I didn’t really have any great expectations of Madagascar, and sometimes that the best way to approach any new destination. It’s one of the few area’s of the world I had no real understanding of, except what I could piece together in my mind, from a topographical map and a few pages in a guide book. I suppose I just had visions of the country being more green and lush. During yesterdays drive, the scenery was beginning to mimic that of the remote areas of central Australia. Although central Australia is a special part of the world, I was hoping for something a little different. It’s amazing what lies within the confines of a mountain gorge, and not visible from a distance.

The feeling of disappointment soon waned and over the next two weeks, the vast and diverse landscapes of this country, with it’s warm and friendly people, exceeded my expectations upon leaving.

A Relaxing Walk in Islao National Park Before The Adventure Begins

After breakfast we had a short 40 minute hike further up the gorge to the ‘Piscine Noire’ and ‘Piscine Bleue’, a pair of beautiful natural swimming holes carved into the rock, over the passing millennia. Heading up the gorge was even more scenic, with it’s small sandy beaches and exotic palms dotting the trail. We rested at the pools for a short while, but opted out of having a swim as the water was icy cold. After returning from the pools, we relaxed for a short while, being entertained by a pack of local Lemurs. We then began packing up our camping gear and getting ready for the tough two and a half hour slog, up and over the escapement, and on to our next camp at ‘Piscine Natural’, all in the heat of the day.

The local people were trying hard to put out the flames, but were fighting a losing battle.

It was at this point that things began to go a little pear shaped. We were ready to depart when our guide said we’d have to wait a little while, due to a small fire high on the escapement above, blocking the trail. I went for a look, and it seemed quite small in size, and you could just make out the flames rising above the rocks. After waiting for an hour or so I was getting anxious and wanted to get going, so I said to our guide, ‘Come on, let’s go, it’s only a a small fire’. He seemed hesitant, but agreed so I grabbed Liza and we made a start up the steep path to the escarpment above. As we gained altitude you could see that the fire was not as isolated as first thought, and there were several men fighting the flames in various areas around the gorge by thrashing at them with cut of branches. There efforts were gallant, but they were indeed fighting a loosing battle.

We kept marching on, this time with Liza in the lead, as our guide needed to take a leak. Rounding the next ridge, the flames were beginning to get little out of hand, as the winds were increasing. The smoke was also getting heavier, but we kept pushing forward, until the valley started to funnel down to a very narrow point.

The flames were now roaring straight towards us, ripping through the tall dried grass and shrubs on the other side of the gorge.

Running From The Flames – As Islao National Park Began to Burn

Liza stopped with hesitation but in a split second decision I told her to move it quickly. If we didn’t go at that exact moment we may have been stuck and have to turn around and run for it, or even worse got caught in the flames and be seriously injured or killed. It was quite an intense, albeit short moment. Even though the flames were not that large, the intensity of the radiating heat in our direction was formidable and it was quite a dangerous situation. Due to the steep angle of the cliff face where we were walking, there was no where to go and we could have easily been trapped.

Luck was on our side and we made it through (just!), and began to make our way to the very top of the escapement. The whole area had only been burn out just minutes ago, and the ground was still smoldering. There were small pockets of flames dotted all around the escarpment, and it was apparent that the small fire that had started a couple of hours prior, was now out of control, and the whole area was going to burn. As we reached the top, we were greeted by a dozen or so trekkers on a day trip. They looked at us bewildered as we made our way up and out of the valley, that was now totally on fire, and clogged with smoke and ash.

They were simply amazed at what we had just walked through, and as I turned around to take a look, so was I. The whole bloody valley was now on fire.

Rising further out of the valley and slowly gaining altitude, you could look around and see the size of the area behind us that had been burnt. It was only a small grass and scrub fire but the ground was blackened, and still smouldering in the hot midday sun. By this stage we were quite hungry and Liza was beginning to get a little tired. The adrenaline was wearing thin, so we stopped under the shade of a tree just out of the burnt area, and had a bite to eat and recharge the batteries. A prepacked lunch of tuna sandwiches and fruit juice got us up and moving again. It was now the middle of the day, and the hot Madagascan sun was searing down upon us. Another 45 minute slog and finally we’d be at our new camp ‘Piscine Natural’.

Liza walking up out of the dander zone. The fire had only just been through here an hour or so before.

Arriving at ‘Piscine Natural’ the scenery was even more beautiful than the swimming holes from the previous day. I’m not sure if it was because of what we’d just been through, but the area was beautiful. Getting down into this natural pool, with small waterfall’s of crystal clear water flowing down the rock faces and into a turquoise blue plunge pool, it was a totally natural environment, but looked as if it was built for Disneyland. it just didn’t seem real, a paradise found, so we grabbed our towels and both headed down for a well earned swim.

We Escaped The Flames but Our Adventure Was Only Begining

That evening the sky was a sun burnt orange, with the smell of fire was in the air. It was a great time of the day to sit and ponder on the days events, but I noticed there was a slight wind change taking place. Although the fire had burnt most of the valley were we’d walked today, so there wasn’t much of a chance of it coming back upon us in that direction. If the flames made it all the way to the valley behind the next ridge, then it would be coming straight for us in the middle of the night, and fire runs much quicker uphill.

The afternoon sun was blocked from view by the thick smoke as the fire made it's way behind the ridge.

I told Liza what I’d seen from my vantage point at the top of the rise, and also discussed it with our guide. He seemed a little worried, but nothing over the top so we had our dinner, and bedded down for the night. Liza and I had a bit of a laugh and discussed our fire plan should the flames come roaring over the hill that night. We were semi joking, but also both new it could happen, so we packed us much as we could into our packs before going to sleep, being ready for a hasty getaway.

The inevitable happened and at about 1.30am, and we were abruptly awoken by our guide. ‘Quickly Quickly, The fire is coming! The fire is coming!’, yelled the guide, vigorously shaking our tent in the process. I immediately pulled down the zipper and glanced outside. The flames were now rolling down the hill a hundred or so meters from our position, and it was time to go. They weren’t approaching at any great velocity, as the wind very slight at this time of night, but we needed to get out of the area all the same. We haphazardly stuffed everything into our packs and made a beeline for the next valley, and down to safety. Fully loaded up with about 30kg of gear between us, and running along the path in total darkness was difficult.

We also had many locals streaming past us, who had been up all night fighting the fire, and were also heading out of the park and to safety.

After an hour of shuffling our way down the mountain we made it down to the safety of the national park shelter at the bottom of the next valley. This shelter is the starting point for many treks into the park, and was a good place to rest. The day before we wrote down our drivers phone number in case of emergency, so we though this would be a fair call to wake him up, and dialed his number. As it turned out he’d been up all night waiting for a call, as he had heard the news that a couple of tourists (that would be us) were last seen heading directly into the fire’s path yesterday afternoon. He quickly drove the 20 minutes to the park entrance to pick us up, and was glad to know that we were safe.

We then headed back into Ranohira, and parked the car by the side of the road and tried to get a couple of hours sleep, before continuing up the RN7 highway to the ‘Parc National D’Andringtra’, a further 5 hours away.

After A Poor Nights Sleep We Left The Fire at Isalo National Park

After a short and broken sleep, we whooshed down quick breakfast and hit the road. It was at this point our day was about to be turned up side down, literally. No more than 40km north of Ranohira, we were all pretty quite and the scenery was becoming monotonous, flat and arid. Liza was in the back seat counting our cash (due to the small denominations, the wads of Malagasy francs were quite big), as we wanted to make sure we had enough to continue on without the need to go to a bank. I was staring out the window in a bit of a trance, when all of a sudden we started to veer towards the side of the road and down the shoulder.

It seems that with all the commotion of the night before, our driver (Anghu) didn’t get much sleep and decided it was a good time to take a nap, whilst cruising at 70km an hour down the main highway.

Immediately I yelled out to Anghu, and quickly reached for the wheel to try and straighten us up. Anghu came back from the land of nod, and quickly turned the wheel back in the direction of the road. Our back wheels were now in the dust and we started to slide. As we hit the tarmac, all four wheels gained traction, but it was useless as we were now side on to the road and in the blink of an eye we began to vigorously roll. When something like this happens, your mind is churning at a million miles and hour. The brain falls into a state of sensory overload, whilst trying to process the vast amounts of information required for one sole task, survival. The part of the brain responsible for processing memory is not given any priority, and it’s hard to remember with any great clarity those exact last moments as they actually happened.


After two complete rolls with the first being with such a force the car barely hit the road, basically glancing the outer edge of the vehicle. The car came to a sudden halt on it’s side, and within an instant it was deadly silent except for the wind blowing through the now broken windows. We gathered our senses, and I asked if everyone was alright. We were all pretty stunned, although remarkably, we were all fine except for some bumps, grazes and bruises. Anghu climbed out of his window and onto the side of the car, and I followed shortly after. Once out side, you could actually see how far from the initial slide we had rolled. The car was absolutely trashed and was complete write off, with dents and damage to basically every panel.

Alot of our gear had been thrown out of the vehicle throughout the rolls, with Liza’s backpack finished about 20m way from where the car had finally stopped.

It took about 7 or 8 men to roll the car back over.

As Liza was counting our money at the exact time of the crash, she interpreted the feeling as being in one of those machines on a game show, where you stand in a glass box and try to catch as much money as possible in sixty seconds, as it blows violently around you. My wallet and credit cards were also some distance from the car. Strangely I found them laying face up, as if they had been dealt out in a game of poker. By this stage there were piles of cash blowing everywhere in the wind, dotting the landscape around us. It was like a scene from a Hollywood movie. You know the one where the bank robber gets shot at the end of the film, and falls into a heap on the ground, with his bag of cash fluttering in the dusty breeze.

Our Madagascar Adventure was Now Resembling a Nightmare

It was quite strange, as my first instinct after making sure we were all Ok, was to quickly begin gathering our money. Anghu, being the person he was, also began to help me gather the cash, even though he no doubt would’ve been thinking about the car, and the damage caused to it. After gathering as much cash as we could find, I made my way back to the car. Liza was still inside, haphazardly picking up Malagasy francs that were scattered all over the inside of the car. I then looked in the back and saw a liquid leaking from a side panel, and I though it was fuel and told Lyz to get out. After a second look, I realized it was a can of red bull that had been punctured and now leaking. I was no doubt feeling a little edgy by this stage.

The Prado was pretty well stuffed but the funny thing was we drove through 2 police checkpoints and they didn't even ask a single question.

After a short while of being stranded in the vast openness of Southern Madagascar, a couple of vehicles came by and stopped. With about 7 or 8 men we were able to right the vehicle back onto it’s four wheels. We changed a tire and with a jack we pulled the buckled metal away from the tyres and started her up. Amazingly, it was still drivable, albeit very very slowly and to say she needed a wheel alignment would be an understatement. We scrapped as much broken glass out of the vehicle as we could and re-loaded the car and crawled the next 80km back to Ihosy. The whole way back I wanted to express my joy of surveying the crash, but withdrew from this emotion. Even though Anghu had also survived, he was only the halfway through the ordeal at this point. He would now have to face his boss, and explain what happened, and you could see in his face he was worried for his financial future and that of his family.

Looking back on or little Madagascan escapade, and especially the car accident, I suppose sooner or later this was bound to happen.

It’s a Numbers Game – Sooner or Later It Was Going To Happen

Over the many thousands of miles of overland travel, I have come close to this many times before, in fact I was actually involved in a rickshaw crash in Rajistan many years ago where the thing rolled over and crashed into a road side market. From 47hr bus trips in Africa, to the terrifying jeep rides in northern Pakistan. You can also throw in the white knuckle ride in the back of a truck on the Yungas Road (more commonly known as the “Worlds Most Dangerous Road’ in the days when the actually drove down it), I’ve seen and had my fair share of close shaves or near misses over the years. I suppose my number was up this time though, and I just thank my lucky stars we were all wearing seat-belts, and also in a quality vehicle. Sooner or later were all going to die, there’s no stopping that, just delaying it.

I’m not afraid of death, but I am afraid of not living and for days after this event, I constantly reflected on what had happened and how close we were to being killed that day.

Anghu, was a very cautious driver, and I consider him to be very competent, but without sleep, this could’ve happened to anyone. After the crash Liza and I were more worried about him and his future employment with the company. The cost of the hire car with a compulsory driver was an extremely reasonable €56 a day, of which Anghu would no doubt only be paid €4-5 a day. With the cost of the vehicle destroyed being somewhere in the vicinity of €20,000, you can understand why he was a bit edgy after the crash. We made sure that we met his direct employer on returning to Antananarivo, and let him know that this was not his fault and also sent two emails after we left the country to enforce the same view. We’ve since heard back from his employer and I’m glad to hear that he still has his job and is doing well. As for us, the old saying rings true ‘That which does not kill us, makes us stronger!’

The touts and performers in the square are experts in trying to fleece tourists for every last Dirham in their wallet.

The Crowds of Djemaa el Fna Sqaure Are Hectic Both Day and Night

Making our way through the daytime crowds, we noticed a large group of people all gathered in a circle. We weren’t exactly sure what was going on, some type of street performance maybe? So we walked over for a closer inspection. Maneuvering our way to the front of the crowd, we saw what appeared to be a boxing gym. There were many onlookers watching a couple of young boys box, under the watchful eyes, and instruction of their trainers. Tone and I pulled out our camera’s and started to reel off a few shots. It was then, one of the trainers noticed us and began to make hand gestures, that if we are to take photo’s then we needed to pay for the privilege.

Anyone who’s been to Morocco and especially Marrakesh will know, that when it comes to Western tourist’s your expected to pretty well pay for everything, but not us, no way! As you gazed around the crowd, there were also Moroccan tourists taking photo’s as well. He wasn’t asking them for any money, was he. At this stage I fell back on rule number 62.1a from the travelers handbook. ‘Never pay for something, if you don’t see a local person pay for the same service’.

Don’t get me wrong, there’s nothing wrong with handing out a bit of Baksheesh here or there for a job well done, or for some small favor, but this was different. It was bordering on extortion, how they demanded your money for everything.

The Trainer Demanded Money From Us But Weren’t Going To Pay

He wasn’t getting a cent out of us, so we told him we wont be paying and continued to watch a little longer before making our way deeper into the Medina. It was now mid afternoon, and the sun was beaming down on a very hot day, even by Moroccan standards. We’d just arrived from Casablanca a few hours ago, and were now quite hungry. So we then began trawling the Medina for one of those dirt cheap restaurants you tend to find hidden away up some dingy back alley. A place that was well out of the way from the hoards of people that flock to the square every day.

‘We’ll pay to much around here’, said Tony, as he scanned the restaurants in the immediate vicinity. ‘We’re too bloody close to the square! Down there, there’s got to be a cheap joint down that alley.’

The Morocco crew - From the left is myself with Tone in the middle and Dave on the right.

Tony had a second sense for sniffing these places out, and would always lead us to the cheapest place in town, but also one where you’d quite possibly need a cast iron gut to survive. True to form, once again Tone had found a gem, and we chowed down on a spicy bowl of Moroccan hariria soup, topped off with a plate of warm freshly baked bread. We finished up our meals, and sat around for a while before heading back to our guest house for an afternoon nap, as we would grace the square once again at sundown, when it was a little cooler.

After our afternoon nap, we made our way back into the square just before dusk, which put a whole new prospective on the place. Due to the heat throughout the day, the place was busy, but not over the top, but by late afternoon the square had a real carnival atmosphere to it. The food stalls were venting beautiful aroma’s, and the silhouette of the minaret from the Koutoubia Mosque was viewed in the distance, for what was a Moroccan picture postcard moment.

For what reason, I can’t tell you, but we left our camera’s back at the guest house that afternoon, and for what was about to take place, I am still kicking myself to this day.

This Time It Was The Men Who Were Boxing

As we made our way through the crowded square, we spotted the outdoor boxing gym once again, but this time it was the men who were fighting, and the crowd was even bigger than before. We made our way over for a glance at two fit looking blokes in there early twenties going at it. I swear the trainer must of had eyes in the back of his head, and he recognized us from earlier on in the day. The current bout came to an end, and the trainer turned to us and gestured that because we didn’t pay for taking photo’s, we must fight one of his boxers in the ring.

Earlier on in the day, it was the young kids who were fighting. By late afternoon, it would be my turn.

He moved in our direction and tried to persuade Tony to box one of the fighters, who had just finished. Tony remarked that he was way to big for him, and politely declined. He then turned to me and signaled that he’d get someone my size. I’m all of five foot seven and at the time would have weighed less than 60kg, ringing wet. That puts me in the lightweight division, and the two that had just finished would have had at least 15kg on me, so there was no way I was getting into the ring with either of them.

The trainer was getting quite pushy, and by this stage the large crowd were beginning to get involved. He basically through the gloves at me, and the next thing I can remember I’m standing in center ring, with the crowd chanting and cheering. I thought ‘What the hell, a couple of rounds will be fine, Just don’t get knocked out!’ Getting knocked out would be a massive problem, as when I described it as a ring above, in reality it was just a ring of people, and if my opponent were to land a good shot on my chin, I would fall to the ground and could possibly hit my head on the bitumen below.

Another issue I faced, was that it was quite warm that day, and I only had a pair of sandals on, and my feet were slipping out of them due to the sweat. The decision was made to take them off and box in bare feet. A decision I would soon regret.

They Began To Lace My Gloves and My Heart Was Pounding

I ditched my sandals, as another trainer began to lace my gloves, and he asked where I was from. While this was happening, another man announced to the crowd something along the lines of, that this would be an international bout of Morocco versus Australia. Tone and Dave were pissing them selves laughing by this stage. Over the years I’ve got myself into some fucked up situations while traveling, but this was one of the better ones.

‘Just keep your hands up Kid, you’ll be right’ yelled Tone, as the final knot was being tied on my gloves. ‘I think there laying bets!’, yelled Dave. Bets, how can they be laying bets, I don’t even know who I’m fighting yet.

I began to scan the crowd for my opponent and was stating to worry that I was in for a setup. True to his word, the trainer marched out a fit looking bloke in his early twenties, but approximately my height and weight. From the way he began to warm up, there was no doubt he was accustomed to the craft of boxing, and I could be in for a rough night. The announcements were finished and it was now time for action.

My heart was pounding, as the adrenal gland snapped into action, and began to fill my veins with human bodies very own wonder drug.

The trainers hand dropped, and the call of ‘Box’ was made, as we touched gloves and began to dance. ‘Keep your hands up!’, would be my mantra for the next few minutes, as I continually repeated it to myself, over and over in my head. I danced around a little at first, as we both sized each other up. I decided that if I’m out here I might as well have a go, as in all reality, I am representing my country. So I let go with the first few jabs, all of which were taken on my opponents gloves.

The Crowd of Djemaa el Fna Square Were Getting a Show

I kept moving and throwing out the jab and would occasionally throw a right, whilst my opponent would counter punch, with a couple of his punches glazing past my ears. The adrenalin was pumping hard, and as I continued to duck and weave the barrage of punches coming my way. After a minute or two, and taking a couple of good shots to my head, I started to notice my feet were beginning to hurt. I continued on for another minute or so, and even managed to sneak a punch through my obviously far superior opponents guard, when all of a sudden extreme pain was coming from the sole of my right foot.

I could not stand any longer and quickly wrenched my gloves off, as I lifted my foot to check the damage.

Yes it was as painful as it looked. In the end the whole bottom pad of my foot would come away.

Although I was managing to stay alive in the ring, my feet were no match for the searing Moroccan bitumen. The heat and the moving from side to side whilst boxing, had opened up a two inch hole in the sole of my foot. The pain was severe, and there was no way I could continue. I hopped over to my opponent, and we shook hands, before climbing onto Dave’s back for the march back to the guesthouse for some crucial first aid.

After washing the wound and removing the small loose rocks and dirt. I made a closer inspection, and it seemed the whole bottom of my foot was blistered, toes included. For the next two weeks, I would backpack my way around Morocco, carrying a large bucket and bottle of disinfectant. Sitting in the bus and train stations, with my foot in a bucket was much amusement to the locals, who would always try to communicate and ask what had happened. I would Continually wash the wound until it healed and the skin was tough enough for me to walk on again. To this day, the memories of my time in Marrakesh bring back fits of laughter, and I wonder if I will ever make it back to Djemaa el Fna.

Your Thoughts and Comments?

Was I stupid for getting into the ring? Has anyone ever had to face something similar? Maybe not as physical as this but still down the same lines, where pride was on the line.

To be quite honest I had no idea what I was doing, or where I was going. After spending a week in Hawaii and a couple of weeks in Canada, I ran a few figures through my head. Although I’d saved a decent amount of money for my travels, at the exuberant rate I was burning cash, I would have blown the lot in 6 months, and would be back in Melbourne for Christmas.

At this early stage, I was enjoying my travel’s immensely, and the thought of being home in 6 months was not an option. From that moment, the decision was made to seriously tighten the purse strings, and try and travel for as long as possible.

After a few weeks of what I thought was budget travel, I believed I was doing OK. That was until the day I met Carl, from Liverpool England.

Carl was an absolute cracker, one of the funniest blokes you could ever meet, and he had me in stitches every time he spoke. Although at first we weren’t traveling together, it wouldn’t be long until Carl and I teamed up, and we would spend a fair bit of time together.

We were both travelling in a southerly direction, and I’d keep running into Carl at the different youth hostels along the way. We’d depart the hostels early morning, roughly at the same time. I’d make my way down to the local Greyhound station, whilst Carl would stroll on down to the nearest highway. He would then hold up his infamous cardboard sign, that simply had the word ‘England’ written on it, and without fail he would have hitched a lift in no more than 10 minutes.

I could never figure out why people were drawn to this sign, and how it worked for him time and time again but, the proof was undeniable. Carl would always beat me to our next destination. Sometimes he’d get a lift all the way, and other times he would need to string multiple lifts together, but he always got there first.

He’d always turn to me and say, in his raspy Liverpool accent ‘Took ya time, didn’t ya lucky’. Carl called me Lucky from very early on, as every time we played pool, I would always get beaten. I think it said allot more about Carl than myself though, and how much time he spent in bars and pubs.

There was no doubt that you’d describe Carl as a frugal traveler, but that would be under selling it. To put it bluntly, Carl was the stingiest bastard I have ever met.

Carl (on the left) with another fellow traveller who's name eludes me. Banana Bungalow - Los Angeles - 1992

The next couple of weeks we spent drifting down the West coast of the United States together, was like a rapid learning diploma in budget travel, and there I was, with a one on one course with the scrooge master himself.

Carl loved to tell a story, and told me about a time whilst travelling in Canada, where he couldn’t find anywhere to sleep for the night. He actually had the balls to initiate a chat with a couple of policeman, and asked if they could lock him up for the night, so he could save money on accommodation. Apparently they burst out laughing and refused, but this gives you an idea of the type of person I was dealing with.

Carl was tight in every way, pinching pennies where ever he could, but there was one thing that he taught me early on, and that was ‘never, ever’ include alcohol in your daily budget.

If you must, then pass up on accommodation (and even food in extreme circumstances), but you can drink as much alcohol as you like. I was never much of a drinker, but like a good student, I listened and took all of his teachings on board.

After leaving San Francisco together, I decided to give this hitching caper a go. Carl, said it would be allot harder to get a lift with two people, so it may take a little longer than usual. We caught the local bus to the outskirts of San Francisco, and positioned our selves on the side of the highway. I sat on my pack and relaxed, thinking it was going to take all day. Carl then pulled out his cardboard sign, holding it out into the lane of oncoming traffic for all to see. Cars were buzzing by, some curiously slowing down for a look, whilst others would toot their horns.

I seriously thought we’d be there all day, but in no more than 15 minutes, Carl’s little sign had worked, and we had a lift.

I learned very early on, that hitching rides was like pulling the handle on a Vegas slot machine, sometimes you win, and sometimes you lose. Your just never quite sure if you’ve won or lost until you get several miles down the road. This time though, we knew what we had straight away. With music blaring and can of beer in hand, it was quite clear from the get go, we had ourselves a bit of a nutter.

He wasn’t the full box of chocolates, if you know what I mean, but then again between Carl and myself, we probably weren’t too far behind him!

Carl and another fellow traveller who's name eludes me.

He was heading back to LA after seeing some friends in San Francisco. As we started our way down the highway with this lunatic, he finished downing his can of beer and tossed it out the window, and then asked if we wanted one. I don’t drink beer, but Carl being Carl replied, ‘Sure Thing’. He quickly hit the brakes and pulled over to the side of the

road, got out of the car and walked to the rear, and opened up the boot (trunk). What the hell is this bloke up to?, I thought. Next minute he’s back with a couple of cold can’s, as he had them on ice in the back.

We continued to drive a little further, and the scenery was beginning to become quite spectacular. We were heading through an area known as the Big Sur, with its high cliffs and jagged coastline. It was a memorable moment and we were all kicking back singing and having a laugh, when all of a sudden, he slams the brakes on again, this time more abruptly. He pulled up right on the edge of a cliff, that must have been a couple of hundred feet high, jumped out and walked around to the trunk again.

I looked at Carl and asked, ‘What the hell is he up to now?’ Carl starts pissing himself laughing and replied, ‘You’re not gunna believe this, he’s got his bloody golf clubs out!’

We both get out of the car, and walk over to him. He apologised for our delay, but said this is always something he wanted to do. He through about a dozen or so golf balls on the ground, and proceeded to yell ‘four….’ whilst cracking them off the edge, and into the surf below. We were laughing and watching over the edge, at how far they went.

After our unscheduled golf lesson, we jumped back in the car and continued on our merry way. The rest of the journey flew by, and all of a sudden it was starting to get dark. Our new found friend was turning off well before central Los Angeles and we were heading for the Banana Bungalow in West Hollywood. We asked him to pull over, thanked him for his unusual hospitality and got out.

As he drove off, Carl looked at me and said, ‘Well Lucky, looks like we need a place to sleep’. We weren’t even sure exactly where we were, somewhere on the outskirts of LA. We wandered for a bit, before finding ourselves in what appeared to be some sort of industrial estate. ‘This will do’ Carl said, but I wasn’t sure what he meant. That was until he pulled his pack off, opened it up and pulled out a tent. So there we were in the outer suburbs of LA, pitching a tent on a vacant block of land, surrounded by small factories and offices, and about to bed down for the night, basically without a clue where we were.

Carl with his cardboard sign in front of our tent. God only know's where we were.

We jumped in the tent and rolled out our sleeping mats and bags. After about an hour or so of chatting, we rolled over and went to sleep, or at least we tried. Just as I was beginning to drift off, a very bright light began to illuminate the tent.

‘Cops’, I thought, but then the ground actually started to shake, and the sound of engines from a machine of some description began to get louder and louder.

We both jumped up and quickly got out of the tent, and that’s when the horn blasted. It seemed Carl had picked a great spot to camp for the night. As it was pitch black dark, we didn’t realize, but we had actually pitched the tent about 10 meters away from the interstate railway line, and a locomotive and it’s long line of carriages were crawling past us. We both pissed our selves laughing, as we watched it go by. After it had gone, we hoped that there would be no more trains during the night, as we were too tired to move the tent, and in reality, where would we go anyway?

As it turned out, there was only one other train that night, and after a pretty poor nights sleep, we awoke to a bright sunny day to see exactly where we were. As we got out of the tent, there were cars pulling in to the factories and workers pointing at us, and having a great old chuckle. We packed up the tent and headed off down the road.

Carl turned to me and said, ‘ Ok Lucky, now where off to McDonald’s for a wash and a free cup of coffee!’

The guy was a freak, and had me in fits of laughter for the next few weeks that we spent working together at the Banana Bungalow hostel. I ran into Carl a few years later in London, where he came down and stayed with me at ‘Forty Four’, the fabled London doss house. Although I never continued on the insanely ultra budget travel method that Carl endured (few ever would, or could). There’s no doubt that he opened up my eyes to budget travel, and if our paths had never crossed, instead of being on the road for 4 and a half years, it may have been more like 10 months.

Thanks Carl, where ever you are….

Whilst finishing my last day of cleaning bathrooms and sweeping floors, I was pondering my next move. I knew I was heading south, but I had no idea on where I was going. That afternoon I was kicking back in the hostels foyer, chilling out and having a few drinks with some fellow hostel workers, discussing our future travel plans. I glanced up at the large world map on the wall, and scanned my eyes in a southerly direction from LA, and over the countries of Central America, until I became fixated on the small country named Belize.

In my early years of travel, my geography wasn’t the best. To be quiet honest, I’d never heard of the place, but it was time for me to move on, so I jumped up and said, “ I’m going to Belize, who’s coming with me?”

I managed to get a few people signed up for my adventure, and the deal was done. Tomorrow we would begin our overland trip through Central America, with our main goal of reaching the tiny nation of Belize. After a couple of weeks of overland travel through Mexico and Guatemala, we arrived in Belize City. For those that have been there, you’d know that it’s certainly a place you need to keep your wits about you, especially when walking the streets at night, but from day one I loved the place.

I’m not sure why they call it Belize City, as it’s more of a town, with a mere population of somewhere around 70,000. I suppose Belize Town just doesn’t have the same ring to it. Maybe It was a bit of forethought by the founders, as in a few centuries it will eventually become a city. Whilst making our way overland to Belize, we spoke with other travellers that were heading in the opposite direction, and they all mentioned that Caye Caulker was a must visit, and was a great place to chill out and relax. Caye Caulker was only a short 45 minute water taxi ride from Belize City, so we loaded our backpacks and off we went, for a week of relaxation, on this tiny limestone coral island.

Caye Caulker was exactly as I pictured it, a real travellers hang out, with cheap food and hammocks galore to spend the days lazing around. To give you some perspective of what the place was like back then, there were no credit card facilities and cash was king, without it you would go hungry. To make matters worse, there was only one place where you could get cash on the island, and this was a small outlet, that was basically opened by appointment only. Whilst there we also organised a snorkeling trip out to Belize’s famed reef, and it was on this day that we met our infamous captain. He quoted us a very reasonable price for the days snorkeling, that also included a trip over to Caye Caulkers bigger brother, Ambergris Caye.

As it so happened, our day trip was arranged for September 21st, this being the 10th anniversary of Belize Independence. We arranged to meet early in the morning so we could get some snorkeling done before it got to hot, and then spend the middle of the day at San Pedro to soak up the atmosphere, and grab a bite to eat, before heading back to Caye Caulker in the late afternoon. Once in town, our captain advised us to go and join in the fun, and to meet him back at the pier no later than 4.30pm.

This would give us enough time to sail back to Caye Caulker, as doing so in the dark would be dangerous due to the reef, and our boat with it’s tiny engine was a little slow to say the least.

Snorkelling Belize’s famed ‘Barrier Reef‘ was great, but the real adventure of this day was about to begin. The town of San Pedro was a buzz with activities, and we would spend the remainder of the day soaking up the Independence Day atmosphere, and gorged our selves on a large seafood lunch before heading back to the jetty to meet our captain. We were back at the jetty right on time, but there was no sign of our illustrious Captain. We waited and waited, but to no avail, what were we to do now? The time was now a little after 5.00pm, and a couple of the girls on our trip were beginning to worry, as the weather was also beginning to look a little worse for wear. It was still a beautiful sunny day, but the wind was starting to pick up.

A couple of us went looking for him, whilst the others stayed at the jetty with the boat. We hunted high and low, and were about to give up and head back, when we chanced upon him staggering down one of San Pedro’s small alleyways. It seemed our captain had also been enjoying the festivities a little to much, and to put it mildly he was completely smashed, I mean legless!

What were we going to do now, none of us were experienced enough to sail back to Caye Caulker, but the captain kept telling us with slurred speech and eye’s rolling back in his head, ‘Don’t worry, I’ll get us back safely’.

Tim and I with our drunken captain. We though it was quite funny, but some others on the day trip didn't think so. Oh yeah, Im the big fella on the LEFT with the bulging muscles.

We walked the captain back to the boat, as a couple of the girls were becoming a little unhinged, and people were beginning to argue on what we should do. To make matters worse, Tim and I were laughing and taking photo’s with our drunken captain. The way I saw it, we only had two options, try and find some accommodation and stay the night, or roll the dice and try and get back by ourselves.

After some quick deliberation, we chose the latter, and quickly swung into action, force feeding the captain a litre or so of water, and put him behind the wheel. We unhooked the ropes and pushed off the jetty. Whilst casting off, there was a group of onlookers, some laughing while others had a slight look of concern on their faces. The whole time our captain was adamant, he would get us back safely. We had to try and make him believe he was still in control of the boat, when In reality it was us who were steering the vessel, with the odd direction uttered by the captain.

I’m sure he’d sailed this route many times, and even in his state, he still seemed to know where to go.

It was hilarious, there we were bobbing up and down with the swell, with the captain barely with enough strength to stand and hold the wheel, with the sun slowly making it’s way beyond the horizon. He was singing Kriol songs, and as a team we safely guided our selves back to Caye Caulker, arriving a little after dark. To be quite honest, after a few minutes we were pretty confident of making it back safely, and the hardest part of the journey was docking the boat at Caye Caulkers jetty, in the dark. Once back on dry land, we left our captain with some of his friends, and headed back to our guest house, laughing at what had just taken place. To this day, the captains name still eludes me as it was almost twenty years ago, and I hope he is still in good health. He was quite a character, and looking at the photo above, I always get a great laugh, thinking about the day we were left with the decision of ‘What shall we do with a drunken sailor?’

I wrote this post for ‘Laurie’, over at TacoGirl.com , after we got chatting on twitter about Belize. If you’re heading there, her site is a wealth on information and worth a look.

As the Borg in Star Trek say, ‘My resistance was futile’ when trying to defy this, as she had her heart set on going. My only worry was, would I become part of the collective?

For anyone that knows Liza, they would be familiar with her not being unaccustomed to the finer things in life. Although we’ve been in some very remote parts of the world, and she can rough it with the best of them, Liza does enjoy the creature comforts that are presented to you in a more upmarket establishment. Her selling point to me was that the ship would sail through the Panama Canal, and she knew I would love to see it. I thought to myself, if I was going to do this, then it might as well be on the worlds most famous ship (well most famous that’s still afloat, as there’s that other vessel that sits motionless, on the bottom of the Atlantic.

Cruising through the Panama Canal. If the QE2 was any longer, she wouldn't fit.

The trip departed from New York, and made it’s way through the Caribbean to the Panama Canal, stopping at Florida and the tiny Island of Curacao along the way. Once through the Canal, and after a short stop in Panama City she made her way up the West coast of Central America, stopping at Acapulco, before we would complete our journey in Los Angeles. It was a cold and windy day, as we made our way down to the Manhattan Cruise Terminal. I was about to undertake my ‘Voyage of Discovery’ as the Cunard brochure defined it, loaded up with five times the baggage than we would need for a years backpacking, and all for a two week cruise. I forgot to mention that on the QE2 you are required to wear a suit to dinner each and every night.

Those who know me would be aware that the only time I ever wear a suit, is to a wedding or a funeral. This was the first time I had ever travelled with a suitcase, and to put it mildly I was feeling quite weird.

Whilst waiting to go through immigration, I glanced around and was quite astonished at what I saw. We were by far the youngest people about to board, most patrons would have been in their sixties and their were some, without a doubt in their eighties. To top it all off, there was an old man with a face mask, hooked up to some sort of oxygen bottle, on one of those electric scooters. At this point my first wave of panic began to set in, this was culture shock of a different kind. Ive had to deal with many difficult situations before, with some very odd customs in different countries, but this was a whole new ball game.

What was I doing here I thought? Liza could sense me beginning to freak out and was getting a little agitated with my actions, as she’d been looking forward to this trip for quite some time.

We cleared immigration and boarded the ship, and were presented with the keys to our cabin. We proceeded to make our way down to deck M2, Stateroom 5043 to be precise. I had pictures in my mind of the QE2 being immensely grand, with lavish furnishings and the like, but it was actually quite old and a little run down. Our cabin was very small and poky and was more like a room in a cheap hotel, than a cabin on the world’s most famous ship. At least we had a porthole, that allowed us to see a litlle day light, in between the crashing waves, as we were just above the waterline.

Walking to our dinner table on the first night is when the second wave of panic hit me. As we got closer, I had visions of having to sit and chat aimlessly with some old man barely clinging to life, and having to take off his oxygen mask, every time he spoke.

Liza and I with our table partners, Barbara, Annette, Bob and Donna.

How would I get through two weeks of long five course meals with the same people each night, when we’d have nothing in common. As it turned out the people we were seated with were actually quite nice, and very down to earth. After a couple of nights and the usual pre-dinner drinks, we all loosened up a little, and we actually had a few laughs discussing some of the rich old fogeys who were on their 5th or 6th world tour. As well as others who would even spend a year at a time aboard the ship, circumnavigating the globe two or three times. We soon worked out that there was what I could only describe as, some sort of cult amongst the people who cruised on the QE2. They were indeed, ‘The Cruising Elite’. Not solely based on wealth, although world cruises on the QE2 don’t come cheap. They regarded sailing on the QE2 to be world cruising in its purest form. When you sparked up a conversation with some of these people, and merely mentioned the name of another ship, they would fly off the handle and call them nothing more than floating hotels, drifting aimlessly in the Caribbean, or Mediterranean.

I did see their point though, and when the QE2 docked at some of the larger ports next to one of the newer ships, you really do get the feeling of the QE2′s style, and they were right, these other ships did look like floating hotels.

After dinner on the first night, we headed out to the back deck to take some photo's.

The more time I spent aboard, the more relaxed I would become. People were talking about us everywhere, and we were becoming quite well known throughout the ship, and most people referred to us as, ‘the young couple’ (if you call mid thirties young). The day spent cruising through the Panama Canal was definitely the highlight of my time aboard. When we anchored at places along the way, Liza and I would just take off and do our own thing, and not worry about the tours or shore excursions, so we did have a bit of freedom in that sense. The food was fantastic and I soon learnt that being on a cruise is no place to be, if you’re watching your weight. I must be getting soft in my old age, as I could actually see Liza and I doing something similar in the future, if the time and place were right. Whilst on board I did alot of reading about this famous ship. She was used as a Troop Carrier during the Falklands war and with a top speed of over 30 knots, the QE2 was one of the fastest ships in the ocean. In 2007 she was put out of service and bought by a wealthy Arab businessman, and retired to Dubai, to be converted into an actual floating hotel (I wonder what some of the cult members would have to say about that). At least she wasn’t going to be scrapped! Looking back on my time aboard, I suppose its like anything, you’ll never know if you never go. I’m glad Liza booked this trip and I stand proud when I say, I’m a card carrying member of the cult of the QE2.

I’ve had only but a few of these encounters whilst traveling, but the one that stands out amongst all others, was in India in 1996. Liza and I were making our way overland from Europe to Australia, and had traveled through Turkey, Iran, Pakistan and Nepal before heading south to India. After five hard months on the road, we were tired and needed to chill, to recharge the battery’s before cranking the motor once again, and pushing on eastward towards home. We stopped at Goa for a month, and it was a memorable moment of the trip, but I didn’t reach that point of a traveling nirvana, until we headed a little further south, to the small seaside town of Gokarna.

Liza and Mick, kicking back in the chai hut after another beautiful sunset.

The name Gokarna literally translates to cow’s ear, and legend has it that the auspicious Lord Shiva emerged from the ear of the cow, right from this very place. The rendezvous, was arranged by George, a good friend of ours from London, who was on the inside when it came to travel in India. I say this because Gokarna was a place little known to other travellers at the time, and was not mentioned in any guide book (I believe it has become allot more well known now). After our time there, it appeared that the beaches of Gokarna where a place where India’s hard core travellers would congregate, after Goa was becoming more and more touristy as each year passed. We’d all arranged to meet in Gokarna on a set date, with people coming from all directions, and great distances to be here. Some of whom we already knew, and others we would meet for the first time.

Once we were all in town we spent the night sleeping on the roof of a local guest house, before rising early the next day and trekking the short distance over the hills to the South, and onto what would become our home for the next eight days, Kudle Beach.

The infamous chai hut, where we would spend many hours attempting to solve the worlds problems.

In relation to the view, Kudle beach was in no way a paradise found. With its non discrete sandy shores, and rocky headland’s to the north and south, it was no different than a thousand other beaches dotted around the world, but that didn’t matter. There was no real infrastructure, except for a couple of chai huts and one or two very basic restaurants, all constructed from thatch, banana leafs and with compressed cow dung floors. There were no roads leading in, so everything had to be carried on foot. We would spend long days, sitting in a chai hut perched on a large rock overlooking the water, or body surfing the small but plentiful waves that crashed into the shores. Every evening at dusk would be a mad scramble to get everyone together, to sit and watch the sunset. Our bed for the next eight nights was the small grass covered dune that run the length of the beach, just above the high tide mark. Each night we would sleep under clear skies, having a chat and watching for shooting stars before falling asleep, then waking the next day to do it all again. One day led into the next, and it seemed that everyone was on the same wavelength and we could have stayed there for months. Come to think of it we didn’t achieve much during those eight days, but that’s what made it so great.

From this short but special time, we made many life long friends, and from time to time, often over a few drinks, we reminisce about that Indian summer and the laughs we had.

For those now on the road that find themselves in a similar scenario, don’t rush off to that next destination. Stop and savour the moment as long as possible, as experiences like this are rare. For others who have had similar times like these before, I would love to hear about them. Last but not least, to the Gokarna crew of 96, Lyz, George, Mick, Lach, Jane, Tim, Scott, Jill, Maryann, Murv and Sarah thanks for the memories.

There were five of us traveling together, all of whom had recently met at the infamous overland travellers hang out, Nairobi’s ‘New Kenya Lodge’. Our mission in Zaire was to get to the Kahuzi-Beiga National Park, to see the eastern lowland gorilla’s that the park is famous for. After crossing the border, and many hours of waiting, we managed to hitch a ride to Bukavu on a small pickup truck. The truck was loaded with half a tonne of dried fish, from nearby Lake Tanganyika and stuffed tightly into hessian sacks. Although comfortable to sit on, it had quite a stench. Although Bukavu was only a mere 100km away, the journey took us around 8 hours, so you can imagine the condition of the roads. We arrived late, and checked into one of the dodgiest guest house’s I have ever stayed in. This place was a dump, nothing more than a few pieces of timber and plywood quickly thrown together. There was no doubt it doubled as a brothel, as well as a gambling den, but what do you expect for $1.50 a night. We were all ultra tired from the journey, so it was lights out, as an early rise was in order to try and change some cash, before venturing further north towards Kahuzi-Beiga.

We hitched a ride on this truck to Bukavu

We awoke to a beautiful day, and after a quick bite to eat, we ventured into the streets to check out the town. Bukavu is the capital of the province, and at the time had a population somewhere in the vicinity of 200,000. Hard currency is king in this part of the world, and we each had a small amount of US cash, but we still needed a small supply of local currency to eat, and for day to day items. Paul made mention to me that, a town of this size must have a couple of banks, so we should investigate the possibility of changing a travellers check, as we were all low on cash. After a little searching we came upon what may have been the towns only bank. With much of Bukavu’s architecture being dilapidated, this building was remnants of the previous colonial era. Still in quite good condition, a little run down, but was standing the test of time, where many of the surrounding buildings were not. Normally when you enter a bank in this part of the world, there would be armed guards on the doors, but not in Bukavu. Upon entering the bank there was an eerie silence. The stone floor, and high ceilings creating an echo of our every move, you could literally hear a pin drop. We approached the tellers window, and from our vantage point, the only inhabitant of the bank, shuffled to his till.

We walked over to the teller and he greeted us with a smile, “Hello, how can I help you?” Ah, he speaks English we thought, this should be easy.

“Yes, I would like to change a travellers cheque,” asked Paul.

“You cannot change money here,” replied the teller, in a somewhat abrupt tone.

“Why not?” Paul replied.

“The bank has no money!”, replied the teller, again quite abruptly.

“What do you mean, the bank has no money?”, I said.

“The bank has no money,” replied the teller, this time with a slight smile.

“When will the bank have money, tomorrow maybe?”, I asked.

“No not tomorrow,” sighed the teller.

“Well, when will the bank have money?”, said Paul, as he turned to me with a smirk on his face.

“On Tuesdays, the bank has money on Tuesdays”, replied the teller, this time a little more upbeat.

Now those that travel for long period’s, know that the longer your on the road, the harder it becomes to remember what day it actually is. At this stage, I had been on the road for close to 18 months, so for me it was hard to even put my finger on what month it was. After the teller replied, I looked at the wall behind him, and noticed a large calendar displaying the date, and the day.

“But today is Tuesday!”, I uttered, pointing to the calendar on the wall, and laughing.

“Yes, but the bank has no Money,” said the teller, beginning to laugh himself, by this stage.

“Well, where is all the money?”, I asked.

“On the street, the black market has all the money. If you like, I can change some of your American dollars with my own money.” replied the teller, anxiously looking around the empty room. Thinking he was in for some good commission, from the exchange.

At this stage, Paul and I were rolling around laughing, said goodbye to the teller and left. A short while after, we caught up with the others and had a chuckle, explaining our predicament with the teller, and suggested we head towards the market and try and hunt down some money changers. Ask any hardened traveller, and they will tell you that changing money on the black market is a tricky thing to do. Not getting ripped off is you number one priority, although making sure you get a good rate, is also a close second in your mind. From speaking with a small trickle of people that had been in Zaire recently, we knew the rate was somewhere in the vicinity of 5,600,000 to the dollar (yes that’s million). It was also apparent that the national tender of Zaire, was in hyperinflation mode, and was becoming more and more worthless every tick of the clock. They also told us that we should not accept any 5 million notes (the largest note available) as nobody would accept them. It seems that they would be accepted in the nations capital Kinshasa, but were not accepted in the east of the country. One of the reasons for this, was that there was a small grammatical error on the note, that people were suspicious of.

Once in the market area, we were asked several times if we wanted to change money. We spoke with a few people discussing rates, and managed to find someone that could arrange for us an exchange at our preferred rate of 5.6million, and could also accommodate an amount of $200. As always, the person we spoke with was not the one with the money, it was his uncle’s, brothers, best friend (or something along those lines). There was no way we were going to do a deal like this, in a crowded market place. We suggested the lobby of the hotel across the street. He told us to go the hotel and wait, and he would be back with the money man in a few minutes.

Even though there were five of us, we still waited in the lobby in anticipation. Was it a set up? Two hundred dollars is a lifetime of money to most people of this nation. A few minutes later, in walked our new found friend, with the money man. Dressed in freshly ironed clothes, a rarity in these parts, wearing dark glasses and gold jewellery. He sat at the table and signaled to the hotel owner, to bring us some drinks. He asked to see our money, and we handed over four fresh 50 dollar notes. He checked them to make sure they were not counterfeit, and after a short pause seemed happy. He opened his bag and placed several piles of 1 million Zaire notes on the table, each pile contained 100 million Zaire’s. After he finished placing the money on the table, he asked if we wished to count it. We obliged, and proceeded to count the 1,120,000,000 (yes that’s billion) Zaire’s that were on the table in front of us. The counting took some time, and as soon as everyone was happy, we stuffed the cash into my day pack, filling it so tight we could hardly get the zip closed. We shook the man’s hand and all walked out, we were now multi millionaires, but with a pineapple costing 1,400,000, it wouldn’t be long until we would be broke again.

So the decision was made to sell all that I owned and to travel the world. Over the proceeding weeks I managed to sell everything I owned, from my car to computer and mobile phone (yes I owned one back in 1992), or anything else I could sell to raise more cash to take on the trip off a lifetime. To be quite honest I had no idea where the hell I was going, or for how long, but I knew it was going to take a while as I was on a one way ticket.

All up it took about 6 weeks, I had everything organized, and was off on the trip of a lifetime that would change my life and my view of the world forever. From this moment on, my life has revolved around my travels. Even when I returned home from my early travels and fell back into the routine of ‘work eat and sleep’, I still feel a strong urge and desire to travel as often as possible, and I believe you’ll always find Liza and I planning our next trip to some part of the world we are yet to explore.

Sitting in Nairobi’s New Kenya Lodge some time back in 1993, swapping travel stories with a couple of mad South Africans, who were knocking down bottles of ‘Tusker’ like there was no tomorrow. One of them turned to me and said ‘Son, there are three types of people who travel this planet of ours, those who travel to find some one, those who travel to find them selves and those who travel just to find a good pub!’. Well believe me when I say, I fell into all 3 of those categories.

In no way do I claim to be a travel writer (if you’re looking for the next Bill Bryson then you might as well head back to Google), and to be quite honest the paragraphs above are the largest composition of words I’ve ever written about my travels. I never kept a journal (I tell a lie, I did start a journal and it reads ‘Arrive Hawaii June 1992′. That being the first and last entry I ever wrote. See above photo), but I do have a great memory for detail, and I have taken a few decent images along the way. I hope you enjoy the site, and it will inspire you to travel more. I also hope you have a bit of a laugh and get some insight into what its like to live with a travel addiction.