The Islamic republic of censorship

It was my first major border crossing, I felt prepared that I knew what to expect and how to handle myself. I’d read detailed accounts from other fellow over landers on the ins and outs of that particular border. I cleared the Turkish side without a hitch and the Iranian formalities were going smoothly. As I had all necessary documents signed and stamped I headed towards Iran. A young chap looking somewhat official had a look at my papers and said I must go to the traffic office. I was prepared for this, here I was going to refuse the purchase of a fuel card (fuel is rationed in Iran and technically you need this, but I had read that most over landers decide against this and just show up at the pumps lost and wait for the service attendant to use their card).  When they asked about a fuel card, I explained it’s already arranged for me by a friend in Tabriz (Bollocks). A group of men, who don’t seem very official are saying I have to pay for the roads (all very vague and I was unaware and suspicious of this) I said that I didn’t think this was correct but I would enquire in Tabriz. The young man suddenly took my passport and documents and signalled for me to come with him, we went to the final office where another officer checked my documents one last time.

It was signed off and I was free to go.... Or so I thought. The young man signalled for me to hurry and get out of the border. All of a sudden he jumped in my car and said to drive past the border and let him out, after a few hundred meters he indicated for me to pull over and let him out. This is where the games started. He wanted money! However I explained to him even though I was grateful for his help, I did not request it, and I would not be giving him any money.  Suddenly, out of nowhere the same group of men as before surrounded my car, saying that I must give them 150 Euro or there would be “problems” for me. They told me they were part of customs and I need to pay (but the refused to say exactly what for) or I have to go back to Turkey. One man threatened to call police, in which I encouraged him to do as I said I too would like to clear this up with them as well. As I suspected he stopped calling. They continued, saying this man is the customs chief, but my requests to see Identification were ignored. After a back and forth conversation where the amount of money being demanded changed a number of times, the “Customs Chief” (insert sarcasm here) tried to grab the keys from the ignition. I blocked his attempt and put my foot down hard on the accelerator (they tried to hold onto the car haha… idiots), all this still with the first young man in the front passenger seat. After 500 metres or so I pulled over and demanded he get it, which thankfully he did. I drove top speed for the next few Kilometres, heart racing and shit scared that they would give chase. To my relief it was the last I saw of that border and the “Customs Chief”. This wasn’t the best way to start my Iranian leg and my levels of apprehension had risen dramatically.

The Islamic republic of censorship

Let me start by saying, Iran is a wonderful place and everything I had heard about the people and their hospitality was true. I was treated extremely well everywhere I went and never once felt unsafe (apart from the border fiasco).  However in order to protect their Islamic oasis from the west, there is a high level of censorship at play. Most western outlets of online media are blocked by the internet filters, all social networking feeds, albeit Facebook, Twitter or whatever are all blocked. To a further extreme ALL foreign credit or bank cards will not work ANYWHERE and cash is the only way a foreigner can pay for things.

Blissfully unaware to what degree this law was imposed (In honesty I knew this law was in place but I didn’t think it literally meant, impossible to use foreign cards anywhere) I checked into the Tabriz International hotel at about 11:00PM after a long and stressful day.  What proceeded was logistical operation of epic proportions

“How the idiot boyfriend was saved”

The idiot boyfriend rose early, his destination was the leading branch in Tabriz of Melli bank. (By this point he was now fully aware of the severity of this cash situation) He parked nearby and even though an illegal park, the traffic officer ensured him he wouldn’t give him a ticket, the nearby shop keep also said he would keep a watchful eye on Dorothy. In order to save face, once at the bank, the idiot boyfriend concocted a story of how he was mugged of all his euros (I felt bad about being dishonest but perhaps this white lie would garner a little sympathy and thus helping to find the solution)

With the help of an English speaking customer he delivered his tale of woe to the bank, for which a bank man lead the idiot boyfriend to three different branches in the area…. At The final branch a man commented how they only had connections in Istanbul, Moscow and Dubai. At this point the idiot boyfriend finally had an idea “My girlfriend is currently in Istanbul, she could help?”

The bank man took the idiot boyfriend by the hand and led him to a recognised money exchange outlet. Once again he delivered his Oscar winning re-enactment of how all his precious euros were stolen by miscreants. They explained they did have a contact in Istanbul and if the girlfriend could get cash to the contact all would be saved. The idiot boyfriend had no way of contacting the girlfriend without internet, so he wandered aimlessly about the plaza looking for a supposed internet café (it was closed as it was holiday in Iran) What he found was another good Samaritan at a computer store who let the idiot boyfriend use his LAN internet connection. The idiot boyfriend managed to get in contact with the girlfriend and somewhat embarrassingly informed her of the situation, and how she could help. Luckily for him, the girlfriend is a kind and generous girlfriend and she quickly sprung to action, grabbed a taxi and set forth to meet the contact.

This operation was playing out like a grand orchestra, everyone playing their instrument to perfection, all in complete unison with each other……….

The traffic officer turning a blind eye on the illegal park job. The shop-keep keenly watching over the safety of Dorothy. The English speaking customer at the bank kindly translating. The bank man leading the idiot boyfriend to the numerous branches. The Samaritan at the computer store allowing the idiot boyfriend to go back and forth using his internet. The exchange outlet facilitating the deal. The contact in Istanbul processing the transaction.  And finally the girlfriend, in the taxi, delivering the cash and completing the deal in Istanbul.

The deal was done and the operation was complete. Everyone giving a performance of a lifetime…. All to save the idiot boyfriend.

Iranian hospitality

I had heard tales of Iranian hospitality. How they seem to go far beyond the call of duty to ensure that foreigners are enjoying their stay (even to the point of awkwardness). Tehran was no different. When I asked a taxi driver for directions, instead of sodding me off he hurriedly jumped in his cab and drove, with me trialling, the 30 minutes to my hotel doorstep. For which he denied any financial reimbursement that I was offering. This encounter really did set the tone for the rest of Iran and in hindsight much of Asia so far.  Upon entering Hotel Khayem (a regular overlanders stop) I was immediately engaged in conversation by Stewart. Stewart was an American bloke travelling with his Iranian wife (probably in their 40´s). Stewart seemed to have lived and worked just about everywhere, taking him from the Middle East to Russia to his current home in the Philippians. After hearing my upcoming travel plans he essentially thought I was signing my own death sentence, concluding that he would keep an eye out for me in the news. With my conversation with Stewart echoing in my head, I had a near sleepless night. I rose early and made way for Isfahan, although unfortunately I would only be merely passing through on my way East.

Akbar English

Akbar English is actually the Akbar Tourist guest house, but when looking for directions, you simply ask for Akbar English. This is because funny enough, he is about the only guy in town to speak English… So finding Akbar in the city of Bam was extremely easy. Akbar was your typical smooth talking Iranian. Extremely personable and had a tremendous calming effect for me. By this point my levels of angst had risen dramatically as my scheduled crossing into Pakistan was just days away. It was here that his reassuring words put me at ease. (That was at least until I spoke to my parents again.)

Things haven’t been very easy for Akbar in recent memory, and his financial woes are never too far from his mind (this was particular evident by his concern when he received his water bill in front of me) He tells me of the dramatic decline in tourism since about 2008, and it was here that I could plainly see the effects the media has to everyday life in Iran. He explains that traditionally there have been many Aussies through his doors, but now they are reluctant to come, because of the many political issues between East and West. In addition a massive earthquake hit Bam in 2003 which just about flattened everything, including their UNESCO world heritage listed old town (Arg-e Bam). Despite all this Akbar was always keen to laugh and share stories from all the travellers he has met.

I had been building up to these next few days for it seemed like a year. Since I put together the idea of this adventure, Pakistan had been my major concern. Much of Pakistan has been out of government control for a long time. Some of it nearly completely lost to the Taliban and other militant groups. In fact, Quetta (where I would need to pass through) is considered somewhat of a Taliban strong hold, and every day I inched closer to the border.  It was like a 10 tonne monkey on my back..... It was crushing me and I all my instincts told me to run.

The Crossroads

In truth, I was looking for any excuse or way out of what was coming. Every day I would drive closer to the border and I would spend the rest of my evening on the net reading updates from Pakistan and then trying to figure out a reasonable way of bypassing this whole nightmare. My fears were heightened by reports that the US were conducting their drone bombing attacks on the tribal regions of Pakistan and in addition, a bus travelling in the Baluchistan region had been ambushed by militants, executing two passengers.

Had I become a victim of the scare mongering tactics of the media? Or was my fear justified? The unknown of what truly lied beyond the border was terrifying, and night after night I lied awake contemplating the same questions over and over. I had reached my crossroads in Bam. I was to either continue onto Zahedan (about 90 km from Iran/Pakistan border) and to what felt like my impending doom or head south to Bandar Abbas along the south coast and ship Dorothy to Mumbai.

Akbar had assured me that I would be fine, but to contradict, the response to my travel plans I received from the Australian embassy in Islamabad strongly advised against me coming to Pakistan at all, let alone driving through Baluchistan and Quetta (exact words were “great danger”)

After much deliberation and the conversation with my parents (who were in great favour of me shipping and bypassing Pakistan), it was my final conversation with Mayara that helped me realise that I had lost something along the way and I needed to get it back.... I needed to regain my courage! The following day, Dorothy and I nervously made the 300Km Journey to Zahedan which is where I would spend the night before crossing the following morning. 

The pilgrimage

Being a backpacker again

Dorothy had given me the shits! I even smacked her around a little. It was no good, as I turned onto the road from Budapest to Romania steam poured from the engine and the temperature gauge shot up. I quickly pulled over and lifted the bonnet to see water pissing out of the radiator. I had quite a significant radiator leak that would need fixing immediately. I filled up with water again and nursed Dorothy back to the hostel which we just left.  I sprang into action and found the details of an authorised Mitsubishi mechanic In Budapest which we promptly booked in for the following day. The next day they told me they would attempt to fix the radiator, failing that they would need to get a whole new radiator which could take 10 days. In despair I tried to remain positive “Every problem is just an opportunity it disguise” I thought.  Next thing you know we had booked and an overnight sleeper, on a train to Prague. It was my second time in Prague, however Mayara had never seen the delights that Prague held, so we were keen to load up the backpacks and check into our hostel. Anyone who has been to Prague would say its reputation is justified, and I found that its slightly dark and sinister architecture makes it an intriguing city roam about in. In the meantime I had received somewhat good news that the radiator was able to be repaired and would only mean a three day delay to our itinerary. Just like that after two full days in Prague we were back on an overnight train to Budapest to continue our journey to the former Communist controlled Romania.

Dogs & Carts

It was safe to say that Romania ranked highly in my European expectations, as day dreams of ascending through the Carpathian Mountains in the Transylvania region danced in my mind we inched closer to the Romanian border.

I was prepared for the step back in time of Romania, where horse and cart was still prominent and the simple life of a Shepard tending to his flock was the norm. What I hadn’t prepared for was the amount of bloody dogs about. The streets were filled with hundreds of displaced dogs and this made for some interesting driving moments, as suicidal dogs leaped onto the road without warning.

The initial paranoia of dodging those dastardly mongrels subsided I was able to enjoy the best driving scenery thus far in the trip. The Carpathians were described to me as the Alps of Eastern Europe and in fact the Transfagarasan and Transalpina driving routes consistently rank in most top ten best driving routes in the world, and on the Journey from Sibiu to Brasov we got to experience part of the Transfagarasan route. It was too early in the year for the complete road to be open for driving (its deemed to unsafe this early in the year) However we spent a good two hours taking on the winding roads up the mountain before we reached its closure point. Once in Brasov we meandered through the pleasant medieval city and took and anticlimactic journey to Bran castle (if you know your folklore this is said to be Dracula’s castle)

After a chaotic night driving experience in Bucharest but a pleasant couch surfing experience we were headed to Bulgaria (which we would merely pass through onwards to Istanbul) Romania was over in a flash and I felt a little regretful that we couldn’t give Romania a little longer, as it only wet my appetite for more. (What’s over the rainbow: Volume two maybe??)

Gyros, Doners, Kebabs ohh my!!!

It’s like I had reached Mecca! I had made this pilgrimage from many a mile…. to reach the source. Turkey had brought with it all my expectations and more… Kebabs and Doners as far as the eye could see, and it didn’t have the four day old greasy consistency that I had become accustomed to at the kebab joint under the bridge in Balham, London.  No! This was the stuff that border lined on a religious conversion.

Istanbul (and Turkey) brought with it many expectations from both myself and May. We had become tired of the stuffy European vibe and longed for something unhindered and unkempt, our first signs of chaos before moving onto further extremes. Istanbul was where the Middle East and Asia collides with Europe. Yes of course it was still set up for the average high rolling European Tourist, but with the edge that we were after. We visited the famous ‘Blue Mosque’ which once inside was a great place to take of your shoes and relax. What I also liked about Blue Mosque (and subsequently other mosques we have visited) is that unlike Christian churches they do not charge an admission fee (which I feel is terrible. May has repeatedly had to endure my rant that if you charge an entrance fee to a religious site I should be able to crawl all over the damn thing, taking photos with the flash on, and generally treating it like amusement park. But seriously if you don’t charge an entrance fee I will be happy to oblige the rules, but you can’t have it both ways… It’s either a religious site or a tourist spot….. Sorry where was I?)

I also fell in love with scouring the various markets and bazaars, jiving with the shop owners and bartering for things that I had no intention of buying, soaking up the intoxicating aromas in the spice markets and feeling apart of the madness

Istanbul was also my first glimpse at my forthcoming destination of Iran. I had to visit the Iranian embassy in order to get my visa stamped. As I waited I was privy to the Iranian news, which I found extremely interesting.  Picture the US news (images of terrorists, Iran’s nuclear program, and suicide bombings). The Iranian news was the exact opposite, portraying the US government as the Satanists who are trying to hinder the growth of the great Islamic republic of Iran. The Americans have conducted another series of cowardly bombings through drone strikes, more gun violence in Los Angeles etc etc…. This got me thinking that who was right or wrong? Of course I, like many of us, have been biased by western media and have been a victim of the scare mongering generated towards the Middle East and in fact Islamic culture as a whole. Yet the exact same scare tactics are being used towards the west by the Iranian media. I concluded that like many things the truth usually lies somewhere in the middle.

“Here, sit! Let’s have some tea!”

A custom that I am particularly fond of (and I intend on replicating wherever I go), Is that all business, conversations or meetings in general are done over a steaming pot of Turkish tea. Whether I am bartering with the shop keeper to buy a new Garmin GPS (because my previous Garmin was a piece of shit), or stopping to fill up with fuel…. It’s always “Here, sit! Let’s have some tea!”. This gets to the point, where you have to start denying the kind of teas…. I mean, there’s only so much tea one man can drink.

Forward or Reverse?

I was adamant to get to a campsite my GPS had locked onto just outside the city of Bursa. It looked reasonable distance to reach. The sun was beginning to set but we had plenty of time… Many things should have clicked in my head as we turned onto a couple of unsealed roads. A few hours earlier there had been a torrential downpour, and the unsealed roads were leading us further into the mountains. I still trundled along inching closer towards what I thought would be our lovely campsite for the night. I made my way onto another mountain pass that was a single lane unsealed road and slightly muddied track, “No worries” I said to a slightly concerned girlfriend, “We’ve got a 4x4” The light mud soon turned to a thick slop and Dorothy’s big butt started to slide… Still I continued. Before I knew it, it was getting dangerous, Dorothy had slid off the road onto the mountain side ditch and we were perched at a 45° angle to the ground. We were bogged and my heart raced, as I began doing what any inexperienced off road driver will do and I revved the guts out of the engine. We were soon free but things certainly didn’t get easier, we tried to continue unsure if it was better to go forward or go back. Another added complication was weighing on our minds, the other side of the road was a good 8 meter drop, which would have spelled game over for us. After a few more hair raising slides into the mountain, we decided to go back. As my father always says “It’s better the devil you know, than the devil you don’t know”.

As we were unable to turn around due to the thinness of the road, we were forced to reverse the couple of kilometres we had already come. May acted as my eyes (even though without glasses, she is nearly completely blind) and she was giving me constant directions as she sat with half her body out the car. With a few more near missus we were out and back on the paved road again. May and I both let out a huge sigh of relief and embraced each other. I then paused for a moment before driving off, grabbed the GPS and selected the function to avoid unpaved roads ….

Money, Money?

We found out that wild camping in Turkey was extremely easy. With free toilets and water everywhere, it meant it was never a problem to pull up at a truck stop for the night. Pushing on to Bergama, which is famous for the ruins of the ancient city of Pergamon, we set our GPS co-ordinates for a regular motorhome overnight stop we had been told about , just outside the city center. Here we were greeted by some young local kids who spoke little to no English, they did however have a firm grasp on the phrase “Money, Money”. Generally I don’t give money to kids like this, as it encourages them to beg, and this was no exception J I did however think it would be cool to give the kids a Polaroid photo as a souvenir. I intended to take a photo and give it to the group. Kids being Kids, if I gave a photo to one of the kids, they all wanted one. Soon they were all gleefully shaking their Polaroid pictures as we had demonstrated to them. They left with huge smiles on their faces and as I watched them leave, I too was smiling, seeing the sweet faces of laughing kids…. This was swiftly interrupted when one of the young lads ran up and booted one of the other young girls in the ass!

Japanese are sun smart

I was excited to visit the ruins of the great city of Ephesus. I even stomached the ludicrous entry fee of 25 Turkish Liras each (around 12 Euros) to gain access to hours of historical artifacts and information. (To be fair it was worth every penny, very interesting)

In addition I did get a good chuckle out of the numerous Japanese tour groups. I absolutely love Japanese tourists. I think they’ve got tourism down to an art form. Equipped with the latest Nikons and Canons, they gleefully snap all day long as their tour bus takes them from place to place. They also seem to be deathly afraid of the sun! Covered head to toe (gloves, face masks, sunglasses and umbrellas…. The whole kit and caboodle) I particularly enjoyed one lady who opted for the short sleeve spandex shirt, but with additional long sleeves worn as accessories. This wonderful outfit was topped off with cycling gloves, the mandatory visor hat and umbrella. Perhaps they were vampires and if the sun hit their skin they would implode into dust? To their credit I don’t think skin cancer is much of a problem in Japan. .

Continuing the tourist trail at Pummakale and Cappadocia

When all else fails…. Follow the Japanese tourists…

So like good little tourists we set forth for Pummakale located near the city of Denizli. Pummakale is essentially a mountain face, with a unique twist. Over millions of years salt deposits have formed an amazing white rock surface on the mountain, in which dozens of natural rock springs have been born. To look at it through photos, you would assume that it’s a snow covered mountain, but closer inspection reveals its true nature. These days thousands of tourists come from miles to bath in the (im sure urine filled) rock pools. Happily lathering themselves up with the white mud the sits at the bottom, we of course were no different. The surrounding city of course offers little else to this, so after a few hours we pushed on to province on Nevşehirwhich is the site of one of the strangest and most beautiful places I have been….. Cappadocia.

Cappadocia and the city of Goreme is like landing on the moon, volcanic rock form lunar like sculptures that we both found extremely alluring. This region was once populated by the Christians whom built their homes and churches into the rock, forming a system of fascinating underground cities. We also took advantage of Dorothy’s 4x4 capabilities and went off exploring the rocking landscape.

It was here that I had to temporarily say goodbye to May as I would venture further west towards the Iranian border and she would return to Istanbul to obtain her Indian visa. This was the first time I was to be truly tested, as May had been a huge support to me personally and was 50% of our little overland team.

The tourist trail ends!

I had been on the road for more than 14 hours, desperately trying to make up lost time. My destination was Doğubayazıt , home to the fabled resting place of Noah’s ark at the foot of Mount Ararat. For me it was the last town before the Iranian border. My day hadn’t gone so smoothly. I had a temporarily over heating Dorothy when I tried to tackle a mountain pass which would save me precious few hours (in reality I had to turn back and It cost me that much time again). It was now 10:30 and completely dark and I was still an hour from my ultimate destination…. I couldn’t go on, complete fatigue had set in, so I pulled up at a small town, that on initial analysis seemed fine. I checked into a shabby looking hotel, where the manager wanted upfront payment (this was my first warning sign). He assured me Dorothy was fine parked on the street and besides my room looked right out over her park space. I went back out to the van to grab something when I noticed a ragtag group of kids hanging around, when with a big rifle casually slung over his shoulder…. This didn’t put me at ease! I went back to my room and lay in bed and watched Dorothy for about half an hour. In this time, every passer-by took a little too much interest and finally when that same group of kids started checking the doors trying to get in, I had seen quite enough. I packed my things and was back on the road, willing myself to my ultimate destination. I checked into an overpriced hotel in Doğubayazıt at about 12:00 PM utterly exhausted.  I hurried of to bed as the next day I would need all my mental faculties, as I tackled the Iranian border.

Entering the 3rd Reich

It was perfect… I had it all set up…. We crossed the border into Germany and I hit the button to play “The Imperial March” (Darth Vader’s theme song from Star Wars). What perfect comedy! It was met with silence! I turned up the music a few notches in case Mayara had some sort of temporary hearing defect. Still nothing! I then proceeded to plead my case as to the genius of this joke, and she was not having any of it… It must be a Brazilian thing!

Our first destination was Heidelberg, which was perfectly placed on the river Neckar. One of those truly spectacular places, it had the whole medieval trip going and it was perfect to amble around in. Unfortunately we spent the first couple of hours battling to acquire a Wi-Fi connection at the local Starbucks. Being bound for Mainz with no planned spot for the night, and we were desperately scouring the “Couch Surfing” website to find candidates to help us….  

 “Jogging!  Although I think it’s pronounced “Yogging”

In the end we failed to find a couch surfing host or a free overnight stay, so we were forced to cave for the first time on the journey and pay an excessive 26 Euros for a camping ground. In the end it wasn’t too bad considering it was situated on the beautiful river Rhine (on a side note, the whole reason we ventured towards the River Rhine, is because my father would never speak to me again if I missed it). We soon learned that the city of Mainz was holding its annual Marathon, where hoards of Germans flood the city to take part in the event and as a result half the city was now blocked off. It is always fascinating to me the joy people get from running for an extended period of time, but I think the Germans have got it right. Right after the finish line the hordes of runners are shuffled into a tent, and are promptly served hot dogs and beer….. Now I think I get it.

Benji: The couch surfing enthusiast

Coming off the autobahn into Munich we went through our first police inspection. The ever efficient German police must have concluded that May and I fit the bill as international drug lords. As I detailed my intentions for Munich and our grand adventure they quickly realised we weren’t the criminal masterminds that would jeopardise the future of all Bavarians. In fact they seemed genuinely interested in our trip, in which I was happy to indulge them (I wonder if they have checked out our page after I gave them flyers?)

We soon made contact with Benjamin and his wife Ping, who kindly agreed to host both of us for the night. This was our first couch surfing experience and what a wonderful couple to introduce us to this world. They showed us their city, cooked for us and were so genuine in their love for travel and indeed hosting people through the couch surfing community.  The day of our departure from Munich, Benji drove us to the only concentration camp to remain open throughout the entire length of the war, Dachau.

A bland and depressing place, but never the less, important to visit. For anybody who has ever visited a place like this, I assume the feeling is the same and you leave emotionally drained. This was only interrupted by a truly spectacular bail by Benji. I liken it to sitting in Church as a kid, and trying desperately not to laugh, you know it’s inappropriate, but funny is funny. The problem is that it seemed to take 15 minutes for the big fella to finally hit the deck… Sorry Benji , hope the foot is ok mate. J

“This is Austria! Not some Bazaar in Morocco”

Was the response I received to our feeble attempt at negotiating the price for our campsite in Salzburg, this same sentiment was echoed in similar fashion on two other occasions. (I’ll get back to this later) Austrian driving rules state children less than 12 years of age and below the height of 1.5m are not allowed to travel in the front unless they are in a proper child restraint seat. Otherwise they must be fastened with a seat belt at the back. You must purchase a tax sticker permitting use of the motorways, you must use dipped headlights at all times, horns are not allowed anywhere, parking must all face the same way and on the right hand side of the road. Basically rules are rules and there is no room for negotiation.

I was definitely the worst dressed in Salzburg. I was looked at with disgust by of the locals (I suppose I couldn’t really blame them, then or now) Salzburg is the birth place of Mozart and it seems that the locals are constantly trying to live up to this expectation, with 17^th Century classical compositions echoing through the cobbled stone streets, and everybody dressed ready to attend the opera. All in all, I found it all rather pretentious. That is, until we met Kristina!

Kristina was an Austrian arts director (seemed to be in her mid-seventies), who has lived in New York & Los Angeles, been a top class ballet dancer and rubbed shoulders with A class celebrities.  We met her as she was scarfing down two burgers at McDonalds.  “Go to the youtube!” was her enthusiastic request as we were stealing Macca’s WiFi. She directed us to a Youtube clip of her in Salzburg talking with Tom Cruise, “Press see-more button” which revealed additional information about the clip and Kristina’s credentials. As we spoke, I commented that the city itself was quite small, her retort was “Just like the brains of the people living in it” she went on how she didn’t like Salzburg very much and how she longed for the “big apple”. Kristina was a gem and was a huge breath of fresh air in a potentially stuffy atmosphere.

As I said previously the attitude of “This is Austria!” only made sense when we left Vienna for Budapest in Hungary. Austria lies in the middle of Germany, Slovenia, Slovakia & Hungary (not to mention Italy, Switzerland and the Czech Republic) and is somewhat of a Segue to Eastern Europe, where rules are not necessarily rules and a kind of anything goes attitude begins. It’s also where scams and petty crime starts becoming apparent, the Austrians definitely want to disassociate themselves with this.

Sat-Nav adventures in Europe

Leaving London

It’s a strange feeling at the best of times when leaving a place you have spent two of the best years of your life at, let alone leaving in a campervan for a 6 month drive, London to Australia. Having said that, I still found it harder than expected to say goodbye to all those who have changed me in so many ways. But as I’ve always seen it, you’re either moving forward or backwards! So I know the right thing for me is to move on…. The next adventure!

Late as usual

Dorothy, May and I steamed down the highway watching the clock tick by as we tried to make our ferry from Dover to Calais at 04:20, wondering how we managed to start this monumental road trip late. (In hindsight there was no other possible way it would have happened…. Fitting really) As we were closing in on the eastern docks at Dover it seemed as though we would make it just before cut off at check-in. As I approached the booth in Dorothy I am greeted by the ticketing lady “You must be Mr White?” They must have heard about my trip I thought!  Could have they been eagerly awaiting my arrival to answer all their questions about this crazy dream?  “You’re late!”…. I paused, and then stammered…. “Your ferry left at 04:20 AM, you booked for 04:20 in the morning”. It seems in my haste to book all the last minute bits and pieces, I had failed to recognise a 24 hour clock. (I’d like to say this is the first time something like this has happened) I gave a little embarrassed look, before she assured me there was a ferry leaving at 04:40 PM, and would only cost a few quid extra to catch a lift on that one. Relief!

That bitch on the Sat-Nav

After landing in Calais and entering the address for our overnight Aire (Aire de service – Free overnight campervan parks throughout France and some other parts of Europe) We gleefully made our way towards Gent (Belgium),full off anticipation and excitement. This soon turned to sheer frustration as we became victims of a cruel practical joke at the hands of Garmin (The brand of Sat Nav we are using). A preverbal wild goose chase proceeded, with the phrase “Re-Calculating” ringing in our ears.  After shouting and swearing at it, the bitch seemed to fall in line and we managed to find our rest spot for the night.

Gent was lovely the following morning, although I was struggling to get into the flow of travelling again. Maybe because it was the European vibe that I have mostly already travelled or the magnitude of what was in front of me hadn’t really sunk in yet. I felt a little ambivalent to what was all going on, and the geriatric tour groups didn’t help the feeling of the great adventure that I was shooting for.  Gent, and I suppose Belgium as a whole, seems to completely wedge between French and German culture, being pulled either side by these two giants. This in essence, creates a uniqueness that has a nice flavour, but nothing that was going to keep us around for long.

After a pre-game pep talk with the sat-nav, we set off for Reims, in France.  Reims is a nice functional city, where we got another taste of wild camping, this time with a couple of other motor homes.

Backpacking with retirees

Since we started this trip I have completely lost my sense of identity. I have the spirit of a backpacker but I am finding myself in the company of retirees.  We are mostly frequenting Aires or overnight stops, meeting retired couples, living the dream in their giant fully furnished motorhomes. It makes it a struggle to find those “like-minded people” backpackers are always seeking. I am however grateful at witnessing couples routinely shouting at each other for the most trivial things. Never the less we march on making our way through Strasbourg to what we discover as a gypsy haven.

Damn pikies

Strasbourg is simply a very attractive city full of the usual European grandeur…. But what intrigued me even more, is the number of damn pikies there were. I don’t know if there is any historical reason as to why this is but we soon learned they were not as welcoming to our little attempt at nomadic life. After sourcing a couple of aires, we checked out the first one…. We found a little gypsy community, full of dodginess and generally they seemed to be in a griftin mood.  Being the inquisitive sort we are, we pulled up for a closer look at pikies in their natural habitat. Like caged lions, they approached the fence to gawk at us, soon making their intentions very clear, we were definitely not welcome in their community…. Damn pikies!!!