!Feliz Navidad!

Christmas in Quintana Roo

Since the birth of Sinéad Nua, I’ve been chucking challenges at myself from left, right, and centre.  This one was going to be a little tough.  As a self confessed Christmasaholic who believes the festive season is all about sharing and caring, I was daunted by the prospect of spending the holidays alone, yet excited at the challenge of doing so.  Having travelled solo before I knew it was a doddle, but at this time of year one can be lonely for anyone so far from home. 

I flew to Cancun a couple of days before Christmas and hopped straight on a bus to Tulum to arrive late and tired at my hostel.  I ate in a local vegetarian restaurant and took my first breath of holiday air.  The past few weeks had been frenetic to say the least, between juggling two jobs, I still had the thin air of Tuxtla fighting to make way to my lungs. At 534m above sea level the city sits much higher than my port town so getting used to breathing the air takes time, as does getting used to wearing a uniform as thick as Joseph’s Technicolour Dreamcoat in the low 30s.  I needed that vacation.

The relaxation seeped into my muscles pretty quickly, and by the time I had hired a bicycle I was well on my way to chilling out.  It was Christmas Eve and I was pedalling along in search of the ruins that sit on the coastline.  I wandered around with admittedly very little knowledge of Mayan history and culture.  I promise to read something in my time here, hand on heart.  I was equally fascinated with the plant life surrounding the ruins, as the ruins themselves.  Beautiful fans of exotic leaves captured the sunlight and boasted intense shades of green.  Of course the sporadic rain showers guaranteed shininess, and slippery flip flops so I returned to the sanctuary of my hostel and started work on one of the several books I had packed in my weary rucksack.

 On Christmas Day I followed a lonely road towards the nearby cenotes.  I stopped at Gran Cenote, the most visited one, to find a nice garden where people sat on rugs having picnics, and lots of snorkelers exploring the underwater caves.  I got in but my status as ‘scaredycat’ has reached dangerous proportions and I freaked out a little at the thought of drifting into a cave and getting trapped forever and having to live on stalactites.  Irrational fear renders one, at the very least, completely bonkers.  I got out after about five minutes and congratulated myself on at least doing that.  Next stop was the beach; I deserved a Chelada for being such a brave little soldier.  Cheladas are one of my favourite discoveries since arriving in Mexico, along with Micheladas, Sincronizadas, Chilequiles, and Gorditas which are aptly named; Gordita translates as ‘chubby girl’  I fear I am becoming somewhat of a Gordita myself.  A Chelada is a beer with lots of fresh lime juice and salt, and is an amazing refreshment on the beach.  The beauty of Cheladas, and Micheladas, is that they contain such punchy flavours you have to sip them slowly, so my alcohol consumption has reduced quite a lot since moving to Mexico, which is always good news.  I watched kite surfers cruise back and forth, listened to super cool chilled beach choons, and read the book I had been neglecting over the past few months.  It was certainly the most relaxed Christmas I’ve ever had, I even forgot it was Christmas.  What was there to remind me?  The bikini clad sunbathers?  The soft white sand?  It was lovely to bask in it and forget about the madness that Christmas carries, end of season sales, getting everything preened and plucked in time for that one day, lifting a big ass turkey out of the oven that you know you’re going to be cursing for the next week.  I recommend a beach Christmas, if not for just one year.  After my afternoon of sunbathing and general lolling about, I decided I would treat myself to a posh dinner. I found the perfect place, a restaurant that had a big open fire used for cooking in the kitchen but not really required for heating purposes, I suppose nostalgia got the better of me for a moment.  It reminded me of a cosy country pubs where you’d go after a brisk walk through endless fields, and settle in for a delicious pint and a Sunday roast.  I ordered steak and red wine, and more red wine, and more red wine, and a chocolate brownie, and rolled back to my hostel in jeans that were far too tight for a meal of that magnitude.  I needed to be horizontal and in elasticated trousers for a while.  Not so vastly different from an Irish Christmas after all.

 

The following day I ventured a little further on my two wheeled stallion and found a sleepy beach in a tiny bay with sun loungers, palapas, and a pretty view of the Caribbean.  I had an obligatory Chelada that washed down guacamole and tostadas and rested my bulging belly in the sunshine.  I cycled back to repack my bag for an early departure to Playa Del Carmen by Colectivo the following morning. 

My hostel in Playa was located just off a big busy highway, with a construction site next door and a huge hole in the road right outside.  Feck.  But, inside was a haven with a garden, a pool, and a seating area with an outdoor kitchen.  I felt a little more at ease about my choice of accommodation, especially when I learned that the beach was only a ten minute stroll away in a straight line so even I couldn’t get lost on the way.  I had heard that PDC didn’t have a lot to boast, but I enjoyed the twinkling lights of 5^th Avenue, and the atmosphere created by swarms of people parading the narrow pedestrian street that peaked and troughed along the coastline of the town.  I visited the beach for a day of sun worshipping and was disappointed to find the large hotels had a monopoly over it, and had rows of sun loungers that were strictly for guest use only.  They even went to the trouble of appointing security guards who patrolled the area protecting their many unused sun loungers against guerrilla sunbathers.  I’ve been to many beaches where restaurants and hotels have built

their businesses on the periphery, but I’ve always been able to sit on the loungers in exchange for a small purchase.  I found this commandeering of the beach space rather greedy and it made the presence of the hotels along the coast all the more oppressive and ugly.  You can’t see for hotels.  It wasn’t until I went looking for the ferry to Cozumel that I found the beach space for commoners like me, and was disappointed to see it was nicer and less crowded.  Lesson learned, explore more on day one!  There was one upside to the beach I frequented.  It was home to a chocolate café called Ah Cacao, where the speciality was a decadent spiced hot chocolate.  I told everyone who would listen to visit and try it.  While taking a break in the air conditioned café, I noticed advertisements on the wall for ‘Chocolate Therapy’.  I thought that was in the drinking of it, but evidently there are soaps, body oils, and creams on sale also.  Bloody waste of good chocolate if you ask me, but I guess slathering yourself with the stuff is less fattening than drinking it as much as I did in my three days in Playa. 

Back in the hostel the evenings were pretty social, and on one of the evenings a group of Australian guys broke out the barbeque and made a huge meal which they divvied out amongst the hungry folks who were chatting and sipping beer around the table.  I thought it polite to pop out and buy some beer, but they already had a crate load of that too, so I drank my own and enjoyed the banter.  The following morning was a struggle but so worth it, and as it rained a beach visit would have been a wash out.  Better to have a sleep in and a subway meatball sandwich..

 Next stop was Cozumel.  I was excited about spending New Year on an island.  So far on my travels I have learned one important thing, although I can settle almost anywhere, I do prefer to vacation in small places, preferably islands, where I can bimble around and have adventures on my own.  However Cozumel is big.  I had no idea until I got there how big, it’s easy to forget it’s an island.  My idea of cycling around in a day quickly got flung out the window and I hired a moped instead.  I drove on the main road around the island, which took hours.  It was an invigorating ride though.  On one side there was infinite sea, and on the other, seemingly endless lush vegetation that glistened beautifully in the afternoon sun.  With very few other vehicles on the road I felt like I was alone on the island, I felt free, independent, and thoroughly elated at having the opportunity once again to explore a beautiful place so far from home.  I returned to my hostel, parked up, and planned my New Year festivities.  I decided that I would remain in the hostel and take advantage of the exclusive use of the rooftop to ring in the new year by myself, and before anyone feels sad and sorry for poor old Sinead Nua, let me tell you this.  I had some good friends with me, wine and cheese.  I dropped my buddies, Malbec and Edam, off in my room while I went for a freshen up, and met my room mate, a German guy who was also travelling alone and was about to head downtown to check out the bars there.  I wished him a happy new year and went on my way.  I showered and headed for the roof where I met a family who were relaxing before going for a meal at a local restaurant.  They were from the North of Mexico and told me they vacation every year for the holidays.  They were surprised to see a woman travelling alone, and I think they assumed I was lonely.  I politely declined their invite to dinner; I was looking forward to my time alone.  I try to see the good intentions in people who look out for a woman on her own, but I feel disappointed at times that this has such a stigma.  When you’re done with this post, take a look at the article I’ve pasted below which gives the perspective of many women who have travelled alone.  It’s an inspiring read, no scary stories, nothing to confirm the fear that a woman isn’t safe alone.  I wish we could move past old fashioned sexist attitudes towards the capabilities of women.  Right, I’ve vented for long enough.  Let me get back to Cozumel because my story is about to get a little more interesting.  So, I said goodbye and happy New Year to the lovely family on the roof, found a playlist on Spotify, and tucked into my picnic.  Shortly after, my German roommate arrived back carrying a six pack of beer and a disappointment at the lack of atmosphere downtown.  I cleared some space and we chatted, and were joined by the third resident of our small dorm, a guy who had just flown in from Japan and who was suffering with jetlag.  We chatted about our experiences in Mexico and exchanged suggestions on where to go until our Japanese friend announced the time.  It was already 11.50pm and I had completely forgotten that it was New Year’s Eve.  We went to the edge of the roof to watch as locals celebrated with floating lanterns, it was nicely understated.  Then, like the Pied Piper of Hamelin, captivating music wafted over the rooftops and lured us to the streets; well two of us, our Japanese friend gave in to the jetlag and went to bed after midnight.  My German acquaintance and I followed the sound through the neighbourhood, but ended up lost in a warren of sleepy streets, determined not to give up.  I had Malbec in my blood and I wasn’t ready to give up the night.  We encountered some local men chatting outside a house and I asked in my pigeon Spanish where the music was coming from.  Luckily one of them, a market seller, spoke English so we were able to communicate in a common language.  My Spanish is not Spanish you see, it’s Spanglish in a Cork accent.  Nonsensical, in a word.  We chatted for a bit before having cans of beer thrust at us.  We politely obliged, until one beer turned into several and an invite to dinner.  So I found myself in the middle of a family celebration, eating chicken and mashed potatoes at 2am.  So much for a quiet one.  Ironically I had earlier basked in a smug glow of the possibility of waking early to drive out and watch the sun rise.  Let’s just gloss over that one.  My night turned

out to be the most spontaneous and warmest of my entire holiday.  I excused myself shortly after they broke out the karaoke, and at 4.30am I retired for a long beer infused sleep.  The next day I sought out a reggae bar that I had clocked on my epic adventure around the island, and decided to nest there for the day soaking up the sun, reading, and eating nachos, the perfect hangover cure.  That evening, my new friend and I had made a plan to drop off some gifts to our hosts from the night before. We learned that they had partied on til 6am.  I wouldn’t have been awake long enough to join them.  My second, and final, night on Cozumel was quiet and relaxing in the garden of my hostel, where the music lulled me to sleep on my terrifyingly high top bunk.  I worried about rolling onto the floor below, a plummet that would have left me in a sorry state, so I hugged the wall for the entire night.  The fact that I slept soundly was testament to my tiredness.  After breakfast of the best Chilaquiles in the world, I set off for the ferry back to Playa Del Carmen, where I was to meet my fellow New Year’s Eve adventurer.  He had kindly offered to drive me back to Cancun, where he was catching his return flight to Munich.  While he looked forward to proper Bavarian beer, I longed for the blue sea of Cancun.  It was nice to have the company for the trip rather than another cramped van journey, and I arrived at the door of my hostel relaxed and ready to let Cancun show me it’s magic. 

I was too early for check in so I went to the roof where there was a bar, Jacuzzi, and plenty of places to lounge and I read in a hammock for a couple of hours.  I had booked this specific hostel, called Mundo Joven, purely because it boasted a rooftop Jacuzzi, but unfortunately in the three days I stayed there I never saw the remnants of a party cleaned out of it so I decided to steer clear of the murky water, with sand sunken to the bottom, and a floating party hat left there God knows how long before.  Disappointing, but the place turned out to be a pretty good hostel, scuzzy Jacuzzi aside. 

I had read an article a week before about an underwater sculpture gallery off the coast of Cancun, but with no specific location.  I thought if I could find out where it was I would definitely visit, it sounded incredible.  Whilst reading up on Isla Mujeres, an island just a short ferry ride from Cancun, and recommended by several people, I found it.  There it was in black and white, the MUSA underwater museum.  I was so excited, I planned a trip for the next day, but I still had a whole day before that so I checked into my dorm and was quite impressed by the set up they had.  Each bed had it’s own locker right beside it, with a power point inside so you could charge your gadgets while they were safely locked away, pretty clever. 

After packing a beach bag I caught the bus to the beach area, which was just a ten minute journey.  I got off at the very first of the many beaches and found myself amongst countless Mexican holidaymakers, and despite being the only white person on the beach, I mean Irish white, almost transparent, I managed to blend into the background and whiled away the afternoon reading in a hammock and enjoying a giant Michelada, for which the bar relieved me of 150 pesos, a pretty cheeky price considering a Michelada not enjoyed in a hammock on a beach might cost around 45.  However it had two beers in it, and it kept me occupied for the afternoon.  I stayed in my hammock until my eyes could read no more and I went looking for some dinner.  I thought against eating on the beach incase I would have to take out a mortgage on a fish taco, so I stopped in a place that looked like it had a decent vibe and some good local food.  I was right about the food, the Burrito I ate was delicious, but there was something fishy about the vibe.  I was too hungry at first to take anything in apart from the menu so I sat and ordered, and pulled out my book while I waited.  It wasn’t until I was a few mouthfuls into my dinner that I noticed all the eyes on me.  The place was filled with men.  Shite.  I had blindly decided once again, since Myanmar, to dine in an establishment not frequented by women or tourists, and as a blonde female foreigner I stood out like a baboon’s arse.  I was too hungry to care so I finished my dinner and took off.  There was nothing to be alarmed at, people are always interested in someone who is different and sometimes that involved the odd stare here and there.  At no point was I ever in any danger, and to think that would have been naïve and paranoid.  I prefer to think the best of people, I like to people-watch myself, and have probably been guilty once or twice of making someone uncomfortable by mindlessly staring at them whilst thinking something along the lines of, “I wonder where she comes from?”, or more likely, “Should I have chicken or fish for dinner?” because sometimes people just stare thoughtlessly and are of no threat whatsoever. 

I returned to my hostel for a shower and a trip to the rooftop bar to check out the evening atmosphere.  I met some friendly girls who all showed an interest in joining me in my plan to visit Isla Mujeres so we arranged to meet after breakfast and set off for a daytrip. 

Isla Mujeres was as beautiful as it had been described, and the weather was perfect.  We caught a taxi to the side of the island where the underwater museum was pin pointed on the map only to learn that the only boats with licenses to go there set off from the downtown area, where we had just come from.  There was an overwater sculpture museum on the peninsula which offered glorious views and some interesting pieces of modern sculpture.  One of the girls in our group was fluent in Spanish and had a great talent for polite negotiation.  She managed to get hold of the number of a local guy who ran tours so we haggled his price down in exchange for a trip to the MUSA museum only.  There were other stops on offer, but this was our one and only priority.  We got a great price and arranged to go over to him after lunch.  We had spotted a cute little café from our taxi further back on the road so we, confused by the difference between walking and driving, thought it was only a little jaunt away and that we could walk it.  We ended up dragging ourselves limply along the road as hired golf carts and taxis whizzed by, with every turn in the road revealing not the café, but another bleedin’ turn in the road.  We gave up, one of us having fallen victim to a foot blister, and hitch hiked.  An American couple in a golf cart stopped to our rescue and drove us to the café, apologising all the way for their slow cart.  I assured them that, compared to our walk, it felt like flying with Concord.  The air flowing through our hair cooled us down and we arrived with a thirst for a cold drink and a hunger for some great local food.  The fish tacos did not disappoint.  I even tried the chef’s own hot sauce, which comes with a spice warning.  I carefully dabbed the tacos with a suggestion of the sauce which was enough, I am still building my tolerance but it’s a work in progress.  When I first arrived in Mexico, just having the sauce in the vicinity was too much spice for me.

 After lunch we went in search for our boatman, not quite sure of whom we were to be met with, or what his credentials were.  When he brought us to his business we were relieved to see he was the real deal, a professional boat tour company, with clean equipment and knowledgeable staff.  We were kitted out with snorkels, fins, and life jackets and were escorted to a nice boat, in which we sped out to view the sculptures.  We stopped in open water, and were each helped to jump into the sea where a guide swam ahead for us to follow.  As we approached a piece of sculpture he pointed down and we marvelled at the view below.  I had read about each piece so it was fascinating to see them with my own eyes, particularly the VW Beetle which offers a home to marine life, and the Banker, a tongue in cheek piece which comments on the recent financial crisis.  Each of the sculptures depicts man’s affect on the planet, and in turn helps counteract the damage to the marine life by nurturing the growth of coral on the pieces.  What’s beautiful and fascinating about this project is that it will never look the same as it does right now.  Next year, the year after that, and forever, the coral and seaweed will grow on and around it, changing the shape and the colour, the sea will eventually claim it as its own.  I was humbled to see it with my own eyes, and along with my spontaneous New Year family, it was one of the highlights of my entire trip. 

The girls headed back to a market they had heard of and I spent the evening sipping beer on the beach and watching the sun set over the horizon.  Following a massage (are you even surprised?  You should know me well by now!), I returned sleepily on the ferry to my hostel where I met the others who had picked up a few new buddies and were playing drinking games, except nobody had any alcohol.  What is it with kids these days?  I had an early night in preparation for another beach day in Cancun, but lady luck frowned on me and it flippin’ lashed all morning.  When the rain stopped, the clouds that were left behind roused little motivation to head towards the beach so I got the cracking idea to go to the cinema and eat nachos instead.  So I did.  My last day in Cancun was spent in McDonalds eating ice cream and the cinema eating nachos, and I don’t even feel any shame.  I had an adventurous two weeks so wasting a day being a sloth brought no guilt, and it was a nice relaxed ending to my vacation.  I flew back to Tuxtla sporting a smidgen of a tan, and a belly that now protrudes quite rudely over my jeans.  Bloody Gorditas. 

¡Feliz año nuevo!

Images: Sinéad Millea, Rica Wichmann, Aleksandrs Ziskins.

http://robgreenfield.tv/travelersafety/?fb_action_ids=10153657384965659&fb_action_types=og.comments

http://www.tripadvisor.com/Attraction_Review-g150813-d669578-Reviews-Gran_Cenote-Tulum_Yucatan_Peninsula.html

http://musaislamujeres.com/about-musa/

The hills are alive with the smell of Ceylon!

A fortnight in Sri Lanka

Sunrise, Tangalle

For as long as I can remember I have wanted to visit Sri Lanka, I have no idea why, just one of those gut feelings.  It was even one of my choices when applying for teaching work in Asia, however Thailand won out and I enjoyed eighteen months of thrilling adventure and hilarious confusion while Sri Lanka simmered away on the back burner.  My intuition and I have become friends over the years and I have begun to trust her no questions asked, so I listened to her plea and booked a flight to Colombo for my final Asian adventure before returning home to Ireland.  I had a mission to complete, to get a tan.  I was currently ‘Orchid Cream’ according to the Dulux colour palette.

I approached a taxi company at the airport, clutching my Agoda booking for a homestay close by.  The two ladies looked puzzled as they studied their maps but couldn’t figure out where I was bound for.  Another taxi tout, who had been practically doing back flips to get my attention in an attempt to steal my business from the ladies, seemed to know which direction to send me so I jumped into his car and off I went in the direction of Colombo, as was stated on my confirmation from Agoda.  The home stay was almost 40km in the opposite direction in Negombo, so my taxi fare cost almost five times my room rate for the evening by the time I arrived.  I should have asked to sleep in the taxi at that price.  So, began my fortnight in Sri Lanka, and the feeling of hemorrhaging money which stayed with me throughout.

View over Kandy

I shook off the initial kerfuffle, and packed a beach bag for some serious relaxation.  I caught a tuk tuk down to the beach, still unclear as to the correct address of the homestay I had booked.  When I asked the tuk tuk driver what street I was on he told me to call him to get back, rather than answer the question I asked.  Business savvy – yes, frustrating - very.  Anyway, too tired to argue, I took his number and ventured towards the beach.  I met with a conversational man who asked me where I was from.  Still unaware of the tout technique I, not wanting to be impolite, answered while walking but he approached and told me he was a teacher, showed me a crudely photocopied brochure from a school which I could barely decipher, and told me his students love to hear about foreigners and asked if I would write my name and where I was from on a piece of paper.  As naive as I am, I am not a total idiot so I questioned him as he showed me this piece of paper.  It had people’s names and countries alongside figures, which I queried.  The so called teacher told me people write their names and countries down, then as he rubbed his thumb and fingers together in a ‘money’ gesture he suggested I "help the children".  This was not my first encounter with a chancer, but I still find myself flustered by trickery like this.  It wasn’t to be the last time I was approached for money, but for the meantime I found a lonely spot where I could sit and read in peace.

I enjoyed a couple of hours of reading and sunbathing before I got thirsty so I popped into a beach side café for some iced tea and caught sight of a mirror.  Eeek, lobster face!  Despite the cool breeze, the Sri Lankan sun is a force to be reckoned with.  I took my scarlet body back to my room for some after sun, not before getting lost.  I was unable to get my phone to work in order to ring Mr Business Acumen with his tuk tuk, so I had to ask another driver if he knew of the homestay and if he would rely on my terrible memory in getting me back.  A wild goose chase ensued and I arrived hot and flustered.  I have heard of people going away to lose themselves, but this is ridiculous.  Writing off my first day, I made a pot of coffee and settled in for the evening, plotting my route for the coming fortnight.  I was now ‘Volcanic Splash 3’.  

Applying wax during batik making

The next morning I headed to Kandy and had my first experience of Sri Lankan buses.  I was nervous of the long journey without air conditioning (first world problems, eh?)  Although I was relieved that, with the windows open to allow in the cool Sri Lankan breeze, I enjoyed a scenic and comfortable journey upland.  I found a great hostel with a rooftop view of the city, good coffee, and some chilled out friendly people.  I like meeting people and having a chat but at times I grow tired of the pretentious backpacker, you know the type - matted hair, excessive talk of ‘doing’ Asia, and deep convos about changing the world one hand built school at a time.  After some tea on the roof with the other guests, I had an early night and planned a full day of exploring.  After breakfast I called the tuk tuk dude who dropped me off at the hostel, as he gave me a decent price on a trip around the city and beyond.  I ticked off a few sights, but was mostly interested in the Botanical Gardens, the tea factory where the smell of ceylon sweeps it's fragrant hand across your nostrils, the batik workshops, and the spice garden where some old traditions are kept alive.  At the spice garden I met an Ayurvedic doctor who makes tonics and lotions for all sorts of ailments from the natural ingredients that grow in the garden.  It was an interesting visit, until I was handed a sheet of paper and a pencil and was told to mark off the products I liked best so we could discuss what I would buy.  Awkward.  I had no intention of buying.  I was led out of the garden with a sullenness you wouldn’t get from a teenager with a hangover.  Why didn’t he just charge me at the door for the visit?  I’d have paid for that, it was an interesting place.  By the end of the day I was weary of people constantly expecting me to fork out cash, as if it were burning a hole in my pocket.  One staff member at the Botanical Gardens held out his hand for a tip just for pointing out a chameleon in a plant.  It was exhausting, but it wasn’t until I returned home to Ireland that I began to think about the tourist industry in SL, and how people make their money.  It didn’t make sense to me at the time, and I still think an admission charge would be better at places like the tea factory, batik workshops and spice garden but in hindsight, and with some perspective, I guess it comes down to the difference in our cultures and how that affects our priorities what we expect from others.

That evening I relaxed with dinner at a rooftop restaurant, and enjoyed a 2 for 1 cocktail offer, which turned out to be a 3 for 2…oops, should have listened more carefully.  I watched, with blurred vision, as the sun set over the city of Kandy.   

The following day was one I had been looking forward to for some time; I was to catch the train from Kandy to Ella.  I had read about this train journey online and was very excited to be finally doing it.  I arrived well in time to bag a seat, but only realised on board that it started its journey in Colombo, so I was left standing.  I resembled a giraffe in a box, straining my neck just to see out of the window.  I politely asked the man sitting alongside me if he could give me a heads up when he’s alighting.  A couple of hours later he gave me his seat insisting he was getting off any minute.  His wife and I started chatting, and about five stops later she suggested we swap seats so I could sit by the window.  Then about three stops later they wished me a good trip and alighted.  I was so grateful for their kindness and astuteness, as other tourists watched seats like hawks and swooped in like vultures, regardless of who was standing the longest.  The journey was as incredible as I had read; the train snaked its way uphill through the tea plantations, opening up vistas of the landscape.  At each stop sellers with baskets of drinks and snacks weaved their way through the crowd and up along the tracks. 

Seven hours after departing from Kandy I arrived in the beautiful mountainous town of Ella and treated myself to rice and curries, which comprised of ten little bowls of curries, rice and poppadoms.  At some stage on this trip, my bottomless stomach was bound to reach its peak.  Ella held a good vibe and some of the most stunning scenery I have ever seen, had I trained and become fit for the trip I’d have considered a trek.  It’s been since added to my bucket list.  After a comfy sleep in a big double bed on a quiet street, I woke to a breakfast of more rice and curries, with a beautiful view from outside my room.  This set me up for my journey to Tangalle, I was bound for the beach.  My skin had settled back down to a shade of ‘Bongo Jazz 2’, so I had some topping up to do.

At the bus stop at the side of the dusty road, I met with a man who gave me info on when my bus was due, and a nudge when it came trundling down the road.  I think he worked for the bus company although there was no way of knowing it, maybe he was just a helpful man hanging out at his favourite spot.  I couldn’t help but feel that I was about to be asked for money for his offering of help and info, but no request came.  What a shame that actual kindness gets confused with business tactics, but unfortunately that was the way on my journey so far.  In fact, Ella was the only place I had not encountered any wily ploys to relieve me of a few hundred rupees.  I boarded the bus and bagged a seat at the front, under a TV screen showing Jurassic Park.  As the bus pelted towards the mountain edge I began to think that this may be the end.  I always said if I died young it would give me comfort to know it came with a decent story -

“What happened to poor ‘oul Sinead?” 

“Oh, she flew off the side of a mountain in a Sri Lankan bus/got mangled in a trishaw on a crossroads in Mandalay/fell off a Pagoda in Bagan..”

“Cool.”

I turned my gaze towards the TV and concentrated on the fictional scary man-eating dinosaurs instead of the very possibly real scary plunge towards death outside.  Although petrifying, the view was one of the most majestic of my journey, with the grand and characterful mountains standing like proud grandparents overlooking their legacy.  On flat ground below I felt grateful at arriving unscathed and watched out of the window at the glorious world and a cow eating a poster directly off a wall. 

At Tangalle I sought out a guesthouse, called Siesta, which I found in the travel section of the Guardian website.  Noted as the friendliest place in Tangalle, it seemed like the place I needed to rest my rucksack for a few days.  I showered off the bus journey and set off for the beach, only a few metres down the quiet little road.  I ordered a fresh coconut and watched as the barman scaled the tree to fetch it.  He came over to join me, and sat with me as I read my book.  I debated which would be the most appropriate treatment of the situation here.  I wanted to sit alone and read my book, but did not want to appear rude.  So I smiled and returned to the book and hoped he would, without feeling awkward, accept my hint and leave me be.  This wasn’t the first time a bored barman would seek me out and volunteer his company.  I began to wonder if they pitied me for being alone.  I pitied them for considering being single a stigma.  I always rejected the advice to wear a ring on my ring finger whilst travelling solo, but after a fortnight in Sri Lanka I was beginning to see the advantage of just playing along with social convention.  I would even carry around a photo album of my fake wedding if I thought it would give me peace and quiet with my book.

When I returned to my room I noticed my phone had a few missed calls from a Sri Lankan number, which was strange as I had no contacts here.  However I remembered the tuk tuk driver from Kandy who I had called for all my travel in the city.  He did mention that he would call because he liked to talk.  I pretended not to hear and admired the view of the mountains, and hoped he was not serious.  It seems he was, and he was to call several times during my stay in Tangalle.  What does he want?  An awkward conversation over a bad phone line in broken English?  Anyway, I ignored the calls and hoped he’d get bored…or hook another female tourist.

The following day I hired a bicycle and headed west to find some beaches where I could have a bob about in the water.  The waves on my side were pretty rough, great for surfers, but shite for scaredy cats who can barely swim.  I stopped at a beach side bar and was greeted by a waiter who conveniently had a recommendation for another bar further down the road and, what a coincidence, also had a tuk tuk in which I could get there. Wow, my lucky day!  I politely declined, ordered a coconut, and got on with some sunbathing.  In the afternoon, I pedalled further down the hill, blocking out the realisation that I would have to pedal back up again, and found another great little beach bar that served ginger beer.  I slurped away happily and topped up on my tan.  I was, at this stage, approaching ‘Mexican Mosaic 6’.  After dinner of fresh grilled tuna on the beach I finished my book and headed back to my room before dark.  My mission for the evening was to hunt down an Ayurvedic massage, and in doing so I also happened upon some cute candle lit bars along the beach.  My masseuse, Mali, was a sweet lady who told me she was pleased to have a female customer as she often gets approached by men who are looking for a service far beyond massage…gross.  I threw my sandy bikini top in the corner and fell into a snory snooze as Mali massaged me into an almost deep sleep.  On my way out Mali paid me some lovely compliments on my “beautiful eyes” and told me I was “a young girl”…[very nice to hear.  Oh wait, there’s more to the sentence]… “but a little bit fat”.  A come on!  I have to admit, you’ve got to love the Asian honesty.  Here, ‘fat’ is a descriptive word, just like ‘tall’, it’s not meant as an insult.  I had been experiencing it in Thailand for eighteen months.  One day a man who was pumping up my bicycle tyres told me that they were flat because I was big.  The next morning, back at the guesthouse, I was debating whether to hire a bicycle or a moped and my guesthouse host Tharu, having been told of the previous night’s faux pas, teasingly suggested, “Get a bike, you are fat”.  So I settled on a bike and cycled my little fat ass to Unakaruwa beach, as recommended by Tharu, where the wind and waves were a little gentler.  I set my sarong down and opened up my next book on a quiet hot spot of the beach, and within a paragraph I was approached by two surfers who came to chat and intermittently pop into conversation that they knew of other spots further down the beach.  What is it with these guys, why is everyone so eager to move me down the beach?!  I detected that they probably also had access to a tuk tuk.  Not today boys, I’ve heard it all before.  I politely asserted myself and continued with my day, I was beginning to get the hang of this.

I decided to head back to the other side of the beach and found some lovely places, laid out with deckchairs and candle lit tables where local fishermen set up little eateries that served up their catch of the day.  I chatted with a deliciously attractive man who has recently opened up a tiny restaurant in a wooden hut, where he sells his father’s catch of seafood with cocktails and a chilled out vibe.  I don’t even know if this place has a name, it was a tiny restaurant by night and a locked up wooden hut by day.  I was talked into trying a Sri Lankan spirit called Arrack, made from coconut.  It was served with soda and lime and converted me to a new favourite tipple.  I headed on down to another candle lit restaurant on a little restaurant crawl, and ordered fish roti, not really knowing what fish roti was.  When dry flatbreads made with fish came to my table I made sure to have plenty of Lion beer to wash them down.  

The next day I became a bona fide tourist and booked a tuk tuk trip to some nearby sights, including a blowhole, Weligama stick fishermen and the Rock Temple.  The blowhole was, well, a blowhole, so that was that.  The stick fishermen were not actually fishing but were set up along the coastline ready to pose for photos at a price.  With the introduction of boats and nets the tradition of the stick fishermen has dwindled so the practice has now become a photo opportunity for tourists rather than a technique for fishing.  My tuk tuk driver translated as I negotiated a price to take pictures.  I asked some questions while I snapped and the fishermen beckoned me towards the water, inviting me to scale the apparatus they perch on.  I declined at first but after several persuasions I gave it a go.  I climbed with very little grace onto the pole, which was made of sticks bound together with rope, and sat on top for a quick photo before climbing back down with my big arse in the fisherman’s hands.  I did warn him I was not light.  I thanked the man, who was shorter and smaller than me, how he lifted me I’ll never know.  I opened my purse to pay him and he, via my driver, reminded me of the price which had jumped since our previous chat.  It seems the lift up the pole was extra.  I politely advised him that in future he should negotiate this in advance, and that today he was getting the first figure agreed on.  I handed over my money and smiled, and he accepted, although I suspect he’s still employing the same sales tactic.  I imagine quite a lot of tourists pay out of embarrassment.  I’m afraid I had not squirrelled away enough holiday money to save face.

Next and last stop was to the Rock Temple, which contrary to belief is not Axl’s Buddhist hangout, but a temple built on a large rock which juts out over a beautiful, peaceful view.  After watching the sun set from the gigantic boulder I made my way back down to the tuk tuk, and back to my guesthouse for dinner and sleep, despite an invite to the pub from the driver, I’ll call him ‘R’, who turned out to be great company on my day trip.  I was too sleepy for beer and conversation so I took a rain check until the following evening.

After a day of sunbathing, reading, and slurping smoothies on the beach I got ready for my date with R.  We met for beers and chatted for a bit before heading along the beach to have a drink at the cute little shack restaurant I had found a few nights before.  Along the way R mapped out my life for me, how considerate.  Apparently I was to stay in touch on Skype and then return to Sri Lanka to live with him because he loved me.  But the story does not have a fairytale ending as I, being of sound mind, declined and ran back to my room (alone).  The following day was spent sunbathing and ignoring calls from my future husband.  I went to bed super early as I had another day of being a tourist ahead of me, and I was tired of all this silliness. 

I woke 4am for a pick up to take me to Udawalawe National Park, where I watched families of elephants, herds of buffalo, and crocodiles all sharing the lake to bathe peacefully.  Despite paying the largest admission fee so far on this trip, I was encouraged by my guide to tip him and the jeep driver, because he claimed that they were volunteers who lived on tips.  Bizarre, but hey, I had been up since before the crack of dawn and was too tired to take on the uncomfortable exchange that would follow had I challenged this strange story.  I arrived back at my guesthouse and fought the urge to sleep with the help of a massive pot of coffee and rented a bike for a trip to the beach.  I needed some new scenery so I took off way down the sandy path, past the lagoon, and found a cute little beach restaurant with hammocks on the sand and a nice cheap menu.  But what was even more luxurious about this place was that there were no chatty surfers, there were no tuk tuk drivers, there were no staff members holding their hands out, and there were no lotharios claiming to be in love with me.  I got to relax and read!  Over rice and curries I completed another book.  Vacations give my appetite for reading some sustenance.  During my two weeks in Sri Lanka, I had gorged on five books.  I know the die hard readers amongst you would be appalled at what I’m about to say but they were all books that had been adapted to screen, and I had already watched most of the movies.  I am only a part time reader and movies provide me with my literary fodder.  I can judge a good restaurant by it’s lighting, and a good film by its poster, but choosing the right book is a mystery to me.  If it hasn’t been recommended by a friend or presented to me in movie form I will most likely ignore it.  Anyway, as I was saying, I read a lot on vacation.  I owe my lack of loneliness to the many characters who accompany me on my travels, and I can’t wait to get back to them and hear how they’re getting on.  From Pi Patel mastering a Bengal tiger on a lifeboat to Benny Hogan and her heartaches down in Knockglen.  Cheryl Strayed was a terrific travel buddy as she told me her tale of hiking the PCT in the USA while I was bootling around Myanmar on an e-bike and Elizabeth Gilbert reminded me of the magic of Bali as I lazed dreamily in a hammock on the southern coast of Sri Lanka. 

Returning to Siesta is like coming home to my safe haven, where I am sheltered from people who want, and general questions about my personal life, e.g., “Why are you not married?  Are you travelling alone?  Are you not scared?  Where is your boyfriend?”  It really is the “friendliest place in Tangalle”, as the Guardian puts it.  On my final day I had a cookery class with Harshani, Tharu’s wife.  We hand-ground coconut and made handmade coconut milk that would go into making dishes such as dhal, chicken curry, and coconut sambol.  All this was to be accompanied by poppadoms, rice, and bean curry, and this entire feast was for little old me.  In true Sri Lankan style I slept soundly after my lunch and lazily mosied to the beach for one more evening with the sunset.  I found a place called the Panorama Rock Café, which had a nice view of the rocky, breezy coastline below.  I ordered a beer from the creepy barman who decided I wanted his company.  While he sat fiddling with his crotch and making very boring small talk, I tried to ignore him and continue with my fictional friends in my book. 

My Sri Lankan adventure came to a close with an epic journey which had me hopping between four buses.  Five hours later I arrived tired and scraggly at my hotel which I had booked due to it’s proximity to the airport, and this time I made sure it was fail safe, I was minutes from the plane station so I could sleep easy and have a stress free transfer.  Or so I'd hoped.  I met a very helpful hotel concierge who told me I was the only guest for the evening so the restaurant was closed, but he would take me to town to get some takeaway food.  He was helpful, albeit slightly overbearing, and almost ended up choosing my dinner for me.  I took it as kindness at the time but didn’t hang around too long to be talked at, the subject once again drifted towards my single status, and what a coincidence it was that he was also single.  Abort mission, get out of there, go, go!  I made my excuses and headed off to my room for some peace and quiet.  I noticed the bathroom window was slightly open and in a room with no mosquito net I decided this was not a great idea.  I put the loo seat down and mounted, with only a second before the entire seat split into four pieces and my foot plunging down into the bowl.  Right into the U bend.  Fuuuuck.  I was too tired to deal with yer man, so I slept on it, not before googling the price of toilet seats. 

Harshani hand grinds fresh coconut every day!

In the morning I had calculated a fair compensation for my destruction and a tip for the concierge.  I opted for honesty and displayed the damage.  The response was an expected frown, shake of the head, hand to the chin in deep thought, and the suggestion of a cost five times the figure I was about to offer.  A very frustrating negotiation took place at 4am, where we ended up on double my suggestion, and his tip evaporated.  Downstairs, as we waited for my tuk tuk, he talked at me about how little he earns and how he gets tips from tourists, and reminded me of how nice he was to me.  I was getting more and more irritated, but wore no expression.  My tuk tuk arrived and I loaded it up and went on my way with simple thanks, and left Mr Nice open mouthed.  Of course the tuk tuk he booked on my behalf charged me double the going rate.  I guess it’s not a proper business exchange without some extortion thrown in.  I limped off on what I presumed was a broken toe, and headed straight for departures, tired and grumpy.  

My trip to Sri Lanka was a long awaited one, but I left with a feeling of exhaustion and frustration, which really tainted my experience there.  It took me a while to work out my thoughts on these experiences and I struggled a lot when I thought about how negative I felt.  I am aware of the poverty in Asia, and I am aware that I am considered richer than some of the people I have encountered because, relatively, I am.  However, and my opinion comes from my experience from my little space on the planet, that doesn’t give a person the right to assume I have more money than I know what to do with, or assume that I am lonely and desperate now I am a thirty something singleton.  My frustration comes from the frequency at which this happened.  I spent my time in Sri Lanka, and in some other parts of Asia, feeling like a walking ATM ready to serve those I encountered.  The assumptions and expectations placed on me were exhausting.  As I said, that’s only my own opinion and I’m as entitled to that as anyone who may criticise it is to theirs.  All in all, I am very happy I took the opportunity to visit Sri Lanka.  At their very core, the people I got to know were wonderful, and the countryside boasts the most beautiful landscapes I’ve ever seen.  Pity it comes at a price, and I’m not talking about the money…

Images: Sinéad Millea.

Island life

A fortnight in Bali and Gili Trawangan

Sunset on Gili Trewangan

Hello again!  So it’s felt like ages since my last holiday, but it was an incredible week to remember.  I landed safely in Bali, having spent some time previously feeling anxious at the prospect of two weeks alone in another country.  My anxiety was all in vain, what a place!  I stayed a night in a lovely little hotel in Denpasar, but little did I know that Denpasar is rather big and the hotel was not near the airport and local bus services like I had been led to believe, naughty booking.com!  Following the long taxi journey I checked in and got myself into the cute little pool pronto, not before picking up a can of Guinness in the local shop.  Oh, the excitement at seeing that golden harp!  I opened it poolside and settled in for some serious relaxation until I tasted the vile liquid, oh sweet mother of Arthur, what the hell is this??  It was awful.  Awful.  So I shook it off my taste buds and went for a dip in the pool, shaded by fruit trees.

My plan the next morning was to head on to Ubud.  I had a good feeling about Ubud and was excited about visiting.  My taxi dude recommended I steer clear of buses as the traffic in Bali is pretty heavy and the buses aren’t reliable.  Instead he dropped me off in Sanur where I could catch a shuttle bus, which was a minivan.  I had a couple of hours between buying my ticket and departing so I took a stroll along the beach.  One man, who was selling trinkets, asked if I had just arrived as I was so white.  I just nodded, neglecting to inform him I have lived in Thailand for over twelve months.  There’s not much opportunity to sunbathe in Nakhon Sawan, which is frustrating as it’s probably the sunniest and hottest place on the bleedin’ planet – sods law, eh?!  My previous holiday’s tan had long faded and I was on a mission to top it up. 

My trustee steed

The bus journey to Ubud was an eye opener for me.  Having been soaking up Thai culture and customs for just over a year I was mesmerised by the Indonesian-ness around me.  So refreshing to be amongst such a different culture, not only to my own, but to my temporarily adopted country’s.  One thing that was not so different from Thailand was the traffic.  At one stage it was so dense that motorcyclists took to mounting the pavement to get past.  I’m not sure that would be acceptable even in NS and anything goes there!  I arrived in Ubud in the afternoon heat and walked to a hotel at the top of the eponymous Monkey Forest Road.  Most of the accommodation was located in traditional Balinese compounds, and my hotel was one of these.  Tucked away on a little lane lined with a bustling market, my hotel was through a doorway and nestled in a beautiful traditional compound, with garden and pool.  I took one look at my room and noticed a bathtub in the bathroom, an actual bathtub, for actual baths!  I didn’t even haggle on the rate, just checked in and filled up that tub.  In NS baths are practically non existent, and how I miss them so!  After a relaxing soak and a beer I ventured out for some dinner.  I found a restaurant with sufficient lighting for a solo traveller to read happily and ordered from the set menu.  Four courses later, I rolled out of the restaurant and back up the tiny street to my hotel.  The little cobbled streets of Ubud reminded me of small villages in the UK, those secret places you find and want to keep to yourself, except that many more people know of my secret so the streets were pretty busy with tourists, although it managed to retain it’s intimate ambiance nicely.  Despite the eye bleeding rate of my room (triple what I’d pay in Thailand), I stayed three nights.  They delivered a giant pot of tea to my room each morning, how could you leave that?!

Roasting lewak coffee beans

During my stay at Ubud I booked myself on a cycling tour, which took me by van upland, kitted me out with a mountain bike and helmet, and guided me back downhill through villages and paddy fields.  We stopped off to check out the process of making Lewak coffee, a rather extraordinary product which involves a cat like creature called a lewak eating coffee beans and crapping them out, only for them to be cleaned, roasted and ground into coffee for human consumption.  Bonkers.  But hey, all natural products come from some strange process, right?  I mean, who was it that first suggested that we pull on a cow’s jiggly bits and drink the white liquid that comes out?  I rest my case.  Reading the information at the little café, I learned that Lewak coffee is the most expensive coffee in the world; in swanky hotels in London they charge £50 a cup for the stuff.  This place at the top of a mountain in Bali was flogging it for a fiver so I gave it a whirl.  I found it less bitter, which is something that happens to it in the animal’s digestive system, but not really worth all the hype, give me a cup of Lavazza any day.  Anyway I guess I can now say I’ve had the shittiest cup of coffee in the world.

Next stop was an unscheduled one, a wedding was taking place in a compound that our guide was familiar with, so we popped in for a visit.  Amongst the hustle and bustle of the wedding prep were ladies making offerings, banana leaves with rice and flowers, which were usually left out as a Hindu custom.  You see them strewn all over the streets of Bali.  At the other end, food was being cooked ahead of the ceremony, which was to take place within the compound.  Men and women from all over pop by to offer their help; it’s a big communal operation.  

Women preparing offerings for wedding

 After an amble through some paddy fields we ended up at the compound owned by the tour company and had some lunch and much needed hydration.  I was transported back to my hotel by van, tired and exhilarated.  Purely for medicinal purposes I booked myself in for a Balinese Boreh, a traditional body scrub and massage.  Bliss.

The next evening I decided to soak up more culture at a Balinese dance performance at the Palace.  The Legong Keraton dance, characterised by intricate finger movements, complicated footwork, and expressive gestures and facial expressions, was based on a historical romance of the 13^th Century about a Prince who abducts a Princess already betrothed to the Crown Prince.  The Prince meets a raven which is a bad omen and chases it away, then goes on to battle with the Crown Prince.  No spoilers here but I guess you can figure out the ending, damn ravens. 

Another dance performed was Barong, which reminded me of the lion dance that is performed here for Chinese New Year, in which a mythical creature, played by two people in one costume, dances accompanied by a monkey character. 

The last performance was Sunda Upasunda, a dance drama about two giant kings who are granted the power never to be harmed by any weapon.  They both possessed the desire to rule the universe and conquer heaven (who doesn’t?)  In an effort to stop them, it is decided to send a goddess to seduce them, she makes them fall madly in love with her and end up battling eachother (Jeez, bros before hos, dudes!)  Anyway the two lads exhaust each other and their strength wears off, they are released from the Goddess’ spell and decide not to bother with conquering heaven.  Too tired.

A rest stop near luscious paddy fields

The next morning I caught a shuttle bus to Padangbai, a recommendation from a fellow cyclist a few days previously.  I was told of a beach called the Blue Lagoon, the name alone caught my interest and I was sold.  En route I saw a peculiar sight, a lady hoiked up her skirt and went to the toilet, right on the footpath.  Anything goes.  I arrived at Padangbai and left the other tourists wait at the port for the next boat to the neighbouring islands while I sought some accommodation for the night.  I found a modest little place with a decent rate and got my bag packed and ready for some beach action.  On the way out I found an English language magazine, jackpot!  These little charms are rarer than bathtubs in NS.  If I had ten baht for each time I was fooled by English language cover lines on glossy magazines at the newsagent here I’d be a rich lady.  I see the glorious gloss, the English cover lines, and my heart beats twice as fast as I make a beeline to the newsstand, only to find the feature copy is in Thai.  Oh, the disappointment, heartbreaking!  I packed that bad boy into my bag and skipped off for some serious sunbathing, except that wasn’t to be so easy.  A sweet but insatiable lady kept visiting my sunny sanctuary in a bid to sell me one of her sarongs.  Admittedly I did want to buy a nice sarong, but I was wearing my poker face, a) to get a good price when I do decide to part with my Rupiah and b) to have some bloody peace and quiet on the beach.  She wasn’t having it, I found myself in a sunny stand off.  With a perpetual friendly smile on my face I assertively insisted I have some time alone to read.  She shook my hand and assertively insisted I buy a sarong.  Our negotiation ended with me clearly stating that, “I promise to LOOK, I won’t promise to buy, ok?  OK? OH-KAAAY?”  She gave me a gift because I was a good person *ohgodjustgoaway* and despite my reluctance to accept for fear of being embroiled in some sort of financial agreement, I took the necklace and bid her good luck.  She came back after about ten pages and I bought a feckin’ sarong.  To be fair to her, it’s a lovely one and I did want to buy eventually.  I’d have appreciated that decision to have been made entirely by myself however.  I haggled her down quite a bit, I call that karma, and whilst paying I noticed about ten necklaces around her neck, all identical to the one she had given me as a gift for good luck and for being such a good person an’all.

That evening I decided to take myself out on a date.  I dressed in a lovely lacy top and noticed a blinding glow radiating from my back.  After closer inspection I discovered the reddest patch of sunburn I had ever seen this side of the equator.  The worse predicament for a solo traveller is burnedbackitis.  Why hasn’t there been a resolution to this problem?  I found that if I buy clear sunscreen spray I can just about get by. When this isn’t available it’s a one way ticket to Burnsville for the parts I can’t reach.  I quickly altered my wardrobe choice for the evening and took a wander to The Topi Inn where, earlier, I’d enjoyed my magazine with the most delicious cappuccino.  My hunch on this place was spot on, I devoured a scrumptious grilled marlin and the lovely acoustic music tempted me into three glasses of wine.  I hazily walked along the seafront to my hotel and slept soundly. 

Delicious drum(mer)s

Next morning I woke to a breakfast of banana pancake and looked into the boats heading towards the Gili Islands.  Having read up on the three island sisters I settled on Gili Trawangan, the big sister.  I sought out a place called ‘Why Not’, as recommended by some friends who had stayed there a month previous, and met the owner, Paul, who was on his way to mosque.  I left my bag and agreed to come back to check in after lunch.  The island is predominantly Muslim and my bungalow was just behind the mosque so the call to prayer became a regular soundtrack to my day.  I found the calm tones over the tannoy immediately cathartic.  The mosque is the centre of this tiny island for the community, where public notices are announced along with the call to prayer.  Despite being non-practising, I find all places of worship to be calm and comforting.  They’re all essentially places where communities come together.  One of my favourite places here in NS is the temple at the top of the hill, where I can climb the stairs to the very top and look over the city, it’s one of the rare places one can spend time alone and ponder things like, “I can’t believe it’s not butter”, and other such quandaries.

Anyway, I digress…

Your carriage awaits..

The beach was a stone’s throw from where I was staying and the sea was full to the brim with tropical fish, coral and sea turtles, so I hired a snorkel and went off in search of Nemo.  I managed to spot a sea turtle swimming through the rays of light plunging through the water.  That evening I pedalled along on my hired bicycle to watch the sunset on the west cost of the island. I nestled myself into a soft beanbag chair and ordered a glass of wine at The Exile Bar while the gentle beat of drums serenaded the sun down to dissolve into the sea, a nightly ritual that continued throughout my stay on the island.  I’m not sure how I will ever watch the sun set again without the rhythmic, hypnotic beat of drums.

A mere 15 minutes of cycling gets you to the opposite side of the tiny island, where motorised vehicles are prohibited.  If it’s too hot to walk, your options are bicycle or horse and cart, which are festooned with flowers, ribbons and bells that can be heard all over the island.  It sounds like Santa’s sleigh parading around a paradise island; perhaps it’s where the big man himself spends his vacation time?

I loved Gili Trawangan so much that I decided to spend a week of my fortnight-long vacation there, pedalling from beach to beach, sunbathing and sipping fresh coconut water by day and watching the sun set to a drum beat by night.  I even woke one morning before dawn to watch the sun rise on the beach; I guess I should see a whole day of the sun’s action through, what with being a bona fide sun worshipper now.

One hour after bulu babi

My love for GT was unrequited, I’m disappointed to say.  Between stings from teeny tiny jellyfish to coral scrapes on my feet to a run in with a sea urchin, I wasn’t feeling the love at all.  The latter experience was pretty exciting though, I was lolloping around in the shallow water when something brushed my leg, jabbing it with several long needles.  I raised my leg to find long spikes poking out of my ankle and the skin quickly turning black right before my eyes.  I calmly walked over to a lady who was massaging tourists on the beach and asked if she recognised what it was.  She shouted, “bulu babi, bulu babi!” (sea urchin, sea urchin!) and directed me to the bar where her husband was the manager.  He promptly called me over to a hosepipe and washed the wound, and then informed me that he would have to hit it with a stone until it bled.  I was so relieved that he recognised what it was and was reassured by his calmness that I agreed to let him do whatever he wanted with the stone.  After over a year of living in Asia very little shocks me, I’m much more open to crazy suggestions of medical treatment these days.  He bashed the wound to break down the infection inside.  It started to resemble a cocked up tattoo and I fantasised about being a badass with a scar and a story to tell.  Over time the scar started to fade and the next day it was just a series of red dots.  There goes my ‘badass’ status. 

Gado Gado and Kelepon

I rewarded myself with a massage on the beach for being such a brave soldier, and later that evening I took part in a cookery class, where I was the only student.  I was rather hoping I would be part of a merry group of trainee chefs and we’d all have a beer after, but no, it was just me, two instructors and a truck load of food.  Over the evening I had made seven dishes.  There was far too much for me to eat on my own so when the other staff of the cookery school came loitering around looking hungry I was only too delighted to share my dinner. 

My time on GT had to come to an end sometime and when it did I was suitably tanned and rested.  I headed back to the mainland and caught a shuttle bus to Jimbaran, a location chosen purely for it’s close proximity to the airport and for it’s reputation for delicious seafood (of course there’s a foodie connection, don’t you know me at all?!)  After a long journey, full of delays and traffic jams I finally arrived at my hotel in time to freshen up and go to dinner on the beach.  I found a place recommended online where I was seated in front of the ocean.  In the darkness I could only hear the waves rolling to the shore as I sipped yet more wine and dined on freshly barbequed fish, the perfect ending to the perfect trip.  I flew back to Thailand with a golden tan and a Cheshire cat smile.  Goodnight Bali, you’ve been wonderful!

Images: Sinéad Millea.

http://www.travelfish.org/region/indonesia/bali

http://www.travelfish.org/location/indonesia/west_nusa_tenggara/gili_islands/gili_trawangan

http://www.balibintangtour.com/

http://www.topiinn.nl/

https://www.facebook.com/pages/The-Exile-Gili-Trawangan/321063671354118