cambodia – Juanito's Travels

50 year backpacker – getting from Ho Chi Minh, Vietnam to Phnom Penh, Cambodia by minibus, plus a bit about my dead kiwi friend Sacha Haitana – pt39

I hate prologues and introductions.

This is more of an aside than those things.

I was thinking of my friend Sacha again. I may have mentioned him in previous blogs. He killed himself. Sometime between going missing in Melbourne from his share-house in Richmond, Melbourne and when they found his body when I was out in the Dandenong forest on the outskirts of Melbourne when I was out with a bunch of people filming a short film that I never finished called Agent Juanito that I had based on script I wrote which was based on an Alfred Hitchcock film called 39 Steps. There may have been less, or more, steps, I think it was 30 something. A spy sort of thing. That was probably at the end of 2001 or the start of 2002, the year my daughter was born. After that I never made another short film, or film of any length.

Disappeared, I think, sometime in the late 90s. I had gone with my Bulgarian mate Kosio Newman – who is also missing from my life, perhaps in Sofia, I asked my daughter to keep an eye out for him when she was there a few weeks ago but she didn’t see him – on a roadtrip from Melbourne to Queensland that I chronicled in the Adventures of Koiso & Juanito. That was the year the lead singer from INXS, Michael Hutchen’s (actually Hutchence, I just looked it up but wanted to keep the original spelling in as an approximate guess, can’t always go rewriting history) died as I heard about his death somewhere on the road while we were still in Victoria. The year was 1997. Which I just looked up.

This is Kosio Newman, my Bulgarian friend who moved to Melbourne in the 1990s.

It took longer than I thought between Sacha going missing and his body being found, I think in a tent from what I remember from the news report. I think he was a skeleton by then. I can’t find any further record of him. Like he didn’t exist. And they tell us anything we do on the internet will come back to haunt us. I can’t even find a record of my dead friend, so I don’t think the internet is that good!

Anyway he was good guy, a good friend, and he was partly of Maoria heritage, and was from Invercargill in New Zealand’s. He changed his name from Bendan (or Brendon) to Sacha after toying with the idea of calling himself Alexis. He liked those Russian sounding names that could be used for males or females.

And that’s how I start my blog post today, I’ll put some ****s, and a picture of some Great Hornbill birds in Phnom Penh, below to demarcate that from the ‘main’ blog post, which is more travel focussed and much less dead, skeleton, friend in forest focussed.

But I will say, the day they reported finding his body, maybe somewhere out in the Dandenongs forest, we were filming Agent Juanito.

**********

It was still daylight when we crossed the border from Vietnam to Cambodia on the way from Ho Chi Minh to Phnom Penh. The bus driver stopped at the border and in very broken English asked all of us to handover our passports.

A woman who had been living in Cambodia was worried.

‘It sort of breaks all the rules of travel to hand over your passport’, she said with trepidation.

“Yeah, it’s South-East Asia though’, I said, wondering now why I said that as I’d been ripped off many years earlier in 1995 on my first trip to Bangkok, but that day I felt it was all going to be cool. Or maybe not, I just took my chances.

We all handed over our passports, including woman who was living in Cambodia who was trepidated (that’s technically correct English according to the internet which can’t find mention of Sacha anywhere). I can’t recall, we may have also handed over a small amount of cash as an ‘administration fee’ as well. If we did, it wasn’t much. I didn’t miss it anyway.

There was a kind of lawless looking zone around the border between the two countries. With a few casinos and things. We weren’t sure if we were still in Vietnam or maybe we were in Cambodia already.

We waited a bit, maybe 20 minutes, perhaps longer. I could just say I put a timer on and it was precisely 28 minutes and 40 seconds and who would knows. Then, after 28 mins, 40 secs our passports came back and we all now had Cambodian entry visa stamps in our passport having earlier collected our Vietnam exit stamps. On the Vietnam side the Vietnamese had actually checked who we said we were on our passports. On the Cambodian side the Cambodians didn’t check anything. Perhaps they were fine with seeing a Vietnamese exit stamp on our passports. It probably would be pretty unusual for the people who the Vietnamese verified to suddenly swap with other people in the no-man land. Perhaps a story point for a spy thriller like Agent Juanito.

I don’t have a strong recollection of the whole process, but it worked. Our little minibus, with maybe 12 of us foreigners inside, had made its way across the border from Vietnam to Cambodia and we continued on our way to Phnom Penh along a narrow two-lane road with plenty of potholes and trucks that would pass us at every chance they had and as dangerously as they could. That’s a pretty boring description of the dangerous driving we witnessed. My writing friends from RMIT University’s Professional Writing and Editing course, which I had been studying in Melbourne when Sacha went missing, though I was kind of on a break when Kosio and I did our roadtrip from Melbourne to Queensland. Oh, and I didn’t finish that bit above, I mentioned hearing of Michael Hutchence’s death. I forgot to mention I heard about Sacha’s disappearance in 1997 (I didn’t hear about his death until around 2001-2002 or maybe, possibly, 2000), when I had arrived in Queensland and was living with my sister in a flat in Bilinga on the Gold Coast.

The flat was hot and had many cockroaches. I went back to Melbourne to recommence my Professional Writing and Editing course when I realised I wasn’t going to get a job on the Gold Coast during the 1997 economic downturn.

There seemed to be an abundance of dentists in Cambodia. Every kilometre or so there was a dentist’s office, or place, or surgery, that’s the probably the term. Cambodian dental surgery.

They – the dental surgeries – looked as though it was a government run place. They must either have good or bad teeth in Cambodia, I guess depending on whether the amount of dental services represented a prophylactic or reactive measure.

We had left our friend Fyyaz from Canberra back in Ho Chi Minh. Not because we didn’t want him coming along with us on the minibus trip which had been the original plan, but because he had decided that despite all the really amazing and delicious Vietnamese food available in Ho Chi Minh he had elected to eat what appeared to be a 2-5 day old hot dog from a 7-11.

Just for the record when Fyyaz was contemplating the hot dog I had said, ‘why are you going to eat that hot dog when there is all this nice Vietnamese food around the place?’ And I continued, ‘We were literally just there at the food place where they had all that nice food and you could have had something there.’ And I might have added, at leats in my imagination, ‘if you eat that hot dog you may get very sick, or perhaps even die, and I’m not going to explain to your wife how you died, I’m just going to keep going with our trip and leave your dead body at the hotel in the red-light district with many question marks, as we’ve already prebooked a bunch of hotels and don’t want to get involved with you and your curious choices of “food”’.

And Fyyaz had said, ‘I can’t use my credit card to buy all the street food’.

And I said, ‘I would have given you the cash to buy something nice, and we can still go get something nice’.

And still he insisted on eating the yukky old hot dog from the 7-11.

And, in summary, he got food poisoning. Just like I thought he would. Most likely from the hot dog as he hadn’t eaten anything else Jan and I hadn’t eaten.

All I can say is, ‘te lo dige’, in Spanish or ‘I told you so’ in English.

I’m reading a book called The Horse, the Wheel and Language, about the origin of English, well the roots of the Proto-Indo-European language which then developed into German, English, Spanish, Bulgarian, Sanskrit, and a bunch of other languages. There’s a lot about counting bones of sheep and horses to work out how language spread. Really, that seems to have something to do with language.

So Fyyaz couldn’t come on the minibus with us as he needed to go poop too much. Or just enough to get the pesky bacteria out.

I know the feeling, I ended up with vomiting and diarrhoea on an American Airlines flight from Australia to Los Angeles after eating some sort of scrambled egg thing for breakfast. I know it was that American Airlines as Jan hadn’t eaten that for breakfast and I had made the mistake of eating it. And I know it was something from the plane as as we were waiting at LA airport for a connecting flight to Oaxaca, Mexico, I had begun to get sick, which had then gotten much worse by the time we got to Oaxaca and ultimately had me in hospital on a saline drip and drugs at 2 or 3am on I think the 2nd night we were there.

I’m still having trauma with eggs imagining they are off.

On our first night in Oaxaca, before ending up in hospital, we had gone out to a restaurant to try some tlayudas, the Oaxacan corn tortilla dish, for Jan, and sopa de tortilla for me and my delicate stomach. Had I known how bad my tummy was getting I would have just had a coke and a few spoons of the sopa de tortilla broth.

Me looking pretty seedy after getting sick from American Airlines food and my sopa de tortilla

my wife and I. thanks to me my wife I dot to hospital and didn’t die from my yucky eggs from American Airlines

The next day I only got out of bed to go to the toilet. Frequently.

Lucky I packed 10 pairs of underwear as the slightest movement seemed to result in anal discharge.

So, Fyyaz, on his way from Vietnam to Cambodia, had elected to fly from Ho Chi Minh to Phnom Penh and we were going to meet up with him there.

We travelled for maybe 4 hours from the Mộc Bài, border crossing to Phnom Penh. I only know it was Mộc Bài as I have a stamp in my passport which I never remember even looking at until now.

It was a bit of an adventure, I think more interesting than the air route. You get to see a bit of the countryside, the many dental clinics, and some other interesting things.

I remember seeing a truck that was, from an Australia perspective, fully totally overloaded and beyond what I’d consider a reasonable height above the truck’s tray with bales of hay to the point where it looked like it was going to topple over if you lent on it too much, or if there was a strong breeze. It was going along ok though and I imagine it reached its destination okay.

There were also quite a few of these tractor looking things, but not tractors, like these long converted tractor type things that looked sort of pointy like a drag racing car, but distinctly tractor/ farm looking with what looked to be a kind of large lawnmower engine, or generator motor. Something like that. They look almost like a long horse-drawn cart with the open motor out front with a belt I guess connected to the axle to drive the wheels around. You might guess I’m no mechanic, nor perhaps a poet. Maybe I have a picture of one as my description on both the mechanical and poetic level is not that grand. I’ll check.

I checked, and I don’t have a photo. You can use your imagination. Or better still, go to Cambodia.

So, after a bit, we arrived in Phnom Penh.

******

a nice garden design I wanted to note so I can do something similar in a garden one day

Jan and I were staying at a fancy hotel in Phnom Penh in a reasonably quiet neighbourhood which was walking distance from the Royal Palace of Cambodia. Fyyaz was at some place in a neighbourhood where women kept asking him if he wanted ‘boom boom’. Which he insisted he didn’t and I’m sure he didn’t. I mean that in a genuine way, I’m his friend, and he’s not into that type of thing anyway. I mean I’m sure he’s into sex a bit. He has 2 kids. As for the sex workers though, I wouldn’t think so.

As for getting involved with organising the return of his body if he’d died from the 7-11 hotdog, that luckily wasn’t tested.

Not that I could judge, in terms of employing sex workers, I did pay for sex once. It was pretty crappy. I only did it because I was stressed. I was on a work trip to Melbourne. My ex-wife had recently been diagnosed with schizophrenia. I should say she had recently shown symptoms of schizophrenia after having been diagnosed with schizophrenia when she was younger, which she, and her family, had never told me, but then, after having two kids, I was just becoming aware of her illness, which was quite stressful. Anyway that’s why I rang up and had a sex worker come to my room. Because I was stressed and thought sex might relax me a bit. She was nice, but I couldn’t really get it up.

I had a bathtub in the hotel room. Having a bath was more relaxing than trying to have sex with a sex worker.

The sex my wife and I had at our fancy hotel in Phnom Penh was a million times better. I recommend every now and again splurging on a place with a four-poster bed on occasions as it does wonders for libidos.

I think we met up with Fyyaz after we’d had a night at our fancy hotel. We hadn’t wanted to get a sim card at the no-man land border crossing area so we’re heading to some mall to find a place to get a SIM.

Fyyaz loved the malls as they had air conditioning. When we met up with him in Ho Chi Minh we told him he should toughen up and get out and enjoy the street food in the SE Asia heat otherwise he’d never experience the local culture.

So, on our first morning in Phnom Penh, we met up with Fyyaz somewhere, maybe at our hotel, can’t remember, and we all went out to explore some temple on a roundabout which had some cool birds getting food from rubbish bins. It was hot, of course, but the temple, and the Great Hornbills (thank you Apple photos look up types of birds in photos) were very cool.

Later we went off to visit the Carlsberg beer sign which Fyyaz saw across the Mekong. But that is worthy of another post. I will leave this post here.

For now, getting from Vietnam to Cambodia, and seeing some Great Hornbills and a temple on a roundabout should be sufficient.

50-Year-Old Backpacker Blog: A Juanito’s Travels Chronicle. BlogPt1

The Pre-Planning Phase.

The first time I went backpacking was 27 years ago.

I went to find a girl, a Swiss girl. Or to visit Ireland. It’s unclear now.

I met the Swiss girl in Victoria, Australia. Her name was Corinne.

The Swiss girl was married then. I am married now. To a Wonder Woman. I even bought her, my Wonder Woman wife, a Wonder Woman sweater at Six Flags theme park in Mexico City. It was after we got drenched on one of the water rides which she’d said we were going to get drenched on and which I thought we’d just get a bit wet. We had to get some warm clothes and the Wonder Woman top seemed like a good way to admit she was right!

My wife and I met around the Day of the Dead in Guadalajara, Mexico. You can read more about that here.

I met Corinne decades earlier. She wasn’t so much a Swiss girl as a Swiss woman. She was the first lover I’d had where it felt like I’d found that puzzle piece I’d be looking for for ages. It just fitted.

I bought a pair of Scarpa boots made in Italy for my first trip overseas. They were soft leather, though harsher than Corinne’s skin softened by Nivea. Corinne looked a bit boyish to begin with. I wasn’t even sure she was attractive. Until I saw her naked body under her boyish clothes a few days later.

“Excuse me, do you have the time?” She’d asked.

It was the 90s. There was a clock on the wall behind her at Hurstbridge railway station. At the end of one of the Melbourne lines. Past Greensborough.

I pointed to the clock behind her head, “5.15”. It was April. Or May. Not that long after Easter. It was already getting dark.

And thus began an adventure around Australia which I fictionalised a bit in my online novella: the Adventures of Kosio and Juanito. So enough of her, my Wonder Woman wife might turn her magic lasso and invisible plane to devastating effect if I harp on about a previous love too much.

Suffice to say, back then, this meeting of the Swiss woman contributed to my motivation for my first trip to Europe back then in the early 90s.

I’ve since been back to Europe with my daughter. I also spent a few days in Iceland, Paris and Germany without my daughter, or my then wife-to-be, who is not the mother of my daughter, and whom I’d left in Mexico after becoming engaged following a trip to Cuba and around Mexico.

For a few days between getting engaged in Mexico and travelling to Munich to pick my daughter up from a school excursion, I was just by myself, as I had been in the 90s. With a backpack, a return ticket to London, no plans and little money.

How could you plan back then? There wasn’t even any internet to speak of! I seriously can’t recall, I guess you got guidebooks and pamphlets and guidance from the travel agency. I used STA Travel back then to help book my plane tickets. I just looked them up, and, during the worst of COVID lockdowns, they went bankrupt.

I wished I’d forked out some money for the Lonely Planet guidebook back then in the 90s. It would have helped with events to come.

Back to now, 2022. Post-COVID(ish). Well I have COVID as I write this so it’s still going, we’re just mostly ignoring now that millions of us in wealthy countries have had two or three a few jabs.

While in the 90s you could do with a guidebook, now we have the wealth of the internet. Which I find a bit distracting but which occasionally is useful.

We have everything at our fingertips but not much it seems that’s really worth looking at. In many ways it’s taken the mystery out of travel.

Back in the 90s I ended up bumming around Ireland for 6 months staying and working on Organic farms and visiting Vipassana meditation centres in France and Herefordshire.

In 2022, I have a Google Sheets spreadsheet with an itinerary and rough costings for each day of my planned trip. Which, at the moment, is Thailand, Laos, Cambodia, Italy, Greece and Turkey.

I’ve decided to name my posts the 50-Year-Old Backpacker, A Juanito’s Travels Chronicle for now because, I don’t know, I can’t come up with another idea and I’ve never done a regular blog before and I’m 49 at the moment and started writing for the internet back in 1997 so I still like to keep it simple.

And I told my son he should use full stops rather than keeping writing ‘and’ but he should do what I say and not what I do.

So, planning for a trip. Back to my first trip to Europe in 1994 or 1995, it was sometime in the early 90s I can’t be bothered getting my old passport out of the shoebox to check. Actually it must have been 1995 as my niece was born when I was over there and she just turned 27. Anyway, I was initially travelling to Europe to kind of chase a Swiss girl called Corinne I’d met on a train at Hurstbridge, an outer suburb of Melbourne, Victoria, Australia.

That can’t have been the only motivating factor as I’d headed to Ireland, where I hold citizenship due to my grandmother Bee born in County Sligo, rather than Switzerland. But plans change. And for that trip in the 90s I didn’t plan much at all.

I’d been working on a farm in Nutfield, Victoria, not far from Hurstbridge. I had met Bev Brock, the partner of a famous Australian racing-car driver called Peter Brock. They weren’t married but Bev had taken on Peter’s surname.

Bev had offered me a job when, unemployed and on the dole, I decided to go out to do some volunteer work on an organic farm in East Gippsland through a scheme called Willing Workers on Organic Farms (WWOOF). This still exists, I just googled them and there’s a bunch of happy looking people in shirts picking chilli and talking to cows.

Bev was doing a weekend yoga retreat on the farm and we got to chatting and I said something like I wanted to help the planet by growing organic vegetables and she’d given me her number on a piece of paper on which she wrote Bev & Peter Brock. See, even back then some of us wanted to help the planet! Well back a long time before I was born many of us did too, it just seems like now it’s starting to get mainstream appeal as we’re on the precipice of turning the place into Venus where no life will live in the fiery inferno, nuked by UV radiation.

I didn’t know at the time Bev gave me the bit of paper that it was ‘the’ Peter Brock, the famous race-car driver, who, despite my general lack of interest in motorsports even I had heard of as he’d won the most prestigious endurance race in Australia at Mt Panorama Bathurst many times. A bit like Muhammad Ali, I’d never watched a boxing match in my life but all us kids in the 70s knew who he was. And we all knew who Peter Brock was.

I’d gone out WWOOFing, as they call it, following my first 10-day meditation course of Vipassana style meditation. There was another famous person who took that course with me called Michael Leunig, a cartoonist who drew ducks and teapots. He is also an Australian icon. As it was a silent retreat for most of the time (9 of the 10 days) I never chatted to him. I also didn’t recognise him, and being a bit shy I may not have really talked to him anyway. I probably said hi though, and I remember his curly hair and peaceful demeanour. I just like to mention that because I’m intrigued by famous people and where they pop up. I guess it’s not too uncommon to be drawn to fame, testament to this is the rise of Instagram and all those other attention seeking apps.

I’d finished the Vipassana meditation course out somewhere in country Victoria. I think it was at an old scout camp. It was around Easter. I remember as one day the servers on the course had given us all a few of those little chocolate Easter eggs wrapped in shiny foil. It was welcomed as they only gave you breakfast and then a lunch which they served around 11, in keeping with the monk and nun lifestyle of not eating after 12. They did give us a bit of fruit around 4ish but still I was starving. I can still remember the smell of the chocolate.

So I came back to a share house after the meditation course. I’d signed up for 3 months at a place in Fitzroy after my sister, who I’d been living with in Melbourne, ran out of space and asked me to move out. She had 2 kids by then and I’m not sure they wanted some hippy hanging about the place for too long. The shared house in Fitzroy seemed to have about 5-6 people in it. Some who lived there and others who were girlfriends or friends of the rent-paying occupants. I’d rented the room off some woman who’d gone over to Europe or Asia or somewhere for 3 months.

I came back from the silent retreat all enlightened and all – actually not really, I’d found the course extremely tough and like in those pictures where the Buddha sits cross-legged and all tranquil like! My housemates were all sitting around the TV basking in its warm glow. I looked at their profiles on the couch, said ‘hi’, which was barely acknowledged and then went upstairs to my room. I dropped my bags down.

I’d picked up the number for WWOOF somewhere in Melbourne, maybe on a lamppost or at the organic, anarchistic, hippy organisation, Friends of the Earth food store and coop in Collingwood where I bought rolled oats and beans. I’d got the WWOOF people to send me the printed guidebook so I could contact host farms. It had arrived while I was at the retreat so I started flicking through the pages. I found the yoga place in East Gippsland which looked interesting. I went out. I got on a public phone. I rang them up. They said I could go out the next day as they were going into Bairnsdale and they could take me out to the farm in Buchan. I went downstairs. I announced to the zombie TV people I was heading to a farm the next morning for a few days to which I got some grunts and what have you.

I went back up to my room. Since it was getting chilly I decided to try and start a little fire in the room’s fireplace. I quickly realised the vent was closed or something so the smoke didn’t go up the chimney, it just went into the room. I panicked and put the fire out before too much damage was done. But the chick’s clothes who’d I rented the room off got all smokey.

So I went out for a week to the yoga farm, planted cabbages and lettuces, tended to goats, picked corn, had cups of tea and went for bush walks in the days I had off. I got the number of Bev while I was there. I came back to Fitzroy to the same zombie glow of the house people, I rang Bev and then went out to the farm in Nutfield where she said I go live there and work on the place. I took the train back to Fitzroy, I announced I was moving out, I think I’d paid up till the end of the 3 months anyway. They grunted again. I never knowingly saw them again.

I’d like to say I’m sure they were nice people. But I’m not confident of that. They seemed like jerks anyway.

After moving out to the farm in Nutfield I’d noticed a few racing trophies and the like, not really in prominent positions but obvious enough for me to put 2 and 2 together. I realised I was working for ‘the’ Peter Brock, famous race-car driver and I rang my mum and said, ‘I think I’m working for ‘the’ Peter Brock’ out on a farm in Nutfield. To which she was maybe not that surprised.

The Brocks had a beautiful pink house on a hill overlooking a gully with a huge gum tree in front where they fed the cockatoos, galahs and a semi-tame kangaroo called Tilley bird seed in the mornings. They also fed the magpies and kookaburras a bit of minced meat which occasionally they’d forget and which we’d discover once it’d gone smelly.

The house was surrounded by ponds, one of which went inside and outside the house so fish could swim in. It was pretty amazing. Bev and Peter had their own part of the house where the kitchen and the inside outside pond were.

A few weeks after starting there I met Corrine, a Swiss architect who’d been studying English in Melbourne. She came to the farm and Bev and Peter welcomed her as well. Bev showed her pictures of the house in architectural magazines and we had dinner together with the family. After spending a few days on the farm together I announced to Bev that Corinne and I were going to travel north. Winter was coming so there wasn’t much to do on the farm at that point anyway. So we travelled up and down the east coast of Australia as far as Airlie Beach. Somewhere along the way I’d discovered Corinne was married, and my newly found Buddhist values said she should go back to Switzerland to finish that before she started a new relationship with me. Besides I actually had a job – and one I was really passionate about – now so I thought I should go back to it.

You can read a fictionalised version of that in my online novel: The Adventure of Kosio & Juanito (& Corinne) – a novel of sorts about fishing, love and life.

It was an amazing time of my life. I regret pushing her away back to Switzerland. But that happens sometimes in life. I should have also probably called the novella the Adventures (with an ‘s’) of Kosio & Juanito (& Corinne) but I’ve since rectified that with the title of this website and I’m going to keep the original name as well as all the typos I’m sure it still has. It’s not Hemingway’s Fiesta, but it’s worth a read in my opinion.

I’m now married to a beautiful Mexican whom I met on my travels to Mexico, so perhaps I’m learning from my regrets and proving the adage there’s more fish in the ocean. Although I also married her like 20 years or so later (than my days in Nutfield with the Brocks) so perhaps you should also be patient both in fishing and love (both themes of my first ‘book’: https://juanitos-travels.com/?page_id=1615).

So back to Bev & Peter Brock’s farm in Melbourne. After pushing away Corinne and only having her Swiss Army knife as a memory – as we didn’t get any photos together due to her being married and not having phones capable of taking photos in that day – I went back to the farm in Nutfield and spent the rest of the year tending to goats, chickens and vegetables, planting thousands of gums, casuarinas, wattles and fruit trees, seeing snakes, wombats and foxes and walking around in nature.

I still had, and still have, Corinne’s Swiss Army knife which she’d sent me by mail from Sydney while she waited to go back to Switzerland. She liked painting and had sent me a water colour of the Sydney harbour bridge with a beautiful note and the knife. I kept the knife, and for years the water colour and note.

I regretted not spending more time with her.

Bev & Peter paid me $10 an hour cash in hand (take it up with the tax office – their accountant made me some sort of director of a trust or something), but since I ate with the family every night, had no bills or rent to pay, and also that $10 was worth more back then, I was able to save up a few thousand dollars by the end of the year. I used to keep it in some books at my sister’s house to avoid the prying eyes of the taxman and the dole office.

So, after saving enough for a ticket to London return I decided I would set off and see if maybe I could find her. I had my WOOFing guide after all which included a few farms in Switzerland.

Early in 1995 I had my ticket, which included stopovers in Bangkok and either Kathmandu or New Delhi. I sent a note to Corinne in Switzerland to say I was keen to see her again. She’d left her address with the Brock’s but not with me. Come to think of it I wasn’t sure if I’d sent the note before I left or perhaps when I was in Europe. It seems more like me to wait until I was closer by. Still I sent her something at some point.

I think the plan was to go to Switzerland, spend some time on farms and maybe see if I could catch up with her again in her town of Elgg, Switzerland.

That was the plan at least.