While I’m on the topic of traveller/tourist, the only thing I really hate – and it’s time for grudges to emerge here (I’m surprised that I’ve held out for so long) is the backpacker bitching sessions about Lonely Planet or whatever other colossal guide book they’re lugging along to contribute to future chiropractic bills.

This is the most boring conversation that has ever taken place on well-trod “off the beaten tracks” (especially re: the China Lonely Planet)… but if you don’t like it, don’t bring it. It’s that simple.

A guide book is not an essential item like passport or visa. And if you don’t like it, keep it to yourself. No-one wants to hear how elevated above the trite cliché of backpackerdom you are by dissing Lonely Planet et al. It’s just adhering to the stereotype down to the minute details. There is nothing more boring that hearing the gripes of the born-again anti-guidebooker. So there!

In a child’s imaginary world, inanimate objects come to life of an evening and have the capacity for infinite adventures and mischief. With the passage of a few years of wisdom and time spent backpacking, one realises that this is in fact true.

However, the “other world” is solely inhabited by plastic bags, which become animate and migrate to the opening of backpacks, eager to escape at the first possible opportunity. This is usually in the early hours of the morning, in a hostel dormitory room inhabited by drunken late-comers, snorers, coughers and key rattlers.

Due to the lack of youth hostels in Russia, I got used to either renting a private room, sleeping the accommodation rooms at train stations, or even staying in shared doubles in hotel rooms.

I’ve just been reading this amusing post about “Going from Traveller to Tourist in 5 easy steps”, and am a little alarmed at the ominous signs emerging. I’ve started going away for weekends with someone else, a sure sign of the traveller turned tourist road to ruin, and whilst I’m avoiding the transition to a little suitcase with wheels, my travel companion has a largely unused one in his possession (but I think that’s a French thing…)

Let me foremost state that I hate bowling.

Thus the scene is set (a little removed from Europe, but since I’m on the topic of head injuries…) as I was invited one evening from a cafe in Kunming, China, to indulge in a few shots at the ten-pins. Politely I declined and instead cycled back home.

However, my bike – a veritable bargain – was also a death trap on wheels, a rickety direct train service between this earthly realm and the gates of hell.

Chuggety-chugg-chuggetty-chugg…

I laboured against the pedals, straining to make it up a hill.

The din echoed through the streets again as I coasted down the other side of the aforementioned embankment. Only this time faster, a continual cacophony, that started to turn the heads of the odd bystander. My bike sounded like this in the daytime as well, but usually there was a plethora of cyclists and automotive traffic and general hubbub to drone out the metallic protests.

Bettina-MacGyver here recalled, somewhere in the problem solving of the previous few days, that if I just balanced my foot against the front-metal-bit which joined to the spokes-metal-bits then I was assured silent riding. So I perilously reached my foot forward, oblivious to the speed that I was gathering and momentarily rested my toe on what turned out to be actual spokes… and somersaulting head-over-heels-over-handlebars I was thrown off the bike, skidded down the road. My foot was caught in the front wheel (both of which now lay behind me as I lay on my stomach), so just for good measure I collected either the seat or the mudguard in the back of my head.

I disentangled my foot from the wheels and jumped up defensively, in my best impression of maintaining a “nothing to see here” façade. The crowds rushed around me regardless, and it was at this moment that I realised there was a steady dripping on the road besides me.

Blood.

Still calm, I rationalised that thus far I have always been able to ascertain the location of a toilet – the only real emergency previously encountered – through a carefully constructed system of charades, phrases and blunt enthusiasm. I launched into my routine of pointing to the blood, pointing to by head, and then the “where” clincher, a huge theatrical shrug which would have had any children’s pantomime actor consumed by jealousy.

Everyone around me noticeably increased their panic level.

“This is worse than we thought; the girl is delirious as well.”

As they say in real estate, it’s all about “location, location, location” and I happened to stage my prang next to a medical centre, and from there I was whisked to Kunming Hospital.

The things I do to get out of bowling…

For all those eagle-eyed / stickler for details out there, that last post “technically” didn’t take place in Europe. And neither does this one. But I figure it’s all about global interconnection these days, so here’s a morsel about Mongolia…

What to do when there is no particular highlight of a journey, but instead the highlight is the journey itself?

Call it Mongolia.

I guess it was a logical progression in my first effort to enter Russia.

As logical as can be when this path begins in Cambodia, and one finds themself spirited into Mongolia – relatively clueless – on a train akin to a Cluedo murder mise en scène.

Professor Plum, with the rope, in the vestibule.

Or, more feasibly, with a dislodged overhead bag of plums. Our Mongolian counterparts had madly stocked up on bulky bags of fruit before crossing the border between China and their barren homeland.

Banding together with some fellow backpackers, we rented a sturdy Russian van with its even sturdier Mongolian driver and set off to the Gobi Desert.

Oh, the things to be seen in this vast land with its southern-sliver of “desert”. We had picked the right time to visit, just after the rains, and day after day I was struck by the abundance of life in this presumed arid wasteland.

Imagine my shock when we came across an ice valley, the remnants of a glacier which had been gradually declining over thousands of years – melting in its entirety in summer, reforming every winter.

We slid and scuttled over its frozen surface for what was possibly a kilometre, an icy canyon stroll.

But my favourite moment would have been my work as a bad-missionary. You see, it must be categorically stated, I am a nerd. So I fit in perfectly in China; playing badminton in the alleyways lit by the haze of the afternoon sun slipping away, flying kites in Tiananmen Square in the cool crisp evenings. I had brought my badminton set out to the desert, and it was the greatest toy for the nomad kids we were staying with in the family ger (yurt) encampments. Despite winds close to gale force, we would run around like eager shuttlecock-fetching puppies. In return, the kids let us ride their camels.

Both parties were in agreement, this was the deal of the century.

I look forward to reading about all your experiences in PNG, and in return, I might try and sneak some Mongolia stories onto my blog… even though it’s about Europe, well… everything is interconnected these days! Keep in touch and all the best, xx

Do you ever meet a new person and find that you get tongue-tied, shy, and can’t think of any questions to ask to keep the conversation going?

This is definitely the case for me, and I can’t even manage to ask the simplest questions. Are you working or a student? What do you like doing in your spare time? Even the language textbook favourite, do you have any brothers or sisters? It’s crummy, but it’s a starter. Even the odorous “what is your favourite type of music?” can get conversation going, even if it’s just to talk about how much you hate being asked that question, because it’s impossibly to answer succinctly, and it all depends on one’s mood at the time.

I usually end up spinning a convoluted tale (no surprises there, if you have read any of this blog) and then I worry about the impression that this would create of me as a poor conversationalist.

As a result, I’ve been collecting interesting questions, prompted by a friend whose conversation opener was: “what are you afraid of?”

The following enumeration of musings is far from a guide to social success, maybe more so just stuff that I’ve wondered over time (and very related to real experiences)… any answers? Any more questions?

Have you ever had a bathroom wall collapse on you?
Do you think it is immature not to clap for a character in a ballet, even if the dancer is magnificent but the character is a troublemaker? (reading between the lines: Tybalt in Romeo and Juliet)
Have you ever either intentionally or inadvertently brought two marines home?
Do you keep your fingernails clean?
Ever seen a dead body?
Does the whole idea of long-distance trucking hold a mysterious allure for you?