 
### NAKED IN BUDAPEST

### Travels with a passionate nomad

By Heather Campbell Hapeta

Copyright 2007 Heather Hapeta

Smashwords Edition 2012

This book is available in print from the author at http://www.kiwitravelwriter.com

Cover photo (Bali) by Heather Hapeta

The author has asserted her moral rights in the work

Travel, memoir

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

ISBN 978-0-473-20542-3

~~~~

### For Richard, Renée, and Gregory (1970-1990)

Having a nomadic bag lady for a mother has not always been easy: thank you for your love.

Special thanks must go to Renée for the hours of work correcting my dyslexic spelling, unusual grammar and strange formatting - any inaccuracies still here are mine alone.

Thanks must also go to the many friends of Bill and Bob who made these journeys possible.

I'm grateful for the financial support from Creative Communities NZ (Christchurch) while working on this project.

~~~~

Table of Contents

Mabel & I run away

A bumpy landing and bears

Wandering in the west

Music and Murder

A Sikh, Muslim, & the White House

Frozen Eyeballs and Meatloaf

Whirling around Europe

Naked in Budapest

Family Roots and Castles

Turkish Charm School

Hippos, Crocs and a Canoe

Off on safari

Homeward bound

Body piercing & monsoons

An Elephant Wanders By

Most Bombed Country in the World

Happy New Year

Act your age

The Cockroach Stomp

London to Bali

Rough Roads & Amputees

The King and I

A Magnificent Obsession

London's my base

Homeward bound again

~~~~

### Mabel & I run away

'If the exploring of foreign lands is not the highest end or the most useful occupation of feminine existence it is at least more improving, as well as more amusing than crochet work' Mabel Sharman Crawford said in 1863. This feisty woman became my mentor as soon as we met.

We met; well I met her, in a book called Maiden Voyages I bought in Portland, Oregon. By then, I had already run away.

In my late forties, I still didn't know what I wanted to be when I grew up. I just knew I wanted more. Widowed - youngest child dead, two adult children away from home - and a secret desire to 'do something.'

Friends hitting the brick wall called '50' were not happy about the event. It's coming, it's coming, it's coming, drummed in my head: on its way ready or not. I needed to change the perception of that fast-approaching milestone that those friends were giving me - that it was the beginning of a downward slide. How could I look forward to this half-century event?

The germ of an idea was conceived. A late developer in some areas, perhaps I could play catch-up with the traditional Kiwi penchant for travel. Apart from six weeks in the USA and four in Australia, my travels had been confined to the length and breadth of New Zealand.

Thwarted at 17 by parents who would not sign the consent form for my passport, I angrily cancelled a booking to sail to Australia. Three years later, married and pregnant, all thoughts of travel flew to the graveyard for stymied dreams. But maybe now, now that my body and the calendar are screaming that time is galloping on, it's time to travel. That germ of an idea, like all living things, divides and multiplies.

Serious goal setting starts. I confide in friends who support my dreams and ignore the rest who say I am crazy. 'What about your retirement? What will you live on?' they ask. 'Who cares' I think. I intend to live until I die: I know life is short, the too-early deaths of my younger son Greg and husband Danny have shown me the tenuous hold we have on life.

Defiantly I put a sign on my notice board, AGING DISGRACEFULLY it says. Alongside it a list forms, Italy; Scotland; Ireland; Alaska; Zimbabwe, Turkey. As my bank balance grows, I measure it in chunks: enough for the plane ticket and then in multiples of 50 dollars - each chunk equal to a day's expense as a frugal backpacker.

What can I live without I wonder as I reduce my home to basics and treasures? Garage sale number one raises enough money for a backpack. The next purchases a fleece and waterproof jacket, while the third buys a sleeping bag and a purple and pink silk sleeping sheet.

Dreaming over the list, countries are added or removed as I devour guides and articles about far-flung places and daily my savings grow. No more Crunchie Bars or ice cream: I'd rather eat a meal in Istanbul I tell myself. Amazingly, instant gratification is learning to take a back seat after years of insisting I want it now.

Finally, right on target, I buy an 'around the world' ticket. My gift to myself for my fiftieth birthday: Mabel would approve and my paternal grandmother wouldn't be surprised - 'the how, why and when girl,' she called me.

Farewell parties are held and responsibilities are jettisoned along with keys to office, house and car. Is this the 'middlescence' that Gail Sheehy writes about in her book 'New Passages'? If so, I'm experiencing it. Middle-aged adolescence: just another Baby Boomer who wants it all.

So, was Mabel right? Is the exploring of foreign lands more improving and amusing than crochet work? Absolutely: for me it starts at the airport, even my body tingles with anticipation.

Maori friends arrive with a traditional bone carving for me to wear on my travels. It's been made specifically for me, the shape and carving showing the twists and turns of my life. They tell me it also carries the expectation that I will return safely home. They sing a waiata and our tears flow - do I really want to leave my friends and family for so long? Can I really find my way around the world? On my own? Will it push the birthday crisis out of my life?

Wiping tears, I go through customs and suddenly I'm a traveller - focusing on my trip and dropping off my day-to-day life like an old cloak. Already I'm living in the present - friends and family left on the other side of the security doors.

I find my seat, stow my gear, put the seatbelt on and read the safety instructions as we taxi to the runway. The plane's energy travels through my buttocks and on through the rest of my body until it's quivering in my fingers, toes and scalp. It feels like I'm on a horse that's straining at the bit. Let's go, let's go each quiver says. I agree. Let's get out of here. My emotions, so raw, so close to the surface that it feels like fear: adrenalin is coursing through my body, my mouth dry and my imagination, always vivid, is running wild.

While I no longer think the plane is going to crash on take-off, or that this will be my last view of home, I still count the rows to my nearest exit. Four back, or seven forward, I note and settle down with expectation. An adventure is about to happen, announcing itself in every cell of my body: finally the engines have enough power and we are airborne - I'm jettisoned off to explore the world.

Did my maternal great-great-grandparents feel this thrill as they left Ireland and England in the 1860s, then my paternal ones from Scotland just a few years later? No matter how basic my surroundings will be, I'll travel in luxury compared to their cramped quarters aboard clippers such as the William Miles, Labuan, or the Victory. Desperation or adventure, whatever motivated them to travel, has been passed down to me - a gift from the past that compels me to search, to seek, to explore, even when I'm afraid.

I'm not so much afraid of waves as they must have been, but fear of mundane things such as 'will I get lost between the international and domestic terminals in Los Angeles? Will I find a bed each night? With my lack of other languages, how far will sign language get me? Were they afraid? Did they have long worrying conversations in their mind like I do?

'Why travel?' I'm asked and don't have an answer: well not an immediate one that satisfies them or me. It makes me feel judged, strange. Travelling alone! Escaping? Keeping people distant? Escape or quest? I just know I'm travelling 'to' despite saying I'm 'running away' from home.

Hungry to travel, I don't know what I'm hungry for and if I did, would I need to go? I don't know where or what my private Arcadia is. If journeys are a way of gaining oneness with the world, then that oneness is my Arcadia - an emotional and physical trip to uncharted territories. Life will continue to chip away until whom or what I'm meant to be will appear - life will be the sculptor with me a block of stone. As I travel life will whisper or shout as it chisels and shapes me, showing what I need to learn.

Although I am not aware of it yet, I will be whispered to in a soup kitchen in New York, animals in Africa will ignore me - shouting in their silence how insignificant I am - and men and women in Turkey will tell me to be generous by their actions. OK Mabel let's go exploring, let's see if travel improves me: first stop, the U-S- of A.

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~~~~

### A bumpy landing and bears

'Imagine yourself in the middle of this field.' Ingrid had said in her letter. 'This is where I'll take you.' The photo is of the Mendenhall glacier, the foreground a field of fireweed blooming.

Standing among the flowers the picture now comes to life. Purple plants nearly reach my head and I'm thrilled, absolutely amazed, to be here in Alaska.

Ingrid and I met during her New Zealand travels and the subscription to 'Alaska,' a monthly magazine she sent me, kindled my desire to visit so added it to my list of places to visit 'one day.'

My first flight takes me from Auckland to Los Angles; my first hiccup is in Los Angles. Pointing to a blank gap on the immigration form, an efficient customs officer snaps at me, 'Write the address where you are staying.'

I have no booking so tell her, 'I'm not sure where I'll be staying'

'You have to have an address,' she again snaps, 'Stand over there.'

Worried I'll miss my connection I rummage in my bag. I know I have the youth hostel address somewhere in my backpack, but that is on the conveyer belt on the other side of immigration. Even though it will be at least a week before I arrive in Alaska I write Ingrid's Post Office address on the form. I'm beckoned back to the counter and present the modified form.

'This is not an address,' she snarls, getting agitated with me. 'A post office box is this big, you are not going to stay in something this big' she says as she draws the size in the air. Four times. Her loud voice, big hair and long, bright red, acrylic nails draw attention to us and I want to disappear. She continues her tirade, 'No address no entry. Stand aside. Next.'

I slink to the side, again: I had not expected such a bumpy landing. Searching my address book once more, I find a one-time contact in Seattle. I don't really know her but write her name, address and phone number on the darn form. Success, my passport's stamped and I'm finally free to enter but my backpack isn't on the carousel. Already it's obvious that travelling is not easy.

'Ms Hapeta?' An airline employee greets me; my 16-kilo pack's beside her. She's here to escort me to the domestic plane. So much for all my worries about getting lost: stay in the now Heather, I remind myself as she hurries me to the plane; I have a short trip to San Francisco and my next problem.

I have mail to post for a friend - her friend is dying and if I post the letter here, she will hopefully receive it before her death. I put the dollar note in the machine but it's rejected. I try again but again my note's refused.

'Surely this isn't going to beat me,' I mutter, but after a number of attempts to control the machine, I'm beginning to have doubts. How humiliating that it's defeating an intelligent woman like me.

For the last time I look at the note, it should be simple, one letter, one vending machine and one one-dollar note. Perhaps my promise to post this letter immediately will not be fulfilled. I try again, not wanting an obstacle like this beat me so early in my eagerly awaited and saved for, trip. Again it refuses my offering.

I'm sure that people are looking at me strangely, sniggering and discussing me - a free floorshow for them between flights.

'What is she doing? Does she speak English? Should we ring security?' The imagined public humiliation makes me walk away in shame. The committee that lives in my head is beginning its litany of derogatory names. If a stranger said them, murder would be justified; however I can abuse myself with immunity.

I sit down with a coffee and contemplate a year of defeats. Maybe I should go home already. The greenback, still in my hand, laughs at me and as I gaze at it suddenly know what the machine meant. Of course, how stupid of me, face up means the face up! The guy's face upward - how obtuse can you be? I've solved the problem - I'm not so dumb after all. My travels can continue I decide as I walk back to the machine. I know it will give me a stamp this time.

A few steps away from my destination a man blocks my path. I'm impatient, almost able to taste success. Moments later he steps aside from the vile machine. I take the last steps triumphantly, confidently.

Hanging over the front of the machine a sign has been hung. The large, red letters state SORRY MACHINE OUT OF ORDER. I laugh with relief, wasn't me, just a faulty stamp dispenser. I buy a stamp in the bookstore. However, my day is not over, I still have one more flight and then I can go to bed.

I'm grateful for a lift to the Seattle Youth Hostel: I'm exhausted and looking forward to sleep after 20 hours of travel.

It's full - 300 beds and not one for me. I can't believe it. 'Can I stay in the lobby; it's only a few hours until daylight?'

'No. Sorry Ma'am, you cannot stay in the lobby. Here's a map of the area; there are many hotels in the downtown area.'

At 3:30am I'm on the streets with my head giving me a lecture about being useless, stupid and I'm wondering where to go. Struggling up a long flight of steps with my heavy backpack, I turn left, sure I'll find something and I start walking.

'Walk tall, act confident and look as though you know where you're going,' my mind tells me and I obey: all around me are the people of the night. Two drunks are arguing as I walk briskly past while others are sleeping \- cardboard and newspaper their mattress and blankets.

'I luuurrv redheaded women' a man slurs. I ignore him and continue walking towards Pike Street Market where I hope to find a cheap hotel. Ten or 15 minutes are all it takes - but it feels like an hour - to find a bed. Already I'm learning; book ahead if arriving at night. When I wake, I ring the forgotten woman from my address book: the phone has been disconnected.

Two days into my travels, I'm unsure of my ability to travel solo for a year long adventure: how will I cope with fear, loneliness and officious people? I push these thoughts aside and, despite lingering concerns, I'm eager to move on to Alaska.

Bellingham, the port the ferry leaves from, is a short distance from the Canadian border and the youth hostel, an old cottage, is set in the town's rose garden. Three deer are nibbling on the plants; lips curled back to avoid the thorns, under the 'chase deer away' signs. I photograph them rather than obey it.

Recovering from the suicide of my younger son, Greg, I'd worked as a social worker with an organisation that assists the friends and families of people who have died by suicide. I'm keen to unwind so starting my travels with a cruise, albeit on a ferry, is a sort of pre-trip holiday.

Perhaps this year of travel will help me decide on a new career: a new direction. A woman-of-independent-means sounds good but highly unlikely. I wonder how Mabel Sharman Crawford, my hero from the 19th century, got money to travel.

Travelling on a tight budget so my travels can be longer and further than I dreamt, I have a one-month Alaskan travel pass that allows me to use buses, trains and boats as I wish, the clock starts ticking when I step on board. One way I am saving money is by eschewing a cabin and sleeping on the deck.

The huge ocean-liner-sized ferry is backed into the wharf when I arrive. I'm at the front of the queue and as the gates open, I hurry up gangways to the upper deck. I'm surprised at how well appointed the stern sun deck is and I grab a sun-lounger in the front row, right under a heater. Rolling out my new sleeping bag, I stake my claim, rather as a gold miner might do. My bed for the next three nights looks good - my bag is purple with a bright green lining - and my view will be an ever-changing vista unfolding behind the boat.

Exploring, I find showers for us rough-sleepers along with spacious lounges, bars, TV and game rooms for everyone. Leaning on the railings, I watch people boarding and vehicles being loaded. A small plane that appears to have its wings folded along its side follows a huge grader and many four-wheel-drive vehicles. The sun deck is filling up, mainly with Alaskans returning home after summer vacations and other travellers and two small tents are being erected on the deck \- I hope that they have heavy bags to stop them blowing into the sea.

The horn sounds and we are underway. Greg would be impressed that finally I'm travelling and, always proud of me, he'd be extremely confident of my ability to survive. It would amaze him to know I've had moments of insecurity already and, feeling sad that he's not here to know of my trip, I snuggle into my colourful cocoon, watch the stars and am soon rocked to sleep.

Waking early, humpback whales are breaching off the port side. Throwing themselves skyward they crash back into the sea with a huge splash and a school of dolphins escorts us for hours. The ship's speaker system alerts us to sights we may miss.

'A school of Orca whales lie directly ahead of us,' a voice comes through a speaker. 'They are travelling in a northerly direction and it seems we will pass them on the port side.' Immediately the left side is lined with people as we peer for our first glimpse of these dramatically patterned black and white mammals.

'There they are,' I hear and look in the direction the speakers are pointing. I see them. It's wonderful; my eyes fill with tears. I never thought I would see these, what a bonus and privilege I think.

They remind me of the marine mammal rescue course I completed last year. While learning to refloat beached whales, it was a huge plastic Orca, filled with water and air that we 'saved' as the tide retreated from my local estuary in Christchurch. Seeing them in the wild reminds me how worthwhile such courses are in places that experience the inexplicable whale strandings.

Dinner over - dry noodles soaked in hot water, the travellers' staple diet - I go to the front lounge to hear a talk by a park-ranger. He tells us of the scenery we will witness the next day: the Alaskan Marine Highway will take us past hundreds of islands covered with rain forests and through stretches of water that can only be navigated according to the tide.

A harp and violin duo entertains us until I go to the bow to watch the navigation lights. It seems as if we will sail onto the island we're so close, but the bright lights lead the captain through what looks like a Christmas scene or cave of glow-worms.

At most ports we have a few hours to explore while cargo is loaded and unloaded. In one village, against my better judgement, I join a taxi with other travellers to go to the dump where, according to someone's guidebook, we will see bears. The driver takes us up the hill at the back of the town where we find it has been bear proofed; a heavy wire fence surrounds the cast out rubbish to stop bears scavenging.

In Ketchikan, where we stop for some hours, I watch a concert put on by the local Tlingkit (pronounced with a K) tribe, my introduction to their legends and wonderful totem poles. One that looks like a frog as well as one with bears climbing down the pole particularly appeals to me. The noisy, shiny, black raven also plays a prominent part in many Alaskan legends and the dancers emulate it.

Our journey takes three days and as we sail into Juneau. I wonder if I will recognise my friend, but as with many of my worries, it's unfounded. 'Hi,' she says, 'I was wondering if I would recognise you'

'Me too.'

Laughing at our common fears she throws my bag in the back of her pickup and we set off for Douglas Island where she lives. I recount my bumpy landing and immigration problems. 'I'm laughing now,' I say, 'but at the time I thought my journey was doomed before it started.' Ten minutes later, I'm ecstatic.

'There's a bear, a bear!' A small black bear has run across the road in front of us, 'I know I'm in Alaska now.' Ingrid chuckles.

'I think they were my first words in Alaska too.'

Over the next days we explore, hiking up the side of the Mendenhall Glacier, she points out the part of the glacier where she was married and I photograph mushrooms and other fungi. Eating at the Fiddlehead Restaurant I'm introduced to the one of the best fish I have ever tasted - halibut - and with salad and homemade bread, it's a fantastic meal.

The harbour is full of cruise ships, the street's full of people and I'm horrified to be taken as a tourist off one of the boats. Can't people tell I am a real traveller I think - time rich and cash poor - travel snobbery takes many forms and this is mine.

An advert for a day trip to the Tracy Arm Glacier - one of the 5000 glaciers that inhabit Alaska - captures my eye. I feel nauseous in the little boat on the rough sea, but the scenery is well worth such a small problem. Seals - mothers and cubs - lie on small icebergs and all around us, huge brilliant blue icebergs float. I wonder how white can be so blue.

Leaning on the rails of this small boat: the sound of the ice cracking before it plunges, calving, into the sea is loud and our vessel rocks in the waves they cause. Again, I have tears in my eyes. I'm well-wrapped \- hat, gloves, scarf and jacket - and I'm thrilled at the beauty and grandeur of the world, grateful to the genes and circumstances of my life that has invested me with a value for life, along with a burning desire to see the world.

The clock on my Alaskan ticket is ticking and I need to move on after I rid my pack of unwanted junk. Items that seemed absolutely essential are no longer necessary. Did I really think I would use these beauty products? Out they go. Why do I have a heavy case for my glasses when I rarely take them off? It's discarded, as are books I've read and other odds and ends. Individually they're light - collectively they add weight to my back.

Two weeks before leaving New Zealand I was having tremendous back pain and was unsure I'd be able to travel. After treatment, the muscular skeletal specialist told me, 'Do these exercises before you board planes, between flights and when you get off. In fact, you will need to do them regularly.'

'No way! Lie in the airport doing that? You must be joking.'

'Well it's your back, your choice.'

Vanity loses and determined to ensure my spine lasts the distance, I resolve to do them. In my vivid, often alcohol-fuelled, past, I have done more undignified and unseemly things in public, so in airports and bus stations around the world I resolve to lie on benches and stretch my muscles, twist my spine and pretend I'm alone.

Oh for the skills of another woman travelling in Alaska, Maud Parrish (1878-1976). She says in her book, Nine Pounds of Luggage that she travelled around the world with nine pounds (approx. 4 kilo) of luggage and a banjo: I've reduced mine to 15 kilos.

Back on the ferry for the last part of the travel by water, I'm about to leave the panhandle behind and head for the interior. Hours later I'm at the end of the road, or rather the end of the sea-lane, tomorrow I'll travel by bus.

The Skagway Museum has good background to the history of gold mining days and the streets have a movie-like Wild West feel. Advertising for a local restaurant amuses me. Road-kill is on the menu; 'You kill it-We grill it' it says. Moose are huge; I wouldn't want to be in any vehicle that hits the strange looking beast with huge antlers, drooping nose and a weird ability to eat under water.

The bus trip's long, with an overnight stay in a tiny village and I'm annoyed I have to stay at the hotel with its high prices, it seems a captive market is being exploited: nevertheless, the scenery is impressive \- wide expanses, plains, mountains and glaciers.

Anchorage surprises me with enormous vegetables and flowers growing at the visitors' information centre. It's early autumn with 15-hour days and daily the sunrise and sunset change perceptibly.

I am not the oldest 'youth' at the youth hostel. In the kitchen, I meet a 93-year old woman who helped start this hostel. Back for a school reunion, she's staying in the hostel; affirming youth is a state of mind, of attitude not numbers and I wish I could spend time with her - like Mabel I know she has lessons to teach that I need to learn. Unfortunately, just as I can't find Mabel's 130-year-old books, I'm not able to ask her questions that race around my head.

Last night vivid dreams invaded my sleep just as they have for the past couple of weeks - bright, colourful and clearly remembered each morning - I should keep a journal of them I think, but don't.

Days later I'm on the only train in Alaska. According to the guard it's an engineering feat to keep it going as unstable permafrost makes it difficult to maintain the rails. Along the way, he throws newspapers and mail from the train, points out a beaver dam, and tells tales of weird and wonderful neighbours.

From the tiny Denali National Park train station I make my way to the hostel. The large tent the YHA use over the summer months has been dismantled; however, they have a bed for me in the main house, so I settle in then go to the park headquarters to plan my days.

Ingrid's given me a little bell to hang from my daypack to keep me safe from bears. The theory is they will hear me coming and get out of my way as they prefer not to have contact with humans: I have heard many stories - true and urban myths - of people killed in bear attacks and don't wish to be included in that number. I plan to stay on the track, whistling, carrying no food and ringing my bell.

The next day I climb aboard the park bus and get taken further into the park. Mt. Denali is a shy mountain and shows her head rarely. Over the past month, she has hidden herself for 25 out of the 31 days but today she exposes her lofty top.

Books I've read about Alaska tell of bears eating willow and I wonder where the trees are. The tundra is covered with short scrubby bush and plants and I'm amazed when I'm told that these 6-inch high shrubs are willows: stunted by the weather, the trees I was expecting did not exist.

I don't walk far before I see a bear. I freeze. She has two cubs with her. I'm petrified, excited and amazed all at the same time and I sink to my knees to watch. Mum is large; her cubs are like bundles of lard, roly-poly and cuddly-looking. She looks towards me, almost nonchalantly and I remain very still, hardly daring to breathe, while the cubs appear to have no worries. I discard my plans for hiking - I can walk any day and prefer to sit and watch. A herd of caribou runs over the hill, a perfect silhouette for a photo and the tiny plants and berries fascinate me. Mostly I just watch the bears.

Too soon it's time to return to the main camp and, silently, I gloat over the people on the bus who didn't see any wildlife: as I recount my tale over dinner, I realise I hadn't rung my bell. The next day Denali is hidden, so content myself with crunching over yellow leaves and admiring the cottonwood trees straight, white trunks closer to park headquarters.

Alaska's most northern city is Fairbanks and I trade a few hours washing towels and sheets for a bed for three nights. At midnight I join Thelma and her daughter - African Americans from Alabama - and go searching, unsuccessfully, for the aurora borealis.

I'm offered a job - looking after the hostel for the winter - so the owner can go surfing in Hawaii but uncertain of my ability to cope with an Alaskan winter and with many plans, refuse and move on. Time is passing quickly, winter's nipping at my heels and to get value from the travel-pass, I need to move on: resisting an invitation to visit North Pole, a tourist town that hosts Santa, despite being nowhere near the North Pole.

Before leaving, I visit a club for people with alcoholism where I am greeted warmly. I spend the day there and they tell me about Alaska and some Alaskans. 'This State is a magnet for drinkers, nomads, criminals on the run and just about anyone else who doesn't fit into society' a guy tells me. 'I qualified on all counts before I got sober' he continues. I admit that I too could have easily escaped to Alaska and fitted in. A woman gives me a coffee mug for my travels Stark Raven Sober in Alaska it proclaims: she's wearing a sweater that says Alaska, where the odds are good but the goods are odd. She tells me the male to female ratio in Alaska is good for women but that the sweater says it all.

Back over the same route to reconnect with the ferry, I meet an Australian woman who has spent the summer cycling around this huge state: she offers me a night in her tent to avoid the hotel costs.

The ground is hard and stony and the wind creates a yellow, leaf-storm but we erect the tent quickly, share ingredients for a meal, then settle down. I'm not equipped for sleeping outdoors and need to improvise. Every piece of clothing that I'm not wearing is stuffed into my purple and pink tie-dyed silk sleeping-bag liner for a mattress, and with the hood of my sleeping bag pulled snugly around my head, I lie down.

I can feel the contours of the ground, every stone and lump. I'm also aware of the permafrost, frozen ground half-metre below me - my makeshift mattress does not remove the chill. Listening to the night sounds I wonder if I will sleep and soon its morning - I have slept like the proverbial log. Biscuits and coffee for breakfast taste like a banquet, the sun is rising between the mountains, birds are singing: all is well with the world.

When the bus stops for lunch, I visit the little museum, just in time for a sled dog display. The woman who owns the dogs tells me about the famous Iditerod Race, in which she's participated. She too is wearing an Alaskan message-sweater: Alaska - where men are men and women win the Iditerod and she chooses me for the demonstration ride. The dogs, a mixture of colours, race over the ground with me being pulled behind them: an exhilarating highlight as I travel on the last scheduled bus out of the interior before winter sets in.

Sitka; Haines; Denali; Fairbanks; Skagway; Juneau, names linked so romantically to the last frontier: Alaska, you have ensured I will take heed of your little blue state flower and I will forget-you-not.

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### Wandering in the West

Two harpists accompany us on the ferry trip south; I stop for a last night in Juneau, disembark for a trip around Petersburg then, leave the boat in Prince Rupert, Canada. After a couple of days I head overland for Vancouver where I see my first racoon and a baby beluga whale; it's eight weeks old and today is making its first public appearance - staying close to mum.

At the bottom of the Lynn Canyon, I look up at the steps I need to take - 206 of them. On day 35 of my round-the-world travels I feel a little fitter but this will be the proof or otherwise of my fitness. I tackle them one at a time, concentrating only on the next step, counting as I go. At step-number 149, I pause for two minutes then push on - when I reach the top I've impressed myself.

The woman beside is getting up my nose - literally. I refuse to suffer any longer and move away from her acrid body but at the next stop a man boards and sits side me: he too gets up my nose. Every few minutes he rubs a pungent cream on his brow, under his nose and even pushes his hand down his shirt to massage the cure-all ointment onto his chest.

The seat beside the driver is empty so I move to it and introduce myself as a Kiwi-on-tour. He responds by pointing out places of interest as we travel to Portland, Oregon, home of some shirt-tail-relatives - the ones that don't really belong, but get you by marriage and they're waiting when I roll in on the Greyhound bus.

The balance between sightseeing and feet-on-the-ground stuff like family meals, travel talk, relaxing in the hot-tub and lying-on-the-floor-exercises each morning is enjoyable. Portland's a great city and at the biggest bookstore in the world, I buy Worst Trips, which I find funny and reassuring: I meet Mabel in the same shop.

Seattle baseball team - the Mariners - acquires me as supporter and I watch Doris and Bob's grandson play American football: memories of winters of watching Greg playing rugby football brings a wave of sadness - the loss of his leg changed his life and ultimately led to his death.

My accent causes problems. 'Pardon? I didn't get that.' I repeat my name again. And again and again, 'Oh Heather' they finally say - I think, that's what I said the first time.

Up the Olympic Peninsula we drive, past Mt St Helen, ferry to Whidbey Island and leave over Deception Bridge then through the Cascade Mountains to Lake Chelan where we spend a week exploring even more. Autumn colours are everywhere and as well as the usual flags flying in the USA, a power station has a huge garden with flowers painting the stars and stripes and I see my first woodpecker.

Muirs' tours continue through Spokane, Superior and over the continental divide. I'm again amazed to see snow on trees - I'm used to seeing trees stop at the snowline. In Chubbuck, Idaho, I'm bid farewell: my new room has deer heads gazing sightlessly down at my bed. Dave introduces them to me. '... and that beautiful little hind is the last thing I killed. She looked straight at me as pulled the trigger and I immediately knew I didn't want to shoot ever again.'

After exploring Yellowstone, with its herds of bison with their thick carpet-fur, I weave south, watching a 300-head herd of elk travelling along the Grand Teton Mountains to their Jackson Hole winter-feeding area. Finally, after learning to make applesauce, going to a party, a craft show, buying a cowgirl type fringed-top and developing my tenth film, I head south to Salt Lake City when the snow starts.

In Temple Square I check the Mormon records and add another layer to my genealogical research and when I get back to the hostel, the soles of my feet are blistered after hours on hot pavements.

The hostel is grotty and testosterone smelling: most of the seedy-looking guys are not travellers but living here while working in ski resorts. The only other travellers are three young French students who also hate the place: the next day we share a rental vehicle and head south.

We talk our way out of a speeding ticket, stop every hour or so for them to smoke and I laugh at signs at an animal shelter: 'self-cleaning cats available' says one, while another declares 'our pups runneth over.'

Bryce Canyon has more animal signs - warning the prairie dogs have fleas that are infected with bubonic plague. In the most advanced country in the world I am at risk of being infected with a 17th century disease. I don't see any dogs, however the monoliths - which the Paiute Indians believe are people who have performed bad deeds during their lifetime - are impressive: prosaic scientists say erosion created the sandstone pinnacles and mazes. A cheap motel, over-decorated with homemade frills, flounces and flowery prints, provides a good sleep on soft beds and the hotcakes, maple syrup and bacon breakfast fuels us for the day. We're soon in Zion National Park, driving down a kilometre-long tunnel - getting tantalising peeks through window-shaped holes at the sculptured canyons and cliffs.

Walking up to the waterfall grotto, I meet an escapee from a health-farm. She is a doctor's wife and tells me that she needs to lose weight and tone her body: 'It's not good for a doctor to have a stressed wife - I do so much for his career and have to get away every few months.' She also tells me she envies my casual life style and wishes she had the money to do the same: I don't tell her of the tight budget or deaths, alcoholism and other emotional pain that's allowed me to value life.

An hour later I am dozing in the back seat when I'm jolted awake: an old couple has hit us in the rear. It takes two hours to fill in the forms at the police station. 'We are so very happy you are travelling with us. We couldn't have made this problem be solved without you. Our English is too bad and the police very confusing. Thank you, thank you.' They present me with free accommodation in Las Vegas where the four of us will sleep in a king-sized bed - it seems they have paid for two people. The evening's spent eating; I put two quarters in a slot machine - unsuccessfully; walking the warm neon-lit streets and watching a Rod Stewart imitator: it's my elder son's birthday and I leave a message on his answer-phone.

I ring another shirt-tail-relative - my sister-in law's auntie - and leaving my 21-year-old companions continue onto Palm Springs. I soon realise that most Americans find our casual Kiwi just-turn-up or ring-the-day-before attitudes hard to understand and resolve to be more considerate despite usually making travel decisions daily.

For two weeks, Margaret is a wonderful guide to California: Palm Oasis, the Saltern Sea and San Diego are on the list and over Halloween we go to San Diego - we eat out often and again I am fooled by chips on the menu. Just as my taste buds are salivating for big, fat, long, hot, chips I'm dashed into reality and my saliva dries up as I'm presented with a small pile or packet of crisps - something that's never on my shopping list. I'm taken on expeditions to explore the Living Desert, eat apple pie in Cherry Valley, drink date and cactus milkshakes and we wander among the wonderful rocks of Joshua Tree - nature is really showing off on a grand scale.

I tell her of my only other time in Southern California when I stayed in house with piranhas in the fish tank and how days later, in another house, I had been woken by a gunshot. 'I was sure it was a burglar and then wondered if my host had killed himself. When I got brave enough to explore I find the coffee pot on, toast and eggs cooking and the home owner thrilled he'd killed a gopher - shot it from his bedroom window.' La Quinta is more subdued and Margaret eventually catapults me towards my next destination.

Williams, Arizona has the dubious honour of being the last town to be bypassed by Route 66 and we travel through there on the way to Flagstaff, Sunset Crater and Wupatiki National Monument: then onto Sedona, down to Montezuma's Castle and Apache Junction and onto Tucson. A Mission Church we visit has a spiritual atmosphere to it and, among the painted walls, at the base of one called 'the sorrowful mother' I light candles for Greg and three other young people who died too young. I wonder if there's life after death: will Miako, Andrew, Chop, or Greg know I'm thinking of them?

Despite travelling on a non-stopping highway, we make a fast photo stop: 'State Prison,' the sign says, 'don't stop for hitchhikers.' Further along the highway to Phoenix we hear a helicopter near us - we eventually realise we're making the noise - it's a flat tyre. I take the flat one off and just as I am ready to put the spare on, a Mexican man stops to help. At the next garage we have the puncture repaired: while we wait Margaret introduces me to a Mexican fruit cup - a bowl of pineapple, Mexican potato, coconut and watermelon - cooling and tasty. Our final destination is De Grazia's gallery - an interesting mixture of good, great and indifferent artwork - then I'm deposited at the Phoenix backpacker hostel where I again become a traveller instead of a guest and Margaret's home will return to normal. Bizarrely, I find the hostel expects all travellers to do a task each day - I sign up to vacuum the women's dorm.

At a display of native museum crafts and history, I watch a young Hopi man carving a kachina doll. 'We make these for our daughters and nieces. They contain the spirit essence of everything in the real world so when they get married they will have about 15 or 20 of them to bring them luck.' They are too expensive for me and I'll have to rely on my own luck: luckily, I'm lucky.

The bus fare to New Mexico is the same as a flight so I save a day and fly. Santa Fe is beautiful and once again I have to sign up for a chore: I sweep the front of the adobe building. The town-square tempts me with Indian artefacts and two days later, when I get to Albuquerque, I follow up on my Indian education.

Noise from a drum rolls through the courtyard and reverberates off the walls as the dance performance begins in the Indian Pueblo Cultural Centre. The young dancers are traditionally dressed and the eagle dance is evocative of the North American symbol. One of the elders explains another dance: it starts as a child's game with hoops being jumped through and moved over the body at enormous speed and dexterity. As they get older, more and more hoops are added and we all burst into applause when an agile young man dances with seven hoops.

After soaking up the sun and history it's time for more excellent Mexican food. Dishes I've never heard of have become part of my vocabulary: sapodillas, enchiladas, burritos or huevous rancheros now trip off my tongue and the meals - accompanied by the wonderful red or green chilli - go down my throat. I could live here I decide: the warmth, the food and the people all appeal.

Is it really only five weeks since I left Alaska, only three months since I ran away from home? It seems as if I've been travelling forever. Conversely, it also seems as if time is flying so fast my year is being swallowed, that I won't have enough time.

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### Music and Murder

'That's not too far away' I think perusing the map of America. I'm still in Albuquerque, New Mexico and my finger is on Memphis, Tennessee, home of my heartthrob, Elvis: The King.

I have just experienced my first Thanksgiving with friends I met in New Zealand: my contribution was to clean the silverware and make a kiwifruit pie. Amazingly, in this land of pie-lovers, it's the first time any of them have eaten such a pie - while they're eating it, I devour one of my favourites, their traditional pumpkin pie.

I've loved my time in New Mexico: Santa Fe, walking by the Rio Grande, exploring the old town, watching dinosaur bones being cleaned the museum and observing otters build a dam at the IMAX theatre. I also went to an art gallery opening, a thanksgiving service in a building that has stained glass windows celebrating many of the world's religions and was given a massage to celebrate my 11th sobriety birthday. Remembering the saying about guests and fish going off after three days - and I've been with my hosts for two weeks - undeniably it's time to move on.

I've got to know quite a few people in this great mile high city. On most mornings, I joined a group of people for breakfast at a Mexican restaurant, where I surprise them - a Kiwi eating real chilli on eggs for breakfast. This morning, as I say goodbye, a Mexican woman gives me a T-shirt with huge red chillies on it, a reminder of our dawn patrol breakfasts.

Now on a Greyhound bus, I'm off to see the King: it will take about 24 hours to cross Texas, Oklahoma and Arkansas then into Tennessee: I've been cautioned about this form of transport.

'Oh you shouldn't travel on them. They're dangerous; the penal system uses those buses for sending prisoners home and transferring them too. I think you should fly.' When they realise I still intend to use the bus despite the warnings they say 'Well you be very careful you hear.'

I look around, wondering if convicts surround me. I see a cross section of people; the usual noisy talker, the nose-picker, the smelly ones and crying kids, interspersed with the compulsory stupid-question-asker and the deep sleepers. It seems no different to any other bus I've been on. The worst part of travelling by bus is getting to and waiting at, depots that are always in the most dubious part of town and the hangout place for some of society's unfortunates.

Changing buses in Oklahoma City the next bus is nearly full: one of the front seats is empty. 'Is someone using this seat?' I ask the large, elegantly dressed African American woman sitting beside the vacant one.

'You can't sit here,' she says eyeballing me and slamming a bag down on the seat. I feel as though I have been slapped, my gut tells me she is not saving it for anyone. Feeling judged and found racist, I move down the bus. No one sits by her for the next two hours.

Arriving at Memphis, sore back, weary and a mouth that tastes like a men's locker-room from some strange peppermints, I study my Let's Go USA guide, find the hostel address and indulgently use a taxi to get there.

It's a grand old house: a two-storey mansion and I have a room of ballroom-like proportions to myself: travelling during off-peak season has its advantages. It seems the Pilgrim Fathers have taught Americans to be falsely modest and this usually means separate sleeping arrangements for everyone. Here, men stay away from the old house in an annex, in dorms, while I, the only woman, have a choice of two double beds, a huge soft couch, or a chaise lounge in this wonderful room.

Only a short bus ride from the city centre and although Graceland is on my agenda, I want to save a whole day for Elvis, so explore the city and on Mud Island walk along the reproduction of America's principal waterway. Mark Twain called the 3976 kilometre-long (2348 miles) Mississippi 'the crookedest river in the world.' This replica is less than a kilometre (½ mile) and I walk its length in the time it would take to cross the real thing by the bridge that towers over the site. My geography is improved as I'm guided physically and historically along the riverbank from near the Canadian border to the Gulf of Mexico.

On the downtown trolley we stop briefly; a Japanese film crew is making an advertisement for TV. The star, a Japanese Elvis swings onto the trolley and then off again but I'm not quick enough to capture a photo of an oriental Elvis.

Minutes later another production crew block our way, this time it's not so simple \- the trolley hits the microphone boom; or did the boom hit the trolley? I stay on board to watch the drama. The driver is angry, the film crew yells too and the star, not an Elvis, has to cool his heels while everyone waits for the police. A mother and daughter are also angry.

'This is not good enough. I pay taxes and expect to be taken down the route when I buy a ticket. I will not allow my daughter to miss her concert just because you're inefficient. She's been looking forward to this for weeks. I want a refund for the taxi - and my ticket - I will send the bill to the Tram Company.' The atmosphere changes once she and her strident voice leave: the police arrive and all voices lower. Police and transport authorities take statements; photograph the non-existent damage to the trolley and some 40 minutes later, drama over, the tram continues its short journey - my destination the Lorraine Motel, site of a genuinely dramatic event: Martin Luther King Junior was killed here in April 1968.

I feel old, amazed that I clearly remember this awful event and the 1960s struggle for civil rights for black Americans. I walk slowly past the exhibits and arriving at the bus climb on board. 'Move to the back,' a recording tells me. 'Move to the back of the bus.' Tears slide down my face as I remember the brave women and men who eventually stopped moving 'to the back' and changed the racist laws.

The sixties were an important time for me too, flower power or blooming idiots we were called. Idealistic, the first of the baby-boomers, we wanted to change the world - the American civil rights movement and television was the catalyst for many. For me they started in 1960 when South Africa demanded that no Maori could be in the All Blacks rugby tour to South Africa. 'No Maori No tour' was the call from many New Zealanders and it became my first political stance. I was at high school; Vietnam and women's issues followed and this museum brings it flooding back. Feeling drained, I eventually leave and return to the hostel and go to bed early. Tomorrow will be la crème de la crème - I'm off to Graceland.

Local buses take me the 16 kilometres (10 miles) to my goal. I'm wondering if I've missed the stop when I see 'his' aeroplanes and ring the bell; it's time to get off. Heart pounding, I walk immediately to the ornate wrought-iron gates - I'm going to Elvis's home: it's right in front of me, perched on the top of a little rise and smaller than I'd visualised. A guard stands at the gate.

'Sorry Ma'am, you can't come in this way. You need to get a ticket over the road' and points at what looks like an Elvis Disneyland. Although frustrated in my plans I ask him to photograph me at the gates, then cross the road.

Despite my initial distaste, I'm swept up into the atmosphere as I wander through a few shops then buy the expensive ticket that will allow me back over the road - a short wait then I'm invited into a mini bus.

'Welcome to Graceland. This is a great time to come to Graceland. The house has just been decorated for Christmas just as Elvis did. He loved Christmas and we try to keep things just as he would,' our guide tells us. We drive to the road, wait for the lights to change, cross the busy road then through the gates I'd been turned away from. Within two minutes we pull up in front of the doors my hero went in and out: I'm here, I'm breathless and it's not the mansion I'd expected. I'm welcomed again and given a hand-held audiocassette player to guide me around the house.

The dining room first: I'm surprised the small room as it's so formal and made even smaller with people milling around the table, set for a traditional Christmas dinner.

'What a ghastly colour scheme.' A woman says as she looks around the living room frozen in time - the 1970s colours of orange and black. I want to explain that HE would have changed it had he been alive, that this was the fashionable decor of the time but I bite my tongue. I want to sit and absorb the atmosphere; rest on HIS couch; soak in HIS presence, imagine HIM jamming with friends. It's not possible so continue slowly through the house.

Gazing up the stairs that lead to the out-of-bounds bedroom: I imagine how I'd have slept there if he had married me - like my youthful dreams had visualised.

A thick peanut butter sandwich awaits the King and I'm pinching myself. Am I really here? Right where HE ate? Exactly where HE sat? I push the rewind button and listen to his voice repeatedly.

Continuing on to the stables, through the collection of records and clothes in the trophy room, I spend ages reading the plaques and gazing at the small paddock where he rode his horse, trying to visualise him there and eventually I'm at his grave in the Meditation Garden.

I was driving to work in the early morning light when I heard he'd died and was appalled most of the staff didn't see his death as a moment of import. In the following days I played and replayed his records: crying. No more new music, no films - he'll never marry me now I sobbed; my kids thought I was mad - perhaps they were right.

I'm horrified I didn't think to bring flowers for his grave. I take photos around the Elvis-pilgrims who are spoiling the moment for me and soon I'm back in the mini-bus to return over the road - wishing the others would shut up, stop contaminating my mood with their noise.

Walking slowly around the museum I sit and watch film excerpts, climb into the planes, gaze at the powder pink Cadillac, the Harley Davidson golf-cart and then ring New Zealand - my daughter's out of her office. I leave a message on the answer-phone. 'Guess where I am! I'm at Gracelands! I'm at Gracelands!' I gloat. I buy tapes, a book then reluctantly leave. If only he waited for me - such are the dreams of a 50-year-old-woman-going-on-16.

I wake feeling down, depressed, lonely; wondering - why am I here? Can I last a year travelling by myself? I haven't learnt how to look after myself as a long-time traveller so, scared to waste a day, make myself go to watch the strange but legendary ducks at the Peabody Hotel.

Down the elevator - from their penthouse apartment home - they come like clockwork at 11am daily. Waddling along a red carpet to the piped music of the King Cotton March, they ignore the push of tourists wanting to get the best photograph of this weird attraction and plunge into the fountain for their daily swim and meal. They are the stars of this fancy hotel, surely the most photographed ducks in the world. It doesn't lift my mood, I feel sorry for the ducks, sorry for me and despondently walk to Beale Street - the birthplace of rhythm and blues - and eat a meal of catfish.

My mood doesn't change despite the great music - I'm feeling forlorn, sure everyone thinks I have no friends to travel with and I'm beginning to believe it. I push on determined to do the required tourist things in this city and visit the old store that's just as it was when it opened in 1876. The area is an historic district - maintained in the 1920s style - and I don't want to be a tourist so back at the hostel, I cook an easy meal then spend the evening curled up on the huge couch switching TV channels. The next morning I move on: I'm hoping to leave my depression behind.

Over the past few days I've listened to Elvis singing, sat through rhythm and blues on Beale Street and now the musical theme continues in New Orleans. Arriving in the dark at the usual grotty bus-depot, I agree to an offer of a taxi. The driver, carrying my pack, walks out the doors to his cab where an argument immediately starts. A tough-looking, rotund man is trying to grab my pack from driver number one; it seems my driver has jumped the queue. This second driver is insisting I go with him, his taxi is in the front of the queue and the young man looks at me and shrugs his shoulders: it seems I get to go with the bully. Reluctantly I get in the cab - it's dirty, smelly and the upholstery is ripped - I feel a little unsafe.

We speed though dark streets and, after a few turns, when I've totally lost my sense of direction, I begin to worry: seriously worry. Finally, one more turn and we're in a well-lit street where he pulls up at the hostel. 'Don't go walking around here at night lady - it can be dangerous.'

In the morning, the hostel is buzzing. I've slept through a murder. Not long after I'd arrived, a young man - a local - was shot three times and died on the hostel doorstep. A drug-deal gone wrong is the common consensus but drug deal or not, I'll try to look like a local: my camera and bag left behind, my money tucked into a pocket.

On the streetcar, I talk with two New Yorkers also on holiday and they invite me to explore the French quarter with them. I feel good today - the grump of a day ago has gone. With jazz in the background, we have coffee and beignets, the wonderful French doughnut, then start exploring Jackson Square. Sad-looking horses, wearing becoming flower-strewn straw hats and pulling carts are taking tourists around the area but we choose a walking tour. The atmosphere is great, the history interesting and the architecture superb. The pastel colours, the shutters, the balconies with their lacy ironwork surrounds and cobblestone courtyards make it hard to believe I'm still in the USA. It's very easy to see the picture our guide is painting - Creoles, Cajuns, smugglers, voodoo, slaves, music, Mardi Gras and bordellos: a mixture of the sordid and the sublime.

We've been told there's a wonderful view over the Mississippi River from a restaurant but it's not open, although a worker tells us it's OK for us to go up to the balcony. I stare at him and when upstairs say to my new friends 'I'm sure he's a New Zealander, a Maori' and convinced, greet him before we leave. 'Kia ora e hoa. Kei te pehea koe?' (Hello my friend. How are you?) He looks stunned then hurries over to hongi me - the Maori greeting of pressing noses.

'Kia ora! I've been in New Orleans 10 years and never been greeted in Maori. That's amazing.' We talk of home, connecting places and people; a little bonus moment neither of us expected. It completes my mood shift from the grouch of the past two days: perhaps I was homesick. I spend the rest of the afternoon sitting in a café, enjoying an oyster sandwich, coffee and jazz - once more content to be on my own.

Back at the hostel there's more collective panic: despite being with her sisters, a young woman has had her carry-on flight bag taken along with her documents, tickets, passport and money. 'I've got a gun.' the thief tells them. The bulge in his jacket pocket ensures they comply and hand over their valuables. An Englishman also has problems - his van has been broken into and although little has been taken, the door is damaged and can't be locked. Two days and three incidents - I'm relieved nothing of mine has been stolen, nor have I been threatened during my travels: I wish I knew how Mabel dealt with days like this. Was Algeria dangerous, what about Tuscany, did you ever feel lonely or scared my friend?

I'm not lonely or scared and next morning I walk to a cemetery, passing under ancient cypress trees drooping with wispy trails of the dry-looking Spanish moss. New Orleans is nearly two metres below sea level and to stop coffins floating they bury their dead in aboveground vaults. It's spooky as I walk along paths, past crumbling mausoleums, many of which are surrounded by little fences. I don't feel comfortable so, listening to my intuition, leave and return to the French Quarter.

Relaxing in a café, drinking more espresso and enjoying the sun, I again listen to jazz: I decide if I return I'll stay here in the tourist area; it's so vibrant. Returning to the hostel, I find more problems.

A gun has been held at the head of one of two women in the cemetery I'd visited this morning and 50 dollars has been taken. Deciding to leave crime-city before the violence and problems become personal, I catch the morning bus to Florida. It's time to relax on the beach - I'm sure the buses I'm being constantly warned about are safer than some of the streets in this Mardi Gras city.

Days later, in St Petersburg, I walk eight blocks to an historic hotel: historic, I discover is often a weasel word and in this case it means seedy and rundown. I check in, sleep for a couple of hours then go exploring and have my hair cut: this time by a South American woman. It's my third cut in America and all the hairdressers have come from other parts of the world - it's a portable job. Cats is on at the local theatre but I can't get a seat so lie on the beach, drop fish down huge pelican mouths and relax with a book. I'm learning that to care for myself as a traveller - I need to limit tourist activities even though I sometimes feel guilty if I'm not doing something, going somewhere.

Mallory, an American friend from NZ, is living in Florida: we explore, eat Key Lime Pie, lie on the sugar-white sand and talk and laugh. A Wyland whaling wall, the Marine Centre and a bird sanctuary - run by the 'pelican man' - all impress me and one night, on Siesta Key, we watch 45 decorated boats float by in the annual Christmas Parade. We also are photographed in one of our hysterical fits of laughter \- while eating pancakes for breakfast - and appear in USA Today.

It's hard to visit National Parks without a vehicle or being in a tour group, so hire a car. Walt Disney is making a film in the Big Cypress National Preserve so change my hiking plan and take a boat ride that weaves through the narrow waterways of a flooded mangrove and cypress forest. Orchids and bromeliads perch precariously above us and alligators slide silently into the dark water as we approach.

This vast wilderness - watered by tropical summer rains - is a dangerous place I think as I drive pass another sign warning about panthers. I'm cautious when I leave my car on side-roads but don't spot any big cats. Turkey vultures are ugly and as they fly over me, then land, I'm sure they will tip over - they look so wobbly, ungainly. I enjoy the Collier Seminole State Park, the Big Cypress National Preserve but my next stop - a 'Gator Park' - is upsetting.

A panther is living in abysmal conditions and a depressed looking monkey is tethered to a post by a harness: I leave immediately - they're not getting any of my money. I drive on to Florida City and find a motel near the entrance of the Everglades.

Migratory birds use the Everglades National Park as a winter refuge or migration stopover and during my two-day stopover I walk along boardwalks, trails, and take more boat trips; one out to sea where we are accompanied by a group of Atlantic bottlenose dolphins and many birds.

'White pelicans fish in groups' our guide tells us, 'the brown ones fish alone' and the next day, on trip up a canal to a huge lake I learn how to tell the difference between crocodiles and alligators - I keep my distant from both.

Hiring a cycle, I ride around Key West. The temperature is much lower than I expected and fairy lights winding around palm tree trunks don't look like Christmas trees to me. Although hurricane season is over the sea is still cloudy and cold and while I wait for the sun to shine and temperatures to soar I see dolphins that are being rehabilitated back into the wild and visit the Ernest Hemingway home and museum. I sit in his garden - surrounded by some of the sixty cats that call this home - and wonder if I will ever fulfil a childhood dream of being a writer: I haven't learnt that to be a writer I need to pick up a pen.

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### A Sikh, Muslim, & the White House

An invitation to the White House? Really? Waiting to enter, I'm amazed to be in Washington DC on the two days each year that this is possible. I'd planned to be on a warm beach in the Florida Keys. It wasn't warm, so now I'm waiting in the snow to see the President's Christmas decorations.

Forty-eight hours ago, I was in Key West, celebrating Christmas early - with a friend I re-met unexpectedly. We go to Toy Story with her son then ate a 'Bucket of Seafood.' Cold, wet weather has made us decide to move on - the meal in Florida was our Christmas dinner. The huge shiny silver bucket of lobster, crab, calamari, mussels and fish ensured we had a wonderful time cracking claws, digging out succulent flesh and eating until we pushed the table away, replete. Her son had burger and fries. The next day we drive to Miami, where I catch a train north and they continue back home to Albuquerque.

The train trip to Washington DC is quiet on December 25th. An Indian Sikh is, like me, travelling on his own - he's 70-years-old and this is his first time away from India. We talk and he tells me his family thinks he is crazy to be in America on his own. 'It's too dangerous they told me, but I always dreamt of visiting my cousin who migrated to the USA nearly 50 years ago.' He ignored his family, 'and here I am.'

A few stations along the track a young African American joins us: Omar is an 18 year old who belongs to the sometimes-controversial Nation of Islam.

So, on a Christian anniversary, a Sikh, a Muslim and me, a non-religious woman, discuss spirituality. Their knowledge of Christianity amazes me and I'm pleased I'd attended Sunday school and church in the past and can follow the conversation of religious twists and turns. My biggest surprise is the common background that Muslims and Christians share - that we all descend from Abraham.

I also learn that Sikhs came from the Punjab region of NW India where the religion started some 500 years ago. The young man says that Islam is 1500 years old and Christianity is the eldest at nearly 2000 years. 'The name Sikh comes from a Punjabi word that means to learn' the old man tells us, 'and learning is very important to our families. It's a way of life, not just a religion.'

Omar says that Islam is a way of life too. The similarities continue; no alcohol or drugs, both wash before prayers and men and women are kept apart 'for their own protection' says the young man. One thing we all agree on was, that as all roads led to Rome in the past, so all spiritual paths lead to the God we understand: the journey different, the destination the same.

We're in the cheapest seats and sleep on the seats and in the morning I'm fascinated to see the Sikh re-wrapping his white turban. What seems to be yards of material are arranged deftly, his black under-cap disappearing, quickly and casually.

The train fills, mainly with families clutching bags of goodies from the previous day and there's an air of joviality in the carriage. 'Hey boy, where are you going?' says one of a group of young white men. My new friend remains silent and this irritates the speaker. 'Hey nigger, talk to me when I speak to you, look at me.'

I freeze, I hate bullying and racial intolerance but don't know what to say or do. I have visions of a gun or knife appearing and although I'm physically scared, my morals, or bleeding heart do-gooder self, wants to intervene. I gather my courage, 'Go away guys, we're talking.'

'OK Ma'am, we're just trying to be friends, no problems, have a drink brother,' one says offering a can of beer.

'No thanks,' he replies quietly and thankfully it's all over, the group returns to their seats, but the air in the carriage is tense and we're silent.

'I don't know how you cope with that sort of stuff,' I eventually say.

'You get used to it,' he replies. Our camaraderie has been broken and we sink into our own thoughts: I admire his calm dismissal of what to me was a horrible incident.

It's only hours ago that the train arrived in Washington - where Martin Luther King told the world he had a dream - and I booked into the Youth Hostel and hear about the open invitation to visit Hillary and Bill. I have been waiting for an hour, the line snakes around the outside of this large, historical house. It feels familiar, a sight seen so often on television that it doesn't seem to be in a foreign city. I'm with a group from the hostel, a mixture of people from many parts of the world. A woman staying in my dorm is from Texas.

'I can't believe I'm doing this' she says. 'My family will be impressed.' The line is getting longer and longer and at last we are moving. Although there is the occasional flurry of snow, I don't feel very cold. I'm well-wrapped in my trusty purple fleece, a hat from Alaska and my sleeping-bag liner is now a scarf: stomping my maroon boots to keep my feet warm, we slowly move forward and at last we're at the front door.

'No photographs' we're told, so return my camera to my bag. Each room, in the downstairs area that we have access to, has huge perfectly shaped trees decorating it. Some have three or four trees, each one different: the theme this year is the Night before Christmas. Children from around the USA have made decorations; another - by chefs - has interesting edible delights; the Institute of Architects and the Needlepoint Guild have also contributed to the display. The gold, blue and silver decorations make me think of my bonsai Christmas tree with its tiny ornaments and earrings - it would be insignificant here, dwarfed by these giants. The showpiece, in the State Dining room and under the gaze of a portrait of Abraham Lincoln, is a gingerbread-house: a replica of the First Lady's childhood home. Our hosts don't make an appearance, but as we leave we're handed a Christmas card from them.

Amazingly, a government budget blowout has closed public museums and many of the National Parks throughout the country in an attempt to save money. Nevertheless, over the next few days I explore this great city. Joan of Arc's suit of armour amazes me - she was tiny and I really enjoy the Museum of Women in the Arts: it's good to see them acknowledge New Zealand as the first country in the world to give women the vote, in 1893.

Barbara, who I met in the Miami youth hostel, shows me her city. A bonsai collection makes me, briefly, homesick and I ring my mother. 'Don't get yourself into trouble,' she tells me when I say I'm off to tour the Pentagon: a pacifist in the American war cabinet. However I follow the backward-walking woman who shows us around and keep my mouth shut. The next day I'm at the Martin Luther King library to see an exhibition of children's art - stop violence is its theme. When I sleep my dreams are weird, exotic and dangerous.

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~~~~

### Frozen Eyeballs and Meatloaf

'Does anyone know how to get to the bus station?' Our Greyhound bus driver is lost, a passenger comes to his rescue, and after few wrong turns, we arrive at the depot.

New York, New York - so good they named it twice I've been told and, despite that, I have some fears. 'The Big Apple is full of crime; they won't help you if you fall over; don't travel by the subway.' These warnings, admittedly often given by people who have never been there, have made me a little fearful.

I have to find my way to the youth hostel on Amsterdam and 108th Street - travelling on the subway that I've been warned to stay away from. I feel vulnerable when I arrive in a new place - a pack on my back and not knowing where I'm going - each new city raises minor fears.

Adrenalin running and money tucked out of sight, I find my way downtown, to Manhattan, the spiritual and geographical epicentre of New York. Following my guidebook I arrive at the correct station, buy a ticket in the graffiti festooned underground then get off at the right station. Back up at ground level it's only a short block to the large old hostel and mentally tick off another obstacle. 'Welcome to Noo Yawk' says the young man on reception.

I'm sure my eyeballs will freeze as I walk into the fierce wind towards the Hudson River so buy a scarf and gloves to go with my Alaskan hat. Although I'm warmer my eyelashes have ice on them and my eyeballs are still cold, achingly sore. The wind blows me down the canyon-like streets with their cliff-like buildings and I'm sure my tourist status is obvious with my upward gaze and open mouth. I'm excited to be walking down Broadway: a place that seems so glamorous, so seedy, so awfully wonderful and dangerous when seen in movies or TV. I feel like throwing my hat in the air and twirling around like Mary Tyler Moore did at the beginning of her TV show. She always looked so happy to be alive and I feel just the same: I pirouette in my mind.

Snow arrives and after breakfast, with five others, I walk around Central Park with a guide from the youth hostel - a local who loves his city and gives these free mini-tours every week. I feel concerned for the homeless man we came across, sleeping under a bridge: it's not weather for sleeping out. I'm well wrapped and, even with a scarf covering all my face except my eyes, I'm still sure they will freeze. I'm surprised to see a statue of Hans Christian Andersen and I wonder what the connection with New York is. The pond is frozen and the trees beautiful: hung with hoarfrost they look like they have crystals hanging from the branches and we leave the park via Strawberry Fields, the garden that commemorates John Lennon who lived and died across the road.

I spend the day rubbernecking: at the Empire State Building, the art deco Chrysler Building, the World Trade Centre and talk to locals. The people are not the churlish big city bores I was told to expect, yet another fallacy gone and I'm invited to join two out-of-work actors and a teacher in their favourite Italian restaurant. They combine their knowledge and tell me their special places that I 'just must not miss.'

The Guggenheim and Metropolitan Museums on 5th Avenue are on the top of their list as well as Little Italy, Soho and Lower East Side. They draw a map on the tablecloth - plain white newsprint - using three large crayons provided for the grown-up kids who eat here and I rip the map off the tablecloth for future reference. The steam rising from the manholes seems thicker this evening: I'm sure it's getting colder.

More snow has fallen overnight and snowploughs, the first I've ever seen, are busy on the streets when I go to the United Nations Headquarters with the flagpoles of 170 countries. I enjoy being where some major world decisions are made and the place where the voices of small nations like New Zealand can be heard. The artwork here is a trip through the world: a Thai royal barge, Belgium tapestry, Chinese ivory carving. It's the reminders of the atomic bomb that was dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki - on the day I was born - that I spend the most time at. Tears well up as I look at the molten, welded-together items and it reinforces my desire to visit Japan.

Back out in the snow, I find my way through this 'city of villages' to the Guggenheim Museum, which I heard described as a white flowerpot teetering on the edge of a coffee table - it looks yellow against the snow. I go to the top by elevator then make my way back down via the long spiral ramp, admiring, hating and being bemused by the sculpture and art.

Returning to the hostel, a shower warms me up and, while writing my journal, realise it's impossible to be indifferent to this city. The ethnic stew, or salad, makes it a vibrant place and not once have I experienced the emotional coldness I was told to expect.

An intriguing notice on the board in the lobby catches my eye. Help needed at the University Soup Kitchen. Meet Saturday 9am here in foyer, if you can give us some time. Thinking of the man under the bridge I offer my labour and next morning join two Australians and we're taken by underground to the venue.

'Welcome to the University Soup Kitchen,' a conservatively dressed woman addresses us: we can hear capital letters stressed in her speech. 'We are commonly called the Meat-Loaf Kitchen because that is what we Cook Every Week. We're only open on Saturday and Produce a Good Meal, well Balanced and Tasty. We are only Open on one Day and for many of these People it's the only Decent Meal they get All Week. Others are open Every day but we Pride ourselves on Quality. We also Treat people like Human Beings and Expect all Volunteers to do the Same. People are Here because they are Down on their Luck and it does not Reflect on them. So You Will Treat them Well or Leave, Right Now.'

She looks around the room of helpers, eyeballing us, daring us to show any prejudice against her customers. No one dares to leave so jobs are assigned: I'm to set tables then, with another woman, will serve coffee. The boss-lady adds a postscript, 'People are allowed Second Helpings Only after All have been Served. They can have as much Coffee as they want. We Pour coffee for people At the Tables. You would Expect that if You were in a Restaurant and They are to Get the Same Good Service.' Her voice fills the large hall here at the back of the church and the Aussies and I exchange raised eyebrows.

'Hurry, hurry, we Open on Time.' Her voice is everywhere and at last everything is ready and we gather around the boss again.

'As I said earlier, we make a Tasty and Healthy meal here and to Show that to our Guests we Also Eat here, so go get your meal and sit down.'

I'm amazed; we are going to eat while the recipients of this 'healthy meal' are already lined up inside the room. Surely it would be better to feed them first and the staff could eat any that's left - if they wanted it.

Her voice is even louder as she describes the Wonderful Work she and her band of Regular Volunteers do. The Aussies and I continue our eyebrow talk. 'We don't Ask Questions as to Why they are on the streets and we Don't make them sit through a Religious Talk, like Some places, before they get their meal. We are Non Judgmental. They have a Need and We Provide it.'

I sit, eating the meal in an uncomfortable silence, under the gaze of the waiting people then, ordeal over, it's time to work - the meatloaf sitting heavily in my usually vegetarian stomach.

I carry two coffee-pots to the first table. 'Hi guys, coffee anyone?' Silently they all indicate yes and I pour out six mugs, before going to the next table. 'Hi everyone, coffee all around?' This table is more vocal and we talk about the weather.

'It's going to snow some more,' a man tells me.

'Do you have somewhere warm to stay?' I ask. He tells me yes, he doesn't live on the streets, but comes here for a regular meal each week. The pots are empty and I replenish them and continue on my rounds. At the next table, a man produces a screw-top jar that he wants filled and a few have thermos flasks to take away the hot drink.

It sounds like a regular cafe and with everyone eating and drinking I can slow down and talk to some of the people, mainly men, who are here. I want to ask questions but restrain myself and we talk in general terms. They want to know where I come from, tell me I have a 'cute accent' and the constant theme is that 'it's going to snow some more.'

For two hours I'm in and out of the kitchen refilling the coffee-pots as well as responding to cries for more sugar or another plate of bread. While stragglers remain over the last of their meal I help sweep the floor and tidy up.

She-who-must-be-obeyed runs a tight ship and all goes smoothly - by three o'clock we are finished and with the Aussies, go to a local pub to talk about our experience: the three of us have Social Work qualifications. 'It seemed as though the talk she gave us was really for the people waiting for food.'

'I hated eating in front of everyone waiting for a meal.'

'God keep me from being like that woman!'

Our common consensus is the day has been a good example of cultural differences and the type of social work we don't want to do. As we find our way back to the hostel snow falls - the forecasters in the soup kitchen were right.

In the morning I shower and collect my washing that's been drying on the radiators, then realise how silent everything is. From third floor window I see the scene has been transformed, it's snowed heavily and cars parked on the roadside are nearly covered. I'm excited and bundle myself up to go out - I've never seen so much whiteness except on a ski field. There are few vehicles around, with the exception of snowploughs and the pavements are slippery. I fall and as I'm clambering to my feet, two men help me up: fallacy number two gone - New Yorkers do help if you fall.

All day the snow continues, the TV tells of power cuts in Quebec and other places around New York City and state. We have power but the transport system, except for the subway, has stopped. Airports are closed and the foyer is full of people who can't get to their next destination. The hostel is full and staff are busy with requests for beds and to explain, 'No I don't know when the airport will be open.'

A news flash tells us that the 24 hour post office has closed down, the first time in its history. A state of emergency is declared: the all-day-all-night-city has ground to a halt and I think of the people I poured coffee for yesterday; the TV is already reporting deaths of homeless people.

Outside the hostel, cars are stranded and I photograph taxis in the middle of the street - snow up to their roof. An enterprising person is hiring out skis and Broadway has become a ski field. 'The blizzard of 96' the storm has been named, the worst snowstorm in 50 years.

I find a second-hand bookshop and along with a fat novel, buy a three year old Let's go Europe: I'll be there soon so trade-in my well-used USA one.

The snow continues for another two days and the airport remains closed. I'm due to fly out on the third day and the airline says to go to the airport - they expect JFK to be open soon. Planes are de-iced before take-off and, only three hours later than scheduled I'm on one of the first planes out. It feels as if I'm jumping the queue of grumpy people who can't get seats and with the luxury of an empty seat beside me and an intelligent young lawyer beside me, I'm winging my way to a new country, a new continent. Leaving a New York that was very different to the one I'd been warned to expect. New York New York, absolutely well worth naming twice.

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~~~~

### Whirling around Europe

Six hours later I'm deposited in the Netherlands. I'm glad I haven't wasted time and energy, on the flight worrying how I'll cross the border, find my backpack and travel into Amsterdam: the signs in this below-sea-level Schiphol Airport make it easy.

Leaving the train station the smell of hot potato chips is irresistible and my first Dutch snack is a paper-cone full of chips. Unlike New Zealand where our fingers are the utensils of choice, the street-side vendor gives me a small wooden two-prong fork; I add a squirt of a mayonnaise-looking sauce and then sit to eat and gaze.

I'm in love with Holland already: old buildings, canals and trams surround me, cycles are everywhere, and for the first time I'm in a city where people are talking another language.

Guidebook directions to the Vondelpark International Youth Hostel are clear and I buy a tram ticket. Copying other passengers I have my ticket endorsed in a date and time machine then watch for my stop that according to my map is near a canal and the Rijksmuseum. My guidebook also tells me to pronounce all the letters as I see them but how do you say the j in this word?

There it is, I'm excited, it's all so different to home where buildings are rarely over 100 years. Despite the modern clothes, vehicles and shops, I feel as if I have stepped into one of the Old Masters paintings. Thirty minutes later the lustre is wearing off. I feel stupid, frustrated. I can't find the hostel. I give up and approach a taxi. He speaks fluent English, tells me I am only two minutes away and points me in the correct direction. I have to go into the park to reach the building - I have been walking around its edges.

I book in for three nights but I'm angry and confused as the hostel has a higher charge for over 26s. How can they justify it? I use more facilities than younger people do; I create more work for them; use more water? They wrongly assume I have more money! I have no choice so pay for a six-bedded dormitory bed with an ensuite and claim my space by throwing my pack on a lower bed.

By the time I shower my travel-weariness away it's early evening and exploring the neighbourhood, I find a supermarket and buy supplies for the next few days. I'm drooling - the cheeses are plentiful and delicious-looking. I'd hated the orange-dyed American cheese and now I am spoilt for choice; even cottage cheese comes in three different sized curds.

With crusty bread under my arm and too many cheeses, I return to the hostel for a protein-overloaded dinner. In the kitchen I meet a roommate, a Kiwi who tells me about a jump-on-jump-off bus that she's joining tomorrow, 'I'll give you my brochure if you're interested.' I am.

It's cold, people are talking about the possibility of a skating race that happens along some of the cobweb of canals that cover this flat country, connecting village to village. It sounds good and I think of a childhood book that I loved, Hans Brinker and the Silver Skates. I'm sure it's the race he and I competed in as I lived vicariously through books. Snuggling into my sleeping bag I start reading and I'm soon asleep and don't hear my roommates go to bed.

When I wake I'm accused of snoring - which I accept and apologise. 'Tonight, if I snore, just say 'Heather you're snoring' and it seems I'll stop - but if you don't use my name I evidently ignore you. Everyone says I'm very compliant if you tell me to shut-up - and I don't remember you telling me off in the morning.' They say they'll tell me and the Kiwi and I go for breakfast. She is catching the around-Europe bus later today: it sounds an easy way to have a whirlwind tour of places I didn't expect to see.

In the kitchen a group is planning a trip to the Heineken brewery; each scheming how they'll drink more than others will. I decline an invitation to join them but when they hear I don't drink alcohol they really want me to go with them - they want my share. I refuse; saying the smell would make me feel sick. It doesn't seem appropriate to spoil their fun and tell them about alcoholism and recovery, I just know a booze factory is not the place for me.

They take off for their drinking spree and I go to Anne Frank's house with another woman. Anne's diary was another childhood book in whose pages I lived. There are no queues and we squeeze up the steep, narrow stairs to the rooms in which Anne hid for two years. Years ago, as I read her private thoughts from the safety of a warm bed on the other side of the world, I hid with her. The bookshelves swing open to reveal the doorway I remember and we walk in, everyone's quiet, sombre and the marks recording the children's heights make it more real.

Sightseeing continues in a canal boat. We glide past mini icebergs, a flower market and narrow homes, shops and offices each with hooks to pull furniture up from the street and through windows.

Collecting three months of mail from the Amex office, I catch up with New Zealand in a warm department store café then rewrap myself in the New York scarf, pull on gloves from the same city, my warm hat and head out into the winter.

I'm finding it hard to believe that I, an alcoholic woman who didn't have a passport until in my forties, am on the other side of the world - sober. I'm full of gratitude to that I have ongoing support for this fatal disease I've had, unknowingly, since I was 16 and am overwhelmed with the joy of life and travel as I look for the canal-side flower market. Non-alcoholics find this joy in the ordinary strange - they, luckily, have never experienced the extreme highs and absolute lows we alkies have endured.

The traffic is confusing. Layers of trams, cars and bikes, all with their own lanes and framed or contained by footpaths, need to be negotiated - first I'm looking to my left over three lanes and then to my right on the next half of the road. With half a million bikes gliding silently by it seems someone's always ringing their bell to me to warn me of their presence.

Despite the cold, flowers from many parts of the world are for sale: yellows, reds and purple brighten the overcast day although it's too early for tulips. I am confused at the number of bonsai trees in the market, Holland plus Japanese-style trees just don't fit. I spend a long time examining them - storing information for my own collection - I'd love to buy some of the high quality trees. I also notice many Indonesian restaurants and over dinner I mention it. 'Have you seen how many Indonesian restaurants there are here - seems really strange doesn't it?'

'No not really. Don't forget the Dutch found the route to Indonesia and have been trading with them ever since. They've had a long history with the spice trade and have been trading with them for years, a young man tells me. Suddenly the restaurants and bonsai trees make sense as a little school history surfaces with the prompting.

The brewery-tourists, still clutching their bright green plastic bags of liquid souvenirs are past the noisy stage of intoxication, getting sleepy and the hostel quietens. Real travellers always seem to go to bed early - exhausted from the day and with big plans for the next, means sleep's important and I'm sound asleep and no doubt snoring, while others are still showering, reading, writing, or talking.

Over breakfast I study the Eurobus pamphlet. It looks good, especially as it means I could get to Italy, which I'd crossed off my list of goals because of distance, so call London, and arrange to meet the bus in two days.

That organised, it's time for the museum with the difficult name: Rijksmuseum. I discover it's easy to say and buy a national museum ticket, which will last a year. I'm flying with the Royal Dutch airlines - KLM - so know I'll return to their air-hub and this ticket, bought with Christmas money found in yesterday's mail, will be well used.

Standing in front of the famous but bleak Night Watch, I'm amazed at the detail in Rembrandt's painting. It's huge and despite knowing little about art I can see layers of stories in it and spend hours in the warm building.

I'm hungry again. Pancakes are a Dutch speciality and, squashed between a bookstore and an accountant's office, I find a skinny café that feature them and soon honey and chocolate are melting together on the hot pancakes, my fingers and chin.

Back on the street I pass a group of young dope-smokers; the smell reminds me that tonight I'm meeting people who have solved their drink and drug problem. I people-watch and stroll aimlessly for the rest of the day: the palace, war memorials, sex museums and marijuana-selling cafés all come under my gaze. One of the advantages of solo travel at 50 is my lack of concern of what others think or the need to 'do' the must-see sights: well most of the time. I agree with Paul Theroux who said 'travel is at best a solitary enterprise - that to see and assess places you have to be alone and unencumbered.'

A gallery opposite the palace has a photographic display of the 1995's best news photos. I'm appalled at the pain of a young woman being circumcised - thrilled at the photo of the baby beluga whale being born: the one I'd actually seen in Canada - travel both shrinks and expands the world.

I wake to another cold day but I'm feeling great as I climb onto Eurobus (like Contiki, it was started by a couple of Kiwi guys) ready for a whirl-around this ancient continent. I am twice the age of the other passengers. The bus travels through Holland, Belgium, France, Luxembourg, Germany, Austria, Italy, Hungary, Switzerland, Czech Republic and Poland. I plan on stopping in Brussels, Heidelberg, Venice, Rome, Florence, Vienna, Budapest and Prague - with a side trip to Barcelona.

Some of us are dropped at the train station in central Brussels where I indulge in one of their national taste-treasures - a chocolate waffle - then find the hostel. As always I dump my bag and with Let's Go Europe in my day-bag, go looking around the neighbourhood: checking what's around the corner.

Walking around narrow cobble-stoned streets and climbing a small hill, I enter a huge Gothic cathedral where I listen to the service while looking at statues and stained-glass windows of saints I know nothing of. Later I search for the original of the post card - and plastic replicas - of the little boy peeing. I walk past it twice before I see it. Is that it? I can't see the significance of it.

It's now dark, the streetlights sparse, but find my way home and eat more crusty bread, cheese and fruit, then, with a hot-chocolate drink beside me, lie on my bed and plan tomorrow. I put Bruges on my agenda, it sounds romantic, familiar and I can get there easily.

Before bed I ring my daughter in New Zealand where it's mid-morning. She's excited: 'I've booked my ticket for Turkey.' It seems she really believes I need a chaperone in a middle-eastern country. 'That's great. What's the date so I can sort my flight too?' It will be fun travelling with her.

The basic hostel breakfast of cheese, jam, egg, bread-roll and milky coffee is included in the overnight costs and I intend to eat it all every day to cover the European-wide over-twenty-six surcharge that I'm still resentful about. Half the other travellers are still working and only away for short breaks while I'm on a tight budget. I'm supposed to be a rich adult - a grown-up baby-boomer - the me generation, self-centred, idealistic and ideals so high I can't possibly live up to them.

The Grande Plaza, a square that was empty last night, is full of people, mainly men and birds. Whistling, quacking, chirping and screeching it's sad to see them squeezed into little cages ready for selling and after a cursory glance I go to the train station. 'Un billet pour Bruges, s'il vous plait, Monsieur.' I ask at the counter. I run out of badly pronounced French and mutter 'return ticket please.'

'The train will arrive in five minutes' he says in perfect English and hands me the ticket: exactly on time it rolls into the station, picks us up then glides out.

Bruges is delightful: a medieval city with picturesque canals and tiny shops selling chocolates and lace. I buy chocolate for me, lace for my mother and postcards for many, then after a very late lunch head back to Brussels. The train stops briefly at Ghent and with memories of a poem learnt at school, I jump off. The town looks like a fairy tale and two hours later I'm back on a train.

'You need a new ticket. This is not valid.'

'Yes it is. I just bought it this morning.'

'This is for Bruges to Brussels. Not Ghent.'

'I'm sorry I didn't know. I thought that as long as I used it today it was ok.'

'Well remember next time. You must have a ticket that lets you off at other stations. This time I let you not pay.'

'Merci Monsieur. Merci beaucoup.'

'Merci Madame. Bon voyage, bon chance.'

When I join the bus again - with its new driver and passengers - I am still the oldest. The music is loud and the video is Robin Hood and his Merry Men. We are heading for Paris to drop off and pick more people - I don't want to go to France.

Weeks before I left New Zealand I sent my first ever e-mail. In the Christchurch library I joined the Mayor and others, protesting at France continuing its nuclear bomb testing in our Pacific Ocean backyard.

'Kia ora Monsieur Chirac, bonjour. I am leaving New Zealand soon, on a trip around the world. France will be off my agenda unless you stop testing on Muroroa Atoll. I will not support France by giving you any of my money (by visiting your country) unless the tests have stopped.'

He never answered. I took the silence to mean 'no' so determined not to stay in France. 'It's a beautiful country you must go,' friends say, 'stop cutting off your nose to spite your face.'

My children know I'm stubborn - they could never eat South African produce because of a decision made in the early sixties when I stopped buying my favourite tinned fruit: guava disappeared off my menu as a personal protest against South Africa's apartheid laws. Long before I claimed feminism in the late sixties I knew the personal was political, the political personal: not travelling in France is a continuation of practising my ethics.

The bus stops for two hours for the driver to eat and rest. Two men are not staying in Paris either and leave to get dinner. I stay on the bus. Belgium cheese, bread and two bananas become my solitary meal but when the guys, return I go walking with them. A huge statue of a woman standing on top of the world, with lions flanking her, impresses me - that's how I feel right now - alone, conquering the world, baffled that I'm enjoying life five years after Greg died. I'd thought I would never smile again after his suicide and now I am in Paris, alive and happy.

Ten more have joined the bus and the same movie is chosen. I put earplugs in, curl-up on my seat and doze for most of the remainder of the night. Luxembourg looks picture-perfect but my schedule is too tight to get off and we eventually arrive at my destination, Heidelberg - chosen because the name sounds cool and they have the oldest university in Europe. My back is sore from the bus and, once the dorm is empty, I lie on the bunk and go through my exercise routine for the first time since the JFK airport.

Alarm clocks alarm me when waking to them. At 7am I'm alarmed by a hostel-wide speaker telling us it's time to get up. Breakfast is on very soon and, the voice reminds everyone, we must leave the hostel by ten. Pacifists who opt out of military training staff German youth hostels and they're run with army-like precision. Breakfast over, we leave, not return until 4pm and feel like disobedient children sent out to play.

Michael - from South Africa - and I bus into town where we cross the fast flowing Neckar River and climb to the Philosophers' Walk. As we wander down it we discuss what philosophy is and if we are philosophical people: we decide our thoughts and conversation proves we are. We are a strange couple: he is very tall, dark and young, I am short, old and my hair bottle-red; I protested about his country's politics, while he (like every other South African I meet) claims to have been a member of the ANC.

Back in the city centre we visit the student jail, the ancient Castle and I photograph the Hercules Fountain in the plaza where heretics and witches were burnt. Although alcoholics don't get burned here, it's only a little more than my generation ago that Hitler could have put me in a concentration camp along with Jews, other alkies and the so-called mentally-deficient people he deemed unfit for this world.

The youth hostel is between the zoo and a football field and when we get off the bus an old woman is poking bread through a tiny hole. On the other side, beside the 'don't feed the bears' sign, a scruffy brown bear is claiming each morsel as it drops through.

The hostel is full of very young German students who invite me to join them in the basement nightclub. We dance, they teach me new moves: this week their favourite video is about dog shit and as a woman walks city streets avoiding the faeces, I join in the repetitive chorus as we dance - 'scheize, scheize.' Our 48 hours just disappear and soon I'm on my way to Italy, speeding through the rest of Germany, changing buses in Munich, then head off for an overnight stop in an Austrian village.

It's nearly dark when we arrive in Kirchdoff and this too is postcard-perfect with the sloping roofs, bells ringing and snow everywhere. I burrow into bed under a too-short feather duvet and drift off to the sounds of cattle mooing and moving about in the room below me. Memories of familiar, but long distant, farm smells wafts up through the floor and feel as if I am sleeping in a storybook: perhaps with Heidi and her grandfather on the Swiss mountains.

While my young bus companions are complaining of the pungent odours and the still-warm and unpasteurised milk we're served for breakfast, I rush out to admire the hoarfrost hanging like diamonds on trees and watch the sun come up between two towering mountains. Breakfast over we leave for Italy, but are soon in a traffic jam while Highlander plays. An hour later we're driving through the Austrian Alps, past the burnt-out shell of a truck that's been dragged from the tunnel we're driving into.

I didn't know Venice is a vehicle-free city until our bus drops us at a station and our driver tells us we need to train there. My stomach is rumbling (perhaps it was the raw milk) and I need a toilet and at the Santa Lucia station I look for the toilet sign.

Travelling alone, with a backpack, means I've developed a toilet plan: use the disabled toilet if possible, second choice, the end toilet. I prefer the wheelchair toilet, as there's plenty of room for my bag and me. However, on this Italian station, they don't have one so use plan B, the end toilet with a solid wall so thieves have only one side to grab from. I can't believe my eyes; it's an Asian hole-in-the-ground variety and it's too late to find a regular one \- my bowels are giving urgent signals.

I drop my jeans and with relief sink to the required position. Moments later I'm wondering how to get up with kilos of backpack pushing me down. I put in more effort, find extra muscles in my thighs and get upright.

Two Aussies and I find a pensione a short walk from the station and rent a small room with three beds. It's luxurious compared with the hostels: big fluffy towels, soft beds and a view over a church square in a city touted to be the most romantic in the world. Not even washing off the travel-dust, we dash back down the narrow stairs and go exploring.

We 'ohh' and 'ahh' at the canals and bridges, we love the gondoliers, the lack of vehicles and when church bells ring it's the stuff dreams are made of and lives up to all my expectations. Pasta is obligatory for our first Italian meal and my companions swear that their Italian red wine tastes much better in the land of its birth.

While the others are sleeping, I go out. Only locals are up this early and Venice feels like a village; people are gossiping on corners, others are swigging shots of coffee and gondoliers, barges and other boats are delivering vegetables, pasta and wine to men with canvas aprons and wheelbarrows.

Wandering aimlessly around these tiny islands I get lost and over a cappuccino and pastry, load my 16th film then continue walking and I eventually stumble across the Basilica di San Marco. The 9th century artwork is fabulous: gold embellishes the mosaics and the prancing St Marks' horses are impressive. The pigeons are disgusting, flying rats and when a flock flies past me the air is full of beating wings and loose feathers: I shudder when one brushes my face. Other travellers are feeding them, posing for pictures with the birds sitting on their heads and arms or eating from their hands.

I buy a small piece of Venetian glass - a wrapped sweet - which will live on my bonsai Christmas tree along with other little travel treasures like china clogs, a San Francisco tram and a seascape in a bauble from Florida. Backpacking ensures that although I admire many things I don't need to acquire them: memories, photos and books are sufficient.

Men and women stand talking to each other in the narrow streets and alleys and in my minds-eye I see myself living here and joining the chatter groups. The silence of no vehicles is wonderful and I love the old buildings that seem to be holding each other up.

I linger on the Rialto Bridge; gaze at the Bridge of Sighs, peer into expensive designer shops and the masks, fans and hats in shop windows make me long to visit during ball season. I get hopelessly lost again and as dusk falls, catch a waterbus back to the station: I know the way to the pensione from there.

'Did you see the great mosaics in the cathedral' I ask the Aussies.

'No, we're totally sick of all the churches and cathedrals. They're all the same.'

'Yeah ABC is what we call them,' says her mate, 'another bloody cathedral - or another boring church.'

Travelling on a schedule is so different to my six months of nomadic travel, although it's been fun to keep meeting the same people along the route every few days. Back on the bus, with a bag of fruit, a pastry and my solar-panel radio and earphones to shield me from the too-loud videos that play constantly and repetitively, we're off to Rome.

As the driver weaves slowly through the traffic, he warns about Gypsies. 'Just be careful of them. Especially the ones with babies, many of them are not babies but wrapped rags. They'll throw them towards you knowing westerners will not allow the 'baby' to fall - when you drop your bag, or hold the baby they'll rip you off.' It sounds a little farfetched and I never hear of anyone who experienced this scam.

The railway station is handy to the accommodation and the Aussies and I ask a South African woman to join us. Consulting our map, we walk off - the noise is amazing - most comes from motorbikes, scooters and horns. Walking and gazing up at gargoyles, I trip: my ankle feels as if it's broken but pride gets me to my feet quickly.

'Are you ok?'

'Yeah, just clumsy. Too busy looking at everything.'

'You look white, are you sure you're ok?'

'Sure, it's really sore but it's best to keep moving,' I say, breaking all the rules of caring for sprains.

'Can I carry your daypack? Would that be easier?'

I give in and hand it to my new best-friend-for-the-day.

The unmarked pensione is on the fifth floor. It has no lift. I limp skywards, counting to take my mind off my ankle, my backpack and the height to climb. One hundred and twelve, one hundred and thirteen, one hundred and fourteen and one hundred and fifteen: I've arrived and with noodles in my stomach and a book in my hand I go to bed with my ankle wrapped and raised.

'These are just about all I eat,' the South African says as she opens noodles. 'Travelling on the rand is hopeless. The exchange rate is bad and our wages are so low.'

When I wake my ankle is still swollen despite the rest, compression and elevation but it's not enough to stop me and I hobble down the hill, stopping for a pastry and coffee, then continue. At the bottom, I pause to get my bearings: looking to the left, I'm gob-smacked - the Colosseum is right in front of me, just sitting in the middle of the city.

I'm overwhelmed that I'm in Rome. My heart's beating faster as I head towards one of the greatest remnants of Roman civilization. Once there I visualize gladiators or slaves fighting for their lives, the roar of the crowd and the predatory lions. Today the only felines are cats - hundreds of them - striped, black, patchy, young, old, sleek and mangy. I spend three hours in the immense amphitheatre that was started in 72 AD, a time I can't even begin to roll my mind back to. I wish I'd listened to history teachers who tried to instil me with an interest in the past. Now I am learning some history as well as travelling - it's all beyond my wildest dreams and, like other travellers say, I'm pinching myself.

My ankle has swollen even more, I return to bed to rest it and read the guidebook I'd bought in New York. Later I go for dinner with other Eurobus travellers: Kiwis, Aussies and South Africans, one woman from Scotland and an American couple. The many forms of international plumbing are compared; the Asian toilet is voted the worst and I tell them about finding the hole in the ground in Venice - a shock for someone who hasn't been to Asia.

'But what about the smells,' says someone with a look of horror, 'it was revolting all over Asia.'

'The smell could be ignored after a time' says a guy on the other side of the table, 'but I really hated using my hand and then washing it! I never realised that our toilet at home was so civilized. I never shook hands with anyone there.'

'Oh that's awful' said the Scottish lass, 'I always made sure I had some paper in my bag. Serviettes from Mac D's, anything - anything, but not my hand!'

The American woman finds it hard to believe we are even talking about such things; the word toilet is bad enough without going into details. 'All I want to do is get home and see a proper bathroom.' Everyone laughs, 'we know there is no bath in your BATHroom, it's a toilet and shower,' says one young woman while another says 'Yeah and you don't rest in a RESTroom.' The young Californian blushes at such talk.

'The pilgrims sure did a number on you Americans didn't they?' I say but she doesn't agree. Her toileting is normal and private: it's not polite to talk like this. We pragmatic down-unders continue to tease her and as alcohol flows more generously I leave, I'll have a busy day tomorrow arranging visas.

Waiting for the photo booth at the train station a gypsy wants money. I say no, ensure my daypack is close to my body and the zip-pulls are at the bottom. The two young girls leave the booth, I go inside, pay the lira, tuck my change purse back into my bra, am photographed, then wait outside for the prints to be ready.

Again the beggar approaches me and yet again, I tell her no. She steps even closer and puts her flattened hand right up to my face. 'No,' I stamp my foot, my boot making a satisfying sound and she leaves, my photos drop from the machine and I grab them and walk away without checking the results.

I find the Czech Republic and after a short wait, I'm given a visa. I hope the border patrol guards recognise the physical me as the photo of a woman with a startled look and make a note in my journal to carry photos for visas in future. Only half way through my year and already, I'm planning more trips.

Although the day's almost over, I return to the bottom of my street and its view of the Colosseum. Life is continuing around the ancient monuments - seemingly ignored by the locals who appear blind to the history they are driving around - The Arch of Constantine, the Roman Forum \- history's getting confusing so I buy a book to lead me around the monuments.

After traditional minestrone soup, I return to the pensione. My ankle complains as I climb the five floors and I decide to move in the morning: this is a walking city and climbing stairs is wasting energy.

My new pensione has only 23 steps and is warmer. Off out again, guide book under my arm and well wrapped, I'm off exploring. The Spanish Steps, the Pantheon and the Trevi fountain - where I throw my coin to ensure my return - all come under my gaze then join fellow travellers to eat at the 'biggest McDonalds in the world' - I usually go to international food shops only to use the toilet. We enter through a small entrance below undersized golden arches, go past alabaster-looking roman statues that decorate the interior and I'm pleased to be able to choose food from a fresh-salad bar.

The Vatican impresses me and in St Peters, I peer at the huge dome and run my hands over statues almost expecting the marble clothes to move like silk they look so real. Michelangelo's Pieta is heart-rending as I recognise the anguish of Mary as she holds her son. Tears cloud my eyes and memories of holding Greg, trying to resuscitate him, crowd my mind. I leave and sit on the steps, soak up the sun and thinking about grief. Sometimes it feels too big to bear and although I'm thankful I'm past that stage, when grief returns it still really hurts. Right now, it feels as if someone is squeezing my heart and, worn out by cathedrals and museums, I commit tourist heresy by leaving without visiting the Sistine Chapel.

The black mood passes and I think of fellow traveller Freya Stark. In Beyond Euphrates and now in my book of quotes, she said 'People who have gone through sorrow are more sympathetic than others, not so much because of what they know about sorrow, but because they know more about happiness. They appreciate its value and its fragility; and welcome it wherever it may be. The puritan attitude, which grudges happiness, belongs only to those who have never entered very deeply into life.'

Waking to heavy rain again, I decide to have a holiday from my holiday although I need to collect my Hungarian visa. I know exactly how to get there this time and I feel like a local out in the suburbs, away from tourists and monuments.

Back at the hostel my day off is cancelled, the sun has come out so an Aussie, an American and I check out a rumour that a church has dead monks in it. By the time we leave, it's raining again and umbrella sellers have appeared. It's Australia Day and the patriotic Aussie adds to the horns, sirens and noisy motorcycles with a bad rendition of his national anthem. Green lights do not mean it is safe for pedestrians to cross, cars park where-ever they stop and we weave through the traffic and rain. We find the Piazza Barberini and the Chiesa di Santa Marie della Concezione where the bones are supposed to be and dripping in the foyer of the Capuchin Crypt, we're confronted by a monk with no English skills. Our Italian is limited to greetings and food but we soon realise the suggested 'donation' is an absolute-must-pay-charge - the Aussie decides against paying and leaves to find fellow countrymen to celebrate with.

Bizarrely, short, robe-draped, cross-holding, friar skeletons immediately confront us. Wall to wall the area is covered with skulls. Angels have hipbone wings; chandeliers are created from scapula and collarbones; vertebrae rosettes and there's a ribcage altar. The area is divided into four small chapels and I'm flabbergasted at the skeleton of a child on one of the ceilings. The notice warns us: 'what you are now, we used to be. What we are now, you will be.' A floor of soil, from Jerusalem, makes the area sacred according to another handwritten notice. Naughtily, I wander back towards the live monk to distract him while my partner-in-crime takes an illegal photo and we leave in a subdued mood, but over a cappuccino, we laugh as we remember it was after those Capuchin friars that our drink was named.

My five nights and four days have flown and although I've seen most of the must-sees recommended by the guidebooks, I hope my wishing coin brings me back to both Rome and Venice and in Florence, I see the Italy of my dreams.

Gold coloured stone buildings, vineyard-covered hills, cypress pines pointing to blue skies and old women with scarves around their head or shoulders and men smoking, playing checkers and backgammon.

I run out of superlatives or clichés for the International Youth Hostel - it's the best I've stayed in with small rooms and friendly atmosphere. My window overlooks the terrace to rolling hills covered in silver-foliaged olive trees; farm homes and buildings are topped with terracotta tiles and the sky a contrasting blue. Out the back, under the sky, a row of hand-basins are watched over by moss-covered, armless, marble women and the veranda floor is a work of art with its geometric tiles. Surprisingly my roommate is Nicky, the Kiwi who told me about Eurobus in Amsterdam. Over a pizza, with tiny mussels and clams, we compare travel notes and how much we miss Kiwi seafood.

I avoid the leather markets: most travellers are having a few weeks off work before returning the UK to earn more pounds for more travels and they can afford the jackets and bags this area's famous for. I haven't met anyone else who is travelling long-term on a reducing bank balance. At 50 and with ancestors who came to New Zealand between 120 and 145 years ago, I have no claim to work in the UK. However, I'm rich enough to travel for a year and will pay to see David.

He's as beautiful as everyone says and I examine him in detail. I stand back to take a photo, but first wait for two young students who are trying to create an illusion such as people do with the leaning tower of Pisa. This time, rather than a hand pushing or holding up the tower, the teenager is on her knees, lining-up her tongue with his genitals and they blush and giggle when they notice me smiling.

Inside the formal Boboli gardens, I have a weird feeling of déjà vu. I puzzle and worry at this strange reaction because I know I've never been to Italy before, yet I absolutely recognise I recognise this garden \- maybe previous lives are true after all. After an hour I remember seeing the place on a TV programme and I'm relieved I'm not going mad. In the top gardens, looking over the undulating hills of Tuscany, I have my never-get-tired-of crusty bread and tasty cheese lunch.

Although I always want to stay longer, I can't spend more money extending my ticket so push on, wondering how do people 'do Europe' in 10 or 14 days when a month feels rushed.

To get to Barcelona I need to relax my high ideals; our next unavoidable overnight stop will be in Nice. I take Italian food with me so I'll spend as little as possible in France. I still don't want my dollars to trickle up to support a regime that commissioned state terrorism - bombing Greenpeace's Rainbow Warrior - in a New Zealand harbour. And I don't want even one franc of mine to help test nuclear bombs.

Despite politics, the city and beach are lovely and although it's winter, the temperatures are higher than I've had for ages. A square has been cordoned off and a cops and robbers movie is being filmed. I shock someone, 'Who is the actor?'

'It's Jean Claude Van Damme,' I'm told in reverential tones. The name means nothing to me but when I return to the apartment I'm sharing with six others, they are envious and two rush to the square to see if he's still there.

Despite my goal of not giving France any of my money, I have fish and chips for lunch. With tomato sauce to dunk them in and using my fingers, it almost tastes like home. Another Kiwi and I are cooking dinner together; we have our Italian vegetables for a stir-fry with rice. Having a kitchen is a bonus and we plan on toast and poached eggs for breakfast.

In Barcelona, the antipodes of New Zealand, the hostel we have been dropped off at is full. Ten of us catch a bus into the city centre to the surprise of the non-English speaking driver and by midnight four of us have a B&B right on the Placa de Catalunya at the top of the multi-personality street of Las Ramblas.

When we wake it's raining and I'm getting sick of winter even if it does mean fewer travellers and no tourists. Leaving the others asleep and with only 38 hours to explore I'm out and running - it was a long bus trip just to get here and I want to see it all. Breakfast is a creamy hot chocolate and I dunk churros in it then leave for a park dedicated to the architect Gaudi.

I'm soon at the bottom of a steep hill that has escalators running up the middle of the road. Unfortunately they're not going. With a martyred sigh and a slurp of water I step onto it: hallelujah, it immediately moves upwards. Up and up and up I go, disembarking at each cross-road, walking over the intersection then onto the next in this series of unexpected, but welcome, outdoor escalators. When I reach the top I realise I'd caught the wrong bus and enter Gaul Park through a side gate.

The artist inside the architect has let his imagination fly and I love the place: grottoes, smiling dragons, fabulous colonnades and a huge viaduct as well as amazing wrought iron gates. Everything is so over-the-top I'm not surprised to learn Gaudi was a contemporary and friend of both Dali and Picasso.

Leaving through the main gates I bus back down to the city to La Sagrada Familia, another of his works which still in progress some 80 years after his death. Workmen are everywhere and I go up and up, round and round the tower's circular stairway. Suddenly I'm panic stricken. How can I get over the narrow walkway between this tower and the next? I can't turn back, this is a narrow one-way system and I know I will fall over the waist-high walls. The longer I stand worrying the higher my anxiety level is raised, so drop to my knees and crawl across. Pretending people can't see me, I get to the ground quickly, have a cursory look at the men carving blocks of rock and leave; I want to stay at ground level.

Las Ramblas has many faces and in 20 minutes, I walk from sleaze to glamour; shoe-shiners to upmarket cafes; past prostitutes to the bird market; con men to a flower market; from dull to colourful: it's an unscripted theatre production. I meet a fellow Euro-buser and we promenade its length to the waterfront.

Barcelona is the capital of the Catalunya region and is easy to explore on foot, although, curiously, I notice many people limp. My walking companion is driving me nuts. Nothing is good about this city, this country, or bus travel: I've had days like this too but didn't inflect it on others. I don't want her negativity around me and when we get to the sea, I leave her.

Soon it's Waitangi Day and from the modern YHA hostel in Vienna I ring the NZ Consulate. They are not here any longer and it's just an answer-phone message. Damn, surely they are having a hangi or BBQ I could go to.

When I get off a tram one of my New York gloves is gone. I'm sick of the cold and the snow; I'm sick of travelling and want to stay somewhere long enough to feel I know it. I try to find other recovery people to talk with but can't track any down. The hostel is full of travellers who have just been through Salzburg - Sound of Music country and they drive me nuts with their movie-themed singing - 'the hills are alive . . .' they chorus. To escape their cheerfulness and flat voices, I go back into the city and watch ice-skaters who lift my mood; tomorrow I'm going to Hungary.

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### Naked in Budapest

Often nervous when tackling something new, I approach the ticket office with trepidation and excitement. It's warm in here after trudging through the negative-one temperature and snow-laden streets. Very late last night I'd been pulled around deserted streets, on a toboggan, by a South African and despite being down a few days ago, I'm enjoying this unexpected month of travel on the jump-on jump-off-bus - it's an easy way to get around when time's short.

Budapest is home to two million people and transport choices are confusing so I'm pleased an English guy who is at the same home-stay has shown me the way here. 'Will we find our way back without him?' I wonder as I join the line of people at the ticket office. We've travelled from suburban Budapest to this castle-like building on the edge of the Danube: the journey - by bus, metro and then trolley bus - baffled me.

Underground tunnels, where I lose all sense of direction, lead to the metro station where men and women were standing, almost silently, with their meagre goods for sale. Underwear, jackets, baby clothes, food, all held up to our gaze: only the eyes of the sellers asking us to buy. Their silence is daunting: their poverty makes me ashamed that yesterday I stole a train ride from this city, in a country that's just emerged from a communist regime.

I was travelling by underground to a posh hotel for an all-you-can-eat afternoon tea when I didn't buy a ticket - and was caught. Leaving the station two Aussies and I were approached by three or four inspectors. 'Tickets' they snap and we search our pockets for the non-existent items. I feel guilty, then intimidated, when they tell us we will have to pay an exorbitant fine. 'We have no money on us,' I lie.

'I will call the police. You have to pay,' said heavy number one. His dark haired, surly partner joins in.

'Give me your passports; I will see if our supervisor will let you pay less.'

'I haven't got my passport with me,' wails one of the young women.

I don't carry mine around either then suddenly memory warning-bells clang at the mention of passports and I recall being cautioned about such a fraud. 'Be careful of bogus ticket inspectors,' our bus driver had said, 'they run scams to get money.' My brain tells me that genuine inspectors would not be asking for passports.' These guys are not for real, I'm not paying' I say, 'let's go,' and turn to walk off.

'Stop! Stay here!' shouts one of the heavies and grabs my wrist.

'Take your fucking hand off me.' With a quick flick that amazingly removes his grip I walk towards the exit. An Aussie races past me, a moment later the other does the same while I continue in the same measured, but fearful pace - expecting the police or heavies to grab me at any second. Relieved to see my young friends waiting at the top of the stairs, I burst into hysterical laughter. 'Boy, you two can run!'

'Take your fucking hand off me,' they mimic. 'Wait until we tell the others what you said. No one will believe you'd talk like that.'

'Well I know I'll buy tickets in future. That was scary!'

Pushing aside these memories and worries about getting back to the accommodation, I look around at the room that dwarfs us, pay and then follow the signs which point men to the left and women to the right.

'Okay guys, I'll see you back here in two hours' I tell my male companions and walk off with a confident I-know-what-I'm-doing stride to hide my nervousness. A woman, clad in white shorts and singlet, says something unintelligible.

'I'm sorry, I don't understand. Do you speak English?' I ask. She wordlessly hands me a towel, a piece of folded calico and points towards stairs. I walk up to the next level, a balcony-like space with cubicles overlooking a pool. Wiping my steamed-up glasses I wonder which room to use, just as a group of women saunter past, laughing and talking. Their dress surprises me.

By now I'm wondering if this is a good idea. Sure I missed the hot mineral pools of New Zealand, but this? Friends, who think I'm courageous, would be amazed at how inadequate and apprehensive I often feel.

Slowly my layers of clothes come off; purple fleece jacket, maroon boots and two pairs of socks; thick navy pants then bright jade-green, polypropylene long-johns, followed by jersey, tee-shirt and thermal singlet. All those and only this to replace them? 'Oh well' I think as I place the loop over my head, 'when in Budapest ...'

Tying the straps around my waist I giggle as I look in the mirror. I'm clothed in a small apron; the bib is so narrow that both nipples are exposed and the length barely covers my pubic hair. I dare not look at the back view as my imagination provides more than I want confirmed.

Nearly blind without my glasses, I retrace my steps and find my way to the shower that precedes the sauna. Copying the other women, I rub my ample body with dry, aromatic herbs and lie on the wooden bench in the sauna.

'What a photo opportunity,' I think as I relax. 'Glamorous, a little calico apron and dried plant sticking all over me - quite the fashion statement. Not.'

After weeks of winter I love the heat that's seeping into the very core of my body. I just lie there, enjoying the heat, the smells and the sounds of women talking to each other. I'm happy that I don't speak Magyar so can ignore everyone and indulge in self-centred relaxation.

Thawed out and unwinding, I follow a woman to see what's next. A shower is easy enough but the icy plunge pool makes me gasp: I'd only just got warm.

Next, hot pools. 'Ahh, this is better' I think as I sink into its warm wetness and imagining generations of women who have also lazed in these luxurious surroundings: Romans, Turks and now me and these women, enjoying the beautiful marble, the statues and waterfalls. My nervousness has been replaced with a feeling of oneness with these women, a feeling of belonging to a sisterhood all enjoying the sensual warmth despite my ignorance of their verbal language and I regret my decision to meet the men in two hours.

An hour later, fingers dehydrated and wrinkly, I'm eager for the next indulgence and discarding the superfluous apron on my way I follow a woman into a room full of talking and laughter, punctuated with slapping sounds. While other parts of the spa were full of naked or nearly naked women, this room is different. Beside every naked body is a clothed one, dressed in uniform white shorts and singlet. It's surreal, I picture worker bees tending the queen-bee and here I am too, a queen bee, naked in Budapest, about to be attended to by my personal, clothed, worker bee.

Climbing onto the narrow, stretcher-like bed, I lie on my stomach, relax and wait for the soothing massage. SLOSH. A bucket of warm soapy water hits my body. A vigorous rubbing, kneading and pummelling is administered to every part of me and I suspect the masseuse has developed her muscles while working on a road gang. Rolling over I once again receive a bucket of soapy water, this time full frontal, further pummelling follows and the process finished with yet another bucket of, this time soap-less, water.

Climbing off the bed and wrapping a large soft towel around me, I walk carefully over the slippery floor and good at non-verbal language, go in the direction pointed: it's another sauna. No dry herbs but the air are full of aromatic smells and again I relax in this nurturing place.

Finally, reluctantly, I shower then claim my clothes. How thick, heavy and mundane they feel after two hours of nudity and warmth. Back on go my long johns, pants, two pairs of socks, singlet, T-shirt, jersey and jacket. It hardly seems possible that in minutes I'll be back out in the snow.

Mabel did you ever soak in such pools? I wonder what you wore. I'm very sure you would not be naked in Budapest, or anywhere else. Yet again I concur with you; travel is better than crochet work: much, much better.

My fellow travellers are enjoying cheap Hungarian booze, reminding me of how I used to be. Five of them, who planned to catch the bus to Prague, sleep in and miss it. We arrive to snow falling and I get a place in the city centre. Everything is cheaper here and I shoot a roll of black and white film while wandering in the snow - my boots are beginning to leak.

The toy museum is a welcome change to cathedrals and I take a boat trip among the icebergs that are flowing downstream. I'm the only passenger among six staff and a tape plays its commentary in French, German, Italian, Japanese and English as well as Czech: I understand one of them.

To avoid creasing it, I need to send my toy museum poster home - luckily, right in front of me is a Deka store so go in to buy a cardboard tube. No one speaks English: my phrase book has nothing remotely like the words I need and I wonder why I thought the staff here would speak English just because it has a familiar name. My brain must be getting tired.

In the stationery department I try words that I think they'll know 'Post, posta, lettre?' they don't understand so I repeat them - louder. I know I am sounding like a stupid tourist but I can't help myself. I demonstrate a plane carrying my poster home. I draw pictures in the air of the long, round tube I want; my gestures only look rude. By now five or six assistants surround me and they're determined I will get what I want. They're having heated conversations as each offer his or her idea of what the mystery item is - a Czech version of 'is it bigger than a bread box?'

Someone remembers another assistant knows English and rushes off to find her but her English is at the same level as my high school French. Envelopes in hand I wander the store with my entourage and when I find a poster I demonstrate trying to put it in the envelope. At last someone understands and the young man rushes off and returns with the searched for item. I applaud. They applaud. I have my cardboard tube; they have a satisfied customer and international relations are improved.

My plan has worked exactly and I arrive back in The Netherlands the day my ticket expires. Amsterdam feels familiar: I know where to catch the tram, I know where the hostel is and I'm ready to collapse. Never again will I travel on a fast trip through a few countries - unless I'm being delivered door to luxury door, in springtime.

I see news in English for the first time in the month: Wales has had an oil spill and beaches and birds need to be cleaned. I send an email to the RSPCA describing the marine-rescue training I've had and offering my assistance. Two days later they respond: they have plenty of volunteers and don't require my help.

I train to the airport; I'm flying to London where I'll stay with my daughter's school friend. I get in the carriage but it's full of smoke so walk through to the next one. It's not until I'm at Schiphol Airport that I realise my fellow travellers are in suits and have overnight bags, laptops, or brief-cases at their side: I have no makeup, maroon boots, a purple fleece and a large backpack - I'm in the first class carriage.

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### Family Roots and Castles

Stansted Airport: signs confirm my suspicions. Kiwis and other Commonwealth passport holders are at the bottom of the official British pecking order. All EU passport-holders flow through easily while I, from a country that share their genes, has spilt blood for them and rationed themselves to feed them, have to join the Aliens' queue.

'Why are you here?'

'Visiting friends and holiday.' He doesn't ask for proof of money or my return ticket like I'd been warned, but just stamps my passport with a message that tells me I can't work and pushes it back to me.

'Kia ora, have a good day' I say as I walk into the UK. I wonder why I feel offended at being treated differently - all my family had left here by 1872 and we never thought of this country as 'home.' Perhaps it's the result of schooling and the pride teachers showed in all the red parts of the world map. 'We're part of a big family' they told us, 'a Great Empire.' We're now family who comes through the side door.

The 16 month cease-fire in Ireland was broken two months ago, with bombs in London, but I refuse to let that affect my plans. Training into London I'm horrified at the rubbish along the tracks, it's as I imagine a third-world country would look. How can people in those cute little cottages and joined-up brick homes live with all that junk?

In the city, after repeating my destination a few times, the man at the information desk finally understands my down-under accent and gives me directions. The train and underground maps are simple, rubbish and graffiti pollute the land beside the tracks but I'm excited to see an 'allotment' with its many gardens and multiple owners and soon arrive at the Peckham station.

Outside the station I ask a newspaper vendor if he knows the address I'm looking for.

'New Cross Road? OK mate, go down that road right there,' he points. 'At the end turn left and keep going and it's on your right. Got that luv? Cheers mate.'

'Thanks.' I cringe at him teasing my accent with the constant 'mate.' I don't use that word at all and think of it as an Aussie saying; well maybe rural Kiwi still use it - and I left the countryside over 40 years ago. Laughing at my snobbishness I walk down the road looking like a hobo and follow his directions. I can't see the street and my pack feels heavier than when I packed it hours ago so walk into a doctor's surgery for further instructions - it seems I'm only moments away from my goal.

Knocking on the door, I hope she's home. Keely opens the door, a phone still at her ear. 'Oh my God it's Renée's mother. She's here now. How did you get here? I was sure you'd be mugged on the way. Come in. Ok, I'll call you later. Bye.

'I can't believe you're here. I knew you said today, but when I didn't hear from you again I wasn't sure. I was going to meet you, I was sure you would have your pack taken off you.'

I laugh. 'No problems at all. In fact everyone has been helpful.'

'Yeah. Well, I like it here but it's a very low socio-economic area and there's a lot of street crime.'

'Oh the bliss of the ignorant traveller eh? I was warned about New York too but it was fine. Anyway Renée still says heaven help anyone who attacks me.'

I spend a few days being impressed and intimidated by this huge city and enjoying the higher temperatures: it's up about five degrees. I ride the double-decker buses - feeling like a TV star as I get on at the back of the bus - after all this is what they do in movies don't they? Even the kids seem to be actors in my imagination; they don't really talk like that really, those accents are just for the show aren't they? Others are speaking English that's so broad I can't understand them and I'm amazed to hear black people talking in cockney voices, speaking French, or in very posh, impeccably upper-crust English accents with perfectly rounded vowels. I'm beginning to realise how colonised I've been by TV; I expected them to sound African-American.

I go to Cats and love my first West End show and while exploring the street markets near Keely's house, I hear every-one calling every-one else mate. It seems it wasn't my accent he was teasing. Afterwards I keep reminding myself not to take it so personally. Luv, duck, mate, dear and darling trip off their tongues like spicy honey: I wonder what wives and girlfriends are called.

London is a multi-coloured, multi-languaged city and all the clichés I've heard seem true. Guides, holding umbrellas high above their heads, herd tourists around the sights - 'this way Trafalgar Tours' or the equivalent in Japanese, Spanish, German or French. Men in pin-striped suits sit in the trains and never look at those around them and wince when they have to move slightly to allow another person onto the seat beside them. Teenagers have their skirts hitched up to the same level my mini-skirts or hot-pants used to be \- like they're on the cast of the old movie To sir with love. Everywhere I look people belong in films or TV shows - or is it me in a film? I'm constantly amazed that I'm here, sober and seeing scenes that are so familiar and so strange. I feel like Alice - I have fallen down a rabbit hole without the use of drugs.

My maroon boots have died. Keely comes into the city with me and we both buy boots. When I get home, I call New Zealand. 'I bought my Christmas gift from you,' I tell Renée.

'Great, what did you get?'

'Boots. Some Doc Martens.'

'Oh,' she pauses, 'I thought you'd get jewellery. What sort are they?'

'Nice high ones, they go well up my legs - lovely and warm.'

'How many spots?'

'There are no spots on them.'

'Spots are the holes for the laces.' There's a pause while I count.

'Five eyelets and five hook things, 10 pair altogether.'

'Wow. Real don't-fuck-with-me boots.' I guess she's right; no one has challenged me while wearing them. However, no one has confronted me with sandals, sneakers or bare feet either.

The news is full of The Spice Girls, sex, lies and politics; The House of Lords is going to be abolished; and many women seem traditional, stuck in the fifties or sixties. There is no doubt that most people I've spoken with seem to think we're colonials, all sound alike, are primitive farmers who produce sheep and good apples. They certainly don't believe New Zealand women were voting 30 years before them. 'We can't get good apples now we're in the damn European Union,' a stallholder tells me. It confirms that my thoughts about the British are just as stereotyped as theirs about us Kiwis.

I've done many London sights and head off for three months around Britain. A walking tour introduces me to Bath and places in Jane Austin's novels. I'm horrified at the mineral water going to waste except for drinking glasses of the rusty tasting stuff. Where is the hot mineral water I was going to soak in?

Mad Max offers a tour of Avebury, Stonehenge and the countryside and I join it. We have a pub lunch in a little village where we are shown the ancient and tiny prison for drunks and other madmen. While they sobered up and the delirium tremens subsided, they were in darkness and food and drink were slid under the door. It gives me a dose of gratitude that right now I won't be thrown in the drunk-tank - here or anywhere else.

Catching a local bus I head south to Penzance, Cornwall, words that have always conjured up romantic images of swashbuckling pirates, (whatever swashbuckling means) rocky coastlines, shipwrecks, smugglers' caves, secret tunnels. All immortalised by the Pirates of Penzance and Rudyard Kipling's poem with the lines, 'so watch the walls my darling as the gentlemen go by.' I loved the danger, rhythm and repetitiveness of the lines long before I knew a branch of my family sailed from there on the Lancashire Witch in 1865.

Long after the words have nearly faded from my memory, I'm in Penzance: Penzance, Cornwall. Climbing off the bus I stretch and look around. The harbour is as picturesque as I'd visualised; calm, dotted with colourful little boats. 'Pensans a'gas dynergh' - a wooden sign and bright sunlight, welcomes me. 'Thanks,' I respond: six generations ago, my family walked these streets, worked here and sailed these seas.

An elderly taxi driver also welcomes me, I tell him of my search for family connections and he's happy to display his local knowledge. 'Rowe and Trenwith are local names' he confirms. He points, 'Rowe's built that hotel. About 150 years ago, I think a Rowe owns it now you could go and talk to him.'

'Those daffodils are beautiful.' He corrects me.

'Han'som' is what they are' he says 'Han'som' is what we say.'

Days later another man regales me with Cornish stories. While I hear tales of how the devil never came to Cornwall, I also hear of Duffy the witch who made a pact with the devil so she could marry the local Lord. 'Cousin Jack's arrived' is the saying they used to tell everyone, except the excise-man, that a supply of bootleg cognac has arrived; and of course the dancing seagulls.

I see the dancing seagulls with Harry's Safari. The gulls are paddling the wet earth, their webbed feet moving up and down rhythmically 'so the worms think it's raining and come up and then they get eaten.' They sure look like they're dancing.

These little mini tours are great and the next day I go to Porthcurno and the amazing cliff-clinging Minack Theatre with its ever-changing sea as its backdrop. As he shows us his much loved countryside he points to a hill of rhododendrons. 'They will flower later, now it's the time for the gorse to show its magnificence' How lovely to hear these weather-beaten men talk about the flowers. He also says the rhododendrons - like gorse in New Zealand - are taking over the hills: no matter how beautiful a flower is it's a weed when it's in the wrong place.

Proud of their heritage and fiercely non-English they explain any differences with the comment 'This be Cornwall. We're Celtic.' They, like Maori, also 'recited the lines of descent of prominent men [sic] at assemblies of the court and on tribal occasions' according to the Cornish Family History for Schools. At the library I also check out old newspapers.

On today's date, 9th March, 130 years ago, I read a blizzard claimed over 200 lives - most on 63 ships, which founded in local waters: 6000 sheep died and half a million trees fell: today it's very sunny.

I also read of copper and tin mill closures; problems in the fishing industry; and agricultural depressions in the 1840s, which prompted thousands to leave for New Zealand and other countries. It helps me appreciate the desperation and hope, my ancestors, William and Selina, must have felt.

Looking for any reference to my great, great-grandfather, I find a rogue, a drunk and disorderly William Rowe in the gaol records but the dates don't fit. Damn, it would have been good to find a smuggler or pirate in my family tree. I'm going to assume there is one until proven otherwise - didn't Mark Twain say something about not letting the truth ruin a good story.

A woman at a bus stop tells me that the strangely named fishing village of Mousehole is pronounced mowzel and has wonderful scones and clotted cream so take a bus there. They're wonderful but the Cornish pasty does not live up to my expectations.

I arrive at Stratford-upon-Avon on one of the rare days that Shakespeare is not being performed, while the youth hostel has 80 young people training to work in a British holiday camp in Spain. After 24 hours, we - the seven hostel guests and I - stage a revolution.

This is not good enough we tell the manager, we're members of Hostelling International, we're travellers, yet we can't find a place to have any quiet time or even watch TV without them having noisy games or lectures in the same room. We continue, 'Most of us have stayed in hostels all over the world and have never experienced anything like this.' To placate us we are given a free evening meal and have two rooms declared out of bounds to the hi-dee-hi set and that leaves us satisfied with our little tantrum.

As well as the protest I wander around the cute tourist town; visit the playwright's birthplace; visit the teddy bear museum and buy a jar of vegetarian vitamins. Everything seems unbelievably expensive. I wish I had your private income Mabel. How did you acquire it? Perhaps I need a sugar daddy. Travel is feeling a little like the movie Ground Hog Day, each day the same repeatedly. I need a holiday from my holiday - I'll have one in the Lake District.

It's dark when I'm dropped off at Ambleside Hostel and when I wake it's sunny and the views fantastic: immediately after breakfast I go walking and shortly I'm in snow.

Black-faced sheep peer at me as I pass or photograph their smooth black and white legs and little horns. The scenery impresses me and I decide to sketch the manicured-looking, undulating hills, the little streams and the rock fences. I sit at on a fence, eat chocolate and as snow falls again I head back for a nap: after all, this is my day off.

I lie on my bed and read my novel. Judy, my mentor, friend and fellow traveller, told me she travels with a thick book to provide constancy in an ever-changing schedule. It's true - when all else is changing the characters and plot of my book keep me company. Even when I have books to read I can't resist the hostel book-shelves where we travellers trade romance for murder and history for autobiography or politics.

The sky is blue, the lake deep green, I catch the ferry from the end of the wharf and soon I'm looking at Peter Rabbit. He's cute and as I stroll through scenes from Beatrice Potter books, life feels good: not just good, great. I'm astounded, yet again, that despite Greg and Danny's deaths I can not only live, but also love life again. I'm indebted to the friends, counsellors, support groups and piles of books that enabled me to grow through the pain of their deaths. I've met so many people who haven't worked through their grief and live sad, bitter lives so I do know that if I don't value my life, my son and husbands deaths become even sadder, more pointless.

I resist buying one of the thousands of tea towels with Wordsworth's daffodil poem on them and when I go back to my current home village - on the shore of the lake - invest in an artist's pad, three pencils and a rubber. My new career is about to start; maybe I'll become New Zealand's Grandma Moses. The shopkeeper hands me the package and change. 'Thanks. Now, off home to use them.'

'Oh - you live here?' the shopkeeper asks with surprise.

'No, I'm staying at the YHA down on the lakefront.'

She looks at me as if I have two heads and I read her mind. 'You said home. I distinctly heard you. Make up your mind you stupid woman.' Walking home I wonder what is home, where's my home? At home in my own skin, it seems as if I'm always at home even if foreign tongues surround me. The longer I travel the more I am exactly whoever I am on that day, unconstrained by expectations of others or habits of the past. I'm glad our country is not so class driven, that people I meet here cannot put me in any box except 'colonial.'

On a couch, pencils and pad on my lap I stare through the picture window at the hills on the far side of the lake. Pencil poised I make a mark on the page, then another and another. An hour later the page is full of marks. Not one of them looks like the fantastic view before me. Dejected I have poached eggs on toast, a vitamin, a shower and go to bed with the Gift from the Sea by Anne Morrow Lindbergh.

I wake late and spend the day wandering the snow-flecked hills and puzzling how to transfer the smooth rolling hills onto paper. I draw the stone fences, unsuccessfully, so etch them into my memory bank as my fame dies before it is born. Never mind, tomorrow I am off to discover my Scottish roots - the last of my family to arrive in New Zealand in 1872.

Once in Edinburgh I wonder where the illustrious Highlanders that my father spoke of are? Everything I'm reading describes our Campbell Clan as traitors and even in a child's book an author writes about my mean, horrible ancestors who sided with King William of England. This alliance culminated in us abusing traditional clan hospitality and according to our critics, weakened Scotland and enabled England to take over. Pushing history aside I walk downhill towards the city centre.

I stay two days and in this Scottish city buy a guidebook for Zimbabwe, a mosquito net and a hypodermic set: with AIDS so prevalent in Africa, if I need injections or blood tests I'll be happy to supply my own gear. Shopping over I join another jump-on jump-off shuttle bus with the unlikely name of Blue Banana and sign-up, using my full name: Heather Campbell Hapeta.

'Oh, a Campbell,' says the driver.

'Yes I am,' I smile at him.

'We're going to have to watch you.'

Ignoring the comment I climb into the mini-bus. We head for Pitlochry where I get off. It's a tourist-centred Victorian town on the edge of a loch. I stay for a night and catch the next mini-bus to come through.

'Oh you're the Campbell.'

'Yes.'

'I heard one was on board.'

'Yes and aren't you lucky to have me.'

'I don't know about that.' They have long memories in this country: I thought I could carry resentments, but the land of my paternal kith and kin takes the cake. Just let it go I want to tell them.

Scotland lives up to its stereotype of unpredictable weather today and snow and sleet are falling by the time an Aussie, a South African and I arrive at the northern coastline. We photograph each other at John o' Groats - 1,499 km from Lands End - to prove we've been-there-done-that then drive along the coast before heading south through wild terrain that looks like parts of New Zealand's South Island.

The hills are dark brown with the dormant heather and I put Scotland on my list of places-to-return-to; I want to see the hills covered in the purple flowers of my name. We finally arrive at Carbisdale Castle - although it is only 100 years old, it's quite something for three colonial kids.

'I wonder if there are ghosts.'

'I hope not. If there are I hope I don't see them.'

'Fancy staying in a castle. How posh is that? I'm not telling my friends it was a hostel, just that it's a Scottish castle.'

No ghosts visit any of us and in the morning we leave to visit Culloden, site of the last battle on Scottish soil. Once again, the Campbells played a prominent part, helping the English beat the Jacobites and the ill-prepared, French speaking, Bonnie Prince Charlie. I walk by myself and as I read about the battle, I am not sure of my position. Should I be ashamed of my family's infamous past or proud that they could see the writing on the wall and chose to stick with the winners?

I feel sick - our new driver is a speed freak and swings around corners. When we stop at a waterfall I move to the front seat. 'You're the Campbell, aren't you?'

'Yes I am.'

'You'd better be careful when we go through Glencoe. They don't like Campbells there.'

'Well it's about time they grew-up. It was 300 years ago and resentments can kill.' We fall silent.

After visiting ancient Clava Cairns burial sites and ruined castles we finally drive over the controversial bridge onto Skye where we spend the day touring the island. I hug a 'hairy coo' and am surprised how gentle the longhaired cattle are. Our hair colouring matches: he was born with his; mine is a bottle-enhanced version of my original red hair, a legacy of my parents' Celtic roots.

In the pub a group of Americans, Kiwis, Brits and South Africans discuss how our common language separates us. Sidewalks and footpaths, shops and stores, lavatory or bathroom; the Americans think New Zealand is very socialist with our welfare system; and the English and Scots are amazed to hear their 'Kia ora' brand orange drink means hello in Maori and Americans laugh at our chilly-bin and panel beaters.

At Glencoe my five fellow travellers say they can feel the spirits of the people we Campbells murdered in 1692. As they wax eloquently all I can see are snow-dusted mountains, heather-covered hills, an unspoilt valley, rocky streams and the River Coe - a turmoil of water after last night's rain - rushing down to Loch Leven.

Scottish history books I've bought tell me that some 20 miles from here the Campbells and MacDonalds joined forces to destroy the MacDougalls: that the whole country is bloodstained. I'm getting defensive at the constant teasing and banter about my ancestry and when we go to the local pub a sign confronts me. 'No hawkers or Campbells allowed.' I'm wondering if I should use some of my other Scottish ancestors' names: Liddell, Livingstone, Adair, Colquhoun or Hamilton.

The next day we leave for Oban, with yet another driver on the mini-bus.

'So you're the Campbell.'

'Aye and what the fock are ye' goin' to do aboot it? If you want a job done just send a Campbell.' Just as the message of a Campbell travelling on the bus has been passed from driver to driver; so too is this grumpy reaction and my ancestry is not mentioned again.

I love Oban with its harbour on the Argyle coast and after Gemma, from Ashburton, cuts my hair, we find a restaurant where we eat haggis and neeps. Daylight saving starts tonight and with that signal of an approaching summer and a bed with a big soft mattress I know I'll sleep well: tomorrow I'll be safe - right in the heart of Clan Campbell territory.

I know the names of my father's father and his parents. Oral history says they are from Argyll and Dad and always told me; 'Remember lassie ye're heelander not a lowlander.' I have no idea who he was mimicking as he only used that accent when talking or singing about the land neither he nor his father saw.

We pass the ruins of an old Campbell castle on Lake Awe and now, in Inveraray, the Gothic-looking family castle is in front of me. Well, not really the family home, but the home of MacCailein Mor and his family: the 26th chief of the Campbell clan and our 12th Duke. It's been closed for winter, but re-opens this weekend so I'll return then to see where I fit with this clan, and after one night, travel onto Glasgow.

The Marriage Place, the local name for the Register of Births, Deaths and Marriages, is only minutes away from the youth hostel and I walk there. I can't get in. The computers are reserved weeks and months in advance - however, two places are saved for people who just turn up and I resolve to be first in the queue tomorrow.

One person is ahead of me when I arrive at 8:30 for the 9:30 opening. We pay 12 Scottish pounds, are given an overview of the records available, the health and security regulations then I'm seated in front of the keeper-of-the-facts. Start with what you know and work back the experts tell me and I follow directions.

Archibald Campbell I type: married 14 July 1876 to Marion Liddell - details taken from granddad's birth certificate. After a couple of false alarms I find they were married in Glasgow and I'm soon shown a photocopy of their wedding certificate. How exciting, here before me are my great grandparents' signatures: he was 25, she 23; he was journeyman ironmonger, she a power cotton-loom weaver - I had never thought about her working. The certificate also tells me where they were living at the time of the wedding and I determine to find the place and find out how they came to New Zealand.

Returning to the hostel I try to book in for the next night. 'Sorry Heather, we're full for the next two nights.' Consulting my guidebook I make another plan. I ring the hostel in Stirling. Full. Next, New Lanark sounds good, a World Heritage Site, a short trip from Glasgow and when I ring, they have a spare bed. I eventually collapse on my bed, worn out. When I left home - about seven months ago - I thought I'd be exhausted from carrying my backpack, climbing hills or sightseeing - not sitting at a computer.

Collecting my mail from the Glasgow Amex office I continue exploring this lovely old city and wonder why it gets such bad press in my guide book; I enjoy the Necropolis, a Zen Buddhist garden and the St Mungo Museum of Religion and Spirituality. I also search for the house Marion left from to marry but a motorway has swallowed it and as the day disappears, I board the train for Lanark then hitch a ride down to the valley.

The village is quiet after Glasgow's noise and when I walk to the falls of the River Clyde that powered the cotton mill, I don't see anyone. The lack of people makes it feel like I'm walking in New Zealand.

People who live in this idyllic valley have to be descendants of the original mill workers - I hope I can find Marion's name on the list. Was it only yesterday that I didn't know she worked and now I'm about to be shown exactly what she did? This will round out her bare bones and the next day I sit beside the cold clear stream and write to my Campbell relatives; introducing Great Grandma Campbell to them. Unfortunately I also report we are not eligible for a house - her name is not on the list of employees.

Two days in the valley - looking at exhibits, watching fish in the river, lazing in the warm spring sun, writing postcards and washing clothes - revitalise me before I get back to Inveraray: gateway to Argyll.

The village has 400 inhabitants, a small youth hostel and I dump my pack at its locked back door then go walking in this unspoilt, rough area. I sit beside Lake Fynne, home to Britain's best oysters: apricot sheets flap gently on a stretched wire clothesline and I again contemplate using my pencils.

Dinner over, I sit and draw the lake and surrounding hills but give up - I am not an artist. 'Does anyone draw?' I ask the few others who are staying here - it seems they too are artistically challenged. I write a note - take and enjoy this pad and pencils, love from a travelling Kiwi - remove my feeble attempts from the pad and leave the ego-deflating items on the coffee table.

Jacket, food and diary in my daypack I walk around the road, through the model village, then up the long, tree-lined driveway to Inveraray Castle, home of the various Earls and Dukes of Argyle. It's the 7th April; Greg would have been 26 today, it's hard to believe: he's still 20 years old in my mind.

The turrets make the grey building storybook-like and despite the impressive appearances, the entrance is modest. Portraits of long dead ancestors gaze down on me as if to ensure I'm aware that I'm just part of nine centuries of history and that they helped mould who I am today. 'Ne obliviscaris' (do not forget) they appear to be saying - the Campbell motto. I wonder if there is genetic memory.

Their home is full of fantastic paintings, furniture and table settings, French tapestries, gilt armchairs, ornately plastered ceilings. The armoury hall has a huge collection of dirks (knives) as well as Rob Roy's sporran, belt and the handle off his dirk. The drum that was carried into battle at Culloden is also on display: the current Duke says in the forward to a book I buy, 'We take intense pride in our achievements, yet are conscious of our mistakes.'

The kitchen has seven fireplaces for different cooking methods: two stewing stoves, two for baking, a hot plate, boiling stove, a roasting fire, spit, and I covet the copper utensils and pots. It took 100 years to build the castle, starting in 1720 and this enormous kitchen, with its tiled floor, has seen history in the raw.

The Clan room has huge genealogies on the wall: Archibald, my great-grandfather's name, is popular and family names of Hamilton and Colquhoun are there. My head's spinning with facts and figures and other data so go outside, sit on a stone bridge that spans a stone-bottomed stream, eat lunch and watch cattle graze.

I continue the letter, started days ago, about the Campbell family. I tell them our family is big, spread far around the world. I suddenly think that Greg will just be a name on a family tree and tears rush down my cheeks and blot the page. Every now and then the pain is nearly as intense as it was five years ago: at least I no longer think I am going to die from the pain, or that alcohol or drugs will make it better.

An adage says that pain makes great compost for future growth - it seems true but at what cost - I would rather have my son alive than any growth. After the tears dry I leave the tree-laden grounds and go back to the village, where in a fit of emotionalism I buy a kilt to match the hat and scarf I'd bought in Edinburgh: Campbell of Argyll tartan, of course.

I am not fit and puff and pant as I scramble up to the watchtower at the top of the hill behind the castle. The path is narrow and when I reach a place with loose shingle I crawl across. 'Are you OK?' A young couple are concerned for the old lady with her sweaty, red face that clashes with the purple jacket tied around her waist.

'Yeah. I'm fine thanks, just scared of heights so making sure I don't slip.' They pass and 10 minutes later I join them at the top. Swallowing my bottle of water in one long gulp I look around.

'Loch Fynne, you sure are a fine lake,' I tell it. The ripples are twinkling in the sun, the castle is impressive and the village looks like the ornaments of houses my mother has in the china cabinet.

Later I visit Blanytyre and the David Livingston memorial, post the kilt, china clogs, the Venetian glass and books to New Zealand, then catch the train to Stranraer. I'm off to Ireland.

The ferry crossing to Belfast is smooth and at the hostel I shower to get rid of the waiting room smoke that clings to me. The day's nearly over but I go walking, I know a meeting of other recovered, or recovering, drunks is on tonight and I want to confirm the address.

After burritos and nachos with a multinational group, I leave them to their tequilas and walk to the address I'd checked out earlier. Passing the Royal Ulster Constabulary building with its razor wire protection I feel sick. I've only seen it on TV in reports on war zones and I didn't expect to be confronted by it in a modern, democratic country.

After the meeting, a reinforced army vehicle races past me and stops with its front wheels on the footpath. Three men, carrying guns, jump out and walk over to two teenagers. My heart beats frantically: my first day in Ireland and I'm going to be killed in crossfire in view of the razor wire. I walk past them, calm on the surface, petrified underneath and compliantly press the signal to cross the road - expecting to hear a gunshot at any moment. Once across the busy road I look back and see the soldiers still talking to the boys. They soon walk away, get back into their transport and drive off. I feel sick again and realise that I have just witnessed either the result of, or one of the causes of, the so-called troubles - an understated term for hatred and deaths: from the outside, solutions always look simple.

Before I go Irish family tree hunting I watch a band as it plays its way down the street outside the hostel. The search for family is not easy, I know my family came from Counties Armagh and Cavan but many of the 1800 records have been lost, destroyed or not recorded in parts of Ireland and give up, heading back to my bed-for-the-night. 'What was the result of the big game today?'

'What big game?'

'Well, whatever game the band was going to this morning. They walked past the hostel at about 11am.'

He laughs. 'That wasn't for a sports team. Just some Orangemen marching. It's the start of the marching season and they'll be at it for the next couple of months.'

The marching season is another Irish euphemism for intolerance: it seems most applications for marching are from Protestants. I'm glad to have roots here but I'm also glad my ancestors left - especially as their counties are now on the border. Why didn't I listen at school? British history with its dead queens, kings, the Poor Laws and other convoluted history seemed a waste of time when I was at the other end of the world. Why do I want to know this I wondered as I sat in class with other green-uniform clad students?

Days later I use a local mini-bus to take me north then around the Antrim coast, through Balleycastle, the Giants Causeway and the next day I'm at a hostel inside the old city walls of Derry, or Londonderry, depending on your politics in this turbulent land. Bombs, protests, religion and politics are as much the fabric of the Emerald Isles as storytellers, bogs, stout, music and leprechauns.

I love this city with its 1500 years of history. I enjoy the walk along the top of the 1.5 km city wall then in a museum, a TV camera operator follows me through an exhibition about the famine. Derry keeps me for a few days and a sign tells me I'm 'Entering Free Derry' when I walk to The Bogside area. Remembering the shock waves Bloody Sunday sent around the world again makes me aware I'm 50: each year multiplied by 365 adds up to a lot of days, a lot of world history I've witnessed.

I do all the usual tourist things: trips around the Ring of Kerry and the wild Connemara with its ponies, mountains, bogs and rugged coastline. I'm also surprised to see New Zealand trees: our native cabbage trees (Te Kouka) have been transplanted and renamed as palms - despite not belonging to the palm family.

I've timed my Irish trip to get to a convention where I'm now surprised to meet two friends from New Zealand. It's great to spend three days with them and others from around the world who have the same disease as me - a reminder that alcoholism is an equal-opportunity disease: a cross section of people and professions.

The hundreds of people in town may be dry but the weather isn't. After eight months of travel I give in and buy an umbrella - it seems a cliché to buy it here - then go a pub with a global group. As the band plays in the smoky, crowed bar, we sing traditional songs and laugh until our sides are sore.

I hitch a ride with my friends who are heading back to Britain then New Zealand and at Blarney Castle, Goldie decides to kiss the Blarney Stone. He does not believe his wife or me when we tell him he is garrulous anyway: we are not sure we can cope with more loquacious words from him. He lies on his back, clings to the handrail and plants a kiss on the well-kissed wall. 'I wonder if the local lads really do pee on the stone,' his wife ponders.

Dublin is a lively cosmopolitan city and my hostel was once a brewery, then a chapel, now it's a backpackers and I'm in a bunkroom with 19 other men and women. I have three days here then fly off to Amsterdam before meeting my daughter in Turkey.

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### Turkish Charm School

'I'm out of my comfort zone.' I laugh and she's indignant. Muttering behind her hand and through clenched teeth, my daughter continues, 'Don't laugh; I'm seriously outside my comfort zone.' She points to a line in her travel guide: it commands travellers not to use the taxis at Istanbul's Airport - we are breaking the commandment. I still laugh \- after all, I have been on the road for seven months and feel confident.

With one hand on the wheel, the other on the horn, our driver charges through the early-morning gloom and vehicles. He tells us not to worry about the traffic, 'There are no bad drivers here,' he says, 'they are all dead - from accidents.' He roars with laughter at his wit but we're not reassured. Down the noisy, chaotic motorway we fly, hopefully heading to the address we've given him: a place he's sure doesn't exist. 'Show me,' he says and we give him the book. He's now reading, driving, tooting and talking over his shoulder. 'Just watch the road,' mumbles Renée.

'I don't think it will be any good or that cheap. It doesn't sound right.' I wonder if he wants to take us to a place his cousin, brother, uncle or friend owns - one that will give him a kickback for delivering us to them; something to add to those be-wary tales that occur whenever backpackers talk. We swerve to the left and wind through back streets and now I too am wondering if we should have complied with the suggestion to stay out of the taxis?

He stops for directions from another taxi-driver then continues through narrow streets, up a hill and stops at an old building. 'This is it,' and still clutching our Lonely Planet he goes inside. We follow. He shows the appropriate page to the owner, 'It says here that it costs 10 dollars so you can't charge these people any more.' We smile at our guardian as they assure him that it's the correct price and with that information he is happy to carry our packs inside. Uncharacteristically, I tip him for his kindness and climb the three flights to our room. So much for our suspicions: both the driver and accommodation are fine.

We're tired; Renée has flown in from New Zealand while I'd arrived from The Netherlands at midnight, five hours earlier. I had dozed on a bench in the noisy and bustling airport before our excited reunion and now we lie down but rest is impossible. We haven't seen each other for eight months so talk and make plans for our month together and two hours later go exploring. The back roads we seemed to be on are only minutes from the Blue Mosque and the Aya Sofya - in the middle of what became, after bloody battles, Constantinople, centre of the Roman Empire and cradle of western civilisation.

It's hot; I buy a pair of light cotton trousers and drink the first of what would come to seem like a thousand cups of chai, the sickly sweet apple tea that tourists are almost drowned with. A call from any shop door ensures a man will quickly deliver glasses of tea - carried on a silver tray - to the person calling. We succumb and buy an embroidered hat each; it's not until later we realise it's the badge of a Muslim man.

'Hello, where are you from? England? Germany? America?'

'No, no, no, we are from New Zealand,' we respond.

'Ah Kiwis,' they say 'welcome to our country,' and then comes the sales talk. They are both buying and selling; carpets, offering numerous camels for my daughter and offering endless cups of free tea or dregs-laden coffee. The first day it's disconcerting, the second we laugh it off, the third we ignore it and by the fourth day Renée's getting angry. 'Damn chauvinistic salesmen,' she snaps and we start talking our basic Maori, pretending we don't understand English.

We're lost. Despite this being the ultimate of travelling, the time when the unexpected happens, being lost can also be frustrating: we're frustrated today. How can two intelligent women lose themselves so comprehensively? In a long narrow, back street shop our appearance brings not only the three cooks out to serve us, but also neighbours from adjoining shops who stand in the doorway gazing as we peer into pots. Talking Turkish while taking lids off pots for us to examine the contents they tell us what delights await us. We don't recognise a word. They don't understand my attempt of saying, in what I thought was perfect Turkish, 'I don't eat meat.'

'That's vegetarian,' Renée declares, 'it's made with eggplant,' and I order it. She chooses a chicken dish. Large plates of delicious smelling food are put in front of us along with the usual Turkish flat bread and we start. The men watch as we eat. My meal has some unidentifiable meat in it but I eat it anyway. Renée enjoys hers until she sees something. 'What is that?' She pushes a dubious lump of meat to the side. I peer at it too.

'It's a heart. A chicken heart.'

'Oh my God, I can't eat that. What are those bits?' Her face is a picture as she pokes the offending flesh with her fork.

'Looks like the aorta to me.' I giggle while she screws her nose in disgust.

'I know I said I would eat anything while here, but I draw the line at that. What can I do with it?'

'Just leave it on your plate,' I reply but she doesn't want to hurt anyone's feelings, as they appear so happy to have us in the shop: the owners keep coming to make sure we are OK and the group at the door hasn't left either. As we prepare to leave, Renée surreptitiously wraps the offensive bit of flesh in a tissue. She's going to give one of the hundreds of stray cats a treat. I want a photograph the shop and the owner, along with our observers, stand beside us - they want to be in the picture too.

We're still not sure where we are, no one speaks English and we decide to just keep walking in what we think is the general direction of the Blue Mosque. A timorous and mangy kitten is offered the chicken heart but refuses to eat under our gaze and slinks away under a rubbish skip.

Renée needs medication and when we see a pharmacy I demonstrate what's wrong with her. I breathe deeply; attempting to wheeze as asthma sufferers do. The pharmacist looks blankly at me, so I repeat the act, getting louder and more dramatic with each breath. Renée laughs at me and then mimes using a spray. He understands straight away. 'Ah, Wentolin?' he says. I feel stupid. I forgot that most medications have a generic, language-crossing word. She buys it and for days teases me by mimicking my attempts at being an asthmatic. I wonder what he told his family that night. 'A strange woman came into the shop today . . .' We finally recognise a street that leads us home.

Turkish males start charm-school early. Renée has been told she has eyes like the Blue Mosque, lips like the Aya Sofya and I'm told I have a beautiful daughter. Even the youngsters are well practised at flirting: a young boy of about 10 captivates us as we sip drinks at an outdoor cafe. We watch locals and tourists interact, our attention is on the boy as he demonstrates the wooden tops he is selling. Some pretend he doesn't exist, the occasional person buys and with each transaction he makes eye contact with us. 'Watch this,' he seems to say as he goes into his sales talk. With a success he looks back to us and gives us the thumbs up sign - with failure, a fatalistic shrug and we laugh with him as he mimics the walk or attitude of some travellers. He's deliberately charming my daughter and his dark, sparkling eyes enchant us - he knows we'll buy a top. He shows us how to wind the string and although we can't make it spin on our hand as he does, we buy two to send to nephews.

One guy is particularly persistent and we run into him everywhere. We finally succumb to his entreaties and go to his Uncle's carpet shop where we have yet another glass of the bottomless tea and a delicious Turkish pizza, made with unleavened bread spread with ground lamb, spices, lettuce and onion. Rolled-up and eaten with a drink of a thin yoghurt-tasting drink, it's delicious. We resist his charms; refuse to sell each other no matter how many camels he offers and don't buy a carpet despite their beauty, or the neck and back massage I'm given. Renée later tells me she would be happy to sell me for a few hours in return for a big discount on a carpet.

We do the usual things in Istanbul - visit ancient sites and see inside the fabulous Blue Mosque, get lost in the largest bazaar in the world and watch the light and sound show at the mosque and walk across the bridge spanning the Bosphorus. At the Galata Tower, Renée walks and I creep, past the restaurant windows - my knuckles white as I clench the rail around its 50-metre high, precarious-feeling ledge. Imagining living in the magnificent Dolmabahce Palace, we gaze in awe at gold-enhanced 11th century mosaics and continue breaking our nails on hundreds of pistachio nuts. The stretchy ice cream (dondurma) is great and after getting lost again, spent an afternoon at a rock concert in the park - apparently the only westerners here: Turks have a very different attitude to personal space to ours.

Sitting on a row of seats with a huge space around us, a young couple come and sit an arm's length from us. They share their sweets and sunflower seeds with us and before long we're talking a strange mixture of English, Turkish and sign language. They think it's funny that we're at the concert when we don't understand Turkish; they try to explain the lyrics but we're happy to enjoy the sounds and fun without knowing the meaning.

Next day is Mothers' Day and Renée gives me a handful of pistachio nuts that she has secretly shelled. We find the local bus depot and buy tickets for an overnight trip to Safranbolu, north-east of the capital Ankara and near the Black Sea where locals tell us 'that willage makes the best lokum in our whole country.' In love with Turkish Delight we want to try the very best. After getting the tickets we travel back into the city by metro and, once again, fall into conversation with a young man. He's an English teacher at an army school in western Turkey and like us, is visiting Istanbul and is going to the royal palace too.

'Would you like to come with me?' he asks. We agree and as we explore he gives us a religious history lesson. He tells us Mohammed said God divided desire into 10 parts; gave nine parts to women leaving the men with only one. He said that it's because of this burden that Muslim women are protected, wear non-revealing clothes and are chaperoned. He is impressed that a western mother is protecting her daughter too. I don't tell him Renée has flown to Turkey to protect me from the dangers of Turkey.

Topkali Palace \- spread over the top of one of the seven hills of Istanbul - is home to amazing treasures; Renée drools through the jewellery filled rooms and our new friend proves to be great company. Before long it's time to get back to the bus depot for our late night departure.

Escaping the smoke-filled waiting room we go upstairs, into a small room where yet another young man joins us: we feel like men-magnets. Renée is sick of the attention and occupies herself with postcards while I talk for half an hour with the man, who is deaf. He's 22 years old, shows me photos of his family at a recent birthday party and is concerned that I don't have an identity card like his: he's eventually satisfied with my passport and enjoys looking at my New Zealand postcards and family photos. Towards the end of our wait, we realise we're in the wrong room, that this one is for bus drivers, however they're tolerant of our presence and even share their coffee.

We board the bus; off to the uncharted territories of long-distance Turkish buses. Naturally it's crowded with men, don't women go anywhere we wonder as we settle down to sleep in the smoke fumes: anti-smoking legislation has not reached here. An hour or two later the bus stops and we join the exodus to use toilets in some unknown town. Back on the bus a man walks down the aisle with a bottle of sweet smelling liquid - we watch the actions of others - and when a slurp of the perfumed water is poured into our cupped hands, we too rub it into our hands. We feel we've taken another small step to understanding local customs, feeling more like travellers rather than tourists. However with pride comes a fall. The driver's assistant comes around again, this time with cold drinks and a little packet of biscuits. We decline. Everyone else is eating and drinking but we don't want to pay for something we really don't want or need. It happens twice more during the night: on our return trip we realise they are complimentary.

The sky lightens with a pink and red glow and shortly before our destination we pass signs for ski fields: I wonder if these are the mountains that Noah's Ark is purported to have landed on? It's very early when the bus stops at the small town near Safranbolu but we find an open shop. Ordering coffee, we plan to consult our travel bible as we drink, but it seems coffee alone isn't possible. The owner insists that we eat the standard breakfast of soup and bread \- then we may have our coffee - a tasty meal for a pittance. Meal and map gazing over, we walk two miles into the valley then up into the UNESCO World Heritage town of Safranbolu nestled on the side of a hill.

The old Ottoman houses are made with clay-covered rubble and exposed timber: it's very early in the tourist season and we see no other travellers as we climb up to the old stone ruins then wander around the twisting, narrow cobblestone streets. Suddenly it rains - I forgot old saying about red mornings and shepherds' warnings - and we run into a little shop: the owner speaks no English and our Turkish is still limited to badly articulated courtesies. Despite this, we talk and exchange histories. Like me, she's a widow, has three children; she also has two grandchildren and encourages Renée to provide me with the same. The shop is hers and she feeds us with fresh homemade bread and feta cheese. When the rain stops we say goodbye and continue exploring but soon the downpour's back. As we huddle under a veranda a little man beckons us into his shop. He's obviously a tailor as his shop is full of bolts of material. Sitting at an ancient treadle sewing-machine, he just smiles at us and nods unknowingly at whatever we say, his pure white beard and hair a contrast to his brown, leathery skin.

As promised the lokum is wonderful and we eat more than our hips need and late in the afternoon start walking to the bus station. A bus pulls up alongside us and we're offered a ride in the school vehicle: the children practise their English on us and the driver, who is a teacher too, invites us to the school to give lessons the next day. That's not possible but we love the spontaneity of the short, generous, interactions we've enjoyed in this area and I add it to my places-to-return-to list.

When the bus turns off the main road we wave goodbye and continue our walk. Moments later a young girl runs up to me with a handful of just-picked wild flowers: returning to our breakfast café the flowers are put in a Fanta bottle, 'to keep fresh for you.'

Back on the road, on the way to join a two-day tour of the Cappadocia area, Renée finds it disconcerting to have the man in front of us gazing at her: one eye to the crack between the seats for much of the 8-hour journey. Just as we are watching the Turks, the Turks are watching us.

Our trip takes us to the underground cities where Christians fled from persecution and like on the train trip in the USA, I learn Christian history from a Muslim man.

Goats and donkeys are wandering around the dusty roads and hills and in a small town, as we sit on the side of a road; two young children ask if we have money, sweets or pens. We don't - nor do we give to beggars - but Renée shows them how to play knucklebones and plays with them for ages. Later, an old man stops beside us as we sit beside the road, 'Where are you from?'

'New Zealand.'

'Ah, Kiwis. Kiwis were here in the war,' he says. 'I like Kiwis.'

After more small talk he suddenly says, 'You must come to a wedding. Come.' He takes our hands and starts walking down a steep hill. We oblige - after all he has our hands and how can we get away from a five-foot, 80 year old, with a face like an old walnut without being rude.

He takes us into the backyard of a home: we think it's the bride's house and the other guests we see are all men. We are sat down and plied with drink and food. We decline something clear and strong smelling that we think may be alcoholic but accept the lassi, the thin-yoghurt type drink served in many eastern countries.

A live band is playing; every few minutes women arrive, carrying pots of food and disappear into the house. We want to know what the women are doing but feel unable to move from where we've been seated. It seems the wedding is going to last a long time. We can't find out but it seems it could be hours or days, so invent a friend to meet. They offer to take us to meet her and bring us all back. We say we have to take our backpacks with us - 'no problem' - the octogenarian can carry them and us on his motor scooter. Eventually we leave, promising to return if our non-existent friend is able to join us and at the bus station, Renée writes on postcards. To her amazement two young women take them from her hand, examine them then return them. Renée now realises I didn't need a chaperone after all - we're delighted to be in Turkey.

Contrasts of poverty and wealth, simplicity and extravagance surround us and it still surprises me to see women in headscarves driving tractors pulling trailers with other women on it.

Goreme is full of phallic-like 'fairy chimneys,' and volcanic tufa caves as well as the 7th century Christian churches: our accommodation is one of the caves. Locals tell us there used to be 365 churches here - 'one for each day of the year.' After wandering through and gazing open-mouthed at the open-air museum that used to be a religious community, Renée and I continue exploring with only our very basic guidebook map. In a tiny village I buy a waistcoat and they think we are strange - buying men's clothes for ourselves - and after a meal, we buy another bottle of water and go home through the Red Valley.

An hour later we can't see any trails, people or tall minarets pointing skywards from mosques: just huge expanses of dusty hills and valleys. We climb a hill to see if we can see our way home, make a decision based on a gut-feeling, walk some more then climb another hill. It all looks depressingly the same. We're thirsty and push on in the heat hoping we can rely on our traveller's intuition. When we stop to rest in patches of shade we dramatically proclaim that our bleached bones will be found in some future year. Finally, we're relieved to see a road and once we reach it use it to get back to our cave bedroom where we collapse on our bed, rehydrate ourselves and sleep all night. Breakfast - feta cheese, olives, tomato, cucumber and a hard-boiled egg on pita bread - tastes like a banquet when only 12 hours ago we thought we might never eat again.

Renée succumbs to a Turkish carpet and buys it without resorting to selling me. She's now worried that someone will know what's in her extra bag and will steal it: she swaps everything from her backpack into the carpet case. Now if her bag's stolen they'll get her clothes and she'll keep her expensive and beautiful carpet.

Another overnight bus trip takes us to Pamukkale; I sleep most of the night while Renée has severe stomach pains. (She later tells people, 'my mother was sleeping serenely on the noisy, smoky, smelly bus. I don't know how she did it - I was dying and she was sleeping!')

The white calcium formations at this castle of cotton were formed by the warm, mineral-rich spring water cascading down the cliff. We climb up a side route - getting in free - and sink into in the warm, soft water. Stalactites hang over the edges looking like wooden picket fences around shell-shaped pools and the sun is glaringly bright against the white, lunar-like landscape. We enjoy the curative water and after a long soak follow a small herd of camels down the hill: picking up aluminium cans on the way.

Time's running out for Renée and on the Aegean coast we take a day trip around the area. In Ephesus, just after I'm photographed on ancient, outdoor, communal, latrines we see people posting signs for a free show tonight. Returning to the old Great Theatre and with the sun setting behind the stage, we sit on one of the 25,000 seats to watch the first performance there for many years. Shakespeare never had such a perfect setting and yet again we are adopted by school pupils and are taken back to town in their school bus.

Red poppies are flowering between giant blocks of stone: history is piled on top of history everywhere we go and finally, from the cruise-ship harbour of Marmaris we get a ferry over the blue-blue Aegean Sea to Rodhos, Greece and immediately experience culture shock. We are ignored, we are just more tourists.

After the warmth, curiosity and generosity of the Turks we are amazed to have become invisible in Greece. Nevertheless we love the medieval, walled and touristy town centre. The money machine gives us some drachmas and we check into the front room of a local couple: a milkshake costs the same as the bed for the night. We climb to the temple of Athena, weaving past women selling beautiful linen tablecloths then descend to one of the fabulous beaches and relax in the sun.

Flying to Santorini we find it is the perfect postcard of a Greek island; pristine white buildings, cobalt blue water, dark sands and sheer, reddish-brown cliffs surround the caldera harbour. We hire an 80cc scooter and rent an apartment above a grocery shop at the quiet, south end of the island. It's my first time on the back of a motorbike since Greg's accident - when he was 15 - and memories of his ripped-off leg ensures I grab Renée's waist as we corner or go over bumps: my fear gives her finger-shaped bruises despite her competent riding.

Donkeys look like walking haystacks as they leave wheat fields and the bougainvillaea, oleander and geraniums are fabulous against backdrop of white churches, blue skies and ocean. We indulge in fresh fruit, vegetables, cheeses and bread and when we tire of black sand sticking to us, adopt the hotel pool. For four days we lie at the poolside, play in the water and fall in love with the caffeine-rich, ice-cold frappé we have delivered to us by unsuspecting hotel workers. I photograph my daughter floating on an air-filled mattress just as two people are asked to leave, 'These facilities are for guests only.'

Renée will soon be back in New Zealand and I'll be canoeing the Zambesi: the huge ferry to Athens is full and we claim armchairs to sleep on then go to the restaurant. 'Do you take Visa?' Renée asks. The waiter looks at her blankly so she shows it to him, his eyes light up, he nods and we study the menu. The meal is not as good as many of the cheap meals we've eaten in little shops around Turkey and pass over a credit card to pay what seems an astronomical amount.

'We don't take credit cards - only cash.' Our hearts sink and despite pooling our coins and notes, their combined value will pay for the entrée and coffee only. The purser eventually, but reluctantly, gives us money from the card and we can escape the glare of the previously fawning headwaiter.

Athens is hot, dusty, dirty and noisy: we're tired of ancient sites and only give them a cursory look. Twenty-four hours later Renée is on the plane with my boots and cold weather clothes and I have one more night - by lunchtime I've accepted an invitation from a sailor who is just back on shore.

During the afternoon siesta my mind wanders back to other sailors just back on land: booze and sex were high on their agenda. Although he's handsome, a one-night stand with a Greek sailor does not appeal and despite Mabel whispering to be adventurous, I ring and cancel the date. I doubt I'll ever come back to this huge city: it's too dusty, too crowded and too hot: the next day I repack my pack and head to The Netherlands once again.

back to top

~~~~

### Hippos, Crocs and a Canoe

In Amsterdam \- on my way to Zimbabwe - I book into a bed and breakfast: the owner, Ursula, tells me she is an Amish-Canadian married to a Jewish nuclear scientist. She runs a tight ship, has eyes in the back of her head and a rule for every situation.

'Do not wash your clothes in the bathroom. I don't want them hanging in the bedroom. They won't dry there.' 'Say good morning to Frank. He cooked your eggs.' It's the first time I have (knowingly) eaten eggs cooked by a nuclear scientist.

'Turn the shower of after you have wet yourself. Don't waste water. Wash yourself and then turn it back on.' 'I told you not to dry your clothes in your room. You left pants on the heater,' she tells a woman from Atlanta, Georgia.

We're a mixed bunch, as well as the American couple, there's a South African and a Canadian couple and, like children, we conspire to beat the rule maker. She wins most rounds.

'Why do you want to go to Zimbabwe?' friends asked as I worked out countries I could possibly visit on my 'around the world' air-ticket. It seemed silly, even to me, when I told them 'I like the sound of the name.' Zimbabwe sounded exotic, I just wanted to go there and my journey 'starts' here in Amsterdam.

I buy a vial of Hepatitis A vaccine at a travellers' medical centre. I remember I need to stab myself at the airport and lock myself in a cubicle to draw the liquid into the syringe. Who will believe that this needle is for medicinal purposes, a therapeutic drug, when I'm ensconced in a toilet in one of the drug capitals of the world? 'Sure it's for your health' I imagine the airport police saying, but no-one knocks on the door demanding I give myself up and, deed done, board the plane for the overnight flight.

Touching down briefly in Capetown, South Africa I stand just outside the plane door and breathe deeply, my first African air. Although it's fuel-laden I'm sure I can detect hints of animals and deserts with undercurrents of safaris and adventures and a huge blood-red sun colours the buildings and sky. Soon I arrive in Zimbabwe where accommodation touts are waiting and I go with someone who is advertising his new hostel at the airport. A quick look at the Rough Guide orientates me and I'm soon off to survey my surroundings. I'm thrilled to be in warmth after months of winter - although I'm not sure it's hot enough to use the pool.

Walking down an avenue of jacaranda trees, purple flowers lying on the road, I smile and say hello to people. Most reply, but slowly I notice more eyes are on me than just those I'm passing and I wonder if it's because I'm wearing shorts, perhaps it's not appropriate here, or is because I'm a white woman walking alone? I have become used to being invisible, physically blending in as well as that invisibility that age often bestows on older women. In Europe, men notice women no matter their age but here I'm a visible minority; I shrug off the stares and continue walking. Vegetables and fruit are packed in long skinny plastic bags, each is tied with a loop for a finger-hold and when I return home, five fingers are dangling bags.

'Is it not appropriate to wear shorts in town?' The hostel owner looks quizzical, 'Of course it's OK, why?' I tell him about the stares and he laughs, 'the only reason they would stare is because you have shorts on and it's winter. They will just think you are crazy or very tough.' It feels warm to me.

I'm enjoying this city and feel hopeful for the future of this independent, no longer colonial, country despite the cynical remark from a white South African living here. 'Stay here three months and you'll be an optimist' he said, 'after six months a pessimist and in 12 months you'll be racist.' Black and white don't appear to mix socially and when I use the cheap and strangely named 'emergency taxi,' I'm always the only white face. These taxis are mostly beat-up Renault station wagons that travel specific routes, like a bus and squeeze more inside than the designers planned.

Sign language is not always the most reliable way to converse: I'm hungry, the corn on the roadside barbecue looks good and I like to support local traders but I'm having difficulty communicating. I'm relieved when a young man offers to help, then I'm embarrassed: the food I want to buy is her lunch.

Days later I'm up at 4am: a dream is about to come true and a jeep takes me to the starting point for my canoe trip on the Zambesi River. This is the only company that employs local, Zimbabwean guides - my way of helping redistribute money in a place where the tiny white population still owns nearly all the land and wealth.

Now, standing on the banks of the calm looking river I'm beginning to wonder if I've bitten off more than I can chew, not far away a huge crocodile watches us. Safety instructions take on new dimensions under his unblinking eyes.

I'm given the dubious privilege of being in the lead canoe with the older of the two brothers who are our guides; the canoe that makes sure it's safe for the others, the one watching for hippos. I value my life now so know I'll spot them; after all they're pretty big.

The four canoes are now laden with tents, food and water, so we paddle away from the security of Mana Pools National Park, our destination a little village on the Mozambique border. This safari is made up of a family of four in two canoes, the younger guide with most of the gear in his canoe and the guide and I in another.

It's just as I imagined. Warm sun, ibis balanced on the back of cape buffalo, iridescent dragonflies, noisy baboons, fish eagles and beautiful white fronted bee eaters, just some of our companions: it's not often that reality far exceeds expectations.

'Close your mouth. Danger's over,' says my mind as I try to get moisture back into my mouth. Adrenalin is surging through my body. I attempt to breathe evenly and calm my heart. Moments ago we felt under threat, being charged by what my guide euphemistically called a 'lesser spotted' hippo. True, we had spotted it at the last possible moment and I'm not sure who was the most scared, hippo, Edson or I. In seconds my guide changed from a laid back, softly spoken Zimbabwean to a fast paddling guide who was sure we were about to be killed. The front of the canoe rose as we both dug our paddles deeply into the water to get out of the hippo's way.

The hippo causes more deaths in Africa than any other animal: perhaps its intentions were innocent, however I'd like to know why the creator gave a vegetarian such big teeth and powerful jaws. 'They won't eat you,' Edson tells me.

'Yeah right, what happens when I'm snapped in half and flapping in the water? The crocs will eat me!'

'Oh no,' he cheerfully says, 'crocs are fussy eaters. They'll only grab you if you're still alive ... then he'll take you down and drown you. He saves his meal until he's hungry.'

I intensify my stare at these hippo-infested waters, trying hard to see any tiny ears protruding from the water. Sitting in the front of the canoe I'm beginning to feel like hippo bait - a tasty morsel at the end of a canoe kebab. Every few minutes I tap the canoe to let them know we're in their territory - it seems they kill people because of fright and this tap warns them I'm in their neighbourhood - just like wearing bells in Alaska for the bears.

Romantic images of canoeing down the Zambesi travelled with me from home. Dreams of beautiful sunsets, lazy paddling, elephants spraying themselves with water and colourful birds painted pictures in my mind. Never once did I think of crocodiles making it too dangerous to bathe, bilharzia worms waiting to wriggle into my body to lay their eggs and certainly not of hippopotamuses charging my canoe.

Landing on a small island I slowly move my legs: I touch my toes and stretch before getting out. We're shown how turn bundles into an all-in-one mattress, sleeping bag and mosquito net tent and after dinner, I watch a stream of solider ants march through the bush. Night falls early and as I lie on my back, looking at the stars through the netting I giggle - the hippos sound like old men sharing a joke, coughing and laughing: it's contagious and I join in their mirth.

Biscuits and coffee are our 6am pre-breakfast snack then, after rolling up our individual tent-beds, we're off and paddling before it gets too hot. The rising sun has turned the sky crimson and the river deep red - an artery cutting through the jungle, dividing Zimbabwe from Zambia.

Yesterday taught me it's not easy to spot hippos. Large as they are it's only their eyes and nostrils that protrude from the water while the rest of their body shelters from the sun. Despite all the warnings not to do so it seems today is bath day and a long sweeping curve in the river provides a shallow easier-to-see-the-crocodiles bathing area. Our canoes form a circle like wagons in a cowboy movie and provide a semblance of protection. Into the ring of water I climb and wash quickly: very quickly. Even with the security of a loaded pistol and brown eyes scanning the water for hungry crocodiles, I'm the fastest bather. 'I hope he's a good shot,' one of the teenagers says as she washes her hair.

Day three is special. 'Sshhhh. Very quiet,' Edson whispers. 'Look, over there on the bank, three lionesses.' My heart starts its now familiar faster-than-it-should-be beat. Silently pulling my paddle aboard I'm amazed he's heading towards the trio - surely my guide knows they're dangerous killers. Gliding towards the Zambian riverbank-border my mouth assumes its wide-open position of fear. I am so close to the live version of my zodiac sign I can't believe it. When one stands and looks directly at me, I send her a silent message 'we won't hurt you.' Unconvinced or unheeding, the other two get to their feet too and as the prow of our canoe touches the land, the three young lionesses saunter up the hill, away from our inquisitive tourist eyes.

Hours later, as we erect our tents, a pack of endangered African dogs runs past our camp. I count them, 14. It's the first time our guide has seen them and he's excited. We follow them up the hill and watch them disappear into the bush. This long awaited adventure is beyond my wildest dreams. The Milky Way is particularly clear tonight, the sounds of the African bush wonderful; a cacophony of snuffling, snorting, grunting, chortling hippos, elephants trumpeting in the distance, the occasional scream of an ape. Nearly asleep to this animal lullaby I'm jolted awake by the younger man calling his brother urgently.

Rushing to join the others I stare in disbelief. Peter has a crocodile on his fishing line. Petrified the young man will be eaten, we peer over the bank. Our torches reveal his catch; the bellowing crocodile is rolling over and over and over and acting as if we've been in this situation before, we shout instructions from the safety of higher ground. 'Keep well back.'

'Just let it go.'

'Cut the line.'

'Be careful.'

Cutting the line close to those sharp teeth, the more experienced guide allows the angry reptile to slither backwards into the river - out of sight and free again, albeit with a sore mouth.

'Never again,' said the young lad as our nervous laughter changes to teasing about his fishing prowess - he'll never forget his first guiding trip - and when we calm down, return to our beds, our last night on the river bank.

Today we'll reach our destination; the final stretch is through a gorge with whirlpools and rapids. Hippopotamuses don't like this stretch of river so I'm looking forward to relaxing and the water level is low enough not to be dangerous. Tall cliffs contain us; monkeys yell warnings to each other as we glide past them and an eagle hovers overhead. Although my legs have not been used much I feel fit after paddling and we arrive at our destination too soon: I want to continue but Mozambique is around the next corner.

The jeep's waiting to pick up the canoes, our gear and us - five smelly travellers and two guides. Although hippos are dangerous, although they have kept me on full alert and although Africa has many wonderful creatures, it is with these large ungainly, squinty-eyed animals that I have fallen in love with - I want to start this water-safari again.

Travelling back to Harare we pass through lands that are still owned and farmed traditionally. At the top of a long climb we stop, our vehicle needs to be sprayed to ensure we aren't carrying the tsetse fly. Once the wheels are sprayed with an aerosol can we're allowed to move on and later arrive in Harare.

An English woman, whom I met at a meeting of ex-drunks, invites me to stay with her for a few days. Two days later, as I wait for her weekly hair styling appointment to end, the salon-owner approaches me. 'Hello madam. Would you be kind enough to allow our senior hairdresser to wash and blow wave your hair? No charge.' I look at her in surprise and she continues, 'She hasn't done European hair and wants the practice.' The dryer burns my scalp and my short hair requires double doses of conditioner for ages: it's true, there's no such thing as a free lunch, shampoo or blow-wave.

A truck safari sign catches my eye so check it out; when I walk out of the office I'm ecstatic - I'm off to the Okavango Delta and Etosha National Park. For 25 days I'll be travelling through Botswana and Namibia: it starts in a few days and I'll worry about my Visa card when I get home.

I wonder how I'll cope in such close quarters with a group of strangers - or rather how will the young folk who usually people these safaris cope with a 50-year old? I remind myself of my hero Mabel, I'm sure she would say don't be silly, just do it: I go to sleep resolving to listen to Mabel this time.

The truck will pick me up in Victoria Falls; the company have booked the overnight train to get me there; meantime, I've been lent a car. I want to go to the Gonarezhou National Park on the Mozambique border but am warned against it. 'They are still fighting there and a lone woman would not be safe. There are often deaths up there,' warns the hostel owner and I take his advice and early next morning I head off see something called Great Zimbabwe. The road's smooth, the route simple and three or four hours after leaving Harare I'm at Masvingo, find a place to stay, then head off to see the ancient city.

I read the brochure: it tells me Rhodes and other white settlers said Great Zimbabwe was proof that an ancient Mediterranean people had lived here earlier: it was politically advantageous for them believe that. The alternative was 'the natives' could build with sophistication and this didn't fit with their Eurocentric beliefs. It's now accepted that the Shona - one of the two main groups in the area - built it and that some 10,000 people and the ruler of the region lived here.

I enjoy the peace as I stroll around the granite block walls that form the buildings and massive walls that wander up and down the gentle slopes making me wonder how people built these with no machinery: fitting the huge blocks together without mortar.

A group of schoolchildren surge into the area and the silence is gone. They're having an on-site history lesson and I too enjoy the music when a group plays for them - I have now attached myself to the kids' tour. The mbira translates as a thumb piano - a little box with a row of metal strips that are plucked by the thumb. Accompanying them, more men are playing gourds filled with dried seeds while others are clapping blocks of wood together or beating drums: it is hypnotic.

Women in this living museum are making bowls. They smooth local clay into various sizes; press designs into the soft mixture with fingers or sticks, then set each piece aside to dry in the hot sun. Later, soft granite - also a local product - is smoothed over the surface, making them look as if they're made from a silver grey metal. I buy one that I've watched transforming from a lump of sticky dirt into a piece of beauty.

One advantage of solo-travel is getting the last seat for buses or events and back in town, I notice an advert for a show at the local theatre and buy a ticket. Guardians of Eden is wonderful: seven actors, six Africans who represent six major African countries and a white woman who stands for South Africa, take us on a journey through their continent. They become elephants, lions, springboks and other animals with very few movements. The two-person giraffe transforms the theatre into the wilderness as they walk across the stage. The play tells non-Africans our help is not required to save the animals - Africa will do so. As I lie in bed I wonder about the stockpiles of ivory, the impact of tourism and the clearing of bush for tobacco farms: once again, I know solutions are never as simple as they seem when not on the spot.

Returning to Harare, I pick up a Swiss couple, then three young Zimbabwean boys who sit silently, looking at us with huge round eyes until they get out of the car some miles down the road and that night I re-sort my gear. I'm now ready for Botswana, Namibia and the truck.

back to top

~~~~

### Off on safari

My reserved, women-only, sleeper-carriage is full. The two bench seats and the narrow space between them are packed with African women and children. Although I don't count, I suspect there are at least 15 inside so peer at my ticket again. The numbers on it and those on the carriage door are the same so, smiling and pointing to my ticket, I too squeeze in. They smile back, tell a child to move so I have a seat and continue talking animatedly to each other.

Two minutes before we are due to leave, two very blonde women arrive and squeeze in too. It seems they also have tickets for this carriage. 'I thought this was a sleeper carriage,' says blonde one.

'I did too, but guess this is Africa. Things are often not what they seem to be.'

'Well they can give us our money back for this ticket. It's dishonest. I need to sleep,' says blonde two.

A shout and whistle from the station coincides with the train jolting. All the children and most of the women in my compartment get off the train, leaving three behind: six people, six seats and the train departs exactly on time.

The blondes and I exchange information; they're from Sweden and are joining the same safari as me. Harare is receding as a man arrives to create our beds. The two rows become six bunks in less than two minutes - I get the short straw, the number on my ticket indicates I have a top bunk and have to clamber up there by using the lower bunks as a ladder. Once in the narrow, confined space I crawl into my much-loved purple and green security-blanket and the silk liner. The rocking train and rhythmic sounds act as a lullaby and I'm soon asleep despite wondering how I will get back down and wishing I'd gone to the toilet.

When I wake we're at a standstill and through the metal slats covering the window I see we're on the outskirts of a town. Small huts and houses sit in dusty yards; children stand and stare or wave at the train while I drool at the ripe pawpaw hanging from scrubby-looking trees. Perhaps we are close to our destination, Bulawayo: the Place of Slaughter. Stopping and starting frequently it takes another hour to arrive at the station.

Food is at the top of our needs and across the road from the station - where we will join another train tonight - is a shop full of locals, the international sign for good food and the Swedes and I walk into it. There's not a white face to be seen and it seems as if all eyes are on us. One table is empty, I take my pack off and put it on the floor beside it, Swede one does the same and we go to the counter and order by pointing, sadza - a thick maize porridge that's eaten with fingers from a pile in the middle of the table. We're also given a pile of large, soft, white bread and their only cold drink, Coca-Cola. Returning to our table one of the staff intercepts us, she wants us to follow her and when we do, we're put into a storeroom at the back of the shop.

She brings three plastic chairs and among sacks of maize-meal, beside a small walk-in fridge and crates of coke, we sit with breakfast on our knees. We don't know if this is an honour or insult. I decide to accept it as an uncomfortable cross-cultural show of respect, that she assumes, as whites, we would not want to sit with blacks. It's time like this that I hate the colonials who imprinted their beliefs of superiority on locals - all over the world. With no common language, we accept the action as attempted kindness and smile pleasantly to our hosts while ignoring the huge rats that run across the floor and along the power-cord strung below the ceiling. Full of carbohydrates, we thank our hosts and say goodbye to the many customers who now greet us as we weave through the tables: the attractive young blondes are ogled appreciatively as we get a taxi to the information centre.

Two hours and 50 kilometres later we're driving into the Matobo National Park. Squeezing into caves we see rock drawings; the smooth-backed granite hills and the views are wonderful, but it's two small lizards that take my breath away. Sunning themselves on one of the huge rocks they look like the multi-coloured jelly-snakes my children loved years ago. I photograph them, then, after looking around the 360-degree landscape from Rhodes grave, check our guide's book of animals: how can they call such interesting looking creatures 'ordinary lizards'?

There are only five rhinos in the park and as the day ends we see three and they peer myopically at us as we sit in the silent, roofless jeep - it seems they can smell us but can't see very well. A mother, with her young one almost glued to her side sniffs the air as we roll slowly down a slope towards her. 'These are white rhinos' our guide tells us, 'You can see they are not white but were called weit by the Dutch, it means wide and it describes their square-lipped and broad snout.'

Her hide is dusty and her horn about a metre long. I'm holding my breath and wish my camera had stronger lens: I want to photograph her eyelashes; I want to become a wildlife photographer. She disappears into the bush, the engine starts and around the next corner we find another: this time our driver keeps the engine running, 'It's illegal to turn the motor off in the park,' he says, 'it's dangerous as we couldn't get away quickly if we need to.'

Passing a cluster of round, earthen homes, decorated with painted designs, we see two young women pounding corn; lifting and then dropping the log sized pestle rhythmically onto the stone mortar, crushing the kernels.

With our mini-safari over we're back on the train: next stop Victoria Falls and the tents and truck that will be our home for the next three weeks. When I wake we're at a train station with a magnificent, even though incongruous, display of Edwardian extravagance softened by frangipani, palm trees and a pond.

In the more prosaic Town Council camping ground I meet our guide and driver. Although the truck can take 20, only 12 have booked the tour - Aussies, Israelis, a Canadian, Brits and of course the Swedes and me. The rugby playing Canadian student gets me as her tent-mate and soon we go exploring, as both of us need some last minute necessities. I've bought a pair of fawn soft hide boots for hiking and now it seems I also need a blanket and hat for the cold, early morning, safari rides. I buy a scratchy, grey blanket and the only hat I find has a South African flag embroidered on it.

A supper cruise on the river has been arranged so we get to know each other: I'm the eldest - the only Kiwi and the only non-drinker: four of us are vegetarians. A group of South African tourists are on the cruise too, loud, drunk and obnoxious. 'Hey sexy, where are you from?' The Swedish woman ignores them. 'Blondie, come over here. Come and see what real men are like.' The Canadian woman and I are appalled at their crass sexist language. Next morning I leave the others sleeping and walk to the Smoke that Thunders, the original name for Victoria Falls and more descriptive than the tribute to his Queen which my relative, Livingstone, named the falls for.

I hear the water and see smoky mist as soon as I leave the tourist town. Opposite the gate to the Victoria Falls Hotel I squat to load my camera as a group of monkeys are just ahead. 'Are you alright Madam?' a smartly uniformed man calls as he crosses the road towards me.

'Yes. Thank you I'm just putting a film in my camera.'

'Very well. Have a good day Madam.'

'Thank you. You too. Bye' and he walks back to the gates he's guarding.

I'm dubious as I pass the monkeys but they ignore me and continue grazing: it appears they're eating seeds. The gates open at 6am and until then I wait, sitting on a large rock, putting my camera in a plastic bag and listening to the impressive roar and, as a mini-bus arrives, I buy a ticket that will allow me in and out all day.

Despite the 'dry season' everything's wet: the rain forest is wet, the paths are wet, and I'm wet and need to wipe my glasses often. Water pours over the main falls, down the side of the chasm created by the geological fault-line and I can't imagine them with even more water in the 'wet season.'

Fearing I'll fall down the sheer vertigo-producing sides, I keep well back from the few wobbly fences that separate me from the Devil's Cataract, the Rainbow, the Horseshoe, Boiling Pot and Danger Point, where I timidly gaze into the abyss.

The Canadian, the Swedes and most of the guys' bungee-jump from the bridge that connects Zimbabwe and Zambia and all have signed up for white water rafting. I decline, but later contemplate joining them and without telling the others, go to the rafting centre to watch the films from today's trips. 'I thought I was going to die.'

'Just as I knew I had to breathe or swallow water I reached the surface.'

'It was like a washing machine. I had no idea how to get to the surface.'

'I have never been so scared in all my life.'

'That was so frightening. I knew my life was over.'

I slip away; I have no need for such fear. Just watching the movies from today's trips means adrenalin is surging through my arteries and my heart's pounding at an almost uncontrollable rate.

At the Cultural Centre, legends and dances inform and entertain me and I buy hippo-shaped bookends, elephant salad servers and a happy looking, fat-bellied hippo. Another early morning walk brings an impala, an Egyptian goose, a huge upside-down baobab tree and me face to face with Livingstone's statue. Tears of pain and gratitude flow briefly as I think that Greg would love to be here. How can he be dead? How can I be sober? How can I be nearly 51 when he didn't even live to have a 21st? Well he did, but only his sister, two friends and I commemorated it and he'd been dead for three months.

On our last afternoon I join others for afternoon tea in the posh hotel then a wild-game dinner and show at a restaurant on the outskirts of town. After watching the others eat zebra, crocodile-tail and buffalo, I agree to have my bones read - the first time I've been to a fortune-teller. In a little tent-like room a man, sitting on the floor in traditional fiction-writers' witch-doctor clothes of loincloth, feathers and pelt, shakes a collection of small bones onto the floor. It seems I have had a good life, am having a good life and will continue to have a good life. My fellow travellers will have good lives too.

Two people have been assigned to buy groceries and vegetables for the next three days: we dismantle our tents, pack the truck and we're off. The truck is a teal blue Bedford with canvas and plastic rollup sides; on each side, below the wooden deck, store cupboards hold food, tents, tables, chairs, cooking utensils, tools, spare tyres and a large water tank. Inside a hard bench seat runs the length of each side and we soon arrive at the Zimbabwe - Botswana border on our way to see famous delta.

The truck drives through disinfectant - deep enough and long enough to wash the tyres for foot and mouth disease prevention. Clambering from the back of the truck we wipe our sandals and boots on a wet, disinfectant-soaked sack then have our passports stamped. I've left Zimbabwe for another landlocked country, Botswana.

Chobe National Park, Botswana's premier game reserve is our first overnight stop, and both land and river safaris have been organised. I love seeing the hippos lolling in the water and mud but I'm astounded at large herds of elephants wandering nonchalantly in front of us as we drive down the dirt roads. During the three-hour river cruise we see the strange secretary birds and a huge fish eagle as it swoops down to take a fish from the guide. Hippos wallow, warthogs stare, zebras run and I'm in heaven.

Two days driving brings us to Maun, gateway village to Okavango River - the river that never finds the sea: flowing from Angola and Namibia, dying as it soaks into the sands of Botswana's Kalahari Desert. According to my guidebook it's one of the largest inland deltas in the world: a cluster of channels and islands the size of Switzerland and we'll explore the waterways by mokoro; a dugout canoe made from a tree-trunk.

Driving through dry scrub and acacia trees, we stop as our driver says he can see giraffes. I can't see a thing. I'm not convinced they are in the sparse vegetation but keep peering. 'Look for what's different,' my guide had told me on the Zambesi River trip, so I try. I still see nothing until one moves and immediately three become obvious; I would have sworn they were not there.

Arriving at the oasis of lagoons and islands, we are about to be poled through a myriad of waterways and I wonder how to choose a boat and boatman when there are more boats than travellers. I pick the man who smiles and nods at me.

Papyrus grass, water lilies and the occasional bright green water snake are at my eye level. Am I awake or dreaming, this seems like my own National Geographic, real-life TV programme and nothing could be more peaceful than being poled silently through the reeds.

For two full days, our safari takes us walking and canoeing and at the end of each day, we sleep in tiny two-person tents. Before bed, we cook over a fire and as we eat, listen to African legends from the one guide who speaks English: he tells a folktale about the hippo.

'The hippos hated the heat of the sun and begged God to let them live in the water. He told them "No, you have such big mouths you will eat all the fish." "No we won't God," they tell him, "we promise. We will just live in the water then at night-time we will come out to eat the grass." God still refuses but they keep pleading. Finally he gives in, "Very well" he says. "But you must always show me and all the other animals there are no fish in your poo." And that's why, 'our guide continues, 'when they go to the toilet their tail goes round and round and round to scatter their dung. They're saying, look God, no fish.'

Today we've seen the aggressive wild buffalo, reedbucks, impala, baboons and an antelope called a red lechwe, which loves the water. While walking, single file behind the guide and through high grasses, we find a dead porcupine and I take some quills. We follow spoor, sniff wild sage, watch herds of elephants and in the evening elephants come to drink in the channel surrounding our floating island. Their impressive size has me spellbound - I'm only a few metres away from them. Three of us are taking photos when the elephant suddenly roars, moves towards us and flaps his ears. Within moments, our guide is beside us, 'Come back. Come back. You are too close. He is angry with you. Telling you to come away.' We disappear back into the bush with our concerned protector - we thought the water was a barrier - we forgot it was very shallow and elephants can swim.

Distances in Botswana are huge; most roads are little more than dirt tracks so tourists usually fly from place to place. Governmental policies encourage small groups of wealthy tourists rather than independent budget travellers. I'm pleased I joined the truck; I couldn't have got to these places easily on my own - especially as my year is fast coming to an end. I'm trying not to think about it.

Botswana is fulfilling all my dreams of Africa - big blue skies, big night skies, big scenery and the big five (elephant, rhinos, lion, leopard and buffalo), fabulous sunsets and friendly locals.

Journal entry: 8th July 1996

Sleeping in no-man's land - a 20 metre wide strip on the border between Botswana and Namibia - high fences each side and evidently a well-used animal trail. Can hear elephants calling - hope they don't squash my tent! I wonder if the officials will let us in tomorrow. Right now the boss is belligerent and drunk!

One of the Israelis hasn't a visa to enter Namibia but we've been stamped out of Botswana and can't go back: she can't go forward, so neither can we. We cook dinner beside the truck as usual then decide not to pitch camp but sleep on the floor of the truck - safe but squashed. Three hours later a guard comes to the truck. 'You come through now. Boss asleep so no problem - he drunk before. Too dangerous to sleep here, elephants come all night.' We drive through the gate and pitch our tents in the dark; the practical Canadian and I have ours up first and we're soon asleep. It seems an occupational bonus for guides and drivers to have one of their guests satisfy their sexual appetite and one of the Swedish women is sleeping with the English guide.

Our documents are stamped in the morning and we officially enter this land of contrasts. The Israeli returns to Botswana where she will try to get a visa then re-join us and we're off to Etosha National Park: it's larger than Texas, four-times the size of New Zealand. We spend a night in Grootfontein, one of the hottest places in the country then replenish our larder. I'm on food buying duties.

The German colonisers have left a legacy of great bread behind and it's on the top of our list: we bypass the massive ostrich eggs and buy three dozen regular-sized eggs, rice and some expensive, imported green vegetables. It's good to have the brief contact with locals as travelling with a group has separated me from the people and culture I wanted to meet. We add boerewors (farmers' sausage) for the carnivores, protein for us vegetarians comes in the cheese and dried beans and we top off our purchases with local oranges.

At Etosha, even clichés are insufficient - so common that we are all mouthing them, but they've lost all value and we can't think of new words to describe the beauty before us. Tonight we're staying at Naumutoni Camp and as we drive through the dry looking landscape, herds of grazing zebra ignore us; while the black-faced impala, kudu and the tiny dik-dik spring and bounce away and I'm happy my Alaskan binoculars are hanging around my neck to get closer views.

Setting up our tents and outdoor kitchen, I'm amazed to see so many white faces - we haven't seen other travellers or tourists since leaving Vic Falls - where did they appear from? Curiously there's an historic German colonial fort here, its stark white walls with their castle-like parapets and weapon holes look bizarre and beautiful and the tan of the countryside contrasts sharply with the white walls and blue skies. I buy a book about Namibia and another on African folklore: I've bought more in Africa than on the rest of my travels. It's as if, now the end is close, I want to clutch my travels to me, to take more than memories home and to have physical connections to the place.

The spring-fed water hole is floodlit so we're invisible to the animals while they are clear to us: a small rock fence separates us and as evening falls, the rows of plank seats fill. I sit in the middle of the front row to watch the unscripted floorshow, as always I want the best view and I want it all.

Zebras are drinking; a group of funny-looking, anxious warthogs are kneeling beside the water and when some hyenas slink up with their ungainly gait, the warthogs leave glancing over their shoulders at the predators.

Elephants arrive and exert their dominance by flapping their ears and charging at other animals until they move. The timid zebras stand back as the giant creatures quench their thirst and when they finally stop the elephants just stand for ages, chasing the occasional animal when it creeps over to drink. Suddenly, in unison, they turn and walk in single file into the bush and darkness. Ten minutes later we hear them roaring briefly then the night becomes silent, except for the whispering of people around me.

Slowly the audience disappears and I'm one of only six when four giraffe arrive. With legs splayed their long neck gets their lips to the water - a strange mixture of ungainliness and elegance. We humans look at each other and smile - our perseverance has bought benefits denied the others and the smirks are still on our faces when a rhino silently jogs to the water. I'm mutely ecstatic and hate it when tiredness and the prospect of another 4am start finally drives me to bed.

Driving through the waterless, sandy, salt desert to get to Halali rest camp we see a small pride of lions, horned gemsbok and of course the numerous zebra that feed so many animals. They're flighty and many have tan stripes as well as the usual black and white ones: it's hard to get close enough to photograph them well - already I want to come back with a better camera.

Hornbills, slender mongoose and solid rhino congregate at the next waterhole. While I would love to stay in the park for days already some of my young companions are bored; they have seen a sample of each animal group and want to move on. After our meal, we have turns reading aloud from my new book: stories called, The Chameleons Fall from Grace, King Lion and King Eagle and How the Ostrich got its Long Neck, all keep us amused.

If the bored people were hoping for a bright town to relieve their world-weariness, Twyfelfontein doesn't help. Travelling through an amazing 250 million-year-old petrified forest we're introduced to a welwitschias mirabilis which has two leaves which just keep growing continuously for a couple of thousand years. Camping beside some large euphorbia near Burnt Mountain I watch the sun change the hills into a kaleidoscope of reds, oranges, greys and purples.

Against the desert the Atlantic looks fantastic and the Skeleton Coast National Park is as desolate as it sounds: the water's wild and the desert dunes that meet it are bone-bleachingly dry. At Cape Cross there's a large colony of fur seals and I'm surprised half the group has never seen them before. 'Whew they stink,' is the reaction.

'Oh look that little one is crying.'

'What a noise. I didn't know they made any sounds.'

The bleating and smells remind of parts of our New Zealand coastline and I begin to think I maybe won't be sad to finish travelling after all.

A black-backed jackal creeps towards a pup that's on its own - cute or not, most animals are food for others. 'Go away, go away you horrible thing,' shouts one of the women. The men laugh at her and our voices achieves her goal and the canine darts off - until we turn our backs.

At Swakopmund our missing Israeli is waiting for us: it took her two days to get a visa and a flight and she's been waiting for us to arrive. Along with two others, I arrange to take a flight: to hell with my mounting Visa bill. The plane is tiny - tiny and weak looking and I hope it's safe, that it hasn't been leased out to Dodgy and Dodgy Airlines Inc.

Climbing through the little door I sit in the back, the American woman does the same and an Aussie guy and the pilot take the two front seats. With our earmuffs on, the engine starts and we roll to the end of the paddock. I sit with my back pressed against the seat and my feet firmly on the floor, then bumping along the dirt and despite the slow speed, we become airborne. I unclench my hands, look out the side window, on my left is the Atlantic, and below, a few patches of green. 'Wow, look at the golf course.' I snap a quick photo then look out the front window. In front of us lies a circle of very high hills and, as I wonder if this little plane can soar so high, out of the clear blue sky a cloud of thick sea fog rolls over us. I immediately pray to whatever god looks after passengers in wee planes that are flying directly towards a mountain of rocks and sand.

'Dear God please make the plane go up, please let the pilot know how high to go, please go high, please take away the clouds, please tell my kids I love them, please don't let me die, please, please, please. I'll be good from now on - I promise' - praying to and bargaining with, a childhood god I no longer believe in.

Minutes later the clouds and fog disappear and we're over the hills. Before me is a postcard of sand - the northern tip of the Namib Desert. The giant dunes are stunning and now I pray my photos will do the scene justice. The low morning sun is creating shadows along the sharp tops of the reddish sand; the rest of the smooth dunes sparkle in the sun and my tears well up again.

Our pilot says the vehicle track marks are leftovers from trucks and tanks that drove around here 50 years ago. 'We have so little rain here it takes hundreds of years for lichen to recover.' He also points out an ancient riverbed and the hardy trees following the contours the water once took. Swooping along the Skeleton Coast, wrecks of ships lie in the sand like decomposing fish or beached whales - their backbones and ribs exposed and sun-bleached. A flock of pink flamingos fly below us; another flock of thousands is feeding in the salt pans that separate the desert sand from the sea. I love the barren splendour and time passes too quickly - I want to stay up here in this now wonderful, not-at-all-scary plane.

Swakopmund is a weird and wonderful combination, or union of, German, Bavarian and art deco buildings: a strange juxtaposition of Europe and African desert. We're camped on a headland and the screams of the gulls, the smells of the sea and offshore wind reminds me of Kaikoura. I feed giant stingray at the National Marine Aquarium, the ray's smooth underbelly glides over my open hand and unseen lips snuffle and suck the food into its mouth. It's an unusual feeling to have such a huge creature act so gently, his wings out of the water and I'm sure its eyes connected with mine.

The truck's been checked; the water replenished and we head into the Namib Naukluff National Park. Leaving the hostile coast we drive into the apricot-coloured desert again and as three women are moaning at the prospect of 'more boring scenery' we have a flat tyre - our first in over two weeks of rough roads. While it's fixed I photograph weaverbird nests and see my first dung beetle rolling its round cargo before it. I also see beetles travelling on the backs of slightly larger ones. According to our onboard library these are males protecting their female from the sun - providing shade and keeping her cool so she can produce young.

For three days we travel through a gorge created millions of years ago; past canyon walls where layers of historical geography are clear to see and each night it's hard to erect our tents on the stony ground. Each night also provides a stunning sunset and the Milky Way produces a glow of stars in the cold night.

The Namib Desert has an austere, haunting beauty and Dune 45, a 150-metre red-sand-hill, brings me to tears. How could a giant sandpit be so fabulous I wonder as I scramble up its slope to look over the scene which nature sculpts daily. Down on the plain, stones are left behind while the lighter sand is swept up into the shifting hills. I'm in love with this arid and inhospitable place and want to travel its 2000 kilometre-long photographic paradise.

Our last days in Namibia are in spent travelling through the Fish River Canyon and onto the Ai Ais. Soaking in the hot pools feels so civilised after deserts, parks, tents and an old Bedford truck. I laugh at the little rock hyrax: it looks like a guinea pig or some rodent as it darts in and out of sight among the rocks. How can such a small thing be closely related to an elephant I wonder? Tomorrow we're out of Namibia and into the Republic of South Africa - most of my fellow travellers will leave the truck in Cape Town; three of us will use it to get back to Zimbabwe.

I join the queue to be allowed into South Africa. My heart's beating faster, my mouth's dry and a feeling of unease and impending doom has taken over my body. 'New Zealand. Did you know the All Blacks have just beaten the Springboks?' the immigration officer asks.

'No. Where did they play?' After a year on the road I'm out of touch with our national rugby team.

'Christchurch,' the immigration officer says as she stamps my passport with cold, emotionless, official words: different to the hot feelings racing through my body. It seems strange to be to be here; wrong somehow, but back out in the early morning sun national pride surges and I write New Zealand in large capital letters on the back of my pale green T-shirt.

Rugby and politics have caused my anxiety and arriving here on the same day their team is playing in my hometown is ironic. The last time they were there I was arrested: the charge sheet proclaimed my crime as 'Obstructing a Carriageway' - civil disobedience.

I was scared during the protest that day - not fear of arrest or its consequences, but of my fellow protesters. Waiting in the police-van they'd continued their protest by throwing themselves from side to side, rocking it violently. I was sure the van would tip over and, staunch as I pretend to be, I was fearful of being hurt.

Being fingerprinted and a photo of my arrest appearing in the daily paper were the end of a long journey that started at Linwood High in 1960 when South Africa was demanding the team about to tour their country was to be selected from Pakeha (white) only. 'No Maori No Tour' was the rally-cry around New Zealand and I joined the outcry, the beginning of a lifetime of championing for the underdog. Sharpeville, Steve Biko, Vietnam, abortion law reform and many feminist issues have moulded me: perplexing moral issues that led to the swaying van and criminal convictions.

Now, years later, standing by the truck waiting for the others to complete border formalities, I wonder why I'm here. Why in a country I'd never planned visiting? Over the past three months my prejudices have been massaged. Just a few days ago a visit to another restaurant strengthened my beliefs about 'their' racist attitudes. The hair on the back of my neck seemed to stand on end when I heard their South African accents. I know it's hypocritical of me to be prejudiced against a group of people on the grounds of race when I've fought against them for the self-same reason. What a conundrum: moral stands or beliefs are hard to understand, even my own.

I'm trying to be open-minded even though my physical body is not willing - it feels scared, in danger and shows all the usual fear symptoms and I'm finding it hard to change 35 years of opposition.

Hours later we're in Capetown where Tabletop Mountain refuses to remove its tablecloth of cloud and over the next few days I eat a Mexican meal, visit the market on the waterfront, take a boat trip in the harbour, visit the beautiful town gardens and walk around the city centre.

On the edge of wealth I visit the labyrinth of streets of township squalor where tiny dormitory rooms that once housed many men and now house families. Where one man slept on a bunk now a family uses the same space. South Africa plans to demolish this site for the Olympic Games if they're awarded them - thousands will again be shunted further out. Back in the van, we pass a huge mural: 'Never never never again - we salute all who pass' it says. We have arrived in Zonnebloem - the new name for District Six where the so-called 'coloureds' were forcibly removed during the sixties; compulsorily sent to townships.

'Where are you from?' our driver asks me.

'New Zealand.'

'Ah, the All Blacks. I love rugby. I always wanted to play rugby.'

'Why didn't you?'

'Africans are too small. We haven't had good enough food when we were growing to be big enough. Rugby is very tough, you must be strong.'

'Well maybe your children will be able to. You are doing well to have made this little tour. It's very good.'

'Thank you. I love to show people our history and how we are slowly getting better. Thank you to New Zealand for supporting us.'

Forty-eight hours later I'm back in Zimbabwe. South Africa has been a strange full stop to an interesting chapter. I check my record of the types of animals I've seen: 37 live creatures, countless birds and one dead porcupine.

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~~~~

### Homeward bound

I feel like I've come home: I know where everything is in Harare, how to signal (fingers and palm pointing downwards) for an emergency taxi or to hitchhike, where to buy the best avocados and I'm welcomed back by stallholders. I also know which homes have glass embedded into the top of their fence and one near the hostel looks incongruous with a poinsettia, as big as a tree, growing beside its dangerous shards. I'm fascinated by pot-plants growing so big - it's the reverse of Alaskan willow trees becoming bonsai size.

I can't stand the hair flapping around my ears. The truck adventure has given me a sun-kissed, wind-swept look and back in Harare I go to a salon that says it caters for both African and European hair. I'm nearly 'Madamed' to death and emerge with a manicured style reminiscent of the 1950s. I immediately wash the highly-perfumed spray from my hair and leave it to dry in my no-frills style.

On a bus, I shut my eyes as drivers' race towards each other until - just when it seems too late to avoid a crash - they swerve to the left, pass and then move back to the middle of the road. Despite this I arrive safely at The Gallery - part of a Shona village. Stone work is a recent craft for this tribe and is of world class quality and I spend hours running my eyes and hands over pieces and watch carvers creating huge works of art.

I buy a small yawning hippo from one of the young men selling on the side of the road. Other footpath-sellers are women who spend hours crocheting tablecloths from locally grown cotton and I buy cushion covers and a large tablecloth to use as bedspread: evocative reminders of women walking the streets crocheting as they go, never wasting a moment. They put Mabel and me to shame with their productiveness.

In the sweet smelling African Unity Square men are creating magnificent displays from buckets of flowers that line the roadside and I buy a bunch to celebrate my 51st birthday and one for the woman who lent me her car. Her live-in housemaid is happy with the unwanted clothes, grey blanket and South African hat I give her and she shows me how to tie a scarf around my head as she does - I don't turn into an exotic looking person like her; I just look stupid.

Using the omnipresent, bone shaking, overloaded taxi I go to the heart of Harare, the real spirit of any African town - the market. Mbare is lively with narrow paths, potholed roads, streams of people and endless stalls and buildings on the edge of the actual city. It's a fruit salad of colours, sounds and smells and I try a dried, protein-rich caterpillar. It's tasteless, sticks in my throat and I wash down with water: I don't try the herbal medicines even though they're guaranteed to cure anything - I don't think I have anything wrong. One stall sells sandals ingeniously made with old tyres, nothing is wasted here, everything's repaired or reused and one street has men sitting on the footpath repairing watches.

The inevitable day has arrived; I've stretched my ticket to its last possible date. My plane leaves tonight, the jacaranda blossoms have disappeared and temperatures are climbing. I farewell the gardens, talk to stall holders who no longer nag me to buy but call 'are you still here?' and eat a final meal of cornmeal sadza and vegetable relish then I'm driving to the airport under a vermilion sky. I check my heavier-than-when-I-left-home bag then go towards passport control. A man blocks my way. 'Airport tax is 50 dollars US.'

'How much is that in Zim dollars?'

'Three hundred.'

'Ok, I'll go and get it.'

I go to the hole-in-wall money-machines that have freed me from travellers' cheques and withdraw enough to make up the amount and return. '50 US dollars Ma'am.' I hand him the money. 'No. 50 US dollars Ma'am.'

'Yes - this is the same. Three hundred Zimbabwe dollars.'

'It must be US cash or travellers' cheque.'

'I'm a Kiwi, from New Zealand, I don't use US dollars.'

'No dollars - no leaving.'

I start to laugh and he looks fierce. 'It's not funny Ma'am.'

'I'm sorry. I'm not laughing at you. I have travelled everywhere and never had to use American money except in America. Can I change the money?'

'No. Can only change it at the bank in Harare - tomorrow.'

I'm feeling sick, my flight is due to board and I can't get past this big, African man.

'Can I talk to someone about this? I have to leave tonight. My ticket expires if I don't. I don't have any other money.'

'You have travellers' cheques?'

My nervous laughter has stopped and I'm sure I'm as white as I feel, my blood drained from my body, I'm about to cry. 'No. No travellers' cheques \- I just use my money card.'

'OK I take the Zimbabwe dollars.' He stamps 'paid' on my departure card. 'Next time you must have US money.'

'Yes. Thank you, thank you so much' I blather as the final call to board is announced and I rush to get on board before he changes his mind. Hours later I'm in Perth, Australia, everyone is white and I'm in culture shock. I blend into the crowd on the train and the streets \- I'm invisible again.

'Do you want to work in Napier as the night-manager at a back packer's hotel?' faxes my daughter and I accept for the summer: it will enable me to come back to earth before I have to grow up and get a real job.

Three days later I'm flying over the Southern Alps with tears in my eyes. It's not the beauty of the mountains, the braided rivers or the spring colours of Canterbury's geometric shaped paddocks that's produced the tears - I don't want my year to be over. I want to continue travelling but now I'm broke and have a Visa bill to pay. Two weeks later I start the night-manager's job, my wages are a place to stay \- just like the housemaid in Harare - and I throw away the now out-of-date condoms that friends gave me over a year ago.

Mr A-bit-of-alright has not crossed my path despite the thousands of kilometres I've travelled and the millions of people who have been in my vicinity. Prior to travelling my prayer had been 'please God, don't give me a man,' but now I think one could be a good idea. I open a counselling practice at a Doctors' surgery, start a travel-savings account and have fallen in love ... with the Cleopatra-eyed gannet. I frequently walk out to Cape Kidnappers to watch them.

Working in the hostel keeps me restless: surrounded by travellers, I keep adding to my 'want to visit' list. One day a French-Canadian yachtie cycles into Napier: he's cute and his accent even cuter. He stays a few days and we arrange to meet in Christchurch and go hiking in the Southern Alps. We hike for a few days and when we return to the main road, hitch a ride with an off-duty policeman who tells us it's Valentine's Day and back in Christchurch we spend the evening waltzing under the stars to an orchestra. Adrien says it's his best Valentine's Day; mine too.

I fly back to Napier, he cycles up then applies for a teaching position, but the offer is withdrawn when only six pupils sign up for French. Monsoon season is over, the yacht he arrived on is due to sail again so we say goodbye: he leaves his bike and money to process his immigration application. Soon, a phone call from New Caledonia suggests I join him in Brisbane so use my frequent-flyer miles to get there.

I arrive at the downtown mooring: my long nails are fire engine red and gold rings pierce two nails. I have enough hair colouring and nail polish to last six weeks. Two days later Adrien is holding my head as I throw-up into a bucket: I stagger to the head and use that too. I want to die - the romance is over I decide, it can't survive such smells - blue water sailing is not for me and I'm sure the French owner-captain is wondering why on earth he let me on board. Twenty-four hours later I'm fine; I love being on board this 15-metre, around-the-world sailing ketch.

'I'm in heaven, God must be a woman' I declare 'no man could have created such a wonderful life.' The two men, with their French Catholic and sailing backgrounds are horrified; scared I've jinxed the trip with such sacrilegious talk. During the day dolphins accompany us for hours and one magical day a right-whale crosses across our bow. We sail slowly, indulging in elegant dining, complete with linen napkins, classical music and good company: stopping every few days for croissants, baguettes, fresh fruit and vegetables.

Daily the water temperature is checked and each day it gets warmer and finally we decide it is warm enough for us. Among black fish, blue fish, yellow fish, striped fish we swim. With big fish, little fish and colourful corals we snorkel and on most days Michel and Adrien dive.

Moored off Great Keppel Island I celebrate another birthday and we walk across the island to a resort for a day as tourists. Early in the evening, a turtle glides past but box jellyfish and small sharks ensure we stay out of the water: Adrien has created a birthday cake and Michel has made his grandmother's special chocolate mousse for desert. It's true; I'm in heaven.

Six weeks later we arrive in Cairns where Adrien and I leave Hatty - he's returning to Canada, his year of travel has stretched to 18 months and I want to earn more travel dollars. This journey has whetted my appetite for more travel and, although my French has improved, when Michel invites me to stay I'm not confident that I could survive at sea without my translator cum lover.

Adrien and I go camping at Cape Tribulation for a few days then fly back to Brisbane: he leaves for Canada and I cry all the way back to New Zealand. Months later we realise that without a firm job offer Adrien can't migrate: the passionate nomad is just a nomad again.

Post-travel-distress kicks in and distressing visions of never travelling again fill my mind and I start saving in earnest and learn to teach English and take a writing course: everything I write has a travel flavour. 'They're good Heather, why don't you sell them,' my writing group suggests. I do so, some are accepted for publication and I start a clippings file, bank the cheques in my travel fund and keep writing.

The local residential addiction centre needs a relieving therapist and the required six weeks there turns into six months. 'Only until the end of the year, 'I tell them, 'my travel bug is itchy,' and two years after my one-year trip I'm walking through passport control again.

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~~~~

### Body piercing & monsoons

A drunken Scotswoman's sitting beside me - she's been drowning her sorrows. 'I want to stay here. It's so beautiful; everyone is so lovely, so friendly.' She falls asleep; slowly sinking onto my shoulder and when the fumes and dribble become too gross I push her towards the window - it's not open.

Halfway to Singapore I look at my two-dollar watch, a last-minute buy. As I do, I realise knowing the time will not make the plane arrive any sooner. That up here, time's irrelevant, so take the watch off and drop it in my carry-on daypack, resolving not to wear it again. When we land, sweet febrile air greets me; hits me and embraces me at the same time.

Finding the recommended hostel is easy: it's a rabbit warren of a place and the only safety equipment on the 6th floor is a five-litre hand-pump that's sitting in the corner of my four-bedded dorm. 'You have a book here for me,' I tell the man on reception. He looks at me blankly. 'It's in the top right hand corner of that cupboard over there,' I point, 'it's wrapped in newspaper and has my name on it.'

'Did you leave it here?'

'No - my daughter put it there about five months ago.'

We look. I now have the thick 'A Suitable Boy' to read as I travel in Asia, just as my daughter planned.

The crowds overwhelm me, my feet are swollen, it's hard to eat noodles with chopsticks and I visit Raffles. 'Are you staying here madam?' asks the very posh-looking, uniformed man.

I am sitting on deep cushions on a cane couch, enjoying the air-conditioning and writing my journal. 'I'm waiting for a friend' I lie.

'Can I ask you to wait in the foyer please madam? Sandals are not permitted in this lounge.'

I'm keen to get to Thailand but I need a few days to relax and get used to the heat so decide to move onto Malaysia in the morning and prepare for another 12 months of travel. Did I really only get a passport when I was 40-something - I'm really playing catch-up now.

At the bus stop in Malacca I hire a man and a bike to take me to a hotel. My bag is only 14 kilos but Mr Ong, with his skin and bone legs, finds it difficult to get the bike moving. When we reach a small rise I offer to walk but he declines with vigour. He tells me he has been a cyclo for 50 years, he's now 80 and has postcards from all over the world and will I send him one from New Zealand? (I did)

For over a week I explore, keep out of air-conditioned places and I'm now enjoying the heat; I've even stopped my arthritis medication - I'm sure I was meant to be born in a hot climate.

'Selamat. Hari Raya Aidilfitri.' I'd not expected to be welcomed with these words at the home of a Malaysian Cabinet Minister. Hari Raya, the celebration at the end of Ramadan, the Muslim fasting month, is a time of reflection and thanks for the past year, gaining merits for the next life.

Over the past 10 days I've been reading, in the newspapers, the exact time of the beginning and end of each day's fast that is governed by the time of sunrise and sunset. Yesterday was the last day of fasting and was announced in the newspapers and television by the keeper of the Ruler's Seal, Engku Datuk Ibrahim Engku Ngah.

The days leading up to Hari Raya have been festive: special songs are blaring from giant speakers; houses are cleaned ready for visits from friends and family; new clothes are worn; festive fare prepared; and advertisements and banners in the streets proclaim 'Our differences keep us together. Hari Raya Aidilfitri.'

During Hari Raya, Muslims give charity money (zakat fitrah, a moral tax or tithe, usually 2.5% of a person's income) to the mosque for distribution to the poor and for building and maintaining mosques. 'What happens if people don't pay?' I ask.

'They will have problems when they die,' James, the manager of the budget hotel tells me. His Chinese employer will not give him time off work to attend prayers today. 'I will have a bad year.'

I wonder at the actual depth of the racial harmony that's proclaimed daily in newspapers and on posters - although I am impressed by the apparent tolerance the different races and religions show each other. I meet Muslims who are Indian, Indonesian, Malay and Chinese. Conversely I also meet the same cultures practising many other religions in this country of numerous races and religions: Muslim is predominant, about 52% and television programmes are interrupted each evening for prayers.

Over the past two days huge crowds have swamped bus and train stations as people return home to celebrate with their family. James tells me to go to an 'open house.' 'Of course you are allowed to go' he says. 'Everyone is welcome.'

Catching a bus, to follow his advice, I'm surrounded by brightly dressed people many carrying gaily-wrapped gift hampers. I'm on my way to the home of Deputy Health Minister, Dr Mohammed Ali Rustam even though my western mind is not totally convinced that I, a non-Muslim stranger, can attend the celebration.

Under a huge canvas roof beside the house I meet the Doctor and his wife, who welcome me, saying they enjoyed their trip to New Zealand: I sit opposite Janet and her mother who doesn't speak English. Janet, an elegant Chinese woman, tells me, 'I went to New Zealand. I was at Rotorua with the Hash Hound Harriers - the boiling mud and geysers were amazing.' She's not Muslim and is one of the few people dressed in western-style clothes.

A delightful young girl willingly tells me about the various foods. It seems the little cookies and cakes are made especially for Hari Raya while redang is a dish of meat cooked slowly in coconut milk, chillies, onions and a mixture of spices and served with lemang - a glutinous rice dish cooked with coconut milk and inside a bamboo stalk. Dozens of dishes are served and Janet's mother encourages me. 'Eat, eat,' she says, giving me delicacies off her plate and to be polite, my usual vegetarian diet goes.

The bright yellows, greens, reds and other multicoloured robes and scarves make me feel dowdy in my casual back-packer clothes. I'm wearing a T-shirt and fish-covered long cotton pants I'd made two days before I left home. However, with all the laughter, greetings and smiles I feel part of the dozens of guests and I'm asked to pose for many photos - reversing the usual as the traveller becomes the focus.

I'm offered a lift back to town in a Malaysian-built Proton of which the owner is very proud. He speaks French and English as well as his native Malay; trains polo horses and says he once was 'a bad man in the movies in Bangkok.' He continues my education about Ramadan.

'Fasting is a time to be prayerful, not to have excited thoughts.' He continues, 'If I see a girl in the street with her skirts up, I cannot look a second time. I cannot be blamed for the first look, but if I keep looking...'

'What do you eat at night, when you can eat again?' I ask.

'First I have a glass of warm water and then some dates as they have a lot of goodness in them. A little later I have some other food and rice.' He fasts for 30 days 'although some people have seven more.' He explains, 'It's a test between mind and matter. Sometimes at two o'clock my mind says 'Don't worry, eat something' but I don't. If I lie to God what is the point, Ramadan is not just for fasting but to be a better person; stronger; kinder.' I thank him as he drops me off in the town centre. 'It's OK; all Malay people are friendly and proud.'

Two weeks later I'm on Penang Island, named after the betel nut so loved by many older men and women: all recognisable by their stained teeth and frequent spitting. It's early in the morning: very early. Standing in the dawn light, at the colourful temple I'm unsure if I should go in. A few other tourists are also standing around, talking in low whispers, cameras around their necks.

It's Thaipusam; a day of consecration to the Hindu deity Lord Murugen who is confusingly also called Lord Subramanian. Hindus who have made a vow to him carry frames decorated with coloured paper and flowers, fresh fruit and milk. When these tributes are placed at the feet of the deity, their penance or gratitude is accepted. Some 2000 people will carry the kavadi or silver milk containers, the 12 kilometres to the Natlukotai Temple in Waterfall Road, Penang Island on this annual pilgrimage.

A young man arrives, he's carrying coconuts, stands in front of the temple and mutters something then raising a coconut above his head he dashes it to the ground. The liquid mixes with the milk and shells of previously broken nuts and adds to the guillotine-like atmosphere. Twice more he smashes coconuts and, just as the last one breaks, a woman's scream comes from inside the temple. My heart sinks. I can't stand this I think, but almost against my will my bare feet are carrying me inside. The voyeur in me lifts my feet one step at a time, through the sticky mess. The colour and bright light contrasts with the pre-dawn gloom - my eyes feel assaulted. Everyone's attention is focused on the front of the temple.

The screamer, a young woman, is crouched on one knee; a silver pot is being balanced on her head, the couple at her side help her to her feet. Unsteadily she shuffles past me, walking clock-wise around the interior of the temple. Her tongue protrudes, unable to retract into her mouth, held out like a ripe, swollen, purple-black avocado pierced with a trident shaped skewer. I feel sick. I hate intruding on what seems to be a private affair. She stops for a final obeisance to the statues before disappearing through the front door, the beginning of her long walk to the temple at the top of the waterfall and moments later, I too leave. Feeling nauseous, intrusive and my heart pounding with a beat that makes me gasp for air, I wonder how will I be with the young man, whom I've been invited to support in a couple of hours?

Now, a few hours later and absorbed into the young mans family, I no longer feel like a pervert, an outsider. Kulwinder's parents, sister and other family, his boss and friends, welcome me into their group as we wait under mature car-park trees for him to arrive from the temple. Most of his family is Sikh, which seems strange to me that he's embracing a Hindu event - sort of like a Presbyterian going to Catholic confession; nevertheless they seem to totally accepting of his decision.

This morning I was appalled at this seemingly masochistic occasion; had felt like an observer at the French revolution waiting for heads to roll. But now I'm part of a group that's helping Kulwinder endure the piercing he's chosen as part of his commitment to carrying a kavadi to Lord Murugen for three years.

Kulwinder arrives. 'He's a regular young man,' according to his American boss and he's carrying a kavadi for a second year. 'Why is he doing this?' I ask his mum. She tells me she doesn't know what his prayer, petition, or thanks to Lord Subramanian is about. 'I haven't asked him. I know it cost him 350 ringgits' (over a week's wage). 'He has been staying at the temple so we haven't really talked about it.'

His spiritual preparation has included a month of vegetarian diet followed by a week of fasting and I wonder what's happening - emotionally and spiritually - for him. His handsome face seems full of joy as prayers are said prior to the piercing. As he kneels, a bucket of gold coloured water is poured over his body and orange muslin loincloth: he acknowledges his parents then turns to the piercer.

Adrenalin courses through my body as the piercing begins. I chant with the crowd. The call goes up with each piercing and I offer the one word prayer too. Vel.Vel.Vel.

Kulwinder chews and sucks a fresh lime as hooks are inserted into his back, a skewer through his cheeks. I wince as a number of attempts are made to insert a miniature spear across the bridge of his nose. I keep chanting with the crowd at each piercing Vel. Vel. Vel. There is no blood or expression of pain by Kulwinder, or the other devotees who are being pierced by the specially trained men.

Piercing complete, the master-piercer gives me an almost imperceptible bow of his head: he's clearly proud of his work and status. Kulwinder sits on a wooden box while a tall, beautifully decorated frame is placed over his head, sitting around his body like a colourful inverted crinoline. Adjustments are made to the shoulder and waist supports and satisfied that all is well his mother waves us back, clearing a space around him. He spins in a joyous dance, the ribbons flying out from the kavadi as he checks everything's OK with the towering frame and I follow him as he dances into the street.

Incense and sweet oil smells fill the air and mingle with the heat, chanting and loud music. Along the route Kulwinder stops at the many, mostly temporary, roadside temples where he joins others as they dance, spin and kneel before the various deities. The streets are lined with people encouraging the devotees and the traffic, although chaotic, is tolerant. It's midnight before we arrive at the Natlukotai Temple. For two hours, cramp has slowed Kulwinder and, as he struggles up the 262 steps leading to his goal, I leave him to have the hooks removed.

Exhausted, I return to the hostel, my mind crowded with images, sights, smells and emotions. Although I haven't spoken to him, I feel close to Kulwinder and admire his faith and, not wanting to talk about my experiences; I lie on my bed and walk through the day in my mind.

The contrast between west and east is marked: most western religious events or services are characterised by quiet, private and non-commercial activities while Thaipusam is noisy, public and intense - in your face and exotic. The carnival atmosphere; saffron, violet and green clothes; gold jewellery adorning ears, noses and necks; the noise, the shaved heads of babies; the dancing; and the emotion have combined to ensure the festival's imprinted on me.

Heading east on an overnight bus I'm sitting beside an Indian psychiatrist, who's returning to see old university friends: 'As a Hindu in a Muslim place, it was hard there sometimes - they are really quite backward,' he tells me. Arriving in Kota Bharu hours later I'm sure my passport should be stamped - even at 4am it feels different, more laid back, more Islamic than the west coast. Two hours later, after waiting in a Chinese restaurant as they prepare for the day; I book into Zeck's Homestay, a small family business: while Zeck looks after the hostel, his wife works in an office in town.

As cars leave the city car park at 5pm the space is immediately filled with food stalls. Fish, barbecued meat, or vegetables accompany yellow, blue or white rice: spices, curries, eggs, huge prawns, fresh fruits and brightly coloured, wasp-covered deserts vie for my attention and each night I try something new. At 7pm a man stands in the middle of the market and a horn blows in a long continuous stream: it's time for prayers. The market empties, I sit outside and watch as people go over the road to the mosque, others sit and talk and the few travellers look as confused as I was on my first night. Twenty minutes later the horn sounds again, market-life resumes and my plans for a quick trip through this country have changed - Thailand will have to wait, I love Malaysia. A huge banner asks for blood and, to the surprise of the doctor and nurse in the tent in town, I donate some of mine.

Monsoons are usually finished on this coast by the end of February and as we've had no rain for three days I leave for Pulau Perhentian Kecil. In the little port of Kuala Besut I buy a ticket for the trip to the island, sign the indemnity form that absolves the company from all responsibility should I drown then search for the boat.

The vessel is a converted fishing boat, painted blue and white, looking rather like a tugboat with a toilet hanging off its stern. A traveller says, 'I have to use that so I can tell my friends I did the same as Michael Palin did on his round the world TV program.' I decide I'll use it only if absolutely necessary, I want to swim in this water.

It's the narrow pointy bit I have to climb onto and passing my pack down to one of the crew, he grabs it then holds his hand for me to grasp, it seems a long way down. Memories of my sister flood back. 'For once in your life trust someone,' she shouted at me as she too stretched out her hand. Trying to get off her yacht and with large swells making the vessel rise and fall, I was full of fear. It had seemed a long way up to the safety of the pier. With her in mind, I take the thin brown hand firmly and step out into space, landing squarely and safely on the deck. 'Well-done Auntie,' the young man says and, with my pack stowed, I go to the back and claim a seat.

The day is fine, the green water only slightly choppy and I move to the bow where I sit on a coil of ropes, my back against a mast as we follow a line of bamboo markers in the shallow waters. The background music is a combination of waves, gulls and Bob Marley who is blaring from faulty speakers.

'Will you be able to stop at Long Beach?' I ask - if it's not possible I'll have to walk across the island with my pack and in this heat I'd prefer not carry 15 kilos to my accommodation. The young man, who called me Auntie assures me that today it's calm enough to do so and shortly afterwards a horseshoe shaped, postcard-looking bay comes into view: it has white sand, palm trees, blue sky and the water is clear and green. Our Captain pulls a rope, the horn sounds a few times and two speedboats race towards us, circling the boat and calling to the crew. My ongoing transport has arrived.

'Hurry hurry,' yells our new skipper as five of us climb down into the little speedboat while both boats rise and fall with the waves. 'Sit down Sit down' we're told and, fearful of falling overboard, I immediately collapse onto the wet seats. It's exhilarating, frightening and as we race for the shore, the waves behind us threaten to break over us. Surfing the final metres we breathe a collective sigh of relief as land in the middle of the beach.

'Hurry hurry, get out get out,' yells the boatman. Stepping into knee high water, cradling my pack in my arms, I head for the sand just as a wave crashes behind me, the foamy water reaching my waist. Although my valuables are wrapped in plastic I'm relieved my pack's dry. I pay the crazy skipper, who seems only to be able to shout, use each phrase twice and refuses to give the others change for large notes: they quickly find enough coins to pay him.

Notices for businesses with strangely spelt names - Symfony, Shake Shak, Cool Banana and Tooty Frooty invite me to come and stay or eat. Our decision is already made and two Irish women and I walk north where Moonlight stands alone and my guidebook tells me the best snorkelling is.

The first to greet me, as I walk up the steps to a wooden deck, is a resplendent rooster. He is standing on the rail, his beautiful gold and reddish-brown feathers shining in the sunlight, his long tail trailing behind. He crows, his head thrown back and chest thrust forward, an exuberant welcome from my Chinese Zodiac sign.

A young man, who tells us his name is Sham, says the rooster is named Bobo and then shows us a room behind the main building. Climbing a narrow rock-lined path to see it, the view from the balcony is superb and, although I wanted a beach cottage to myself, we'll save by sharing.

Most guesthouses are still closed and the beach is deserted. Plastic water bottles, coke cans and disposable nappies are lying among fishing lines and forest debris at monsoon high-tide level. It distresses me and the postcard image fades. Shake Shak entices me in and I have a to-die-for coconut milkshake, under a sign that tells me there will be 'Free shakes tomorrow.' The owner and the cook - Mr Chef - teach me some Malay words. Selamat pagi is good morning they tell me, along with words for afternoon, evening and goodnight. They also show me how they greet people - soft, almost limp handshake is finished by placing the hand on the heart and means 'peace in your heart.'

As the sun sets, a kerosene lamp, surrounded insects and moths, is sitting on the steps to our room and by its light I climb under the mosquito net. Tucking it in firmly, I use my torch to examine it for holes or trapped bloodsuckers and as I lie down the sound of waves and wind in the trees, create a lullaby. I sleep soundly, waking a couple of times to what sounds like torrential rain while my Irish room-mates toss and turn all night as mosquitoes bite them from head to toe.

The rain was only wind in the coconut palms and the day dawns clear and warm. Eating nasi goreng for breakfast I contemplate the view and my new friend, the rooster, keeps me company as I write my journal. It's hard not to use clichés: blue skies; sun; warm sea; fish; coral; butterflies and birds. Add no roads, no vehicles and no jet-skis and the picture of paradise is complete: if I'd wanted sophistication, I was in the wrong place. Simple, lazy and as I learnt yesterday, tiada masala - no problems.

A jogger, whose footprints are the only marks on the beach, makes me feel lazy but I continue sitting, listening to the noise of monkeys screeching across the bay to each other. The fishing boats arrive to collect their morning catch of travellers who are going back to the mainland and I'm moving into an empty, thatch-roofed, beachfront chalet when they leave.

'Hello Auntie, good morning.' The crewman from yesterday greets me. 'Selamat pagi' I reply displaying my new words. Although Auntie is a term of respect to me as an older woman it feels strange. Being in Asia has made me more aware of my five decades plus; reminds me that I'm not the usual backpacker. Inside I feel younger and age seems irrelevant. As long as they don't call me mother - with all the connotations that the word conjures up, a carer, being responsible for others - I'll be happy. Years of nursing, play-centre and counselling positions, as well as being a mother, (albeit not always a good one because of my drinking) mean I don't want a carer role on holiday.

The little boat makes two or three trips to the bigger vessels. The first boat is tossed in the waves, the young boatman struggling to hold it still as people climb in; thin and wiry he obviously has more strength than his stature indicates. They're off, the bow rises so high I'm sure the people will fall out, but somehow it makes the trip without tipping over and I tuck a frangipani behind my ear and go walking.

Paddling along the water's edge crabs scurry away at my approach, ducking into the safety of their holes and when I step off the beach I'm absorbed into lush forest. Something scuttles into the undergrowth in front of me and I freeze: there are scorpions and other biting things here and I have no shoes on. Moments later, when nothing else moves, I carry on, watching where my feet land. Climbing over exposed roots and dirt I see nothing dangerous and in minutes reach Coral Bay, the other side of the island. Sitting under a tree I watch palm squirrels, with their reddish bottlebrush tails, chasing each other up and down palm trees with amazing speed and agility: this beach too is deserted, except for a man playing a flute.

The wind and waves are building up when I return to Long Beach hours later and with the tide now high, men are pushing boats further up the beach and the rooster's long tail blows over his body as he struts on the sand in front of the restaurant.

That night, as I sit under the net canopy on my bed feeling like an Elizabethan woman in a four-poster, the rain starts. It almost drowns the loud calls of the geckos, the singing lizard. I've been told to count the number of their calls; seven or more refrains and luck will be mine. Tonight the only gecko that's audible is the one who lives under the eaves of my one-room chalet with its million dollar views. I count one, two, three and four. His song always peters out after three or four calls, no luck for me tonight. Despite the noise of the storm I sleep well and wake to a changed landscape. The path leading to the toilet and shower area is a river and I dare not walk without sandals - in fear of biting, stinging, creepy-crawlies hidden in the rushing water.

For 48 hours we are bombarded with non-stop torrential rain, thunder, lightning and wind. The rain-dimpled beach is rearranged. Little creeks flood, gentle slopes and pathways become waterfalls and rivers carrying a variety of rubbish: the generator fails and palms sway, looking like umbrellas on a windy street. A green wheelbarrow, a large blue plastic drum, a palm-tree trunk and a two-metre long monitor lizard are swept along in the violent rush. While the rubbish hurries out to sea and the wheelbarrow is rescued, the monitor lizard escapes the waves at the last minute, nonchalantly walking back up the beach, looking like a staunch, bandy-legged, bull terrier and his head sways side to side, his tongue exploring the air.

As I watch, a metre of sand is sucked out to sea. Rocks are now visible where smooth sand once lay and the constant noise of the wind sounds like planes taking off so we have to talk loudly to be heard. I order rice for breakfast and local coffee made with sweetened tinned milk. I'm sure the kitchen staff are male despite their female clothes: Mr Rooster joins me for breakfast and three tomcats fight.

The pounding rain bounces and splatters up and down on the ground, almost looking like a musical score for sound waves. It's writing a percussion symphony of sound, light and action, the only string instruments provided by swallows who dart back and forth, enjoying the rain, soaring and then with a sudden folding of wings, swooping in a fearless free-fall. It's a dramatic interlude and I sit on the bottom step and absorb the wild atmosphere as waves lick my feet.

While others spend the day in bed, writing and reading and sleeping, I'm too excited to do anything but sit in the eye of the storm. Asia has honed my ability to spend hours doing nothing, not even the writing I'd planned. The owner of Shake Shak was right; I have caught the island disease. 'It's fatal' he'd said, 'you may never leave here.' The Lazy Virus he called it and I'm happy to sink into its inertia, it hardly seems possible that at times I've been so busy that I've cleaned my teeth while sitting on the toilet.

The owners struggle to fix the generator, divert water that pours through the restaurant and still cook meals. They remain cheerful and between tasks someone provides background music on a well-worn guitar: their repertoire is small, the words often different to the original, but we join in, even me with my flat voice.

Despite the storm some holidaymakers have come down the beach for dinner at our restaurant. After they've eaten, the tide has backed the creek up; creating a swirling body of water they have to cross. We, the Moonlight guests and staff, give them advice. 'Here's a raincoat,' Khaleck, Moonlight's owner says, as he rips a hole in a black rubbish bag.

'Don't go down there, stay away from the waves.'

'Use the trunk as a bridge.'

'Come back three feet, it's shallower there.'

'Hold hands as you go through the water.'

We shine torches as they attempt to get through the water and debris, retreating when it gets too deep, something floats past, or brushes against a leg. A man walks across the palm-tree trunk that lies across the rushing water, his arms are stretched out like a high-wire artist and his success inspires his partner to try. She's halfway along the temporary bridge when the log rolls. She is soaked, up to her waist in the swirling water and instead of continuing she comes back through the flotsam and jetsam to our side. Shortly afterwards, the waves subside momentarily and she makes a successful dash to the accompaniment of our cheers.

The next morning sunrays make sporadic forays into Long Beach and it seems the monsoon is nearly over. As soon as that thought appears, the rain comes back with vengeance and, for another day and night, the torrential rain continues while we share a celebration.

Naoko, a Japanese woman, also travelling on her own, celebrates her birthday. The kitchen staff, who I have learnt, are all ladyboys (a Malaysian phenomenon in which some male babies are bought up as girls and help in the home) produce a cake for her. We push tables together and sit in candle and lantern light, enjoying the fun and laughter that surviving a storm has produced - periodically a cry of horror emerges from someone as a rivulet under the table changes course and flows unexpectedly over their foot. Sand, that forms the floor covering, is washing through the cracks in the wood, while a decorative waterfall has formed halfway up the stairs: we name it the Moonlight Cascade.

Over coffee and cake, we're told tales of shipwrecks, murder and pirates and how the beach was renamed. They tell us it used to be called Ghost Bay and locals would rarely come here; we hear about a refugee camp for Vietnamese boat people and I'm told that young men who work in the tourist trade find it hard to find 'good Muslim girls' to marry.

Two days later the sun returns and island life begins again and I go walking to survey the damage. The beach is strewn with even more debris; unbroken light bulbs float at the edge of the water: a fishing boat, buried for over 20 years, is exposed and countless trees are down. For the traveller, jungle walks, reading, frisbee, beach combing, volleyball, petenque, swimming and sleeping resume - snorkelling and diving are out as visibility is low and some travellers leave. I organise a daily beach cleanup and for an hour each morning six of us collect rubbish.

We beachcombers are a mixed bunch; a young woman and her father who is an 'escapee from a strict Mormon upbringing;' a couple from England here for a romantic anniversary of their meeting on this island a year ago; and a couple who work in a Californian National Park. Others join in occasionally, but we, who expect to be here a few weeks, are the nucleus of the team. We argue about the best way to dispose of the rubbish; locals' burn plastic but no one in the beach cleanup group wants to pollute the air. I remind them of the huge negative ecological footprint we created flying to Asia and we finally burn some and bag the rest for the rubbish boat that will resume its role now the monsoon's over.

The owners and staff laboriously carry buckets of sand to repair the floor of the restaurant, wheelbarrows of it make new paths, and the generator has to go to the mainland for repairs: my chalet has emerged unscathed.

When I go to the fishing village with one of the boys to collect the huge blocks of ice for the refrigerators I'm distressed at the sight of dead goats lying on the beach with children playing alongside them. We stop briefly on Besar (the big island) to check my email and find I have a grandson. Daniel Riccardo has safely arrived in Auckland, in the Chinese year of the rabbit: Richard and his Italian wife, Marguerite, are ecstatic. That night, after I have written a 'welcome to the world' letter to Daniel, my new friends and I dance on the beach to the sound of drums and guitars and camaraderie unites us briefly before we continue our largely, nomadic lifestyles.

My week becomes a month, no writing is done, my tan improves and I wait tables, peel garlic and onions with the ladyboys who tell me about their lives. I also spend hours in the water, playing and snorkelling - my voice bubbles through the snorkel, 'you are beautiful,' I tell the noisy, coral-crunching multi-coloured parrotfish, huge clams and sea slugs which are cleaning the oceans floor. I go on a snorkelling trip with four others and as we wait our boat swings side on to the waves. Khaleck gets out to turn it just as a big wave dumps itself into our dinghy and my bag's swamped - my camera soaked.

At Shark Point we swim with the, allegedly, most poisonous snake in the world, its black and white stripes warning us to keep our distance as we hover above it and the few sharks we swim with. When I check my camera that evening, it really is dead.

Mr Rooster perches on my knee whenever he can, loves having his glistening feathers stroked and I help paint a sign for the 'Cool Banana' fruit stall where I sometimes sell beer and bananas, learn Malaysian and agree with the locals; tiada masala, no problems indeed. We go walking through the jungle and Khaleck shows me the almost non-existent track to a little resort where I have a wonderful meal of rice cooked with fresh herbs that I watch the woman picking from her garden before throwing them into the wok. I'm sure this island would be too primitive for Mabel but know her premise that travelling is more amusing than crocheting is true.

One night, listening to some intuitive warning, I check my passport and visa - my three months in Malaysia is up - I have one day to leave the country! I don't want to go; already my heart lives here. Next morning, catching the same boat I arrived on I dash, by taxi and bus, for the border before it closes. I cross into Thailand, my original destination, 10 weeks later than planned: I'd not expected to fall in love with Malaysia.

I hate my first Thai city. It's hot, noisy and pushy. To give me courage in this sensory overload after the peace of my island I buy a No Fear T-shirt. 'Don't just break limits - shatter them,' it asserts.

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### An Elephant Wanders By

'Amazing Thailand,' the tourist office calls it. Amazing weather, amazing beaches, amazing sights and, most definitely, amazing food. How do people lose weight in Asia? Skinny little people complain of the weight they're losing - while my generous proportions stay the same, or increase and it doesn't seem fair.

Tourism is a smoothly oiled trail frequently peopled by false smiles in an attempt to make money. Stepping off the track, I use local transport, stay in small guesthouses and discover an even more amazing Thailand, one full of real smiles, generosity and laughter. After being disillusioned by the prostitution, beggars and the feeling that I was just a walking purse for money to be extracted from, it's a relief to find non-tourist places.

I've again been over-charged by a tuk-tuk driver and I'm leaving Bangkok in a grumpy, but relieved mood. The train journey will take 16 hours and I'm pleasantly surprised to meet my travelling companion. A young veterinarian, she restores my sense of humour and improves my opinion of Thai people, both which have been dented over the past month.

'My nickname is Fon. It means rain; my father gave me this name as it was raining when I was born.' Fon tells me all Thai people have nicknames and that she is going to Chang Mai for a conference - keen to hear the latest research in her area of work with the chicken virus.

I ask her how to say no problems (mai pen rai kha) my favourite and most useful expression - it smoothes ruffled feathers, prevents embarrassment when there are language difficulties and generally gets people on my side. I also practice a no thank you (mai ou kha) that she assures me will stop street vendors pestering me. 'Thais respect farangs (foreigners) who speak Thai,' Fon tells me.

Memories of the train in Zimbabwe return, when I'd found it difficult to clamber up to the top bunk of three, I'm relieved to see this train has only two levels and I'm on the top, cheaper, bed and Fon is below me. Despite the light remaining on all night and a wire encased fan only inches from my head I sleep and wake in time to see the sun rise.

Inside a small silver-lined room, the floor wet and smelly from 12 hours of use, I need to use the toilet, which is raised about 18 inches above the floor. Pulling my pants legs up to avoid the wetness, I clamp my knees together to stop them falling back down and then drop the waist of my green, Thai fisherman pants. Climbing up onto the shining edifice I place my feet either side of the avocado-shaped hole and, with the train rocking alarmingly, hold on. I'm relieved I haven't been cursed with the traveller's disease, the trots; runs, deli-belly, or whatever common name is given to dysentery and diarrhoea.

Toileting over, teeth cleaned along with my face and hands I go back to my bed that has disappeared and is once again a seat. Buying a coffee from a man walking through the carriages, I breakfast on a banana and a black bean bun from my pack and watch the scenery and occasional village as we climb through the mountains.

Emerging from a long tunnel the train pulls into an alpine-like station and immediately the windows of our carriage are lined with men and women with food to sell: half chickens impaled on skewers, sticky rice and fruit are offered as well as things I don't recognise. Leaning out the window I buy banana-leaf-wrapped rice that I know will have tiny dried fish in it, while Fon negotiates over the price of wild orchids. As the train leaves, her transaction is only just complete and the man has to run alongside the carriage to take her money. She's now the proud owner of five new plants with delicate flowers, growing in hand-made wooden containers. 'These would cost 10 times more in Bangkok. Maybe I will give one to my mother.'

Forest and mountains give way to patches of flat land where people are working and children on their way to school wave as we wind our way into Chang Mai.

Tall golden spires are silhouetted against the sky in the walled city, markets are selling everything from lampshade hats to silk purses, fans and umbrellas and I have a massage at the school for blind. The woman bends, pulls, pushes, and cajoles my limbs into positions I didn't know they could achieve then finishes by walking along my spine.

With nine others, I learn how to prepare and cook the tasty food I've been enjoying. Other participants include a chef, law student, medical doctor and me, Jill of all trades; counsellor-cum-writer and we come from USA, Canada, Ireland, New Zealand and Norway.

'OK folks it's time to start cooking. No worry, chicken curry, you will learn all you want to impress your friends and family,' says our tutor, in his American-sounding Thai voice, as he bounces into to centre stage in the open-walled kitchen. 'Put on your aprons and let's make some soup.'

Green Curry Chicken, Fried Mixed Mushrooms with Baby Corn and Sweet and Sour Vegetables are just some of the dishes we learn as we chop, stir, peel, fry, boil and eat our way through the day.

'I don't want you to lose face while you are in my country,' says Chaiwat, 'so I will teach you to eat properly. You don't need a knife with Thai food as we do all the hard work in the kitchen and cut it into bite-size pieces just for you. That means you can eat like we do, eat off the spoon. Putting a fork in your mouth is very bad manners.' He continues, 'Use the back of the fork to push food onto the spoon and eat from the side of the bowl nearest you or you will be considered greedy.'

Our tutor also tells us guests are important and to honour them, the meal needs to be garnished in a manner fitting their valued status. It takes patience to decorate the plates and leeks, tomatoes and other vegetables are cut into elaborate shapes. Each part of the meal is placed precisely on the plate; often being moved just the merest centimetre to present a well-balanced and aesthetically pleasing picture. To be 'Fit for King' is the objective, rather different to my casual attitude.

Chang Mai is a compact city and I hire a bicycle to explore. The sight of this 50-something, white-haired woman pedalling around their city raises the humour level among the fun-loving Thais. Squashed into the little truck-like taxis, they wave as they go by then moments later, stopped at a set of lights, I catch up with them. They greet me again with peels of laughter. 'Hello,' they call, 'Hello Mama.'

'Sawat dii kha,' I reply which causes more laughter before they drive off and I cycle on. Later, sitting in a restaurant, an elephant strolls by reminding me of other scenes I've never seen before: a graduate of the monkey training school collecting coconuts from high in the palms and iridescently-spotted poisonous caterpillars weaving their way through grass looking like passenger trains at night. Just as I'm preparing to leave, I'm enjoying the country that had been my original goal.

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Most Bombed Country in the World

Pausing for a photo, we then walk under an archway that tells us 'Welcome to Indo China.' Polly and I met on a beach in Malaysia two months ago. Hearing travellers extolling the beauty, the friendliness and non-tourist-like qualities of Laos, we succumb to the temptation to visit 'the most bombed country in the world' and two days ago we met as arranged in northern Thailand. We're about to cross into a country that neither of us knows about except those good reports.

A borrowed guidebook has given me a few facts: during the late sixties and early seventies, American B-52s dropped some 6000 tonnes of bombs on this narrow country in an attempt to destroy the Ho Chi Minh Trail. Special guerrilla units, trained by the CIA, caused such havoc that locals planted and harvested their rice at night and 300,000 people fled to refuge camps in Thailand: it's the heaviest bombing any country has ever encountered. Although one of the poorest nations in the world and with a life expectancy of only 52 years, these five million, mainly Buddhist people, remain resilient.

'Can I take my gun?' I ask the guard. Crossing borders can be fraught with problems but I smile and hope all will be well as she holds out her hands and I hand it over. Solemnly taking it, she looks at her fellow officer, lines the barrel with his chest and fires! We laugh; his uniform is covered with water. For the first time I witness humour from customs officials but in spite of our shared laughter I'm not allowed to take a photo of them having fun. Nevertheless I can take my new, bright-green, double-barrelled, pump action water pistol with me: Polly takes her red and yellow one.

Passport stamped I'm free to leave Thailand. I loved this little non-tourist border town where I've been offered a choice of three husbands. When the marriage-arranger realised I was older than she thought she began thinking of older men who would be more suitable - but I don't want an old man.

Wading calf deep into the cool water we take off our packs, put them onboard and climb into the narrow boat - chosen by colour scheme - ready to cross the Mekong River. The river is narrow here and we hardly have time to talk with the boatman before we are on the shore of Laos. Heaving my pack on, I climb the short but very steep hill. Visa sighted and passport stamped, we are officially in Laos. I change a small amount of money into kip, at the official, low, government rate and stagger up the hill to Huay Xai. The midday heat has drained my energy and my pack feels as if it's doubled in weight despite nothing added but my plastic gun.

The hotel is a wonderful mix of French-Colonial, Asian styles and our room surprises us with a small ensuite with a European toilet: what luxury, no squatting and no geckos. Opposite our window a red, green and orange, concrete naga (snake) stretches like a handrail beside the steps that lead up to a Buddhist Wat and despite tiredness we investigate the neighbourhood.

School is out for the holidays and the children have started the Buddhist New Year celebration festivities two weeks early - we are going to get wet. 'Wish I'd brought my gun,' says Polly.

An older sister encourages a smiling, cheeky-faced little boy - the Lao equivalent of 'Go on, I dare you,' and as we get closer, we pretend to try to hide behind each other. They are armed with a hose and buckets and we're their next targets. Splash: we sustain a direct hit and the benefits of our shower and clean clothes are gone. Fearing for my new camera I run further up the street into the firing range of the next ambush. An attractive young woman rides past on her bicycle, a well-preserved relic with curved handlebars, cane child's seat and skirt guard and she too is saturated. Her purple and gold-threaded sarong is wet and her elegant hairstyle in disarray and the kids are ecstatic.

Escaping into restaurant we're greeted with a frequent gender-confused welcome. 'Hello sir, sit down.' Ordering a meal we're amazed at the prices. We'd been told that Huay Xai is a rich, expensive place because it's in the golden triangle, the opium trail. I do some convoluted sums. 'The Malaysian ringgit is x New Zealand dollars and that is y Thai bhart, so this must be z kip.' Polly was doing something similar with the pound but all these zeros for a bowl of food still seems weird.

Our evening restaurant overlooks the departure area for boats, the moon floats in the sky and we quiz travellers for information. 'Make sure you're early,' says one, 'and take food with you.' 'You can't choose your boat,' says another: I know that's not true.

Next morning, arriving at the river port early, we find a state of rigid chaos: chaos because no one seems to know what's happening, rigid because there seem to be 'rules' for us foreigners that can't be broken. No, we can not pick the boat we want; no, we can't negotiate the price; yes, we have to travel on the waterbus. My plan was to travel for some days with a family on a travelling shop like an American couple told me they'd done just two months ago so I'm not happy - I've brought a hammock especially for this imagined boat trip. About 10 other backpackers are milling around as well as our group of four or five - the people we'd met last night.

Polly has read the older people speak French while the younger ones use Russian, so she tries her Russian, but no one admits to understanding her. We give in, buy tickets for the first leg of our river-journey and wait at the riverside for further instructions.

Once our boat is identified we pass our packs to three fellow travellers who are standing knee deep in the murky water - forming a chain to pass the bags along to the boat. We follow, balancing on the wobbly, thin plank onto the long narrow boat, which has a roof and a board running the full length of each side as seats. We jostle for what each thinks will be the best places. 'This is mine,' I declare and sit down, away from the engine, facing the shore, while Polly ensures she's near a guy she met last night.

Some metres away, a boat like ours is full of women in bright headgear and a German woman on our boat waves to them. They laugh, covering their mouths with their hands. 'Hello,' she calls, holding up her camera, 'can I take your photo?' The women laugh even more and nod OK and I laugh too as they re-tie their scarves then sit beaming in expectation of a photo shoot.

Finally the crew arrive. 'Too many on this boat. Must shift. Water too low. Five people go there,' one says waving his arm towards a large cargo boat. My eyes light up just as Polly says 'I'm not moving. I'm settled.'

'You just want to stay with James,' I tease and already it's too late, five fast moving volunteers are manoeuvring back down the plank and I've missed my chance to be on the boat of my dreams. We sit for another 10 minutes, wondering at the wisdom of arriving so early. We've been here for an hour and there's still no sign of leaving so just sit and watch the activity: potatoes are being loaded onto one boat while firewood is carried onboard all the boats; kids play on the shore, rubbish is thrown from the boats.

Finally a handsome young man in a colourful waistcoat arrives, unties the boat and climbs on board. Using a long pole and his hands, he pushes and pulls our boat around the end of a cargo boat that has chickens in a coop on the back and a goat tied on the roof and ties our boat to it then says 'You go in here.' I clamber through the gap between the roof and seat of our boat and pull myself up and into the larger boats hold. Despite the rules about farangs having to travel by waterbus, we are now on the boat I wanted.

'Can we go up on the roof?' asks Polly's new heartthrob. 'Yes, is OK,' says waistcoat and immediately James uses his long legs to clamber out of the hull, dangles briefly above the water then he's up and over the edge and onto the flat tin roof. All the others, Polly included, follow; we're surprised women can be above the male crew as the guidebooks say it's not possible for women to be above men. With a chronic shoulder problem and non-existent upper body strength it's impossible for me to perform such gymnastics so insert my earplugs, settle down in the large doorway and watch the scenery as we float past.

Steep hills, with black bare patches from slash and burn farming practices, rise from the river and show where this year's crops will grow. Unfortunately the monsoon rains will soon wash the topsoil off these now naked hills; the smell of smoke is acrid and the blue-grey haze gives the sun an eerie hue.

Piled high in the hold beside me are cartons of shampoo and soap powder packed in individual sachets. Boxes of tonic water also sit alongside the noisy, smelly and heat producing engine and at intervals, my new waist-coated friend adjusts the monster, hitting a pipe with a spanner, adding oil, then sits in the opposite doorway to me, and strums a lute-like instrument.

'How did you learn English?' He says it was from talking to tourists, I complement him on his ability and we talk a little. He's 16 and has been working for three years on the boat, before that he was loading boats as well as helping his father on the land. He is the youngest of three, the only boy; both sisters are married with children. All his family live near Pakbeng, the place we'll stay at tonight.

Using a little book 'Let's Speak Lao' I attempt more words in this difficult tonal language and he giggles at my attempts. 'Nin hah, boon pi mai Laos' (Happy New Year) seems appropriate, as does 'I don't eat meat.' We share lunch - I provide herrings in tomato sauce wrapped in a bun while he makes us strong local coffee.

The day progresses smoothly and despite the noise and heat I enjoy the views - it's a microcosm of Asian life. Women wash themselves and clothes on the riverbank; cattle are drinking or cooling in the water; people are panning for sapphires and, as we glide by farmers working on the hillside, children wave to us. Huge rocks, some with a Buddhist stupa on top, are navigated around and on the riverbank the various water levels are obvious: daily the level and flow of this economic artery of Laos is reducing. The Mother River it's called and into it flows the effluent from boats: eventually I too succumb.

The toilet is a small cage-like room that hangs over the end of the boat beside the chicken cage and kitchen; the floor is slatted wood with a circular hole directly above the water. As I squat, I watch as a noisy speedboat screams by - its tourist passengers wearing crash helmets and life jackets: two travellers were killed when their speedboat hit a rock last week.

Evening falls with its near-the-equator lightning speed and I wonder how our unseen captain can continue navigating so I'm not surprised when we move to the shore. Travelling slowly (because of the water level) we can't reach the village tonight and I triumphantly reach into my pack and pull out the purple hammock. Most of the others stay on the roof, while I hang my bed between two beams - despite worries that in the kitchen, an open fire is burning on a wooden boat.

Polly and I share the remains of our lunch and trade cheese for a fruit bun while Mr Waistcoat is stirring a pot from which pungent smells rise. He offers me the tasty yellow curry with sticky rice and as we eat, we continue our mutual language lessons. 'Tell me about what you call men and women,' he asks and once again I go over our English words - her and him, she and he. When he successfully makes sentences with those words he's pleased with his new skills and soon I'm in the hammock. Did you ever sleep in a hammock Mabel? Apart from the other travellers, out of sight on the roof, this is how I'd pictured my trip down the Mekong and I go to sleep; again thinking of how right Mabel was when she said travel was more satisfying than needlework.

At daybreak the engine starts and, with a mug of strong coffee in my hand, I watch river-life waking: families bathing; fishing; collecting river-weed, a delicacy they eat; and for the first time see the strange pink and white buffalo as they graze under the watchful eyes of children. My fellow-passengers will be envious if they realise I am sipping great coffee on a regular basis.

Some 15 hours later than expected we arrive at the bend in the river and see our destination. Pakbeng is a narrow village that climbs from the river and up a hill. Polly, James and I have decided to stay for a couple of days and as the boat's tied up we collect our belongings. We're moored alongside other boats and, while the others scramble over the roof that I'm unable to scale, I fear I will have to stay on board.

'Give me your bag H,' calls Polly from the roof, I pass it up to her and she makes her second trip off the boat. I stretch for the boat that separates me from the land and just manage to touch it. My foothold is a two-inch wide ledge running around the hull and with my fingers griping the roof, which is covered with freshly cut sugar cane, creep crab-like towards the safety of land.

We head up a dirt lane that overlooks the river and book into a little family guesthouse: later, I wonder if my tiredness is due to a lack of salt, lost through perspiration - and self-medicate with French fries and extra salt.

Pia, the 10-year-old daughter of the accommodation owners, has maturity and an ability to work that belies her years and is the only one who speaks English. She and her young brother commandeer our water pistols and while their mother cooks, they run around the restaurant spraying each other and us. As we eat, turkey chickens peck at our feet and the plaintive cry of the runt ensures that a Canadian feeds it as it perches on his knee.

The only road in the village has a few noodle shops and stalls; frogs, with their legs tied together prevent escape and snakes in plastic bags are offered alongside leafy vegetables and eggs. Bundles of wet riverweed are also for sale as well as the modern-art-looking dried variety with brightly coloured specks of chilli, chives and sesame seeds stuck to it. Hill-tribe people in traditional clothes are buying food, the men in the distinctive uniform-like blue jackets and black pants of the Hmong tribe. Knowing they fear cameras, I reluctantly record them in my mind only and, because of the season, it's not long before young people with buckets of water move towards me.

These youngsters act differently to the kids in the bigger town and approach me with a respectful wai. (Hands in prayer position) 'Hello, Nin hah, boon pia mai Laos,' they say politely and giggle when I reply in their language. Then, unlike their northern cousins who threw the water, they gently pour water over my shoulder and now blessed, I continue walking.

Around the next corner is a small Wat decorated with prayer flags. As I walk down the steps a tiny, orange-robed monk, wearing wire-framed homemade 'glasses' with no lens greets me, 'welcome,' he says, 'what's your name?'

'My name is H,' I tell the child. Polly's renamed me 'aich' enabling Asians to use my name without having to say the difficult th in the middle of Heather. 'You can look at my Wat' he continues, 'there is a donation box over there' he points. The Wat is always more than a place of prayers - it is the focus of village life - meetings, healing and education, all happen here and, under the gaze of the novice monk, when I leave I put a small donation in the box.

I decline a three-day trip to see a particular hill tribe who I have been told have not seen westerners since the war. Just as missionaries went into new counties and softened-up-the-natives for colonisation, so too do backpackers for tourists - making places that are difficult to reach accessible and desirable: before long tourists follow where we backpackers lead. Soon these hill tribe people could be a living zoo just as many in Northern Thailand are, dependent on the whim of the tourist dollar. It's a conundrum, for each negative there is a positive; infant mortality drops; life expectancy rises; children learn to read and all the problems of the western world rushes in. All over the world I've wrestled with these dilemmas and in this case I choose not to help speed the negative effects.

Salty French fries accompany my evening meal; James tries buffalo steak and local beer and Polly, who is feeling queasy, eats nothing and two women who have arrived on a truck from further inland join us. Teaching English in Thailand, they have a two-week break for the New Year and listening to their adventures I want to visit places they've been. No matter how long, or where I travel, there is always one more place, one more festival, one more bend in the road I want to walk around.

In family orientated Asia people wonder why I'm on my own. Where is your husband? Do you have children? How old are you? The teachers and I talk about age and travel; we've had wonderful times and always have been treated with kindness and respect. Our age and gender are assets rather than the liability they can be in the western world. 'Perhaps it's because we are old enough and wise enough to respect local customs and wear appropriate clothes,' says Blanche.

Seeing how women live in this village makes me thankful for the riches I have. Hard work makes the women extremely old at 50 and they're lucky to be alive: life expectancy is low and people are surprised at the things I can do. With their experiences I should be nearly dead, physically weak and, because of the war, emotionally impoverished and in my youth a number of my children would have died. As a Lao woman, although I would have an annual public holiday on International Women's Day, I certainly wouldn't be travelling around the world, alone and with a 65 litre pack - currently weighing 15 kilograms - on my back.

Sitting by the Mekong I maintain a healthy distance from the buffalo. Memories of their fierce African relatives make me cautious: the children looking after them, with just a thin stick to control the huge beasts, would laugh at my fears. I'm approached by two little girls and their brother, 'Hello' they say, using up all their English in one word. We talk. I don't know what they are saying; they have no idea about my sentences. We laugh, point and repeat phrases; they try my glasses, look at my book and camera and then examine my legs. Dipping her hand in the river the eldest rubs my leg exclaiming something to the others. They peer more closely. The younger girl picks up a stone, wets it and has a rub. They're amazed; the little brown marks won't wash off. 'Freckles' I say. 'Freckles' they reply, a new word. 'Freckles, freckles, freckles' they chant. Asians think our large, hairy bodies are strange and feel sorry for us: I not only have all that but very short hair and weird marks on my skin too. Our language lessons over, I'm encouraged into the water with them although I wonder what parasites lurk in the river. Liver flukes? Bilharzia? I ignore the risk.

Polly finds me swimming with the children and she's a great hit. They listen to her Walkman, bodies moving with the music, having turns with one earphone each. We try to impress them with our ability to count to 10 in Thai that's very like their own language and we teach them to count in English. When we leave Polly is presented with a live cicada and not sure if she is to keep it for its music or eat it, she accepts it with thanks - then releases it when we're out of sight. Back at our accommodation we're greeted with consternation.

'Don't look! Don't look!' cries Pia and tries to shield us from seeing what she's doing. Curious, I peer around her to see the carcass of baby turkey. 'Oh you shouldn't look' she wails, 'Farangs don't like to see this.' I wonder what the Canadian who fed the runt will think he's eating tonight.

Tiredness is dissipated with either the extra salt or the three nights of solid sleep; I'm ready for the next leg of the trip. Early in the morning, ticket in hand, I join others at the departure point and before walking the plank, visualise doing it successfully; a trick I use effectively in new or scary situations. Safely aboard, my next destination is Luang Prabang, the old royal capital of Laos and a full day's journey downstream.

Scenes along the river keep me absorbed. Children do back-flips off the back of their floating homes; fishermen use nets and lines and buffalo wallow in mud. At each little village we stop to pick-up or drop-off people and supplies. Two Hmong men sit ramrod straight, eyes vigilant, watching all; a young woman spends her time smiling at us and trying on our hats; I trade travel stories with the teachers and other travellers. Polly talks with James.

By the time we are desperate for the toilet the boat pulls into the shore. The local men rush off in one direction and a crewmember demonstrates to us what is required. Grabbing the front of his pants he acts as though it's a hose ... 'Whoosh. Whoosh' he says and we get the point. This is a toilet break. 'He needs a lesson about boys and girls if he thinks that's how we go' Lynn says as we squat behind a shed while Blanche is further up in the cabbages - a line of children are watching from higher ground - and when we reach our destination I arrange to meet my new friends the next day.

'Pssst! Want to change money? Opium? Marijuana?' Women, standing on the steps of the 1901 building, mutter the offer from behind hands and I succumb to temptation.

'How much?' I ask and, with that sign of encouragement, I'm whisked into the hidden walkways of the market and negotiations start.

'Eighteen.' says the younger one and I laugh, aware that laughter is a good lubricant in Asia.

'Twenty.' I reply knowing it's the rate she gave a young man just 10 minutes ago.

'Nineteen,' she tries again to which I give the same reply as before. Conceding, to what is a fair exchange rate she hands me a few rubber-band-held-bundles, each containing, I hope 10,000 kip. A quick flick through convinces me it's all money and my first illegal transaction is complete.

It's hard to believe that such huge bundles, casually dropped into my bag, are worth so little: all those zeros are still confusing me. I'm a kip millionaire yet the money is leaking out of my daypack. 3,500 kip to replace a small towel, 15,000 for a basic room, 14,000 for an Indian meal and for another 4,000 I can walk up a gigantic rock hill, Phousi, for a 360 degree view over Luang Prabang, (a UNESCO World Heritage Site) the Mekong River and surrounding mountains.

Blanche and I pay and in the heat walk slowly between an avenue of trees and up the steps to see the view and the ancient Wat Cham Si. Two young monks are also enjoying the view. I wai them and we start talking: born nearby, Phra Impeng points out features. Tomorrow he's leaving for Thailand where he is taking his masters degree in Buddhism and we exchange addresses. I place the paper on the stone wall for him to pick up, knowing it's not appropriate for a woman to hand something to a monk or touch his robes. The younger monk takes photos of us and I arrange to meet Impeng when I get to his university city.

'You're a fox,' says Lynn 'I can't even turn my back for a short time and you've got a date with a monk. Monkey business indeed, I'm surprised at you.' Laughing we go for a meal, listen to local musicians and make plans for the next day, a trip out of town. A jar of peanut butter, a baguette and a papaya with limejuice is my dinner and then I go to bed with The Kennedy Women by Laurence Learner.

At a noodle shop where tuk-tuk drivers and other workers eat - and not a tourist in sight - I have breakfast. I'm served eggs and a baguette along with the usual coffee and a glass of tea. Everyone has the same drink combination so assume, although unusual, it's the custom. A group of monks file by, stopping here for alms. The younger monk from the top of the hill is with them and our eyes meet fleetingly. Women, who moments earlier had been serving meals, place small packets of food in each begging bowl then kneel for blessings while I arrange for one of the drivers to take me, Blanche and Lynn out to the weaving village. The side of his three-wheeled tuk-tuk declares. 'You have tried the rest now experience the best.'

Despite unseasonable rain we go the few miles to Ban Phanom, a village that had royal patronage, ensuring the women have income from their looms. At the door of their homes women sit creating wonderful geometric designs in cotton and silk and I buy a dark blue shoulder bag then watch as she continues weaving. It looks complicated but even young girls are working alongside their mothers, grandmothers, older sisters and Aunts. Boys are catching ants that are flying like a plume of thick black smoke from the ground: a rain-triggered seasonal protein treat.

We continue our trip, incongruously singing along with an audio-tape and driver, '. . . it was an itsy bitsy teeny weeny yellow polka dot bikini.' The waterfall, although beautiful, doesn't seem a good enough excuse to move the hill-tribe of Mien people just so tourists can enjoy them. Our driver also takes us to the village they were relocated to five years ago. Despite a payment of $US500 per person they are not happy or content: dull eyes, betel nut stained teeth and untended village shows they don't like being on the flat ground, with no stream, refugees from their waterfall and lush bush. It's a contrast to a village further down the road.

There, laughing children follow us around pointing out their school, homes and animals. Delighted to get little star stickers on their hands from Lynn, it's obvious this old, long established village is prosperous with its mixture of agriculture, farming, fishing and sapphire panning to support it.

At the open-air market where Hmong and Mien women sell their work, embroidery, depicting village life, appeal to me and I buy one to frame. The high level of addiction here is reflected in the beautifully carved opium pipes and exquisite guitar-shaped scales for weighing the same substance.

Leaving Polly and James behind, I move on by bus with Blanche and Lynn. Once again my gun is used by fellow travellers. Both the young man on his way to Vientiane, where he works as a waiter and the man who checks our tickets, enjoy themselves with my plastic, green bazooka. Again I become an English tutor, this time for the waiter who is already an accomplished linguist: I am also the pupil and add to my vocabulary.

Because of the tropical torrential rains, roads are hard to maintain but it's now possible to travel from the old capital to the new one, Vientiane, in one day. Buses, often converted Soviet trucks, stop frequently and are used to transport everything from people to food, ducks and goats. Although hold-ups are common and bandits have killed many on this road I'm more concerned with the ominous thumps clunks and clanks that happen under my feet as we turn left. Our driver speaks no English and drives as though the use of brakes is forbidden, edging past an overturned truck then continues with his foot to the floor despite the steep hills, hairpin bends and narrow roads. We're coasting downhill and I am full of free flowing fear - using my feet as brakes, pushing uselessly into the thin metal that separates me from the road. Knowing my fears will not prevent an accident I look at the scenery and think good thoughts: sometimes it's better not to know what's ahead but to look sideways and talk to people.

Each time we stop at mountain villages the ticket-man jumps out and puts rocks in front of and behind our wheels and I squirt water through the window at the children who gather. Children look after younger ones and all over Laos they seem to work as hard as their parents do but always make time for fun. The bus is full; boxes of chickens block the aisle along with crates of Lao Lao and Bier Lao, the potent local whisky and beer. One woman jumps out at each stop and buys bundles of vegetables, peeling notes from a large roll to pay for them. No doubt she sells them at a profit in the city: even under the socialist regime capitalism flourishes.

To my surprise we arrive safely at Vientiane where I stay for two days before crossing the 'Friendship Bridge' back into Thailand in time for Songkhran; the last three days of the water festival that announces the Buddhist New Year.

There is a saying, attributed to the French, about the tranquillity of the Laotians; 'The Vietnamese plant rice; the Khmer stand and watch it; the Lao listen to it growing.' It fits.

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### Happy New Year

It's the fourth New Year I've celebrated this year. First was the Western or Christian calendar, (in New Zealand)) then both the Muslim and the Chinese New Years (Malaysia) - now, back in Thailand it's the Buddhist one. Celebrations started a couple of weeks ago in Laos and here in the eastern part of this elephant-head shaped country, I'm greeted with 'Welcome to the year 2542 BE' (Buddhist Era). 'We played Songkhran at our temple,' the monk tells me and play is exactly what happens.

April is the hottest month of the year, the ideal time to be playing with water. Buddha images are dowsed with water then carried in processions around the Wat and streets to the accompaniment of music, laughter and water, water, water: it blesses and purifies everything.

Everyone is armed: old and young have buckets, bottles, hoses, urns and water guns and even the fire-tender adds to the total sum of water and much of the liquid is gold coloured and flower strewn. The crowd is sprayed: monks and police officers are as wet as everyone else and Thais love farangs who join in their celebrations and fun. My weapon of choice is my bright-green, double-barrelled, pump-action water pistol.

The first day is at the temple Wat Phochai in Nong Khai on the banks of the Mekong. Off the tourist trail, I'm one of only five or six travellers in the city so I'm constantly blessed by being drenched. 'Farang farang' the cry goes up and I join the fun. 'No! No!' I call, 'Khon Thai, khon Thai' I call and they laugh at this visitor thinking she is Thai. I'm soaking wet before I've worked my way through the crush of people to the temple steps.

The atmosphere's a mixture of reverence and fun, prayers and laughter, of dancing and music. 'Come with us, come,' a woman calls to me. Captured or adopted by a family as they dance out of the temple grounds, I too dance after the pied-piper-like man playing his khaen, a flute-like reed instrument. At their home we dance in the yard and eat spicy soup, sticky rice, whole fish and fresh fruit. The children use my gun, spraying everyone as we dance, ensuring we remain dripping wet, while the men, gentle and graceful dancers, try to teach me the slow movements. 'Like this,' says the grandfather and I try to copy him.

There is a serious side to all the jubilation. Adult children pour water over their parents' cupped hands, asking for forgiveness for past wrongs and blessings for the future. They also give gifts, a new shirt for dad, a shawl for mother and gold candles and money for both and seeing this it re-enforces my love of getting off the tourist trail.

Early afternoon I join a truck with the staff from the First Global Community College where Lyn and Blanche work and become part of an endless, circling procession through the city streets. I climb onto the back of the truck that has a large water-filled urn and with my gun ready, we drive into town. It's our turn to throw or squirt water over everyone we meet, people on other trucks, pedestrians, monks and nuns. Even police on point duty, with their guns wrapped in plastic are targets. 'No exceptions,' I'm told, 'everyone is fair game.' People lining the two main streets are armed with hoses, buckets and water pistols to dowse us too.

It's the middle of the dry season but a storm arrives. Squashed, sun-dried frogs and snakes re-hydrate; red orange, purple and yellow petals fall to the ground under the chilly onslaught and some kind water-throwers add warm water to their water containers. We stop for coffee, sheltering under a garage roof with a huge pink pig that's escaping the rain too.

The wetter I am the more I know I'm being blessed - being guaranteed a good year. As well as the water, powder is used, not for any special significance but 'just for good fun. It makes you look funny' someone tells me: and funny we look. Saturated, white powder clings to us until the next deluge of water washes it off ready for another person to throw or pat more on.

Next day, as I often do, I follow a procession - I don't know where it's going. We are following an old man and two young children, dressed up as symbols of the old and new years, to the banks of the Mekong River. A Buddhist monk leads everyone in chants and an older woman beckons me to sit on the ground beside her. Ceremony over, I follow them back to the temple where a fun fair, stalls and concerts will be happening for the next three days.

I'm staying with Lynn and Blanche, the teachers I'd met in Laos, in a fabulous home surrounded by numerous varieties of mango and tamarind trees and, following the New Year traditions, we wash all the Buddha's in the house: moving them down to the main lounge where they can be seen by all. Our first Thai visitor is horrified and the wooden shelves and the old statues are promptly moved back to the very top of the house - the place of honour, above everything.

All the water is too much for Blanche and she goes to hospital with a chest infection and dehydration. The hospital has no water in the bathrooms and in a room with three others, her roommate's visitors, or children, help care for her. Determined not to use a bedpan, Blanche staggers to the bathroom, her drip carried by one of the children. Once there the child, who speaks no English, stands outside the door holding the drip, as there is nowhere to hang the container of vital fluids and she's pleased to be home in a few days.

As I bus to Khon Kaen I wonder what new threads will be sewn into the tapestry that's weaving itself: I'm sure it will be a bright colour, after all I've had enough dark threads in past years to provide the contrasting background. Hours later, arriving at the bus station, I'm surprised to see the monk from the top of the hill in Laos.

Phra Impeng's companions are confused at our animated conversation. How does this farang know him? Searching in my bag I find the photos of us and then remember I can't hand something to a monk. Confused I put it on the ground for him to pick up; it's only later that I realise I could have given it to one of his friends. When I leave to find somewhere to stay, he's arranged to show me his university tomorrow.

For a week, as well as Phra Impeng, a travelling salesman and a Thai teacher are my guides and for one day I become a swimming-tutor for a group of young boys - I'm the only woman in the water - and find language is not needed. The teacher also takes me to her school where I meet all the staff; shows me how to put gold leaf on a Buddha; and have my fortune told with fortune-sticks. She doesn't like the one that fate chooses for me and gets me to shake the container again - the next reading is more satisfactory.

Throughout Asia I have been exposed to Buddhism: temples, gold statues, joss sticks and fortune telling, along with the chimes of small bells hanging from ornate roofs and orange-robed monks. Buddhism is an integral part of people's lives and I want to understand more of what seems to be a very individual way of living, so I'm off to stay at a Buddhist Wat and learn vipasana - insight meditation.

Meditating was encouraged when I received treatment for alcoholism and I'm sure this new experience will enhance my ability to relax and look inwardly. Friends and family don't believe I'll be able to remain silent for 10 days - I wonder too.

Bangkok train station is always busy and today's no different. A lone monk sits quietly on a wooden bench below a sign that says 'For the Monk Only.' All round him people hurry towards platforms, others stand gazing at the huge display board for details about their train and porters ask if they can carry my backpack, while other travellers smoke, eat or sleep on seats.

My carriage is a second-class sleeper with an ancient, squeaky fan to keep us cool and on schedule we leave and I order an evening meal. When the waiter arrives, he pulls a tabletop from under my seat and sets it in front of me - a cockroach clings to it and he flicks it off then places my meal before me. I'm disappointed: it seems I have been given foreigner's food: rather bland, only a little chilli and I send him back for chopped chilli and soy.

The floor is slippery and the train's swaying alarmingly. I do my usual trouser legs up, clamp my knees together, clasp the rail, then reverse the process and leave the smelly silver-walled toilet with relief.

Clambering up the ladder to my bunk I tuck my daypack beside my pillow - and despite the noisy fan and lights that are left on all night, I'm rocked to sleep. I wake regularly and check the time, worried I'll miss my very early-morning stop.

At five in the morning, an hour late, the train arrives in the small village of Chaiya in Southern Thailand. One other Westerner gets off; it seems we're going to the same place. After travelling alone it's good to have another help work out the next stage of our journey. We have bowls of tasty soup-like rice, porridge with chilli, spices and herbs then catch a mini-bus, which leaves when it's full. Ten minutes later, we arrive at the Wat and are immediately separated. 'Bye, enjoy' says the Dutchman as he leaves for the men's quarters and I'm directed to the women's area.

Where am I? It's Wat Suan Mokkhabalarama, the Grove of the Power of Liberation, thankfully called Suan Mokkh for ease of speech. The retreat will start in two days at the International Dharma Heritage across the road. Monks here have been holding retreats for foreigners since 1988 and rather than go to one of the many retreats run by Westerners, I was drawn to this place as all the monks are Thai: total immersion in Thai Buddhist life.

I stay at the temple for two days. It's set in the forest - the mosquitoes are fierce and a small frog lives on a damp spot in my room. We are expected to wear modest, preferably white, clothes and I buy another shirt and fisherman-pants from a stall near the Wat so I can change frequently. I value this little holiday from my travels \- despite roosters and dogs waking me early - and enjoy walking in the forest with its birds, snakes and monkeys. On the third day, I join others and walk across the main road then down a side road for 750 metres, to the Dharma Centre.

We're taken on a tour, men and women in separate groups, around the grounds, told the rules, are given a room and then we're assigned a daily task. We are also told about Buddhadasa Bhikkhu (1906-1993), one of Thailand's most revered monks, who started the Wat and whose back-to-basics philosophy draws Thais from all over the country to study at this temple. We are also warned that 'Retreats are a challenging exercise. The conditions are the same as the rigorous lifestyles followed by monks and talking will stop when we've been welcomed by the Venerable Ajahn Poh this evening.'

Now, two days into the retreat, I'm wondering why on earth I am inflicting such pain on myself, I must be crazy - Mabel, did you ever do something like this? Right now I do not believe the monks when they say that all, pain included, is impermanent and that this too will pass. Perhaps my body is built differently to those who are sitting so calmly. They all have straight backs, perfect lotus position, hands \- with palms up - resting on their knees, eyes, half-closed and looking down: just as Buddha images are. If only I could do the same.

My legs are going to snap. I have lifted, pushed and shoved my left ankle onto my right thigh and now struggle with the other. It's not possible, my hip will dislocate if I move another millimetre. I decide the lotus and I are destined to remain strangers or uncomfortable partners: my body is too old, too unfit, too used up by years of a self-indulgent life.

The bell rings at last - it's time for lunch and I carefully, slowly, painfully, unwind both legs, massage my joints and with circulation returning, walk slowly to the dining room. Someone with a sense of humour has drawn on the white-board - under a palm tree sits a cross-legged stick figure, below it is written 'don't just do something, sit there.'

Joining the silent queue I eagerly await my meal. The monks tell us food is merely fuel to support our bodies - it's hard to think of this delicious vegetarian food as mere energy. With only two meals a day food is important and despite the recommendation that we should not be attached to things, I am attached to this tasty food.

Scooping brown rice onto my plate I add aromatic yellow curry, cucumber, two stalks of a leafy vegetable and a large slice of papaya. Sitting at the table opposite the Canadian woman who is one of the bell ringers, our eyes meet and we smile - the only form of communication allowed. She is one of the five women I'd met at the temple across the road before the course started, so it is harder to not talk to her even though we have agreed to obey the precept of Noble Silence.

I long to tell her I've moved up two levels in my walking meditation, have become conscious of more movements - from three stages to five: push-lift-step-press and place - only two more to identify. After years of casual, automatic walking I'm surprised to learn the seven processes it takes to put one foot in front of the other.

I'm also becoming aware that the talk I wish to indulge in is usually ego driven and trivial: just to connect with others, prove I exist. 'Isn't the sunrise amazing?' 'The pond beautiful.' 'The food suburb.' The urge to speak raises mundane comments to an almost world-shattering level of importance and I nearly bite my tongue to keep it still. An Australian woman I also met at the Wat uses the same plan as I do to stay sober and I want to discuss the similarities between Buddhism and the programme we work but resist the urge. Our voices are used twice daily; the lunch food blessing, then later for Pali chants with the smiling monk, a handsome young man with twinkling eyes.

Everyone's seated, the food blessed - reminding ourselves it's just to 'maintain our bodies and the spiritual way of life' - and we eat. I concentrate on each mouthful, trying to be mindful, aware of the different textures in my mouth, the crunch of the leafy green raw vegetable, the satisfying bulk of the brown rice, the flavours and heat of the spices, the coolness of the cucumber, the sweet smoothness of the papaya.

Every body-type and many ages are represented, each of us abiding by the five precepts, the basic rules that trainee Thai Monks and Nuns follow. We have agreed not to kill any living thing, not to take that which is not freely given, not to have sex, not to harm others by speech and to have no intoxicating substances.

Obeying these rules seems possible for 10 days, however we have also committed to three more precepts as well as the Noble Silence: no eating after midday, no jewellery or perfumes and no sleeping in an 'over comfortable' bed - an austere but strangely freeing life. By not talking, I'm able to look inside myself, examine my thoughts, feelings and motives.

I wash my bowl, cup and spoon and leave the large open-walled dining room. The sun is hot and I'm tired. It seems a long time since the bell woke me at four and I hope to have a short siesta, but first I have my task \- empty the scorpion bucket.

It's with trepidation that I approach the bucket each time I arrive or leave the women's area. Will it contain a dangerous creature for me to bless, thank for the use of its space and return it to the forest, or not? Unable to climb the slippery plastic slope, this orange bucket is a safe place for us to put them when we find one in our rooms at night. This time, nothing's there so continue to my room, climb under the mosquito net and collapse on the bed. It's a raised concrete slab, about 1 metre wide by 2 metres long, the mattress a flax mat and my pillow is a brick-sized block of wood with a curved bite out of it: I fall asleep immediately.

My reliable internal clock wakes me an hour later and I have my third shower of the day. Thai modesty insists I wrap a special bathing sarong around my body before I go to the bathing area. A large, circular, water-filled concrete tub is our bathroom and under the hot sun the first bucket of water feels unbelievably cold as I pour it over my sticky body. It's an art washing with one hand while the other holds the tube-shaped sarong out from my body, preserving what seems to be false modesty.

I finish just as the bell rings its call to meditation, five chimes, a peal each minute, the sound lingering in the air until the next strike connects with the bell - an old bomb-casing - and the sound reaches out through space and wraps the old with the new. I'm amazed how long noise hangs in the air and wonder if it's because I'm so aware of each second right now.

Back in the open meditation hall - with a coconut palm grove to one side, a huge banyan tree on the other and a reflecting pool in the front - I look around as people arrange themselves on their mediation cushions or stools. We're a mixed bunch of various colours, shapes and sizes, I wonder why are they're here? I've created imaginary histories for some of them.

I'm still not sure at my own motives or what I expect to gain from these 10 days. Part of me is full of fear; will I re-live my son's suicide or have a profound spiritual experience? Will my life continue as usual or do a complete U-turn? Will old nightmares about the condition of my husband's dead body return?

The mental and emotional space available by not talking or making decisions about food or my timetable means energy saved is used in different ways. Strange memories rise and weird questions form in my head; I recall friends from long ago; wonder about the meaning of life as I watch ants and think about one of yesterday's lessons.

'The true duty of the mind is to know more and more, to grow in wisdom, develop. The concentrated mind sees things as they really are; it will ask the questions needed as it contemplates,' said one of the monks. I don't have to struggle with understanding his accent now, leaving me free to think about the content. I wonder if, or when, I too will have a 'concentrated mind.'

Ajahn Poh, the Abbot, arrives and as he sinks into a lotus I greet him with a wai from my cross-legged position: bowing at the waist, fingers at my forehead and my hands together as if in prayer. Arranging his orange robes he leans forward, gives three gentle taps on the brass bell that sits on a low table in front of him, the session starts. I still my mind, trying to concentrate on the moment and listen to this kind, loving man's words. 'Good afternoon good friends' he says as he starts to give me 'the best thing in your life,' which is what he told us the course will provide.

This talk is about vipasana, to see clearly, the way to end suffering. As time goes on it seems impossible that my suffering will end as my voluptuous body finds lean bits, all hurting, making it hard to concentrate. Each session leads onto the next as we are taken through lessons for breathing as well as teachings about and of, the Buddha. I long to be able to emulate our Thai teachers who sit peacefully, unmoving and, with no notes, pass on their life experiences and knowledge of Theravada Buddhism - which they claim is the original of Buddha's teaching. It's not a religion they say but a way of life, a way of life that appeals to me with no Supreme Being, its emphasis on the laws of nature, cause and effect and living in the present. While the monks sit motionlessly I slowly stretch my left leg; scratch my right shoulder, arch my back and surreptitiously observe others from half-closed eyes.

Lesson over it's time to practise meditating. My hips are sore - again - so to allow circulation to return I go to the coconut grove for walking mediation. Taking slow measured steps I concentrate on each movement and my breathing. Averting my eyes I try to ignore what others are doing while being aware of ants and other living things on the ground. It's easy not to step on an ant but in the evening it's nearly impossible to refrain from slapping mosquitoes. Resisting whacking them is difficult, so to obey the precept not to kill, I use repellent.

Lift, raise, step, place, press, lift, raise, step and place. As the sole of my foot touches the ground it seems every grain of the river-sand is imprinted on my mind. It feels good and sometimes, for minutes I can stay focused, until ... I wonder how Adrien is? ... I must remember to ask Mum how my bonsai trees are ... It will be good to see Daniel ... I need to e-mail Jill ... and so it goes on and on and on. A barrage of thoughts keep running through my mind: wonderful, witty words for my journal rise up and then once again, I am rushing into the future or reliving the past. A real monkey-mind, jumping and swinging from branch to branch in my head and I have to drag myself back to the moment: lift raise step place press lift raise step place.

Despite the silence, evenings are fun: most of us women go to the hot mineral springs where we wallow in the very hot water and paint our bodies and faces with the clay-like mud that lines the creek. As in all areas of Thai life, we are expected to be modest, wear bathing costumes and are wrapped as we walk to and from the women's area. The men don't have the advantage of the natural stream but must content themselves in a concrete pool with water piped in from the stream.

When night falls, our torches look like fireflies as we walk around the grounds or back to the hall for the final session of the day. Before we start, I look around, checking for empty spaces. We sit in the same place for the 10 days and I'm near the front so am less distracted. Now halfway through the course many have already left: I wonder if I will last the 10 days?

After the pool at night and the hour of yoga each morning, my hips are more forgiving of the positions I require of them and tonight sit, albeit briefly, in the full lotus position.

The smiling, chanting monk tells us of a particular giant that is a statue at the entrance to many Wats. 'He is there to ask you where you are going, if you don't know where you are going he will kill you.' He continues, 'He represents the problem you have, if you don't know where you are going with it, it could kill you.' I think of my problems, do I know where I'm going with them I wonder? Yet again I'm grateful to have found the solution to the disease of alcoholism, my biggest problem: any problem I have today is high-class compared to it.

It's ironic that on the road to discover the world and myself I come here to be told there is no self. I struggle with that concept - that all is impermanent, the world is in a state of flux and that anything I'm attached to will cause me pain. I try to stop thinking as they also tell me that mindfulness is not thinking but being fully present, aware of what's happening around us, or to us, right now. For these reasons we are not able to escape by reading or writing during the retreat.

Waiting, cross-legged, for the dharma talk I doze off, waking with a start as I hear 'Good evening good Dharma friends.' I struggle with staying awake and eventually sneak off for an extra half-hour of sleep and despite feeling slightly guilty as I check for scorpions or snakes in my room I fall asleep immediately. Concrete is amazingly comfortable.

The penultimate day arrives and I now believe I'll complete the course. Every day the silence gets better, easier not to talk: although some seem to find it more difficult. The judgmental, critical part of my mind berates them; she is whispering; he is passing a note; someone else is breaking a rule. Again I have to drag my mind back to me; trying to accept I can't change other people, only myself and pull myself back to contemplating impermanence - even if it's more fun contemplating other people's defects rather than my own.

I have mixed feelings about our silence ending tomorrow. Ajan Poh says 'Completing the course, like life, is rather like swimming across a river. It's good to get to the other side.' He continues, 'Success comes from doing what needs to be done; that we have nearly crossed this river but there are many more rivers ahead of us before we reach nirvana, the goal of those who follow Buddhism.'

The only Nun, Maechee Pairor, is a wonderful teacher. Around five feet nothing and sixty years old, she's a bundle of energy and told us she became a Nun some six years earlier after many years as a science professor, (geneticist) has degrees from Thailand and gained her Ph.D. in the USA. She tells us, 'Buddhism offers us real life - not immortal life.' We are allowed to have a session with one of our kalyana-mita (a good friend to novices) and I choose to see her.

We meet in the dining room, it feels strange to be talking and my voice sounds strange, husky: I ask three questions: How do you contemplate impermanence? How can I control my monkey mind? And, why do most Thai people eat meat when it breaks the concept of not killing?

The answer about my monkey mind is helpful: be gentle with yourself she tells me and that the more I meditate the more will be revealed about impermanence; however, I don't understand the explanation about meat.

'They haven't killed the meat so it's not a problem for them.'

'But they brought the dead meat to be eaten.'

'Yes, so they haven't killed.'

'Yes but what about the butcher? What about him killing?

'Well that's his job so that's OK. No problem.'

Silence ends after breakfast: the stories I invented for people dissolve in reality. The elegant French woman is a loud Aussie; the Kiwi becomes a nice American schoolteacher and the Dutchwoman is Spanish with limited English.

The world seems very noisy so I immediately leave for my peaceful Malaysian island while some others leave for a full moon party on a Thai island and after two weeks of sun and sand I leave for Israel via Egypt.

back to top

~~~~

### Act your age

Egypt has never spun my wheels so to speak; this is merely a stopover on my way to Israel and at Cairo airport, the humidity hits me like a solid wall. I'm tired and have to find somewhere to stay so use a tout at the airport, book one night in a cheap hotel then sit to wait for the promised transport. I wait and wait and wait even more. My usual travel-happy-self is being sucked away like moisture evaporating in the heat.

Patience over I tell them to forget the booking, I'll find my own transport and accommodation. That's when 'he' comes to my rescue: he suggests I travel in his taxi as he's going to the same hotel where he conducts his guiding business. I hadn't noticed him and now, finally on the way to the hotel, observe him as he points out landmarks.

Dressed in a green silk shirt and loose dark grey trousers, he could easily fit into any cosmopolitan city. His eyes light up and crinkle at the sides when he smiles; his teeth seem very white against his dark skin and looks about 30. He points to the stadium where the National handball team has an international game tonight and thousands are gathering to watch a game I've never heard of.

'You'll soon be settled in, have a shower and everything will be much better' he says as he casually puts his hand on my knee, not knowing the effect it will have - or does he? An electric shock hits the pit of my stomach and radiates out to all parts of my body. An earthquake; I haven't felt like that for ages. No, not just ages, years.

'Get a grip,' I tell myself. 'What's wrong with you? He isn't interested in you. Act your age!' I obey myself.

At the hotel he carries my pack and leads me past cartons and bags of rubbish stacked in the foyer and into the dilapidated, two-people-and-a-bag-sized lift. The staff welcomes me with friendly greetings and a cup of sweet black tea and, after some small talk, I go for a shower: he's right I do feel better. Rejuvenated and back out to the communal sitting room, I find he has sent out for dinner. Once again I'm confused and don't know how to interpret behaviour in a new country: I wonder if I this is the start of a romance, of being romanced as my intuition is telling me \- or is this just Egyptian politeness and hospitality? The meal is a dish called Kushari. I recall being told of it in Malaysia.

'It's a combination of noodles, rice, black beans, onions and tomato,' the traveller had said. 'You must try it; it was my favourite meal in the Arabic countries.' It becomes one of my favourites too, as well as the spicy falafel, humus, mint tea and asab, the pressed sugar-cane drink. As we eat, we talk, where I've been where I'm going. He, Yusuf, talks of his job, his small company that arranges trips for tourists: suspicious, I decide his pleasantness is because he wants to sell me a tour.

Opening the double doors to my balcony on the fifth floor, I lie on the bed listening to the unceasing noise: trains, car horns, people calling to each other and music. Already, I'm falling in love with another exotic country. I relish the difference wherever I go and I'm continually amazed to be travelling in places with such different atmospheres, sounds, noises and smells. In fact, I'm always amazed I'm travelling period. Life is wonderful and despite, or perhaps because of, Greg's death and my 23 years of alcoholic drinking and behaviour, I'm appreciating life more and more. I wake early in the morning to the voice of the muezzin calling the faithful to prayer, 'Allah akbar' they call, God is great.

'You can't stay for only three days,' Yusuf tells me over breakfast, 'There are so many things to see and do.' He lists some; 'The Pyramids, the Sphinx, a felucca ride on the Nile, the museum, the city of the dead, ancient Cairo, so many things. You have to see them.' But knowing I will be here only briefly I start exploring this huge, populous city.

I wish I could find a whole copy of Mabel's book, 'Through Algeria', - and I'd love to know her attitude to the top of Africa. I'm sure our experiences would have similarities, as well as the differences that 150-years would bring.

Wearing appropriately modest clothes - long, loose pants and shirt - I go walking in my usual new-city-orientation of ever-expanding circles. The traffic's crazy; drivers call and yell to each other; tooting constantly as they vie for position in the crowded streets. Just in front of me a man is pulling up his pants; he's left a bowel motion on the footpath. I've been told of this happening in India and had been appalled - now it's part of my experience and I'm more aware of where my sandal-clad feet are placed - but don't see it again.

Consulting the little map the hotel staff gave me, I look for the museum. 'Go down to the river and turn left' I tell myself. I'm half way there before I realise what I've said. The river, so casually dismissed as a place on the map, is the Nile. I laugh aloud. This is the river where my relative, Livingstone, died while searching for its source.

'We're related through the Argyle Livingstone side if the family' my father's aunt told me. I wonder what he'd think of my trivialising the huge waterway that consumed him.

In the cool of the museum interest in things Egyptian is stimulated. Although I'm captivated with Tutankhamen and the wonderful jewellery found in his tomb, I'm more fascinated by the tiny, simple, wooden animals and people that have been carved for tombs. Hours later and with a little more understanding about local history, I go back to the hotel, press eight on the lift that makes it stop at level five and find another meal awaits me. I'm feted with tropical fruit drinks and wonderful fresh bread from the shops under this building of which only this fifth floor is the low-cost hotel.

No women work here and it is like being in a big family of boisterous boys, the youngest is 13 and works here after morning school. They absorb me into their family and whenever they eat, I eat. Travelling alone has advantages that couples and groups rarely experience.

'Try some shisha', I'm offered a puff on the water pipe full of moist apple and honey-flavoured tobacco and although I suck and suck on the fancy pipe, it's not a skill I acquire. They also take turns teaching me the fast, Egyptian version of backgammon and some basic Arabic.

Yusuf is Muslim, as are most of the staff, while the others are Copts. They show me a cross, tattooed near their wrists when babies and explain that it shows they are Coptic Christians: they all seem to be tolerant of and informed about, each other's beliefs. I watch Yusuf working with tourists: he seems consistent, honest and tolerant of their demands or silly questions. There is none of the pushy salesperson I expected to encounter in Egypt and he doesn't suggest I buy a tour.

Over backgammon, laughter and talk, I'm beginning to suspect that he is attracted to me. It's not possible; you are misreading the body language of a different culture I tell myself. 'What are you doing tonight?' he asks. I have nothing planned so he continues, 'come with me.' Out onto the street we go and he hails a taxi: we stop by the river.

He holds my hand as we cross the multi-laned street and again I feel that physical and emotional excitement - sherbet fizzing through my veins. The Nile is busy, lights reflect in the dark water and boats are cruising up and down the river and from bank to bank. Families are walking along the promenade, women in long dresses holding hands with each other and often men do the same. It has a bustling, almost carnival atmosphere; feluccas, the ancient Egyptian sailboat are cruising up and down the river - it seems we too are going on a river cruise.

Alone on the felucca, except for the captain-cum-owner, Yusuf lies with his head on my lap; it feels right. Although he's dressed in western style I imagine him in flowing robes - a traditional galabiya would be fitting on this boat with its beautiful carpets and Arabic music. When I tell him that he laughs, his brown eyes reflecting his mirth. I could easily go to bed with this handsome man I think. We photograph each other, alone and together. I'm sad this is my last night in Cairo, despite having decided to stay in Egypt a little longer.

Tomorrow evening I'll start exploring this land I hadn't wanted to visit and, on the boat, Yusuf asks if we could go away together when I return. With hormones raging and ego massaged, I agree - arranging to meet next week. Back at the hotel, I feel lighter, younger, reminding me of how easy it is to love someone who desires you. He comes to my room, leaves the door open and gives me a chaste kiss goodnight.

As with the taxi rides and meals we've shared he refuses to take any money for my share of this romantic trip. 'When you are here you have to do it like we do. The man pays.' It's been the same here in the hotel; my washing is done 'for free because they know you are with me,' he said. With me?

Lying in bed, I contemplate the evening, surprised at his attention. Why? A 24-year age difference - that's why: Greg was born the same year. I decide Yusuf, who has been working for 15 years, should be mature enough to make his own decisions about relationships but what will my kids think? My friends? 'A Muslim toyboy!' I can hear them exclaim. Aware that my thinking and emotions are like that of a co-dependent adolescent's, I berate myself, 'stop being a silly old woman' and bring myself back to the now. Life and the recent Buddhist retreat, reminds me that living in the present is best for me. The next evening, taking only my daypack, leaving the rest at the hotel, I travel by overnight train south to Aswan - I find the seat I paid for has been upgraded.

I'm pleased the boys in Cairo gave me language lessons. 'La shukran' (no thank you) I say - hand on my heart - as vendors hassle me to buy postcards, a plastic sphinx or a junk-metal pyramid. It works as well for me as it does for locals: street vendors melt away and I'm not hassled as other travellers are. It doesn't stop some young men who want to talk about sex: it's one of the reasons I like Yusuf. He hasn't spoken like that and even spoke sharply to others if conversations veered in that direction.

Travelling by felucca is relaxing. I'm with a group of six others, two Aussies, three Brits and a Dutchman. We met in Aswan, have brought two cartons of water to share and gear stored we settle down on the boat. The crew - three Nubian men - have carried our food supplies on board and after checking our papers the tourist police watch the sail go up and wave us on our way.

'It was easy to tell you were a Kiwi' one of the Aussies says, 'you all have those damn bones hanging around your neck. You're all so attached to your damn country its amazing.' I agree - we do love our land.

Along the banks of the Nile farmlands thrive and donkeys walk by, men ride them while women carry large loads on their heads. Occasionally, children playing and swimming at the water's edge wave and call out to us. 'Hello, I love you,' 'Welcome to Egypt.' We laugh as we yell 'hello' back. Ochre coloured dunes are the backdrop to lush green gardens and occasionally a large tourist liner passes us; our crew, Mohammed, Mamdoh and Fatia, tack the sailboat down river, smoking marijuana doesn't seem to affect their ability.

Three days pass on the longest river in the world: we stop and gaze at the ancient ruins along the way and sleep on board. It is colder at night than we expected as it's over 40 degrees during the day so the contrast is marked and in the mornings we find ourselves snuggled together like a litter of puppies and I am accused of snoring; someone else has his foot in another's face. The crew prepare simple meals for us, all accompanied by an endless supply of pita bread. I help clean the rice of husks and small stones while the English dentist watches carefully to ensure no water from the Nile is used for cooking.

Aswan, Luxor, the Valleys of the Kings and Queens, are great, but my mind keeps flying back to HIM. Will he be at our meeting place? What about my body, now that gravity and age is playing havoc with it? What will he think about that? Already I'm assuming our relationship will be sexual despite the age difference.

One night we stop near a little village where relatives of Fatia live and around a bonfire we sing and dance to drumbeats. I watch as the musicians dry the stretched drum-skins over the flames to achieve the required resonance - rather like a guitarist tuning the strings; tighten, strum, tighten, strum, listening for the right note.

Journey over, I'm back on a train heading for Cairo. If he's not waiting, I'll go straight to Israel as originally planned I decide, but he is waiting, concerned, as I'm 10 minutes late. 'I thought you weren't coming. I was worried.'

'I thought you wouldn't be here either;' we laugh, nervously. I'm apprehensive, thrilled, excited and wondering if this is wise. After coffee and lunch at the Hilton, we leave for Alexandria. He holds my hand under the cover of my daypack and we talk the whole way, about everything, about nothing. Re-establishing contact while still getting to know each other.

At the hotel, over-looking the Mediterranean, we book two rooms: circumventing morality laws that insist a wedding certificate must be shown if we hire just one. With his gear is in one room and mine in the other, we share his room and my fears about my body are unfounded. Days later, we rent an apartment in Cairo in my name to satisfy the morality police. I'm in love with life: in lust with him. Israel, Greece and sailing the Mediterranean can wait.

Heliopolis, the presidential palace area, is a rich suburb in the north-east of modern Cairo and our apartment overlooks both a mosque and the Commonwealth Cemetery. I upset the local order by going to the coffee and shisha shop many floors below us - by custom a male-only area. They serve me and suggest that next time I come back with 'your husband.' Yusuf rarely goes to work and we play house, laugh and talk constantly and do tourist things. I ride a horse around the pyramids and sphinx, at Giza, we visit the city of the dead where thousands of people live among the tombs and I succumb to buying a papyrus scroll and perfumed oils: he continues his old-fashioned behaviour and insists on paying.

Shardya, our non-English-speaking housekeeper, cleans and cooks daily: with celibacy gone, my vegetarian diet disappears too and I learn to eat green-rice-stuffed pigeon. She also makes a deep-red drink from dried hibiscus flowers and insists on removing, with a putty-like substance, the hair from my arms.

I need a haircut so Shardya takes me to a small shop beside the apartment block. Haircut over, the woman asks, in Arabic and mime, if I want my facial hair to be taken off. Initiated into some of the ways of Egyptian womanhood, my pubic hair has already disappeared (an action both sexes practise) so decide my sparse facial down can go too.

With double strands of pink cotton - held between her teeth and hands - she runs the thread over my face and I freeze as the pink weapon approaches my eyebrows. They don't disappear as I feared and I leave the salon a nearly hairless woman.

Yusuf tells me he was in the army during the Gulf war: all Egyptian men spend two years in the army but he turned up each month to pay a bribe rather than train. Twenty-one months into his term his bribe was refused - he is needed on the front-line. 'I was so, so scared' he tells me. 'I hate war. It solves nothing, just makes things worse. As soon as my time finished I came straight home. I will never hold a gun again.'

One day Shardya seems grumpy with me and when Yusuf returns, she has a long conversation with him: I know I'm the topic of discussion. Yusuf translates. 'She says you won't let her go shopping for us. She thinks you don't trust her.' I assure her - via Yusuf - that I go shopping, as I want to be part of local life; that I want to practise my Arabic and suggest a compromise: we can shop together. She is happy and the next morning we go out for our daily supplies.

She watches my transactions, my meagre Arabic and helps when I ask. She laughs as I pay then tuck my wee purse back into my bra. When we get home she again has an animated conversation with Yusuf who laughingly translates.

It seems she's thrilled I'd put the purse in my bra and pays me her ultimate compliment. 'She says you are just like an Egyptian woman. They put theirs in the same place.' She hugs me and as I'm enveloped in her voluptuous body, tells me I'm her sister.

Time is running out, I have a yacht to catch in Athens. We take photos, storing up memories of stolen moments. 'Stay here,' Yusuf says 'marry me. You don't have to change your religion, you wear good clothes and you are learning Arabic very well. Please stay, my Queen.'

Flattered, I'm tempted. He persists and we have our names read ... a Pharaonic personal analysis. Among a list of positive attributes it seems I am honest, idealistic and successful as well as ambitious, intelligent and modest. He is generous, elegant and kind; he can also do more than one thing at the same time and hates traditional or routine work. A perfect match the woman says and as we share five of our 10 Arabic symbols in our names I'm told this is auspicious.

Would I want to live here? Forever? What should I do Mabel? No more travelling? Become a second wife? I don't think I can give up so much and one day, when he fastens my top button before we go out, I decide it's time to move on.

'Israel? No. No. You must not go there. It is too dangerous.' Four wars and decades of unrest with their neighbour have left a mark on many people. When he realises my decision is made, he says he's scared. 'You must call me. You must tell me where you are. I will be so worried until you leave and come back here.'

The next day, standing in the border control building I watch as my daypack goes through the security x-ray. The guard reverses the conveyer and it goes back through again and then again. Four times my bag is scanned and finally she asks me to carry it into a little room - a man with a gun follows us. 'What is the long round item in your bag?'

'I can't recall anything like that.'

'Please open it.'

The long round thing is a plastic bottle half-full of water so my passport's stamped and I'm free to re-join the mini-bus. Across the Sinai we drive and when I get to Tel Aviv, check into a hostel by the sea. What culture shock - it's a huge modern bustling city with smooth footpaths, no street vendors and everyone has a cell-phone.

The sea is pee-yellow with rubbish floating in it and after I dive in I find I can no longer see: it takes me a moment to realise my contacts have been washed out. That evening, over a falafel, on the roof of the hostel a young Mississippi man pays me a compliment. 'You have very young eyes,' he says 'sometimes I look in the mirror and wonder how someone my age has such old eyes.' He rolls another joint and I laugh, 'sometimes I look in the mirror and wonder who the old woman is. It's good to know something's young so thank you.' I continue, 'I've been told two things, if you look like your passport you need a holiday, or if when you're on a holiday and look like it, you need to go home.' He roars with laughter and pulls his passport from a bag around his waist and hands it to me - the face on it looks like a young Mormon missionary - he looks like a long-haired disciple from an old religious picture.

Friday night is the start of the Jewish Sabbath, it's also music-night on the beach so a group of us travellers walk along the edge of the Mediterranean, past men playing backgammon or gambling with two-up to the breakwater venue. The rocks are covered with people, some drumming furiously and under the light of the moon and fire-jugglers, our group dances to the hypnotic beat for a couple of hours.

All shops and restaurants are closed because of the religious holiday and the next afternoon we're eager to replace the snacks we've been eating with some solid food. Past the Hard Rock Café and Planet Hollywood we walk then into the Holy Rock Café where I eat the first western food I've had in over six months. An Israeli man, who stayed at the budget hostel I worked at in Napier, takes me for a drive around his city and I value getting a local-eye view. I ring Cairo to tell Yusuf I'm catching a local bus to Jerusalem tomorrow. 'Be careful at the bus station,' he warns me.

I cannot believe I'm walking through the Damascus Gate, which I'd heard about as a child in Sunday school. It leads directly into the Arab quarter, the souk (market) and to Tabasco, the hostel I'm staying at. The covered alleyways are a maze of footpath-wide lanes but I soon find the hostel and book in. The lounge has a sign that declares 'No discussing religion or politics and definitely no thinking.' I reflect on that as I watch a line of Christian tourists, dragging a huge cross, singing hymns and threading their way down the thin passageways through the Arab quarter: they're following the steps Jesus is believed to have taken on the way to his death on the cross. It's impossible not to discuss those topics in such a politically and religiously fractured place.

Also waiting at the bus stop where I'll catch a bus to Bethlehem is a group of young soldiers. Surreally, the teenage women have painted nails, their faces perfectly made-up, they're flirting with the male soldiers, and all have AK-47s slung casually over their shoulders. I wonder if they're old enough, mature enough, to handle them. It's scary.

The bus stops at a checkpoint and when I walk through my passport is examined, I'm asked where I'm going, and why, and then waved on. I feel threatened with all the guns and the otherwise empty streets are eerie so share a taxi to Nativity Square rather than walk. Through the low door that leads to the church I go down to the stable where Jesus was reputedly born and when I leave a wedding car arrives.

As the bride emerges an explosion of noise shatters the quiet and almost empty square. Among the smoke and cordite-smells I press myself against the stone wall then realise the balls of fire and noise are not bombs or live bullets - they're fireworks, blank bullets and balloons bursting, celebrating the wedding. From the mosque opposite the church, a muezzin calls the faithful to prayer.

The square has many new shops while others have been cleaned ready for the millennium: but so far the numbers of tourists have not increased. I buy a tiny green and gold fish to remind me of today - although I'm sure the fear of the sounds will have imprinted it clearly into my memory-bank.

Back in Jerusalem, I go walking, with two other Kiwi, around the ramparts that surround the old city. We gaze over the Mount of Olives, the City of David, Mt Zion, the Al Aqsa Mosque and the Dome of the Rock. The sun is low in the sky and the white stone of the buildings are turned to gold - domes, minarets and spires all blessed by the same sunrays Behind us the old city has a skyline of terracotta roofs, TV aerials and satellite dishes - ancient and modern side by side. We unexpectedly find Temple Mount and decide to go past the bubble-gum blowing guard, through the security gates and into Tzahal Square.

The Western Wall - the Wailing Wall - is on most travellers must do list and we approach it with interest. 'Out, out.' A short, stout, skull-cap-wearing bearded man is waving his hands over his head and hurrying towards us. 'Go, go, go' he huffs and puffs. We look behind to see whom he's addressing but there's no one there, it's us he's shouting at - me specifically. I have broken one of my cardinal rules - dress appropriately - I have a T-shirt on so my elbows are exposed: we had not planned on visiting a religious site. Despite having capes over his arm to lend people who are underdressed, he is determined that I must go: my companions leave with me and as we leave a traveller's T-shirt catches my eye; Don't worry America - Israel is behind you.

My back is still sore from the bus trip from Cairo and that night, do my exercises again and the next day we return to the Jewish Wailing Wall - I'm wearing a long-sleeved shirt - it's Tuesday, wedding day. A young woman dressed in a meringue-like confection of a dress walks with her young flower-girls down to the wall. The man she was with does the same - he to the left, she to the right - and separated by a fence they both pray at the 18-metre high wall, she pokes a piece of paper into one of the cracks. Men are praying loudly, some forming circles with linked arms while others stand at the wall rocking back and forth, their large hats and ringlets bouncing in time to their chants. When the woman comes out of the Jews only area I ask if I can photograph her and she agrees with delight.

Tomatoes in Israel smell home-grown: reminding me of eating them, sun-warm and sweet, as I weeded my garden - and here I'm eating them daily. Tonight eggplant; onion, potato, zucchini and tomatoes go into an old pizza oven and, along with a large bottle of water, the Kiwis and I have a memorable meal: our Arab cook refuses to take any money for his kindness.

Like all good travellers, I know where I've been but don't know where I'm going - until the last moment and now I have to make one of those either-or decisions: either stay in Israel, the Palestine Territories and visit Jordan, or sail the Mediterranean. Travel involves constant compromise and this time I regretfully leave Jerusalem and go to Haifa, the port from where the ferry to Greece leaves. My usual mixture of fear and pleasure accompany me on the bus and yet another T-shirt wearing youth catches my attention: Uzi does it. That and a burnt out truck and tank, beside the highway, reminds me this can be a dangerous place.

Haifa is busy; the weekly ferry won't leave for five days so travel north to Akko. The Lighthouse Hostel - a 350-year old Turkish building - overlooks the harbour and I feel like a Sultana as I lie on my bed in the huge room with circular and lead-lighted windows. I spend the day on my bed and the next day my back is worse, so ask where I can find a doctor.

The hostel-owner takes me to his one: he accompanies me into the surgery. 'You are my guest so I must protect you.' Behind the screen the Dr examines my back while having a conversation with my protector then gives me a script for anti-inflammatory tablets and ointment for my back and by the next afternoon I'm moving freely.

I'm missing Shardya looking after me so take my clothes to the laundromat for washing. When I collect them, they smell good, washed, dried, folded and all the same greenish-grey colour - even the pink, Benetton top I'd bought in Cairo! Despite this Akko is on my list of places to return to - I love the medieval atmosphere of the old town, the fresh orange juice and friendly people.

Customs and passport control takes nearly three hours. 'Where have you been? Why are you on your own? Who did you meet in Israel? Did you meet any Arabs? Where did you stay? I claim Jonathan, the guy who'd been to New Zealand, as my only friend in this country and after my camera has been inspected, all the films removed from their black containers and my pack examined, I can board the ferry.

I sleep on the deck or in the lounge and it's full of interesting people: a mother and daughter from Cyprus are sure I am very rich to be travelling for so long - they find it hard to believe I had to be thrifty and save for over two years. Also on board is a Rumanian doctor who feels a great responsibility towards his people, 'life is very difficult since 1989' he tells me; Marty from Switzerland says 'it's very important to me that he died on the cross' and two Jesuit priests are good conversationalists.

The doctor and I go exploring on Cyprus where I eat wonderfully sweet carrots and fruit for lunch and he is full of fear. He's worried we won't get back to the boat in time and gives me a lecture on safety - 'keep away from crowed places and bars' he says, 'be aware of who is around you, be constantly attentive and watch rubbish bins and bags for bombs.' His rules for himself remind me how I have kept developing my courage and resilience despite some fears. The days go quickly, I buy a bikini and a wrap-round skirt when we stop at Rodhos, enjoying walking on streets I'd walked with my daughter a couple of years ago: I never considered I'd get back here.

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~~~~

The Cockroach Stomp

'Staff Wanted' the sign says and impulsively I walk upstairs to the budget hotel to enquire.

Four years ago I'd vowed never to return to Athens because of the heat, dirt and noise: however I've been in Athens for only two hours and I'm job-hunting. The yacht I expected to work on no longer needs staff \- so I'm creating a new plan. After travelling so long, even at 50-something, well, 54, young lovers, navel piercing and tattoos seem normal so perhaps this is a good time and place to stop for a reality check.

Come back in the morning I'm told and now I'm across the desk from the boss. 'Can you cook?' he snaps. I think of three kids who never starved, a cooking course in Thailand and my Kiwi 'can do' attitude and promptly tell him yes, I can cook.

Five minutes later, six long loaves of bread under my arm, I'm in the hotel Festos. I have a job - I am the sole manager, cook, cleaner, waiter, bar-staff and dish-washer of the strangely named 'A Little Street Bar Named Desire' café-bar which is only two minutes walk away from Symtagma Square in the centre of Athens.

The breakfast menu is explained: four or five slices from the baguette, tiny sealed containers of butter and jam plus tea or coffee and hungry travellers can have eggs too: it's closed for lunch while the evening menu is up to me. The refrigerator is unlocked, I'm given a lesson on using the till, the doors are opened and the bar is open for the first time in six weeks. And so begins the first day of five weeks working 11-hour days for a Greek rival to the old TV show 'Fawlty Towers.'

The staff are pleased to have a cook. They say that while the kitchen has been closed, dinner - pasta with canned sauce - has been very late at night and the same thing day after day. On the first day of my new career, I'm greeted with enthusiasm when I return to Dioskourus, the hotel where we staff stay.

'Bravo.' 'Great food.' I'm told. 'It's so good to have vegetables,' says another but I can't stay for compliments: after the heat and the work I'm exhausted and just want a shower and sleep.

The shower, in the basement beside the laundry, is cold: no one has remembered to flick the power on. However I am hot, sticky and no doubt smelly, so bravely step into the flow of cold water. Just as I finish, the washing machine disgorges its load of grey, soapy water over my feet. I'm disgusted and jump out until it stops and then return to wash my feet thoroughly.

Staff turnover is high; my two roommates are Slovakian and we're sleeping beside the TV and garden bar but despite the noise, I collapse and all too soon it's time to get up.

'Write down anything you need for the kitchen and I'll get it,' says the hotel handy man. Slowly my list is forgotten and never once does it leave the kitchen for reference when the sporadic shopping is done. This means I often have a double supply of lettuces but no rice, olives for the Greek salad but no feta cheese and each day is a constant mind-juggle as I conjure up satisfying meals for the 10 staff and create a menu for guests.

Spaghetti is always on the menu, but tonight when an Aussie couple order spaghetti the cupboard is bare - no pasta. No, they don't want stir-fried vegetables and no, Greek salad does not appeal and no an omelette will not satisfy them. They have a brain wave . . . 'I have some pasta in my backpack, can you cook it?' he asks - a guest supplies his own ingredients and I the cooking, a sort-of-satisfying solution. Forward planning is not part of the Greek psyche, well, not of the locals I'm working for. This is difficult for someone like me with my strong streak of perfectionism that I aspire to and never reach.

'Tonight was a bad night. I was sure I was going to be lynched by a group of Aussies when we ran out of beer,' I tell my colleagues. Despite ordering, often days in advance, drinks, or food, it is usually not until the fridge is empty that another carton of water, beer, or block of feta cheese is delivered.

We staff are a mixed bunch; I'm the oldest, the others are in their twenties and we're a mini United Nations - from the Sudan, USA, Canada, Slovak, Hungary and Italy and of course us down-unders from Australia and New Zealand. English is the common language but we speak a mixed language among ourselves - adopting little phrases from each language. 'Ciao bella' sits comfortably alongside 'g'day mate' and 'bravo' is the standard well-done expression as well as some not-so-polite Greek words we've learnt. Spare time means the universal games of backgammon, chess or cards appear and our payment is food, bed and a small wage. Working longer hours than the others I negotiate for a little more plus a bonus based on my daily takings. They reluctantly agree to my demands, after all a cook is vital.

Some nights I'm greeted with a chorus of catcalls and laughter, 'Your toyboy has rung again. Three times tonight! He wants you to ring him no matter how late you are.' Yusuf wants me to return to Cairo. It's good for my ego but despite his pleadings stay with my original plans and don't backtrack.

The heavy till is a constant source of pain. Each time I use it I have to lift the front, slide my hand underneath, barking my knuckles on the marble bench, to flick the switch at the back that opens the drawer. During the first week, my right hand and knuckles become swollen, covered with bruises and sore spots where skin's been knocked off. As I become more adept at the lift, slide and flick the injuries decrease.

Cockroaches drive me crazy in the kitchen. From ant-size to giant-size they disappear down cracks nearly invisible to the human eye and two favourite hiding places are the potato bag and the onion basket. Morning and night, before guests arrive and after they leave, I spray the beasties. Lifting the basket, I bang it down and as the zillions of them scurry for cover I do the cockroach stomp and spray maniacally. The stomp, a dance I've invented to stop them running over my feet and up my legs, is the second line of defence and slowly, day by day the population is reduced. Another step in the dance is the basket bang; this dislodges the ones hiding in the cane breadbaskets so I don't deliver creepy-crawlies along with fresh bread. The two steps, the bang and the stomp, are performed in combination with a shudder of disgust. Buddhist precepts of not killing are pushed to the back of my mind as I attend to the battle of the cockroaches. Books, knife-blades, salt shaker and a bottle of soy sauce are all used successfully to dispatch cockroaches: my sandals, the tip jar, fry pan, coke and beer bottles are also in my armoury, whatever is at hand is used to deal to the fast moving creatures.

While I attend to that battle, the Slovakian cleaners have a different one, the battle of the sheets. Each day, although the washing machine is going non-stop, the demand for dry sheets is never-ending. The number of sheets and the number of beds are about equal making it impossible to make beds until people check out and the sheets are washed and dried. Instructions on how to use the machine are also given: again and again and again. Like children they are told how to do the washing, time taken out of a busy schedule for a lecture they don't need. Staff washing is blamed for no sheets and a new rule is made. 'Staff can only wash their clothes on Mondays, 2pm to 5pm. Anyone found using the machine will be fined 2000 drachmas' - a day's wages. Hearing this edict being delivered, as I begin my afternoon snooze, I explode with laughter at the pettiness.

I bury my head in the pillow; I can't control the tears and hysterical laughter as the frustrations of the previous month erupt. I know we will continue to do our washing, late at night, when the washing of sheets is finally complete or if we're feeling sneaky, we will illegally put one or two things in with a load of sheets.

It's August and the heat is amazing; the two gas rings from which I create culinary delights add a few more degrees. The sun pours in over the balcony from early morning to the end of the day and at last the long-promised curtains are hung to shade the guests' tables, but not my cooking area. Some days later the ceiling fan is re-installed; four metres from the floor, with a 10-centimetre pull-cord and despite my fear of heights I need to climb a stepladder to turn it off and on. A week later the boss is concerned at power being used when I leave it on when there are no guests and he attaches a chain to the fan so I can now operate it from floor level.

Each day brings a lecture on the overuse of some item or another - butter and the jam are the main culprits. 'You only gave six breakfasts yesterday,' the Dioskourus staff are told, 'I gave you 15 butters!' Why are there none left?' The staff endures yet another lecture with much eye rolling. One day I'm promoted to give out butter, jam and even the precious milk, which along with the butter has caused the most problems for the other hotel.

Each morning we line up for rations. Keeper of the bread, tea, coffee and cleaning gear is Mr P. whom we call 'the old man.' He sits behind his desk, a thin line of brown dribble permanently running over the stubble and down his chin. 'Tea?' I ask, one of his few English words and give him the coffee jar as well that he grudgingly and silently fills. As the days and weeks add up he starts to smile at me when I collect the long crunchy loaves of bread and coffee. One momentous day, after a large cash turnover in the bar the previous evening, he gives me a hands-over-the-head salute, rather as a boxer celebrating a win. I've found the way to make him happy . . . make money.

I don't have a watch and when I need to know the time use a clock across the road from the hotel, leaning out the second floor window to read it. Also across the road is an old Greek Orthodox Church with a bell tower. Each Sunday morning the bells ring out half-hourly from seven until nine. Pigeons, disturbed from doing whatever pigeons do in belfries, fly through the scaffolding and netting, soar skyward and circle for a minute or two. As the sound fades away, they return to their haven until half an hour later the bells peel stridently again and off they fly until once more the relative quiet is restored.

During quiet times in the restaurant I read voraciously - What looks like crazy on a ordinary day; If Beale St Could Talk; Stones from the River and A fortune-teller told Me - are devoured. I also watch Athens from the balcony. Groups of tourists, many with big bellies and white sneakers, are led around and herded into restaurants to eat together. They wait at the lights for the inevitable latecomers to catch up and photograph each other, unaware of my gaze - they only see things at eye level. The busy three-lane street has occasional accidents; a motorcyclist swerves to avoid a pedestrian and crashes, he yells at her - she doesn't even turn around. A taxi and car graze each other and the air is blue with obscenities. Yellow trolley buses, blue and white buses, bright yellow taxis and the multi-coloured scooters add to the vibrancy of the city that is preparing for the Olympics. James Dean look-alikes fly past on large motorbikes with no helmet or jacket to spoil their cool image, while directly below me the footpath is full of young women in elegant little black dresses. Is it an optical illusion, or are all these black-clad creatures really blessed with beautiful bodies?

Sharing the small balcony with me is an old kitchen chair and a deep fryer that's been there for months. For three afternoons we experience an unseasonable heavy downpour, the vat of rancid oil rapidly fills, and the floating oil trickles over the top, heading towards the balcony ledge and pedestrians below. At the last minute, I mop it up with a blue tablecloth and remove three large jugs of the water and oil mixture. I ask the handyman to clean out the rest and take old fryer away but it's left to sit in the sun, growing ranker, waiting for the next rain and another attempt to escape over the edge.

The rain has stopped many tourists sightseeing and encouraged some into the bar earlier than usual. Those who have just checked in wonder if this rain will happen every day as they either throw back - or sip warily - their 'Welcome to Festos' ouzo. The bar is buzzing and I chat with guests as I produce the ever-popular stir-fried vegetables and stomach-filling spaghetti: an American is feeling morose and declares 'the only difference between the Russians and the Americans is that we still believe the propaganda in our papers.'

I start identifying people's country of origin by drinking habits. Those from down under drink from the bottle, Americans and French want glasses while the English seem to be split 50:50 as to their preference. I also spot a few whom - to stay alive and happy - will also need treatment for alcoholism. It's like looking through a window at my past life: flirting, loud voices, physically unsteady and changing behaviour. I'm so relieved I was able to get treatment for a disease I was convinced I didn't have.

'Don't use the brandy glasses' the owner of the hotel tells me, 'They are mine and are just to make the bar look pretty.' When I run out of glasses I ignore his command. Every day there seem to be more rules; signs are made to discourage people changing the CDs - 'ask Heather' the sign declares. I ignore the rules and run the bar in a people friendly way just as I had liked them. It pays, the tip jar is full and some even return from the islands 'to eat more of the best food that I've tasted on holiday' they tell me. They of course missed out as they didn't eat the 'local' food which I have every lunchtime.

I badger the owner on his daily early-morning visit to the bar for pot plants to soften the room and make it more inviting. Finally some plants arrive and, along with a string of international flags, I find in the storeroom, the bar looks better. 'I'll get this place humming' I tell the other staff and on most nights it is - years in bars means I know what works. On occasional evenings I'm driven crazy with boredom and even with a book to read the night is long - wanderlust is calling, the incorrigible nomad in me wants to move.

One morning I wake to a huge banner strung across the bar. 'Happy Birthday Heather' it says. An Aussie guy, ex navy, who has been working all night has created the poster and put the coffee-pot on. When I get back late at night a phone call from Cairo, a party, flowers and gifts are waiting for me. 'I want to be like you when I grow up' a young American woman has written on the backgammon set they give me; the Italian writes, in Italian, that I'm easy to beat at this game! It is really hard to enjoy the fun after weeks of long days and knowing I have another early start tomorrow, nevertheless I really value my new friend's thoughtfulness.

One day, just as orders for meals have started and I'm busy cutting, chopping, frying and boiling, the boss arrives in a panic. 'I need 20 of everything to take to the island' he tells me.

'I need' means 'you give' me in his Greek. I juggle, not only physically as I wrap plastic plates and cups while still cooking, but also mentally: how will I serve meals with all these dishes and cutlery gone?

The next few days are hell as I wash plates, cups, knives and forks as soon as people finish their meal: usually just in time to place a new meal on the freshly washed plate. I solve the lack-of-plates problem by acquiring them from the other hotel that serves breakfast only: the staff laugh and the owners don't notice. When I leave Athens, the plates that disappeared to the island hotel two weeks earlier have not been replaced despite repeated promises of 'plates in two days.'

Emptying the tip jar for the last time, I combine it with my bonus money, which I'd saved and go shopping. I buy a silver necklace, bracelet and a white suit that is very unsuitable for backpacking and leave for London with the change.

Will I put this on my résumé? Bar-person, cook, cleaner and cockroach-killer: I don't think so: Mabel - a woman of independent means - would not have needed to work. However Café Manager sounds good - doesn't it? Athens sounds exotic - maybe I'll use that part.

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~~~~

### London to Bali

A mother from hell is sitting near me at the Athens airport. 'I forbid you to talk to my parents,' she hisses in an upper class British accent, 'and when you get to school I'm going to tell them what a foul, mean little boy you are and you'll have no friends.' In my mind, I put a note in her bag: 'I hope your son divorces you on the grounds of mental cruelty.'

In the UK my 10,000 drachmas becomes 15 pounds and the journey into London costs 10 of them - my daughter's hourly rate is much better than my weekly pay in Athens.

Renée and Tristan are waiting at the station with a warm welcome, a warm jacket and Vegemite. I feel as if I've fallen into a model village \- built for my sons train set - once again everything looks quaint and old and the sounds and languages confuse me. Indian English, uneducated English, regional English, African English; I add my Kiwi English to the mix. I look at my clothes; I'm a hybrid, a mixed metaphor - a displaced person with a T-shirt from Dubai, sandals from the USA, bra from New Zealand and fisherman's pants from Thailand.

I've become an even slower traveller than when I first ran away from home in 1995 and continue my deliberate indolence in the UK. My daughter is living on Pepys Rd prompting us to read Samuels diary; we explore the New Forest and, in Hastings, have the biggest Sunday lunch we have seen: I also watch the London Eye grow.

The millennium-celebrating ferris-wheel is lying on the river like a giant meccano set: barges dragging more pieces, slowly adding to the structure until it stretches half way across the river - floating on the water until the time comes for it to be hauled upright.

Just before I leave for Wales, a message is waiting for me on the answer phone. 'Renée please let your mother ring me.' It's Yusuf, concerned I haven't responded to his last calls. When I ring, he tells me he's giving me up for Ramadan: I'm flattered and relieved, sanity and realism is returning to me.

I've arranged to make beds in a backpacker's lodge in return for a caravan to stay in - I want to record some of my experiences as a baby-boomer on the road. Three months during a Welsh winter seems a good place to start, I'm also going to relieve in an Italian restaurant - a Kiwi in Wales, learning Italian cooking from a French chef - I'm the entrée chef. Crumbed mushrooms, cannelloni, avocado and shrimp salads ... name a starter and I was preparing it: add doshalata sauce, polla alla crema, minestrone, tricolour pasta, mussels in wine and pasta, pasta, pasta.

'Mama mia, there is no one here yet I have to yell for a spoon,' Frenchie shouts at the poor cleaner. 'Fuckin' 'ell' he says 'I didn't know he wanted it rare,' while the hapless waiter points out rare on the order slip. 'I want the place cleaned early - I don't want to be here at 11pm' 'Be careful with the cannelloni. Handle it like you would your man, gently.' 'Did you put oil in the spaghetti? Hurry. Hurry give me five veggies. Where is the garlic butter? You never listen. Crispy chops? What do you mean he wants crispy chops? Mon Dieu what is he - a peasant?' His voice fills the kitchen. 'Put the bloody lid on the water, how will it boil without its lid? Wipe that dirty thumb print off that plate. Who taught you to cut leeks like that? Put sauce on the leeks, no one eats them without sauce.' After two weeks and getting the occasional taste of feisty Kiwi attitude and my old acid-tongue, he learns not to yell at me. I haven't grown-up in the hierarchy of a kitchen and labour is short, his boss has employed me and she's happy with my work so he grudgingly accepts me. I'm too old, too independent, too sure of myself, to spoken to so rudely and each evening I return to my Fred Flintstone, immobile caravan smelling of garlic. On most days, I sit on my bed, laptop on my knees and tap out my recollections: the beginnings of this book.

The weather is closing in and predictions of terrible happenings during millennium are on everyone's lips; I have a library card, made friends with a group of locals and no longer need to strain to hear if people are talking Welsh or English. I bus into the (for me) tongue-twisting Haverfordwest with its castle looming protectively over it and at a charity shop, buy a jersey, men's long johns and a thick, woollen, German-made greatcoat. I also buy a thesaurus - travel has reduced my vocabulary and this gift to me will help as I search for words: surely there are other words for nice.

I return to London for a Kiwi Christmas in the middle of a cold London. The London Eye's big day has arrived too - it's being winched into place. Slowly the collection of cranes takes the weight, TV channels watch and incrementally it gets dragged skywards - it just clears the water's surface then stops. Technical difficulties mean the completion date is deferred and deferred so I'm not able to ride the giant Ferris wheel and return to Wales for millennium night.

All around the world, even in small places, I find people like me who have solved their drink problem and Wales is no different. I spend the millennium with these new friends: talking, dancing and watching fireworks in the village square, tucking the memory away as a special time in Abergwaun.

My tap and seek keyboard skills have produced some 20,000 words and at I'm beginning to feel like Benjamin Disraeli who said 'Like all great travellers I have seen more than I remember and remember more than I've seen.'

Weeks later, Zeck and Miriam welcome me back to their homestay in Kota Bahru: I read a booklet by Yusuf Islam (singer Cat Stevens) called Why I became a Muslim and the food at the market is as delicious and cheap as it was last year - especially the giant prawns.

At Moonlight, on Long Beach, I even get my cabin on the beach, although Bobo the rooster has been banned to the mainland, as he was 'getting very bossy.' It's early in the season again and I catch up with friends, play petenque, read and deliver plates of food and coffee to guests. I also work on a tan and dream of staying but it's not possible, my savings are gone and my ticket only has days left on it so return home.

Christchurch looks small, the lack of traffic makes me wonder why the pedestrian traffic lights tell me to 'Wait' and I get a position in the Alcohol and Drug field. Another travel fund starts and I become editor of the travel pages in a local paper. In addition to travel features I write a weekly column about travel and my goal to write about my own travels go on the back burner.

In Wellington I visit a predator-free-mainland-island for a nocturnal, listening tour. 'You can except to hear various night birds but not see them' our group's told and we're given a touch. 'Only use it to see the path when you need to' says Allison 'and make sure you have your fingers over the light to ensure we don't disturb anything'

Our eyes grow accustomed to the half-light as dusk turns into night and, after we pass large group of black shags roosting on a dead pine tree, we hear our first kiwi. 'That's Jackson' says our guide, 'he was re-named because he is a good producer - just like Peter Jackson, director and producer of the Lord of the Rings.' Minutes later we hear scuffling and snuffling.

I'm horrified. There's a hedgehog in the sanctuary. I freeze. My head races through various ways to save our ground-nesting birds from its scavenging. I'll grab it, just dive on it. No that will frighten it, it could tumble over the bank, and then how would I find it? I'll sneak up on it, merely pick it up and be dubbed a hero. I will have saved the sanctuary - restore it to its predator-free status. Within seconds, I can see the headlines, 'Travel Writer Saves Endangered Species.'

I tell the guides, 'It's a hedgehog' they laugh - as silently as they can - then flash the torch in the direction of the scuttling, snuffling noises. It's a Kiwi - my plan for glory sinks and humiliation rises. I want to slink into the undergrowth along with the young kiwi. 'That's Frodo, Jackson's son,' I'm told.

Column writing is fun: a few pages are occasionally added to my manuscript and although working in the addiction field is sometimes not easy, I value helping and after 15 months, my frequent flyer miles take me to Bali.

Within minutes of my arrival I'm shown the bathing area and given a warning. 'Do not go in the men's shower. If you do, the water will stop.'

As the day winds down, birds become silent, bats replace swallows swooping over the rice fields, frogs start their nightly chorus and men and women call to each other as they bathe in communal showers. The water from the Tirta Gangga on the lower slopes of Gunung Agung - the volcano that the Balinese consider the 'navel of the world.'

My camera clicks through the rice fields in the various stages of cultivation: burning, flooding, ploughing, planting, weeding, cutting, threshing and finally, drying the grains on warm roads.

Walking along the rock and mud walls requires concentration: I loose mine, fall two-metres onto a recently ploughed field - resulting in bruises and lost pride. Within a day everyone I meet is asking if my leg is OK.

Wayan, the housekeeper, keeps the place clean and is our source of information about customs and language. As in most Pacific islands, the yard is swept twice daily. Each day a layer of dirt is removed along with any stray leaf, stone, or blade of grass that dares to grow. Every evening, after she has bathed and changed into a good sarong with the usual temple scarf wrapped around her waist, Wayan, often with flowers in her hair, performs a ceremony. Small offerings or gifts are given to the various deities to ensure all is well for us - a combination of thanks, prayers and requests for protection. Incense, flowers and rice are placed at the entrance to the property, the bedrooms and kitchen, on top of the refrigerator and in the spirit house that every home has.

Each day I walk and each day people ask 'Apa kabar? Mau ke mana?' (How are you, where are you going?). Each day I reply, 'Bagus. Jalan jalan' (I'm good and just walking). I sit and watch women carrying huge loads on their heads; fields being ploughed and rice threshed; I photograph a smiling woman selling two trussed, fat piglets [front cover] and the local hairdresser, with his bicycle hair-dressing salon, cutting hair on the side of the road. I also watch cattle being bathed, roosters soaking their feet in the streams to strengthen their legs for fighting and children walking to or from school and weeding the fields to feed the pigs.

A month later I'm part of a farewell party where flowers are strewn over the ground, incense is burning and the men are drinking spirits from Lombok. Against a background of an orange sunset and with green rice fields below us, old men lead the singing: their laughing exposes betel-stained teeth.

Finally, my savings are full enough to run away again, the newspaper folds under the pressure of competition and two weeks before I'm due to leave for Asia, I fall in love.

At 4.30 I'm woken with a phone call. 'It's on, the weather is perfect. The transport will be at your door in 20 minutes.' An hour later I'm helping drag a traditional wicker basket from a trailer and unfurling a giant balloon from an impossibly small bag.

The balloon's mouth is held open, two huge fans blow air into it and slowly the multi-coloured nylon takes shape and my excitement grows. The air's heated and our pilot directs the roaring jets of flames into the mouth and soon the balloon is moving. It rolls slightly to the right, back to the left, then, as it hovers above the creaking basket, I join other travellers and climb aboard: we're given safety instructions, the heat is turned up and up we go.

It's at this moment, as the ground falls away, that I fall in love. I'm having a natural high, addicted with this first rush. A dog's barking, magpies are chortling, hares and sheep flee, cattle stare and a Swiss traveller opens a cake of Swiss-chocolate to share.

The South Island's snowy-backbone, the Southern Alps, provide a pristine backdrop for our wrap-around views of New Zealand's highest mountain, braided rivers and across the Canterbury Plains to the port town of Timaru and the Pacific Ocean.

Too soon the gas is short and the lower we get the faster we appear to travel, then, with cattle staring and sheep running, we land. One tiny bump, back into the air briefly, then we land. As if in slow motion, the basket gracefully falls on its side and the journey is over. We burst into laughter as we gaze, from our backs, up at the sky that only moments ago we were floating in. Rolling our bodies along the coloured panels we expel the air then squeeze the balloon back into the very small bag, it fits.

What a great way to leave home - I'm a fickle lover - I'm sure there will be something else, somewhere else, someone else, to fall in love with just over the horizon.

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~~~~

### Rough Roads & Amputees

Parts of my bum are numb: I wish the other parts were too. I was warned that transport is difficult in Cambodia but this is worse than I'd imagined and my spine has compacted and shortened.

The roads are rough and large sharp rocks are held together with clay. The craters require our steering wheel to be swung wildly, futile attempts to miss the holes. Officially Cambodians drive on the right, but in reality it's wherever the road is best.

Four days after running away from home again and two hours after leaving a cheap hotel, I cross the border against a massive flow of Cambodians carrying vegetables and other goods to sell to their wealthier Thai neighbours.

Paying for a one-month visa, I leave the safety of the border office and am immediately surrounded by touts who all want me to use their transport. I go with a young man who tells me he is going to my destination and is leaving in five minutes. I believe him and pay for the trip.

Squashed into a vehicle that has more passengers than it should, I have to pay more money to the driver who owns the truck; it also seems this pickup is only going part way towards my goal and the man who arranged it has disappeared. No wonder most tourists fly into this country and then travel by tourist mini bus, safe, secure and organised by others. Jammed beside me are two women: a young boy is beside the window; on my other side is a young man who speaks English. My pack's been thrown on the back among sacks of undefined goods and a dozen people - happily, I can see its red and black canvas through the back window.

Amputees are everywhere, most on crude crutches and a double amputee is in a wheelchair. I wonder how Greg would feel being surrounded by so many others without limbs - more comfortable than at the local mall where so many stared at his hip-high amputation. Thoughts of my son are interrupted, intensified, when a motorcyclist loses control, falls off and slides across the road in front of us. We miss him but I feel sick, have tears in my eyes and a lump in my throat thinking of Greg's motorbike accident. I wonder how I will cope with this country if my emotions are going to be this close to the surface.

As we slow at Sisophon, I'm scared. Six or seven men are climbing onto the truck, shouting in the window and the driver is yelling at them. 'Stay in the truck' the English-speaking man says - I have no choice. Men, all screaming at me, at the driver and at each other, surround the van and I'm trapped in the back with no doors. Why am I travelling alone? Mabel gave no advice for situations like this. I wonder if my friends were right when they said I'm crazy to travel alone with no bookings or plans. Perhaps I should be at home learning to do needlework.

'Put your book away and leave it there' says my Cambodian hero and with that advice my guidebook disappears into the daypack I'm clutching. Climbing from the truck, my heart's beating faster than it should. It's my third year of nomadic travel and this is one of my scariest moments. Keeping my eyes on the dirt I say nothing to the men who continue to yell: I'm sure they just want me to use their services to arrange transport or accommodation but it sounds like they want my blood. My hero takes my pack off a man who has claimed it and leads me, through the noise and press of men, to another truck that he says will take us to Battambang and inside it, I'm relieved to have metal wrapped around me again.

This time I'm jammed on a seat for three, beside a grandmother with her grandson and three silent men. My hero pays extra and sits in the front. He's negotiated our fares and tells me he has paid one of the men on the back to guard my 35-litre, 11-kilo backpack. My heart returns to its normal beat as we leave this busy, noisy place to travel on yet another rough road.

The truck slows and stops; it's a police roadblock. In smart uniforms, with guns at their side, they peer in the window, poke the sacks and look inside a young man's bag. It takes time to get up to speed again but soon we're jolting along the main highway dodging holes and I'm surprised when we slow to avoid a long snake enjoying the warmth of a tiny area of sealed road.

Thirty minutes later, the young boy beside me is vomiting - into his grandmother's cotton scarf. I feel nauseous and concentrate on the scenery, my fellow passengers ignore the woman and her problem and the driver keeps driving. An hour later they leave the truck, taking the wrapped scarf and smell with them and leaving me extra space: my hero asks 'where are you staying tonight?' As usual, I have no bookings and tell him I'll check my guidebook when I get there.

'Show me the book.' He knows one that's mentioned so that's where I am to go and he gets the driver drop me off at the hotel instead of the bus depot. My new backpack has gritty, red-orange dust clinging to it and so do I.

Three hours later, after a shower and snooze, circulation has returned and with a meal in front of me, I wonder why I was scared. Everyone is so friendly; they all smile and many want to practice their 'hellos' on me.

Beggars, sitting outside the restaurant are amputees and I wonder how I can walk past them as the locals do? I don't feel comfortable giving but here I also don't feel comfortable not giving. Who are the so-called 'deserving', who aren't, and who am I to decide? Some years ago I determined not to give to beggars but to give to local organisations if I wanted to help, but here, because they are amputees, victims of American and Khmer Rouge landmines, it seems different. When I leave, there is only one man left - I give him my change, it's only enough for a bowl of rice.

A young man, accompanied by the receptionist, knocks on my door and asks if I need a 'moto' - Asian for a motorbike and driver for hire. His English is minimal but when I name places I want to see he says he can take me. He doesn't think I can climb Phnom Sampeu. 'It is a big mountain; old people cannot get to the top.' I assure him that in spite of my age I'll try and despite being so old I have myself a moto that will be waiting for me in the morning.

I've survived my first day and with the ceiling fan on high, noise and heat coming through the window and me naked, I'm soon asleep - the concerns of this morning already history.

A rhythmical swoosh, swoosh penetrates my mind and I lie in bed trying to work out its source; I decide it's a sweeping broom although it seems too even. Wrapped in a sarong I go onto the communal balcony and below, a group of people with witch-like brooms made from dry-twig foliage are sweeping and hosing the road and market area; their truck is piled high with rubbish.

At six the market is already open for breakfast - soup is on the menu. Although tasty, it contains bits and pieces that I didn't realise animals had or needed or even where they might be attached to their body. Amazingly, here, as all over the world, my bowels remain consistent no matter where or what I'm eating. Since Egypt I've eaten meat occasionally and it's made travelling easier: vegetarianism seems a luxury most people can't indulge.

As promised Chann arrives at eight, his bike is small, shiny and seems new. The entrance to my hotel - which has no other foreigners in it - is the gathering place for local drivers and they spend most of the day playing cards. When I climb on the bike they laugh and give what sounds like the Cambodian version of catcalls.

After two hours on 25 kilometres of potholed and dusty roads I'm at the base of Phnom Sampeu. At the top are the infamous Killing Caves and leaving Chann sitting in the shade, I climb to the top. I don't leave the path as unexploded mines are still buried here. One of the front lines of fighting against the Khmer Rouge, this was the scene of battles as recently as three years ago. The Khmer Rouge used the pagoda buildings as an interrogation centre and people were killed in different caves by different methods: babies' heads were smashed against a wall before being dropped many metres to a lower cave; in another, people were decapitated, others electrocuted. It's a beautiful, disturbing place with bats adding to the atmosphere.

Back on the bike, Chann rides carefully through or around craters and we finally arrive at Wat Banan where, much to Chann's surprise and pride, his very old customer climbs the 331 steps to the top of this hill too.

At a roadside stall, we stop for a coke-bottle full of petrol, and later Chann tells me 'God-mother, when you want to go to Seam Reap I would like to take you to the boat - for free.' I thank him, we drink coconut milk and I scrape the soft flesh from the nut and eat that too. Despite the heat and exercise, do I really think I'll lose weight here?

Hot, tired, thirsty and sore after the climbing, the heat and hours on the bike I ask Chann if he would like to stop for a drink. He says yes but keeps on driving so I point to a small coffee and teahouse. 'We can have a drink there?'

'No. First shower and then a drink.' I concur, after all the motorbike is moving, creating a welcome breeze and I can hardly get off. Again, I'm covered in the fine red-orange gritty dust and can delay an ice-cold coke or coffee for a short while - it may taste better when I'm clean.

'I come in 30 minutes' I'm told. Back in my room I swallow the remains of a bottle of lukewarm water and stand under the shower. My hair reverts to its usual white status; my sun and windburn soothed with a cream, which I can almost hear being sucked through my pores and right on time my moto returns. 'You like to drink beer Godmother?'

'No, I don't drink any alcohol.' I respond.

'I take you to karaoke.' I'm happy to go anywhere that has an ice cold drink.

Swinging my leg over the back of the bike - again to catcalls and what I suspect are ribald comments. It's hard to believe that the day after I cried when a young man crashed off his bike I'm casually riding pillion with no helmet and no protective clothing.

I am beginning to understand Cambodian road rules: drive on the right unless there are pedestrians or potholes - in these circumstances drive wherever seems best for you. Compulsory stops are a nice shade of red but ignore them if there is a gap in the traffic that you can fill; if the road is busy change your speed slightly up or down and merge; and finally, horns must be used at all times.

Cambodia is a constitutional monarchy and Hun Sen, the leader of the dominant political party, has banned karaoke as immoral. Illegal now, people who love it and want to make money have created karaoke suburbs on the outskirts of town. After only 36 hours here I'm breaking the laws of the land; I'm in a prohibited karaoke bar.

We are the only guests: I am sure no Westerner has ever been in their home and we're served drinks while the family peer from behind a curtain. I've sung karaoke twice before: once years and years ago when I was very drunk and then again with Polly in a new restaurant in Thailand just a few years ago

Chann selects his song. We sit on the floor; he sings, hand on his heart, passion in his voice and slowly sips at a can of Anchor: An-chorr he pronounces it. I drink coke and eat the raw green beans and chilli dip that's in front of us. 'Bravo bravo. Encore.' I clap as each song ends.

One by one the family joins us; each has washed and changed their clothes. The youngest girl takes her turn at the mike and sings a love song with great feeling; I join in - sans mike - with the repetitive chorus - in Cambodian. I have no idea what I'm singing but they're impressed. One of the older girls returns home, she has been on a successful mission; she has a DVD of English songs so I too can sing. Best of Boy Bands 2000: I'm 57 - the life expectancy of Cambodians - and they want me to sing with some baby British boys.

I listen to some songs then decide, I can do this and they are never going to see me again. I pop another chilli-covered bean into my mouth, swallow more coke and begin. They are excited, I get my first and I suspect only, ovation and cheers for my singing. Over three hours, Chann has one can of beer and an energy drink - his face has the usual alcohol-related Asian flush - and we slowly drive back to town where he takes me to meet his family.

Chann's grandfather was one of the intelligentsia killed by the Khmer Rouge and his father a teacher who retired two years ago, as 'he's very, very old'; he's 63. They are impressed when Chann tells them that I climbed the sacred mountain.

Early next morning we drive down country roads and along narrow stop-banks; when children call hello, I answer in Cambodian, which produces peals of laughter. The annual monsoon floods are slowly receding and families are moving their belongings off the stop-banks and back into their primitive stilt homes: their pigs and hens live in stilt cages.

Because of the hardship I'm finding it difficult to take photos. I photograph some children playing in the water; I give them a little money knowing I may sell photos to accompany articles. The desperate poverty makes it seem inappropriate to record - without payment - what looks like abject misery to me. Soon it will be worse.

'The first rainy season didn't come this year,' Chann tells me. 'When it came it was too much and washed the seeds away. The rice will be very small.' It's the third crop failure in succession.

In a little fishing town I watch three-inch fish being filleted, while even smaller ones are carefully layered, whole, salt between each layer, in large wooden barrels. Over many days or weeks the fermented juice oozes from the bottom, is collected, poured back over the fish and the result is bottled: I swear I will never use fish sauce again.

After the dust, monsoon rain makes the clay roads slippery and on some roads the water is up to my feet on the motorbike. Chann and I shelter under my clear, throwaway poncho as we drive to another Wat. The noise of rain on plastic is loud and at each Wat monks want to practise their English. 'Can I ask you a question?'

'Sure.'

'How old are you?' I tell them my age but at the next Wat it's different.

'Please can I ask you a question?'

'Yes you can: how old am I? I am 57.'

'No, that is not my question. Can you help me with the pronunciation of a word?' He gets his exercise book from his bag and points to a word. Negotiator. I say it for him; he repeats it a few times. 'Can you help me with one more? I can spell it - e n t r e p r e n e u r i a l.' I help him say this word too; he's obviously a monk thinking of a career move.

Another man approaches me - he's not a monk, just wants to talk. He tells me he's been studying with 'Mr Bob' an American who has been looking at the similarities between Christianity and Buddhism for some years. I wonder how he explains away the most basic and vital difference - that Buddhism is a non-theistic 'religion' - does not have a god, but I don't mention this.

He's been with Mr Bob for six months and he tells me, 'I'm learning about Buddha and Martin Luther King and Mahatma Gandhi and now I want to do good in my life.' He races on. 'For six months I have turned my life around.'

'That's great' I say. 'They are all good men.' What else can I say in the face of such enthusiasm and rather dubious pious-ness? And why do some westerners think people who have successfully practised their own beliefs for longer than Christianity has been around need to have another belief system sold to them: their often-pious arrogance drives me nuts.

Angkor Wat - one of the busiest Stations of the Cross in the worlds exotic travel destinations - is my next goal and Chann, true to his word, takes me to the departure point 'for free.' I tip him for his care, then watch Mr Important, a suavely dressed Frenchman who has verbal diarrhoea and his hands permanently on his hips.

'Who is in charge of these boats?' he asks the driver who brought him and three women to the jetty. According to the sign on the vehicle, it's an 'Emergency Vehicle' and was donated by the USA Embassy. 'Will you please ask that man what is bloody going on? This is ridiculous, that boat is too small, we'll get wet or fall out.' One of his party tries to placate him. 'There's nothing in the water that can hurt us.'

'The luggage! The luggage!' he responds and once he's on board his boat I can still hear and see him. His arms and hands are flying through the air as he describes how important he his, how big his job is, how much he knows and how he finally got the boat to go: he doesn't seem to realise the boat is still tied up, going nowhere. One of his group is still ashore so he clambers ashore again, embraces the driver and tries to get the woman aboard: she ignores him and talks for another 15 minutes.

I clamber aboard another small boat and squeeze into a gap between a French couple and three English teenagers: one has headphones on and I can hear her music clearly. 'If anyone else gets on I'll scream' she tells her friends. 'I'm not moving; they told me I could sit here at the front.'

It's claustrophobic and as we leave the jetty I plan my escape route: the gap at the back is the only way out as there's too much luggage near the front exit. I decide that at the first sign of problems I'll go straight over the French people, push the plastic chair through the hole and follow it into the water. With my camera and papers in a waterproof bag I know my daypack will float: the decision is made, I'll save myself and think of others and my possessions later.

I become more concerned, it's foggy and the bow is so high out of the water the driver cannot see without standing to peer - which he's doing every minute - and we're travelling fast. Ten days ago one of these boats overturned. This one is top-heavy too: backpacks, sacks and two bicycles lie on the top, along with six people. There are 19 passengers and two crew, on this 12-seater-boat. I wish I'd chosen the dinghy with the Frenchman. It would have been slower but at least, in it, I would be thrown into the water if we capsized - not trapped in what now seems like a floating coffin.

After an hour, we leave the river and speed along a narrow canal that leads to the lake where we stop at a shop in a floating village: about three million people live on the lake and surrounding flood plains - evidently the richest freshwater fishing ground in the world. At the back of the shop I use the toilet, a box-like room inside which a square hole has been cut: the water is directly below it and flowering water hyacinths float by as I nourish the water with my pee.

While the boatmen bang the engine with a crescent and add Fanta bottles of oil and petrol, I change my seat, moving to the back of the boat and claim a space. Now, with blue sky above me and squeezed alongside two Dutch cyclists and the crewman who removes waterweed from the propeller, I can stop planning my escape from death. We continue at breakneck speed despite the waves which splash over the bow and pour into the boat, the English girls are white-faced and silent, even the headphones are off. The Dutch guys are gripping the boat and I wonder what my pack will be like at the end of this. After days of dust and now water, it no longer looks like a virgin backpack and I'm glad I left my laptop in New Zealand.

As we approach our destination a young man climbs off the roof saying Chann asked him to look after me and says he and a friend will take me into town. When we arrive the boat is nearly swamped, as the boat is flooded with young and old men shouting, all wanting our business. My new hero assists as I climb out and into thigh high water and he leads me ashore.

His friend has a motorbike that he says is free: I tell him where I want to go; he tells me it's no good there so I suggest another from my trusty Rough Guide, but that's also 'no good.' I give up and go to his guesthouse; the one I assume gives him the best back-hander and meals: it's clean and although it's a little expensive decide to stay. It also seems that I also have a self-assigned moto for any trips and despite having seen many temples in Asia, buy a three-day entrance ticket for the fabled royal cities and temples of Cambodia's ancient civilisation.

Reflections in the moat duplicate Angkor Wats beauty and as we drive towards it, I'm in awe. My mouth's open and tears flood my eyes while my driver continues his phone conversation while steering with one hand. He drops me off, tells me he'll wait for me and I gaze in disbelief over the water to the five corncob-shaped towers that dominate the skyline. My imagination had not prepared me for its beauty.

I cross the 200-metre causeway: lions and snakes guard the way to this majestic piece of architecture that's dedicated to the Hindu God, Vishnu. The entrance, through elephant-sized gateways, leads onto an even more fabulous and longer causeway that's flanked by ponds on each side.

I'm glad I'm a solo traveller, a passionate nomad: places like these are best appreciated silently and I wander along the walkways, savouring the sandstone carvings of the celestial dancers that line walls for the pleasure of the god-king. A gallery, running around the perimeter of the temple, has two-metre high carvings that depict many legends: the Churning of the Ocean of Milk is the most famous, telling stories of the birth of Krishna and the apsara.

This late afternoon visit is a bonus trip; my three-day ticket starts tomorrow and walking back to find my moto, I can't recall my driver's name, what he's wearing or looks like. Nevertheless, by the time I'm at the end of the causeway he's seen me and is waiting to take me the five kilometres back to Seam Reap, horrified I'm not staying to see the sunset. 'Everybody does that' he tells me and cannot understand that's the very reason I won't stay - surrounded by hundreds for a 'special moment' is not how I travel. It's very hot and the air flowing past us on the bike is better than any air-conditioned vehicle.

After the inevitable and much needed third shower I walk downtown for dinner. 'Hello Madam. You want sarong; cold drink; coconut; souvenir; guide book; postcard; silk; bracelet; police ID badge?' I resist all such temptations and eat noodles and morning glory with garlic and oyster sauce at a small shop. Two or three beggars are watching and as diners leave, they are approached for money; some give, while others act as if the limb-less beggars are invisible.

As I watch, I again notice that locals rarely give money and suddenly my son's voice erupts in my head. 'Don't you dare give them money because you feel sorry for them. They're amputees and don't need anyone's bloody sympathy money.' I'm astounded; I've not heard Greg's voice for years and even then only in dreams. I decide to donate to a charity that makes artificial limbs for these land-mine victims and while walking back to the guesthouse, politely decline those who approach for a handout - Greg has solved my dilemma.

With the noisy air-conditioning off and the fan on, I shower again, write my journal, sleep, wake early and within minutes I am out on the street along with monks begging for alms, stall holders setting up their wares and a few motos cruising for passengers. After savoury rice porridge I return to the hotel ready for my first full day viewing the Temples of Angkor.

Angkor Wat is more than a symbol or shape on their money or flag to Cambodians; it seems as if Angkor is Cambodia. Locals say they want to go there at least once in their lifetime and today is special; the opening of the ASEAN conference. I photograph monks against the backdrop of these ancient stones and others whose orange robes are reflected in the ponds and I'm amused at some tourists who are struggling to climb the steep steps in high heels.

Further down the road, the eight-kilometre wall and old moat around Angkor Tom are still visible and as we approach the entrance, I get off the bike to walk over the causeway. It's flanked by gods and demons: 54 heads on each side, the gods have almond-shaped eyes, the devils have round ones. Impressive as these are, I fall in love with the face on the tower that is the main gate.

Bodhisattva Lokesvara gazes benevolently in each direction with an enigmatic, Mona Lisa like smile. I try to capture him on film, wishing I knew more about light and shadows to record his face at its best and as I sit in the shade and contemplate the faces, three elephants and their mahouts wander past.

After an hour or so, a young woman approaches me, 'Your driver is having a sleep at my stall. You can come and eat there and wait for him.' Saying I'll come later, I go walking in the shade of the forest to the Banyon in the centre of Angkor Thom. More huge faces of Lokesvara gaze at me from every direction - I don't count them but my Rough Guide tells me there are over 200. Much to the disappointment of the stallholder I only have a cold drink at her stall then return to my hotel for another Asian siesta.

Sitting with a cup of the strong local coffee in the hotel's open-air restaurant I notice clouds are tumbling furiously over the sky. Shortly thunder starts and just as I decide to move inside, I'm assaulted by a terrifying lightning strike. It hits the ground and a large plume of dust pinpoints the exact spot. My body is thrown less than a metre but it makes my heart race alarmingly: one of the locals beside me is thrown to the ground too. Rain pours for 15 minutes then the sky immediately reverts to its pre-storm clear blue.

Ta Prohm is fighting a slow and losing battle with nature as roots from the fig and kapok trees invade any little gap between stones - patiently prying them apart. I overhear a guide tell tourists 'the fig tree is the ruler of Cambodia.' I particularly love this temple but not the crowds and soon leave, returning in the early afternoon when most have left. As I leave for the second time a young girl, smiles at me as she cycles by. She continues watching me after she has gone past and I call to her but despite my warning she rides into a traffic sign warning of elephants.

On my third and final day exploring the UNESCO World Heritage site I meet the Dutch cyclists I'd met on the boat ride over the lake. They stop to talk and take the quintessential Asian photo - oxen reflected in water. 'That boat ride was bloody terrible wasn't it?'

'Yes it was I thought it was like a floating coffin,' although it was OK once I came out the back and squeezed in by you two.'

'I was really scared,' says the bigger of the two, 'I will never go in a boat like that again.'

Once again I am surprised that frequently, when I compare my insides with others outsides, I always think they're brave and I'm the chicken: it's not always true.

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~~~~

### The King and I

Leaving Seam Reap by bus I have to buy a ticket to Phnom Penh despite plans to only go halfway - just another inexplicable rule that travelling identifies.

The army is repairing patches of the road; rice is being planted and at a toilet-stop a young man has a T-shirt proclaiming Stop trafficking in women and children and a shop beside the bus stop has a poster that declares 'Corruption breeds poverty.'

In the little non-tourist town of Kompong Thom I get off and find a room - it's a relief to be away from the nagging stallholders of Seam Reap. I stay three days, visiting a drum making family and exploring the area: drums of many sizes play a big part in ceremonies and are used to summon energy from the four corners of the globe. I also explain to a stallholder, who is positive I'm rich, it's impossible for me to take her 10-year-old daughter to New Zealand. While I'm walking along the river bank children keep calling me. 'Hello-what's-your-name': when I answer them, they respond with the same one word phrase - they don't know what it means - just something they hear foreigners say.

Continuing to Phnom Penh on a local mini-bus, none of my fellow-passengers speaks English. A young woman prepares her fix of a mouth-numbing, ear-warming narcotic. She spreads limestone ash on a betel leaf, puts the small fruit from the areca palm into the centre of the, now white, leaf and folds it into a little parcel which she pops into her mouth. As she chews she smiles at me: her rotten teeth and scarlet lips show this isn't the first time she's done this. Luckily she's sitting by the window as blood-red gobs of saliva fly from her mouth onto the road in a regular stream. I wish I'd photographed her and the huge barbequed spiders I'm offered when we stop to drop off a couple of passengers.

My bed is in a low, wooden, building perched on the edge of a lake, hanging over the water and while I'm eating, fishermen are setting their nets and clumps of water-plants float by. As I photograph the setting sun, a group of young men beside me are planning a trip to an old army camp where they will use machine guns and hand grenades - the artillery menu sounds obscene.

Tomorrow I am heading towards Laos on the Mekong River but today I'm off to the Royal Palace and the much-acclaimed Silver Pagoda. It will be good to get out of this backpacker-ghetto where it seems everyone is smoking dope and travelling in pairs, groups or are living here - eking out a living teaching English with false qualifications bought on Khao San Road in Bangkok. It makes me angry to hear people who speak basic, heavily accented English, teaching it.

Phnom Penh has had its streets cleaned so everything's at its best: even the sky is a clear bright blue and, controversially, beggars and other street people have been sent out of town: presenting a good face for last week's ASEAN Conference. Now President Thabo Mbeki from South Africa and Kim Suk Soo the Prime Minister of Korea are visiting.

The Royal Palace and Silver Pagoda overlook the river and are surrounded by a high, pale gold and white fence - from outside all I can see are the vividly coloured multi-tiered roofs that are finished with wonderful naga, (snakes) spires and tinkling bells.

The pagoda is about 40 years old, each silver floor tile weighs a kilogram and contrasting with all the silver, an emerald Buddha sits among the numerous gold Buddha of different sizes. When I leave I've spent most of my time relaxing in the peaceful grounds, writing postcards, content with my own company and I'm one of the last to leave.

Outside the walls, huge numbers of school children in navy and white uniforms have appeared - some are carrying small, paper, Cambodian flags, others have the Republic of South Africa flag so I sit on the grass, watch and wait. I photograph army and navy men as well as a man sweeping the long red carpet with a small reed switch. An hour later I move closer to the podium.

'Can I stand here?' I ask one of the AK-47-wielding policemen. He looks at me blankly. 'C'est possible pour moi . . . 'I run out of French, '. . . stand here?' I point to the ground. 'Oui madam, c'est possible. Non problem.' I sit but five minutes later I am being hustled further away - it seems my prime spot is no longer possible.

A man with a huge bunch of helium-filled balloons hands them to groups of girls; another arrives with more flags and I'm given a Cambodian one so apparently I'm now an official member of the welcoming party. Tanks, troops and the air force are lining up along the back of the dais; the road and footpath have been sealed off.

We're waiting patiently. Gunshots explode - we all gasp - but quickly realise it's merely a bouquet of balloons colliding with a prickly bush and the girl culprits giggle from behind their hands. At last a long shiny car comes through the palace gates. It drives slowly around the grassy park-like area and pulls up near the stage. Two people emerge. I assume they're the president, Mr Hun Sen and his wife: they mount the stage and he makes a speech - I have no idea what it's about. Minutes later they walk down the stairs to inspect the guard of honour and I try to photograph them under the ceremonial, gold parasols that are being held above them.

At the end of the phalanx of uniformed men the official group turns and walks back towards the dais. In front of me, local people sompeyer (lowering themselves to their knees with their hands in a prayer-like position) the man who had made the speech. Unexpectedly he reaches over them and shakes my hand. I mutter something inane like good afternoon or thank you and when he lets go I too acknowledge him with my hands in the respectful wai position, amazed I have just shaken hands with the president of a foreign country.

Soon President Mbeki arrives, a tall, dignified looking and handsome man. He too makes a speech and inspects the guard of honour before walking down the narrow red carpet, through Victory gate and into the palace grounds. He doesn't shake my hand. We all leave and as I pass the guards who are still blocking the traffic and people from entering the area I give my paper flag to a little boy who greets me.

Over coffee I tell the waiter what had happened. 'I wouldn't shake hands with him,' he says, 'he has blood on his hands.' Somewhat deflated about my moment with important people, I go back to the guesthouse to wash my clothes.

Again, I try to impress others about my brush with the local hierarchy. 'I shook hands with him this afternoon,' I tell a group, pointing to a poster of the couple. They are amazed. 'You what? How the hell did you meet the King?'

'That's Hun Sen isn't it?' I query.

'No way! It's the King!'

'Really?'

'Yes it is. You must have seen his photos everywhere - that's King Norodom Sihanouk.' Now I'm really impressed - I shook hands with the King of Cambodia.

In the morning I have to bang on a few doors to find someone to let me out of the building - I'm grateful of their security but I'm glad it's not a fire I'm escaping from. A dishevelled, sleepy young woman finally unlocks the huge padlock, releases the heavy chain and lets me out and by six I'm on a long, narrow boat - its bow pointing up the river - a mattress, crates of fowls and a motor scooter are tied on the roof. I sit on the bow ready for the trip to Kratie.

A middle-aged Englishman also sitting at the bow tells me he doesn't want to miss anything. 'I don't even want to blink. I am having the time of my life.' After six hours of passing banana plantations, fishing communities and acres of emerald green rice padi, we arrive and the Englishman and I are wind and sun burnt.

By lunchtime the next day I am on a smaller and narrower boat for the last four hours on the Sekong River to Stung Treng: partway to my goal of the remote Rattanakiri province - near the Laos and Vietnam borders. An Aussie woman, who I met a few days ago, is sitting on the curved roof - we will travel together for a few days. My face is still red from yesterday and, to avoid my nose becoming even redder, I'm sitting inside near the captain. It's cramped but at least I'm outside the main cabin where a video is playing at full volume. The trip is uneventful: after two hours the driver slides out through the front window and another takes his place at the wheel just us we reach a section of rapids and whirlpools.

I've already eaten, but some locals sitting by me, eat almost constantly: an older man and his wife have their meal, finishing with a drink. He pulls the ring-tab from a can of milk, hands it to his wife and she produces a straw from her bag of endless supplies. She drinks, hands it back to him and when he finishes, nonchalantly throws the can and plastic straw overboard.

Stung Treng has a wild-west feel to it, the Aussie and I sleep in a room over the dentist's office and in the morning, we go to a small shop for coffee and arrange transport for our journey east to Banlung. Others, wanting to do the same are here too so we decide to share transport. A Belgian woman, who is older than I, is travelling with her son and his wife and although she doesn't speak English - and I don't speak European languages we manage to communicate. We delegate her son to arrange the transport.

This grouping and regrouping of travellers happens spontaneously because of wanting company, for the convenience of bulk buying power, sharing information or common interests. With the Belgians and a German couple, the Aussie and I are now seven.

Unable to hire a vehicle we must travel on the local, mostly daily transport: it's a utility vehicle, held together by the local version of number-eight wire. Every time we think the truck's full, another person and their sacks squeeze into invisible gaps. Our packs are arranged and rearranged: it makes no more room for our legs. I suspect it will be a long day getting over the 145 kilometres to the north-eastern corner of Cambodia.

Guidebooks and rumour warn the road is rough but it seems fine: a wide, well-packed red-dirt road leads through fields and when we slow down I hear birds singing. The truck has six people inside the double-cab; four people are on each side of the back, sitting on wooden planks, three squat in the centre of the vehicle on top of sacks and one is on the cab roof - 18 of us, seven travellers, the others Cambodians. I'm on the back beside a middle-aged man who is staring at me: our luggage balances precariously at the back. For two hours we slowly sink into uncomfortable, DVT-prone, unmoveable positions - then we reach the unmaintained, monsoon-damaged, middle section of the road.

We sway, jolt, jerk, shake, bounce and zigzag along the track: it's a mixture of sticky red clay or slurry of water edged by dust and in parts it's almost impassable. Huge grooves have worn into the earth and to avoid pools of water or holes we drive scarily near the edge. I try not to look down as we cross a high bridge that has fewer planks than gaps and no side rails. None of the locals speak English so my fellow travellers feel able to talk with immunity about my gazing-at-me-protector who has his arm along the side of the truck, behind me. They tease me and rate my chances of acquiring a Cambodian husband, with betel stained teeth, very high.

'I call myself the passionate nomad' I remind them. 'The nomad implies I am on my own. A husband is not required.'

'What about the passionate bit?'

'I'm passionate about travel and the rest is for you to wonder about. But I can tell you it does not include a man with red teeth.'

A particularly deep and muddy hole blocks our way but the enterprising landowner has taken a fence down and created a by-pass: a tollgate has been made with a piece of string and when our driver pays him, the string's lowered and we drive through. Further down the road three young children also have a string-and-bamboo tollgate but we drive straight through. The children are powerless to do anything and I'm angry and wish I had coins handy to throw. It's another example of the powerlessness of many people worldwide where might-is-right rules: it always offends my Kiwi sense of fairness, equality and justice.

Wherever possible the driver speeds up and I pray he has the skills to keep us on the road. The older Belgian woman, who has paid more to sit in the front, turns and we exchange concerned looks through the window. She puts her hand over her eyes and I laugh; I know exactly how she's feeling - sometimes it pays just not to look, seeing the dangers does not increase our safety. Clouds of butterflies hover around pools of water and as we drive through one of them hits the windscreen, the German pilot leans over the cab roof, cups his hands around it to reduce the wind holding it trapped against the glass. When it flies off we cheer and our trip through virgin forest although difficult is pleasant.

Jerking violently to the left we stop and my enjoyment is interrupted. I'm close to the jungle and dirt; the people on the other side of our vehicle are perched precariously in the air looking down at me. I'm sure the truck will tip further - trapping or killing us.

'You guys stay up there while we get off,' I tell the Belgian and German couples, hoping their weight will keep the truck balanced. The young boy scrambles off, the man beside me follows then helps me down, the truck doesn't move, the people at the top climb off and we're all safe. The wheel that was under me is at right angles to the broken axle, it's flat in the dirt - snapped off as we dropped into a deep hole on the very edge of the road, on the edge of a drop into a valley, although trees would stop us falling too far..

'This is bloody dangerous. It's because of overloading and bad driving. We are too many people. That luggage should not be hanging off the back. We're squashed in and can't even move: it's much worse than on any plane.' The pilot is angry.

We peer at the truck: the driver and another man start to unload it - it's obvious they think they can fix it. There's nothing I can add to the solution so walk down the road, photograph a huge spider; a group of monkeys scream at me as they retreat and I peer into the trees amazed at how easily they disappear from sight. I'd love to explore the bush but fearful of unexploded landmines I don't leave the road.

The truck's been jacked up - propped up with two wheels, a log, a rock and a small jack and two men are working on the broken bits: they have a few tools and spare parts. The older woman hands out wet tissues: a luxury in the middle of a hot dusty jungle but the Aussie declines until she sees the colour of my used one. The young boy stays close to his blind grandfather who had been sitting in the cab and the pilot is still talking with a Cambodian man - explaining how trucks should be loaded.

Reassuringly another vehicle passes us every 30 minutes or so and most appear to be offering help. Two large sacks are taken from our pile and loaded onto another truck; we realise oranges are in some of the cartons and buy a few. Two and half-hours later these resourceful men, with minimal tools, have the truck mobile. A truck that stopped 10 minutes ago tails us for an hour until we stop at a roadside stall: I eschew the meat and have a fish curry in the middle of nowhere.

Camaraderie has developed among on us - we have survived a common peril. My apparent admirer is relaxed and chatting with us - using his four words of English and our couple of dozen Cambodian; the young boy is now standing, watching the road intently. Each time we hit a bump or hole he calls 'Aie aie aie.' Although I smile reassuringly at him, I understand his nervousness - we had been on the wrong side of the truck. A splash of mud lands on my hand and the youngster wipes it clean with his kroma - a scarf of checked material - he completes the job by spitting on the scarf and removing the final traces off my skin. Shortly afterwards he and his grandfather leave the truck, he's clearly pleased to arrive at the two houses that are his destination, and he waves goodbye with relief. Seven hours after leaving Stung Treng we too arrive at our destination - we've averaged 22 kilometres an hour.

Once again a shower washes red dust down the drain but this dirt is more tenacious and my feet remain dirty, the soil has ground firmly into my hands too. Every rough bit of skin is orange, looking as if I've been using a cheap artificial suntan and forgot to wash my hands: my hair looks as if I've used henna. Sore all over, I lie on my bed, stretch my spine, slowly move my hips and do my on-the-road exercises.

The airport's visible from my window and I wonder about flying out. A day and half boat trip then a seven-hour truck ride to Banlung are fine, but to repeat it in reverse may be plain stupid.

Is it because it was difficult to get here or is this really a great little town? Is it the journey or destination that's important I wonder? At the intersection of two dirt roads a roundabout has been formed around the Independence Monument and a shop advertises 'There are souvenir things for sales' says one sign. Although tempted by the textiles I don't buy any, nor do I buy any of the dried animals to fix whatever they can cure, or the spells they will assist with, but the ice cream is tasty. Huge slabs of meat, covered with flies, are for sale in the market. Interpreting the attached hooves and hair on the legs I think many of them are goats; is one a horse? The market is a cacophony of sounds and colour; green oranges, orange chicken, red peppers, metre-long green beans, lie beside ripe papayas, dried and fresh fish, eggs, tomatoes, cucumbers and baguettes. I no longer think its weird seeing French bread in Asia but thank the French colonists that I can easily make my own lunch.

The Aussie and I hire a moto to take us to Yeak Laom, a volcanic crater in which a lake formed and where local tribes have formed a trust to ensure it's looked after. Buzzing cicadas, with a huge range of sounds, are amazingly loud as we walking around the lake. It seems as if car alarms, tin-whistles and high and low-toned metal-clickers are in the forest with us and under tunnels of bamboo at the edge of the water, I see huge centipedes, fresh-water crabs, scary looking spiders and fabulous fungi. When we swim tiny fish nibble at us and after three weeks in Cambodia my feet are finally clean.

A sign tells us this lake is clean, no washing of bodies or clothes has occurred here for over five years - no rubbish or plastic is to be left here. A group of young local boys are swimming and preening themselves for my young friend's benefit. She remains unimpressed and when one of them throws his cigarette butt into the lake, I rebuke him and he laughingly retrieves it.

An older German is also swimming off the platform; he applauds my intervention and later tells us the myth of the lake: a giant's daughter was missing and it was by digging for her that the lake was formed. He says he lives in Vietnam and 'bought a four metre python at the market yesterday.'

I'm horrified. My head is instantly full of judgements about the man. He continues, 'I released it here last night.' I feel ashamed at my immediate internal criticism but I am relieved I kept my mouth shut long enough for him to finish his sentence. By the time we walk back to town my feet are filthy again.

We join the other truck-survivors for a journey to meet some Khmer Loeu, the indigenous people of this province and this time we intrepid explorers travel in the relative luxury of a minibus, then 90 minutes up the Sesan River into the Virachey National Park.

Chinciet hill-tribe peoples practise animism and ancestor worship so it is not surprising to find carved images besides the graves. Our guide, from this village, points to a grave that has ceramic elephants at the four corners says 'this man was very wealthy. He owned many elephants and had water buffalo too.' A dead policeman and a businessman from Phnom Penh have carved figures with wooden cell phones standing guard at their grave.

As we cross the river the boatman bails out water with a plastic scoop as we chug along. In the next village an old woman is encouraging me to wipe my brow with a leaf and her very long, pierced, earlobes wobble as she demonstrates what she requires. I comply and when I pass her the leaf she puts it in the fork of a tree. My DNA will be left in a remote Cambodian village and I have no idea if I am blessed or cursed by the act.

The village seems comfortable, young men and women live in separate buildings; coffee is growing, the men are making rice wine, a pig has just been slaughtered and small children are playing with a wooden truck. The Belgian couple gives balloons and hair-clips to the children, the Germans have bought sweets and cigarettes; I have pens, pencils and exercise books - a dull gift indeed.

To save time and my spine, I'll fly to the capital in the one plane that arrives and leaves daily. At the wee airport women have set up stalls selling melon drinks, soya-bean milk, papaya and tamarind pods soaking in thick syrup. Kids walk across the airport as a shortcut from school and motos are driving back and forth over the red-dirt runway. Tethered cows and water buffalo are grazing around the perimeter and the windsock hangs limply. The plane is due; a pickup truck drives down the runway to ensure it's clear of cattle, kids and motorbikes and to an excited buzz the plane arrives, creating a red dust storm behind it.

On board, I claim a seat and enjoy the air-conditioning. A flight attendant hands everyone a cold, wet cloth and I wipe the redness from my face. Our refreshments are a drink and four tiny cakes: two bright, bright pink and two vivid green.

Opposite the infamous Toul Sleng prison, amid the dust, heat and noise of Phnom Penh, I find an oasis of green peace. The Boddhi Tree Guesthouse and Café rooms are individually decorated with traditional Cambodian materials and I even have an ensuite. It's twice the price of the backpacker accommodation I stayed in last week but I crave luxury and time on my own. The more I travel, the more I realise what a loner I am: I love mixing with people but value my own company more and more: observing rather than always needing to be involved.

Stepping out of my little sanctuary I walk over the dirt road to Toul Sleng - The Museum of Genocidal Crimes: I'm not sure I want to go in there.

Originally a high school, it was enclosed with corrugated iron and electrified barbed wire during the Khmer Rouge regime. Prisoners came from all over the country, all walks of life and different nationalities - British, American, Australian and a New Zealander. Over 12, 000 people were killed here and the atmosphere is heavy.

I walk slowly around cells where prisoners had been shackled to iron bars. Bizarrely, they were all photographed and details of their life recorded when they arrived: I place a frangipani blossom beside one of the photos and leave. It's worse than the killing fields with the 8,000 skulls I saw this morning and a bleak record of Cambodia's very recent history: wounds are still visible in some faces, many eyes and in most stories throughout the country.

It's a long weekend and Lynn (the teacher I met in Laos some years ago is working here) and I go to the south coast. Our trip's uneventful, a monk returning to his village and two other men share the taxi with us - the monk sits in the front so we women don't accidentally touch him. Kampot, our destination is a mixture of Chinese and French buildings that sit alongside Khmer stilt houses and we amaze locals by hiring bicycles.

Only poor people ride bikes so as we ride everyone stares, often laughing. Cycling over the bridge that spans the river is scary. Holes big enough for our wheels to fall in and heavy planks, plus cars, trucks and endless motos, makes negotiating it frightening and I dismount and start again but eventually we reach the other side. Kids call out to us and laugh when Lynn replies in Cambodian. Because of my white hair, they think I'm old, very very old and it amazes them I'm on a bike.

It's full moon and, according to one of the workers at the place we're staying, there will be festivity at the Wat tonight. 'Can we go?' asks Lynn. The young man asks the monks and when he returns, says yes, we can. On the back of a motorbike we take coconuts, bananas and rice as our gift to Buddha, to the Wat and to the resident monks. The monks bless us in return.

We watch the dancing, soon children take us by the hand and we're part of the event. They giggle behind their hands as we try to emulate them. Our large western bodies are not built to dance so slowly and so elegantly and the monks are trying not to laugh too.

Where are you from? How old are you? Are you married? How long are you staying here? Do you like Cambodia? The few young monks who speak some English have many questions: they're delighted to pose for a photo with us and eventually with the full moon shining we return to our accommodation.

Upgrading our pedal-power to a scooter to explore further afield, Lynn drives and I'm pillion passenger, indicators and horn. The use of horns is socially compulsory but the one on our scooter is not working. As we fly, at a few kilometres per hour, past pedestrians or cyclists I do my best horn imitation: 'Beep beep' I call, 'beep beep.'

At the Kep crab market the women ignore my camera as they sort and sell their days catch at the water's edge. On the narrow, black pebble beach groups of buyers huddle around the women - with cotton, kramar-wrapped heads - and their baskets: it sounds like an auction. Men sit in the boats, talking, while more baskets of crabs float in the water beside them.

Further along the coast we stop for lunch, sitting on a raised, thatch-roofed wooden dais and immediately food sellers come to offer food. The fresh-from-the-sea, still hot, crabs are fantastic and the grilled squid on the split bamboo is superb: even cattle walk around us, stopping to stare at our white faces as we gorge on the fish and chilli dipping-sauce that soon becomes a dripping-down-our-chin sauce.

Sated with baguettes, tomato, cucumber, banana and jackfruit, the chicks on bikes leave - driving up a one way road the wrong way until we're turned back by a uniform-wearing man. We wave to all the young girls and woman we pass and they respond enthusiastically and in a little Muslim village stop to photograph women making fishnets. The weekend's going fast, Lynn has to go back to work and I have to leave the country; tomorrow we are going to Bokor National Park, once an elegant French retreat and casino, now a deserted shell.

Over two hours \- on the back of a truck with four others - we climb 30 kilometres up a steep, potholed, narrow road, scaling the Elephant Mountains, from sea level to over 1000 metres, passing through different levels of weather and vegetation. Banana and bamboo give way to large straight-limbed trees that monkeys call from and further on, as the temperature drops, different trees grow and ferns thrive. Near the king's summer residence, as azaleas and other flowering shrubs disappear, pine trees then tussock and scrub appear, clinging to the rock-strewn slopes. After a month of relentless heat the bracing climate is a shock.

We clamber over huge rocks and through the old casino: the rooms are enormous, the ceilings high and the view over the plains below spectacular. I sit on top of one of the colossal, smooth, rocks and talk with monks who have come to visit the Wat here. They tell me the legend describing how Buddhism came to Cambodia: the rock that the Wat sits on is the bow of the boat that made the epic voyage.

Back down the bone-jolting road we make a side trip to a waterfall and I step carefully to avoid standing on pitcher plants. Our guide picks one to show us and I can't stop my tongue, 'Oh don't pick them. They are too valuable to pick.'

'I know they are important, I just want to show them to you all.'

'We can bend down to see them. Tourists would prefer to see them growing than in our hands. Don't let anyone pick them.' He looks abashed and I feel guilty at telling him off - sometimes I'm as deep as a puddle, forgetting I'm a guest in his country.

At the top of the waterfall, we solve world problems in a flash: even the American thinks a new president would help. 'I'm sick of having to apologise for being an American,' he says, 'sick of us thinking we need to be the world's policeman.' We all agree it's not Americans that people have problems with but their political policies. 'I've had about six months in the States,' I tell him, 'and I have a real love-hate relationship with it. I love your generosity but hate the waste; and I can't understand how so many people have no idea about the rest of the world, how so few travel - it's sad.' The Englishwoman who is working for an NGO says she had only travelled on package holidays before she came to Asia. ' ... I knew I'd become assimilated to Cambodia when I wore my 'hello kitty' satin pyjamas downtown' and we laugh at the picture she paints. We concur that travelling is a privilege: I say I both blame and thank my genes for my incurable wanderlust.

I'm having difficulty opening a bottle of water so use my teeth - and snap a tooth off my top denture. I not only look like a witch with the gap in my smile, but my tongue and top lip keep bleeding from scratches. Lynn says no one will notice but I'm too self-centred to believe her.

I can't find any glue so my hand covers my mouth during my trip to Sihanoukville where I'm relieved to find a tube of glue under the desk of the Mash Melting Pot and fix the tooth back in place. I have one day left on my visa but now I've heard about a trip that has just started and sign up for the next trip into the Cardamom Mountains.

When I hear about the leeches I nearly cancel the boat-ride-mountain-trek trip and wish I still smoked, as it seems a burn the best way to remove them. Driving for an hour or so and at the river in Sre Amble, we meet our guides, Cornish Rob and Arun take us in a noisy little boat heading up the river, turning into narrower and narrower tributaries, slowing as the jungle encroaches into the river and leans over us until we're just crawling.

'Look at the red dragonflies' I whisper and then see a blue one on a yellow flower. The colours are superb. Large and small blue kingfishers fly away; green striped iguana dart for cover; a group of long-tailed macaque monkeys yell at us and various drongos are pointed out to us. Greater and lesser racket drongos and even an ashy one with a long tail and loud call, come under our gaze and I feel sorry for them with their unflattering name. We carry and push the boat through parts of the river, grey buffalo, wallowing in mud, look at us with big, curious eyes and finally we reach a small waterfall - our lunch stop and the beginning of the walk. An hour later I'm complaining to the Cornishman.

'You go ahead. I can't walk up here. It's too steep, too hot.'

'Yes you can. We're nearly there. You will love the waterfall.'

'We have waterfalls in New Zealand; I'll give this one a miss.'

'Come on. You can get up here. Just around the next corner is the last steep bit \- you can make it. Just take it a step at a time. We're in no hurry,' Rob tells me.

'No, I'll sit here in the shade and wait for you all to come back down. I won't go away from the track.'

'Here, I've got an umbrella, use that, it will reduce the heat for you.'

'I don't have the bloody energy to hold a damn umbrella.'

'Well you walk and I'll hold it,' says Rob and step by slow step I get up the mountain, feeling like a cross between a missionary with her servant and a stupid, overweight, unfit, old fool.

I'm the first to fall into the cool water - my T-shirt, shorts and sandals are off in seconds and in my underwear, I'm wallowing like the buffalo. Later, back in the boat, we make a list of the 20 different creatures we've seen: leeches are not on the list. The others return to Sihanoukville leaving me in this small village to find a bed for the night.

Next day I'm the only foreigner in the taxi when I travel through the mountains towards Thailand. We get pushed through sticky orange clay and cross four rivers by ferry and at each one, I'm the centre of attention - few westerners have used this road that opened two months ago: no one in the taxi speaks English.

At the border town of Koh Kong I impulsively decide to stay a night, after all I'm already an overstayer so one more night will hopefully only add another $US5 to my fine. At the market opposite the guesthouse I sit on one of the ever-present blue plastic chairs that, all over the country, indicate a food stall. The woman speaks to me in Khmer, I point to the pot and she serves me meat and noodle soup. Sharing the raised platform is the local version of a beauty parlour. A woman has a young boy grooming her hair with tweezers - squashing nits or removing grey hair I assume. Another woman is asleep in a hammock and a third is having a pedicure while I continue my chopstick fight with slippery noodles and hope a dog will come by to eat the lump of gristle.

I'm in the girlie section of the market. Opposite me a woman mends clothes on a treadle sewing machine, another, surrounded by joss sticks, is apparently predicting the future for a woman and in the corner is a stall selling second-hand clothes. Another group of women is playing cards and the shop beside them sells sheets, curtains and towels. The only other male is a young boy who is slowly stripping leaves from water-spinach vines while his mother slices the stalks.

'How old are you?'

'Hahs-sep bprahm-bpee.' I respond. She too is 50-seven, she squeezes my arm.

'You are strong,' she says - strong means fat in Asia - and I agree.

'You have been in Thailand?' she asks.

I tell her I've been in Kampuchea for 30 days and she's surprised. The women around us are listening to every word and are delighted when I ask about the price for a manicure and pedicure. The price is good so sink into a beach chair for the luxury: they are concerned my skin is dark, darker than theirs and there is much tsk tsking among them as they compare their arms with mine.

Paying the overstayer's fine I cross the border and catch a bus to the first Thai town. When I arrive I have a two-hour massage to straighten my spine after the Cambodian roads then search the streets for my absolute, most-favourite desert in the world - sticky rice, fresh mango and coconut cream. Although it's the end of the sweet mango season I find it, eat it and then, with clean feet, manicured fingers, toes and the knots removed from my back, sleep peacefully.

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### A Magnificent Obsession

Back in Thailand, just in time for another retreat at Wat Suan Mohk, I bus to Bangkok then train south. Very early the next morning I'm standing in the open doorway of my carriage, watching the night change to day. As the sky lightens dark shapes turn into buildings and trees, dogs, birds, roosters and eventually vehicles and loudspeakers announce it's a new day and I'm about to study Buddhism again.

Days later I leave the working Wat and walk under the hot morning sun to the study centre - the first monk I see is my 'smiling monk,' Tan See Telapalo, the one who loves chants. Once I'm assigned my room and task - composting food scraps in the banana orchard - I feel I belong.

The coconut grove that my mind often retreats to has disappeared and I can't believe it's gone - reminding me that attachments cause pain and I've been attached to something that no longer existed: another lesson in the impermanence that Buddhism teaches.

Now, after only three days I want to leave. This is too hard. Why am I doing this? I don't have to prove anything; I've done this before; why bother? My head nags me to leave but four days ago I made a commitment that I would stay no matter what and the next day all is well again and I'm happy as I rinse river-sand from my feet before going into the open-walled mediation hall. Today, 5th December, is the King of Thailand's 75th birthday and we contemplate his many duties and tasks. Ajan Poh tells us we should emulate the King's attributes especially the one of patience.

The 10 days pass quickly and when I leave a beggar approaches me at the train station: she is dirty, her teeth black. I don't give her money but she's delighted when I paint her nails bright red and for half an hour we connect with laughter, mime and peppermints. When I leave we enthusiastically wave each other goodbye: I'm off to my favourite Asian county, Malaysia and the cuisine-rich Penang.

Although I have seen the Blue Mansion on other trips I decide to go again. The Cheong Fatt Tze Chinese courtyard mansion was built in the 1880's and contains many feng shui attributes: tapping the positive 'chi' for good fortune. Using these principles, the Mandarin's home faces the sea and the rear of the building is higher than the front; rainwater - nature's wealth - is drawn into the house through an elaborate drainage system. With its beautiful formal entry, gold filigree wooden screens, stained glass windows, Scottish ironwork and lime washed walls it's no wonder Indochine was filmed here with Catherine Deneuve. The 38 rooms, seven staircases and five courtyards ensure it lives up to one of the Chinese mottos above one of its doors - surround self with beautiful things to make life better. I dream of staying here and surrounding myself with its beauty.

Reading the local newspaper while eating roti cani (flat bread and curry) for breakfast I'm fascinated by a story about birds nesting in a housing estate and decide to go there: unfortunately Parit Jawa is nowhere on the map. Locals don't know where it is either, so I email the journalist and she responds with a phone number - but first back to 'my' island.

A month later after relaxing on the island, hanging out with people who have become real friends over a few years I see a young man drown directly in front of me as I drink coffee. Although others try to rescue him and spend hours on surfboards searching, when I saw the wave go over his up-stretched arms that was the last time he was seen alive. On what is paradise for eight months each year, nature again showed her power and 24 hours later I move to the other island: even there I can see his face floating in the water when I swim or snorkel. Days later they find his body, he was 21: another grieving mother and I return to the mainland and ring the number the journalist gave me.

Mansur Poh, a retired policeman is a passionate man: obsessed or crazy say others. Dubbed 'Protector of the lesser adjutant stork' it's a fitting title for someone who has devoted years of unpaid study of this threatened species. The lesser adjutant is nesting only minutes from the centre of Batu Pahat in Johor and when we arrive - after 40 minutes on his shiny silver Jaguh Modenas motorbike - they appear to accept him as part of the scenery and noises around their nests.

One of the worlds endangered birds; they have a two-metre wingspan; are 120-cm tall and stand with a hunched appearance. They also have a bald head, sparse feathers on their neck; a massive wedge shaped bill and fly with their neck retracted: when flying they look like a cross between a child's picture of a bird and a pterodactyl. They've been called ugly but I fall in love with them.

Mansur had been a Police Inspector and tells me 'Studying the birds is exactly the same as observing criminals so I use that basic knowledge and training in surveillance to observe and record their activities.'

'Another one's coming' Mansur calls as a stork flies towards us from the nesting tree. 'And another one. Beautiful. Beautiful' (Click goes his camera) 'Very good.' (Click it goes again) 'Beautiful. Oh, great blue skies. Wonderful' (Click. Click)

Landing is amazingly accurate for such a large bird and after they've been thermaling (riding the warm air currents) they fly down at speed, wings and legs out-stretched, neck tucked in and head straight up. I can hear the wind whistle through their wings and as they approach the trees they reduce speed, their legs hang down, wings become hang-glider-shaped and at the last minute they stretch out their neck. Even its tail appears to point upwards in an effort to slow down as they glide into the tree and, mostly, land right beside the nest. I laugh - they look so aloof, so formal yet funny.

Mansur spends hours in the sun, becoming darker and darker as he works on his magnificence obsession: for him it's a badge of honour in a part of the world that often values pale skin. 'It's the price I pay for helping the birds' he tells me.

While Mansur seems impervious to the heat, I'm sweating copiously and value the litres of water he brings daily. The stork's human neighbours are supportive of his work and over the days we are given bowls of cooling sweet green bean soup, juicy oranges straight from the fridge and many large pots of tea.

Daily we expect to see the chicks and finally things seem to be different in one nest. We watch. She's standing and tending the nest constantly, more than on previous days and the male is bringing greenery frequently. 'I am sure the baby has hatched,' I say and Mansur concurs.

From the surrounding swamp a water hen calls urgently to her chicks: a white-bellied sea eagle is circling the area. A pair of crows chases it - when they fly off the eagle circles again, closer to the trees this time and the nesting females threaten him with their long, strong beaks. He flies away but remains circling high overhead - its behaviour confirms our suspicions of hatching although we see nothing.

The next morning, Mansur again arrives at my hotel very early. While the oversized blood-orange sun rises we breakfast on the locally inspired dish of asam pedas - fish in tamarind soup - and by 8am we're back at the nest site. 'Why don't you go and look under the tree and see if you can see any egg-shell that's been thrown out?'

'We can't do that,' he tells me, 'It will disturb the other nests. It's too vulnerable a time to go near right now. You can't harass them, the birds will go haywire.' Reluctantly I agree he's right and curb my impatience. I am beginning to see how the birds can change ones personality like he says it has for him - more patient, caring and tolerant. We also discuss observations he has made and how little has been written about these birds. Their biggest threat is not natural predators such as the eagles, monitor lizard, monkeys or snake but habit loss.

At days end I am amazed at how many hours we have once again put in, how quickly the time goes and how easily this stranger and I get on. As well as talking about the birds, conversations range across love, life, family, war and religion: but still no sign of the chicks we want to see and it's time to go home, the birds will be settling for the night shortly. Before the binoculars are returned to his backpack Mansur says, 'One more look before we go.'

'I can see the chick, I can see it, here look, quick, I need you to confirm this.' He's excited. I train the binoculars on the nest. I see nothing. I look away, blink and then look again. This time I see the chick clearly silhouetted and give a whoop of joy and despite the social and religious constraints in Malaysia against unrelated men and women touching, we dance an impromptu jig.

We watch until the light fades and that night Mansur informs the Ministry for the Environment of the hatching: the Minister arranges a press conference to announce the event.

Two days later, the press conference is only three hours away and by the time we've finished our steamed buns for breakfast a beautiful orange glow has coloured the sky around a huge, slightly cloud-covered sun. Although we've seen them, I worry the chicks will not poke their heads up for the officials, TV and press.

The Minister of the Environment and Tourism - Dato Dr. Chua Soi Lek - arrives and, after introductions, I give him the background notes on the lesser adjutant, which he'd, asked Mansur for and that I'd written.

I show Dato Chua the relevant nest and armed with Mansur's binoculars - jungle green and broken rubber around the right eyepiece - and I'm relieved when the birds raise their heads above the edge of the nest.

Later, over a fresh orange juice at a local food bar I talk with Datu Chua and the Director of the Johor National Park Corporation about the difficulties in protecting the birds and their habitat. The land they are on is private - approval has already been given for housing on it - only the financial crisis of a few years ago has stopped it.

Datu Chua conducts the newspaper interviews in Chinese, Malay and English, then the same for TV channels. He champions the birds and I hear him rebuke the reporters. 'You wanted to leave the nest site after 20 minutes yet we have a tourist here who came for a couple of days and is still here three weeks later. These are important birds.'

As he leaves he thanks me for the press statement and I think how I'd not heard of the stork before reading the article two months ago. Nevertheless, I've travelled hundreds of kilometres on the back of a motorbike for hours and spent days under the hot sun documenting the birds' movements and behaviours, so can surely claim much more knowledge than most.

'Welcome to Malaysia,' a young man says the next morning as I walk past a food shop in Parit Jawa. A photo of me, with the minister and director of parks is on the front page of two Chinese papers - this has raised my status and I'm greeted frequently.

Time is short but I visit Johor Bahru for three days where unexpectedly the tourist office has offered me a hotel room. I love for the luxury but it's lonely after living in close quarters for so long. I shut the door, watch the stream of traffic pouring over the bridge that joins Singapore with this city and watch TV where CNN is reporting the increasingly frightening prospect of a war in Iraq.

During the three days I visit the fabulous Palace with its exquisite furniture and fittings and which looks over the strait. The 1860 teak bed is still used for any lying-in-state for members of the royal family of this State. I make a must-do list for when I return and buy a T-shirt that declares give peace a chance although I doubt the USA or UK will do this. On the web I check that New Zealand's stand on the so-called weapons of mass destruction hasn't changed: I'm proud we're saying a war would be illegal, that we support the United Nations - that we don't see any evidence for invasion right now.

My plane arrives. Men with large earmuffs direct the traffic with floppy arms and the plane is pushed and pulled into position by the small golf-cart looking vehicle; men looking like ants are running around tending the great beast; tethering or feeding it through umbilical cords of different lengths, colours and diameters. When the plane's full of luggage and fuel for both it and me, we board - I'm off to London.

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### London's my base

London feels familiar: this is my fourth visit, I have another 36 films to develop of Asia and three days later, we fly into Rome where my daughter is running her third marathon. Strolling around downtown Rome, we come across a march protesting against the now inevitable American war on Iraq.

I take my jacket off to display my Malaysian peace T-shirt and join it briefly: Tristan has opposing views and Renée sits on the fence between her husband and mother. We visit the pantheon, write postcards from the Spanish Steps, soak up the sun and atmosphere and put our hands in the Mouth of Truth: none is bitten off.

Although our Italian is less than minimal Tristan and I watch the Italian news, it seems the war is imminent and we buy day-old British newspapers at exorbitant prices. 'I can't believe you two,' Renée says while Tristan and I can't believe each other's opinion; she worries about running on the numerous cobblestones and the night before the race she loads up with carbohydrates. Tristan and I do the same.

Renée leaves for the start in her lucky, yellow running top; we catch a bus close to our first rendezvous and I unfurl our New Zealand flag just as a group of cyclists speed by - enjoying the empty, roped-off streets. Fast runners and wheelchair participants are soon passing us and tears threaten to spill when I see a couple of amputees competing. I'm sad and angry with Greg - he could be doing this too - tears well up again as Renée arrives with a huge grin on her face.

As soon as she's gone we rush to the next vantage point by tram. It's slow and we fear we'll be late. 'Hurry up,' Tristan tells me and I jog and walk as fast as I can and we cross the river with time to spare.

Hanging the flag on the barrier, I call to runners. 'Bravo. Go Brit. Yay Aussie,' according to the country their tops display.

'Hi Aussie,' calls a runner.

'No. No. New Zealand.' We yell for the Kiwis, Aussies and South Africans and shortly Renée is in sight again. She's still smiling and we saunter back over the bridge and wait for her on the other side where music is playing and marathon supporters are having a great time: a few drivers are angry the road has been blocked and make noisy complaints. Despite waving their arms expressively, they don't get through.

Dashing to the Colosseum, we arrive in plenty of time and I pick a spot that will produce great photos. I'm so busy watching everyone I nearly miss her and get one of her running away. Twenty minutes later we meet at our arranged spot, I photograph her with the ancient ruins behind her, and the next day I slap a beggar as her hand slides into my empty purse under the cover of her shawl-draped arm. Back in London I develop my films, meet friends from previous trips, attend a funeral for one and the misleadingly named 'coalition of the willing' has invaded Iraq.

Three weeks later, we catch the Eurostar, squeeze into the tiny hotel room and Tristan, recalling Rome, threatens me with dire consequences if I snore too loudly. We eat, saunter, dodge dog shit; ride an old carousel and gaze at the Eiffel Tower. From the Arc de Triomphe, we gaze over Paris and down the Champs-Elysées where Renée's next marathon will finish and I fall over in front of the Notre-Dame.

Clutching metro tickets Tristan and I race around the marathon route, photographing and feeding Renée as she runs and despite the very recent Rome marathon she's still smiling.

I use my travel-media card to get into sealed-off officials-only area and wait at the finish line. Once again the smiling face appears and, making up for the missed photo in Rome, I capture her crossing the line. She stops her watch. 'How did you get in here? I've beaten my time by 43 seconds' and she wraps her NZ flag around her shoulders: 12 months, four marathons - London; New York; Rome; Paris.

Tomorrow is her younger brother's birthday. 'I believe anyone has the right to suicide' she says, 'anyone except my brother.' That invisible group of people called 'they' say that time heals but we now know it's what you do with the time that does the healing - not the time. I also know that when the pain returns it can be just as painful as the day I found him hanging and I'm grateful the pain is no longer constant.

Back in London I pick up my films and go to the library where I find a biography about one of my travel heroes, Freya Stark: it's called A Passionate Nomad - I'm horrified, my name for myself has been pinched. Using the library computers I find an email from Barbara. She's planning to escape Washington for a holiday in France: do I want to join her and walk around the south of France at the end of May. I immediately book a cheap flight - despite my protest-email in 1995 I'm becoming a Francophile.

Renée and I meet Tristan at the Charing Cross McDonalds, as we're off to see the Jungle Book. As we sit and eat, a woman calls 'your bag's been taken.' Looking around we're flabbergasted that she's looking directly at us. We know she's wrong. I look for my bag, its handle is over my knee; Renee's has gone. She jumps up ready to attack who-ever had the audacity to touch her bag.

'He's got a red hat on,' the woman standing in the queue says and Renée slams open the heavy double plate glass doors as she charges through and Tristan follows; I bring up the rear. Within moments they are out of sight and I follow them by jogging in the direction that people are staring.

I'm puffed already, but lack of blood to the brain, or adrenalin, creates a brainwave. I ring Renée's mobile phone - maybe she'll hear the tune, or he'll get a shock and drop the bag. It doesn't ring but goes straight onto the answer phone so continue my jogging-walk and hope the police car that passes me is after the same goal. Finally, I round a corner, where a crowd has gathered, a police car is doubled parked and Tristan has the young man on the ground in a headlock.

Although the bag is required for evidence Renée is allowed to take our tickets and we continue to the theatre - more dishevelled than planned. A life-sized frame of an elephant ambles down the aisle towards the stage and Renée and I burst into tears. Tension released, we can now enjoy the magical performance.

Soon we're in the Lake District for Easter and spend the days walking and eating: at a small café on the edge of the quicksand of Morecambe Bay a sign tells me 'thousands of people have eaten here and gone onto live perfectly normal lives.' Damn, I never wanted to live a normal life.

I fly into Lyon before heading south to meet Barbara: it's a public holiday, shops are closed and many people are carrying - or selling - little bunches of Lily of the Valley, the little white flower that signifies May Day in Europe.

After two days exploring the streets, parks, markets and art galleries and of course sampling the food of this gastronomic centre of the Rhône Valley, I catch the train south. When I arrive I wait at the bus stop to complete my day's journey: a woman asks 'Do you speak English? Is this the bus to Arles?' It's Barbara - we hadn't recognised each other - it's been a few years since we spent a couple of days together in Washington DC.

My high school French is still abysmal; nevertheless, the next day, we're ready to explore Provence. Arles is a rich-cream-coloured city as most of the buildings are built with the pale old-gold local stone.

Van Gogh loved this area and its light: the garden of the hospital he was admitted to, after attacking a friend and cutting off his own ear, has been restored and we photograph the iris. Little flies, mosquitoes, long grass and muddy tracks combine with a bad sense of direction to make us give up the search for the evocative drawbridge he painted. We don't go to a bullfight but Barbara buys an old embroidered linen night-gown at the weekly market beside the amphitheatre and worries about my snoring. 'You need to get your breathing checked out. I keep thinking you've stopped breathing. It's scary.'

Now, with a baguette strapped to my backpack, we're ready to start walking - with a vague map and instructions to keep the river on our left we leave for Tarascon. We walk and walk and walk. It's not nearly as pleasant as we thought this would be - where are the little villages along the way. We want coffee and lunch but our bottles of now warm, tap water and the baguette have to suffice and at a fork in the road we keep to the left like the woman at the information centre said. The road is narrow and dusty, the only traffic is trucks and I need to pee.

Down in the field beside us I squat. Immediately a truck passes: they have an excellent view straight down to me. The driver and his passenger hoot and catcall in French. Sometimes I don't need to know a language to understand exactly what is said. 'I'm going to keep my head down and not see them,' I tell Barbara and she laughs, 'they can sure see you and they're hanging out of the cab.'

'Oh well, we'll never see them again,' but I've spoken too soon, this is the road to the dump and soon they return, tooting and waving. We keep walking and soon the road ends: we retrace our steps. A cyclist shows us his detailed map and we continue walking: our images of sauntering around France are fading fast.

After another few hours we try hitching on this quiet back road and a man finally takes us the last couple of kilometres. As soon as we reach Tarascon we drink and eat so we can think coherently before looking for the hostel. Lesson one we decide is - get a better map and information.

We continue walking and taking short train journeys: in Avignon - the site of the song about dancing on the bridge that I learnt at school - we stay on the island in the middle of the river. Our views of the walled city and the Pont d'Avignon are perfect, we love it despite the tourists, and one afternoon I lie on the riverbank and sleep beside a group of young men drumming.

The Canal du Midi is a prime destination for people who love water travel but Barbara and I are walking the shady pathway that follows the 240-km canal that connects the Mediterranean Sea to the Atlantic. We're planning to see some of the sixty-four locks and canal bridges. Canal boat owners show us their maps and encourage us with our walking but it seems as if accommodation may be a problem and mosquitoes will attack us in one area according to some.

With a crusty loaf, pâté, tomato, olives, cheese and drinks in our packs we set off. Spring flowers add fragrance to the air and people wave as they float by and when we climb the stop-bank for lunch the acres of grapevines are impressive. I tease Barbara when she refuses to sit on the ground for fear of ticks and waits until we're at a toilet before relieving her body. I also watch her as she drinks a glass of wine with dinner. How do normal drinkers do that I wonder? For me drinking was never just an accompaniment for a meal - it made me feel normal and one was never enough to do that: I'm so relieved and surprised I've been sober for so long - and feel normal too.

The fantastic seven-tier lock almost surpasses the amazing bridges and scenery we've seen. Watching boats come down the watery steps we laugh as husbands and wives, or crew members, shout at each other in a variety of languages. 'Damn it let it go.' 'Hold it tight.' 'Bring it here.' 'Hurry up.' 'Let it go I said.' 'Slowly.' 'Watch the paint work.' 'Stop. Stop I said.' It's too hard.' 'You do it.' 'I can't. The boat will smash.' Even when English isn't spoken the tones are clear.

Level by level, barges, longboats and yachts, with their mast lying on their decks, climb down the manmade waterfall. Water rushes out of one lock and floods the one below, buffeting the boats as if they are in a washing machine. They're are being held steadily by ropes held by experienced sailors, or dangerously by weekend yatchies and as the whirlpool slows, the gates open and the boats move through to the next stage ready to do it all again. 'I wonder how many relationships survive these trips?'

'It's not quite as relaxing as it's portrayed is it?'

'A bit like our stroll through the romantic south huh?'

As each day ends we bus to a nearby village for a bed - accommodation along the canal is expensive and we choose not to spend so much money on beds. Too soon it's time for Barbara to return to the USA - I'm going on to Marseilles to meet a guy I met briefly on a bus in Thailand: I'm going sailing on the Mediterranean.

Blue is the signature colour of Marseille and is an all-year paradise for sailors and divers. Sheltered by hills, the city winds along the coastline and I walk the six kilometres into the old part of the city - Le Vieux Port and Le Panier - then spend the rest of the day wandering its maze of picturesque streets and harbour. Washing hangs over streets, between buildings and shutters adorn each window, while pasta and seafood fuel me for more walking. Metal shoe scrapers sit at entrances to apartments so the endless dog poo can be removed. Cars toot constantly in the traffic jams; brilliant red bougainvilleas grow over old apartments, palm trees flourish along the waterfront and an Italian gigolo pesters me as I sunbathe on the beach. I enjoy his company, allow him to walk me home and watch his face fall when he sees the youth hostel as I say goodbye. I wasn't the rich middle-aged traveller he expected to be supported by for a day, a night, or a week.

'L'amtie' got its name from a Van Gogh painting and when I arrive it's still out of the water and a steel ladder is the only way to get on board. Luc is supportive and encouraging but at the top of the ladder I have to get over the steel guard-rail. He'd built the boat for his tall body and now my 160cm has to get over it - while perching on the top of the three-metre ladder that's leaning against the stern. My pubic bone is bruised each time I roll over the rail that's higher than my legs as I get off and on. My heart beats faster each time too - sure I'll fall off the ladder.

For two days I help preparing the boat for the water and at a shop with signs that tell us it's 'Open continuously' alongside one that says 'Closed for lunch 1-2pm' we get supplies for a few days sailing. On top of the list is fromage blanc, the fresh young soft cheese that my host loves to spread on bread or eat with pureed strawberries and a sprig of mint - I become a convert too.

A giant blue steel stick insect waddles down the rows of beached boats, clasps L'amtie, in its arms and carries it to the water; I convert an old Dutch flag into a French one by turning it sideways and it now flutters from one of the guide-wires. Living on a boat is intense - and when you don't have a lot in common, it's more difficult: we sail, explore the area, and rub uncomfortably against each other. I am sure Luc wonders why he invited me and is happy when my week is up: I train back to Lyon, wondering why I accepted his invitation, although I'm appreciative he helped me achieve an old dream of 'sailing in the Med.' I arrive back in London in time to go to the Chelsea Flower Show.

'Black is the new green in gardens' I'm told and black grass is a big feature among all the water gardens. Thousands of people pack the small area and a floral arranging demonstration impresses me: I make notes so I can impress friends with my skills - it's a little premature as I don't own a bed, have nowhere to live and all my gear is in my mother's shed. I hate the crowds and leave in time to pack my bags for Wales.

I'm always excited going somewhere I know very little about; it's the same when my destination has been in my dreams for years and Hay-on-Wye \- the village of books - has been on my must-visit list for years.

I love bookshops - old, new, large or small - but I especially love second hand bookshops, they seem to promise I'll find exactly what I want. My bookshelves are full of such books - all had demanded I take them home. Hay has 39 such Heather-enticing shops and a population of only 1300: I drool, just thinking about them.

An interior decorator (and part-time legal judge), whom I meet on the train arranges a lift for us - she's been coming to the Guardian Hay Festival for years. Once the clothes dryer has been moved to the car boot and the 'architectural salvage', an iron seat frame from a poorhouse is shifted too then I'm taken to The Firs bed and breakfast where I pitch my tent under a tree of yellow flowers and beside a bed of purple iris. Directly over the tall stone wall fence is the festival where, over the next six days, I am scheduled to go to 20 of the 250 presentations. I couldn't have found a better position: it's directly behind the Hay Cinema Bookshop, site of the first bookshop in Hay and where I will be able to browse through some 200,000 titles.

Now, waiting in the compliant British queue I'm surrounded by a buzz of excitement. The title of this discussion - Iraqi aftermath: restoring the marshlands - is an obvious first choice for me and I pretend the fact that Rageh Omaar, the handsome war correspondent, is the chairperson has nothing to do with my choice.

I'm having coffee and welsh-cakes in one of the restaurant tents when two young children and their mother hurry up to me. 'Are you Jackie Wilson?' they gasp, but I'm not the famous children's author and their faces fall as they leave to join the longest queue at the book signings to meet her. I join the queue for the portable, luxury loos with pictures on the walls and running water provided by the well-named Convenience Company and each evening, write for the Women on Air radio programme in Christchurch.

My first whole day at the festival starts at 10am when I listen to Jim Perrin (Travels with the Flea) who says that to write about travels, to be aware of our surroundings, we need to travel on our own. 'If we are with others' he said 'we feel obliged to entertain, to be aware of others needs and this blocks our own experiences.' I agree, although solo travel may also just be my selfish way of ensuring I get it all - one hundred percent of the pain and all of the pleasure too, undiluted by sharing.

Hedgerows fascinate me and I wonder what wildlife is watching me from under the cover of the plants. Elderberry, holly, hawthorn, hazel and sycamores are entwined with honeysuckle and brambles while underneath butterfly and insect-attracting plants are flowering. Buttercup, foxgloves, sorrel, cow-parsley and nettles are interspersed with bluebells that contrasts well with the yellow dandelions.

Sandi Toksvig is a huge change in tempo. I'm confused at the start of this one-woman event. My mind had her pegged as a travel writer but it seems as if she is a comedian. Did she go to Namibia I wonder? Was there really a group of Carmelite nuns there? The audience is in stitches - I'm smiling. I recall a conversation this morning - with a Welshman who arrived yesterday and immediately doubled the backyard tent population - about how regional and cultural humour is and this session proves the point.

I get a last minute ticket to hear Kate Adie, frontline reporter, talk about her autobiography The Kindness of Strangers. The title of the book comes from her amazement of how kind people are despite their problems. 'The poorer the people, the more desperate their surroundings and conditions, the more kindness has been extended to me' she says and I agree: our attitudes about travel meet. We live in the moment and neither of us make lists as to the best place, worst place or most dangerous places and, like her, while not being a Pollyanna, agree that the world is full of great people - that most people are good and generous.

Back in London, my daughter takes a day off and we go to the Hampton Court Palace Flower Show - these events are not just about plants but also about celebrity spotting. Today is press-day and I find Sir Cliff Richard in a sandpit; Ringo is here too and Prunella Scales is with Peter Rabbit in the garden for children. 'Oh my God, look who's there. Do you think I could get a photo with him?' Minutes later my daughters is beside Olympic athlete Linford Christie in the garden built to raise awareness of scoliosis - twisting and curving of the spine - having her photo taken.

I fly into Milano; all this travel means I'm feeling like a jet setter without the funds to support the lifestyle the term implies, to meet my son, daughter-in law and grandson. Training down to Reggio Emilia and despite having tickets, we stand for three hours at the end of a carriage. Daniel is tired and bored. Sitting on the floor he sleeps as we rock and sway our way south, me standing guard over him from suitcases and feet as people walk through narrow corridors, looking for seats. He adapts well to new settings and has the travel gene, inherited from his father, grandmother and back to those Celtic forbears from the mid-1800s: it's his first visit to his mother's country: she also travels.

Reggio Emilia, a quiet ancient town is birthplace of Parmesan cheese, Parma ham and balsamic vinegar. While we adults love the food, a small train near our hotel is the most important feature for Daniel. 'When will it open?' he peers, one-eyed into the half-circle tunnel that doubles as its garage. Despite having no common language he plays with children at the park and we visit the park two or three times daily to check on the train. The day before we leave it's opening as we arrive. He runs ahead, 'Yes, it's going. Can I get on?' he calls. I buy a few tickets and he gets on the train, calling to one of his new friends to 'Come on. Come on - it's going now.' They ride the rails until they're ready to play on the swings and climb the trees again. He's satisfied; the train finally moved.

On the border of Umbria and Tuscany we find a place to stay for a month or two. It's on top of a hill, right beside an old castle and not a tourist in sight. Daniel and I immediately explore the tiny village. It's early evening; people are sitting outside their doors, 'Buona sera,' I greet the older women, 'come sta.' We walk the length of the village, which is just a few houses, then go back for dinner.

'Mama! Nonna can talk Italian!' Mama and papa laugh.

'Can she? That's great.'

'Tomorrow would you like to talk Italian too? I can help you.' He looks dubious - perhaps he suspects my skill is limited to about five words.

We walk around the area, down one side of the hill, around it's base to the local shops, buy fresh vegetables, pasta and bread then back up the other side of the hill for our late siesta. When we wake, Daniel and I sit outside for our language lesson and a scruffy, smelly, thirsty dog joins us.

'Here come some people, you can say buona sera to them.' The middle-aged women arrive, pass and Daniel remains mute. 'Why didn't you say good evening to them?'

'I'm shy.'

'Don't be shy: they'd like to talk to you. Here come some girls - say hello to them.'

Long before they arrive Daniel mutters 'Buona sera.'

'They didn't hear you. You need to wait until they can hear you.'

'Buona sera' he says again as the draw level to us. They giggle and keep going.

'I think they were shy too.'

Moments later two nuns are walking by us. 'Buona sera,' calls Daniel.

'Buona sera,' they reply.

'They talked to me!'

'Yes and you were talking Italian. Isn't that good? You can learn new words every day. Mama and Papa will tell you new words' and over dinner we talk about many of the words he already knows, mama, papa, nonna, grazie, prego, pizza and Alfa Romeo. He's impressed and later we sit outside again to greet all those passing.

Hiring a vehicle we explore: farms of wheat, corn, dying sunflowers, orchards, grapes and olive trees. We visit Castiglione del Lago with its lake and 14th century fortress and photograph each other by the 500-year-old olive trees. Soon it's time for me to leave - I fly out from London in four days. 'I'm going to see Renée and Tristan in London too,' he tells me and we both cry when it's time for me to catch the train.

It's my birthday; I've booked a table at an Italian restaurant in Blackheath Village. The day starts early as we're going to the Walkabout Pub to watch South Africa play New Zealand. Walking through the station Renée suddenly stops 'Happy birthday' she says and I look at her blankly. 'We're going to Paris.'

'What?' I'm thrilled and then suddenly know it's not possible and I feel sick. 'I don't have my passport.'

'Ah, but I do,' Renée pulls it from her bag with a flourish. 'You are so gullible. Didn't it seem strange the guys didn't come? That we got off a station too soon? That we came down these stairs instead of going to the exit? That I made sure you had walking shoes on?'

'It shows how trusting I am, not gullible. Oh, I've got a booking for dinner tonight.'

'Not now. I had to ring three places before I found the right restaurant. It's now on for Monday night.' She's positively gloating at her deviousness while I can't believe I'm going to Paris for lunch.

Croissants, grapes and orange juice are our breakfast and I learn our destination is Montmarte: la Butte is the Paris of writers, poets and artists; the cradle of cabaret and the cancan - and today it's ours. We explore an ancient cemetery, ride a little train to the top of the hill where the basilica sits, enjoy the village atmosphere of Place du Tertre, and gaze over the city of love.

As we eat and watch Parisians and tourists wandering by I photograph the apron-wearing butcher across the road as he stands outside his shop. After our long birthday-celebrating meal we continue walking; photographing art nouveau wrought-iron arches of metro stations and laugh at the sex museums but don't visit them or the famous 1885 dance hall, Moulin Rouge and it's night when we return to London.

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### Homeward bound again

In Bangkok, I have an outfit made for Naoko's wedding and an email confirms an Italian friend is on his way from Laos for the big day and we arrange to meet. I also have a massage and facial and when I sneeze, the reflexology woman tells me finger pressure on my middle toe will stop sneezes.

On my last night I join locals, stand for the national anthem when it blares from large speakers at six o'clock, then watch men and women begin their aerobics on the riverbank alongside the Royal Pavilion. Young people in the front row love the long musical piece about being 'Drop dead gorgeous' and as they exercise a procession of Royal Barges, the oarsmen, impressively dressed in red, return to their moorings. Fresh pineapple and melon with a dry, salt and chilli dip is my supper then sleep with the ceiling fan on low. It's wonderful to be back in the Asian heat: I was meant to be born somewhere hot.

With my luggage in storage and new clothes complete, I catch the now-familiar train to Malaysia: the Asian man opposite me has a T-shirt that says make sharks fin soup history - not the sharks and the train rocks me to sleep as I lie between crisp white linen sheets.

The border crossing is smooth, five carriages continue into Malaysia and I buy rice, wrapped in banana-leaf, an egg and a piece of chicken for a late breakfast before getting off at Butterworth where I ferry to the gastronomic Mecca of Malaysian food, Penang Island.

Yet again, I'm lucky: it's time for Yue Lan, the Festival of the Hungry Ghost, held to appease the souls of the dead who have been released from purgatory for a month and I've not seen this before. At a temple, huge joss sticks are burning, large paper robes hang from the walls and under the eyes of the large ghost, the table is laden with food. Huge amplifiers screech and when it rains, I'm invited to share a doorway: the noise continues - placating and frightening away any nasty ghosts.

Late at night, on day three of the festival, I join a procession, following the five-metre high ghost from the roadside temple, slowing as low-hanging phone and power wires are lifted out of the way by men carrying long, T-shaped sticks. At the waterfront, the ghost is placed on a high pyre of paper goodies for its afterlife: money, hats, shoes and bags of other paper offerings create a large mountain for the ghost to sit on. A match is struck and six men run around the perimeter, pouring flammable liquid to the base. It burns fiercely and hotly and as people kneel and pray small pieces of burning paper fly into the air and back down among the crowd. Finally, all that is left is the metal frame.

Two days later Carlo and I are on Pangkor Island relaxing before the wedding and although the sun and beach is great, I'm concerned about the monkeys above me as they bicker among themselves and I'm relieved when they continue down the beachfront.

I'm lying on my pink 'hello dolly' piece of material I bought in Bangkok: it's my frayed-edged towel, sheet and sarong this trip. Nearby, crabs of various sizes are doing their housework - rolling balls of sand away from the entrances to their tunnel homes. I photograph the wonderful designs they make and laugh as they chase away neighbours and scuttle among the purple blossoms lying on the beach. I also take a photo for two young Japanese women who are impressed I have the Asian-wide fashionable cat-character on my sarong: I ask them how to greet Naoko's mother when I meet her and record the word phonetically.

When we wake in the morning, I find an extended family of mosquitoes has been banqueting on me. 'They must like kiwifruit, Kiwi-blood. You are a good roommate - bait for mosquitoes - they haven't touched me,' Carlo laughs.

'They won't get me tonight - my net's going up,' and I find some pink synthetic twine to tie it up; pink is the colour of the moment.

On our last day we hire a scooter and ride around the island, stopping at a beach to eat durian, the smelly fruit which most westerners screw up their nose at. Carlo swims too but I play at the edge: since I saw the young Chinese man drown, I am dubious about water that's not very calm. As we leave a monkey charges towards me, teeth bared. Screaming, I drop my bag and run. Carlo screams too and chases the offender and when my bag has been searched, the marauding monkey drops it and my champion brings it back. 'I never trust them,' I tell him as he laughs at my fear.

Moments later we are accosted again - this time by polite young students who are conducting a visitor survey. As we answer their questions the same monkey - a male with a silver grey ruffle around his head - charges us again. Our bigger male charges back yelling, screaming and hitting an empty water bottle as he runs. The monkey stops and faces his mad attacker, who doubles his noise and the monkey retreats, screeching as he climbs a tree: Carlo bangs the tree with the bottle, a satisfying sound and the smaller primate slinks off towards his harem. The next morning when we catch the bus for the ferry I'm exhausted - I've been dreaming about monkeys chasing me all night.

Naoko's family has arranged accommodation in their hotel and we backpackers can't believe the luxury: TV, 2 huge beds, shower, bath, fluffy towels and even a western toilet with soft paper supplied. We laugh as we order an iron to smooth the wrinkles from our new clothes - neither of us has used one for ages.

After breakfast, we change into our fine new clothes, wrap our wedding gifts and go downstairs to meet the family. 'Hajimemashite' I say to Naoko's mother - she responds by telling me thank you, she is fine. I have used half my Japanese words and she speaks only a little English. She is exquisite in her deep blue kimono and Naoko's sister is wearing an Indian outfit - a lovely gesture to her soon-to-be-brother-in-law. We're sure this Japanese, Malaysian-Indian wedding will be interesting and colourful, and an uncle has been assigned to look after us, the only western guests among 800 people. Naoko, Carlo and I met on Palau Perhentian a few years ago and have remained in touch since then but we haven't met Bala. The wedding ceremony will be Hindu: Naoko has changed her name to Rashmi - picked by Bala and meaning Ray of light - and last night, bracelets were to be given to her and her hands delicately patterned with henna.

The large hall is decorated with streamers, we are seated at the front and when Bala arrives, dressed in red, he walks up the red carpet, under an arch of white flowers and onto the stage. This is the religious part of the wedding: when it's finished he leaves and shortly after Naoko arrives dressed in beautiful blues and adorned with fabulous bracelets, necklaces and earrings: she's gorgeous. Once her religious part is complete she leaves and Bala returns, following two men playing a drum and a chanter. He's accompanied by his younger cousin; they're both dressed in white and Bala's carrying red and white flowers and has a garland of flowers around his neck. Naoko also arrives back dressed in red and gold and is carrying and wearing, the same beautiful flowers as her husband-to-be. As she walks by, her sister unexpectedly asks Carlo and me to join them as they go onto the stage.

It's wonderful to be included in her family group and I'm fascinated by everything. They and their family are frequently taking off the garlands and putting them on the other person; we all bless them with saffron coloured rice; and they symbolically wash their parents' feet. Naoko is given another beautiful necklace and two toe rings for each foot. They are now husband and wife, the wedding ceremony is over - they symbolically change places on the seat they've been sharing.

The round tables are now loaded with delicious food. At each place is a little box, a gift of sweets and nuts for the guests and as we eat, a line forms beside the happy couple. Gifts are being given - most seem to be giving envelopes while Carlo and I have physical items for them. We feel a little self-conscious with our parcels: mine is small but Carlo has a large package and I'm sure they are surprised to receive them, as we now realise the traditional gift here is money. Eventually we join close family and friends at Bala's family home. It's been a wonderful day and at the end of it, one of Bala's university friends takes me south to Parit Jawa and Carlo goes back to Italy for his sister's wedding.

From the end of the old jetty, I watch the sky lighten and Parit Jawa residents greet me as if I never left some months ago. As before I count the storks then go for breakfast then walk into town. The owner of the photography shop nods at me as do people in the shop where I wrote the report about the lessor adjutants for the Minister. 'Where's Mansur?' they ask. 'I don't know. He doesn't know I'm here' I explain, continuing my walk to re-acquaint myself with the town, its sights, smells and sounds. Returning to places can be disappointing but I love non-tourist places like this - they just carry on whether I'm there or not. I stay 48 hours, catch up with Mansur, who tells me only 40 chicks survived this season and he's happy I've transferred all his charts and notes onto a floppy disc for his thesis.

Standing in the rain, I laugh at the storks. Despite living and eating on the mudflats, they look as if they hate the rain. They're hunched, motionless and look miserable. When the brief but heavy rain stops, they stretch and shake their big wings then stand with their wings outstretched to dry or just continue fishing with their long beaks: when I go to bed, a mouse runs across my bed and I chase it around the room. I finally open the door and chase it again until it runs into the hall.

Next morning I'm again at the jetty where boats are preparing to go fishing, I'm disappointed that mangroves have been cut down near the car park and I watch herons and kingfishers catch their breakfast in the retreating tide. I say farewell, have asam pedas for breakfast - the fish is superb, the piquant sauce divine - then bus south to the bottom of the peninsula.

Ringing a homestay in Johor Bharu I'm told they have a bed and will come and pick me up. I wait on the road and soon a man on a big black motorbike arrives and I'm taken to a comfortable home in a suburb close to the city-centre - a good base for a week or so. Monsoon season is starting - shortly after I arrive and have coffee it's pouring. The thunder and lightening is impressive - the hens, roosters in the front yard look unhappy; the duck is enjoying it.

'Have you eaten?' Chow, my host, asks then invites me to the market for a meal. The jumble of stalls near the Hindu temple downtown has been tamed and moved to a new site but the food is exemplary. He doesn't eat but has a few beers and I'm glad he insists on crash helmets - his riding is fine and we arrive back at Footloose with no problems and over the next few days, he takes me to his favourite food places.

Tonight Vera, a German woman staying here and I are joining Chow and his British expat friends from Kuala Lumpur for dinner. When we arrive, an expat Australian man and his Malay wife are there - he's not the sort of person I would choose to spend time with, loud, obnoxious and sexist. Despite this, the evening is fun, Vera is celebrating her appointment to teach English at a Chinese school and tomorrow I'm off to explore the east coast.

Over a dish of chicken rice, the Aussie starts coughing. He reminds me of other overweight men choking over food and I feel disgusted. His face is red and he's still coughing - his eyes meet mine: absolute fear is reflected back at me and I realise he can't breathe. His friends are watching, his wife continues eating. I jump up, wrap my arms around his body and can only just clasp my hands under his ribs. I try the Heimlich manoeuvre to dislodge the food, he keeps choking and I try repeatedly. 'For God's sake you do it,' I tell his British friend and ex-business partner. 'He's too big for me, too heavy.' He takes over, after three attempts the food moves and slowly his face changes from blue to crimson, pink, and then white. He's distressed and his friend takes him to a doctor. Eva and I leave shortly afterwards, walking home along dark roads with no footpaths. The next morning Chow rings to check on him. 'He had to have an anaesthetic and the piece of bone and gristle was taken out of his windpipe,' he reports and I laugh about saving someone I didn't like. I hope it's not true that I'm now responsible for him like some Asian beliefs states.

Before leaving, I check my emails, my Alaskan friend Ingrid has tracked me down through a Malaysian website where something I'd written about the storks is evidently on line. Lynn is still in Cambodia: 'I'm not surprised you are savouring the delights of Malaysia - however I can't imagine you not enjoying yourself anywhere you are' she writes. I also learn that women, at 50, have more chance of being killed by a terrorist than finding a man: how did they work that out? Do I care? 'Where are you bag-lady?' asks my son. 'How about meeting in Thailand before you go home?'

It takes all night to get to Kota Bharu and I'm angry when a taxi driver tells me Zeck's homestay has closed down. 'It's dishonourable of you to tell lies. It is open. I'll get another taxi to take me', he looks guilty, and calls 'ok miss I take you.' I get into another cab and arrive at 4 30 in the morning and sit on my pack and watch the sky lighten and soon the muezzin is calling. Ten minutes later, I hear a door opening - prayers are over, the rest of the day begins.

'Selamat pagi,' I call over the big gate. 'Selamat pagi,' is the reply and seconds later the gate is unlocked. 'Ah, Heather. Welcome back. You have a good time with your family?' Sitting over coffee, we catch up with the past six months: the invasion of Iraq, how the fear of terrorism means tourist numbers are down - especially in Islamic countries - and they are struggling. I stay a few days; see the weekly bird-singing competition; watch men practice their traditional Zikir Barat music and eat at the night market. I also meet Claire, an English woman who is also going to the Perhentians and days later, she and I decide to canoe the calm seas around Pulau Perhentian Kecil. We negotiate a price for the day, wave goodbye and take off on our adventure. 'Bye, have a good day, come back safely.' We're an odd couple, she's tall, young and English and I'm short, old and Kiwi.

'Have you canoed before?'

'No,' she tells me, 'can you do a canoe roll?' I admit to not having that skill either and we start paddling - awkwardly - unsure if our paddles should be in unison or not and head out of the bay. Two men are paddling in the same direction - they soon disappear from view and already we are wet - mostly from my inept paddling. 'Don't they realise this is a marathon not a sprint?' says Claire. We've been on the water for 20 minutes and my arms are sore.

The water is amazingly clear and smooth and when we stop paddling, can see the bottom: we're hoping a turtle will pass by. After an hour we reach the top of the island, the beach looks inviting and now that we are in a paddling rhythm, we've stopped splashing water into the canoe, so decide stop and empty it.

We take the shortest route through the boulders that guard the beach: the tide is falling and we suddenly we're stuck on a rock. I use the paddle to push us off - a metre later, we're on top of another and no matter how hard I push the paddle, we remain motionless. 'Abandon ship' I say and climb out.

The rocks are slippery, the coral sharp. Claire clambers out and promptly falls over, soaking herself from head to toe and grazing her shin. Once she is upright, we push the canoe to the shore, picking carefully through rocks and coral - trying to keep our feet on the patches of sand. Claire is balance-challenged; she falls again, grazing her other shin!

I notice she has no shoes on so wait while she puts them on and a small stingray remains motionless on the seafloor. As we start towards the deserted beach again a couple walk out of the bush and watch as we clumsily reach the shore, collapse on the beach and check our wounds. I have a small cut on one foot, another on a hand: my companion is bloody. She examines her wet daypack - I am horrified to see her camera and travel documents are in it.

Dragging the now empty canoe to a rock-free area, we leave the beach. It is immediately deep and calm as we paddle and look at the coloured corals and fish we glide over. 'Why isn't the water clear like this in the UK?' asks Claire. I have no idea and she says she knows a scientist she will ask. 'I love the brain coral. It's just like an underwater garden.' I love it too. It's getting hotter and hotter; I put my pink and white candy-striped towel on my head. 'You look like a sheikh with that on,' Claire tells me, 'we need a canopy on this boat. Perhaps I'll invent a canoe canopy.'

We are feeling more confident and when we reach Coral Bay, we stop for a drink and fried bananas: it has taken us longer to get here - the halfway point - than we thought it would take to complete the circuit. Emptying our canoe again we get in, 'we should have a bailer,' Claire declares.

'Ok let's do this in perfect unison' I say - vanity means I want the people on the beach to think we're good at this and by concentrating hard, we paddle flawlessly for this stretch under people's eyes: our egos are sure everyone will be watching us. Our arms are really tired by the time we reach the fishing village, where, under the gaze of free-ranging goats, we drink coffee, eat tasty fried rice and are soon back paddling.

It's late afternoon, the wind and waves are increasing and the sea is choppy on this home stretch. Boats are travelling between the islands, creating confused wakes: the canoe is filling fast - we should have emptied it at the village. We keep the bow into the waves and wind to minimise the water getting in with us. At last we reach the point and head for the safety of Long Beach - only another 20 metres and the wind will lose its effect on us. 'We're just about home and hosed,' I tell Claire, 'there's Moonlight.'

'Will we make it without sinking?' She's concerned and so am I but don't want to make her more nervous. 'Oh ye of little faith,' I tease her, 'the boat will float, so even if we fall out we'll just stay with the boat. It won't sink.' Now we're paddling towards the beach, the wind is side on and the water is slopping side to side in the canoe.

Three speedboats hurry past us, our canoe is low in the water and when the combined waves hit us we nearly tip but use the paddles to stabilise us. Laughing nervously we watch as the next wake approaches and again balance precariously on the edge of tipping.

'I think we are going to go over Claire. The most important thing is for us to stay with the boat.' The third wash hits us, it's the smallest of all and the water on board starts its familiar sloshing side to side. This time the canoe capsizes. I fall free, the water is warm and surprisingly my sunglasses remain on. Frighteningly, Claire, with her lovely long legs has a foot trapped: she doesn't panic, but goes back under water, frees her foot and surfaces - still clutching her favourite sarong.

The canoe is upside-down - we clutch it - it spins 360 degrees repeatedly. 'I'll go to the other side,' Claire says and when she does, it stops spinning and we hold on. Two boats pass nearby but despite the bright sarong they don't see us. We're drifting towards the oyster and barnacle-covered rocks and I have visions of deep and painful scratches to my entire body. Another boat is heading toward the point from Long Beach: Claire waves her sarong, I wave an arm and we call, the nose of the boat drops, they have seen us and I'm relieved. The Coral Sky Divers captain signals for a water taxi and as they approach us a young blonde woman dives into the water, retrieves a paddle and swims over to us. 'Are you ok?' We tell her we're fine - just embarrassed. 'Can you get into the canoe if we turn it over?'

'No way,' I say, 'I have no upper body strength at any time. We've just paddled around the island and I'm exhausted.' She waves the dive boat over and I'm hauled upwards by two people: when my waist reaches the gunwale I hook my leg over it and relieved, fall into the boat and lie there just like a large fish they've landed. Moments later Claire, in her blue bikini, is lying beside me. The water taxi drags the canoe onto his boat and unbelievably we can see Claire's backpack still jammed under a seat.

On the beach Moonlight staff are watching to see what happened and to whom. Once they know we are only bruised - from getting into the dive boat - they tease us unmercifully. Six hours in a leaky boat is hard work and I've learnt a new travel rule: when hiring a canoe make sure it doesn't leak.

Days later I'm back in Thailand having a short holiday with my grandson and his parents who are also on their way back home. Within a week, after a year of impulses that have propelled me around the world, I'm back in New Zealand

I don't know if amazes anyone else, but it certainly amazes me that I've been on these journeys. That despite grief, despite alcoholism and despite being a late starter, I've had a wonderful time, a fantastic life. All I wanted to do was to avoid the crisis of turning 50 and I found a magical world: my own flying carpet and, like Mabel, I too believe that travel is more important for women than crochet work. My life is richer rather than poorer, colourful and bright: never dull. And now I'm heading for sixty, heading for home and, with post-travel-distress on the horizon, I sit on the beach wondering what I will do, or where I will go, to celebrate that?

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### About the author

Heather's family migrated (from Scotland, Ireland, Cornwall, and England) to New Zealand between 1860 and 1872. Born with a desire to travel, and after the deaths of her husband and son - and her recovery from alcoholism - she finally ran away from home in 1995.

Her articles and stories are published worldwide: for in-flight magazines such as Emirates & Korean Air, UK travel magazines, Sydney Morning Herald, and in many New Zealand newspapers and magazines. She was travel editor for a no longer published newspaper, and had a regular travel column in Homestyle Magazine. Short stories of hers have been selected for two anthologies, and has had the occasional poem published.

She lives in Wellington, New Zealand and is a member of the NZ Society of Authors, TRAVCOM (NZ Travel Communicators Association).

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### Connect with me online

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My webpage: <http://www.kiwitravelwriter.com/>
