BS:Totally irrelevant travel stories

Subject: BS:Totally irrelevant travel stories
From: Newport Boy
Date: 13 Jan 08 - 03:36 PM

Over the past few days, I've been going back to the thread 'On my father's side' because it kept ringing a bell in what passes for my mind. Each time, I couldn't see anything which connected, but it's finally dawned on me why the phrase is familiar.

This is a story received from a friend working in Zambia - copied directly from his email. Enjoy! Apologies for the length - but this could be a one-message thread.

Phil

Yesterday I was to take one of my friends Chipasha to see her sister Mulenga who was said to be ill in Mpongwe.....or at least this was what I thought we were doing.....first of all another sister Gloria and a brother Mpondu "from this side" turned up to go on this trip as well.....off we set for Luanshya the first town on the way to Mpongwe....police road blocks are always easier if you have a truck full of locals so no delays there...then we had to stop at Shoprite in Luanshya so presents could be bought for the people "on the other side"...this turned out to be soap so I started wondering where we actually might be going....the usual hordes of vegetable/fruit/roses etc etc sellers were hanging around shoprite as well and it is orange season at the moment....so extended negotiations took place about a bag of oranges for the musungu ( me ).....after a short while the truck could be extricated from this rabble and off we went again.....Mpongwe turned out to be a collection of
tiny shops selling basic goods in the front of a huge market selling everything known to man off the main road somewhere near the Kafue River and seemingly in the middle of nowhere....now what !
So I said do any of you know exactly where we will find your sister.....well she could be here and she could be there and Eddie her brother said to so and so when he bumped into Gloria the other day in Kitwe that Mulenga was in hospital in Mpongwe....I see so where are we going now ?.....the best thing would be to find Lucky or Eddie or Marjorie or Chluba ( other brothers and sisters )...one of them might know !
Now put all this in the context of no phones....so off we go out of Mpongwe to a village that no-one seems sure how to get to....a few km's down the road I am instructed to turn right onto a track....fine it looked like there could be a village somewhere....no wrong track after lots of questions in Bemba....go right and then somewhere else....eventually we found the village which consisted of a series of thatched mud brick houses and what appeared to be a communal cooking area and a sitting area....like magic Lucky appeared and I was given a block of wood to sit on while extensive greetings were made and the word sent out to see where Eddie ,Chluba and Marjorie might be...a while later all of them turned up...don't ask me how because apparently Eddie had been at the Mpongwe market.
The soap in the Shoprite bags was ceremoniously handed over.....after a while it transpired that no-one knew where Mulenga actually was....she certainly was not in hospital in Mpongwe because there isn't one and it was thought that the Chief had organised for her to go to a "healing" house....so we had better all go and see the chief for instructions....this was another trip into another small community on the other side of the main road....no difficulties finding the way this time because now we had another four brothers and sisters plus a cousin to help with directions....on arrival at the chief's house two officials in GRZ uniforms told me where precisely I could park the truck...it turned out the chief was a lady and we were ushered in....she was sitting on a mat under a shelter with a couple of assistants at her side...all of us made the traditional greetings by kneeling on the mat in front of the lady and clapping hands a few times while she said her greetings in Bemba
....then we were all offered blocks of wood to sit on in a radius around the lady and then she very politely asked how she could help....yes it turned out that Mulenga was in a "healing" house near Maiseti which was some 30 km's back towards Luanshya.....it would not be a problem to find it.....all we had to do was ask just before the settlement on the main road....now came the question of what "compensation" the lady chief must have....10 pin was agreed on ( US$2 ).....goodbyes were said and off goes the total crew towards Maisiti....this time the back of the truck is full of people as well.....at the outskirts of Maiseti questions are asked about how to find the "healing" house...lo and behold a "professional" guide complete with a bicycle carrying a rear mud flap with 62 on it appears....he will guide us to the house...the road into the village was very narrow and I would doubt if a Toyota FWD had been in there for a while....children appeared from everywhere so by the time we eventually found the "healing" house we had quite a collection!....then the guide wanted 500 kwacha so a collection of all the miscellaneous change around the place was taken up...so off he went.
The "healing" house had it's own cooking place and an outside area for sitting....Mulenga was there and there was great jubilation between all the sisters and brothers....I tried to stay out of things at this stage....not possible...a chair was extracted out of the house and bought for the musungu to sit on....trying to take everything in the youngest female was the one doing the cooking...nshima plus fish as it turned out....the "healing lady" was busy braiding the hair of another lady who just happened to be there and every now and again with great ceremony she instructed one of the boys standing around to light a cigarette for her from the cooking fire....she would take a few puffs and then put it in a safe place for next time....then Chipasha decided that it might be a good time to take out her braids while there was assistance so Chluba and her cousin who happened to come along as well got stuck into that....during the hour or so we were there various people dropped in including a photographer who was supposed to take some photos of the "healing" lady but she wasn't ready so he disppeared again....
Suddenly it was time to go so everybody got back in the truck and off we went into Maiseti to the bus station so the sisters and brothers "on that side" could go back to Mpongwe.....
And so back to Kitwe and a cold white wine.
This is the first time I have got into what I call "proper" Africa and I just wanted to share it with you.....it is a totally different perspective to my copper smelting life....we had a near riot last week following the contract negotiations but that is another story....for later !!
Cheers for now,
Chris.

Subject: RE: BS:Totally irrelevant travel stories
From: Amos
Date: 13 Jan 08 - 03:56 PM

What a great story. Thanks for the smiles.


A

Subject: RE: BS:Totally irrelevant travel stories
From: Charley Noble
Date: 13 Jan 08 - 04:06 PM

Newport Boy-

This "Waiting for Godet" kind of story is quite familiar to me, whether it be in the hills of Ethiopia, the Appalacians, or the coast of Maine. Even C. Fox Smith had such a story about an "adventure" that almost happened when she and a friend were invited aboard a small whale processing vessel on the Victoria waterfront one dark evening. Here's how she described it from SHIP ALLEY, pp. 72-78:

I once had the beginning of a first-class adventure. I say the beginning, because, as will be seen, nothing really happened. But all the essential material was there. The people, the setting, the whole atmosphere of the thing might be a fragment of some unfinished "Ebb Tide" or "Wreckers." It set one spinning romance on the instant.

We were fishing from the Outer Wharf at Victoria one fine, magical evening, the stars just beginning to glow in the sunset-flushed sky, a gleam of phosphorescence showing in the shadow of the piles or flashing from a line as it was drawn from the water. A light, but rather cold, wind was blowing off the snowy summits of the Olympic Mountains across the strait, which was perhaps the reason why the black bass were sulky, and showed not the slightest interest in the fascination of the orthodox scrap of white rag flaunted before their languid noses.

There were no deep-sea ships at the wharf. A China liner had been and gone, and left some piles of interesting-looking bales and bundles; but otherwise there was nothing but a very small coaster, rocking up and down on the tide at the inner berth, her mooring creaking on the bollards as she lifted and fell. She was so small and dark that at first you hardly noticed her; there was no light about her but the glimmer of the lantern a man had just hoisted in the rigging, and a round yellow eye that showed a cabin window. She was a short, squat, barge-like little vessel, with one stumpy mast, and a funnel like a stove-pipe sticking up amidships. Her one boat gleamed white in the half light. You could see her name – "Golconda" – across her stern, as if she were some stately East Indiaman at the very least, instead of a mere grubby, uninteresting little coaster such as hang about in shoals in the wake of the deep-sea traders on the Pacific Coast.

There did not seem to be anyone stirring about her; but presently a man detached himself from her shadow and came and stood silent beside me. I went on fishing a while before he spoke.

"You vill not cass any more fishes to-night. See?"

"Probably not," I said; "not much luck this evening."

"You vill not haf any luck while I watch you," he said, with a grudging laugh. "I vas very unlucky man. See? All my life I vas very unlucky man."

This promised to be more interesting than the coy black bass. I left off fishing and talked to the son of ill-luck.

He proved to be the skipper of the queer little "Golconda," a Norwegian by birth who has sailed in Liverpool ships ever since he "vas lidde tiny boy." His life had been chiefly in sailing ships and he spoke regretfully of their comfort and cleanliness. "None of did dirt and schmuts and stinks" – he waved his hand in the direction of the "Golcondra," rocking peacefully at her berth.

It seemed that her business was a rather specially odoriferous one, that of fetching and carrying cargoes of whale oil and whale fertilizer from the trying stations on the West Coast of Vancouver Island. I have never had the pleasure of being to the leeward of a trying station in full blast, but I am assured on good authority that the reducing of leviathan to merchantable elements is one of the most knock-down processes in the smelly line that the human senses can meet with.

Nevertheless, whaling is one of the most ancient and romantic of deep-sea trades, and the "Golcondra's" skipper having been through the whole business himself, could spin some interesting yarns in his queer broken English. So we sat there on the edge of the Outer Wharf while the afterglow faded out of the sky, and talked – or rather he talked – about the bowhead and the killer and the sperm whale, about the deeds of boat steerers and harpooners and whalers' crews, all in the brave days gone by. For with the coming of steam much of the old-time glamour has gone from the "spouter's" trade. The whalemen of the old school say that it is owing to the advent of the steam vessels that whales are becoming scarcer in the Pacific, as they undoubtedly are. According to their theory, the steamships cause such alarm among the whales that they are keeping more and more to the northern seas, close to the Polar ice-cap and the Arctic Circle. However that may be, it is certain that whales are not taken so readily as they used to be, nor is the fishery the rousing affair it was in the days of Herman Melville's "Moby Dick."

It had got a trifle cold as we sat talking, and an invitation to go on board the "Golconda" and drink a cup of tea was far from unwelcome.

"I 'ave a new Chink cook," said the skipper; "mein old cook he vas run avays, der galoot, an' he take all der cake an' biscuits mit him. Des vas nodding but bread an' butter."

It was very dark on board the "Golcondra," and we groped our way along her cramped deck and so by a black companion-way, like a scuttle leading into hell's forecastle, into the tiny cuddy, where an evil-looking Chinaman was shuffling in and out on slippered feet, setting out enamel cups and saucers on an oilcloth-covered table.

It was not until you got into the cuddy that the "Golcondra's" really salient point forced itself upon your notice – her "aura," so to speak, the thing of which her name in future always remind you. And that thing, that aura, was the smell of blubber.

It was everywhere. It was on the "Golcondra" herself, without and within; on the deck, the boat, the ropes, the rails; in the companion and in the cabin; on the skipper and the cook. I have not a doubt but it was also on the enamel cups and saucers, and I'm certain I would have been in the tea. That point, however, as will be presently seen, I never put positively to the proof. It lurked also, about one's own clothes long afterwards, and came back to you in vague, stealthy whiffs from the creases of your pocket-handkerchief.

The skipper had suddenly become quite silent. He sat down by the table, with his elbows upon it, and gnawed moodily at his nails. In the light of the smoky oil lamp I saw him for the first time – a swarthy, saturnine-looking fellow, or a dark Celtic rather than the usual fair Scandinavian type. Between the side of the vessel and the piles of the wharf the tide muttered and chuckled to itself like people talking, and somewhere in the heart of the little ship an engine kept chug-chugging.

It was perhaps out of this half-silence and the strange surroundings in the yellow, smoky light of the lamp that there grew up a queer feeling of something that was going to happen, something for which the "Golcondra" was waiting, for which the silent man nibbling his nails, was waiting, and the pulsing engine and the plotting, whispering tide. The commonplace little steamer had somehow become secret, sinister, threatening. I could no more have drunk that cup of tea than a potion brewed by a Borgia – and that not by reason of its blubbery potentialities.

Presently a large man in dungarees came on, reeking of blubber like the rest, whom the skipper introduced as "my chief mate." I don't know where the rest of the mates were, but I imagine it must have been a sort of courtesy title as regarded the "chief," as also in the case of the "chief" engineer, who came clattering down the companion, amazingly smart in his shoregoing clothes. The mate, after having fired off the surprising information that he was a "kind of cosmopolitan," became as silent as the captain. The engineer saved the situation. He talked for both in an engaging South Irish brogue, and on an amazing variety of themes. But the sense of queer, brooding expectancy remained in spite of him.

And then … It may have been the smell of blubber; it may have been the motion of the little ship as she rose and fell; it may have been – for my part I believe it was – a sort of panic.

"Oh, dear … I must go!" exclaimed my fellow-guest suddenly, and made a dash for the companion.

She said – rather lamely, in my private opinion – that she felt queer. Everyone was very sorry. The skipper presented us with two pieces of gill bone "for curios." And the spell was broken. The "Golcondra" was a commonplace little tub that smelt of blubber. And the adventure, if there was going to be one, never came off.

I wonder though … A few months afterwards, a paragraph caught my eye in a local newspaper to the effect that the whaling tender "Golcondra" had been burned to the water's edge on the Fraser River at Vancouver, with her crew sleeping in their bunks. My friend the cosmopolitan mate was badly burned in an attempt at rescue. As for the skipper – I don't know what became of him, but the loss of his ship would no doubt confirm his belief that he "vas very unlucky man."

And something had happened after all.

Cheerily,
Charley Noble

Subject: RE: BS:Totally irrelevant travel stories
From: Celtaddict
Date: 13 Jan 08 - 09:38 PM

Thanks, Newport Boy and Charley. A random irrelevant story thread is a good idea. (Much more entertaining than random irrelevant comments on other threads.)
Charley, I can tell you first hand, you are correct in your impression of what the whale rendering smells like. When I lived in Iceland in the 1970s, we visited the active whaling plant there. It was impressive to see the enormous vertebrae, the masses of blubber, the spinal cord which had been removed for who knows what purpose, but we had a vantage point on a hill looking down at the activity and the miasma seemed potentially lethal even at that remove, so* we could not stomach the thought of approaching nearer.
The 'could have been an adventure' feeling is a curiously stimulating one, isn't it? In northeast Costa Rica, I spent a night in a rain forest, more or less in the middle of nowhere (thoroughly shocking my native host family who placed boards over all the windows of their little house and fastened chains and let some ugly, untamed dogs out each night), not camping, just sitting with my camera on a tripod, no lights, just to see what might happen. Aside from fascinating sounds, shoebill storks and tiger storks and lots of random rustling, and a good deal of traffic in the canopy above me, mostly small animals, opossum types, not much happened, but there was the constant feeling something dramatic was about to happen.

Subject: RE: BS:Totally irrelevant travel stories
From: mouldy
Date: 14 Jan 08 - 05:32 AM

Familiar territory here, although perhaps to a lesser extent in my life.

We quit South Africa in Nov 1983, after just over 2 years there, and the head of the family decided to see "proper Africa". So we drove back, along with 2 young kids. He got us into trouble in the Ngorogoro crater, where we had camped on the site there, by deciding to take an early morning trip into the crater itself (without a permit). All went well till we got nobbled! The main warden was down with a tourist party. He accompanied us out in our Land Rover (taking us past some interesting stuff). We apologised, and in the end we just paid the permit cost.
Our main "waits" were firstly, just a couple of hours to get through the border between Tanzania (Serengeti)and Kenya (Masai Mara). For a start, we were a day late through, as a flash flood had stopped us on our last day. Secondly, it was found that our multi-entry permit - acquired right over on the Indian Ocean side of the country on 30th November, about 10 days previously, and valid for 3 months, did indeed expire in the allotted time: on 30th February! Now the problem we had with all this is that there are 3 agencies involved in crossing the border: game park officials, police, and immigration. It was pointed out to us by the parks official (a very nice man, who understood our delay, and had no problem over it) that we were the first people through for 4 days, and that the others had been drinking. The immigration officer picked up the anomaly on the permit, and told us we had to go back and get it changed (about a week's drive). We argued the toss that unless there were fuel stops in the game park we had no chance, and that it wasn't us who had made the error. After a couple of hours, a vehicle from the Kenyan side turned up, with some people on board (Swiss, I think) who were working in the area, and spoke Swahili. They informed us that they could hear that all they were after was a bribe, and that $20 should do it. Luckily it did, especially after I started bringing my tearful 5 year old into the office "to see what daddy was doing".
We got into Uganda, which was not being advised at the time, as it wasn't long after Idi Amin had been deposed, and there were still some problems with anti-government factions. We never had any trouble at all. It just suddenly seemed that the police road side checks disappeared, and people looked at us a bit sideways. We camped up at the game park camp site near Lake Edward, and got told not to mind the rangers "training". The kids certainly enjoyed the assault course, and we had the place to ourselves. The guys there were marvellous, even giving Ian a lift on a moped into town to get the radiator braized, to cure a leak. Later he informed me that we were actually in a rebel training camp!
Zaire cost us a lot in "fares" to use the free ferries across the rivers. The government provided them, but the forgot them. Diesel and sometimes batteries got sold off, and so some ask for a gallon of diesel before they let us on. Another meant the loan of our battery, and a trip across in a dug-out to get the loan of a battery from a vehicle on the other side in order to start the engine. The fuekl option didn't work with us - we were on petrol. We got through many packets of cigarettes (bought specially), Ian's shirts, and once, even a paperback novel in English, (for the dug-out) which I had to convince the lad who owned it he could remarket to tourists coming the other way!
We broke the U bolts on the back axle in Zaire, but that didn't cause much hold up - we just tied it on and used front wheel drive until we found some more, at a mission, that actually didn't break.
Our next hold up was in Central African Republic. You have to get a visa to get in, which wasn't a problem. the only place you can change money is Bangui, the capital, so everyone heads there. What they didn't tell you is that you need another to get out through the "12 Kilometre Post". To cut it short, Ian, and the driver of another LR we had joined up with, both got a bit "bad tempered" at this, as they said we had to go back and get one from the post office, and hey, guess what, it's now closed for the weekend. They suggested ian and the other guy go back into town in his LR, and they'd sort things out with them. After about 3 hours, a guy came up to the females and kids, left in our LR, and suggested we drive down to the Port Fluvial in town (the riverside border post with Zaire) as it was all ok now. So I drove there to find out that we had to surrender our passports and car keys (we had spares) and stay there till Monday, when they'd see us again. Well, I got my washing done, but what a way to spend my birthday! On Monday all was smiles and they let us out to go to the PO and get the visas. We just breezed through the post.
We had to wait 5 days in Njamena to get a permit to go around Lake Chad (which we never saw, as it has shrunk to 10% of its original size, although we did see very old hippo bones.
The worst wait was in Algiers. We were forced by regulations to change a large sum of money at the official exchange rate, which meant that we could afford to buy very little in the way of protein foods (an egg was 25p, a kilo of sausages worked out at $17 - and that was 24 years ago!), and so we went to the bank to telex some funds from the UK. Our plan was to get the ferry to Marseilles. However, they kept telling us there was no news, day after day, and our money was nearly gone. Most of it went on fuel for the LR. We contacted the British Embassy who said that we would have trouble after buying the traveller's cheques we wanted, as the Algerian dinar is non-exchangeable. So what we did is cancel the original order (after about a week), then contact NatWests's head office and get them to reimburse the Foreign Office, who in turn would lend us some money in francs and some in dinars. Trouble was, the francs weren't enough to pay for the ferry, which was about £400 - and had to be in foreign currency - so we filled up, using the dinars, and crossed to Tunisia, which our expired insurance (thanks to the delays in Algiers) only caused us an overnight delay and an affidavit. We then telexed more money over and got the Tunis/Naples ferry in the nick of time.

Long haul over now!

Andrea

Subject: RE: BS:Totally irrelevant travel stories
From: maeve
Date: 14 Jan 08 - 08:24 AM

Please, all, may we have some more?

maeve

Subject: RE: BS: Totally irrelevant travel stories
From: Newport Boy
Date: 14 Jan 08 - 08:51 AM

Your plea has touched my heart, Maeve (or rather my vanity). If I'd realised this thread would run, I'd have left out The 'African' in the title. So this isn't African.

In 2000, the same friend, Chris, was living in Australia. He commissioned me to collect a 1972 Laverda bike (non-runner) from a guy in France. We were to meet at Calais - but all was not straightforward. My email tells the story.


Chris,

Your new baby has arrived safely, and now resides in my workshop. The exercise was not without difficulty, and avoided disaster by a hair's breadth. I'll tell you the story as it unfolded.

To begin, as they say, at the beginning. I had hired a luton van with tail lift from 1700 yesterday to 1700 today. I didn't know how difficult it would be to handle the bike off the tail lift, and so when Pete offered to keep me company, I accepted gratefully. (Good decision No 1). At the weekend, Pete said there was a slight problem - he had to attend a funeral yesterday. However, the funeral was at Battle, Kent, and so at least he was in the right part of the country. Timing wasn't easy, but we arranged a number of possible meeting places, and used mobiles to co-ordinate.

I collected the van, loaded up ropes, pieces of timber, cot mattress and tools for use in securing the bike, a couple of pillows for Pete & I to sleep in the van, and a rucsac to carry any parts. I met Pete at Newbury services, and we arrived at Dover about 23:30. Collected our tickets for the 0615 ferry to Calais and the 0930 return, parked the van in the convenient long term car park , and settled down to snatch some sleep. We slept fitfully, and were both wide awake at 0415. We decided to go over on the earlier ferry (Good decision No 2), expecting Francois to arrive about 0815.

At 0800, I explored the terminal layout and discovered that I would have to push the bike about 400m out through the car park, and 400m back to the check in kiosks, then about 800m down to the ferry berth. At least it was all fairly level, and I should have about 25 minutes to do it. At 0830, there was still no sign of Francois, and I decided to walk out to the car park entrance to intercept him and reduce the distance I had to push (Good decision No 3). At 0835, Francois arrived bike in tow behind car filled with wife?, large dog and a number of boxes. Brief discussion confirmed that most of the boxes were for us, and that carrying all that lot over 1km was not very practical.

   Francois was late because they had set out yesterday afternoon, and the car had broken down on the way. After getting it repaired, they had slept in the car, and driven directly to the terminal.

I asked at the information desk whether there was any alternative, and they said Francois could bring the car and trailer down to the berth. He confirmed the details, and we moved the dog into the boot, Pete into the back seat with our rucsacs and a couple of boxes, and me in the front seat with a large, but light, box on my lap. (This is either the new screen or fairing - I haven't had chance to look yet.) Arriving at the berth, we unloaded the bike and started to sort out the boxes of bits. After 2 minutes, we were harassed by the loading crew, who wanted us on board in 5 minutes.

There were too many bits for 2 of us to carry, and I left it to Francois to give me those which he thought were worth while. I loaded my rucsac with a pair of forks, the dynamo, regulator and sundry other bits, totalling 20kg. Pete put a number of smaller parts in his bag, and carried the box with the fairing/screen under one arm, and the battery in a plastic bag in the other hand. Francois handed me all the documents, wrote you a receipt, and accepted the cheque. We bid a hasty farewell as a young woman with a handset said "Two minutes - after that the next ferry is from Zeebrugge". The French fisherman were starting a blockade of the ferry ports to protest over the cost of fuel.

I gave Pete the pit stand to carry with whichever limb he had spare, and off we went. I was too late to run the bike gently down to the lower car deck, and had to push up a steep ramp to the upper deck. The bike seemed fairly light - the rucsac on my back was the problem. We got on, the ramp was lifted, and the ferry was under way before the bike was strapped down. From meeting Francois to sailing was just 40 minutes - I don't think even you would have done better. The departure was well-timed - 15 minutes earlier than scheduled - and made us the last boat out of Calais today. One other ferry got into Calais as we left, and that's still there tonight.

There was one other bike on board - a 60's Vincent ridden by a German guy. It was his fourth Vincent, and he'd been riding them for 24 years. He was off to a Steam Fair in Dorset - he didn't seem to understand when I asked if the Vincent was steam-driven.

At Dover, things went smoothly, albeit slowly. I left Pete at the berth guarding the bike, rucsacs, boxes and battery while I went out and got a temporary pass to bring the van in and collect it all. We loaded up (a large closed van) and drove out without anyone asking to see passport, tickets, any other documents or the contents of the van. Arrived home about 1540, unloaded, showered, changed, took Pete home, fuelled and returned the van and went out to our cheese & wine evening. A good 24 hours!!

If Pete hadn't come, if we hadn't taken the earlier ferry, if Francois had been a little later - I'd have been 10 minutes later and missed the boat. I'd have been at Calais with a dormant bike, and no chance of a ferry until tomorrow at the earliest - from Zeebrugge. The hired van would have been clamped in the car park at Dover.

At home, Anne had heard about the blockade, looked up the details on Teletext, and panicked. Her main worry was that she didn't know where her passport and ticket was for Spain on Saturday. I could stay and rot in Calais - and you in Australia. This mood lasted half an hour until I phoned to say that we were heading out of Dover.

End of tale. I'll look through all the bits before Saturday, and send you a list. I will also add up the costs - there's no hurry about this, as we won't be back until 16/9. We leave home 1230 Saturday. And so to bed.

Regards

Phil

Subject: RE: BS:Totally irrelevant travel stories
From: Charley Noble
Date: 14 Jan 08 - 09:13 AM

Here's oe of my father's favorite stories from his years of moderating town meeting in the Midcoast Maine town:

Jackassing with Captain Davis
(As remembered by Adolph Ipcar in 1998)

After I had just presented a budget to the Town Meeting in Georgetown (Maine), I walked outdoors for some fresh air. Old Captain Stin Davis greeted me, asking, "Is there a jackass in that budget?"

"I've never been asked that in all my budgeting days," I replied to him.

"Well," said Captain Davis, "when I sold my ship's cargo in them Mediterranean ports, I used to hire a jackass to transport me to possible buyers. I remember one day I got back to New York City and presented my expense accounts to the shipping clerk, who after examining them, said to me, 'Captain Davis, everything seems O.K. except for your jackass rental. We cannot reimburse you for that.' Well, you know, when I sold off the next cargo and got back to present my accounts to that clerk, he looked them over and said, 'Captain Davis, everything looks O.K. and I'm glad I don't see any jackass in this billing.' He paid me off, and as I was leaving, I said to him, 'I know you don't see any jackass in that billing but the jackass is still there, Sir.'"

Cheerily,
Charley Noble

Subject: RE: BS:Totally irrelevant travel stories
From: mouldy
Date: 14 Jan 08 - 09:56 AM

Ok, so this is one from a couple of years ago, told to me by my late husband.
His work, at one point, about 12 years ago, took him to Kyrghyzstan, which is in the Tien Shen mountains, a northern spur off the Himalayas. While he was there he learned to ski, and even after he left, tried to get back once a year, usually in January, to get some skiing in. He even went as far as keeping an old VW Golf garaged out there, looked after by a local, for about $100pa. He had bought this once after a horrendous air journey from Siberia, and drove it back over the steppes, ran it for a year in Siberia, and then took it back to Bishkek for use when he was out there.

Anyway

On one of his last ski trips out there, he took the car part way up a mountain, only to be faced by a very icy slope to get to where he wanted to be. Luckily a couple of locals on horseback volunteered, for a small consideration, to tow him up. On his way back he noticed the same locals pouring water on the slope late in the day so the surface would be just as good tomorrow! This also meant that he couldn't use his brakes on the way down, and narrowly missed rear-ending another car.
The next day he rolled up as before, and the lads approached. This time, Ian just let out the clutch and tore up the hill on his studded tyres, which he hadn't thought necessary to fit the day before, waving cheerfully!

Incidentally, while he worked out there he had diplomatic immunity, which he said was great for getting out of speeding fines. He had a little paddle sign, which he used to wave at the cops in the speed traps as he drove through.

Andrea

Subject: RE: BS:Totally irrelevant travel stories
From: katlaughing
Date: 14 Jan 08 - 10:09 AM

Love these! Keep 'em coming, folks!! ANd, thanks!

Subject: RE: BS:Totally irrelevant travel stories
From: Celtaddict
Date: 14 Jan 08 - 10:41 AM

My husband and I once found an old library book of castles one could visit in northern Europe. One indicated an old one on a high hill overlooking a little town in Bavaria. There were no signs, it was not a developed 'tourist' castle, just an old stone shell. The book described the place to look for the turn in the steep hilly small village. We started up the 'next right' as instructed, in a narrow lane between stone walls and buildings, many of which were very near the lane. It was an area of many woodcarvers, though it was late afternoon and everyone seemed to be out of sight at the moment. The lane became narrower and narrower, and we did consider whether we should in fact go on, but decided we were headed in the right direction and obviously in a very old village so surely it was the correct lane. It continued to narrow, until, crunch, we had wedged our little compact rental between the stone walls. We could not go forward, we could not back up, we could not get out of the car to assess the situation because we could not open the doors, and it was not even a hatchback so I could not climb out the back. Though not a soul was in sight until then, we were at once surrounded by large jovial men, in leather aprons, many waving steins and all exhibiting a great deal of hilarity. After a merry and prolonged comedy routine at our expense, of which we understood not one word, the group set to and picked up our car bodily, popping it loose from the stone walls with a sound that made us cringe, and carried us some twenty feet or so back down the lane, to put us down again where we could then make our way gingerly back down. They laughed throughout and waved off any efforts at payment or thanks. We did go on, in a subdued state, to find the next little alley to the right did have a very small, very faded wood sign handpainted 'castle' with an arrow.

Subject: RE: BS:Totally irrelevant travel stories
From: maeve
Date: 14 Jan 08 - 02:54 PM

Oh joy! Do continue!

Thanks,

maeve

Subject: RE: BS:Totally irrelevant travel stories
From: gnu
Date: 14 Jan 08 - 03:17 PM

A bit off the topic, but, still travel related. My Newfoundland buddy George called me yesterday from Qatar. He's been there for two months. His wife Shirley for one month.

Prior to going to Qatar, he went through the "big box of pictures" and selected a number of pics, such as of his house and farm, his cottage, the local countryside, moose, moose, nudder moose... Shirley had a good laugh. Who's going to want to see those pics?

First day that she was in Qatar, she asked George what they would do for a Christmas tree... can't have Christmas without a tree! George said, "Well, I don't know Shirle as I've nare n axe and there be nuttin t' cut even if I 'ad 'n."

And, the light went on. Within a couple of hours, armed with a picture of the Chritmas tree in front of the provincial legislature in St. John's, Newfoundland repleat with snow, decorations and lights, they were directed to a merchant who had the whole shebang. They had a wonderful Christmas.

Though he did say the rum was dear.

Subject: RE: BS:Totally irrelevant travel stories
From: Charley Noble
Date: 14 Jan 08 - 09:11 PM

Excerpt from letter: Emdeber, Ethiopia to home in May of 1968

Dear Folks,

Phil and I had glimpsed Zarrah before on a previous adventure, while searching for the Marranah Maid, whom I'm sure you'll recall. Zarrah with its crown of ancient fir trees lies just across the Wenkiya River in Gatoe, but we had thought little of it then. Phil had mentioned that it was probably the hill where Emperor Zariako spent the night while pursuing (or was it being pursued by?) some dissident Guragies. Well, the other day some more aerial photographs arrived at our school, filling in some odd corners of the map I've been building, including the Zarrah hill. Upon closer examination there appeared to be a small clearing in the fir grove, and by this time all us pagan scholars of Gurage knew what that means, especially when there is a round dot in the center of the clearing. Phil asked a few questions of our students and it seemed worthwhile to ride out and give it a looksee, especially since we were both looking for a break from classes, riots, and general administrative impotence. So off we rode Saturday morning toward the Aftar Market, following a new shortcut I had mapped out the night before, which oddly enough turned out to be not so short after we turned right off the wrong intersection. After leading our horses up and down an endless series of ridges and ravines we arrived breathless at the banks of the Wenkiya River, even more breathless as we peered down at the raging torrent below us, and the rickety plank bridge we were to lead our horses across. We mulled this one over a while, over an open can of Chairman Mau's pineapple slices. Fortunately a gentleman of the country appeared, and after a short discussion led us upstream a bit where it was fairly safe to ford the river, safe that is if you knew it was safe. Once over the river it was an easy matter to trot up to the foot of Zarrah, climb up to the top, and race our ponies across the field up to the forest, which was every bit as ancient and gnarled as one could wish. And sure enough there was a path leading into the heart of the forest, which upon racing down it at full gallop we discovered did not lead to any sacred grove with temple but rather mundanely to the other side of the hill. Whereupon I reined in my horse and studied the aerial photographs more closely. We then led the horses down the other side of the hill, toward a small field where an old man and some boys were tending their cattle. We made small talk with them in Chahenya (a dialect of Amharic). Well, the old man kindly offered to lead us out of the forest by another trail. Sure enough as we crossed another path I looked down it and there was a clearing, and a small round temple. After pointing this out to our guide he reluctantly admitted it indeed was a temple in honor of Waq (the star god). The setting within the grove was really beautiful, although the temple itself was in a sad state of repair. Still, it's always exciting to see the carved marker posts in front of the temple, and the sacrificial altar inside.

We spent the night at the home of another ritual leader in a neighboring village, after a long exciting ride in the darkening evening. We all gathered around the circular fireplace, our socks drying on a stick, as we told them of our adventures. The conversation drifted to how we celebrated Wak's special day in the States. Fortunately I had some Chinese skyrockets in my saddle pack. So we were able to give a convincing demonstation of our celebration. They were quite impressed! They also questioned us about what they had heard on their transistor radio, that the earth was round and circled the sun. We had some oranges with us, and dutifully laid them out as a model of the solar system, discussed how they were supposed to rotate, and then divided them up for consumption much to the delight of everyone.

Cheerily,
Charley Noble
Peace Corp Volunteer, Ethiopia (1965-1968)

Subject: RE: BS:Totally irrelevant travel stories
From: maeve
Date: 14 Jan 08 - 09:15 PM

I am loving this thread! Thank you, everyone.

Subject: RE: BS:Totally irrelevant travel stories
From: katlaughing
Date: 14 Jan 08 - 10:56 PM

Me, too, maeve! More, more!

Subject: RE: BS:Totally irrelevant travel stories
From: katlaughing
Date: 14 Jan 08 - 11:13 PM

A small indulgence, perhaps? An excerpt from a fictionalised autobiography from my earliest days to age thirteen. In this chapter, my family and I were trying to reach my grandparents in Denver, for Christmas. It was before four-lane highways; Wyoming in the winter was in full force with a blizzard catching us out:

Her sisters were quiet, as their dad had growled at them all to keep still, his need to concentrate too important for their distractions. Her brother continued to hang out the window, guiding him as to where the side of the road was; the cold air rushed into the car and they all shivered with its ferocity. It was as if the wind bore fingers of its previous victims, scrabbling around the edges of the interior of the car, looking, literally, for handholds, a touch along the back of a neck or on the shoulder, claiming, or at least trying to claim, another victim of the storm, in their lonely seeking for rest. Kally shivered, again, and her sister held her tighter against her chest.

Kally knew her parents were afraid, especially her mom. She was in the front seat, peering ahead into the darkness of the storm, all light from the sun, or any other source, completely blocked except for the few feet in which their headlights projected. In their light, all she could see were snowflakes, a swirling cauldron of snowflakes. It was as if Winter was a witch, like the ones she'd heard about in Shakespeare's writings, pouring more and more snow into the pot, stirring it up in a quickening frenzy of destruction, flinging it in their faces, in the open window and blowing the snow down the collars of their coats.

Her dad dared not stop the car lest they get stuck in the drifts which kept piling up along the edges and middle of the road. Snowplows had been through a few days before and either pushed the previous snow to the side or to the middle, unthinkingly making small hillocks to catch the drifting snow as it was blown across in a horizontal blanket of suffocation. Her dad continued to curse softly under his breath so as not to raise her mother's ire. She didn't like it when he used rough language around the kids. His hands were clenched and knuckles white as he fought to keep the car going against the strong gale. His shoulders were hunched, braced against the wind and any unforeseen objects which may spring up, the least of which might be another car or truck on the road. They could only see a few feet in front of the car; behind them the storm closed in, angry at their disturbance of the blanket it laid down across the land. By now, they were all bundled up as much as possible, with all of their coats, scarves, hats and gloves. They didn't dare stop to get the blankets out of the trunk as it just was too dangerous. Kally's feet were getting cold. They had rubber boots to keep their feet dry, but, in the days before "moon boots" and advanced technology, the only warmth offered was through woollen socks and layers. Kally was allergic to wool, so she had on only layers of cotton socks, plus long underwear, its waffle weave offering scant protection against the fierce cold which enveloped them. She had already put on her snowpants, which, even though they were wool, did help her keep some warmth. There were enough layers between them and her skin, she wasn't itching at least. As she looked around at her family, all she could see were their eyes and mouths; their lips were all pinched in grim expressions of dread. When her mom looked back at them, she could see the fear in her eyes, even though she smiled and told them it would be alright. This time, one of the first times ever, Kally did not believe her mom. She knew they might never make it to grandma's house.

Her father let out a sharp exclamation. He told her brother to look ahead; was that a light he saw? As they drew nearer, he realised they were close to a truck stop; a low slung, one long building out in the middle of nowhere, at least seventy-five miles from the nearest town, a mere semblance of civilisation. He remembered it from his days out on the road, travelling to drilling rigs. He knew they'd eventually go by it, but they'd been on the road so long, the going had been so slow; he thought they must've missed it. What normally may have taken a mere hour and a half to two hours on the old road, had consumed the entire day. It was early evening when he spotted the bleak neon sign of the café.

Carefully, carefully, her dad inched the car along. There was a huge release of tension as they all realised they would make it to the safety of the rest stop. When they finally edged off the road into the parking lot, they could see that many other travellers had also stopped in. It was an oasis of light sans the palm trees. As they all piled out of the car, her parents shepherded them through the door of the establishment. A kind, but tired looking lady met them. She offered a warm welcome, pointing to one empty booth near the back of the room. As they looked around, Kally could see all kinds of people: gnarled old ranchers, their shoulders hunched up from the cold; truck drivers with coveralls zipped up tight, stocking caps pulled down over their ears; families, like hers, with small children, all scattered around at tables, booths, and the bar.

First thing Kally's mom and dad did was asked for some hot coffee for themselves and her brother. The woman who obviously owned the place was a step ahead of them; she brought over a tray with steaming mugs of not only coffee, but also hot chocolate for the girls. She told Kally's parents the menu was still available, though they were running low on some items. She'd be happy to cook them up a meal, the "drinks were on the house," though. As they wearily settled in, taking off their outermost garments, Kally looked a bit closer at their surroundings. Like most out of the way places in Wyoming, this one had a few goods for sale: postcards of antelope, bald eagles and cowboys. She also saw a glass case with some handmade jewellery and polished stones.

After her parents ordered some hamburgers and shakes for them all, Kally asked her mom if it would be okay to go look at the shiny stones in the case. It was close by their table. Her dad was up, visiting with a couple of fellows he knew from the "oil patch." They had all used the facilities and were finally relaxing a bit, relieved to have found shelter from the storm. Her mom let out a long sigh of relief and told Kally it would be alright, but to keep out of peoples' way and mind her manners. She admonished her not to touch anything.

Among their fellow refugees, several had decks of cards out on their tables, playing various games including pinochle, poker, and, it looked like, canasta. Kally's family played a lot of canasta. As young as she was, she was only a beginner at it, but she enjoyed it, most of the time; sometimes her sisters who were twins were a bit wicked about winning, holding their cards close, then swooping down with whoops of glee when they melded in one grand hand and went out on everyone else, leaving them all holding most of their cards. Still, she would learn and one day beat them at it. She hoped there was another set of cards in the café which they could use. Maybe she and her sisters could borrow it and play a hand or two.

She made her way over to the glass case. It was electrified, with lights glancing off the facets of each stone. It had swinging horizontal shelves which rotated vertically inside the case. One had only to push a button on top and to the right, to advance the next shelf to in front of them, where they could stop it and look at the treasures as long as they liked. Kally was fascinated and, at first, didn't hear her mom when she called that their food was ready.

It had been a long day. They'd only had a few snacks in the car and Kally realised she was really, really hungry. She answered her mom the second time she called and made her way back to their booth. There she saw a plate in front of each of her family members and one for herself, filled with freshly cooked hamburgers, with lettuce and tomato on the side, as well as onions for her dad. Each plate was also piled high with French fries. Tall glasses of milk mixed with chocolate ice cream were placed near her plate and those of her sisters. Her dad finished up his visiting and ambled over to the table, too. He told her mom the storm was supposed to let up in a few hours. The phone lines were out, so there was no way to call her grandparents to let them know why they were late. The snowplow operators had been contacted by radio, the owner of the café had told him, and were swamped trying to keep the towns dotted around the state open for local traffic. It would be a long time before they made it to the open prairie roads outside of any of the towns. The whole state was locked in, all traffic including railroad, airplanes, cars and trucks, was stopped. Nothing was getting through not even the much vaunted U.S. mail service.

By now it was late evening and Kally was feeling sleepy. She'd finished her meal; her tummy was full. Relief had washed over them all and fatigue set in as their muscles relaxed, most of the tension washed away in the warmth of the room and their full stomachs. The owner of the place came over to tell her parents she'd figured out where all of the children who were stuck there could bed down for the night. She had gathered all of her own blankets from her apartment out back and those of other stranded folks and cleared a space in one corner, nearest the heating stove, where each child would have a pallet on which to sleep. Kally's mom was really happy and grateful for the owner's thoughtfulness. She told Kally and her twin sisters to gather up their coats and things and follow her and the woman to the bedding. As they walked behind their mother, they went past the glass case of rocks and jewellery once more. Kally couldn't help herself; she stopped once more to look at the beautiful little shiny stones. Glancing back over her shoulder, her mom urged her to hurry along, but the owner had also seen her interest. She told Kally's mom it was alright and asked if it was okay to let Kally feel some of the rocks. Her mom gave the woman a tired smile and a nod of acquiescence. Kally gave her mom a big hug and a thank you as the owner walked behind the counter and unlocked the case. She took out a small basket with tumbled rocks filled almost to the brim. She set it down low, in a nearby chair, so that Kally could touch them, holding up one, then another, looking at them through the light of the lamps overhead, squinting her eye and closing the other in her concentration over their beauty. The kindly owner softly asked her if she would like to pick one out to keep, for free. Kally was overcome with joy. She loved rocks almost as much as she loved her pets and family. After shyly murmuring her thanks, she carefully sifted through them until a tiny agate fell into her hand. It was almost opaque, a kind of see-through gray with black dots, like a Dalmatian in need of a bath. It was oval in shape and so smooth. She held it between her fingers, rubbing its surface with one finger, then turned it over, noting the almost identical likeness of its other side. It was her very own treasure and she was so content standing there, holding the wonderful gift from the kindly stranger. She almost felt like the baby Jesus, finally given succour and safety by the innkeeper, then receiving wonderful gifts from the magi. The out-of-the-way café's owner was her magus, the tiny stone her frankincense. As she thanked the woman once more, she drifted over to where her mother was helping her sisters settle down for a few hours of sleep. By morning they hoped to be on the road again. Her dad and the other drivers had plotted out their routes and planned to caravan to the next town, everyone watching out for each other and making sure they were all safe. They had passed the hat and gathered as much extra cash as they each could spare. Her dad then gave the money to the owner with a hearty round of applause and thank you's from the stranded crowd. Once strangers, they were full of camaraderie and goodwill toward one another, vowing to keep in touch and wishing one and all a very Merry Christmas.

The next day, Kally and her family were able to leave before noon, actually following the snowplow as far as Medicine Bow where her mom was able to phone her grandparents and allay their worries. It took many more long hours of cautious driving before they came over a big hill and looked down on the lights of Denver; from there it was another forty-five minutes of so before they reached their destination. All of the way, Kally had clutched her treasured stone in her hand. It became a talisman warding off any more misadventures. In later years, it became a touchstone, bringing to mind the terrifying day and night of the horrendous storm balanced by the kindness of strangers and her belief in the infallibility of her magical parents.

Subject: RE: BS:Totally irrelevant travel stories
From: Bert
Date: 14 Jan 08 - 11:40 PM

We took off from Dhahran for a ten minute flight to Bahrain.

It was a bright sunny day but the sky grew dark almost immediately and the fasten seat belt lights stayed on. A warning came over the speakers that we should keep our seat belts fastened because were were going to get some turbulence.

Well that was the understatement of the bloody century. We went straight into the thunderstorm. I'm guessing that the pilot was ex-RAF because he wasn't about to give up. That plane got thrown around all over the sky, overhead baggage compartments flew open and baggage started falling out.

He still wasn't going to give in easily. He really tried to put that plane down in the middle of a thunderstorm. Eventually it got too much for him and he announced that we were going back to Dhahran.

We landed back at Dhahran and he announced that we were going to wait a while until the storm cleared. Everybody sat quietly in their seats and there wasn't a murmur of complaint. We were all looking forward to a weekend of boozing in Bahrain and were not giving in easily either.

After half an hour the storm cleared and we did the ten minute jouney without further incident. That was the worst I've ever been thrown around in a plane though.

On the return journey, also ten minutes of course, we sat next to a young Arab man. He opened his briefcase and showed us about a dozen beers. He said 'We have to finish these before we land because I can't take them through customs.' He shared them around with his nearest seatmates and we just about finished them in time.

All good stories have a happy ending.

Subject: RE: BS:Totally irrelevant travel stories
From: Charley Noble
Date: 15 Jan 08 - 09:01 AM

Kat-

That's a fine story, rich with detail.

Maybe it helps that there is over a foot of new snow blowing around outside right now!

Charley Noble

Subject: RE: BS:Totally irrelevant travel stories
From: katlaughing
Date: 15 Jan 08 - 10:25 AM

Brrr! Thanks, Charley! Sorry it is so long. I don't miss that kind of snow or wind.:-)

Love what I am reading from you all. Thanks for the inspiration!

Subject: RE: BS:Totally irrelevant travel stories
From: mouldy
Date: 16 Jan 08 - 09:33 AM

I know where you are, Kat - I have driven over Medicine Bow on the way from Laramie to Saratoga! The snow stays up there - it had snowed again the week previously, and it was June when I was on the road.

We had a horrible journey in 1983, when my parents came out to visit us in South Africa.
We had gone on a three week trip to the North, and then on to visit the Kruger Park. About 3 days into the park, my dad had a mild heart attack, which meant me staying on the camp, while Ian, mum and dad went out after dark (with a permit) to go to the next exit and out to the hospital at Phalaborwa. They saw more game on that journey than the rest of the holiday!
Anyway, dad had to spend a week in hospital, so we moved up to Letaba, the nearest camp. The first day we went to visit dad, there was a dead hippo lying on a little side track off the road out of the park. It was freshly dead so we went for a look. I had heard how vultures enter carcases - it's true! They get out the same way at first. We had to endure the smell of it as we drove past for the days after that.
When my dad came out, we decided to head south again and go to Swaziland and hotel accommodation for dad. Unfortunately, by the time we got to the border it was quite late. we got our passports stamped out of S. Africa, but by then the Swazi border was shut, and we were left in no-man's land. Ian turned the LR round to find that S. Africa had put down the barrier and shut up shop. Knowing he had a frail passenger and 2 young kids, he opened the barrier and drove us back through. The guards didn't do much to try and stop us. We then had to drive all night on the winding roads over the rest of the Drakensberg Range down to Natal, in one hell of a storm. My dad survived the trip reasonably well considering we could hardly see where we were going apart from with the lightning, and it was at altitude. We were really glad to get down to the coast in the early morning. The first thing we did when we got to Durban was to get my mum and dad into an hotel for a few days' rest.


I'm off to Sri Lanka in about a month's time. If this thread's still around, and if there is anything worth reporting, I'll add it.

Andrea

Subject: RE: BS:Totally irrelevant travel stories
From: jacqui.c
Date: 16 Jan 08 - 10:56 AM

Not quite as dramatic as some of the above but...........

Back in 1981 my ex and I went to Cornwall for a few days in late April.

We were travelling back, intending to spend one night in North Devon so that he could show me Lynton and Lynemouth and decided that there would be the best place to stay.

Lynton and Lynmouth are like twins, one village complementing the other.

Lynmouth is wedged between a steep cliff and the ocean on North Devon's coast, while Lynton looks down from the 500ft high clifftop on her twin. The views from either are glorious. You can see, on a clear day, across to the Welsh coast. We had the choice - both were lovely but I wanted a room with a view of the sea so up we went to Lynton to look for a hotel.

We found one on the edge of the cliff - can't remember the name now but it looked quite imposing. We booked in and went off for a meal in Lynemouth and a look round.

When we returned to the hotel we went into the lounge for a drink and to sit by the fire as the temperature was going down quite fast. We were served our drinks by the hotel owner - it seemed that that early in the season he had no staff - and were just sitting chatting to him when he excused himself, saying that he needed to get some more wood for the fire. He came back about five minutes later with a load of what looked like floorboards! Geoff and I just looked at each other and hoped that they weren't from the floor in our room!

We went off to bed, having been told that we had the luxury of an electric fire AND electric blanket - a necessity, given the ambient temperature right then. Unfortunately there was only one socket in the room, which could be used for the bedside light, fire and blanket so we had to make a decision. We ended up cuddled up in bed with the blanket on playing crib by torchlight while we waited for the bed to warm up enough to allow us to sleep.

Next morning we got up early to continue the journey to find the owner up and about cooking breakfast for us and commenting that he had finished all his chores and had nothing to do until pub opening in four hours time. breakfast was good, but I was puzzled by the sound of a sheep close by, in the middle of a small town on the edge of a cliff. Turned out it was the hotel 'lawn mower' - in view of the steep inclination if the lawn a more practical choice than the mechanical kind.

We set off that morning to head for home in Hertford. The travel news was of snow in the West, but that didn't really bother us too much. Who sees much snow in the UK, we thought. Travelling along the M5 we could see the Mendips in the distance, and, unusually for that time of year, the tops were white. Geoff had the brilliant idea to go see Cheddar Gorge in the snow.

We left the motorway and headed toward the Gorge. We were travelling down the road that goes through it when a 4wheel drive came the other way, flashing his lights and basically signalling no go. Geoff reckoned if that guy couldn't get through then we were probably not going to be able to either. We turned round, headed toward the motorway. He decided to go toward Wells and we were travelling along, through the snow, when we came to a hold up, with a number of vehicles turning round and heading back the way they came. Turned out that there had been a fatal accident further up the road and the police were advising against going that route.

We finally managed to get back onto the M5 by a very circuitous route and followed the snowplough down the M5 and M4 east. We could see humps by the side of the road – vehicles obviously abandoned by their owners for one reason or another. I remember feeling as if we were in a cocoon of comfort in a hostile world right then and hoping that that feeling would last to see us home.

We stopped at a service station to phone the kids and let them know why we were so late getting back. When I said that we had been caught in snow the reply was "what snow?".

By the time we got to Reading there was no snow to be seen.

We later heard that the West Country was cut off for a day or so, due to the heavy snowfall and we got out just in time.

Subject: RE: BS:Totally irrelevant travel stories
From: mouldy
Date: 17 Jan 08 - 05:26 AM

That one rekindled a memory, Jacqui, but mine's not as dramatic as yours!

Ian's previous employers used to send him abroad to work from time to time. (The first place he went was Poland - just a few days later Chernobyl went up, about 500 miles from where he was - bloody typical).

There was a couple of years' gap, and then he got sent to southern Wyoming for a couple of months. When he got back I informed him that I needed a break from the kids for a weekend, and he actually agreed to me heading off on my own. I opened the Good Beer Guide on a random page, hoping to find somewhere I hadn't been before, and I found Llangollen. I set off one Friday evening, in early December, and it started to snow around Chester, a couple of hours later. It was coming thick and fast by the time I rolled up at the pub I was booked into. The following day, I was having lunch in a town pub after trudging through about 6" of snow, and panicking while watching the news reports of blocked roads in the north, and of the M62 being only just passable. This was my route home.
Although I had only booked bed and breakfast at my pub, which was what their accommodation offered (they didn't routinely do meals) I was offered a turkey dinner, as half of a large party booked in for a Christmas meal in the upstairs dining room hadn't turned up because of the weather. This saved me turning out in the snow to try and find a meal. I was the only person staying, and the landlord seemed to have taken a liking to me.

I made sure I got away on time the next day, and steadily drove home. After my not very relaxing break. The M62 had by then been ploughed and only the fast lane was blocked. As I crossed to the Yorkshire side, the snow gradually dwindled to a light dusting.
The family looked a bit odd when I said I had been worried about getting home ok, and just said, "why?".

Andrea

Subject: RE: BS:Totally irrelevant travel stories
From: Charley Noble
Date: 17 Jan 08 - 10:15 PM

Andrea-

But it a good story in the spirit of this thread, where dramatic things could have happened but didn't, and we're left with warm memories.

"Llangollen" is a fine place to spend some time, even if one cannot pronouce the name of the town as a native can. We certainly enjoyed our two weeks wandering through Wales a couple of years ago, except for when we were forced to ask for directions. ;~)

Cheerily,
Charley noble

Subject: RE: BS:Totally irrelevant travel stories
From: mouldy
Date: 18 Jan 08 - 05:29 AM

At the risk of getting boring, I've just remembered another!

We were passing through the south of Uganda on our trek home, and the hour was getting late, almost dusk. We saw a level piece of land off to the side of the road, and pulled over onto it. The ground was very dry, with broken and dead stalks of grass, which pricked my sandal-clad feet. The few local cowherds around gave us an odd look as we arrived, and then wandered off. Ian got the little tent up, and then we had a meal, and played games with the kids until it was time for bed.
We hadn't been in the tent all that long, when I was aware of something tickling my face, and then I felt another little tickle. I looked up, and there was a small stalactite of ants hanging off the apex of the tent. More were making their way along the ridge, after climbing the pole at the door end. They were deliberately targeting our heads!

We realised we must have pitched on an ant trail, and they weren't among the world's smallest! We vacated the tent as quickly as possible, and spent the rest of the night in the LR. The next morning, there wasn't an ant to be seen in the tent, but they were starting to climb the LR. Ant trails? the area was full of them! Makes me wonder what the prickles I felt on my feet were!
We were out of there at the first opportunity!

Strangely, our next stopover, of about 3 days, this time with our bigger tent, saw us on top of a trail again, but all they did was occasionally march through the tent and out again.

Andrea

Subject: RE: BS:Totally irrelevant travel stories
From: katlaughing
Date: 18 Jan 08 - 11:13 AM

Andrea, you all have certainly led adventurous lives! I know that drive from Saratoga to Medicine Bow, too! I still think it's so kewl to tell folks of my friend in the UK who has actually been to Saratoga! We went camping for the 4th of July north of there in the Bighorns - it snowed, a lot, so my brother and my daughters and I packed up, went down to the hot springs in Themopolis for a warm soak, then home. My son, my sister and her kids, plus my mom and other sisters stayed on...didn't bother them like it did me.:-)

Subject: RE: BS:Totally irrelevant travel stories
From: Charley Noble
Date: 18 Jan 08 - 01:25 PM

Oh, dear! Andrea has reminded me of another story:

Of my many memories of my Peace Corps tour in Ethiopia, one that stands out is my night with the crawlers. Most of the time we were in Ethiopia we worked hard teaching in the secondary school system but there were vacations, and that's when we could plan explorations of other parts of the country. The previous summer I had joined an Italian neighbor on a practice rally from Addis Ababa to Dira Dawa, along an old track that the Italians had constructed during their occupation of Ethiopia from 1936 to 1941; during their retreat they had blown up the bridges and they had never been rebuilt, which enhanced the route for the rally folks. Mario had been a teenager in these years and had been a motorcycle messenger in the last year before Ethiopia was liberated. He was full of interesting stories.

Well, we had a great time tearing down the old road and nosing in and out of dry river beds, stopping off for refreshments at occasional villages along the way. One of the villages still had extensive orange orchards, and Mario explained that his grandparents had planted them when they had been resettled there, and had also started a small hotel. I filed that information away for future reference. We made it the rest of the way to Dira Dawa, a major railway stop between Addis Ababa and Djibouti. We delivered the car to its new owner and caught the train back to Addis.

The next vacation I invited a good friend (who I secretly lusted for) to accompany me in a rented car to Dira Dawa. She was very impressed with my off-road skills and eventually we pulled into the small plantation village for the night. The folks who ran the hotel were happy to rent us a room for the night, and after dinner we snuggled in for the night. The room was brightly lit with moonlight, and it wasn't long before we noticed shadowy shapes crawling up the walls, alongside our bed. What we found even more unsettling was after they reached the ceiling an occasional one would drop down. There was nothing to do but pull the sheet over our heads and giggle hysterically for the rest of the night as another roach-like creature sky-dived down.

Somehow we never were able to plan another trip together. I can't imagine why.

Cheerily,
Charley Noble

Subject: RE: BS:Totally irrelevant travel stories
From: Amos
Date: 18 Jan 08 - 01:29 PM

Not the kind of adventure a girl can forgive easily, I would suggest!! :D


A

Subject: RE: BS:Totally irrelevant travel stories
From: katlaughing
Date: 18 Jan 08 - 01:32 PM

I sure wouldn't have been giggling under the covers! I'd hope the car was comfy and run for it.:-)

Subject: RE: BS:Totally irrelevant travel stories
From: Micca
Date: 18 Jan 08 - 03:36 PM

It would have been April and we passed through the Bab el Mandeb sound from the Gulf of Aden and entered the Red Sea in the 12 to 4 afternoon watch (our watch) bound back to Milford Haven in Wales from Das Island in the Arabian Gulf loaded with Crude oil for the refinery at Llandarcy. I came on watch again at Midnight (12 to 4 am as well as 12 to 4 pm on a 3 watch ship) and, as I was wheelman, went straight to the bridge for my trick at the wheel. It was pitch dark, with only the light from the binnacle shining up onto the deckhead of the wheelhouse and faintly lighting the face of the wheelman from the other watch, The mate grunts from the corner of the wheelhouse at the 2nd mate as he comes up from below, " leave her on autopilot watch the radar, there is nothing within 20 miles, keep the wheelman handy" and recited the course and left, I receive the course from my oppo and repeat it aloud to him and the 2nd mate and he repeats to the 2nd mate then goes down the internal companionway, as he passes me he whispers, "take a look astern when you get off" I say "OK" and spend a really boring hour leaning against the bulkhead as the ship steered herself at about 20 knots up the Red Sea. We had a thousand or so miles to go to the Suez Canal about 3 days away.
At the end of the hour the lookout came down from the Monkey island above the wheelhouse, his eyes now dark conditioned and relieved me at the wheel, I walked out on to the wing of the bridge, asked the 2nd mate if he wanted anything, tea, coffee? He said no, so I was now Reserve and "stand by man", so I set off aft along the boat deck, around the funnel. At the the after end of the boat deck was a large clear pace stretching aft about 30 feet and a handrail almost the full beam of the ship between the companionways each side that dropped down to the poop and the mooring winches etc, as I got closer to the handrail I saw the most wondrous sight.
It was the dark of the moon and under a canopy of the most incredible diamond bright stars was a sea, like a mirror of obsidian, dead flat and black as carbon, and laid across this mirror as if being towed was a pair of dead straight, parallel, green phosphorescent tracks of the twin screws of the ship as they churned up the minute sea creatures. These tracks stretched visible (or seemed to stretch) for several miles behind us, as if laid down by a ruler and as if we were travelling across a great flat plain on railway tracks.
It was a sight to take ones breath away, and it did mine, it was mentioned to the watch at each watch change and even hardened old sea dogs went aft at the end of their trick to look at the incredible sight and be moved by it.

Subject: RE: BS:Totally irrelevant travel stories
From: mouldy
Date: 19 Jan 08 - 04:39 AM

Micca, that is a sight I have always wanted to see, and I hope someday I will!

Hey, Kat, guess what - we stayed at the Holiday Inn in Thermopolis when on our way to Yellowstone, and used their hot spring - the one next to the pool. However, it can't beat the 1am-3am soak in the one attached to the Saratoga Inn, lying back with our friends Nancy and Dan, and watching the beautiful starry sky.

Andrea

Subject: RE: BS:Totally irrelevant travel stories
From: katlaughing
Date: 19 Jan 08 - 11:21 AM

Wonder if we were there at the same time, Andrea?! I used to love going there, esp. getting a massage. There was an older woman there in the early 80's who really did a great job. That's where my Rog took me when we were first together; I was recovering from a bad reaction to a heart cath. The radio station we worked for had a trade-out with the Holiday; told Rog to take me there for a couple of days. It was there he first told me he loved me and brought me cantaloupe (another story about blood sugar.:-) When we went back years later, the dining room really gave me an awful feeling, all those dead animal heads staring at me. A bit to macho "Wyoming" for my taste.

Micca, beautiful description...what a magical sight!

Subject: RE: BS:Totally irrelevant travel stories
From: Charley Noble
Date: 19 Jan 08 - 01:23 PM

Micca-

Indeed, a very nice description and experience!

I'm glad you didn't encounter any of the Red Sea pirates coming up astern.

Cheerily,
Charley Noble

Subject: RE: BS:Totally irrelevant travel stories
From: Amos
Date: 19 Jan 08 - 01:33 PM

We actually discovered a Yugoslav patrol boat creeping up behind us one night at anchor just north of Corfu. It showed up on the radar before anyone could see it. We turned the flood lights on it and it came to life and turned its running lights on and started cruising as if nothing had happened. ( This was scarier than it should have been because it was in the days of Tito and the Cold War.)


A

Subject: RE: BS:Totally irrelevant travel stories
From: Newport Boy
Date: 23 Jan 08 - 05:25 PM

Amos - I don't think you were much at risk from the Yugoslavs. We were there in the 60s and 70s and the country was very relaxed. Albania at that time was a different matter.

This thread has had some great tales, but seems to have run out of steam. So, I'll give it one more kick. This is a small horror story about an organised holiday.

Anne & I booked a cycling/trekking trip in Nepal in 1992, with a reputable organisation, but using an independent leader. Tom had led many trips in Nepal & Thailand. A month or so before we were to travel, he informed us that his father was very ill, and he might not be able to lead us. He asked for a volunteer to act as liaison with the Nepali leader if that should happen, and I agreed to do this.

About the same time, a Thai Airways jumbo crashed on approach to Kathmandu. A few weeks later, a PIA flight also crashed on approach to Kathmandu. We were flying with Bangladesh Airlines (Biman), and were a little nervous - it didn't seem Kathmandu was a very safe airport. Happily, or so we thought, Tom was able to come with us, and when we arrived at Dhaka he offered to arrange a coach tour of the city while we waited for the ongoing flight. A fascinating experience - out of the terminal via various back stairs and a side door, into a "coach" with no window glass and very dodgy seats. It certainly gave us the full flavour of Bangladeshi cities.

The flight to Kathmandu was uneventful, although Anne was not impressed by the pilot's announcement that "we will be landing at Kathmandu in 35 minutes - inshallah". Nor by the sight of the tailfin of the PIA jet still on the hillside. At least the Nepali team were very welcoming, and our simple guest house accommodation was better than expected.

Cycling around the Kathmandu valley and up to the rim at Nagarkot was an experience, and we had a very enjoyable 10 days. The Nepali cycling leader and mechanic were excellent, which was fortunate, since Tom was notable mainly for his absence. The worst example was when we cycled up to Nagarkot - Tom had gone ahead to confirm the accommodation, and as we arrived, he was leaving to return to Kathmandu. It's not surprising that we chose to have dinner on our last night in Kathmandu with the Nepali team, rather than with Tom & his mate.

We then had 2 days cycling to Pokhara, which we enjoyed, despite heavy rain on the second day. During this ride, with an overnight in a motel, most of the party came to the view that Tom's interest in young Nepali boys had little to do with furthering the education of his "adopted sons".

Tom did not join us on our 4-day trek from Pokhara, but was to meet us for the flight back to Kathmandu. When we arrived at the hotel, I found a telex for me from Tom in Kathmandu, saying that he had to go home early and would be leaving Kathmandu before we arrived the following day. (Well, we knew this might happen.) Oh, and the airlines were no longer flying jumbos into Kathmandu, so all the flight times were changed, and would I go to the Biman office and change all our tickets. Bang went half our last day in Nepal.

Despite the difficulties, we enjoyed the trip. Letters from a number of the party ensured that Tom did not "lead" any more trips.

Phil

Subject: RE: BS:Totally irrelevant travel stories
From: gnu
Date: 24 Jan 08 - 03:33 AM

Micca... thanks for taking us there.

Subject: RE: BS:Totally irrelevant travel stories
From: Gulliver
Date: 31 Jan 08 - 12:26 AM

This happened a long time ago.

The first raindrops were beginning to fall when the maroon-coloured 2CV pulled in at the side of the road. I was surprised to see that the driver was a woman. I gestured towards the rear seat with my rucksack and she nodded, so I opened the door and threw the bags in the back before settling in myself. The 2CV is not the most comfortable car for long distances, but beggars can't be choosers.

I asked the driver how far she was going. She said Kaiserslautern. I wasn't familiar with this name so I looked it up on my map--this is something I always did to ensure I did not get taken out of my way. There's an American base there, she said, it's where I work. I found the spot and saw that it was in the general direction I was going in so I said thanks, my name is Dean. And my name is Ursula, she replied, turning very briefly to look at me. She wore dark-rimmed glasses and had her hair tied back in a bun. I figured mid-twenties.

Are you American, I asked. Her thin lips formed a smile before she said No, but I speak English all the time at the Base. I've been there for five years, but I'm from Belgium, near Arlon. I come home every week-end. I told her I was Irish and that I was heading South, in the general direction of Greece.

Is this your first time in Germany?

No, I said, I hitched across the North of Germany three years ago, from Amsterdam to Copenhagen. And I was at the World Youth Conference in East Berlin last year.

Is that a Communist thing?

I lied and said No, not really.

Her brows furrowed slightly. There are too many Communists in Germany, I think. I see they are putting some of them on trial now, the Baader-Meinhoff gang. But you'll have to visit Heidelberg, it's a beautiful old university town.

Yes, I've heard of it, also read about it in Fear of Flying, by Erica Jong and in one of my favourites, Of Human Bondage.

I haven't read those books, much too big for my little head, I'm afraid.

We crossed the Mosel valley, with the fairy-tale castles dotting the hill-sides. This is a great region for wine, she said. The Romans planted the vines here because they thought wine had medical properties.

Oh, any excuse, I replied. They used to say the same thing about whiskey in my country.

We followed the course of the Saar river down through the Saarland.

Isn't this a long trip to make every week-end, I asked.

Maybe, but I love driving, it makes me feel good. I have only been coming home at week-ends for the last few months, since I broke up with my boy-friend. I'm still trying to get over that. She laughed nervously.

There was silence for a bit and I took a great interest in the passing scenery.

It's difficult, she said. We were together for over three years.

Yes, that is a long time. Was he an American?

Yes, he's a soldier. I wanted to marry him, but some things are meant not to be.

When the rain eased off we pulled into a layby where some Gypsies had a stall and bought a punnet of strawberries. Physically, Ursula reminded me of my cousin Maire, who had left the convent but was failing to make it in the lay world. She had a well-endowed figure and wore the kind of dress that would look better on her mother. I wondered how old she was and asked a couple of questions in a roundabout way that made her out to be 25. She said she was seeing a guy in Belgium, but she didn't think anything serious would come of it--he was a few years younger than her. Just a boy, she said, gazing into the distance, a Turkish boy.

When the rain started again we resumed our ride. I asked her if she preferred foreign men. She smiled again her grim little smile.

That's just the way the cookie crumbles. I never had a real boy-friend in Belgium. After school I went to a translation college and then got my first job at the Base. I was happy to get away. Then I met Bill, my boy-friend, my ex-boyfriend, and started to leave all my problems from adolescence behind me.

You weren't happy at home in Belgium?

Not so much unhappy, I suppose, as frustrated, in a small country town, where everybody talked about everybody else and the most exciting time of the week was going to church on Sundays. I did not want the life my mother had, to be a prisoner in the home.

Were you living with Bill?

He moved in with me after we were going together for about six months. I have a nice apartment on the Base. He was the first man I slept with, and before it started to go sour it was very good.

Do you have any friends at the base?

Not really. At the beginning, I spent most of my spare time with Bill. Our neighbours were blacks, and black women are bitches. They will lie and cheat to get what they want. I wasn't impolite, I greeted them on the street, but I knew they were watching my Bill.

Is Bill coloured?

He's black. He's a tall, good-looking guy, and that's why the black bitches wanted him. As I said, at first everything was great. It was exciting to be with him, he was so different, so sexy. He was a great lover, and made me forget the sexual guilt from my upbringing, my frustrations.

Then what happened?

Slowly, so slowly that I did not notice it at the time, things changed. He was working later, spending more time with his friends. I thought that that's the way relationships go, like in cycles of intensity. The worst part was when he stopped making love. We still slept in the same bed, but there was no real warmth, and that went on for months.

She stopped talking and I could imagine she was casting her mind back to that painful time.

I said, was there some special reason? Well, because I was inexperienced, I thought it was my fault. I tried to talk to him and asked him what was wrong with me. I began to hate myself, I felt depressed and unattractive. Sometimes I cried myself to sleep. That kind of situation can't last. And it didn't. We saw less and less of each other, until it dawned on me that he could not be spending all this time at work or with his friends. I started following him at night to find out where he was going, and sure enough, his was spending his time at another apartment. I found out it belonged to a young black woman who worked in the personnel department. Despite the way our relationship had deteriorated, I was really shocked. I had never imagined he would do that and the feeling was awful.

That night I confronted him with it and he admitted he had been seeing her--well, he couldn't deny it, could he--and we discussed it over the next day which we both had off and he thought about things and said he wanted to stay with me. But that night he just lay awake all night in bed without moving, and didn't go to work the next day. And when I came home in the evening he was still sitting in the same armchair where I had left him that morning. I went into the kitchen to prepare some food but came out when I heard a disturbance outside the house and I went to where he was looking out the window. She was at the end of our front garden, his black woman, calling to him. When she saw me she pulled off her high-heeled shoe and threw it through the window, smashing the glass. She was shouting at the top of her voice. Bill said he would go out and quiet her down, and he took his coat and went out and they stood talking for a few minutes at the end of the garden. And then he walked off with her and didn't come back that night, or any other night.