Kigali zelf is een grote stad voorzien van alle moderne gemakken en je kunt hier een hoop producten krijgen die in Bukavu niet te vinden zijn (zoals draadloos internet op het vliegveld. En een vliegveld.). De chauffeur had dan ook een heel boodschappenlijstje met alles wat hij morgen moet gaan kopen voor collega’s. Ook ik ga op de terugweg - volgende week zaterdag alweer - hier even shoppen voordat ik weer naar Bukavu ga. Bruin brood, verse melk. Dat soort leukigheden zijn in Congo onbekend.

De plannen voor de komende week: veel relaxen met Jasper en Moortje, verwendingen doen als naar de kapper, naar de bioscoop, lekkere dingen eten, vrienden zien. Bij Jaspers pas bevallen zus langs en voor vertrek een dagje Brussel.

Here, that is Bukavu, in the province of South Kivu in eastern Congo. And work, that is my job as reporting officer for UNHCR, the UN refugee agency. I arrived here about two months ago, to take up this post as a UNV. Our office in Bukavu is UNHCR’s HQ for the province. As ‘chargée des rapports’ I am responsible for the reports of our office to the sub-offices, to the country office, to partner organisations. In addition, I work for the protection cluster: a group of organisations, lead by UNHCR, targeting to protect refugees and idp’s. This means a lot of information passes over my desk every day, and it is up to me to filter out the sensitive data, to summarize the stories into a concise, to the point discourse about protection work, the amounts of newly displaced in the provinces, and relevant security incidents.

The latter is a concept I am still getting used to. This is a country torn up by war, in which attacks, rape and violence are part of everyday life. And apparently, in such situations, some incidents become less relevant than others. The reports I read daily talk of the most horrendous things. Rape of an 8-year old girl in one village, in another village a 67-year old woman is abused. Houses in five villages collapse because passing troops brutally rip the wooden supports out so they can cook. A protesting elderly is beaten up. Children are recruited as child soldiers and when the contingent finally moves on, they take the villages’ goats and cows with them. Etcetera, etcetera. I could give you names and places, dates and times. The reports that reach me are very specific and they talk about real people, about things that happened yesterday or this morning. Normally, these are things one hears on the eight o’clock news, things that happen far away. But here, they are happening next door. The stories are horrendous. And yet, I read these reports and take out half of the incidents, turn the real stories about real people into nameless statistics. These then are discussed in several of the many meetings between UN agencies, NGOs, and peacekeeping forces, all dedicated to saving this strange, but wonderful country.

The Democratic Republic of Congo is incredibly vast, a former Belgian colony and has the potential of being one of the richest countries in Africa. It is as large as the whole of Western Europe and borders no less than nine countries: the Republic of Congo (also called Congo-Brazzaville), Central Africa, Sudan, Uganda, Rwanda, Burundi, Tanzania, Zambia and Angola. The earth contains gold and minerals – but the people are amongst the poorest in Africa. The river Congo is wide, long, and fast, and it could provide power to the entire continent - yet it runs largely unexploited and only a few cities are more or less provided with an irregular, unstable current. The forests are immense, dense and full of life. Several unique species of animals could attract tourism – but now the trips to the gorillas can only be organised with permission from the UN security department. The country is being destroyed by illegal mine exploitation, corruption, lack of planning and strategy – and, unavoidably, by war. Not only does it suffer from its own wars, but the Congo has over time become host to many, many refugees from Angola, Sudan, Burundi and Rwanda.
As for the province of South Kivu, the Rwandan genocide of the 90s has had the most destructive impact. Many Rwandans fled into bordering South Kivu (a province as large as Rwanda and Burundi together). Their number is unknown; they went in hiding in the brousse, the jungle, which is where many of them still live. Then came the Rwandan liberation army, the FDLR, to liberate the Rwandan Hutus from oppression by the Congolese, but in fact are said to be holding many Rwandese hostage in the brousse as cannon fodder. The Congolese national army, the FARDC, is at this moment deploying its troops for a campaign called Kimia 2. Kimia 2 is going to chase the FDLR back into Rwanda and is supported by the UN peacekeeping operation MONUC. But formerly, FARDC and FDLR fought together in South Kivu against another armed group. In addition to this confusion, there are the many local armed Mai-Mai groups, ordinary people who organised themselves to defend their lives and villages against the pillage and plunder of the armies. Unfortunately they do not restrict themselves to defence against the armies, but often become the aggressors and pillagers themselves. The FARDC rarely receives wages, so they too take to plundering villages and asking illegal taxes.

As a result of all this mayhem, people are forced to flee from their homes. The total amount of internally displaced in Congo is at the moment over 1.8 million. Congolese in refuge in neighbouring countries: about 300.000. And then there is an unknown number of refugees from neighbouring countries residing in Congo. UNHCR in South Kivu monitors the situation, works on protection, runs shelter projects and repatriation programs. And in that whole, impossible to grasp world of ongoing violence and destruction, half-reliable data, clusters to coordinate efforts of multiple agencies and organisations, different interests and intentions of all the various parties, efforts of coordination with other agencies, proliferation of NGOs and UN peace operation MONUC, I suddenly found myself.

When I arrived in Kinshasa for the initial briefings before taking up my post, I had no idea what to expect. Not of the work, nor of the country, nor of daily life. So far it has been a mixture of joy and frustration. That is the expat life in conflict areas: life in extremes. You feel either good, or bad. There is no middle ground and both come along more strongly than in a normal life.

After the formalities in the capital I moved on to my duty station, Bukavu. The journey took all day and three flights, passing through Uganda. Finally, when I arrived at Bukavu MONUC airport, hot, hungry, tired, and angry that I had had to leave one suitcase behind, a UNHCR driver was there to pick me up and during the ride to town I felt myself relax. Kinshasa is big, busy, dirty. Here there are banana trees, lush mountains, a cool climate and a lake so beautifully situated it is breathtaking. I started at the UNHCR office the next day. I met all my colleagues, got briefings and more briefings, went to meetings as other agencies, met people there, got yet again more briefings. I only understood half of what was going on. I stayed at the house of a colleague who was on mission; her domestic help did my laundry (by hand) and cooked, two guards were always there to watch the premises and fire up the generator at night, and a driver picked me up every day to go to the office. A strange life. A lot of it passed by in a haze – it was all rather overwhelming. New, new, new, all day long, everyone and everything. I didn’t know the way in town, didn’t know any people, had trouble understanding the language. For this is a francophone country and thus a francophone mission. Yes, I speak French, and reasonably well; but to live, work, write in French – that is, as we say in Holland, a different biscuit. I would go to these meetings and would understand 50% tops of what was being said – on a good day. Because of the French, because of the many different French accents (there are people from every corner of the world here), because of place names I did not know, because of jargon I did not master (who would have guessed that PAM is French for WFP, AGR for IGA, and PVI for FYI?). In the beginning, I was knackered at the end of each day. My predecessor, who is still in the country, encouraged me by saying: ‘it will take at least two months before you begin to understand. After six months you will be halfway.’ And unfortunately, that seems to be the truth.

By now, after two months, I do feel a little more grounded here. But life remains odd in all aspects. I drive to work in a Toyota Landcruiser 4×4 over non-existents roads, trying not to run over the goats, and keeping the doors locked at all times. I give the guards some extras from time to time, to keep them from selling information about me to potential thieves. I check every day if the maid didn’t steal anything. I try to get to know people by immersing myself in the expat scene, get invited to bingo night at the Pakistani battalion’s headquarters and go dancing at the MONUC club on Fridays. At the same time, I am trying to discover what UNHCR is, does, how, with whom, which are the main interests, and what are the dynamics that move the organisation. Contact with Congolese turn out to be hard. There is a Great Divide between expats and local staff. Most often the local people an expat encounters, are working under him, are the beggars in front of the shops, or are the ladies in the market trying to sell bananas and tomatoes at elevated, ‘white’ prices. And then there are the many armed robbers and gangs. All in all, it is quite rare to find expats and locals in a friendship based on equality. Despite that, in general, I find the Congolese a good-humoured, cheerful people. And they have no hesitation whatsoever to bring up the most bizarre topics of conversation.

One of the guards at the hostel in Kinshasa had a real talent for that. One day, I came home after another day of briefings, when he stopped me on the way to my room.
- Good morning madam. I want to ask you a question.
- Sure, Abraham, go ahead.
- Well, I heard that in New Zealand 60% of the people are paedophiles. Is that true?
- 60%? Where did you hear that? No, I am sure that is not correct. Perhaps there are a few paedophiles in New Zealand, but certainly not 60%.
- Oh. (Moment of silence.) Perhaps it wasn’t paedophiles, but homosexuals?
- No, for that as well, I am sure the number isn’t that high. No doubt there are some, but not that many.
- Oh. (Silence again.) Actually, what is the difference between homosexuals and paedophiles?
And then the conversation turned to homosexuality, next to how homosexual people have sex, and then he wanted to know if they used sex toys and what material those were made from. At that point I decided I had an urgent phone call to make and left the question hanging in the air.

Having a good laugh about things like that conversation, and time, have helped. The tiredness and utter frustration I experienced every single day in the beginning has lessened, but the feeling that this is an alien land remains. Earth is within reach, it’s visible, it is a fellow planet – but here, life is stripped to its bare essentials. Everything, all day, is just a little bit harder and a little more difficult than back home. To get food, to be safe, to make friends. Talking to locals, doing business, finding a place to live. To do your work, to feel secure. Nothing is easy and conversations are strange. Colleagues are dedicated, but humanitarian considerations are often not the only reason they are here; for many, career planning and good earnings are part of the motivation to choose for the Congo. The lake is beautiful, but harbours a dangerous gas bubble. Earthquakes are a dormant threat to the town.

The mountains surrounding Bukavu, so beautiful and yet potentially sheltering armed groups, are sometimes called ‘the mountains of the moon’. A good name. For that is what living in this place feels like: a life on the moon.

Welmoet Wels

Books on the Congo

• most famous is Joseph Conrad’s Heart of Darkness
• also a must-read here: King Leopold’s Ghost, a story of greed, terror and heroism in colonial Africa, depicting Belgian colonial times
• another self-explanatory title: Tim Butcher’s Blood river. A journey to Africa’s broken heart.

Zo hebben we een dag lang uitgebreid in Asakusa rondgewandeld, beginnend met de grote Senso-ji tempel (foto), en daarna dwalend door straatjes en achterafsteegjes. Uiteindelijk belandden we in een matsuri, een religieus festival, waarbij er in processie een ‘portable shrine’ wordt rondgesjouwd door de buurt. De deelnemers - mannen en vrouwen - hebben traditionele outfitjes aan, met halflange jasjes. Veel mannen dragen geen broek, maar een soort luierachtige wikkel, die in combinatie met die jasjes bij veel mannen de billen bloot laat (al verdachten we sommige mannen ervan hun jasjes expres extra hoog op te schorten…). Het schoeisel bestaat uit blote voeten, gevlochten touwsandalen, of sok-schoentjes met een scheiding bij de grote teen. Je moet je voorstellen dat zo’n matsuri vooral een feestje is. Die shrine, die qua gewicht echt niet in de categorie ‘portable’ valt, is behangen met belletjes en rinkeldingen en wordt tijdens het sjouwen flink heen en weer geragd. Het gaat gepaard met veel herrie, gezang en geroep. En heel toevallig waren bij ‘onze’ matsuri alle pauzeplekken voor de deur van een slijter. De sfeer werd dan ook steeds beter. We zijn een hele tijd meegelopen, en er kwamen steeds meer shrines bij uit andere buurten; op het laatst waren en een stuk of zeven, en in totaal een paar honderd mensen minstens. Omdat die shrines zo groot en zwaar zijn, worden ze door zeker dertig man tegelijk gedragen en men wisselt elkaar dan af. En het kon niet uitblijven… wij, opvallend buitenlands natuurlijk, moesten er ook aan geloven. Het ‘panda-effect’. Tja, af en toe moet je je daar gewoon aan overgeven. De dagen die volgden hebben we Love Hill bekeken, Shibuya, Omotesando… We aten okonomiyaki, ramen, tofu, blauwe komkommer, daikon salada en soba, allemaal met stokjes, en Ad en Rinny hebben kennis gemaakt met het fenomeen sake. Het is als je hier een tijdje zit erg grappig om weer eens naar de stad te kijken door de ogen van iemand die hier voor het eerst is. Zo had Ad een scherp oog voor alle blindegeleidelijnen, en of ze ergens toe leidden, en heeft Rinny alle ginkgo’s in de stad gefotografeerd (allemaal in de naam der wetenschap natuurlijk). Het was een zeer goed samenzijn en naar verluidt hebben Ad en Rinny net zo genoten als ik. Ze mogen dan ook niet meer meedoen met de wedstrijd op deze site: Japanofielen zijn immers uitgesloten van deelname.

Maar als gezegd, ik moest ook studeren. Niet alleen colleges en de gewone weekly reflection, maar in de week van hun verblijf viel ook de deadline van de final essays. Ik hoefde er gelukkig ‘maar’ 1, maar reken maar dat het zwoegen was. Iedereen zat van ’s morgens tot ’s avonds in de computerzaal die voor ons was ingericht te buffelen. Voor velen (mij incluis) was het een tijd geleden dat ze voor het laatst een academisch essay hadden geproduceerd… en 3000 woorden is toch ook niet heel weinig. De sfeer leek heel ontspannen. Iedereen nijver aan het werk, op de koptelefoon een muziekje erbij, en rondom het vrolijk gerikketik van de toestenborden… een en al gezelligheid, als je het zo zag. Nee, helaas, het was eerder wanhoop alom. Een man zei af en toe kreunend ‘oh, I’m so struggling’ en een ander, die het kennelijk nog zwaarder had, liep te puffen als een vrouw in barensnood en riep telkens: ’suffering, I am just suffering!’ Bij mij varieerde het tussen suffering, struggling, just working en enjoying, en ondanks een paar geestelijke meltdowns heb ik het toch klaargekregen. Mijn essay heet ‘balancing law, legitimacy and life: human protection in armed conflict’ en gaat, zoals de titel doet vermoeden, over de controverses ten aanzien van gewapende conflictsinterventie om humanitaire redenen. Na het laatste college hadden we een kleine drinksparty met onze groep. De cijfers voor de essays zijn nog niet bekend, maar wel werd al snel bekend gemaakt dat iedereen van de cursus geslaagd was. En afgelopen vrijdag was er een feestelijke ceremony waarbij de certificaten werden uitgereikt en de cursus werd afgesloten. Omdat men ook deelnemers aan het woord wilde laten, werd er van iedere cursus iemand verzocht vijf minuten te spreken… en van mijn groep was ik dat. Nu ben ik helemaal geen goed openbaar spreker, maar de rest was allang blij dat ze zelf niet hoefden, dus niemand redde mij met een veto. Op de dag zelf stierf ik van de zenuwen. Temeer omdat ik ook nog mensen had uitgenodigd om te komen kijken. Maar men zei dat het goed ging en (achteraf bezien) was het ook wel leuk om te doen. Na de ceremonie volgde nog een receptie, en daarna trokken we met de deelnemers voor de afterparty met de restanten van de receptie (de drankrestanten dan) naar Yoyogi-park, waar we nog tot laat in de nacht hebben zitten kletsen.

De meeste deelnemers zijn inmiddels al naar huis. Gek hoor, en ook jammer. Er waren veel leuke mensen bij en we hebben lol gehad. Er werd veel in kleine groepjes gedaan (met zijn vieren naar kabuki-theater bijvoorbeeld), maar ook wel eens met zijn allen. De UNU women’s association heeft ons mee uit genomen naar het keizerlijk park en naar een museum, en onder leiding van een van de Japanse deelnemers zijn we met mijn hele cursusgroep naar Tokyo Disneyland geweest (inderdaad net zo commercieel als je zou verwachten, maar wel ontzettend leuk!). Ik ben zelf nu nog in Tokyo (nog steeds logerend in het rectorshuis op de 14e verdieping van de UNU) en blijf zoals het er nu naar uitziet nog wel een weekje hier; daarna ga ik hopelijk het land nog wat verder in samen met een cursusgenoot die nog niet vertrokken is, en ik wil ook nog mijn vriendin Maki opzoeken in Nagoya. Het is wel raar om hier te zijn nu er geen cursus meer is. Fijn is wel dat ik nu weer wat tijd heb voor toerisme. Zo ben ik vandaag naar Ginza geweest, en afgelopen zondag met een andere cursusgenoot naar de onsen, de spa. De hele dag badderen, heerlijk was dat. En zo verrukkelijk kitsch gebouwd allemaal, zoals dat alleen in Japan kan. En dat is een van de leuke dingen hier: je kunt het zo gek niet verzinnen, of het bestaat. Bijvoorbeeld: naast de onsen waar wij waren, was nog een onsen, maar dan speciaal voor honden. Zoals ik vorige keer al schreef, worden honden hier vreselijk verwend en meer als accessoire gezien dan als dier. Kledingwinkels speciaal voor honden kende ik al, en hier vlakbij zit een honden-fotostudio. Maar een spa? Het doet me genoegen te merken dat ik hier nog steeds voor verrassingen kom te staan. Ik ben hier kennelijk nog lang niet uitgekeken! Integendeel, ik geniet erg. Tokyo heeft veel verschillende buurten en het is fascinerend om dat allemaal te zien en gade te slaan hoe het leven hier eraan toegaat. Mensen kijken kan hier ook goed, al zijn ze vaak niet zo heel verschillend. En natuurlijk is het zoeken naar nieuwe Hello Kitty items een amusante sport. Vandaag was wat dat betreft een goede dag, want ik heb Hello Kitty bruidsboeketten gevonden! Wat binnen de cursusgroep ook een beetje een sport was, was het signaleren van ‘Engrish’: foute Engelse teksten. Vaak is de 100-yen winkel een goede bron daarvoor. Soms zijn het gewoon kleine spelfouten, maar vaak kom je teksten tegen die helemaal nergens op slaan. Er is zelfs een website van: engrish.com. Maar eigenlijk mag ik daar helemaal niet om lachen, want met mijn Japans is het nog steeds beroerd gesteld. Ik probeer wat kanji (karakters) te oefenen, en spring een gat in de lucht als ik een woord kan lezen hier of daar (komt een heel heel heel enkele keer voor). Het leven als analfabeet die alleen maar in babyzinnetjes kan praten, is soms erg frustrerend. Bijvoorbeeld als je iets simpels wilt als shampoo, en staan wel 20 verschillende soorten en je hebt geen idee welke fles welke specialisatie heeft (anti-roos? iedere dag? alleen zwart haar?), en als je het dan vraagt, versta je het antwoord niet. Wel weer leuk is dat ieder woordje dat je dan wel kent, over het algemeen erg wordt gewaardeerd en met uitgebreide lofprijzingen wordt ontvangen. Werkelijk, soms zeg je alleen maar ‘hai’ (ja) of ‘konnichiwa’ (hallo) en krijg je zowat een staande ovatie.
Maar goed, hoe boeiend het ook is hier in Tokyo, ik verheug me er toch ook op om het land een beetje te gaan verkennen. Even weg uit de grote stad. En wie weet wat een verblijf op het platteland voor mijn Japans doet?

Qua kijkplezier komt een mens hier sowieso niets te kort. De gekste dingen zie je in Tokyo. Zoals binnen een straal van 20 meter 10 man die op straat staan met een reclamebord van een karaokebar en hun keel schor schreeuwen om aandacht te trekken. Gebouwbeheerders die in de stromende regen de stoep met de tuinslang afspuiten, omdat nu eenmaal de stoep op maandag moet worden gespoten, weer of geen weer (dit heb ik niet zelf gezien, maar het komt uit betrouwbare bron). Of de kledingwinkels voor honden. Honden zijn hier namelijk vooral een mode-object en worden helemaal uitgedost. En niet in het minste hoor, maar merkkleding. Het mooiste is de honden die dezelfde outfit dragen als hun baas. Vorige week liep ik over de Omotesando-dori (grote boulevard-achtige straat met veel buitenlandse dure merkwinkels) en zag eerst een chihuahua met schoentjes aan, en daarna drie teckels met een halsdoek, speldjes in hun oortjes en een zonnebril. Wat je noemt geen hondenleven. De dierenwinkels vind ik zelf een beetje dubieus. De beesten zitten daar individueel in kleine glazen hokjes en slapen altijd allemaal. Dat is toch verdacht, 30 puppies die allemaal tegelijk slapen? Er schijnen ook 24-uurs dierenwinkels te zijn, waar je dus midden in de nacht, bij een onverwachte ‘pet emergency’ of zo, puppies en kittens kunt kopen.Over katten gesproken: Hello Kitty geniet nog steeds onverminderde populariteit hier. Voor wie het niet weet, Hello Kitty is een ‘cute character’, een wit poesje met een strik in het oor, dat op alle mogelijke voorwerpen (bij voorkeur in de basistint roze) wordt verkocht. Er zijn hele winkels met alleen maar Hello Kitty. Om Hello Kitty in de markt te houden, worden er regelmatig nieuwe thema’s uitgebracht. Zo was er bijvoorbeeld de serie ‘Hello Kitty in nationale kostuums’ en daar had je dan notitieboekjes van, tshirts, armbandjes, handdoekjes, kammetjes, pennen, noem maar op. Toen ik vorige keer in Japan was, dacht ik dat we met de series ‘Hello Kitty verkleed als ander dier’ (poppetjes van Hello Kitty met bijvoorbeeld een koeiepakje aan) en ‘Hawaii Hello Kitty’ (waarbij ze een strooien rokje droeg en zonnebruin was) de top wel hadden bereikt. Maar nee, daar vergiste ik mij in. Want nu is er een serie getiteld ‘Charmmy Kitty’, die inhoudt: Hello Kitty als kat. Pluizig, bandje om, op een kussentje zitten. Hoe krijgen ze het bij elkaar verzonnen. Foto’s van deze Kitty komen nog op de site.

En dan nu over mijn cursus. De officiele titel luidt ‘Armed Conflict: Prevention, Management and Resolution’. Er doen ongeveer twintig mensen aan mee. Ik vertegenwoordig Nederland en verder hebben we Belgie, Liberia, Nigeria, Roemenie, Oostenrijk, Ghana, Japan, Noorwegen, Ierland, Cameroon, India en dan vergeet ik er waarschijnlijk nog een paar. Alles bij elkaar een kleine VN. Ik geniet er zelf erg van. Iedereen heeft een andere invalshoek bij discussies en er zitten veel mensen bij die zelf directe ervaring hebben met burgeroorlogen en gebrek aan constructieve peace-building in hun thuisland. Dat maakt de discussies des te boeiender. Ook geinig is alle verschillende accenten. De voertaal is natuurlijk Engels, maar iedereen heeft zijn eigen uitspraak daarvan. Er is een man in mijn groep die ik de eerste week zo slecht kon verstaan, dat ik hem vermeed; ik was als de dood dat hij me aan zou spreken en ik er dan niks van zou begrijpen.

Inhoudelijk ben ik tot nu toe erg tevreden over de cursus. De eerste week ging het over oorzaken en bronnen van gewapend conflict. De tweede week wat het onderwerp conflict prevention. Die week moesten vier mensen, waaronder ik, een presentatie geven, als eerste groepje. Dat was hard werken maar het is heel goed gegaan. De docenten worden veelal speciaal voor de cursus ingevlogen. De man die afgelopen week college gaf was de minste tot nu toe: hij bracht weinig lijn in zijn colleges en deed tamelijk veel aan ‘name dropping’, in de trant van ‘..en toen ik daar en daar was, sprak ik Osama bin Laden daar ook nog even over en hij vond…’ . Verder zijn de docenten van uitstekende kwaliteit. Afgezien van een presentatie doen moeten we iedere vrijdag een ‘weekly reflection’ inleveren: wat heb je geleerd deze week en wat vond je ervan. We worden aangemoedigd om daarin vooral academische kritiek te leveren. Daarnaast moeten we over twee weken een essay inleveren van 3000 woorden. Mijn onderzoeksvraag daarvoor is of gewapende interventie een gelegitimeerd middel is om mensenrechten te beschermen. Ik heb deze vraag gekozen omdat Amnesty wereldwijd zich daar nu ook mee bezig houdt.
Verder houd ik me onledig met het proberen rond te krijgen van een paar artikelen voor Amnesty en met het orienteren op en nadenken over mijn toekomst. En natuurlijk met toeristische activiteiten af en toe! Zo was ik vorig weekend bij Yasukuni Jinja. Dat is een schrijn gewijd aan alle oorlogsdoden van Japan, maar omdat er ook een paar officiele oorlogsmisdadigers liggen is het nogal controversieel. MP Koizumi gaat er met regelmaat heen, en dit heeft recentelijk de Chinezen nogal boos gemaakt, die vinden dat Japan de scherpe kanten van zijn oorlogsdaden in China daarmee ontkracht zo niet ontkent. Bij de schrijn is ook een museum. Ik moet zeggen: de invalshoek is inderdaad vooral de glorieuze kant en er wordt meer gebruik gemaakt van woorden als ‘liberation’, ‘unification’ en ‘pacification’ dan ‘conquer’, ‘oppress’ en ‘destroy’. Er is ook heel veel in het museum niet in het Engels vertaald, wat gezien de context toch vragen oproept. Maar goed, het is ook niet alsof China zo’n brandschoon verleden heeft. In ieder geval stond de bbc world news bol van nieuwsitems over de verslechterende diplomatieke verhoudingen tussen China en Japan. Ondanks dat heb ik toch meegekregen dat Nederland tegen de Europese grondwet heeft gestemd (Balkie was op bbc world te zien).

Het leven in Tokyo is goed. Het regent nogal veel, maar ja, het is tenslotte regenseizoen. Voor het straatbeeld maakt het trouwens weinig verschil, want ook met mooi weer lopen Japanners graag onder een paraplu. Over de Japanners blijf ik me verbazen maar over het algemeen zijn ze ontzettend vriendelijk. Ik probeer nieuwe Japanse woordjes te leren en ook wat karakters te onthouden. Gisteren heb ik zomaar ergens een woord kunnen lezen! Ook heb ik voor het eerst persoonlijk kennisgemaakt met het fenomeen gaijin(buitenlander)-haat: ik werd geweigerd in een restaurant. Weer een ervaring rijker. Af en toe is er een geinige kleine aardbeving, die ik hoog op de 14e verdieping goed voel natuurlijk. Ik woon nog steeds bij de rector en rectrix van de UNU, vanuit wier appartement op genoemde verdieping het uitzicht over stad bij heldere dagen prachtig is (op foto beetje grijs…).
Niet leuk is dat mijn poes Sara twee dagen geleden ineens is overleden. Ik was zeer gehecht aan het beestje en ben nu dan ook erg verdrietig. Gelukkig heb ik veel steunend mailtjes gehad en biedt Tokyo veel afleiding. Zo ga ik vanmiddag theedrinken met mijn Japanse tante en vanavond naar het theater met een cursusgenote, naar een dansvoorstelling. Maar eerst nog studeren, want daarvoor ben ik tenslotte hier!

De eerste paar dagen was ik in shock. Het was tegelijk vreemd en vertrouwd om hier te zijn. Maar juist het feit dat ik de halve wereld overvlieg, en dan ergens loop alsof het normaal is, en zonder aarzelen de juiste exit neem bij een bepaald station… dat soort dingen zijn heel gek. Sommige dingen was ik vergeten, of ik had ze in mijn herinnering veranderd. Bijvoorbeeld het lawaai op het plein bij station Shibuya. Toen ik hier stage liep kwam ik daar bijna dagelijks. Het is een plaatje van Japan dat je veel terugziet in reclames in het westen. Een groot kruispunt met daarbovenuit torenend drie grote schermen, ieder hun eigen reclames uitzendend, alledrie inclusief geluid. Daarbij komt er muziek uit bijna alle winkels, en staan voor een hoop winkels mannetjes met megafoons luidkeels de waren aan te prijzen. Soms staat er ook nog een politieke wagen die daar nog overheen tettert, terwijl vrijwilligers papieren zakdoekjes uitdelen met politieke propaganda op de verpakking. Dit is de plek voor hip, jong Japan. Er zijn veel eettentjes en kledingwinkels en winkels met coole gadgets. Kortom: een plek om je ogen uit te kijken, maar ook om heel moe van te worden.
Dat uitdelen van die papieren zakdoekjes was ook iets dat ik vergeten was. Pakjes tissues zijn hier een heel gebruikelijk reclame-medium. In het vliegtuig heb ik een verkoudheid opgedaan en bedacht de eerste avond bezord dat ik zo ongeveer alles bij me heb behalve zakdoeken. Dit probleem werd dus vanzelf opgelost: een wandeling door de stad en ik kwam met zeker zes pakjes tissues thuis.
Inmiddels ben ik verhuisd naar het appartement van de rector van de UNU. Zijn vrouw en hij bewonen een prachtig appartement op de 14e verdieping van de UNU. Ik mag logeren in hun kelder, dat wil zeggen: de 13e verdieping. Ik heb een grote kamer met een eigen badkamer erbij. Ze hebben me erg gastvrij ontvangen en dringen er zelfs op aan dat ik ook boven kom zitten in hun huiskamer. Met een speciaal pasje kan ik nu na sluitingstijd het gebouw in, waar ik dan in de hal wordt begroet door een knipmessende en saluerende bewaker. Het is heerlijk luxe dat ik niet in de metro hoef om naar de cursus te gaan. Ik kom gewoon een paar verdiepingen met de lift naar beneden! De cursus zelf is maandag officieel geopend met een ceremonieel en vandaag heb ik voor het eerst college gehad. Even schrikken hoor… meteen flink wat leeswerk (letterlijk een ordner vol). Daarnaast moeten we iedere week een weekly review inleveren met onze mening over het geleerde, aan het eind een final paper met een onderzoeksvraag en volgende week moet ik met een groepje samen een presentatie doen over conflict prevention. Hard werken dus!
Rondlopen hier op straat en de metro nemen en dingen bestellen is al bijna weer gewoon. Raar hoe snel je weer went aan dingen. Mijn Japans is in belabberde staat, maar ik weet me te redden. Om er helemaal bij te horen heb ik zelfs een mobiele telefoon hier, tel. 090-6018 0141. Het toestel is natuurlijk roze. Ik ben al bij Starbucks geweest, en bij de Deuters. En de 100-yen shop heet nu de 105-yen shop. Tja, inflatie. Yoyogi-park is nog steeds gezellig op zondag en mijn favoriete restaurantje in de buurt van Tokyu Hands is weg. Zoals ik al zei: Tokyo is hetzelfde, maar anders…

Na deze academische exercitie vlieg ik op 27 juni naar Bangkok, Thailand. Van daaruit regel ik wat ik in de maand juli met mijn tijd ga doen: trekken in China of duiken in Indonesie, of misschien iets heel anders. En dan kom ik 29 juli, met heel wat mijlen in de benen en boeken in mijn hoofd, weer terug.
Welmoet

Hieronder voor het gemak enkele Frequently Asked Questions:

Zeg, zo lang weg, hoe doe je dat eigenlijk met je werk?

Ik heb drie maanden onbetaald verlof gekregen (waarvoor dank). Mijn locaties worden waargenomen door een vervanger. Op 1 augustus ben ik weer op post.

En waarom wil je dit in vredesnaam doen? Zoveel gedoe!

Tja, waarom wil een mens iets? Ik word deels gedreven door idealistische motieven en deels door het verlangen weer eens langere tijd in het buitenland te zijn. Bovendien: ik ben al eerder in Japan geweest, en heb iets met dat land. Ik weet dat deze cursus inhoudelijk echt wat voorstelt, en dat ik daar veel ga leren. Daarnaast is het ook goed voor mijn netwerk. Want ooit hoop ik in dit veld te gaan werken.

Als we nu meer willen weten over die cursus, waar moeten we dan zoeken?

Dan ga je naar www.unu.edu/ic. unu = united nations university, ic = international courses.

In welke taal is die cursus? Toch niet in het Japans?

De cursus is in het Engels. Ik spreek wel wat Japans voor dagelijks gebruik, maar niet goed genoeg om zoiets te kunnen volgen.

Wat voor mensen doen daar aan mee?

Allerlei professionals van over de hele wereld. Mensen die interesse hebben in dit onderwerp vanuit hun werk. Er zijn vier cursussen en in totaal ongeveer 60 deelnemers. Ik geloof dat ik de enige Nederlander ben. Zelf had ik ook gesolliciteerd naar deelname aan de cursus over mensenrechten, maar daar ben ik helaas niet voor geselecteerd.

Gesolliciteerd? Krijg je er dan voor betaald?

Nee, helaas niet. Het is helemaal op eigen kosten. Gelukkig heb ik een onderhuurder en heb ik in Tokyo een logeeradres. En ik probeer wat freelance schrijfopdrachten te krijgen voor tijdschriften, maar dat schiet helaas nog niet zo op.

Hoe kunnen we je volgen op je reis?

Ik heb sinds kort een website waar ik berichten en hopelijk ook foto’s op plaats. Het adres is www.welmoet-san.com. San is een Japanse aanspreekvorm. Helaas staat er nu nog niks op, maar eind deze week verschijnen daar alvast nieuwsbrieven van vorige reizen.

Kunnen we je ook e-mailen en post sturen?

Wie mijn privé-e-mailadres heeft, kan daar naartoe mailen. Anders naar theclicka@hotmail.com.

Papieren post (die ik altijd graag ontvang) kan tot eind juni naar:

International Courses Secretariat
The United Nations University Headquarters
5-53-70 Jingumae, Shibuya-ku, Tokyo 150-8925, Japan
Tel: +81-3/3499-2811; Fax: +81-3/3499-2828

En tot 10 mei ben ik thuis nog bereikbaar.

Ben je er al klaar voor, en heb je er zin in?

Klaar: nee, en zin: wat denk je?

After a long silence finally another update on my trip, that is now swiftly drawing to a close… Time has flown by on this large island downunder. When I arrived in Sydney on the 18th of August, Australia proved one of the biggest cultureshocks of my travels so far. Everything was so clean, people were dressed so smart, everyone spoke English. Fixed prices, supermarkets, no bargaining. Incredible. How much one gets used to the Asian way of life without realising it!

Chris, an Ozzie chimpfriend from Uganda, was my host for the first ten days and a fantastic one at that. Showed me around Sydney and introduced me to his friends and family and made me feel very welcome. Took care of me and put up with me shouting things like ‘look, there’s some real Australians there!’ Talya, my travel mate from Sumatra, was in Sydney as well and we met up as soon as we could and started to make travel plans to see Oz. Which was pretty hard, it’s vast and there are about a million things to choose from.
Now, take a map of Australia and you’ll find that the population is concentrated along the coast, in a few big cities and a lot of smaller ones, with in the middle of the country a dot called Alice Springs. For the rest, there aren’t any major towns inland, since most of that is desert and bush. And that’s where we wanted to go: the outback. Unique to Oz and different from any other place. Since we also needed to work, we wanted to try and find a job on a station, as the immensely large farms here are called. We first went to a small sheep station in a place called Nundle, that ran a kind of backpacker accommodation as well, in the hope they could help us to find a workstation. Bit of a mistake. There I met for the first time the other type of backpacker Talya had been telling me about: 18year olds with big ego’s, travelling on their parents’ money and spending it all on beer. Strangely enough we didn’t get along with them - so different they are from the travellers you meet in Asia! - and left that place pretty soon, and decided to avoid places like it in the future.

We went on to Brisbane and stayed for a night with a childhood friend of mine and her family, who moved to Oz about two years ago. Their adorable little kids are turning into fair dinkum Ozzies, saying ‘no worries, mate!’ and knowing all the songs of the Wiggles by heart. Our journey went on to Biggenden, north of Brisbane. An older couple with a small station (that I then thought was huge) runs a what they call ‘jackeroo/jilleroo course’ (the Ozzie version of cowboy/-girl) there for a few days, and (for a hefty commission) find you a job afterwards. So we spent the next five days feeding and milking cows, riding horses, setting a hill on fire, fixing fences and driving the tractor. Sounds better than it was though, as the man wasn’t a very good instructor and had the habit of not explaining what you were supposed to do and then shout at you for doing it wrong. But nevertheless he found us a job, and after another night with the Kuipers family in Brisbane (and more Wiggles singing) we found ourselves at six in the morning in a place called Tambo, in central Queensland, waiting to be picked up by our new employer, and not having a clue as to what the place was like and what kind of work we were going to be doing.

The station, we soon found out, was a cattle station, consisting of 200.000 acres (80.000 hectares) of land. Some of it open, some with timber, and some bits of rough country with the most beautiful gorges and rockholes. The homestead was located in a corner of the property, about 80 km out of Tambo (pop. 400). The mail came twice a week and usually included groceries and every now and then things like gas bottles and oil drums. The mailbox was a twenty minute drive from the house. Pretty far away from everything. And I loved it! So quiet, so beautiful, and there were shitloads of kangaroos. The owners and their eldest son, who were running the station, were very nice and incredibly patient with us. For despite our five day ‘training’ we had no idea whatsoever how a station worked and what needed to be done and the first days (weeks) we were pretty clumsy and needed directions for everything. Talya worked mostly around the homestead and went out with the owner to check pumps and bores on the property. Those need frequent monitoring, for no water, no cattle. As for me, my limited horseriding abilities were considered good enough to come along with the mustering, so I ended up working mostly with the cattle, either mustering or around the yards. Which goes as follows.

Basically, the property is divided into lots of different paddocks of different size and quality, and in those paddocks graze groups of cattle. We would go out and muster up the contents of a paddock, which could vary from a few dozen to a few hundred (one day we did 1000 cattle, with seven people. You can’t imagine what that’s like unless you see it..). After we got them together in the paddock they’d then be pushed into the lane bordering the paddock, which is, well, a long fenced off lane leading to the yards. Once in the lane it’s usually easy, as they can’t run off anymore, and you only need to push them forward. I spent many hours in the lanes looking at cows’ asses trotting along in the heat and dust. The yards are a set of small paddocks that are all connected. There the cattle would then be drafted, i.e. sorted. Never knew there were so many different kinds of cattle… wet cows, dry cows, empty cows, bangtailed cows, spayed cows, springers, calves, weaners, heifers, steers, stags, bullocks and bulls and I probably forgot a few. Then there were several things that needed to be done: calves that needed branding, de-horning and earmarking, cows that needed pregnancy testing, bulls that needed cutting (i.e. castrating). After all that sort of work the cattle would be taken away in new groups to their new paddocks, where they could then happily graze until the next muster. E.g. the pregnant ones would be put together so they could have their babies, and the ones that were going to be sold pretty soon ended up together in a paddock, etc.

The mustering was fantastic, I really loved it. There was usually four or five of us - a few contract musterers, real cowboys they were, the son and me - and it sometimes involved some spectacular chasing through timber or fields. As my horseriding isn’t that good I usually stayed behind the cattle, helping to hold them while others did the chasing. Fascinating to see how a mob of cattle moves, how they think, and to try and anticipate their movements. I liked working at the yards as well, even though it was pretty rough sometimes - some cattle could be really wild - and it took me a while to get used to seeing a little calf scream and froth when he gets a hot iron pressed against his behind or seeing their heads spray blood after the de-horning. But one does get used to it, and I ended up doing some branding, earmarking and feeding the bulls’ balls to the dogs. Apart from the cattle work there were various general things… going to get the mail, dropping off lickblocks for the cattle, cleaning the dung out of a truck, greasing saddles, stoking logs. Hard work, long days, but very satisfying and it was great to be outdoors in the bush so much and see kangaroos and parrots and galahs and emus and goannas and redback spiders and dingos and gumtrees. Anyway, to cut a long story short, I really loved it there and am very lucky that I had a chance to experience station life… so very different. Met some very nice people there, and some extremely Ozzie Ozzies that took pride in using the most incomprehensible Ozzie expressions that I didn’t understand. I learnt loads of new swearwords. Great fun.

After five weeks it was time to move on and I boarded the bus to Cairns, where I met up once again with Talya who had left the week before. We went for a day of diving on the Great Barrier Reef, which turned out a bit disastrous. The diving there is so commercialised, no single thing is considered service and we ended up having to pay separately for wetsuits, drinking water (diving dehydrates you badly, so you need to drink a lot) and a guide. Budget travellers as we are we decided to go without a guide on the second dive, after they had assured us over and over again that there was no way in the world we could get lost. And of course we got lost after about two minutes, spent the next thirty swimming around in the same small area and then surfaced at the wrong boat! We tried to swim back to our boat, but the current was too strong and when we rested for ten seconds after struggling for five minutes, we floated already halfway back to that wrong boat. The people there kindly offered us air so we could dive back, but we asked for a lift instead and got hoisted aboard a little motorboat and taken back to our own boat, where no-one had even started wondering where we were. Good thing about the dive was that we saw a white tip reef shark and lots of spectacular corals.

From Cairns we bussed our way to Alice Springs, the ‘red centre’ of Australia. As it is a long way we did three 24 hr stop-offs on the way, the nicest of which turned out to be Barrow Creek, a roadhouse about three hours north from Alice. Roadhouses are food, accommodation, beer, and fuel combined in one place, and scattered around the country along the desert roads. This was a very nice one, an old pub full of weird items and dust and stupid jokes, in the middle of nowhere. Everyone on the road stopped there for a beer or two, some fuel, and then continued their way. Friendly people that were very talkative, and all laughed when I told them that Holland would easily fit between there and Alice Springs, which they considered to be ‘just down the road’. This was also our first encounter with Aboriginees, who were, I am sorry to say, drinking all day and totally pissed. But very amicable and a woman named Carol introduced herself to us about five times and hugged us and said she loved us.

In Alice we rented a car, borrowed camping gear from relations of the station family, stocked up on two-minute-noodles and set off for Australia’s icon: Ayers Rock or Uluru (the Aboriginee name). Located about 500 km south of Alice in the red desert and it is truly a magnificent sight. The first glimpse you catch of it… waaw. A huge, red rock, sticking out of the flat desert land. We went to see the sunset and the sunrise next morning, and walked all the way around the rock. As the local Aboriginal tribe who owns the rock ask you not to climb it, for it has spiritual significance for them, we resisted the challenge and went on to Kings Canyon, a spectacular gorge with lots of birdlife and a waterhole called ‘garden of Eden’. From there we returned back to Alice. Great four day camping trip it was, and after so many hours in buses we enjoyed the drive (on the left!). The only thing was that there is no radio reception out there, and all we had to listen to was this tape with Irish folk songs about the devil being dead and having joined the British army… weird stuff but apparently they love it in Ireland. In Alice we stayed with the family whose tent we had borrowed for a few days, and they showed great hospitality which we very much appreciated. And then… time for goodbyes as Talya hopped on a bus to Darwin (howyagoinmate, how’s khao san rd?) and I boarded the Ghan, the train to Adelaide.

After that everything went really quick… in Adelaide three girls and I rented a car to drive ourselves to Melbourne in three days, passing through a wine valley and the Grampians national park and driving the last bit over the famous Great Ocean Road. As it happens when you do things with people you don’t know, one of the girls turned out to be one of those ‘tick-off’ travellers who wanted to stop at every single lookout point on the way so she could tick it off on her list. Yuk. One great thing on the trip was the Tower Hill reserve we drove through, just a small crater, but full of koalas! In Melbourne I went straight in the bus to Sydney, where I arrived the next morning, staying once again with Chris.

Today is an exciting day, as the Melbourne Cup is taking place. A big frenzy as Ozzies are fanatic betters. I placed a one dollar bet on a horse called ‘Maythehorsebewithu’. I hope he wins. And tomorrow I am leaving once again. I have enjoyed this country more than I can say. Met some great people here. Ozzies are generally very friendly and helpful people, and very laid back (no worries, mate!). Give an Ozzie a stubbie (beer), a barbie and a match of Ozzie Rules to watch, and he/she is happy. Travel in Australia is expensive, but very easy and comfortable (most hostels have swimming pools!). And there is some spectacular country to be seen… the red desert is just amazing and I loved the bush in Queensland. And you never, never get tired of spotting kangaroos!

On to Los Angeles tomorrow and on to New York from there. Marielle is coming over from Holland to meet me there and we will go to old friends who live near Phillie. And then, in twelve days from now, my travel year is over… I will miss travelling but look forward to some good cheese and Sinterklaas and to seeing all my friends & family.

My flight back is called KL644 and arrives on Schiphol airport on Sunday 18th of November, at 12.10 noon. Be there or be square!

See ya, mateys!

Welmoet, Moomoo, Welsy

On the 15th of June an immigration official at the port in Penang stamped ‘Malaysia OUT’ in my passport, and I boarded the ferry to Medan, on Sumatra. (As it goes, the ferry left 1,5 hours late due to some problem with a bunch of illegal immigrants that were being sent back on the same boat, but didn’t want to, or something.) The ferry, that looks like a kind of large floating bus, took about five hours to cross the somewhat rough Strait of Malacca, and during this time movies were shown for our entertainment, with bits of Malay karaoke in between. I was sitting with a bunch of other foreigners and we watched the first movie in total amazement. I’m sure it’s about the weirdest movie I have seen in a long time. It was a Chinese vampire horror-comedy, with the voices dubbed in Malay without first erasing the Chinese. We, the foreigners, were totally bewildered but the Malays on board (the majority) absolutely loved it and laughed at moments that we didn’t find funny in the least. Sense of humour is one of those big cultural differences that is very hard to overcome; I rarely have a good laugh with a local person. But all this on the side.

In Medan a similar looking official stamped ‘Indonesia IN’ on a fresh page, and there I was. As Medan has a reputation for being horrible, we boarded a minivan (minivans are THE transport in south east Asia) and went straight on to Bukit Lawang, famous for its Orang-utan rehabilitation centre and jungle treks. It turned out to be quite a lovely village in the jungle, and the Orang-utans were fantastic. They reminded me very much of the chimps in Uganda, so human. At the rehabilitation centre they teach young Orang-utans that have been taken from smugglers or homes to live in the wild and after a while release them. To support them they give extra feedings in the jungle twice daily, and these you can go and see. Two females with babies came that day and a young male that threw a tantrum when he didn’t get more bananas, very funny.

The jungle around Bukit Lawang is supposedly superb and trekking is big business. There is even a song about it (tune of Jingle Bells): jungle trek, jungle trek, in Bukit Lawang; see the monkey, see the bird, see Orang-utan!� Unfortunately, nearly every single male in the village is a trekking guide, and the supply is therefore much bigger then the demand; as a consequence they are very uptight about getting customers, and more then once when asking for prices and then not booking straight away, you have to put up with verbal abuse like ‘you stupid tourist, you go back to your country and come back with more money!’ or plainly ‘fuck you’. Nice. So done no jungle trekking there.

In Bukit Lawang I met some of the nicest people I have travelled with: Talya and Sukhi from UK/Cyprus/India (nationalities were somewhat complicated), and Alex/Mike from USA/Canada, and the four of us ended up travelling through Sumatra and to Java together for nearly three weeks. We went to Berastagi and climbed a volcano with local guide Smiley. As this was my first active volcano I found it pretty impressive to see the sulphuric gas clouds; we could smell them already in the jungle at the foot of the mountain! Then on to Lake Toba, and for the fun of it, we went by public transport. That was quite an adventure as it involved three different minibuses, a lot of sitting on the roof and waving to the farmers in the fields, and unfortunately also as big a portion of sitting inside the van in a completely squashed position with the four of us on about one and a half seat - as we had been sitting on the roof before, the bus was already full; so when we had to make way for several huge bags of dried chillies, that one seat and a bit was all we could get. But it was rewarded with a gorgeous lake - volcanic, as more or less the whole of Sumatra - and some relaxing days on an island in the middle of it (the result of another volcanic outburst). Further south we went after that, making our way to Java bit by bit. As Sumatra is an enormous island, probably at least twice or thrice the size of Holland, you spend many an hour in transport. Every next place seems to be another ten hours minimum. This costs you a lot of travel days - considering all the mountains and cliffs, and the drivers (we had one 4 hour journey during which the driver was constantly smoking ‘Indonesian tobacco’, if you see what I mean) nightdrives are not such a good idea - but you do see a lot of the island. One of my favourite places was the village of Kersik Tua at the foot of Mt Kerinci (yes, a volcano). Very untouristic and therefore extremely friendly, quiet, and beautiful. Tea is the main industry and the view of the mountain surrounded by bright green tea plantations was magnificent. People with straw hats in the field, picking tea, and loaded ox carts with the oxen slowly trotting in that typical bovine manner. Magical place.

Our last lap was from that village to Jakarta. Easy enough it seemed: first in five hours by minivan to Bangko, which is on the trans-sumatran highway, and there we would catch a bus to Jakarta. Piece of cake. But no… when we got to Bangko there was extreme confusion as to WHAT bus was coming WHEN, if it was aircon or not, how long it would take and how much it would cost. After about half an hour of lonely planet’s language-section assisted deliberation in a hot messy office while twenty-five passers-by were staring at us, we got told to be on ’stand by’, and suddenly a wreck came riding onto the busstation and stopped, and it turned out to be a bus to Jakarta. The guy in that office apparently thought we should take this bus, that would arrive after about 26 hours and looked terrible. He then refused to sell us tickets to the aircon or non-aircon that, we were told before, would pass a few hours later, and would take only 12 hours to Jakarta: ‘full, full!’ If it was full how come he was about to sell us tickets to those five minutes earlier? Anyway, they pressured us to get onto this bus, and talked us into it, and it turned out to be a big, BIG, mistake. As soon as we got in it started driving, and then we saw it… there were no seats left! Not even one, let alone it could accommodate four people. So we ended up sitting on those stools that fold down behind the doors. Two behind the backdoor balancing on one stool, one in front on a stool, and the fourth person was crammed onto the chair next to the driver, where a local guy was sitting as well. That person had moved closer to the driver, so close in fact that he had the gearstick between his legs and nearly in his crutch. We were all extremely uncomfortable and didn’t feel very safe: the driver was one of the escaped psycho kind and the bus slowly fell apart as we were driving. Seriously! The cracks in the windscreen grew considerably, in the back there was a hole in the floor through which you could see the tarmac, and at one point a window broke and Alex suddenly got a big square of glass falling in his lap. In addition EVERYone on the bus was a chainsmoker and wanted the window closed, some spat on the floor, there were legs and knees poking in our backs and a bunch of men was laughing at us in a really nasty manner. And this delight lasted for the whole of TWENTYSIX hours, after which we arrived in Jakarta extremely dirty and extremely tired and extremely sore everywhere and extremely glad it was over.

In Jakarta, I finally checked my email again, and found an email of a travel agent saying: do you still want to do a tour for me? The guests arrive in Tokyo in one week. I had previously been in touch with this travel agent about guiding one of his tours in Japan, but nothing came of it then and I wasn’t expecting anything anymore. But after this email, a bit of ado and goodbyes to my three travel friends, a few days later I found myself arriving in Tokyo and boarding the JR to Shinagawa like I’d never been away. I stayed the first night with my friend Maki, and went back to Narita the next day to pick up the eight people that I would be leading around Japan for the next three weeks. There was one couple in their mid-fifties; one father-and-son combination; one brother-and-sister combination; and two single men, one of whom a recent widower in his mid-fifties, and the other one a retired sixty-five year old, of whom I will come to speak. The tour lasted a good three weeks and went from Tokyo to Kyoto to Takamatsu to Matsuyama, the latter two being on Shikoku island, to Beppu, Aso and Nagasaki on Kyushu island, to Hiroshima and back to Tokyo. Quite a busy itinerary, and a lot of work for me. Since my being their tourleader had been such a last minute arrangement, I hadn’t received a lot of information from the travel agent’s side about how to do this exactly and I had to improvise a lot. Luckily the guests were very friendly and flexible people… save one. The older man I mentioned above was, how to put it, well, horrible. I had been told that there is always one person in the group who is difficult and dissatisfied. Clearly, in my group it was him, but I could never have imagined someone THAT difficult. He was, without any exaggeration, complaining about EVERYTHING for three weeks. He never said ‘my room’ but always ‘my SMALL room’. Where the others were charmed by staying in a Japanese style pension with futons and tatami-mats etc, he complained that it was uncomfortable and impractical. Once he ordered noodle soup for lunch, and when it came: ‘ough, this soup is WAY too hot, I can’t eat it like this!’ In a beautiful castle park: ‘All these trees are terribly in the way, I cannot see the castle at all!’� At nearly every sight we visited he had some negative remarks, generally like ‘oh, it’s not very special, looks just like playmobil’ (he really said this, about one of the oldest temples in Nara). After two days he came to me to complain that all the others were ignoring him (no wonder). He had his judgement for everyone: ‘that man makes photos ALL the time, ridiculous, he’s completely OBSESSED’; ‘those two, they show off their money, but he’s been an accountant for thirty years and had obviously made some Christmas stockings for himself’. And of course I was the devil herself: ‘that woman never tells us what she’s doing and changes her plans all the time!’ In addition to this he was short-sighted but refused to wear glasses, and half deaf, so pushed people around all the time and more then once rode over people’s feet with his suitcase to be close to me, ms she-devil, always afraid to lose me or not hear me when I was giving information. In short, he was quite a character to put it mildly, and he tested the limits of my patience more than I can say. I am sure though that he’s telling his friend (he’s only got one, he told me) that he had a fantastic holiday. For the rest, however, everyone was very agreeable, and had a good time during this tour, and so did I even though it was technically speaking ‘work’. I managed to visit lots of places I hadn’t been before, managed to get by with my Japanese, travelled a lot by bullet train and immensely enjoyed things like hot showers and clean sheets and having a room to myself.

Time flew fast, and suddenly I was back in Jakarta, with three weeks to ‘do’ Java and Bali. I spent it on more sulphuric gasfountains, the famous and impressive Borobudur temple, Yogyakarta, sunset over the Bromo volcano (for which I had to endure a sleeping on a table in a freezing restaurant), Ubud, and Kuta, where I’ve been for a few days now. Kuta is quite awful, a kind of Costa del Sol, but close to the airport and therefore convenient.

And tomorrow, August 18th, I am leaving Indonesia. And as usual, I am a bit sorry to do so. It’s not always easy travel here - always needs a lot of asking around to get information, and even then you’re never sure it’s correct; jam karet, meaning ‘rubber time’, rules; veggie food is usually restricted to nasi goreng or mie goreng; there’s lots of hassles to buy masks and shirts and surfboards. On the other side there’s beautiful countryside, fantastic volcanoes, smiles of farmworkers when you pass by, adventurous busrides, delicious nasi and mie goreng. Lots of traces of Dutch colonial days: a big sign ‘ABN-AMRO welcomes you to Jakarta’, doorsmeer and knalpot and pispot and handuk and rijsttafel, and August 17th which is Liberation Day. Lots of world records to be seen: the world’s largest volcanic crater lake (Lake Toba), the world’s largest Buddhist monument (Borobudur), the world’s most horrible busride (described above).

And tomorrow, I will get my passport stamped again: Indonesia OUT. From tomorrow, it will be kangaroos and koalas and foster’s: Ansett Australia will take me to Sydney! There I will meet up long-lost (travel) friends and try and use my workvisa for a bit, and see as much as possible of Australia.

take care,

Welmoet, Moomoo

From Jakarta I greet you in Thai. It’s been a long time since I wrote, and there is a lot to tell. I left you last time with the coming of my mother to Thailand. For three weeks she came, and early morning on May 18th I went to Bangkok International Airport to pick her up. Her, and her rucksack - because she was coming as a real backpacker! We started off with a few days in Bangkok and visited the Royal Palace. The Palace is comprised of a whole complex of buildings, and you can only enter a certain area. But it was absolutely stunning, so richly adorned with gold and semiprecious stones, mother of pearl inlays, carved wood, such detailed decorations, so enormous. We wondered how a king could have such a palace while there is also such poverty in some areas in the country. But like most Asians (and unlike most Europeans), the Thais love their royal house, and they truly revere the royal family. In every shop, kiosk and taxi there is at least one large picture of the King, and when you go to the cinema there is a little homage to the King between commercials and movie. The palace, apart from its cultural value, is part of all that, I suppose; it shows his majesty. After Bangkok we headed north and made a small loop, travelling by bus and train, and once by plane (my shortest and cheapest flight ever: 25 minutes for 25 guilders), and we spent the night in small guesthouses or little huts, sometimes clean, sometimes not; sometimes with a decent mozzienet, sometimes with a rag full of wholes.  The real backpacker-thing, and my mother took to it very well. Only this one night, when we were sleeping in this hot little shack, when the power fell out and there was no light or running water, she was slightly unhappy… For the rest we did lots of backpackery things, went on an elephant ride in the jungle, went rafting on the Kwai river, slept in a tree house, and she did it all. The Thai loved seeing us together. ‘Mama? Mama?’ they asked when they saw us. ‘No no, sister’ would my mum say. She got ‘adopted’ as mum quite a few times by young Thais.

Thailand is a very rewarding country to travel. It is relatively easy to get around in a reasonably comfortable way, and there is lots to see. And the Thais are so friendly… they don’t call Thailand ‘the land of the smile’ for nothing. Which, by the way, doesn’t mean they’ll let go of opportunities to rip you off! Language is, as ever so often, the biggest difficulty; Thais don’t tend to speak a lot of English (let alone Dutch) and my Thai doesn’t go far beyond the abovementioned ’sawasdee kha’. As a result we got dropped off at the wrong bus stop a couple of times, and you need a lot of patience and ’second opinions’ when asking for directions. But the Thai are helpful people, and in the end we always got where we wanted. Sometimes it’s frustrating though, the communications thing. On a cycling trip my mothers bike got a flat tyre, and when we asked a bystanding guard for help, he just pointed in a vague direction without saying anything understandable. We thought our little tour was over and that we had to walk back with to the hostel, but when we followed his ‘directions’ we found a small garage with an old man working on a totally wrecked US army jeep. Without talking he took the bike and fixed it, with all the neighbourhood kids watching, and we could go on our way again! He didn’t accept any money and never spoke a word. So that ended well.

We visisted the ancient temples in Ayuthaya and Sukhotai, fantastic ruins in brick of enormous temple complexes; we swam in waterfalls full of toe-nibbling carp; we visited the famous longneck Karen tribe near the Burmese border. The latter being a very touristy thing, we still didn’t want to miss out on it. It’s a bit controversial, because you have to pay admission to enter the village - like it’s a zoo. But in fact this system works quite well, the money from the fees is divided over the entire village, once inside the village nobody bothers you for money, and it ensures them of some income to see them through the rainy season, when there’s no visitors so no souvenir selling. Personally I really enjoyed that excursion, very interesting. Some of the women speak quite good English, and like to tell you about their life. The long necks look stunning. The rings around the neck are not separate, but one long brass spiral. The neck is in fact not stretched, but the shoulders and collar bones are repressed, while the head is tilted upward, so the neck seems longer.  Our guide told us that the reason for wearing these ‘rings’, that weigh up to five kilo sometimes!, is identity: I belong to this tribe and want to marry within this tribe. A uncomfortable and difficult way to get your point across, and there’s also other explanations going around, that tend to lay the emphasis on the suppression of women. I don’t know which is more true, but the people are there, and the village was very interesting to visit. After the north, we headed south for a last couple of days on a real ‘bounty’ island. We arrived after 24 hrs of travel, exhausted, and went straight to bed, looking forward of our beach time the next day. But no… real tropical showers the entire day and we were confined to our little bamboo beach hut, afraid the falling coconuts would crash through our roof. Next day, luckily, it cleared, and we spent two days in entire relaxation mode, the biggest worry being what movie the restaurant would show that night. Life is hard, people…

And then the three weeks were over, back to Bangkok, mum in the airplane, and I had to rush to get out of the country as my 30 day visa nearly expired. On to Malaysia! The border was quickly crossed, and there I was, again in a new country, a Muslim country. After my Egypt experiences I was expecting similar male behaviour upon seeing a woman, but the Malays turned out to be quite friendly and helpful, and during my month there, I got nearly no sexual hassle at all. Weird though to be in a Muslim environment again - headscarves, men and women separate, and shouting mosques five times a day. Reminder: when in a Muslim country, make sure your hostel is not too close to a mosque! First, I went to a couple of places on the east coast, starting off with some days on another beautiful tropical island. I really can’t get enough of those… There were good diving sites in that area, which I couldn’t resist, and I got rewarded with two big reef sharks, two rather large turtles, lots of blue spotted stingrays, triggerfish, barracudas, etc. Fantastic. But the best dive was no doubt the Sugar Wreck. This ship, transporting sugar, sank only last January, and was therefore still very much intact. Since a wreck was high on my dive priority list I went to dive it, and it was just great. The ship was lying on her side, covered in fine dust that clouded up if you made too much movement. First we swam along the bottom, and then we came round the top… so cool! The mast was lying across, with all the ropes still dangling from it, and netting from the side rail, bags in the cargo holds, open doors that were swinging slightly in the current. We swam under the mast first, had a look in the holds, and then went over the mast and worked our way up. No corals since the wreck was so fresh, but lots of small marine life - crabs hiding under bolts, schools of little fish swimming in and out of the ship or just hanging around. Visibility wasn’t very good, which made it even more mysterious. It really wouldn’t have surprised me if James Bond had suddenly appeared from inside the ship with a large dry martini in his hand.

Another thing in Malaysia that made a big impression on me was the jungle. A few days after leaving the island I met up again with Rose, one of the girls I was hanging out with on the island, and together we went for an expedition to Taman Negara, the national park in the heart of peninsular Malaysia, and the oldest rainforest in the world: 130 million years! It took quite some preparation, as neither of us had been to the jungle before, but after a night in the little village opposite the forest, we set off. Our plans were quite ambitious: we would spend two nights in the forest in different hides, walking from one to the other, and walk back the third day. Loaded with food we set off… and oh boy that first day was heavy! First we did the canopy walk, a set of suspended bridges about 40 m high up in the trees, which was - apart from scary! - very hard because we were holding the food in carrier bags in our hands. After that, we climbed a hill, and had lunch at the top with some other hikers. Funny detail: it was so hot and clammy in the forest, that everyone who reached the top immediately took of their shirt to let it dry; at one point there were five of us all sitting there in our bras! The descent, we thought, would be no problem after the hard climb; it was ‘only’ 800 metres to the river and from their 1500 to the hide. As it turned out these 800 metres took us about one and half hour… it was extremely steep and slippery, you constantly nearly broke your legs on tree roots and we still had those damned carrier bags! Just as we got down the hill (we were three now; an American guy who was also spending the night in our hide joined us) it started… a rainstorm! Cats and dogs, and elephants and bears as well if you ask me. Of course within three minutes we were all soaked to the bone, and covered in mud, and my glasses fogged up, but we had to keep going to reach the hide before dark. Rain also means leeches, so as soon as we got to the hide - oh were we happy to be inside! - Rose and I, freaky about those bloodsucking bastards, took off our shirts and pants and leech-checked each other. I was clean, but poor Rose had a couple of fat ones stuck to her leg, that we removed with salt. It kept bleeding for ages. Leeches are in fact not dangerous, poisonous or dirty, their bite doesn’t hurt and it doesn’t infect or even itch. But their such nasty little worms, you just freak when there’s one on you. Anyway, there we were, jumping around the hide in our underwear, panicking about leeches and trying to dry up. Josh, the American, although wet, kept his clothes on and kept offering to step outside until we were dressed. A few days later we met people who had met him, and they said: ‘Josh told us this funny story about his jungle time. He was in a hide with two girls that undressed as soon as they got there and walked around in their underwear for an hour!’ guess we made quite an impression on him then…

Anyway, we dined with the most delicious sandwiches and peanut butter and baked beans I have ever had, and went to sleep in our clammy sheets. The second day we strapped our food to our rucksacks, and there was no hill to climb. But there were a lot of streams to cross, one river (we had to take of our shoes, and were standing barefoot in the mud - leeches galore!), about a hundred enormous tree trunks to climb over. We met some people earlier on who had said ‘the path is really easy to find and to walk, just a few trunks’. We could have killed them, because not only there were that many trunks, we also lost the path once. That was really scary, as it was already too late to turn back and that jungle is huge and there really are tigers and other large predators there, and every now and then someone disappears. We kept going, looking for footprints in the mud, and after half an hour we passed a sign ‘hide 2 km’. Thank the jungle, still on the right way! 2 km Takes about an hour at least in the rainforest, and just before dark we reached the hide. Oh what a relief! We totally didn’t care that there were no mattresses and no loo, just happy to be inside in our high hide. That night we bunked on wooden planks, woken up every now and then by bats or mice in the hide or the noisy frog between the floor boards, but slept well for the rest. The next day we walked for about an hour and then took a boat back to the village. Shower! That was all we could think of and although cold, it was pure heaven to us. I don’t think I’ve ever been that dirty in my life. Everything got wet the first day and never dried out, because of moist and sweat, and it was so great to put on a dry shirt. And sleep in a real bed with a dry mattress.

We went back to civilisation and took a train to capital Kuala Lumpur on the west coast, or ‘KL’ as the locals (and therefore lots of pretending-to-be-local travellers call it. Kota Bharu is KB, Johor Bharu is JB, Kuala Terrenganu is KT, etc.) Big city, but we liked it, nice chinatown, great views of the twin towers. Rose took of to Butterworth (BW?) and I went to the Cameron Highlands, where most of Malaysia’s tea is grown. Great forest walks (without leeches!), beautiful tea fields, lots of fresh air and not so hot because of the height. On to Penang from there, north on the west coast, where the ferries to Sumatra go from. On this ferry I went, to Indonesia, on the 15th of June.

I really enjoyed Malaysia and I still enjoy travelling, maybe mostly because of all the people one meets. The girl band on the tropical island was great, and so was Rose’s company in the jungle. And then there’s also the weird funny people… cause there’s lots of those. I would like to introduce Andy to you. Rose and I met Andy in the village near the rainforest. Big, tall guy, shaven head, ex-army man. Big stories about how he beat up his ex-wife’s new boyfriend, etc. In short, a real tough guy - who had taken up birdwatching when he left the army! And he was fanatic like nobody. He had five huge birdbooks, a telescope with a tripod, enormous binoculars, and leech-proof socks. He carried a long printed list of all the birds in this area, with on the horizontal axis the dates, and he ticked off what birds he saw on which date. But the best was his tape-recorder with bird sounds. He demonstrated it… first some bird singing, and then in a really stern articulate voice Andy saying something like ‘yellow-beaked red-bellied tree twitcher’. We were in stitches on the floor! I have nothing against birdwatching of course, but it was the whole of Andy, with his army shirts and bold head, coming back in the evening and saying in a tone of voice like he just conquered the enemy’s headquarters in a bloody battle: I have managed today to see the little blue forest parrot. Or something like that (I don’t know much about birds…).

Another type that made us laugh was the ‘when I was in Nepal’-girl. She had just spent six-odd months in Nepal, with a Nepalese boyfriend, and was so full of that, that every subject of conversation was twisted and turned until it was about Nepal. E.g. when she banged her head on the door. She: BANG! We: are you okay? She (in a drony Canadian accent): yeaaahhh, I’m fine, you know, when I was in Nepal, all the doors were so low, I banged my head all the time on all of them, you know, when I was in Nepal.’ So silly. Please warn me when I start talking like that… I’ll quit here for the moment, leaving you with the promise of more to come soon, including some wildlife and a busride from hell. For now I’ll reveal that I am again (note: again, not still) in Indonesia, and that it is raining in Jakarta at the moment, and that despite a couple of bombs the last few days, everything is quiet here and people seem quite happy with Megawati for president. In a few weeks I will be leaving for Australia, and old friends I am going to see there, told me I could borrow their mailbox… here’s the address:

7 Dalmaso Close
4159 Birkdale
Australia

Write me! I am longing for some real mail.

Take care,

Welmoet, Moomoo

What a culture shock that was, going from Africa to India. On Sunday 4th of February I flew in nearly 24 hours from Dar es Salaam, Tanzania, via Dubai, Emirates, to Mumbai, India. Mumbai, as you all know, was formerly known as Bombay. Despite all the horrifying stories I had heard about the city, I liked it immediately. So clean! So friendly! So safe! I know these are ridiculous things to say about Indian big cities, but that really was my first impression. Most travellers have a strong dislike of Mumbai - too big, too polluted, unfriendly people -, and avoid it if they can. However, after seven weeks in Africa, however enjoyable, I was in for a change, and I found being able to ask for directions without having to give a tip or having to worry about conmen a great relief. But did I feel like a stranger those first few days! Everybody had such pale complexions, spoke English that I didn’t understand and they wobbled their head all the time in such a way that it was neither a clear yes nor an obvious no. Another thing that was new to me was the typical question: ‘whichcountry?’ This must be the number one frequently asked question by Indians. Usually it is immediately followed by ‘whatsyourname?’. Everybody in India, no matter how uneducated or young, knows these two sentences, and you find yourself answering them at least several times daily.� What your response is, doesn’t seem to be that important; sometimes (when it was the fifthteenth time that day) I said I was Lizzy from England, and a few times I was Alice from Wonderland, and the Indians just went wobble-wobble with their head and walked off happy. The typical Indian head wobble, by the way, is very difficult. Try it: move your head up and down while moving it from left to right at the same time. See?
As I had to keep myself occupied until Martin and Marielle would arrive, after a few days in Bombay I headed off to Aurangabad, about 350 km from Bombay: an eight-hour train ride. My first trip ‘upcountry’ in India, and the first challenge of this adventure was getting a train ticket. India has got a fantastic rail network all through the country, covering over 7000 km and Indian Rail is one of the biggest employers in the world. The drawback: the max speed is only about 40 km per hour… Yes, as in Africa, one of the key words for travellers in India is� patience . Train journeys in India are, like more or less everything here, an experience, that starts when purchasing (or trying to purchase) your ticket. There is usually a special counter for foreigners (and groups and members of parliament and handicapped and freedom fighters!?!)� and you are supposed to fill in a form with your name, age, sex, date of travel, the name of the train the number of the train, your address and signature. The difficult part here is the name and number of the train. How are you supposed to know that the Devagiri Express is destined for Aurangabad en the Poorva Express for Calcutta? Trains that have the same destination can have different names on different days of the week and/or different numbers. The Poorva 2382 runs on Monday, Tuesday and Friday, but if you want to travel on the other days of the week, it’s the 2381. All this is explained on large notice boards on the reservation office wall, and in bigger stations they might even have it in English as well as Hindi. Sometimes the person behind the counter has no mercy when you have combined a wrong name with a non-existing number, and ruthlessly sends you back to the end of the hour-long queue to redo your form. Queuing in Indian train stations means fighting your way forward. Any means allowed. In the beginning I politely waited for my turn, but it took extremely long, involved a lot of punches and pushes and when I then finally was at the front of the line trying communicate with the person behind the glass, heads (no doubt from a member of parliament or freedom fighter) kept popping up between me and the round hole through which I was trying to get my information. In shops it often works the same way. After a few times you just blend in and queue like the Indians: with your elbows. It’s not always that bad, though, in smaller stations the queues aren’t always that violent. And often the station employees are really nice and help you out with the names and numbers problem. When you finally book the ticket, you’re sometimes requested to present your passport and visa number and a foreign exchange receipt. They really keep track of who you are, where you are, and, most important, how much you are spending here in India!

Anyway, in Aurangabad I wanted to visit the caves of Ellora and Ajanta. These are old Hinduist and Buddhist caves that were used as temples and monasteries, and contain beautifully preserved carvings and paintings. After a day trip from Aurangabad to Ellora, I wanted to take the bus to Ajanta and spend the night there. But my patience was once more put to the test.

- which platform is it to Ajanta?

- ?

- Ajanta bus?

- seven.

(I go to platform no. seven)

- is this the Ajanta bus?

- no.

- where is the Ajanta bus then?

- Ajanta number eight.

(I go to platform no. eight)

- bus to Ajanta?

- no, Ajanta number one.

(I go to platform number one. There is no bus at platform number one so I return to the information counter.)

- Ajanta. Which platform?

- number seven.

- number seven no Ajanta, I just asked.

- half past six number seven.

- half past six? (it was then something like four)

- number seven. five o’clock.

- five? you just said half past six.

- wobble .

- so is it five or half six?

- yes.

- platform seven or eight?

- yes. wobble .

This repeated itself for about two whole hours, that I spent going from one platform to another and then back to the info counter, where I was once more sent back to the platforms. I drove me crazy and in the end I conceded defeat, and checked in in the youth hostel in Aurangabad, hoping that I could find a bus to Ajanta the next day. Which I did, but nevertheless a feeling of despair shot through me: was it going to continue like this for the whole coming month? Luckily, it didn’t, as transport in India is in fact very good and efficient. Just a bit hard to find sometimes.

I returned to Mumbai and picked Marielle and Martin up from the airport on the early morning of the 11th of February. Needless to say I was over the moon that they came and it was fantastic to see them again. They brought lots of delicious Dutch sweets (dropjes and kaneelkussentjes etc.) and magazines and letters and I kept myself occupied with those while they were sleeping off their jetlag.

We spent a couple of days in Mumbai, they getting used to being in India and on holiday and I getting used to being with friends, which felt for me also like a holiday. Travel is a lot easier with more people then just yourself, sharing responsibility, planning, worrying, enjoying. And their company was great, we spent many hours chatting about nothing and everything and India and home and the latest gossip.

Together we travelled our way from Mumbai to Jaipur, Pushkar, Agra, Varanassi and in the end Calcutta. So many impressions from those three weeks of travel… there is so much to see in India. Temples. Flower offerings everywhere, from shrines to streetcorners to little Ganesh pictures on taxi dashboards. Colourful sarees. Spit blobs everywhere on the pavement. Camels, cows, pigs, dogs, rats and monkeys in the streets. Dirt and the stench of piss. Many delicious curries and thali and fruit lassi.� Ritual bathing in the Ganges in Varanassi (which we didn’t do ourselves; the Ganges is about 250.000 times more dirty then the World Health Organisation’s standards of hygiene). Rikshaws everywhere (’whereyougo? I take you good price’) and constant hooting from traffic. People washing themselves at the water pump in the street. India is really an attack on the senses and sometimes you just can’t take in any more.

India is also a country of tourist scams and we got our fair share of that. At the holy lake of Pushkar we made a flower offering to Brahma for a ‘voluntary donation’ and got threatened with divine punishment because our donation wasn’t big enough (’Brahma looks into your house. He sees if you are rich.’). In Agra Marielle and I took a bicycle-rikshaw to Agra Fort Station, but the driver took us deliberately to Agra Cant Station, about 4 km further, and then wanted more money because he drove a longer way. When we didn’t want to give it to him, he started to argue with us in Hindi, and about ten other guys came up and tried to push us into giving extra rupees, and shouted after us ‘you stupid tourist’ when we didn’t give it and walked off. The auto-rikshaw (more like a covered scooter on three wheels) we took back into town, pulled over after five minutes saying ‘no petrol’ and we had to walk the rest. Coincidentally, he ran out of petrol right in front of a school where another thirty rikshaws were waiting, and was it running towards lunchtime. Of course you have to haggle for everything you want to buy. After a while you get so suspicious of everyone… One morning in the train I was watching two ladies making henna-paintings on each other’s hands. One of them saw me and gestured: you too? I climbed down from my upper berth and she spent altogether nearly an hour painting my hands. And all the time I was thinking: how much does she want? When the train pulled in the station, she just greeted me and got out, and never asked for any money. I felt a little embarrassed…

I hope all this doesn’t sound too negative about India. In fact, it’s a wonderful country to travel. You’re never bored, and there are so many beautiful things to see and do. We have climbed hilltop fortresses and temples, went for a sunset camel ride in the desert, saw the sun rise over the Taj Mahal, did a boat ride on the Ganges and walked for hours through little streets and alleys watching the people and street life. And the food is fantastic, a vegetarian’s paradise. Although we couldn’t escape our fair share of India intestinal problems.

After Martin and Marielle had left, I found myself alone in Calcutta, and very sad and homesick for a few days. As a remedy, I booked my flight to Bangkok, got hold of Harry Potter part four, and spent the next ten days partly in bed because I was sick, and partly working as a volunteer in Shishu Bhavan, an orphanage of Mother Teresa’s. I worked with the disabled and malnutritioned and although I was there only for a few days, it was very impressive. These children lived in one big room with about ninety cots and beds, and nearly as many children with various handicaps and problems running or crawling between them. There was one corner without beds, the feeding corner. There were a few low chairs and tables there and the rest of the kids just sat on the floor on mats when they were being fed. The baby’s got bottles and the very handicapped were fed in their beds. There were hardly any toys and they had no own clothes. Diapers were folded cotton cloths tied around the waist. Sister Pauletta was in charge of it all; her troops consisted of one other sister, four or five novices, and about ten Indian women. And a daily different amount of volunteers. Despite the chaotic situation and the lack of means, in my opinion the sisters took good care of the kids. The food was plentiful and nutritious, and whenever they had the time they would play a few minutes with a kid or do some exercises. Volunteering was a bit tedious due to the chaos and lack of information about the children, but nevertheless a very impressive experience. I also visited the Home of the Dying and the Destitute, Mother Teresa’s first and favourite Home, and went to the headquarters of the organisation, the Motherhouse, where Mother Teresa’s grave is. The sisters often go to her tomb to ask for counsel, a sister told me.

On Tuesday 13th of March the well-known airline Druk Air flew me to Bangkok. Although my last two weeks in India hadn’t been all that great with me being sick and my friends leaving, I was a bit sorry to leave the country, realising that I hadn’t seen that much of it. My arrival in Bangkok was great. It looked so much like Tokyo… I felt like coming home. People were so friendly, and everything was available again. I stayed with friends whom I had met in Tokyo last year, and remained in Bangkok for a week, doing a little bit of sightseeing, playing with my friend’s baby girl, making plans and enjoying life in a big rich city. Then, since I felt it was time to go diving again, I took the bus and boat to the island of Koh Tao, in the south. Diving is very good over there and I ended up staying for nearly ten days. I did the medic first aid and rescue courses, which was hard but great fun. During the rescue course people would jump off the boat every time I was taking a rest, and start splashing about shouting ‘pizza pizza, I am drowning!’ (Pizza is the code word for ‘help’, so as not to alarm nearby boats.) Then I had to spring into action and rescue them. Usually this resulted in me jumping into the water, which I also did when one of the guys was screaming ’shark, shark!’ Nevertheless, I passed the course.

I also did a couple of fundives there. On the very first one, when we were still descending and I was hanging on the line trying to equalise, the instructor and everybody else suddenly started pointing and splashing excitedly. I turned round and saw an enormous whale shark swim towards us…beautiful! He was about four to five metres long, for a whale shark a small one, but the biggest fish I’ve ever seen. He had a pattern of brownish spots and stripes and lots of little fish were swimming alongside him. Whale sharks, you should know, are very peaceful sharks, and they’re called whale because they can grow up to eighteen metres; in fact they are the biggest fish in the world. Our whale shark must have liked us somehow, because he stayed with us for the whole dive. I would never have thought that I would spend forty minutes with a whale shark at an arm’s length… incredible.

Visa are not required for Thailand, but you can only stay for thirty days at a time. As my thirty days were nearly gone, I joined a pair of twins from Holland whom I had met previously in Calcutta, on their trip to neighbouring Cambodia. I hadn’t planned to go there and didn’t know very much about it, and it turned out to be a nice surprise. Cambodia is very poor and has had a terrible couple of decades, with Pol Pot killing three million people and civil war and American bombs. The recent history of Cambodia is so incredibly complicated. During the Vietnam war the Americans bombed this whole region heavily. The Vietnamese, in need of more foothold in Asia, was helping the Khmer Rouge come to power, who in turn attacked them later on; the Vietnamese then tried to overthrow the Khmer Rouge again, while themselves under attack by the Chinese, who wanted to support the Khmer Rouges communist regime. Cambodian King Sihanouk also supported the Khmer Rouge at first, but they then imprisoned him in Bejing. When the Vietnamese liberated the capital of Phnom Penh in 1979, the Khmer Rouge went into hiding in the Thai border region, supported by the Thai in their guerrilla war; the British sent a division to teach them effective landmine laying and they bought weapons from the Cambodian army who was actually the enemy. Do you still follow? And this is only a very rough outline. People in Cambodia are still heavily scarred by what happened those years. There isn’t anyone who hasn’t lost relatives to the bombs, revolutions or Khmer Rouge prisons.

The first thing we went to see in Cambodia, however, was Angkor Wat. An area of forest with old temples roughly dating back to 900-1300 AD. These temples are enormous and were once overgrown by the jungle. Most of that is now cleared away, and solid tarmac roads (the only ones in the whole of Cambodia) now lead from one temple to the other, as it is the country’s major tourist attraction. Despite all that it is still very impressive, due to the sheer size of it all. Famous is the Bayon temple, adorned with huge stone faces all over. There’s also one temple of which they haven’t cleared the forestation, and that has a wonderful nearly magical atmosphere, with huge trees growing through the walls and all.

We went by boat (never travel by road in Cambodia if you can avoid it) to Phnom Penh and there we visited the famous Killing Fields. About ten thousand people lie there in mass graves, of which they found eight thousand so far. In the middle of a field is a pagoda with all the skulls and bones, and the rest of the field is just a field, but with deep holes in it. Everywhere pieces of cloth stick out of the ground; they’ve cleared the bones, but not the clothes. Makes it scaringly real. But the most horrifying thing is there is the tree against which they smashed the baby’s to save bullets. In town there is a prison called S-21, where most of the people buried in these killing fields were imprisoned and tortured before being bludgeoned to death. A horrible place where you can see thousands of photographs, portraits of the prisoners. It took me a while to realise that these people are in fact the same people as the skulls in the pagoda. The whole thing is pretty depressing, especially when you realise it is not at all a long time ago.

But now, Cambodia is recovering, and although poor, a great place to travel. Although preferably not by road. Road travel is invariably by pickup truck and absolutely uncomfortable. I have made one ten hour journey by pickup, after which I was sore all over. And I had even been sitting in the cabin. With three adults and two kids next to me; in front, the driver, two adults and a child; in the back, about twenty more people with luggage. They were even sitting on the cabin roof - there was a pair of legs dangling outside my window the whole journey. Boats are much better; the best place is on the roof, where you catch the fresh wind.

In total I stayed for almost two weeks in Cambodia and had a great time. The Khmers are such nice people, very helpful and always smiling. In the less touristy areas you spend an entire moto-ride (the taxi’s are nearly all motorbikes) to your destination just waving back to kids and saying ‘hello! hello!’ I have seen temples, the royal palace, rare freshwater dolphins, killing fields and killing caves, rode on the Mekong river and on the worst roads in South East Asia.

After an unexpected great time in Cambodia I am now back in Bangkok, where we have just finished the celebration of the Thai New Year. These celebrations consisted of throwing enormous amounts of water on each other and smearing each others face with a sticky talcum powder paste. Great fun, but I am glad that now after three days it’s finally dry again.

In two days I am awaiting my next visitor: my mother! She has said from the beginning of my trip she would come to see me somewhere in the world, but I never really believed it. Yet she is coming this Wednesday and we plan to explore northern Thailand in the coming three weeks!

Well… that’s about it. Thanks for your patience for reading this way too long newsletter. One last piece of news: you can see some of my pictures on the web! Martin has made a great site for me (thanks a million!) which you now all can visit. Go to msn.communities.nl\WelmoetWelsWereldreis. Below the photo you’ll see there and the map, click the line that says ‘foto’s’. Then you’ll get to a series of pictures of Africa and India.

Dear friends back home and fellow travellers, I wish you all Happy Easter. I hope you enjoyed my third newsletter and I’d very much appreciate hearing from you!

Take care,

Welmoet, Moomoo