From the diary of Shahla Nygaard – 29/1/12 – Manase, Savaii, Samoa

I am sitting in a chair on the front porch of a beach fale made of wood and closed in by mats of woven coconut leaves.  On the small table in front of me there is a bottle of Lima Lima – a spirited paoa blend of 55% that tastes intensely of pineapple and coconut, a handfan and the monocular.  One of my shirts, that I use for snorkelling without sunscreen, and my snorkel arehanging over the railing of the porch.  On the wooden floor under my shirt, a small mangy black cat is having a nap after sharing my lunch with me.  It consisted of breadfruit, taro leaves with coconut cream, a lamb stew with green beans, half a fried fish and a bowl of chicken soup.  My view is of a short strip of lawn leading onto an even shorter stretch of beach.It's only a couple of steps from the water to the grass and it grows so densely that it feels like a soft welcome mat under your feet.  It's a great way to get the sand off before getting into your fale.  Beyond the small waves lapping at the sand is a pale turquoise lagoon and then a navy blue reef.  On the outer edge of the reef, waves of a deep sea green are crashing into frothy white lines pointing to the corners of my vision.

The sky is cloudy with a big dark mass to my left and fluffy white popcorn and blue sky to my right.  The temperature is pleasant: it is warm and now and then there is a slight breeze.  I see a rooster walk by on the grass but he stays quiet.  The only sound is the roar of the waves, muted by distance but still filling the silence.  Peter has gone for a snorkel down the beach and is floating down with the current.  On the beach to my left, there are a couple of small palm trees and he is coming around them now and swimming towards the shore…

From the diary of Peter Nygaard – 29/1/12 – Manase, Savaii, Samoa

I snorkelled alone while Shahla wrote in the little foyer on our beach fale.  Upon entering the water, I saw a big Titan Triggerfish biting at something on the sea-bed.  It freaked me out so I drifted by a few metres away and soon found myself face to face with a Porcupine Pufferfish.  Behind us both, further onto the reef was a big school of Convict Surgeonfish witha few Yellow-spotted Triggerfish mingling amongst them.  As I was coming around to complete my 360° spin, I noticed that all the coral looks like little trees with no leaves or maybe the roots of the trees, and the trunks are growing into the ocean floor.  There were purple, brown, blue, orange and yellow corals with red, blue and brown tips, and a mossy kind of hairy mat around their base.  One of the corals was broken and inside the piece that was attached to the reef was a little worm like fish that looked similar to a Garden Eel but it was divided into black and white, black on top and white on the bottom.  I stared at it while it made movements that I'd seen bobble heads make and it brought back memories of watching a cobra rise out of a woven basket in the streets of Tiznit, Morocco.  The "worm-fish" stayed pretty close to the entrance of its lair and so I decided to drift off in search of more interesting and beautiful creatures.  Snorkelling here after snorkelling at Lalomanu (where a tsunami had hit two years earlier) is an excellent way to see the power that the ocean has over life in the coral reefs.  I don't like seeing people hit or touch the corals in case they kill them but in a few big waves the ocean can kill the whole reef.  There is much more fish activity here and the population is considerably higher with less visual distortion in the water so it can be a bit of a sensory overload.  Overall it was a fascinating ride in a comfortable place through a beautiful underwater city.

If you look down, way down and then you look under that, you get to the land down under and that’s where this story begins.  And this isn’t just any story.  It’s the story of a select group brought together to achieve the extraordinary.  And it just so happens that in this instant they are brought very closely together.

    “Ow, Boot, get your foot outta my face,” whined Mat.  This was typical of Mat, a lime-green thermarest who at the moment was rolled up very tightly with a belt around his waist.  Maybe he was rolled up a little too tightly by the humans; he always seemed to have something to complain about.
    “It’s ‘sir get your foot outta my face, sir,’ private Mat,” barked Boot, “and I wouldn’t be in your face if seargent Tent wasn’t hogging all the room.”  Boot was a military man but his Scandinavian history gave his barking a sing-song tone and made it difficult for the others to take him too seriously.  Especially Tent.  He never took anybody seriously except himself.  He’s a light-weight, top of the line orange dome-tent that is quite popular among travelling humans.
    “I thought we’d been through this before guys.  The humans have to fit both their bodies inside me, not just their feet.  Of course I need the most room.”  At this, as with most things Tent had to say, there was a chorus of “yeah, whatever” from the rest of the backpack.
    “Can you guys keep it down, I’m trying to get my beauty sleep.  Night shift does terrible things to a girl’s skin.”  There were a couple of murmurs around the backpack to keep it down including a genuine offer from Boot to stuff a sock in Tent’s mouth.  Sleeping Bag was so soft and silky that most of the guys would volunteer to wrestle crocodiles for her.

    Just then the whirr of a zipper and a sudden burst of light brought silence to the crew.  The familiar hand of one of the humans came through the opening as all waited in anticipation.  It was a daily ritual for everyone in the backpack to share their experiences of the outside world.  And so it was with the return of the dinner crew.  Once the darkness closed in again, silence reigned until Hat broke in with “G’day mates.”  Hat is a “floppy kangaroo”.  About as Australian as they come, he’s made of kangaroo hide in true Aussie fashion.
    “We’re sure up woopwoop today fellas.  I was sitting on the blokes head when he went for a walk with the sheila and crikey! out popped a little beauty red-back spider from under a picnic table.  You don’t want to get in a fight with one of them.  They’ll kill a bloke if he gets too close.”
    There was an “oooooo” from the inhabitants, and a faint “what’s woopwoop?”
    "Red-back’s nothin’ though,” continued Hat, “I once heard of a croc in a billabong that could snap a kookaburra right out of a gum tree!”  Confusion and horror filled the backpack until Boot took command.
    “Alright soldiers, fall in.  Report officer!”  The officer to whom Boot was referring was Swiss Army Knife.  He was a determined workaholic who had it in his head that if he couldn’t do it, it couldn’t be done.
    “Well, once we were out, we saw what we had to work with to feed the humans.  There was an onion, a couple potatoes, some broccoli and some kangaroo meat.  Off to the side was a slab of dark chocolate.  I wasn’t looking forward to chopping the onion because when they’re strong they can really sting, but I got it over with first and moved on to the fun stuff.”
    “You might-a not look-a forward to-a the onion, seignor Knife, but I always like-a to fry-a them for-a the aroma to fill-a the room.”  Pot loved food.  If it was cooking, marinating or mixing in him, as long as it was food, he didn’t care.
    “Hey, I like aroma too man.  The aroma of smoke, ha ha ha.”  That would be Stove, the pyromaniac.  Sadly for him, the humans didn’t often let him burn things.
    “Stand down, private Stove.  Let the officer finish his report,” said Boot.
    “Anyway, my next task was to slice up the broccoli and potatoes just right.”
    “They mixed the broccoli and-a potatoes.  I boil it just-a right.  Then I fry-a the meat with the onion, little bit salt and-a pepper.  Perfecto,” added Pot.  The last member of the dinner crew was Spoon.  She always waited until last to give her opinion on the dinner.  On rare occasions, Spoon would enthusiastically run through her critique.  This however was not one of those occasions.
    “It was served a little too hot and the presentation left much to be desired, but the flavours did mix well and I have to agree with Pot about everything being cooked just right.  The kangaroo was tender and amazingly lean with a gamey liver undertone.  Also, I think the scenery added to the appreciation of the meal.  Whereas normally it’s been barren and windy and it gets cold when the sun goes down, now we’re in a sheltered forest with huge trees everywhere.”
Here Boot interrupted her.
    “Yes Spoon, I’ve already given an account of the trees.  Remember they took me out to climb up the steel spike ladder that led into the rarefied atmosphere in the forest canopy.  And I agree, the change in scenery and terrain was somewhat pleasurable.  Now please finish your report on the meal.”
    “All in all, I give it my Spoons up.”
A cheer went up around the backpack and Boot congratulated them on another successful mission.

    There was a giggle from a dark corner that no one paid any attention to.  They were all quite used to hearing Dice laugh to himself.  They never really understood what was so funny and many of them secretly thought he was a little crazy.
    “Shhh, – they’re coming back.”
Sure enough, the zipper swooshed again and the evening light flooded in, filtered through a thousand leaves.  All waited in anticipation to see who would be chosen next.  After much rustling and repositioning, the zipper closed and darkness closed in on the backpack again.  And again it was Boot who broke the silence.
    “Alright, troops, who’s left?”  After a brief roll call, it was determined that Mat, Sleeping Bag, Tent, Turban and Dice were missing.  They all knew this meant it was bedtime, and since there was so much more room now that the big guys were gone, they all stretched out and got ready to sleep.  This was great for Mosquito who had been packed with his face against the wall of the backpack but now that he could, he stretched himself out and quietly began to sing.

"?? I wanna tear down the walls
And the borders too
Because I just wanna be free
And not just for me
I said I just wanna be free
and not just for me
They build the wall they wall the world

Just ride and watch the world
Be what it wants to be
The endless possibilities
On this floating matter marble in the sea
The collective reality
On this floating matter marble in the sea
The ball we call our Mother Earth ??"

    Morning dawned slowly in the forest and everyone was well rested by the time the zipper opened again.  After several minutes of shuffling and squeezing and pulling and pushing, the backpack was closed again.
    "Report soldiers," came the usual eager command from Boot.  It was quickly ascertained that the night crew was back and that Hat and Shovel were missing.
    "Never mind about them for now," said Boot.  "Let's hear about the night."
    "Well," began Tent, "I was able to stretch out nicely and the ground was covered in leaves so it was nice and soft.  Also, my pegs went in nice and easy and I was ready for anything.  But the forest was really calm and we stayed nice and warm all night."
    "I would have been really comfortable if I didn't have a twig in my back all night," complained Mat, "but you're right about the ground being soft."
    "And he was right about it being warm too," said Sleeping Bag.  "I didn't think the humans were going to use me at all, but it did get a bit chilly later on in the night and they snuggled up to me eventually."
    "Mafish Mushkila," said Turban.  He had been in the backpack for a while now and everyone thought he was a pretty handy fellow but no one could understand a word he said.  And now, as usual after Turban spoke, there was an awkward silence.  If you listened really closely, you could hear the sigh of relief when the zipper broke the silence again.  This time Shovel was returned.  Again there was an awkward silence.  Shovel's job was to dig temporary toilets for the humans.  Consequently, he always knew how their stomachs were doing and it was this that no one was really sure how to take.  Since coming to Australia, the report had pretty much always been a good one, but in other parts of the world, his vivid descriptions of the colour and consistency of the humans' faeces had earned him the position of loner.
    "Solid and satisfying," was all he said this time, and again the backpack breathed a sigh of relief.
    "Alright troops," said Boot, "Hat hasn't come back so that means it's a beautiful sunny day out there."
    "Shhh! Hey guys listen – they're talking about us," cried Tent.
They all held their breath to hear what the human voice would say.  When it spoke, it said:
"Did you hear something?"

“Hey Shahla, where are we?”

“I don’t know, I don’t recognize this place.”

“Hey look! There’s someone coming towards us."

“Let’s talk to him"

“Who are you?”

“I’m the storyteller.”

“Where are we?”

“You’re in Storyland and this is your story.

“You arrived at the border to Laos feeling excited to see a new country but sad to be leaving the diverse cultures and landscapes of China. The air was humid and holding the midday sun’s heat so fully that to escape the clutches of it was an impossible feat. Your only option was to get back on your bikes and ride forward to the next pocket of civilization. Once there, the possibility of getting a cold drink and a room with a fan might present itself. So through the grass and jungle covered hills you rode. Amongst fields of yesteryear that once brought wealth to the local farmers and landowners but now lay deserted, subject only to the manipulation of nature. Not all was abandoned around you though and sporadically you met with small plots of corn and rice. The difference you noticed between the production of these farms and the ones you were used to seeing in China was staggering. Unlike the vast, lush fields of China that could feed a billion and still have enough left over to sell on foreign markets, the fields surrounding you now looked thin and bare. However, they seemed to be adequate for sustaining the small population of local hill dwellers and the odd tourist passing by on a bicycle. You definitely ate your share of the local grub after pedaling up the steep and windy roads, sweating up a storm all day long. It was very draining for you, and the one local dish that always seemed to be the best for getting you back on the road at lunchtime was the soup. It was a bowl of noodles, vegetables and a little meat full to the brim with salty broth. After polishing the bowl off you could feel the energy coming back into your muscles. Feeling yourselves becoming hydrated from a dry and fatigued state was always an extremely satisfying sensation. Your knowledge of your bodies’ needs became very acute during your cycle travels. The only problem now was that the food was still a bit unknown to you. Trying new things, however, was not at all disagreeable for you and in fact you always looked forward to tasting some new and interesting flavours. You’d always pay attention to what you believed the nutritional and calorific values were and how perishable it might have been. That made it easier for you to get the right amount of energy and nutrients into your bodies regularly.

    "The feeling of coming upon a village set in amongst the steep hills and thick vegetation was one of relief and joy. The first thing you’d look for would be a place to get a cold drink and a snack. Not all the villages had cold drinks but when there was it meant a core temperature cool down for two overheated travelers. It also meant a nice little rest for your bottoms. When cycling and coming across some little boys in these villages they would always hold their hands up in expectation of a high-five as you pedaled by. Their smiles were as wide as the road when your hand would slap against theirs. You’d both laugh and yell “Sabaidee!” to the little ones that weren’t old enough to get in on the high five action. That seemed to get smiles all around, even from the parents and grandparents.

    "To enter a city in these surroundings was slightly different. Oh, the kids would still be there and high fives would be had by all but the cities would also have so much more to offer variety seeking cycle tourists when it came to stuffing good food into your hungry faces. It’s also where you discovered one of the coolest ways of enjoying/cooking a meal. It was introduced to you as the “Lao Barbecue” and looked like a flying saucer. It had a dome coming up out of the centre with holes in it that would be used to fry things. Around the bottom of the dome was a tray that was to hold soup broth into which you could throw things to boil. It seemed like the ultimate Swiss design by putting a raklette grill and a fondue pot together in one cooking apparatus. It was heated using hot coals underneath it in a thick clay pot. The heat could be regulated by throwing ice or cold water onto the coals as needed. This was truly an interactive culinary experience.

    "The architecture of the cultural buildings in the cities was very pleasing to the eye and made for some good exploring. There were multi headed snake statues guarding over the sacred temples and shingles resembling serpent scales covering the roofs.  These were a beautiful and mystical part of the culture you were now immersed in. The robes of the monks had turned from red for the Tibetan monks to orange for the ones surrounding you now. The colour had changed but the monks, to you, were still a symbol for peace, tolerance and life in the slow lane.

    "The wildlife was beginning to change too. In one small town you noticed a man tying a string around the neck of a beetle that was about three inches in length and had a large horn protruding upwards from its face. He then gave the loose end of the string to his toddler son so as to have a pet on a leash. You sat down beside them to watch and noticed a pot full of these beetles that had evidently been collected for dinner. The cultural differences between your families and the family in front of you were not so great. You would play with the animals that would eventually end up on the table as well. However, you couldn’t help but be a little jealous of the man’s son. His pet beetle was far more exciting than the farm animals you grew up with. It looked like fun to you and actually seemed a bit tempting seeing as you were contemplating the idea of traveling with a pet. In the end you didn’t give in to temptation and hit the road as a duo once again. This however, would not be the last time you were to have an encounter with a creature of the insect variety.

    "At the hour before dusk you would be on alert for a place to set up camp for the night. When you found a spot that looked ideal for a tent and a good night’s sleep you would quite often be forced to take it even after discovering that it was infested by ants. So in a frenzy the tent would get set up and you’d dive in through the door like Indiana Jones making sure to close it up as quickly as possible. That night’s sleep was doomed to be a bad one and the mysterious puffed rice cookie you bought the day before was to be your downfall. The plastic wrap that was surrounding the puffed rice wasn’t a good seal and the ants detected the sugary syrup that was an ingredient in the newly dubbed “Cookie From Hell”. The ants were small enough to find a port hole into your seemingly impenetrable tent fortress and they began a retrieval mission of epic proportions. You both woke to find hungry ants covering the better part of your bodies and you began to shake and rub them off as they tried to get pieces of you to bring back to their queen. Finally amongst the confusion and delirium the Cookie From Hell was found and quickly cast back into the fiery chasm from whence it came. Actually you just threw it out the door as far as you could but I thought that sounded better. I think I’ve heard that in a story before.”

    “Yeah, it’s from The Lord Of The Rings.”

    “Oh Yeah. Great story. Anyway, after you’d dealt with the ordeal and managed to salvage a couple hours of sleep, you woke to find that the Cookie From Hell wasn’t the only thing that was on the ants’ menu from last night. Your sandals were covered in ants that were actually attempting to create a mound out of them! There was no way around this sandal fiasco and so it was destined to recur in the following weeks. Even after you crossed the border into Thailand you would find yourselves dealing with the ant race. Fortunately you never brought questionable food inside your tent after that and so you were able to sleep with the ants safely outside where they belonged.

    "The transition you experienced with the crossing of the Laos/Thailand Friendship bridge over the Mekong river was smooth. A lot of the culture was basically the same however the Thai people were living with the influence of the western world, namely convenience. Fast food chains and convenience stores selling consumables and disposables were littered throughout the cities, towns and along the highways. As out of place as this presence seemed to you it would not be long before you were not only used to it but also slaves to its super-cooling, mega-energizing powers of persuasion. These powers were revealed to you in the form of chocolate and icy cold soft and rehydration drinks. As if these powers were not enough to steal your soul, every 7-11 you entered was equipped with air conditioning akin to refrigeration. These moments of arctic bliss were anxiously awaited as a rabbit hole to wonderland.

    "The area you were now covering had many interesting historical eras. One presented itself to you at the site of Phimai. The Khmer empire was vast and stretched across a large part of Thailand, Laos, Vietnam and all of Cambodia. The stonework in the temple at Phimai was done with extreme precision. Every diety was meticulously carved out and placed in perfect harmony upon the walls. Walking amidst the dancing Hindu gods and divinely serene Buddhas instilled a feeling of tranquility inside you. The shape and size of the temple itself was an indication of just how powerful and wealthy this empire had been. Or at least it was an introduction to it. You were to discover the true extent of the Khmer’s strength and fortune across the Cambodian border at Angkor. Here the temple at Phimai was dwarfed like a Lego-land version of Angkor Wat. The ruins of Angkor were once the capital of the empire and are a maze of buildings and courtyards. Even after nine centuries of exposure to the elements it was easy to see the talents that were employed in its making. Giant faces gazed over the townsfolk as they went about their everyday lives. Stone elephants stood holding up walls and numerous images were carved into almost every surface. A feeling almost akin to jealousy crept its way inside you as you thought of what Marco Polo might have entered into had he approached this place. One thing he would not have seen however is the sight of nature trying to reclaim her unearthed stones. Huge trees spread their roots across and into buildings creating an image of the diligence of man coupled with the persistence of nature.”

    “I remember this site provoking a flood of thoughts. It took humans a relatively short period of time to manipulate the stones and create their temples. Nature would work so much longer to reshape the temples and reposition those same stones. Those time frames put the span of our own lives into perspective. But the stones themselves, that had always been there, turned our lives into a flash. A mere heartbeat in the life of the universe.”

    “Hey, hey, hey! Hold on there! Who’s the storyteller here?”

    “Sorry, but your storytelling was so good it just brought me back there for a moment.”

    “Yes well I do tell a good story don’t I?”

    “Yes you do.”

    “Well then where was I?”

    “Umm, nature?”

    “Oh yes, as you jumped off the boat…"

    "Wait a minute, what boat?"

    "The boat you took from Koh Phi Phi of course.  Honestly! You'd think it wasn't even your story.  As you jumped off the boat into the crystal clear water your minds were focused on the possibility of encountering a sea turtle face to face. You had no real idea of the size of the gentle sea creatures or the movements they might make. You’d seen them through the impenetrable barrier of television but never in their own element. As you swam along on the surface you soon came face to face with one coming up for air. Thankful that evolution did not grant these creatures gills, you watched their flippers propelling them upwards like oars on a submarine. Framed by a deep blue background it was difficult to judge their size and they certainly were in no hurry to reach the surface. Once they had paddled themselves to the surface next to you it was easy to see that they were much bigger than you had expected. After enjoying an invigorating breath of fresh air with you they would slowly descend back to their meals. As they sat on the shallow bottom and ate, scraping chunks of coral off with their parrot like beaks, you felt as if you were watching a slow motion video of a dog chewing on a bone. Their indifference to the other creatures in their surroundings made them easy to observe, an attribute that would not be present in the sea dwellers next on your list for observation: sharks. But that’s a story for another time.”

    “What? Why?”

    “Never question the story teller. Now shut up and listen. You chose to make your entry into Malaysia on the Northwest coast. This meant a ferry ride in a long skinny wooden boat that would take you and your transport to the first Malaysian port. Here you discovered your first major cultural mix in this new land. It was to be Chinese restaurants and shops situated alongside Malay options. You smiled as you saw Malays sitting in the Chinese restaurants and Chinese people in the Malay ones. You wondered how many cooking secrets were being shared amongst the cooks in town and how much fusion had actually become commonplace. How long would it take to become true Malay cuisine? One, two, three generations or more? However at the moment the only mix apparent was that of Chinese and Malay.

    "It didn’t take long to ride the distance to the popular destination of Georgetown. Now the third culture was thrown in to the mix. You could smell the mix of spices from a mile away and knew the scent could only be coming from an Indian chef. This was going to be interesting. I mean, who in this world could resist a good curry? Sure enough, Chinese people sat beside Malays and enjoyed the flavours of the near-by subcontinent. The mingling of people in this restaurant was like a microcosm of the entire city where Hindu temples sat across the street from Buddhist temples, kitty corner to Malay mosques. Here there was segregation but there was fusion also which made you curious about the future. Would this mixture create strength or weakness? Would future generations embrace or reject eachother? There was talk of racism but what you saw was tolerance and even commeraderie.

    "And with the Malays and their commeraderie, you found yourselves among the throngs crossing over to Singapore to earn their daily bread. Although on bicycles, you took the motorbike lane and were constantly deafened and occasionally choked by the emissions of thousands of motorbikes. After what felt like a full kilometer of sharp s-bends, steep inclines and general motoring mayhem, the pile up began at the immigration window. Here people were processed so quickly and efficiently that you felt like you were at a McDonald’s drive through and were tempted to ask for fries with the stamp in your passport. Without testing the immigration officer’s sense of humour, you rode over the bridge and into Singapore. There was a difference noticeable from the beginning as you pedaled through landscaped parks and down flawless roads amongst new housing and apartment blocks. It seemed like the correct term for Singapore should be “city-country”. It was an easy ride from the north to the south coast and a trip around the whole country could be done in a day. It felt more like you were exploring a city than a country and the pace of life seemed to reflect that feeling. It was not long before the fast-paced city style of living guided you to the harbor and onto a ferry bound for Indonesia.

    "Although primarily Muslim, there remain a few small pockets of Hinduism. Born of legends and fueled by the tourist dollar, one such pocket revolves around shadow puppets. A team of specialists worked long hours to create intricately designed and brilliantly coloured leather shadow puppets representing characters from the Ramayana. A skilled puppeteer brought them to life from behind a backlit screen. An enormous team of musicians and singers provided background music. And you sat there and were spellbound by the show. The combination of the darkened room, the wall of sound and the dancing shadows is a recipe for dramatic representation that could stand up against Pixar. Hmmm. Well, it seems my time with you has come to an end. I have other people to meet and other stories to tell. It has been a pleasure.”

    “Thank you story teller . You do tell a good story.”

    “Bye guys, until we meet again.”

    “Goodbye”

    “That was good but we could’ve done better.”

After so many miles on public transport, we are finally back to our favourite mode of transportation – bicycles!  Instead of building them, this time we purchased them from a bike shop.  Bright, shiny and new.  It wasn't easy finding our new road companions.  In the streets of Islamabad, we saw no bicycles that we were willing to adopt.  All had some fatal flaw that we could not accept. 

We spent hours in internet cafes drooling over glossy pictures of flashy, high end mountain and touring bikes.  But they all had the same dark cloud hanging over them – the price.  After researching nearby bike shops, we found one that had decent bikes for decent prices.  It was across the border in India.  Luckily Amritsar is easily reached in one day from Islamabad.  We stepped into the bike shop and presto! our bikes appeared before our eyes.  Aluminum frame mountain bikes with Shimano parts.

On the backs of the bikes we use conventional racks with welded additions to avoid the tires rubbing on the saddlebags.  The front racks are our own design that are made to attach to a fork equipped with a shock absorber.  For back saddlebags we use our old trusty backpacks on one bike and the other is fitted with handmade saddlebags.  Childrens' backpacks are on the front of one bike and purses are on the other.  Our plan is to have these bikes carry us to Canada.

"We had less than a kilometer to go from the bike shop to the hotel and I was following Peter closely on the busy streets.  It had been a long time and I felt a bit unsteady riding.  There was a rock in the road that was unavoidable.  As I went over it, I started to lose control of the bike and I hit the brakes.  The bike stopped dead but I kept going and landed on the jagged tarmac face first.  Was this foreshadowing for the journey to come?  Or did this trial by tarmac mean that my dues were paid and from here on in it would be smooth sailing?  Time will tell…"

We were going into China with visions of a machine-like suppressed society that we would in no way enjoy mingling in. This picture came to us from a long onslaught of travellers’ stories depicting a land of uncouth, unfriendly and unhelpful people. We also had the idea of a single propaganda fuelled communist culture encompassing the whole of the country. However, our low expectations made for a pleasant surprise and proved that everyone’s experiences are paramount in forming their judgements…

In order to cross the border into China from Pakistan we along with our friend Markus were obliged to put our bicycles onto a bus and be driven over the Khunjerab pass to the town of Tashkurgan. Here, we were told, would be the formal immigration checkpost for China. Before we arrived in Tashkurgan though, the bus stopped at a new, official looking building swarming with military personnel. One of them was stabbing the air in front of him with Rambo’s knife like he was in the first psycho film. This was quite intimidating but he seemed like an obvious pick to be protecting the border. Then the door to the bus flew open and a man stuck his head in who looked like he was about to give E.T. an autopsy. He thrust his latex-gloved hand into the bus brandishing a fistful of thermometers as he spoke some muffled gibberish from behind his SARS mask. Each of us was to put a thermometer into our armpit and return it for examination by the masked man. We came to this conclusion after his small but effective charades gesture. There seemed to be no evident medical problem with any of the passengers on the bus and we were led through a room with similarly clad men. This was the baggage check room and they were quite thorough and wanted to see everything, including the contents of our books. We were let through without censorship of or reprimand for any of our belongings. It would have been interesting to have run the gauntlet with our copy of the Tao Te Ching. Would they have brought the hand of Mao down upon the ancient Taoist writings? Or would they have smiled in the presence of such an important piece of Chinese history and culture?

Our first day riding in China was to be a cold and wet one over slow rolling hills. The landscape was barren and the weather gloomy but we weren’t unprepared for the ride. After seeing the locals carrying thermoses filled with hot water, we decided to follow suit. This was good while the water stayed warm but the thermoses were cheap (made you know where) and before long the water was as icy as the wind that forced us off the road. Luckily we stumbled upon what looked like a government housing project, a group of small, identical, rectangular mud brick buildings by the road. Most of these were uninhabited so we took refuge in one until the rain stopped. Again we flung ourselves at the road and were at the mercy of the elements. Towards evening we found a clump of trees and we knew that we would have to take advantage of this in order to get a decent night’s sleep. After stopping amongst the trees, we noticed a police building hiding on one side of the road. We thought it would be best to notify the police of our intent to spend the night in the shelter of the little forest. We greeted the first uniformed man we saw with a wave and the best "Neehow" (hello) we could muster. He smiled lightly and retreated back into the building. We weren’t sure what to make of this but decided to wait for a chance to try some awkward communication. Sometimes this can be a real blast. Before long another uniformed man came out with a slightly more authoritative air. With our English/Chinese dictionary in hand we began the painfully slow rendition of our plea for sanctuary amongst the trees. To our surprise he would periodically nod his head in a gesture of understanding. However, at the end of our appeal he failed to give us his nod of approval. Instead he smiled lightly and retreated back into the building. The first man’s retreat was confusing but now it was a little worrying. It was beginning to get dark and any hope of finding other shelter was evaporating. At long last a third (and we hoped final) uniformed man came out and greeted us with a heavily accented hello or more closely, "herro". With this man we could communicate more interactively and were faced with a few questions that gave us the impression they would really like to be rid of us. After successfully answering all the questions and reiterating our plea, the man was at a loss for a solution. We could tell now that there was a general sympathy felt by the policemen towards us but this scenario just wasn’t in their book. After a quick consultation with the other men he flipped open a cellular phone and talked to yet another man who we hoped could speak outside the book. The conversation ended, the cellular phone flipped shut and the man turned and gave us his nod of approval. There were smiles all around and they took delight in our many "shay shay"s (thank yous) before we departed to our side of the road.

Nearly a month had gone by. We had said goodbye to Markus and seen the transition in to and out of the desert. We had cycled up into the highlands and found ourselves surrounded by Tibetans and their yaks. It was a dramatic landscape with miles of treeless pastures dotted with traditional tents and hundreds of yaks crossing the winding highways. One evening we found a picturesque spot to pitch our tent and began to cook our evening meal. Two young men passed as they were bringing the horses back to their tent and their curiosity got the best of them. They approached us with wide, teeth-filled grins and greeted us in their Tibetan language. We were able to get across to them that we wanted to sleep there that night and they immediately invited us to their tent. We thanked them for their generosity but declined the invitation. This seemed sufficient for them and they left with the same smiles they came with. Not long after they reached their tent, a solitary figure began to move towards us. When he came close to us, we realized he must be the father and master of the tent. Again an appeal to come to the tent was put before us. We were not about to disappoint such a dignified figure so we agreed to finish our meal and push our bikes over to the tent. After a quick repacking and a sloppy push through fresh yak dung and very wet grass, we arrived at the home of a Tibetan yak herding family. We were greeted by no less than nine people of all ages donning long sleeved yak wool jackets and face stretching smiles. Immediately we were invited inside the tent and poured two cups of salty yak butter tea. A broken conversation ensued consisting of a few words and many gestures, creating a jovial atmosphere and before long we were faced with two bowls filled with giant steamed buns and similar sized dollops of yak butter. We were already quite full but we weren’t about to refuse the hospitality of this happy nomadic family that wanted so much to give us something. It was not an easy feat as the dense bread filled us beyond comfortable capacity but we managed to finish with smiles and return our bowls empty. The rest of the night was spent fascinating the family with our digital camera and its ability to instantly conjure up images of themselves with the click of a button. After a while the fascination inevitably succumbed to the power of fatigue and our hosts began to prepare for a night of rest. To our amazement all eleven of us had enough room to stretch out together inside the small nomad tent. It made for a cozy sleep filled night. We woke to the smell of burning yak manure. This smell we were already acquainted with after spending a couple nights in a yurt near Kashgar in western China. The same yak butter tea was presented to us but this time it was accompanied not with bread but a bowl of some kind of light brown flour. To the flour we were to add dried chunks of yak fat and yes, a baseball sized chunk of yak butter. Hot water was then introduced and the mixture we stirred to a thick doughy consistency. It seemed like quite a small bowl when it was handed to us but after a few mouthfuls we realized that it wasn’t the size of the meal that would give us the energy we needed for our days ride but the weight of it. A lengthy farewell later and we were back on the road, glowing from the good will and generosity that was shown to us by a poor Tibetan yak herding family in the highlands of the Gansu province.

Probably one of the most famous animals in the world is the Panda bear. Us being the suckers we are for seeing interesting wildlife, decided to go off our intended path in order to get a glimpse of one of these famous creatures. Now we were in the Sichuan province near the epicenter of the devastating 2008 earthquake. We had ridden alongside collapsed bridges and buildings, roads that had been taken over by the fallen valley wall next to them and even a car still hanging off the edge of a near gone cliff-side road. The road venturing up the valley that would lead us to the Wolong Panda Reserve was what we thought to be a good distance away from the earthquake site. When we arrived at the turn-off however there were a barricade and a bunch of anxious people waiting for approval to use the road. They told us the road was still under repairs and after recent rains they were trying to clear away any hazardous debris. There was no way to tell just how bad the road was from where we were and we knew that the reserve was only twenty-five kilometers away. The lure of seeing a real king Panda was too much for us and we decided to wait for the road to open. We were given the go ahead before the cars were and tried to get as much distance between us and the barricade as we could before being caught by a long line of impatient drivers. The road proved much worse than we had anticipated though and the going was not much faster than walking pace. Dusk was fast approaching and we were faced with having to find the safest tenting spot that we could in the "danger zone". The men working on the road were telling us to beware of falling rocks from the valley walls and so we picked our spot accordingly. A couple scares of loud crashes from falling rocks later and we were eating breakfast in anticipation of seeing a Panda bear. Before arriving at the reserve we passed through what had been a village but was now nonexistent, the local shop in the middle of the river and water flowing out of the windows and doors. Devastation was not on our list of things to see but we were confronted with it anyway, up close and personal. Further up the road we passed an abandoned hotel with a sign reading "Panda Inn". We had planned to spend the night there after playing gleefully with frolicking king Pandas but soon learned that the bears had been evacuated after the earthquake and in our minds they achieved the status of mythical creature. To top it off it had begun to rain profusely and we were without a warm place to sleep. Fortunately a nice man who must have been the caretaker at the inn lent us a worker tent to sleep in so we could be dry. We really weren’t looking forward to the return journey to the main road but it had to be done before the level of the river overtook the road and we were trapped in the valley. The road was now a shooting gallery of high-speed projectile rocks ricocheting unpredictably off the steep valley walls. Thankfully it was downhill out of the valley so we knew it would be quicker getting out than it was getting in. At one point we were stopped by a man sitting in a truck watching the rocky wall intently. There were two big trucks at the other end of a small curve in the road waiting for the signal to go. After about fifteen minutes the man got out of his truck and waved the trucks over. They started their trucks and began to move forward when a football sized rock shot across the road at windshield level. The man cringed and the trucks immediately began to back up to their starting position. Another ten minutes later and the man waved for the trucks to go again. This time they weren’t moving and it took about five minutes of the man waving at them frantically to get them going. Once they had bridged the gap successfully the man turned to us and said it was our turn. As we were navigating the slushy mud and jagged rocks we heard the ominous crashing of a rock above us. We looked up to see a rock the size of a boxing glove bouncing down the wall like a pinball from hell. We were at a loss as to whether we should speed up, slow down, stop or go back. It was impossible to tell where the rock would cross the road. In our confusion we stopped and watched in horror as the rock came down to hit the front tire of Shahla’s bike. Luckily no damage was done and we high-tailed it out of there, confident in the belief that Panda’s are mythical creatures.

Overall, our experience travelling in China was a positive one. We were treated as equals and shown the respect that should be common amongst all people. We were enveloped by amazing scenery and drastically differing climates, from cold, snow covered land to hot and steamy tropical jungle. We saw a nation under construction and at the same time finding time to celebrate their many cultures. It was vastly more diverse than we had anticipated, strengthening our belief that culture is a product of its physical environment. Chow mien anyone?
 

I could see in Shahla that she was anxious to see if the Pakistan she knew from childhood was what was waiting for us across the border from Iran. I, however, was prepared to view Pakistan as objectively as possible. The moment we crossed into Pakistan Shahla breathed a sigh of relief and took off her headscarf. I couldn’t help but smile and think to myself that I just might like it here. The initial feeling I had as we made our way to the house of Shahla’s childhood was peaceful and relieving. Even though I had never been to the country before I felt somehow connected with its people.

They were kind and hospitable like in Iran but with different mannerisms. I heard Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan playing from a man’s mobile phone and welcomed the sound of music with a swelling heart. This was the beginning of a long stay here in Pakistan and I felt like I could enjoy calling it home for a year. As the time passed, I noticed the Pakistani people were regarding me with caution that could sometimes be mistaken for disdain. The feeling of relief was slowly slipping away from me. I once again began to feel like an outsider in a foreign land. I watched as people went about their everyday business and saw that they were not only looking at me with caution but also to their Pakistani brothers. After contemplating this for a while I came to the conclusion that it would not be easy for the Pakistanis to leave this caution behind them. They had fought with their brothers before in a bloody battle that separated families on two sides of a border that Gandhi fought so hard to keep down. If someone can feel mistrust and hatred for their brother, then they can feel this for anyone. I don’t blame them for their caution and can only try to imagine what they’re going through mentally and emotionally. I did eventually get used to living amongst the cautious Pakistanis and am grateful that their caution didn’t transfer itself to me. This is just one aspect of the people and of course there are many but I think now it’s time to address the environment that the people are living in. We didn’t visit the coast but what we did see of Pakistan was diverse. There are vast arid areas reminiscent of the African savannah, lush green fields and of course the awe inspiring Himalayan mountain range. To be in the beauty of the Himalayas is an experience that can never be forgotten. It is so serene and yet so ruthless and powerful. The mountains have claimed so many lives and have been the inspiration of many to fulfill their dreams. It’s almost as if they are portraying the duality of man. And man is just another animal. The wildlife of course is equally diverse, consisting of animals like monkeys, parrots, camels, vultures, leopards and wild boars. The domestic animals are mainly water buffaloes, cows, goats, sheep, chickens, dogs and cats. I especially like the water buffaloes because they remind me of hippos the way they bathe themselves in any available pools of water. They also have skin that looks shiny like hippo skin and they seem to have the same calm contentedness. Another favourite animal of mine is the monkey or more accurately the macaque. They can behave just like humans and always make me laugh they way the young ones play in the trees swinging and jumping from branch to branch. They are like Shahla and me, the way we are jumping from country to country and culture to culture. I am grateful for the opportunity I’ve had to jump into the country and culture of Pakistan and regard it as a valuable experience.

… The border was relatively straightforward and especially easy for me (yay) and we found ourselves sitting in a small restaurant/ shop sipping tea and waiting for a bus that wouldn’t arrive till the afternoon. When it did arrive, it was reminiscent of African buses in quality but we didn’t have much choice so we spent the night shifting uncomfortably and arrived, again in the wee hours, in Quetta. We camped out at the train station where we eventually got a foreigner’s concession for the train ticket and then got tossed from one window to the next in an attempt to actually get the tickets that we had the concession for. Finally they told us that there were no seats left, let alone sleepers but that we could get on anyway. So we did. We sat and made small talk with people on the train for most of the thirty-four hours, occasionally occupying a top bunk for a couple hours nap that we took in turn with each other as well as other passengers. Eventually people came who had reserved the seats we were sitting in but most of the people were nice enough to make room for us somewhere. We ended up sitting with the Kabuddi “world champion” from 1976 (I think) who was quite entertaining as well as some other nice men who chatted with us and bought us food and drink or gifted us cigarettes. At the end of the train ride it felt a little weird to be on solid ground again but we found a nice guy whose father changed ten US dollars into rupees for us. He found us a cab and we piled in and went straight to the house. My old house. I rang the doorbell and then walked in through the gate. It was kind of late but I wasn’t about to make it this far and not get in. Feroz (my cousin) opened the door and let us in…

It was crazy seeing the relatives again. Almost immediately after saying hello for the first time in fourteen years, it was just like I had never left. I was eating the same home cooked meals at the same table as when I was ten years old. I was flooded with the memories of everything I had loved and loathed about the country. So much had changed yet so much had stayed the same. The city of Islamabad was almost unrecognizable, but my relatives were just as I remembered them. In fact almost everything about the Pakistani people was as I remembered it. They were still hospitable and curious but at the same time quietly judgmental. I felt that it was a shame that a people that I felt so connected to were still so distant. It is almost the exact opposite to Western culture. In the West, you need to crack the outer shell of people to find that they are really warm underneath, but here people are warm at first and reserved underneath. There seems to be a fear pervading every aspect of Pakistani life. If people can’t immediately relate to you, they will smile but hold you at arms length as though they are afraid to bring you closer. It’s like a second shell to crack underneath the smiles and hospitality. My relatives were bold enough to tell me what they really thought of us but I am sure that they have the same double shell when dealing with other people.

As for the city, almost everything was changed. All the things I remembered from childhood were either gone or totally different. The house was much the same except for the fourteen years worth of dust and lizard crap, and it was here that I remembered the little memories that make up a life. Most of my time had been spent within these walls and every room had another story. I can’t say that I had enjoyed living here, so the reminiscing was somewhat melancholy but it was an amazing experience to come back. I felt like I was uncovering something ancient, not from my own life but from some distant, long-forgotten past.

    I guess overall I don’t feel as connected as I thought I would. Everything and everyone seems far away, as on the other side of a canyon with only my memories reaching across to bridge the gap.

India

    … The day before the Holi festival there were lots of street vendors selling water guns, balloons, dye powder and other various paraphernalia used in the festival. Shahla and I armed ourselves with a water pistol each, a bag full of balloons filled with coloured water, and a bag of dye powder. There was a posse of about seven or eight of us going up the streets doing battle with the local kids. I had a blast and am going to try to keep my shirt and pants as a souvenir. After we were covered in colour we jumped into the sea and around us was an aura of colour that looked a lot like an oil tanker sinking to release an oil slick. Shahla said that it’s common to use salt water to set the dye into fabric so we’ll see if mine stays in. So far so good. There was an old town carved into the island that fell apart except for a small area and now they are considered caves and can be explored for free. It was a nice place to spend time in the heat of the day and great for playing my Mosquito. Sitting inside one of the numerous rooms gave rise to thoughts of how prosperous a civilization must have been to have such a town in such a good location. Was it the destructive hand of man or nature that spelled the downfall of such a magnificent cave town? I tried to imagine the people going about their day buying, selling, working or playing in the streets of cave town. What it must have been like to be looking at earth in every direction, all day. There were some sky-holes cut in most of the rooms so it was very well lit up. I wonder if mankind will eventually follow the predictions of “The Time Machine” and begin colonies of people under the surface of the earth. I guess it’s already begun with underground shopping centres, laboratories, transport systems, etc…

… We arrived in Varanasi in the rain and after being totally disgusted by rickshaw drivers and their greed, we decided to walk to the Shanti guesthouse. We made it to the Ganges at Manikarnika Ghat where we found a nice couple enjoying the view and sat and chatted for a while. The Ganges was dirty, of course, but not full of garbage or floating corpses. In fact, I am sure I have seen several dirtier looking rivers. It was also much smaller than I expected. The far shore was sandy and stretched quite far away so I guess the river must double or even triple in size in the rainy season. We eventually made it to the guesthouse and spent the next few days mostly sheltering in the shade of the rooftop restaurant and watching an old Frenchman smoke joint after chillum after joint, and drink bang lassis all day. We made time to walk along the river and watched almost an entire cremation (2-3 hours). We encountered an interesting argument about respect – a local was yelling at an Italian tourist for taking photos of the burning ghat while the Italian was yelling at the local man for trying to sell him stuff at such a sacred place. Neither one, according to the other had any respect for death. Either way, I thought it was odd that people who got the proper permission (from Delhi) would get up close and personal with their cameras. And also the fact that there was any solemnity at all, seeing as dying in Varanasi allows you release from reincarnation and entrance into Nirvana. If these people had respect, shouldn’t they have been celebrating? …

If Pakistan and India was the introduction to Asia then it was a good one and now we are ready for China…

It is amazing to think that such a vast deserty area as the middle east is where civilization chose to take hold. The environment is not always an easy one to live in. Although I must admit that the abundance of several different kinds of dates makes it much more tolerable. The truth is that where a desert may seem difficult and forbidding, the locals who have lived there since the beginning of time are, of course accustomed to its sands, its winds and its waters. Water seems to dictate life here though in some places you can find life where you would think that there shouldn’t be any. I sometimes thought of people wandering through the desert (for reasons I could only guess at) and stopping to make camp in what seems like the middle of nowhere, and then just staying there and making a village or a town. Somehow making life work.

But the question would almost always follow: why didn’t they keep moving? What possible reason could they have found for not continuing on to someplace that would have been easier to live in? I used to picture people finding the most beautiful place they had ever seen and calling it home. In the middle east, I pictured people finding a hidden fresh water spring in the desert and being so thankful for being saved, they decided to stay and pay homage to that moment for the rest of their lives. And their children’s lives.

That is not to say that all of the middle east is a wasteland. Actually, there are many places with a perfect Mediterranean climate. Palm and olive trees, goatherds and camels tethered to light posts. Even some places of lush greenery with small waterfalls cascading over mossy rocks. And of course miles and miles of fertile farmland. But one thing that can be felt in all of these places is history. This is where forgotten civilizations came and went leaving rocks carved into impossible shapes. This is where people who worshipped the sun are dug up from deep under the ground and their carcasses put on display. Where evil shopkeepers will swindle you out of anything and everything they possibly can and where smiling strangers invite you into their homes for a royal welcome.

One great experience of the middle east is the underwater life. Just being in the water is dizzying, with colours and shapes that you would never imagine. But to float in the water is really like flying. Or as close as mankind can get right now. You feel as though you are flying over fish cities and coral forests, occasionally coming face to face with a creature of the deep that looks at you and seemingly into you. The desert on land is in perfect juxtaposition with the intensity of life just under the surf. To experience them both is to better understand the area not just in terms of culture but in terms of its place on mother earth.

We find that by this time it doesn’t take much to get us thinking of our homeland. The homesickness has definitely engraved a spot in our hearts. We daydream of the cool fresh Canadian air and of playing in the soft, white, fluffy snow. These thoughts tend to give us a little extra momentum when it seems as though we’re stuck in slow motion.

There is however another side effect to these thoughts. One that has only hit us hard once so far. The urge to stop the travel and fly back to a normal life. It does take some will power to get past this point. We think that’s a big reason why it’s so rare to find people traveling for more than a year or two at a time. So why are we doing it? We believe we are here to construct a life that we will be content with on our death bed. For us it includes an appreciation for all things and a worldly understanding that can only be achieved by an adventure of epic proportions.

We are not entirely selfish in this endeavor however it may seem. In order to ensure that we as humans have a future we must be able to understand each other. Without understanding there is space for resentment and fear. Both of which lead to hate. People cannot work together if fear is blinding them. Most people we discuss culture with have preconceptions about the ones they know very little about. It is in the hands of the knowledgeable and experienced to educate people and pass on a greater understanding to future generations.

As we watch the Spanish coastline disappear behind us we can’t help but think about what lies in store for us in Africa.  Our minds are filled with images portrayed in the media but also questions as to the true nature of Africa.  Will we encounter corruption, disease or violence?  What about fairness, well-being and harmony?  We know that in order to gain an understanding of the African people we’ll need to communicate with them.  We have confidence in our ability to communicate with people but will we be able to share in their stories as well as ours?  Will we make a horrible faux pas and be boiled in a cannibal’s cauldron of human soup?  We realize that it’s impossible for us to have complete confidence going into a territory that is so unknown to us.  This uncertainty creates anxiety and warms our skin with anticipation.  Excitement is really the only word for it and adventure is what lies ahead.

-    Culture and the Tourevolution

“Can we put up our tent here please, uh, fatigue, um dormir ici?”
This is how it started.  The next thing Peter and Shahla know, they’re the guests at a party for a little kid.  The father, uncle and older brother are standing in the doorway of a mud house and usher the two inside.  The boy is roughly five years old and wearing a little white gown with embroidered patterns.  He lays down trembling terribly and when the time gets nearer he has to be held down.  Snip.  The circumcision is completed with big shears and iodine swabs.   The sound is something these two will never forget as the boy’s gargling noises blend with the high trilling of the women outside and over that a word that will always make them think of this moment.
“Safi, safi, safi,” the men say in the loudest yet most soothing way they can.
After several cups of tea and lots of food the two make a break for the highway.  They feel drained by the experience and get a better idea of some of the cultural surprises that await them.
    Sitting on the side of the road in a rocky windswept desert, waiting for each other as they take turns running behind rocks to relieve their churning bowels, is not an easy task.  They’re either getting mouthfuls of sand, stabbing pains in their stomachs or both. Knowing that they will be in Africa for a long time was their reason for accepting the local cuisine to be their staple diet.  It’s been two weeks on the toilet but they know that their suffering will bear fruit in the future.  Eating the local food and riding bikes past the farms that produce the ingredients is a good way to experience the connection between culture and environment. 
    They feel the physical strain of dealing with the temperature variance between day and night and aren’t sure how long they can keep up a positive view.  The desert gets nearer and they discuss the option of crossing the Sahara on a couple of the mopeds that are always speeding by them.  They need a change of pace and they jump into the idea without any knowledge of the machines they buy.  This plan is both a success and a failure.  They maintain the freedom to ride when they want and cover more ground in a day.  On the other hand, they have to listen to a noisy engine all day, they don’t feel as much gratification as they used to and the mopeds keep breaking down on them.  Time to sell the machines and change the mode of transport yet again.  Since they’re at Dakhla and they still have a large section of the desert to cross, they stick out their thumbs and give themselves until Senegal to come up with a different transportation idea. 

-    Crime, Punishment and Appreciation

Dakar is a huge sprawling city and thankfully a couchsurfer invites them to stay with him until they have their transportation figured out.  They give themselves two weeks to finish the Frankentrike project.  They’re assisted by a local welder who works for twenty minutes and then disappears for two hours.  Sometimes he doesn’t even show up.  There seems to be a trend to the work ethic since arriving in Africa and it leans toward the non-existent.  The professional tradesmen are not put through school or tested in their abilities to meet a standard.  The result for the two travelers is a two-week project taking five weeks.  When the Frankentrike is finally ready to hit the road they breathe a sigh of relief to be getting out of Dakar.  They did enjoy their time here, buying fresh fish from the fish market, listening to good Mbalax musicians and walking through the lively streets of downtown.  However in any big city there will always be crime.  They walk back to their host’s place with a few friends after having a meal and they notice a man following close behind them.  They’ve had so many people follow them in the interest of talking, so they think they might have to explain where they’re from and what they’re doing here.  The man walks up and heads towards Shahla.  He grabs the camera hanging over her shoulder, snapping the strap, and begins to run.  Peter gives chase.  The man ends up on the ground with Peter on top of him but manages to savagely bite Peter’s forearm.  With the help of their friends, they retrieve their camera and make it back safely to the house of their host who is horrified by their story.  “He’s lucky,” he says.  “I would have killed him.”  The locals don’t take theft lightly and there are instances when thieves have been killed by the people they try to rob.
    Peter and Shahla took all the necessary vaccinations before entering Africa but even that does not eliminate the possibility of getting a disease.  As they ride through Senegal on their Frankentrike, they continue to eat and drink with the locals.  When they arrive at the town of Velingara, Peter cannot eat and lies down.  He remains in this state for two days, frequently stumbling to the bathroom where he leaves the toilet bowl filled with blood from his bowels.  Finally a decision is made to move him to a small clinic where he is diagnosed with amoebic dysentery, pumped full of drugs and allowed to rest for a few hours.  He begins to recover swiftly but has lost about half of his body mass.
    They didn’t plan on the days being as stifling hot as they are.  By now they have a supply of thirteen litres of water that is dirty to the point of looking like orange juice.  This supply should last a whole day but sometimes it’s not enough.  They wake up one morning to find that there’s only enough water to have a small sip each.  They save it and pedal their Frankentrike in search of a village with a well.  The first ten kilometres are tiring with no water to begin with and they feel forced to take their sips.  Villages with wells can be relatively close together along the road but this time it’s twenty kilometres in the heat of the African sun.  These trials of physical endurance not only build up their constitution but also make them appreciate the value of things that are so simple they normally take them for granted.  Never again will they think of a cool breeze or a good nights sleep, a healthy appetite or a drink of water and not think of the time when these things were out of their reach.
   
-    Initiative and objectivity

As the two travelers sit and recuperate in the shade of a tree, they talk with a local man who is amazed at the sight of the Frankentrike.  He, like most other people, thinks that it is a very complicated machine.  The two try to explain the construction to him but he remains adamant that the machine must be imported from some European country.  “In Africa,” he says, “people don’t have good ideas like that.  Africans just can’t make that.”  They realize that this mentality is common and feel sorry for the people who think this way but they are not satisfied with leaving it at that.  They meet many people who have spent time working for the foreign aid industry and start to realize that there’s big money floating around in this business.  If the aid organization actually fixes the problem that they set out to aid then they put themselves out of work.  On numerous accounts they hear of aid workers that are frustrated because they feel as though they are doing nothing to help the African people, yet when it comes time to renew their contract they write a fancy proposal to keep the aid money coming in.  The money does trickle down to a certain degree and some tangible projects come to fruition.  However, even after there’s a pump and borehole in a village, the aid organization doesn’t teach anyone how to fix it.  The locals in that village will always be dependent on the outside world to live.  The local administrative workers distribute the small amount of money they earn amongst their families.  In the end there is a lot of dependency running around in Africa and it has taken the ingenuity out of the local people. 
As the two travelers pass by the African countryside they encounter many problems that have possible solutions.  They discuss the option of getting involved and trying to help out in the various situations.  They’ve seen many people jump in to help without realizing that they are biased in their beliefs and customs.  Problems to one person may be custom to another.  The help that the biased person tries to give has been given before and rejected.  There is also the fact that helping out can serve to feed the dependency of the locals.  The two travelers agree that the best path for them is in objectivity – to observe rather than to change.
One thing they cannot find a clear reason for is the mentality of the people regarding the western world.  True, their only education on the subject is probably through Hollywood movies that trickle down to the masses.  But to hold a conversation about the homeless people in Canada is totally impossible.  “There are no homeless people in Canada,” is the general reaction.  “Canadians are all rich and well fed and they all have big houses.”  It seems to the two travelers that the people they meet are all extremely sure of themselves.  They may not be willing to learn anything new nor be able to take what they do know and make logical conclusions, but what they do hold as the truth is infallible.  Then again, logic is not really a common thing in Africa.  For example, there are two packets of biscuits.  One is twice the size of the other.  The large one will always be more than twice the price of the small one thereby making it a better deal to buy two small packets than one large one.  After dealing with small illogical rarities like this on a daily basis, Peter and Shahla have learned not to ask too many questions.

-    Life and Death

Up until now these two have gained a greater appreciation for many things.  It is now time for them to face a challenge that will give them the ultimate appreciation.  The village of Mbie in the Republic of Congo does not see much traffic.  In fact, when an old cargo truck rolls into town, it is the first vehicle to pass through in several days.  Peter, Shahla and their good friend Martin end up riding on top of the cargo.  There are very tight regulations for the transport of goods and people in this country and the truck goes through intense scrutiny at every village it passes.  The three of them are forced to match wits with the corrupt officers looking for handouts and the driver and crew spend time chatting and drinking with friends.  Thus the estimated ten-hour journey now takes them well into the night.  Eventually Peter and Shahla fall asleep near the back of the cargo while Martin sits near the front.  Peter and Shahla both wake up suddenly when the truck begins to lean dangerously to one side.  They go through a moment of terror thinking that at any second the truck will tip.  The driver levels the truck out and they look at each other with relief.  A second later they’re flying through the air in the opposite direction. 
-Shahla hits the earth flat on her back and watches as the truck slides towards her on its side.  She waits spellbound for the truck to crush her into the sand.  She is certain that the end has come.  The truck stops before it reaches her and she does a momentary check to see that all her limbs are intact.  She jumps up and starts looking for Peter and Martin.  Martin is up and together they find Peter face down in the sand with cargo piled on top of him.  He is not moving.  She clears the cargo from his body and crouches beside him repeating his name.  He remains still.
-Peter experiences a sensation of weightlessness as he looks into darkness.  He floats on and the darkness encompasses him in its timeless grasp.  Something fills one of his senses and he feels as though he is waking up within a dream.  The voice calling to him sounds familiar and the need for air is all too real.  The realization that he is still alive hits him and he spits out the dirt that fills his mouth in an effort to breath again.  Still in darkness, he makes out Shahla’s voice and turns his head towards the sound.
    Although the three of them are still alive, one man was not so fortunate.  His life was taken from him while they were spared.  In an experience like this one it seems so natural for someone to be there one second and then gone forever.  People are fragile and tiny next to the blade of the Reaper.  An understanding of this brings forth an appreciation greater than all others.  It diminishes the trivial frustrations and focuses an importance on simple pleasures.  It forces us to evaluate the idea of life.

-    Diversity

Now that we are sitting on the edge of the Middle East, we look back into the African experience and remember one thing that encompasses the entire continent – its diversity.  It can all be traced back to one thing and that’s environment.  The beauty of the people is always a reflection of their natural surroundings.  Even though people can sometimes be harsh and critical it is the same with nature.  We have good and bad days, sunny skies and rain.  We all share this with one another and it will always be so.  We will always be connected in this respect and so we must embrace the diversity.

Freshly showered and wearing my last clean scraps of clothing, I walk into the chill-out room at the home of our host in Addis Ababa.  Several friendly faces turn, and after meeting everyone, I sit down amidst matresses and pillows.  The one woman in the room besides myself puffs on her sheesha, decides it is time for fresh tobacco and sets about the process of cleaning and reloading the water pipe.  I notice several bottles of coke and water as well as a few bundles of leaves which the company is slowly consuming.  Our host passes me one such bundle, too big to fit both my hands around it and says, "start chewing."  This is chat, an integral part of the Ethiopian way of life and an ideal way to see the social side of Addis.  It is a mild narcotic and not only legal, but sold everywhere in Ethiopia. 

I am extremely glad that my husband Peter is able and willing to share the chat because as novices to the trade we will be feeling it in our jaws for a week to come.  After four hours of chewing, our jaws already ache and we feel as though we have just drunk several cups of coffee.  It is time for beer.  A couple of beers and some lively conversation later, we go to bed only to rise early the next morning and begin the hunt for the Sudanese visa.  We arrive at the embassy with what we think might just be enough time to get our applications in before closing.  But upon entering we realize we have no idea what is going on.  The one man who seems to be in charge keeps wandering off when he is not agressively swamped by people asking questions, and everytime we ask for the application forms so we can start filling them out, we are told, "yes, wait, wait."  There is a line of people who have already filled their forms out and this line is moving slowly but constantly growing with people that seem to pop out of nowhere.  Again we ask for forms to fill out and again are told, "yes, wait, wait, wait."  The clock is ticking and we begin to lose all hope of getting anything done today.  And suddenly as if in some kind of bad dream, we are filling forms out with five minutes left on the clock, answering questions about our blood types and our mothers' names.  The line has all but disappeared and we run up to the little window and hand in our forms to a man who doesn't seem to realize how much power he has over our lives.  But he is all business.  He staples several seemingly random pieces of paper together, makes some notes and makes me wonder if he is moving so agonizingly slowly so that at two o'clock sharp he can slam the window shut and laugh in our distraught faces.  No – he hands us a piece of paper and says, "go pay."  We are directed to another window around another building and run full tilt up to the window.  The man behind the cashier's desk does not seem to care that it is now undeniably after two.  He takes our payment of sixty-one US dollars each and shoots us a smile.  We dart back to the first window and hand in the receipt.  The man looks at it and then at us.  "Tomorrow, three o'clock," he says and turns away with the air of someone who doesn't even work there.  My head is spinning a little but we manage to make it outside the gates and back into Ethiopia.

We have been in Ethiopia for a couple of days now and realize that three o'clock tomorrow actually means nine o'clock, as the local clock operates using the first hour of daylight or seven o'clock as the first hour of the day or one o'clock.  I think to myself that this actually makes a lot of sense and the rest of the world just likes to complicate things by making one o'clock arrive in the middle of the night.  We show up the next morning at nine.  We enter the gates and ask about our passports.  "Yes, wait, wait," we are told.  We are in no hurry and sit and enjoy the morning sunshine in the courtyard.  Soon, a man comes up to us holding our passports.  They are stamped, signed and ready to go.  I look up from my passport to thank the man but find that he has disappeared as mysteriously as he appeared.  We leave the Sudanese embassy for the last time and enter the strangely normal air of Ethiopia once more.  It is still early in the day – only three fifteen local time, so we head over to a small cultural market and take in the sights.  There is coffee parafernalia galore, which I suppose is fitting for the birth place of coffee, as well as small clay pots and ashtrays, spices, local cheese, cotton and silk scarves, jewelery and woven baskets.  The market is a few kilometres away from our host's house but it's still quite early and we decide to walk it.  En route, Peter spots a cafe and we stop in for some fresh juice.  I ask the waiter for a mix and what he brings is a mix of no less than six different kinds of juice, including mango, papaya, guava and avocado.  Thoroughly refreshed, we resume the trek and have to dodge a couple of men urinating into the gutter, but with such bad aim, that they keep managing to spray the sidewalk sending showers in every direction.  Peter notices a man defacating in the gutter and thankfully diverts my attention elsewhere.  We wind our way through streets punctuated on every corner by people suffering from leprosy, polio, elephantism and several diseases I cannot name.  Finally we make it to our destination.  At four o'clock the next morning, we hail a cab as it drives by.  We have been told that we would have to arrive at the bus station at four-thirty in the morning if we want to get tickets for Metema, so we do and the bus is scheduled to leave at five-thirty.  Unfortunately, this is Africa and the bus doesn't leave until seven.  I have become quite accustomed to sleeping in uncomfortable places so I am able to get a bit of sleep on the bus, but when I wake up and realize how much incredible scenery I am missing, I make it a point to stay awake.  We come to a massive gorge, where the bus crosses the blue Nile, and the road deteriorates massively.  It takes the better part of an hour to cross the gorge but I don't mind as the scenery is breathtaking.  In the evening we pull into Bahir Dar, a half way rest stop.  We will stop here for the night and resume driving tomorrow morning.  When hunger strikes we find a restaurant and I ask the waitress behind the counter, "what kind of food do you have?"  "We have meat," she says.  We have eaten a lot of meat lately so I ask her what kind of vegetables she can offer us.  She shakes her head, "it is Sunday," she says.  "No vegetables, only meat."  "Of course," I think to myself, "this is Ethiopia," and order myself some meat.  On the bus the next day we are taken through landscape that reminds us of the Sahel in West Africa and we feel the heat that we so desperately tried to escape.  It is quite the contrast from the cool lush green on the plateau of the Great Rift Valley.  I notice some goats in the back of the bus as well as several chickens sliding around on the floor.  One skids under the seat we are sitting on while another crows his heart out in the back.  Any hotter and we'd all be eating roast chicken.  We arrive finally at the border town of Metema and head straight across the border.

There is no sign welcoming us to Sudan, just a bridge over a small river and a long line of immigration checkpoints on the Sudanese side.  In the first, which is officially called "Immigration" we are told we need to pay for our registration.  Although neither of us really understand the point of it, we are informed that it is necessary and must pay a hundred and thirty-one Sudanese pounds (SP) each.  This brings our total cost for entering Sudan up to about one hundred and twenty US dollars each.  The second stop is "Customs" where the police officers don't seem worried about checking our bags.  They look at our passports and feed us some biscuits.  The third and final stop is "Security" where we again show our passports and this time give our thumb prints as well.  Finally we are out and get into the only bus leaving town.  It is a comfortable minibus by African standards and it takes us to Gedaref for fifteen SP.  Along the way, there are several police checkpoints and we have our particulars written down at three separate stops.  After a couple of hours and two flat tires, we arrive in the cricket infested town of Gedaref.  We find a restaurant and are happy to see that we can get some salad.  The fact that there are crickets crawling all over it is not really important to us and we eat while dodging the insects flying through the air and occasionally ricocheting off our heads.  We continue on to find a hotel room with only a couple of crickets in it and attempt unsucessfully to sleep in the stifling heat.  In the early morning we hop on a bus to Khartoum for twenty-five SP and sleep most of the way.  When we arrive, it is the middle if the day, and extremely hot.  In fact, it is so hot in Khartoum that we spend much of our time moving from one juice bar to the next.  On one such day we find ourselves in Omdurman, just outside the centre of Khartoum.  There is a large souk or market here and we walk through its streets in awe of the quantities of rubber shoes available.  There are also several shops with handicrafts for sale and I admire the crocodile skin purses that still have the head attached.  This could be a lot of fun trying to get through customs, I think.  By this time the electricity has gone out and the air inside the shop is stifling.  We walk on in search of yet another juice bar.

Back in the central area of Khartoum, we walk down a street dominated by buildings under construction, and find a man selling fruit at a stall on the side of the road.  He fills a couple of bags for us and while we are calculating how much we owe him, he says, "no money, it is a gift."  He asks us where we are from and I say "Canada."  "I am from Sudan," he says with a smile, "and my name is Ozo."  We thank him profusely and move on, reflecting on the general kindness towards strangers that the Sudanese people show.  Although we have had one pick pocket attempt, our overall impression is not tainted.  It is time to move on and we get on a bus to Dongola for forty SP each.  I enjoy gazing out at the barren desert landscape and out of the sand and rock appears a small town.  As we get off the bus, the desert heat hits us and we immediately find a place serving cold drinks.  There is a pick up truck leaving to the next town north of here and we get in the back.  Forty SP, a short ferry ride across the Nile and several sand sinkholes later, we arrive in Abri near midnight.  Abri seems out of place in the desert and yet it has all the things that another village might have.  We find shops, bakeries, restaurants, teahouses, even a hotel.  After waiting a whole day and befriending a shopkeeper, we get a bed at the local hotel.  We sleep on beds in the courtyard and feel incredibly small, sandwiched between the desert and the universe.  The sky never has clouds in it anymore and the night cools to a comfortable temperature.  We sleep well and in the morning we get on a desert bus to Wadi Halfa for twenty SP.  It is basically a converted lorry with seats welded to the bed and the sides left largely open for doors and windows.  The bus is almost empty but there are several people sitting on the roof.  This is a good thing and a bad thing for me.  Although I am now forced to dodge the showers spraying down from people spitting off the roof, at least I am free to find the least offensive spot on the bus.  We leave Abri at ten in the morning and after weaving a path through the desert hills and on to and off of a tiny patch of tarmac in the middle of nowhere, we arrive in Wadi Halfa at four in the afternoon.  I touch the skin around my eyes – the only part of my face that was not covered for the journey – and realize that there is a thick layer of dirt and dust covering my skin.  We check into a hotel and head straight for the shower.  This consists of a bucket of Nile water and my own soap, but at this point, just about anything will do.  The ferry into Egypt doesn't leave for a couple of days so we spend our time resting, reading and climbing to the top of a couple of nearby hills to check out the scenery and the sunset over Lake Nasser.

Ferry day rolls around and the little town of Wadi Halfa expands to accomodate the hundreds of people that have arrived from or are leaving to Egypt.  We go to the port, tickets in hand (eighty-seven SP), and are directed through a long line of confusing officials saying, "go over there with your passports and then go over there.  No, go back to the gate and pay the port tax and then go over there and get a sticker."  Somehow, we manage to make it through and we find ourselves boarding a boat.  We have second class tickets and are ushered into an air-conditioned room with padded benches.  It is still early in the afternoon so we go up to the roof and watch the last Sudanese town disappear in the distance.  We watch our first Egyptian sunset and marvel as the milky way appears overhead.  Abu Simbel glides past and as though welcoming us to Egypt, there is a spectacular light show, passing the shadowy images of heiroglyphs over the great stone statues.  East Africa was good to us, but we have been looking forward to Egypt and I retire to the second class room and lie down on a bench with a smile on my face.  In the morning the Egyptian immigration officials board the ferry from a smaller boat and stamp us in.  We crawl into the port and wait for the officials to tell us we can get off the boat.  This takes an agonizing amount of time, but finally we walk out and through some more immigration checkpoints.  Egypt, the land of the pharoahs awaits…