Vietnam

This is the country that I’ve both looked forward to and dreaded equally, known mostly for the horrific war and its delicious soup. It invokes powerful images, perpetuated mostly by some epic movies set here, including Apocalypse Now, Full Metal Jacket and Platoon. Yet there is a distinct element of the unknown, a communist country trying to keep an archaic political system relevant in a rapidly changing modern world.

Passing through the border from Cambodia involves an odd procedure of handing passports to an elderly lady who appears fluent in a number of languages, in turn she passes them to border agents, who wait until a whole stack of passports have been collected before they go to work. After what seems an eternity this stack is passed back to the old lady, who then deals them out to the bemused tourists as she cracks politically-incorrect jokes in their native language. No one knows where to look. As this bizarre scene unfolds there is a constant stream of presumably local people and animals crossing the border seemingly not subjected to any checks. As with many things in Asia none of it seems to make any sense but it works, so we climb happily back on board our bus and head toward the city of Can Tho, our stop off before Ho Chi Minh City.

We are in the heart of the famous Mekong Delta, where the mighty river that runs through a good portion of South East Asia eventually meets the South China Sea. Life for many in this region still revolves around the river, and we’ve come to see the main attraction in Can Tho, its floating markets. We arrive at the boat dock a few minutes before dawn and are met by our guide, a bright young chap by the name of Andy, who even at this shockingly early hour is keen to help us in any way he can. As a side note, this part of the world really sucks if you’re not a morning person. Most mornings around dawn I’ve been awoken by the sounds of roosters, dogs barking, honking traffic and locals yelling at one another. It doesn’t matter whether we’re staying in the heart of the city or deep in the country, this combination never fails to work.

Back on the boat we’re cruising serenely along a large tributary of the Mekong for an hour or so before we arrive at the first market. Old wooden boats measuring from fifteen to fifty feet looking dangerously overloaded with all types of fruits and vegetables, are selling their produce in bulk to smaller boats. Prices are quickly agreed, goods are unceremoniously transferred and the little boats speed off to another market to sell to the public. Not once do I see any cash exchanged. We decide to follow the trail of small boats and floating vegetation which is left behind by the smaller operators as they prune their goods en route to the public market. We’re greeted by a slightly underwhelming scene with about a dozen small boats selling produce mainly to curious tourists. This does not resemble the thriving floating markets that I’ve seen on the Discovery Channel. Our guide purchases a gigantic jackfruit, presumably to feed his family for a month, and we’re off to explore some of the smaller channels of water around Can Tho. This is a rewarding cruise as we catch a glimpse in to the daily lives of Vietnamese people who rely on the river for their living.

Before long we’re in Ho Chi Minh City, thankfully abbreviated to HCMC, or Saigon as many of the locals still refer to it. Although we’ve been warned about it, nothing prepares us for the swarms of noisy scooters that terrorize the city. They’re everywhere, in parks, on pavements, driving through stores, I even saw one in an elevator! There are ten million people in Saigon and over five million scooters. A relatively straightforward activity such as crossing the road is a scary proposition here and most foreigners avoid doing so. The secret is to simply look in the direction of the traffic and step out, whilst avoiding eye contact with the riders. Do not hesitate, stopping in the middle of the road can be literally fatal. The collision rate here must be absurdly high, but without a meaningful transit system, there is little choice but to brave the mean streets.

We spend a morning at the ludicrously named Museum of American Atrocities, which provides a very one-sided look at the Vietnam War, which raged bitterly from the early 1960’s to 1975. Hostilities ended more than four decades ago, but the effects are still visible in Vietnamese society, particularly from the illegal gassing campaigns. The museum is a stark reminder of the brutality of war, the sheer number of lives lost by both sides is mind-boggling and one is left wondering to what end? Suitably depressed we are somewhat encouraged to see a number of American visitors here, many with young families.

Saigon doesn’t capture our hearts so we move on to Hoi-An, a small city located about halfway up the coast of Eastern Vietnam, renowned as the culinary capital of the country. The food here is certainly top-notch led by the visionary Miss Vee, who opened her first restaurant some twenty years ago and from those humble beginnings she’s developed an empire spanning several of the finest restaurants in the city, as well as an internationally acclaimed cooking school. However this city is not just about the culinary arts. We are taken aback by the sheer number of tailors here and we can’t help but join in the sartorial frenzy as clothing can be made to order at a fraction of what we ordinarily pay back home, and as an added bonus it’s ready to wear the very next day.

Largely ignoring the hustle and bustle of Hanoi, we head instead a few hours east to the coast and the breathtaking beauty of Ha Long Bay. Hundreds of jungle-clad limestone karsts, each with a different name, rise majestically out of the dark waters of the bay, spread across an area of 1500 square kilometres. We spend two nights savouring the magnificence up close on a small cruise ship, in what seem to us to be sub-Arctic temperatures, which in reality are 7-8 degrees Celsius, but a full twenty-five degrees below what we’ve been used to over the last couple of months. Our beachwear is ill-equipped to deal with the unexpected drop in temperature but we brave the elements and take smaller boats out on a couple of excursions, including a worthwhile visit to a pearl farm. We skip the hilariously inappropriate scheduled visit to a small beach nearby.

Overall Vietnam left me a little cold, literally and figuratively. As the Lunar New Year approaches we feel that we’d rather celebrate it with a culture that we better understand.

The Captain does Cambodia

Arriving in Siem Reap, if feels as though a time machine has transported us forty years in to the past, however given Cambodia’s violent past we’re happy that it’s very much the present, even if our surroundings defy that notion. The city seems to be growing at a rapid pace as the reputation of Angkor’s splendour spreads, there is a vibrant night market and of course a brash street full of bars for tourists seeking a little less cultural immersion.

We’re keen to see Angkor Wat as soon as humanly possible but the journey takes a little longer than expected as the ticket office is inconveniently, and rather bizarrely located some distance from the entrance to the site. However we arrive well in advance of sunset and join the throngs gathered at the entrance. It’s a chaotic scene as tuk-tuks buzz around picking up and dropping off, whilst local vendors assess the fresh prey. Tourists run the gamut from umbrella-toting Asian octogenarians to fresh-faced, lobster-skinned northern European backpackers. Most have adhered to the not so difficult dress code of covered shoulders and knees, but there are a few hilarious exceptions, looking as if they’re engaged in a Sunday morning walk of shame. A brief tease ensues as the site closes soon after our arrival and we don’t quite reach the main temple, however our brief disappointment is tempered by the knowledge that we’ll be back at sunrise tomorrow.

4.45am is an ungodly hour to wake up, particularly on vacation, but I’m happily dressed and ready to go as sunrise at Angkor Wat is widely regarded as the optimum time to savour the majesty of Cambodia’s most famous treasure (so famous that it adorns the national flag). As darkness slowly slips away the expectant crowd of approximately two thousand can’t help but think they could’ve spent another half an hour in their beds. After what seems an age, daylight gradually bathes the rooftop of the famous temple, exposing a sea of selfie-sticks and cellphone screens.

Happily the crowd disperses once inside the temple as the hordes choose from an infinite number of paths to explore the huge site, which is in fact the largest religious structure in the world. A couple of hours of trying to channel my inner monk with some quiet contemplation follow, as we attempt to breathe in close to a millennium of rich history at these sacred grounds, whose magnificence is hard to describe yet easily identifiable as the highlight of the trip so far. I cannot believe that Angkor Wat wasn’t voted as one of the modern seven wonders of the modern world, a statue of Jesus on a hill in Brazil is really more wondrous?

We reluctantly tear ourselves away as we have a number of other stops to make and the sun is already making it’s powerful presence felt. We find our guide for the day sleeping off a hangover in his tuk-tuk, so he’s delighted to learn that we’ve decided to abbreviate our ambitious schedule and only visit two more temples today. Shockingly the temple we visit next is a relatively unremarkable site, but we round off the mini tour in style with a couple of hours at Ta Prohm, the crumbling masterpiece set in the jungle, made famous by the original Tomb Raider movie. It’s been an unforgettable morning, and having completely failed to describe it with any accuracy, or take a photo that does it even a remote justice, I’d strongly recommend a visit in person.

Cambodia’s capital Phnom Penh is our next stop and we decide to spend our three nights, which coincide with Robin’s birthday, in a gorgeous suite at the brand new Sun and Moon Hotel. All this luxury does however breed a certain amount of laziness. A visit to the Royal Palace is the cultural highlight here, although I must say I did enjoy attending an impromptu late night street party too, perhaps the old me hasn’t completely vanished! This little gathering is just one small example of how rapidly the city is modernizing, and despite the inevitable changes to the character of the place, the inhabitants seems to be embracing it and who can blame them after all they’ve been through.

Leaving the capital and heading south back to the beaches we encounter Sihanoukville, a largely uninspiring port town, most famous for seemingly containing more casinos than hotels. The town is really no more than a stepping stone for most people who are heading to the beautiful islands that lay not too far off Cambodia’s coast. The best known of these is Koh Rong. The island is unique given it’s only two modes of transportation are your own two feet or a boat. Essentially it’s a jungle surrounded by powdery white sand, the sort of place where hours turn into days, days in to weeks, weeks in to hippies. During our visit the Fire Flow Festival is taking place, which involves plenty of juggling, twirling and spinning of various objects that are alight. The participants range from complete novice to competent veteran and the performances reflect that, with burning torches occasionally flying in to areas where spectators have gathered, taking crowd participation to a whole new level.

We opt to stay in a beachside bungalow for the full Robinson Crusoe experience and for a couple of days we are in absolute bliss. However, a bout of food poisoning (it had to happen at some point) puts paid to that. Once recovered, our memory of this place is a tad soiled and we head back to the mainland reluctantly yet relieved. We spend a couple of nights hanging out in a charming little town called Kampot. It’s a fitting end as Cambodia has indeed charmed us in to staying quite a bit longer than we had intended, I guess that’s no bad sign and will certainly be a tough act to follow for our next destination.

Moving on

Lombok, Indonesia

A short plane ride from Bali is the neighbouring island of Lombok, in the past very much the land that tourists forgot, or worse ignored, definitely not the flashpacker magnet that it is today. The two Indonesian islands are different in many respects, but most markedly in their religious outlook. Lombok is mainly Muslim, versus a predominantly Hindu population in Bali, and there is definitely a less permissive feel about the place, at least on the surface. Scratching beneath the surface is of course where most of the fun and true discovery lie, and we soon meet someone who is willing to show us what lurks beneath. Larby is a charismatic chap hailing from Morocco via Holland who we meet at one of his restaurants called KRNK, an industrial-themed fusion eatery incorporating cuisines from around the world. A raconteur, philosopher, foodie, lover of all things marine and in short excellent company, he takes us under his wing for a night and shows us a variety of south Lombok’s nightspots, even including a bar built in to the back of a VW Camper van. Riding a motorcycle taxi home in a torrential downpour rounds off a raucous night.

Exploring the southern shores of south Lombok is a wonderful way to pass time, best enjoyed on a motorcycle, with tiny pristine strips of sand dotting the coastline, each new discovery claiming breathtaking superiority over its predecessor. At the top of the metaphorical (palm)tree is Selong Balanak, an absolutely gorgeous gem of tranquility that will proudly stand alongside the best the Caribbean has to offer. They are connected by a winding, often very steep and heavily rutted road that snakes through the mountains and dissects the valleys, offering a glimpse in to the busy lives of the locals who are lucky enough to call this slice of paradise home.

Travelling north to Senggigi, a resort town in north-west Lombok, we rendezvous with Kevin and enjoy a few relaxing nights and slow mornings. Aside from introducing us to the wonderful local dish of ayam taliwang, an incredibly fragrant grilled chicken curry, there wasn’t much happening here, save for a few bars frequented by aging expats and bar flies. From there it’s a fifteen minute ferry ride to the famed Gili Islands, a tropical paradise we’ve all seen on postcards and of course dreamt about, endless stretches of white sand beaches, turquoise coral-filled waters and hammocks hung from palm trees, but with one major difference, there is not one motorized vehicle on any of the islands. Our first stop is Gili Trawangan, certainly the most lively of the three, infamous for its rowdy bars and the monthly full moon party. Despite being the largest of the islands, navigating the myriad beaches, resorts and restaurants is easy enough though with a number of horse-drawn taxi carriages known as cidomos honking their way around the island. A few hundred horses are employed for this purpose, across all the Gilis and it seems to me that they’re worked very hard, in fact I later find out that their average life expectancy is only 3 years. Perhaps as a result of this cruelty a number of visitors choose to walk, however with a lap of Trawangan taking about three hours, most opt to rent bicycles. There’s something for everyone here with the 5 star crowd well catered to as well as the backpacker on the tightest budget. This inclusivity adds to the fun vibe.

We skip over Gili Meno, the honeymooner’s idyll with all the atmosphere of a monastery, to Gili Air which is less frenetic than Trawangan yet still lively enough for all but the most hedonistic, whilst retaining many of the original charms and reggae soundtrack that lured those early visitors. Basically Gili Air is the sister that you’d marry, and as in any good relationship time simply flies by in its company. Just as days are about to turn in to weeks we regain our senses and realize it’s now or never if we are to escape the clutches of the mesmeric Gilis. Packing to leave is agonizing.

Malaysia

We start in Kuala Lumpur, where the similarities to my hometown of Toronto are striking. Two fast-growing culturally diverse alpha world cities of approximate size known primarily for their skyline-dominating towers, as well as being the commercial hubs of their respective countries. Life here is fast-paced and it’s easy to get swept up in the hustle and bustle of the metropolis.

Food is outstanding, no doubt helped by the cosmopolitan nature of the population. Our first meal is dinner at one of the most popular Indian restaurants in the city and it’s easy to see why. Upon arrival we are instructed to make quick choices without the aid of a menu before we are even seated in the packed room. Once sat, a banana leaf is laid out in front of us and the next twenty minutes are a whirlwind of servers dumping delicious heaps of exotic food in front of us. We can’t get enough, but sadly our bellies decide that we’ve reached our limit and as we waddle out, our banana leaves are rolled and quickly discarded, our seats are filled and the whole process repeats, it’s a brilliantly efficient system. Other culinary highlights include the Jalan Alor street/restaurant market, where a cacophony of sound greets us as vendors vie for our attention, hoping to lure the undecided masses. We opt to spend our hard-earned with the less vocal, strategizing that their food will do the talking, and it proves to be a sound philosophy as we feast on everything from multi-coloured dumplings to chicken wings, and a few things besides. Sometimes ignorance can be culinary bliss.

Flying north to Langkawi, the jewel of Malaysia, we swap the gastronomic delights of the capital for the visually stunning archipelago located in the Andaman Sea to the north-west. Here mangrove-clad limestone cliffs form scores of islands that stretch as far as the eye can see, it’s some of Mother Nature’s very best work. We get a birds-eye view as we ascend the world’s steepest cable car rising to over 700m above sea-level, I can’t imagine a better vista.

Driving up to Gunung Raya mountain to soak in the view from Langkawi’s highest point doesn’t bring the reward that it should, so we content ourselves with an afternoon on Tanjung Rhu beach and finally sampling roti canai, the most famous local dish consisting of a savoury crepe acting as a bed for various types of curry lying on top, it tastes as good as it sounds. Another afternoon is spent at the picturesque Telaga Tujuh where no less than seven waterfalls cascade down a series of rocks forming several natural pools most of which are deep enough to enjoy a refreshing swim.

Our final stop in Malaysia, Georgetown the UNESCO designated corner on the island of Penang. fails to excite, a grossly underwhelming experience. Whether it’s the travel fatigue or the scorching heat, we never manage to get going in this much-hyped region and consequently spend most of the time holed up in a beautiful hotel room occasionally venturing out for the undeniably fantastic street food. It’s time to move on.

Beginnings

This first blog will probably feel more like a travel guide, so here goes with the do’s and don’ts of being a beach bum in Bali.

The journey begins in Jimbaran, a sleepy beach town with a random assortment of tourists who are mostly poorly-attired Americans wondering why the flight to Hawaii took so long. The fish market at the northern end of the 4km strip of sand is a lively affair from sunrise right through to mid-afternoon when presumably the stench becomes too much even for the locals. At the other end of the beach and perched high on the cliffside is Rock Bar, a south Bali institution responsible for many a visitor’s postcard sunset moment. In between are a plethora of candlelit beachside restaurants that serve essentially the same seafood grill and are very popular at night. After a long flight it’s the ideal spot to relax and allow the ocean to wash away the jetlag.

Having tired of the inactivity I head south toward the more relaxed Bukit peninsula. Padang Padang beach is an oft-mentioned place spoken of in almost mythical tones, I decide it should be my first stop to see what the fuss is all about. It’s accessed via a steep and incredibly narrow set of steps carved through a cliff and if that sounds dramatic, what awaits at the bottom of the descent will take your breath away. A cliff-walled cove provides the perfect acoustics for a live show and on this particular Saturday night it’s an Indonesian reggae band. During the day this small stretch of sand can quickly become clogged, so it’s best to arrive early and watch as the vendors set their stalls for the day and the monkeys dance around the rocks.

A few twisty back roads along the coastline and I reach Balangan beach which is a rocky affair, certainly one for the surfers over the swimmers, with a backdrop of beachside huts on stilts. It’s certainly not for novice surfers either as I found to my cost one particularly painful afternoon. I decided to relegate myself to the elevated restaurants which provided an excellent view of the more skilled boarders tackling the breaks.

At the westernmost tip of South Bali lies Ulu Watu, from where the Indian Ocean stretches unbroken to the east coast of Africa, which probably explains its iconic reputation amongst the surfing community. The sand is not easily reached, in fact the real accomplishment might be from carrying a surfboard all the way down the steep, narrow, winding stairway and actually arriving at the small beach intact, rather than successfully navigating the continuous breaks the beach provides. For those that don’t fancy descending in such a dicey manner, there are a cluster of bars and stores that cling to the edge of the cliff near the summit. Climbing up from here, the stairs become steeper but the views correlate and become ever more spectacular, culminating with the Single Fin bar at the summit, an après-surf mecca, complete with the obligatory reggae soundtrack and the unmistakable smell of cheap weed wafting through the air.

Escaping the peninsula and its surf dude culture we find Sanur, a happy medium between the chaos of Kuta and genteel Jimbaran. I say we as Robin has now joined me for the remainder of the adventure. We start with parasailing, which for $15 was definitely the highlight here. The path along the beach made for a rewarding bike ride offering a glimpse in to the days of ordinary Sanurians making their living off the water, and even a peek in to the more privileged who maintain some magnificent mansions along the same stretch of sea.

Although it’s a couple of weeks before Christmas, most of the places we’ve visited seem sparsely populated. For a whole host of reasons it seems that travelers are staying away, a concern voiced by a number of locals that I chat with. Being Bali though, these negative thoughts don’t linger too long and most people are looking forward to the next few weeks and an upturn in business. Their innate optimism is contagious and I’ve found myself in a very happy mood during my first couple of weeks. It’s been a quiet, relaxed start. The old adage that it’s a marathon not a sprint does apply, but I do feel as if I’m still stuck in the starter’s blocks. It’s time to move on and sample some culture that doesn’t involve sand and sunsets.

Travelling an hour or so north to Ubud provides a welcome change of scenery. Approaching the city made famous by the movie “Eat, Pray, Love” it’s hard not to notice the artistic nature of the place. Artisans displaying sculptures, paintings, and pottery, line the streets. Attention to detail is a central feature in Bali, particularly in design and architecture, none more evident than in the beautiful resorts that are dotted around Ubud, which are as stunning as any I’ve ever seen, including in magazines. However this aesthetic elegance isn’t just limited to the premium establishments, even simple shacks serving buckets of beer retain design elements of note.

First port of call is Ubud’s famed Sacred Monkey Forest Sanctuary, home to three Hindu temples and more famously, hundreds of Balinese macaques. The sanctuary is located in a busy area of the city and acts as an oasis, away from the traffic and the albeit relatively mild harassment by local peddlers. The playful inhabitants seemingly enjoy putting on a show for the amused tourists, but are quick to pounce on any foolish enough to bring food with them, of which there are quite a few. The various stages of panic that envelop the people who come in to physical contact with the monkeys is fun to watch. Later in the day we happen to be driving by the sanctuary again when, without warning a pack of about twenty-five scale the walls and find themselves in the middle of everyday street life in Ubud. As they run amok weaving through traffic and putting on a very acrobatic show through the trees and on rooftops, it’s hard not to think of the Planet of the Apes movies!

There are an abundance of fantastic eateries in Ubud and the food is generally of very high quality, which convinces us to try our hand at making some. Our cooking class begins at dawn with a trip to the local food market. Less than 12 hours ago this place was a haven for those in search of locally-made trinkets and cheap clothing, but now it’s home to exotic fruits and spices, which require the help of a local expert to navigate. We select our ingredients and congregate at a well-equipped hotel kitchen to create something delicious, or in my case, edible.

A couple of hours of chopping, stirring, mortaring and pestling, and we’re sitting at a large table ready to tuck in to our creations. Red curry chicken and mie goreng (fried noodles). A fragrant blend of lemongrass, turmeric, kaffir lime, galangal (a type of ginger), chilies and more familiar ingredients such as green onion and ginger mix together to produce wonderfully flavoured food. Even those in the class with unadventurous tastes seem more than satisfied with the outcome. We leave with full bellies and good intentions to replicate our creations at home.

Musical and theatrical performances are a feature of nightlife in Ubud. The bands play a relentless percussive beat to intricate dances performed by young women, interspersed with some chaotic scenes involving men dressed as elaborate dragons or warriors, prancing around the stage yelling at each other. It’s good fun until the twin onslaught from the bugs and humidity becomes unbearable. The performance that we attend ends rather abruptly as the musicians, who have been giggling almost uncontrollably for the previous half an hour, decide to walk off the stage, presumably in protest that the performance of some of the actors is sub-par. It’s a bizarre scene to end a bizarre production. I blame the relentless bugs and humidity.

The two other things that stand out in Ubud are yoga and wellness spas. Hordes of mostly women populate the streets at any time of the day, armed with their mats, colourful and co-ordinated yoga wear, and of course the standard-issue kale and carrot juice. All manner of body scrubs, massages and exotic facials are available at fractions of the cost at home. Almost without exception people here look healthy and happy, which is fundamentally what life is all about. It’s not surprising that Ubud was recently voted by a prominent travel magazine as the best travel city in the world.

An hour and a half south, Seminyak has a very different feel altogether. Hustle and bustle is the name of the game here, there is a noticeably more western vibe with designer clothing stores alongside cool cafes and some fantastic art galleries. Traffic is brutal but there is still a quiet order to the chaos, an unspoken rule that keeps most people in check of their emotions despite the searing heat. This is however the calm before the storm of Kuta, which is an all-out assault on the senses and none more so than during New Year’s Eve when thousands cram the tiny streets, letting off fireworks in every direction, and creating a carnival atmosphere that in previous years would have been easy to embrace, but this year I’m watching The Force Awakens as the final act of 2015. Perhaps a new perspective is awakening in me?

The area north of Kuta is regarded as a stylish, sophisticated sibling to it’s hectic neighbour and this is perfectly encapsulated by the first few activities of 2016, which include brunch at the divine beachside restaurant La Lucciola, followed by afternoon drinks at the famous, though oddly-named Potato Head Beach Club. A couple of days of recovery follow aided by dining at some very swanky restaurants, my favourite being Sardine, a seafood lover’s dream set in a rice field, as well as sampling some local treats such as babi guling, a well-known Balinese dish that takes pork reverence to a new level. Before we know it time is called on our Balinese adventure, terima kasih (thank you) and bertemu lagi (see you again) to a beautiful corner of the world that has stolen a piece of our hearts.

That's it for now, I promise

The next day, where are we now, eleven?, I take a quick tour of Amman, a sprawling relatively-new capital built originally on seven hills much like Lisbon and Rome, but now more than three times it's original size with a recent population explosion thanks to an influx of Palestinians. There’s a noticeable modern vs traditional look to Jordan’s largest city and guess what?....there’s a protest going on. This one’s over a recent 200% increase in gas prices, thanks to a spiralling debt and therefore a clawback of fuel subsidies. Amazing what you can learn from a Jordanian taxi driver with limited English skills. King Abdullah, the reigning monarch for well over a decade, retains his immense popularity, despite these difficulties and a rising tide of Islamists. From a few of the stories I’ve heard he either has a remarkable ability to connect with the majority of his subjects, or he has an excellent PR department.

It’s time to head to the Dead Sea to attempt to defy countless millenia of physics and actually sink in the saltiest waters in the World. Shockingly I don’t. It’s as if I’m lying in a gigantic water bed, try as I might I can’t force myself to submerge, a remarkable experience.

So it’s goodbye to Jordan, it’s been a short visit, but I’ve been won over by the spirit of the people here. I’m off to Egypt, after a quick check that I have my passport.

I’m flying to Sharm-el-Sheikh, a resort on the southern tip of the Sinai Peninsula, well known for it’s amazing reef and therefore some fantastic diving and snorkelling. I’m feeling a bit run down so two days of beach time should be the perfect cure. Turns out it is. I forgo the diving in favour of snorkelling, and it certainly lives up to the hype. 

Sharm is quite disappointing, packed to the rafters with Russians, it reminds me of Niagara Falls with a beach instead of a waterfall. Sharm is certainly easy on the eyes, but the people here are a little hard on the ears. I remind myself that I’m in a resort town and as such I’m not going to see the best side of the Egyptian people.

I suppose the highlight of this leg of my journey is splashing around in the Dead Sea and the Red Sea on the same day. The lowlight would be having my feet eaten alive by mosquitos on the final night, leaving me barely able to walk the next morning.

Thankfully I’m flying to Cairo, not walking, and it looks as if my sense of brilliant timing will accompany me. Today is the first day that both pro- and anti-Government marches will be held on the same day since President Mursi accepted power. Chances are that this will not end well, so my plan changes to take a quick peek at the Pyramids and fly south to Aswan sharpish.

At Cairo airport I go through the now familiar process of starting my negotiation at half of what the taxi driver initially offers, and we usually settle at around two-thirds of the initial ask. I’m certain that these guys are still well ahead, so I don’t feel bad, it’s part of the game.

We leave the airport and I don’t see another soul for ten minutes. I thought this was supposed to be one of the most densely-populated cities on the planet with some 30 million inhabitants. The first person I see is driving in reverse down the highway. I know drivers here have a reputation for fearlessness but that’s simply suicidal. The next people I see are crossing the highway. Later in my one hour journey to the hotel, this becomes a fairly routine sight. There are men just hanging out on the side of the highway, as tow truck drivers would, but without the security that a tow truck offers as vehicles of all shapes and sizes hurtle in their general direction. Absolute chaos (even worse than India), and interestingly everyone just toots their horn and gets on with it, no road rage, no drama. Every single vehicle is dented and scratched, which isn’t surprising. As far as the eye can see there are dirty-looking, mid-rise apartment buildings, most with windows missing, it’s a fairly grim sight that’s compounded by the pollution. Smog hangs thick and at times it’s better to give the lungs a break by smoking a cigarette than breathing Cairo’s air.

After settling in to my luxurious digs that overlook the Pyramids and are far away from the troubles downtown, I wonder outside to be greeted by a young man who claims that we met briefly met as I checked in. My short-term memory isn’t what it was (which was sub-par in the first place), but I know for sure I didn’t encounter him. I play along, knowing he’s going to offer me ‘hospitality’ and see where it takes me. The answer is to a perfume shop. His father Kamal comes in and presents the same one-liners verbatim. In addition he tells me he’s a great healer, paragon of health, current mayor of Giza and that he counts Eric Clapton amongst his friends. He asks me to guess his age and I offer 56 (being kind), he tells me he’s 44. I suppose he’s too busy taking care of his clients to give himself some much-needed attention.

We haggle over a couple of small bottles, but once a price is agreed, he’s gracious again and offers me a ride to see the sound and light show at the Pyramids, I accept. The show lasts 50 minutes, about 45 minutes too long, and the most memorable parts are the use of terrible laser lighting, and how the Sphinx, who narrates the story, sounds eerily like the Emperor from Star Wars. Kamal asks his sons to take me to a belly-dancing show, but his sons basically describe it as a brothel with mostly under-age girls. Yikes. I decline and call it early, ready for a big day of sight-seeing.

3 days to go - Disaster strikes. After a suspect breakfast, I start feeling the unmistakeable rumbles of gastroentiritis. A rough day ensues, talk about terrible timing, this is supposed to be my day with The Pyramids of Giza, I’ve yearned to visit for as long as I can remember. I eventually muster up enough energy to head out and snap a few pictures. A guide leads me to his parked camel and for a delusional moment I decide it’ll be the best way of seeing as much as possible in a short space of time. Big mistake. You’ve obviously heard of camels spitting at people, well today the tables were turned, and I vomited on a camel. Tellingly, the guide still didn’t want me to get off as he feared that would jeopardise his chances of extracting the maximum amount of tourist money from me. Another example of some rather obnoxious people I’ve encountered in Egypt. It doesn’t just stop with those in the tourist industry either, regular folk will blatantly push in line, trample each other getting off a plane, thoughtlessly discard litter and generally behave in a manner that we’d consider to be inconsiderate in the West. Sure the differences are cultural, but there is such a thing as respect and I’ve not found it to be in large supply in Cairo or Sharm. I have a feeling that will change and I’m going to do my best to allow it to happen, which honestly I didn’t today, as most of you know, I’m grumpy when I’m sick.

To compound matters my flight to Aswan is delayed by over two hours and I arrive in Egypt’s third-largest city weary and bleary-eyed at 2am. However, I feel different. The negativity of Cairo is gone, and a new environment brings a new attitude at the end of a testing day.

Drawing back the curtains and being blinded by the sun as it reflects off the Nile, is the best start to a Monday morning in recent memory. I’ve arranged a ‘felucca’ for the afternoon, a sailboat, and the primary mode of transportation along the Nile for centuries. We sail around Elephantine Island, and generally take in daily life on the world’s longest river. There’s no real breeze to speak of so it takes us longer than expected to reach Kitchener’s Island, which boasts a gorgeous garden and from there it’s on to a Nubian restaurant. Every meal brings with it a level of trepidation, but I survive this encounter without any further stomach churning. Unfortunately that feeling does return later that afternoon, thankfully when I’ve got back to the hotel, and it’s at this juncture that I make the maddeningly frustrating decision to pass on a trip planned for tomorrow to Abu Simbel, one of the true highlights of Egypt. There’s no way I’m going to be able to do 9 hours of travelling in one day, as well as tour the various attractions that I want to see. Frustrated, I settle in to watch some Egyptian TV which almost exclusively features bearded men yelling at other bearded men, and a bearded Dr.House yelling at anyone in sight. In short, lots of beards and yelling.

My penultimate day starts with me chilling by the hotel’s infinity pool all morning, followed by an arduous train journey to Luxor, my departure point. I feel better about my decision not to go to Abu Simbel, as I’m still not even close to feeling like myself.

Upon arrival in Luxor, I realise that I’ve booked my hotel on the wrong date, but the staff take pity on the weirdly pale-looking-tanned brown guy and offer me a room at the same rate.

As I head out for dinner, a ritual I almost dread now, partly because of feeling sick but also as eating alone is starting to wear thin, a fight breaks out between two taxi drivers. It turns out that I’m the cause. Times are tough in Egypt’s tourist industry as visitors are staying away because of the continuing unrest. Those reliant upon tourists to help feed their families are becoming increasingly desperate and perhaps this explains much of the aggression that I’ve witnessed. The conflict dissolves as they both realise that I’m walking back in to the hotel. Hopefully there won’t be any flying fists at the buffet they’ve laid on.

Given how sick I’ve felt, the last couple of days have really dragged on, but now that the last day of my trip is upon me, a sadness engulfs me as I feel I haven’t done as much as I wanted to on this trip. I quickly put it to the back of my mind and I’m out early to take in the sights of the Valley of the Kings (final resting place for Tutan Khamun, or King Tut as his friends used to call him), Queens Valley, the Temple at Hatshepsut (affectionately-known as Hot Chicken Soup to the locals), as well as Karnak Temple. 

Both the temples are fantastic, particularly the latter, which I learn is Egypt’s second most-visited attraction, and also the largest ancient religious site in the World. I wish I had more time, but don’t we all at the end of anything we’ve enjoyed?

To sum up, I wasn’t blown up or kidnapped, but did get shot at, arrested and poisoned. Many factors conspired against me but I felt I made the most of the trip. I thought I did a decent job of brokering a peace deal between Hamas and Israel, and averted serious conflict in Egypt. Unfortunately you can’t escape politics and religion in this part of the World, which are the two central problems that are causing the conflict. At least religion offers some of the people hope, whereas the politicians are simply hopeless, as none of them seem interested in conciliation and therefore finding a peaceful solution to the region’s troubles. It’s a shame, as it’s such a beautiful, culturally-rich, history-soaked part of the World, a place that could be so much more if it weren’t for the people in charge.

Glutton for punishment

Akko is a great little town. I’m awoken to the sounds of prayer coming from the mosque’s PA system. It’s a lot more soothing than the blaring of sirens and really for the first time, I feel a long way from the conflict. As it’s a Saturday, ie Shabat (sabbath), a huge number of Jewish visitors are flocking to a predominantly Arab town. The souk (market) is a lively affair, and the whole town leaves me marvelling at the camaraderie and spirit that exist between the people here. They all seem to know each very well and as a result it’s a warm, friendly place.  

The drive eastward to Tiberias and the Sea of Galilee is a scenic one. It’s a less arid region with small towns of mostly cubular (is that a word?...it is now), sandstone-coloured buildings clinging to the edges of the hills and sprawling in to the valleys below. The sea itself is really a small lake by Canadian standards, but it’s a picturesque setting with mountains rising up above on all sides.

Later, I learn of serious unrest in Egypt, particularly Cairo. Fantastic news, as I’ll be there in a few days. I’ve already cancelled plans of climbing Mount Sinai and spending a night in a bedouin camp, as it’s deemed too dangerous to travel in that region presently, so I really hope the situation doesn’t worsen.

An early start with a good breakfast (the food in Israel hasn’t been the best so far) and a stroll along the lakefront, are followed by a bus trip to the border with Jordan. I approach the border patrol only to realise that my passport is still in the safe at the hotel an hour’s drive away. Much frustration ensues. Two hours later I’m back at the same place with one important difference. 

The process at the border is shambolic at best and I emerge two hours later squinting in to the Jordanian sun. During all the waiting around I meet Nick, a young chap from England who has just spent 6 months in the West Bank, living behind the wall that separates the occupied territory from Israel. He tells me some fairly gruesome stories of Israeli military brutality against the Palestinians with whom he was living. Tales of torture and imprisonment of children as young as 8 years old are not easy to hear without having utter contempt for the aggression employed by the Israeli forces. Nick himself was tear-gassed the day before. His description of the feeling being akin to chopping a really strong onion lightened the mood a little.

We share a cab to Amman, the capital, and he continues on to the airport. He’s clearly excited to see his girlfriend for the first time in half a year. She happens to be from Barrie, Ontario. Big planet, small world.

At last, Petra. Shockingly early start and my excitement-induced insomnia has struck again. At least I won’t miss the 6.15am bus. Jordan’s most visited tourist destination and one of the modern Seven Wonders of the World, is located in a mountainous, arid region 3 hours south of the capital. The small town of Wadi Musa (Valley of Moses) buzzes with predominantly tourist-related activity. I’m glad to be here during the low season as the crowds are not insignificant.

Stunning, magnificent, awe-inspiring are grossly inadequate terms to describe Petra. Walking through The Siq is my favourite part of the experience and when it opens up to reveal the great Treasury it really does take my breath away. I make it as far as the recently-discovered Temple and I’m ready to call it a day. This is when the fun begins.

I stop at Ibraheim’s Coffee Shop and start chatting with a few of the Bedouin locals. They are extremely engaging, with a wicked sense of humour. I’m invited to drink tea with them, an important part of being truly welcomed in Bedouin culture, and I’m honoured to. This is why I love travelling so much, as I learn how the Jordanian Government entrust the Bedouin people with maintaining the essence of Petra, as opposed to the supposedly more-refined Musa-Wadians, who care more about lining their pockets with the tourist dollar. Many of the Bedouin live in caves within the City itself and have done so for many generations. Somewhat surprisingly most of them are married to Western women, including my new pal Ahmood, who will soon be living in his cave with his wife, previously from an affluent suburb of Montreal.

Ahmood takes me to the Bedouin village, a side of Petra that not many see. As the sun sets, the temperature drops sharply and my Bedouin buddy decides that the best way to keep warm is by drinking whiskey. The story of the rest of the night is best told in person.

After a groggy start I make my way back down to Petra. I can see why people move here from all corners of the World, The Siq has the ability to enchant on a daily basis. I run into my friends and they decide it’s time for me to take my first donkey ride all the way to the Monastery, arguably Petra’s most recognisable building. It’s an interesting journey, as my donkey seems to have a complete inability to travel in a straight line, which is particularly disconcerting when we’re climbing narrow, steep stairways with drops of several hundred feet on either side. I christen him Snake Donkey and decide to trek back on foot as walking down stairs is not Snake’s forte. I’m sorry to bid my friends farewell, they’ve really helped me understand the life of the Bedouin and the charms of Petra. I vow to go back, and some day I will, with a real camera.

So you came back for more?

Jerusalem - Felt suitably reassured when a couple of mean-looking Israeli soldiers complete with semi-automatic shotguns get on the bus with me for the one hour journey to the World’s holiest city.

I head straight to the old part of town which is split into quarters, the Armenian, Christian, Muslim and Jewish areas all have a distinct flavour, but the latter two really stand out for me, in fact I’m not sure if I saw anyone in the Armenian section at all. That’s in stark contrast to the Muslim section which is an all-out assault on the senses (perhaps not the best choice of phrase given the circumstances), with heavy aromas of coffee, spice and smoke filling the air, thousands of vendors gesticulating wildly in between puffs on the sheesha, kids running about with carefree abandon, honestly it’s a madhouse, then 7pm rolls around and it’s as if none of it happened, and has instead all been replaced by piles of garbage.

Highlights include visiting the Room of the Last Supper and taking a tour under the Western/Wailing Wall. The list of ‘attractions’ is almost too long to list, which is something I’d no doubt gleefully do if there was an ounce of religiosity in me. 

As an atheist, I’m clearly not taking it in as much as the majority, I simply don't have the emotional link, but it is nevertheless an interesting experience in viewing the faith of others and how they relate to their beliefs and the supposed sources of them. Receiving a disbelieving look from a believer when you tell them that you don't believe is unbelievably.....ok I'll stop.

Arabic coffee and phenomenal shwarma stand out as the culinary highlights.

Day 6 - Mount of Olives/Bethlehem/Massada/Jericho

Today was an interesting, but quite frustrating day too. Started well with a hike up to the Mount of Olives, which offers spectacular views of Jerusalem, particularly the Old City and Temple Mount.

Followed this up by travelling to Bethlehem, where history’s most famous hippie was born. I didn’t bring gold, frankincense or myrrh, but a camera with suddenly no battery life and a phone which won’t take photos without fog appearing on the screen. Jesus bloody Christ.

Things got worse as my new buddy, Eddy and I travelled an hour and a half in his cab to Massada, a stunning place out in the desert by the Dead Sea. The idea was to take the cable car to the top, but of course it was closed for maintenance today and we didn’t have enough time before nightfall to do the two hour trek to the top.

Another day - Back in Tel Aviv and the day’s main news was that of the bus bombing downtown. The populace is shitting themselves big time. The general consensus is that a ground offensive is required. This blog is not meant to be political, but it’s hard to remain Switzerland with all this nonsense in the air.

Switching gears, I indulged in my favourite sort of travel today, ie getting hopelessly lost in a foreign place. Neve Tsedek, an artsy, undergoing-the-process-of gentrification kind of place, failed to deliver, especially on the food front, and when I was asked the obligatory, “How’s everything”, I opted for a Gordon Ramsey-esque response. Five days  in a row with falafel will do that to a person. Rescued my afternoon by strolling over to Jaffa, on the south side of the city, and boy was I impressed. The old town is something to behold. Stunning architecture, beautiful vistas, this place has it all, including the obligatory hordes of tourists, as well at least a dozen wedding shoots. Again I wondered in to the unknown and stumbled upon the flea market area, whose name does it little justice. Artists studios sitting besides uber-cool restaurants mixed in with furniture and craft stores, this little corner of Jaffa has something for everyone. I proceeded to install myself at one of the chronically cool bars and.....don’t really remember the rest ;)

And on the 7th Day - I too relaxed, mostly. Got into an interesting conversation with an Aussie-Jewish girl at the real Moon Sushi (not much better than the first, we really are spoilt for amazing food in Toronto). Walked endlessly, something I’m committing to do a lot more of at home. Attempted to go to an art museum, but all the masterpieces were on lockdown, so much for culture. 

I did find the old train station, which has been converted in to an array of beautiful boutiques and restaurants, complete with authentic railroad tracks and carriages. I love it when city planners can blend the old with the new so stylishly.

Cut the night short as a massive thunderstorm rolled in, woken in the night several times by the loudest thunder I’ve ever heard, at least that’s what I hope it was and not a broken ceasefire.

Into the second week - I’m on the road. Drive up to Nazareth, and what a letdown, I’m sure JC wouldn’t be happy of what’s become of his hometown. I will cut the carpenter some slack though, it’s not an easy town to navigate, so many hills, and incredibly confusing with all the churches. I got lost, which isn’t nearly as much fun in a car, and decided to pack in looking for el casa de jesus and head to Akko, a 5,000 year old town sitting a few miles north of Haifa, Israel’s third largest city, and officially designated as a UNESCO World Heritage site (the old town is at least). Have a memorable fish and chips for dinner and meet Walid, by far the most interesting and social hotel/hostel owner I’ve encountered on the trip so far. He tells me of days gone by when he’d run 15km and smoke 40 cigarettes a day, though now he’s strictly a sheesha guy and he’s not shy about sharing.