1. What is your favourite place in Australia and why?

Anywhere you can leave your door open at night and just hear the breeze in the wind and the stray howl of a dog, trees shivering and air that echoes the space … waking to nothing but sky and warmth. Possibly Kalgoorlie in September, Denmark WA in February, or anywhere in Far North NSW or Qld in July…Oh or Broome in June.  I just love Australia…

2. Is there anywhere you wouldn’t go back to? Why?

I loved everywhere we went, and I found something to appreciate and learn about it all. Mainly it was all an echo of aspects of myself.

The only place that truly shocked me, because the clichés were true, was Hall’s Creek, in WA. It was riddled with child pregnancy, welfare problems, addictions, screaming, and, to be a bit ‘out there’, just an awful, slightly evil vibe. When we left, I felt like we’d been let out of jail, even though the sky was big and the roads didn’t stop us … but not far further, things were better. A bit like life!

3. What were the best things about being on the road?

Every day is different. Every day you’re free. Every day you’re slightly frightened and that’s a good thing. Every day you’re learning new things about yourself, about the world around you, about the way you react to people and places, about your beautiful country and your cultural inheritance, and other people’s cultural inheritance. Every day your values are stripped back to the fundamentals: physical needs, relationships, inspiration. After being stimulated on that level it’s really hard to go back to monotony!

4. What were the hardest things about being on the road?

OK, first up, the obvious: Lack of cooking facilities, and lack of good coffee! Since when does steaming some milk and adding International Roast constitute a latté? To get cooking facilities, you need to stay in a youth hostel, yet the irony is, you mainly meet backpackers from overseas. So we stayed with other Aussies which was an adventure in itself.

Also, I didn’t realise how masculine the Australian outback was until I went there myself. And I thought it wasn’t fair!

5. And travelling with your partner for so long? Good, bad, ugly?

Jim was a wonderful travelling companion. He loved driving, he was so low maintenance he slept in the seat of the car, he ate tuna cans day after day and practised jokes on me – what else coud you ask for? But yeah, you just learn everything in fast-forward when you’re spending 24/7 with someone in the front of a car! You become one and the same – at one point we only had one set of car keys, so if we lost each other, it would be a matter of just ’sensing’ where the other one was … it was pretty intense!

I don’t want to give the book away but at a certain point I realised how we differed, and that affected how we could travel together…

6. Have you got any tips for the ladies on how to stay pretty under duress?

On the first road trip with Jim (and i write this in the book) I was all about trying to hide my ‘high maintenance-ness’ in the public toilets. Nuh. Uh. Guys just don’t ‘get’ that we need more than three minutes to get ready.

So, here are my weird ones:

Use any kind of oil or moisturiser to wash your face in the outback, if you have nothing but a public toilet block. Mix it with hand paper towels soaked in warm water and some moisturiser and voila, your face is clean and moisturised (hey, I was doing this under duress).

Always keep a few toothbrushes in the glovebox, handbag, everywhere …. you don’t even need toothpaste when you’re desperate.

At one point i had no idea where my hairbrush was and I needed to comb my hair, immediately. All we had were some clean plastic forks in the camping box. I used one of those.

Get your eyelashes tinted before you go! Wear sunscreen – buy the sticks (like from Clarins), they are really good and can hang around your neck if you’re jogging in super burning heat. Carry a cream foundation and  splash on in an emergency of red blotchiness. Use a lipstick as a blush on the apples of your cheeks if you have nothing else. And make the most of getting into a town which has some beauticians in it. They’ll become your closest friends  if you’ve just spent six weeks in the Goldfields. I’m not joking…

Buy a little perfume oil bottle from the Body Shop or Kleins perfumery or elsewhere. Use that instead of perfume, as it reacts better in the heat.

7. Best laundry tips? Did you come up with innovative ways to wash/dry laundry?

Sadly, no. I just didn’t take anything that needed ironing and no white clothes. Lots of reds and blacks.  Also be conscious that it’s about the experience, not about what happens to your clothes. Jim used to say he liked bumps on his car for that very reason. Only take things you don’t mind losing or ruining, that can pack up small, are comfortable and ‘you’. I still have one of the skirts I took with me from Kookai, it was made of nylon and squished up to about a square centimetre in my bag.

8. Did anything scary/dangerous happen? How did you escape/avoid it?

Oddly, only a couple of dodgy things happened in the course of one year, but my perception of scary had completely changed.  On the whole, in one year of car travelling I had about three dodgy experiences whereas in Melbourne I’d have scary/dangerous encounters on a daily basis. I was lucky, but I was careful too. At one point I went jogging and got approached by a guy in the outback, but that’s happened to me about 16 times in Melbourne at Princes Park. I just kept jogging, and pretended not to notice. Then got into the car, and scooted away.

9. If you had the chance to do it again, knowing what you now know, would you?

Yes. It was the best risk I’ve ever taken. I learnt so much about people, love, life …

I think life is about growth and learning, and the only way you can do this is to get out of your comfort zone.

10. Checklist for ultimate road trip happiness – what are the absolute must-haves for a life on the road?

All you need is an open, curious heart. If you have that, and are willing to go down the dark roads as well as the lush ones, you will have one grand adventure. And pack sunscreen and a sense of humour.

11. Any tips on how to get a decent night’s sleep without a bed?

Cotton wool in the ears, a beanie, socks, and if you can, someone you love to cuddle!

The good news for you, my pretties, is that there are five copies of Love and Other U-Turns up for grabs.

All you need to do to win your very own copy is to tell us 25 words or less about the best road trip you have ever been on.

Here’s my Top 10 Travel Highlights (this week, anyway):

1. Watching the sun rise over Macchu Picchu

2. Sitting on top of a dune watching the sunset in the Stony Desert, Australia

3. Watching elephants drink from a natural mineral spring in Botswana

4. Kayaking through a cave into a hidden lake in Halong Bay, Vietnam

5. Standing in a waterfall in Nakhonsithammarat, Thailand, surrounded by thousands of tiny silver fish that kept ‘kissing’ my legs

6. Being ‘poled’ through the Okavango Delta in Botswana in a mokoro (dug out canoe) surrounded by pink, purple, yellow and white waterlilies

7. Meeting an elephant for the first time at the River Kwai and feeling its snotty trunk wrap around my fingertips as I fed it bananas

8. White water rafting down the Zambezi River in Zambia

9. Mountain biking along beside a river deep in the Mekhong Delta while all the little village kids ran out to wave and yell, “Hello, hello!”

10. Eating lunch with my friends on top of Taquile, a high altitude island in the middle of Lake Titicaca, overlooking miles and miles of perfect blue sky and water

I could go on and on and on… so many good times…

Tell me, friends, what’s on your travel highlight reel? What pops into your head when you think about all the amazing stuff you’ve done?

Where was he when he took this shot?

First person to get it right wins the weekly mystery prize!

Last week’s winner was Jayne Walsh from Designlogic (she got in first but her comment had to be approved). Congrats Jayne and thanks to everyone who entered.

The conclusion I have drawn is that beauty is as cultural as anything else.

My friend Tennille who is currently living in India recently wrote about a particularly cringeworthy visit to the beauty salon. She was told by various staff members that she was dirty, had greasy hair and that her pores were visible from outer space. Ouch. This same friend  is considered a goddess in Italy, Hawaii and most other nations where the people have eyes.

When I was 18, I spent a year in Thailand being told quite cheerfully that I was ‘oo-un’ (fat) every time I left the house. The truth is, I was a bit chunky after comfort eating my way through the deep-fried, coconut-creamy wonders of Nakhonsithammarat. I was homesick and when you’re a Rotary Exchange Student, you’re not allowed to indulge in anything remotely escapist (the four D’s – no drinking, no driving, no drugs and no dating). What was I supposed to do?

In Fiji, I got hit on a lot. In Vietnam, people averted their eyes. Black Africans like me. White Africans don’t. I am invisible to Americans and kiwis, hideous to Balinese people and Peruvians are completely ambivalent about me and yet enamoured with The Future Husband.

Is there such a thing as universal beauty? Do tribes in Borneo sit around oohing and ahhing over Matt Damon? Would Masai warriors get a bit bashful around Dita Von Teese? Do eskimos wake up wishing they could have red hair and freckles?

Oscar Wilde once said, ‘No object is so beautiful that, under certain conditions, it will not look ugly.’

Where are you hot? Where are you not? Are you a big hit in China and a social pariah in Poland? I want to know!

Image caption: I bought these photos at a market stall in Miraflores in Peru. How gorgeous and proud are these women?

Who went overseas on a whim,

When they got there,

The folks loved their hair,

Those crazy young boys named Two Tims.

There is nothing quite like a limerick to start off your Monday right, right?

Remember the Two Tims who were profiled in Travel Tales a little while back? You’ll never guess what they have been up to … cue suspense …

OK, I’ll tell you – they have been in Asia making a documentary for Contiki called Same Same, but Different.

I know it’s Monday and you’re wildly motivated to get stuck into something involving an Excel spreadsheet but I urge you to neglect your work for another 10 minutes and tune into this rollercoaster ride around Vietnam, Thailand, Laos and Cambodia.

Click here for a mental holiday to the far out east: http://contiki.com.au/asiavideo

Tell me, Dearest Ones, what are your favourite travel shows? Has there been a particular episode that has stayed with you?

The problem is that I have started it several times and I just find it so boring.

For both our sakes, I decided to bullet point the really interesting stuff. In no particular order, here is some of what I discovered in Johannesburg:

• To the locals, Johannesburg is known as ‘Gauteng’ (meaning  ’City of Gold’) or ‘Josie’.
• Soweto (which is an extended acronym for ‘South West Township) is not as poverty-stricken as you might expect . Of the 2.5 million inhabitants, most of them live in houses that are not much worse than Australian housing commission homes. I am not saying it’s great by any stretch of the imagination - most of the dwellings have tin roofs and dirt floors – but what I am saying is that it’s not a shanty town.
• Johannesburg does have shanty towns – they are on the other side of the city to Soweto. I heard white South African people complaining that, ‘Anything that’s not nailed down, gets stolen,’ (case in point: telephone poles and wires) but that’s all shanty town residents have to build shelter with. Imagine hectares of cobbled together iron sheeting, concrete and wire with dirt paths running between the shacks like red soil veins. At the entrance to each artery, there is a telephone centre built in a shipping container and a sprawling butchery-cum-BBQ where offal is grilled and sold cheap. That is what a real South African shanty town looks like.
• Most people living in poverty in Johannesburg die from the cold during winter. That was one the saddest things I have ever heard. Think about how many spare blankets you have in your house.
• On a happier note, everyone in Johannesburg is really, really, really excited about the World Cup in June. I hope South Africa win - they are overdue for some big happiness.
• The Apartheid Museum is an architectural and educational marvel. I learnt more about South Africa’s history in the three hours I spent there than in 30 years of paying attention. What struck me most was the Nelson Mandela exhibition; specifically the Truth and Reconciliation Act that he introduced when he came to power. Instead of prosecuting the people who committed hate crimes (state-enforced or otherwise), he legislated that all guilty parties be given the opportunity to publicly confess and for their victims to publicly forgive them. That is the singlemost enlightened political move I have ever heard of.
• South Africans eat a lot of red meat and mealie meal (called ’pup’) which looks exactly like mashed potato and tastes like Clag glue.
• The landscape looks a lot like the Northern Territory; red dirt, rocky terrain, dry grasslands which to my mind, totally supports the Pangaea theory.
• A major highlight of my time in Josie was getting the opportunity to hold a lion cub at a place called the Rhino & Lion Reserve , located about 30 minutes from Johannesburg. I also got to play with Serval kittens, got really close to the big lion daddies, saw cheetahs, rhinos, flamingoes, white lions, hippos, zebras, heaps of different antelope, vultures, leopards, blue wildebeests … the list goes on. This was a great place to get acquainted with African wildlife because for the rest of the trip, the animals I saw were in the wild (i.e. hidden by bushes, far away and shy around noisy tourists).
• Kate and I stayed at a place called Amadwala Lodge , a mostly tranquil oasis out in Honeydew. Yes, there is the odd gunshot at night and the occasional loud party in the distance but the food is good, the owners are helpful and there’s a bar right next to the pool; an unexpected luxury.

Have you been to Josie? What did you think?

Read more about my African adventures here

Hollywood Hobart on the Cold Coast

By Maggie Videan

This is the story I don’t want anyone to read. Please don’t visit. I would like to find Hobart the same; a quiet, mostly forgotten township oozing with mix of a historic charm and organic character.

Unlike its sun bleached vacation rivals of the northern states, Hobart is best visited when it is a bit nippy. It makes for an easy getaway, as there is enough to do over a weekend to recharge your batteries without wearing you out.

Nestled behind Australia’s second oldest city is Mt. Wellington which is 1,270 feet above sea level. Hobart has Australia’s first legal casino, Wrest Point. Near Hobart is the convict historical town of Port Arthur. It still holds the world record for the worst massacre by a single gunman. Thirty-six dead. Sadly, that puts them on the map.

Hobart is best known as the destination point for the Sydney to Hobart race. I imagine that standing along the harbour front watching those yachts turn in would be quite spectacular. So, for those of us not fortunate enough to herald in the race competitors, the harbour sights and activities are just as appealing.

If your budget can stretch to the Henry Adams Hotel in the old IXL factory, that would be the premium choice for a sleepover. It’s close to everything and it’s so very charming. No matter, if you decide the Grand Chancellor is more to your liking or any other place you find, you can still enjoy a pre-dinner drink in one of its cosy bars.

All points of interest can be easily accessed on foot. Start out by just walking around the foreshore. The Elizabeth Street Pier has a range of bars and eateries to choose from. There is even accommodation above the eating complex. A whole array of boats, some resembling old sailing rigs and a multitude of fishing vessels cruise in an out. Squawking gulls and fish loving birds congregate waiting for a handout. People saunter, sit or just stand and look out to the ocean.  It does take some doing to slow right down to a Hobartian pace.

The Salamanca markets are a must on Saturday morning. Set in amongst a line of elegant 1840 sandstone terraces all in a row, the markets are a bustling, music filled and a happy place to be.

Even if you are not stocking up on your groceries for the week, the fresh, often home grown produce is a joy to behold. Bunches of wild flowers, bundles of lavender, fruit based products like whole fruit ‘straps’ and fruit cordials, sensational jams (of note- Gennaro’s Late Summer Apricot Jam and Gennaro’s Cherries in Grappa – fabulous to drop into a glass of champagne!), oils, hand spun wool items, are readily available as are funny antique and old ware sellers, and purveyors of all things kitsch and Tasmanian. Who could resist a hand knitted possum beanie or matching Tasmanian tiger and Tasmanian devil oven mitts.

Just behind the markets in a small square is a nest of little cafes, ideal to park oneself for a nice brunch before searching out the perfect wood turned Huon Pine salad bowl. The author found herself angling over the same wooden item as one K Rudd. There is however, no guarantee that your shopping compatriots will be as lofty as the PM!

In the evening, when market time is over, the street is returned to its original simple line of sandstone buildings that host great bars and restaurants. Take your pick, take your time and think about what you plan not to do the next day.  Sunday, is of course a day of rest.

When I lived in Thailand, eating out was a constant Russian roulette of gore. Chicken’s feet, duck’s blood jelly or BBQ dog; you name the animal and I reckon the Thais have found a way to cook it, curry it or failing that, whack it in a jar to frighten the children.

Same goes for the Vietnamese. I remember a very funny dinner where the ‘brave’ (read: show pony) member of our group ordered a deep-fried rat. He got part of its tiny, tiny jaw stuck in his throat. My rule of thumb is that if it can eat you, you shouldn’t eat it and rats will eat you. I’ve seen the BBC’s version of ’1984′.

In Texas, it’s not so much the ingredients that scare you as the quantities.  For example, I was deeply puzzled by the French toast at The Hyatt. It seemed to be made from molten sugar, texturised butter and something undescribable that could only be the work of the Devil. I had to investigate. Turns out they take a big, thick slice of white bread, butter it on both sides, dip it in sugar, batter it, deep-fry and then dip it in sugar again. So good, and yet, ouch, my chest … gurgleahhh … DOA. This is the same hotel where scrambled eggs come straight out of a carton. Yes, these people are so lazy (or semi-catatonic from carbohydrate overload) that they can nary scramble an ova.

My favourite weird food experience, however, was in Peru. But before I go on, I would like to tell you a little story. Imagine you are a young man growing up in the countryside. Your family has lots of pets, including a large clan of lovingly raised guinea pigs. Now imagine that you are asked to mow the lawn on a ride-on mower but noone tells you that the guinea pigs are free-range that day. Forget Texas Chainsaw; this was the Tamworth Mower Massacre.

What is a terribly sad tale in Australia is an entree in Peru.

A year or so ago, The Future Husband and I were up in the hills near Cusco when we popped into a local village for lunch. This was the kind of place where the locals sell you all kinds of hand-woven, hand-dyed wallhangings made out of alpaca wool and the tears of Shamans. We bought everything in sight and signed up for banquet.

We had a nice sopa, followed by a nice roasted guinea pig on bed of rehydrated potatoes. What was especially nice was the fact that we didn’t have to fight over who got the legs because there was enough to go around.

Tell me, Hungry Caterpillars, what have you eaten that freaked the hell out of you? Stuffed cockroach anyone?

Off the beaten track in Ooty

By Maggie Videan

Where did you say that was? Never heard of it? Possibly not!

Ooty is a forgotten hill station located 2000 metres above sea level in the Nilgris in Southern India. Alive with industry, it has a delightful climate, friendly locals and a history harking back to British India.

Ooty was the town where the British Administrators escaped the heat of the Indian summer during the ‘occupation’. The weather is cool and temperate most of the year and as such, is ideal for growing tea. There are many tea plantations dotted around the area and the local tea has an excellent flavour. There is a ‘Tea Museum’ at the top of a hill that provides an informative overview of this gentle art as well as providing and an impressive lookout across the township, rolling hills and valleys beyond.

Take a step back in time and enjoy the old-world charm and elegance of the Savoy Hotel. Sit on the lawn, sip a lime and soda and eat tasty, spicy morsels. Then play some badminton or walk around the historic British showpiece that is now a bustling township. The markets are a photographic delight with lots of local colour.

The Ferntree Hotel is another impressive architectural feat. Once a palace of an Indian Raja, it is now a gracious and imposing hotel surrounded by sweeping lawns and old iron benches.

The main street in Ooty is called ‘Charing Cross’ and is as bustling as its London counterpart. Lots of shops sit side by side, stocked with oils, soap, chocolates, tea (of course), warm woollen shawls and artefacts and antiquities (some real and some not so, the Indians can reproduce anything, so buyer beware!).

Sights to see are ‘The Big House’ which is now a derelict big house made entirely of big blue boulders from the area and was once the centre for British administration in the Tamil Nadu district. It is boarded up and cared for by a local (and his cow) living in makeshift accommodation in the rear of this still impressive building.

St Steven’s church has a foundation stone laid in 1832, the local Anglo-Indian School was built in 1840 and the Ooty Club has a history dating back to 1848. However, the membership to the Ooty club is strict and preserves its tight membership and dress regulations. It was only after partition in 1947 that Indian’s were allowed to join and even then, only the well to do could afford its membership fees.

All rooms are festooned with many items of aged furniture dating back to the 1800’s and lion heads, spotted leopard skins, deer and buffalo trophies which are now rather old and decrepit but certainly reminiscent of days gone by. Apparently, along with the fox hunts and gala equestrian events, the game of Billiards was ‘invented’ in one of its gracious rooms. Photos and old newspaper clippings as well as a securely covered Billiard table attest this proudly boasted fact.

Today, they guard their history and even though patronised by members and their guests, written permission is required to take a photo and it would be impossible to enter its vast interiors without a member introduction. It’s a total ‘no go’ for the humble tourist without appropriate connections.

The best way to get to Ooty is to fly to Coimbatore and endure a three-hour drive on narrow, truck-laden poorly kept roadways. Nevertheless, a different experience to the India of crowded cities and traffic warfare and a step back in time that is refreshing as the tea from the area!

By Verity Twydale

Tucked away in the cleft of a mountain in the middle of the Syrian countryside lies a tiny Christian village. Admittedly, it’s an odd place to have a Christian village. Syria is a country that’s often mistakenly known for it’s antipathy towards anyone and anything beyond the Islamic faith. Yet not an hour northeast of Damascus lies Maaloula, the last place on earth where the language of Christ is spoken. 

Travelling down from Krak de Chevaliers, the Crusader castle made famous by T.E Lawrence as ‘the best preserved and most wholly admirable castle in the world’, we stumbled upon Maaloula largely thanks to my pea-sized bladder. Having offended a petrol station attendant for not drinking the proffered tea – a huge insult in Syria – my partner was forced to explain to our baffled driver that the lady, in fact, needed to pee. Maaloula just happened to be the closest town and Jesus, thank you, a town with a toilet. 

Nestled in the Qalamoun mountains 1500 metres above sea level, Maaloula is one of the most scenic villages in Syria. Maaloula, meaning ‘entrance’ in Aramaic,  is historically the home of the First Martyr, St Takla, daughter of a Roman prince who was converted to Christianity by St Paul. The story goes that after St Takla’s pagan father learned of her conversion he sent his soldiers to execute her but each time she was miraculously saved. Fleeing to Syria, St Takla found herself confronted by the impassable Qalamoun mountains. After praying to God to save her, the mountain was miraculously split in half so she could escape her persecutors. 

Arriving in Maaloula you feel this ancient history in the air. It’s pregnant with religion. There are crosses hidden in every cave and painted on every wall. Some are carved, some are lit at night, and more still are plain – just simple remembrances of the town’s pervasive Christianity. At the top of the mountains there’s another reminder; a statue of the Blessed Mother overlooking the village with her loving gaze. Christianity isn’t something that’s just talked about here, it’s in the air, the earth, and the very breath of each of its 2,000 inhabitants.

In Maaloula you won’t find the usual hustle and bustle of other Middle Eastern towns; there’s a vibe of pilgrimage. A place where adventurous Christians and Muslims alike can follow the steep mountain road up to the Monastery of St Takla, home to the miraculous waterfall created by God for the pursued martyr. As a visitor you have access to the water but since I’m not one to partake in any form of un-bottled water in any developing country – blessed or not – I found my peace instead in the cool courtyard overhung by a twisted fig tree that looked as old as St Takla herself.

After our short pilgrimage, we came across a small restaurant not 30 paces from the exit of the monastery. Even the energy in here had a subdued feeling, with contemplative locals enjoying their midday meal. Our waiter, who served us what was one of the best meals of our trip – a simple dish of warm hummus, fruity olive oil and baked flat bread – was only too keen to explain the history of the town. He even showed us his tattoo – his name written on his arm in ancient Aramaic – and spent a good half an hour trying to correct my sloppy Arabic handwriting, telling me to learn Aramaic instead. Young people, he said, have to protect their heritage. And with such passionate advocates in Maaloula, it appears, history will not be left to the dead. 

Getting there: Maaloula is gaining popularity with tourists in Syria. You can get to the town in a day trip from Damascus, but if you’re going that far you are much better served doing a round trip – heading up to Krak des Chevaliers, spending a night there, then visiting Maaloula on your way back from Damascus. Tours can be organised with a private driver in a nice car for as little as $120 (not including accommodation) and well worth the splurge.