Hot pools and colossal scrambled eggs

MENDOZA, ARGENTINA - 20th March 2010

After the wine, bike and and steak festivities of Thursday, we awoke yesterday to the greeting of grey skies and rain - prompting not-so-nostalgic references to England from all sides. There was the possibility of me joining Taylor, Tom and Nick early morning on a trip up to do a 45 metre abseil; a possibility that was suitably thrown out the window at the prospect of having to go outside and, God-forbid, get wet. Instead, Anna and I headed off at around lunchtime to the thermal pools located an hour or so out of town, armed with the bottle of Malbec we'd picked up at Bodega di Tomasso the previous day.


The bus ride took us about an hour out of town and up into the hills, with the hot spring located in a valley carved by centuries of river-driven erosion between two giant ridges. It was a good setup though - the site comprised of a series of pools of various sizes and shapes, gradually moving further and further down the hill and ultimately down to the river level at the bottom, where a large pool with a fountain in the middle (see above) is bordered by an artificial river and cold, cold water. The hot spring water arrived at the top-most pool, and arrived at a temperature so damn hot you simply could not touch it (if you did, you're first instinct is that it is cold - that was how hot it was). From there, however, it was allowed to cascade downward from pool to pool, gradually cooling all the way and thus giving us punters a selection of water temperatures to suit our preference at the time.

Punters were indeed there in abundance, both of the local Latin variety and in the form of Taylor, Tom and Nick (middle, bottom-right and bottom-left respectively in photo below), whose abseiling trip included a trip to the hot pools to chill out afterward. The 5 of us entertained ourselves for many an hour, finally parting on departure as their minibus left an hour before our local bus was scheduled to head off. Thanks to a beer and a plate full of empanadas though, the interim period was passed more than happily.


We were all reunited later back in Hostel Lao, and began putting into action what we'd been discussing earlier in the day with regards to dinner time. In particular, the need to spend less money (after the splurge on the best steak ever), the desire to do some cooking, and the general consensus on a massive omelette. A stroll to a supermarket and back enabled the acquisition of a cool dozen and a half eggs, several hundred grams of cheese, a good 10 rashers of bacon, a load of chorizo and an even bigger load of tomatoes, and fuelled with free-flowing vino (provided by the hostel!) set about a top drawer team effort of chopping, slicing, frying and generally operating like a well oiled machine and, ultimately, producing the most whopping great big concoction of omelette mix you'll ever see (as illustrated in my right hand in the photo to the right), alongside an equally impressive vessel of fresh salad.

It quickly became apparent that the sheer volume of omelette mix we were dealing with meant making an omelette was impossible, but a smooth-as-silk switch to scrambled egg in no way diminished the quite ridiculous amount of food we'd prepared for ourselves. However, while it would be fair to say that there was a lot more food than was necessarily needed to feed 5 people, it has to be borne in mind that some of us eat a lot more than others... so it goes without saying that half an hour later, everything was gone (save a nasty amount of dish washing).

Today though, we find ourselves in an interesting moment in our trip as - for the next few days - Anna and I are going are separate ways. As I continue the blast up north and head to Salta (to be accompanied a few hours later by Tom), Anna is taking advantage of geographical proximity to make a return trip to good old Buenos Aires. In theory, we'll meet again mid-week...

Wine country - done the professional way

MENDOZA, ARGENTINA - 18th March 2010

Visitors to Chez Rodrigues back in the Garden of England usually can't help but notice our fridge-freezer unit - not so much because of its no-doubt fascinating heat-exchange properties as because of the hundreds of magnets that, one by one, are removing any evidence of said fridge ever having been white. Although the oldest of them dates back to the same Canada trip mentioned back in Iguazú, in took another 7 years for another to join it - specifically, in the form of an inanely grinning Dartmoor sheep. Anyway, through some strange twist of fate, our 2004 family holiday to Denver and Colorado saw us return to Sevenoaks with a barrage of magnets from all over the state, and thus began what has subsequently become something of a family addiction. The last count of the magnets (and indeed the only one to have ever taken place) was by that young firebrand Adam Dowson* back in September 2009 and put the total at some 180... so it's fair to say the effort has been taken to heart. It is equally fair to assume - correctly - that the number above will be significantly burgeoned by the last five and a half months of my globetrotting.

Then, of course, there's my epic keyring collection - somewhat retired nowadays (on cost grounds) but still made up of over 400 keyrings representing anything and everything from all over the world, all on a single 6kg bunch. And there's my coin collection, with a monetary value probably close to £250; my 20-strong collection of Hard Rock Cafe t-shirts... the list (of general crap) goes on...

Basically, I've always liked to collect things (or, as my Mum would say, I'm a chronic hoarder), and this feature is extended in all its glory to passport stamps. I love all aspects of travelling, but one that is always guaranteed to register a thump of satisfaction is the thud of another travellers' badge of honour. And thanks to our excellent travel route that presently involves diving back into Argentina, our last bus journey added a couple of new additons to that collection... well worth the 3am wake up/get out/wait around for an hour and a half before going anywhere routine at the border (or not).

One way or another, I was totally zonked as we found ourselves taxiing around from one hostel - fully occupied - to another at 7am on a fresh Mendoza morning. The second, Hostel Lao, had said it was fully booked on Hostelworld (online booking website), but with luck for once on our side we managed to snag ourselves a couple of dorm beds that had become available overnight. I don't think either of us appreciated quite how lucky we were, until a few hours later when we found ourselves part of an 11-person crew heading over to the Maipú district on the edge of the city to tour Mendoza's famous wineries by bicycle. Several of said gang had attempted to book in Hostel Lao in advance, but because of insane demand (no doubt thanks to its 95% approval rating on Hostelworld) had been forced to spend a few nights in other places before they could move in... leaving us feeling pretty damn smg about just rocking up and getting beds!

Long delays arrested our departure, but armed with 9 of "Coco Bike Rentals'" finest frames and one 2-man tandem bike, our convoy finally took to the road at about 1.30pm and we made our first stop at an excellent artesenal beer garden - the sort of place the word "kotching" was invented for (see right - HT: Taylor Gill for the photos while mine remain stuck on memory cards). Surrounded by countryside and vineyards, we lounged on sofas and chairs and took our pick of their local brews; after excellent experiences with the stuff in Bariloche and Valpy, I went for the malty cerveza negra ("black beer"), and myself and the 2 others who opted for it were rewarded with what is without doubt one of the best beers I've ever drunk.

Our Anglo-Australo-Yankee crew ended up spending the best part of an hour kotching, but disaster struck when we eventually left - Nick (who we would later discover had spent 3 years of uni in Oxford over the road from us at Christ Church) snagged a puncture on his front tyre. With the boys from Coco rentals happy to drive over with a replacement bike at any stage, discovering the puncture earlier would have been perfect - our waiting around for the swap to take place would have perfectly co-incided with chilling with our brewskis. Instead, we had a timing nightmare - not enough time left to hang around waiting, but stuck with a slow mover when trying to gas our way over to the main business of tasting (/generally drinking) el vino.

Desperate times call for desperate measures (how many times has The Daily Rod featured those very words), and 5 minutes later we found ourselves ploughing down the main road in a motley bike crew the likes of which have (probably) never graced a road before. Much to the amusement of all the schoolkids we passed, leading the pack was the tandem bike; Luke the Aussie leading with Nick, holding his stricken bike, comically sat at the rear (see below). Following behind came yours truly, more than a shade knackered from the added weight I was propelling - sat on the mesh above my rear whell was Kim (Aussie) - Luke's girlfriend who had been turfed off hear rear tandem seat to make way for the Nick/bicycle combo. This was further followed by a train of gringo cyclists in various levels of undress, and truly must have been a sight to behold.


Various interchanges of bikes were made as we progressed - ultimately Nick and I took turns to cycle the thing in its flat-tyred state - and we eventually rocked up at Mendoza's newest winery where we were supposed to be able to get a good bit. Hot, sweaty, and above all touristy, we traipsed into a restaurant full of suits and shirts and fairly soon afterward sauntered straight back out. A good bite may have been on offer, but its price sure as hell wasn't aimed at your humble backpacker!

We'd passed Bodega Familia di Tomasso - an older, generally better looking winery on our way and were heading back there, but first took the opportunity of a quick tasting at this new place before we left with our collective tails between our legs.

Conoisseur of wine I may not be, but even I can fairly distinguish the fact that a red wine tends to be red, and that a white wine that you can't see any light through is probably not going to be the best one to drink. So what with samples of three pretty mediocre wines coupled with a tasting note explanation straight out of Graeme Le Saux's textbook of stating the bleeding obvious, all in a setting that looked like a pre-fab warehouse had been unceremoniously dumped in a countryside otherwise tastefully dotted with century-old wineries, and you had some pretty unimpressed, hungry people leaving the place at what was by now about 3.30pm.

Thankfully, Bodega di Tomasso - one of the oldest of the Maipú wineries - was excellent and the "daily special" lasagne went down a treat, all the better washed down with the house Malbec; more of which was sampled on the tour and tasting that followed our collective meal. Details of the workings of wineries are best heard about should you bother to visit one rather than here; suffice to say I was duly impressed and Anna and I purchased ourselves a nice bottle of Malbec to enjoy at a later stage.

A long ride back to Coco Rentals was extended further when we realised we had time to visit an artesenal chocolate/jam/sauce/absinthe producing place on the other side of Coco. We got to try a bit of everything, but while I can't speak for everyone, I'm fairly certain the boys paid their money purely for the absinthe at the end. It was suitably disgusting - as anything of 75% alcoholic volume is obviously going to be - but there was no questioning that it had to be done (and also helped, in terms of Dutch courage, in securing a photo of a local Argentine copper Backing the Bid).

Fast forward a few hours, and I was hungry enough to eat a horse, so joined Nick and fellow wine tour cyclists Tom (19-year-old West Country lad on a pre-uni gap year) and Taylor (American girl) who were heading off to a highly recommended steak house. Anna didn't join us as she wasn't feeling hungry enough to justify the cost, which was a shame as Don Mario served up the best bit of meat I've had in Argentina (which is seriously saying something after El Desnivel in BA). It always entertains me eating with new people - I tend to order fairly outrageously large dishes as I need them to fill the bottomless pit of a stomach I seem to possess, but given my relatively diminutive size these orders are often met with great scepticism. Tonight was no different - I went for the 600g Chateaubriand while the others went with 450g options, and when the monster fist of meat you see on your right turned up a little later, either Nick or Tom were on the verge agreeing a bet on me to finish all my plate. Shame, because it was absolutely destroyed, but with steak that good I don't really know where my limit would be.

Back in Hostel Lao, a fun evening has passed by with various drinking games and general banter with the cyclists (many of whom don't actually have beds here), wrapping up an absolutely first rate day back to Argentine territory.

* congratulations are in order on the new job!

Valdivia - where nothing is as it seems

VALDIVIA, REGION X, CHILE - 13th March 2010

Chile has become the fifth of South America's 13 countries to allow me passage into their territory, but it wasn't quite as plain sailing an experience as I've come to expect - but then again you rarely expect yourself to have to munch through a foot long ham salad sandwich in 90 seconds.

Rocking up at the Chilean border control after a wonderfully scenic ride from Bariloche, passing the Andean lakes and mountains that mark give this part of the world its "Lake District" name, we discovered that mere stamping of passports was only half the story at the Chilean border - these guys are judicious, it seems, when it comes to protecting their agriculture and thus X-ray all baggage entering the country, with anything food-related having to be declared. This included, it seemed, rather large ham sandwiches that had been long-term strategic purchases - bought in Bariloche specifically to appease my never-ending need for food across the 5 hours, change of buses in Osorno, and general hoopla of getting from A to B. The option of throwing the sandwich in the bin was not one that I was willing to even vaguely entertain, so I exited the bus faceplanted inside 12 inches of bread, ham and cheese - must to the amusement of the bus driver, and much to the disapproval of the Chilean customs official. The latter extended his disapproval be refusing to allow me to put any of my hand baggage on the belt until the sandwich was fully eaten - and with the rest of the bus already on the other side standing around waiting, all eyes were on me and my damn mouth. Thankfully, the bread was beautifully soft and the ham and cheese melted in the mouth, but even with this on my side, and aided by pats on the back from our bus driver who clearly appreciated by dilemma a great deal more than the stalwart customs official, it still took some outrageously large mouthfuls to chomp the whole thing down. Whether it was intended as a compliment I'm not sure (in fact, decidedly skeptical), but according to Anna "that last mouthful was the size of a meal".

Anyway, we found our way to Valdivia after a quickfire switch onto a local bus from Osorno - a switch that was almost scuppered by whacky time zones. In theory, Chile is an hour behind Argentina - so I put my clock an hour backward when we crossed the border. However, it turns out that because of last the earthquake from a few weeks back, the Chilean government have postponed the shift away from Daylight Saving Time, meaning that Chile remains 3 hours behind GMT instead of its proper 4. Almost disasterous for us, but all's well that ends well and we were safely lodged in Airesbuenos Hostel by early evening and headed out into the small town to find some grub to eat.

It was at this stage that we started to develop suspicions - suspicions that would only increase - about whether Valdivia was one giant April Fool's Day joke on us, being delivered an antisocial 3 weeks premature. Basically everywhere seemed closed - something we initially put down to being in a country with "normal" eating times (after weeks of outrageously late dinners in Brazil and Argentina) - but when we found ourselves wandering down roads that apparently didn't exist, and right past spots where our (admittedly poorly drawn) map suggested restaurants should have been (but patently were not), the whole situation began to rouse our suspicions.

Eventually we ended up in a nice little pub and I snagged my first taste of pisco - the local spirit brew that Peru and Chile both claim to have invented. Pisco sour, as I had it, is the most commonly drunk form - and went down very nicely with our classic dinner of bife de lomo (steak) and chips.

Over the last few months, I've stayed in a whole host of hostels of various quality - good, bad and ugly and most of the in between. Tucano House in Florianópolis is always gonna take some beating - its 95% approval rating on Hostelworld speaks for itself - but Airesbuenos here in Valdivia is something very special. After returning from dinner, the two of us somewhat sheepishly sat at the computer; while seemingly everyone else in the hostel was sitting around the table drinking wine and having a nice chat, we were trying to figure out what we were going to do the next day (a discounted night in a casino-spa swanky hotel was an option thanks to business contacts of my Dad). However, it wasn't a moment before the American lady who managed the place came over with a glass of wine for each of us and got talking about where we'd come from, where we were going - the usual jazz, for sure, but enough to make us comfortably join the circle of backpackers and hostel staff and sip Chilean wine well into the early hours. The scene was unlike anything else I've known in a hostel - around the table were 4 Frenchies who spoke Spanish, an Argentine with just Spanish, Anna with Spanish and English, and myself with French and English... but to top it off we were joined by the manager of the hostel (who could do all three) - a lovely Californian who, while a tad whacky, was friendly to her core and passionate about the Permaculture environmental recycling system she wanted to create at Airesbuenos. An interesting chat ensued about The result was the most incredible string of conversations that, depending on the protagonists at any given stage, seamlessly switched between all three languages. At some stage the topic turned to my Indian heritage, and my ability to cook (and how cooking was probably what I missed most travelling), and in a flash I was down to cook up some "tandoori-style" (read: standard Rodrigues nondescript concoction) chicken for lunch for everyone in the hostel!

Fast forward the best part of a day, and we're now all set to stroll down to the bus station for an evening bus to Santiago that should see us arriving there at about 9 tomorrow morning (the earthquake-induced collapse of a bridge causing a couple of hours delay to all buses). However, in the meantime we were impressively productive - after breakfast I marinaded some chicken with a random mix of whatever I could find in the kitchen, then it was off to explore Valdivia. A fairly embarrassing stop was made at the Casino-Spa-Hotel that saw me impressively crash and burn in an attempt to get free use of the casino (on the basis of knowing someone who knew someone who was important, or something to that effect), but that was soon forgotten as we strolled through the town's riverside market where an army of massive sea lions (like the critter below) sat around waiting for free bits of fish to munch on.


An attempt to find the Museo de Arte Contemporáneo saw us head over to the other side of the river after lunch (fresh local mussels fried in garlic sauce), the bridge providing a beautiful view of the town and the market that looks very much like the photo below. On the other side, however, we once again found ourselves wondering what was the deal with this town - how could nothing be where it was supposed to be?! Failing to find the museum at first attempt did bring the inadvertent reward of leading us to a cool, randomly abandoned 3-floor boat - anchored on the riverside at the end of a desolate little dead-end street with no hint of life in it (cool photos will eventually follow), but our sense of confusion with the town reached fever pitch when we found the museum - or indeed the place where all the signs pointed to - and it still wasn't there!


Half an hour of confused and aimless wandering, and eventually someone informed us of a tiny little staircase that lead to the underground gallery which, alongside some fairly cool modern art, had an awesome photographic display by a guy who's name I've now forgotten... but rest assured it was impressive. But by this stage we were fairly zonked from walking and having our minds screwed with, so headed back to Airesbuenos and kicked back with all the residents and staff in front of a fairly decent film.

Party with an extra A

PARATY, BRAZIL - 22nd February 2010

It would take very little inventiveness by some money-making entrepreneur to turn a place with this name into a massive clubbing town, complete with corny neon lights and binge-drinking underage English kids. Thankfully, such a monstrous event has not, and seems infinitely unlikely, to occur here in Paraty any time soon.

Having wandered around the streets of Morretes a couple of weeks back with Luis, I largely knew what to expect from a colonial Brazilian town - but it's gotta be said that while Paraty does the same thing, it does so on a significantly bigger, and thus more touristy scale. The "old town" and its cobbled streets begin when you cross some metal chains on the road, and enter into an area that is essentially unchanged in 150 years. Without any traffic except that in human form, you find yourself meandering through a grid system made up of block after block of near identical buildings; colourful and tile-roofed, housing shops generally selling clothes, arts and crafts or other products directly purely at the hoards of tourists - if not they're restaurants (just like the stolen photo, right). We sampled one of the latter on our first night, getting ourselves a good bit of fish that - while good, was not a touch on the previous day's efforts over back at Sobrenatural in Santa Teresa.

The classic combination of general disorganisation and late booking meant we were forced to splash out on a classier double room en suite joint for our first night before moving to somewhere more appropriate (i.e. cheaper and grottier) for the next couple. While this worked well enough, it did involve a suitable awkward morning conversation with Emerson - the owner of Pousada Acquarela - the family-run place where we spent our first night. Fairly enough, we was curious as to why we'd come to the middle of nowhere for just one night... you try explaining to someone that you actually didn't want to stay at his place and it was the only option you had! Still, seeing me wearing the Internacional football shirt commemorating Escurinho that Paulo's family had given me back in Porto Alegre, he gave me the nickname "Moladinho". Hopefully I'll remember to come back to that at a later stage, but it very much appealled to me.

Our two days in Paraty have basically been passed on beaches. The first involved a bus journey north to São Gonzalo - a journey we spectacularly managed to mess up by missing our stop and ending up 20 minutes further up the road and having to wait 40 minutes for a bus back in the opposite direction. However, the São Gonzalo beach was indeed as beautiful and relatively isolated as had been suggested, and better still was Ilha do Pelado - an island planted in the bay facing São Gonzalo beach accessible by one of the flotilla of small boats ferrying visitors from one side to the other. Sun, sand, sea and swimming - the usual beach craic minus any repeats of politico-philosophical discussions made for a relaxing afternoon and beautiful sunset... but then we tried to get home.

Buses run from Angra to Paraty on a pretty regular basis - several times an hour - and São Gonzalo is a stop en route. However, someone somewhere was apparently having a laugh and a half and decided to hijack anything resembling a bus for the best part of an hour and a half - Anna and I arrived at the bus stop where a bunch of fairly rowdy Argentines were having what appeared to be pretty entertaining banter (not that I had any idea - they might well have been discussing particle physics), and after 40 minutes or so the motley crew was joined by an even rowdier (or certainly drunker) bunch of Brazilian locals - cue a fantastic tri-lingual conversation about next to nothing. 40 more minutes, no buses in sight, and the Brazilian locals swan off to the other side of the road and hop on the next bus in the opposite direction - an impressive show of not caring where they went out, so long as they did! As for us... another 20 minutes or so rolled by at it was gone 9pm before an already rammed minibus allowed the 7 of us to cram in. Aside from befriending the Argentines, who were staying at our new hostel ("Backpackers Hostel") as well, it was not one of the better journies, and with my standard levels of hunger kicking in the evening's steak went down a treat.

Day 2 took us in the opposite direction down Trindade - the most famous coastal area in the region consisting of 4 beaches next to one another, but with only the first one accessible. The first one is also that with the biggest surf - its front end had some impressively crashing waves - and thus the main attraction for Anna in her eternal struggle to find somewhere to rent a surf board in Brazil. The only reward reaped from a 2km walk along this first beach was, however, a spectacular stack by yours truly - a stream of water was flowing across some rocks and down the beach, and in my infinite wisdom I planted my right foot bang on the wet, slippery granite. I was down in a second and a mightly splash, plastic bag with camera and books and everything else crashing down next to me, and there was only one way I was going - sliding down on my arse down the steepening rock face, and crashing into the puddle pool formed in the sand at its foot. Imagine all the above in front of a whole bunch of locals... well "embarrassed" sums it up fairly well.

Neither this, nor the total absence of rentable surf boards, was fate's "reward" for walking all this way though - half an hour later after meticulously drying every piece of my camera and ensuring it survived, I discovered my flip flops - the Havaianas I'd finally managed to purchase back in Curitiba - had vanished... nowhere to be seen. I searched all over - even getting the help of a couple of locals to investigate where the stream flowed under some huge rocks, but the damn things were gone, presumed stolen. Unimpressed with adding another name to the ever growing list of Gap Year casualties, leave alone the total waste of time and energy, the trudge all the way back along Beach #1 wasn't a rip-roaring affair. However, some simple munch (pastels - basically little meat-filled pastries) and a bit more walking and we found ourselves slightly lost (you generally are when you're supposed to be an a 1.5km beach but are surrounded by jungle), but in the midst of a cool river and waterfall running down smooth rocks - basically a natural water slide dropping into a tranquil lagoon. Fun times ensued, but the real highlight came later when we actually discovered Beach #3, and thus the rock-enclosed lagoon that sits beyond it off Beach #4. Peaceful and transquil - still, clean water surrounded by massive granite blocks - the photos are great but again, they'll have to wait for another day.

Buses round here don't like us, and we were damn lucky to get on one when we did as half the bloody village was also trying to do the same. All's well that ends well though - after an excellent pizza dinner complete with a selection of 6 olive oils, our dorm room that somehow fitted 8 people in a room the size of a cupboard was the scene of some top drawer shut eye.

The most annoying person ever?

FLORIANÓPOLIS, ILHA DE SANTA CATARINA, BRAZIL - 8th February 2010

Although my original post from Floripa has now been suitably backdated, the unexplainable rush to publish the "Swimsuit Edition" of the Daily Rod (which remains in no way a result of peer pressure from certain Australians and/or Brazilians) has still left a blank or two.

Saturday night (6th Feb) saw our motley crew (the Brazilians, Luis and Bruno; and Aussies, Mitch, Scott; and yours truly) head out to a nearby club to sample the "Magic Island"'s nightlife. My first experience of a proper South American club, it was an experience right from the entrance - passing through airport-security style metal detectors in addition to full-blown identification formalities. The big difference is the payment system - when you enter you are given a form whose number is linked to your name and ID details on the computer. You don't pay for any drinks all night, but just hand over your form and have whatever you've bought checked off on it... and then you pay your whole tab at the end. An efficient system, yes, but for certain friends back home whose control over their credit card is known to become somewhat liberal after a few drinks (mentioning no names, Charlie Spencer), it would be a total disaster.

The club inside was equally surprising. As Mitch beautifully put as we sat in the huge cosy armchairs of the bar room under a vaulted ceiling complete with ornate carvings - "We came out for a pretty standard couple of drinks and a dance, and have ended up in the classiest place in town"* Either they do clubbing very differently here in Brazil, or this place was something a little bit special. The bar room I mention would be right at home in the drawing rooms of central London old boys' clubs, and while the main dancefloor itself was your standard issue mix of lights and noise, the lobby area reinforced the upmarket feel of the place with a big new car to be won on display alongside a stream of massive bouncers. Anyway, the usual blend of drinks and dancing had the added feature of a samba performance by the local samba school, and shortly before we left a guy from the VIP area trying to start a fight with a "common" lad - the former getting razed by the bouncers for his effort. Classic.

Jump 24 hours, and an amazingly relaxing day just kotching on Praia Mole and enjoying the sights was followed by a nice Mexican dinner with the guys (Brazilians and Aussies), before chilling out back at Tocano House and catching the SuperBowl on TV. The evening has taken an unfortunate turn for the worse, however, which is the reason why I am sitting writing this rather than getting some much needed shut eye.

It all began a few hours ago as I walked past the hostel pool, out of which comes the nasally chirp of the archetypal California "Valley" accent that is synonymous across large swathes of the world with stupid blonde girls who can't locate France on a map of the world and think Germany is part of the "Axis of Evil".

"Oh my God! You're Dean? WOW, oh my God, I've heard SOO much about you! Hey, gimme five!"

Standing at the side of the pool looking down at the massive bulk from which this startling introduction had emanated, and having glanced over to Luis whose expression more than confirmed that "heard so much about you" was actually more like "heard your name briefly mentioned", I didn't even know what was going on before a soaring, fat-reinforced, dripping wet right arm came soaring towards my general direction. Great.

Unwilling to engage any sort of conversation at this stage, I sauntered inside to find Mitch and Scott doing exactly the same - I think their exact words were "I don't think I can stand another word with that woman... she asks you a question and after you've said one word, she'll launch into another half an hour of non-stop crap". This, combined with the continued presence of the oh-so-annoying rahs of Sloane Square outside (whose performance the previous evening had done little to endear themselves to the Aussies thanks to incredulous questions like "England owns Australia, doesn't it?"), meant we stayed lodged indoors for as long as possible. The time was passed easily enough, however - American football's unique need as a sport to stop for a commericial break not just at intervals, but seemingly every minute and a half or at any feasible from a point being scored to a ball being caught, meant the histrionics and general pantomime of SuperBowl XLIV went on for AGES. Eventually, however, it came to bedtime, but passing outside both Luis and Bruno were engaged in flowing Portuguese conversation with Miss California who, apparently, had "totally embraced Portuguese culture and everything and just loves speaking the language and conversing and the whole romance and passion and everything." But then her attention turned to me.

"Right then Kent (clearly the "so much heard" included the county I live in) - go upstairs, shit, shave and shower, and come back down so we can have a proper conversation."

I genuinely could think of few things I'd rather do than that, but with Luis and Bruno more than keen to be in her company I felt socially obliged to head back down after my shower. This was a bad move.

Among a ridiculous diatribe about the not understanding English people, English people being "so cold", not understanding English humour, not understanding why I would feel awkward about spontaneously hugging her - a total stranger, and various other things she didn't understand, the sole conclusion in my mind was that she was unbelievably annoying. It is hard not to when you have to sit and listen to someone state a series of statements that are somewhere between insane stereotypes and full-fat bullshit - unable to get a word in edgeways because of their unrelenting verbal diarrhoea, and when you try and dissect their fallacies into simple reasons why they are totally wrong, you are met with an "oh my God, I can't deal with logic - this is exactly what I'm on about - I'm all about passion, not logic".

What she's all about is crass, loud, insatiable idiocy but, in a silver lining of an otherwise shocking dialogue, it is good to know that her oh-so-upsetting experience of England (apparently she thought everyone was just really mean because she didn't have the mental capacity to understand British ironic humour) means that - if nothing else - I can sleep easy knowing there is one less moron potentially landing at Her Majesty's shores.

* slightly paraphrased as the exact wording has been lost with the sands of time.

The Magic Island

FLORIANÓPOLIS, ILHA DE SANTA CATARINA, BRAZIL - 6th February 2010

Picking up the tale in Porto Alegre, the guacho Brazilian barbecue that I had been so looking forward to came across a slight but significant hiccough that began, quite literally, just as I'd finished with that day's blog. First came the sensation of aching bones and neck... soon followed by a rising temperature... and gradually a stomach turning to jelly. 4 months of my travels have seen no form of illness strike me down worse than an evening of sniffles back in Fox Glacier in New Zealand, so I was in no mind to let some stupid germs get in the way of what was going to be a delicious dinner with Paulo's family. Sadly, the germs fought a tough fight and, even with Fernando (Paulo's nephew) dashing off mid-dinner to buy me some paracetamol, my consumption of some insanely delicious steak (a particularly fine example of which I took the liberty of photographing, below) was disappointingly low - and punctuated by regular strolls to the bathroom and back for now other reason than to cool my head with water and walk off the bloating sensation that was welling up inside me.



Nevertheless, dinner was very enjoyable with the Caldeira family and I was bowled over by their present to me once we were home - a limited edition centenary shirt of Internaçional, Fernando (and all the family's) football team. An amazing souvenir to take onwards in my travels, reminding me of a stay in Porto Alegre that - despite its brevity and hijacking by unknown illnesses (the night's sleep involved multiple bathroom visits), was a wonderful introduction to Brazil and, in particular, the warm-hearted generosity of Brazilians.

6 hours on the bus from Porto Alegre to Florianópolis passed, thankfully, without great incident - I was still feeling rather delicate after the previous night's digestive fireworks. Meeting me at the Rodoviaria (bus station), however, were Luis and Bruno - and an opportunity to recount my amazing good fortune across 4 days in Australia. First, Fraser Island, and fate's decision to have me in a van whose 7-person group included Eduardo and Rita - brother and sister from Rio de Janeiro, the latter on holiday visiting the former, who now lives in Sydney. At this stage of January - a month ago today - the plan to meet Anna in Rio for Carnaval was in disarray due to the combination of a total lack of accomodation, and insanely prohibitive prices on what little was available. The mention of this state of affairs set things in motion, and in one fowl swoop, however, we went from having nothing and no plans to having no just accomodation in Rio, but for free! Things got better still just 2 days later on the Whitsunday scuba cruise, when I befriended fellow divers Guillherme (Gilly) and Luis - brothers from Curitiba, Brazil; both on holiday, but the former from his work/studies in Bonn, Germany, and the latter from his studies in Brazil. Again, one thing led to another and my non-existent plans suddenly had amazing shape - I was now going to meet up with Luis (whose university semester only begins after Carnaval) in Florianópolis, and then head up to Curitiba with him to stay at the family home in Curitiba. Fate was dealing me some particularly good cards at that stage...

Fast forward one month, and Luis had driven down to Floripa (as the cool kids call it) with his friend Bruno for a long weekend of sun, sand and partying with yours truly - though my internal state meant the first night was a bit of a knockout. Florianópolis is actually just the gateway city that links Ilha de Santa Catarina with the mainland, but for whatever reason people just take Floripa to mean the whole island, a.k.a. "The Magic Island" (apparently). Day 2 saw us shift from one hostel (a temporary fix) to the one we actually wanted - Tucano House comes massively recommended on Hostelworld and has apparently been ranked "best hostel in Brazil" and "second best hostel in South America" over the last few months. It goes without saying that it is, to use a piece of Kiwi English that I took straight to heart, "sweet as".



It was not even 2 minutes after we'd set foot in Tocano House that who should show up but Mitch and Scott - the Sydney boys I'd met back in Montevideo. Introductions to Luis and Bruno were made, and before we knew what was going on we had ourselves a little crew and were finding out that I was not alone in my ailments - both the Aussies had been struck down with identical symptoms, suggesting that the culprit could well have been a certain Montevidean roadside burger...



Anyway, catching up aside the crew were trekked off towards Joaquinha Beach for some sandboarding down some pretty massive sand dunes. It sounds cool, and it is when you go down. However, the negatives stacked up - after a walk that took AGES in boiling heat (40° wouldn't be far off), climbing back up a massive sand dune, with the sandboard you've just ridden down, is cardio-vascular exercise like nothing you can imagine. Throw into the mix three suspect stomachs, and you have 15 minute recouperation intervals between each 30 second ride!

Knackered, hot and sweaty, we sauntered over to the actual beach and spent an excellent couple of hours enjoying the sunshine and incredibly cold water, as well as some pretty impressive surf (mastered by the dude to the right). Sugarcane juice was downed for energy, before trekking back up and over the dune hills for a very late fried seafood lunch that us three infirms really could not do justice to (a fact that annoyed me just as much as in Porto Alegre), and in true Latin style we all crashed out for siestas in some shade on the shore of Lagoa du Conceiçao. The lake is the biggest on the Ilha de Santa Catarina, and has the most ridiculously warm water I have ever known - I certainly have been nowhere else where emerging from the water into 35+° heat leaves you feeling a bit nippy.

Back at the hostel, the swimming pool was commandeered, although it took some work as we initially found it armed with a veritable possy of upper class England's finest - apparently all residents of either South Kensington or Sloane Square (London's equivalent of Manhatten's Upper East Side) and the like, here sat a group of 15 or so Brits whose quintessentially Public School accents (the girls in particular) were not even half as annoying as their fantastically condescending demeanour. Some of my closest friends from Oxford are products of the likes of Eton and Harrow, so I have nothing against the Public School crowd per se - but these guys were disliked by all 5 of us from the word go. Thankfully, our paths diverge tonight as we head to a local place that supposedly specialises in hip-hop style music - while seemingly everyone else has splashed out on a R$50 round tour to some electro-techno affair 45 minutes away by bus. Shan't be missed.


The DAILY ROD's Top Travel Tips:
#14 - However many beers you've had, roadside food in Montevideo should be avoided.

The dash up north

AUCKLAND, NEW ZEALAND - 31st January 2010

I´ve made it to Auckland in pretty good time, after disembarking the interislander ferry at about 5pm in Wellington yesterday afternoon and heading straight up north. I finally reached here at about 11am this morning after a brief stop in Hamilton (where there´s nothing to see, especially not on a rainy day like today). Of interest, however, was my overnight stopover in the township of "National Park" - another wonderfully original bit of naming by the Kiwis. The national park in question is Tongariro - the second oldest national park in the world after Yellowstone in the USA - and I was able to see its showpiece peak - Mount Ruapehu - glowing the beautiful sunset as I drove into the town just after 8.30pm. Unfortunately, of the 3 hostels in the town, the first was full, and the other two had closed their receptions at 8pm. Of prime concern to me was finding a TV to watch the women's final of the Australian Open, and always the opportunist I happily sauntered into lounge room of the last place I tried - Howard's Lodge - and made myself at home on the comfy sofa with Serena Williams vs Justine Henin cracking off on the big screen. As time ticked on and the lounge room emptied out, I ended up screwing formalities and just slept on the sofa - it was big, soft and very comfortable, so I was happy as Larry.

The honest intention of paying whatever board fees were due was there - I even took the trouble of writing a note to this effect and leaving it at reception - but after waking at 6.45am and being ready to leave, I found reception still abandoned. Only one thing for it - the note was shredded, and I was off on the road!

Incidentally, back in Wellington I'd been delighted to be met at the ferry terminal by the same chap I'd dropped the Hyundai off with last week, and sure enough he handed me the same crappy bunch of keys to the 1.5L beast that got me my speeding ticket back all those days ago. No such mares this time round, and better still I had the satisfaction of, while pulled over having a tea time pie on the side of the road in Levin, grabbing a photo of someone else getting caught in exactly the same place I was! He definitely won´t be the last.

The day in Auckland has been spent checking out the big Museum (which has the outrageous policy of being "free", but requiring all visitors to get an admission sticker from the ticketing desk where you are asked how much you are donating - $10 being the recommended amount. They need to learn a thing or two from the British Museum) and driving up to the top of Mount Eden for some impressive, if rather cloudy, views across the city centre, harbour and harbour bridge.

But, short of a long evening and night to pass in the airport (yet another night without a bed!), that pretty much wraps up New Zealand. What I can fairly safely guarantee is that there'll be plenty more to be said once I'm in the airport...

The Great Ocean Road, Part 2

LORNE, THE GREAT OCEAN ROAD, VICTORIA - 21st December 2009

Continuing from where I left off...

DAY 2

Free Sunday parking in Geelong expires at 9am on Monday morning, so I had to be up and out of the Nash bright and early which, all in all, worked out quite well as I headed south-east to the Surf Coast (as the stretch from the Bellarine Peninsula down to Cape Otway is known). The Great Ocean Road begins shortly after the seaside town of Torquay, which is home to some hefty waves and hundreds of surfers, but otherwise not a great deal for someone working on a budget - general consensus is that it's a bit of a pretty boys' town. However, the town's war memorial garden a top of a protruding section of rock, aptly named "Point Danger", provides a nice view looking both ways up and down the coast (the former seen in the photo below).


Heading out from Torquay puts you onto the Great Ocean Road (or "GOR"), although you don't see much of what the hype is about for a long way yet - it's about 40km from Torquay to the next town, Anglesea, and most of it is somewhat inland cutting through sections of the Great Otway National Park. Anglesea itself is a quiet little town, again with a beach full of boogie-boarders, but its most famous tourist attraction is almost certainly its golf course at the top of the town - in amongst the fareways live an army of kangaroos that hop around without a care in the world as golfers smack balls around them. Several tourist information centres had described it as being a place where you're guaranteed to see 'roos in the wild, and the LPG confidently declares that "there's always a posse of them along the Golf Links Road". It was typical, therefore, that even after driving around the course for about half an hour, I didn't see a single one. Disappointing.

As you continue further down the coast, you pass Bells Beach, renouned as having the best surf almost anywhere in Australia, and soon arrive at Airey's Inlet - a tiny little village with a population of 1000 that is home to one of the many big lighthouses that mark the major indented heads along the GOR's coastal route - which was historically the shipwreck capital of the British Empire. With ships going down like high catches to Adam Dowson, with the frequency of a Jamie Nimmo forward defensive, every major indented head along the whole southern coast was armed with a lighthouse that could project light 7km out to sea by the end of the 19th century. But back in the present, I was in need of a sharp bit of coffee, I stopped off at a cosy little family run cafe next to the lighthouse and ended up stuck in a conversation with an old Aussie chap who, while perfectly friendly, was pretty damn deaf and responding to most things by shouting "WHART?" at the top of his voice. And, being a man of a different generation, he had some fairly amusing views on the world, British culture (big fan), Australian culture (not a fan), and various other issues spanning the fallacy of global warming and state of Australian cricket.


Anyway, with nowhere booked for tonight either, I was quite keen on getting down to Lorne, which most people had told me was the place to crash, and getting somewhere sorted. As well as including the famous "Great Ocean Road" sign suitable posed above, the section from Airey's Inlet to Lorne is where the GOR begins to unveil its full flamboyant glory, running along the water's edge, rising and falling as it scales the geological barriers in its path, diving in and out of crumbling limestone cliff faces; all the while with the turquoise blue Southern Ocean over to you left, lapping the sands of the countless beaches along the way. Amazing driving conditions, and on top of that it turned out things really aren't as rammed - at least at my end of the market - as some people made out - first hostel I went to had plenty(ish) of space so it was happy days for me. Lorne is a beautiful little town, with a pier out to the sea overlooking the town's long stretch of beach. I had a pre-lunch swim in the sea, but then post-lunch decided to make the most of having a car at my disposal on an amazing stretch of road and cruised down to Apollo Bay - the next major town, a further 45km down the GOR.

I reached Apollo Bay at about 3.45pm - it would have been a lot sooner had I not been stuck for 39 of the 45 kilometres behind a nut who refused to make use of any of the 50 or so lay-bys provided with the explicit signposted orders: "Slow vehicles pull over in turnouts. Please consider vehicles behind you". This plonker had no consideration, and dawdled along a road with an 80km/h speed limit (50mph) at a mindnumbing 40km/h all the way into Apollo Bay where he finally pulled over to park. I'd be downright lying if I tried to claim that a fair few expletives hadn't been uttered in my Tiida, but all was forgotten as I lay out on the white sand in the evening sun, looking out to the beach stretching away for miles to the north west, while to the south-east the boats docked in Apollo Bay Marina idled elegantly, sails rattling in the brisk coastal breeze. After some time I decided to take on the water, which proved to be absolutely freezing, but I ended up out there for a good half an hour after overhearing a familiar Kentish accent - sure enough a couple of sisters from Canterbury were out visiting family for a few weeks and were equally freaked out by the weirdness of floating in the sea on the beach in the late afternoon sunshine 3 days before Christmas. All Brits in Australia seem to have at least this much in common!

Wanting to check out a couple of walking trails around Lorne before the sun set, I made sure I was up and out before 5 o'clock, giving me time to take a brief detour up to Mariners' Lookout, just outside Apollo Bay. Getting to the lookout involves a drive up a quite ridiculously steep section of road - parts must have been approaching 45 degree gradient - to a little below the top of the tallest of several large hills that enclose the Bay into its small coastal enclave. From there it's a 10 minute trek up to the summit, whom which you have a view that can only be described as breathtaking. To the north-west, you have the Great Ocean Road winding its way up, down and around the golden-orange limestone cliffs, stretching out for miles in front of you; to the south-east you have to township of Apollo Bay, its expanse of beach and the Apollo bay peninsula jutting out into the water - though from the height of the viewpoint you can see right over the top of the peninsula out to the ocean on the other side. And just top top off an idyllic scene, a sole horse was up at the top of the hill grazing - him and I alone, looking out into infinity. Naturally, I nabbed a snappy snap:


After spending about 10km on the way back stuck behind a Winnebago (camping van), I got a good half hour of enjoying the open road once Mr. Slow had finally turned left at Kennet River, though I detoured on arrival in Lorne to head up to the steep hills to the top of town, park the car, and trek for 20 minutes or so through Queens Park and its forests of gum trees up to Teddy's Lookout. The lookout offers yet another incredible viewpoint of the GOR winding its way out of Lorne, but here combining the rocky, rugged cliffs with the mouth St. George River, itself rolling down to the coast from the lush green forest inland, and merging with the sea 100 feet below us. I personally think the photo below is pretty good, but it still does scant justice to what was on display in reality.


The sightseeing wasn't over just yet - after descending back down to me car I headed inland further to Erskine Falls - located 8km inland from Lorne within the Great Otway National Park. Completely enclosed by dense forest, you'd never say you're in the same state as the dry, desolate landscapes I'd seen just a week ago up in the bush - the roar of water crashing down 100 feet or was barely visible as you approached it through the forest, so dense was the vegetation. That is not to say it was a puny waterfall - the viewing platform from the top gives you a tidy view right down to the bottom (though fit lads like yours truly who are prepared to climb all the way back up can also work their way right down to the bottom to look back up - and get corny photos like the one below) and gives you a pretty solid appreciation of the potentially behind the simple combination of water and gravity...


What was similar to the bush was the nutter 'roos, one of whom sat on the side of the road watching my car as it approached, and picked that exact moment to jump across the road. Luckily I was slowing down as soon as I saw him (I wanted a photo), so all harm was averted. But you do wonder about the intelligence of some creatures...

Anyway, in terms of all-round enjoyment, this was without doubt one of the best days of my life, and good days tend to begin and end with good food. A nice bit of seafood marinara pasta, loaded with fresh prawns, mussels, scallops and fish saw me nicely settled for dinner, and a rowdy mix of Swiss Germans, Quebecois Canadanians, Queenslanders and various miscellaneous others provided entertainment of sorts over a few beers back at the hostel well into the early hours.


P.S. I've also uploaded a couple of photos to "Part 1"...

The Great Ocean Road, Part 1

GEELONG, VICTORIA - 20th December 2009

My general style of travelling involves a level of advanced planning that is, essentially speaking, non-existent. True to that form, I arrived back down in Melbourne from Mooroopna on Wednesday with the vague plan of filling in the 4 free days I had before Christmas with a trip over the Bass Strait to Tasmania. Come Saturday, when I decided it was high time to book said sojourn, I discovered that the combination of leaving it to 24 hours before departure to make a booking and timing it with the big end-of-school holiday rush meant that Tasmania was both very expensive, and wholly unworkable time-wise in order to be back in Melbourne for Christmas.

The Tasmania plan itself had been a plan B - my original thoughts had been to head inland to Ayer's Rock - but that got shelved a couple of weeks back when it became apparent that getting there by any non-airborne means would take days each way, and airborne means would set me back close to A$500. Pre-Christmas plans, therefore, weren't in great shape... until along came Plan C (at the suggestion of my cousin David) - and more or less 24 hours after sitting down to book flights to Tasmania I was heading west on the M1 Freeway in a brand spanking new set of wheels that I'd picked up that morning (Sunday) from the local Hertz Car Rental. Compared to the Little Beast back in England - my 998cc VW Polo - the 1.8L Nissan Tiida I've got hold of is a veritable beast (and is basically identical to the white one pictured on the linked website). The only downside is that it's an automatic transmission - like the Americans, Australians don't seem to like driving cars properly - but it certainly packs a useful punch, albeit with dark magic taking place in the gearbox.

So my new plan was to take a 4 day trip down the Great Ocean Road - a winding 250km road carved along the coast to the south-west of Melbourne, taking in a succession of beautiful seaside towns and some of the most spectacular scenery anywhere on the planet, causing it to be variously described as "one of the top 10 trips of a lifetime" and "one of the top 10 drives in the world" by various travel magazines (that may or may not have conducted fully exhaustive studies on the matter). However, with the upcoming weather looking great and the real busy season only starting on Boxing Day, it was a good time to be heading for the coast - naturally with no bookings for accommodation, or indeed any sort of plan of action or information of any kind aside from my trusty Lonely Planet Guide. Incidentally, I only got hold of this particular Australia LPG by luck, thanks to the generosity of a fellow backpacker who was staying in the Prince of Wales hostel in Singapore - she'd just come from Australia and was heading westward back to the UK so wanted to offload a couple of kilos (it's a hefty volume)!

As the whole Ocean Road trip involves a lot of stuff (plus, when I get round to it, a lot of spectacular photos), and because my lack of a diary means that if I don't detail it here I won't detail it at all, there's gonna have to be a separate blog for each day... starting here!

DAY 1:

About 120km west of Melbourne along the Port Phillip Bay coast, I arrived at the city of Geelong (pronounced Jer-long), which is basically the gateway to the Great Ocean Road, which begins about 40km down the road. It was a pretty uneventful drive - the highlight was taking the "Citylink" Toll Road and paying $12.50 for the privilege of going on a half-mile long tunnel under Melbourne. The fact that I had unlimited use for 24 hours was a fat lot of good for me...

Geelong is, apparently, the second largest city in Victoria with a population approaching a quarter of a million, but its city centre really doesn't give an impression of its size. Approaching the town from the north allows you to take a scenic route off the highway and sweep into the town from the top of a hill to the north-west, offering a beautiful view of the town centre, pier and renovated sea front that symbolises the focal point for the community (see above). All streets lead up from the sea front, including Moorabool Street, home of the National Hotel Backpackers (or "The Nash" to those down with the lingo), where I checked in for the night. After wandering around a few sights of the town, including a pretty cool art gallery that featured an excellent exhibition of works by Adrian Feint, I befriended a couple of Scottish girls from the Nash who were getting their own rented car the next morning. As they had nothing to do in the evening, they joined me for a drive around the Bellarine Peninsula, which stretches out eastward from Geelong right across the Port Phillip Bay, almost-but-not-quite enclosing it (as will make sense if you look at a map).

The peninsula's coastal road takes you through the towns of Portarlington, with its eerie views of Melbourne's skyscrapers in the distances, seemingly floating on the water like hazy shadows; St Leonards, which is an infinitely nicer place than the East Sussex town for which it is presumably named; and Queenscliffe. The latter is on a tiny little peninsula of its own, and its little High Street boasts a grand old hotel with a rooftop bar offering panoramic views from the highest point anywhere on the Bellarine - a view that was begging for an arty sepia-toned photo like the one below! It was up there, surrounded by water in every direction and enjoying the warm evening sunshine, that our conversation turned to just how crazy it was to have Christmas in the summer... but there'll be more on that in later blogs!


A couple more stops on our evening drive took us to Point Lonsdale - the Bellarine's closest point to its sister Mornington Peninsula on the other side of the bay - and, as the sun set, to the wonderful 10km stretch of golden beach at Ocean Grove. Then it was back to the Nash, sampling some of their LPG-recommended noodles for dinner (they aren't lying when describing portions as "very generous"), and time to get some good shut-eye before the assault on the Great Ocean Road proper early the next morning.


P.S. A lack of editorial process may have resulted in my last blog featuring something along the lines of "BLAH, BLAH geometry BLAH". I was supposed to go back and fill in the blahs but apparently forgot to do so... but rest assured it has now been corrected.

Filling in the gaps

LITTLE INDIA, SINGAPORE - 2nd December 2009

Having just undertaken an epic feat of packing, I am shortly departing for Changi Airport and onwards to Australia. Before leaving, however, I thought I'd write one last blog from Asia and fill in a few bits and pieces that didn't make it into my sleep-deprived entry from KL.

I'll start with my hostel. In classic backpackers' fashion, I decided on a place to stay by opening up Lonely Planet, looking at the first recommended place, and going there. The place is called the Prince of Wales, and is an Aussie-joint that features a pretty good bar downstairs (with your 10th beer on the house!), and a large dorm room that must sleep about 20 people upstairs. Being what it is, it is full of Europeans, mainly Brits, 95% of whom are en route to Australia. The setup is great - the atmosphere of the place means you invariably meet lots of great people who've usually had some pretty amazing experiences in their own travels. For example, I went wandering down to Chinatown with a couple of guys this morning, and one of them is a New Zealander who basically travels the world doing freelance photography. He's been to some 150 countries, and seriously knows his stuff - but had some great tales to tell.

Anyway, the big feature of Singapore yet to be mentioned, and what I am definitely going to miss the most when I leave, is the food. Going back to what I said in an earlier blog about Singapore combining everything, cuisine here caters to everyone. At one end, there's the expensive side. Last Thursday evening I met up with yet another fellow Pembrokian, William Abi-Habib, who's just moved out here with a new big-money job with a Korean construction firm. He's worked like a dog, but as Friday was a national holiday we were able to chill on Thursday night down at Boat Quay - a fashionable restaurant area on the Singapore River. Dinner included lobster, tiger prawns, seafood noodles and an excellent white wine - I have no idea what the cost was but I owe Habib a damn nice meal when he comes back to London!

At the other end of the scale though, I've been a regular customer at a plenty of the city's many Food Halls. They are a great invention - take the open seating plan of the Food Courts you see in British shopping centres, but fill the edges of the hall with a multitude of stall-like structures, each one selling a certain speciality at a bargain price. Different parts of town have different specialities it seems, but what I've sampled has ranged from seafood noodle soup to duck fried rice to mutton biriyani to mixed parathas with sambhar - all excellent, none more than about £1.50.

Then, there's the chilli crab - a local speciality that I sampled with Rui and Neha on Saturday night. Mangloreans would see the similarity with a classic crab curry - it's fully shelled crabs cooked in an incredible curry, and you're given an apron at the table and use your hands to break open the shells and get to the sumptuous crab meat. It's a mission, but a seriously rewarding one!

A final thing to mention before I go (I'm now late so better be quick) is Times Square Mall in Kuala Lumpur. People in London got excited about the size of Westfield when it opened, and indeed the size of Bluewater. You should come to KL and see this place. Take the physical area of Westfield, and make it 14 stories tall, all filled with shops, except one section that is filled with a massive indoor roller coaster. The place is mind-bogglingly vast - the economist in me was struggling to understand just how so many shops in one place is financially viable... but it is something that has to be seen to be believed... particularly when you're on the 14th floor looking down at row after row after row of escalators, intertwining down to the depths of the building where you see a floor... but that floor itself is 5 stories up. Crazy.

Now I'm seriously late, so this ends this. Next stop, the Land Down Under.