HUBBERS DOT COM BLOG

My flight was at 6.50 so I slept the night at the airport. Just like the beginning of the trip :)

I decided to sit right at the front of the plane and if any bastard even looks like he is going to make a play for the cockpit then he is going to have to deal with the flailing fists of fury from this six foot four, 77 kilo bald freak. Enough to make even the most hardened fundamentalist nutcase think twice I’m sure.

Got into to London Luton safe and sound at 8.30am and the temperature was a scant 10 degrees Celsius. And the adventure is finally over.

FOR THE LAST 92 DAYS…

• The sun has shone on me for a long part of every day.
• I have worn baggy shorts, sunnies and floppy hat every day.I have carried everything I need in the world on my back (or in the pockets of my baggy shorts).
• I have walked hundreds and hundreds and hundreds of kilometers.
• My most loyal and long standing travel companions have been the mosquitoes (what taxi drivers become when they die).
• I have seen stuff I have wanted to see since I was a boy and I was not disappointed in the slightest.
• I have worn a black t-shirt with FREAK emblazoned on the front in big white letters to some of the most significant archeological sites on this planet.
• I has cost me between 50 and 100 quid to withdraw and change money.
• I have spent between 100 and 200 quid on internet and email (the sharp end of the stick for writing these long emails).
• I have drunk less than I have in nine years and have not missed it

AM I A DIFFERENT PERSON AT THE END OF IT ALL

It’s hard to say. I don’ really think it possible to be the same but at the same time I don’t think I have changed that much. I certainly know a lot more. I’m a lot more aware of some of the pitfalls of traveling alone. I’d say I’m probably about as competent and travel wise now as I thought I was when I left.

Language wise I really regret not taking classes in Arabic before I left. In total I spent 81 days with the Arabs and the scope for learning a fair bit of their language was substantial. I think speaking Arabic would have made things a lot easier in some places (Morocco and Tunisia especially) and would have also enabled me to have a much richer experience culturally. Linguistically I haven’t totally wasted my time as I have mastered most of the pleasantries in Arabic and through my contact with other travelers from around the globe I can now say ‘show me your tits’ in fifteen languages.

1. ENGLISH: show me your tits
2. JAPANESE: oppai misete
3. GERMAN: zeig mir bitte deine titten
4. FRENCH: moutres moi tes seins
5. POLISH: pokes mi cyce
6. CROATIAN: pokazi mi sise
7. SPANISH: (having trouble finding this one in notes but I have it somewhere, I promise)
8. ARABIC: farjeeni bzazek
9. MALAY: titraga feia
10. RUSSIAN: pakazi mne svoi sisi
11. HEBRU: tari li shadhih
12. PORTUGUESE: mostra-me essas tetas
13. DUTCH: laat me je tieten zien
14. SWISS: zeig mir dim titte
15. AUSTRALIAN: gidday luv

THANKS

Thanks to those of you who took part in the journey. It would not have been anywhere near as much fun without you. Thanks also to those of you who wrote with well wishes, advice, offers of help etc.

THE FUTURE

In the immediate future I plan to get hellishly drunk with my London mates. Some of you will laugh at how ridiculously low my drinking tolerance has become. Others will have to carry me home and will think that I should harden up.

In the short term I plan to find an IT job in a depressed London IT market in what could be the worst recession for a very long time. So I may be pouring beer for a while to keep the wolf at bay.

HAIKU

backpacking is great

you meet the best damn people

and write about them

Started my twenty-four hour trek back to London this morning. A sad day indeed. No more adventures. No more sights. No more new friends. No more excuse to bore the living shit out of you lot with the minor details of my day to day life.

Nothing interesting happened all day :(

Arranged for my hostel to wake me at 7.30 so I could be at my freshest, baldest and fedest for the nine o’clock bus. I was rudely woken at nine o’clock by a group of German mountain climbers having a loud conversation outside my room. I quickly forgave them their mountain climbers fashion sense (I only had one eye open) and ran for the bus whilst frowning at the camping ground manageress. Who looked suitably guilty.

If I could offer one piece of advice to those of you traveling to Greece it would be don’t catch a cab from the airport to the seaport and head straight to the islands. Instead go to the Meteora first. They are amazing and if I had made the quick transfer back to London that I was after then I would have truly missed out.

The Meteora are a group of 24 massive natural stone columns in the center of Greece. Over the centuries some kooky monks have built a number of monasteries on top of them. One of the Meteora, Agios Stefanos, was even use in the James Bond film, For Your Eyes Only. One hundred years ago the monks used wicker baskets and rope to pull prospective visitors up. One English writer who visited at the turn of the century asked how often they change the rope. The reply was “every time god lets it break”. Thankfully millions of tourists since then have impressed upon the monks the need for something a little more substantial. Stairs. Which considering I am a self proclaimed godless bastard I think is a much better idea.

The monasteries whilst beautiful and immaculately presented are all pretty much of a muchness. They all have a church (no kidding), a museum (well most do) and a souvenir shop. In fact the only thing they are missing that most tourist attractions have is an overpriced coffee shop. They also all have a huge sign out front that clearly states that women in short skirts and men in shorts will not be permitted, which is a bummer because I only have shorts. Luckily they all had a selection of embarrassing baggy pants that you could borrow free of charge that helped underdressed tourists like me rise to the required level of decency. But of course they did. In the olden days the monasteries may have survived on selling wine and salvation but these days it’s strictly tourism only at five hundred Draculars (almost a quid) a pop. And if the dozen or so tourist coaches doing the monastery circuit in the off season are anything to go by then they are doing very nicely indeed.

Apart from the stunningly spectacular views of the other Meteora and monasteries (well worth the admission alone) the churches in each monastery have to be the highlight. Each is intricately decorated with paintings depicting the lives and deaths of the various saints (you can tell they are saints from the golden globes surrounding their heads). There were literally hundreds of pictures of the saints being burnt, cooked (roasted, fried, steamed, stewed and boiled) amputated, speared, stoned, squished with heavy stone slabs, squished in wooden presses, eaten by ferocious animals, drown and decapitated (a particularly common way to whack the annoying saint in your neighborhood) to name a few. And the funny (funny odd, not funny ha ha) thing is looks on the saints faces as the were stabbed, burnt or lay on the ground next to their feet etc. If you had asked me before I saw the paintings I would have guessed that the look would be either ‘ouch ouch ouch that hurts’ or possibly ‘whoopee I get to see my good friend god now’ but they are not that at all. The look that every single saint has on his or her face is something akin to ‘I wonder what time dinner is?’ Go and see for yourself, you will see that I am right.

I think I walked around thirty kilometers yesterday and I have the feeling that I have pretty much done Athens now. As usual something really interesting has come up. This time it’s the Meteora (more tomorrow).

For the first 81 days of my tour I had the lonely planet as my constant companion, friend and guide. Upon leaving Haifa and the Middle East I became guideless. Now I know the Lonely Planet sometimes lies and gets things wrong. But. You cannot do the sort of tour I just did very easily without a guidebook of some sort. It sorts out all aspects of travel from the location of depots to the prices and likely travel times. It helps with accommodation from where to find hostels to how much they cost and what condition they are in. And most of all it helps by suggesting things to do and how to do them, which enable you to plan ahead. I managed okay in Cyprus because I only need to get to Ayia Napa and find a pub (not very hard at all) and in Rhodes because Sheltered Dave had the Western Europe on a Shoestring Lonely Planet. But upon arrival in Athens I was alone and guideless. And since then I have sort of had the feeling of a blind man groping around in the dark. Getting to the Meteora wasn’t too difficult but it highlighted how much easier things are with a good guidebook.

With the help from my hostel manager (a bit like pulling teeth) I caught a bus to Kastraki at the base of the Meteora, which gave me a chance to see the Greek countryside and what their beautiful coastline looks like when it doesn’t have two thousand deck chairs on it.

Kastraki is a small Greek mountain village. It sort of feels like it was constructed to cater to the tourists who flock to see the Meteora but has managed to retain the Greek mountain village charm despite the abundance of hotels and restaurants. Walking around town at dusk I think every meal in town was being cooked over an open fire which made it smell like open fireplaces and bbqs. Yum.

Woke at midday after twelve hours mosquitoes interrupted sleep (but how?). Think that I am now up to date with my sleep for Egypt, which means that I am only about a month behind. Definite progress is being made on the sleep front.

Spent the day exploring the city and got a wicked case of de ja vue form the time I spent here during my European van tour in 1999.

I can tell that I am in Athens because there is porn on every shelf of every newsagent. And on the ground around the news agents. And on specially set up tables on the streets. Forget Amsterdam. Athens is the true porn capital of the world. They love it here and they aren’t ashamed to show it.

Took a look at the national museum here (no porn surprisingly). At first I thought it was going to be the usual collection of busted up statues whose dicks have fallen off but it turned out to contain some surprisingly cool finds like a load of gold jewelry and a Pharoic section with sarcophagi and everything.

Visited the acropolis for a third time in my life and this time I paid to get in. the last time I was here in 1999 I accidentally got behind the ticketing booth without paying and figured I should just go with it. a day later I guided a group are stingy Kiwis in the secret way. Heaps of stuff has changed since then. Loads more of the Parthenon has been restored and the six sisters temple is finished. Well as much as it looks like they are going to do. They have also added a museum, which houses the pieces from the site. What hasn’t changed is that the stone steps that have been polished by millions of footsteps are still dangerously slippery and they still make you sandals squeak when you walk.

Something else that also hasn’t changed is that the friezes (carved stone pictures) from the Parthenon are still in the British museum where they ended up after Lord Elgin stole them in 1802. I’m betting Elgin was probably a carriage (taxi) driver before embarking on a life of international art theft. Here’s a question for you though. Why haven’t the Brits given them back? Naughty Brits.

Later on I was offered free coffee as long as I acquired some sugar. I went to six cafes before I was successful. In each place I explained what I needed and offered to pay some Draculars for a small amount of sugar. In each place I was refused and told they don’t sell sugar here, even though I could see it on the counter. In one place the woman behind the bar loudly proclaimed that she didn’t speak English as I walked through the door. Finally I had some success with an extremely helpful Athenian woman. Which is how it seems to go here. Either you get great service or you get rubbish service. And this is in the heart of the budget tourist accommodation area of Athens. Once again I wonder what it will be like here during the Olympics…

RUNNER: Can I have my medal please?

ATENIAN: Sorry we don’t have any medals here

RUNNER: Bt I can see them on the counter

ATENIAN: Sorry we don’t speak English here

RUNNER: But you were just speaking English!

ATENIAN: Hop bobble gobolopolopolus

RUNNER: Eh? But I came first!

ATENIAN: (silence)

RUNNER: (buys some porn instead and leaves feeling like Athenians are a pack of unhelpful bastards)

ATENIAN: dam cheek asking me for a medal at the Olympics and not speaking Greek

Made the call early this morning to fly to Athens and to try to get an earlier Easyjet to London. I figure Easyjet should let me go standby if they have any empty seats. I mean why not move me forward in case they can sell my seat on my flight? Right? Anyway it wasn’t that much more expensive and it was fifteen hours and twenty minutes faster.

Tried to hire a scooter to go down to Larnika for a day at the beach but failed because I didn’t have my drivers license. This turned out to be even more of a bummer because the bus I took passed several beautiful bays that I would have loved to stop and have a look at. It didn’t matter too much though as the bay at Larnika was pretty bloody nice. It is surrounded by pine trees, a small white walled red roofed Greek town and even has a castle overlooking it. The water was much colder than I have grown used to but I stayed in it for ages anyway because I didn’t know when I would get a chance to swim again.

Going through customs at Rhodes international airport I set off the metal detector. As usual I was still stuffing my passport and ticket back into my money pouch. I looked up an started to apologise to the customs guy that it was my camera and I would have it for him in a minute and he just looked at me with an “and?” expression on his face. It took me a couple of seconds to realise that he didn’t want anything from me and that I was free to go. He relaxed attitude caused me to wonder about airport security. I mean I could have gotten anything through. Anything. Paranoia got the better of my thoughts, as this was the first time I has flown since September the 11th. In the departure lounge I noticed that the flight before mine was to Tel Aviv. How much of a terror target is that city I ask you? So lets recap:

1. I set of a metal detector alarm
2. At an international airport
3. 25 days after the worst terrorist atrocity of all time
4. That used passenger planes as terror weapons>
5. In an airport about an hour away from one of the biggest terror targets of all time
6. And I wasn’t searched
7. And I wasn’t made to go back through the gate without the offending metal object.

Scary fucking stuff for the solo traveler with plenty of time on his hands to think. Damned overactive mind. Was initially calmed by the fact that the flight before mine is going to Tel Aviv. But then I was reworried by thought that a hijacker would probably rather hijack a plane full of soft Greeks (and one tough Kiwi) than a plane full of Israeli soldiers and undoubtedly some members of the Hot Chick Brigade, who can kill with a single punch. Eventually I got a grip on my paranoia and the flight went well. Of course.

At Athens it turns out that the price tag on taking an earlier Easyjet is one hundred quid. Fuck it I have gambled and lost. Now I am stuck in dirty old Athens instead of the paradise that is the island of Rhodes.

On the up side the mosquitoes are at least two days behind me again.

Bused to the center of town where a taxi driver offered to take me to my hostel for a mere nine pounds. I smiled and asked him for directions. Which he gave me. After that he said “So how much do you want to pay then?” I offered him two, which he declined. I offered my hand by way of thanks for the directions and he slapped it away, which was a fucking cheek. If you try to rip off a visitor to your country because you think they will be naive and stupid then you don’t you have any right to behave all snooty when they turn you down. In the end I gave him my ‘look mate, I’ve played this game with the Gypos’ look and walked off.

Ten minutes of walking later I started to worry if I had been given good directions or not (remember Morocco) when I noticed one of the three guys weaving in front of me was wearing a Speights t-shirt. Sweet, pissed Kiwis. They arrived in town this morning and their taxi driver didn’t know what or where a hostel was (yeah right) so they ended up paying sixteen quid each for a room for one day. For the billionth time, DON’T TRUST TAXI DRIVERS, almost all of them are laying cheating wankers. Not only were the Kiwis highly entertaining, but also they’re heading my way and they even gave me their map. And we only had to stop to buy porn once (them, not me).

Finally got to the Athens YHA to find it fully booked for the next three days. Eventually I found another hostel around the corner. The new place is the usual budget travelers, cramped dorm, red light district affair that I tend to find myself in. On the upside I share my room with three Japs who live up to all the usual Japanese stereotypes about politeness and quietness.

Am reminded by the advertising here that Athens is the host of the next Olympic games. During the thirty minute walk to my hostel I passed heroin addict woman with hundreds of needle wounds on her arms walking through traffic in a daze and was sized up by at least five street people (that I noticed) who were deciding how easy a mark I was.

Woke up late at the Rhodes city backpackers and discovered that yet another person had tried to go through my pack last night. What the fuck are they after? My dirty undies? My Introduction to Java Programming book?

I had planned to leave Rhodes yesterday and make a run for Athens so I could catch an earlier plane to London on stand-by. I figured it would be sweet since be someone would be bound to miss their flight away from the irresistible and addictive Greek islands. But. Walking around town I saw a road sign pointing out the direction of Faliraki. Alarms went off in my head and I realised that Faleraki was another huge party destination of the balmy army youth and I couldn’t leave Rhodes without at least having a look ;)

Faliraki is a party town with loads of loud pubs packed with Brits on package holidays. The main street hosts a competition where the bars try to see who can play the loudest music to attract punters. In some places you can’t make out a single song that is being played despite the fact that you couldn’t hear the person next to you if they screamed your name. Unfortunately the season is almost over at Faliraki so the street was only quarter full but I think even at it’s best it wouldn’t be as pumping as Ayia Napa.

Got to Rhodes and discovered that my plan to go to Crete is stuffed as the last ferry left a few hours before and the next ferry isn’t until Saturday, which is too late. Am disappointed but I’m sure something will come up.

Rhodes city is a beautiful Greek island with a bunch of well restored castles etc. The main industries seem to be restaurants, bars, souvenirs (some tacky, some not) and t-shirts.

The mosquitoes found me at the pub tonight. This is extremely disconcerting for a number of reasons:

1. They have figured out the ferries in the Mediterranean. This means that they are much more clever than I previously gave them credit for
2. They have been studying my behavior and are familiar with my major haunts. Once again this points to an increased level of intelligence.
3. They are growing in confidence.

This new aggressive approach by the mosquitoes meant I had to take drastic action to save myself. Firstly I got them completely rat arsed. Then I passed out on the beach to lead them away from my real bed at my hostel. When I finally came to and decided it was safe to go home I made sure that I took a very indirect route and I never walked in a straight line. Luckily the plan worked but it was a close one.

Woke at nine to find that Sheltered Dave had organised ferries and everything. You’ve got to love those Canadians.

The ferry to Rhodes was uneventful except for the live show. No moaning this time but three dancing girls instead. After the show Monkey tried to convince me that the dancing girls were ‘prostitutas’ and that I should go and talk to them for him. Tempting as that sounded I decided to head upstairs for another rubbish nights sleep on a cold metal deck.

HOW TO TELL IF YOU ARE IN A THIRD WORLD COUNTRY

Now that I am in the west I have had some time to think about what defines the first and third world.

If you want to know if the country you are in is a third world country of not you could call on economic indicators like, average income, doctors per capital or the number of even cell phones per capita. If you are a tourist this information can be a little hard to come by so I have come up with two other equally accurate measures that can be used to judge ‘third worldness’.

The amount of cigarette advertising you see has a strong negative correlation to strength of the economy. The logical reason being that developing countries can’t afford to say no to the big sums of cash that cigarette companies offer. And it’s not like third world governments have to pay for any of the expensive modern medical care that you get in the west. In the third world when you get a smoking related illness you are left in your own home while your bereaving relatives wipe what’s left of your insides from your mouth and nose as the last of your life slips away from you.

One thing the shear amount of cigarette advertising (TV, movies, billboards, magazines etc) I have seen has opened my eyes to that our first world governments are deliberately keeping stuff from us. Like that fact that smoking not only makes you look super cool, rugged and sophisticated but it also helps you hook into some real top shelf pussy. For you ladies smoking will help you land that rich handsome young sugar daddy with the flash car that you are all after. The truth really is out there folks all you need is to know where to look.

Another excellent indicator of third worldness is honking. To test the country you are in use the following method. Go to the biggest street in the city you are in and count the number of honks you can hear in one minute. If this number exceeds one hundred then you are definitely in the third world. If the number exceeds two hundred then you are probably in Morocco or Egypt. If it exceeds four hundred then you are in Cairo, where is your wallet?

Arrived in Cyprus early in the morning and convinced Sheltered Dave to take a detour from his journey to Turkey and come to Ayia Napa for a spot of clubbing. The only ferry options leaving Cyprus were either the next day or six days later. Six days was too long so we decided to stay one day and just party right through till the ferry the next afternoon, thus saving on accommodation. Heading out for the day we found out that the first of October is Independence Day in Cyprus, which is the biggest public holiday of the year so nothing was open. Great. One day in town and it’s shut :(

I can tell that Cyprus is a Greek country because the porn in the newsagents is on the bottom shelf.

The island of Cyprus is split in two. There is a Greek Cyprus and a Turkish Cyprus. I was in Greek Cyprus and the people there are completely uncaused by the Turkish ‘occupation’ in the north. The welcome to Cyprus tourist brochure puts it like this ‘in July 1974 turkey invaded Cyprus and since then 37% of the island in the north is being illegally occupied by Turkish troop who acted in violation of all principles governing international relations.’ In one shop I saw a brochure on the checkout headed ‘Holidaying in Turkey?’ It described some atrocities carried out by the Turkish army as recently as 1997. The pictures included mass graves, decapitations and children who have been disfigured by chemical weapons.

We spent day on beach at Lomassol and caught a taxi to Ayia Napa around six. I can honestly say that I have never seen a place so finely tuned to the needs of Brits on package holidays. So much so that they should probably rename the place Little England. The town is filled to the brim with geezers in all their bizarre and funny sounding manifestations (Geordies, Brummies, Scots, Cockneys, Welsh, Irish etc). There seems to be a set uniform for both the guys and girls. They girls as little as possible and what they do wear is skin tight. Heals and a about a kilo of makeup also seems to be compulsory. The guys wear pants (you might know these as trousers or slacks), and neatly pressed (i.e. some geezer brought an iron and the were ironed recently) untucked shirts with polished shoes or sometimes bright white sneakers. Both groups must have started getting ready to go out around lunch time.

Oh yeah and it pumped. If its one thing the Balmy Army Youth know how to do it’s drink hard and party hard.

Monkey was like a kid in a toy store spent the night trying to snog everything in sight. He had some success despite his inability to speak a word of English. He might have had more success if he had focused his efforts. Apparently he hasn’t heard the old adage ‘the man who chases two rabbits goes home hungry.’ or in Monkey’s case ‘the man who chases one hundred rabbits right in front the other rabbits other goes home hungry with a few slaps.’

We went to a few clubs and ended up at a wicked foam rave. The only downer of the night was when I broke my sun glasses sliding through the foam on the dance floor. Days of pushing hard with irregular sleep caused the wheels to come badly off the ‘party till the ferry’ plan and I crashed out on the beach at six when my body completely gave out on me.