Crocodile Dunrobin

Perth to Sydney

The heat is constant, a searing, blinding heat with the surrounding scrub and bush providing little in the way of shade. I swat away a fly but another takes it's place, then another and another. How many constitute a swarm? The sand stretches away on all sides, brilliant white in the middle of the day, a subtler shade of beige now that the sun is lower in the sky. How long have I been out here? 2, 3 days? Check my watch - it's still working. Christ, it's only been 4 hours. When did I last eat? Not hungry anyway, must be the heat. Some days, I've been living on coffee and nicotine. Must drink water. Only a drop or two left now at the bottom of the bottle, warm and stale, enough to coat the back of my throat but no more. What's that in the distance, a hint of green? Oasis? Shade? Mirage? Rub my tired eyes. Try to focus again. Definitely something. Must find the strength. What'll it take to get there? Did I say that out loud? The answer comes...

"Just one more good five-iron, two putts and we'll be sipping a cold one in the pool before you can say Woolabonga mate!"

Yep, life sure is tough down under, playing golf without a cart.

I've been in Australia for almost two weeks now but in truth, I've only spent one night out in the outback. First stop was Perth on one side of the country and have just spent my last night in Sydney on the other side.

Perth is a warm, welcoming, windy city with a relatively small downtown area and a large and very neat suburban metropolis surrounding it, hundreds of Ramsay Streets fanning out in every direction. In fact it reaches the neighbouring port of Fremantle (or Freemo, as they say here) a place famous for producing the first boat ever to beat the USA in the Americas Cup back in 1983. In order to defend the cup in 1986, millions of dollars were poured into the community and it's now a very smart, laid back town with markets, museums and coffee shops galore. And while we're on the subject, how come Switzerland is the current holder of the Americas Cup? I mean… Switzerland?

My one venture out into the wild was an overnight camping jaunt north to a geological oddity called The Pinnacles, a round trip of some 300 miles. I booked it through one of the many backpacker travel agents that abound here and was assisted in this by one of those energetic, over-enthusiastic guys who look like they've jumped out of a plane and wrestled a crocodile before breakfast.

"OW'RE YOU GOIN' MATE?" he screams at me as I cross the threshold.

"Well I'm using my legs and feet to get around on… you know… FOOT and later on I'll be getting a train home," I reply dryly.

"Eh, right. Nice one," he continues, regardless. "So what's your name then?"

After telling him he says, "Aw great. Good English name, that."

"Scottish," I correct him coldly as my fist connects with his jaw releasing a torrent of blood... or would have done had I been able to release my arms from the straps of my backpack.

The trip itself is very good and includes a visit to a brewery/winery, sunset at The Pinnacles (tall sand and limestone pillars jutting out of the desert sands), tents and songs by the campfire, sandsurfing down some huge dunes and swimming in the Indian Ocean. It's all conducted by Terry, a huge bear of a man (more grizzly than koala), who drives his four wheel drive truck with a passion and is never shy to tell us that he needs to pull over "cause I'm bursting on a shit." He also thinks that the best way to rouse us from our slumber at 5.30am is to march round the campsite belching and farting. Strangely though, if you listen quite closely, there's a haunting, melodic quality to it. Must be an aboriginal thing!

It's only when I get back from what seems like quite a long trip and check the map that I start to get a sense of how big this country is. It's absolutely huge! Imagine getting into your car in Glasgow and driving to, say Rome, only you'd not see many people and you'd pass through only a handful of towns on the way. That's like driving half way across Australia.

Sydney has a different feel to the laid back atmosphere of Perth. Bigger, obviously with a real buzz about the place, as Paul McStay used to say. It's more like London or New York; continually on the go although like Perth (and most great cities I suppose) it does its recreational spaces very, very well. Lovely waterfront full of bars, restaurants and shops and some beautiful parks only a short nine iron away from the city centre skyscrapers. I've been on the harbour ferries and travelled out of town to see the Blue Mountains but there's nothing to beat just wandering around Sydney, stopping for coffee (or anything else you might be "bursting on") and drinking in the views. I was tempted to do the 150 dollar Harbour Bridge climb but settled instead for the zero dollar Harbour Bridge stroll.

So, I hear that Christmas is coming. I know this because I've finally started to see decorations and trees and slightly sweaty Santas in the street but it doesn't FEEL like Christmas at all. That was until I went to see 'Christmas With The Sydney Symphony' in the concert hall of the Sydney Opera House. This is really something. Outside, the harbour waves lap up on the rocks, the clink of champagne glasses ripple the air and the building is beautifully illuminated against the night sky. Inside, the Symphony play a variety of classical pieces (some of which I actually recognise), a solo sopranoist sings a selection of arias and a huge choir of children sing Christmas carols, old and new. (I was tempted to insert a Cliff Richard lyric here but thought better of it.) I come away from the concert thinking that if there's a more simple or beautiful melody than 'Silent Night' then I've yet to hear it.

It's a great concert and is almost as good, not quite, but almost as good as seeing Robbie Williams two nights later at the Aussie Stadium on the last night of his world tour. If there's a better opening song to a gig than "Let Me Entertain You" then I've yet to hear it. Answers on a postcard please. He's got two bands supporting him, Machine Gun Fellatio (OUCH!) who are crap and Duran Duran who are excellent. They've got all the original members back and despite being in their mid-forties, can still get away with singing 'Wild Boys' without much embarrassment.

Anyway, now that I can feel Christmas coming I've had to rethink my Christmas card/greetings strategy. I had such a simple yet brilliant plan. I was going to have my picture taken on Bondi Beach in nothing but my skimpy Speedos and a Santa hat (I even bought the hat) and after five minutes on the pc, I could dispatch Christmas greetings to you all and return smartly to the beach without missing a beat. No stamps, no post office visits, not much writing... the definition of efficient, 21st century communication. However, I realise now that that kind of misses the point - misses it, in fact, by some considerable margin so I'll be revamping the strategy to ensure that Christmas greetings have a far more personal or individual feel.

And yes, okay, I admit it. This George Bailey sentimentality was further fuelled by going to see "Love Actually" at the movies... the absolute definition of a twenty first century chick flick. It's over the top and ridiculous at times (Hugh Grant is Prime Minister for God's sake) but it caught me with my usual, cynical guard down.

And now to local news. Since I've been in Australia, there's been quite a debate gathering in the media as to whether politicians should be subjected to random breath tests, not while they're in their cars, but while they're at work! This follows an incident where the leader of the Democrats in the Senate verbally and physically assaulted another Senate member on the floor of the Senate itself. He is currently taking time off "to seek help in addressing personal health issues". I would have let this stereotypical Aussie incident slide if I hadn't been bombarded with advertising for what looks like being the top cd stocking filler this Christmas - "The Absolute Best Beer Drinking Songs Album In The World... Volume 2"! Classic!

Anyway, later today I fly north to tropical Queensland, Cairns to be exact and the Great Barrier Reef. I'm going to find out how to surf, find out how to explore the reefs and then find bloody Nemo.

And finally, in case you're wondering, Dunrobin is the ancestral home of the Sutherland clan and is located near Golspie in the north of Scotland. Come for a visit some time and I'll make sure my people (clan brethren and the help) look after you big style. It's well worth it.

http://www.clansutherland.org/FrDunrobin.htm

Till next time.

Love, Neil x

The Beach

Koh Chang to Singapore

MONDAY: Wake at sunrise. Open my bedroom door. Step out on to the beach. Lie in the sun. Swim in the sea. Drink at the bar. Watch the sunset. Eat under the palm trees. Go to sleep.

TUESDAY: Wake at sunrise. Open my bedroom door. Step out on to the beach... you get the idea!

One of the things I definitely wanted to do during my time in Thailand was visit one of those idyllic, picture postcard islands that I'd read about and seen in movies. Only trouble was, I couldn't decide which one to go to because everyone I spoke to about them had good things to say about them all.

Koh Samui? - Original backpackers paradise, now much more tourist-centred?
Koh Pha Ngan? - Full moon party every month… unsurprisingly?
Koh Phi Phi? - where 'The Beach' was filmed?
Koh Tao? - Tiny, remote outpost with excellent diving opportunities - rumoured to be favoured by most Rangers players???

Eventually I said to myself, "Phuket! I'm gonna go to Koh Chang" so I slung on my backpack and headed for the beach.

Throughout my month in Asia, I've wrestled with the issue of whether I'm a tourist or a traveller on this trip. I've got a backpack but does that make me a backpacker? I don't seem to have many of the trappings of other 'travellers' I see around me.

No dreadlocks, no shaven head, no scrawny beard, no bandana, no piercings, no (new) tattoos, no fake Diesel t-shirt, no decent sandals, no sarong, no flappy linen trousers and no Lonely Planet guidebook - can't stand them, I'm a 'Rough Guide' kinda guy.

Instead I've got nice comfortable gutties (sneakers for you Americans), too many socks, a floppy golf hat, a Celtic strip, a blue Brazil strip (to annoy the England fans cause let's face it, a Scotland strip isn't gonna do it), baby wet wipes from Boots (greatest invention of the modern age) and a bright green, rain poncho from Universal Studios with Fred Flintstone on the back and yeah, okay, I lied about the scrawny beard!

I arranged all my travel and some of my accommodation throughout Thailand and Cambodia through a travel agency in Bangkok and came away with a heavy sense of guilt that I wasn't exactly winging it or enduring long, arduous, overland journeys interspersed with hectic border crossings and the bribery of customs officials. I even flew to Koh Chang, or to be more accurate, to Trat on the mainland which has the prettiest airport in the world - two large bamboo huts set in perfectly landscaped surroundings, one for arrivals and one for departures.

But now, after a week or so of doing not very much at all, I couldn't really care less what category of traveller I fall in to. It's my party and I'll fly if I want to (NOT this week's song lyric) and after reflecting on the quality of some of the roads I saw in Cambodia, I'm very, very happy not to have spent 12 to 14 hours on the back of a bus/truck/donkey in the baking sun.

Koh Chang is Thailand's second largest island (after Phuket), about 25 miles long and eight miles wide and it's absolutely gorgeous. One main road winds round almost all of the shoreline and the centre is made up of towering, rain forest covered mountains. It's one of those places where you expect to see Ursula Andress (or Halle Berry for you youngsters) emerge mermaid-like from the surf and strut confidently on to the pristine white, sandy beach. I'm pleased to report that every night, she does!

"Nighsh to shee you," I call out, suavely, from the mango trees but then I wake up before she can reply.

There's one or two up market, 'resort' type hotels sprouting up here but in the main, accommodation is predominantly of the beach hut/bungalow variety. It's basic but more than adequate. Every night, I fight a running battle with the mosquitoes in the bathroom, me wielding the shower head like it's a lightsaber, and every night I hear the slightly disturbing, shrill cackle of a creature that lives in my roof. I'm sure it must be one of the little gecko lizards you see running around everywhere but to me, it sounds like a velociraptor!

Next door to me, lives a 62 year old Australian who, for the purposes of this story we'll call Jim, because that's his name. This man can swear to Olympic standard but curiously it doesn't sound offensive when he does it, just very colourful. Still, the following is sanitised for those of you with Big Brother IT departments at your place of work.

He tells me that he's going back to Bangkok for "a bitta business" at the end of the week but before that, he's going to have a couple of nights in Pattaya for "a separate bitta business, if you know what I mean, mate?"

I tell him that I don't (even though I do) and he goes on to explain that there's "50,000 f#cking prostitutes in a f#cking 10km square radius, mate!" This number seems awfully high to me as I quickly try and calculate a myriad of trivial statistics. How many to the square metre? How many can you get in a phone box if there's a phone box every ten metres? How many can you get in a Mini if there's two nuns in the front?... that kind of thing.

He asks me if I've been to, or am planning to go to, Pattaya and is dumbstruck when I tell him that I haven't/am not. I just know it's the kind of place where years of dormant, Scottish Presbyterianism would resurface and I'd be hopelessly out of my depth. Picture the scene, I'm sitting at a local roadside restaurant in Pattaya and get approached by a smiling, eager woman.

Woman: "Hey Mista, you wanna fock?"
Neil: "No thanks. I'd really like to try and master these chopsticks."

See, hopeless.

Jim is invaluable though when I ask his advice about whether I should consider signing up for one of the local cruise, snorkelling, diving packages.

"F#ck that mate! F#cking friend 'o mine wasted his f#cking money on one of those f#cking trips last year. No f#cking fish mate! They f#cking dynamited the f#ck out of this place f#cking years ago!" Informative, educational and to the point.

Instead, I rent a motorcycle and am immediately transported back to Ibiza 1984, the last time I drove one. It's the same exhilarating feeling - no helmet, no insurance and no long trousers to protect my legs from the scorching exhaust pipes... and sadly, no pal Doug (greatest drummer in the world) riding on the back asking me when its going to be his turn to drive every 2 miles. As I pull away from the rental place, the "Easy Rider" soundtrack is pulsating in my head. 5, 6, 10 miles an hour and I'm gone baby, a blur of green in my spanking new, fake Diesel t-shirt. Nothing between me and the Swiss border but 1,000 German troops and a big f#cking wire fence mate, as Jim would say.

It's amazing to me how much time you can spend here doing absolutely nothing except enjoying simple things. I've been on beaches before but have always been restless to do something different every ten minutes. The other night, I sat on the beach for two hours watching the tide roll away, watching the sunset change to twilight and then change to stars and moonlight... two hours... in exactly the same spot... in exactly the same position... just staring... and I'm only smoking Marlboro Lights, mum!

But here's the thing. I'd strongly urge you all to come to a place like this before it gets over commercialised with McDonalds or Starbucks (much as I love Starbucks) but when you do come, come with someone you know. Could be a best friend or a family member or a partner but ideally it should be with someone you love. Take it from me, to experience this beauty, this peacefulness, this level of relaxation and not have someone to share it with is a crime.

Anyway, I left Koh Chang at the weekend and have spent the last three nights on the small island state of Singapore. Singapore reminds me a bit of Hong Kong and Bangkok but there's more affluence, more humidity (it's very close to the equator) and more trees and greenery than I've ever seen in any big city. It's clean, safe and the shopping opportunities appear to be endless - Gucci, Prada, Top Shop, they're all here. They have some strange laws though that attract big fines if broken such as no jaywalking and no chewing gum and God help you if you leave a public toilet unflushed... although I haven't worked out how they enforce that one!

I've been staying in a dormitory style hostel for 6 quid a night, my first experience of such a place since the second year Latin trip at High School (year withheld to protect the old). Like then, it has creaky bunk beds, the lingering, stale aroma of sweaty feet and some world class snorers. These people really are so inconsiderate!

And tonight I fly to Australia, Perth to be exact, to discover another new continent for the first time. Asia, even the very little that I've seen of it, has been fascinating. It can assault all of your senses, overwhelmingly so at times, and is an extreme contrast of the old and the new. Happily, the most consistent aspect of it though has been the friendliness, politeness, humour and level of service of the people I've encountered. Some, especially the taxi drivers in Cambodia, can't seem to do enough for you and offer two or three extra services in addition to just transportation.

"You want nice smoke? Nice girl? Go to shooting range?" I presume he's inviting me to his ranch to meet his sister and share a Hamlet, no?

My favourite though, is one of the kids I met at Angkor, a little girl selling 10 postcards for a dollar. After asking my name and where I come from she meticulously lists the capital, main cities and population count of Scotland. I'm so charmed and impressed that I generously hand over the dollar without a hint of bargaining and tell her that she's very sweet. Just as I'm climbing back into my motorised rickshaw, she runs after me and gives me a little pen drawing of a house and flowers that she's sketched herself. Now for all I know, she's running off 100 of these an hour on her colour photocopier back home but all the same, I was very touched.

Anyway, before I cross that fine line that separates Santa Claus from Michael Jackson, I'll say bye-bye for now. Till next time.

Love, Neil x