Ruins and people-watching

Uxmal

People have differing reactions to the idea of visiting the ruins of ancient cities. "Seen one pile of old rocks, you've seen them all," some sigh dismissively, while others are entranced, and spend hours staring at temples and stone carvings.

My level of interest lies somewhere between the two extremes. I'm glad we visited two Mayan sites in the Yucatan - the massive Chichen Itza and the smaller, but more exquisitely decked out Uxmal. The main temple pyramid buildings were pretty similar at the sites, but they had different decorating techniques.

Most, predictably, centred around religion - temples, places to hold funerals, places to bury people. But the Mayans had other interests, including astrology and bloodsports. Both sites had the remains of sports pitches, encased by long corridors - apparently to increase the echo factor so you could shout at people and be heard on the pitch. Stone rings were built on the walls as the goals. All sounds pretty much like soccer or basketball, except they used to decapitate people a lot.

Mutilation is a pretty recurrent theme in some of the other designs on buildings. A popular motif was a carving of an eagle holding a human heart in its enormous talon. And like most other ancient cultures, human sacrifice was popular. To this end there are entire walls decorated with surprised-looking skulls.

Eagle holding human heart

Chichen Itza was a much bigger site, with many different buildings spread over a bigger area, but Uxmal's buildings were made of a fetching salmon-hued stone, and I found the crazy geometric glyph writing more interesting here.

Of course, when visiting these places its not just about the architecture, there's always some entertaining people-watching to be had. Like this lady, who so liked the concept of donning a sun umbrella she bought a hat with one on it.

Chichen Itza was pretty empty in the morning but enormous groups of package-tour people began to pour in and by lunchtime the place was a zoo. The paths were brimming with handicraft sellers (they seem to follow the package-tour types around), calling out to us "special price....almost free!"

A small wooden jaguar's head, which if you blew into it made a callous hissing that is meant to sound like the super-cat, was a popular item. The thing is you need enough air in your lungs to make it sound convincing, otherwise it sounds like an asthmatic cough. They started to get pretty annoying as people stupidly bought them for their kids - enough to make the vuvuzela sound as delicate as a violin.

The most hilarious handicraft of the day played on the phallus theme - a common feature in the carvings at both sites. This one is actually an instrument, and is being played like a Xylophone.

The mighty Maya

Merida had all the makings of a great Mexican town – stately Spanish colonial buildings, a lively and bustling central plaza, interesting markets and shops to poke your nose into.

But the real point of coming to this part of the country was to get our Maya on – that is, to learn something about this amazingly advanced and powerful civilisation that was mysteriously consumed by the Yucatan jungle several hundred years ago.

It’s amazing to think that just as the Roman empire was fizzling out, the Maya were developing astrological charts, implementing complex agricultural plans and techniques, building big cities and trading with other civilisations.

Even better, they were using chocolate for money! Actually cacao beans, where chocolate comes from, were used as a currency in place of metal coins. Apparently they were extremely rare, and their whole supply was controlled by the ruling rich class.

Another impressive thing about the Maya was their amazing hieroglyph language, which has only been partially deciphered to this date and is not even fully understood by the many thousands of surviving Maya people living in the Yucatan.

Advanced they were, but the Maya were also pretty brutal. They deformed the skulls and jawbones of their children by forcing them to wear a big wooden plate-like contraptions and beating them in the mouth from an early age. Apparently having a super-flat head and a lopsided grin was all the rage.

Our urge to discover more things Maya led us south of Merida to the ruins of the ancient city of Uxmal, thought to have been abandoned in 900AD. We stayed in a nearby town called Santa Elena.

With dusty streets, clapped out trucks and meandering locals, this is probably the closest we have come to a traditional Mexican village. Nearly everybody is indigenous here and speaks Maya. The women mainly still wear traditional dress – white tunic-style dresses adorned with floral prints around the neck.

Feliz Navidad

A belated Merry Christmas to everyone. As keen readers may have noticed, we always run a couple of days behind on this blog. Whether you spent it on the beach (heard the weather was great in Sydney for once) or in sub-zero UK/Europe/North America, hope you had a great time with friends and family.

Christmas while travelling is always relatively low-key, being so far from family, and for us typically consists of some kind of meal with people we don't know well, a few fake Christmas greetings and a phone call to our parents.

This year was no exception, if anything the most low key Christmas ever, owing to the fact that we'd forgotten that European types (including Mexicans) celebrate on Christmas Eve. We'd spent the entire day travelling, first on a ferry back from Isla Mujeres to Cancun, and then a 7-hour bus trip to the majestic Spanish-colonial city of Merida, on the other side of the Yucatan peninsula.

Christmas was in full swing when we arrived. Huge crowds throbbed through the narrow cobbled arteries, busily finishing off their shopping as the day died away. Firecrackers and bloated star-shaped pinatas were being sold on every street corner. The main plaza was buzzing with activity as street vendors sold games, toys and the ubiquitous Mexican hot dog stands did a roaring trade.

We were a little too exhausted to join in the merryment, and having only just arrived didn't know anyone in town. So we took off to a restaurant in a smaller, more peaceful plaza and had our Christmas dinner - a big cheesy pizza.

The island adventure and the mystery illness

Isla Mujeres is a skinny, pancake flat island just off the coast of Cancun. As soon as you board the ferry and get going, you can see it emerge on the horizon. Despite its proximity, it is absolutely nothing like its overdeveloped mainland cousin. I'm quickly discovering that the Yucatan is a land of contrasts.

Sorry to sound like a snotty backpacker, but I think if I'd visited Isla Mujeres (translates to Island of Women) 5 or 10 years ago, I'd have liked it better. It still has a really laid back feel, there are plenty of locals milling about but it seems like the main few streets, including the handicraft-stuffed pedestrian mall, are trying just a little too hard to attract fat-walleted Americans.

As with most places around here, its hard to argue with the quality of the beach - the same powdery white sand, and beautiful turquoise hues ringing the coastline are picture perfect - although sadly I didn't take any photos.

The other side of the island is a different story - devoid of resorts, it has a seawall that juts out onto sharp rocks, and has choppy swell. Most of the buildings here are either makeshift shacks or look to have been hurricane-damaged and abandoned.

Our hostel, on the surface, seemed like a traveller's paradise - huge, stone wall enclosed courtyard, big common bar area, loads of hammocks swinging gently in the breeze and backing onto the beach. We opted for the camping area out the back, and found ourselves wedged in between what seemed like a semi-permanent german hippie colonie and a bunch of glamorous english goodtime girls.

The place, Hostel Poc-na (sounds more Thai than Spanish) was pretty cool but let us down on a couple of fronts. One, it had all these stupid rules - we were tagged like prisoners with wrist bracelets. Two, there was a free breakfast but it was so strictly policed it didn't feel free at all - Adam was most upset that he got accused of not paying for things or helping himself to too many bananas several times.

Also, while the vibe there was pretty cool, the amount of annoying 21-year old Aussies with really broad accents (for some reason every time I hear the accent it really twangs in my ears!) who are trying to fit in all of South America in under a month really got on our nerves. And, not surprisingly, they were the most ridiculously drunk ones who kept embarassing themselves. They would say things like, "oops, I've spent too much money, oh well, I'll get mum and dad to top up my account."

Or maybe just a sign that we're getting old??!

The beauty of Isla Mujeres was unfortunately marred by a mystery illness that struck me down the day after we arrived. Now I just want to say right here, it wasn't tequila-related, it wasn't bad meat in a burritorelated or from eating too many ice cubes.

Adam had passed on a slight cold to me a few days before, but after relaxing on the beach one morning I began to feel weak and dizzy. We went to the chicken shop for lunch (yes, BBQ chicken works really well in a taco), but I could hardly finish one taco. Something was definitely wrong.

I spent the whole afternoon rolling around in the tent with violent stabbing stomach pains, throwing up intermittently. Felt like alcohol poisoning, but worse! We then transferred from the tent to a private room so I could be nearer the toilet for strategic reasons.

As a result, didn't get to enjoy the rest of the sun and the sand on the Isla, or the food for that matter. We did meet up with Larry and Larna, who are also travelling in Mexico at the moment as part of their one-year adventure, for a nice dinner on our last night. Larna tried cactus tacos, which actually looked quite nice - kind of like roasted strips of capsicum, or peppers as they are called here.

Full moon rising - Cancun and the royal tequila fail

When travelling, things don't go always as planned. Because sometimes places turn out to be different to what you are expecting. Cancun, which you could also call the 51st state of the USA, had a mysterious charm to it, and kept us there a full four nights instead of the 14-hour in-and-out job that we had anticipated.

Probably Cancun's greatest feature is that its "hotel zone" mecca of flash resorts, strip malls and annoying american package deal tourists is situated miles away from the actual downtown area, which is much more chilled out and packed with ordinary Mexicans.

The hotel area was in prime position though, it occupies this long skinny strip that juts out into the ocean, and hogs Cancun's entire beachfront area. It is immense, something like 30km in length. Fortunately just because the hotels are on the beach doesn't mean the ordinary budget traveller cannot enjoy the splendour of Cancun's beaches, which, I have to say, are absolutely out of this world.

You can't get much closer to perfection than this strip of sea and sand. And we waltzed on in, right through the lobby of a hotel, down the stairs and parked our cut-price butts right on one of their fancy deck chairs on the powdery-white sand and spent hours ogling the sparkling azure water, which was as clear as a swimming pool.

Unfortunately, as with most things set up for tourists, perfection comes at a price. The towering hotels lining the narrow strip of beach are causing the beach to erode, and with all of the natural vegetation stripped away there is nothing to hold the ground in place. Last year they dredged up tonnes of sand from the floor of the Carribean to stop the beach disappearing at a cost of $US70m.

Cancun just played host to the United Nations climate change conference -  a follow-up from the unsuccessful Copenhagen summit last year. The organisers were smarter with the setting this time around. I mean if I were an important policymaker I would be much more inclined to sign up to an emissions-reduction agreement if I were lazing on the beach in sunny Cancun than if I were in gloomy Denmark.

The conference, as expected, did not bring about a game-changing international agreement on climate change, but it did throw the spotlight on Cancun's own vulnerability to erosion and rising sea levels, as is set out in this article.

Lunch proved a challenge - as this was zone USA there were obviously no taco stands to fill our bellies for 30 pesos each ($2.50). The malls just had overpriced burger joints and did not look appealing. Finally, out of the corner of our eyes we spied heaven in bar form - a Cuban Mojito and cigar lounge. It had a back balcony overlooking the lagoon, on the calmer, non-beach side, where we sat, sipping mint-infused mojitos and chowing down on delicious guacamole and corn chips.

At last! An Adam-sized beer!

This was a positive cocktail experience. Our time with the tequila bottle did not prove so enjoyable. Walking around the downtown area close to our hostel - where we spent the majority of our time just hanging out because it was that kind of laid-back, appealing place - we spied a "European mart". Well it doesn't take much more than a few jars of olives, some cheeses and wines to get me excited.

The giant tequila wall

Adam was more taken by the wall of tequila - not surprisingly Mexico is not left wanting for varieties of liquor extracted from the agave plant (a succulent, not a cactus I'm told) - this includes tequila and its cousin Mezcal, which we have not yet tried.

I'm not sure if the mistake here was consuming the red wine with dinner before switching to tequila afterwards, or the fact that shot glasses here are double the size and we felt somehow obligated to fill them up.

Either way it was a complete disaster. We didn't even go out anywhere, we were just chatting to some other travellers in the hostel courtyard. Real tame. Next thing I knew I woke up in bed wondering how I got in there. Adam appeared later on looking decidedly unwell. The bad thing about tequila is its tendency to make things slide rapidly downhill. 

The crash landing came the next day, when we made a mutual decision to admire tequila from afar from now on. Shouldn't be too difficult to stick to the beers!

Cute german shepherd puppies at the hostel

Changing plans

The perils of last minute travel. Sure, its exhilirating and spontaneous, but it doesn’t work so well when you’re dealing with airlines and peak season. We were hoping to go to Cuba, but hadn’t seen the need to buy air tickets in advance.

In fact, we questioned the need to fly there in the first place. Arriving in Cancun, the resort mega-city on the gulf of Mexico, Cuba seemed so close – surely it was just a short ferry ride away?

This turned out to be incorrect – there were no boats plying the Carribean between Cancun and Cuba, or any other part of Mexico for that matter. Booking an air ticket proved no more productive – each airline we checked would not allow us to search for flights to Havana – mysteriously the city was blanked out or we were advised to consult a travel agent.

Turns out, Cuba is not an easy place to get to, especially if you try to fly there at the last minute. This led us to abandon ship and contemplate a couple of weeks on the Yucatan peninsula, on which Cancun is located, before heading to Mexico City for our Spanish course for which the enrolment date is January 5.

With Cuba off the radar for now, our thoughts turned to how we would get around for the rest of our time in Mexico and into Central America and beyond. We are not really too keen on catching buses – sure, they are reliable and comfortable, but they are expensive in Mexico and just drop you off at the biggest town. It is hard to visit villages and out of the way spots and therefore get a real feel for what a place is like.

So the plan is to buy a car – a ute, or pickup as they would call them in Spanglish, this would be great for going camping on the beach, no fear of being bogged and would help us blend in with other Mexicans. So would a VW beetle, which they still appear to manufacture around here. Although as one hostel owner pointed out, a 15 year old VW made in Mexico and worked on by Mexicans for 15 years is bound to have a few problems. 

The plan of attack is to visit the Yucatan's biggest town - the commercial and cultural centre of Merida and attend the mega-car yard sale which takes place on Sundays. Its also where we will be for Christmas day, a Saturday, on which there are big outdoor markets and dancing festivals. Hopefully Santa will find us a not-too-unreliable wreck for Christmas!

Camping in Los Cabos

Migrating North Americans

Like flocks of migrating birds, thousands of Americans and Canadians head south to Mexico to while away the winter. While some pop down for a couple of weeks around Christmastime, others take their migration more seriously.

Like the small community of caravans we found nestled in the scrub around a deserted beach right on the bottom tip of Baja. This place wasn’t listed in the lonely planet – in fact we almost found it by mistake, as the place where we were looking for had no turn-off sign.

Heading south out of La Paz, we overshot our planned beach and ended up somewhere called San Jose del Cabos, which looked like Mexican Florida. We busted a U-turn and asked a lady at a supermarket for directions before finally finding the turn-off, and arriving at tiny Cabo Pulmo well after dark. Cabo Pulmo is at the end of a rough 10km stretch of gravel, and consists of about five or six buildings, a few houses and a handful of dive shops.

Beach camping in random spot

Our plan was to camp on the beach, as we had heard that no beaches in Baja are privately owned therefore it’s perfectly legal to do so. The task of finding a campsite was a lot harder in the dark, but eventually we found this place tucked away and partially sheltered behind a sand dune. We were a touch disconcerted by some of the dogs roaming the streets, and even a lone horse, but none of these, or any people for that matter, disturbed us and we had a really peaceful night under the stars with only the sound of waves crashing in the background

We found the Canadian grey nomads the following day, when we decided it was a bit weird camping in a random spot right near a town. The Canadians' only amenities were a pit toilet and a communal bookshelf arranged under a tree in the centre of the campsite. Although individually, they were well-equipped; most of them got around on quad bikes, and I spotted electricity generators and showers near some caravans. 

Lance and Jennifer, who we met in Loreto, were not only generous enough to drive us to La Paz, saving us an expensive bus ride, they also gave us their tent. We were sick of paying almost as much for accommodation and bus trips in Baja as we had been doing in the US, and worked out that renting a car for a few days and camping would actually work out cheaper.

The beaches on this stretch of coastline are untouched and pristine. The harsh desert landscape comes right up to the sand dunes, to the point where you encounter prickly cactus plants growing out of them. Further south towards the end of the cape the surf picked up – big, glossy waves rolling into shore in perfectly-timed sets.

All of this changes when you hit the southern-most point of the cape – Los Cabos. Isolated beaches make way for big flashy hotels, American fast food joints and jet skis. It took just a lunch-time pit stop to establish that we were glad to have spent our time camping in the middle of nowhere, even if there were no showers!

Loreto fishing adventure

Loreto is on the non-Pacific side of the 1500km long Baja peninsula, that is, the sea of Cortez that separates Baja from mainland Mexico. It’s quite a touristy town, the smell of gringo hits you straight away as you head into the main part of town, which fronts a long beachfront esplanade, or Malecon as they are called. Loreto’s backdrop is a beautiful range of bald, jagged mountains that make up part of Baja’s spine.

We met a Canadian couple, Lance and Jennifer, who were trading freezing temperatures in Edmonton, Alberta in Canada for the Baja sun. They had travelled in Mexico many times before, so their local knowledge definitely came in handy!

A brief visit to the town jetty, where Mexican fisherman dock their boats and smoky blue pelicans gather to dive bomb fish, established that Jorge would take us out fishing on his boat the following day.

 

 Jorge the fishing man

The boat, slightly larger than a tinnie, seated five comfortably. Jorge provided the bait and tackle, and the boat even had a compartment filled with seawater to stow away fish once they were caught. 

 Trawling for fishies

It did not take long to begin filling the compartment. We sped out to a nearby island across the bright blue ocean, calmly rippling like a carpet of crushed velvet. Trawling up and down, it did not take long for the fish to take bites at the lures. Within minutes we had hauled in our first few fish of the day. 

Bonita bonito

By lunchtime, the compartment was heaving with barracuda, a type of Spanish mackerel called a Sierra, yellow tail and a brownish coloured local fish known as a Cabrilla. In total we caught over 20 fish, far too many for us to cook for dinner, so Jorge and his cronies took the rest off our hands. 

 Cabrilla 

It was pretty lazy fishing really. Jorge baited up the rods, we dropped them in and let them out, then waited for the fish to bite, which happened in a matter of minutes. The only thing we had to do was reel them in and hope they didn’t fight back too hard.

 Catch of the day

Lunching on the island, we snorkelled right off the beach, where there were dozens of types of brightly coloured fish, although their habitat was a shelf of dull-looking rocks rather than a dazzling coral reef. We circumnavigated the island after lunch to check out a colony of sea lions living off the rocks where sea birds such as ospreys and the hilariously named blue footed booby nest.

There was quite a bit of swell crashing onto the rocks on this side of the island, which made me seasick. Jennifer instructed me to keep my focus on the horizon, which worked surprisingly well although I still thought I was going to throw up the whole time. Luckily I managed to stave it off, and the awful feeling went away once we began heading closer to shore.

Our guesthouse, Posada San Martin, was blessed with a wood fire barbeque in its dusty back courtyard. We cooked the biggest four of the fish whole stuffed with garlic, onion and chillies and wrapped with tin foil. There was so much fish, there was some left over for fish tacos the next day!  

 I caught the biggest fish!

Into the desert

An overnight bus from northern baja just over halfway down the peninsula took us firmly into desert country. Rubbing the sleep out of our eyes at 6am, we noticed that the scenery had completely changed. The sides of the roads were piled high with sand, and slender green cacti in various formations dominated the landscape. Other than that there was nothing growing aside from some spiky dry scrub.

The bus let us off at a dusty outpost dotted with a few falling down taco stands, and from here we had to hike a few kms into a town called San Ignacio. Almost immediately after turning off the main road, the landscape again changed dramatically. The town and its surrounds are swathed in a forest of gigantic leafy date palms with a river bordering one side, the perfect desert oasis. 

Flat tabletop hills adorned with sherbert-coloured rocks complete the natural borders of San Ignacio. From our guesthouse in the centre of town it was possible to reach this table top, called La Mesa, and hike across it. From here you had a 360 view of the town, the surrounding palms and red desert mountains further in the distance.

San Ignacio itself seems frozen in time. Arranged in the typical Spanish colonial style around a plaza with a church at one end, the town’s historic buildings didn’t look as if they had changed in over 200 years. The plaza was filled with enormous trees, providing ample shade from the harsh desert sun.

Our guesthouse, Casa Leree, was an old fashioned hacienda style building with rooms arranged around a quiet, leafy courtyard. It was a peaceful and beautiful place to sit, shaded by big trees, complete with a hammock and cactus garden with dozens of different types of cacti. We opted to self-cater for the night that we spent here – you guessed it, tuna. We had it on tostadas – a big round toasted corn biscuit – with canned jalapenos and habanero chilli sauce. 

 

There wasn't much in the way of wildlife here - in fact the only thing we constantly saw were vultures circling in the sky, then coming to rest on the tops of cacti.

Relaxing in Baja

Call it coincidence, but since we arrived in Mexico a few days ago our activity level has slowed to a trickle. It just seems better to bask in the daytime sunshine, reading a book or studying Spanish, than go on some sightseeing expedition.

We spent the first morning checking out the centre of Ensenada and the harbour front. The most interesting thing is Whale Man, a statue made from a whale skeleton. We then hiked the 5km back to where we are staying in a small adjacent town, but that is pretty much all there is to do around here. Which doesn't bother us at all.



The rest of our time at El Sauzal was spent hanging out at the hostel, with our host, the lovely Maria, who tolerated our terrible Spanish, and taught us many things about Mexican food and culture.
Hostel Sauzal is highly recommended! http://hostelsauzal.tripod.com/


 The lovely Maria





Maria showed us how to make corn tortillas and cook them on a flat pan. We bought fish fillets from one of Maria's friends, crumbed and fried them and chopped them into pieces. The fish tacos are eaten with Salsa Verde, a mix of green peppers, lime and coriander and a salad of tomatoes, onions and coriander. And of course the obligatory salsa picante - there are three types on the table in the photo below.




In the cactus garden at Hostel Sauzal.
Like many towns in Baja, El Sauzal is growing rapidly thanks to an influx of new residents from other parts of Mexico. Residents of provinces such as Tabasco in the south lost their homes in floods in 2007 and needed somewhere new to live. This has led to the creation of numerous new housing estates, complete with Mexican versions of McMansions, to house the new people.

Unfortuately this is being done with little regard to the existing character of the town. This monstrosity was built almost two years ago right on the beachfront, and sticks out like a sore thumb compared to other modest one-story dwellings. In total, 16 of these eyesores are planned, but according to Maria not a single unit in this block has been sold, primarily because of the ridiculous asking price of over $US400,000 apiece.


 The eyesore



The rest of El Sauzal, above, is a stark contrast to the new developments. But some have adopted a more innovative approach to new buildings, like the house below, constructed out of shipping containers.

After a restful few days in El Sauzal, we decided to head south. The days are warm here, but being the middle of winter, the nights are chilly. Our new sleeping bags have been getting a work out, as per the photo below!

Los gringos

A simple footbridge over a freeway toll plaza connects the US and Mexico. We crossed from one side to the other without incident, and were about to pass through a revolving gate into the Tijuana side when we realised nobody had stamped our passports. We back tracked to a small immigration office to get the Mexican tourist card and passport stamp, but we still have no record of leaving the US.

For all of the hype, the US-Mexico border crossing is a piece of cake - far less of an ordeal than customs at any given airport. Tijuana itself was easy to avoid. After entering the Mexican side of the border, we walked straight to a bus station down the street and hopped on a bus bound for Ensenada, a large town around 100km to the south.

The backstreets of Tijuana were a stark contrast to the tidy, palm-lined suburbs of San Diego on the other side of the border. Slums lined the hilltops surrounding the downs, and rubbish-strewn front yards were littered with bombed out cars.

Many local roads were gravel or poorly paved, but the freeway to Ensenada was freshly sealed and snaked alongside the ocean. Almost every type of house was visible from the road - from makeshift shanty to boxy McMansion to fancy Spanish-style villa.

Ensenada provided us with the first real test of our Spanish skills. Despite being told to expect English in towns near the border, we were always addressed in Spanish. Early experiences in Tijuana were encouraging - I managed to ask for a one-way bus ticket and ask what time the next bus was leaving - check.

Arriving in Ensenada was a different story. We had to find the right bus stop for a mini bus to take us 5km out of town to our hostel. The minibuses were roaming all around town. I asked somebody how to get to the place, but didn't quite understand her answer. Ditto the second time. Eventually we found the right bus stop, and yelled our destination to every bus driver until one said yes.

Fortunately the bus driver knew where we needed to get off - we didn't have a clue - and we found our way to the hostel, a tiny place with a lovely cactus garden up the hill from a fishing village called El Sauzal, with panoramic views out to the ocean.

We survived ordering dinner - I mean, "dos tacos por favor" is kind of hard to screw up, but we let ourselves down in the beverage department.

This was our first "gringo fail". We somehow managed to purchase non-alcoholic beer from the supermarket! We were so distracted by the cheapness of this six pack of Sol that we neglected to notice that it said sin alcohol - you don't have to have a masters degree in foreign languages to work that out.

It wasn't until we were munching on our steak and bean tacos that we realised!

Freaky Americans

Americans crack me up. I'd just assumed that the ones on TV were magnified versions of real life people. Wrong! Most people actually are larger than life - and not just physically.

Walk down the street and you are bound to hear some kind of emotive outburst on nearly every block - even if its just someone talking loudly on their mobile. And people speak like characters in action movies in everyday speech. Everything is superlative, or at the very least, awesome or right on.

But, to their credit, this outlandish emotional charge also includes being very friendly and welcoming, which is nice when you're new in town. As we headed south into San Diego, this became more noticeable. Also there were no shortage of people approaching us in the street or on the buses to have a chat.

Californians are a diverse bunch, both racially and socio-economically. Turns out the amount of homeless types shuffling around Venice Beach was pretty in line with other areas. Even in San Diego, an ostensibly wealthier area with massive seaside villas right out of the OC television show has its fair share of drifters.

There are two kinds of homeless people in the US - those begging for weed or alcohol, and those not. The overwhelming majority of hobos on Venice Beach made this clear in their cardboard signs - they wanted money for beer, or weed, or both. In contrast the signs of those begging in San Diego claimed to be clean and sober, and promised not to drink or smoke money away.

Some on Venice Beach were into self-promotion, such as the "world's greatest wino" who promised to entertain with songs and jokes for a few pennies.

San Diego has a great downtown area called the Gaslamp quarter - so named because of the gaslights on its street corners. It is the town's old quarter - 18th century buildings are immaculately preserved and freshly painted, and bars, restaurants and cafes line the streets. In contrast, LA's seedy downtown precinct looks as gritty and washed-out as I imagine most inner city areas looked before urban renewal projects took hold in the 1980s and 1990s.

LA downtown has no nice shops or restaurants and its few remaining historic buildings are crumbling. Instead there is a vast collection of pawn shops, jewellery shops and payday lenders, and its central avenues are ringed by dilapidated warehouses with chain link fences.

The only excursion we did in San Diego was to La Jolla (pronounced La hoya), a beach just north of San Diego which is home to a big seal colony. The seals arrived in the 1970s, marooning themselves on rocks around a sheltered cove. It was once a children's pool but the seals' presence means most kids now steer clear of the beach.

We had brought our swimming costumes in the hope of being able to swim in the ocean, until we discovered that at this time of year it is a very chilly 13 degrees! Although we did see some nutters swimming (albeit in wetsuits) from the beach around to the cove - which looked like a little over 1km - they swam right in among the seals, and apparently right over an undersea canyon where sharks are known to convene to hunt for seals!

"The doctor is in"

We chose to land in Los Angeles for little other reason than for its proximity to Mexico. But part of us was a little curious to see what it was like, beyond the trips to Disneyland and Hollywood we'd each taken as kids.

We settled on Venice Beach, for sheer novelty value, figuring it would rate the highest in the people watching stakes. And we could neither fit in at nor afford Beverley Hills!

Strolling along the palm-fringed beachfront promenade, it quickly became clear that Venice was no ordinary beachside borough. Washed up wannabe rappers handed out CDs, and if you accepted quickly whipped a set of headphones over their ears to showcase their tunes. Spaced out dudes cooed "the doctor is in..." while attempting to usher us into medicinal marijuana clinics.

The concrete-encircled beach seemed to have been frozen in time. It must be one of the only places in the world where rollerbladers still frequent.

But the tourist troupe riding on Segways - those stand-up electric scooters - eclipsed the rollerbladers with the most hilarious form of transport.

There was hardly a surfer in sight among an eccentric crowd buzzing around the flea-market, where vendors pushed tacky souvenirs and clip on sunglasses. Venice is not your typical well-off beachside suburb a la Sydney. Street performers like the one playing piano below exemplify its washed-up quality. Parking spots on the promenade were dotted with vans that looked like they were bunkering down for longer than a day.

“Mr & Mrs Adam"

25-28 November 2010

Nadi, Fiji

With jobs resigned from, family & friends farewelled and bags packed, it was time to head to the airport, but one small thing was missing. We were awaiting the birth of my brother’s baby. Due on the 18^th,  there was ample time for him to arrive and for us to get acquainted, or so we thought.

After a horrendous four-day labour, Max eventually arrived on the eve of our departure, at 1:33am. There was just time to swing into hospital for a quick visit the next morning before we were due at the airport – Max was just a few hours old.

After saying goodbye to our parents and turning into the corridor that leads to immigration, I felt a big rush of excitement – it was the moment we had been waiting for for months if not years. Free at last!

We had deliberately intended for the first leg of our journey to be easygoing, after a hectic year, months of planning and two solid weeks of getting organised, packing and farewell parties, lunches and dinners. Our flight happened to stop in at Fiji and we decided it was not a bad place to do absolutely nothing for a few days.

Touching down in Nadi, the first thing I noticed about the touts outside the airport was that they were not trying to get you in their cab so they could take you to their friend’s hotel or souvenir shop – something we encountered a lot in Asia.

They would ask the standard questions, “where you from, where you staying, how long in Fiji,” etc but I soon realised they were not trying to push anything on you, they were just stopping for a chat.

Fijians have a penchant for small talk. One guy in his mid-20s asked us the standard questions and when Adam told him his name, he then looked at me and said “Mrs Adam.” He then asked if we were here for a holiday or honeymoon. Adam replied it was for a holiday and the guy smiled knowingly and said “practice a few times, make good honeymoon.”

One of my favourite things to do in different countries is to check out what’s available at the markets and in the supermarkets. Adam and I have a long tradition of eating tuna sandwiches in exotic locations. And Fiji’s establishments did not disappoint. Thanks to its sizeable Indian population our sandwich was on roti bread with tamarind chutney, and accompanied by delicious spicy bhuja mix.

Our “Beachside Resort” did not exactly connect to the beach; it was more an estuarine swamp with dull grey sand. But further up the road, the more expensive Club Fiji was more scenically situated, and had a bigger bar and seating area. 

But Club Fiji’s best feature was its bartender, Kooki, an enormous Fijian who made the floor shake when he stomped from one end of the bar to the other. He may or may not have been named after the Cookie Monster, and seemed only capable of bellowing, rather than speaking. But he was a gentleman. When we rocked up he offered his giant hand, and immediately offered us a discount on our first drinks.

An island boat cruise the following day was equally unstressful – we managed to jump on an early boat, beating the tourist hoardes, out to South Sea Island – a miniscule hamlet no more than 20 metres long and a few metres wide. We explored the surrounding coral reef, spotting reef sharks, luminescent squid and tropical fish. A surprising amount of marine life considering the bulk of the coral had been destroyed – presumably by dynamite fishing.

Compared to other tropical destinations though, Fiji seems well preserved – although we did notice that a lot of the islands had been completely razed of any vegetation. But the water is drinkable and the beaches and streets are virtually rubbish free – a point of difference from beachside resorts in Thailand, Vietnam and Malaysia.