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When A Lost Guatemalan Taught Me To Walk On Water

Hannah Bowman — Wed, 17 Sep 2014 12:33:36 +0000

It has been three years since I last saw Loch. We parted on a train somewhere under London, thousands of miles away from the town in Guatemala where we had first met. As the tube doors slid shut on an era, I did not imagine that it would be near Sagres, Portugal’s most Southwesterly tip, that we would meet again.

Yet here I am, in the small village of Raposeira in the Algarve, pushing open a salt-encrusted wooden gate to the Good Feeling Hostel where, according to a hurried e-mail exchange, I am to be reunited with my old friend who has taken up residence as a stand-up paddle instructor.

I barely recognize him. After months of surfing and sun, he has been transformed into a bronzed and hulking man of the sea.

Inevitably, he is on his way to take a couple of Spanish girls to check out the sunset from a suitably romantic cliff-top location. Yes, despite the passage of time and the consolidation his pectoral muscles, it was clearly the same old Loch.

The battered Peugeot retreats into a cloud of dust, bearing with it the two unsuspecting lovelies and one Central American lothario. I am left standing bemused and backpacked to watch the sun dip over a backdrop of whitewashed houses.

Shit. This was not the welcome I had anticipated.

It was not long, however, before I was greeted by resident chef, surf and jujitsu instructor, Carlos, and the sunshine vibes started to get the better of me. Handing me a beer, he explains a bit more about the way things roll at Good Feeling. Namely, in a relaxed fashion.

I cut some veggies for the communal dinner, before settling myself in a hammock to ponder the week ahead. I did not yet realize that, in my quest for a long-long friend, I had stumbled upon a jewel in the Algarve: a haven of breathtaking scenery, outdoor adventuring and toned body mass.

The Perfect Natural Setting

This area of the Algarve is dotted with national parks, leaving the coastline to exist in its natural and rugged state, unfettered by tacky holiday homes or ugly resorts. A number of the best beaches still remain relatively inaccessible, especially at high tide, which lends plenty of opportunity to explore.

A few of the area’s most noteworthy bathing spots include Beliche, Figueira and Barranco. Barranco, otherwise known as the “hippie” beach, is a stunning little bay, glistening emerald green — albeit freezing cold — water. And naked people.

Apart from a high saturation of exposed genitalia, one of the main attractions of this bay is as the starting point for stand up paddle tours.

Stand Up Paddle

Stand up paddling, or SUP as the kids are calling it, is actually a lot more fun than I had given it credit for, at least in this part of the world. Dramatic cliffs and submerged caves make for an active paddling experience, providing plenty of opportunities to jump off things and swim under things. Especially when your paddle instructor goes by the name of Loch.

We began with a brief introduction to the basics. These seemed, indeed, fairly basic but were accompanied with a warning: according to Loch, we would forget everything we had been taught when things “got real.”

Undaunted, we set off on our boards, kneeling against the wind resistance and heading towards a corner point which would allow us to escape the gentle swell generated by an offshore breeze. As predicted, however, instead of steering gently to the shelter at the opening of the bay as instructed during our basic training, one girl set out merrily into the open ocean. And, it seemed, to her doom.

[Dramatic Pause]

But fear not dear reader, of course she came to no harm. This diversion merely presented our very own Loch the opportunity slip into his role as The Alpha Male, a part to which he seems to have grown quite enamored.

He single-handedly dragged her to shore, before providing the rest of the group — including the newly infatuated damsel — with a master-class in rock scaling, cave swimming and yogic posing.

The guy was clearly in his element, and who could blame him? This was a far cry for the long dusty commute from an office in Guatemala City every evening. I was beginning to see where his love for the paddle board was coming from.

I too was starting to feel at home in a wet suit and was keen to take my burgeoning relationship with water sports to the next level. It was time to get my surf on – she says, trying to be cool but sounding like a geriatric.

I Use the Term “Surf” Loosely

Despite a few brief periods in my life dedicated to the cultivation of a beach-chic image, I had never actually surfed before. Furthermore, my beginner’s board could have doubled up as the wall of a sturdy garden shed, hindering any projection of myself as an accomplished beach bum.

Nevertheless, I was soon wielding surf terminology with liberal abandon. This did little to nurture my credibility, considering the generic usage of “gnarly” was accompanied an unspectacular 10seconds of standing prior to a rather more spectacular face plant.

Kelly Slater probably probably doesn’t need to be watching his back just yet, but what I lacked in skill, I made up for in enthusiasm, trying out a number of beaches in my quest for aquatic glory. For those who know their hang heels from a goofy foot, the locals suggest Ponta Ruiva, Amado, Boudeira and Arrifana.

Horseback Riding

I have been an avid horse rider since I was a kid and I attribute it with some of my happiest memories, and my experience of hacking in Sagres was no disappointment.

Nidia runs Equivicentinos, a low-key operation just near Vila do Bispo. Only working with small groups, she offers a bespoke experience catering to the ability and confidence of each rider. It is clear that this is a woman who is doing something she loves, and just so happens to be making a living out of it. At a couple of points during our two-hour trek she actually seemed rather surprised to see me — herself absorbed by the dramatic vistas afforded by carefully scouted lookout points.

Unlike so often with riding schools, we were not limited to simply trailing along behind one another, but galloped through forest paths blanketed in pine needles and along cliff-top ridges, the sound of the waves breaking below echoing along the rocky coastline.

We even took the horses to paddle in the sea, letting them snort and splash in the water to the delight of holiday makers and, of course, the omnipresent community of naked people.

As I leaned my head back to enjoy the evening rays on my face, I realized why it was that my friend had chosen to give up the city life and head for the horizon on a paddle board.

Surely this is how humans should live, outside, at one with the elements, shedding their pudgy computer-addled bodies in favor of the sun-kissed, of the contentedness of aching muscles that have worked hard or the radiance you exude after a day of physical exertion.

Sleep with one eye open Loch, it might not be long before I return to crash this Casanova’s beach party.

By Hannah Wallace Bowman /

A restless Brit with big dreams and limited cash flow, Hannah is a freelance journalist and student. She is currently being sponsored by the European Union to take a Masters in Journalism and International Politics at the University of Amsterdam/University of Santiago, Chile, and the Danish School of Journalism. Check out her site DontDoNothing.com.

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5 Steps To Surviving Hostel Room Sex

Hannah Bowman — Tue, 09 Jul 2013 17:39:02 +0000

While not something you immediately consider before leaving home, every traveler is almost certain to experience it. For some, it can be a traumatic experience. Dorm room sex: great for people doing the sexing, not so great for those listening to the sexing being had by other people.

While a few out there may enjoy the sound of inebriated backpackers slithering around and into each other, the following suggestions have been thrown together to assist those less keen on the penetration of others at close proximity.

1) Know the Warning Signs

Same-sex groups traveling together in packs are particularly prone to these types of shenanigans. Be aware of such phrases as, “Have you met my mate Dave? You have to watch out for him when he’s had a few as he gets a bit romantic.” This does not mean that Dave is actually going to sexually assault someone, it does mean, however, that Dave is probably going to do the best he can to not retreat to bed unsatiated.

2) Always Carry “The Precious”

Otherwise known as earplugs, these foamy buggers are a lifesaver. In the event they have been misplaced or you thought you would take your chances without them, improvise. Melted wax is highly effective but not readily available. Instead, try rolling toilet paper into little cones or, to achieve a muffled effect, convert a pair of socks into ear hats.

3) Disturb the Mood

To be honest, this rarely works. At the point at which strangers are willing to slap their genitals together in public, they are probably too paninied to take notice of a reminder they are not alone. Nevertheless, it is worth a try.

Begin by sighing and turning over loudly. The sexers may attribute the commotion to their partner’s own enjoyment, or may think you are engaging in similar recreational activities, but if persistent it could be enough to startle the fornication to an end.

Should this prove unsuccessful, consider watching a documentary about traction engines at high volume or starting a small fire.

4) Construct a Tent

This involves taking a towel, a sheet or a larger item of clothing and tucking it under the mattress of the bunk above in order to create a cloth screen. This can be erected either around the area where the sexers are operational or your own bed. This method is highly effective in screening the action from view but does not shield you from accompanying noises.

5) Join In

If all else fails, emerge from your tent and see if there is room for a third. For, as the old adage goes, if you can’t beat ’em . . .

By Hannah Bowman

[Hostel Lockers by Hunter Smith/Flickr]

About the Author

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Navigating The Med On A Smile And A Shoestring: Part Seven (Palermo)

Hannah Bowman — Fri, 08 Feb 2013 14:00:06 +0000

During this past summer Contributing Editor Hannah Bowman found herself on an island in the Mediterranean Sea. She liked it there, but didn’t want to stay forever. So, with a tent on her back, one month to play with and a handsome Flem by the name of P.J. in tow, she headed north. “Navigating the Med on a Smile and a Shoestring” is a travel series documenting their journey of camping, ferry boating and hitchhiking from Gozo to Ghent.

As a monument to former glory and incredibly dirty, Palermo is everything you do not expect. Characterful, ugly and spectacularly genuine, this city makes for the most unlikely love affair.

Situated in a sweeping bay, not visible from most parts of town, it is surrounded by mountains which somehow lends itself to providing the sense of being a South American metropolis rather than the capital of a small Mediterranean island.

On many of the streets you will find numerous flea markets where hoards of people from all over the world peddle their wares, including the old and new, from the practical to the downright ridiculous, from 70’s telephones to chipped tea mugs emblazoned with the visage of a former pope.

Indeed, Palermo seems like a little bit of a misfit itself, perhaps precisely one of the reasons why it invites further exploration.

For sure, this is no Paris. This is not a highly sophisticated place of immediately attractive and accessible attractions. There is none of Rome’s easy charm. Yet work to discover the less obvious and you will be rewarded.

By Hannah Bowman

Read the Entire “Navigating The Med On A Smile And A Shoestring” Series Here

About the Author

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Navigating The Med On A Smile And A Shoestring: Part Six (Wild Camping In Sardinia)

Hannah Bowman — Thu, 31 Jan 2013 03:03:01 +0000

We lay silently in the tent trying not to breathe.

The light of the flashlight reflected from the walls of the gorge as a figure made his way through the undergrowth from the road above down into the cove.

We were camping without a permit. Surely this was the sign that we had been busted and someone from the local constabulary was coming to haul us away. But, from the iridescent glow of the moonlight, we could see that the man making his way down the beach was clearly alone and clearly not a policeman. Carrying a large bag in each hand, he walked purposely but cautiously towards the gently breaking surf, glancing behind him as he went.

“This is a drug drop,” I hissed to PJ through clenched teeth, my heart beating at three times its normal rate.

“I’ve heard about this. If we see anything illegal and he finds out that we saw us, we will be dead.”

The sound of a boat approaching the bay drew louder.

“Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God,” I repeated.

This was clearly the point at which the goods were being exchanged. Whether or not this was the case or simply the product of an overactive imagination we shall never know, however, located in a sheer-walled gully, there was only one way up from the beach, and the possibility that something nasty and The Godfather-ish was going down seemed all too plausible. And thus passed one of the most nail-biting 45 minutes of my life.

Eventually, attempting to quietly pack up our belongings and escape without being seen by out mysterious visitor, we crept through the trees and then bolted to the safety of the path above.

This whole episode took place on the east coast of Sardinia, the second largest island in the Mediterranean From the city of Cagliari in the south to old coastal towns such as Alghero in the north, there is a rich mixture of architecture and culture to be found here.

Dorgali is the town to aim for if you are heading up from the capital. and it provides a great jumping off point for both for exploring the national park of the Gulf of Orosei and the famous Cala Ganone.

Camping here is strictly prohibited, nevertheless, with a bit of nerve and lot of respect for the near perfection of the natural surroundings, it is doable. The hiking here is spectacular, although depending on what time of year you go, it is necessary to start early in the morning if you are to beat the midsummer heat.

It is possible to escape into the wilderness almost everywhere on this underpopulated island, yet it is worth remembering though that his becomes less easy in the more touristy areas of the northwestern tip, especially around one of the island’s most famous beaches, La Pelosa, close to the town of Stintino.

It was near here, on the Capo Del Falcone, that we spent some of our most uncomfortable but most dramatic two nights, clinging to the rocky headland as the wind howled around us and ravaged our tent. At times it seemed that we would be blown off into the sea below.

It was also here that, following the morning hanging around at the local dock, a couple of young students were persuaded to let us join them on their boat. Together we set off to some of the nearby islands, famous for its abundance of fish (octopus particularly).

As it transpires, catching an octopus by hand is not something I am keen to ever have to perform, having witnessed the underwater wrestling and stabbing involved. Nevertheless, it was fascinating to watch the man who owned the boat — and who has been doing this since he was a nipper — hunt his prey, coax it from its crevice and then proceed to disembowel the creature as it fought bravely for survival.

Gory and a little grizzly, perhaps, but delicious nonetheless. And, as my grandfather always said, if you don’t have the guts to kill it or to see it killed, then don’t fool yourself, you don’t deserve to eat it.

By Hannah Bowman

Read the Entire “Navigating The Med On A Smile And A Shoestring” Series Here

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Going It Gaucho-Style In Uruguay

Hannah Bowman — Fri, 25 Jan 2013 21:00:52 +0000

Taking a pull on an ice-cold beer, I kick off my boots with a contented sigh. The smell of wind and dust lingers in my nostrils, a contented ache spreading through my body and drawing me into peaceful revery. All that is missing is a piece of hay for me to chew abstractly upon.

Today, I had a glimpse at fulfilling one of my lifelong dreams: Today, I became a Gaucho.

A Gaucho is cowboy. The real-life rootin’ tootin’ lasoo-wielding variety, not someone who poses around in heels and spends their time getting thrown out backwards through dusty saloon doors.

Now, although I have not quite graduated to being able to single-handedly muster seven score of cattle, out in the farmlands of rural Latin America I have been given my first real taste of a dream I have harbored since I saw my first Western. Although, with rather less emphasis on pistol flinging and from-behind-straw-bale-shooting-shenanigans.

This experience came courtesy of Miguel and Monica, the couple of who own El Galope, a small finca (farm) close to the town of Valdense in Uruguay. They have traveled and worked all over the world, everywhere from Majorca to Germany, but are native to this small country to which they have once again returned. Here, in the Switzerland of the South as it is also known, they have created a place of calm just a few hours away from the heat and bustle of Buenos Aires. The walls are covered with Monica’s artwork and she makes a mean ratatouille, while Miguel seems to have entered the world already holding a pair of reins.

“I learned to ride and then I learned to walk,” Miguel tells me as our horses amble together through the long grasses.

“But this is what my grandfather said, and he didn’t always tell the truth,” he adds, laughing.

Watching him gallop across fields, however, turning his mare effortlessly with the flick of a wrist, it seems that his grandfather might have been spot-on this time.

Riding western, or gaucho-style, involves forgetting most things you were taught when learning to ride English-style. And precisely this — the unlearning of sitting up straight and looking pretty — is what makes the whole thing so damn excellent.

There is something so inherently natural about it that it seems to make it easier to pick up than the traditional European approach. One of the girls working at the ranch had only been there working with the horses for a matter of weeks but was already riding like a pro.

Gaucho horses are different too. They are incredibly responsive and a far cry from the obediently plodding creatures that are the trademark of most equestrian schools. Meanwhile, you also suddenly feel incredibly cool, especially if you really let a few “woopahs!” fly and wave your free arm around in an appropriately revelrous manner as you bolt across the skyline.

Even if you are not a rider — but certainly if you are — this is an experience you should try for yourself.

If nothing else, when is the next time you will legitimately be able to wear poncho?

By Hannah Bowman

About the Author

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Navigating The Med On A Smile And A Shoestring: Part Five (A German And His Donkey)

Hannah Bowman — Tue, 22 Jan 2013 03:51:38 +0000

In a village called Scala, close to the mountain town of Tindari, lives a man named Christian.

It was upon a sweltering afternoon on the Sicilian coast that we first encountered him, sauntering down the road with his dog, his donkey and an air of someone who knew how to live from the land. They made a romantic sight, meandering between the parked cars, and so seduced was I that I made the mistake of raising my camera to my face and taking a picture.

“Would you like to make a donation to zee children,” he asked. Laughing and embarrassed, I wasn’t sure what an appropriate response would be. In all honesty, no, I did not particularly want to make a donation, feeling fairly impoverished myself at that moment and having had one of those days when nothing had really gone smoothly. Yet, this was obviously an inappropriate response. I therefore opted to divert his attention by luring him into conversation.

I went for the highly original, “Sooo, where are you from?” (Although, from the Bavarian twang, the answer seemed obvious.)

“My roots begin where your boundaries end,” came the reply.

Pause.

What to make of this? Had I been less aware of my initial cock-up relating to the whole photo-taking debacle, my inclination might have been to wrap things up there. Thank goodness I did not, for Christian was to become one of the most fascinating and generous characters of my entire trip.

After a few minutes of chatting, it was confirmed that we would accompany him to his farm in the hills and there we would spend the next few nights camping in his orchard.

The walk was long and on a sharp incline. And despite the fact that the sun was beginning to set, it was bloody warm. As we walked/clambered/climbed over the dry terrain, the bay spread out below and behind us; the cathedral on the cliff above cutting a dramatic silhouette against the beckoning dusk.

And, as we walked, Christian told us his story.

A few years ago, he had packed his possessions into a trailer and had cycled all the way from Munich, Germany, to reach this small Mediterranean island that had stolen his heart as a kid. He was now in the process of setting up an association with the aim of encouraging children to get in touch with nature and their sense of adventure. Eventually, the plan is that schools will send students there for a term, where they will spend the mornings in a traditional classroom setup and the afternoons exploring the land.

At the moment, he lives in a tent on a beautiful but entirely rustic plot of land, growing his own food and carrying water from a local well in order to sustain himself and his animals.

This coming summer he plans to travel with his donkey, Hercules, and his dog, Phoenix, around the entire coast of Sicily and, apparently, you are entirely welcome to join! He will be raising money and awareness for his project, and for anyone that has the time and inclination to do so, he his willing to allow anyone to travel alongside him.

I can assure you that not only is he an impeccable host, but someone who knows how to survive on very little and is an expert on stoves. This is a man at one with the elements. To find out more about his organization or to contact him directly, visit Eco-Avventura.it. Unfortunately, the site is currently only available in Italian and German, but hey, that’s what Google translate is for. Believe, it’s worth the investment of time.

By Hannah Bowman

Read the Entire “Navigating The Med On A Smile And A Shoestring” Series Here

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Navigating The Med On A Smile And A Shoestring: Part Four (The Aeolian Islands)

Hannah Bowman — Thu, 10 Jan 2013 20:24:20 +0000

For me, it was waking up in a field behind a service station, wedged between a rock and a restless night spent listening for attackers somewhere in rural Sicily, when the realization dawned: “Today is the day that I shall go to the Aeolian Islands.”

The question is: When you hear the call of the Aeolians, will you be adequately prepared?

And thanks to the next few paragraphs, the answer will be yes.

Dramatic, isolated and intensely varied, named after the demigod of the winds Aeolus, it is easy to see why the Aeolian islands have figured so often in ancient myth. Here are a list of some of my favorites.

Vulcano (The smelly one)

Evidence of intense tectonic activity is evident along the whole of the volcanic “Eolian Arc.” Even under the water, hot bubbles floating up from the ocean floor serve as a reminder of the turbulent underworld beneath.

For most of the tourists who frequent Vulcano — the nearest of the Aeolians to mainland Sicily — the hot pools are the furthest they get. Close to the harbor, a quietly smoking crater towers above the day-trippers wallowing in stinky mineral-enriched clay.

What with the crowds and the stench of rotten eggs, you could be forgiven for thinking you had taken a wrong turn somewhere and found you had ambled into one of hell’s slightly more picturesque outer circles.

Salina (The one with the beach from that film)

If you want a glimpse of what paradise looks like, find your way to the bay at Polara on the island of Salina.

This isn’t paradise in the wishy-washy flowers in your hair, white sands, strum on a battered ukulele sort of paradise. This is stunningly dramatic glimpse of the sublime — dizzying and perfect. I resisted the temptation to post any pictures because they do not really do it justice.

As the sun set on this magnificent cove we met a trio of backpackers who, like us, carried with them only a tent. And, as they informed us, equally at a loss as to where to pitch it, the only campsite having been closed down.

Together we grasped the concept of wild-camping with much aplomb, sleeping that first night among the cactus’s and long grasses that skirted the cliff tops lining the bay. Cliff tops which did, incidentally, serve as a backdrop to the 1994 film Il Postino (The Postman).

Filicudi (The one with the penis rock)

Most of the images that churn up when you Google “Filicudi” depict a rather phallic shaped boulder poking out of the sea. While it is a rather impressive specimen — if not rather intimidating for some — and as inexplicably drawn to it as you may be, again do not let it distract you from discovering the rest of the island.

Due to its relative distance from Sicily, there are barely any tourists — or anybody at all for that matter. And there is certainly no such thing as a campsite or a hostel. But this is actually highly conducive to excellent times. As long as you keep a low profile and leave nothing but footprints (as the saying goes), there are some fantastic pitching options. Just keep an eye out for wild dogs.

Furthermore, for the cost of approximately 100 euros, you can hire your very own boat for the day, giving you the freedom to mooch around the coastline as you please. The snorkeling here is absolutely outstanding. Be aware that this will be a rather informal arrangement and acquiring an Italian speaker to assist you in negotiations is advisable.

Alicudi (The one without any roads)

“The island of a thousand steps” is the most remote of all the Aeolians.

This is an escape favored by the rich and famous, something we certainly were not, but which served us extremely well as we found ourselves enjoying the hospitality of an Italian film director at his hilltop villa . . .

Not that he was aware that we were taking advantage of his hot outdoor shower and vine-shaded sea-view terrace, for this came courtesy of the house’s caretaker, who kindly allowed us a night in the protection of the mansion in return for keeping an eye on it for him.

Blissfully quiet at night, this is throwback to a bygone era, where the few permanent residents fish for their supper and harvest from the land. And where it seems almost guaranteed that you will live to be around 150 years of age, thanks to a diet of sun, stairs and olive oil.

The lack of options for accommodation, combined with Alacudi’s distance from the mainland has ensured that this is a place the widely sought continue to find haven and the countless shooting stars can continue to fall, silently unobserved, through the soft caverns of the night.

By Hannah Bowman

Read the Entire “Navigating The Med On A Smile And A Shoestring” Series Here

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Navigating The Med On A Smile And A Shoestring: Part Three (Small Bums And Big Hearts)

Hannah Bowman — Fri, 23 Nov 2012 16:27:09 +0000

One of the many facets of the Italian male stereotype is that of their ability to get away with wearing extremely short shorts. If there was ever somebody to prove that rule, then Giansanto takes the cake.

It was in a small campsite outside of the industrial port town of Pozzallo in southern Sicily that we met Mr Santo. It was here that he, his friend, his small swimming trunks and unfeasibly tiny arse all celebrated a weekend away in a tent together. And it was here we were to have our first taste of the zest and enthusiasm that was to characterise our onward journey.

At his point, we were still unclear where I route was to take us, only that the direction was to be North.

We did know, however, that despite the pizza-sharing, yoga-doing, tree-climbing fun enjoyed in its relative vicinity, Pozzallo as a destination in its own right does not come highly recommended. The beaches are reasonable, the people friendly and the water clear, but it was not with a heavy heart that we bid the place farewell.

It was now we would find out: had our plan to hitch-hike the Med been a misguided and foolish one?

The First Sicilian Hitch

We had been standing on the side of the road in the heat of the midday sun for sometime and were starting to lose heart. We had been warned that it would be difficult to get a lift on Sicily and that people didn’t pick up hitch-hikers. It was looking like the naysayers has been right.

Just moments later, however, a battered saloon overladen with people and beach paraphernalia screeched to a halt a few yards in front.

Music blasting, there was clearly no room for two extra passengers, especially passengers with two large backpacks. Yet the driver, a middle-aged man who seemed to be on the verge of crying with happiness at the prospect of his new cargo, was making every effort to accommodate us.

Where hand gestures had been sufficient to handle the logistics, once safely wedged between a cool box and an adolescent Sicilian, the question of how to approach more sophisticated level of communication became apparent.

My Italian is nonexistent. Yet, against the odds, some semblance of conversation was had and enjoyed on both sides. So thrilled was our driver by the turn of events, in fact, he looked at the road three or possibly four times, preferring to turn round and grin at us for minutes at a time.

Our planned destination was the historic city of Modica in the Hybalean Mountains, a UNESCO World Heritage sight.* Not content that we should have to make our own way onto the next town later that afternoon and thus find another lift, our family man — with respective offspring in tow — returned later that afternoon to collect us.

We were on a high. Not only was hitching here possible, it was first-class in nature.

Things were looking rosy.

*Do not pass through without a visit to the small Osteria dei Sapori Perduti for a traditional pasta and glass of wine.

By Hannah Bowman

Read the Entire “Navigating The Med On A Smile And A Shoestring” Series Here

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Navigating The Med On A Shoestring And A Smile: Part Two (The Subtle Charm Of Malta’s Seductive Smaller Sister)

Hannah Bowman — Thu, 25 Oct 2012 16:47:23 +0000

To sum up: Never. Ever. Go to Gozo.

It rains all the time, the natives eat children and you can’t buy a beer for love nor money.

[Pause]

Yes, that might have been a small lie. In fact, Gozo is a gem.

So, why oh why would I have imparted such a ghastly untruth, you may cry? Because, unlike the mainland of Malta — which has been ravaged by tourism and illegal building and is one of the most populated places on the planet — Gozo has retained a large part of its former tranquility and authenticity.

“Higgeldy piggledy” would be a fitting term to describe the sort of delightful disorder and randomness that makes the second largest of the three Maltese Islands unique, preserved in a fragile time bubble of culture and history. For now, at least.

And that includes little donkeys pulling carts around and suchlike.

Gozo itself is only roughly the size of Manhattan, i.e., tiny. Nevertheless, from jumping off rocks and scuba diving, to fishing and barbecuing, there are more than enough sun and sea related shenanigans to keep the average expeditioner entertained.

This haven of relaxation and snorkeling deliciousness was the perfect starting point for our trip (read: getting a base tan down).

Transport On and Between the Maltese Islands

Ferry

One of its saving graces is that there are no direct flights to or from Gozo. For this reason, the only way of accessing the island is by boat or helicopter. (If you are genuinely considering the helicopter option, then drop me an e-mail. If you’ve got that much spare dollar knocking around, I could do with a couple of extra quid.) The ferry between the mainland and Gozo takes less than 25 minutes and runs regularly, with up to three leaving per hour during the summer months. You pay on the return trip only and it will cost you around five euros.

Car Rental

Two words: Victoria Garage. Proprietors Joe and Michael Sultana are the kind of people who, were it possible, I would shrink down and carry around in a jar in order they could be produced at times of low mood.

Your vehicle might not have any doors, but you won’t care.

Buses

Buses are a pain in the bum yet a viable option. Be prepared for cancellations and diversions, however, most of Gozo is catered for. Air conditioning certainly does not come as standard.

Setting Off From Malta by sea

Unless you own a yacht, the only way of leaving the Maltese islands is from Malta; Valletta is the main commercial harbor. It was from here we expected a fairly competitive rate for the boat to Sicily.

Oh what poor misguided fools we were. Thanks to Virtu Ferries, who now have a monopoly on the route, single fares during July and August hit a whopping 100 euros for a two-hour journey — our single biggest expense for the entire trip.

As the sun set across the sea, we arrived in the southern Sicilian harbor of Pozzallo, and it was here the adventure really began.

And as for Gozo? You can only go there if you promise to not tell anyone.

By Hannah Bowman

Read the Entire “Navigating The Med On A Smile And A Shoestring” Series Here

About the Author

The post Navigating The Med On A Shoestring And A Smile: Part Two (The Subtle Charm Of Malta’s Seductive Smaller Sister) appeared first on The Expeditioner Travel Site.

Navigating The Med On A Smile And A Shoestring: Part One (The Mission)

Hannah Bowman — Fri, 12 Oct 2012 17:00:39 +0000

As the crow flies, the distance from the island of Gozo in the Mediterranean Sea to the city of Ghent, Belgium, in northern Europe, is approximately 1,162 miles (1,870 km).*

It may not sound all too far. But, actually, when your budget consists of two buttons and a scoopful of luck, and you have to complete the journey in less than one month, and there is a whole lot of water in between, it turns out to be pretty far after all.

THE PLAN

To keep costs low, we would be relying on a combination of hitchhiking and wild camping, while surviving on a diet of bread, cheese and cheap rum. There would also be a high investment of faith in our general waif-like demeanor and the kindness of others to carry us though.

THE ROUTE (Which Materialized As We Went Along)

From the port of Mgarr in Gozo across to Malta; from Valletta in Malta to Pozzallo in southern Sicily; through the historical towns of Modica and Ragusa; up the eastern coast of Sicily to the Aoelian Islands of Vulcano, Salina, Filicudi and Alicudi; along the mountainous Sicilian north coast; through the capital city of Palermo; taking the overnight boat from Trapani to Calgari in Sardinia; to the cliffs and crystal seas of Golfo de Oresei; to the most northern westerly point of Stintino and Capo del Falcone; ferrying from Porto Torres to Marseilles in France; and, finally, hightailing it up through the continent, homewards.

THE COST

According to outlandish predictions by our copy of Lonely Planet, we could expect to pay in the region of 70 euros per day. 70 euros per day! I mean, what is low-budget to these people? Sipping Claret from Gucci footwear, traveling via golden tuk tuk and using their backpacks as statements of postmodern art? Clearly, this was out of the question.

Thankfully, their forecast proved to be largely inaccurate and out of the entire trip — we paid for accommodation only six of the nights. Even then, the average for a night was between 7 – 10 euros ($9 – 12) to camp, and about 20 euros per person to sleep in a hostel ($25). (As a side note, these costs will be lower out of season.)

Traveling on a very tight budget is an intense way of doing things. Yet, there are huge advantages to doing so. The highs would be high and lows would be low, but this trip was to prove to be a lesson in the advantages of risk-taking, to be a reminder of the preciousness of a welcome and to afford us the opportunity of rowing alongside one of the must highly cultivated handle-bar mustaches the world has ever known . . .

*Not being crows, and therefore having to go around things and under things, the actual distance covered was 1,771.57 miles (2851.07 km).

Read the Entire “Navigating The Med On A Smile And A Shoestring” Series Here

By Hannah Bowman

About the Author

The post Navigating The Med On A Smile And A Shoestring: Part One (The Mission) appeared first on The Expeditioner Travel Site.

Why A Holiday On Horseback Is Definitely Not Just For Kids

Hannah Bowman — Wed, 01 Aug 2012 16:17:25 +0000

The dry river bed curves away into the distance, walls of the steep ravine closing in on either side, towering up to meet the cloudless intensity of blue arching above. My vision blurs. I can taste the warm air as it rushes into my nose and mouth, the smell of speed and animal sweat is strong.

No, this isn’t the opening to the next erotic E.L James novel, where the writer turns toward the exploration of bestiality in a natural setting, but an attempt to articulate a moment of pure and perfect exhilaration.

Galloping through the wild mountains of southern Spain earlier this summer was just that. It was happiness, it was throwing your head back and laughing at the sky — it was freedom.

It was also an experience that confirmed that those who have been under the impression riding holidays should be left to teenage girls are in need of a rethink.

Of course, there are plenty of examples to prove this statement incorrect. Pony trekking centers located in the English Midlands owned by people with names like Geraldina or Harriet should be actively avoided, for example. But, the point is, don’t be fooled into believing that if you are over 17 and don’t have posters of Pippa the magic Palomino on your wall that you are unsuitable for the pursuit of a vacation on horseback.

It’s time to saddle up and embrace your inner cowboy.

The Caballo Blanco

Just over 10 years ago, a nice lady called Sarah moved to Alpujarras in Adulucia, Spain. Having spent most of the money she had on packing up shop in the U.K. and buying the land, she didn’t have bucket loads of cash left over.

Yet slowly but surely, with not a small reliance on bags of concrete and gin, she built up her patch of isolated hilltop into an equestrian, albeit rustic, paradise, and she called it the Caballo Blanco or “White Horse.”

It is an incredible place. Home to over 20 horses as well as numerous cats, dogs, geese, chickens, rabbits and guinea pigs, Sarah has created a haven for animals and humans alike.

Riding Options at Caballo Blanco

You don’t have to have spent great swathes of your life holding a pair of reins to book a ride at the Caballo Blanco, just make sure you’re honest about your ability. Horses and routes provided cater to every standard, from absolute beginner to experienced.

The trails are hugely varied, with some winding through valleys and picturesque white mountain villages, and others traversing mountain plateaus. The views in spring and autumn are especially magnificent, with Morocco visible on the horizon across the Mediterranean Sea on a clear day.

If you feel like you want to throw yourself in at the deep end, then go for the full kit and caboodle in the form of a trail ride for between three to seven days. While you will almost certainly find yourself with a renewed respect for the John Wayne gait, this is an unforgettable experience.

If you are pressed for time or simply fancy something more a little more bite-sized, then a one or two hour trek is the perfect compromise. Or, if you really fancy putting yourself through your paces, then lessons in the school are also available.

Use of natural techniques

You may already be familiar with the idea of a horse whisperer. You might even have seen the film where Kristin Scott Thomas gets it on with Robert Redford while he placates wild stallions. But Sarah is the real deal.

Most of the horses she works with are taken on as rescue cases; they may have been going for meat, or she might of heard of some supposedly wild mare said to be “unrideable” — a term invariably irresistible to her — yet, by using a process of natural techniques, she transforms them.

Reading their body language and having a thorough understanding of horse nature, she works in a way that establishes a relationship of trust and hierarchy, a far cry from the more traditional tweedy crop-wielding approach. It is a fascinating process and produces remarkable results, especially great to observe if you own horses yourself.

Sarah says she isn’t a wizard but I think she might be lying.

WWOOFING (Willing Workers On Organic Farms)

A little while ago, The Expeditioner posted an article that detailed everything you need to know about how to volunteer with WWOOFs. In a nutshell, it basically means volunteering in return for your food and lodging, something which is also an option at the Caballo Blanco.

This is not for the faint-hearted. The hours are long, the accommodation basic and the work is extremely physically taxing. You’ll also need to get used to straw finding its way into your nether regions for the duration of your stay and possibly for some weeks following.

Nevertheless, there is nothing quite like going to bed tired and aching with a full stomach feeling absolutely at peace with the world.

Working holiday

A working holiday is similar to WWOOFing but the great thing about opting for this itinerary is that you are guaranteed to ride at least once a day as you will pay for this in advance. You will be given plenty of opportunity to join in on the day rides and to have lessons. as well as being provided with two days off per week, as opposed to the one you receive as a WWOOFER.

For rates or to make a booking, go to www.FarAndRide.com/riding-holidays/spain/andalucia_trail/ or visit www.CaballoBlancoTrekking.com for more information.

By Hannah Bowman

About the Author

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An Insider’s Guide To Belgium’s Biggest Party: The Ghent Festival

Hannah Bowman — Thu, 12 Jul 2012 20:50:27 +0000

Belgium probably does not spring to the front of one’s mind when considering examples of hip happenings and exciting cultural phenomenon. It is more a place one would associate with a platter of well-prepared mussels, the setting for In Bruges perhaps, or somewhere your grandmother may elect for a weekend away with Aunty Joyce.

But, if we hold those judgmental horses of ours for just a moment, we would see that Belgium has in fact been wildly underestimated.

Bring forth the Gentse Feesten!

Forget saving your pennies for the likes of Oktoberfest. Between July 14th – 23rd, the annual Gentse Feesten or “Ghent Festival” is set to enjoy it’s 169th edition. A free celebration of music, excellent beer and light-hearted debauchery and located in one of the regions most beautiful cities, 30 miles northwest of Brussels. It is a veritable master class in how people with trendy hair and bicycles know how to party.

Having eagerly juiced the minds of some of GF’s most weathered disciples, The Expeditioner is pleased to present an “Insider’s Guide” to the whole Flem-tastic debacle.

To get the night started . . .

. . . Graslei is the place. Right on the river, this is area of the festival has become synonymous with a sexy southern vibe. Dance, drink a mojito and get acquainted with Ghent’s nefarious student population, shaking your booty to latino beats and african soul. Closing at around 1 p.m., you’ll need to get here in good time to take advantage of pop-up bars hosted by popular clubs and bars, such as Hasta Manana and Pole Pole.

You haven’t fully experienced the GF until . . .

. . . you’ve eaten Uuflakke. Uuflakke is a Ghentish delicacy and comprises a slice of minced pig head coated in herbs and gelatin, smeared with mustard on a piece of bread. Yes, it may sound horrendous, but it is a signature dish of the festival. So, make like a true Ghentonite, head to the Vlasmarkt and embrace your inner pork-brain-loving Belgian.

The two words you have to be able to say are . . .

. . . “De max!” which translated basically means “Awesome!” Be sure to exclaim this often and at seemingly significant points in order to express excitedness, thus becoming one with the natives.

To save money like a local you should . . .

. . . buy your alcohol from a Nachtwinkel (night shop) rather than from one of the many temporary bars that spring up around the city. Much of the entertainment is outside, so you won’t be missing out by opting to bring your own booze rather than being inside a pub. (Note: While this is a sure fire way of conserving funds, be aware that this is also somewhat of a moral choice; the GF is free and partly relies on funds coming from bar alcohol sales to keep it that way.)

If you are feeling overwhelmed by all the noise and the crowds . . .

. . . head to Baudelo Park. Here you will find a rather more relaxed approach to the whole affair. Lie on the grass and contemplate the weird and wonderful plethera of folk who frequent this relative oasis of tranquility. Be sure to venture into the Spiegal Tent or “The tent of mirrors,” a birthplace of yet undiscovered singer songwriters.

To stay healthy, you should . . .

. . . . schedule in at least one evening off during the festival. While the slogan for the GF is “Nie neute, nie pleuje” (“Don’t whine, don’t give up”), this is a marathon in partying and needs to be respected as such. In order to cross the finishing line in style, and with all your limbs and at least a few of your brain cells still functioning, you have to give yourself a chance to recuperate.

Keep your fingers crossed that . . .

. . . “The voice of Europe,” Eddy Wally, makes a return appearance. For many, this showman, crooner and regular on the U.K. show Eurotrash epitomizes the spirit of the festival, and has been a staple of the GF for many years. Unfortunately, due to ill health, his 2012 billing may be in jeopardy.

To get the most out of the experience . . .

. . . remember that this isn’t a festival solely preoccupied with getting sozzled. The GF also represents almost an entire fortnight bursting with activities for all ages and dispositions, from innovative street theater to jazz and circus performances, to hours and hours of live music. Check out Gentsefeesten.be for more information, including the full event program.

By Hannah Bowman

A special thanks to Pieterjan Colpaert; his mind offerings were fundamental in putting this together. At any point during the festival, you will find him at one of the points of the “Magic Triangle”: Pole Pole, Baudelo Park or the Vlasmarkt.

[Ghent Festival by Steve & Jemma Copley/Flickr, Gentse Feesten by David Ooms/Flickr]

About the Author

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Whatever You Do, Don’t Skip Out On Breakfast In Istanbul

Hannah Bowman — Wed, 02 May 2012 16:41:24 +0000

Kebabs have long been a staple of the traditional undergraduate diet. So when the question of what a student on a limited budget could expect for decent and filling fare in Istanbul was posed to the Guardian, the answer seemed to be obvious. For if there is one thing you can get the former Ottoman capital, it is a amazingly good doner.

Yet the article also pointed out some alternative culinary options for those of us who operate in a semi-permanent state of financial castration (read: backpackers and freelance journalists), but who aren’t so keen on limiting their diet to meat sheared from a rotating slab.

One thing it failed to mention, however, was a Turkish meal unparalleled in terms of value-for-money and portion size.

Breakfast

Breakfast in Istanbul, if you do it right, is to die for, and can be relatively cheap. Indeed, it isn’t impossible that your stomach will explode afterwards, if you eat as much as many people typically do at a sitting.

The neighborhood of Besiktas has a particularly wholesome range of brekkie joints. Here, for well under 10 Turkish Lire — or USD$5 — you can enjoy a huge spread of local cheeses, honey, olives and traditionally prepared scrambled eggs (menemen), while black turkish tea (çay) and freshly baked bread are ferried to your table in waves by elderly waist-coated gentlemen.

Bring an English/Turkish dictionary if you can. As it is not such a touristy area, being able to order in the native language will be an advantage, unless you are feeling experimental and don’t too much mind what you end up being served.

Alternatively, if you’re looking for something a bit more familiar, scout around the area of Cihangir in Beyoğlu. It will be more expensive and a bit less authentic, but easily accessible from the commercial center and equally delicious.

Top Tip

Wherever you go, order plenty of kaymak. If heaven was a dairy-based product delicately flavored with almonds, this clotted cream sumptuousness would be it.

By Hannah Bowman

[Turkish breakfast by Lucy Chatburn/Flickr]

About the Author

A restless Brit with big dreams and limited cash flow, Hannah is an English graduate and former Publicist who has spent the past 18 months living and working in Central America. You can follow her wanderings at TheTangerineRidiculousness.com.

The post Whatever You Do, Don’t Skip Out On Breakfast In Istanbul appeared first on The Expeditioner Travel Site.

Goodbye Visa Run: Turkey Begins Cracking Down On Tourist Visas

Hannah Bowman — Thu, 16 Feb 2012 22:47:58 +0000

Until January 31, 2012, rules regarding tourist visas for Turkey were, to say the least, blurry.

How things used to be

It was common practice for people entering the country on a 90-day holiday visa to simply pop over the border when their designated time had expired, renewing their 90-day allowance with a cheeky one-night cheap-vodka booze-up in a border-town before being back in Istanbul in time for breakfast. You could then continue their stay in the country unhindered and completely legally.

In such gloriously lax times, ex-pats had been able to stay in Turkey for extended periods, without having to apply for residency and pay residency charges.

How things are now

Sadly, for foreigners taking advantage of this level of flexibility, the situation has changed. As of the beginning of February, the government has been cracking down, enforcing the rule that once you enter the country, you can stay for a maximum of 90 days over a period of 180 days. Once this allowance has been used up, you will have to leave Turkey for the subsequent 6 months before coming back in — or face the consequences.

The change in regulations is causing significant problems for people who have been effectively living in the country on tourist visas. Nevertheless, the application for the 1-5 year residency permit is not complicated and can be completed from within Turkey, if you are operating within your 90-day allowance, or from your home country.

Nationals from 44 countries are being affected by new rules so refer to your country’s Foreign Office website to confirm how the changes apply to you. It is worth checking as, if you breach the terms of your visa, you can be given a large fine, deportation and a possible ban on reentry [stern look].

Things we aren’t sure about yet

A grey area remains around whether people who left the country to renew their visa and came back in before February 1 will also be penalized for breaching their 90 days. Will the new regulations can be enforced retroactively? For example, if you did a traditional border run before this date, will you be covered by a new 90-day allowance or be punished for breaching the terms of your visa as the law exists now?

Consider me the guinea pig on this one as I did an overnight flight to Bulgaria to get my passport stamped just before the rules changed. I may or may not be an illegal immigrant at this point.

Do Turkish jails have wi-fi? Not according to Billy Hayes . . .

I’ll keep you posted.

By Hannah Bowman

About the Author

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Turkish Baths: What You Need To Know For Navigatıng Your First Hammam Experience

Hannah Bowman — Wed, 01 Feb 2012 23:18:06 +0000

Entering the chamber your eyes gradually acclimate to steamy haze to you see you are not alone. By the shafts of light floating down from a domed ceiling high above, the naked bodies occupying every marbled surface slowly become visible; the air thick and sweet with the smell of perfumed bubbles and the sound of exposed skin being lathered slaps and slips.

Tiptoeing shyly further into the space, you clutch the traditional cotton cloth peştamal to your chest like a startled vole when, emerging from the fog, a bare-breasted masseur looms into view. She unceremoniously plucks your towel — that last vestige of modesty — from your now uncovered frame.

You are one with the sea of flesh.

Leading you to a huge hot stone in the center of the chamber — where many other of the nakies are already luxuriating — she gestures for you to lie down. Being rather unsure of exactly what is coming next, it is difficult to relax. “Okay,” you tell yourself, “shut your eyes. Breathe. Enjoy the calming environment of . . .” Hot water hits you in the face as you are doused with a bucket wielded by the silent but stately purveyor of the suds.

Do not fight it. For the foreseeable future, you belong to them. Relinquish yourself to large nude people and let the cleansing commence.

It is not hard to understand why the words “Turkish bath” can have an alarming effect on people, as without knowing what to expect, the prospect of being hosed down by a stranger can be disconcerting. But, dear first-time Hamam-goers, when in Turkey, do as the Turks do and, with a little help from the answers to some FAQ’s, we shall prepare you for your great bathing debut.

Will I be completely naked?

Unlikely. If you are female, in most cases you will be provided with a pair of underwear to cover your nether-regions. If you are male, you will wear your peştamal around your waist throughout.

Is it embarrassing walking around naked?

This depends on you, but there is really no need to be. You know you are going to have to take your clothes off so embrace it. Every shape and size is accounted for inside a Turkish bath. And I do mean every. Big or small, pointy or curvy or concave, just let it everything be free and strut it out.

What should I bring with me?

To be on the safe side, bring everything you would as if you were going to a swimming pool, but in most cases, and certainly in the commercial baths, you actually won’t need anything at all as they will provide everything from towels to soap to hairdryers to tea.

How do I know what treatment to have?

Most Hamams will offer you the choice between “self service,” where you wash yourself, and a traditional cleanse. Go for the latter.

As to the bathing itself, you can then pay a bit more for certain “Extras” — and this isn’t code for a quickie in the Jacuzzi, we simply aren’t that sort of a website I’m afraid. [Editor’s Note: We Aren’t?] Possibilities for additional services usually comprise facials, special oil massages and pedicures, for which you will pay an additional fee settled beforehand.

Will the masseur also be naked?

Yes, they will be as naked as you are. The probability for unintentional skin-on-skin action is therefore extremely high. Depending on your constitution, having somebody else’s mammary/reproductive glands flapping about on your back as they wash you can induce feelings of panic, but don’t think about it too much.

Will the masseur be male or female?

You will rarely encounter mixed sex Turkish baths. In the majority of cases the areas for men and women are kept separate or the days for men and women are alternated.

How do I know which Hamam to visit?

Turkish baths can have the reputation for being unhygienic and seedy, or less sensitive towards foreigners. Those located inside hotels will almost certainly be clean and geared towards the less experienced bather, but the drawback is the experience will probably not be quite as “authentic” as a back-alley equivalent, and it will definitely cost you a pretty penny.

Çembarlitaş Hamamı close to Sultahanamet is an excellent compromise. It’s one of the oldest hammams in Istanbul and is consistently rated for being one of the most pristine and user-friendly. Expect to pay about 69 Turkish lira (USD$39) for a traditional wash.

If you have any Turkish-speaking friends who use the local version of Groupon, ask them to check online for the latest deals. Unfortunately it is not available in English.

Should I tip my masseur?

If you feel like they did a good job, then absolutely, but it is not compulsory and many people don’t. Find them in the communal area afterwards as you will be devoid of a purse or pockets during the bath itself.

Does it hurt?

The terms “pummel” and “scrub” are very useful in surmising what to expect from a Turkish bath. But while it probably won’t be quite as sedate as having a cup of tea with your granny, it should not be a painful experience. Bracing certainly, but not un-enjoyably so.

By Hannah Bowman

About the Author

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Top 5 Requirements For A Nude Beach

Hannah Bowman — Thu, 29 Dec 2011 15:15:58 +0000

If there’s one thing in this world that’s true, it’s this: Germans love getting naked.

So much so, apparently, Florida believes marketing its beaches directly to this supposed demographic of buttock-bearing Europeans will boost the state’s tourism during slower months.

According to The Sydney Morning Herald, an advertising campaign to attract nudist Germans is currently in the conceptual stages, which begs the question: What does the average nudist look for in a prospective holiday destination?

1) Nature

Lots of nature — that’s what this whole naked business is all about really. Getting back to where we came from and being close to the earth. Or something like that. An unspoilt location has to be a major pull for would-be nakies, while a video game arcade and bumper cars are probably not high on the list of priorities. Indeed, the prospect of bare flesh, carnival rides and colliding vehicles is less than wholesome.

2) Shower Access

It’s a matter of health and safety really. Sand in you sandwiches is one thing. Sand when it has access to human orifices is quite another. Without a quick sluice before rejoining the garment-wearing world, that stuff is going to chafe something chronic.

3) Free Sunscreen

Appendages not traditionally accustomed to UV exposure may react negatively if not adequately provisioned for with lots of factor 50. Sizzling chipolatas should remain strictly confined to the BBQ.

4) A Law of Nakedness

Everyone has to be naked. It’s no good letting some people in with clothes on as this could attract “watchers” and, perhaps slightly less sinister but equally problematic, teenagers who fancy a good laugh.

5) A Ban on Bicycle Riding

Why anyone would be trying to cycle on the beach in the first place is questionable, however, the risk should be elimated entirely with sanctions that prohibit such an activity. Naked volleyball? Sure, but there is absolutely nothing okay with seeing someone negotiating a set of handlebars and a bike saddle without any clothes on.

Conversely, it isn’t the first time that Germans with a penchant for letting things hang out and waggle around have been identified as a potential cash cow. Back in 2008, a German airline launched the idea of chartering naked flights, where it would be compulsory for passengers to travel sans clothing.

Despite a huge level of interest, and an overwhelming willingness by the populous to fork out extortionate fares for the privilege of perusing the in-flight mag wearing only their birthday suit, the initiative failed to come into fruition.

Looks like Florida it is then.

By Hannah Bowman

About the Author

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Where Is Nicaragua Again?

Hannah Bowman — Fri, 16 Dec 2011 21:32:15 +0000

Where is Nicaragua again? It may be a crashing generalization, but for many people, Nicaragua could just as well be the name of a new prescription to help you stop smoking (just in case you didn’t know, it’s a beautifully diverse Central American country just north of Costa Rica and south of Honduras, with both the Caribbean Sea and Pacific Ocean at its shores). Yet, as recently discussed by the Montreal Gazette, there really has never been a better time to visit.

They make some excellent suggestions in terms of planning an itinerary. The Island of Ometepe, for example, is truly stunning and there is a lot of outdoorsy stuff do. Granada is also pretty handy, with Lago de Apoyo only 6 miles away, though it remains surprisingly underrated.

But they make one glaring omission in their piece: Not including the Corn Islands off the Caribbean coast. It takes a significant amount of effort to get there, but those who make the trek seem more than satisfied with what they find.

Little Corn, especially, is real Jack Sparrow territory, with all the obligatory desert island trimmings, white sandy beaches, crystal waters lapping, etc . . . The set-up is rustic, to say the least, and you may be one of only a handful of people there, ideal for a group of friends in search of a little piece of paradise.

Careful though, we’ve all heard the statistic about shark attacks and coconuts. Getting knocked off by taking a nut to the noggin would be a fairly embarassing way to go . . .

[Little Corn Island by Hector Estepa]

By Hannah Bowman

About the Author

The post Where Is Nicaragua Again? appeared first on The Expeditioner Travel Site.

5 Tips On How To Save Money Flying With Low-Cost Airlines

Hannah Bowman — Thu, 08 Dec 2011 18:14:05 +0000

I mean, you gotta hand it to him. There are only a few men who could stand in front of the world’s press and say he is seriously considering the possibility of removing seating as an option from his airline, or charging people for going for a pee while on one of his flights.

Meet Micheal O’Leary, CEO of Ryanair, and the king of low-cost airlines. The man is a rogue and not a particularly lovable one either, despite having an Irish accent, which generally gives people a bit of leeway.

Ryanair is just one of the many low-cost airlines claiming to offer cheap travel. From Spirit to JetLite, you will find regional equivalents across the globe. And yes, at times, you can find some incredible deals. The truth (and the reason why O’Leary was worth nearly $5.5 million last time he checked his bank balance) is that there are plenty of hidden costs these companies manage to catch you with to make up the difference, as discussed recently by ABC News.

If you don’t know how to play the game, you can end up forking over a small fortune for the privilege of playing fisticuffs for a window seat and listening to advertisements on repeat from a loudspeaker.

But don’t let them disorientate you with their shouty websites and bright colors. Here are five tips on how make so-called low-cost airlines, work for you.

1) Always Print Your Boarding Pass

While some, like BMI Baby, are pretty relaxed about printing boarding passes, and will do it for you for free and with a smile if you forget to bring it with you, others will expect you to pay an additional and exorbitant fee to do so. Ryanair charges 40 euros every pass they print for you. There is a name for this. Oh yeah: Daylight robbery.

2) Make Sure Your Carry-On Really Is a Carry-On

Do not make the mistake of thinking one piece of hand luggage means your hand luggage plus a hand bag. How strictly the rule of “one item of carry-on luggage” is adhered to can sometimes be less about the airline than the airport. Luton in the U.K. is particularly dogmatic about this, but if the people at the gate decide you have more than your fair share of baggage, you shall be forced to return directly to “go” and check-in those additional bits n’ bobs, costing you big dollar.

And yes, it is ironic that those bits n’ bobs were disallowed due to “weight and space restrictions,” yet you can immediately buy 17 bottles of duty free vodka, and a family-sized Toblerone, and the flight attendant will even help you tuck it nicely away in the compartment where your bag would’ve gone.

3) Shop Around

Check other, non-budget, airlines for deals. Standard airlines sometimes end up offering better deals, especially by the time you consider tax and the additional booking fees that don’t necessarily show up until you are about to book on a no-frills airlines. In fact, some charge you a penalty according to the type of credit card you use.

4) Travel Light

There are two huge advantages to not checking any bags. The first is that with most of these airlines, you will not have to pay anything to travel with just your carry-on, while they will charge you to check a bag. Secondly, you can whiz straight from the plane to customs without waiting around for your stuff to come through.

5) Bring Your Own Food and Drink

Yes, it’s all a bit family day out when you were seven, but bringing a sandwich and box of juice will save you the equivalent of a small car in what you would spend on a hot dog made out of horse parts when on board. Oh, and this one’s for free: don’t buy one of their lottery tickets. You think you will win. You will not win.

So who is cashing out now Mr O’ Leary? Oh, um, yes, still you. You and your house of gold and massively successful business.

By Hannah Bowman

About the Author

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Welcome To Turkey-Land: First Impressions Of A New Ex-Pat

Hannah Bowman — Tue, 29 Nov 2011 16:48:50 +0000

The general consensus is that Istanbul is amazing. “What? Wait. You’re going to Istanbul? OH. MY. GOD. I am so freaking JEAL-OUS!”. You almost just have to whisper the word ”Constantinople” in a room for people to start spontaneously orgasming all over the shop.

Presumably it is fairly un-PC to say, therefore, that for the moment at least, I’m not the biggest fan. I’m not sure quite what I was expecting, but I think it involved a few more turrets, more old men with no teeth sitting on carpets and rather less being cold.

There are some gems I’ve seen so far, indeed, and I fully expect — and hope — to look back on this post in a month’s time and shake my head in shame at this naive version of myself. For the moment, however, I have decided to give myself a little bit of space to be a moaning and disillusioned Brit.

I moved here from London just over a week ago to work for an English-speaking daily newspaper here, based in the ”Media Towers” located about 45 minutes into the city’s boomburb. The publication has a large staff based between here and the capital city, Ankara, with a small number from the U.S. or the U.K. The best thing about the office so far, apart from the stunning view of some large industrial cranes and the airport, is the free gym.

On first impressions, it looked like a perfectly respectable example of a workplace fitness facility. Upon closer inspection, however, this stuff could have come out of the Ark. As I attempted to rev the treadmill — last used by Noah himself — into some semblance of life, an elderly man materialized behind me, hailing from roughly the same era.

From his rather frantic gestures, I gathered that he was keen to show me round. This quickly turned into him putting me through one of the most grueling workouts I have ever had. It is remarkable how much pointing and shouting will drive you into pushing yourself to extent that you emerge, an hour-and-a-half later, with your spine partially dislocated, limbs incapable of anything but the most basic of movements and a sense of absolute accomplishment.

At least if Istanbul doesn’t win my heart I’ll leave with a smashing six pack (and potentially an ancient Armenian body-builder).

By Hannah Bowman

About the Author

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The Visa Run Diaries

Matt Stabile — Mon, 21 Nov 2011 18:10:59 +0000

What would Che say?

Perspiring at a rate that suggests total disintegration is imminent, the police officer wiped another sweat globule from his a forehead.

“Where are your papers?” he asks.

With nostrils floating in a sea of rubbery flesh, shirt buttons straining against a bloated paunch, the overall impression is one that makes me think back to Mr Ward and his production of Animal Farm in sixth grade where my drama teacher found it difficult to transform human children into convincing representations of authoritarian Orwellian livestock. This guy would have been an absolute inspiration.

“Your papers!'”, he insists again.

Silence. We look at each other with expressions that we hope suggest “innocent tourists harmless and confused in a foreign land,” but it’s a card we’ve been playing for about six or seven minutes now and pig-boy is getting agitated. Itching for a bribe, he and his less mean colleague — the universally prerequisite good-cop — nabbed us as we were traveling helmet-less on our way to find a watering hole.

We’d just entered Nicaragua from Costa Rica and had, evidently prematurely, been reveling in the freedom that being back in “the real Central America” afforded us. Our state of lawless abandon having betrayed us, we were now trying to avoid paying a penalty to the Tweedle-twins estranged third sibling. Even more frustratingly, as we stood defending our honor and our wallets on the dusty pavement, great swaths of the population were passing by entirely helmet-free, flagrantly enjoying the sensation of the wind through their hair and warranting no attention from our diligent crime-fighting duo. Fundamentally, we looked like we had a lot of cash and little idea.

Presumably then, apart from getting hideously mauled in a traffic accident, it is because of situations like this that moms and dads are never going to be thrilled about you riding across five Central American countries on the back of a motorcycle with a cigarette in your hand and a bad man between your legs. Even if, in actual fact, you successfully negotiate brushes with the law, the man between your legs is actually very nice and the logistics of sucking on a cigarette while riding a bike at dangerously fast speeds defeat the intention. Trips such as this one remain something I endeavor to keep under the parental radar.

The purpose of the expedition was basically a visa run. In Guatemala, once you have been in the country for six months, it is compulsory for you to leave in order to renew your visa. Thanks to a rather annoying loophole where four of the Central American countries got together and decided to make life ”easier,” you cannot cross into one of Guate’s immediate neighbors in order to do so. Therefore, when I found out that my two friends, Matt and Chris, were heading down to Costa Rica for an Ultimate Frisbee competition (which is basically Quidditch for people who aren’t wizards), and would be riding back up through Nicaragua, El Salvador and Honduras with space for a passenger, I seized the opportunity.

My journey down to meet the boys involved a series of buses, a night in San Salvador with the most depressing human being ever to walk the planet (who hailed, conversationally, from Texas and had a face that denied anatomical convention, in a bad way), two road blocks and a rather embarrassing incident where I was asked to unpack my underwear onto the side of a Honduran highway. By the time I arrived in La Fortuna, Costa Rica, I was glad to see the others. We celebrated with hot springs, rope swings and waterfalls.

The next morning I squeezed my ample backside into the not-so-ample space behind Chris on the Yamaha and off we went. We’d only been riding along for about 15 minutes before the following and somewhat alarming question arose: “Where is Matt?”

I could see Chris anxiously searching in the mirror for our fellow rider. I think we were both more concerned as, shortly before, he had been pulling ridiculous wheelies, one of which narrowly avoided being fairly catastrophic, and had prompted me to remark – ever the maternal Nostradamus – that he was getting cocky and this spelled trouble ahead.

After continuing for another mile or so, we turned back, expecting any minute to see the lost adventurer motoring into view. But of our barelegged friend – he only ever drove in shorts – there was no sign, and my stomach was starting to knot. Even taking into consideration potential aerodynamic complications caused by his insistence on wearing a huge black daftpunk-esque hat, he should have appeared by now.

Around the next bend, we spotted something in the long grass at the edge of the road. It was a wheel or, more precisely, the wheel of Matt’s motorcycle; the wheel of Matt’s motorcycle which was now lying upside-down in the ditch. Bloody typical, I found myself thinking, he’s gone and killed himself before we’ve even started. This thought, however, was rapidly replaced by images of trying to retrieve his body.

As I was starting to role-play what I would say to his mother on the phone, thankfully, a disheveled figure emerged from the undergrowth, sporting scrapes and bruises but a wide grin. After making a few repairs to the bike which, at this point, seemed to have escaped without anything more than superficial damage, and with our morning’s near-death experience ringing in our ears, we set off (carefully) for the coast.

Every so often, especially when you travel, you meet people you feel are probably running away from something but, thanks to a process of dramatic geographical location, they have been able to start a new life for themselves, away from their questionable past. Jimmy, with his deep tan, wrinkled torso and young local wife, living out on Western Peninsular had the distinct air of an individual who had escaped prosecution for some fairly major criminal activity. Nevertheless, he was offering the cheapest rooms in the area, as well as small hot plates on his balcony available to guests for cooking. Ideal, as long as you didn’t mind parrots, dog hair, smoke or old Jimmy thinking you wanted to have sex with him.

To give him his due, Jimbo was responsible for directing us to one of the best sunset spots I have probably ever been to in my life. Following his set of drawled instruction, we set off into the beckoning dusk, winding the bikes up a dirt road onto an abandoned headland. The sky out across the ocean was endless and clear, while behind us, mist from an afternoon storm lingered over a cloud forest. On either side the cliffs fell away down to the coast, the glorious light of the evening reflecting shimmering bays and bathing a range of mountains that stretched off into the silence of distant volcanic ranges in a supernatural luminescence.

With all the gold light and general wonderment knocking around, I would not have been surprised to see Aslan emerging from the trees: this was proper Narnia shit. It also proved to be the perfect opportunity for some arty photography involving silhouettes and motorcycles. We posed around for a bit, before being completely consumed by nature’s display of pure majestic brilliance, the hypnotism of pantheistic reflection broken only by Matt and Chris playing “throw a stone at a cup.”

That night, the room smelled like ass-crack. Sweaty clothes getting wet and not drying meant that from this point onwards, not only would we would reek to high heaven but, thanks to muddy tracks and sooty highways, we looked like we’d just enjoyed a shag with a horny band of rogue chimney sweepers. It was also becoming increasingly apparent, as we continued to clock up the mileage, that Matt’s bike had suffered more critically in the wreck than we had initially expected, i.e., things were rapidly starting to fall off it.

As we rolled into Antigua, the ailing machine — already semi-impossible to start, as well as missing a kickstand, hand guards, etc… — became break-less. It really couldn’t have driven another inch. Yet, as my stricken companion gave some chat about logistics of wheeling the thing to a nearby workshop, I stopped listening. I was having a moment. Overwhelmed by a sense of deep satisfaction. I felt like a homecoming explorer. We had survived 10 border crossings, mountain passes, coastal roads and jungle paths. We’d faced the elements and emerged victorious. And, with skin now as weathered as a farmer’s elbow, we certainly looked the part. Perhaps not quite a journey of Guevara proportions, but a Motorcycle Diaries of our own.

Unfortunately, there was a distinct lack of hero’s welcome, the hoards evidently hadn’t gotten the memo on our triumphant return. So we went to get a sandwich. Which tasted like glory.

By Hannah Bowman

About the Author

A restless Brit with big dreams and limited cash flow, Hannah is an English graduate and former Publicist who has spent the past 18 months living and working in Central America. She is currently back in the U.K. seeking the inspiration (and funding) for her next adventure.

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