In 2001 Ellie won the Netjetters II competition in The Guardian, along with Andrew Humphrey. The prize was a four month trip around the world travelling business class and a weekly column online and in the travel section of the Guardian. The most memorable part of the trip was when Ellie get herself into a scrape in New Zealand, having called the country boring. She appeared on the front page of a Sunday newspaper in New Zealand, was the subject of television chatshows and a speech by the country's tourism minister. Unfortunately Ellie has not yet learned her lesson and continues to express her opinions in print. All of her Ellie's Netjetter columns are below. It is worth noting Ellie was 23 at the time of writing these.
Competition entry - I eat the kebab, I assess the kebab
Friday September 28 2001
There's a book I want to write. I've researched it extensively in England. It's called Me and my 'bab. It is a travel book where the history and culture of each country is examined through the consumption of kebabs. Falafel in Israel, Souvlaki in Greece and so on. I see it as a public service. I eat the kebab, I assess the kebab and the public is saved from wasting their money and toilet paper on bad examples of the kebab.
That is the primary reason why I should be chosen as a Netjetter.
There are of course other reasons. When I started work after a postgraduate qualification recently, I received a text message from my brother. It said: "How was your first week. Only another 37 years to go." Actually, it said, "Hw ur 1st wk @ wrk. 37 mr yrs to go." A couple of months on and I'm not any happier about it.
I have travelled before. I backpacked in Australia, India, Vietnam and Thailand. I managed to read Middlemarch in Australia. In England, life is too short to read Middlemarch. If I were given the chance to travel again, I would go for the biggie. I would try War and Peace. My English degree friends and I think that War and Peace might just be readable if you took the whole of the nine months of pregnancy off, sat on the couch and read continuously. It's not a good reason to have a baby. I might also try a Dickens. I've never managed one of those.
Many people feel unattractive when they travel. They get sunburnt and sweaty. They hate wearing the same two items of clothing every day. I don't. True, in India I got acne. I thought it was leprosy. It was a form of adult acne. Or maybe heat rash. But not even that could stop me being incredibly happy that travelling is the only time I can put my frizzy hair up in a bandana and get away with it. And wear cotton smocks that make me look like a Maoist worker but keep me cool.
I was talking to a friend about the idea of Me and my 'bab. He suggested another travel book where someone must travel and have sex in every place they stop. It's an interesting idea and one I think I'd enjoy. It would certainly be a good opening line for meeting locals. I'm thinking perhaps Me and my post-coital 'bab would be a good way of combining the two. Written by email. Exclusively for Guardian readers.
Packing it in
Saturday December 1 2001
A friend of mine went travelling in south America a couple of years ago. She went for four months and took four pairs of knickers. Her advice to me has always been to travel light.
After reading my Netjetters competition entry, in which I set out my plan of comparing the relative merits of the kebabs and the sex in each country, my mum said she wasn't sure which would be more hazardous to my health. Her advice was to make sure there was greaseproof paper covering both.
My grandma, a veteran of three trips to Las Vegas, told me that when asked what number I wanted to play at roulette, I should put all my money without hesitation on 22.
I've also been given advice about the places I am going to. A work contact whom I've never met but have spoken to on the phone a couple of times has given me her parents' address in New Zealand with the promise of accommodation and excursions. A professor at a university a friend of mine used to attend has passed on the contact details of some friends in Toronto.
A boy I have been pen pals with since my early teens, who lives in Nevada,says: "The idea of you and I palling around for a few days sounds like a real kick in the ass." I'm not quite sure what that means or whether it will hurt, but I guess that's one of the things I will pick up in America - like saying "I guess" all the time.
The Guardian's talkboards have also yielded some good tips; a secret waterfall in northern Queensland, lychee and green tea ice cream in New York's Chinatown and national parks in Canada.
The reaction at work when I gave in my notice and told them all I was off to travel the world was, "Oh good, that solves our budgetary crisis." The crisis obviously isn't too severe as they all dipped into their pockets to buy me a guidebook to Fiji. They also gave me a box of chocolates. The chocolates soon disappeared, however: after celebrating my last day in the office, I ate one and then drunkenly passed the box round the tube carriage on the way home.
I have been doing my research about America, the first country I will visit. The philosopher and poet, Ralph Waldo Emerson, said "America is a country of young men". I certainly hope so. He also said that "in skating over thin ice, our safety is in our speed", which will non doubt come in useful if I go to the Rockerfeller ice rink - although he neglects to mention how to stop. Perhaps that's where the young men come in.
There are some things I don't understand about America that I want to find out while I'm there. What are eggs over easy? Why are legal pads yellow? How many Hershey bars does it take to make yourself sick?
At the moment, I am most excited about New Zealand. Apparently there are so few cars on the road that if I hire one it won't matter that I sometimes forget the difference between the accelerator and the brake. A few sheep may be hastened to your table, but no humans will be hurt.
I'm in San Francisco for new year and Sydney for Mardi Gras. I'm not too good at adrenalin, so I think I'll leave the bungee jumping and skydiving to others. But just so I don't feel I'm escaping without any danger, I do arrive in Fiji in the middle of the cyclone season. All tips on how to survive cyclones, make the most out of Sydney, cure the hangover in San Francisco or beat the dealer in Las Vegas are more than welcome - as are tips on every other place I am going to. I've been warned that winter in New York and in Toronto will be freezing. To pick up some tips on how to survive, my first preparation book will be The Worst Journey in the World by Apsley Cherry-Garrard. This book about Scott's mission to the South Pole might help me keep warm on what should be, for me, the best journey in the world.
Of course, the Guardian isn't just sending me around the world. They are sending me business class. And in every city I will be put up for the first night in one of the best five-star hotels in the city. Much as I like to proclaim my east end roots and my Walthamstow upbringing, I am rather partial to the idea of travelling in style. So I've packed my Clinique three-step cleansing system and dug out the designer shades. My backpack is full of pulling outfits and sparkly makeup. The only problem now is how to fit in those four pairs of knickers.
So good I ate it twice
Thursday December 6 2001
The decisions that come with travelling business class are hard ones. Do I choose the Loch Fyne smoked salmon or the marinated mushrooms with feta cheese and fresh rocket? The Geyser Peak Chardonnay or the Saint-Aubin La Pucelle? I plumped instead for the complex flavours and aromas of the Charles Heidsieck Mis en Cave Champagne to sip while reclining on my seat watching Audrey Hepburn in Roman Holiday on my personal TV screen.
I wasn't hungry of course, having made full use of the free fresh fruit and muffins in the business class lounge at Heathrow, but that wasn't the point. It would surely have been rude to turn down the spinach, cream cheese and roasted vegetable sandwiches and the warm fruit scones. "A top up, madam?" asked the air hostess coming round with more champagne. "Well, if I must," I said between mouthfuls of glazed apricot tart.
Immigration at New York's JFK airport proved no problem. Do I have a communicable disease? No. Have I ever been arrested? No. Have I ever been involved in espionage or sabotage? No. Have I ever withheld custody from a US citizen granted custody of the child? No. They forgot to ask whether I have communist sympathies, or perhaps they don't care any more. And after today I can only ever be described as a champagne socialist anyway.
A woman in the airport started talking to me. She worked for the Playboy website. Perhaps I should have picked her brains, as the bed at my hotel on Park Avenue could have fit at least four people in it comfortably. I meant to go out searching for people to fill it, but sated with smoked salmon and champagne, I fell asleep instead.
Manhattan transfer
Tuesday December 11 2001
Hubert and Brendan were US Marines let out from the military academy for a night. I stumbled across them in a bar on Bleecker Street. "It's my duty, ma'am" said Hubert, before shoving his tongue down my throat. Luckily it was also his duty to head out of state to represent his unit the next night, so we didn't have time to get better acquainted and discuss our views on George Bush's military strategy.
In Little Italy, Vinnie was awful pleased that I chose his restaurant for dinner. "My new friend from En-ger-land" said Vinnie. Vinnie's papa came over to have a look at me. "Aren't you scared being in New York with all the terrorism?" he asked, peering at me closely. I hadn't been scared until that moment. "I'll take you out sometime," said Vinnie.
Victor on the Staten Island Ferry was full of advice. "Don't go to Brooklyn," he told me. "Brooklyn is full of weirdos." I asked where he was from. "Brooklyn," he said.
The warm-up man on the Ricki Lake show was desperate to give away some free t-shirts. "A t-shirt to anyone who will come up on stage and sing the Star-Spangled Banner," he said. Only one person in the audience knew the words. "A t-shirt to anyone who will come on stage and dance," tried the warm-up man. The subject of the show was "You couples may be fat, but you're not all that, get over it!" Brandi and Duane were both very fat. "They're not all that," said Duane's sister. "Duane," said Ricki, "Have you got something to ask Brandi?" Duane wasn't listening. "Duane!" shouted Ricki. "Oh yeah," said Duane. "Will you marry me Brandi?" Brandi said yes and was whisked backstage to put on a veil. "In front of God, the audience and Ricki," said the minister, "I pronounce you man and wife." Duane's sister wasn't very pleased. She threw wedding cake at Brandi. "Anyone want a t-shirt?" yelled the warm-up man.
The man at the bagel bakery opposite the Empire State Building had been to England. "I met the queen," he said. "I went to Buckingham Palace. I was invited. I met the queen. I think the queen's a bitch but I was invited. Never mind why."
The revolving restaurant at the top of the Marriott Hotel on Times Square takes an hour to return to where it started, giving panoramic views over Manhattan. The cheapest bottle of wine was $26. I had two. The bar revolves faster the more you drink. Finding your seat after a trip to the toilet is near impossible. You leave it overlooking the Hudson River and return to find it overlooking late night workers in the Art Deco GE building.
At the Imagine memorial in Strawberry Fields, floral tributes had been scattered for George Harrison. There was a respectful hush. At ground zero there was no such thing. "I want a better look" screeched one woman in the crowd. "Hang on," said another, "I'm taking a photo." Church groups gave out free prayers and remembrance CDs. Stalls sold commemorative pictures of the burning buildings and pictures of Osama Bin Laden with 'Wanted dead or alive' on them. The 'alive' was crossed out.
The bus tour of Manhattan gave ample chance to get on and off at places of interest. "Get off here to see Malcolm X's mosque," said the guide. "Get off here for the Guggenheim Museum. Get off here for ground zero. Get off here for Bloomingdales." The rubble of the World Trade Centre is now just another tourist attraction.
At the biggest McDonald's in the world my hangover disappeared with the help of extra large fries and a chocolate milkshake. It disappeared enough, in fact, to allow me to queue for an hour for half-price tickets to a Broadway show. The musical 42nd Street was showing at a theatre on 42nd Street. "Keep young and beautiful," they sang. So I headed to Tiffany's thinking that if not beautiful, then at least bejewelled will do. If you have to ask the price in Tiffany's then you obviously can't afford it. The same goes for most of the shops at that end of Fifth and Sixth Avenue. Cheaper are the smaller boutiques in Greenwich Village.
Hanging out in the Village takes a certain kind of cool. Brunch in a cafe with a newspaper took several hours followed by a look around some of the quirky shops. At night the Village is the place to be. "Trip hop, hip hop, R&B and garage," said the hostess on the door of a club. The Blue Note jazz cafe was round the corner. I swaggered up to the door, well aware that I was not only cool but hanging out in the coolest of all the cool places. "$35, lady," said the doorman, and having spent my weekly budget on the $26 bottles of wine, I slunk away to people-watch from the street instead.
Hockey schtick
Tuesday December 18 2001
On a New York street round the corner from the Kabul Cafe, a man thrust a package into my hand. "Happy holidays," he said. The package was a menorah, the candle holder used during the Jewish festival of Chanukah. "Merry Christmas," said the santas on every street corner, competing to be heard with the music of the mobile Mitzvah Tank. A mitzvah is a Jewish good deed, like handing out menorahs to lone travellers.
At the Lincoln Center the Nutcracker Ballet was on, as it is every year. "It's always the same," said the woman in the row behind me. "I don't know why I come."
The top of the Empire State Building was lit up in green and red for Christmas, although for the first night of Chanukah it changed to blue and white. New York is proud of its multiculturalism. Though not as proud as it is of its delis. One of the most famous is Katz's Deli, immortalised by Meg Ryan's orgasm in When Harry met Sally. There was no need to tell the waitress "I'll have what she's having." Everyone has the same - pastrami on rye. Two tables away from mine was a sign. "Bill Clinton sat here," it said.
And so to Toronto. The national sport of Canada is hockey. Hockey is a bit like football only played on ice. And with sticks. In fact, it's nothing like football. "Well," said John, my new friend, "the aim is to get the ball in the goal." Only, as John explained, it's not called a ball, it's called a puck.
John was very happy to explain the game to me. He'd been watching me from across the Library Bar at the Royal York hotel in Toronto, where I'd been getting to work on one of their famous 'birdbath' martinis, stirred, not shaken. After an hour of staring John came over to talk to me. "I was waiting for you to send me a note asking me to join you," said John. John didn't seem to mind that I had no desire for him to join me, though when he footed the bill for my cocktails my objections disappeared. "There's only one person you need to know in hockey," said John, "and that's Wayne Gretzky." "Who's Wayne Gretzky?" I asked. He looked at me in disbelief. "You don't know who Wayne Gretzky is?"
I asked a man in my hotel. "Who's Wayne Gretzky?" I said. "You don't know who Wayne Gretzky is?" was the reply. "Where are you from? Outer space?" At the Hockey Hall of Fame the woman at the ticket counter looked at me with pity. "You just missed Wayne Gretzky" she said. "Half an hour earlier and you would have met him."
It soon became clear. "Wayne Gretzky," said Kevin, who works in the mock-up hockey dressing room, "is like the greatest hockey player there's ever been. He is the Luis Figo of Canada." Kevin was of Portuguese descent. "Is he like Beckham?" I asked. "Better," he said. The hall of fame has an exhibition charting Wayne Gretzky's life. 'Wayne's boots from the age of two' said one sign. 'The stick Wayne scored his first ever goal with' said another. At Wayne Gretzky's, the bar, the Toronto Maple Leafs were playing the Montreal Canadians. There you get the chance to sample foods such as 'Grandma Gretzky's famous perogies' and 'The Right Winger - chicken wings with homemade mild, medium, hot or honey garlic sauce, or enjoy them just the way Wayne likes 'em - no sauce'.
"Fight!" The man next to me at the bar turned round excitedly. Fighting is quite normal in hockey. Players just receive a five-minute penalty and sit out of the game for this time. This fight was between Tie Domi of the Maple Leafs and Reid Simpson of the Canadians. It meant that the number of penalty minutes Domi had been given in his entire career came to 1,672, more than any other Maple Leaf player ever.
The security guard at the door of the executive apartments in downtown Toronto was a bit dubious about letting me in. "I've been invited to a party here," I said. "But I'm afraid I can't remember the name of the host or the number of the apartment." It was true. Alexandra, the waitress in the Library Bar, had invited me along. Once I gained entry I set about ingratiating myself with the other guests. "Wayne Gretzky," I said, "now there's a hockey player. Who can forget that time when he accepted a pass from Marty McSorley to score on Kirk Mclean of the Vancouver Canucks in March 1994." "You like hockey?" said the host. "Pat Quinn lives upstairs." "Who's Pat Quinn?" I asked, and his look told me that any points I had gained, had just been lost.
Radio daze
Friday December 28 2001
It wasn't exactly primetime but the phones were buzzing on Michael Coren's live three hour Sunday night radio show on CFRB 1010. First Michael discussed the plight of Taliban-supporting Afghan refugees, the governor general's husband, an anti-Semitic newspaper cartoon and the saying Happy Holidays, which is more commonly used in Canada than Merry Christmas. Michael finds the phrase happy holidays offensive. He thinks it is denying that the main holiday at this time of year is Christmas. "I don't find saying merry Christmas offensive," said one caller. "Thank you, merry Christmas," said Michael. "Happy Ramadan," said the caller.
Then the show turned to a more important subject. Me. Listeners were invited to ring in with a suggestion for something I should do in Toronto, Montreal or Las Vegas. Those who did won a hat.
One caller suggested a play out of town put on by people with learning disabilities. "Remember that Ellie is 23," said Michael. Another phoned in to say go and see the Raptors, the Toronto Basketball team, play. Michael asked how I'd managed to wangle a free trip around the world. "I promised to have a kebab and sex in each city and compare them," I said. "You can't say that on the radio," said Michael. But it was too late.
A woman called Maria phoned in to suggest going to Quebec City. "How about inviting Ellie round for dinner?" said Michael. "Sure," said Maria. "Can she marry your son?" said Michael. "Well I don't know about that," said Maria. "Stay on the line and we'll take your number to give to Ellie," said Michael.
Another caller rang in to say that she didn't know about kebabs but to be sure to try the French onion soup in Montreal. "That sounds good," I said, though in the end there was neither kebab nor soup, but French toast with maple syrup.
At a party before I left Toronto, one of the guests asked me whether I knew much about Canada. "Not much," I admitted. I didn't know that it has the world's longest street, Yonge Street, measuring 18km. Nor did I know that the CN tower is the world's highest free standing structure. "Do you know who our prime minister is?" they asked. I proudly named Jean Chrétien. "Anyone else?" they asked. "Um - Alanis Morrisette?" I suggested. "Or Celine Dion."
In Ottawa, Canada's capital, the parliament building was lit up with festive lights and the streets were covered with snow. I stayed round the corner from parliament in a building that was until 1972 Carleton county gaol. As a prison, the building had no glass in the windows and no heating. Prisoners died each winter from the cold and each summer from the heat. Eventually closed due to inhumane living conditions and the absence of any rehabilitation programme, it reopened in 1973 as Ottawa's youth hostel.
Death row and the gallows are still in place for visitors to see and the cells are converted into bedrooms. It is there that Patrick Whelan was hanged in 1869 for the assassination of Thomas D'Arcy McGee, though it is now known that he did not do it. Thousands of people turned up to watch him hang, baying for blood.
Baying for blood is what the people of Alberta are now doing for their Premier, Ralph Klein. He recently committed a gaffe of Prince Philip proportions when he turned up drunk to a homeless shelter. It was reported that slurring his words, Klein tossed $70 at some of the residents and told them to get jobs. Canadians are known for their plain talking. Klein admitted to having a problem with alcohol. "Right now, I'm going to go as long as I possibly can and hopefully end this journey without having another drink. I think that I have the ability to carry on with the job. I think I have the ability to fight this devil and win," he said.
The papers rejoiced in printing lists of his past quotes. "Everyone knows I have sins. I eat too much. I still drink. I gamble," said one. Which is exactly what I intend to do this week, spending Christmas in Las Vegas.
Time to be leaving Las Vegas
Wednesday January 2 2002
A couple of years ago I had a series of nightmares where I was trapped in an unknown place. I would wake up not knowing where I was, banging on the door screaming to be let out. I now realise that place must have been Las Vegas.
It's horrible. Downtown, pawn and porn compete for business. It goes something like this: 7-11, wedding chapel, bail bond agent, motel, wedding chapel, pawn shop, bail bond agent, exotic dance club, tattoo parlour, pawn shop, wedding chapel, motel, motel, wedding chapel, topless bar, 7-11. On the main strip it goes more like this: casino, souvenir shop, casino, casino, M&M's world, souvenir shop, casino, Coca Cola world, casino, souvenir shop, casino. "In a few hundred years they'll find the remains of here and think we worshipped giant M&M's," said the woman on the bus.
On the outside not all the casinos are the same. I have in turn spent time in casinos purporting to be Venice (The Venetian), Paris (Paris), New York (New York, New York), Arthurian England (Excalibur), Egypt (Luxor) and ancient Rome (Caesar's Palace). Inside, though, they're identical. The slot machines ring and buzz incessantly, thousands in each place. Bright lights glare. Croupiers look bored. Waitresses in skimpy uniforms wander around. Piano muzac tinkers in the background. Lights flash. More bells ring. And everywhere there are children: crying on the pavements, running around the slot machines, on their parents' shoulders at the attractions.
Due to moving hotels, traffic jams and a series of ineptitudes, none of them mine, I didn't get anything to eat on Christmas Day until 4pm. As I had waited so long I decided to have the works, so I went to one of the eat-all-you-want buffets at a casino. In true Christmas tradition I ate much more than I wanted. There was no room for dessert but I had three anyway. As a consequence I could barely move. So I had little choice but to station myself at a slot machine while I digested. They are everywhere, from the baggage reclaim area at the airport to the corner shop. At bars, they are inset into the tables, so you can play while you wait to be served. The choice is mammoth: jackpot party, jackpot limbo, triple cherry, double diamond deluxe, triple triple diamond, jeopardy, reel 'em in, double double bonus poker, top banana, run for your money, bingomatic, double wild, triple cash, double bucks, jackpot stampede, triple double diamond, spin poker, on the money, five & dime, top dollar and filthy rich. I plumped for jackpot party. That day I gained four stone and lost four dollars - it could have been worse.
At the roulette table I watched a man lose $500 in five minutes. The croupier, Rodrick, rolled his eyes at me. He doesn't gamble himself: "It would be like a garbage man taking out the trash for fun," he said. The woman at the MGM Grand was having none of that. "Anyone who lives here and says they don't gamble is lying." she said.
At the Grand Canyon I met Helen and Robert, New Yorkers on vacation. They were getting married the next day at The Venetian and invited me to be their witness and sign the marriage certificate. They had chosen a deluxe package for over $1000, though a Vegas wedding can cost less than $100. For their money they got a ceremony on a fake Rialto bridge followed by gondola ride on the Grand Canal that runs through the casino's shopping mall.
I wanted to take a gift but, though I am sure there are some shops other than those for tourists in Las Vegas, I couldn't find them. However, as class didn't seem to be a top priority, I settled on some chocolate dice. The day had already gone well for Robert. Trying to settle his pre-wedding jitters, he had put $100 in a slot machine and won $2000. Helen appeared at the foot of the bridge. "What are we waiting for?" she yelled. The accordion player stuck up the wedding march, the video camera was switched on and the tourists strolling towards St Mark's Square stopped to clap. Perhaps it was the post-wedding glow that caused a sober stranger to propose to me at the bus stop afterwards. "We could get married and I could come and live in London," he said.
'Disneyland for alcoholics' is how someone described Las Vegas. He was right. The local paper for the Grand Canyon area was advertising eight upcoming events. Six of them were alcoholics anonymous meetings. The other two were book signings. Death in Grand Canyon is Tom Myer's account of the 550 people known to have been pushed or jumped over the edge. After a week in Las Vegas I know exactly how they must have felt.
Bay city roller
Wednesday January 9 2002
Alcohol is banned on the streets of California, so it was a sober group who gathered on San Francisco's Embarcadero for the New Year's Eve celebrations. Instead of the usual drunken antics of 'snog the stranger and vomit in the gutter', we had to make do with playing 'spot the fat policeman'. This was a game of my brother's making.
Joe was in San Francisco on holiday for a few days so we met up to exchange belated Christmas presents. 'Spot the fat policeman' proved to be highly entertaining. Not only are American police fatter than their British counterparts, they are older too. Few looked like they would be able to chase even the slowest criminal. Then again, they don't have to; they have guns. The police officers on duty spent most of their time removing alcohol from offenders, though their concentration did lapse at one point when they stopped what they were doing to take photos of each other with their pals.
The San Francisco mayor was a bit too keen to see out the old year. He counted down too early and there was silence. He tried again, but this time he was too late and the fireworks started before he got to zero. We saw in the new year with out smuggled miniatures, careful to avoid the police, fat or otherwise.
Joe works in prison reform. I thought he was having a bit of a busman's holiday when I saw 'No More Prisons' graffitied on the pavement on my way to meet him at his hotel, though he assured me it had nothing to do with him. He was, however, a mine of information on prisons when we visited Alcatraz, informing me several times that 2m of the world's 8m prisoners are in the United States.
With big brother watching me there was no chance of any sex or kebabs. When he left I hit the town, heading first to Tonga (a bar where cocktails are served in plastic coconut shells and a band plays on a raft in the middle of a lake complete with fake rainstorms) and then on to Castro, San Francisco's gay and lesbian area. On my way back from one of these nights out I met Jerome. "People don't usually talk to me," he said. "I think they are scared of me." I was scared of him, too, though I was trying not to show it. "San Francisco is very poetic," he said. "I write poetry." He quoted me some. "I wrote that during my 11 years in prison." he said. "I feel you and me have a real connection." I began to wish big brother was still around.
I crossed the bay on the San Francisco Oakland Bay Bridge, the one that Dustin Hoffman drives over on his way to Berkeley in The Graduate, and headed to Napa Valley for some wine tasting. The last time I went wine tasting was with some friends in France and we were firmly shown the door after several hours and more tastes than I think we were welcome too. I was determined not to make that mistake again, though when the first tasting came at 10am I realised resistance was useless. Chardonnay followed Pinot Noir followed Cabernet Sauvignon followed Muscat as I learned a few things about wine that I already knew deep down: cork is good, screw tops are bad; it's quality not quantity that matters; wine should be sipped and not gulped.
The Napa Valley Wine Train winds through the valley while passengers sink back into plush armchairs and drink some more wine before the three-course lunch. It gave me some time to ponder on the things about America that puzzle me: toilets that flush automatically, tax added at the point of purchase and that incredibly annoying habit Americans have of telling you what conversational trick they've just used, following every sentence with an 'I was being funny just then', 'that was a compliment' or 'you will have been able to tell by my tone that I am angry'. I also wondered why one of the most advanced nations in the world has all denominations of bank notes made in exactly the same size and colour.
I asked a local family I met what I should be doing in the city. "Go to FAO Schwarz," said the daughter, aged about 10. "That's the coolest place there is." Well I'm nothing if not cool so I headed to FAO Schwarz, a big toyshop on Union Square. They didn't stock my favourite doll that I have seen in America -the trailer trash dolly that comes complete with hotpants and a lit cigarette - but it had other delights instead. After wandering for some time I realised that most of the female dolls were plastic and most of the male dolls had guns, which all things considered is quite a fair representation of life in California.
City slacker
Thursday January 17 2002
So you wake up and it's glorious sunshine and you walk across the Golden Gate bridge and the skyline of San Francisco glitters in one direction and the bright orange cables of the bridge stretch out in front of you and the bay spreads out beneath you. Even dropping your sunglasses over the edge and into the water cannot detract from the fact that this really is the most beautiful of cities.
And then it's on to a bar to celebrate this fact with a gin and tonic. Specs, where the beat poets used to hang out, is down an alley in North Beach, surrounded by strip joints, bookshops and Italian restaurants. And I thought I had the Americans sussed out. But here I was in San Francisco, where everyone either belongs to a bookclub or is a writer. Even the doorman told me about his novel, although he also said "I started a Jack Kerouac once but threw it across the room after two pages."
The man sitting next to me at the bar was reading a book of short stories by Sam Shepherd, and he said things like "George Bush is so stupid" and he had a sense of humour and, goddammit, he was mighty fine-looking too. And we talked about literature and San Francisco and it turned out he lived in the Haight which was on my list of areas to check out. And the barman overheard and said: "You could wake up at his house and see the Haight in the morning," and, well, it would have been rude not to after that. So we established that he was joking about the tattoo of an American eagle bearing a machine gun on his back and headed to some bars in the Haight, and though I only meant to stay for one it was obvious after a few pints that the barman had been right.
His apartment was up one of San Francisco's many hills and the back porch overlooked the Golden Gate bridge, or so he said, but it was foggy so I had to take his word for it and the next morning I rose before the fog so I never found out.
What's an English graduate with a slight hangover and some left-over teenage angst to do on a Sunday morning but drink coffee and read Howl by Allen Ginsberg, bought at the City Lights bookstore where the banner outside reads "Dissent is not un-American". Then on to Vesuvio on Jack Kerouac Alley where the sign says "Beware pickpockets and loose women". They serve a drink called the Jack Kerouac which is tequila, rum, orange juice, cranberry juice and a squeeze of lime, though the barman told me that a real Jack Kerouac drink would be three bottles of wine in an alleyway.
In Vesuvio I read Dashiell Hammett's The Maltese Falcon, which I bought in a bookshop where the sign says "Shoplifters will be killed and eaten". In the book Miles Archer is killed near a road which I have walked down several times in the past week, where steam really does rise from the grates in the middle of the road, and I thought to myself once again, what a wonderful city. What a wonderful city even though alcohol is banned outside and smoking is banned inside, and though I don't much like beer and I don't smoke, I am offended on behalf of all those people who would love to enjoy a pint and a cigarette at the same time, and I wondered if I moved here would I take up smoking just to protest as, after all, dissent is not un-American.
In Monterey I bought John Steinbeck's Cannery Row in a shop on Cannery Row and basked in the sunshine and pretentiousness of it all. "Cannery Row in Monterey in California is a poem, a stink, a grating noise, a quality of light, a tone, a habit, a nostalgia, a dream," wrote Steinbeck. The canneries are long closed so there is no longer any stink, just amazing views of the ocean where sea otters, seals and sealions laze on the rocks. A short boat ride away, the whales looked on as a school of maybe 50 dolphins raced alongside our boat.
And then to Kalisa'a, formerly La Ida, where Eddie in Cannery Row works as a part-time barman, and I stopped for a cup of tea and a cookie before heading to Pacific Grove, where in a wood five minutes from the ocean thousands of black and red Monarch butterflies go to mate. All of which more than made up for having to spend a week in Las Vegas.
California themin'
Thursday January 24 2002
There I was in my limo, being driven around Los Angeles. Yes, you read that correctly. My limo. A long, black, sleek thing with seats for 10, a television, and an ice box containing a bottle of champagne - all exclusively mine for the morning. Shaun, my driver, asked where I wanted to go. "Why, Rodeo Drive," I said, and off we set, Roy Orbison's Pretty Woman playing all the time in my head.
After window-shopping for a while I returned to the limo and we drove to Bel-Air. When Shaun isn't driving limos he's an actor, of course. He'd been reading Forbes's rich list while I'd been lusting after designer handbags on Rodeo Drive. "I'll live here one day," he said, as he drove me round houses worth several million dollars.
I had lunch at the Bel-Air hotel, where the movie stars go, though I didn't spot any. That doesn't mean there were none - I hadn't heard of any of the actors Shaun had named as his favourites. At the table next to me some people in business suits were discussing the best golf courses in the world. "I always play in Costa Rica," one said. "Yes, but I prefer the LA Country Club," said another. The LA Country Club costs $25,000 just to join.
Perhaps they thought I was a movie star myself, dining alone in an exclusive hotel and sipping champagne. I put on my sunglasses and concentrated on looking like I too might play golf in Costa Rica.
Not that I'd want to be a movie star, of course. To start with you'd have to live in LA, which is only nice if you like motorways. It rather reminded me of a Guinness advert from several years ago, where an old woman lives in a ramshackle house in the middle of a US spaghetti junction. "I like highways," she says, "that's why I moved here."
And pity the stars who make the occasional, er, cock-up (so to speak) and are forever immortalised in Hollywood history. "This is the George Michael toilet," said the guide on my Hollywood tour. "And this is the Hugh Grant parking lot."
At Universal Studios the emphasis was on having fun. This meant posing for pictures with Jurassic Park dinosaurs and a great white shark from Jaws. Then a bus took us on a tour of the studios where we were subjected to flash floods, earthquakes and fires as the special effects department demonstrated their skills. And just when I thought it was safe to get back on the tour bus, we were taken to the rides. "This is a highly aggressive ride" said the notice by the Back to the Future ride. I opted instead for the ET ride, where you are gently flown on a bicycle through a planet where extraterrestrials sit among the flowers and wave at you.
And if it's good enough for Tom Cruise and John Travolta, then it's good enough for me. I took the free personality test at the Church of Scientology on Hollywood Boulevard, answering over 100 questions such as "Do you eat quickly?". Racquel was assigned to give me my results. I'm not sure whether she had passed or failed the personality test, but either way she didn't seem to have one. "Do Americans have accents to you guys?" she asked. "Yes," I said, much to her surprise. She looked at me gravely. "You're stubborn," she said, "and irresponsible. And you're critical and you don't get along with people. Also you're very depressed. And nervous, and you show a great lack of accord."
I took my stubborn and depressed self to San Diego. San Diego is a very pleasant city, where everything you need is within walking distance, unlike LA, and people have feet instead of rollerblades and children instead of puppies. It is also the gateway to Mexico. I went for the day to Tijuana with my new friend Luke. We drank margaritas and ate Tostadas and wandered down the streets lined with souvenir shops where men in sombreros tried to get us to pay $2 to have pictures taken with donkeys painted to look like zebras, shouting "A picture for you and your wife." We passed several pharmacies with big placards outside saying "Anthrax medicine available here."
As we walked past the rugs, hats, porcelain chilli peppers, Jesus figures, plastic Mickey mouses and the papier-mache Winnie the Poohs, Luke said to me "I wonder who actually buys this crap." Two minutes later I looked up to find that he had paid $8 for a three-foot long fur trimmed pipe with a bird's claw at the end, and was proudly marching towards the border, admiring his purchase.
Busy doing nothing
Thursday January 31 2002
Venice Beach is like Camden, only by the sea. Numerous stalls offering jewellery, fake designer sunglasses and Chinese massage compete for space with sand models of topless mermaids, buskers playing the violin with a coke bottle as a bow and fortune tellers. People on rollerblades zoom past on their way to the section of the beach front reserved for rollerboogie. This is the name for dancing on rollerskates.
The best rollerboogiers seemed to be camp men in their 50s in all types of outfits. It was what I imagine you would get if you managed to cross The Village People with Starlight Express. I searched in vain for the Rabbi I had met a few years ago who had claimed to be the only Jewish fortune teller on Venice Beach. I bumped into him on my birthday while backpacking in the Middle East and he read my fortune as a birthday present. Though he wasn't around, there were plenty of alternatives offering good health, much happiness and true love for $10. I spent my money on pizza and ice cream instead before heading to Santa Monica pier.
Having grown up watching Baywatch every weekend at an age where it was watched for the story line rather than the totty, it was incredibly exciting to see real live LA lifeguards in Malibu where it was filmed - though not quite as exciting as seeing the police station from Beverly Hills Cops and the post office with the 90210 postcode.
The stars were out in force for the Golden Globe awards, though funnily enough none seemed to cross my path. I went for a drink at the swanky Chateau Marmont in the hope of spotting some, but none materialised. Though I met no stars I did meet a film director at a computer shop while I was emailing home. His first film had been well received at film festivals around the world, and if he was to be believed, he is an up and coming big thing. I certainly hope so, as he was the closest thing to a celebrity I met.
Flying business class to Fiji was an absolute pleasure. Sitting back in my seat and stretching out my legs as far as they would go, I still couldn't reach the seat in front. I left LA on Tuesday and arrived in Fiji on Thursday, crossing the international date line as I went, leaving LA several hours behind Britain and arriving in Fiji half a day ahead.
Fiji gained independence in 1970. 30 years later some British traditions still remain, in the tourist areas at least. The hotel where I am staying serves free tea and scones with jam every afternoon at 4pm. In the stationery shop Treasure Island and Swiss Family Robinson were the books at the front of the display.
And while the old colonials have left, a neo-colonialism seems to have replaced it. McDonalds has moved in and opened a restaurant on the main island, Viti Levu, and Coca-Cola is everywhere, of course. Shell and BP signs can be seen on every highway and the supermarkets shelves are stocked with brands I recognise.
Luke, last seen buying a bizarre smoking pipe on our day trip to Mexico, has followed me to Fiji. His penchant for tacky souvenirs has not abated. Wandering around a handicraft market in Nadi, he purchased a wooden 'cannibal fork'. Cannibalism was practised in parts of Fiji until the mid-19th century. This naturally leads to lots of bad taste jokes every time we see a child.
"I like children."
Dramatic pause.
"Couldn't eat a whole one though."
The drive from Nadi to the Coral Coast is beautiful, with countryside made up of hundreds of different shades of green leading down to the sea. Though Fiji is beautiful, tourism seems to be mainly resort-based, with travellers finding a resort they like and remaining there for the duration of their stay.
The biggest decision I've made so far has been what to have for dinner. Sitting in the shade in the hotel garden watching the sea has given me the perfect opportunity to stick to my Netjetter application promise and read War and Peace. I rise each morning and it's once more unto the beach with Tolstoy. The 1500-page book seems like the perfect length to fill my week of doing nothing.
In the evening the hotel serves a wine called Chateau Hi-Power. I've managed to resist so far, enticing as it sounds. A more popular drink in Fiji is kava. It is mildly narcotic and was historically used only by Fijian chiefs and priests, though nowadays it is drunk by all and offered to tourists as a welcome. I'd been warned that it tasted like muddy water so I steeled myself for the worst, but I rather liked it. "Be careful," warned my taxi-driver, "Too much kava and you'll get an overhang."
The odd, the mad and the druggy
Wednesday February 6 2002
In Suva, Fiji's capital, DVD players and wide screen televisions were on sale, while in the factories on the other side of the island workers making clothes for an Australian company are paid one Fijian dollar an hour (just over 30p). This doesn't cover the rent of a typical house in a village.
The Greenpeace Pacific office was a few hundred metres down the road from a large petrol garage. Tourists pay over £100 a night to stay in air-conditioned hotels with swimming pools, while the hotel workers earn less than the price of one of the hotel dinners in a day.
Down the road from an American fast food restaurant, an official was preaching in the marketplace about the dangers of diabetes, a problem which is increasing as Fijians get a taste for western foods. "You must eat more garlic," he said.
Fiji is a major stopover for travellers on their way to the antipodes or the west coast of America. Consequently, backpackers arrive for a four- or five-day stopover, and seldom leave their hotel. A fair few were found in the beachside cafe at a resort in Korolevu. If travel is supposed to broaden the mind, no one had told this lot.
"I'm going to dispel all your stereotypes about Americans" said Eric the American, with a huge body, tiny head and bulging eyes. "Um, do you own a gun?" I asked. "Yes." he said. "Six."
On an outside table the conversation had turned to Afghanistan and the plight of civilians there. "I feel sorry for the animals in the zoo there," said one of the British gap year kids.
Another hot topic of conversation was why it is that all the Swedish people we'd met were beautiful. "They don't give passports to the ugly ones," Heidi the German psychologist suggested.
Beth from England used to be a masseuse in Hawaii. Before that she was a Buddhist nun in Thailand. Her sister had married a Fijian man and she had come out to live in their village for a while.
Jurgen, an Austrian, was the only man in the area with shaved armpits. And then there was Monty, who, after a few too many bowls of mildly narcotic kava, started telling me his theory that early man had evolved in areas well-known for magic mushrooms, and it was perhaps under the influence of these that the monkeys decided to leave the trees and try living on the ground instead.
Becky didn't want any kava. "I'm allergic to narcotics," she said. What does it do to her, we wondered: make her feel lightheaded and start seeing things, perhaps?
Matt, another American, introduced himself with the question "What are your goals for this trip?". Juliet's goal in life was to make enough money to buy some rainforest in Costa Rica.
My main goal was to avoid Willy the Malaysian as much as possible. At least, I think he was called Willy and was from Malaysia. People who had bumped into him at other resorts during their travels had been given other particulars. In Willy were the makings of an urban myth. Or perhaps that should be a rural myth. At the beginning of the week he was merely regarded as a little strange. Then girls woke up in their dorms to find him sitting down staring at them. Rumours flew that he would offer these girls cartons of milk when they woke. Next one of the guests woke to find a carrot in her bed. All oddities at the guesthouse were attributed to Willy, who would occasionally find a particularly slimy bit of seaweed or a large crab and come running placing it on the table for all to see.
I think he may become a common travellers' tale from now on. Certainly new arrivals had already heard of him, his exploits having grown slightly odder and more exciting in the retelling of the tale. Perhaps it will grow and grow. "When we're older, people who backpacked will keep their children under control by threatening that if they don't behave, Willy will get them," said Nick, staying in my dorm.
While the Emperor Alexander was doing battle with Napoleon in War and Peace, my beach-time book, residents of the hostel had their very own Napoleon to contend with: a middle-aged man who worked at the hostel and liked to get everyone to participate in a game of bowls or volleyball in the afternoon.
Napoleon's house in the village had two rooms. On the wall were pictures of Jesus, Christmas stockings and family photos. He served us orange squash while I made faces at his youngest child, who promptly started crying. A few minutes from his house was one of the village churches, painted bright pink with a huge orange cross dominating the altar. As the amazing choir sang, women cooled themselves with fans made of coconut leaves and children amused themselves, occasionally being brought into line by a man wielding a branch which was used to administer strokes to the ones not behaving properly.
A Good News bible was passed to us to follow the service. For me, the good news was the huge cake we were given after the short service. "Thank you for coming," the villagers said, "come again." And with my mouth full of cake, I nodded my thanks, and headed back to the beach.
In with the New
Wednesday February 13 2002
Whichever way you look at it, with over 12 sheep to every person in New Zealand, there's an awful lot of kebab to be had. Or as the New Zealanders, who pronouce a's as e's and e's as i's - and so on - might say, 'thet's en ewful lut uf kibeb'. This of course sounds better than the American version - kebob.
The preponderence of kebabs is particularly apparent on Queen Street, Auckland's main shopping street, where I came across a kebab vendor approximately every 100m, making it almost as good as south Manchester for choice and variety - though as one New Zealander said to me, "There ain't no foot and mouth on us". And whereas in Manchester most of the kebab houses are run by Indians and Pakistanis, in Auckland they were mainly Turkish.
On night one I plumped for The Sultan's Table, an upmarket sit-down kebab restaurant on Victoria Street West. I had a mixed meze starter, followed by an Iskender kebab, washed down with a couple of bottles of New Zealand wine. It was a good start to this leg of the journey.
By my third night in Auckland however, it was back to the late night grease of the takeaway kebab joint. I chose Kebabs on Queen for the simple reason that it was nearest to where I was staying. There I was served New Zealand lamb (halal) on Lebanese bread in a Turkish kebab shop topped with humous and salad.
The proliferation of the kebab in New Zealand didn't happen, of course, until mass immigration began. Nowadays over 80% of the population is of European or Asian ethnicity. It's pretty safe to say that the Maori culture did not have a kebab as such. Maori cooking was much more likely to have been done in an earth oven in the ground than on a skewer. This is demonstrated to hundreds of tourists every night at an organised Hangi in a mock Maori village outside Rotorua. The evening starts with the tourists pretending their bus is a Maori canoe. "Those sitting in the aisle, I want you to pretend you have a paddle" said the driver/cox. The tourists then have a display of Maori singing and dancing before gorging themselves on the food cooked in the ground. "Thankyou for taking an interest in our culture" said the guide. "Thankyou for some great food" said Tim, the spokesman for our bus.
In Rotorua the thermal activity was in full flow. Outside town the boiling mud pools were doing what boiling mud pools do best: bubbling and spitting and giving out a foul smell. Dotted around the area were steaming fields and erupting geysers. The Lady Knox geyser, with the help of a bag of soap poured down the hole to relieve the surface tension, erupts every day at 10.15am, drawing quite a crowd to see it shoot it's load. It was, as we say in east London, a diamond geyser.
At the Polynesian Spa I soaked in the thermal pools overlooking Lake Rotorua, letting the sulphur work its magic. After soaking for an hour I was ready for my treatment, a honey and lavender rehydration and polishing package. Affecting concern for my modesty in spite of the fact that I was naked except for a disposable paper g-string, the beauty therapist asked "shall I do your tummy and breasts too?" And with absolutely all my body rehydrated and polished, it was on to the body massage. I don't know whether it was the ylang ylang, the lavender, the sandalwood or the orange oil, but whatever it was, this was the best massage I have ever had.
And when you're feeling thoroughly relaxed, with all the cares of the world massaged away, what better way to prepare for the stress or everyday life by being put in the driving seat of a small Cessna 150 two-seater plane and told to fly it?
Tahlia, my instructor at Kaikoura Air Field, was only 22, but she'd been flying since she was 16. She gave me a quick lesson on the ground with a diagram of the cockpit and a toy plane. With the words thrust, drag and elevation going round in my head, it was on to the runway. "You're going to take off" said Tahlia, and though my main interest was in flying the plane rather than taking off and landing, that gives rise to some suspicion these days, so I did as I was told.
"Do I need to be able to drive a car?" I had asked Tahlia on the phone. I do drive, but for the last six years have only ever driven an automatic. Luckily, the plane only had two pedals so it wasn't that different. We flew around the peninsula for half an hour with me turning left and right and ducking and diving and then brought the plane into land. It was, as the New Zealanders say, sweet as.
Flying high
Wednesday February 20 2002
Queenstown in New Zealand is an adrenalin-fuelled, hyperactive, big scream of a town where tourists go for one of two reasons - either to jump from a plane, mountain or bridge, or to watch others do it.
On the main street every other shop is selling tickets for one activity or another. Not tempted by bungy? How about a skydive? Scared of heights? Why not try a shotover jet that turns 360-degrees as it shoots through canyons? Too active? Then there's always the cable car up the side of the hill that overlooks Queenstown. Feeling daring? Take the ski-lift a little higher and try the luge, a three-wheeled go-kart that speeds down a track on the side of the hill. Didn't like the cable car? Try getting down another way. Parapenting perhaps? Strap yourself to an instructor and jump. The parachute is already open so no worries there as you float down to the centre of town.
Queenstown, quiet during the day as people go about their business of throwing themselves off of bridges, jetting through rapids and jumping from planes, comes to life at night as they return, having survived the day, with huge grins on their faces. The smile should be the symbol of Queenstown. That self-satisfied "I did it!" grin that comes just before you are accosted by a random stranger in a bar who wants nothing other than to tell you what they did that day. Cries of "I was terrified but I did it!" "I tell you what, I'm not doing that again," and "bloody brilliant!" echo round the bars and clubs of the town.
Bungy jumping is particularly popular here. The choice is enormous. Should jumpers choose the Nevis bungy, the tallest in New Zealand at 134m, or the Ledge bungy, reached by cable car? Or perhaps they should go for the baby at only 43m, the Kawarau Bridge bungy, the world's first. Or if you can't decide, there's always the thrillogy, allowing you to do all three in one day.
At the Kawarau bridge I watched as, one after another, people hurled themselves over the side with their ankles bound together, attached to an elastic cord. "Wahey!" shouted the crowd as each person jumped. "Aaaaargh!" shouted the jumpers. And was I imagining it, or was there a slight whisper of disappointment as each jumper safely boinged back up and then was released from their harness? The crowd - or perhaps it was just me - seemed to be waiting for the rope to snap, or extend too far, vindicating our own fear and decision not to do it. "It all seems awfully safe," the woman next to me said.
By answering three riddles correctly I won a package from my bus driver entitling me to a free video and photo of me jumping if I decided to do a bungy myself. As I had absolutely no intention of doing so, however safe it seemed, I gave my prize away to Emer. "I'm going to jump, I'm going to jump, I'm going to jump!" said Emer. "No I'm not," she said. Five minutes later, Emer decided to jump. "Aaaaaaaaaaaaargh!" said Emer as she went over.
Becky works for AJ Hackett, the company that operates several of the bungy sites. "Have you done it yourself?" I asked, referring to the Nevis. "No," said Becky, "it makes me feel seasick".
Not for me, either, the bungy jump. Why jump off a bridge when, for the same money, you can run off the side of a mountain, I thought. So it was a quick phonecall to the tandem hang-gliding instructor and there I was, driving up to Coronet Peak.
"There are two important things to remember," said Ricky. "Keep running until we leave the ground, and hold on to me the whole time." As Ricky was six foot four, a foot taller than me, running while holding onto the straps on his shoulders proved a little difficult. But there was no time to think about that. The wind blew, Ricky said "Run!" and then wheeeeeeeeeee, we were flying.
Hang-gliding is how I imagine it must feel to be a bird. And not just a pigeon or a sparrow. Ricky and I were hawks, swooping round the sky, catching thermals, ducking and diving. "I used to be a builder," said Ricky. "But I often cycled here and saw people hang-gliding and thought, why not?"
Wheeeeeeeee. We shot up and then quickly down again, zooming past hidden waterfalls and over treetops. As we went in to land we passed over the heads of several sheep, happily ignoring us. I got out of my harness, shook Ricky's hand, and headed back to town with a grin on my face, looking for strangers to tell about my day.
Skin deep
Thursday February 28 2002
Describing travelling in New Zealand, I feel like the woman who swallowed a thesaurus in an incident described as tragic, awful, calamitous, disastrous and lamentable. There are lots of ways to describe the country, but it all boils down to the same thing: it's pretty. The Marlborough Sounds? Well, yes, they're beautiful. Fjordland? Dramatic. The glaciers? Remarkable. The mountains? Impressive. Waterfalls? Sensational.
What about the landscape, surroundings, terrain and views? Oh yes, they're all charming, dazzling, lovely, spectacular and striking. And they are. But nice hills and rivers don't hide the fact that New
Zealand is essentially one of the dullest places on earth.
Take the Tranzscenic railway which runs from Greymouth to Christchurch. It is touted as one of the world's best train journeys. And while New Zealand remains as far away from most other countries as it is, Kiwis can probably convince themselves that this is true. But really, it's no nicer than that scenic bit in Staffordshire that British trains go through when they head north.
While Helen Clark, the country's prime minister, was in the UK trying to convince Britons that New Zealand is dynamic and ready for the 21st century, I was touring some of the cities here. Wellington, the capital city, has a population half the size of that of Luxembourg. Auckland, with over a million people, is supposed to be a cosmopolitan city. Nearly a third of the people in New Zealand live there. But a bustling city it certainly isn't.
One of the most frequently heard compliments about the country is that the people are friendly. They are, actually, but alas, friendly doesn't equal interesting. No wonder so many Kiwis spend years working for minimal wages in bars and pubs across the UK. I would too, if it was the only way to get away. The national bird is flightless and even the national fruit was brought here from somewhere else - China, in fact. Even New Zealand-born Russell Crowe has just applied for an Australian passport.
It's not that New Zealand isn't pleasant. As I've said, parts of it are very nice to look at indeed. It just lacks something. Personality, perhaps? The prettiest part of the country is the west coast of the South Island, which plays host to the Franz Josef and the Fox glaciers. I took a helicopter ride to a point on the Fox glacier where, kitted out with hobnailed boots, crampons and a walking stick, I hiked on the ice for a couple of hours. Because the glacier moves new paths and footholds have to be cut every day but, as this was the luxury helicopter hike, someone else did that for me.
The glacier can actually move up to 4m a day, surprisingly quick for New Zealand where "no worries" and "chill out" are regular refrains. "This hole is several hundred metres deep," said Ricky, the guide, pointing to a crack in the ice. I promptly dropped my sunglasses down it. This was the second pair to go, the first having committed suicide off the Golden Gate Bridge in San Francisco.
Apart from the scenery, there are two things New Zealanders are proud of: Lord of the Rings, and being reigning champions of the America's Cup. Actually, make that three. New Zealand is also proud of being a nuclear-free zone. But this is one of the things the London Borough of Hackney boasts about, and you wouldn't want to spend three weeks touring Dalston, would you?
"I was in Lord of The Rings," said Dave, my bus driver. "I was one of the army fighting the Orcs in part two." We were driving through Twizel, a village on the South Island. "This here," said Dave, "was part of Middle Earth."
Ask a New Zealander to tell you something interesting about their country and after hesitating for several minutes, they'll probably come up with the America's Cup. For the uninitiated, this is a yacht race. As Team New Zealand are the reigning champions, a whole harbourside development in Auckland has been built on the America's Cup theme. "Look, there are our boys out on the water, practising," said the guide on my dolphin-spotting expedition. "Now all turn round and bow to them. They are our heroes."
The country has been living off this piece of sporting success for years, and probably will continue to do so for years to come. Which would be rather like the Brits still basking in the glory of their 1966 World Cup victory. Something we'd never do, surely?
Over the rainbow
Thursday March 7 2002
Returning to Sydney after two years was like meeting up with an old friend. There were a few new shops and a different bunch of people, but essentially Sydney and I were the same, both happy to slip into the old ways of days doing nothing but soaking up the different neighbourhoods and admiring the views. The first view of the harbour was as joyful as it had been during the millennium celebrations. Sydney doesn't seem to have begun its Olympics comedown.
I got the tourist stuff out of the way immediately - a beer by the Opera House, a boat trip under the Harbour Bridge and a kangaroo pizza at Darling Harbour. Jess and Ange were there to show me the real Sydney.
I last saw Ange before I came to Australia the first time. She taught me how to surf in a crowded kitchen, demonstrating - while mixing a drink - the knack of staying balanced on your board. I found out this time that Ange has never surfed in her life. No wonder I hadn't even been able to stand up.
This time we opted for some simple wave-jumping at Bondi. "Are you okay in the water?" asked Jess. "Sure," I said. "I'm a strong glug glug glug." The wave that got me was particularly big. I was still choking up salt water when a bluebottle stung Jess. Traumatised, we went to the RSL to recover.
There's a Retired Serviceman's League in every area. Cheap beer and a lack of pretension are the main attractions, although at Bondi this is coupled with stunning views of the ocean. There I met Edward and Adrian, who invited me to their house in Surrey Hills before we headed to the Mardi Gras parade. The dykes on bikes led the parade, with the rainbow flag depicted in their headlights. For two hours a mix of political groups and drag queens in glitter paraded past. Harry Poofter and the Queerditch game marched past, with teams from Gryffinbackdoor and Slypitin. The Uniting Church and Jewish gay youth also went by. So did a group in lifejackets representing the refugees at the heart of the scandal in which the Australian government claimed, falsely, that children were being thrown overboard from refugee ships.
The gay community in Sydney is divided over whether or not straight involvement detracts from the political message of the march. James, a gay Irish man, didn't have a problem with this. "I love Sydney, it's so accepting," he said. James was particularly taken by the drag queen Dorothy in her red shoes. "Ra, ra, it's Mardi Gras!" he yelled whenever especially impressive floats went by.
During brunch the next morning on Oxford Street in the heart of Sydney's gay area, an assortment of men in leather and glitter staggered past on their way home. James appeared looking remarkably fresh after a few hours sleep. Now on his third outfit in 12 hours, he was wearing a pair of silver wings which flapped as he walked.
The most wonderful thing about Australian beer is that it's served cold. The Ancient Briton pub in Glebe boasts of the coldest beer in Sydney at 0.5C. After browsing through the second-hand bookshops and vintage clothes stores I was more than ready for a schooner. 0.5C is several degrees lower than the temperature at which beer is usually served in Europe and makes the drink much more refreshing.
There was beer again at the Bronte RSL, where Ange insisted on joining the regulars for a game of bingo. "We have newcomers for the final rounds," said the caller into his microphone. "Bingo!" shouted Ange. It was a false call.
Several of the women came up afterwards to commiserate with her on her loss. "It's a good job it was a false call," said the manager. "They don't like newcomers to win and they don't like young people to win."
From Bronte there is a spectacular walk through a huge cemetery with graves overlooking the ocean and along the cliff tops. We walked the short distance to Coogee Beach, stopping at Gordon's Bay for a dip and a picnic. Then it was to Leichardt, where Italian restaurants line the street and bars surround a square designed to look like an Italian piazza. The only downside to Leichardt is that it is directly beneath Sydney airport's flight path. Conversations are interrupted every few minutes. "You should write about how wonderful Jess and I are, and the lamentable lack of straight single men," said Ange. "I wonder why you've found that?" I said, but her reply was lost under the roar of a passing jumbo jet.
Sleeping with the fishes
Wednesday March 13 2002
Humans move slowly in northern Queensland. The heat drains your energy. An hour after waking you feel as if you've done a full day's work when you've probably done no more than eat breakfast and head to the beach. Other forms of life, however, have more stamina.
In Queensland the rainforest meets the reef. Both are spectacular. The fish on the reef are easy to spot. They are brightly coloured and come in all shapes and sizes. There's the surgeonfish, the angelfish, the butterflyfish and the batfish. Also the boxfish, the clownfish, the squirrelfish and the goatfish. And the parrotfish, the rabbitfish, the rainbowfish and the combfish. My favourite names were the dogfaced pufferfish, the fire lionfish, the spangled emperor, the moorish idol and the chocolate dip fish. And that's naming just a few of the fish that can be found here.
At Reef Teach, Scott, a marine biologist, gave an energetic lecture about life on the reef. "There is absolutely no way you'll see a shark while you're out on the reef," he said. The audience gave a collective sigh of relief. "That's because they come up behind you."
Reef Teach estimates that 2% of people who go out to the reef attend one of their lectures. They teach tourists what they can touch, what they shouldn't touch and what will kill them if touched. There are other gems of information such as the sea cucumber that breathes through it's anus - although I didn't establish how they know that it doesn't just shit through its mouth.
Heinz was the instructor on my introductory dive. "The most important thing is to remember to breathe," said Heinz. This was above water of course. Below water, communication depends on signs. It was easy to mix up the sign for "I'm okay" with the sign for "I want to go up now". The former is an 'O' formed with thumb and forefinger with your other three fingers raised. The latter is a thumbs up signal.
We managed to get to the seabed. If I could have talked I would have run out of adjectives: the Great Barrier Reef is spectacular. However, as I was 10m under water, it was rather difficult to talk, which left the whole time to look and wonder.
On land the rainforest is no less spectacular. At Cape Tribulation it comes down to meet the ocean, with only strips of beautiful, white beaches separating the two. I took a guided night-hike through the rainforest. Armed with a torch, the guide pointed out insects and spiders. The torches picked out small, white glowing things. These, the guide told us, were spiders' eyes.
In Sydney I had been amazed when my companions happily left their bags, complete with house keys, wallets and mobile phones, on the beach while they went for a swim. "Aren't you worried they'll get stolen?" I had asked. "This is Australia, not London," they replied. After a week I learned to adopt this easy-going attitude and left my belongings under a tree while I went for a dip in one of the netted-off areas at Cairn's northern beaches. The nets are to protect swimmers from fatal box jellyfish.
The souvenirs on sale in Cairns are not particularly classy. Purses made from the gutted bodies of cane toads compete for space with ones made from kangaroo scrotums. There are, of course, more traditional presents like boomerangs. At the Wundurra History Centre I learnt that there are two sorts of boomerangs: the returning boomerang and the non-returning boomerang. My boomerang failed to return. "That was supposed to be a returning one," I was told.
I thought it would be appropriate while in Australia to watch the Australian film, Rabbit Proof Fence. It is about the stolen generations of Aborigines removed from their families, a policy that continued until the 1970s. Nowadays high profile Aborigines, such as Olympic gold medallist Cathy Freeman and actress Deborah Mailman (who plays the loveable Kelly in the Australian drama The Secret Life of Us), are changing the ideas of the often racist Australian public.
The mattresses in some of Queensland's youth hostels were bought at auction after the Sydney Olympic games. They are the very mattresses that athletes slept on in the Olympic village. I rather hoped that I was sleeping on Cathy Freeman's. But I rather think that in the lazy tropical heat I was much more likely to be sleeping on the mattress of Equatorial Guinea's Eric Moussambani. He had never swum in an Olympic size pool before the games, and his record slow 100m freestyle won him his heat only because everyone else was disqualified.
The heat is on
Tuesday March 19 2002
If your plans to go gadget hunting in Tokyo have been curtailed, Singapore is a good alternative
It would be funny if it wasn't so painful. On my first morning in Singapore I felt a slight tickle in my nose and then the next moment an almighty sneeze burst forth. A sneeze so strong that it did something unnatural to a muscle in my back which had me clutching my left side in agony every time I tried to move.
So it was that I found myself walking gingerly around Singapore avoiding anything that might bump into me, but determined not to miss out on everything the island has to offer despite my newly acquired disability.
Perhaps it was the pain that made me less tolerant than usual. "Shut up or I'll throw you to the lions," I growled under my breath to the screaming little boy sitting next to me on the night safari. Well, I thought it was under my breath, but it worked so perhaps it was a little louder than planned.
The night safari is fantastic. A zoo made to look like its bathed in moonlight. Nocturnal animals in large enclosures, similar to their natural habitats, can be observed doing what they usually do during the night; playing, defecating, fornicating, going for a late night kebab, brushing their teeth, that kind of thing.
On Orchard Road it wasn't difficult to see why Singapore has the reputation it does for shopping. Mall after mall line the street, with hundreds of fashions boutiques and department stores to tempt me. I intended to shop for Britain and was making my way into the first of them when I realised that there was no way my damaged back would let me pull clothes on and off. It had been hard enough to struggle up the stairs to the shower that morning, let alone get dressed. So I did what I'm sure both my grandmas would have suggested, and went to find some chicken soup, famed for its curative purposes.
The food in Singapore is fantastic. Outdoor hawkers offer hundreds of choices for a couple of Singaporean dollars. The best I had was not the chicken soup, but the fish ball noodle soup in Chinatown. "What kind of fish is this?" I asked, hoping to recreate the soup at home. "A small one," answered the stall owner.
I also stopped by a teahouse for a cup, which turned into several. I was given a demonstration of how to make tea the Chinese way. Tea has many benefits, I read on the extensive tea menu. Not only does it prevent ageing of the skin and help remove grease and stink between the teeth and cheeks, it also "has the effect of relieving alcoholism for drunkenness," which must surely be a good thing. To accompany my tea I had a plate of tea-flavoured cookies: a jasmine tea cookie, a green tea cookie, a rose tea cookie and a cereal tea cookie.
Singapore is, in relative terms, only footsteps from the equator. Consequently it's extremely hot and sticky. Unlike some other parts of Asia where it's a constant battle to avoid being pulled into every shop by overzealous shopkeepers, in Singapore you're practically begging to be let in. "Do you have air conditioning? Then I'd love to look at your shop." So relieving is the air conditioning that I found myself entering any old building just to catch a blast or two. When someone finally realised that I was there they would ask politely whether they could help me: "Um, do you change money?" I'd ask, looking for an excuse. "No, this is a dentist."
Despite the heat, I like Singapore. The streets are clean, the underground doesn't smell of discarded fast food and you've a good chance of getting a seat, the buses have televisions, and there's no chance of chewing gum sticking to your shoe. I like the way the country seems prepared or anything. "These flower pots can be removed to make another runway in an emergency," Elvis, my driver, pointed out to me on the road from the airport. When I rule the world I think I might enforce some of Singapore's rules myself, particularly the inspired fines for urinating in a public lift.
Still in pain I made it to an internet cafe. This is where Singapore's youth come to vent their frustrations by playing violent computer games very loudly. Glenn Medeiros played in the background. "Dear Mum". (Bang.Bang. Kerpow. Nothing's gonna change my love for you. Crash. Bang.) "It's very hot here". (Screeech. You ought to know by now how much I love you. Kerpow). "I hurt my back but the pain is easing a bit now". (Screech. Kerpow. But nothing's gonna change my love for you. Crash. Kerpow. Bang).
Journey's end
Thursday March 28 2002
It is cool in Malaysia's Cameron Highlands, in the old-fashioned sense of the word. The temperature is pleasantly chilly and strawberry farms sit alongside tea plantations on the winding roads. Cabbages and roses grow in gardens, and Devonshire teas are served with Cameron Highlands tea and local strawberry jam.
It is rumoured that there are 653 bends on the road down from the Cameron Highlands town of Tanah Rata. It seemed like more, but I was recovering from the combined effects of the peer pressure of the other tourists staying in my guesthouse and a bottle of cheap Thai liquor.
It is cool and breezy, too, up Penang Hill. Georgetown spreads out below, and as the dusk falls, the town lights up. Butterworth sparkles in the haze across the water and a labyrinth of lights show the roads of the town. I feel like Dylan Thomas: Stand on this hill. This is Penang Hill, old as the hills, high, cool and green. It is Sunday, moonless night in the small town, starless and bible-black.
The grand old colonial buildings are banks now, though on Sunday the banks are closed, and I walked alone through deserted streets. On Penang Hill the sky turns from blue to pink to orange to red to purple to black as it does in all the best films and literature, the colours reflected in the fishingboat-bobbing sea.
And Dylan Thomas is right, it feels as if only I can hear the houses sleeping in the streets. Time passes. Listen. Time Passes.
In Melaka too, time passes: but in slow motion. Exertion is not something one thinks of here. Francis works at the top of the Bukit St Paul, painting pictures that he sells to visitors. "My logo is an ant," he says, "because they never stop working and neither do I." He asks my name and, before I can stop him, writes Ellie on a picture. "No, I don't want a picture." Too late. "Just give me a token," suggests Francis. And what's 10 ringgit for Francis' protection while I sit for a few hours in the shade of a cloister, surrounded by old Dutch gravestones and young Dutch tourists. "You're alone," says Francis. "I will find you a friend. You, you in the red t-shirt, you are Ellie's friend?"
In a cafe where I sit to watch the comings and goings of the night market, a visitors' book is pressed into my hand despite the fact I've only been there two minutes. "Can you write something?" the owner asks. "Very good mineral water," I write.
This is a corner of a foreign land that is forever Dutch, though it was Portuguese before that, and British afterwards. A windmill stands in the centre of town. In front of the windmill stands the bright red Stadthuys which is the old town hall.
Robin from Todmorden, Yorkshire, lives in Malaysia for half of the year. He came as a soldier in 1952. "I can't think of anywhere I'd rather live," he says. Arsenal scores on the television in front of us. "I can't stand that Arsehole Wenger," says Robin. "Too many foreigners in our football clubs." He then orders his daily portion of two eggs in fluent Malay and turns to chat to a young Malaysian sitting opposite.
In Kuala Lumpur the Petronas Towers, the other twin towers, gleam in the sunlight. I go up the viewing tower to admire the vista, keeping an eye out for low-flying planes. My dad came to Malaysia several years ago and says that it's the only time he ever felt tall. In Asia I also feel tall, all 5ft 4in of me, towering as high as the Petronas Towers, and almost as gleaming, what with the sweat and the various suntan lotions and insect repellents.
Not that the repellents worked against the bedbugs, which devoured me with the same ferocity that I've been devouring the Malaysian food. Someone told my Dad that they have read my columns and picture me eating my way around the world. Too right. Cuisine in Malaysia and Singapore is particularly good, especially the Hokkien, the Indian and the Nyonya.
And overall I like Malaysia, with its gleaming skyscrapers, dusty streets, fake Gucci handbags, colonial buildings, Chinatowns, Little Indias, women in Muslim headscarves and bright red lipstick. The tricycle rickshaws and the numerous food stalls. The chicken rice and the rotis. Red bean desserts and spicy laksa. And I put it down on my list of countries that I must revisit and explore further, then head off to spend the last of my traveller's cheques. Perhaps I do want that mock Gucci handbag after all.
She's come back home
Thursday April 4 2002
Ah, coming home. Ain't it nice? Though fings ain't wot they used to be, of course. London really has gone to the dogs without me here - the old routemaster buses that used to go by my house have been exchanged for shiny new versions with doors. They may be safer and more energy efficient, but they don't look as good, do they?
And it's nice to get Christmas presents in March when you've forgotten all about it. Thank goodness chocolate coins are made with enough preservatives to keep them fresh for a while. Home, sweet home.
My last days abroad were spent in Singapore, and included many hours in its much-hyped airport. Contrary to popular belief, it's not a fun place to spend the day. Changi airport, while clean, spacious, and - well - pretty much as airports should be really, is not, as many people have told me, more exciting than the city itself. Yes, it has a swimming pool and an internet lounge, but you have to pay for them. There are also some very expensive shops. "Do you want a teapot or some chopsticks?" I asked my brother by email from Malaysia. "Get me something big in duty free," he said. But the smallest box of chocs available cost more than the entire contents of my backpack, so I picked him up a little something at Heathrow before hopping on the tube home.
Some friends arranged a dinner to welcome me back. I was, of course, talking so much that I forgot to drink, so the whole table got very merry while I gabbled on trying to catch up with the pop idol gossip, who was shagging whom, and where everyone was now living, and attempting to think up witty answers to questions about how many kebabs I'd had on my travels and which places I enjoyed the most.
On reflection, it was Sydney and San Francisco that stole my heart. Two great cities on the water's edge where the buildings (wouldn't William Morris be proud) are both beautiful and functional. Where work is a mere by-product and hanging out, in beaches or parks or bars or coffee shops, is an art form. And where the people are friendly, accepting and cool.
It's to the coast of California that I intend to return when I have a chance, to read more Steinbeck and look again at the sea mammals playing on the shore. Perhaps there'll be time for a trip inland to see Miss Shasta County 1980-something, whom I met on my travels and who hails from a town "where they have beauty pageants and rodeos and everything".
And maybe I can return the favour and have people come and visit me here. I've moved back into my north London pad, where they have crackhouses and prostitutes and shooting and everything, not to mention the best kebab shop in the world, which is something I can say with more authority now than I could four months ago.
Friday September 28 2001
There's a book I want to write. I've researched it extensively in England. It's called Me and my 'bab. It is a travel book where the history and culture of each country is examined through the consumption of kebabs. Falafel in Israel, Souvlaki in Greece and so on. I see it as a public service. I eat the kebab, I assess the kebab and the public is saved from wasting their money and toilet paper on bad examples of the kebab.
That is the primary reason why I should be chosen as a Netjetter.
There are of course other reasons. When I started work after a postgraduate qualification recently, I received a text message from my brother. It said: "How was your first week. Only another 37 years to go." Actually, it said, "Hw ur 1st wk @ wrk. 37 mr yrs to go." A couple of months on and I'm not any happier about it.
I have travelled before. I backpacked in Australia, India, Vietnam and Thailand. I managed to read Middlemarch in Australia. In England, life is too short to read Middlemarch. If I were given the chance to travel again, I would go for the biggie. I would try War and Peace. My English degree friends and I think that War and Peace might just be readable if you took the whole of the nine months of pregnancy off, sat on the couch and read continuously. It's not a good reason to have a baby. I might also try a Dickens. I've never managed one of those.
Many people feel unattractive when they travel. They get sunburnt and sweaty. They hate wearing the same two items of clothing every day. I don't. True, in India I got acne. I thought it was leprosy. It was a form of adult acne. Or maybe heat rash. But not even that could stop me being incredibly happy that travelling is the only time I can put my frizzy hair up in a bandana and get away with it. And wear cotton smocks that make me look like a Maoist worker but keep me cool.
I was talking to a friend about the idea of Me and my 'bab. He suggested another travel book where someone must travel and have sex in every place they stop. It's an interesting idea and one I think I'd enjoy. It would certainly be a good opening line for meeting locals. I'm thinking perhaps Me and my post-coital 'bab would be a good way of combining the two. Written by email. Exclusively for Guardian readers.
Packing it in
Saturday December 1 2001
A friend of mine went travelling in south America a couple of years ago. She went for four months and took four pairs of knickers. Her advice to me has always been to travel light.
After reading my Netjetters competition entry, in which I set out my plan of comparing the relative merits of the kebabs and the sex in each country, my mum said she wasn't sure which would be more hazardous to my health. Her advice was to make sure there was greaseproof paper covering both.
My grandma, a veteran of three trips to Las Vegas, told me that when asked what number I wanted to play at roulette, I should put all my money without hesitation on 22.
I've also been given advice about the places I am going to. A work contact whom I've never met but have spoken to on the phone a couple of times has given me her parents' address in New Zealand with the promise of accommodation and excursions. A professor at a university a friend of mine used to attend has passed on the contact details of some friends in Toronto.
A boy I have been pen pals with since my early teens, who lives in Nevada,says: "The idea of you and I palling around for a few days sounds like a real kick in the ass." I'm not quite sure what that means or whether it will hurt, but I guess that's one of the things I will pick up in America - like saying "I guess" all the time.
The Guardian's talkboards have also yielded some good tips; a secret waterfall in northern Queensland, lychee and green tea ice cream in New York's Chinatown and national parks in Canada.
The reaction at work when I gave in my notice and told them all I was off to travel the world was, "Oh good, that solves our budgetary crisis." The crisis obviously isn't too severe as they all dipped into their pockets to buy me a guidebook to Fiji. They also gave me a box of chocolates. The chocolates soon disappeared, however: after celebrating my last day in the office, I ate one and then drunkenly passed the box round the tube carriage on the way home.
I have been doing my research about America, the first country I will visit. The philosopher and poet, Ralph Waldo Emerson, said "America is a country of young men". I certainly hope so. He also said that "in skating over thin ice, our safety is in our speed", which will non doubt come in useful if I go to the Rockerfeller ice rink - although he neglects to mention how to stop. Perhaps that's where the young men come in.
There are some things I don't understand about America that I want to find out while I'm there. What are eggs over easy? Why are legal pads yellow? How many Hershey bars does it take to make yourself sick?
At the moment, I am most excited about New Zealand. Apparently there are so few cars on the road that if I hire one it won't matter that I sometimes forget the difference between the accelerator and the brake. A few sheep may be hastened to your table, but no humans will be hurt.
I'm in San Francisco for new year and Sydney for Mardi Gras. I'm not too good at adrenalin, so I think I'll leave the bungee jumping and skydiving to others. But just so I don't feel I'm escaping without any danger, I do arrive in Fiji in the middle of the cyclone season. All tips on how to survive cyclones, make the most out of Sydney, cure the hangover in San Francisco or beat the dealer in Las Vegas are more than welcome - as are tips on every other place I am going to. I've been warned that winter in New York and in Toronto will be freezing. To pick up some tips on how to survive, my first preparation book will be The Worst Journey in the World by Apsley Cherry-Garrard. This book about Scott's mission to the South Pole might help me keep warm on what should be, for me, the best journey in the world.
Of course, the Guardian isn't just sending me around the world. They are sending me business class. And in every city I will be put up for the first night in one of the best five-star hotels in the city. Much as I like to proclaim my east end roots and my Walthamstow upbringing, I am rather partial to the idea of travelling in style. So I've packed my Clinique three-step cleansing system and dug out the designer shades. My backpack is full of pulling outfits and sparkly makeup. The only problem now is how to fit in those four pairs of knickers.
So good I ate it twice
Thursday December 6 2001
The decisions that come with travelling business class are hard ones. Do I choose the Loch Fyne smoked salmon or the marinated mushrooms with feta cheese and fresh rocket? The Geyser Peak Chardonnay or the Saint-Aubin La Pucelle? I plumped instead for the complex flavours and aromas of the Charles Heidsieck Mis en Cave Champagne to sip while reclining on my seat watching Audrey Hepburn in Roman Holiday on my personal TV screen.
I wasn't hungry of course, having made full use of the free fresh fruit and muffins in the business class lounge at Heathrow, but that wasn't the point. It would surely have been rude to turn down the spinach, cream cheese and roasted vegetable sandwiches and the warm fruit scones. "A top up, madam?" asked the air hostess coming round with more champagne. "Well, if I must," I said between mouthfuls of glazed apricot tart.
Immigration at New York's JFK airport proved no problem. Do I have a communicable disease? No. Have I ever been arrested? No. Have I ever been involved in espionage or sabotage? No. Have I ever withheld custody from a US citizen granted custody of the child? No. They forgot to ask whether I have communist sympathies, or perhaps they don't care any more. And after today I can only ever be described as a champagne socialist anyway.
A woman in the airport started talking to me. She worked for the Playboy website. Perhaps I should have picked her brains, as the bed at my hotel on Park Avenue could have fit at least four people in it comfortably. I meant to go out searching for people to fill it, but sated with smoked salmon and champagne, I fell asleep instead.
Manhattan transfer
Tuesday December 11 2001
Hubert and Brendan were US Marines let out from the military academy for a night. I stumbled across them in a bar on Bleecker Street. "It's my duty, ma'am" said Hubert, before shoving his tongue down my throat. Luckily it was also his duty to head out of state to represent his unit the next night, so we didn't have time to get better acquainted and discuss our views on George Bush's military strategy.
In Little Italy, Vinnie was awful pleased that I chose his restaurant for dinner. "My new friend from En-ger-land" said Vinnie. Vinnie's papa came over to have a look at me. "Aren't you scared being in New York with all the terrorism?" he asked, peering at me closely. I hadn't been scared until that moment. "I'll take you out sometime," said Vinnie.
Victor on the Staten Island Ferry was full of advice. "Don't go to Brooklyn," he told me. "Brooklyn is full of weirdos." I asked where he was from. "Brooklyn," he said.
The warm-up man on the Ricki Lake show was desperate to give away some free t-shirts. "A t-shirt to anyone who will come up on stage and sing the Star-Spangled Banner," he said. Only one person in the audience knew the words. "A t-shirt to anyone who will come on stage and dance," tried the warm-up man. The subject of the show was "You couples may be fat, but you're not all that, get over it!" Brandi and Duane were both very fat. "They're not all that," said Duane's sister. "Duane," said Ricki, "Have you got something to ask Brandi?" Duane wasn't listening. "Duane!" shouted Ricki. "Oh yeah," said Duane. "Will you marry me Brandi?" Brandi said yes and was whisked backstage to put on a veil. "In front of God, the audience and Ricki," said the minister, "I pronounce you man and wife." Duane's sister wasn't very pleased. She threw wedding cake at Brandi. "Anyone want a t-shirt?" yelled the warm-up man.
The man at the bagel bakery opposite the Empire State Building had been to England. "I met the queen," he said. "I went to Buckingham Palace. I was invited. I met the queen. I think the queen's a bitch but I was invited. Never mind why."
The revolving restaurant at the top of the Marriott Hotel on Times Square takes an hour to return to where it started, giving panoramic views over Manhattan. The cheapest bottle of wine was $26. I had two. The bar revolves faster the more you drink. Finding your seat after a trip to the toilet is near impossible. You leave it overlooking the Hudson River and return to find it overlooking late night workers in the Art Deco GE building.
At the Imagine memorial in Strawberry Fields, floral tributes had been scattered for George Harrison. There was a respectful hush. At ground zero there was no such thing. "I want a better look" screeched one woman in the crowd. "Hang on," said another, "I'm taking a photo." Church groups gave out free prayers and remembrance CDs. Stalls sold commemorative pictures of the burning buildings and pictures of Osama Bin Laden with 'Wanted dead or alive' on them. The 'alive' was crossed out.
The bus tour of Manhattan gave ample chance to get on and off at places of interest. "Get off here to see Malcolm X's mosque," said the guide. "Get off here for the Guggenheim Museum. Get off here for ground zero. Get off here for Bloomingdales." The rubble of the World Trade Centre is now just another tourist attraction.
At the biggest McDonald's in the world my hangover disappeared with the help of extra large fries and a chocolate milkshake. It disappeared enough, in fact, to allow me to queue for an hour for half-price tickets to a Broadway show. The musical 42nd Street was showing at a theatre on 42nd Street. "Keep young and beautiful," they sang. So I headed to Tiffany's thinking that if not beautiful, then at least bejewelled will do. If you have to ask the price in Tiffany's then you obviously can't afford it. The same goes for most of the shops at that end of Fifth and Sixth Avenue. Cheaper are the smaller boutiques in Greenwich Village.
Hanging out in the Village takes a certain kind of cool. Brunch in a cafe with a newspaper took several hours followed by a look around some of the quirky shops. At night the Village is the place to be. "Trip hop, hip hop, R&B and garage," said the hostess on the door of a club. The Blue Note jazz cafe was round the corner. I swaggered up to the door, well aware that I was not only cool but hanging out in the coolest of all the cool places. "$35, lady," said the doorman, and having spent my weekly budget on the $26 bottles of wine, I slunk away to people-watch from the street instead.
Hockey schtick
Tuesday December 18 2001
On a New York street round the corner from the Kabul Cafe, a man thrust a package into my hand. "Happy holidays," he said. The package was a menorah, the candle holder used during the Jewish festival of Chanukah. "Merry Christmas," said the santas on every street corner, competing to be heard with the music of the mobile Mitzvah Tank. A mitzvah is a Jewish good deed, like handing out menorahs to lone travellers.
At the Lincoln Center the Nutcracker Ballet was on, as it is every year. "It's always the same," said the woman in the row behind me. "I don't know why I come."
The top of the Empire State Building was lit up in green and red for Christmas, although for the first night of Chanukah it changed to blue and white. New York is proud of its multiculturalism. Though not as proud as it is of its delis. One of the most famous is Katz's Deli, immortalised by Meg Ryan's orgasm in When Harry met Sally. There was no need to tell the waitress "I'll have what she's having." Everyone has the same - pastrami on rye. Two tables away from mine was a sign. "Bill Clinton sat here," it said.
And so to Toronto. The national sport of Canada is hockey. Hockey is a bit like football only played on ice. And with sticks. In fact, it's nothing like football. "Well," said John, my new friend, "the aim is to get the ball in the goal." Only, as John explained, it's not called a ball, it's called a puck.
John was very happy to explain the game to me. He'd been watching me from across the Library Bar at the Royal York hotel in Toronto, where I'd been getting to work on one of their famous 'birdbath' martinis, stirred, not shaken. After an hour of staring John came over to talk to me. "I was waiting for you to send me a note asking me to join you," said John. John didn't seem to mind that I had no desire for him to join me, though when he footed the bill for my cocktails my objections disappeared. "There's only one person you need to know in hockey," said John, "and that's Wayne Gretzky." "Who's Wayne Gretzky?" I asked. He looked at me in disbelief. "You don't know who Wayne Gretzky is?"
I asked a man in my hotel. "Who's Wayne Gretzky?" I said. "You don't know who Wayne Gretzky is?" was the reply. "Where are you from? Outer space?" At the Hockey Hall of Fame the woman at the ticket counter looked at me with pity. "You just missed Wayne Gretzky" she said. "Half an hour earlier and you would have met him."
It soon became clear. "Wayne Gretzky," said Kevin, who works in the mock-up hockey dressing room, "is like the greatest hockey player there's ever been. He is the Luis Figo of Canada." Kevin was of Portuguese descent. "Is he like Beckham?" I asked. "Better," he said. The hall of fame has an exhibition charting Wayne Gretzky's life. 'Wayne's boots from the age of two' said one sign. 'The stick Wayne scored his first ever goal with' said another. At Wayne Gretzky's, the bar, the Toronto Maple Leafs were playing the Montreal Canadians. There you get the chance to sample foods such as 'Grandma Gretzky's famous perogies' and 'The Right Winger - chicken wings with homemade mild, medium, hot or honey garlic sauce, or enjoy them just the way Wayne likes 'em - no sauce'.
"Fight!" The man next to me at the bar turned round excitedly. Fighting is quite normal in hockey. Players just receive a five-minute penalty and sit out of the game for this time. This fight was between Tie Domi of the Maple Leafs and Reid Simpson of the Canadians. It meant that the number of penalty minutes Domi had been given in his entire career came to 1,672, more than any other Maple Leaf player ever.
The security guard at the door of the executive apartments in downtown Toronto was a bit dubious about letting me in. "I've been invited to a party here," I said. "But I'm afraid I can't remember the name of the host or the number of the apartment." It was true. Alexandra, the waitress in the Library Bar, had invited me along. Once I gained entry I set about ingratiating myself with the other guests. "Wayne Gretzky," I said, "now there's a hockey player. Who can forget that time when he accepted a pass from Marty McSorley to score on Kirk Mclean of the Vancouver Canucks in March 1994." "You like hockey?" said the host. "Pat Quinn lives upstairs." "Who's Pat Quinn?" I asked, and his look told me that any points I had gained, had just been lost.
Radio daze
Friday December 28 2001
It wasn't exactly primetime but the phones were buzzing on Michael Coren's live three hour Sunday night radio show on CFRB 1010. First Michael discussed the plight of Taliban-supporting Afghan refugees, the governor general's husband, an anti-Semitic newspaper cartoon and the saying Happy Holidays, which is more commonly used in Canada than Merry Christmas. Michael finds the phrase happy holidays offensive. He thinks it is denying that the main holiday at this time of year is Christmas. "I don't find saying merry Christmas offensive," said one caller. "Thank you, merry Christmas," said Michael. "Happy Ramadan," said the caller.
Then the show turned to a more important subject. Me. Listeners were invited to ring in with a suggestion for something I should do in Toronto, Montreal or Las Vegas. Those who did won a hat.
One caller suggested a play out of town put on by people with learning disabilities. "Remember that Ellie is 23," said Michael. Another phoned in to say go and see the Raptors, the Toronto Basketball team, play. Michael asked how I'd managed to wangle a free trip around the world. "I promised to have a kebab and sex in each city and compare them," I said. "You can't say that on the radio," said Michael. But it was too late.
A woman called Maria phoned in to suggest going to Quebec City. "How about inviting Ellie round for dinner?" said Michael. "Sure," said Maria. "Can she marry your son?" said Michael. "Well I don't know about that," said Maria. "Stay on the line and we'll take your number to give to Ellie," said Michael.
Another caller rang in to say that she didn't know about kebabs but to be sure to try the French onion soup in Montreal. "That sounds good," I said, though in the end there was neither kebab nor soup, but French toast with maple syrup.
At a party before I left Toronto, one of the guests asked me whether I knew much about Canada. "Not much," I admitted. I didn't know that it has the world's longest street, Yonge Street, measuring 18km. Nor did I know that the CN tower is the world's highest free standing structure. "Do you know who our prime minister is?" they asked. I proudly named Jean Chrétien. "Anyone else?" they asked. "Um - Alanis Morrisette?" I suggested. "Or Celine Dion."
In Ottawa, Canada's capital, the parliament building was lit up with festive lights and the streets were covered with snow. I stayed round the corner from parliament in a building that was until 1972 Carleton county gaol. As a prison, the building had no glass in the windows and no heating. Prisoners died each winter from the cold and each summer from the heat. Eventually closed due to inhumane living conditions and the absence of any rehabilitation programme, it reopened in 1973 as Ottawa's youth hostel.
Death row and the gallows are still in place for visitors to see and the cells are converted into bedrooms. It is there that Patrick Whelan was hanged in 1869 for the assassination of Thomas D'Arcy McGee, though it is now known that he did not do it. Thousands of people turned up to watch him hang, baying for blood.
Baying for blood is what the people of Alberta are now doing for their Premier, Ralph Klein. He recently committed a gaffe of Prince Philip proportions when he turned up drunk to a homeless shelter. It was reported that slurring his words, Klein tossed $70 at some of the residents and told them to get jobs. Canadians are known for their plain talking. Klein admitted to having a problem with alcohol. "Right now, I'm going to go as long as I possibly can and hopefully end this journey without having another drink. I think that I have the ability to carry on with the job. I think I have the ability to fight this devil and win," he said.
The papers rejoiced in printing lists of his past quotes. "Everyone knows I have sins. I eat too much. I still drink. I gamble," said one. Which is exactly what I intend to do this week, spending Christmas in Las Vegas.
Time to be leaving Las Vegas
Wednesday January 2 2002
A couple of years ago I had a series of nightmares where I was trapped in an unknown place. I would wake up not knowing where I was, banging on the door screaming to be let out. I now realise that place must have been Las Vegas.
It's horrible. Downtown, pawn and porn compete for business. It goes something like this: 7-11, wedding chapel, bail bond agent, motel, wedding chapel, pawn shop, bail bond agent, exotic dance club, tattoo parlour, pawn shop, wedding chapel, motel, motel, wedding chapel, topless bar, 7-11. On the main strip it goes more like this: casino, souvenir shop, casino, casino, M&M's world, souvenir shop, casino, Coca Cola world, casino, souvenir shop, casino. "In a few hundred years they'll find the remains of here and think we worshipped giant M&M's," said the woman on the bus.
On the outside not all the casinos are the same. I have in turn spent time in casinos purporting to be Venice (The Venetian), Paris (Paris), New York (New York, New York), Arthurian England (Excalibur), Egypt (Luxor) and ancient Rome (Caesar's Palace). Inside, though, they're identical. The slot machines ring and buzz incessantly, thousands in each place. Bright lights glare. Croupiers look bored. Waitresses in skimpy uniforms wander around. Piano muzac tinkers in the background. Lights flash. More bells ring. And everywhere there are children: crying on the pavements, running around the slot machines, on their parents' shoulders at the attractions.
Due to moving hotels, traffic jams and a series of ineptitudes, none of them mine, I didn't get anything to eat on Christmas Day until 4pm. As I had waited so long I decided to have the works, so I went to one of the eat-all-you-want buffets at a casino. In true Christmas tradition I ate much more than I wanted. There was no room for dessert but I had three anyway. As a consequence I could barely move. So I had little choice but to station myself at a slot machine while I digested. They are everywhere, from the baggage reclaim area at the airport to the corner shop. At bars, they are inset into the tables, so you can play while you wait to be served. The choice is mammoth: jackpot party, jackpot limbo, triple cherry, double diamond deluxe, triple triple diamond, jeopardy, reel 'em in, double double bonus poker, top banana, run for your money, bingomatic, double wild, triple cash, double bucks, jackpot stampede, triple double diamond, spin poker, on the money, five & dime, top dollar and filthy rich. I plumped for jackpot party. That day I gained four stone and lost four dollars - it could have been worse.
At the roulette table I watched a man lose $500 in five minutes. The croupier, Rodrick, rolled his eyes at me. He doesn't gamble himself: "It would be like a garbage man taking out the trash for fun," he said. The woman at the MGM Grand was having none of that. "Anyone who lives here and says they don't gamble is lying." she said.
At the Grand Canyon I met Helen and Robert, New Yorkers on vacation. They were getting married the next day at The Venetian and invited me to be their witness and sign the marriage certificate. They had chosen a deluxe package for over $1000, though a Vegas wedding can cost less than $100. For their money they got a ceremony on a fake Rialto bridge followed by gondola ride on the Grand Canal that runs through the casino's shopping mall.
I wanted to take a gift but, though I am sure there are some shops other than those for tourists in Las Vegas, I couldn't find them. However, as class didn't seem to be a top priority, I settled on some chocolate dice. The day had already gone well for Robert. Trying to settle his pre-wedding jitters, he had put $100 in a slot machine and won $2000. Helen appeared at the foot of the bridge. "What are we waiting for?" she yelled. The accordion player stuck up the wedding march, the video camera was switched on and the tourists strolling towards St Mark's Square stopped to clap. Perhaps it was the post-wedding glow that caused a sober stranger to propose to me at the bus stop afterwards. "We could get married and I could come and live in London," he said.
'Disneyland for alcoholics' is how someone described Las Vegas. He was right. The local paper for the Grand Canyon area was advertising eight upcoming events. Six of them were alcoholics anonymous meetings. The other two were book signings. Death in Grand Canyon is Tom Myer's account of the 550 people known to have been pushed or jumped over the edge. After a week in Las Vegas I know exactly how they must have felt.
Bay city roller
Wednesday January 9 2002
Alcohol is banned on the streets of California, so it was a sober group who gathered on San Francisco's Embarcadero for the New Year's Eve celebrations. Instead of the usual drunken antics of 'snog the stranger and vomit in the gutter', we had to make do with playing 'spot the fat policeman'. This was a game of my brother's making.
Joe was in San Francisco on holiday for a few days so we met up to exchange belated Christmas presents. 'Spot the fat policeman' proved to be highly entertaining. Not only are American police fatter than their British counterparts, they are older too. Few looked like they would be able to chase even the slowest criminal. Then again, they don't have to; they have guns. The police officers on duty spent most of their time removing alcohol from offenders, though their concentration did lapse at one point when they stopped what they were doing to take photos of each other with their pals.
The San Francisco mayor was a bit too keen to see out the old year. He counted down too early and there was silence. He tried again, but this time he was too late and the fireworks started before he got to zero. We saw in the new year with out smuggled miniatures, careful to avoid the police, fat or otherwise.
Joe works in prison reform. I thought he was having a bit of a busman's holiday when I saw 'No More Prisons' graffitied on the pavement on my way to meet him at his hotel, though he assured me it had nothing to do with him. He was, however, a mine of information on prisons when we visited Alcatraz, informing me several times that 2m of the world's 8m prisoners are in the United States.
With big brother watching me there was no chance of any sex or kebabs. When he left I hit the town, heading first to Tonga (a bar where cocktails are served in plastic coconut shells and a band plays on a raft in the middle of a lake complete with fake rainstorms) and then on to Castro, San Francisco's gay and lesbian area. On my way back from one of these nights out I met Jerome. "People don't usually talk to me," he said. "I think they are scared of me." I was scared of him, too, though I was trying not to show it. "San Francisco is very poetic," he said. "I write poetry." He quoted me some. "I wrote that during my 11 years in prison." he said. "I feel you and me have a real connection." I began to wish big brother was still around.
I crossed the bay on the San Francisco Oakland Bay Bridge, the one that Dustin Hoffman drives over on his way to Berkeley in The Graduate, and headed to Napa Valley for some wine tasting. The last time I went wine tasting was with some friends in France and we were firmly shown the door after several hours and more tastes than I think we were welcome too. I was determined not to make that mistake again, though when the first tasting came at 10am I realised resistance was useless. Chardonnay followed Pinot Noir followed Cabernet Sauvignon followed Muscat as I learned a few things about wine that I already knew deep down: cork is good, screw tops are bad; it's quality not quantity that matters; wine should be sipped and not gulped.
The Napa Valley Wine Train winds through the valley while passengers sink back into plush armchairs and drink some more wine before the three-course lunch. It gave me some time to ponder on the things about America that puzzle me: toilets that flush automatically, tax added at the point of purchase and that incredibly annoying habit Americans have of telling you what conversational trick they've just used, following every sentence with an 'I was being funny just then', 'that was a compliment' or 'you will have been able to tell by my tone that I am angry'. I also wondered why one of the most advanced nations in the world has all denominations of bank notes made in exactly the same size and colour.
I asked a local family I met what I should be doing in the city. "Go to FAO Schwarz," said the daughter, aged about 10. "That's the coolest place there is." Well I'm nothing if not cool so I headed to FAO Schwarz, a big toyshop on Union Square. They didn't stock my favourite doll that I have seen in America -the trailer trash dolly that comes complete with hotpants and a lit cigarette - but it had other delights instead. After wandering for some time I realised that most of the female dolls were plastic and most of the male dolls had guns, which all things considered is quite a fair representation of life in California.
City slacker
Thursday January 17 2002
So you wake up and it's glorious sunshine and you walk across the Golden Gate bridge and the skyline of San Francisco glitters in one direction and the bright orange cables of the bridge stretch out in front of you and the bay spreads out beneath you. Even dropping your sunglasses over the edge and into the water cannot detract from the fact that this really is the most beautiful of cities.
And then it's on to a bar to celebrate this fact with a gin and tonic. Specs, where the beat poets used to hang out, is down an alley in North Beach, surrounded by strip joints, bookshops and Italian restaurants. And I thought I had the Americans sussed out. But here I was in San Francisco, where everyone either belongs to a bookclub or is a writer. Even the doorman told me about his novel, although he also said "I started a Jack Kerouac once but threw it across the room after two pages."
The man sitting next to me at the bar was reading a book of short stories by Sam Shepherd, and he said things like "George Bush is so stupid" and he had a sense of humour and, goddammit, he was mighty fine-looking too. And we talked about literature and San Francisco and it turned out he lived in the Haight which was on my list of areas to check out. And the barman overheard and said: "You could wake up at his house and see the Haight in the morning," and, well, it would have been rude not to after that. So we established that he was joking about the tattoo of an American eagle bearing a machine gun on his back and headed to some bars in the Haight, and though I only meant to stay for one it was obvious after a few pints that the barman had been right.
His apartment was up one of San Francisco's many hills and the back porch overlooked the Golden Gate bridge, or so he said, but it was foggy so I had to take his word for it and the next morning I rose before the fog so I never found out.
What's an English graduate with a slight hangover and some left-over teenage angst to do on a Sunday morning but drink coffee and read Howl by Allen Ginsberg, bought at the City Lights bookstore where the banner outside reads "Dissent is not un-American". Then on to Vesuvio on Jack Kerouac Alley where the sign says "Beware pickpockets and loose women". They serve a drink called the Jack Kerouac which is tequila, rum, orange juice, cranberry juice and a squeeze of lime, though the barman told me that a real Jack Kerouac drink would be three bottles of wine in an alleyway.
In Vesuvio I read Dashiell Hammett's The Maltese Falcon, which I bought in a bookshop where the sign says "Shoplifters will be killed and eaten". In the book Miles Archer is killed near a road which I have walked down several times in the past week, where steam really does rise from the grates in the middle of the road, and I thought to myself once again, what a wonderful city. What a wonderful city even though alcohol is banned outside and smoking is banned inside, and though I don't much like beer and I don't smoke, I am offended on behalf of all those people who would love to enjoy a pint and a cigarette at the same time, and I wondered if I moved here would I take up smoking just to protest as, after all, dissent is not un-American.
In Monterey I bought John Steinbeck's Cannery Row in a shop on Cannery Row and basked in the sunshine and pretentiousness of it all. "Cannery Row in Monterey in California is a poem, a stink, a grating noise, a quality of light, a tone, a habit, a nostalgia, a dream," wrote Steinbeck. The canneries are long closed so there is no longer any stink, just amazing views of the ocean where sea otters, seals and sealions laze on the rocks. A short boat ride away, the whales looked on as a school of maybe 50 dolphins raced alongside our boat.
And then to Kalisa'a, formerly La Ida, where Eddie in Cannery Row works as a part-time barman, and I stopped for a cup of tea and a cookie before heading to Pacific Grove, where in a wood five minutes from the ocean thousands of black and red Monarch butterflies go to mate. All of which more than made up for having to spend a week in Las Vegas.
California themin'
Thursday January 24 2002
There I was in my limo, being driven around Los Angeles. Yes, you read that correctly. My limo. A long, black, sleek thing with seats for 10, a television, and an ice box containing a bottle of champagne - all exclusively mine for the morning. Shaun, my driver, asked where I wanted to go. "Why, Rodeo Drive," I said, and off we set, Roy Orbison's Pretty Woman playing all the time in my head.
After window-shopping for a while I returned to the limo and we drove to Bel-Air. When Shaun isn't driving limos he's an actor, of course. He'd been reading Forbes's rich list while I'd been lusting after designer handbags on Rodeo Drive. "I'll live here one day," he said, as he drove me round houses worth several million dollars.
I had lunch at the Bel-Air hotel, where the movie stars go, though I didn't spot any. That doesn't mean there were none - I hadn't heard of any of the actors Shaun had named as his favourites. At the table next to me some people in business suits were discussing the best golf courses in the world. "I always play in Costa Rica," one said. "Yes, but I prefer the LA Country Club," said another. The LA Country Club costs $25,000 just to join.
Perhaps they thought I was a movie star myself, dining alone in an exclusive hotel and sipping champagne. I put on my sunglasses and concentrated on looking like I too might play golf in Costa Rica.
Not that I'd want to be a movie star, of course. To start with you'd have to live in LA, which is only nice if you like motorways. It rather reminded me of a Guinness advert from several years ago, where an old woman lives in a ramshackle house in the middle of a US spaghetti junction. "I like highways," she says, "that's why I moved here."
And pity the stars who make the occasional, er, cock-up (so to speak) and are forever immortalised in Hollywood history. "This is the George Michael toilet," said the guide on my Hollywood tour. "And this is the Hugh Grant parking lot."
At Universal Studios the emphasis was on having fun. This meant posing for pictures with Jurassic Park dinosaurs and a great white shark from Jaws. Then a bus took us on a tour of the studios where we were subjected to flash floods, earthquakes and fires as the special effects department demonstrated their skills. And just when I thought it was safe to get back on the tour bus, we were taken to the rides. "This is a highly aggressive ride" said the notice by the Back to the Future ride. I opted instead for the ET ride, where you are gently flown on a bicycle through a planet where extraterrestrials sit among the flowers and wave at you.
And if it's good enough for Tom Cruise and John Travolta, then it's good enough for me. I took the free personality test at the Church of Scientology on Hollywood Boulevard, answering over 100 questions such as "Do you eat quickly?". Racquel was assigned to give me my results. I'm not sure whether she had passed or failed the personality test, but either way she didn't seem to have one. "Do Americans have accents to you guys?" she asked. "Yes," I said, much to her surprise. She looked at me gravely. "You're stubborn," she said, "and irresponsible. And you're critical and you don't get along with people. Also you're very depressed. And nervous, and you show a great lack of accord."
I took my stubborn and depressed self to San Diego. San Diego is a very pleasant city, where everything you need is within walking distance, unlike LA, and people have feet instead of rollerblades and children instead of puppies. It is also the gateway to Mexico. I went for the day to Tijuana with my new friend Luke. We drank margaritas and ate Tostadas and wandered down the streets lined with souvenir shops where men in sombreros tried to get us to pay $2 to have pictures taken with donkeys painted to look like zebras, shouting "A picture for you and your wife." We passed several pharmacies with big placards outside saying "Anthrax medicine available here."
As we walked past the rugs, hats, porcelain chilli peppers, Jesus figures, plastic Mickey mouses and the papier-mache Winnie the Poohs, Luke said to me "I wonder who actually buys this crap." Two minutes later I looked up to find that he had paid $8 for a three-foot long fur trimmed pipe with a bird's claw at the end, and was proudly marching towards the border, admiring his purchase.
Busy doing nothing
Thursday January 31 2002
Venice Beach is like Camden, only by the sea. Numerous stalls offering jewellery, fake designer sunglasses and Chinese massage compete for space with sand models of topless mermaids, buskers playing the violin with a coke bottle as a bow and fortune tellers. People on rollerblades zoom past on their way to the section of the beach front reserved for rollerboogie. This is the name for dancing on rollerskates.
The best rollerboogiers seemed to be camp men in their 50s in all types of outfits. It was what I imagine you would get if you managed to cross The Village People with Starlight Express. I searched in vain for the Rabbi I had met a few years ago who had claimed to be the only Jewish fortune teller on Venice Beach. I bumped into him on my birthday while backpacking in the Middle East and he read my fortune as a birthday present. Though he wasn't around, there were plenty of alternatives offering good health, much happiness and true love for $10. I spent my money on pizza and ice cream instead before heading to Santa Monica pier.
Having grown up watching Baywatch every weekend at an age where it was watched for the story line rather than the totty, it was incredibly exciting to see real live LA lifeguards in Malibu where it was filmed - though not quite as exciting as seeing the police station from Beverly Hills Cops and the post office with the 90210 postcode.
The stars were out in force for the Golden Globe awards, though funnily enough none seemed to cross my path. I went for a drink at the swanky Chateau Marmont in the hope of spotting some, but none materialised. Though I met no stars I did meet a film director at a computer shop while I was emailing home. His first film had been well received at film festivals around the world, and if he was to be believed, he is an up and coming big thing. I certainly hope so, as he was the closest thing to a celebrity I met.
Flying business class to Fiji was an absolute pleasure. Sitting back in my seat and stretching out my legs as far as they would go, I still couldn't reach the seat in front. I left LA on Tuesday and arrived in Fiji on Thursday, crossing the international date line as I went, leaving LA several hours behind Britain and arriving in Fiji half a day ahead.
Fiji gained independence in 1970. 30 years later some British traditions still remain, in the tourist areas at least. The hotel where I am staying serves free tea and scones with jam every afternoon at 4pm. In the stationery shop Treasure Island and Swiss Family Robinson were the books at the front of the display.
And while the old colonials have left, a neo-colonialism seems to have replaced it. McDonalds has moved in and opened a restaurant on the main island, Viti Levu, and Coca-Cola is everywhere, of course. Shell and BP signs can be seen on every highway and the supermarkets shelves are stocked with brands I recognise.
Luke, last seen buying a bizarre smoking pipe on our day trip to Mexico, has followed me to Fiji. His penchant for tacky souvenirs has not abated. Wandering around a handicraft market in Nadi, he purchased a wooden 'cannibal fork'. Cannibalism was practised in parts of Fiji until the mid-19th century. This naturally leads to lots of bad taste jokes every time we see a child.
"I like children."
Dramatic pause.
"Couldn't eat a whole one though."
The drive from Nadi to the Coral Coast is beautiful, with countryside made up of hundreds of different shades of green leading down to the sea. Though Fiji is beautiful, tourism seems to be mainly resort-based, with travellers finding a resort they like and remaining there for the duration of their stay.
The biggest decision I've made so far has been what to have for dinner. Sitting in the shade in the hotel garden watching the sea has given me the perfect opportunity to stick to my Netjetter application promise and read War and Peace. I rise each morning and it's once more unto the beach with Tolstoy. The 1500-page book seems like the perfect length to fill my week of doing nothing.
In the evening the hotel serves a wine called Chateau Hi-Power. I've managed to resist so far, enticing as it sounds. A more popular drink in Fiji is kava. It is mildly narcotic and was historically used only by Fijian chiefs and priests, though nowadays it is drunk by all and offered to tourists as a welcome. I'd been warned that it tasted like muddy water so I steeled myself for the worst, but I rather liked it. "Be careful," warned my taxi-driver, "Too much kava and you'll get an overhang."
The odd, the mad and the druggy
Wednesday February 6 2002
In Suva, Fiji's capital, DVD players and wide screen televisions were on sale, while in the factories on the other side of the island workers making clothes for an Australian company are paid one Fijian dollar an hour (just over 30p). This doesn't cover the rent of a typical house in a village.
The Greenpeace Pacific office was a few hundred metres down the road from a large petrol garage. Tourists pay over £100 a night to stay in air-conditioned hotels with swimming pools, while the hotel workers earn less than the price of one of the hotel dinners in a day.
Down the road from an American fast food restaurant, an official was preaching in the marketplace about the dangers of diabetes, a problem which is increasing as Fijians get a taste for western foods. "You must eat more garlic," he said.
Fiji is a major stopover for travellers on their way to the antipodes or the west coast of America. Consequently, backpackers arrive for a four- or five-day stopover, and seldom leave their hotel. A fair few were found in the beachside cafe at a resort in Korolevu. If travel is supposed to broaden the mind, no one had told this lot.
"I'm going to dispel all your stereotypes about Americans" said Eric the American, with a huge body, tiny head and bulging eyes. "Um, do you own a gun?" I asked. "Yes." he said. "Six."
On an outside table the conversation had turned to Afghanistan and the plight of civilians there. "I feel sorry for the animals in the zoo there," said one of the British gap year kids.
Another hot topic of conversation was why it is that all the Swedish people we'd met were beautiful. "They don't give passports to the ugly ones," Heidi the German psychologist suggested.
Beth from England used to be a masseuse in Hawaii. Before that she was a Buddhist nun in Thailand. Her sister had married a Fijian man and she had come out to live in their village for a while.
Jurgen, an Austrian, was the only man in the area with shaved armpits. And then there was Monty, who, after a few too many bowls of mildly narcotic kava, started telling me his theory that early man had evolved in areas well-known for magic mushrooms, and it was perhaps under the influence of these that the monkeys decided to leave the trees and try living on the ground instead.
Becky didn't want any kava. "I'm allergic to narcotics," she said. What does it do to her, we wondered: make her feel lightheaded and start seeing things, perhaps?
Matt, another American, introduced himself with the question "What are your goals for this trip?". Juliet's goal in life was to make enough money to buy some rainforest in Costa Rica.
My main goal was to avoid Willy the Malaysian as much as possible. At least, I think he was called Willy and was from Malaysia. People who had bumped into him at other resorts during their travels had been given other particulars. In Willy were the makings of an urban myth. Or perhaps that should be a rural myth. At the beginning of the week he was merely regarded as a little strange. Then girls woke up in their dorms to find him sitting down staring at them. Rumours flew that he would offer these girls cartons of milk when they woke. Next one of the guests woke to find a carrot in her bed. All oddities at the guesthouse were attributed to Willy, who would occasionally find a particularly slimy bit of seaweed or a large crab and come running placing it on the table for all to see.
I think he may become a common travellers' tale from now on. Certainly new arrivals had already heard of him, his exploits having grown slightly odder and more exciting in the retelling of the tale. Perhaps it will grow and grow. "When we're older, people who backpacked will keep their children under control by threatening that if they don't behave, Willy will get them," said Nick, staying in my dorm.
While the Emperor Alexander was doing battle with Napoleon in War and Peace, my beach-time book, residents of the hostel had their very own Napoleon to contend with: a middle-aged man who worked at the hostel and liked to get everyone to participate in a game of bowls or volleyball in the afternoon.
Napoleon's house in the village had two rooms. On the wall were pictures of Jesus, Christmas stockings and family photos. He served us orange squash while I made faces at his youngest child, who promptly started crying. A few minutes from his house was one of the village churches, painted bright pink with a huge orange cross dominating the altar. As the amazing choir sang, women cooled themselves with fans made of coconut leaves and children amused themselves, occasionally being brought into line by a man wielding a branch which was used to administer strokes to the ones not behaving properly.
A Good News bible was passed to us to follow the service. For me, the good news was the huge cake we were given after the short service. "Thank you for coming," the villagers said, "come again." And with my mouth full of cake, I nodded my thanks, and headed back to the beach.
In with the New
Wednesday February 13 2002
Whichever way you look at it, with over 12 sheep to every person in New Zealand, there's an awful lot of kebab to be had. Or as the New Zealanders, who pronouce a's as e's and e's as i's - and so on - might say, 'thet's en ewful lut uf kibeb'. This of course sounds better than the American version - kebob.
The preponderence of kebabs is particularly apparent on Queen Street, Auckland's main shopping street, where I came across a kebab vendor approximately every 100m, making it almost as good as south Manchester for choice and variety - though as one New Zealander said to me, "There ain't no foot and mouth on us". And whereas in Manchester most of the kebab houses are run by Indians and Pakistanis, in Auckland they were mainly Turkish.
On night one I plumped for The Sultan's Table, an upmarket sit-down kebab restaurant on Victoria Street West. I had a mixed meze starter, followed by an Iskender kebab, washed down with a couple of bottles of New Zealand wine. It was a good start to this leg of the journey.
By my third night in Auckland however, it was back to the late night grease of the takeaway kebab joint. I chose Kebabs on Queen for the simple reason that it was nearest to where I was staying. There I was served New Zealand lamb (halal) on Lebanese bread in a Turkish kebab shop topped with humous and salad.
The proliferation of the kebab in New Zealand didn't happen, of course, until mass immigration began. Nowadays over 80% of the population is of European or Asian ethnicity. It's pretty safe to say that the Maori culture did not have a kebab as such. Maori cooking was much more likely to have been done in an earth oven in the ground than on a skewer. This is demonstrated to hundreds of tourists every night at an organised Hangi in a mock Maori village outside Rotorua. The evening starts with the tourists pretending their bus is a Maori canoe. "Those sitting in the aisle, I want you to pretend you have a paddle" said the driver/cox. The tourists then have a display of Maori singing and dancing before gorging themselves on the food cooked in the ground. "Thankyou for taking an interest in our culture" said the guide. "Thankyou for some great food" said Tim, the spokesman for our bus.
In Rotorua the thermal activity was in full flow. Outside town the boiling mud pools were doing what boiling mud pools do best: bubbling and spitting and giving out a foul smell. Dotted around the area were steaming fields and erupting geysers. The Lady Knox geyser, with the help of a bag of soap poured down the hole to relieve the surface tension, erupts every day at 10.15am, drawing quite a crowd to see it shoot it's load. It was, as we say in east London, a diamond geyser.
At the Polynesian Spa I soaked in the thermal pools overlooking Lake Rotorua, letting the sulphur work its magic. After soaking for an hour I was ready for my treatment, a honey and lavender rehydration and polishing package. Affecting concern for my modesty in spite of the fact that I was naked except for a disposable paper g-string, the beauty therapist asked "shall I do your tummy and breasts too?" And with absolutely all my body rehydrated and polished, it was on to the body massage. I don't know whether it was the ylang ylang, the lavender, the sandalwood or the orange oil, but whatever it was, this was the best massage I have ever had.
And when you're feeling thoroughly relaxed, with all the cares of the world massaged away, what better way to prepare for the stress or everyday life by being put in the driving seat of a small Cessna 150 two-seater plane and told to fly it?
Tahlia, my instructor at Kaikoura Air Field, was only 22, but she'd been flying since she was 16. She gave me a quick lesson on the ground with a diagram of the cockpit and a toy plane. With the words thrust, drag and elevation going round in my head, it was on to the runway. "You're going to take off" said Tahlia, and though my main interest was in flying the plane rather than taking off and landing, that gives rise to some suspicion these days, so I did as I was told.
"Do I need to be able to drive a car?" I had asked Tahlia on the phone. I do drive, but for the last six years have only ever driven an automatic. Luckily, the plane only had two pedals so it wasn't that different. We flew around the peninsula for half an hour with me turning left and right and ducking and diving and then brought the plane into land. It was, as the New Zealanders say, sweet as.
Flying high
Wednesday February 20 2002
Queenstown in New Zealand is an adrenalin-fuelled, hyperactive, big scream of a town where tourists go for one of two reasons - either to jump from a plane, mountain or bridge, or to watch others do it.
On the main street every other shop is selling tickets for one activity or another. Not tempted by bungy? How about a skydive? Scared of heights? Why not try a shotover jet that turns 360-degrees as it shoots through canyons? Too active? Then there's always the cable car up the side of the hill that overlooks Queenstown. Feeling daring? Take the ski-lift a little higher and try the luge, a three-wheeled go-kart that speeds down a track on the side of the hill. Didn't like the cable car? Try getting down another way. Parapenting perhaps? Strap yourself to an instructor and jump. The parachute is already open so no worries there as you float down to the centre of town.
Queenstown, quiet during the day as people go about their business of throwing themselves off of bridges, jetting through rapids and jumping from planes, comes to life at night as they return, having survived the day, with huge grins on their faces. The smile should be the symbol of Queenstown. That self-satisfied "I did it!" grin that comes just before you are accosted by a random stranger in a bar who wants nothing other than to tell you what they did that day. Cries of "I was terrified but I did it!" "I tell you what, I'm not doing that again," and "bloody brilliant!" echo round the bars and clubs of the town.
Bungy jumping is particularly popular here. The choice is enormous. Should jumpers choose the Nevis bungy, the tallest in New Zealand at 134m, or the Ledge bungy, reached by cable car? Or perhaps they should go for the baby at only 43m, the Kawarau Bridge bungy, the world's first. Or if you can't decide, there's always the thrillogy, allowing you to do all three in one day.
At the Kawarau bridge I watched as, one after another, people hurled themselves over the side with their ankles bound together, attached to an elastic cord. "Wahey!" shouted the crowd as each person jumped. "Aaaaargh!" shouted the jumpers. And was I imagining it, or was there a slight whisper of disappointment as each jumper safely boinged back up and then was released from their harness? The crowd - or perhaps it was just me - seemed to be waiting for the rope to snap, or extend too far, vindicating our own fear and decision not to do it. "It all seems awfully safe," the woman next to me said.
By answering three riddles correctly I won a package from my bus driver entitling me to a free video and photo of me jumping if I decided to do a bungy myself. As I had absolutely no intention of doing so, however safe it seemed, I gave my prize away to Emer. "I'm going to jump, I'm going to jump, I'm going to jump!" said Emer. "No I'm not," she said. Five minutes later, Emer decided to jump. "Aaaaaaaaaaaaargh!" said Emer as she went over.
Becky works for AJ Hackett, the company that operates several of the bungy sites. "Have you done it yourself?" I asked, referring to the Nevis. "No," said Becky, "it makes me feel seasick".
Not for me, either, the bungy jump. Why jump off a bridge when, for the same money, you can run off the side of a mountain, I thought. So it was a quick phonecall to the tandem hang-gliding instructor and there I was, driving up to Coronet Peak.
"There are two important things to remember," said Ricky. "Keep running until we leave the ground, and hold on to me the whole time." As Ricky was six foot four, a foot taller than me, running while holding onto the straps on his shoulders proved a little difficult. But there was no time to think about that. The wind blew, Ricky said "Run!" and then wheeeeeeeeeee, we were flying.
Hang-gliding is how I imagine it must feel to be a bird. And not just a pigeon or a sparrow. Ricky and I were hawks, swooping round the sky, catching thermals, ducking and diving. "I used to be a builder," said Ricky. "But I often cycled here and saw people hang-gliding and thought, why not?"
Wheeeeeeeee. We shot up and then quickly down again, zooming past hidden waterfalls and over treetops. As we went in to land we passed over the heads of several sheep, happily ignoring us. I got out of my harness, shook Ricky's hand, and headed back to town with a grin on my face, looking for strangers to tell about my day.
Skin deep
Thursday February 28 2002
Describing travelling in New Zealand, I feel like the woman who swallowed a thesaurus in an incident described as tragic, awful, calamitous, disastrous and lamentable. There are lots of ways to describe the country, but it all boils down to the same thing: it's pretty. The Marlborough Sounds? Well, yes, they're beautiful. Fjordland? Dramatic. The glaciers? Remarkable. The mountains? Impressive. Waterfalls? Sensational.
What about the landscape, surroundings, terrain and views? Oh yes, they're all charming, dazzling, lovely, spectacular and striking. And they are. But nice hills and rivers don't hide the fact that New
Zealand is essentially one of the dullest places on earth.
Take the Tranzscenic railway which runs from Greymouth to Christchurch. It is touted as one of the world's best train journeys. And while New Zealand remains as far away from most other countries as it is, Kiwis can probably convince themselves that this is true. But really, it's no nicer than that scenic bit in Staffordshire that British trains go through when they head north.
While Helen Clark, the country's prime minister, was in the UK trying to convince Britons that New Zealand is dynamic and ready for the 21st century, I was touring some of the cities here. Wellington, the capital city, has a population half the size of that of Luxembourg. Auckland, with over a million people, is supposed to be a cosmopolitan city. Nearly a third of the people in New Zealand live there. But a bustling city it certainly isn't.
One of the most frequently heard compliments about the country is that the people are friendly. They are, actually, but alas, friendly doesn't equal interesting. No wonder so many Kiwis spend years working for minimal wages in bars and pubs across the UK. I would too, if it was the only way to get away. The national bird is flightless and even the national fruit was brought here from somewhere else - China, in fact. Even New Zealand-born Russell Crowe has just applied for an Australian passport.
It's not that New Zealand isn't pleasant. As I've said, parts of it are very nice to look at indeed. It just lacks something. Personality, perhaps? The prettiest part of the country is the west coast of the South Island, which plays host to the Franz Josef and the Fox glaciers. I took a helicopter ride to a point on the Fox glacier where, kitted out with hobnailed boots, crampons and a walking stick, I hiked on the ice for a couple of hours. Because the glacier moves new paths and footholds have to be cut every day but, as this was the luxury helicopter hike, someone else did that for me.
The glacier can actually move up to 4m a day, surprisingly quick for New Zealand where "no worries" and "chill out" are regular refrains. "This hole is several hundred metres deep," said Ricky, the guide, pointing to a crack in the ice. I promptly dropped my sunglasses down it. This was the second pair to go, the first having committed suicide off the Golden Gate Bridge in San Francisco.
Apart from the scenery, there are two things New Zealanders are proud of: Lord of the Rings, and being reigning champions of the America's Cup. Actually, make that three. New Zealand is also proud of being a nuclear-free zone. But this is one of the things the London Borough of Hackney boasts about, and you wouldn't want to spend three weeks touring Dalston, would you?
"I was in Lord of The Rings," said Dave, my bus driver. "I was one of the army fighting the Orcs in part two." We were driving through Twizel, a village on the South Island. "This here," said Dave, "was part of Middle Earth."
Ask a New Zealander to tell you something interesting about their country and after hesitating for several minutes, they'll probably come up with the America's Cup. For the uninitiated, this is a yacht race. As Team New Zealand are the reigning champions, a whole harbourside development in Auckland has been built on the America's Cup theme. "Look, there are our boys out on the water, practising," said the guide on my dolphin-spotting expedition. "Now all turn round and bow to them. They are our heroes."
The country has been living off this piece of sporting success for years, and probably will continue to do so for years to come. Which would be rather like the Brits still basking in the glory of their 1966 World Cup victory. Something we'd never do, surely?
Over the rainbow
Thursday March 7 2002
Returning to Sydney after two years was like meeting up with an old friend. There were a few new shops and a different bunch of people, but essentially Sydney and I were the same, both happy to slip into the old ways of days doing nothing but soaking up the different neighbourhoods and admiring the views. The first view of the harbour was as joyful as it had been during the millennium celebrations. Sydney doesn't seem to have begun its Olympics comedown.
I got the tourist stuff out of the way immediately - a beer by the Opera House, a boat trip under the Harbour Bridge and a kangaroo pizza at Darling Harbour. Jess and Ange were there to show me the real Sydney.
I last saw Ange before I came to Australia the first time. She taught me how to surf in a crowded kitchen, demonstrating - while mixing a drink - the knack of staying balanced on your board. I found out this time that Ange has never surfed in her life. No wonder I hadn't even been able to stand up.
This time we opted for some simple wave-jumping at Bondi. "Are you okay in the water?" asked Jess. "Sure," I said. "I'm a strong glug glug glug." The wave that got me was particularly big. I was still choking up salt water when a bluebottle stung Jess. Traumatised, we went to the RSL to recover.
There's a Retired Serviceman's League in every area. Cheap beer and a lack of pretension are the main attractions, although at Bondi this is coupled with stunning views of the ocean. There I met Edward and Adrian, who invited me to their house in Surrey Hills before we headed to the Mardi Gras parade. The dykes on bikes led the parade, with the rainbow flag depicted in their headlights. For two hours a mix of political groups and drag queens in glitter paraded past. Harry Poofter and the Queerditch game marched past, with teams from Gryffinbackdoor and Slypitin. The Uniting Church and Jewish gay youth also went by. So did a group in lifejackets representing the refugees at the heart of the scandal in which the Australian government claimed, falsely, that children were being thrown overboard from refugee ships.
The gay community in Sydney is divided over whether or not straight involvement detracts from the political message of the march. James, a gay Irish man, didn't have a problem with this. "I love Sydney, it's so accepting," he said. James was particularly taken by the drag queen Dorothy in her red shoes. "Ra, ra, it's Mardi Gras!" he yelled whenever especially impressive floats went by.
During brunch the next morning on Oxford Street in the heart of Sydney's gay area, an assortment of men in leather and glitter staggered past on their way home. James appeared looking remarkably fresh after a few hours sleep. Now on his third outfit in 12 hours, he was wearing a pair of silver wings which flapped as he walked.
The most wonderful thing about Australian beer is that it's served cold. The Ancient Briton pub in Glebe boasts of the coldest beer in Sydney at 0.5C. After browsing through the second-hand bookshops and vintage clothes stores I was more than ready for a schooner. 0.5C is several degrees lower than the temperature at which beer is usually served in Europe and makes the drink much more refreshing.
There was beer again at the Bronte RSL, where Ange insisted on joining the regulars for a game of bingo. "We have newcomers for the final rounds," said the caller into his microphone. "Bingo!" shouted Ange. It was a false call.
Several of the women came up afterwards to commiserate with her on her loss. "It's a good job it was a false call," said the manager. "They don't like newcomers to win and they don't like young people to win."
From Bronte there is a spectacular walk through a huge cemetery with graves overlooking the ocean and along the cliff tops. We walked the short distance to Coogee Beach, stopping at Gordon's Bay for a dip and a picnic. Then it was to Leichardt, where Italian restaurants line the street and bars surround a square designed to look like an Italian piazza. The only downside to Leichardt is that it is directly beneath Sydney airport's flight path. Conversations are interrupted every few minutes. "You should write about how wonderful Jess and I are, and the lamentable lack of straight single men," said Ange. "I wonder why you've found that?" I said, but her reply was lost under the roar of a passing jumbo jet.
Sleeping with the fishes
Wednesday March 13 2002
Humans move slowly in northern Queensland. The heat drains your energy. An hour after waking you feel as if you've done a full day's work when you've probably done no more than eat breakfast and head to the beach. Other forms of life, however, have more stamina.
In Queensland the rainforest meets the reef. Both are spectacular. The fish on the reef are easy to spot. They are brightly coloured and come in all shapes and sizes. There's the surgeonfish, the angelfish, the butterflyfish and the batfish. Also the boxfish, the clownfish, the squirrelfish and the goatfish. And the parrotfish, the rabbitfish, the rainbowfish and the combfish. My favourite names were the dogfaced pufferfish, the fire lionfish, the spangled emperor, the moorish idol and the chocolate dip fish. And that's naming just a few of the fish that can be found here.
At Reef Teach, Scott, a marine biologist, gave an energetic lecture about life on the reef. "There is absolutely no way you'll see a shark while you're out on the reef," he said. The audience gave a collective sigh of relief. "That's because they come up behind you."
Reef Teach estimates that 2% of people who go out to the reef attend one of their lectures. They teach tourists what they can touch, what they shouldn't touch and what will kill them if touched. There are other gems of information such as the sea cucumber that breathes through it's anus - although I didn't establish how they know that it doesn't just shit through its mouth.
Heinz was the instructor on my introductory dive. "The most important thing is to remember to breathe," said Heinz. This was above water of course. Below water, communication depends on signs. It was easy to mix up the sign for "I'm okay" with the sign for "I want to go up now". The former is an 'O' formed with thumb and forefinger with your other three fingers raised. The latter is a thumbs up signal.
We managed to get to the seabed. If I could have talked I would have run out of adjectives: the Great Barrier Reef is spectacular. However, as I was 10m under water, it was rather difficult to talk, which left the whole time to look and wonder.
On land the rainforest is no less spectacular. At Cape Tribulation it comes down to meet the ocean, with only strips of beautiful, white beaches separating the two. I took a guided night-hike through the rainforest. Armed with a torch, the guide pointed out insects and spiders. The torches picked out small, white glowing things. These, the guide told us, were spiders' eyes.
In Sydney I had been amazed when my companions happily left their bags, complete with house keys, wallets and mobile phones, on the beach while they went for a swim. "Aren't you worried they'll get stolen?" I had asked. "This is Australia, not London," they replied. After a week I learned to adopt this easy-going attitude and left my belongings under a tree while I went for a dip in one of the netted-off areas at Cairn's northern beaches. The nets are to protect swimmers from fatal box jellyfish.
The souvenirs on sale in Cairns are not particularly classy. Purses made from the gutted bodies of cane toads compete for space with ones made from kangaroo scrotums. There are, of course, more traditional presents like boomerangs. At the Wundurra History Centre I learnt that there are two sorts of boomerangs: the returning boomerang and the non-returning boomerang. My boomerang failed to return. "That was supposed to be a returning one," I was told.
I thought it would be appropriate while in Australia to watch the Australian film, Rabbit Proof Fence. It is about the stolen generations of Aborigines removed from their families, a policy that continued until the 1970s. Nowadays high profile Aborigines, such as Olympic gold medallist Cathy Freeman and actress Deborah Mailman (who plays the loveable Kelly in the Australian drama The Secret Life of Us), are changing the ideas of the often racist Australian public.
The mattresses in some of Queensland's youth hostels were bought at auction after the Sydney Olympic games. They are the very mattresses that athletes slept on in the Olympic village. I rather hoped that I was sleeping on Cathy Freeman's. But I rather think that in the lazy tropical heat I was much more likely to be sleeping on the mattress of Equatorial Guinea's Eric Moussambani. He had never swum in an Olympic size pool before the games, and his record slow 100m freestyle won him his heat only because everyone else was disqualified.
The heat is on
Tuesday March 19 2002
If your plans to go gadget hunting in Tokyo have been curtailed, Singapore is a good alternative
It would be funny if it wasn't so painful. On my first morning in Singapore I felt a slight tickle in my nose and then the next moment an almighty sneeze burst forth. A sneeze so strong that it did something unnatural to a muscle in my back which had me clutching my left side in agony every time I tried to move.
So it was that I found myself walking gingerly around Singapore avoiding anything that might bump into me, but determined not to miss out on everything the island has to offer despite my newly acquired disability.
Perhaps it was the pain that made me less tolerant than usual. "Shut up or I'll throw you to the lions," I growled under my breath to the screaming little boy sitting next to me on the night safari. Well, I thought it was under my breath, but it worked so perhaps it was a little louder than planned.
The night safari is fantastic. A zoo made to look like its bathed in moonlight. Nocturnal animals in large enclosures, similar to their natural habitats, can be observed doing what they usually do during the night; playing, defecating, fornicating, going for a late night kebab, brushing their teeth, that kind of thing.
On Orchard Road it wasn't difficult to see why Singapore has the reputation it does for shopping. Mall after mall line the street, with hundreds of fashions boutiques and department stores to tempt me. I intended to shop for Britain and was making my way into the first of them when I realised that there was no way my damaged back would let me pull clothes on and off. It had been hard enough to struggle up the stairs to the shower that morning, let alone get dressed. So I did what I'm sure both my grandmas would have suggested, and went to find some chicken soup, famed for its curative purposes.
The food in Singapore is fantastic. Outdoor hawkers offer hundreds of choices for a couple of Singaporean dollars. The best I had was not the chicken soup, but the fish ball noodle soup in Chinatown. "What kind of fish is this?" I asked, hoping to recreate the soup at home. "A small one," answered the stall owner.
I also stopped by a teahouse for a cup, which turned into several. I was given a demonstration of how to make tea the Chinese way. Tea has many benefits, I read on the extensive tea menu. Not only does it prevent ageing of the skin and help remove grease and stink between the teeth and cheeks, it also "has the effect of relieving alcoholism for drunkenness," which must surely be a good thing. To accompany my tea I had a plate of tea-flavoured cookies: a jasmine tea cookie, a green tea cookie, a rose tea cookie and a cereal tea cookie.
Singapore is, in relative terms, only footsteps from the equator. Consequently it's extremely hot and sticky. Unlike some other parts of Asia where it's a constant battle to avoid being pulled into every shop by overzealous shopkeepers, in Singapore you're practically begging to be let in. "Do you have air conditioning? Then I'd love to look at your shop." So relieving is the air conditioning that I found myself entering any old building just to catch a blast or two. When someone finally realised that I was there they would ask politely whether they could help me: "Um, do you change money?" I'd ask, looking for an excuse. "No, this is a dentist."
Despite the heat, I like Singapore. The streets are clean, the underground doesn't smell of discarded fast food and you've a good chance of getting a seat, the buses have televisions, and there's no chance of chewing gum sticking to your shoe. I like the way the country seems prepared or anything. "These flower pots can be removed to make another runway in an emergency," Elvis, my driver, pointed out to me on the road from the airport. When I rule the world I think I might enforce some of Singapore's rules myself, particularly the inspired fines for urinating in a public lift.
Still in pain I made it to an internet cafe. This is where Singapore's youth come to vent their frustrations by playing violent computer games very loudly. Glenn Medeiros played in the background. "Dear Mum". (Bang.Bang. Kerpow. Nothing's gonna change my love for you. Crash. Bang.) "It's very hot here". (Screeech. You ought to know by now how much I love you. Kerpow). "I hurt my back but the pain is easing a bit now". (Screech. Kerpow. But nothing's gonna change my love for you. Crash. Kerpow. Bang).
Journey's end
Thursday March 28 2002
It is cool in Malaysia's Cameron Highlands, in the old-fashioned sense of the word. The temperature is pleasantly chilly and strawberry farms sit alongside tea plantations on the winding roads. Cabbages and roses grow in gardens, and Devonshire teas are served with Cameron Highlands tea and local strawberry jam.
It is rumoured that there are 653 bends on the road down from the Cameron Highlands town of Tanah Rata. It seemed like more, but I was recovering from the combined effects of the peer pressure of the other tourists staying in my guesthouse and a bottle of cheap Thai liquor.
It is cool and breezy, too, up Penang Hill. Georgetown spreads out below, and as the dusk falls, the town lights up. Butterworth sparkles in the haze across the water and a labyrinth of lights show the roads of the town. I feel like Dylan Thomas: Stand on this hill. This is Penang Hill, old as the hills, high, cool and green. It is Sunday, moonless night in the small town, starless and bible-black.
The grand old colonial buildings are banks now, though on Sunday the banks are closed, and I walked alone through deserted streets. On Penang Hill the sky turns from blue to pink to orange to red to purple to black as it does in all the best films and literature, the colours reflected in the fishingboat-bobbing sea.
And Dylan Thomas is right, it feels as if only I can hear the houses sleeping in the streets. Time passes. Listen. Time Passes.
In Melaka too, time passes: but in slow motion. Exertion is not something one thinks of here. Francis works at the top of the Bukit St Paul, painting pictures that he sells to visitors. "My logo is an ant," he says, "because they never stop working and neither do I." He asks my name and, before I can stop him, writes Ellie on a picture. "No, I don't want a picture." Too late. "Just give me a token," suggests Francis. And what's 10 ringgit for Francis' protection while I sit for a few hours in the shade of a cloister, surrounded by old Dutch gravestones and young Dutch tourists. "You're alone," says Francis. "I will find you a friend. You, you in the red t-shirt, you are Ellie's friend?"
In a cafe where I sit to watch the comings and goings of the night market, a visitors' book is pressed into my hand despite the fact I've only been there two minutes. "Can you write something?" the owner asks. "Very good mineral water," I write.
This is a corner of a foreign land that is forever Dutch, though it was Portuguese before that, and British afterwards. A windmill stands in the centre of town. In front of the windmill stands the bright red Stadthuys which is the old town hall.
Robin from Todmorden, Yorkshire, lives in Malaysia for half of the year. He came as a soldier in 1952. "I can't think of anywhere I'd rather live," he says. Arsenal scores on the television in front of us. "I can't stand that Arsehole Wenger," says Robin. "Too many foreigners in our football clubs." He then orders his daily portion of two eggs in fluent Malay and turns to chat to a young Malaysian sitting opposite.
In Kuala Lumpur the Petronas Towers, the other twin towers, gleam in the sunlight. I go up the viewing tower to admire the vista, keeping an eye out for low-flying planes. My dad came to Malaysia several years ago and says that it's the only time he ever felt tall. In Asia I also feel tall, all 5ft 4in of me, towering as high as the Petronas Towers, and almost as gleaming, what with the sweat and the various suntan lotions and insect repellents.
Not that the repellents worked against the bedbugs, which devoured me with the same ferocity that I've been devouring the Malaysian food. Someone told my Dad that they have read my columns and picture me eating my way around the world. Too right. Cuisine in Malaysia and Singapore is particularly good, especially the Hokkien, the Indian and the Nyonya.
And overall I like Malaysia, with its gleaming skyscrapers, dusty streets, fake Gucci handbags, colonial buildings, Chinatowns, Little Indias, women in Muslim headscarves and bright red lipstick. The tricycle rickshaws and the numerous food stalls. The chicken rice and the rotis. Red bean desserts and spicy laksa. And I put it down on my list of countries that I must revisit and explore further, then head off to spend the last of my traveller's cheques. Perhaps I do want that mock Gucci handbag after all.
She's come back home
Thursday April 4 2002
Ah, coming home. Ain't it nice? Though fings ain't wot they used to be, of course. London really has gone to the dogs without me here - the old routemaster buses that used to go by my house have been exchanged for shiny new versions with doors. They may be safer and more energy efficient, but they don't look as good, do they?
And it's nice to get Christmas presents in March when you've forgotten all about it. Thank goodness chocolate coins are made with enough preservatives to keep them fresh for a while. Home, sweet home.
My last days abroad were spent in Singapore, and included many hours in its much-hyped airport. Contrary to popular belief, it's not a fun place to spend the day. Changi airport, while clean, spacious, and - well - pretty much as airports should be really, is not, as many people have told me, more exciting than the city itself. Yes, it has a swimming pool and an internet lounge, but you have to pay for them. There are also some very expensive shops. "Do you want a teapot or some chopsticks?" I asked my brother by email from Malaysia. "Get me something big in duty free," he said. But the smallest box of chocs available cost more than the entire contents of my backpack, so I picked him up a little something at Heathrow before hopping on the tube home.
Some friends arranged a dinner to welcome me back. I was, of course, talking so much that I forgot to drink, so the whole table got very merry while I gabbled on trying to catch up with the pop idol gossip, who was shagging whom, and where everyone was now living, and attempting to think up witty answers to questions about how many kebabs I'd had on my travels and which places I enjoyed the most.
On reflection, it was Sydney and San Francisco that stole my heart. Two great cities on the water's edge where the buildings (wouldn't William Morris be proud) are both beautiful and functional. Where work is a mere by-product and hanging out, in beaches or parks or bars or coffee shops, is an art form. And where the people are friendly, accepting and cool.
It's to the coast of California that I intend to return when I have a chance, to read more Steinbeck and look again at the sea mammals playing on the shore. Perhaps there'll be time for a trip inland to see Miss Shasta County 1980-something, whom I met on my travels and who hails from a town "where they have beauty pageants and rodeos and everything".
And maybe I can return the favour and have people come and visit me here. I've moved back into my north London pad, where they have crackhouses and prostitutes and shooting and everything, not to mention the best kebab shop in the world, which is something I can say with more authority now than I could four months ago.
