Blissfully drunk on the narcotic pepper plant root, and blissfully isolated from my fellow resort residents.

So when I wasn’t busy gulping, I turned my attention to my hosts, and my short-term travel companion. Only earlier in the afternoon did I meet Junior over a resort staff’s game of touch rugby, and in true Fijian fashion the conversation topic drifted to kava. Hours later, not before the treacherous near- pitch black jungle trek, we were treated to hospitality in a stranger’s house and surrounded by his entire, equally kava- fanatical, family.

And wherever the magic drink goes, interesting dialogues follow.

Junior’s father was busy flaunting his collection of items, from the beautifully preserved antique guest book ‒ the household doubled as a guesthouse in the ’80s ‒ to decades-old maps. They all, he explained, represented the regretfully passed days of travel, when travellers could legitimately title themselves as adventurers.

Seizing the opportunity, I dropped the big question. If I can remember it right, alongside the numbness in my lips and limbs, I grew fascinated with the priceless perspective of a local on how travelling has changed since thirty years ago.

*

These were the first images to be conjured from my memory bank when STA Travelbuzz ‒ I began working for them as a travel blogger several months ago ‒ asked me to write something about how much travelling has changed for the last thirty years, the age of thirty being the birthday STA Travel has recently celebrated. And since I spent the ’80s being scattered molecules and part-time foetus, and the ’90s as an unworldly toddler, I naturally required the wisdom of elders to complete my task.

Anyone from Spain, a Greek island, or one of many European cultures of an older generation can tell you how much tourism has drastically reshaped their homeland, from the mere increase of man-flow to the bigger landscape-reforming stuff. This is especially true when the destination comprises of long strips of white sand and warm seas.

This is the new manifestation of colonialism. For evidence look no further than the hordes of tourist settlements occupying the Spanish coastline.

But hey, this isn’t the ‘change’ in tourism that I am dwelling on with nostalgic sentiments – in European terms tourists nowadays merely have less perfume, more showers and horsepower compared to their counterparts a century ago. It was what said on that breezy August evening by Junior’s dad, over the grog, that caught me sighing.

*

The atmosphere wasn’t sombre – or sober – but the question raised some seriousness in his tone.

“But don’t you think the Yasawa Flyer is bringing in too many tourists?” I was referring to the catamaran that dumps senseless visitors daily onto the Yasawa island group, northwest of Fiji, like nuclear waste. Only moments ago, the master of the household was depicting the sole method of reaching the outer islands in the olden days – by hitchhiking on fishing boats.

“It brings jobs, opportunities, technology. The Yasawa Flyer makes it easier for islanders to travel to the mainland, and vice versa…”

“But what about cultural integrity?” I gesture towards my resort. “When most of those tourist come in they want to lie on the beach and sunbathe, not learning your culture. Doesn’t that bother you?”

It did bother him.

There was that glint of nostalgia in his eyes when he spoke of the old-school kind of travellers back in the ’80s. The ones who would cross mountain ranges and open seas just to reach a genuinely exotic location, and build genuine friendships with the indigenous folks and leave with enough moral obligations to return. Every signature in his guest book was testimony that this race of travellers exists.

And there was this Canadian book illustrator, who first came to the island in 1985 and returned to stay for six months. He remains a regular visitor, despite the hefty distance between Vancouver and Fiji. He still speaks to the family on the phone – in Fijian.

One subtle thing I have noticed about our conversation – even though I was mercifully intoxicated – was that the father spoke better English than his children, Junior and his brother Moses. One may account this to the dwindling British influence in Fiji, an ex-colony, and consequently the decrease in English-orientated education. However, I saw a grimmer cause.

With more guests less willing to mingle with the resort staff, the locals are more inclined to spend time amongst themselves and converse in their local dialects. And with the mutual respect between English and Fijian speakers broken down, English is treated as a language of the tyrannical ‘masters’ and Fijian the local renaissance of the free-spirited and oppressed.

This is especially true when many tourists, as I observed, go on holiday hoping to cast aside the suppression they endure during their normal lives and expect to afford royalty treatment. What they tend to forget is that, like themselves, their ‘servants’ are human beings too.

Meanwhile, my ‘servant’ was now escorting us back to our dormitories. It was pitch black in the tropical forests, with little illumination save a half moon and malfunctioning torch. Junior’s silhouette grew to intimidate me a little – the adrenaline was there pumped through the veins.

That instant, I had a taster of the sense of adventure my predecessors would have experienced when they came to visit the same island, the same forests and same hospitality.

And with the increasing convenience in air-conditioned coaches, business-class airport lounges, top-speed catamarans and five-star hotels, the entire market is almost exclusively catered for luxury seekers, and less inclined to serve the intrepid adventurers the thrill they seek.

But then, they had little reliance on what was an almost inexistent tourist industry.

Our generation has been pampered with so much comfort and convenience that, at first opportunity, we cling onto what deemed ‘safe’ more so than our counterparts three decades ago, even without us knowing. As much as I would love to condemn the tourism industry for ruining my ideal adventure, I must admit: am I capable of shredding my Lonely Planet, ditching STA Travel, embracing 100% local diet and rambling into the sunset on local transport?

Let’s be realistic. The answer is no. And hands off my amazing Lonely Planet collection.

*

It has been at least two weeks since winding up in bed, feeling merry, after a pensive evening – apparently the other guests settled for an uneventful early-night. It may have been an archipelago of close proximity, Vanuatu possesses a distinctive culture that not only starkly differs from that of Fiji, but also varies from island to island.

Besides that, I treat Vanuatu with affection as a less-developed substitute of the Fiji I had previously fallen in love with.

And by less developed I meant dusty guesthouses, canned tuna and corned beef for lunch, and dinner, gas lamps for staggering back to the bungalow under the guidance of a visible Milky Way. Rowdy tourists found a spot in my distant memory. Dirt tracks were a norm, mini trucks a must. No seatbelts? Just cling on tighter, and enjoy the ride.

My thrill-seeking inner self was satisfied.

Turning to Kelson, my guide and fellow bird hunter, I accepted a glass of water infused with lemon leaves. We chatted under the stars.

“I don’t get tourists,” he went on bluntly. “They come to the island, and they spend so much money on food and accommodation and everything. But why do that, when they can come and live with us for free?”

I could explain to him the entire concept of monetary values, just as some American kids were attempting to teach locals business management. But did I want to contribute in destroying their cultural concept of unconditional sharing?

Besides, I was disgusted to hear about what the Americans were doing.

It did get me thinking, wouldn’t this be what an older generation of Fijians – think twenty years ago – have undergone, the same wind of change? Before they could resist the temptation to drift away from tradition – I have met many money-orientated ni-Vans – their surroundings would have been ‘upgraded’ to suit our needs, and them having to adapt according to our needs. The world is indeed changing.

At least I got a glimpse of a time portal before the storm strikes.

So this is part two of felix articles thingy. Whatever. I'm too tired and sick of writing to say anymore. Just read.

Clamours of morning prayers filled our first-floor bedroom. I checked the time: it had just passed six. Too early. The piercing sunlight kept away any hope of falling back to sleep; still I tumbled back to a snooze, waking up two hours later to sounds of the medina.
They were heavy raindrops rather than chatters of Moroccans going about their business.

Despite the discouragement, I got out of bed.

Not that Fès had little to offer. Legend (Lonely Planet, that is) has it that the inhabitants of Fès go to bed every night, knowing that their city is the true centre of Morocco. Founded in 789 AD, Fès was established as the capital of the first Moroccan imperial dynasty and remained so for centuries. Its intellectual, cultural, artistic and religious advancements soared since medieval times, even when its role as political capital was in steady decline; little wonder that Fassis (residents of Fès) were widely regarded as the cultural élite of Morocco.

A visitor would consider soaking up in the elixir of artistic genius from the entire city: with our tight schedule, we disregarded the Ville Nouvelle and Fès el-Jdid (New Fès) and headed straight for Fès el-Bali, the Old Town of Fès, which granted the city the status of the largest living Islamic medieval city in the world.

On the previous night we had staggered, after an 11-hour coach ride, into Fès el-Bali at its climax, instantly hyped by its intoxicating charm of Arabic commercialism; stepping out of Hotel Cascade, the rain appeared to have flushed out all forms of liveliness from the hives.

After settling for a glass of mint tea like a true Moroccan, I briefly left Anna behind to explore the very souks that are the essence of Old Fès.


Lahlou Ahmed didn’t own La Porte du Peintre: his father did. Nor was he responsible for the majority of paintings exhibited in the miniscule gallery: his father was. He had no obligations to maintain the store ‒ arguably the largest Talaa Seghira (one of Fès el-Bali’s main alleys) ‒ save familial ties. Which means a lot in Moroccan terms.

Still, he liked being there, surrounded by colours and aromas of oil paints. It was a good break from his education as a student in Arabic, yet not too great a venture from the cultural enlightenment he loved.

But today was just outright miserable. He stepped out for some fresh air, head filled with the tunes and lyrics he would sing when his friends came around tonight. In his breath he cursed the rain, for disrupting the rhythm and fending off his customers.

That was when he saw the Asian kid with the green t-shirt, blue waterproof, swaggering down the street like an advertisement logo for shopkeepers.

And he seemed interested by the artwork. And seeking shelter from the downpour.

Effortlessly, Lahlou had himself a potential buyer.

He gave him the space and time required for perusal, to his heart’s content. The holy-water man portrait, by a travelling art student, caught his eye. Lahlou smirked ‒ he knew that look very well, one he had seen many times from art-lovers who unearthed his muse behind a piece of work, and sensed that spark of connection.

He claimed he had a travel companion who would be delighted to visit the shop: he had to go fetch her from the hotel. The classic getaway excuse. But no, he was too hooked to pitch an escape. So Lahlou returned the handshake, bid m’a ssalama willingly and watched him burrow his way out of the gallery.

Hard-selling was unnecessary: it was because, Lahlou understood, with art, there was a third option beside ‘you like it’ or ‘you dislike it’ ‒ ‘you appreciate it’.

I returned to Hotel Cascade and delivered the news of my discovery. Anna was now more than determined to buy a painting for her boyfriend; I too found myself gradually succumbing to the temptation to make the purchase.

Someone (or something) mentioned how easy it is to lose yourself in the medina. True, I discovered, yet not because of its labyrinthine orientation. It was the difficulty to revisit a shop as, distorted by the many vibrant sights you see along the way, your recollection refused to function, even on one long straight path.

For a distance that took me less than ten minutes ‒ or so I thought ‒ Anna and I needed twice as much. With the rain diminishing by the minute, locals and tourists alike had ruptured out of their cocoons and restoring life to the souks. Perhaps that did no favours to my orientation skills.

We found La Porte de Peintre eventually. Lahlou welcomed me and my companion with open arms, once again left us in our silent admiration on volumes of masterpieces arranged across the walls.

In the end, Anna settled for two paintings, and I the portrait that had captured my heart. With our new-gained bargaining skills, harvested when in Casablanca and Marrakesh, we came out from the bartering game with a decent price. As Lahlou dismantled the canvases for transport, we got down to a hearty conversation and gained insight to each other’s lives.

He revealed to me his involvement in a local Moroccan music band.

“Come back at eight tonight when my friends and I play music here. We will be honoured to have your company, sadik.”

Promises aside, we paid and departed with three fantastic pieces of art, and a new friend. Curious enough, it was roughly when the sun broke out from elusion.

*

Mohammed was idle. The Talaa Kebira was bustling with life ‒ there just weren’t enough tourists.

There were at least two gawking at the majesty that was Medersa Bou Inania. Perfect targets.
Ensha’llaah, he thought as he approached for the kill; they will want to continue shopping rather than visiting the Medersa.

“Excuse me, can I help?”

They seemed unthreatened. He went ahead to the doorkeeper to probe the entrance fee of the Medersa, when they expressed their doubts about visiting the college. Returning with the information, Mohammed had established some mutual trust.
And now for the killer question.

“Would you like to buy some spices?”

He had struck a harmony. Before they could gesture their approval, he guided them through a back alley where his cousin’s shop was tucked neatly behind a corner. The shopkeepers sprang to life at the sight of new customers, briskly led them through an introductory on their goods.
Mohammed kicked back on a couch, watched bemusedly as the Asian bloke poked his nose on samples of cumin and spice mixes, and his Caucasian lady friend pursued inquisitively on massage oils. The bill continued mounting ‒ he felt satisfaction for not only gratifying his guests, but also the tip that awaits.

They were on the move with their bounty. He fumbled around his djellaba pocket for his prized photography, only to realise he had left it behind. He cursed under his breath ‒ only if he could show it off and tell tales of his getting stoned with Bono only a week ago…

*

Andrew and Kag, fellow hitchers we had met on the previous night, rendezvoused with us by the entrance of Hotel Cascade. As we exchanged encounters of our wanders over mint tea, I made the suggestion.

Truth to be told, having lived through the disappointment of missing the Hassan II Mosque in Casablanca, third-largest of its kind in the world, an Islamic architectural experience at the Medersa Bou Inania was not too much to ask. Especially when we hadn’t had the chance (and privilege) to visit a mosque.

Not that the theology college was a mere substitute. Constructed by the Merenid Sultan Bou Inan, it represented the Merenid Dynasty’s (1276 - 1465) excellence in Berber craftsmanship. Also a mosque, it once housed some of the brightest minds in Muslim theology.

My craving was now fulfilled. Stuffed were my eyes with imageries of shades arranged in tiles or perfect symmetry, rising in columns that transformed into plastered pillars, every inch dedicated with engraving of Islamic symbols; they then converged into the elaboration and splendour that was the wooden layering.

Waiting patiently for the tourist to disperse, I seared the already-frozen scene into my camera. Although I believe some sights are better committed to memory than a snapshot, a good memoir might come into handy when my memory decides to fail me.

‘Crazy man’ was crazy because of his frantic salesmanship, not because he was genuinely crazy. He was passionate for his job, and loyalty to his employer and Thami’s Restaurant (Bou Jeloud, 50 Serrajine, The Medina). Come rain or come shine, he would wave around the sheets detailing Lonely Planet’s recommendation for the eatery, attracting patrons to the two tables it hosted.

Not around this time though. It was too early for dinner.

But then, this boy with his green t-shirt emerged with a funny request.

“Can we take our food to our hotel terrace?”

He felt no need for hesitation. Taking order for four portions of tagines, one of couscous, he whisked together all ingredients in the undersized kitchen and distributed them to individual tagines, with the precision and haste he would commit to any dish.

“Please bring the tagine pots back after you’ve finished?” He had to make sure. Any piece of the terracotta may be worth more than his daily salary ‒ losing one would mean financial disaster, let alone four. He could only wait, distraught nevertheless; but he could only wait.

Soon enough, the teens had brought back the crockery with satisfaction smeared across their lips.

That was exactly why ‘crazy man’ was passionate for his job.

*

Flipping through my guidebook, I came across a piece of intriguing information: that Fès hosts the Festival of World Sacred Music every June, since 1995. Approaching eight, marching down Talaa Seghira with an entourage of seven (I found three more hitchhikers earlier during the day), I knew I was on for a treat.

It was bound to be a very private concert, minus the intimidation and plus the interaction, with some very special music indeed.

Knowing that we would be disorientated in the dark, Lahlou came further up the Talaa to lead us into his sanctuary. Soon enough, room became an issue when Lahlou’s friends arrived, and the crowdedness that generated awkwardness. Most of us fell short of words.

The language barrier collapsed once the music started to swing, and us rocking to its thunderous beats. The longest night had begun, the room smoke-filled and distorting before our eyes; I became, my intolerance of stereotypes aside, Lahlou’s Jet Li for the occasion, and laughed along to his playfulness.

It certainly was a saga that I would not want to end.

In celebration of my nomination for Travel Writer of the Year of Guardian Student Media Awards (no big deal really), but more like because I have very little time to update my blog properly, I've decided to publish my two entry articles here for those who didn't get the opportunity to read them in felix. So, enjoy!

The first article is my accounts on my hitchhiking stunt - from London to Morocco - back in April.

Sunrise was finally upon us. It was better reflected by the increasing influx of traffic heading our way rather than the morning temperature. I observed Anna from afar, now that she had returned to her spot by the junction where traffic from the lorry park livened. She was complaining to me about the cold; I don’t blame her. My palm seemed to be fixed in its thumbs-up gesture not because of my enthusiasm – it was simply frozen.

Something was going terribly wrong. It didn’t matter if the roundabout had directed the traffic into different directions, one heading to Zaragoza/Madrid and another into Barcelona – there were hardly any vehicles going southwards. For those that were southbound, the merciless junction presented little room for stopping. The wait continued.

I went over to Anna and gave her a cuddle, just for the sake of salvaging our morale. She was ready to give up and more keen on using public transport. With sleep deprivation kicking in, I feared that I would soon snap myself.

How had we managed thus far? Anna and I had set off from Clapham Junction four days ago, accepted a lorry ride to Portsmouth to catch a ferry bound for Caen, blitzed through Northern France until Brive, where our luck expired. From there we inched to the south of Toulouse. Rested, we attempted a border crossing via Andorra only to find the mountain passes gridlocked with snow; several short hitches and much walker later we wound up in the Spanish Pyrenees. Our fortune returned with a ride that took us across the mountain range by nightfall. Having slept rough in a car park in the lorry park just outside of Lleida, Catalunya, we hoisted the cardboards on the fifth day hours before the sun was even in sight.

Not that me and Anna were the only ones partaking in this bizarre, if not insane, endeavour. Being the 18th of its kind, the charity Link Community Development (LCD) – it does work in African countries to improve standards of education – has hosted the Morocco Hitch every year since its creation in 1992. Apparently, hitchhiking almost penniless across the continent to the African country closest to the UK would be an effective fundraising mechanism: at least a thousand of us did buy that concept, raising over £300,000 in the process.

It all started when a certain Miles Glanfield brought news of this event to the conversations of Selkirk Hall’s 3rd floor kitchen. “Challenge yourself to it” was my first reaction. Granted, this is no London Marathon, or anything remotely as physically demanding. But, as we found out soon enough, it is actually our mentality that is put to the test.

We had previously found ourselves waking to rainwater seeping through our tent; three hours of thumbing later our chances of getting a ride was slimmer than that of us dying of pneumonia on the spot. We were drenched to the bone. The invitation to travel by public bus was too hard to resist. But, staying true to our personal challenge, our endurance put up a good fight and won over the temptation.


Almost two hours had passed since sunrise. Still nothing. A little earlier I had run into trouble with the police: for treating the police like a taxi service. I was reminded just how spoilt a pair of hitchers we were to begin with – our longest wait on the first two days lasted no more than half an hour.

I can’t recall doing anything involving that much unpredictability in my life (albeit a mostly uneventful life). We could enjoy a glorious moment as we breeze through hundreds of miles, but whenever our fortunes took a detour it did send us crying for anti-depressants. But it is not without its positive outcome – it served as a reminder to us to treasure every of those ‘glorious moments’ with awe and appreciation.

It has even more to do with human interaction. When one gets an insight of the lives of one’s Samaritans, it sets this personal enlightenment from that experienced by travelling on public transport. For once, I felt privileged to be part of a stranger’s voyage, share our varying objectives and destinations yet ostensibly heading towards the same direction. In an increasingly frigid world, immersing into the everyday lives of Chris the Portuguese marine-turned trucker, Barrie the Anglo-French cook, Martine the geography teacher, Julien & Laure the nomadic hippies and Romain the crane driver was no everyday occurrence.

(Special mention to the French businessman who scared us shitless by graphically depicting what would happen if the Toulouse nuclear power plant explodes – even I, with my minimum knowledge on the French language, understood what he was saying. We bore with his banter as he took us 20k across the outskirts of Toulouse.)

Speaking of frigid, I had now begun shivering in Lleida. My patience was wavering. Then my eardrums shook – it was to the awakened grinding of a lorry engine. In a seemingly vain attempt, deterred by my many failures on a similar effort, I raised my ‘Madrid’ sign so that the conductor de camión could see. His gesture in response, I swore down, must have been a hallucination.

So I approached him.

“¿Va usted a Mardid?” “Si.” (“Are you going to Madrid?” “Yeah.”)

“¿De verdad?” “De verdad, tío. Puedo tomarte a Mardid.” (“Really?” “Really, bruv. I can take you to Madrid.”)

Upon hearing the news, Anna displayed her talents as a dancer by sprinting and leaping into me in a celebratory hug – the exhilaration beats watching a similar scene from Dirty Dancing.

That exhilaration is what found throughout the trip: it gives proof that, the bitterer a situation gets, the tastier the sweetness when it bears fruit. Wetness, coldness, sleeplessness, we endured them all – the belief that our frustration would soon end, and tables would turn, kept us going. Just like the monstrous queue to a rollercoaster ride, it was all part of the suspense.

Our driver, who introduced himself as Amadou, kept to his word: with his two new companions he now roamed the autopistas that led us inching towards Madrid. Only one small problem though: of Malawian ancestry, he spoke extremely little English. The same situation would have baffled many hitchers who, some of them had confessed to us, relied entirely on English to get them through the continent.

Fortunate for us, Amadou was fluent in both Spanish and French; unfortunate for me, Anna had fallen asleep at the back, leaving me to fend for myself with my patchy GCSE-standard Spanish.

Not saying I dreaded exposing my unfamiliarity with the language: they love it when they see you try, don’t they? Quite so. My enthusiasm to generate conversation with Diego, the window salesman who took us across the tunnels from Vielha to Lleida, kept my phrasebook glued to my hand. Until the awkwardness – and the dark – got the best of me, and I stayed quiet for the remainder of the ride. I managed to describe this unease to Amadou, who seemed to have sensed the novice in me anyway without saying.

One hour of endless conversing later, he remarked that I hadn’t once used my phrasebook – he was flattering me. But then, as ‘sleeping beauty’ found consciousness and tuned in with a now French-speaking Amadou, my head was able to interpret bits of the dialogues from a language I knew little of; similarly, after we had parted ways with the trucker, Anna expressed her amazement on her ability to uphold a discussion on politics and life using her meagre post- A Level French.

I then remembered what Diego had mentioned a day earlier. “A practicar/aprender (una idioma), viajar” – in order to practise/learn a language, travel. Too true.

We stopped at a petrol station en route to refuel. As we clambered back into the truck I looked through the windscreen. My heart almost stopped at the sight – a vehicle bearing the insignia of the Guardia Civil (Spanish paramilitary police) had pulled into the station. I certainly didn’t forget that carrying more than one passenger in a lorry isn’t exactly legal in Spain. As I feared, we came under their scrutiny. Unwittingly I had left my cardboard perching behind the windscreen, though upside down; a civil guard squinted to read the sign (“charity hitch”) while Amadou convinced the other that Anna and I were his friends rather than mere passengers (not entirely untrue).

Eventually we had once again evaded arrest. Maybe I should stop forgetting that the continental folks tend to be more lenient on crimes petty as illegal hitchhiking on a French motorway, or pitching tent on private land, or kipping tramp-style in a car park without shelter?

A lot of people believed that hitchhiking was all about getting from point A to point B with zero expenses, save the energy and effort of raising your thumb long enough to get yourself picked up – I had been one of them. I was especially ruthless with the planning: my emphasis had been on my destination, Morocco, rather than the process of getting there. As much as I hate to admit it, I was wrong.

Should I have kept up with that attitude I would have missed so much detail in the fabric. In my urgency to reach Morocco I have made decisions that could have potentially hastened or slowed down our progress. For instance, my stubbornness prevented us from travelling towards Bordeaux from Périgueux (just west of Brive), a route that would have saved us days of misery and pointless wander; that said, both Anna and I had agreed with hindsight, it would mean sacrificing the memories of moments and encounters we now share and cherish.

Two pieces of memory we would never trade in for a faster track occurred soon after Amadou had dropped us off in the suburbs of Madrid and led us to the train station (fine, we cheated a little bit). As we waded through the streets, I couldn’t help but feel the sentiment of the tri-colours (Anna being white, me being yellow and Amadou black) striding across a country renowned for its racism – this metaphor reflected the tolerance and kindness we enjoyed. For once, my cynicism crumbled in defeat.

The other occasion took place in Valdemoro, a vibrant town south of Madrid. We had arrived at the Repsol in search for a hitch down to Algeciras ferry port, preferably from any of the many lorries lodged by the petrol station. Perhaps we didn’t have any preferences at all, since we were in no position to bargain when the entire Spain had plunged into an Easter traffic lockdown.

Soon enough, after spending overnight at the station waiting and resting (hardly), the futility became clear. We devised a plan: we would stay in Valdemoro for a day before making another attempt to hitchhike. Julian, who ran a night shift behind the tapas bar, offered us a ride into Valdemoro town. Unbeknownst to us, the hotels declined any check-ins before 12pm; and so for four hours, we took pleasure in Julian’s hospitality at his flat.

Came noon, and Julian’s Romanian housemate Lorena emerged from slumber and aided our search for cheap accommodation (Julian was still asleep). The pair took it upon themselves to judge that we were too famished to continue our hitch – we devoured at their expense (including Anna’s very first chocolate con churros). When I attempted to pay, Lorena grimaced and tapped her cheek.

“This (gesture) means you’re hurting my feelings,” she explained. “You’re my guests – allow us to look after you.”

The Gatwick Express was in full swing with a pledge to deliver us to Victoria Station within 30 minutes. My shoulders felt uneasy without the weight of my rucksack; but I was relieved. Anna was busy texting her boyfriend, with news of her arrival from Morocco and flirtatiously stressed how much she missed him. A sign bearing ‘Clapham Junction’ sped by – I was reminded how Chris the Portuguese trucker had clogged up the entire cross-junction by stopping to pick us up, and grinned. Now things have finally come to a full circle. I found myself asking whether I would dare to go hitchhiking again.

Quizas – perhaps.

Funny when your recollection fails not because you can't remember, but because you have too much to recall. And the fuzz in your head? Not from the vagueness of memory but the overcrowding of images and voices?

You'll have to forgive me for the slow updates. For someone who prefers to write his blog after his travels - travel time is reserved for travelling and enjoying-the-now-moment only - sitting down with five weeks of travel accounts crying to be scribbled down is taking a toll on my motivation. Especially when there were so much time lost catching up with family, friends, and the suddenly-alien concept that is the internet.

One problem I tend to encounter when writing articles for felix is that, since I prefer the ambience and muse-stimulating atmosphere of the post-travelling environment when jotting down my accounts, I allow my memory to fade and dilute. Before I knew it I'm scratching my head and burrowing deeper and deeper into the vaults for names of people and places - sometimes I can ring up a companion for a quick reference, sometimes I feel lonelier than ever. Then the writer's block kicks in, sapping the motivation like my blood by forced feeding to Fijian/ni-Van mosquitos.

As much as I wish to rectify the problem - in fact, the whole idea of setting up this blog so that I keep writing and keeping memoirs - this is squeezing words through a narrow bottleneck. But hey, this is not an admit-defeat message - this is me saying I'm trying my best. This process reminded me so much about my novel-writing days: I was in constant debate as to whether I should write and modify later, or modify as I write. Right now, the numerous thoughts and harvested philosophies have yet to be processed, but should I do that as I write? There's clearly no solution to that.

With a week and a bit (minus next Friday night...there'll be farewell'ing madness at 48 English Oak Drive) left in Auckland, so far from the new duties and responsibilities as well as reprising my role as geological geek, I ought to be able to churn out a decent amount of tales to be shared on this blog, if not recording the entire five weeks of my journey. Hopefully the next time you see an update that means my head would've cleared up a little.

But then, that's a different story for another time...

First things first: the sodding patronising, excruciatingly annoying, grrrrr!

Grudges aside, what a fine day has dawned upon big smoky Auckland! This weekend (and Monday) sees the city's lucky streak of fine weather, in fact the best I've seen since I arrived three weeks ago. Even if the morning breeze hit me with a vengence as I stepped through of threshold of my parents' house, seeing the sun and cloudless skies were encouragements to my adventurous spirit. And I knew it - it's going to be a great day for climbing a volcano (well, a dormant one)!

To get to Rangitoto itself required dragging my half-arsed body from my residence on the North Shore to the ferry terminal on Quay St, Central Auckland. Once the ticket was purchased from Fullers (ferry operator) ticket office - not from Pier 2 office as it was closed during winter weekday mornings - the waters separating me from the island were no obstacle.

But then the stomach churned and grumbled and I realised I should give my tunny, and palate, a treat. With the ferry departing at 10.30, and some 45 mins to spare, I followed my gut instincts (and recommendations thanks to my pre-dated Rough Guide) to Waterfront, a cafe perched on the docks and neighbour to the Maritime Museum. The location yielded some nostalgia as, some ten months ago, this was where I was picked up to perform a near-suicidal leap from Auckland Bridge. Once I found refuge inside the cafe, I gawked at a price list that was somewhat eye-watering, yet confirmed my guidebook as 'suspiciously low in price'. I could only shrug and order a eggs Benedict (minus the hangover) - even backpackers can use a bit of pampering at times! When the waiter returned and told me they've run out of hollandaise sauce, I was frankly a tad disappointed and opted for a French toast instead. It turned out delish - the grilled banana was a real delicate touch on both the eye and taste bud - and maple syrup simply satisfied my craving for sweet stuff. Sugar rush!

Said my reluctant goodbyes to the stunning views of my breakfast spot and on I boarded the 10.30 bound for Rangitoto. A wee commentary was going on as soon as we set sail, though the harbour's lacklustre setting (face it, cargo docklands are still cargo docklands) meant a mediocre one. Good on the guy though, for making an effort; in fact, his un-kiwiness (he spoke with an English accent) reminded me just how many of my compatriots have wound up down under to seek a more Sweet-as life.

I saw this girl wandering alone across the rampart soon after the ferry had dropped us off at Rangitoto pier. She seemed to know what she was doing, though her double-breast jacket - not too dissimilar to the one I own - gave me the impression that she wasn't a serious hiker. Never mind that, I decided to approach her and break the ice. And there it was, the spark, and a conversation that ignited would follow us for the entire day.

Fiadhnait the avid traveller, or Fi as she liked to be called, and I took the main track ascending towards the summit of the volcanic island; along the way on the foot of the hill consisted of fields littered with lumpy, jagged basaltic igneous rocks, a form of lava morphology called A'a (Hawiian in origin - guess what they say when they step over them sharp rocks?). These rocks, as I explained to Fi, are the remnants of viscous, fast-cooling basaltic lava that cooled uphill before being transported down on top of streams of runny lava. With the sheer amount of A'a sighted across the plains, I did think imagining the scale of the eruptions was a bit of a no-brainer. That is only if you can be present, with me, at the scene of the catastrophe grandioso.


But hey, it's not all about volcanics. After all, as I was mistaken before coming to Rangitoto, the island does not consist of one colossal lump of black rocks. The path soon led us into a forest of fern trees, and the Lord-of-the-Rings magical charm of NZ sprang to mind - it's a cliche in my personal vocabulary but still always accurate. We soon discovered the crater, almost unrecognisable and smeared with rife vegetation, but not before we hiked to the summit and took a water break in admiration of the view. Never had I seen Auckland in its best, panoramic beauty - I'd like to think that both Fi, and the South African bloke we met and spoke to on the peak, would agree with me.

(And by the way, once you've been to Rangitoto there's absolutely no point visiting Mt Eden for the volcanic crater...why go see the baby when you've paid the giant a visit?)

We descended and made the effort to locate the junction which led us to the 'Lava Caves', as my map would advertise. May as well, I thought. The discreet little sidetrack blended nicely behind a pretty wooden hut had managed to deceive us into neglecting it, but failed as we came down. 15 minutes were all it took for us to find the lava caves, which happened to be one straight tunnel we could literally crawl through. And, under the guidance of my semi-functioning torch, we burrowed into the dark and giggled our way out. The adventure may be short, it sure was fun.

After returning to the pier with an hour to spare the duo went trekking along the 'Coastal Track' and, having dodged a tractor and a few piss-takes on the Somerset accent, we found nothing 'coastal' about this route and headed back with our consciousness set on time. Surely we didn't want a sleepover in a primitive campsite on the other side of the island (a.k.a. refuge camp for people who miss the last ferry at 15.30)! We basked in the blissful sunshine, snacked and checked out more rocks (me, not Fi!) before boarding the ferry bound for Auckland Central.

But this wasn't going to be it. Remember that I mentioned something about Devonport? Well, this ferry ride made a pit stop at Devonport and, Fi wanting to check out the place after a little bit of persuasion, we hopped off and explored the district. We fancied a coffee stop and, a let-down by The Stone Oven later, ended up in Esquires for some truly-awesome coffee. To warm things down after a long down - and warm ourselves up as it got chillier - we scaled Mt Victoria which overlooked the more-than-familiar southbank city from the North Shore. Behind us, the volcano we'd just conquered slumbers on.


On the way to catch a ferry back to Quay St Pier we made a curious discovery: the photos should speak for itself. We each paid NZ$5 for one of the most bizarre five minutes of our lives - laid belly-down in the machine, a plastic sack filled with water would hammer your body from heel to neck in a massage phenomenon I can only describe as 'wow'. I chuckled as the sack travelled up and down by exhaused body and, by the third run, my nerves seemed to run along the pounding. Sensational.


Well, for that we nearly missed the ferry. But just. We were then back in the central hub. With her travel details sorted for her interview on the day after, Fi had a bus for Parnell to chase after and, with a brisk hug and goodbye, we parted ways.

And what did I do afterwards, half-dead with every bit of energy sapped and motivation undermined towards the dusk of a fantastic adventure? I went straight to fencing. Typical.

21 things that make me who I am today:

1. Travelling (of the backpacking, globetrotting variety)

2. Fencing

3. Geology

4. Travel writing

5. My palate

6. The Spanish Culture (especially the food!)

7. Foundation of the Twilight of the Deity series

8. The Game by Neil Strauss (not as instruction manual, but something to laugh at people who try too hard)

9. My Maori fish hook carved from cow bone (kept me save when travelling!)

10. Combined Cadet Force

11. Scarborough College Chapel Choir

12. Denys Crews House (and JD I guess, except he's not an object)

13. Impaired eye sight

14. Room 372, Selkirk Hall

15. You know Warhammer? Well, the Lord of the Rings variety of it

16. Whatever gave me the guts to face danger with a broad smile (bungy jump, skydive, hitch to Morocco, etc.)

17. The money I've got given (and kinda taken for granted...oops) to achieve all the amazing things I've done in my life so far

18. Robin my childhood and lifelong friend

19. Lonely Planet

20. The friendships I've gathered ever since my ugly face was declared present in this world...no seriously guys, I wouldn't swap them for the world. All of you. Now give me your tears.

21. The future.

First official post from me as the Ramblin' Rucksack Man, as the fellas in STAtravelbuzz have decided to call me! Funny how a quirky little comment can become a nickname that sticks...for my entire career as an STA Explorer at least!

In my last entry I mentioned something about exploring Auckland before I set off to Fiji. To cut the story short, I've come up with a few locations around Auckland Central where, so far-fetched from the as-hectic-as-NZ-gets Queens Street, tourism has hardly left a trace.

And yet these places deserve the attention from us visitors, and that's exactly what I'm going to do - bring home the justice.

Devonport is a beautiful, wee town on the North Shore of Auckland. I remember being brought there by my parents when I first came to Aotearoa (Maori for New Zealand), had lunch in a cafe where the food was terrific, then proceeded to the harbour overlooking Auckland Central and Harbour Bridge. I'd love to return to the place to recollect some memories, before they vanish for good.

Takapuna requires a adventurous northbound journey from the city centre, one such that little travellers/tourists have succeeded to endure (unless you're on a Kiwi Experience Bus bound for Paihia, but then you only get to drive pass it). It's a pretty commercial conglomerate for a suburban community, even though a scan of the horizon is all you get. A short venture down to the sea front, however, brings you to a 'fossil-tree locality' - I worked on a web guide to this site when working for Uni of Auckland last summer/winter, but have yet to visit - more on it after my visit.

And like I mentioned before, the volcanic island of Rangitoto is definitely worth a visit and is on my itinerary.

So yeah, less planning and more travelling hopefully in a few day's time!

Remember that last time when you're looking forward to a 'big day'? When something so exciting and unfamiliar coming up your already lacklustre everyday life seems to slow down ten-fold? Remember that feeling?

That's what I'm getting now, more so than ever.

Today marks the day whereupon, in exactly two-week's time, I'll be setting off for yet another adventure. In fact, at this very moment in a fortnight, I will have settled down on a plane bound for Nadi, Fiji. But then, that's still two weeks away - the anticipation mounting is
building up the suspense, and I don't always appreciate my suspenses.

Oh well.

It's not like I'm going to waste my life away between now and departure. Fencing has taking up a considerable amount of my time in Auckland, and so has sleeping - the cold has put me in a semi-hibernating state no doubt. It's taken me a while to sort out my travel stuff for Fiji and Vanuatu, but that's only because my some payment problems on my part. The guys down in STA Auckland Central have been very helpful.

And yes, gonna put my travelling mindset in gear by going on a couple of day trips around Auckland as though I'm completely new to the place. Perhaps an extra day exploring the volcanic Rangitoto Island and put my handlens to good use...time to examine some A'a (being a geologist...sorry!). More on that later on this week.

In the meantime, allow me to make a last-minute attempt to revise the NZ Road Code as I have an exam due in half-an-hour...fingers crossed!

First post! The start of something new!

I'm not going to go on for hours detailing why I decided to start a blog: frankly I can, but I won't. Let's just say it's a good idea to write about my travels and share it to the world. End of.

So what else can I say - stay tuned for my latest adventures!