Must be Laos, Laos, Laos

Laos was a first for me for many reasons. My first time to travel completely on my own for such a significant period, but also my first real encounter with overwhelmingly severe poverty - not picturesque, not a lifestyle choice, and not limited to a few individuals. Poverty on a mass scale, and life stories that are full of sadness and suffering, in numbers that I hadn't imagined. But despite all that, Laos was full of smiles, laughter, and more kindness than I possibly could have expected.

It was the people I met that made these last weeks so interesting, and it is them that I'd like to write about.

The first Lao character to come across my path was the driver's assistant on my 20 hour hell bus journey from Hanoi to Vientiane. While I split my time evenly between vomiting and trying not to vomit, this beautiful woman, dressed in a green sarong and matching suit jacket, managed to look perfectly presentable the entire time, kept the driver entertained with endless chatter, shared her fruit with me, didn't bat an eyelid when the bus pulled over and every single occupant got out to pee by the side of the road (none of this pretentious bathroom rubbish), and finally made us stop next to a shrine to light incense while 40 people patiently waited in the bus.

After not using my voice for nearly 4 days, I finally had my first conversation in Laos with a lovely Australian expat, living in Vientiane, working as a freelance media advisor, and generally loving life ... and to think, I could almost have been him ...

Running with my tuk-tuk driver from the monsoon rain a couple of days later, we were embraced by the market sellers who were so excited to have a foreigner under their shelter that they almost spilt their entire supply of precious lao-lao rice wine - it felt like I could hear them thinking "look at that! foreigners - they're just like us! they also shelter from the rain!" ... perhaps a column for the local version of NW?

Having travelled to Thakhek, in the less touristy south of Laos, I was impressed by the Spanish couple on my bus who refused to take a tuk-tuk after the driver kicked out a local woman and her child, hoping to make more money off the tourists instead. Joining them for dinner later that night, I was further impressed to discover that they'd cycled half the world in their past travels. Anyone want to join me to ride Madagascar sometime? =)

I was very grateful to the shy receptionist guy at the Thakhek guesthouse who (after looking around to make sure no one could hear him) informed me that I was getting ripped off on the price I'd been quoted to hire a driver and motorbike. He wished he could do it, he told me sadly, but in the mornings (after an overnight shift at the hotel) he worked his second job, at a factory. Instead he sent me off to catch local transport - a converted truck with benches at the back - for the next 7 hours. There, a lovely older couple kindly offered to share their very smelly fish wrapped in banana leaf.

Arriving at Kong Lor cave much, much later that day, finally ready to see what the Lonely Planet described as "a river disappearing at the edge of a monolithic limestone mountain and running 7km through a pitch-black winding cave ... truly one of the natural wonders of Laos," I was not entirely prepared for my 15 year old local guide to suddenly try to kiss me, before apologetically explaining "I love you?"

Back at Kong Lor village, seemingly the only white person for miles around, I left my homestay to go for a wonder, and soon met a lovely girl full of enthusiasm to practice her English. The 24 year old girl, a mother of two, living in a bamboo hut the size of my parents' bathroom, with only 6 years of schooling behind her, is learning English from a textbook every night after putting her kids to sleep. She kindly invited me first to bathe with her kids (and the rest of the village) in the river - on second thought, it was perhaps for the entertainment value it afforded to the locals to see me struggle to wash while keeping my sarong even slightly secured - and then invited me for dinner, which she cooked on a fire in one corner of her home.

Later on she joined me at the house where I was staying for the night - the house belonging to her in-laws, and playing host to another man, a Lao tourist guide who spoke excellent English and was able to translate for me as I communicated with the other women in the family. The women couldn't believe that I, as a woman, would travel alone. Let alone the fact that I wasn't married, had such light skin, thin hair, and a job that I'd quit to go waltzing off around the world. Different worlds! Fortunately though we managed to find common ground in discussing the fact that my boyfriend was clearly a lunatic for going to travel in Kamchatka. See, women the world over can agree on some things.. =)

The guide himself told me that he works for a company that takes guided treks to a nearby waterfall, with very low prices due to the fact that Australia embassy funds them. Why? Because a year ago an Australian man decided to go to the waterfall alone, and ended up getting lost for the next 11 days, and being found in a comatose state by the local guides after being attacked by flesh-eating lizards. Needless to say, when I got there, I hired a guide.

Backtracking though, the guide took me to meet some men from the region - all workers in the District Department (whatever that means) who were in town for the night, and would clearly enjoy the novelty of meeting a falang. And so the falang obediently went and had a lovely evening, talking to 10 men about the differences in our countries, in our cultures, whether tourism is good for Laos, whether she's married, whether she'd like to marry one of them, or perhaps one of their sons? Grandsons? The most vocal suitor, a lovely, jolly man, full of humour and silliness was wearing a towel, casually draped over his shoulder. It was only later that I realised his entire arm was missing.

Laos is the mostly heavily bombed country of all time, and many of the bombs have not been cleared even today. The number of people with missing limbs is so huge, you see them so often in the small villages, that it starts to (in the mostly bizarrely warped way) seem more normal than seeing a person without limbs missing. The sadness of it is overwhelming. In the morning, the guesthouse owner did a special ceremony for me to ensure good luck for my journey. As he tied a string around my hand, I realised for the first time that he was missing the ends of all his fingers.

Trekking out to the waterfall later that day, my guide was a single Lao woman in her 30s, carrying a machete, and hacking her way through the jungle for 4 hours while explaining to me that although the average marriage age in the country is less than 18, and although a 2004 United Nations report estimated that almost 27% of women in the country, between the ages of 15-19 are married, divorced or widowed, she doesn't want to marry until she finds a man who doesn't drink, who works, and who is interesting enough to sustain more than one conversation. Go figure!

Taking her out for a thank-you lunch (after she managed to get me back from the gruelling 4 hour hike in one piece) a well-dressed man started talking to us. He was from the Vientiane but had come to the region for a job interview. There is a new dam being built nearby, and many people come to the village looking for work. He was very excited to see a foreigner, but too shy to practice his English. Suddenly, as we were about to leave, he asked if I wanted a lift back to Vientiane on his motorbike, and without further ado, we were off.

The man was so excited to have me sitting behind him, he kept turning around to try and practice a word or two, as I forcefully continued to remind him to look a the road. The ride really was beautiful, but unfortunately it started pouring rain within a few minutes of our leaving, prompting Lena to worry even more. Slowly though, I relaxed into my role of motorbike passenger/celebrity as endless locals would do a double-take, realise a foreigner was passing by, and wave while shouting "Sabaidee!"

Finally all was going well, the rain stopped, when just as suddenly, we had a flat tire. Pulling up to the closest tiny village, and seeing a tiny toddler who'd clearly never seen a foreigner in her life, I managed to (for the first time in my life) drive a child to inconsolable tears with only my looks. Talent. Meanwhile, my driver, who couldn't fix the tire, left it to the experts, and instead pulled out his English book and started a practice conversation. "Did you ever try sushi?" "Yes, in Vientiane one time." "I do not enjoy the taste of raw fish." "Yes, I too prefer the food of Lao."

The next day I took a bus to backpacker central - Vang Vieng. Surrounded by drunk 19 year old British backpackers, some of whom had spent over a hundred days tubing down the river from one bar to another, the only thing that saved me from the very real possibility of suicide was meeting two Israeli characters who happily kept me amused for the next few days with their insistence on improving my Hebrew in exchange for my assistance in improving their chances with the ladies. Unfortunately, both sides failed.

In the beautiful city of Luang Prabang I met a crazy Russian girl, who was so excited to speak to someone in her native language that I almost felt like I was with "svoimi liudmi". That is, until I saw the hotel she was staying at, and realised that no matter how much I may be able to communicate with her, in Laos, we lived in completely different worlds.

A guide on another trek told me about his family. Coming from a very remote village in the very north of Laos, and being part of the Hmong minority, his family had grown opium for generations. His grandparents were addicts, and therefore his family was incredibly poor, so his parents made sure never to smoke. Their education was nonexistent, however, and so, not knowing how to stop, they had 12 children, while living in total poverty. Half of these had died due to malnutrition and various diseases, and in 1993 the government forced the entire village to move to a different location, closer to roads, and therefore more accessible to public services. The government also changed their farming practices so the family would grow rubber instead. My guide was the first person in his family to ever finish primary school, high school and now university. And he was planning to go back to his village in September to be a teacher at the local school. He will make sure to have no more than two children.

Taking a slow-boat from Luang Prabang, I was adopted by a wonderful French family - two sisters, and their cousins, who made me nostalgic for my own family, and the possibility of us travelling together again. While travelling in a rather large group of 4, they completely took me in as a fifth wheel, listened, shared, discussed, and kept me company for the next few (wonderful!) days.

On the same (very) slow boat was a German family backpacking through Laos with 3 kids under the age of 9. This in itself was crazy enough, but more interestingly, the father was the first German I'd ever met who asked me about my family's experience in the Holocaust, and openly discussed his feelings and thoughts on his country's past, the future of German education, and the necessity of awareness for the later generations.

Finally, arriving at Huay Xai, the border town with Thailand, we decided to do a final trek from a nearby village, and a homestay with the Lua minority tribe. Our guide was the local teacher, who had decided to learn English three years ago, from a book. He told us about his oldest daughter, who'd married a man from another, faraway tribe. The man had lived with the family for 3 years before deciding to go back to his people. He was big, our guide explained. So when he decided to take their son with him, there was nothing they could do. His daughter had no rights to her son and wouldn't see him until the boy would be old enough to decide for himself where he wanted to live.

Laos was confronting. I guess that's the best word to sum it all up.

Cảm ơn Vietnam

Vietnam was filled with endless moments of beauty, laughter, discomfort, happiness, and occasional fears for our lives. The moments are far too many to list in detail, but some jump out and beg to be recorded.

Vietnam was arriving at Ho Chi Minh airport, exchanging money and having my very first conversation on Vietnamese soil. “You are sad about Michael Jackson?” asks the money-exchange lady. Unsure that I’ve understood her correctly, I look puzzled. “Michael Jackson. King of Pop. He die. I am very sad,” she explains. “I’m so sorry for your loss,” I say and walk out into the unbearable heat of Ho Chi Minh City.

Two seconds later Vietnam becomes running (slowly) behind a guy who’s grabbed my backpack and is rushing off to what he calls his “taxi” – an old, beaten up car, which he kindly charges me twice the going rate for the pleasure of riding in. Once I’m inside, and discover to my immense displeasure that there are no seatbelts, I ask “No seatbelt?” – and my new knight in sweaty armour turns around to face me, while driving at full speed through the craziest traffic I’ve ever seen, and says “No seatbelt! But MANY accident!! HAHAHA!” Lena turns white.

Vietnam was being brought by this maniac to my first couchsurfing host – after reversing 3 blocks up a one-way street, to arrive at a beautiful building, with a receptionist, doorman, cleaning lady, my own room, a friendly cat, and air conditioning. All the luxuries of life and a 16 hour jetlagged sleep.

Vietnam was more motorbikes than I could ever imagine. Carrying more people, wearing more bizarre, colourful useless helmets (no helmets for the kids though), balancing more random items between them, and weaving in and out of more directions than I had ever thought possible.

Vietnam was airport arrivals, with tiny chattering ladies in crazy outfits, pushing with far more strength than their size would suggest to be the first to see their loved ones. And Maya. And talking, and talking, and talking. Until the cows came home, and way beyond. And then some more.

Vietnam was floating down the Mekong, listening to our funny, friendly guide, and being enthralled in his anecdotes of the young Vietnamese couples, who sit on ‘romantic’ benches lining the sewage rivers, where the stench is so bad “sometime they can’t kiss!” but where they find the only ‘privacy’ their cramped lives allow for.

Vietnam was pondering whether or not to buy a special beauty cream, made from milking the queen bee, and assured to make your skin ‘pinky and smooth’. It was watching people drink snake wine, and, after swallowing the shot, seeing their disbelieving eyes when the guy pulled out a dead bird – complete with feathers – from the middle of the large bottle that they had just drunk from – “extra flavor!’

Vietnam was the pleasant discovery of Vietnamese coffee – of that mysterious something that made it so delicious, combined with ice and condensed milk.. mmmm.. and cup, after cup, after cup of sweet, sweet caffeine..

Vietnam was smiles. At first puzzling, and seemingly unreal, but eventually too oft repeated to be an act. It was the enthusiasm of children to practice any English they knew – usually just to say “Hello.” To wave and giggle and smile, and smile again. Not to point and say “gaijin”, not to hide behind their mother while staring dumbfounded, but just to smile. Sweetly and happily. And then to go back to their games.

Vietnam was a woman, in the floating markets in the Mekong Delta, steering a boat full of pineapples with a large paddle, while texting on her mobile and smiling to herself distractedly. Driving and texting. Happens everywhere.

Vietnam was desperately trying (and failing) to capture 2 very important photos – a family of 4 on a motorbike, with the younger child (no helmet) standing up on the seat in between the two parent; and the road sign of “Child and flying midget child ahead” – so much confusion!

Vietnam was the fear of getting on the back of that first motorbike. The adrenaline of riding through the crazy streets, and the shaking hands once it was over. But more than that, Vietnam was the confirmation of one of the things I most love about travelling: The first time you do something, it is scary, dangerous, new, different, unfamiliar, and testing of your very notions of what you are capable of. The next time you do it, it’s just second-nature.

Vietnam was lying under a palm-leaf umbrella, on beach chairs, looking out at the beauty all around, while local boys climbed palm-trees, cut down coconuts and cooled them in the ocean. Swimming in the warm water, drying instantly on the sand, wanting so much to tan just a little, while all around, the Vietnamese women cover every inch of their body so that not even a millimeter may be (god forbid!) exposed to those evil rays!

Vietnam was coming to terms with the fact that we’re not 19. That, for us, this is not ‘that trip’. That we’ve been there, done that.

Vietnam was Maya, finally back on a scooter, riding along a winding cliff-side road, with me no longer holding on for dear life, but instead enjoying every moment. Stopping only for the local traffic – a herd of lonesome, wondering cows who seemed to be lost and slightly outside their comfort zone.

Vietnam was trying to come to terms – or perhaps to an understanding – of what communism means in this country. From the negativity and open criticism of our guide in the south, to the absolute optimism of a new Vietnamese citizen – a Russian man in his 30s, who had nothing but hatred for the motherland, having suffered at her hands more than anyone should, while speaking endless words of praise for his new country, where every citizen, according to him, is free to do what he wants, to live how he wants, and to act how he wants. And finally, the opinions of our guide in the North, whose love for Uncle Ho was matched only by her assurance that anything negative than one could see in the country was the fault of certain individuals, and the government was doing all in its power to fix it. And that those who had left Vietnam after the war had deserted the country when it needed them most.

Vietnam was hot.

Vietnam was very hot even.

Vietnam was rice. Rice fields, rice plants, rice seasons, rice mountains, rice noodles, sticky rice, sweet rice, plain rice, fried rice, rice wine, black rice, coconut rice, rice bowls, rice stocks, rice bags, rice, rice and more rice.

Vietnam was hilltribe women laughing and chatting away on the trek from Sapa. 22 year old girls, with two children, husbands, perfect English learned from tourists and plenty of practical advice about life. “Your boyfriend is from your village? No? Better have boyfriend from your village. Good for family.”

Vietnam was a bizarre Chinese TV show about flying monkeys, a pig that turns into a man, falls in love with a princess, and fights off her 3 black-cloak clad brothers. All dubbed in Vietnamese. With just one woman doing voices for every part.

Vietnam was hiking in the pouring rain, glad for the relief from the sticky heat. Crossing flooded roads by asking a passing motorbike to hop on the back. Sliding down endless mud tracks. Being giggled at by baffled locals.

Vietnam was feeling like queens. Swimming in the clear warm waters of Baitalong Bay, with not a soul in sight, surrounded by thousands of limestone islands, having eaten a giant lunch, and with 4 staff at our beck and call. All before getting back on board our private ship and watching fish fly ahead of us while sunbathing on the deck. Tough life.

Vietnam was staying with a wonderful 74 year old retired fisherman and his wife. Studying his face, admiring her beautiful hair, smiling at each other over and over again, with not a common word between us. And, strangely, not being kissed hello or goodbye, but instead sniffed. Very sweetly. But certainly sniffed. A first.

Vietnam was cycling through torrential rain, laughing and pedaling, pedaling and laughing. Passing kids in raincoats, motorbikes, water buffalo, rice paddies, drenched to the bone, but always laughing – and not understanding what harm there could be in getting soaked in such warm weather.

And finally, Vietnam was a frantic taxi ride back to the hotel in Hanoi, having realised that I’d forgotten my passport, while about to board a 20 hour bus to Laos, feeling sick as a dog, unable to tolerate the heat, the noise, the intensity of it all. But all’s well that ends well. Especially when it comes to passports. And antibiotics.

Third time lucky..

What could feel more inspiring than sitting on a sleeper train, leaving the mountains of Sapa, heading to the craziness of Hanoi, and having the luxury of pulling out your teeny-tiny laptop and tapping away? Tough life, I’m telling you!

So here I am. Actually the whole luxurious compartment has come as a bit of a surprise – we were expecting a hard sleeper, which in itself is a step up from what we had last time – a “soft seat” which was about half the size of your average low-cost airline economy-class chair, and with the added bonus of the light not being turned off for the entire length of the night trip. Why? I cannot say. Painful? You bet.

But actually, this was also a step up from the previous train journey where we rocked up to the station, expecting to just find the tickets we needed, and were shocked to discover that there were none to be had. This basically meant that our first train journey together had to be spent on opposite ends of the train – one in a soft lounge-style, and the other in what we refer to as “hard seat” – a 90% angled wooden chair, shared with entirely too many people, and making economy seem like a throne suited for some sort of monarch. But I must say, the man who sat next to me was so lovely, and so enthusiastic about sitting next to a foreigner, that he moved to the floor in the middle of the night just so that I could have the entire bench to myself. Or it may be that I kicked him so many times, or drooled on his shoulder so many times, that he had no choice but to move. Either or.

So how to write about Vietnam? I simply don’t know where to begin. I never actually had a particular desire to come to Vietnam, except for an unfulfilled dream of cycling through the country one day. My only actual experience (before this trip) was the 10 painful hours I spent in Ho Chi Minh airport. Twice. Painful to say the least. Basically Vietnam was not my top priority, and now I am very happy to say (as I so often do these days) – I was wrong.

The rocking of the train is putting me to sleep. And now I remember why I thought I’d have so much time to do so many things on the trans-siberian, and instead I spent an obscene amount of time sleeping. Yawn. Seems the Vietnam round-up will have to wait..

Excuses, excuses..

Here’s what happens: you find yourself in Paris with so much to say but no real time to write. You want to describe being there for the 3^rd time in 2 years, you want to describe the beauty of a city that doesn’t get repetitive even for a second, and you want to do it all with wit and eloquence. So then you think that perhaps it’d be better to wait till Berlin, which you haven’t been to in a while.

Then you get to Berlin. It’s crazy and full of all the energy and youthful craziness that you remember, but there’s no time to write. You want to describe the graffiti, the punks, the large food portions, hanging out with two larger than life men, being treated to a ‘different’ moral code over drinks by a random moron from Austria, waking up with your worst hangover ever and heading to a trans-atlantic flight, and saying farewell to your lover through hazy eyes that can only see the inside of a toilet bowl that you’ve just tried to vomit in. Attractive. But you fail.

So then you think, ‘I know! New York! I’ll have PLENTY of time for all sorts of essays on all sorts of themes!’ And so you head to America, for the first time ever, full of clichéd assumptions, but still shocked that so many are actually true. You’re overwhelmed by the size of everyone and everything, but you’re also touched by endless friendliness in what you expected to be a city full of attitude and rudeness. You plan to write. You’re sure you’ll update everyone really soon.

After all, what is weirder than staying on Brighton Beach – little Russia by the sea, or spending time with people you haven’t seen in 2, 3, 4, 5 or even 10 years? What is more interesting than seeing all the places you’ve seen hundreds of times on TV and film right there in front of you? Or the shoes! Won’t somebody please think of the shoes!? And the hair! The endless displays of the world’s most bizarre hair styles.. Or the obscene portions of turkey. Why does anybody need quite so much? Or the world’s worst parenting – with constant screaming, endlessly ignoring bored children’s cries for attention, keeping kids up till all hours of the night, and all while being just 16 years old yourself.. Or even the dancing and singing – the musicality of seemingly everyone which constantly makes you feel like a straighty-180..

Well, you think, you have plenty of time to get to all that. You just want to get through your month in NY and then write about it. Makes sense. Things don’t turn out that way though, and the day after your parents arrive, while walking along the Brighton Beach Boulevard (see Pap, I learn!) you hear a familiar whistle, and like an obedient puppy your turn around to find none other than your crazy boyfriend, out of nowhere, with a guitar, singing his hear out and getting all the chords wrong in the excitement. While the countless Russian grandmothers sit around and watch from every unimpressed angle.

So the plan changes. There you are, a reunion of sorts.. celebrating birthdays, going out to restaurants, failing at getting anyone any sort of good presents, staying on random film students’ couches and spare beds, seeing NY from an all new ‘romantic’ angle, and generally having a blast.. and suddenly it’s time to say goodbye.. to MY & NY.

Next stop: Boston. Wow! This is the first bus stop in America! And the first garbage bin! And the first broken window! Kidding. Boston is.. pretty. Very pretty. With lovely buildings and excellent landscaping. And lots of history. And many firsts. And Jill! And Yas! And their Porto-Rican neighbourhood! And friends, and music, and cafes, and rain. And more rain. And then some more. And a quacking duck tour. And rain. And now a flight.

And here we are in San Francisco – and you feel square! You feel un-pierced, un-tattooed, un-gay and generally straight from every angle. Except when you meet your dad’s coworkers and thank his lucky stars that he managed to meet people in his life who were not fated to spend their entire time on this planet surrounded by nerdy programmers. Wow. Programmers in San Francisco. Doesn’t make sense. And you want to write about the evil GPS, about driving around in lengthy circles, only to end up back at the same spot an hour later. You want to write about the incredible Castro cinema, about a fantastic Lesbian movie that made you very confused about stem cell research, about the delicious Mexican food, about never assuming that you can talk about people in Russian, about the unexpected benefits of running late, and about the difficulties that come with having a strong definition of yourself as an adult and as a traveler when being introduced to everyone as your parents’ daughter. Complex.

And then we’re in LA. And you say farewell to mum and dad and hello to Evan. And you see the land of even more movies and TV shows, and you get as close as I ever will to the boys from Entourage (which is really not very close), and you eat and eat and eat some more, and are overwhelmed by the feistiness of people – “can I have a cigarette?” “No, it’s my last one.” “So give me that one!” “But I’m smoking it!” “What do you need to smoke for!? Everyone hates smokers!” “No.” “Why not!?” And then there’s the mourning for Michael Jackson, and Iranian revolution? What Iranian revolution?

And suddenly, without any real warning, you’re in Vietnam. Now how did that happen!?

French family famile

I sometimes find it difficult to pinpoint what it is that makes a particular experience particularly hilarious when I look back at it. This should technically be an encouragement for me to write things soon after they happen, rather than 3 weeks, 2 countries, and 1 continent later, but laziness is as laziness does, and so, here I am.

As is often pointed out to me, and no matter how much I try to deny it during the heat of any random argument, we have a very small family. Small enough that my brother and my two first cousins were raised, in many ways, as siblings. Without enough siblings of our own to fight, annoy and even like, we happily took on those roles in each other's lives.

The small differences between us, when we were children - our ages, tastes, opinions and dreams - have made us grow into adults with relatively significant divides, wrapped up very neatly in a strong bond of love and laughter.

And so, with those differences accompanying us on our various journeys, we (the three female members of the younger generation of the Mishpucha) hopped into a van owned by a chain-smoking French man, just outside of Paris, one fine spring day.

Heading south to a beautiful village named Sarlat, our spirits were high, and the chatter - endless.

Tatty, Natasha and I, able to discuss at great length everything from facial wash and handbags, to gossip and family dramas, to unemployment and assertiveness, and (naturally) to relationships, spent a great many hours overanalysing every aspect of our lives while our long-suffering men did their best to not kill us.

Each taking their own mode of escape out of the hullabaloo, Julien - Tatty's French boyfriend, spent the ride being entertained by the aforementioned chain-smoking driver, Harry - Natasha's Greek Australian husband, quietly enjoyed the view, while Matan read his way through half a book, prefering motion sickness to endless chatter.

And so, in this way, with minimal casualties, we arrived in Sarlat, to the tiny farm in the countryside, Julien's childhood home, which had literally been taken out of a fairytale. Julien's parents, the two smallest, cutest, friendliest people I have ever met, greeted us with so much enthusiasm and love, that the room was filled with more hugs, kisses, laughter and noise than I could possibly have imagined.

And so, the cultural experiments began. With five languages going around the table at the same time, endless misunderstandings and culture clashes, the stroke of midnight meant that my birthday had begun, and it was time for dinner.

With bowls of soup in front of all of us, Matan, trying to do his bit, thought he could pour the wine. Not so. Wine is poured after the soup, into the soup bowl, with the final remnants of soup, to be drunk in a tradition named Chabrol. Strange. When the bottle of wine ends, the French get excited because the person who got the last drop is getting married this year. The Russians need the bottle to be off the table, because an empty bottle is bad luck.

The men drink Pastis. The Israeli, used to drinking cheap Arak, doesn't mix his Pastis with water or ice. Julien's father nearly has a heart attack, and can't wait to tell his friend from town, who will certainly "fall on his arse!" The Israeli then decides it's time for a magic trick, and starts pulling seemingly endless paper from his mouth. Metres and metres come out, and everyone (from each corner of the earth) is equally impressed. Julien's father, unable to contain himself, challenges the Israeli to a "duel" - seeing who can do more pushups, with a clap in between each one. The 60 year old man goes first, and suddenly all the men are whipping off their shirts in a display of manhood, while the women egg them on. Who needs language to communicate!?

The next day, after touring the stunning countryside of Perigrod, complete with endless castles, towns built into cliffs, and fat geese ready for stuffing, we played patonque. The French bowls, which turns even the least competitive person into an "expert" teamed the cousins together, facing Julien's mum and the Israeli - a winning combination if ever there was one! In the adjoining lane, Julien and Remi faced Julien's father and Le Grec. After round one, as the cousins and the French boys had their arses kicked, the lane next to us became a model for cross-cultural understanding, as the two teams, without a single word in common, managed to play an entire game of patonque with perfect understanding and teamwork. Again, I ask, who needs language to communicate!?

Finally, that night, dinner was truly a cross-cultural affair. Under the guidance of Natasha, and with a desired effect that would certainly make the rest of the mishpucha proud, the Russians and the Greek cooked Olivye - or Russian Salad, as it's commonly referred to, as well as stuffed eggs and Hochipuri. The Israeli cooked a Shakshuka - a great success. And the French served everyone's favourite French Onion soup and crepes.

The question is: what does it say about us that we are really such living cliches? I'm just not sure..

Thank you!

I apologise in advance, because I'm about to get a little bit Kate Winslet at the Oscars, but I have so many thank you's to say, that I can't avoid getting a little emotional.

Nat and I set out to do a rather huge mission, and we didn't manage to complete it in quite the way we'd planned. What we did manage to do though was have an incredible trip through the entire (loose term) south of Israel, encountering so many people that helped us in so many countless ways, that I am certain this trip will remain in our memories for life.

And on that note, I'd like to say thank you to the following people.

Nat. Thank you for being crazy enough to want to do this trip, and putting up with more than anyone should have to throughout it. And, of course, for your constant enthusiasm!! Matan. Thank you for being our support vehicle in every possible way. Mum & Dad. Thank you for not murdering me when I came up with yet another absurd idea for a trip. Ilya. Thank you for never losing faith in your mantra: "Lena, please don't do anything stupid." Maya. Thank you for endless missions to every camping store in Sydney, for the brilliant backpack, and for calling me at all the low points to pick me right back up. Yula. Thank you for your patience in dealing with every possible flight change on the planet. Kevin Rudd. Thank you for the stimulus package which made the purchase of my fab camera possible! Miguel. Thank you for the bike lock which kept up our illusions of safety. Louise & Jay. Thank you for teaching Nat how to use a GPS. We would probably still be in the desert without it! SBS. Thank you for lending Nat a camera. We would definitely not have found ourselves in half the situations we did, if we were without it. Race Recall. Thank you for the coolest toy that ever existed! Bruria & Yami. Thank you for your endless patience with us – and with the appalling state that we manage to get your cars into. Mishpucha Mazin. Thank you for being my second family, and for your wonderful bike, which rode like a tank! Mika & Omer. Thank you for lending us our other tank, despite your cynicism over my reasons for coming to Israel in the first place! Yoav & Omer. Thank you for keeping Matan entertained in the desert while he acted as our support vehicle. And for introducing us to the grapefruit drink which changed our lives! 1^st Night Accommodation. Thank you for explaining the stupidity of our original plan, and for giving us the possibility of actually having a great ride. Yossi. Thank you for being our guardian angel. We really cannot thank you enough. Haya & her Arsim Sons. Thank you for making sure we got showered, fed and rested – especially at a time when at least one of those things looked very doubtful. Malka. Thank you for giving us beautiful accommodation, and trusting two very uncouth, smelly girls on their word. Malka's Card-Playing Posse. Thank you for giving us advice on riding in the desert during 40 degree heat. Yosef. Thank you for the directions of how best to ride along the border with Jordan. Ayala. Thank you for the lovely and delicious meals, for telling us when to shut up and eat, and for explaining so much about life on the Moshavs. Water Technicians. Thank you for warning us about the scorpion problem in the desert. Army Jeep Foursome. Thank you for making sure we were ok, and for giving us water – and not laughing too much when I tried to drink it instead of washing my face with it. Water Excavation Man. Thank you for being such a good sport about being interviewed, and for sharing your (slightly gross) coffee with us. Mishpucha Slavin. Thank you for being so kind to us. For telling us about Lotan, and showing us Lotan's Way. Hazeva Zimmer Owners. For letting us stay in their beautiful accommodation and not charging us a cent for the privilege, thank you. Old Russian Couple. Thank you for letting us sit together so we could get back into the swing of being joined at the hip. Boring Security Guard. Thank you for making us realise that we're extremely lucky to have met so many interesting people, and only one of you. Tal & Co at Moshav Faran. Thank you for a totally unique accommodation experience, and for lots of interesting conversation. Asaf & Barak. Thank you for delicious coffee in the middle of a sandstorm. Eli. Thank you for picking us up in your van, and for making space for our bikes in between your organic fertiliser. Kibbutz Lotan. Thank you for being such a special oasis in the middle of the desert. Itai, Yonatan (and his mum), Dalit, Kaia and the rest of the Green Apprenticeshippers. Thank you for being so welcoming, for explaining artichokes and green living, and for enthusiastically listening to my never-ending tale. Mike. Thank you for being such a good sport when it came to your interview. Kibbutz Sofar's Date Pickers. Thank you for letting us go up to the tops of the palm trees with you, to see the best view in the world. Haim. Thank you for hosting us, in your own special way. Ron. Thank you for adopting us for the day; for driving us around for hours; for putting up with endless doctor's waiting rooms, bureaucrats, and tears; for giving us food and shelter; and for doing it all without needing or wanting anything in return. THANK YOU! 

The last hoorah ...

The thing about travelling that I love (though sometimes hate) is that enough things happen in one day to fill a year's worth of memories and impression.

Yesterday was one of those days.

It started at 6am, when we woke up to have our new friends from Kibbutz Lotan show us around their quarters. The new friends – who are all students at the Kibbutz's unique Green Apprenticeship program, showed us their fully sustainable living quarters (complete with composting toilets and solar ovens) before taking us to their morning class of making benches out of recycled tires and mud.

After the lesson, as we got ready to leave, we realised that we have no sunscreen, and there's none to be bought. Luckily, an older British couple happen to come by right at that moment. They are here on holidays, so have plenty of sunscreen to spare. They come to Kibbutz Lotan every year from the north of England to chillax in the desert while their friend goes bird watching. Bird watching is big business in Israel as the entire bird population of the northern hemisphere migrates to Africa for the winter directly through the Holy Land; and then does it all over again the other way. See, even the birds think Israel's the belly-button of the world!

Leaving them, we rode on towards Eilat – a day that we had been assured would be easy and carefree.

Taking an immediate wrong turn, we rode straight into a family of Oryxes (or animals that we're assuming to be Oryxes, for lack of any other known possibilities).

Finally finding ourselves on the right track, we rode on and on, got some unimpressive yoghurt from the biggest dairy farm in the desert, and, as the day started to get very, very hot, stopped by a date plantation, in the shade of an enormous tree.

Nat, who is easily reenergised by the thought of a good story, went off to explore the possibility of getting ourselves up on a date picking machine, and discovered a sort of camp house for the Kibbutz workers, which was complete with couches, books, shesh-besh, clean water, and boxes of dates.

While chilling in there, and trying to figure out what to do next, I looked over behind Nat, to see a GIANT something slowly moving by. In a state of shock, and unable to pronounce the name of the thing that was gliding by, I just stared with eyes wide open, while flapping my mouth, and with no sounds coming out. Nat suddenly realised something was up. Immediately on guard (and ready to kick some ass) she turned around, panicked, flipped her arms around, dropped my camera and screamed. At which point the words finally came out of me – PEACOCK!! A goddamn peacock had just casually strolled through the living room of our little house on the prairie. I mean, honestly.

After getting over the hilarity of that particular absurdity, we decided the time was ripe to get a move on. Getting up and ready, our way was suddenly blocked by a massive beetle. Now, this may sound absurd to the reader, but it really was a giant beetle, and it really did refuse to let us get anywhere near our bikes for a good 10 minutes. 10 minutes is a ridiculously long time to be held hostage by something that's a thousand times smaller than you, but we managed.

So there we were, being held hostage, when suddenly an Italian Kibbutznik comes out of nowhere, rescues us from our unyielding guard, and (after explaining to us that his connection to Israel stems from the fact that his grandfather was killed by the Nazis while attempting to rescue Jews as part of a partisan movement) takes us to where the dates are being picked, pointing us towards some other Kibbutzniks.

I think I should set the scene a bit. The Israeli desert is bizarre. It's this constantly changing landscape, which looks so empty and void of life, but is sliced through by plantations, keeping up the "making the desert bloom" stigma of the nation. On one side, the desert mountains you see, are actual Jordan, and they seem so close that you feel like you could throw a stone and get it half way to Petra.

In front of these incredible Jordanian mountains, you have these enormous palm tree forests stretching to the sky, and amongst them you have young people from all over the world, listening to loud music, wearing second hand army tshirts, and picking dates. It's just a crazy combination.

So these very young people, pull up next to us in their date picking machine, and (without us even asking) tell us to hop on, because they're about to have a break from picking. A break means that they go all the way up to the top of the trees and chill out under the leaves of the palms as it's the only place where one can find shade. So up we go.

OH&S? What OH&S?

And there we are, in this metal contraption, first above the level of the trees (to see "the best view in the world" as the plants stretch all the way to the border with Jordan) and then underneath, chilling out, chewing the fat, filming …

And so our date adventure comes to a natural close, we come back down to the ground, and encounter our friend, the Italian.

The Italian has just found an eagle to rescue and wants to show us. The story with the eagles is that, as with all the other birds, the eagles migrate through Israel, and the weaker young ones get so tired en route that many of them simply don't make it out of the country, dying from hunger and weakness as they're unable to hunt. Our Italian friend finds them, rescues them, feeds them sugar water through a straw, and gives them over to a foundation who take care of them and (hopefully) release them back into the wild.

At this point it really was time to leave, and so, finally we left Kibbutz Somar (which is referred to as the Anarchists' Kibbutz). Riding through the desert, but slowly moving towards better and better paths, with the sun setting on our right and casting a beautiful warm glow over everything, and Eilat fast approaching, we were on top of the world!

Here’s the thing though. When we decided to come to Israel to do this insane trip, every person we spoke to had some sort of warning – all of which were very valid: bikes breaking down; running out of water; dehydration; crazy Israeli drivers; not understanding maps properly; going through army firing ranges; riding past unsafe Bedouin villages; possible violence outbreaks with our Palestinian brethren; impossible terrain; lack of language skills; general weakness and lack of riding experience; etc, etc, etc.

Let me tell you the one thing that NO ONE warned me about. Vicious dogs attacking you in the middle of nowhere, as you're about to get to Eilat.

Let me also tell you what happened to me as we were turning onto the final road to Eilat. A vicious dog came running toward me, and as I did my best to remain calm and keep pedaling, it bit into my juicy thigh, drew blood, and ran off on its merry way.

Fuck.

Sorry.

I rode as far as I could, got off my bike and fully had a breakdown. I was in so much shock, and pain, and bitter anger, and Nat was just the best doctor ever – she would also have been an excellent hit-man at that point as she was ready to go back and kick the stupid dog's arse with her tripod, but we figured it was neither the time nor the place.

Two painkillers later, we were on our way.

A friend of a friend of Nat's had said that we could stay with him, but to do that we had to go the whole way through Eilat, and then some. With the sun long gone, and the pitch black, we rode the length of the rather gross city, got out the other side, rode along a massive army base, past the port (where an armed security guard came to warn us about not taking photos – seriously disturbing to be facing a machine gun in the middle of the night), past the hotels, past the diving village, past the Aroma café (how we wished we could stop!), past the Bedouin tents which offered us accommodation for 25 Shekels a night (though probably without the little dignity we had left, come morning), past more desert, past Nat stacking it head over front wheel by the side of the highway), and finally to our new host – Haim.

Haim, who lives in the desert, in a tent. Lives. Like all the time.

So in other words, the night we finished our epic ride ended up being the only night that we didn't have a shower or dinner. Didn't manage to celebrate our accomplishment in any way shape or form, and didn't go to sleep laughing.

But of course everything looks better (or at least less disturbing and more ridiculous) in the morning, and so, here we are. Out of the desert, in that very same Aroma, listening to great music, looking out at the Red Sea, pigging out on delicious foods, and being offered to get our bikes fixed, to shower at the adjacent hotel, and to get any advice on where to go and what to do from the incredibly nice café owner – Ron.

What is it I keep saying? I've always depended on the kindness of strangers …