Behind us was the border, ahead was a large central open-air space, divided on several levels by escalators. All around were various waiting travellers, and local nefarious-looking types. The backdrop was like something out of a 1980′s Sci-Fi film, with gleaming towers, and seemingly pointlessly geometric concourses. To our left, more shady structures with small shopping units, and then a large train station, and our right – yet more concrete structures. Darkness was descending and with it a strangely sinister atmosphere, and we struggled to find a route through the concrete labyrinth to get to our mysterious bus station. Our curiosity was met with both disappointment and amusement when we saw what we were to be travelling (and sleeping) in overnight. An oldish bus with three rows of bunk beds, each one no wider than a full grown man, and no longer than a tallish Chinese man (which happens to be about one inch shorter than me). Once settled in and on the move, I actually found my bunk pretty comfy, and slept for a few hours. Throughout the 800 mile journey, we passed city after city, lit by neon, punctured by cranes and half-built tower blocks – China is indeed growing rapidly, if this slither of a view was anything to go by. The last 100 miles or so though, were through rural Guanxi Provence, and torrential rain pounded the bus. Every few minutes lightning revealed silhouettes of the monolithic limestone peaks that we had heard so much about. This was all very exciting of course, but I was confused. It seemed we were very close to Yangshuo, but it was 3am. ‘We’re not supposed to arrive there until 6 are we?’. I switched on the GPS on my phone which confirmed my fears – we would arrive at a painful 3:30am.

Our bunk-bus drove off and we were left standing with a Dutch couple, and three or four local taxi drivers touting their business – a lift or a (no-doubt dodgy) room to sleep in. We felt exhausted, confused and a little intimidated, but there was little alternative but to agree to be taken to our hotel in a clapped-out motorised rickshaw. 6 bonerattling kilometres later, we arrived. We had been delivered safely, and reliably, if uncomfortably and felt bad at the suspicion we had held for our driver and the other touts back in town. We had just been taken four miles for £3.50 at 4am. For half the journey I was mentally rehearsing what I would do if the driver turned out to be a tourist-molesting maniac…why the paranoia? As a traveller in strange lands you’re naturally on your guard, and I suppose caution is certainly sensible, but I think that experience taught me to trust in the good of people a little more, and to give potential tourist-molesters the benefit of the doubt. We sat in the dark deserted grounds of the Yangshuo Mountain Retreat, and waited for a dawn revelation.

A Honeymoon Idyll.

As the sky brightened, the scenery revealed itself as some oriental painting, complete with towering clumps of bamboo, the iconic karst peaks, lush vegetation and a slow moving river flowing at the foot of the hotel’s gardens. With the sunrise came butterflies the size of small birds, and dragonflies, then the hotel groundsman who gave a courteous ‘hello’. Soon we were checked-in, fed and in our honeymoon bed once again where we did what any newlywed couple would do in our condition – slept until 2pm.

The place was rustic, but comfortable, and the views from the garden were of the sort that you just needed to sit and stare at. Gawping. We did a lot of that. By about 9 or 10am the rafts would come. The traditional mode of river transport on the Yulong River (and many rural Asian ones) is the simple bamboo raft, powered by bamboo pole. In touristy Guanxi province, the rafters take holidayers in twos or threes in a virtually endless procession downstream. Mostly Asian passengers with varying degrees of balance, excitedness or plain fascination towards the strange western faces on the riverbank. We felt like a feature of their tourism experience as they called out to us “herro!…nee hao…herro!”. We waved back shyly and continued eating our steamed rice and Chicken Gong Bao. An American couple got more vocal – replying to the rafts with a gutsy “Hi there! Nee How!”.

It was a pretty stunning location to spend 8 days of our honeymoon in. We explored the countryside on bikes, passing through some very poor farming villages, but although basic, they struck me as happy places. Perhaps I’m being naive, even patronising – I hope I’m not – but the villagers did seem happy despite (or due to) the lack of western luxuries. No rushing about, no commute, and no X-Factor (well, don’t count on that). Certainly not hungry anyway; the river provides an endless source of fish, and the lush fields grow an abundance of rice, fruit and vegetables. They also have water buffalo in those fields, which, I’ve discovered, may be my new favourite animal after Elephants and Boxer dogs. They’re essentially amphibious cows with giant horns that the farmers use in the paddy fields where tractors would get otherwise bogged down. They trump lizards I think, but probably are at an equal standing with frogs and gibbons. All hail the water buffalo. Organic submersible tractor.

We were taken down the river on a bamboo raft. When we arrived at the jetty, a large group of raftmen looked up at us refusing to budge. A teenage boy got the short straw and was urged forward – he nervously took the helm and clumsily got us underway, much to the amusment of his elder peers (and a small kid) on the bank. We weren’t sure what the reason for the raftmen’s reluctance was until around half an hour into the journey when the skies around us erupted with fork lightning and torrential rain. It was absolutely fantastic. We stopped for shelter and a Tsing Dao beer on a mid-river raft-bar, while the river grew in depth with rainwater and the thunder roared through the hills.

Yangshuo town was nice enough, we wandered about, got massages, pedicures (Mrs Doyle not me), manicures (Mrs Doyle again), ate the fantastic 10p custard tarts, plenty of Chinese food, and of course some bartering for cheap goods, which I must say, Mrs Doyle is extremely good at. Here is what happens:

1. Enter shop/stall. Do not make eye contact with seller until you see something you fancy. Eye contact means they will pester you even more.
2. Handle the desired object. Lets say its a silk dressing gown (for Mrs Doyle of course). Scrutinise it. Nod nonchalantly when the seller says things like “yesh. You lih dis. Dis bery nice. One hundrer percen sill. Real natruh…You wan try ih onn?? Very nice”.
3. You ask “how much?”
4. They reply with massive figure like 650 Yuan (£65).
5. You laugh and look shocked, saying “ooh no, sorry, we don’t have that much. Sorry we are wasting your time”, and begin to walk away.
6. Seller stops you and hands over their calculator for you to key in what you were hoping to pay. You enter a very low figure like 60 Yuan.
7. Seller looks shocked and a bit annoyed. Enters 400.
8. You repeat stage 5. Then when you’re given calculator again you enter a little more…like 75.
9. Seller now a bit more annoyed tries again for a higher price.
10. You walk away. At this point you need to convince them that you’re serious about your price. Do not waiver – it weakens your position. Continue to walk and the price will lower accordingly.
11. Seller calls you back, each step you take inducing a lower price, which tumbles from “300″…to “200…160…120…. 90… Okay okay 80″. At which point you turn around hand over the cash gratefully and walk away with a cheap silky number.

I was pretty shocked at firstly, how much the sellers are willing to drop to get a sale, and secondly just how determined Mrs Doyle is to get a bargain. Her technique seemed harsh at first, so I acted the role of mute and dutiful husband – the keeper of the purse, and soon started to quite enjoy watching these little exchanges play out. As Siobhan says, “they’re still making a profit, otherwise they wouldn’t sell”. True enough, just not a very big one.

One day we took a Chinese cookery class, and discovered just how much heat a Chinese chef has to endure in the kitchen. 35 degrees in the shade plus a smoking hot wok is sweaty, sweaty work. No wonder their cooking technique minimises time spent at the hob – our local speciality dishes of beer fish and gong bao chicken took no more than 3 minutes to stir-fry. They tasted amazing.

Our time in Yangshuo was short in the grand scheme of things, but it was certainly memorable, and pretty close to perfect. I’m grateful to the staff at the hotel who were every bit as nice as the reviews on tripadvisor said. As I said goodbye to them on our final day, I confess I got a little lump in my throat. I soon perked up though – we were onto the next leg of the trip…the luxurious leg; the golden silky diamond-encrusted leg; we were in a Taxi to the Shangri La Hotel in Guilin 98 kms to the north.

Horizon Club anyone?

Hello. I would like a room with marble toilets, a leather-topped writing desk, a gigantic bed, many small branded notepads with matching pencils, a telephone by the bed; on the aforementioned desk and also by the aforementioned marble toilet, I will also require a free bottle of wine, a fruit basket and a cake with Happy Honeymoon written on it, a shoe polishing kit will be needed, as will a large TV, robes and full use of the Horizon Club Lounge, where I will take breakfast, free canapés and drinks at 5-7pm every day, as well as utilising a dedicated concierge service. Thank you. Well, we are on honeymoon.

The Shangri La. A massive luxury hotel in the largish town of Guilin – also a Mecca for tourists, but for us it was all about living it up like super-rich loafers. Which we did. On our final day though, we joined a cheap and cheerful coach trip up to the Longji rice terraces. Hard to describe the place, as it was like no landscape I’ve ever seen. The tour took you into the hills and up high into some ethnic minority villages, where the local Yao women never cut their hair, and have elaborately constructed coils on their bonces. Wooden houses perch on steep slopes, and where the houses don’t perch, the slopes are cut into hundreds of steps – rice terraces, for growing all sorts of crops as well as rice. The resulting landscape resembles a real life 3D contoured map, and was another one of those just-stand-and-gawp type places. We returned to the hotel to pick up our baggage, sweaty and exhausted, before making our way to Guilin train station for the fourth and final destination – Macau for one night and 2 days of gambling and hedonism at the Venetian Resort.

The Moon on a Stick.

We reached a summit of excess at the Venetian. The hotel is gigantic, and has all the amenities of a central city district within it’s faux-European style walls – plus a gambling hall the size of, well I’m not sure really…just believe me, it was enormous. As were the other Casinos in Macau, which is building a mega-resort to cater for the huge Asian market of a billion or so which sits on it’s doorstep. The result is odd. The casinos are massive, no expense has been spared in their construction, but the atmosphere within the gambling halls seems a bit sanitised. This was my first visit to a casino, and I was expecting more edge, more excitement, but it all seemed a little serious, but highly surreal at the same time. No one was drinking – Asian culture I guess, which surprised me given the quantities of money they were throwing at the tables…20, 30, even £100 minimum bets. I don’t get it. Perhaps you need to have money to burn to want to risk losing so much. After our moon-on-a-stick honeymoon we hadn’t much spare. We had some wine, and an italian meal in ‘St.Mark’s Square’, then lost £40 on a roulette table at the Hard Rock. That was all the gambling we could muster.

The old town in Macau was cool. The place has a bizarre mix of Asian and post-colonial Portuguese culture and architecture. Some streets reminded me of Santiago, others like Penang or old Beijing. We were winding down for our flight home, and saying goodbye to chopsticks for a while, but Asia didn’t want to lose us without a fight. She had sent Typhoon Haima to make the ferry crossing from Macau to Hong Kong airport as unpleasant as possible. 45 minutes of gut-churning sea later we arrived at the airport. 20 minutes on and we were eating a much-needed Pizza Express feast while the weather raged outside – strangely similar to how it looked at Heathrow three weeks earlier. Honeymoon, that’s it then. Done.

We walked from our Teddington flat in the pouring rain – wet luggage trundlers on the hoof, to Teddington lock bus stop. Waited for the Heathrow-bound 285 and resumed all the usual travel-fidgets: passport? Wallet? Paper documents? Money? Phone? Oyster card? All present and correct. Our bus arrived and delivered us to the giant airport town of Heathrow with plenty of time. All was running to plan. The only real concern for us was whether we would get into one of Terminal 5′s capacious lounges, and then if we did, whether we would be upgraded on our flight to the sacred realm of club or even first class. 11 hours is a long time to spend cooped up in economy class, battery hen style…no not for us! Surely honeymooners deserve the free-range, corn-fed, organic treatment? Siobhan’s dad (my father-in-law, no less) had done his part – using his considerable influence to try to get us on the all important list – the promised land. All that stood between it and us was numbers on the flight and a moustachioed man named Felipe. We tried to look like a respectable, affluent couple for Felipe, the check-in clerk at the Galleries Club Lounge in T5 South. With our new rings glimmering and our hair washed and combed, we approached the desk, and announced ourselves, handing over our boarding passes. I stood with a casual but authoritative air of someone who might say – ‘yes of course, I’m about to enter the club lounge, no big deal, I do this all the bloody time – I’m wealthy’. Felipe barely looked up, while his finger searched a piece of paper for our names (this must be the list). He found us, and with that we were instantly elevated above our lowly station. We strolled in calmly and breathed in the cool sanitised air. This was expensive air, and we, two mere peasants in disguise, were sharing it with BA’s wealthy clientele. Time for some free crustless sandwiches and nibblesnacks.

An Airport lounge is a peculiar place to find oneself. It’s like a large and very comfortable drinks reception, where all the invitees are strangers and have absolutely no reason to make conversation. The only item on the agenda is to load your tiny plate with an assortment of hot and cold buffet items, then walk slowly to an armchair, picking up a paper and a G&T on the way. Nibble. Sip. Nibble. Sip. Dip into a few columns of the Independent. Cross legs. Send an email or two. Nibble. Sip. Top up your tipple. We did all of the above, before drifting leisurely to our gate, where we were greeted with the welcome news of an upgrade to business class. Free-range, corn-fed, organic style. We had flat beds on the upper deck of the jumbo. We were a pair of super-smug newlyweds, and I’m pretty sure our constant grins and misty-eyed kisses across the flat bed partition was a fairly sickening sight for the other passengers. We reclined, ate yet more food, and attempted to sleep for the next 8 hours.

Honkers.

Hong Kong is a fantastic place. We felt immediately at home there as we drove in on the transfer. Last time we stayed, we were roughing it in a shoebox-sized room in a grubby hostel in mainland Monkok. This time we had a 23rd floor room in a good, clean hotel down in Causeway Bay, on the more affluent Hong Kong island. Our room had great views of the city, including half of the famous Happy Valley Racecourse. Another, possibly less picturesque view from the bedroom was of the toilet. Being an en-suite with a glass partition, my wife could, should she so wished, watch her husband whilst he sat on the loo. For better, for worse.

We spent a few days doing Hong Kongy things: gawping at the skyline from the star ferry, eating Chinese food, buying and bartering at the markets, seeking refuge from the intense heat in the huge air conditioned shopping malls, debating whether we could live in such a place, and concluding – maybe. We found a good curry house in the English sector, as well as a frighteningly quick-fingered blind jazz bass guitarist in a nearby jazz club. Everything is very easy in Hong Kong. The people are friendly, it’s safe, the tube runs perfectly, there is every type of food and shop you could ever need. It has abundant Chinese and pan-Asian culture, as well as plenty of home comforts (we even re-visited an amazing curry kebab house we found on our last visit). You think to yourself “this would be a great place to live”, then you step outside and start to sweat. 35 degrees C in June, and apparently it gets unbearably hot by August. Not so sure.

Four days passed and it was time to head north into rural China, where we were to spend the bulk of our time. After some exhaustive research, it seemed that the only easy/cheap way to get up to Yangshuo direct was an overnight bus from Shenzhen, a huge city on the HK/Chinese border. Tickets bought, we took the long tube ride up, wondering what awaited us. We’ve done overnight buses before, “how bad can it be?”…

1. We Giveth Thanks to the Sun Gods.

So, we’re married now. Husband and Wife. Mr and Mrs David Doyle etc – although, I should mention Siobhan’s not very keen on that title – perhaps it ought to be Mrs and Mr Siobhan formerly-Ranns-Doyle…no perhaps not. That sounds awful. How about King and Queen of Doyle? No? Or, Lord and Lady David of Doyleshire? Closer… Maybe just Shave and Dave is more appropriate. Whatever the title we now own, we also have rings on our fingers, some marvellous gifts, around 3 hours of wedding video tape to peruse, a few hundred photographs, a now fairly dishevelled wedding dress, many many happy memories, and a wedding certificate (which if I’m honest, I’m not at all sure what to do with but I suppose it must be important so i shall file it). Of course there were some unfortunate souls who could not attend our matrimonial bliss-fest, but to those of you who were there, thank you again for coming, and for helping to make it such a sublime day. It now feels like it raced by a little too quickly, in that like all good things, it would have been nice for it to have lasted longer, for time to slow down. To drink it all in. However, time did not slow down, that’s one cosmic force that is totally out of our control that’s for sure. The heavens on the other hand, were conspiring fully with us. We had watched the weather anxiously two weeks ago, when the country was in the grip of a cold and seemingly relentless stormy spell. A week on it wasn’t much better but there were glimmers of hope on the horizon, as we heard rumour of a high pressure system approaching. Then, in the final five days leading up to June 3rd, I studied the skies and the charts daily and the inclement weather gradually ebbed away until Thursday came and finally the outlook was sunny. The timing was impeccable. We could not believe the weather on Friday! I was awoken in my bachelor’s bed that morning by intensely bright beams of sunshine, and all day was bathed in blue skies and a gentle breeze. It was the hottest day of the year so far, and surely the clearest too. Our luck became even more apparent with hindsight. There was cloud and drizzle on Saturday and by Sunday we sat at Heathrow gazing out at a filthy grey wet cold slab of an airport. We had a somehow chosen a one day wedding window. Beyond lucky.

2.”Where did you say?”
“China”

Now, we spoke to a lot of people on Friday. Lovely people. Friends, brothers and a sister, relatives of all ages, and one question seemed to be prevalent: “So where are you going on your honeymoon?” to which we duly answered “China”. This is fine of course, however it did seem that we had to answer that same question several times on repeated occasions to the same people. I’m not sure why, but the answer just didn’t register first time around. Perhaps it was the sun that had got to their heads or the booze, or both, but a typical tipsy dialogue would begin with
“so where are you off to on your honey(hic)moon?”
“China”
“Where did you say?”
“China. Hong Kong, Macau, Guilin and Yangshuo”.
“China? Really? Are you excited?”
“Yes very. We start in Hong Kong and then up into the countryside to chill out for a bit”
“how long for (hic) then?”
“two and a half weeks”
“that will be nice…where did you say you were going again?”
“China, Hong Kong…”
…and so on. By the way, I don’t think the reality of the honeymoon had really registered with us yet either…we had a pretty busy one planned, and by the time we had said our goodbyes to family over coffee, wedding cake, tea and more tea, said more goodbyes, driven back up to London and packed, we were utterly exhausted. Suddenly, Sunday June 5th had arrived, we were husband and wife and could finally go on the long-anticipated honeymoon. We were very excited of course, but it was a slightly nervous excitement. To be honest, the thought of a long flight, broken sleep and a busy holiday schedule seemed a little bit appalling. We were a pair of burnt-out chinese lanterns. A long relaxing beach holiday was what we needed (where were we going again?), but we had to brace ourselves for the technicolour bustle of Hong Kong and hope that our energy would return to us – it felt like we had left it on Hengistbury Head…

We’ve been up in Twickenham for three weeks now, and last weekend the time came to venture out for a surf trip for the first time in quite a few months. It had been planned for a while, so in theory the trip was to be a smooth running, incident-free operation. An all round success was eagerly anticipated by all. However, and to be honest, not unusually, this turned out not to be the case. Although, I don’t think any of us thought it could have been quite so ridiculously, hopelessly, cack-handedly executed…I’ll run you through the whole stupid farce. Day by calamitous day.

Friday. An empty stomach.

I finish work, head next door with Chris, the copywriter bloke, for two swift pints of ale. Run to train, eat wasabi peas on train, get off train, get to Victoria and jump on a bus to Bristol. No dinner. Just wasabi peas. Arrive in bristol, ask taxi driver to take me to ‘The Hop House’ in Clifton. He’s never heard of it. I argue with him. Convince him it exists. We arrive. Unnecessarily, I drink several pints very quickly in order to catch up with the others. Return to Robs flat. Eat dinner (the remainder of my wasabi pea bag). Sleep.

Saturday. The day that took the biscuit.

Jonny and I awake in good spirits, then head off to a coffee shop. Still not having eaten anything but wasabi peas since Friday lunch i get dangerously high on a dark triple shot continental coffee. Meanwhile Tim and Rob go somewhere to sort something out. They return. We go back to the flat to faff. We then go out to the shops to faff and not buy clothes, before returning once again to the flat to faff a lot more, and discuss how much we don’t want to drive to Wales to camp in the cold. After doing this, we are all decided – we really don’t want to go to Wales. So we go. Hit traffic on the M4 near Bridgend. A funny situation is fast becoming an upsetting one. We debate whether or not to turn back, but the guilt of upsetting Matt outruns us (Matt – the soon-to-be Afghanistan-bound army doctor; who is already waiting in a tent for us and for whom we are travelling to wales for). The traffic jam disperses but our spirits are reluctant to lift. We find the funny side though, mostly talking about the amusing but disturbing new concept of Granvestitism – it’s like transvestitism, only it’s about wanting to dress like a Granny… Things begin to look a little less bleak until we take a wrong turn and, seemingly by some sort of malevolent force, end up buying unhealthy lunch snacks at a massive, truly disgusting Tesco store near Swansea or somewhere. We arrive at the camp site just outside the Goweran village of Burry Green just before 4pm. A large elderly man stands by the entrance to the campsite. Thinking him the proprietor, Tim (driver) puts the passenger window down so I can tell the man what we’re doing (which is looking for Matt). He looks blankly at us. Blank and confused – isn’t that how Welsh people normally look? We drive aimlessly around the campsite to find Matt’s empty tent. He’s at the beach. As we leave, it dawns on us that the elderly ‘proprietor’ was almost certainly just a random local who happened to be passing by the campsite. When confronted with a car-load of bleary-eyed englishmen intent on making their presence felt, it’s no wonder he looked bemused. We drive on, our progress towards the beach impeded at least four times by human obstacles, including a motionless rambler, a slow-motion cyclist, and a titanic 4×4 car blocking the lane. Pay money upon entry to car park. Llangenith beach is (as we already knew) a biggy. Greeted by a vast expanse of sand and a large number of possible surfing Matts, we scan the beach. From about 500metres away, we home-in on a girl with a dog who we hope to be matt’s girlfriend and dog. Luckily, they are. We chat. Own up to our plan to return home in a few hours. No, we didn’t even camp. We took the tents and barbecues and bags of fresh meat and booze all the way there, but they were just ballast. Tescos tipped us over the edge – we didn’t want a cold nights sleep in a tent to further damage our already tatty weekend. And so, while we waited for Matt to emerge from the surf we went for a casual stroll down the beach. Picking the northern headland as our destination, there was nothing but sand and the odd bit sea-puke between us. Despite having acres of (relatively) clean, smooth sand before us we chose to hug the tide line, analysing its tapestried bounty of seaweed, marine skank, and plastic junk. The embarassing legacy of human consumerism and waste, regurgitated by the sea. A fine pursuit for a fine day. We found treasures, delights and wonders such as old wheels, flip-flops, plastic containers (a lot of those), and no less than 3 orange utiltiy gloves. We also found several perished crab shells, which we examined like monkeys might examine, well an old crab shell really. We celebrated all these finds by excitedly throwing stones at first a plastic flower pot that we had thought was a sandcastle, then a large rusty oil drum. We were like teenagers. All we needed now was some cheap booze and some ‘biftas’ or ‘doobie’ etc. We had neither. Upon reaching the northern headland, we paused, looked for living crabs , found none and turned back into the sun. This walk was, believe it or not, rather pleasant. The surf was as bad as usual – blown out and messy, so it wasn’t as if we were missing out on anything wholesome. We strolled back and met Matt on the Dunes, then headed back to the pub where we had a bad pub meal and a chat with Matt and left. It was back to Bristol, the pub and then a toast to how good wakeboarding on Sunday was bound to be.

Sunday. Admitting defeat.

That toast in the pub was large and multitudinous. In fact I had already had 2 pints in wales earlier in the evening, and continued the self-abuse by swigging strong cider in the car on the way back to bristol. After we returned from the pub we all stayed up, and yes drank some more before collapsing at 3am. Consequentially, my brain was rather soft on Sunday. We fed ourselves the barbecue meats for breakfast. Consuming tea, juices, bread, with the usual eagerness and hope of a miraculous hangover cure, which, of course did not come. We do some sofa-based faffing, watching such televisual feasts as Unbeatable Banzuke (an excellent, if ridiculous, japanese obstacle course game show hosted by a gimp-suit-wearing Brian Blessed), Something for the Weekend (that shambolic show where they cook things half-heartedly, and talk inanely to minor celebs) and Scrapheap Challenge – surely the ultimate waste of time and energy, where teams of foolish greasemonkeys are let loose in a scrapyard to make outrageous contraptions badly and with far too little given time. This week they were building giant skateboards. Why? We didn’t stay to find out. Instead we finally headed off in the cars to go for an invigorating session of wakeboarding. The weekend would be validated. The faffing forgotten. The hangovers cured…well probably not cured exactly but improved at least. Two miles after we leave, I hear a strange noise coming from Rob’s front wheels. We pull over. I’m forced to squeeze into the second car while Rob has to limp home. We are now convinced of a cursed conspiracy; a cosmic plot against us. Naturally, we get lost a mile away from the wakeboarding place, largely due to my poor navigating. We’re all a little ratty by now. I feel hurrendous. I get dragged and slammed into the water at least a dozen times, before finally getting to my feet. My brain as clouded as the lake itself, and the alcoholic poisoning showing no signs of diluting, despite the activity and chill, I stagger out and into the toilet to poo. I pooed 5 times that day in all. Bowel emptying on a hangover often is a long drawn out affair. Much like my journey home. Tim kindly took me and Jonny as far as Basingstoke, a mere 38 miles from home. Unfortunately though, in what has now become as much a British Sunday tradition as over-eating on roasted meat and watching the Antiques Roadshow, we were victims of Sunday engineering works. The trains gave way to replacement bus services, and our respective journey times were at least doubled. I eventually arrived back in Twickenham 3 hours later. What a weekend. Certainly not a success. Still, all shits and giggles really.

As we descended towards the ‘Emerald Isle’, the ground appeared bereft of rainbows, pots of gold or prancing leprechauns, but I reassured myself that the latter were probably terrified of giant metal jet planes and were most probably hidden well out of view – perhaps submerged in a peat bog or something. Despite this I was at least as excited as I had been when landing at any of the far flung destinations on our round-the-world holiday. Surely there would be plenty of magical Gaelic dwarves in the rural depths of County Cork. I hoped I wouldn’t run any over on the drive out to the wedding venue – that would not only incur the total loss of my rental car deposit, but probably a curse on the wedding, at least a lifetime of bad luck, and perhaps a few terrifyingly vengeful visitations by the ghost of the mangled Irish sprite in question. Luckily, we had no such misfortune and arrived safely at the beautiful setting for Tim and Nuala’s wedding.

The narrow lane took us up and over a green and purple lipped ridge of rock and moss consealing the valley beyond. We parked by the hotel, which sits proudly opposite the dark lake of Gougane Barra. It appeared to be bubbling as countless small trout broke the surface to catch low flying insects. The water, surrounded by a ring of mountains (probably more like large hills – but they’re rocky and steep and the word ‘hill’ doesn’t really do them justice), has a special jewel in its emerald encrusted crown. It’s found across a causeway that juts out from the nearmost bank onto a small island where there quietly sits a perfectly proportioned old stone chapel. An epic location for a wedding, even with the dark grey clouds swilling overhead. There was a sort of solemn, ancient beauty to the place and once you escaped from the wedding revelries, and as long as Giles (my 2 year old nephew) was under control, it was completely peaceful.

Just before the ceremony, in an unexpectedly surreal moment; none other than the President of Ireland turned up. Seemingly with the sole intention of well-wishing my brother on his big day, and ‘having a bit of a nose around the place’. I thought of European referenda, Gerry Adams, peace negotiations and Eurovision – important things that Irish Presidents need to be thinking about, but here she was – power-suited up, with a serious entourage and an immovably lacquered perm – shaking hands with Tim. “Surely Irish politics hasn’t gone that quiet?”, I thought. Perhaps it has. Nowadays, the only real threat to Irish stability would be a price rise on stout. Now that would be a catastrophe, and they dont need that. Life out in rural Cork seems to require very few decisions: a walk in the rain or not, pub or not, Guinness or Murphys…hmmm…Guinness. No, Murphys.

All went well with the day (if you excuse the wrigglesome antics of a certain 2 foot high relative). Good food and speeches were digested, before a strong guiness-clouded cocktail of booze, laughter, tears, drunken dancing (a lot of drunken dancing), and music filled the night. A long night for some. Namely myself, Siobhan, Lucy and some others who danced like maniacs to the iPod’s desires until the very, very wee small hours. I was a sweaty shirted mess of a man by the end, and I had found my leprechaun, right under our noses all along – it was Giles, of course!

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Originally uploaded by mrdavedoyle

I’m moving on with the times. I’m pimping my work out multi-modally throughout the information superhighway. Tripling the chances of random folk stumbling upon my web content – it’s a bit like throwing a hoop at a post at one of those funfair stalls, only I’m throwing more hoops at the same time. See my flickr site: http://www.flickr.com/photos/david_doyle_illustration

The falls were well worth the 16 hour bus ride and we left Iguacu behind on another long overnight bus – our longest and last – a 23 hour voyage to Rio de Janeiro.

Fears of daylight robbery returned to my weary brain after reading the many graphic warnings in the Lonely Planet Guide. I wasn’t reassured when google threw up various Internet pages on how ‘dangerous’ Rio is. However, there was also plenty of people saying that the dangers are exaggerated. I, however was a little obsessed with the bad reports so spent a long time looking for the safest possible neighbourhood to stay in. Leblon was that place, and it turned out to be a perfectly tourist-friendly and upmarket area. Brazil is a lot more expensive than Argentina so we were forced to stay in a dorm for the first time on the trip. This blow was softened by a complementary caiparinha* offered by our hostel bargirl.

*The Caiparinha is a famous Rio coctail of cacacha (a rum), lime juice and sugar.

We had several Caiparinhas and went to a local samba bar. The place was packed full of young locals and a 9 piece samba band who were banging out the rythym of the city, and singing many well known favourites with the crowd singing along and dancing the salsa like experts. I can only remember one other bar which had the same atmosphere of pure joy and that was in Dublin. The music was just as good in both places but people were dancing a little more skillfully in Rio, and I don’t think they had consumed nearly as much alcohol as the Dubliners (in fact almost certainly not). Siobhan tried to teach me to dance the salsa but I felt silly and sat back down. Strong spirits don’t really help me move my feet in a complex, rythmic fashion.

Thank god we hadn’t had to stay in dorms. This French Canadian guy crashed into the room at 5am and turned the light on. As he did so, Siobhan sat bolt upright in her upper bunk, her half open eyes at a level just above his and proclaimed a semi-conscious “whooahh” to the bemused reveller, who, probably slightly frightened, immediately turned off the light. He shuffled around with his bags for a while and I tried to get back to sleep.

The next day we caught a bus up to Pao de Acucar (Sugar Loaf) and rode the cable car up to the best view of Rio de Janeiro, and poignantly, one of the best views of the entire trip, which was a good thing as this was our last day. The money had all but run out and we had decided to fly home a few days early. A travel-crust was forming over us, and I think if we had stayed out longer, sleeping in dorms and loafing about the place there was a real danger of that crust enveloping us entirely – might we have become crusties? No, of course not. At least not totally. But the early signs were all too evident: we were wearing dirty, ripped clothes all the time; we had started to eat crackers (they’re cheap); we were packing our bags in the hallway; Siobhan wanted to buy some ‘ethnic’ bean beads; I was tending to loaf about a lot more; and our armpits were not odourless. I hope that by our excessive spending we had managed to retain most of our dignity, and so we emerge from our adventure tired and bedraggled but with a huge number of happy memories, far too many photographs, and an utterly worn out set of clothes. We didn’t get mugged or blown up by a terrorist, we didn’t catch a tropical disease and we weren’t incinerated in an ash-stricken Aeroplane disaster. Not yet anyway.

That’s it.

* * *

Epilogue. Further observations on Crusties.

I just wanted to relay this small but (we felt) funny detail of our flight home.

After typing that stuff about crusties, it was a strange coincidence that just across the aisle from us sat three prime examples of that aforementioned breed. I observed their behaviour with great interest. Two of them had a large headfull of dreadlocks, into the depths of which a bony finger would probe, scratching and fiddling. All three wore their customary uniform of baggy floral/tie-die fabrics and all three were served a ‘special’ meal before anyone else – the vegan option perhaps. The strangest thing happened just 20 minutes into the flight. The one in 39d curled into a ball and lay on her compatriot, completely enshrouded in her blue blanket, from head to toe – by that I mean her head was actually covered. “they’re a bit like animals – what’s that about?! Don’t they know about eye masks?! You get them free in the BA flight set thing” I said, confused. Then I glanced at the bloke in 39f who was sat upright but also covered, corpse-style in his blanket. A strange bunch that’s for sure. But maybe they see us in a similar light. We are part of the greater common denomination. In conventional dress of jeans and t-shirt, our ordinary haircuts, our omniverous diet. We dress and behave like the vast majority of people we’ve seen around the world:- quite ordinarily. Most people we’ve encountered (including crusties) along the way have been friendly and decent and some not so palattable: Polite and noble in China (the spitting an exception); both friendly and occasionally deviously opportunistic in Thailand; gregarious and down to earth in Australia and New Zealand; and passionate, warm and welcoming in Chile, Argentina and Brazil. There’s plenty of good and bad eggs around, and in England there’s just a lot more of them in one place. Despite the overcrowding, England has a lot going for it. It’s a very comfortable, safe, orderly place on the whole, and there are some world-class buildings and landscapes. As we passed through central London on the Piccadilly line from Heathrow, several excited foreign tourists tumbled on and off, chattering about Big Ben or the Queen’s house probably. They obviously like it here. I do too. I’m looking forward to seeing friends and family, a walk in the forest and a pint.

Caught the train to Palermo and walked to our hostel. An unimposing place with subtle signage – we nearly walked right past it. I stuttered an introduction in Spanish to a pair of eyes that peered out of a small hatch in the door. Translated thus: “i have a reservation for this night Mr Doyle”. The eyes replied: “Dabeed?”. I blank. The door remains shut. What do they mean? They repeat “Dabeed”. I don’t understand. “Dabeed?” the man says two or three times more before relenting to my ignorance and opening the door saying “dabeed Doyle?”. The peso drops, I feel stupid. I often feel stupid, mostly when speaking bad Spanish to the Spanish speaking locals – of which there are many. Still, day by day we are both learning new words, each one making us feel slightly less stupid.

Palermo is a newly affluent suburb filled to bursting with restaurants and cafes and bars and shops. A nightmare for the hungry ditherer. Selecting a place to eat or drink requires focus, or preferably expert guidance. The latter appeared in the form of David Hilton – a friend from school and local resident. Not only did he take us to a great local restaurant, but he shared his considerable local wisdom with us, imparted his knowledge of Argentine history to us, and invited us to his flat for some drinks and food, where we met his mum, step-dad and girlfriend. We also tried some Mate – the national beverage. It’s a bitter brew of dried leaves made in a special decorated cup or gourd and sipped through a metal straw. It’s a daily ritual, and you share your cup with close friends or family. A quality day spent with Senor Hilton. Dave’s character isn’t unique though – nearly every Argentine we’ve met has been friendly, warm and courteous. They seem to have a genuine lust for life, making the most of every day – and they really do make the most of those. Your typical Argentine will be up early to work, have an hour or so break for lunch, then it’s coffee and (more very sweet) pastries after work, then dinner at 10 or 11 (12, even 2am at the weekends). I don’t think they really sleep! Coffee and cakes must be the source of their energy, or perhaps it’s the beef.

The Amazing Beef.
There must be a devastating number of cow carcasses awaiting butchery in thousands of abatoirs throughout the land. Each one to be divided up into juicy cuts of various sizes, destined for the flaming coals of some Argentinian parilla (grill). And thank God for those carcasses. They produce really great steaks, and they are cheap and often massive – I’ve never eaten so many in such a short time. The best beef experience I have possibly ever had was the Asado, a national Sunday tradition where a whole beef rib rack is roasted slowly over coals, cut up and devoured. It makes British roast beef look like a dainty vol-au-vent.

Speaking of dainty treats reminds me of my exploits as a Tango dancer. Well, maybe dainty isn’t quite right…no I’m definitely not a dainty dancer, but surprisingly I did okay as we took a 90 minute Tango lesson at one of Senor Hilton’s recommended places – a dusty, very grand old ballroom in the centre of town. It was like stepping back in time. Our teacher was named (amazingly) Professor Omar. Dressed all in black this old master of the Tango was short, stockily built, and posessed an aura of mystery. He took me by the hands and walked me through the steps…”one-a, two, three, four, five…six, seven and-a-eight…” and again…and then again. I’d never danced the Tango, let alone with a stranger, and when that stranger was the mysterious Professor Omar, I was relieved to resume my lesson in the more conventional company of Siobhan. Who of course found the whole thing highly amusing.

We saw the pro’s do it properly at a classic old Tango venue called Cafe Tortoni, with live musicians and a insanely skilled drummer man with balls on string that he swung at high speed, the balls striking the floor to a hypnotically fast beat.

Our second abode in the city was another relapse into luxurious anti-budgetting. We had a two storey duplex apartment with massive windows, kitchen, cable TV and fresh towels every morning. It cost £40 a night, which was twice as much as a hostel but ten times as comfortable. From there we explored the old neighbouhood of San Telmo which has a giant Market every Sunday mostly selling antiques and random oddities but also food, cheap leather goods (thanks to all those steaks), and of course the usual touristy souvenirs and your fair share of cross-legged crusties selling beads and feathers on the pavement. We watched a samba band on the street who were really getting their audience going. We were clapping – a real party atmosphere, and then the crowd dispersed. They moved towards a strange metallic rattling and cheering that approached from the road to our right. The sound came from a hundred or more cyclists who were charging down the cobbles, waving, smiling and flying banners behind them. I have absolutely no idea what was going on. They really do have some energy these people, and, although it’s a cliche, they do have passion. We saw two street protests in two days apart from the cyclist frenzy. The people have no hesitation in expressing their anger, grief or joy in public, and demonstrations form part of the weekly routine. Every Sunday for instance, mothers of the victims of the fascist dictatorship (at least 30,000 dead or missing) gather in the city’s main square to grieve, pacing in a circle around the Plaza de Mayo. They do this directly opposite the Casa de Rosada (pink house) – the seat of government. Perhaps one day they will receive some sort of compensation from the state. Until then, they will keep on marching.

The Casa de Rosada was where Eva (Evita) Peron made her famous speeches. There is a museum of her life a few metro stops away in Recoleta. It showed how in only 5 years or so she went from actress to President’s wife, and an international ambassador for Argentina. A passionate (and radical) socialist, she instigated huge welfare reform in the country and created new schools, orphanages, rest homes and nursing colleges. She died of cancer at 33, her body was mutilated, and the military dictatorship seized power. Fearing a public uprising, her body was taken to Italy and was hidden under a false name grave. There was a third Presidency for Colonel Peron in the early 1970′s cut short by his death in ’74, The right wing military again took power and finally allowed Evita’s body to return to her beloved city in 1976, after 24 years in exile. We saw her tomb in the City cemetary, she is not beside her husband because, as the museum guide told us, together they would be like “a bomb”.

Buenos Aires was a great city, with a complex, chequered past and a tangible energy. Definitely one of those truly special places – for the people, the architecture, and of course the beef.

After spending 6 weeks in the safe and familiar surroundings of Australia and New Zealand we knew South America was going to be a totally different experience. Stress wasn’t an emotion we had had to deal with for a while. That soon changed. As soon as we left the calm sanctuary of the airport, wide eyed and western, we were duly surrounded by the hustling airport transfer bus drivers and taxi men who tried their best to persuade us to get an expensive private transfer to town. We resisted, and hopped on the 50p bus. We were a little nervous, and our main fear was getting mugged. Violently mugged. The South American guide books all warn of (petty) crime and advise common sense and caution. Like in China, we were the only blonde northern Europeans around, so we felt conspicuous and therefore vulnerable – especially after withdrawing 200,000 Chilean Pesos (£200) at the ATM. I was convinced that I would have to display my masterful Kung Fu skills at any moment, and kept running through the mugging action sequence in my mind… As you may know I’m not renowned for my acts of violence, so all these thoughts and fears were an unwanted addition to my already exhausted body and soul. At least the adrenalin kept us awake. As we walked a few blocks to our hostel, the City felt pretty safe. So we were suffering a little from paranoia – it doesn’t hurt to be cautious does it? One should be when one finds oneself on foreign soil – thousands of miles from the Empire!

We (timidly) strolled the streets, lunched on a 900 peso (90p) empanada (latino Cornish Pastie), and a takeaway Pizza for dinner. Our bedroom was beyond basic – bed, doorless wardrobe and a light, but the hostel itself had a good homely atmosphere. We chatted to some nice English folk and an odd but highly helpful Spanish translator who gave us some reccomendations for our ongoing trip, which was uncertain. We found ourselves at a cross roads. Go north to the Atacama Desert, northern Argentina then south to Buenos Aires, OR take the shorter (and surely less exhausting) route across to the Argentine wine capital of Mendoza and then on to Buenos Aires. In our jet-lagged state we opted for the latter, easier option – which we regretted the next day as we felt far more alert. And so we left Chile after only 2 days, bound for Mendoza, Argentina with only the Andes in our way.

The drive up was spectacular and a bit upsetting, as I knew I may never see Los Andes again. I was in a sulky mood, which soon descended into a full on strop when we reached the biggest obstacle on the mountain pass – the border control. It took nearly 2 hours to be processed by a team of infuriatingly slow and casual border guards in a cold and dismal warehouse/car park. I was struggling to feel buoyant as we finally descended into the shadow of the mountains, beyond their eastern face and into Mendoza’s bus terminal. We took a taxi to our centrally located hostel, and were encouraged by the look and feel of the City. We had heard positive remarks of this place and they looked to be well founded, with plenty of cafe’s, restaurants, plazas and attractive old buildings.

We joined a wine tour, visiting a massive industrial scale winery and a small family run organic one, as well as an olive oil factory. Both had good wines to taste, and I bought some very nice red stuff for 30 Argentine Pesos/a fiver. Things were looking up. That night we dined at a posh restaurant next door and ate very tasty £5 steaks with a £4 bottle of wine, served by a very friendly waitor who helped us learn the Spanish for “ice bucket” – we may be backpacking, but damn it we want our Sauvignon Blanc chilled! It felt good to be civilised.

Since Auckland I had felt the increasing onset of a sort of traveller’s fatigue. I was beginning to loathe staying in hostels. The crusties, the hyperactive European teenagers, the shared kitchens, the dirt. It was all starting to get me down, and i was feeling a distinct loss of stamina and enthusiasm. On our second day in Mendoza for example, I actually wanted to loaf about in the hostel all day rather than venture out. Was I metamorphosing into the aforementioned crusty? No, surely not, but I think I was/am fed up with living out of a bag. So, we caught a bus an hour out of town to the Cacheuta hot springs and luckily bumped into a friendly Spanish speaking Dutch couple who helped us find a Spa. Oddly situated at the end of a dusty disused railtrack was this luxury Hotel and thermal spa set in a beautiful canyon. 30 quid each and not a crusty in sight. We wore clean bath robes and lazed in the hot pools. A gigantic buffet lunch was included, which, still enrobed in our gowns, we devoured like Greek aristocrats. This felt good.

Ten hours later however, Siobhan felt less than good and endured a night on the toilet for her sins. We think it may have been caused by a malevolent quiche. That was quite a night. Hopefully the 13 hour bus ride to Buenos Aires will be less dramatic.

We’ve stayed in a lot of hostels by now and have seen many different forms of ‘traveller’. We have often felt a little old to be on the backpacker trail, but that’s okay – we expected that. What we didn’t quite expect was to be among a minority sub-group of similarly aged ‘normal couples’; outnumbered by the European oddballs, the drug-hungry raver morons, post-adolescent party-mongering shouty teens, the speedo-wearing wrinkled sex pervs in Thailand, silent Asian students in Singapore, hyperactive 19 year old tour bus maniac-children, and finally – outlasting them all – the universally found hardened traveller, the ‘Crusty’. Their portrait is described thus: Underfed, scrawny, sallow, they move slowly to conserve energy, legs are usually bare-footed with a pair of baggy, yellow, brown or purple balloon-bottomed linen trousers picked up somewhere in south east Asia, a ripped, filthy tie-dye T-shirt and finally (nearly always) a lice-ridden head of dredlocked hairmuff. They are only to be seen inside hostels, where they loaf about scrounging whatever scraps of food they can from the surrounding guests. They’re like ghosts, drifting across the continents, following the same paths, sitting on floors rolling cigarettes. I don’t understand what these people do. Their lives are more easily defined by what they don’t do. I mean what’s the point in coming half way around the world to sit in a dingy kitchen and eat supernoodles? I like to think I would do things differently if I ‘opted out’ for a while. To see the world living a simple life is a romantic idea, but after seeing these be-dredlocked folk, I wonder if there’s a price to pay. They don’t seem happy. They seem bored and self-absorbed and hungry. I should say that I haven’t spoken more than a few words to a couple of crusties, so my judgements are largely superficial, but I just know that we wouldn’t get on, I have nothing in common with them and, most importantantly, I really hate dredlocks. They make me feel a bit ill.

* * *

The North Island.

The ferry carried Siobhan, the little yellow Honda and I across the Cook Strait in a slow, deep swaying waltz of a motion that made first Siobhan, then myself feel thoroughly green. I stood on deck in the bitterly cold sea air, trying to find the perfect spot next to one of the engine exhaust vents, which gave out warm but undoubtedly toxic air. I stared at the horizon to ward off the sea sickness and tried not to inhale while the fumes warmed my body.

We drove off into Wellington, got lost for five minutes and found our road north.

Three major dramas since an $80 speeding ticket on the South Island:

The first was when (in a moment of desperation) we ordered a drive-thru Dominoes Pizza with a ‘thin crispy’ base instead of a ‘classic’ base. That was a disappointing meal I can tell you.
The second and third were two gigantic sandfly bites on the centre of Siobhan’s forehead. I found it hard not to look at them when talking to her, I felt like they were looking at me.

The day after the Pizza incident we drove through strangely jagged pastureland up onto the volcanic plateau of the Tongariro National Park – a place I had been looking forward to for months. The morning clouds blanketed the volcanoes but as we drove closer they parted, revealing bare rocky peaks. The landscape was awesome, especially the perfectly conical form of Mount Ngarohoe (possible spelling error) – the classic volcano, it starred as Mt Doom in the Lord of the Rings.

We walked a 4 hour section of the Tongariro Alpine Crossing, over volcanic lava flows, a soda stream (not the fizzy beverage – this isn’t Willy Wonka Land!), up the steep but well trailed sides of the Volcanoes, and into the huge South Crater of Mt Tongariro (see photos at end of the South Island post). It was an incredible, intimidating, breathtaking place. All I was missing was a ring to cast into the crater of Mt Doom and… (Sorry, no more Middle Earth references).

The next leg of the journey north involved more volcanic tourism, as we followed the ‘Thermal Highway’ route via a surreal crater park of steaming heath, craters and bubbling mud pools. Then Rotorua: which stank (both literally and figuratively). This bleak and skanky town sits on more thermal springs, with stinking thermal pools dotted amidst the ugly buildings providing the entire neighbourhood with a constant odour of rank egg. We left after 1 night.

A perfect antidote to rotten Rotorua was the Coromandel Peninsula. The roads to it were extremely bendy – even by New Zealand standards, but we were rewarded with yet more beautiful unspoilt beaches, including Hot Water Beach, where a hot water spring (not so eggy this one) dribbles very hot water up through the sand. People were digging holes to make sandy spa pools or just, like us, shuffling their feet like crabs into the wet sand to burn their feet. We must have looked completely ridiculous. It was the first crowded beach we had been on since Thailand.

The best in Coromandel was Stingray Bay. We had it to ourselves and I couldn’t resist going for a swim in my shorts (not the swimming ones as I’d forgotten them)…but hey that’s just the kind of crazy, spontaneous kinda guy I am now you know! Our hostel in the extremely pleasant yachty town of Whitianga was good and well run by another outgoing, helpful Kiwi host. These people seem to have endless energy. We had a two bedroom apartment which we shared with two guys from Florida, they weren’t crusties I’m glad to say. They were a good laugh in fact… Thoroughly good eggs. Good American eggs.

A short drive west and north to Auckland, where we said a fond farewell to the little gay yellow Honda, who had done us proud on our 2500km motorized mince across NZ.

Auckland was a very nice city, with some very nice houses made of wood – the kind i’d like to build one day. Our hostel was a massive wooden thing which once belonged to a Tongan Queen. 35% of Auckland is populated by Pacific Islanders. On our second and only full day in town we were lucky enough to have met up with Jacqui, a friend of Siobhan’s Dad who not only drove us around the city’s sprawling suburbs and extinct volcano parks, but also bought us a delicious gourmet tapas lunch. The next night we would be in Santiago, probably glued to the Spanish phrase book. Adios amigos