Don't Tell Mum: Hair-raising Messages Home from Gap-year Travellers

by Hoggart, Simon

  Thankfully they got the boot open and a collective cheer rang out as the men all grabbed our bags and us, and forced us into their bike/cab thingies. We got through the border and they charged us $20 each!!!! Which is more than we’ve paid for anything! Emily was ready to kill someone, but seeing as we were surrounded by angry men, one of whom came up really close to me and licked his lips, I was like ‘Emily, pay and go NOW!’ so we got on a bus full of local women, ready for the 3 and a half hour journey to Leon.

  Latin America is never easy.

  The first time we tried to get into Paraguay we got deported over a dispute over entry tax. This immigration official got on the bus and hauled us off, then tried to make us pay some mystery tax which we were having none of. He took us into the room with loads of armed guards, and tried to intimidate us into giving him the money. To cut a long story short, we ended up getting escorted to the border. But it was all right, we went in the back way next day.

  Or take this scary adventure in Mexico.

  Anyhow, yesterday was meant for going to Oaxaca, however had a slight mishap along the way, as there was a teachers’ strike and we got a few hours outside to find the road blocked, and the teachers had set fire to a bus and were carrying rocks and bats, and we heard gun shots, at this point, 3 a.m., all we wanted to do was go back, but half the bus didn’t want to, so we sat there for another hour or so until the bus driver made the decision to go all the way back, 6 hours, what a nightmare.

  Having an amazing time, can’t believe I have only a month left, and then it’s all over!!!!

  And our government complains about the ‘militant’ teachers of the NUT. When did you last see petrol bombs stored in the staff room?

  It’s a common experience for gappers to find that just when they think everything has been sorted out, it suddenly gets much worse. Or the police arrive. Or both. The email continues:

  We’d been driving for 15 minutes when the bus was stopped and was searched by the police, the women frantically started packing things away under their skirts and tried to get us to take their packages!!!!!! So the bus turned around and headed back to the border, 20 minutes at the border and we set off again, only to be stopped AGAIN by the police. But they let us go, and the driver drove so, so fast for a bit. Didn’t really know if we were being chased or not! So we got to Leon … woke up at 6 this morning to what I’m sure was gunfire. We are in an open dorm and I have NEVER been that scared in my life. At one point it sounded like someone was shooting at the hostel door. My heart was pounding, I was shaking, could hardly breathe and felt sick. In fact I don’t want to talk about it cos it makes me feel all those things again even tho’ it’s light out!

  This young man took a very long journey from Brazil, into Argentina, and learned that buses can bring other perils.

  Just spent 36 hours on a bus with a Brazilian who thought he could speak English but it sounded more like Elfish. He was wearing a lime green shirt, and kept on asking me GCSE French oral-style questions about siblings, likes and dislikes, etc. to practise. After five hours I got bored, and made up many contrasting personas. I now have three black, orange-haired cousins who live in Sweden. But I don’t, so got bored talking about them after a while. I got so desperate, I made myself sick on him. (Didn’t really, I just swallowed all manners and found the only other seat available on the bus, next to the non-flushing loo, but I figured my sense of smell was a fair trade.)

  But gappers love to find fun and excitement amid the worst privations. This is from South America.

  Hey guys, tips to entertain you on your next sleepless bus journey.

  1. Game called ‘List it’. Write down the letters of the alphabet and try to think of definitive brand names for every one. It’s a hoot.

  2. Articulate … make up your own. It’s amazing.

  3. Teach fellow foreign travellers English songs, but to different tunes. That’s a challenge. Although, ‘If you wanna be my lover’ to the tune of ‘Jerusalem’ is not the ideal soundtrack for 17 hours on a bus.

  4. Other greats include: charades, sticker on forehead game, although when playing with aforementioned Germans avoid the classic dictator. (We thought they were Dutch.)

  Northern China appears to have a service which even our own shambolic privatised bus companies would blench at. This comes from a particularly adventurous young woman travelling with a friend.

  We arrived at the Altai bus station in Urumqui and booked a ticket to Buerjin (Burqin) in northern Xinjiang, a rather remote destination, but we were encouraged by the fact that there were no other Westerners in the bus station, only Uighurs selling baked whole goats, with a fetching red ribbon around their spiced skulls, always a good omen in my books. So we bought a ticket and eventually managed to locate our bus (the old rickety type that has transported too many live pigs in its day). Of course we soon found out why our tickets were slightly less expensive than we had expected, turns out we had the back bunk at the top, and we had to share it with four other people, which is no mean feat. If you’re a typical bony, verging on slightly emaciated-looking Chinese, then this poses no problem, but two healthy foreigners is a different story altogether, lots of kicking, elbowing, foot shuffling had to ensue before we successfully managed to install ourselves in a seat and stake enough territory to at least have minor leg-manoeuvring capabilities. It appeared that we were going to have to share the back seat with four other people, a rather corpulent Muslim, a shrivelled old Chinese woman, a man clad in army surplus gear, a young boy in a Juventus T-shirt, and a cat, so it appeared we’d drawn the short straw. About 2 km out of town it became apparent that we weren’t so much on a road as on a dirt track, which appeared to have been built in a pre-industrialized era, before the advent of well, anything that you would associate with road-building. What then ensued was 16 hours of non-stop head bashing, gripping on to a window, or bag, or fellow passenger, anything to prevent that fatal collision with the ceiling. I think the cat was grabbed at one stage, much to its personal dismay. It got so bad that at one stage Imogen’s head actually punctured the ceiling and nearly made contact with the metal shell of the bus, much to the amusement of our fellow passengers. (Loud chortling was also heard from the direction of the bus driver, think he was aiming for those potholes on purpose.) Eventually Imogen decided that the floor of the bus looked like a more comfortable option. It has its benefits – you have to go further before hitting the roof, though you do get trampled on those sporadic, middle of the night, middle of nowhere, stops for the toilet.

  Nothing stops our gappers, least of all a Chinese cat and a hole in the bus’s roof. Undeterred, the two girls continue heading north towards Kazakhstan.

  On sighting an unidentifiable alien, people swarm round you like a pack of famished vultures. We were being quoted 800 yuan, 200 yuan, $150, nobody would tell us how much it should really cost for the 5 to 6 hour journey there and we were told that we could not pay for a single, oneway trip, but a return, where we would have to arrange the pick-up date, sounded highly dubious to us, and it’s not exactly the first thing you want to deal with while nursing a bus-invoked headache. So we decided to get away from the mob and grab some lunch, more mutton and yak tea for us, mmmmm, appetizing. We had been back at the bus station for about an hour when we were approached by a young Kazakh boy, who said that he was going to Hanas in a truck and they needed two more people to fill the seats and split the price. It would be 75 yuan for the one-way trip. It sounded good to us, so we climbed aboard, first stop, the garage, where there were a few ‘minor problems’ with the engine, oh well, nothing serious there then, yes I know, a bell or two should have been ringing at that stage. Anyway, after three hours, stuck in a grimy coalyard, we eventually got back on the road.

  You will be unsurprised to learn that, while the scenery is sensational, the truck is not quite up to the job of passing through it.

  Halfway up a particularly nasty hill, the engine gave out and we found ourselves in the rather unexpected position of r
olling back down the hill. We jumped out and much shouting and swearing in Kazakh ensued, before the father of the family was eventually instructed by the driver to quickly throw a large stone or boulder under the back tyre. It was a weird spectacle, and reminded me somewhat of the hammer-throwing in the Olympics. He managed to hoist a stone on to his shoulder and throw it in the general direction of the car, luckily it managed to lodge behind the back wheel, to rounds of applause from the rest of us. The driver attempted to restart the engine to no avail. So we waited by the side of the road, as dusk finally settled, waiting for a truck coming our way that might give us a tow to the top. We scanned the horizon for the distant rumble of wheels on stone, or the resultant cloud of dust, all eyes were focused on the road. After about 40 minutes our ears pricked up as we heard a low murmur and a hazy shroud of desert sand rose in the air, our hearts began to beat faster, it was growing cold and there was no protection out here, all hopes were pinned on this oncoming vehicle, we were going to be rescued at last. It was at that point that the herd of yaks rounded the corner …

  But the truck is coaxed into life, and somehow they manage the five-hour journey in only twelve hours, spending a wonderful three days in Hanas (Kanas), which is on the border of four countries – China, Russia, Mongolia and Kazakhstan.

  They seem to have been lucky, however, compared to these young women, who decide to take the bus over the Himalayas to Leh, in Kashmir, in the far north of India. This carries them, or tries to carry them, over passes up to 15,000 feet high. They start in the town of Manali, where it is pouring with rain.

  Eventually the bus turns up, no room in the boot for our bags so they’re chucked on the roof. ‘Yes, yes, madam, waterproof, 10 rupees please.’ And the journey begins.

  Except that it’s still pissing down and the spectacular view is slightly blocked by massive clouds and it’s bloody terrifying swerving around the tight corners, literally a single-lane road with a complete cliff drop over the edge, screeching to a halt now and again to let a lorry pass, praying it stays that inch away from us and doesn’t knock us over the edge … now we’ve reached the first of four passes, this one going up to over 4,000 metres above sea level (that’s high to me and you). The rain (that still hasn’t stopped) turns to snow, a blizzard in fact. Glaciers thicker than the height of the bus have been chopped in half to make way for the road, we pass trucks abandoned in thick snow, it turns out our windscreen wipers don’t really work, and I’ve never felt so cold in my life, 4 jumpers, 2 blankets, 2 pairs of socks, a hat and gloves, and we’re still shivering.

  Eventually, against all the odds, we reach the end of the pass, a little village in a valley with a police checkpoint and chai stalls. No toilets, though, so we have to run up the hill in the pouring rain. A half-hour stop turns into a 4-hour stop and eventually we find out that we can’t go on because the Leh road has been destroyed by landslides and heavy rain. It’s too dangerous for us to go back to Manali through the blizzard (which we had just come through, wish someone had told us that) so we settle down for long, comfortable (!?) night on the bus … we’re parked down the road from the shops so every time we want food or chai we have to make a 200-metre dash in the heavy rain. We don’t want to get all our clothes wet, they take too long to dry, so before we get off the bus I take off my blankets, skirt and socks, roll up my trousers to my knees, put on my flip-flops, yes, that is as painful as it sounds, but worth it to get back into everything when you’re back on the bus. Glad I brought my -3 degrees sleeping bag, some people didn’t.

  It gets worse. They’re told they will have to stay a few days until it stops raining, when it will be possible to repair the road. Thirty or forty travellers are crammed into the lobby of a guesthouse, where they can sleep on the concrete floor. They retrieve their luggage from the roof rack, and find it all completely soaked. Finally the sun comes out, and the buses head back for Manali, pausing only to crash into a jeep on the way.

  Things are little better in Kenya.

  According to Rough Guide, Mount Elgon should only be attempted by four-wheel drive, but this was obviously a typo because the bus made a valiant attempt, though when we got out at the park gates the water tank exploded and blew the front seat out, which we probably should have taken as a warning sign. Unperturbed, about 15 boys and the three of us sat on the roof to see the buffalo and the bus set off up the mountain. It didn’t get very far before the engine cut out, we started rolling backwards down a steep slope, all the girls were screaming, Trish had hold of me by the back of my T-shirt, so I didn’t slide down the side of the bus, and one boy got so worried he jumped off. We were saved by a large rock which the rear wheel hit, tearing a hole in the bottom.

  Think that’s bad? Try Vietnam, from which a young female gapper wrote an email headed ‘My Private Hell’. She takes a van to cross from Laos into Vietnam. This proves to be a mistake.

  I have been scared of heights all my life. So imagine my delight, as we came over the brow of the hill, just over the border, to see not merely sheer vertical drops falling away from us into mist-covered oblivion, not just a winding mountain pass consisting entirely of hairpin bends snaking blindly into thick fog, but no barrier, no markings, no edge to the road. But thick slippery mud, more than a foot deep, and piles of rock and rubble, fallen from the cliff sides above, all covering the road, if you can call it a road. And the moisture from the freezing fog had turned its surface into slippery, trickling slop, that fell away from the cliff edge into nothingness. Did I mention I was scared of heights?

  I wanted to get out and walk, but I didn’t trust my shaking legs to carry me. We slipped and our wheels skidded not inches from the edge. On two occasions the van door swung open and the fella wedged next to me nearly fell out. In the true spirit of pathetic fallacy the weather turned grey and sinister, and we were met by a procession of miserable images, including a lorry stacked high with boxes of half-dead dogs, headed for the wok.

  The same student goes to Thailand, and makes another mistake – she gets on a bus there too.

  In an attempt to beat karma at its own game, when we got to Bangkok we bought a deep-fried scorpion, thinking ‘you bite us, we’ll eat you’. Problem was, it tasted repulsive, and we had to wash it down with a bag of deep-fried crickets. And I think it pissed off someone up there, one of those many-armed dog / monkey / pigeon / gods with an interest in maintaining balance in these parts. Although causing our bus to career off the motorway and into three cars seemed a little unfair. It’s okay, no one was hurt. I just remember Daisy calmly looking up from a back-seat game of cards and saying slowly, ‘We’re all going to die.’

  How very different from the bus ride in, say, Birmingham, where students catch the 11.30 a.m. early-morning service to Edgbaston. Other people make a different mistake – they decide to transport themselves independently, like this young man in Thailand.

  I was briskly taken through the workings of a motorbike, a large, throbbing motorbike. It all seemed fairly basic, so I flung myself astride this thing, enthusiastic, anticipating exploration of the island. I pootled for about 5 metres where I had to get off again for George to get gas. Then it all went pear-shaped. Started the engine, teased the throttle, and the bloody thing ran off. You’ve Been Framed would have had a field day as my motor careered away from me, then collapsed head first into another rank of hire bikes. Five minutes later, looking bemused, I was surrounded by hordes of Thais, all claiming links with one or other of the damaged bikes. My wallet has been relieved of £150.

  River travel can be just as perilous.

  Unbelievably, neither me nor Vanessa has experienced any kind of bottom problem since being away (famous last words!). In fact, the lack of toilets was the least of our problems on the slow boat down the Mekong. Try 8 hours on a wooden plank with no room to stand, nowhere to put your feet, and a freezing cold wind blowing through your now-soaked clothes, thanks to that really big wave at the start. But to be fair, our Mekong experience was a true pain / pleasure combo
. The first day was, I’ll admit, an exercise in endurance, but after that our luck changed. We found a guesthouse that boasted ‘Electric Light Bulb’ (not to be sneezed at in these parts) and next day we boarded a boat that had just that extra foot of head room, just those 2 extra inches for your feet, that made everything bearable. Granted, the extra room was for cargo, and soon enough we were loading up with rice sacks, coconuts, random hitch-hikers, some chickens, and a pig. (The pig was wrapped entirely in wicker, so that it looked just like a wicker pig, but we knew it was a real pig because it kept squealing, particularly when one of the crew members accidentally dropped it in the river. It’s okay, they fished it out again.) I soon discovered that a sack of rice, no matter how tightly packed, is infinitely more easy on the arse than a wooden plank. And besides, it was a sunny day and the scenery just spectacular. Worth a numb bum.

  These young women were travelling around Kenya.

  After leaving the Masai Mara we travelled north to a campsite by a hippo-infested lake. Buses seem to be the best way to get about here but the drivers are maniacs! It seems they prefer to drive in the ditches in order to preserve the tarmac on the roads. Crazy, and they stuff as many people on as well so the whole experience is a B.O. nightmare … none of the distances on the map seem to be accurate, which resulted on Sunday in a 25-mile bike ride to a lake. This was a seriously SH 1 T day. As previously explained, road conditions are not excellent. Nearly fell into a ditch due to crap brakes, and much of the journey was spent walking as the roads turned into sandy tracks. At one point I was struggling up a hill and a herd of about 100 cattle came hurtling down the hillside towards me. Being bicycly-challenged I ditched my bike in the road and ran away. On the way back we also managed to trespass on some colonial’s land by accident and were chased by 6 snarling and barking dogs. Yesterday was also hardcore, as we walked around a national park, which ended up being a 3-mile hike, again due to awful signs everywhere. Stopped for lunch for a rest but after about 2 minutes a baboon jumped on to our picnic table and snatched our bread away! Thankfully Tom won the battle and the bread was not lost.