Balkans by bus

August, September 2013

After a break (of collarbone as well as supertourist activity) and some recouperation in the south of France (thanks Kate & Charles) I finally made it to new territory - Balkans.

Hugged by Hungary, Austria and Italy on the west, and the Black Sea and Asia on the east, the Balkans are quite a distance to cover on public transport alone. But after 8 hours crammed on a train full of Interrailer's fleeing Sziget Festival, I started out ready for a big dose of Bus travel.

I was to be transported to maritme oases with streets of marble, battlescarred cities with too little money to fill too many holes, and mountain villages where cattle get taken for walks and the dogs walk themselves.

There are too many different and unique places, people and landscapes in the Balkans to list my whole experience (just wait for the photo albums) but there are enough similarities to be able to bunch these countries together as a region. So here are a few:

Fall of empires. A lot of shit has gone down in this area to the detriment of the Ottomans, various Maritme republics, the Austro-Hungarians, Nazi Germany, Commies and Greater Serbia. This makes for very interesting, albeit sometimes very tragic, sightseeing opportunities. And a few awkard conversations.

"My country is better, but did you know Croatia is now in Europe?". Always commented with a hint of surprise. This is a particularly hot topic in Montenegro, Bosnia and Herzegovina, where it seems each has their own truth on the past and neighbour nations are still not to be trusted.

But they eat the same food, how can they be so different?! It's not the place to visit for gastronomical variety. A sausage may be called Kofta or Cevapi but its still a sausage. Even the beer looks and tastes suspiciously similar three countries later.

Rakia. Everyone has the best, completely natural fruit brandy made by hand from their Grandparents plum tree. A shot of Rakia in the morning is prescribed by doctors to keep your heart ticking good and a family will make up to 100 litres each year for their personal use. From my experience, 40% alcohol does not leave much room to be able to appreciate the taste of Grandma's plums and it all burns like hell on the way down.

Rubbish. Many horror moments to be had watching locals ditch their rubbish and endless supply of cigarette butts into the nearest UNESCO site, garden, beach or just straight into the Adriatic sea. Only a handful of desperate Roma pillaging dumpsters seem to understand the concept of recycling.

Smokers rule. Not in a good way, but at around €2 a pack its only the diehard non-smokers that avoid this community building activity. To be found not only at your nearest reputable cafe, street, restaurant, hotel, or bus.

Everything takes longer than you think. People take their sweet old time. Hungry? bring a snack while you wait for the menu. That 200km journey in a couple of hours? No chance. 60km/hr is quite speedy. This is not a part of the world you can see at pace.

And so Bus-overdose set in after just four weeks, as I was left cursing mountainous Montenegrin roads, rakia, a 5 hour sleep, and a bus driver with one hand in and out of his box of ciggies.

The Cathedral

I've never visited Cathedral Cove. I would have liked to.

But as fate, or irregular train timetables, would have it I have landed upon the Sagrada Familia... tall, lots of arches, nice stone work, taken an age to create.

Any other Cathedral just wouldn't be the same.

Camino

The Camino de Santiago, or the Way of St James, is a strenuous and trying pilgrimage across hundreds of kilometres to Santiago de Compostela in the north west corner of Spain. Most walk from the French Pyrenees across the north, kitted out with the latest hiking gears and armed with walking sticks not much use in the cobbled streets of the towns and villages of Spain. A forest dweller we met at the pub walked from Germany ("In winter ", he added with a crazed look). I made my pilgrimage from Porto, on a four hour bus with a screaming restless child. It was strenuous and trying. They wouldn't give me a pilgrim stamp so I got the photo instead.

Atlantic

Made it to the Atlantic. No more swims with dead fish, turtle flippers and other Mediterranean suprises. In fact no more swims as it's bloody freezing!

All the Horses in Spain

Jerez de la Frontera is a far cry from the peach concrete chaos of the Costa Del Sol. The Fuengirola branch of the Rover's Return doesn't serve snail juice. In Jerez you won't even find an English explanation of Hay Caracoles.

If you are mad enough to stay in an Andalucian ghetto suburb in May with a Spaniard who might or might not be called Miguel then you are in for a treat.

Feria del Caballo.

There are hundreds of dancing prancing horses, hundreds of thousands of glasses of sherry and millions and billions of flamenco ruffles.

It's dusty, smelly and hot. But it's one hell of a party.

Just like Maria

European city fatigue has set in, which shouldn't be a reflection on Czech, Austria, or Germany really but there is only so many churches and old town squares that you can visit with enthusiasm before they start moulding into one big Catholic cobblestone blob.

On the upside, Vienna's Catholic cobblestone blob includes Hapsburg entrails neatly stacked in the catacombs. And while I can't say much for the Heuriger wine bars in the suburbs, the wienerschnitzel can brighten any hungry meat eaters' day.

If you also happen to visit Salzburg then theres the possibility to mix it up with a fortress, some spectacular views of the Bavarian Alps, a Mozart orientated classical music festival and some Sound of Music re-enactments.

If this is all too painful to bear then you can always escape to Switzerland, just like Maria and the Trapp family (see note on re-enactments above). Before our own escape to the neutral land - one thing I do remember from my honours degree is that the Swiss are nothing if not commited to neutrality, leaving it until September 2002 to finally (and narrowly) decide to join the United Nations just 17 days before the young East Timor joined the crew - we diverted to Bavaria.

Munich's Catholic cobblestone blob can be forgiven in exchange for the other great things it provides - the city's river wave (and it's dozens of surfers who have improved the natural wave with a contraption to ensure a surfable wave height all year around), its nudist park and the endless beer halls and beer gardens selling one litre steins and plates of half chickens, pork knuckles and giant pretzels.

The Bavarian mountains also have appeal.... hiking, wild mushrooms, crisp rivers.

Or if you just want the view and not much effort then you can opt for Hitler's brass elevator, and a cup of tea in the conference room restaurant next to Mussolini's marble fireplace.



And then onto Italy....

Czech Czech Czech

Prague is a big draw card for Western Europeans. It has fairy tale like qualities (a castle and an old town that escaped wartime destruction), it has good beer and it's cheap.

Czech Republic joined the EU in 2004 but is currently avoiding introducing the Euro in fear of skyrocketing beer prices and economic collapse.

But at the moment it's well worth battling through the hordes of tourists, many of the slow and silver haired variety, to be able to sit down at a nice restaurant at the end of a day of sight seeing, order a garlic soup, a goulash with bread dumplings and a beer or two and only part with the Koruna equivalent of €10.

For an even better Czech experience head to Cesky Krumlov in Southern Bohemia for a night or five. This small town of only 14,000, one castle (including bear pit), a brewery, a winding river for rafting and a nice assortment of shops, restaurants and bakers making tasty sugar covered doughnut things on the cobblestoned streets, is Prague on a small scale but better.

If you are a fan of Hostel, as in the movie, then this may also be the place to relive your nightmares. I am more into the likes of The Illusionist which was also filmed in Krumlov.

Cesky Krumlov

Taking on the Vltava

As well as beer and fairy tales, non-violent resistance is also of some pride to the Czechs. When Czechoslovakia wanted out of Eastern Bloc repression in 1968 the Soviets rolled their tanks into town, but it ended up being at a snails pace as all the Czech villages suddenly had no road signs or place names. In blind navigation and without food, the Soviet Invasion went less than smooth as their supplies also circled the tracks on a constant loop not actually getting anywhere.

Get here before 2015 just in case their fear of becoming another struggling Euro state comes true, or if you are lucky, to see another creative protest in the making.

How could I die without being in Berlin? and other graffiti

Notes on the wall of a toilet cubicle sometimes can be a revelation.
 
Perhaps just as much a notes on the wall of a communist cubicle. The odd person has something really good to say. They had a point. Now in both cases you have to sift through the 'Tony was here' and 'Jono 4 Amy 4 eva' crap to find it.

It's all good, says the East side of the wall.

Could I die before being in Berlin? No, I think not. Would I want to miss colourful people lurking around every corner, old ladies selling amazing vanilla cakes in local markets, thousands of people flee-marketeering on a wet Sunday, Artist living in hobo squats trying to sell postcards, and twenty odd somethings doing the twist in a three by two Kreuzberg bar dance floor on an everyday kind of Wednesday?

Would I want to miss flammable Trabies, the stock standard Commie car that the average wage saving East German waited more than a decade to be issued, driving on the same streets as the newest Mercedes...

A Trabie on the move

International beer festivals, street theatre, wandering gypsies...  Environmental building design, grand arches, Communist bloc work?

The light reflecting, water catching dome of the Reichstag

Karl Marx Allee

Reclycling drink bottles by inserting them into a futuristic scanning hole in the wall AND get money back?

No. You shouldn't either.

But also question; Could I die from being in Berlin? It's a high possibility.


I suspect my arteries are somewhat blocked after currywurst, sausages, a metre long pizza, at least four vanilla cakes and about fifteen baguettes.

My feet shrivelled in shoes full of puddles. Summer in Berlin is not tropical it seems. 

My liver has aged. Berlin after all is known for its nightlife as much as it is its well groomed fascists and jaggard red past.

It's where something is on all night and every night, dressing up for a club is not cool, and it's definitely the only place I know where you can go to a wine bar, have a meal, pour your own wine and then decide what you want to pay. (Just booked your flights? Send me a message and I'll send you the details)

My self respect has also taken a hit. Never before have I woken up on a train at 5am, drooling on Brett's lap, his head also rolling in slumber, being scrutinised by a stranger in a much better state, and realising I was not in bed but approaching the next city. Monday nights out are a bad idea when you are 25, turning 60.

Go to Berlin but for goodness sake, take your time. Your life may depend on it.

What happens in Spain, stays in Spain

Have you ever travelled with someone who doesn't do any research? At all. Fun times.

I can suggest a whole collection of sights to see and things to do and if they aren't interested, they are none the wiser unitl they get there, by which time it is too late. Travel bullying.

Although to be fair, it only lasts a few a few Antoni Gaudi buildings in Barcelona before they catch on.

Gaudi's Sagrada Familia

They allow us to see some things that we never thought we might, like how to get scammed out of €50 on the street.

Travelling with an extra person also allows us to travel in the sort of luxury that we can't afford with just two. A hire car. This avoids the hilarious but often stressful non-conversations with staff at train stations as you try and decipher if what direction you want to go, and there is no need to use those sweet pointing and sign language skills to make sure you are getting off the bus at the right stop.

But it does mean we got to see a bit more of the countryside than we would have from a window overlooking the motorway (and boy do the Spainiards love their EU funded motorways).

On the road from Jaca to Pamplona

It also made me realise how much of a nana I am, going to bed at 11pm in order to get enough beauty sleep before the 5.15am wakeup call to catch the Running of the Bulls. Not to mention the cautious decision to watch from the sideline, rather than underneath the hooves, after a night on Don Simon's startling red wine drunk straight from the €1 litre carton and much yelling with locals over thumping music.

Oh Don Simon

Stink to be a Georgian Reuters reporter about now

(As  jaded as we were, we weren't feeling half as sorry for ourselves and the guy in the jersey - A Reuters reporter from Georgia who had fallen asleep, waking up to find his ideal shot had been crowded in by the spectators awake an hour earlier)

Bull run survivors getting a second chance at death

And I was surprised at the revalation of how much more imporatance I place on learning how to order a coffee, ham and cheese sandwiches and a beer for Bretty. 

"Hola

Uno cafe con leche, uno cerveza y dos bocadillo de queso y jamon, por favor.

Ummm... Ci?

No I will not pay twice as much to sit outside. Gracias."

Museum of Ham. You are great.

So after a complaining time in Barcelona, Tapas in the Pyrenees, partying in Pamplona, a pub crawl, chocolate churrios and a quick run down on how to say "coffee with milk" in Madrid, we left our slightly more prepared companion alone in Spain. I think he's still there.

My Garden

As I have been nose first in dirt the last three weeks, I have had a lot of time to consider my garden of the future.

My future garden would be weed-free. Ideally due to a yet undiscovered weed eating insect that doesn't look too gross. Not like worms. That way I wouldn't have to spend backbreaking hours digging out bind weed and stinging-nettle roots. Every day that bastard nettle gets me.

Looks fun right?

My future garden would also be smallish. That way I wouldn't weed half way round the garden only to find that weeds have reappeared in the place I started. Gardening would not be so dis-enheartening.

My future garden would also be organised so that one plant is not growing into the next, quite like my dinner plate (tomato sauce oozing onto salad is never good). Should the first two considerations of my ideal garden fail, then this would make weeding a lot less torturous.

My future garden would also have lots of vegetables. The idea of having vegetables in my garden has quite grown on me. However, in my future perhaps they would have discovered a  way to grow all vegetables all year round without need for a greenhouse (eyesores). I am not sure I could live off spinach, peas and broad beans for more than three weeks year after year. And if this is the abundance of a summer harvest I am rather sceptical of what my diet may be in winter.


My future garden would definitely not be anywhere where badgers exist. Unless they eat stinging-nettle and not potatoes, but I suspect that is highly unlikely.

And after a hard day relaxing in my garden, I would be able to mosey on down to the beach to casually skim some stones,

and duck into the local pub and have a cheeky pint on my way home

to my ultra modern house and my always tidy garden.

Sounds good right? Yeah, well that's the beauty of volunteer work. It's not hard to dream of a better life. Perhaps it’s safer to see if I can get some runner beans and carrots to grow in a relatively normal fashion first.

How to be Dutch

Its easy to pretend to be Dutch when your blonde and the first word that generally comes out of your mouth is "hallo". Then they say something, like "can you help me hold my bike while I get one of my spaniels into the basket and the other one on the leash on the side", and then you look at them blankly. A minute goes by and then you finally say "Do you speak English?" and then they realise that you are a little shorter than the average Dutch and wear a little more mismatched clothing than the average Dutch and that you are in fact a tourist. It happens.

It's one with the roses

 And so we found ourselves in one of the most heavily populated areas on the planet. Although it came as a surprise because, like London, the buildings are only a few stories high, only squashed together like you wouldn't believe (with a few gaps where one corner has started to sink into the ground/mud/sand). Canal-side tax avoidance also prompted some who clearly did not feel squished enough to build ridiculously narrow buildings like this 1.3m wide house. I suspect it is full of single beds that are hard to make, dishwashers and washing machines whose doors do not open fully and an overall closet ambiance.

Mmmm, breakfast beer

We followed up our first breakfast (and a quick stir of the brew with a guy with an awesome moustache) at the Heineken brewery with a reasonably informative walking tour guided by an over enthusiastic Nigerian Bulgarian Dutch that sounded like an American. Multi-cultural much?


Add a belt bulging meal of Tapas with Kees's nieces, a boat along the canals, a stroll through Jordaan, a peruse at the sex for sale, half a dozen croquettes from the FEBO oven-vending-machine-thingeemabobs that the locals call 'The Wall" and we were done with Amsterdam and off to Zeist.

Mmmm, croquettes from The Wall

Doesn't sound like too much serious sightseeing but from the average two day holiday in Amsterdam its likely we saw much more daylight than the average tourist from London. Or New Zealand. As it turns out Kiwi's smoke more of the green stuff than any other country. We also had pretty good weather - sunshine that we didn't fully appreciate until the four days it rained afterwards.

And so we spent the next few days rugged up, catching up with some friends from Perth, having a look around Utrecht, drinking a lot of beer, seeing a windmill, eating lots of Dutch breakfast food: chocolate flakes on break, raw meat spread on bread, cheese on bread... bread on bread. I do love bread.

We spent the most of our time in this tunnel come bar

Windmill, check.

And then it was our time to depart to the Hague... so we all (all four) jumped, no squished, into our sweet two seater smart car(you can bet your arse I was glad we only took one pack) and headed off the motorway to the coast.

My reason for visiting the Hague was to catch up with Malin, the poor girl who used to have to swap stamps with me every week until she moved back to Norway when we were eight-ish. As a bonus, she had been working in the Hague for four months which as it turns out is enough time to know the city well enough to not get lost and give directions to tourists, but is not enough time to have done all the touristy things just up the road. So we headed off the Escher in the Palace to view the full mind boggling back catalogue of labyrinth drawings that is M.C. Escher.

He is awesome.

This was followed by Harring from the market (translation: Raw Herring). This is how you eat it by the way... We don't do things for show all the time.

Downing it

On our second day we hired bikes and, without Malin to guide us, proceeded to get lost. We did manage to see the Peace Palace, where they hold the International Court of Justice (for Country Vs. Country hearings), which we were only allowed to see from the gates. We also found a park. It was nice. Then we managed to cross town and negotiate our way past a big industrial park to find the International Criminal Court (for International Community Vs. very bad people hearings). Unfortunately Qaddafi wasn't in, but we did get to watch 15 minutes of a trial  (some guys from the Democratic Republic of Congo who had an army of child soldiers) from behind bullet proof glass. I might know a bit more had they not been in a private session with no commentary for all but five minutes of it.

It was hot. And we had biked far. That's ICC in the background by the way.

Then we headed back into town and out to the beach, where we enjoyed a picnic dinner on a picnic table in the sand.

Our sturdy picnic table

Then we got lost and asked a stranger for directions. The stranger turned out to be a neighbour of Malin. That was strange.

And that was our holiday. Pretty much. So I will conclude on a random fact of the day: The Dutch are on average the tallest Europeans, and if some dodgy looking websites from 2008 can be trusted, then also the world.

I heart Penang... and Langkawi is pretty nice too.

It turns out it is Raining Season in Malaysia.... again. And seven hours on a train to Butterworth confirmed that it does rain in Rainy Season, and the best seats in the carriage are rubbish when the roof leaks. Disappointingly it's not a terribly interesting journey unless you are a die-hard fan of Palm Oil, which I am not.

I am even less of a fan of badly partitioned rooms, and three drunk Poms with a tendency to spray fire extinguishers and throw hamburgers at ungodly hours of the morning.

However, I do love the combination of smog, traffic, random smells of gross and amazing in equal proportions, rundown chinese shop fronts and general chaos that is George Town. I also love the ornately decorated trishaws and their over-enthusiastic drivers, friendly locals and ordering some menu item previously unknown and getting something amazing.

Penang Style

I love that walking and gawking is for free but also ice cold 100plus which is not and short spurts of intensive air-con treatment, which are worth more than gold when it's that hot.

and it was hot!

I am also quite fond of using alarm-clocks. They can be handy when you need to wake up on time to catch a ferry at 8.30 on a Sunday morning. In fact I use two - one on my wristwatch and one on Brett's cell phone - just in case one doesn't work when it needs to. Sometimes I let Brett set the alarms for me. It's called trust.

8.11am: "Oh shit! We slept in! We're going to miss the ferry. Why didn't the alarm go off?"

There is nothing like a mass panic and a run with 17kg of bag on your back to get the juices flowing in the morning.

But we did make it, with a whole THREE minutes to spare.

Thankfully, too, otherwise Brett would have been blamed for me not laxing in our slightly lopsided beachside hut on Langkawi,

The left side is slowly becoming one with the beach

Or swimming at the edge of a waterfall,

A nice place to swim so close to death

Or discovering what the "Beware of Jellyfish" warnings really meant.

They should have specified 'Jellymonster'

Notes to future self:

• Jackets are very handy items, even inside trains.
• Reaffirm commitment to eat less chocolate and Pringles flavoured Palm Oil.
• If it looks like the wall of a bathroom cubicle, don't rent it.
• Check alarms - always.
• Do beware of the Jellymonsters.

Battle scarred and back in action

So I have made it back from Middle Earth. My position as a Gen-Y deserter has been re-established.

It wasn't that easy. I did spend three months in New Zealand without a job - well much of a job. I discovered the art of entertaining oneself while doing absolutely nothing. I didn't even resort to Farmville, become a boy racer, or get knocked up.

I went bushwalking without fear of snakes, I survived Auckland's public transport and a weekend of sheep and shearing in Te Kuiti.

Definitely only vines

The flock descends down SH 3

I even made it to my flight despite Brett's best attempts at depriving me of sleep with threats of vomiting in bed.

Just as importantly, my bank account survived a long weekend of wining, dining and a little worse-for-wear sightseeing in Melbourne.

 

And even a few beers out in Perth. My face suffered as a result (although new photographic evidence suggests this may be karma from my very un-rythmytic abuse of Ricky's drums) but plastic surgery in Asia is always an option... Oh the possibilities of Asia's medical tourism... Imagination is good company on any Air Asia flight.

So now with 17kg of my life I head back to Malaysia for one last week to eat to my heart's content, sweat up a storm, and lounge about on a decent beach. I do not have high hopes for British summer.

Borneo, you beauty!

Before I get too distracted by my return to NZ, the last ten days of my time in South East Asia needs a brief recap.

 Malaysian Peninsula


Arival: 30 December 2010


To some relief we got out of the Philippines – no thanks to the friendly immigration officer who had stamped the wrong date in our passports when we arrived, but the fine avoidance gods were on our side.



So then it was 'Hello' to clean and organised Kuala Lumpur, decent food and shopping! Having saved up all my over-spending for here, I was amped and ready to drag Brett around the shops after a quick stop off at the Patronas Towers to take some tourist pics. Fortunately, for the sake of our relationship, we were in the know of a mall that offered six floors of shopping and 2 floors of boyfriend entertainment – a theme park. So i dropped Brett off on the sixth floor, spent a couple of hours giving my travelcard some serious attention, had some lunch and went to join Brett on some of the rides.



Weeeeeeeee!

It took two corkscrews, one loopdey loop (and a ‘whoosh’ past McDonalds no less) on the Super Sonic Odyssey Rollercoaster for me to decide that lunch was not really a good idea. With a few stomach rests to avoid seeing my chicken rice hot pot again I braved the ‘Spinning Orbit’ (too much like an egg beater) and ‘Space Attack’ (too much upside down hanging, and perpetual fear of flying through the glass wall), and the ‘Oorts express’ (akin to a dog chasing its tail) where I thoroughly enjoyed the forced game of Corners. Although I am sure Brett would thoroughly disagree on the enjoyment aspect.

We retreated to Chinatown, and some happy hour beers to kick off our New Years Eve. A few beers and a couple of games of pool later we returned to Patronas Towers for the second time that day to watch some very civilised Malaysian entertainment with the very civilised Malaysian crowd drinking their equally civilised iced tea waiting for the fireworks.

The Patronas Towers are much more impressive at night

After the show had finished we commenced our civilised line-waiting to get onto the LRT back to Chinatown, which reverted to some not so civilised barging (on Brett’s part) some time later. No sooner had we got back to the not so crowded streets of Chinatown, did I find a fruit stall selling Mangosteen.



Mmmm... Mangosteen


What is mangosteen you ask?
The extremely elusive fruit once found in Beijing in 2006, and nowhere to be found in Vietnam, Cambodia and The Philippines in 2010. It is considered the fruit of youth, supposedly. This fruit was so allusive that Brett started to look at me like a mad-woman every time I reminded “It looks like a tomato, but its purple and the inside is like a mandarin, but white.”


So I was the happiest mad-woman around when I finally got to munch into my much anticipated mangosteen with Brett proclaiming “It DOES look like a tomato, but purple and the inside IS like a mandarin, but white.” Pure satisfaction.

And to think it couldn’t get much better than that – our KL experience was topped off by a casual New Year’s Day meander to Little India, where the Saturday market was jam packed with yummy treats, a sneaky half-hour bag and shoe shop in a department store after a toilet break, and the best cheese curry I have ever had.


Departure: 2 January 2011



Sabah, Malaysian Borneo


Arrival: 2 January 2011

Expectations of tiny towns in overgrown Borneo Jungle dissolved quickly once we arrived in Kota Kinabalu and discovered that they have a lot of hotels. But that was ok. We spent a day exploring and snorkelling on Palau Manukan and Palau Mamutik, with a couple of hours break to wait for a passing electrical storm. Back on the mainland, the fresh food markets became a staple for satay sticks, grilled fish and seafood and anything goreng. We could have dined for eternity, but the orang-utans awaited.

Mmmmm... Satay.

A short flight from KK brought us to Sandakan. We shared a taxi with a friendly Canadian stock marketeer and had a friend for the next three days. So off we set to join the crowds at the Sepilok Orang-utan Sanctuary in search our orange haired relatives.

Feeding time at the Sanctuary

We share 96% of our DNA with them so that’s basically your sister right there! Don’t worry they don’t have to visit if they don’t want to (You can read http://www.orangutan-appeal.org.uk/sepilok-rehabilitation-centre/ for more info).

We were also lucky enough to see a raging male causing quite a lot of tree shaking next to the canopy walk in the Rainforest Discovery Centre down the road.

I spy with my little eye...

We also spent the best part of an afternoon at the Labuk Bay Proboscis Monkey Sanctuary, which we were especially excited about. But perhaps not as excited as the Proboscis Monkeys.

Proboscis Monkey in all its glory

Funny how with their blond hair, pot-bellies and constant inappropriate tendencies, they have an uncanny alikeness to some of the other visitors to Asia...

One almost-missed bus, a few beers in a quiet Sandakan club, one courtesy ride home with the club owner, one short flight back to Kota Kinabalu, one unsuccessful search for souvenirs, two swims and one monsoonal down pour later, we found ourselves in the departure lounge, leaving South East Asia behind us.

Departure: 9 January 2011

And it took all of two seconds after touchdown on the runway at Melbourne International Airport for someone to chant “Ozzy Ozzy Ozzy!”.