Forget the olympics, now the real countdown begins

Despite knowing for a long time this is what I was going to do, it was still surprisingly hard to press the “proceed” button. Having searched for, and found, exactly the flights I wanted, I just needed to enter my credit card details and it would all become real.

Then why did the butterflies immediately kick in? Why did a tsunami of indecisiveness wash over me? Maybe it is the reality that the clock now starts ticking. Each day that passes is one less that I will live in the UK. Knowing that I do really now have to start tying up the loose strings of my English life. Closing down bank accounts. Cancelling memberships. Packing up belongings. Saying those emotional goodbyes to family and good friends. Not really sure of when I will be seeing many of them again.

Or maybe it’s not that at all. Perhaps it is just the fact that I now realise, and it’s starting to sink in, that I will have to rescind the season ticket for my beloved Manchester United, the team that I first watched live in the late 1970s. In the days when football was football. The Theatre of Dreams was simply, Old Trafford. And the glory days of Best, Charlton and Law were nothing but a distant memory. Long gone, with me continually suffering through the 80s at the hands of the red half of Merseyside. That, of course, was until the day at Crossley Heath school in 1986 when I heard that big Ron Atkinson had been sacked and a dour Scotsman called Alex Ferguson was on his way south. The rest, as they say, is history.



So, I have my flights. On 1st August i will be leaving these shores and heading down under. And yes, it's a very long flight, so i've pushed the boat out (on a plane?) and for the first time ever I booked business class seats (in keeping with ticking things off my life bucket list). Singapore Airlines will be taking me, via Munich, to Singapore, a city I’ve visited on a few occasions, always enjoying the great restaurants, and (exorbitantly) expensive nightlife. Little wonder that Nick Leeson had to resort to being a rogue trader to fund his flashy lifestyle and late nights in “Harry’s Bar”.

Three days later I will be headed to Perth. Glorious Perth. Gateway to beautiful Fremantle, and quite possibly some of the best fish and chips in the whole of Australia, from Cicerello’s by the marina. Afterwards, washed down by a delectable home brewed beer from the Little Creatures micro brewery. I will also take a side trip to Rotto, Rottnest Island, and visit the famous little quokas. It was the quokas that gave Rottnest it’s name, as the early Dutch explorers sailed past, thinking they could see large rats, hence coining the sobriquet, Ratnest Island.



After my week in Perth, and catching up with family, it will be time for another bucket list item. One of the world's greatest rail journeys. One that many people think I'm mad for doing and look completely perplexed when I say I'm choosing to do. The epic Indian Pacific train journey from Perth to Sydney, taking 3 whole days, leaving just once a week, and rocking into Sydney every Wednesday morning. Can't you just get a flight and do it in 5 hours, they ask? Well, even if you need to ask that question, we have a very different attitude to travelling.

There we have it. Plans made. Countdown starts. My days in blighty are, literally, numbered.

Will I become a “Pom in Paradise?” Watch this space.

Our Fran in Havana

Caveat emptor. Let the buyer beware indeed! Then again, shopping in Havana isn’t the same multi sensual experience it is as I’m walking around the Trafford Centre. It’s not even just as simple as going along to the, depleted, stores with your wallet. You need to make sure you have the correct currency for a tourist. That’s right, there are two currencies, one for locals and one for tourists.

Since Fidel Castro ruled out the US$ as a legal currency in Cuba in 2004, it was replaced with a “convertible peso”, CUC$. This is what we use. The locals meanwhile use the plain old peso.



So, armed with my CUC$ I headed to the nearest “supermarket” to buy some much needed sun cream. An easy task in most parts of the world. Not so in Havana. Where the big, 1950s style shops are emptier, of goods, than they are full. That said, I did find one bottle that looked suspiciously like sun cream, and it had a big red SPF4 on the front. Result. A high factor sun block to protect me as I wander around, exploring Habana Vieja.



Fast forward to lunchtime, sat in the café, inspecting my throbbing arms. They had come to resemble some of the sausages that suffered at one of my late dad’s (referring to his passing, not his tardiness) bbqs. The cream I had bought for the princely sum of approx. £1.20, was about as much use as a Starbucks loyalty card in a Cuban coffee shop.

I had more success in picking up some cheap sunglasses. Another packing failure. You might be wondering what I did pack, bearing in mind I was coming on a summer holiday, to gorgeous sunshine, with no sunglasses or sun cream. Live and learn is my motto.

So, off I went, to try and pick a pair up, armed with my new word of the day, gafas de sol – sunglasses. The first doorway with a cardboard stand holding sunglasses was presided over by a quite imposing looking lady. I pointed to the ones I wanted, so I’d resemble Mr Blonde from Reservoir Dogs, and asked, “Cuanto cuesta?”

Ten, she replied in Spanish. OK, time to bargain, and I countered with “cinco?”. Offering 5, I thought she would meet me half way. No. Ten, she growled back. I know which battles I’m destined to lose, and this was one of them. Undeterred, I went a couple of doorways down, met with a much more amenable stall holder, and bartered the exact same pair for 8CUC$. The best £5 I have spent for some time.



Let’s go to work.

And so it was, I wanted to go to Havana

Watching the Godfather and how the gangsters such as Meyer Lansky, friend of the then dictator Batista, had to flee their illegal casinos on New Years Eve 1958 as Fidel marched into town, announcing the revolution, I wanted to go to Havana.

Visiting Rosario in Argentina, the birthplace of Che Guevara, and in later years visiting his family home in Alta Gracia, near Cordoba, I wanted to go to Havana.



Reading the great novels of Hemingway, affectionately known in Cuba simply as “Ernesto”, and about how he frequented the bars, one of the most famous now being La Floridita, I wanted to go to Havana



Watching 13 Days, the film based on the tense times in the JFK administration during the Cuban missile crisis in October 1962, and the failed Bay of Pigs invasion, I wanted to go to Havana.



Watching footage over the years of the rather bizarrely dressed, often in a tracksuit, little man in a green cap and long beard, I wanted to go to Havana.

Reading Graham Greene, I determined that one day, I would be THAT man in Havana.

Maybe Alanis was right...

From a distance, the fields look very green. Lush. As you slowly approach, the verdant green starts to fade, and when you are at the fence, it looks as though the grass isn’t green on either side. Typical.



Life has a way of changing on you when your back is turned. Your thoughts and attitudes change with the passing of the years, without you realising what profound effect they are having on your psyche. What looked a good idea a few years ago, looks less so now. The things you enjoyed become less appealing. When did this happen? It’s as though we slept through the changing of the guard. As we silently passed the dark hours, somebody came into the living room of our heads and rearranged the furniture. And when you wake up, it takes a while to notice. What is different?

That is how it happens. Silently. Stealthily. Before you know where you are, all the angst of youth seems a distant memory and you are happy with yourself. Happy in yourself. Just happy. Since reaching 40 I have never felt more comfortable with being me. Just like that. Without consciously thinking about it. Without making any changes. Without suffering a midlife crisis. I still don’t have a red Porsche, a Harley Davidson, a Rolex (yet) or a Playboy bunny girl as a live in lover, and yet, I’m happy.



I would even go as far as saying that I feel quite settled. Yeah, you heard that right. Settled. My friendships have reached a level of maturity whereby the friends I have are the friends I want to have. And they are great friendships. The times we have together leave me with lasting memories and a smile when I reminisce about them.

And yet, shortly, I’m leaving all this behind. Packing up the great home I have. Leaving the work I’m doing, after finally, after all these years, starting to work for myself as a freelance project manager. And leaving family and friends behind to lift and shift it all 11000 miles away, to the land down under.



Why? It’s not just for the Vegemite sandwiches and pints of Fosters. It’s because I’ve harboured this dream for a very, very long time. To live in Australia. The eight visits there haven’t diminished, or diluted this dream. I’m very excited to go and start a new challenge. I thrive on change and challenging the status quo. But, it has to be said, when I set out on this journey, over 2 years ago, I wasn’t in the same place, mentally. The metaphorical furniture was upturned, I wasn’t settled and did indeed suffer the odd pangs of angst. So, back then, the grass did in fact look so much greener.

Like I said, maybe Alanis was right, it is a little bit ironic, don't you think?

Life, it's a game of two halves

Yeah, I know. It’s a cliché. But then, life is full of them isn’t it? It’s only when something really happens in your life, and I mean REALLY happen, that you suddenly sit up, take notice and start paying attention.

Life really IS too short. A fact brought suddenly into focus when you lose loved ones. This is when the truisms captured within clichés really start biting you in the ass!

So, as I approach my 40th birthday I was suddenly hit, despite almost 40 years warning to prepare for it, with the realisation that I am most probably half way through my life. And that is hoping that I’m one of the lucky ones who get a good innings, to coin a(nother) cliché.

I’ve had a solid first half, done some amazing things, travelled the world, met many wonderful people of all cultures. But as I begin to mentally think through my half time team talk, I wonder whether I need to make any tactical changes, or substitutions to affect the full time score.

If I come out in the second half, play the same game as I’ve been playing, will I be happy with the final score? I will have put in a solid performance. A game I maybe should be happy with. But could I have done more? Did I really stretch myself? Did I live my dreams, or just my life?

What about that second language I always promised myself? Living in a foreign country, rather than travelling through? Didn’t I dream of owning and running my own coffee shop? Only I can make these pipe dreams a reality. And I can. If I decide that I don’t want to settle for a draw in the biggest game of my life. I can.

As the whistle is about to be blown for the end of the first half, I need to decide how I am going to play the second half.

It certainly is going to be some half time team talk.

What happened to Peru? - part 2

My last post had us at the end of my short stay in Arequipa, my first stop in Peru. I had heard so much about Peru that I came with very high expectations. Maybe too high. Depending on which direction people were travelling in, seemed to influence their thoughts on a country.

This wasn't just the case for Peru, it was everywhere I went. Travellers coming south from Colombia could not say enough good things about the place and everywhere else seemed to pale into comparison. Bumping into people who had come from Bolivia meant that anywhere that had a good bus service and decent food was Utopia.

I had travelled around and up through Argentina, a country that I absolutely love. A couple of weeks in Chile, including a blissful 4 days in Iquique, combined with Argentina probably wasn't the best preparation. I had become spoiled by two of the jewels of South America. So Peru didn't make the immediate impression on me that I expected.

Puno from afar.



And things didn't get any better when rocking into Puno after a 6 hour bus journey from Arequipa. What a hole Puno is and if it wasn't for the fact that it nestles the shores of Lake Titicaca, I doubt it would get any visitors at all. I got a taxi from the bus station and joylessly stared out the windows as I was driven to my hostel, Pirwa Backpackers. As with a lot of "budget" accommodation, I got a bad first impression of Pirwa, but the two days I had there were uneventful enough for me to forget my initial negative impression of the place. That said, there were no social areas so I didn't see any other backpackers, and the breakfast was beyond perfunctory.



But the purpose of my visit was to get out to Lake Titicaca and see the floating villages, which I did on day 2. A half day boat trip ticked all my boxes and I thoroughly enjoyed the excursion, and knowing that this is how the islanders make their money, I had fun bartering with the locals as they displayed their wares. I did think to myself though, "would ever buy one of those mobile decorations?", and I had my answer later that evening when meeting Vix and Hannah for dinner. You dumped them yet girls?

Whilst in Puno I also managed to tick off another item off my South American "must do" list. Eat cuy. Or more commonly known at home as guinea pig. I had to admit, it wasn't a thought I relished but it was something I knew I had to try whilst in Peru so in i walked and order guinea pig and chips. I kid you not. And the all important question. What did it taste like? Yup, you guessed it. Chicken. I kid you not!



Another night in the soulless hostel and we were ready to move on. To a place that I was genuinely excited about. Cusco. Home of the Incas and gateway to Machu Picchu. As i boarded the 7.30am Inka Express to Cusco I had the sudden realisation that I was soon going to be visiting one of the greatest places in the world, one that I had thought about for many years.

What happened to Peru? - Part 1, Arequipa

Indeed, a damn good question. What did happen to it? Here I am, back home in the UK reliving my trip through the blogs that I wrote when something starts to look amiss. I have Argentina, then there is Bolivia, oh, and a bit of Chile.

But, where is Peru? Nada. Nothing. I must have completely forgotten to write a blog post about it. I don't even have a draft saved anywhere in my files.

So here it is. From memory and from my notes. Apologies if I miss anything out and no doubt if I do, Spongebob and Squarepants (you know who you are) will correct the record.

My first stop in Peru was at Arequipa. When I finally got there. This was a trip in itself. Leaving Arica (on the Chilean side of the border) at 8am I had to share a collectivo (shared taxi) with 3 locals who were also heading into Peru. The first part of the journey took the best part of an hour, to the Chile border. We then had a long wait before clearing Chilean customs and off we went again to the Peru border, again for another wait. After finishing up with the formalities it was back in the collectivo and about an hour later we were in Tacna, the first town in Peru.



We got dropped off at the bus station and my first job was to find an ATM so I could get some Peruvian currency. After trudging around two bus stations I managed to find a working cash machine and got my all important Peruvian Soles. Now I had to lug my bag around the station as I found a bus that went to Arequipa, some 6 hours away.

After a breakfast of a croissant and a bottle of Inka Cola I found myself on the 11.45am Tacna to Arequipa bus, run by Flores. My first taste of Peruvian buses. I had been recommended to use Cruz del Sur but that bus didn't set off til an hour later and I wanted to get back on the road.

The journey was pleasant enough, as much as a 6 hour (that becomes 8) can be and I was deposited in Areqiuipa bus station after night fall. This is where the fun began. I had read numerous stories, and been warned, about taking certain taxis in Arequipa. The town is renowned for taxi kidnappings, where you are taken to the nearest cash point and made to empty your bank account. The taxis to avoid were so-called "match box" taxis and I thought they would be easy to avoid. However, on arrival in Arequipa it seemed that all the taxis were of this variety. Shit, I'm gonna get kidnapped. It's getting late, it's dark and i'm tired. Please don't kidnap me.



So, with bag on back, off I went, out of the bus station, into the street to find a taxi that I hoped would take me to the hostel and not the nearest ATM. And I found one thankfully. A bit more expensive that I wanted to pay but I was grateful to arrive safely at Arequipay Backpacker House in one piece, and with all my money.

And what a welcome. The hostel was one of the best I have ever stayed in. It was a large, modern house with all the amenities one could ever hope for. Large reception, pool table, table tennis table (at which I was later to show my prowess - you reading Vix?), a large TV in the lounge and a 52" TV in the movie room. And wi-fi through the whole house. It was amazing and only a 15 minute walk to a large supermarket.



I was in a 3 bed dorm with two great English girls, Vicky and Hannah. It's fair to say that they were engrossed in their Kindles for most of the time but when they got bored, and wanted to chat, they were good fun. We found ourselves travelling on together from Arequipa to first Puno and then onto Cusco.

Arequipa itself is a town with some great looking buildings but if i'm honest, I was expecting a whole lot more after the way that some travellers had talked it up. Yeah, Santa Catalina monastery is amazing, and the centre had some amazing buildings, but again i was a little underwhelmed. It may have been a bit of fatigue, or a case of "No More Rocks" (read this great blog post) but I was slightly disappointed. Traffic mayhem, people and touts everywhere, it was a relief to chill in the hostel in the evening. A cold beer, a takeout and a movie. Bliss.