cap, phone, comfy shoes, and travel insurance, you’re good to go. The rest you’ll learn from and will become part of your adventure and travel tales from Southeast Asia. It’s a wonderful place, you’re going to have a mind-broadening experience, and as I look over at my once trembling rucksack, it’s now asking me quite boldly “where are we going next then?”.

What I packed for budget travelling in Southeast Asia for six months.

Microfibre towel, 4 pairs of shorts, 3 t-shirts, 1 pair of jeans, 4 tops, undies, mix and match bikinis, modest two-piece swimsuit, 2 vest tops, 2 cropped trousers, 1 skirt, 2 sarongs, 2 scarves, socks, caps, 2 dresses, trainers, flip-flops, rain jacket, 1 lightweight long sleeved shirt, 1 sparkly top for special occasions, hoodie, and dungarees for travelling in even though they make me look like a children’s party entertainer.

A Brief History of Spinalonga Island in Crete

Posted in places

a six minute read

Leprosy is probably not something on your ‘must do’ list when you are on holiday in Crete, but bear with me.  On the north-east coast of this beautiful island, in the Mirabello Bay, you’ll find Elounda.  This charming seaside village has a pretty marina, tavernas, cafes, and a perfectly family-friendly beach.  Along this stretch of coastline are Crete’s most exclusive five star hotels and accommodation, although thanks to sympathetic construction they are mostly tucked away, so you don’t have to see those rich folks enjoying themselves.

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Travel five kilometres along the scenic bay-side road from Elounda and you’ll find the quaint fishing village of Plaka.  With its small collection of brightly coloured shell souvenir shops, cafes, and seafront tavernas, it’s a wonderful place for a Cretan seafood lunch and glass (or two) of village wine.  It would not have escaped your notice as you were nearing Plaka that directly opposite its tiny port, stood alone in the sea, is a rocky fortress.  This is Spinalonga, known to the natives as Kalydon, and it has a few tales to tell.

Boat trips leave from both Plaka and Elounda ports to Spinalonga Island.  When I first took the trip, some years ago now, I was sat on the boat next to a friendly lady who was excitedly clutching a paperback book.  “The Island” by Victoria Hislop tells the family saga of a woman quarantined on Spinalonga as a leper.  It’s a great tale, and the novel is an international bestseller which became a hugely popular televised series.  “Have you read it?” she asks.  I tell her I have.  It seems I’m not the only one on the boat that’s familiar with it either, and for the thirty minute journey a varied group of passengers form an impromptu International Book Club.  As the boat pulls up to dock we’re faced with citadel walls, and the archway entrance named by the lepers interred here as ‘Dante’s Gate’…. the entrance to hell.  Once through the passageway, friendly book-lady is mesmorised and wanders off, no doubt playing out favourite scenes in her head.

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Spinalonga didn’t exist as an island until 1526, when occupying Venetians carved out the peninsula to create the 8.5 hectare lump of arid land.  At this time Elounda was a very lucrative salt pan, and Spinalonga perfectly placed for sea trade and as guardian of the bay entrance.  Fifty-two years later, when the Ottoman Empire started to flex their muscles, the Venetians began to build fortifications on the rock in anticipation of battle.  Following one of the longest sieges in history, Crete finally fell to the Ottomans in 1669.  However, they were unable to take control of Spinalonga since Christian and Cretan rebels had made it their base from where to torment the invaders.  Not until 1715 were the rebels defeated, and a thriving Muslim community settled here.  However, the Ottomans weren’t received well in Crete and fierce bloody revolutions were ongoing throughout their rule.  Eventually an internationally supported uprising in 1897 saw the end of their occupation.  They were expelled a year later, under protest, and Crete was officially declared an independent Greek state.

An alarming spread of leprosy bought about a government decree in 1901 for the compulsory isolation of all those infected.  Outcast from their communities, lepers had taken to living what life they had in the surrounding hills and caves.  Spinalonga became an official leper colony in 1903, and within a year was home to 148 men and 103 women.  Two years on saw inmate numbers grow to 954, as lepers were now being sent from mainland Greece and further abroad.  Crete was suffering financially, and although promised housing, water, food, and social security payments, in reality, the conditions were squalid and lepers were basically sent here to die.

A twenty-one year old law student named Epameinondas Remoundakis arrived from Athens in 1936.  Appalled by the conditions, he set about bringing the residents together, and formed the Fraternity of Spinalonga Patients in order to petition the government and demand change.  Thanks to their persistence, a school, infirmary, cinema, and a theatre, were all built on the island.  As their community developed the residents began to cultivate what land there was, they opened cafes and shops, created employment, white-washed their buildings, and even played classical music through loud-speakers on the streets.  Some fell in love, and although officially banned from doing so, they married and had children.

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Thankfully, an effective cure for leprosy was found in the late 1940’s, and gradually patients were cured and able to leave.  Among them, Epameinondas Remoundakis, having lost his sister and his sight to the disease, was finally reunited with his family and lived into his 60’s.  The island officially closed as a leper colony in 1957, and the last 20 patients were taken to be treated in Athens.  According to Greek Orthodox law, the Priest of the island remained until 1962 to honour the fifth year anniversary of the final death.  He was the last resident of Spinalonga.

Nominated for UNESCO World Cultural Heritage status, Spinalonga is the most visited archealogical site in Crete after the palace of Knossos, and it’s easy to see why.  It is an ingenious, tragic, and atmospheric piece of history in an area of natural beauty.

I’m walking back towards Dante’s Gate when the friendly book-lady comes running up “You must come and see this!  It’s a child! There’s a footprint! Come and look!”, and she takes me by the arm.  We trot back to one of the restored buildings and sure enough, on the stone floor there is a faint outline.  “You can see it!  It’s a child’s footprint!  It’s a ghost!” and off she bolts to tell anyone she finds.  Now, whether the mark on the floor was indeed a child of Spinalonga whose spirit still plays around the tumbled remnants of the island, or whether someone had just dropped their sausage roll, I’m not one to say, but the return boat trip discussion of the International Book Club definitely took an excited twist.

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Allow yourself at least an hour to walk the street all around the island.  You can visit the museum, see the tiny chapel, the cemetery, the fortress walls, and if feeling energetic, explore the rocky top.  Guided tours are available, and there is one cafe by the dock.  However it is an amazing place for a small picnic if you hadn’t had that fish lunch at Plaka beforehand.  With a tiny patch of beach, it is possible to go for a swim here, but that is at your own risk as there is no lifeguard, and I’d suggest sunblock, hat, and water as on those beautiful Cretan sunny days shade is hard to come by.

At time of writing, boat trips cost from €10 and the entrance fee through Dante’s Gate is €8.  It’s well worth it.