Travel Page by Planet Ranger
Home search About Advice

Travel Page

The Weekend Warrior of Wieng Chan

No longer in Laos, Flint's decided to keep the blog title the same just to confuse people. A prize to anyone who can work out what it refers to...

Diary Entries

Thursday, 16 July 2009

Location: Rishikesh, India

Picture this: Your in the Vatican city on Easter Monday and the big fella himself is just about to step out in front of the gigantic gold laced alter that no doubt inhabits the holy city. A whole gaggle of young boys on the threshold of not being boys are praising the glory of the lord in shill voices and there is a hush of anticipation among the devout thousands who have gathered to celebrate the resurrection of their savior. But instead of a respectful silence as Ben totters up the steps, there is a gasp of shock, a sharp intake of breath as people realise that blazened across his chest is not the standard array of colourful drapes, rosaries and a crucifix, but a giant swoosh symbol - a homage to the undying religion of consumerism.

The Hindu equivalent of this is taking place right at this moment in Rishikesh, where we've been hanging out for the past few days. We've managed to time our visit to perfectly conicide with the hindu equivalent of a hillsong convention. There are hundreds of thousands, possibly millions of people (mainly young men) milling the streets and ghats of the Ganges, beating drums and shouting out something equivalent to "Shiva Shiva Shiva, Oi! Oi! Oi!" as they fill up their bottles with sacred ganga water to take back to their home towns, or as far as they can manage.

Like anything done in India, the festival is done on scale Hillsong could only dream of and is heavily sponsored by India Inc - or in this case USA inc - Nike and Reebok. The standard uniform of the Shiva-loving youth (and not so youth) seems to be orange reebok pants, orange shirt depicting Shiva (and the swoosh symbol) and a black nike bumbag. Of course, intellectual property being what it is in India (highly communalised) it could be that some entrepreneurial clothes makers have unilaterally decided to print a few million fake reebok pants and cash in on the brand recognition, but the extent, and organisation of the branding would seem to suggest something a little more sinister.

From a marketing point of view, you couldn't want much more - they are the perfect demographic (young, impressionable and presumably with enough cash to leave their homes for a few weeks to go on a pilgrimage) they are completely conspicuous (being a colour which is only a gnats whisker off saftey vest orange) and the conventions of the pilgrimage demand that people walk (that's right WALK) hundreds and hundreds of kilometers from wherever they live, to the 'source' of the ganges, to gather their sacred water.

The great thing about pilgrimages, however is that there's always a certain flexibility in the unwritten rules of pilgrimaging. Some people go all the way to glacier where the ganges emerges from the himalays, others opt only for Rishikesh, the last big city before the hills. While most walk, some ride bikes, and I've definately seen a few people drive. I'm pretty sure that for the time strapped executive there's probably also an online pilgrimage, where you can click on the places you would have walked to, and buddy up with your exec friends via facebook to reminice about past online pilgrimages. I wonder, if Nike and Reebok are emblazened all over the websites as well....

Monday, 22 June 2009

Location: Not on a boulder, France

Some things in life simply defy explanation. The popularity of Justin Timberlake for instance, is a completely mystery to me. So too is the absence of seats on French Toilets (I mean who steals a toilet seat, really? Do they do it on purpose, just to spite the English?). But more immediately preoccupying than JT or le toilletes at present is how you can suddenly end up with a broken rib without any recollection of falling, banging or being struck by anything at all.
No, it’s not like you might think. I did NOT wake up on the floor of my tent after a few too many bottles of quality French wine (or even cheap French wine for that matter). Nor was it a valiant effort at a highball font testpiece attempted sans mats and spotters. It came on gradually over a few days (not with a bang but a whimper you could say) like a bad flu; the runny nose, the tickle in the throat, the sore head, until, gradually you realise you’ve been struck down by the dread lurgi (or in my case, the dreaded fractured vebreto-sternal.
What’s even stranger, is that this seems to be a recurring injury for me. I had a similar injury when I was living in Laos a few years ago, which also seemed to come on over a few days without any good cause. Calcium deficiency? Crushing font slopers too hard? Aliens? Someone help me out here, please!
As far as timing goes though, I couldn’t have picked a better time to break a rib really. I’ve been lucky enough to have three awesome weeks here at Font and now I suppose I’ve got a month in India to rest it before coming home…..

Saturday, 20 June 2009

Location: The Forests of Fontainebleau, France

I think I’m in love. He’s a 60 year old French man called Pierre. Or possibly Frederic. Simon? Jean Claude even? I’m not really sure because they usually don’t tell you their names. In fact they usually don’t speak at all. They are called Bleausards, and they are truly one of the most beautiful sights in the world.
It might seem a strange thing to call beautiful. Being on average about 60 years old, seemingly always men, with grey, balding hair and (typically shirtless) sagging sacks of skin over thin wirey bodies, they wouldn’t exactly turn eyes on the catwalks of Paris. But on the boulders of Fontainebleau, where they have been painstakingly perfecting the art of bouldering for generations, it’s another story completely.
Meandering through the forest from problem to problem, these rock Yogis will wander past you as you’re bouldering, possibly with a polite smile, but often without, they will gently place their tiny little carpet in front of a boulder (sometimes even the problem you are trying) carefully wipe the sand off their boots, dab the rock with an ancient sack of resin and gently caress the rock with their fingers. This is where the magic begins.
They do not simply climb a rock. No, that would be far too common, far too vulgar, far too un-French. They float, dance and glide across the rock. Feet on invisible smears, hands gently moulding into slopers, dishes, crimps you can hardly see. And when they do pull on to a climb, what you thought was just a sagging sack of flesh, is suddenly alive with a seething mass of perfectly sculpted muscles, flowing like ribs of satin across their backs.
And then they leave, as silently and methodically as they came, plodding on to the next problem in the circuit, leaving a wake of stunned climbers staring after them, as if they have seen a ghost. I have witnessed very very good climbers, people who are regularly attempting Font eights absolutely gobsmacked after watching a Bleausard climb a six or a seven.
Of course, when you actually try to pull on to the holds they were using or copy the sequence they used, you will typically find the holds are invisible and the sequence has somehow dissolved from your memory because it was simply one you would never have conceived of using, or if you can remember it, it defies the laws of possible human movement.
From time to time, if you are extremely lucky, they will stop and give you pointers on what your doing wrong, or point out a few problems you hadn’t even seen because there doesn’t appear to be any useable holds around. But after some patient coaching, the holds will begin to appear, the moves will gradually become conceivable and, as you begin to get the smallest glimpse of an insight into what it feels like to climb like a Bleausard, you are so powerfully reminded that what you climb and how hard you climb is nowhere near as important as how beautifully you climb.

Thursday, 18 June 2009

Location: Fontainbleau, France

Some things in French just aren’t translatable into English. There are the classics of course - ‘fait a compli’ and ‘tete a tete’ for instance - which just aren’t imbued with the same antiquities as their literal translations (fancy a ‘head to head’ anyone?). Then there’s the French words which seemingly have no sister word in English - ‘connoisseur’ ‘entrepreneur’ (made famous by the late ungreat George Bush who proclaimed that a key problem with the French was that they have no word for entrepreneur…) and have as such been abducted by the English about as successfully as their efforts to capture the holy grail in that Monty Python classic. But like a classic Agatha Christie the worst culprits are usually the words you least suspect. The biggest and brightest of which is undoubtedly that innocuous verbal handshake: ‘Bonjour’.
Literal guru’s will tell you it’s translation is something like “good day”, but if you said this to some one in English you’d no doubt feel so ridiculously British and ancient that you might has well have said ‘Jolly good show old sport’ as you chase some poor fox on the estate. Dictionaries usually go for the more universal ‘Hello’ but heading down this road leaves you all at once short changed and hollow. Hello? Hello? It’s something you’d cough tentatively down a well. A question, which, if you’re very lucky you might get a dull echo of response but more often it tends to just fade away into the darkness.
‘Bonjour’ on the other hand is like a delicious hearty vegetable soup served with a baguette tradition just removed from the oven. Hearty, rounded and satisfying, it can be used as a greeting, a farewell, or simply a sign of friendly acknowledgement. The other day, for instance as we were riding out of town, the clouds opened up and, as is seemingly very common around these parts, it wasn’t sun that poured out, but high quality Fontainebleau rain. Just ahead was a guy I couldn’t feel more sorry for. Totally soaked, with nothing but a t-shirt and shorts, he was trying to thumb a ride to the next town. It was going to be a very generous person, or someone with an uncharacteristically dilapidated car (which don’t seem to exist in France) who was going to give him a lift, so it seemed he could be waiting for quite a while. Feeling that we were somehow in the same wet, cold boat, I nodded him a quick ‘Bonjour’ to him as I passed. The smile on his face, from even my quick b’jour, was sunny enough to dry clean him on the spot. I couldn’t help but feel that if I’d said hello, he probably would have said ‘so what?’

Friday, 05 June 2009

Location: Fontainbleau

If there is one thing the french have perfected its the art of silent letters. We english speakers might think weve got it down with our gnomes and our knives, but the French have taken unnecesary characters to the next level. Not only do they have these wacky things on top of the words- ^^^^o èù (which ive been assured by more than one french speaker are mostly remnants from the past used to confuse foreigners) but whenever possible they try to avoid pronouncing the end of the word, and half of the middle as well. Take "Presles" for instance - a stunning wee town we stayed in in the Vercors. We were pretty sure we had the pronunciation pretty wrong with our attempt "pray lay" but it took some old frenchie who generously gave us a lift up the hill one day to let us know it is qctually pronounced something like "Prel". Now thats not one; not two, but three COMPLETELY UNNECESSARY letters in there. Now of course some may just lable me an ignorant foreigner with a bad accent, but personally I think its high time someone dusted the old guillotine off and brought French into the twentyfrst century.

so aside from getting thoroughly confused by french words, weve mainly been eating smelly cheese, going on patiseerie crawls and finding large rocks to clamber all over in the incredible forests of Fontainebleau with Ben and Al, who just hapened to be here as well.

So france, glorious France. And indeed it is, or would be, if we

Friday, 15 May 2009

Location: The Pyrenees, France

So, the Pyrenees. In short, we crushed them in a day and a half. I,m not sure what all the hype is about. I mean beautiful? Of course, absolutely stunning. But where were all the massive hills we were promised, the trecherous 15 deg plus slopes streching on and on. Aching calves begging for a rest from hills so steep your hardly moving. Tour de France, bring it on, we'll do it in a day.

Amazing how as soon as you enter France your arrogance just increases on the spot, just like that. Suddenly you no longer need to say please and thankyou, you walk around like you've been dressed by a fashion god/ess and your culinary prowess would make Jamie Oliver look like the tuckshop lady.

The other amazing thing about entering France is that you immediately develop a French accent, just like that.Just as we rode over the final pass into France (with not so much as a Bienvenue a France, Au revoir Espagnol or anything of the sort, just a lame road sign telling us that French people are allowed to drive 10 kilometres faster on the freeway than Spanish people) our accents immediately shifted (and Ive got a video to prove it) The other thing which automatically changed was the language everyone else speaks. It might seem obvious but there is somethign very weird about riding down a hill and suddenly realising your not in Kansas any more Dorothy (or even Spain for that matter) and you can't understand a word anyone says, while 5 ks before you were chatting with the locals like you'd lived there for years and toasting the victory of Barcelona on the weekend.
Seriously, even with our incredible French accents we STILL didn't pass as Frenchies. Weird hey.

The other weird thing here is the keyboards. Clever Frenchies have taken your standard keyboard that the rest of the romanesque languages use and modified it just slightly, not too much, but just enough to make you THINK you can still type like normal qnd qnnoy teh shit out of you zhen you find out thqt your elail hqs co,e out looking likd this1.

But assside from that, and the fact that everything costs even more than it did in Spain, France is really aa cool place and French people, despite the stereotypes (which I have shamelesslely added too above) really are very friendly.Oh, and the other thing, you know all the stereotypes about little french stone villages, old french ,en cycling to the bagueterrie every day; stripey shirts and beautiful meandering country roads withe vineyards on every side;;; They're absolutely TRUE! Really, its stunning.

Friday, 01 May 2009

Location: Siurana, Spain

Welcome to spain, land of crap internet, great views, awesome rock and exceptionally cheap wine. 1 euro a bottle is hard to beat when you´re on an Australian dollar induced budget of about 12 euros a day.

Fortunately with a bit of ducking behind bushes we´ve managed to camp without paying most nights and have only spent two nights in a hotel the entire time we´ve been here. The past few nights on the road we managed to find old buildings to shelter in or around. There absolutely everywhere in spain - 300 year old building here, 2000 year old castle there, just rotting away in a field somewhere waiting for impoverished cyclists to come along and move a few old roofing tiles off the floor so they can crash for the night - does no one think to clean these old ruins up a bit, the place is a bloody shambles. Of course in Australia they´d all be historic tourist attractiosn, but here there are so many of them the locals must just think they´re a nuisance sitting their in the middle of their olive groves. What I can´t get over is the fact that at some point someone must have just sat down and gone "you know what, I´m a bit sick of living in this plush 6 bedroom house, let´s move somewhere else." And left their fancy mansion, probably in pretty good condition, and built a house somewhere else. Of course, the several decades of civil war and Franco-induced repression may have had something to do with it, but it still seems a bit weird that there are houses, in not too terrible condition, which would have been in great condition 30, 50, 80 years ago, just rotting away in the fields.

Sometimes we´re even lucky enough to find old mattresses to chuck under the tent to give a bit of a break from the thermarests and let our sleeping injuries heal a little. It must be a good thing when you´re on a cycling and climbing trip and the worst injuries you sustain come from sleeping on a thermarest. Oh, that and the knees, which have been petitioning me for several days to have a rest from cycling and have finally been granted their wish courtesy of a few days climbing in the amazing hills of Montsant at a place called Siurana.

Like everywhere in Spain it seems, Siurana is an old castle town, a tiny village pirched at the end of penisular on top of a cliff in the most inaccessible place imaginable. Fortunately for us that means that aside from the 15 degree hils we had to climb to get up here, we can now walk to all the climbing and leave our bikes panting under the shade of the pine trees.

So today we´re even having a break from climbing as the great god of weather has decided it will rain for most of the morning and possible the afternoon. A bit of a shame as it´s our last day here before we head down to Barcelona and onto Francia.

Till then, Adieu.

Previous Diary Entries

Choose a date from the menu below to view older diary entries in a new window.

Photos - Click Below

Leave a Message


Email (optional):


Travelling Soon?

Get Your own Planet Ranger Travel Page. Click Here

Recent Messages

From Sarah
Excuse me, Monsieur Duxfield, but how are we supposed to have our annual catch up with you in Europe? Oh dear, you really didn't think this through, did you?
Hope you're having fun!
xx Sarah
From Siri
Sa bai dee Flint,
Sa bai dee bor? Wang wa chao kong sa bai dee.
Mee Weark Lai Bor?
Khien lar Siri dair der.
Response: sa baid dee siri, khoi sa bai dee keugan! Tae wa me hoop thai website mai uni: phob gan mai, F
From Simon Vaughan
Dear Flint

Your dad passed on the link and subsequent photos. It all seems horrendous, I think you better rush back to Mt Alexandra?????

Simon Vaughan
Response: Hi Simon,
Ahhh, it's not that far away from Mt. Alex in reality! Be back there soon for sure, cheers,
From G
F, I really did LOL when I read your latest entry. Sounds like haggling in China is in a league of its own. My experiences in Vietnam don't even come close! Hope the bird flu's left you before you make the trek back to OZ...
Response: Thanks G, yeah, I'm battling the birds left right and center at the mo so hopefully by the time I'm back in Laos they'll be well banished
From moya
Kia Ora Flint-we love all your wonderful news of your adventures-makes our lives here seem very uninteresting but we are alive and well and we have just been experiencing a fantastic autumn-still swimming and the surf is pumping.The mountain has a light dusting of snow -looks amazing .We are all fit and well -good to hear the foodie stories!!!!!!! Think of you often
lots of love Moya and Paul
Response: wow, snow and waves all in the one hey, sounds beautiful. Nice to here all is good a Wairau rd.
From jase
no way dude...I saw that horrible golf course with its ridiculous green lawns totally in the middle of nowhere...I ate the exhaust of countless logging trucks movin in to complete the wiping out of another paradise forest...I felt the pain of that very same "steep incline" (the tarred one at least, and think I was going the other way) but lucky for me it was laos new year (just passed?) and every kid on the side of the road drenched me with massive scary water cannons and a huge smile. who says the legacy of warfare and ammunitions is all bad? ah, yeah..
nice one mate :)
Response: ahhh yes, how I wish it had been lao new year when I was slogging the dust miles! nothing can raise the smile on a lao kid as much as the thought of drenching an unsuspecting (and dry) falang
From lizzle
o o o .. yo.. i did not look ear for one very long time .. what a deloight.. yes yes yes .. yes yes yes yes.. (your camera and u see to be getting on) .. really dug some of the 80's tunes in the polish videos.. they are bloody rockin.. man .. insipational though..!! love love and love .. double time.!!
From mum
Have just checked out the photos and ind I am months behind....but well worth the wait. My images of you covered in dust turn out to be true. Catching 6 bricks at a I am impressed. You are truely a wonderful ambassador for Lao Flint and I do so understand why you love it and find the changes so difficult to understand. C U sooooooooon......
From Dancin
Hey flint, happy birthday. Hope all is well and you have a great day.
Dan & Cindy
Response: Thanks guys, and happy birthday (in the true sense!) to baby Benjamin.
From Dad
Hi Flint, iwas completely exhasted after youre ride to Attapeu, iwould have needed some serious training for that, keep up the good work
Response: Yup, I was slightly buggered too....
From Siri
Good on ya! Flint....
Cycle for days
Cycle for nights
Cycle for hopes
Cycle for life, and
Cycle for the future...der : )
Keep on cycling
All the best,
Response: I couldn't agree more Siri, :)
From DAN @ Cindy
Hey Flint, Hope you had a great xmas and hope your new year is filled with cool suprises.
Response: Hi Guys, Chrissie and new years were filled with much fun and relaxation, sorry not to see you all again this year... one day soon i'll have chrissie in oz again.
From Kezza
Hey Flintels,

Little short of a masterpiece - love the Python prose.

Will visit often.
Response: Hi Kez,
glad you liked, nothing like a bit of python or the goons for cheap gags....
From madeleine
Flintus! I hope to be transported into some of your glorious and wonderful photos. And I really hope to escape marshmellow nightmares tonight.
Response: hey madseline,
great to hear from you... I ran into a friend of yours the other night at a party with Nicola... freaky hey.
From Siri
Hi Flint,
This is very cool website indeed. Smart daily and I was enjoy reading.

Thank you for allowing me to visit your website.
Response: Thanks Siri,
glad you like it...although its actually the boys in South America who make it look so shmick...
From shell
Flint! Love your site, good giggling stories and stunning photo's! Look forward to seeing and reading more... love shell xxx
Response: Hi Shell,
great to hear from you -glad to hear you get out a good giggle at my expense.
From John Chaplin
Hi Flint
Spoke with your Mum today and she gave me your site id. I'm impressed! What a great place to explore. Chris is very excited about visiting with you.
All the best - John
Response: Hi John,
Great to hear from you! This really is spreading way further than I had imagined...
From DAN @ Cindy
Hey Flint, If you want to call my skype name is dancin12. By the way hows it going. Have you learnt the lingo yet..
Response: Hi Dan,
excellent, as soon as they reconnect my phone line (!) I'll look you up. Learning the language slowly and loving it.
From Rani
*sigh* Flint,
sure beats getting bumpy city rail train rides!
uhm. yeah.
From Burps Liberty
p.s. your photos are absolutely incredible (esp. the Vientiane ones)...
Response: eelomeno P!, Why thankyou, and thanks for the link, I couldn't find them last time I looked..
From Burps Liberty
Ella-Menno-Eff! come home soon. the eeeee-eeeees miss you terribly. also, go here: berty (there're some old-skool candids of you)...

love, Phoebe
Response: Ahhhh P, missin you all too ee eeeing past my window. Haven't yet found anyone who'll e ee eeeee me back over here :(
From G
Whoa Molly! F those photos are amazing. truly beautiful.
Response: Thanks G,
eee ee eee eeeeeeee
From Jordy
Hey Flint, nice climbing pics the other week,,, we mow have a climbing wall at our house, so come over sometime. (maybe not while in asia) ill send you a photo soon
Response: Excellent... the climbing wall fetish is spreading...everything is going to plan...(evil grin)
From Marcin
Hey Flint
I have wanted this for a long time but after months of deliberating I have decided to become a woman. Maybe we could hook up when you get back.
Response: Marchetta
Good to see you have finally realised your unlimted potential as a Lebanese belly dancer. How could any man resist thosee golden locks...I will search Dubbo high and low upon my return
From Ula
What a superb idea flint!

You must consider travel writing - have I not told you so many times?!! You write so vividly and imaginitively - it's like eating chocolate - such a pleasure to read.

I hope you have recovered from your bus journeys - they sounded terrible! and I hope the UN holidays are a lot of fun.

I actually just got back from Malta - I was sent there as an Aussie delegate to the Commonwealth Youth Forum (adjunct to CHOGM). It was quite an experience I must say.

Anyway, I hope you are well and I look forward to reading more about your travels. It is such a superb way to stay in touch and I will certainly log in regularly. I will also forward it to Iwona.

Take care - much love,