How to Escape the Central Coast (in Six Baby Steps)

If the Lake Haven epoch was ruled by the car, and my fragmented Gosford ages built upon the bus, the coming Woy Woy microlife will focus on ferries. During the two months that I hope to spend there, acclimatizing for the hop across the Hawkesbury, I must:

1 -- Cruise to Saratoga or Davistown on Central Coast Ferries (if I am too anxious for whatever reason, I can try to bail out at the first available wharf!)

2 -- Catch another catamaran to Empire Bay, the last stop on this service some 30 minutes from Woy Woy. I could then hike back to my hotel via Daleys Point and St Huberts Island, with their multimillion dollar views. 

3.-- Catch a Fantasea ferry from Ettalong to Wagstaffe Wharf, en route to Palm Beach, and explore the nearby national park.

4.-- Take the same ferry once more, this time directly to Palm Beach, before returning to Woy Woy. This will be a one-hour round trip over deep water, and my first landfall on Sydney territory in nine years.

5.-- Return to Palm Beach, and then get the bus to Newport, some 10km south, where there is a hotel that I can (barely) afford.

6 -- Stay at said Newport hotel one night, to see if I can handle it..

 

The Saratoga docking at the Central Wharf in Davistown, on Cockle Channel (Australia, 2022)

Each cruise will be a baby step in the escape from the Central Coast, and the migration to Sydney's Northern Beaches. I have a lot of mucking about in boats to do!

Cafe Vuon Kieng in Ho Chi Minh City

Cafe Vườn Kiểng is one of my favorite cafes/bars in Ho Chi Minh City, although it is kind of tedious to reach (if you come on foot, be prepared to dodge the trucks crossing the road here, Tôn Đức Thắng Street almost exactly opposite Mê Linh Square with its statue of General Trần Hưng Đạo). If you make it here alive, however, you might be tempted to stay here for the rest of the day. The cafe sits right on the banks of the Saigon River, and boasts relaxing views and plenty of refreshing breezes. On the brown waters of the river an endless procession of craft passes, usually sluggishly: there are container ships, barges carrying garbage or tonnes of soil, junks bound to the Mekong Delta or filled to the brim with diners, and ferries, many ferries, some of them designed like monsters. Opposite the cafe lies all green and tropical the Thủ Thiêm island, which survives as a bastion of rural Vietnam in the heart of the city. Remarkably, as of 2010 when I was there last there was no bridge linking Thủ Thiêm with downtown, so traffic had to queue cattlestyle before being ferried across the river. Two ferries seemed to work on the job all day long, and I never grew tired of watching them crisscrossing from jetty to jetty, loaded down with their motorbikes and cars. I just love watching people work when I am on holiday!

Cafe Vuon Kieng, on Ton Duc Thang Street, in Ho Chi Minh  City (Vietnam, 2010)

If you ever look out the window of your plane coming in to land, you will see Ho Chi Minh City is lashed by any number of languidly lolling rivers. These rivers are the lifeblood of the city's trade, but they have also curtailed its development and limited its potential. Thủ Thiêm has been isolated until now (hence its charm), but there are big plans for its future. Check out the island's official homepage for a glimpse of what could be in store. If Thủ Thiêm does indeed become a new metropolis, then Cafe Vườn Kiểng would be ideally situated as a waystation on a hot, humid day. You could park your motorbike in the lot out the front, go in and sink a cold beer on the deck.

Watching the world slide by at Cafe Vuon Kieng, on Saigon River (Vietnam, 2010)

Cafe Vườn Kiểng: 10B Tôn Đức Thắng St, Dist. 1, Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam. Phone: (08) 290 9410.

Cape York Birding: Day 1 (Gunning for the Golden-Shouldered Parrot)

Two months ago I flew to far-north Queensland with my father (pictured, directly below) to flee the southern winter and also spot some birds, which are his specialty and his big love in life. After hanging out in Cairns for a while we winged it further north up to Cape York, a vast peninsula riven by monsoonal rivers, saturated with tropical savannah, and timbered with millions of termite mounds, all of them artfully erected to avoid the blistering sun. Cape York teems, too, with birds: brolgas, jabirus, Papuan frogmouths are just some of the species to be found, palm cockatoos smart enough to use tools, and flocks of rainbow lorikeets so prodigious they literally blot out the whole sky. Of the 900 or so bird species that inhabit Australia, Dad and I identified more than 100 during the six days we spent up there, dodging the roadtrains, and crunching the corrugations. That was cool and all, but from the outset my father had his heart set on snaring two specimens which are rare, kind of endangered even: I'm speaking here of the red goshawk (Erythrotriorchis radiates), and the golden-shouldered parrot (Psephotus chrysopterygius). To hunt them we enlisted the aid of gregarious guide David (Chook) Crawford, of Close-Up Birding Adventures. Chook actually has a golden-shouldered parrot painted (second photo below) on his vehicle, and commands an encyclopaedic knowledge of the Cape. He knows its trails and creek beds like the lines of his hands, and he has plenty of entertaining yarns to tell (most of them custom-crafted for the campfire!) He is the original Crocodile Dundee, to be frank, and he did not disappoint us... he found us the parrots which were his emblem, and he found them fast enough (on the first day of our adventure to be precise!) That was the highlight of our Cape York birding expedition, day one: my father got his wish, well half of it; I meanwhile had the chance to explore a part of the world which is as exotic as it is isolated, and penetrate right up close to the northernmost tip of Australia. If we had gone just a little bit further, we would have reached New Guinea. Where, quite possibly, another Chook might have awaited us!

Dad watches brolgas fly over the Nifold Plain, on the Cape York peninsula (Australia, 2011)

Chook collected us early at the Bohemia Resort, which had become our base in Cairns. Despite my hangover I was excited to be getting out of town and traversing some fresh territory. Excited I was, but also apprehensive, as I have had enough panic attacks on the freeway in recent months to know that driving can be treacherous for me. We struck off across the verdant farmland north of Cairns, cutting through the canefields and lush country, heading for the nearby hills. I was seated in the back; my Dad, meanwhile, rode shotgun. I might not have known it at the time, but this was to be the first of many missions across the mountains, east to west, west to east, then east to west again, as the peninsula narrowed inexorably towards the tip. Chook confessed to being in something of a hurry, due to reports of bushfires in the vicinity of Musgrave Roadhouse, which was our beeline for the day. He wanted to get up there as fast as possible, in other words, in case the fire closed in. So, there wouldn't be much time for twitching on the way. We were immediately consoled with the promise of a healthy flock of golden-shouldered parrots flapping around in the bush near Musgrave. "He's up there right now," Chook said; "we'll find him." I wondered briefly why Chook had chosen to refer to the parrots as "he". They couldn't all possibly be males, could they? And even if they were, a flock of "he's" still constitutes a "they", surely?

Chook's Pajero, adorned with the endangered golden-shouldered parrot, sitting on a termite mound (Australia, 2011)

Ascending the Atherton Tableland towards Kuranda, Cairn's answer to Katoomba, I felt my anxiety climb... in direct proportion to our altitude. The reality of my plight had sunk in: this was to be a 1300km round trip all the way to the top of Australia and back, and the journey had only just begun. And there was no possible way I could pike out this late in the game! To take my mind off things I chatted to Chook, who turned out to be quite a captivating guy. He disclosed that he used to work as a guide at the nearby Mareeba Wetlands, then decided to start his own business chasing birds. He claimed that while birdwatching had something of a geeky reputation, he wanted to bring a bit of mystery and manliness into the equation, a bit of the Aussie larrikin spirit you might say. Glancing ahead at my Dad in his greygreen shorts and T-shirt and his goofy greygreen hat, I couldn't help but feel that the geeky birder stereotype might be here to stay, though, for a few more years at least. Best not to say so openly, I supposed... I might get shot down for blaspheming like that! So, I reclined in my seat, and tugged the handgrip by my shoulder, which for some reason soothed my spirits somewhat. Chook ploughed on, tearing up the Mulligan Highway through Kuranda to Mareeba (16°59′0″S, 145°25′0″E), where we paused to pick up some supplies and fuel. From the windows of the Pajero, Mareeba appeared to be a classic Outback Australian town, just pimped up with palms. While Chook filled the tank I wandered into the service station to buy a Coke or something like that, and maybe a bottle of water to hydrate myself. I would have loved to stay and have a look around, but that fire up north was moving in... there was no time to linger.

Just a quiet country street, in Mareeba (Australia, 2011)

So we rolled on, mauling Mt Molloy (population 273), Mt Carbine, Desailly, and finally landing on a prick on the map called Lakeland, where we halted for lunch. Somewhere along the way, my iPhone lost connectivity with the rest of the world, and the Internet died. I could no longer check my earnings from Google AdSense, or post updates to Twitter. I took plenty of photos though, of all the scenes that passed my window... most of them were blurred and rubbishy. My camera, nonetheless, was recording a more accurate depiction than my brain, which was clouded with fear, and _subpanic: derealization flattened my senses and my perceptions, rendering the world two-dimensional, like a screen. You might call it tunnel vision. I clutched the handgrip besides me, and tried my best to relax. Thankfully, traffic was light: a few grey nomads in their campervans, 4WDs coated with red dust, and the occasional piece of mining kit being hauled up to Weipa. Chook explained that campervans would be useless once we hit the corrugations; from that point on it was 4WD territory, 4WDs and road trains only LOL. Pineapple and peanut farms surged past along with the telegraph poles, and miles and miles of open bush. The sky was a euphoric blue.

Pausing to take in the view, on Route 81 (Australia, 2011)

Beyond the Cooktown turnoff, the road mounted a ridge, and presently we were presented a spectacular view of the surrounding country (16°46′0″S, 144°88′0″E). This was something worth stopping for, so Chook pulled up, and we all got out...

Dad checking his watch, in his goofy greygreen birding hat (Australia, 2011)

... to join a small scrum of sightseers. It was evidently a popular vantagepoint, and every conceivable surface (road, railings, cliff-face) was covered with graffiti. We paused to take in the view, which was righteous, nonetheless.

Across the canyon, looking east (Australia, 2011)

I was surprised how hot it was outside, in contrast to the air-con comfort of Chook's Pajero. It was something like 30°C (86°F), and getting hotter all the time.

Mysterious tree with yellow flowers, possibly a kapok, alongside an aluminium can (Australia, 2011)

Curiosity satiated, we repaired to the car, to resume our ride. The road raced on, across stony, bone-dry territory. Chook pointed out various birds as we sped, quite a few of them raptors. He declared that you could tell how interesting a raptor was by the way it flew... those with upturned wings were the ones worth watching. When we arrived at Lakeland Roadhouse, I noticed some kind of bird of prey was circling the plains below. Its wings, disappointingly, were lowered. "Probably a whistling kite," Chook remarked.

Welcome to Lakeland Roadhouse (Australia, 2011)

We sauntered inside and ordered lunch. Chook recommended the house hamburger. I was about to discover that dining on the Cape revolves around hamburgers, steak and toasted cheese sandwiches (which they serve with cute little pickles here.) My burger was good, though; I gobbled it down, then paced around the roadhouse for a while, trying to keep my anxiety at bay. Something about being trapped in a restaurant ramps my blood pressure up: it might be the acoustics, the loud voices, all the cutlery clanging together? Chairs being dragged over tiled floors don't help one bit.

The sign says $2 for a shower at Lakeland Roadhouse (Australia, 2011)

I took a note how much it cost to use the bathroom. One day when I am traveling across Australia on my own this information might be useful, as raw data in an algorithm (or a comparison chart). The bathroom reminded me of a dream I had sometime, somewhere... was that the dream I was over there in the Congo, fleeing with the refugees down that rust-red jungle highway? Yes, that might have been the one.

There was a small gifts shop inside the roadhouse (Australia, 2011) 

I explored the small giftshop, with its local paraphernalia...

On to the dirt (Australia, 2011)

... and then, gratefully, it was time to bail. Leaving Lakeland, we abandoned the Mulligan Highway, and picked up the gauntlet offered us by the Peninsula Development Highway. More a rut than a road, the highway tailgated what remained of the former telegraph line, built in colonial times to connect Brisbane with its farflung northern domains. Like the colonial telegraph, the highway was decaying, disintegrating, and returning to the bush; before too long bitumen dropped away, to be replaced by rutted corrugations. Right about this moment I realized: this is the real Outback, right here, this is what it is all about! Termite mounds lifted themselves from the earth, the first of them short and scrappylooking, spaced far apart, but as time flew by they grew larger and more confident, some of them fashioned like the smashed chimneys left behind by country housefires, others like miniature Ulurus. Roadtrains, those apex predators of the Australian road, emerged from the woodwork, dragging their own dust storms in their wake. Chook withdrew to the side of the road whenever one passed, allowing it plenty of room. "The road's all yours, big boy," he would said, or words to that effect. And I would ask myself, again: Why does everything up here get called a "he"?

Road etiquette of the North: the small give way to the large (Australia, 2011)

As Chook disclosed, this was the road etiquette of Cape York: the small give way to the large. And there are none larger out here than the roadtrain, 100 tonnes of torment, 22 wheels of whiplash and whiteout. Chook implored us all to wind up our windows as it barrelled towards us. The Pajero rocked, side to side, as the shockwave hit, and then we were splattered with sand and soil. Looking around, I noticed that all the roadside trees and bushes were smeared red with this kind of abuse.

Throwing out the anchor, and battening down the hatches (Australia, 2011)

We were entering a strange world, a Gulliverian domain where everything was larger than life: bugs, men, trucks, even the farms which carved up the land here. The farms, actually cattle stations, were the size of European principalities, and most of them boasted airstrips. One of the principalities was called Artemis Station, and it was on this sprawling property that Chook had last sighted golden-shouldered parrots. We dropped in at the homestead to see if they were still around. The station owners did a lot of work helping the local parrot population, Chook informed us. They monitored their movements, and their numbers, and reported it all to the relevant authorities.

Arriving at Artemis Station (Australia, 2011)

Inside the house, I felt like I had stepped back in time, into the rustic décor of my wheat belt youth. The lady of the house put a cuppa on and we talked to the Boss about various topics, most pressingly the bushfire at Musgrave. It was moving in fast, our host confided... in fact, it seemed to be gunning straight for the roadhouse herself! Alarming stuff, but the Boss had a piece of good news, too, something that lifted our spirits: the birds were here, he divulged, and naturally we could visit them right away. Bullseye! I thought. This is how the west was won! But first there was a coffee or a cup of tea to drink, a coffee or a cold beverage, and a biscuit or two to chew upon. I stood up the whole time, fighting the urge to panic, wishing we could all just get on with it, and stampede out the door. Standing up always renders me restless, for whatever reason... it gives me vertigo, not just the fear of heights kind, but the crazy headspin version too. I suppose I could have just sat down on the nearest chair, but that might not have been polite. And it would not have been the knightly thing to do, in this land of He-Men, and He-Women...



Looking for golden-shouldered parrots, on Artemis Station (Australia, 2011)

Eventually we were back outside roughroading across rugged terrain, the Lady of the House in her vehicle, us bringing up the rear in the Pajero. The spirit of the chase had finally gripped me, and I was fondling a pair of binoculars excitedly, in expectation of an imminent glimpse. The Lady screeched to a halt, so suddenly we nearly rammed her. This was evidently a significant vantagepoint, so we all scurried out... to join about a dozen golden-shouldered parrots frolicking in a clearing. Yatta! I rejoiced, lifting my binoculars for a closer look. We've found the birds. Only problem was, my Dad couldn't see them, not unaided anyway. By the time we pointed them out to him, and his atrophied brain had registered the  headings and coordinates, processed all this information, and relayed appropriate instructions to his eyes and limbs, the birds were gone, a puff of brilliant feathers, a burst of green on green. For a moment it seemed this whole expedition would be in vain, like Burke and Wills' quest for the Gulf of Carpentaria... doomed by a lack of vision. I could sense Chook's frustration: you can lead a horse to water, but how do you make him drink? Some kind of elegant solution was called for. Thankfully, Chook provided one. Retreating to the Pajero momentarily, he returned with a tripod-mounted scope, fitted with a video camera display. Now all he had to do was focus on the parrots, and my Dad could stand behind him, enjoying a close-up view on the screen, without needing to make any fiddly moves. Up close and personal, that's the way Chook rolls. My Dad, suffice to say, was in twitcher heaven.

Remnant of the old telegraph line, at Musgrave Roadhouse (Australia, 2011)

The day was dragging on, and the westering sun had turned the bush a peculiar shade of burnt sienna. I was looking forward to getting a beer, and putting my feet up. Fortunately it wasn't that much further to Musgrave Station (14°46'50"S, 143°30'14"E), our deadline for the day. Located halfway between Cairns and Weipa, 570km south of The Top, Musgrave Station sits atop the aforementioned telegraph line, remnants of which are still visible, as are other interesting relics...

Posting box, beneath the rafters at Musgrave Station (Australia, 2011)

... such as the grave of Samuel Thomas, a pioneer and local identity, lying in a dusty corner of the carpark.

The grave of Samuel Thomas, killed in 1919 (Australia, 2011)

As late as the 1930s there were Aborigines running around in the bush, Chook admitted. Musgrave served as a fort as well as a telegraph relay station in the frontier war. Thomas was apparently a victim in one of the skirmishes. A victim or a perpetrator, it is always hard to tell.

Waiting for a beer, and then maybe a steak or hamburger (Australia, 2011)

Finally, after a long day rushing around, clutching my handgrip, biting my tongue, etc, I could crack open a cold VB, and kick back. Watch some Imparja TV at the downstairs bar, as a harvest moon rose in the clear night sky... who could ask for more than that? A hot shower, and then the chance to fall asleep in a cabin with the air-con on, while wallabies jumped around in the dark outside.

Shine on harvest moon (Australia, 2011)

Only problem was that bushfire closing in just over the airstrip. We could see it after nightfall, an ominous orange glow on the horizon. And if we survived that, another day of gunning around the bush awaited me. Because while Dad could cross the golden-shouldered parrot off his bucket list, there was still one significant critter left to go. Whether he would be able to see it unaided or no, that was the question.

Cloudsurfing China, and Sailing Over Seoul

One crisp winter afternoon in January last year I was cruising the skies of north-east Asia as is sometimes my wont, on my way home from an outbreak of hot tropical love in Vietnam. I was nursing one monster hangover accrued from my antics at the Window's Cafe and Bar in Ho Chi Minh City nearly 24 hours earlier, a condition sorely compounded by those couple of extra beers I downed at Tân Sơn Nhất Airport waiting for my ride. I thought that if I just kept on drinking, I could drink the hangover away. Or at least keep it at bay, until I lost myself in sleep. But I hadn't factored in the infuriatingly stop-start nature of travelling in (or through) China, which makes sleep, or indeed any form of relaxation, exceedingly precarious. To give you an example, my bird (Air China) was leaving Ho Chi Minh at a ridiculous time -- 1.45am or something, but I suppose that's what you pay for when you always opt for the cheapest airliner! It was literally the last flight out, and I was the last guy drinking at the bar, downing Tigers with ice, as our Beijingbound Air China glided in. I watched it all behind the dirty panes in the brandnew airport concourse. Presently I shuffled on-board with all the blearyeyed zombies, quite a few Germans all speaking German, and took my superdownsized seat. I was in the mood for sleep. And who knows, I might have found it, if it were not the fact that this was a Chinese flight. An hour or so into the flight, just as I had probably begun to doze off, the plane shifted into descent mode, and the stewardesses came around, waking everyone up. I wasn't surprised, since I had encountered this anomaly a few weeks earlier, on my way to Vietnam. It is not listed on your ticket or travel itinerary, but when you fly from Beijing to Ho Chi Minh City you stop en-route at Nanning, capital of the Guangxi Zhuang Autonomous Region (广西壮族自治区). There to shuffle off the plane, get confused, and wait in line for needless visa checks and passport inspections. We spent more than an hour waiting for our transit visas, and this was at 4am or something, at the end of a long session of heavy drinking (for me at least). For some strange Chinese reason only one guy (or girl) was processing passports in passport control, even though there were five or six guys/girls sitting at their desks, resplendent in their official attire. This meagerness was not lost on the Germans in the line. "Eins, zwei, drei, vier, fünf," they said, counting them one by one, "fünf nicht arbeiten!" All of the just sitting there, in other words, doing nothing. What waste, the Germans were doubtless thinking... what Communist inefficiency! By this stage, 12 hours after I started drinking, I was feeling decidedly green, and in desperate need for some sleep. My passport was stamped, eventually. We were herded back aboard our plane as sunrise revealed a rather pleasant series of yellow apartment blocks near the airport, kids going off to school, and adults to work. Yellow was actually the color of the day, yellow and pale blue, yellow and sulphurous brown. Skysurfing southern China was a smudge of sulphuric smog, the ground barely visible, that vast agricultural heartland conspicuous in its absence. I took occasional peeks out of the window, between drifts into light sleep. Peaks of cloud drifted by. Everyone on the opposite side of the cabin gawked out the window as we approached Beijing, seeing something I couldn't see... maybe it was the Great Wall (but isn't that to the north?) At Beijing airport we spent more time waiting in futile lines. On the bright side, I didn't get as badly lost as I did on my first visit, that foggy carbon-heavy night just before Christmas, at the very start of my adventure. I boarded my plane to Tokyo, Japan, and we took off in pale sunshine -- the temperature was about 0 degrees C. We hit the clouds again, heading east. I think I did actually get some sleep, like an hour or so. But I was continually being distracted by the interesting scenes which opened up below, like a panorama: Dalian (大连) on its peninsula looking like a neat place to live, and finally, a little later, a dramatic metropolis emerging from the mountains, spread out like a circuit-board, or a subway map: Seoul (서울), capital of the Republic of Korea, and Jewel of the Yellow Sea.

One of the many yellow hills of Seoul (South Korea, 2003) 

If I recall correctly, there was a commercial airliner flying by at much the same altitude, but in the opposite direction to us. I looked down to see, much lower, a smaller craft possibly coming into land in the city. Something about the sight of these two planes flying at different altitudes, the sense of three dimensional perspective they engendered, had a magical effect on me. It was like discovering a whole world and an entire way of life miniaturized into one of those bauble things they used to sell which snow inside whenever you shake them. There was a civilization there compressed between the mountains, and as I looked ever more intently, I could make out landmarks I had encountered on my previous forays here, back in 2002 and 2003. The city was laid out like a circuit-board, like a subway map bereft of the subway stations (since they were underground), but nonetheless prominently hewn by the Han River, and peppered with yellow peaks. We were flying like 30,000 feet, but if I could have strapped on a parachute and bolted out the emergency door and tumbled down there, I would have done so in a heartbeat. Or probably not, that would have been foolish, and you need superhero strength to open those doors at cruising altitude. Anyway, you get my drift... it was sad to pass by without a night in a hof, drinking beer and chowing on the complementary peanuts. I had to fly on, back to dreary old Tokyo, where the wicked North Wind was waiting to knife me. But next month, if all goes to plan, I will be back in Seoul, this time on the ground. And if all goes to plan, plenty of fresh adventures await! Even a few fresh hofs, and all the peanuts I can eat. Thanks to the relative strength of the Japanese Yen, I think I will be able to down drinks for a third of the price that they cost in Tokyo. And that's always a bonus.

Tokyo Bay, Which Way? Which Way?

I went for a walk along the Edo River today, and I found that if you head south for about 75 minutes or so, you eventually get to the ocean -- or rather Tokyo Bay (東京湾), which empties into the sea. This is what the mouth looks like. A lot of pebbles and mud, and plenty of pylons. Not particularly pretty, I agree, but stop for a minute and you will detect a scent of salt in the air, a bit of an oceanic vibe. Apparently Disneyland is just up the shore, on the right side. Go to the left, across one of those massive bridges, and you will reach Chiba.

So many worlds await! Which way do I go?

(Which way? Which way?)

Jogger taking a breather, at the mouth of the Edo River (Japan, 2008)

Islands in the Stream

There was a unique alignment of the planets yesterday presenting me a rare treat, and an entirely free Saturday with no classes to teach at either Ichinoe or Taito Ward. I had known already that Riki-kun and his mother would be on holiday in Okinawa (沖縄), so when I received an early phonecall from Kobayashi-sensei informing me that the lessons at Kidea were also cancelled, I felt pretty pleased. I fell back into my futon, savoring the opportunity to sleep in. An hour or two later, Nonomura-san called too, to say that her students were unable to study. I jumped out of bed, eager to seize the day (What should I do? what should I do?) Hang out with Maniac High, or explore my new 'hood, which I am slowly beginning to appreciate, and accept. I opted to go for a walk, and return to the river which had enchanted me a few weeks' previous, on my last totally all day off. Maniac High could wait, I reasoned. I needed time off, to get in touch with some of my older habits.

Edo River (江戸川) is one of the most storied waterways of the city, and it passes within half a kilometer from my apartment on its voyage to Tokyo Bay. It is the river which gives my ward its name, and its banks are pocked with baseball fields, baseball being of course the most popular sport in Japan. As it was a Saturday many of those fields were in use, young kids swinging their bats or fooling around on their bicycles, or driving remote controlled cars. I tramped past them all, following the floodplain (江戸川病院前野球場) roughly north, before ducking under the tracks of the Chuo-Sobu Line, to cross the Ichikawa Bridge into Chiba Prefecture. It was a long walk, and it allowed to me to contemplate all my recent adventures, moving house and my detention with Maniac High, the girl I had kissed in the whirlpool at Yomiuri Land after my release, my porn debut. I estimated that (based on current data) if I continued consorting with Maniac at the present rate, I might spontaneously kiss 20 girls over the next 5 years. How many kisses does it take to advance to the next breakthrough? I wondered, fingering my keitai's calculator. One could liken it to climbing a steep hill, each step becoming progressively more difficult, from mindsex to rapport, and then all the way to penetration. Or perhaps, the journey that spermatzoa take in their battle to fertilize the ova; a million souls might join in the challenge, but only one will hit their target, and achieve incarnation...

Traversing the Edogawa Riverbed Green Space, I noticed the Wayo Womens' University (和洋女子大学) ascending to the north-west. On my previous expedition on the river I had mistaken it for a shopping mall, and I imagined that I might find social stimulation there. Now it looked more like a Tuscan basilica. Whatever the case, there were no bitches to be seen in the vicinity of the school. I guess they were on holiday.

The Womens' University dropping behind me, as I ventured north (Japan, 2007)

Beyond the university the river, which until now had been bearing north-east, bent back to the west. Perhaps it was my imagination, but the landscape seemed to grow more rural too, more idyllic and abandoned. Houses and factories were thinning, with fields beginning to appear, many of them overgrown with weeds. Looking west through the summer haze, I could barely make out the skyscrapers of Shinjuku.

The towers of Shinjuku, visible to the west (Japan, 2007)

While I was getting tired, this contact with nature energized me... it amazed me to realize that such pastoral beauty could be found in walking distance of my apartment. 

Fishing in the Edo... in this island of nature in the city (Japan, 2007)

I came upon fields sprouting spring onions and other vegetables. Chiba is supposed to be the number one prefecture in Japan when it comes to spring onions, and they are a mainstay of Japanese cuisine.

Vegetable lots, in Chiba Prefecture (Japan, 2007)

Entering Matsudo City (松戸市) I encountered some kind of waterworks, an immense water treatment plant in fact, appearing to block my way. I swerved right, navigating a narrow path to a quaint village called Kuriyama, a short distance from the bank. I call Kuriyama a village because that is it appeared to me -- a lost village in the middle of the megalopolis. An island in the stream you might consider it, a pocket of Old Harmony that had been spared Virilio's mad urban rush, and his dromological doom.  Near the top of the hill there was a rustic temple, which is named Honkyuji (本久寺).

Honkyuji, in Matsudo (Japan, 2007)

Sometime later, Manic High sent me an MMS, inviting me to go see the fireworks with his family out at Setagaya. Much as I would have liked to chill at Shinozaki, watching The OC and Colombo on TV, I knew I was too young to retire so early. I found a train station at Konodai (国府台), on a line which I never knew existed, and began the laborious trip crosstown. I could sit down at least, and rest my aching legs. On a whim, I decided to rename Maniac "Dennis the Menace". It is what Meth calls him, and it has a nice ring to it. There is another Maniac High out there, and one day I might meet him.

Skogar Treks (Iceland)

The village of Skógar might comprise just a few farms and a museum and some Tolkiensian Hobbit holes poking through the grass, but it has also become a gateway to one of Europe's last great wilderness areas, the huge, threatening Eyjafjallajökull ice cap in south Iceland, as well as the terminus of one of the world's top 10 treks. Not that I have ever trekked it... not yet, anyway. Later this year I will go to Iceland and if I have money and the time, I will definitely go to Skógar. From what I have read online, the name of the village means "forest", so it is probably the former site of a forest, although there don't seem to be many trees there now, they were chopped down centuries ago. I've heard the village is also close to the beautiful waterfall Skógafoss, which presumably means "forest waterfall", and is a major tourist attraction. There is another waterfall close to the ring road called Seljalandsfoss, which I would like to partake as well if I can make it. In the village itself, one can find a museum displaying the evolution of Icelandic houses and technical devices such as old aircraft and cars. The founder of the museum, Þórður Tómasson, is said to like showing guests around and has interesting stories to tell.

Seljalandsfoss, just off the ring road near Skogar in south Iceland.

Since I haven't been to Skógar yet, I have to delve into the blogosphere, to see what the fuss is about. The thing about the Internet, it is almost like travelling, as well as going back in time (if you look at the older sites.) Some of the bloggers you read come across as travellers you might share a room with, and they all are interesting characters. Take the Australian blogger Danny Yee, for example. Danny is just one of the many hikers and trekkers who have arrived in Skógar to take on the cunning walk. He trekked up to Þórsmörk ("Thor's Field"), a waystation on the trip to Landmannalaugar near the Hekla volcano.

Danny wrote of his trekking experience:

The morning was bright and clear. "Fossbuin" was closed, so we could neither shower nor pay for the campsite. We packed everything ready for our hike, but then went to check out the Skógar Folk Museum. This consists of a number of buildings: old farmhouses, many of them with turf walls, a reconstructed church and schoolhouse, a large modern building housing the folk exhibits, and a brand new Technology and Transport Museum. Þordur Tomasson, the curator who inspired the museum, is still going strong, and he performed for us on one of the little organs, singing along, and on a dulcimer.

After checking out the museum and the amazing houses with grass growing on their roofs (just like the Hobbit Holes in The Shire!), Danny and his team trekked on to Þórsmörk. This is actually a short trek by Skógar standards -- the standard walk is a whopping 70+km long, up to Landmanalaugar (although people usually follow the route in reverse, from Landmanalaugar down to Skógar, possibly because it is easier as it is mostly downhill.) If you are interested in reading the accounts of some trekkers who have taken on this trek and won, visit these following sites (eds. note: these are so old they are in the archives now!):

Nir Halman's Landmanalaugar to Skógar Trek
A good web-blog from the days when web-blogs didn't even exist. This site will give you a good introduction to travel in Iceland, especially if you of the pennypinching disposition. But first, allow me to get an anti-Semitic rant off my chest: If you have ever been to Thailand or India you will have probably come across Israeli backpackers and been shocked by their aggressive bargaining tactics. It seems that Israelis have an almost allergic reaction to spending money while they are on holiday, and they will do anything -- anything -- to avoid coughing up the cash. I have even seen them bargaining in fixed price places like Kodak film development clinics (Bangkok), provoking the wrath of both fellow customers and staff. Some restaurants and hotels in Thailand and the subcontinent now refuse to admit Israeli customers for this reason -- to spare themselves the grief of a 3-hour argument about the bill. I haven't seen any "No Israelis Allowed" signs in Iceland yet, but they could start appearing, if the frigid island attracts more visitors of the ilk of Nir Halman.

If you ever wondered what goes on in the mind of an Israeli backpacker, check out Nir's site. This is one of the older Iceland adventure blogs on the Net -- it dates from 2001, and describes a visit Nir and his girlfriend made to Iceland in 1999. I enjoyed reading about how they try to save money by eating in supermarkets or BBQing their meals outside -- I should add that there is a bit of Nir in me, the last time I went to Iceland I was so short of money I was forced to sleep at the airport and hitch a ride to Blue Lagoon. One of the cool things Nir and his girl manage to do while in Iceland, is make the Landmannalaugar to Skógar trek. As Nir writes:

This trek is considered the best (but also the most difficult) in Iceland. It starts in Landmannalaugar, the site of a rather big hot water spring at an altitude of 600m. It is a remote and exposed place in the highlands bordering a big lava field from which Hekla volcano can be seen. This place is obviously popular with the tourists who visit it during the summer time. In the winter time, when a thick layer of snow covers the surroundings, it is left alone for the locals, who come to bath naked in the hot springs. The trek to Skogar is 70km long, and usually takes a week to walk. It is considered unique in the world as it passes through lava fields, volcanoes, hot springs, geysers as well as genuine alpine scenery of eternal glaciers, a high snow-covered mountain-pass and numerous snow fields.

The other great thing about this trek is that the route is lined with well maintained and cozy huts where hikers can stay the night. Payment for accommodation at these huts is, well, optional. And you can assume that your typical Israeli, passing through this beautiful part of the world, will option out of paying if payment is only optional. The loyalty system doesn't work for every nationality, I am afraid. Nir's website is proof of that. One of the classic parts of Nir's adventure happens when they come across a group of Icelandic folks having a BBQ at a popular mushroom picking place en route:

They are eating huge amounts of BBQ meat and freshly grilled potatoes while we eat pasta and mashed potatoes made out of dried potatoes powder. We look at them with eager eyes and then with surprise when we see the amount of leftovers they throw in the garbage cans. We don't understand why they ignore us. They are so many and we are only 4 "poor" tourists. They could have offered us some of their food... Only when they see our mashed potatoes powder they start to talk with us, and offer to us the remaining 3 pieces of the cake that they have eaten. What a pity they didn't talk with us before and offered to us the meat...

I too know what it is like to be a poor tourist in Iceland, forced to subsist on packets of dry noodles from Japan and cans of Asahi Blue, and tins of sardines and old bread. Next time I go to Iceland (June this year) things will be different -- I am going to live like a King. Lamb and roast pork and hotdogs for me every day -- I can hardly wait. Bring on the adventure!

Rowan Castle's Landmanalaugar to Skogar Trek

Rowan Castle visited Iceland in 2002 because he needed to get away from work and reckoned that the Landmanalaugar to Skógar trek would be the perfect place to unburden the stresses of modern life. In the process, he traded the burdens of workaday living for the burden of a 56-pound backpack! On his website Castle wrote:

This route is rated as Iceland's premier walk, and some guidebooks even claim that it is one of the best treks in the World! It starts in the South Central Highlands, amongst the colourful rhyolitic mountains and geothermal vents of Landmanalaugar. These mountains were laid down by volcanic action, and then dramatically eroded to create undulating hills of multi-coloured mineral deposits. As the path loses altitude, it descends out of these hills and crosses a bleak lava desert of black ash, punctuated by pyramidal mountains and raging glacial rivers. At the other side is the wide valley of Thorsmork (Woods of Thor), which has stunning views of two of Icelands huge ice caps - Eyafjallajokul and Myrdalsjokul. The route then climbs out of the valley, along a sharp ridge and crosses the Fimmvorthuhals Pass between the two ice caps. From there, it descends sharply to the North Atlantic coast, finishing at the sixty metre high Skogafoss waterfall at the small settlement of Skogar.

Castle describes the long trek from Landmanalaugar to Skógar in gruelling prose, with blocks of text interspersed by links to his photo gallery. I liked some of the little incidental touches, like the discovery of some little Arctic flowers in a crevice somewhere, their fragile beauty contrasted against the massive glacier stretching for miles and miles into the distance -- the microcosm within the macrocosm. Castle described some mud he had found on his trek thus: "a stream at the bottom (of the ravine) emerged from a perfectly formed tunnel under the ice, but the stream had deposited strange bright orange mineral deposits onto the black ash. The contrasting colours of orange, white and black looked like they belonged to an alien landscape."

That's why I love Iceland -- I just can't get enough of those alien landscapes! And if you want to plunge yourself into one alien landscape after another, go read Rowan Castle's site. Even if it doesn't formally exist any longer!