An ass like Freddie Murcury....

June 28, 2011

Good morning, my name's Sarah. Did you know that you snore AND talk in your sleep?" Sander grinned from behind his coffee cup, watching me try to butter up the big bearded guy next to us, who was in control of the breakfast table's only salt shaker. With Asia and it's deliciously cheap ramshackle bungalows well behind us, it  had been time to suck it up and go old school: dormroom accommodations. This landed me, predictably, toe-to-toe with the worlds most amusing sleep talkers, farters, droolers, mumblers, coughers, and snorers. The big bearded guy eyed me maliciously, so I recovered smoothly with something like "...but it's okay, I have a brother, and you're only HALF as bad as that loud bastard in bed three". It worked! The salt shaker was mine, and that's how we met Ted and Becky. With these two Americans, who both live and teach in Switzerland, we exercised our mutual adoration of good food and Scrabble from the rooftops of Istanbul. Imagine, if you will, four new friends linked at the elbows skipping through cobblestone streets in slow motion, to 'Good Day Sunshine' by the Beatles ... Ted's beard flowing majestically in the summer breeze. After a moment like that, how could we possibly part ways? They were in Turkey to hike the famed Lycian Trail, one of the "best walks in the world" according to Becky ... and how about we just go with them? 'Yeah,' I thought, 'a walk! Let's do it. We have no hiking gear, no closed-toed shoes, and we've been drinking beer on the beach for 2 months...' How hard could it be? Did I google it? No. What does it say?

.... [The Lycian way] is a 509km long rocky mule trail/foot path around the coast of southern Turkey, from Fethiye to Antalya. The route is graded medium to extremely hard; it is not level walking, and has many ascents and descents as it approaches and veers away from high cliffs over the sea. It is easier at the start and gets more difficult as it progresses. Should be attempted in February-May or September-November; summer in Lycia is too hot ....

Yup. Sounds like a "walk", doesn't it? Expecting a mild meander through the grasslands we bought hiking boots, 1/4" sleeping foamies (skipped the tent), and were 'gifted' socks from the guy who found boots big enough for my size 39 (gasp!) feet. Off we went. In the middle of June. With Sander's backpack stuffed full of important but nonessential hiking items (like my exotic collection of Cambodian horror flicks and a toothbrush) left in a lockbox in a hostel, we had one 18kilo pack and one Dora The Explorer knapsack, which we borrowed from Ted, full of food for four people.



Day One featured spectacular views of the Mediterranean from teetering seaside cliffs, very sore quads, and a brilliant orange sunset from a goat-herders shack. I spent most of Day Two maintaining my motivation by imagining myself racing Freddie Murcury on a stairmaster and wishing I'd packed at least one sparkly sweatband. Midday break rolled around and the temperature hit 43 degrees celsius. Predictably, I was sitting in my underwear with my feet in one of the trail's drinking water fountains, while everyone else lounged in the shade. Right as I started washing my only athletic-bra in a ziplock bag full of soapy spring water, a 19 year old Swiss boy trekked by. Readers: meet Luke. Fresh out of Switzerland's mandatory military training, carrying twice his weight on his back, and grinning ear-to-ear while doing it ... he hiked with us for the rest of the trip. That evening saw all five of us sneaking one-by-one into a posh seaside resort for showers and then sleeping open-air on the beach with the tide breaking at our toes. Well, Sander and I did. Ted, Becky, and Luke camped on a grassy plateau in their snazzy tents, from where we could still hear Ted's illustrious snoring. For Day Three we were up at the ungodly hour of 5:30am to beat the heat on a climb that would take us up over 900m in a mere 3km. We put nine hours of solid hiking in that day, with a single break for midday tea at a home nestled near the peak. During our wicked climb, we stumbled upon the only other person insane enough to climb in mid-June: Roc, a Slovenian trekking solo with a classical guitar strapped to his bulging backpack. He charmed the local family with his serious musical skills before taking off, keeping a wildly aggressive pace for a guy who looked like the love child of Harry Potter and John Lennon. Meanwhile Luke, the boy of boundless energy, played soccer (an empty 2L pop bottle as the 'ball') with the youngest son. We rolled into a tiny town late that evening, hungry, tired, and chaffed in unspeakable places. Thankfully, the first person we asked (in charades and broken Turkish) for direction to a camp site, invited us to set up on the flat-top roof of his corner store. We offered him money, he refused, and cooked us dinner instead. With a birds eye view of the cutest town on earth, we settled in and devoured all of the sweet snacks we'd bought from the shop. If I have to eat three chocolate bars to say 'thank you' for your hospitality, so be it. We bypassed a portion of the trail by hitching a ride with a local bee-keeper in the back of his sticky pickup truck to the next town, which is perched on the best sandy beach Turkey has. A mostly empty 18km stretch of sand gave the four of us ample space to set up camp, nestled between huge dunes, and watch the stars blaze as the night hours ticked by. Having taken a vote and the time to inspect Ted's blistering toes (most of which were in danger of falling right off) we pulled off the trail and rejoined civilization. The Internet, hot showers, and relatively comfortable beds awaited all. We gave our legs a much-needed break by sea kayaking over the ruins of a sunken city, and hoisting well-deserved pints all the way to our lips. Exhausting work, that bit. Having developed a bum like an underage rockstar after days of sweating into my ugly hiking boots was as good an outcome as one could hope for. Sander and I bid our companions goodbye and are headed for the 'faerie chimneys' and bizarre sweeping hills of Goreme, central Turkey, for more vertical punishment. We have hiking boots now, after all.

Slaughter.

I, the Empress ....

June 27, 2011

It turns out that May has 31 days, which in itself, is not really important unless, say, you were supposed to leave the country after 30 days and you overlooked this ity-bitty detail. I discovered that punctuality, as it pertains to visas, is important to Indonesian authorities as they escorted me through their secure area. I've always wanted an armed escort ... of course, the lack of ankle shackles or epic music really dumbed down the experience. I received a tongue-lashing from a guy who looked like he hosted a bird sanctuary in his mustache, and a fine of about twenty Canadian dollars before boarding a plane bound for Turkey. Why Turkey? Why not! One decent seat-sale later we arrived in Istanbul looking like the scuzzy SE Asia backpackers we are. Needing desperately to blend into the super-chic cityscape, I showered up and thought (briefly) about combing my hair. Since looking cultured wasn't going to happen, I decided to take in some culture, instead. Sander and I headed directly to the crown jewel of Constantinople: the Aya Sofya. Yes, my dedicated reader, you are about to learn some history. The Aya Sofya is a former Orthodox patriarchal basilica, later a mosque, and now a museum in Istanbul. From the date of its dedication in 360 until 1453, it served as the Greek Patriarchal cathedral of Constantinople. That said, what we are looking at today is the third-build. The Patriarch Constantinople pissed off the wife of the emperor and was sent into exile in 404. During the subsequent riots, this first church was burnt to the ground. Don't mess with the ladies. The second-build was obliterated in 532 during the ultra-violent Nika Revolt. A politically motivated and angry populace watching chariot races finally lashed out: by the end of the days races, the partisan chants had changed from "Blue" or "Green" (the competing factions) to a unified Nίκα ("Conquer!") The crowds broke out of the hippodrome and began to assault the palace, killing tens of thousands of people, and destroying over half of the city, including the poor 'lil Aya Sofya. Instead of fleeing, the Emperor hatched a plan that involved a popular eunuch, some well trained generals, and a bag of gold. MacGyver, much? All that was missing was duct tape and Swiss Army knife. The Blues took the gold, the Greens sat stunned, then Imperial troops stormed the Hippodrome and killed the remaining rebels. BOOM. He then rebuilt Constantinople and the Aya Sofya, and was free to establish his rule. Nowadays this architectural masterpiece boasts a super-sexy 32 m dome, several 20 meter high solid granite columns weighing over 70 tons each, marbles of every auspicious color imported from faraway lands, and a never-ending collection of glittering pre- and post-iconoclastic mosaics that would make King Solomon himself pee his finest robes. Nothing like it was even attempted for nearly a thousand years ... and I was there. I stood high in the Upper Gallery upon the circular green stone that marked the position of the Empress. I laid my gaze upon the tiny people moving about the Great Hall far below, wondering whether it would be best to be a ruler who was greatly feared or dearly loved. Sarah the Tyrant, or Sarah the Not-So-Tyrannical-Tyrant? Surrounded by nothing short of architectural perfection, I was lost in imaginings of revolutions and royal jewelry, conquered lands and exotic fruits. I had just come to choosing the name of my undoubtedly magnificent war horse, when the 8 year old kid beside me pulled a huge glistening green booger out if his nose and wiped it on the mosaic in from of him. I would have had him drawn and quartered, the little bastard. Decidedly 'Empress Sarah the Tyrant', I left the Aya Sofya calm and artistically fulfilled.

Slaughter.

Devotin' full time to floatin' under the Sea!

June 19, 2011

I'll begin this blog by profusely apologizing for the delay in producing this tome, which covers 3 weeks of our trip. Normally the A.D.D. nature of our travels leads to clear topic changes every 3-4 days. In this case, a single pursuit has occupied our time: Diving.

After 3 days of relaxed but average diving north-west of Lombok, in the Gili Islands, we made for Labuan Bajo, on this island of Flores. This town gives off vibes of a mid 19th century frontier town, with dilapidated wooden boardwalks, dust whirling into every pore and tearduct, and hanging signs rife with misspellings (granted, its a matter of Ye Olde English vs no English). We made ourselves comfortable in the most affordable shack in town, left the rats to arrange our belonging as they saw fit, and set out to find ourselves a boat.

We committed to 6 days of diving with an outfit called Bajo Dive Club, purely on a whim. 3 days of diving on the daily boat, and 3 days of diving aboard the Bajo II live-aboard. Rumors led us to believe that the diving around Komodo and Rinca was spectacular, but nothing prepared us for what was actually under the water. Our first guide, Joey, took us to a calm and sheltered reef to assess our abilities. We were both expecting this dive to be underwhelming, as is normally the case on assessment dives. I dipped my head under water and nearly lost my regulator as my jaw dropped. The slope was completely filled with color stolen from every possible point on the rainbow. While many of the corals I had seen before, it was the density that really blew me away. Every inch of space was covered in wavy, spiny, branching, or plating corals. There wasn't even anywhere to hold on briefly in order to snap a photo or catch a really close-up look.




Day two introduced us to an entirely new level of diving; swimming with the Manta Ray. These beasts grow up to 5m across and just as long, and swim effortlessly against currents pushing 10 knots; usually making ground where lowly divers need to hold onto rocks and their masks just to remain stationary. In lesser currents they simply hover, seemingly, without moving to take advantage of reef critters feasting on parasites and dead skin. A lucky drift left me directly under the path of one such Manta and I tried in vain to slow down my breathing as the spaceship cruised over me by no more than a meter. Not to be outdone, on day four, Sarah involved herself in a "Manta Sandwich" with one above and one below, narrowly avoiding a collision at 25m below sea level. We promptly repeated the dive an hour later to give me a chance to raise the stakes once more, but to no avail. The Sarah-Manta sandwich will stand, for now, against all our diving experiences to date as by far the most epic. To this day, Sarah insists one of them asked for her autograph as it grazed her cheek.

After 3 days porting out of Labuan Bajo, we packed our bags and boarded the Bajo II for a 3 day dive 'safari' to the farther reaches of the Komodo National Marine Park. With cabins for 6, we expected company, but what we found on board seemed too contrived for fiction. Our boat mates for 3 days were destined to be a mid-50's restauranteur, balding (ragged cul-de-sac style) and overweight, and his Thai 'friend' 20 years his junior, with english broken into more pieces than Humpty Dumpty. I smelled a fish... and not just the dead one floating in the harbor. Once the conversation steered to the behavior of their dog 'barbie' I was satisfied this was mutual, and not the typical 'arrangement' we have encountered throughout Asia. This unlikely pair and their bizarre habits made for a memorable trip.

After 3 dives a day for 3 days, just after 6 dives over 3 days, and the Gili's before that, I felt like I was sprouting gills. We had seen over 50 manta rays, Napoleon wrasse, Grey reef shark, white and black tip sharks, groupers, giant trevally, sweetlips, octopus, eagle rays, and sea fans as big as me; drifted in currents of almost 15 knots over and under mantas and through coral gardens like nothing Ive ever seen. Diving Komodo was easily one of the most special things I've ever done.

After 7 days in Labuan Bajo, we hopped over to Borneo, into the Malaysian province of Sabah, to do some more diving at the world renowned site of Sipadan. The only hiccup in the whole plan, was that we did not have a permit to dive Sipidan specifically; and at a site patrolled by the Malaysian coast guard, that apparently matters. Instead of diving the famous site, we spent 4 days languishing on the the waiting list, diving other nearby sites to pass the time. While the caliber of diving was nowhere near that of Komodo, the range of absolutely bizzare creatures under the water in Borneo was stunning. Over 4 days we saw all sorts of amazingly adapted cretins such at frogfish, ghost pipefish, common octopus, cuttlefish, mandarin dragonet, and more types of shrimp than a Louisiana BBQ. Having missed out on our permits for Sipadan, and our diving budget running out fast, we called it quits on Asia, and booked a flight to the cheapest destination west of Iraq: Istanbul.



Sitting on the plane, looking out over the tarmac and waving 'goodbye for now' to Asia, I looked over at Sarah... "Do we need Visa's for Turkey?"

Sander