In pictures... South America

And now, the end is near... well, actually not just yet. Before you get to see John's final blog, you're going to have to sit through a few more photos. Here's a whistlestop tour of our journey through South America...

We both loved Buenos Aires, home of the Casa Rosada where Eva Peron
took to the balcony to give rousing speeches to the thronging crowds.

It really is the Paris of South America, with cafes on every corner... 

... and at each turn there is something interesting...

... whether it's cabaret...

... musical protests....

... Tango dancers...

... or even the city's countless dog walkers.

We even got to stay in a hidden gem of a hostel which to my mind had
the best roof-top vista of any we stayed in.

Then it was north to a far corner of Argentina and the Brazilian border
to see the majestic Iguassu Falls....

... although the wildlife was pretty special too.

And yes, wherever you are at the falls, you are always wet.

It was time to leave, so we headed west, for the briefest of stops
in the Chilean capital Santiago...

... and although we wished there was more time for such a fascinating continent,
we did at least find countless reasons to make sure we come back one day.

Henry

So Many Socks

We had been warned that it would be challenge, settling back into life at home after nine months on the road.  And yesterday, I faced the truth.  There were just so many socks.

I was on my knees at the time, unpacking the clothes we'd left behind with friends in Brighton.  Our tenant had moved out, and we were free to move back in.   I opened our small (carry-on airline approved) burgundy suitcase, one of many items of luggage that had been stashed away with our neighbours upstairs before setting off last October.  I tugged at the zip, wondering what this particular case would contain.  The socks burst out at me.  Beneath them, wave after wave of boxer shorts and briefs.  I stared in disbelief.  Only a moment ago, hadn't I just filled the underwear drawer?  Yes, I had -- but that was with the ten or so pairs of socks and eight pairs of briefs we'd been travelling with, freshly laundered in Vancouver the previous day, ready for our return.  They were now safely home.  This armful of underwear was the fifty or so items that had stayed behind.

I had a similar moment when reuniting our T-shirts, and stood in awe in the kitchen gazing at the quantity of mugs that we had left in a cupboard.   A lesson of this adventure was being learnt, in the most humbling of ways.  We had always said our next trip away needed to be something modest, English and local.  I know now that it'll be to the charity shop up the road, which I shall walk to, as I consider what we have seen, what we need, and what we do not.

John

Note to blog-readers:  we may be home, but there is one more blog entry still to come ... up by Sunday!

Once in a Lifetime?

Anywhere left?

For the length of this odyssey, I've been making a note in my little blue book each time we've moved on to a new destination.  I totted it all up on the plane home from Vancouver.   17 countries in 188 days required:

26 planes
23 taxis
16 boats
15 minibuses
13 tuc-tucs
10 trains
10 buses
8 lifts with family or friends
7 coaches
3 hire cars
... and 2 campervans.

I never counted the number of departure boards we saw, each flickering with destinations yet to be visited.  Namibians are graceful -- are they the same in Angola?   Northern Laos was mountainous -- but we never reached the plains ... we touched Paraguay, but what about Patagonia?  With each new journey, we were reminded that curiosity feeds curiosity.

Once in a lifetime?   I wonder.  Not for a long while, of course: we are now longing too much to explore our own hall and corridors for that.  We have enjoyed the kindness of strangers, but need the love of our friends and family now, for many years.  And, of course, there is a bank account to be topped up.  But one day, when our nephews and nieces have nephews and nieces of their own, maybe Uncle Henry and Uncle John will find new parts of our planet to send postcards from, on another many-monthed, multiple-vehicled odyssey.  No, not once in a lifetime, we hope -- but the time of our lives, once again.

John

Pitching In

James: about to strike

Watching sport has never been my strength.  My father successfully taught me the rules of tennis and squash, but tried in vain to interest me in the rules of cricket.  Nobody bothered to teach me the laws of football or rugby, and I never bothered to find out.  My sport in life was to be travel, learning at 18 the rules of the Bavarian railway timetable and the pizza-sellers of Verona.

Alex: going for a strike.
There's a difference.

So it was with some trepidation last week that I sat down to learn the rules of Canadian baseball.  I was watching my eleven-year-old nephew bat, and my eight-year-old nephew pitch.  They are both fine players, and (along with their mother) did their best to explain it.  But it's complicated.  Here's my understanding of it: the pitcher pitches a ball to an allotted space in front of the hitter's body, which the hitter either strikes (a strike, surely?) or misses (becoming, if in the strike zone, an unstruck strike).  If he strikes, he can run to first base, but in certain circumstances that never became entirely clear he can walk.  A well struck strike may become a home run.  But three strikes, and he's out.  Unless the strike was a foul.  Overs may be unlimited, or limited.  My pleasure at sharing a slice of the life of my nephews was the former, my understanding of the game, the latter.

Baseball Dad Don, Baseball Mom Claire, Hitter James, Pitcher Alex,  Uncle John
Note which one of us looks confused. 

Later that evening, over pizza, we quietly swapped teams.  It was the boys' turn to learn my sport, as Henry and I shared the best photos from our adventures on the road.  Eyes popped at the sight of the blood on the Namibian lion's mane, James expressed reservations about Vietnamese hats, and Alex sized up the surf in Zanzibar.  They were pitching into our world of travel -- a sport I hope they may one day enjoy as much as the baseball that had so nearly defeated their uncle.

Words:  Uncle John
Pictures:  Uncle Henry

Final Frontier

Going solo

It was the seventeenth and last border crossing of our trip, and finally we decided to give it a go.  Henry and I filled in one customs declaration form to enter Canada, rather than two.

The guard on the train reached our seats.  I explained that we lived at the same address, and wanted to check it was okay for us to use just one form.  He glanced up at us.  "You two married?  Sure."  And he moved on.

That was it.  No certificate required.  No eyelid batted.  No awkward pause.  Perhaps I shouldn't have been surprised; we were in the Land of the Free, after all.  But I did wish at that moment I'd had the courage to try it sixteen frontiers earlier.

John

What's in an -s?

You'll be surprised what you find when you stay in a hostel

Here are three differences between the accommodation provided by the Hostelling International Chain (where we've spent several recent nights), and the Hilton International Chain (where I have spent many nights through work.)

1.
Hostel:  you're greeted at reception by a friendly member of staff who appears to be interested in you and your travels.   He or she sounds as if they are local, and you suspect they're happy in their job.
Hotel:  you're greeted at reception by a member of staff who says something that's clearly learnt by rote.  You suspect from their accent that they are not at all local, and employed because they command the lowest possible wage from the hotel chain.

2.
Hostel:
Breakfast's a muffin you toast yourself, with coffee you pour yourself, served yourself on plates you wash up yourself, standing at the sink next to someone to whom you might want to introduce yourself.
Hotel:
Breakfast's an overpriced mass of badly cooked items slowly sweating in a film of grease, eaten whilst avoiding at all costs eye-contact with the  bored executive at the table next door, who's been avoiding eye-contact with you.

3.
Hostel:
You make your bed yourself, and gladly leave a tip for the person who'll clean the room when you check out.  You can afford it, because the hostel was so fairly priced.
Hotel:
Your bed is made for you by a maid you suspect so unfairly paid that your tip becomes your only weapon against this pastel-painted corporate machine.

John

Martha's Biscuits

One of the things that makes travel in the USA easier than travel in, say, Laos, is that you don't have to worry about what you're going to get when you order a meal.  We all speak the same language, don't we?

I'm not sure that Martha always speaks mine.  She's worked at the Palm Cafe in Orick, northern California for 52 years, and now runs the place with her husband Red.  A grand lady originally from Pennsylvania, she once served  President Lyndon Johnson and his wife, Ladybird.

I'm Martha, and I'll be your slice of Americana today

I wonder if the First Couple, like me, ordered biscuits, gravy, sausage and hash browns for their brunch?  And I wonder if they, too, were presented with two plump scones, smothered in a savoury white sauce, with a burger on the side, all served on a bed of rosti?  Because in American, a "biscuit" is a scone, "gravy" may well be made with milk, a "sausage" is often flat and round, and "hash browns" (that ultimate all-American gut buster) appear to be Swiss.

I had a hunch this might happen.  Multiple visits to Vancouver as a child have prepared me well for the continent where, after your brunch, you order the check (bill) before paying with a bill (banknote.)  Canada, in fact, is up next, with its added French twist.  Vive la difference, I say, and bon appetit.

Surprise, surprise!
(with our friend Donna, a teacher from Michigan we worked with in Laos)

"The pancake stack is HOW large?"

John