International Jetsetters Extraordinaire: D1
Disclaimer: Apologies that this blog entry goes over a few pages.. and that it is so late, but the reason is interlinked: dodgey internet connection and poor bandwidth. So Chris, and Caz, without further adue, this is the entry I wrote for you nearly two months ago: I am here now to post it for you. Bravo, bravo. P.S. It all starts again this week with Emmas family coming, oh boy.. surely with Ange as one of the four IJEs, it will have nothing on your trip! P.P.S. No offence Ange, but we both know I don't like you, and pretending's something you do when you give a shit - not when your thousands of kilometers away.
On March 11 2005, at 00:45 hours, they arrive. Bags filled with clothes too warm for the beaches and too cold for the hills; but at least there are sufficient provisions of tuna and weet bix and rolly papers and vegemite for their hosts. Looking blarey eyed after 8500km of high altitude flying in a compressed sardine can, and misguided attempts at joining the mile high club, they exit the airport with a wry smile on their face. Chris and Caroline (a.k.a. Caz) have arrived.
Lethargy and fatigue are not enough to stop the traditional Aussie reuniting over beers and cigarettes until four in the morning, with neighbours ruffling their feathers from the noise. Jet lag is not going to defeat these International Jetsetters Extraordinaire. This perhaps has just set the scene for the next 168 hours: living in a state of perpetual fatigue, constantly dispelling the drags of sobriety, and two-bit hostels filled with cockroaches mosquitoes and all the other luxuries of a developing country.
Phlog noun (pr. f-log) 1. An entry into a blog relying on the aid of photographs to describe the entry. (I was going to write a blog, but I got lazy and posted a phlog instead). verb 2. The act of striking a tuk tuk driver over the back of the head when they are not driving fast enough for the next train. (I was running late and needed to be in Kandy that night, so I gave my tuk tuk driver a phlogging with a hundred rupee note over the back of the head).
Day 1: After waking up a very groggy and grumpy blog writer at some ungodly hour that began with a seven, the foursome ventured out into the streets of Colombo. First thing first, nothing better than starting a new hung-over day with a local breakfast of string hoppers and curry – Mmm, diarrhoetically yummy! And the introduction to the use of the lamest word ever "WOWZZA" that Chris skwarked everytime he ate because the food was too spicy. Didn't help that byron kept telling him the mildest thing on his plate was the coconout sambal (grated chili and coconut and spices)
No spicy food at the Cricket Club
Stroll on the beach near Fort:
This was followed by the first of many tuk tuk drives: air rushing through the hair, pollution filling the nasal passages, prices far exceeding what any local would pay in their right mind, and life threatening swerves between busses trucks and pedestrians. Time felt as if it had almost slowed down, enabling us to squeeze more into this day than should be possible according to Newton, Einstein and Hawkins. Shopping, walks by the beach, AFT after AFT (see below), visiting the local Petah market, watching an elephant munch through palm leaves, drinks at a very colonial Cricket Club, afternoon siesta, and even getting smashed at the local night club (R&B).
AFT expletive (pr. A-F-T). 1. Acronym, “Another Fucking Temple”. Derived from the European version AFC (another fucking castle or church), represents a travellers frustration with viewing cultural icons particularly religious-based houses of God. (“Oh no, not another AFT. Can’t we get pissed instead?”)
How close was the bus Chris?
AFT1&2:
On March 11 2005, at 00:45 hours, they arrive. Bags filled with clothes too warm for the beaches and too cold for the hills; but at least there are sufficient provisions of tuna and weet bix and rolly papers and vegemite for their hosts. Looking blarey eyed after 8500km of high altitude flying in a compressed sardine can, and misguided attempts at joining the mile high club, they exit the airport with a wry smile on their face. Chris and Caroline (a.k.a. Caz) have arrived.
Lethargy and fatigue are not enough to stop the traditional Aussie reuniting over beers and cigarettes until four in the morning, with neighbours ruffling their feathers from the noise. Jet lag is not going to defeat these International Jetsetters Extraordinaire. This perhaps has just set the scene for the next 168 hours: living in a state of perpetual fatigue, constantly dispelling the drags of sobriety, and two-bit hostels filled with cockroaches mosquitoes and all the other luxuries of a developing country.
Phlog noun (pr. f-log) 1. An entry into a blog relying on the aid of photographs to describe the entry. (I was going to write a blog, but I got lazy and posted a phlog instead). verb 2. The act of striking a tuk tuk driver over the back of the head when they are not driving fast enough for the next train. (I was running late and needed to be in Kandy that night, so I gave my tuk tuk driver a phlogging with a hundred rupee note over the back of the head).
Day 1: After waking up a very groggy and grumpy blog writer at some ungodly hour that began with a seven, the foursome ventured out into the streets of Colombo. First thing first, nothing better than starting a new hung-over day with a local breakfast of string hoppers and curry – Mmm, diarrhoetically yummy! And the introduction to the use of the lamest word ever "WOWZZA" that Chris skwarked everytime he ate because the food was too spicy. Didn't help that byron kept telling him the mildest thing on his plate was the coconout sambal (grated chili and coconut and spices)
No spicy food at the Cricket Club
Stroll on the beach near Fort:
This was followed by the first of many tuk tuk drives: air rushing through the hair, pollution filling the nasal passages, prices far exceeding what any local would pay in their right mind, and life threatening swerves between busses trucks and pedestrians. Time felt as if it had almost slowed down, enabling us to squeeze more into this day than should be possible according to Newton, Einstein and Hawkins. Shopping, walks by the beach, AFT after AFT (see below), visiting the local Petah market, watching an elephant munch through palm leaves, drinks at a very colonial Cricket Club, afternoon siesta, and even getting smashed at the local night club (R&B).AFT expletive (pr. A-F-T). 1. Acronym, “Another Fucking Temple”. Derived from the European version AFC (another fucking castle or church), represents a travellers frustration with viewing cultural icons particularly religious-based houses of God. (“Oh no, not another AFT. Can’t we get pissed instead?”)
How close was the bus Chris?
AFT1&2:
posted by Byron&Emma at 10:59 PM
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