I was walking down a long and lonesome road...

Dear Ciara my bosom dwelling friend,

Its criminal that its been so long without any real updates- I am dying to know about the rest of you gap yah...I was so jealous of the Oz buses and the chance to literally just bum around up the East coast. You owe me a major catch up when I reach Londinium.

So I've briefly abandoned the television and editorial career for a bit of bumming around myself. It was incredible and I'm so glad I did it but it did mean there were a lot of things I couldn't mention- some of the people I interviewed probably wouldn't appreciate being blogged about by a gap yah faring hobo who they thought was a qualified journalist. I kept getting asked where I had trained and which company had paid for my work visa out here. Oh, and then I got offered a job as a PR manager for a mining company. I hesitated to mention that my CV was a little lacking in things they would usually require for that position. Like, I dunno, a degree?

But I had underestimated how draining and manic UB is as a capital city if you never leave. I had been tehre a month and a half working non stop without ever making it to the countryside- which was the real reason I had come of course. To resurrect the spirit of Genghis Khan and raise a warrior tribe of Mongol nomads. Duh.

When a friend of mine got a little sexual harassment at work she decided to call it quits and head into the wilderness, so I followed suit and we jumped on a bus out of town. I literally cant emphasise how that was the extent of out planning. We didnt really know where we were going, we could barely pronounce the names of our destinations and we didnt actually know where the cool places to visit were. Every time we met someone they would ask us which tour company we were with. The conversation would go downhill from there. We had no tour company, no guide, no driver, no guidebook, no map and neither of us could speak more than utterly basic mongolian.

But when they realised that, cause we sure as hell weren't the average tourists, they tended to be so filled with compassion for these poor, retarded, ignorant Western girls who were almost definitely going to get raped and die along the way, everyone was wonderfully kind. After I lent my iPod to a 6 year old girl in a tutu and fairy wings and gave her a little chocolate, her mum rang her sister who happened to have some gers in her guesthouse we could sleep in. So we chilled out there in Kharkorum, the ancient capital of Mongolia, for a night before hitching our way to the next town over.

The next town over turned out to be Bayangol, which wasnt so much a town as three gers beside the road. We got there by hitching with these two Mongolian guys, who spoke less English than we did their lingo, but were so amused by our absolute incompetence that one of them, Dagi, got out number so that we could contact him when we got to Tsenkher. Turned out when we got there we rang him up to hitch our way to the hot springs (which we thought were round the corner) and it was an hour off road up and down these valleys and through rivers and finally into a ger camp. problem was when we got there it turned out it was a VERY expensive ger camp for the likes of middle aged couples on spa retreats. We, on the other hand, hadnt washed in four days, had been hitching our way through the countryside and living off biscuits and chocolate and reused tea bags. Obviously the only conclusion was to haggle the price down less than 50% and stay there anyway. The manager thought we were pretty funny.


It was a god send as well because our entire bodies were battered from the beating they had taken horseriding the day before. At Bayangol, the three ger village, we were going to stay with Janchui, the brother of the woman we had stayed with the night before. So when we rocked up we just walked into the nearest ger and asked where he was. Its a funny thing about Mongolia, and one of the best things, is the wonderful hospitality from everyone. When you enter a ger you have to taste whatever it is they have just prepared, whether it be taragh, unurum or a full meal of tsuivan or a shot of vodka. It harks back to the days of crossing the steppes and knowing that they didnt have to take supplies with them, because someone would always look after them. Good ol' Jesus style hospitality.

When Janchui turned up though, he zoomed up on a motorbike. The only logical conclusion being that he would take Abi and I and our two massive rucksacks over the valleys for half an hour on this rickety motorbike of his. We spent the night there with his wife, child and twenty day old baby and the next morning we rode his horses five hours into the middle of nowhere to Khar Badras, the very very ancient city of Genghis. It was really just a dirt palisade and a flag on a mound but such an wide expanse of just nothingness around us and with only our three feisty horses in sight.

Once we got back to the road we set off again, hitching with a van already crammed full of a Mongolian family on their way to god knows where. It was at this stage we realised why maps had been made and how usually it was advisable to travel with one. It was on day 3 that we actually worked out where we were. They dropped us off in Hotont, a miserable town that was supposed to have a bus leaving for Tsetserleg that night, but this being Mongolia, it never came. Kindly, a biker chick we had met there who gabbled at us in indecipherable rural Mongolian gave us a bed to stay in until we managed to hitch a ride in the slowest pick up truck known to man the next day.

pro

Our greatest adventure was the journey from the hot springs to Tsetserleg, what passes for the centre of the province, because it was when we discovered that no cars were going there and there wasnt a road off of which we could hitch. So someone suggested walking. It was only 18k.

Of course it wasnt till later that we worked out it was more like 27k. And, even better, when we got back to UB a friend informed us that the distance was actually 35k. Our blisters were fantastic. Still, it didnt stop us from checking out Neptune, the only club in Tsetserleg. Someone should teach the Mongolians how to dance.

Anyway, peace out this has been an extraordinarily long message so I'll cop out for a while now.

See you in Reading gorgeous and we'll have a jelly fight xx

Street rat! Take that!

Dear Drum,

I didn't think it was in code though several sections might have been gibberish, but in compensation I thought I could shower a little more attention on you. Never fear- another post card shall find its swift way to your pigeonhole though!

Mongolia gets weirder by the day. Some things have become a lot more acceptablet- the staring, the mental traffic, the Cyrillic alphabet which I'm gradually getting a handle on or the bizarre food. But other stuff will keep me amazed for the next two weeks I think.

I'm still reeling over the whole TV anchor/talkshow thing. It's very hard to imagine when you're sat in the studio with only a camera guy and your script. It feels a lot more like one of Leady's practice videos that will never get seen again. That is until I sat down in the pub yesterday and there was a chorus of 'I watched you on TV yesterday!'.

Oops.

I have to question some sections of the TV station- I know that I've arrived with very western perceptions of things getting done when theyre supposed to, of having make up and wardrobe departments, drivers etc. But there doesnt seem to be any concept of that at all. Sometimes when they cant get the translator they just have me announce old English news- some stuff I'm announcing happened in April! HOw can this possibly be a news station??! But I'm still loving it- I'm even trying to get involved with the UB post (the english newspaper here) because theyre looking for editors and journalists. The last intern i my place had an article published- IN A NEWSPAPER AND ON TV AND INTERVIEWED IN ONE YEAR??! Thatd be incredible.

(Incidentally, on the cards for future TV moments are several interviews about music and entertainment- I find this hilarious. There is finally a time when my not knowing who Chad Michael Murray is will be an obstacle. I'm reviewing various Mongolian bands like Altan Urag, The Lemons, Khulan etc. who I've actually grown to quite like. Its a pity theyre not on iTunes... But also I'm expected to feature upcoming music. Like katy perry, Lady Gaga, Britney Spears and Glee. There could not be anyone less able to do that. It gets worse though. Mongolia and specifically my TV station is trying to get Western celebrities to visit to increase publicity. Like Jey-Li and Arnold Schwarzenegger. But they need western interviewers. Enter yours truly. Oh, and the interviews are live. WHAT HAPPENED TO MY LIFE?)

Another volunteer and I are also running a journalism class at the local university. I cant think of anything more ironic and bizarre than me teaching journalism students about journalism- I dont even have a degree or any sort of qualifications in it yet somehow Im regarded as an expert. But dont worry, I've been keeping the classes suitably immature. In Thursday's How To guide I was sure to include Miss P's PEE and FART lessons. My Australian co-teacher was so unimpressed....

The wardrobe issues havent improved either. At least half my clothes have holes in them or are held together with safety pins. A couple of days ago my work skirt ripped all the way up to my waist. Even I then had to admit something had to be done.

STREET KIDS. I've travelled a shitload and this is something that even I still find mindboggling. They're everywhere. And sometimes we go Western on them and try to help in orphanages or give them money. Other times, I found myself with an attitude I hope I never bring back to the UK. Everyone gets warned that theft is rife and protect your belongings with everything you have- never let your guard down. But I get told that wherever I go and I have never had bad experiences. Generally, I've been shown best of human nature- shop assistants who have handed over envelopes containing shitloads of money that I've dropped, taxi guys whove rung people on my phone to bring it back to me etc...

Here, take your eyes or your hands off your possessions for more than a few seconds and expect to have them go walkabouts.

My wallet got stolen as I was jumping onto a bus and took my hand off it to catch the rail.

My camera got stolen when I was in a bar, someone tapped me on the shoulder and I turned around. Boom. Bizarrely though I found my SIM card on the floor. Politest thief in Mongolia?

Strangest yet was my tussle with a street kid. Walking along the street with my iPod in a street kid starts asking me for money. Rule No.1 is you never give them money (someone else will just take it off them and/or if they see where you keep your money...) But then he starts shaking my elbow. Up until now my hand has been on my iPod but I go to take my headphones out and suddenly the music stops. Putting my hand in my pocket, I grope around but all I have is an empty pocket. In a matter of seconds the boy has reached into my coat pocket, unplugged it and put it in his. I was honest to god gobsmacked- to the point I didnt want to accuse him of stealing because it just seemed too ludicrous. I grabbed him by the wrist before I even thought it through and demanded it back, at which point he started swearing- evidently the only English words he knew. Of course I'm now stood in the middle of the high street, a Western girl holding a local boy by the wrist as he struggles, swears and shouts in Mongolian. British embarrassment kicking in I desperately want to let go, but at the same time...IPOD??! Eventually two Mongolian strangers turn up- one of whom can speak English. I still have my headphones in at this point, tragically disconnected to any music so the case is leaning slightly more towards my side. But as soon as I have it back the Mongolian man raises his arm to hit the child- he doesnt, but there was an education in street life. Aladdin had never seemed less glamorous.

Anyway love, I'm sure you've got essays to do and things to procrastinate over so I shall leave you with all my love and the promise of more contact. And of course, a visit to cambridge next year.

xxxx

The Words Were Hard to Find

Dear Queasy,

Im not even sure you'll get this though I know you're back from HK I dont know facebook active you are yet. Anyhows, I thought of you a fair bit today so it made sense.
So I’ll save the bombshell for later.

Mongolia is mental. I’ve already mentioned the driving which just gets crazier with every day but watching even the locals make mad dashes across the road on a regular basis only to stop the cars with their hands on the bonnets doesn’t get old. A girl here said she saw two buses go headlong into each other and with the attitude these buses take it doesn’t surprise me- I can almost see them going straight for each other, challenges in their eyes. ‘Go on, if you think you’re khan enough’. (I’m sorry, when you don’t have a common language puns are a lost concept).

Do you remember when we used to read Jess’ manga almost voraciously? You know those young Japanese guys were always a certain type- a piercing or two, a bomber jacket and that Asian punk look? Mongolian youth are the same- ripped jeans tucked into those big, leather biker boots, baggy jackets and stubble combined with the slight air of just having been kicked out of a rock band.

I am having a few wardrobe crises (this relates to the bombshell- wait for it). Firstly I hadn’t brought any wash stuff for excess baggage reasons and when I got here, it sounds obvious I know, everything was in Cyrillic. There are only so many times you can put shower gel in your hair and not feel the consequences. Subsequently I now smell like a combination of papaya, avocado and yoghurt and my hands smell constantly like yoghurt. This was all completely irrelevant of course because I ended up at the Mongolian hairdresser’s today. (I’m building up the suspense but the upcoming bombshell will explain all.) The hairdresser had blatantly never had to deal with Western hair before and there were several moments when I had more in common with Aslan than the businesswoman she had been asked to present. Not to mention I was marginally worried that she might start liberally applying the ‘blackening shampoo’ that I had seen advertised on TV. Now that would really mess with my Aussie blondage (a neologism I particularly like because if you take out the ‘l’…) Anyway clothing –wise I’m having a few difficulties cobbling together out of random Asian clothes and my own skewed version both of propriety and fashion something that could be called businesslike. It’s a task not lightly undertaken. I thought of you again and how you’d come quicker to the realisation than I of how other people perceive our clothes. I fear it may be too late for me. I’m doomed to either frumpy or whore. Well I’ve managed to get a jumper/shirt that comes up to my collarbones, a skirt that covers my knees (even though my tights are covered in holes that I’ve failed to craftily hide under my heels or too high up my skirt.

So I come to my bombshell. I may or may not be presenting the news on national Mongolian TV every weeknight this May.

Yeah. That was my reaction. WTF. Or as I would say with Duffy (you have to meet him. You’ll fall in love. Everyone has) Why The Fuck Not. Largely I’ll sat straight up it has nothing to do with me- it’s a right place right time kind of gig. The last volunteer, Biljana, did this so it’s a matter of the best English speaker continuing her legacy. Since I’m English and almost no one else speaks it, it was a no brainer. But I’ve never been more thankful to both Pip and Lead. How else would I be so quick at editing things down to the slimmest version to create the headlines? (Or leads as they’re called in TV). And all I could think when I was sat in front of the camera was- cast your golden net with your eyes, pause, speak slowly, breathe, enunciate. I must have been the only person they’d seen to annotate the text. Still I think once we’ve played to a live audience of 500 several times over, there’s little that can rock my nerve. I’m trying to convince myself that the English speaking audience in UB is that minimal. Not to mention on Sundays I’m supposed to host a media/entertainment programme for twenty minutes- only this time I choose the theme, write the script and deliver it myself.

I somehow feel I’ve done a Bridget Jones and am somehow even less qualified and professional than she was.

Anyway my queasiest of Pease I’m missing you and our endless discourses infinitely and hoping you’re doing well adjusting to life back in the UK.

All my dramatic love,
Lizzy

Funkytown

Dear Vez my love,

Our mini chat yesterday kept recurring in my head- Mongolia is a funky country I said and I couldn’t have been proved more right. There are definitely things that still make me pause. The staring still gets to me. I think its worse than HK because even though we’re obviously western there, they’re used to ‘our sort’. Here, there’s still the sense I just waltzed off the Trans-Siberian Railway and got lost on my way to China. On one of my many walk I glanced across the street to find an entire busload of Mongolians watching me s if I’d just skipped off Saturn. The children make it worth it though. (Now we’ll have none of those jokes please…) It seems ok on the sheer principle of childlike wonder to get stared at- whether by the toddler jumping on bricks across manholes to find himself dwarfed by a strange white girl and his only response was a quiet, defeated ‘oh’, or the boy cycling so surprised that I smiled at him that he beamed back and circled me on his bike or even the small boy in a bright pink beanie who followed me for ten minutes babbling incomprehensible Mongolian. They’re just adorable. (Never fear, I shan’t be posting any of the obligatory ‘me with impoverished child’ that come out of gap years, Unless its under my arm and we’re running onto a plane). Zulaa’s two year old son has so much in common with the baby from Ice Age they might be descendants. He even ran after his mum clapping his hands for the [LAST WATERMELON] orange juice. I might have to come home with a Mongol baby. (I kid, I kid, you can put those condoms and morning after pills away).

Like you said, its strangely humbling to be surrounded by people as they speak a language of which you cannot understand a scrap. I know its only day 5 but I still haven’t got an inkling- though you always know when they’re talking about you. Whether its my name, Britain, or hand gestures its always fairly obvious and then terribly disconcerting when no one translates. Someone described the Mongolian language as sounding like two cats mating until they lose the plot and scratch each other to death. I see their point. But people said the same about German and, like you, I came to really like it. I have regressed when it comes to learning Mongolian. I spent last night in a café whilst a small girl watched in a amazement as I failed to identify various letters of the Cyrillic alphabet. When I got home I even rushed in gabbling various meaningless greetings in order to show my host mother how much I’d learnt. They’ve made a real effort with me- as neither of them speak English she asked her sister, who speaks French to come round and possibly her other sister who speaks a little English. Theres nothing more bizarre than trying to remember the conjugation of French verbs to an audience of onlooking Mongolian family members.

The complete lack of boundaries never fails to amaze but mostly delight me. Beyond the concept of Ariuna, my host sister, sharing a bed with me whilst I’m still almost a complete stranger, both she and her mother, Naryaa, will get changed in front of me or walk in whilst I’m sleeping.. Thanks god boarding school prepared me- but it goes beyond the boundaries of what we experienced. Similarly when I wanted to change into smarter clothes my colleagues at the office told me to just shut the door and go for it. I hadn’t even met half of them! But its also absolutely gorgeous.. On my last two trips home (I live about half an hours walk from work or 45 minutes from Sukhbataar Sq where my Mongolian lessons are) I haven’t walked home alone. The first time after several fearful looks from me that I had or would miss my bus stop and end up at the bus depot at midnight, a random Mongolian girl took pity and told me when to get off and then an equally random guy walked me all the way home in order to practice his English. The same happened today after a guy pulled me out of the path of an oncoming car.

Still the oddest things are the small ones
• they don’t serve or drink alcohol on the first of the month
• they don’t use knives (try eating cabbage with a spoon. Its not elegant)
• it took me days to realise Narya and Ider always picked my handbag off the floor, but apparently its because only beggars leave bags on the floor for money. Odd. But makes sense.
• They put salt in their tea. I haven’t actually experienced this one but I have been forewarned. That’s something I might not bring back with me.

I’ll add to my growing list of oddities I’m sure, but those ones are bizarre. But lovely. As ever.

Much love my darling and enjoy your last two weeks in Deutschland. I had the same homesickness leaving Oz. It’ll be hard to do that again I’m sure.
Bestival will be a riot though!
Lizzy

Lost in Translation

Dear Paedobear,

Well after our recent chat Im sure youd be proud of me. Its been two days and so far I havent slept alone in my stay in UB. It seems I've continued my incredible celibate bed hopping skills from Oz. I should be an international sensation.

I didnt land till midnight and when we finally pulled into the only person at the house was a teenage Mongolian girl who had prepared everything for my arrival. I was supposed to be staying wth her mother but because of my unexpected plane change she was on business in Korea. This was all fine until the guide who dropped me off left and we became alarmingly aware that neither of us speak each others language. Thank god for my charades practice (finely honed at Jess' house at Christmas- ask her about Dr Yarmulke and Man Thumb).

Even so, once we'd covered the basics; point at self and say Elizabeth, mime sleeping and look questioning, she rubs her stomach [No guys, she wasnt asking if I was pregnant but thanks for the faith] and I shake my head etc, it gets remarkably difficult to hold a conversation. Her name is  Ariuka, she's 16 and still at school, helping her mum out at her clothing store at the weekends. I found this out in a manner of charades and with the help of a English-Mongolian phrasebook which had been printed in what must have been the 1960s- it considered where to buy men's cologne in a department store a fairly crucial piece of information evidently. I turned out that her elder brother Azaa was studying software in Bangalore but had spent several years learning English so she got hold of him on MSN and we spent a surreal hour trying to establish simple things like when we would wake up in the morning and whether I'd want breakfast and dinner. This was broken up intermittently by by exclamations of how beautiful I was followed shortly by a description of her beautiful brother. This is somewhat distressing. Updates shall follow.

By about 2am her brother called the shots and told us both to go to bed. Nice to see the control he had from across the continent. I pointed at myself and the bed and her and the bed and mimed out where we were going to sleep. I think somethings must have got lost in translation because, preparing as I was to sleep, she jumped in the bed next to me. Needless to say, it had been a while since a strange girl had hopped in my bed so I was somewhat thrown. But hey, go figure, its what they call immersion right? Nothing more integrating than a little cuddle. (I have now been informed that no, this is not the norm and I do actually get a room. The handbook had warned that Mongolians were very shy, conservative and withdrawn though friendly. I think it may need updating)

Their house is lovely- its absurdly clean and neat so much t\so that I find myself folding and ordering my clothes and making my bed in the mornings. I cant promise this will continue back home, so Duffyneed not fear hell be out of a job. Especially after the squalor we lived in in the Fish house with questionable hygiene, dodgy food-poisoning inducing meals, Roland the rat, Colin and his cockraoach family and the trail of ants who had made our kitchen counter their personal M1 and endless bottles, boxes, cans, glasses, mugs and tupperwares of ethanol-esque alcohol, it feels like I've returned to civilsation. Ironic, eh?

Not just civilsation but home- several of the other volunteers (older than me by a stretch of a few years) have never lived away from home (its more common in Oz where they dont live on campus at uni) so i dont think they appreciate how nice it is but my host family (Ariuka's mum Narya came home yesterday) are excessively kind about food. Eggs and thick, hard bread and long Frankfurter like sausages (oh grow up!) for breakfast, a stew called hosh or hoff of cabages, potatoes, mutton and rice and cake like cookies to have with tea- if I was a yeti when I left Sydney Ill be a veritable BFG when I get home.

Yesterday my guide, Zuula, showed me around UB which largely consisted in a walk from the house to the Projects Abroad office down the very long Peace Av. (apparently th equivalent of Oxford St not that youd have thought it) to see the State Department Store (set up in 1921 as the first Department Store in Mongolia but somewhat hindered by the Communist era), Sukhbaatar Square with its government building (UB's Whitehouse. I'm sure Barack would say the same) and toweing statue of Genghis Khan. We changed my money along the way into one of the most ridiculous currencies I've ever seen- 1 pound is roughly 2,200 tigruk so I walked out with a wad of cash big enough to use as a pillow.

Having come straight from Hong Kong one of the first things I noticed was the lack of people on the streets. I had briefly considered running before dusk in HK (I know, you can tell Ems and Jack and they can laugh) until the logistics hit home and I realised I'd spent most of my time jogging on one spot the streets are so congested. Everything in HK is pint sized- the tiny people have tiny clothes (the size Christine could fit in after her NYE corset...) and tiny shops so small they dont have fitting rooms. I feldt like I'd done a Gulliver and landed in Lilliput. Here though the streets are empty, even by London standards, are pockmarked with manholes, piles of bricks and rubble and half built walls and scaffolding. The driving is mental- I had thought Paris was bad but here, as one of the other volunteers said, they dont slow down they even do a 'cheeky' speed up. I dont know whether theyr playing Hit The Westerner, but they seem to be doing a very good job of it. I may have to rethink my traffic strategy- its too much paperwork for them to hit me- which I employed back home much to Eliot's fear.

I managed to disappear last night by meeting up with the other volunteers for drinks (an Irish pub if you remember the last one we went to back in those heady days in Paris) which turned into several drinks as we moved onto Xanadu Art Gallery. There were few things more surreal than standing in an art gallery drinking Chinggis (the local beer) as a room full of ex-pats sang along to Mr Brightside played on the acoustic guitar by a somewhat destroyed Australian. A little later, when it was my round, the Australian volunteer next to me expressed (for the umpteenth time) his burning desire for vodka shots. Which led of course to the purchase of a bottle of Borol and 5 glasses. The whole bottle was gone within minutes and it didnt take much to for the devils on my shoulder to conclude that clubbing was the next step forward. I think it was at this point that the girl opposite asked how long I'd been in Mongolia: under 24 hours.

In an attempt not to wake up my very kind host family at 3:30am, it was generally decided that staying at a friends house was preferable which is where I woke up this morning for a crisp winter walk back to the house aong Peace Av. When Narya saw me, far from being annoyed, she cooked me breakfast (eggs and sausages and bread again. The pregnancy comment might not be far off), sent me to shower and bed and cooked me lunch to heat up when I woke up. I just found myself a Mongolian mum.

Anyway babes, I should start getting ready- Im meeting the other volunteers for dinner in a couple of hours. Bed lottery anyone?

Miss you like  a bird misses humming 
Much love your mistress, conscience and spiritual guide xxx

...the tough shop, get massages, eat dumplings and go clubbing

Cher Adrien,

Oh Im so glad youve been enjoying my various travels, misdemeanours and pickles. The latest set, naturally, crown the scarecrow king but I like to feel I've been working up to them in the last 18 years.

I left Oz with very little trouble, not even a hangover because it happened to be Good Friday the night before I left and everything from bottle shops, bars and clubs closed at ten. I even managed to go the whole journey unscathed as one of the boys on the sailing trip was catching a flight 15 minutes before me from the same terminal. So he carried my bags, filled in my immigration form, took me to excess baggage and retrieved my laptop when I almost left it at security. I think I've managed to prove the exception to the rule that Gap years mature, develop and hone a person's perception of the world. I may even have gotten worse.

This of course would be proven by my entire stay in HK- my entire family met me at the HK airport (though the boys looked slightly shifty at this unnaturally familial event) and I wasnt really let loose for a while. Probably a good thing because every time I was I managed to lose something- there went two pairs of sunglasses and my Octopus card (like an Oyster card but can also be used to buy things in shops. which is frankly incedible and I think is catching on in England. I kept using it to buy lemon tea and mango juice which I was getting strangely addicted to after my withdrawal symptons from Bundaberg Ginger Beer in Oz.) The best family moment that we may ever have had was in a restaurant one night where we decided that it wasnt enough to order a few dishes but 19 would be enough between the five of us. The look on the waiters' faces when we just kept adding more was priceless, but it hurt too much to laugh. We all felt physically ill afterwards. My mother was horrified.

The Visa complications (which to my credit I discovered rather than anyone else although feel free to point out that I discovered this three days before my flight on Easter Sunday when no courier services were working rather a couple of months before) that I could enter Mongolia as an American citizen but not as a British citizen (unless I had jumped through several hoops and/or reentered Mongolia after a weekend trip to Beijing at some point) led to the fantastic sequence of events bringing my Yankee passport here. The Mongolian embassy in HK, unknown to Mongolia, had shut down. Awkward you might say. We had brought a map in case the taxi driver couldnt find the embassy though ironically his taxi skills would have been impressive if he had found it. We might, however, have ended up in China. Thus Duffy (angel that he is) brought it from the house to Heathrow and stood next to terminal five so that a guy could pick it up. He left it with the concierge in a hotel in Istanbul where the next morning another guy took it to Hong Kong, via Frankfurt. I then picked it up (and as Emily pointed out wearing the kind of clothes that are acceptable on a beach in Oz [no, not a nudist beach you filthy minded boy!] but hardly in an office in HK. Still, another banker found it so hilarious he asked us to dinner to regale his family with 'the drop'. And thus for a space of about 9 hours I had two passports.

On Thursday I got to make another trip to an embassy- checking my cindered passport through security in a tupperware raised some glances but not as much as the woman behind the counter when I explained how it had happened. Then I think she realised no one would make up that story. No one is THAT stupid. Still there was nothing they could do so it became a matter of turning up as early as possible in the airport and going through teh same rigmarole at Immigrations. Again the bemused looks and scarcely repressed giggles as the cover fell off in a pile of ash on the counter adn when they tried to stamp it it crinkled and fell apart. The tupperware is getting fuller by the trip.

Things were also impeded as we tried to explain that although my dad is a HK resident and I had entered on an English passport and left on an American one I was not travelling to London but UB and then Beijing. Oh and my dad was flying to China. Immigration's worst nightmare? Trust me, therell be somehing spectacular on the way back to england!

Anyhow, thats my drastic fantastic story of woe and idiocy . Otherwise HK was great- I had to spend most of my time shopping for clothes as I discovered that I was expected to look 'professional' for certain events in UB. This required clothing that covered shoulders, knees and midriff. Needless to say, my wardrobe contains very little in that brief. I was also simultaneously packing for a Mongolian winter/spring/summer and gear which would be suitable for sheep shearing, ger repairing, manure farming and horse riding. A recent yet crucial realisation is how little clothing can be worn in a boardroom and on a camel. Logisitcs ensued.

I shall update asap on Mongolia though I can tell you the people are lovely, the weather is most certainly here (Its getting to that crux where I decided cold outweighs embarrassment and I put on the hat with ears. Im close. Ever so close.) and Im ultra excited about all the mayhem which will doubtless ensue.

Over and out xx

Dearest Duffy love,

Sorry I've been so shocking on the contact front but please believe when I say a postcard is winging its way towards you as we speak. Well. Almost. But I dont think Ill get much internet next month and none at all in June so Skypage is out and facebook will gradually disappear I believe. Sorry dearest, I shall have to try and savour and ration some phone calls..

I will try and excuse myself with the fact that I have been offshore for four of the last five weeks and during that one week onshore the yachtmaster theory was so unnecessarily knackering that I barely had the energy to go clubbing never mind skyping etc.

The sailing has been such a blast-  there have been two weeks of offshore training, doing things like boat handling etc and then it all came together in the last two weeks of our mile builder. Of all the sailing that was the most epic- twelve days on a 55 foot yacht with an all female crew and our much enduring skipper.

We were very undermanned (quite literally) which meant that although we had loads of excess space to stretch out in, we had to make do in a boat that usually took around 10 people to crew with half of that. On the upside it was great practice for doing singlehanded reefing and de-reefing or sail hoists and drops and tacks etc, but it meant we had really conservative sail plans and and wouldnt go quire as fast as I would have liked. Speed demon that I am... Especially since we had basically no wind for those two weeks we ended up motoring up and down the east coast- by the end of it we had stopped going into ports and were just traversing around imaginary waypoints which was, quite frankly, soul destroying. After motoring around for 120 hours in what was essentially a glorified water taxi, we had all had enough and threw the towel in as soon as we had covered the necessary miles. Other than that though, the whole trip was spectacular.

Because they were so few of us we worked on watches of two with two hours off/two hours on. Knackering as it was, when there were very few nights of decent sleep, we turned into a floating WI and really looked after each other. Do you remember the skintight shiny black thermals you helped me pack? Im became horribly attached to them to the point of living in them and within days it had got nicknamed my ninja suit. After that we went in a downhill spiral of silliness- Team Ninja all had ninja suits and we came up with a ridiculous ninja laws; referring to each other by ninja names (Captain Ninja, Optimistic, Casual, Scottish and yours truly, Proto), to dolphins as sea monsters, storms as sea dragons etc. Our second law was to never wake someone up off watch without offering them food or drink or sustenance of some kind- it became routine to hear 'Proto, Proto, ten minutes till watches. Would you like tea or coffee? Your cake is on the fridge'. When we told the boys they totally took the piss, but our skipper was mighty glad he'd got our boat. Not to mention there was superb cooking all round- the mark of a good meal was whether it 'sent someone into the bilges' which meant that they were so full they werent capable of standing up and would have to lie down even though this meant they would have their heads on the hygienically questionable and indubitably manky bilges under the floorboards. Of course half of the problem with food was that we ate out of dog bowls (Im not kidding. We decided we had been reduced to the level of animals- sleep, wake up and sail/play, eat until we got sick out of dog bowls and occasionally get fed treats) and then quantities were very difficult to judge. By the seventh day when I was trying to cook Bolognaise in a kitchen where the hobs swung around, the boiling pans were tipping almost vertically and everything moved all the time, including yourself we concluded that no one could call themselves a real chef until they had cooked in a kitchen that moved and tried to make food in dog bowls look appealing. Eat your hearts out Jamie and Gordon!

To get practice as skipper we each had to lead and skipper a passage and whilst most people had fairly uneventful days I managed to take charge on a couple of days where literally everything that could have gone wrong attempted to- the boom broke as we were sailing and about to tack, lobster pots got caught around the keel at 3am and a little while the engine failed whilst we were in so little wind sailing would have been impossible. The most exciting was at 4am one morning my watchmate was on the helm whilst I attempted to bake a cake for the next watch and when I came up on deck she announced we were being chased. The obvious conclusion to this was we were blatantly being chased by pirates so we knocked the engine on and tried to outrun them. Shortly after we realised we were being chased by the Harbourmaster- water police- and sheepishly slowed down to get 'pulled over'. They hadnt appreciated being called pirates at all.

Thus by the end of about 12 days what little sanity and maturity I had arrived with disappeared. The practical jokes had escalated from dropping cookies into the skipper's cabin through a hatch and arranging fruit in amusing shapes on his bunk to hoisting wellies and shorts up the mast by the halyard. Embarrassingly for us when we hoisted his shorts up the backstay like a set of highly unoriginal American teenagers, we hadnt considered how to get down again. Eventually he (with minimal amusement) strapped me into a harness chair and had the others winch me up as I clambered over the boom to grab his shorts with a boathook. Awkwardly as I was halfway up a boat full of teenage girls drifted past to the sight of me halfway up a boat reaching for some shorts as an unamused and immature set of adults below gazed on. It wasnt our finest hour.

Im sorry my dearest to confuse and bore you with all these nautical things. Its been bizarrely my life for the last three months and so jokes like when hoisting the mainsail
'You keep going till you get it up'
'I can't! I've tried and I cant get it up any higher'
'Alright I'll grind if its stiffer than usual'
...somehow arent quite as usual.

miss you like gingers miss ninjas
your mistress xxxxx

Cause I like Pina Coladas and getting caught in the rain...

Dearest daughter Gecca,

Sorry for the horrible delay in writing its all been manic jumping off planes and ferries and yachts and beds.  Just kidding, but you get the principle.  I last wrote when I was in Lizard Island in the gap in my gap year so Im tapping out at least three letters today whilst I still have internet access before the steppes of Mongolia...

Lizard Island was incredible- it had been so long since I'd dived for pleasure rather than training because everything I was doing in Sydney was for my Divemasters. I spent an entire day being a victim (which was actually faintly amusing as three very built rescue divers spent an afternoon hoiting me onto their shoulders in varying degrees of discomfort. Then I had to try and lift them to a lesser level of success). But here it was all for giggles and everything was brilliant; little reef sharks flitting in and out, clownfish in their anenomes (when you stroke them the tentacle things sting you but the underside is soft like underwater silk) and mermaid holes and caves. There are cods there the size of Jack (one of which I managed to hitchhike. Im just saying, that definitely beats my last hitchhike of two very stoned dudes in a pick up truck.)
What was mental was the fish feeding though- chuck anything over off the back and the Queensland groupers (the size of bull sharks but still basically fish) would barge the reef sharks out of the way and leap 5 foot into the air...

Well now Im a little embarrassed. I just waxed lyrical over fish for a decent sized paragraph. What I should have mentioned were the evenings- I completely took advantage of the bar and went mental making up cocktails. Duffy had given me the idea months ago when he described a bar in Manchester where a bored bartender spent hours making them strawberry cheesecake and Mars bar cocktails. The poor deprived Aussie didnt know Mars bars particularly well but did a wonder with stawberry cheesecake. We then moved on to Terry's Chocolate orange, chocolate tiramisu (garnished with a ferrero Rocher) and eventually "the kind of drink a smurf would have". I thought of you then. It would totally match your skin colour. So that was me making friends with the bartenders of the East coast- I went to Malanda as well (I cant say I'd recommend it. It was tiny. There was a dairy museum and at 9:0 another somewhat bored bartender turned to me to say 'Everyone awake in this town is in this room'. I looked over my shoulder to see 7 dudes playing snooker. Thank god for London.) I did a wine tasting briefly to sell the whole thing as a learning curve to my dad but, as ever, after the fourth glass everyhting starts to taste merely of red or white. Did Wine Society teach me nothing? Fuzzy wouldnt be surprised.

After Lizard Island we had gone back to Cairns and into the jungle to check out some of the incredible waterfalls, which was when we had ended up at Malanda, and spent the car ride trying to avoid bandycoots and possums (which really look like overgrown rats with curly tails and move like rabbits).

I had broken this and my next mini adventure with a weekend back in Manly because it was when half our group was leaving on their respective travels so I absolutely couldnt miss it for the world. I spent those days doing dive training and had been crashing on the couch of a friend cause he lived closer to the dive centre and I was gaining a towering reputation for laziness and finding places to sleep that werent my own bed. Hilariously this was a very different reputation from one of the other girls- it had nothing to do with anything scandalous and more about my ability to sleep on fridges, under stools, three people to a hammock or on a beach. Anyway, when I got back to his house I managed to find three complete strangers and everyone else a little surprised that Id been sleeping on a sofa when our house was only 10 minutes walk up the hill. Awkwards.

But that was Reggae Night and Reggae Night is strictly forbidden from awkwardness so we were out 'jammin' (Jesus Bob Marley needs to be given a rest. [Worst jokes ever: How does Bob Marley like his donuts? Jammin. How does his friends like their donuts? He hopes they like jammin too...)] till some horrible hour of the morning.

I didnt want to get to the end of my trip having spent 3 months living in Manly (a beach suburb of Sydney) and never having seen anywhere else in Oz and so far I had only covered a brief few days in Cairns and the Barrier Reef, discluding the random ports we had visited up and down the coast (which are judged solely on the quality of their showers [Eden had two minutes of hot water with a thirty second delay so was least favourite especially compared with the walk in pressure showers in Port Stephens with mirrors] and the proximity of supermarkets and coffee shops. So Ciara (a now qualified dinghy instructor on my sailing course) and I went to Uluru in central Oz. I freaking loved the whole thing, and at least half of that was the tour not just the awesomeness of Uluru. Uluru and Kata Tjuta are these monolithic structures rising out of the ground and are the basis for many of the religious beliefs of the Aborigines. The best was Kings Canyon, the whole trek and the watering hole at the end (the guides called it Heart Attack Hill. Wimps).

The guides were pretty cool though we managed to completely flummox them. Referring to each other as love and darling and saying the food was scrumptious just to see the looks on their poor Kiwi faces. Somehow we also ended up being the ones cooking and cleaning every mealtime which gave English girls an excellent reputation for being housetrained. Ho hum. Still, at least we managed to round off with a very mature dosage of foam fighting whilst the genuine adults on the trip looked on with a little confusion. They named us the weirdest people theyd ever had on a trip. Nothing changes, eh?

Thats me out, Ill be back shortly with the next update. I have another 5 weeks or so to fill in so it might be very condensed...

love you dearest and hope all is well back in the hometown. Happy belated birthday as well xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

What shall we do with the drunken sailor

Dear J'Daphne,

Much missing you I'm sure, there is a fair bit of madness around here but not our sort bizarrely. You would however have an absolute field day perving on everyone. There isnt really a dress code- we walk into shops in bikinis, restaurants without shoes. I've spent many days here without really getting dressed. Plus the beach is life guarded by gaggles of tanned, blond Aussie teens. Although in fairness that's more in Emily's paedobear line...

Other than that though you'd e very disappointed in me. It's all very practical (although i feel myself slowly climbing towards my ever present goal of piratedom. Next Friday we're all going out in Sydney dressed as pirates to celebrate our last day. SWEET.) with lots of knot learning, navigation and jumping about. Dont worry though, I'm not getting too serious. In true pirate style our voyages are often planned around drink. Sadly there has been little rum, but we leave each marina with enough time to get to the next before last orders. At one point we were docking for the last time that day (we were shattered though I dont know why- the other girl and I had spent the entire trip sleeping and tanning) when the skipper turned around and asked whether we needed anything. The correct answer was supposed to be "Fenders on our starboard side."
She leaned over the helm enthusiastically and looked up with a grin. 'A drink?'

I took a break from yachts though last week so my napping days were over- I was learning to dinghy sail (dinghies are basically very small 1-2 man sailboats that capsize VERY easily. Needless to say I spent large quantities of time wet. And not for the good reasons). It was actually very lovely though as 5 of my friends on the course were learning to be dinghy instructors so I got 5 very gorgeous instructors all to myself who forgave me everytime I threw them in the water. it took me at least two days to remember not to let go of the tiller. Oops. Still, I got round to capsize practice very quickly.

Of course it meant that last week was far more chilled out- we had a tv night, a dominoes night, a girly Palmer's butter moisturiser, PB&J sandwiches and nail varnish night and a steak a karaoke night. I'm not gonna lie, I may be a lad at heart but the steak and karaoke night was INCREDIBLE. The boys had all the balls and started, climaxing with a rendition of YMCA so appalling they literally cleared the bar. This of course made it a lot easier for us. Especially when the man with the parrot got one stage. (Yes. I know. We were thinking it too. He was actually a pirate. For clarification, pirates cannot sing. Especially when drunk. This may answer some of the questions posed by 'What shall we do with the drunken sailor'.) Between us we did Allstar, Bright Eyes, Build Me Up Buttercup and I Will Survive. One of the boys was also kind enough to introduce me as 'Tits' when I walked on stage. Nothing changes my love.

In case last week sounded too brilliant, never fear. I am currently on a gap from my gap year. Because y'know, gap yahs are soooo stressful.

My dad turned up in Oz so I get to fulfil my burning ambition to dive the barrier reef. There was a hilarious culture shock when I got off the plane as I went from saving several slices of Dominoes pizza in a tupperware box for tomorrow's lunch and begging for food from the local cafe guy (yeah, I'm not ashamed to say I did both of those things. And just so you know we got free food- a flapjack and a muffin. Which he heated up for us. OH YEAH BABY. Free food ftw) to being with parents which meant free chocolates and drinks and a wet towel to cool you down...

Never fear however- someone recently used the phrase bronzed goddess and I nearly choked with all the feminine grace I dont possess. Although my hair has lightened (probably more to do with highlights than natural sun) and my skin is browner (after it went red. I was briefly Neapolitan (red, white and brown as previously mentioned) but also peeling in every place and covered in bruises. Everywhar!

Other than that all is good my love. My brain is slowly adjusting to a total lack of work. Yesterday I had a thought: siesta and fiesta rhyme.

That is all my babycakes
Muchos amores from uglyface

Just got gooned.

Dear Mini Roll boy,

I heard you were seeking for news from me so I've rapped this one out quick, sorry for the ever so long delay...

I have discovered however that the cynics have a point. Sailing may not be the career choice genetics had planned for me. My infamous disorganisation (New Year's anyone?) hasnt improved with a hemispheres worth of travel- I'm working my way through a collection of sunglasses, Ive lost my provisional drivers license and, when briefly trusted with the organisation of the boat provisions and travel managed to lose the envelope of money twice. Once in a mass supermarket where I ran around helplessly till a kindly Aussie took pity on me.

But really the most obvious hints were on the boat. Genetics are against me.

Im too short to tie and untie the knots on the boom and have to have it lowered specially for me.

Im too weak to quickly winch in the head and mainsail when we're tacking to be any good in races (Oh didnt I mention!?? Every Thursday there's a Twilight race at the Yachting Club which we take place in. The first week we came 3rd last [but give us a break! We'd only been on a boat four days...] but most recently we came 2nd. Plus one week we joined a boat which was low on crew. It turned out to be the old dude in his own little boat with what we thought was a foreign exchange student but turned out to be his highly incompetent 21 year old girlfriend who couldnt even wind a rope properly. He spent the entire way back commenting that every skipper who passed us was just thinking 'Who is this old guy with his little old beaten up boat and four young female crew members? Why cant I be him?' Trouble was it was so noisy I couldnt hear him so just kept smiling and nodding. I looked well keen.)

I cant tie shoelaces so sail ties, full roll and two half hitches, bowline, figures of eight and rolling knots are a little much for me...

I cant drive a boat backwards. There are several moments when the skipper has looked at me praying that I never get a drivers license...

But best yet is my version of seasickness. You know how I can sleep absolutely anywhere? Well the first sign of seasickness is falling asleep and I have now spent several passages poking myself to try and stay awake. Its got to the stage where I get on the boat and start dropping off. One of my crewmates came in to find me crashed out on the chart table halfway through a three point fix.

But no worries, its all going fairly swell, even the theory week spent drawing tidal flows and estimated positions with tidal vectors and speed/distance/time. Oh and fairy soon we're doing meteorology- working out from high and low pressure points and troughs the wind strength and direction and cold fronts and blah blah. It worries me that someone might hire me.

Other than sailing its been pretty chilled. The surfers offer to give free lessons and get really into their board designs (Theyve names them all. Boys and their toys...)

Youd love this boy- theres a wine here that comes in a bag called goon. It cost twelve dollars a box and is so vile most of the time we have to buy mixer for it but alcohol is so expensive here (Baileys costs 33 dollars. Im in mourning) Its now become a verb. Its not uncommon to hear shouts of 'Goon me!" at the beginning of a night.

Anyway my love I have to go down to Freshwater to take the surfers up on their offer. Just want you all to know I miss my loves and my sex muffins. So much so Ive been dreaming about you.

Ems and I spent a day running around St Pancras trying to get hold of each other before we each had to leave because we wanted to see each other one last time.

Duffy helped me sail to France when I missed my flight.

Christine saved me from a lesbian rapist called Tara in the Louvre.

Alex was the eldest of 6 boys and 6 girls and the heir to the Duchy of South England out of which he had been thwarted by an evil witch and her crony.

Makes missing you a little funnier
xxxxxx

No, I didnt get eaten by the locals.

Just a bit of Hong Kong. 

OH an in case you were wondering, yes that is a giant Easter bunny lit up on the side of that building. Just a pity I didnt catch the one where the mutant bunny bounces a massive Easter egg.

PS Duffy and Dribble- mainly I was disappointed that it didnt roll it down the stairs...

So this would be me steering a 32ft yacht under the Sydney bridge then tacking round next to the Opera House. Casual.

PS. That was Day One. What are they going to do to us Day 6? Fly the thing?!

OMG. Kangaroos. I'm just saying. At one point during the BBQ it jumped onto the stove looking for food. They were so damned cute. The photos below? I wasnt using zoom. I had a staring match with one of them. I won.

Nature-0 Lizzy-1

This is right next to where we're staying. Just a shout out for any men looking for paradise. It's what it says on the tin.

Dear Dribble,

I'd like to say I wrote this sitting on the bow of the boat, kicking my heels over the ocean and gazing out over Sydney harbour as a bush kangaroo bounces scenically along the shore. Not only would that be heinously pretentious but complete balls as Im sat on a bed eating pasta out of a pan as Prison Break plays in the background. Thats right, I've gone to the ends of the earth and still nothing changes.

Well love this is long overdue so I'll start at the very beginning (its a very good place to start). Sweet mother of God, flying Club World was so painfully luxurious that flying first class must be heaven. Possibly minus the 72 virgins. When I walked on the plane they gave me free champagne which felt a little out of place as families hobbled past me with castles of bags giving me the evils. The stewardess showed me how to put the divider up so I wouldnt have to see. Course the greatest problem was that the constant stream of the bubbly made me so sleepy I crashed with the glass still in my hand. Woke up a bit later with wine down my shirt. Immediate reaction? 'Oh my god I have magic breasts. I lactate Chardonnay!' This was so much less exciting than my other flights (except the one from Hong Kong where they gave me noodles and a pork bun for breakfast. Mmm pork buns. Tell Duffy. He'll weep with jealousy)

Hong Kong was bizarre but much better than I remembered. Largely though I just ate.  They have an equivalent of McD called Cafe de Corale which does fast food chinese- duck on rice in about 3 minutes for 27 HK dollars, aka 3 quid. Mate thats gotta catch on. There was one at the airport and (after my dad took me to the Cathe First class lounge where the woman had looked at my like I was a hobo this random businessman had just dragged in) I buggered off and got some of that. My dad was so disgusted.
I did go out for a bit and managed to ind the bizarrest shop called Food for skin- stuff like sugar exfoliater, red wine moisturiser, beer shampoo and aubergine eyeliner. LEGEND-hope youre not lactose intolerant cause youd hate the egg mayonnaise foundation-DARY. Also, I think youll appreciate tube stop 'Mongkok'. Far wittier than Pickawilly and Shepherd's Bush.

Australia is fantastic- yesterday was the hottest day theyd had in 85 years and today it rained so much it looked like wed just gone for a dip in the sea. I am however Neapolitan- white stomach, brown arms and red back. Id make any Italian proud. Oh and sailing? Love it. Still, you should have seen my skipper's face the first time I was at the helm. 'Turn it', he says, looking at me like pregnant penguin in a zoo, 'just like you'd drive a car'. There was a slightly awkward balloon moment before it dawns. 'You dont drive do you?' That was day one. Day 5 I crashed the boat into the pontoon. Impressive no?
 Its a bit like learning an entirely new language as well- I have to translate into non-salty sea dog speak before I do anything. 'Before you sweat the main halyard you need to release the vang and reefing lines and tighten the topping lift then lets look at the wind, put in a jibe and take a beamreach.' WTF.

I love and miss you my darling like green eggs miss ham
Imaginary cuddles,
Snort