Honey Valley.

After climbing the highest peak on my 3rd day of trekking, I arrive at Honey Valley. This is paradise. Okay, so that might sound a bit over the top but, if after 21km of hiking (the last 5km solo with the instructions; there should be signs?) you reach an isolated coffee plantation in the middle of nowhere and someone hands you hot water and a cold beer - then I think paradise is appropriate.
I've spent 5 days here mainly reading, writing and becoming the Honey Valley Scrabble champion. I've also managed to crack my scalp open by landing head first on a pretty solid rock whilst crossing a river on the way back from a short trek. Luckily my Field nurse; Des was on hand to stop the bleeding with her nice orange scarf and make me look like a fairly feminine Rambo in the process.
Des is one of the group of very interesting folk I've met here. I'm pretty sure her love life will make it into print one day - should make a good read. I also met Karen who has the Job everyone wants - Getting paid to travel and update guidebooks! What a Bitch!!
Jack whose crammed a few lifetimes into his 50yrs and has that calmness that comes from seeing lots of life's highs and lows and then taking it down to the simplicity of ending the day with a beer and a cigarette.
Alissa who manages to do the crazily enthusiastic American thing without you wanting to wrap her head in Gaffa tape - impressive.
And lastly I met Fred - making his way down India on an old Enfield with about 5Rupees to his name. Best of British to you Fred!

Buses.

My faith in Indian transport is restored! Last time I only had the pleasure of traveling on trains for my long distance journeys. This time I've felt the joy that you can only get from a near death experience: the community bus.
Some charity should really be shipping playstations or the like to India so these drivers can satisfy their fighter pilot fantasies without endangering public lives. Still, the attitude/faith held by these people has to be admired and it does seem to get everybody from A to B on time and mostly in one piece;
It doesn't matter that my bus is 100yrs old and held together by string and tape,
It doesn't matter that we have 150 people on a 60seat bus,
It doesn't matter that my conductor is hanging from the flapping back door as I race over a high bridge,
It doesn't matter that I'm mapping out a new roller coaster course on route,
It doesn't matter that the road resembles a Curly Wurly,
It doesn't even matter that my brakes are screeching out a passable Wacko Jacko impersonation on each corner.
Hey, as long as the flashing LEDs on my framed holographic deity are still working then we're all okay.

Mountain Trekking!!!????!!!!!!

Mountains!? Heat!? Humid!? Altitude!? Exercise!? None of these words are remotely appealing to me! I've got arthritis for God's sake! I've also long maintained a balanced diet of Lager and Cider and have now had to carry (drag) that investment up 3 mountains! My body is screaming at me. Actually, my feet are so pounded into submission that they can't say anything, my knees are muttering something incoherent in amongst the quivering but I'm pretty sure they're pissed off. My beer belly's being the most vocal; "What are you doing? No, no, stop. You don't want to exercise. I wanna stay! There must be an Irish pub around here somewhere. Whad'ya say??" I've reassured him that we'll be together for some time to come.
I've hiked 65km over the past few days and what have I learnt? That it's quite difficult to admire the view from 5500 ft when your chest is about to reenact the birth scene from Alien. There are also some useful phrases used to quicken your pace; "Most of the snakes around here aren't poisonous", "The Elephants around here are quite aggressive and can run at 35mph (I sure as hell can't!) and my personal favourite; "This is Tiger country, we lost a cow around here last week"!!

Goan, Goan, Goan.

So, after my mum's comment that I seem to be drinking my way around the globe I head to Goa and more specifically to a 24hr bar where bottles are 50p and half that at happy hour. Needless to say; most of my hours were exceedingly happy. It's in this bar that I've striven to enrich myself culturally; meeting a group of fellow Brits and engaging in such civilised behaviour as Palm tree dancing, spoon balancing and having my flops used to spank random gentlemen ( I was neither the slapper nor the slappee!) As is assured to happen when you drink with people named Ginger Joe and Noodles; the finishing point for each evening crept closer and closer to 6am.
I've also met some interesting characters in the form of Havi; a Spaniard starting a craze in neck piercing, Dr. Phil; not a doctor of course but a Canadian surfer dude who has perfected (through constantly being connected to the tail end of a spliff) the arts of lazy enthusiasm (like, yeah man, I'll be totally up for that in a few hours. Whadya say I roll a little one?) and making everything seem like a conspiracy through random emphasis and "inverted comma fingers". Impossible not to like someone like that.
There was Craig; at first appearances your typical Ozzy bloke who then surprised traders by bargaining in Hindi to great financial gain - good little move. And then there was John; an Englishman who had been drawn to Sweden. A shrewd manoeuvre if you've seen the female of the Swedish species. It's John who I can blame for the various Transformeresque noises that emanated from my body whilst undertaking the ancient art of making fat westerners suffer (otherwise known as Yoga). Now, I'm sure that Yoga is good for you - painful exertions always seem to be. But, I'm also sure that the little bendy Guru teaching us was having a private little giggle as the class began with what seemed remarkably like a slow motion YMCA. And, try this one at home; sit down, cross your legs, put your arms through the gaps in your legs to your elbows, reach forward and bring your palms to your ears. Oh, and remember to focus on your breathing! Bloody hell!! I'm now on my back, knotted like a pretzel and far closer to kissing my own arse than I ever wished to be.
This was my quest to balance out the alcohol consumption. I also tried my hand at Kayaking both in a time travelling trip 2km up a river (felt very Apocalypse Now even if I'm in the wrong country) and in the sea trying to surf the waves in. the latter mainly involved inhaling a lot of sea water or face planting straight into the sand but I'm sure it all looked manly and cool to the girls on the beach.
Anyway, this was Goa; stay in a hut on the beach, a good meal is 2quid and the beer is cheap. It's all too easy. I've met people that have been here for yonks and it would be easy for days to slip into weeks. So, before that happens I'm heading off the beaten track a little. Besides, looks like I'll be back at Xmas for more drinks with Ginger Joe.

Photos

All my photos from Kenya and Romania are now on Flickr - Click on the pic at the top right of this page.

Transylvania-ah-ah

If there ever were any Vampires here; they must have very quickly died of blood alcohol poisoning. I've had the local moonshine; Palenka (something like a peachy petrol) forced upon me by a woman defiently fending off the grim reaper by means of pickling! The motto of this trip has become; "well, it'd be rude not to".
Other alchoholic stimuli has been more welcome. My friends; Marc and Gyongy have concocted a pretty decent bit of vino and with a stockpile of 180 litres!! I haven't minded tucking in. And if that's not good enough, a crate of beer is a fiver! happy days!
All this booze has been well earn't though - see picture of the little bit of firewood we had to move!!

I don't want to give the impression that this has been a total piss up - there's been a fair bit of culture aswell. 2 footy matches and laughing at various signs such as the FANY bus company, the tin of CRAP which is good on toast and the menu favourite; CU UNT (with butter).

Tonight is Cluj vs Bourdeux (obligitary hurling abuse at the french) followed by a 6am flight back to London where I'll spend a few hours before flying on to India. I imagine I'm going to find this all a tad tiring but hey, there's a Goan beach and even cheaper beer waiting at the other end! (yes, I have a very smug face on just now that you'd probably like to smack)

Thanks Marc and Gyongy for playing hosts this week, and for the lessons;
* Petrol is really bloody flamable!
* Heights still scare the shit out of me, even when Marc's the one about to die.
* I will never eat Tripe.