A few years ago some friends of mine decided to take off on the adventure of a lifetime travelling from Singapore to London without taking a single flight. When I found out about the trip I was in two minds, the adventurous side becoming jealous just thinking about all the amazing tales they would surely have to tell, and the skeptical side pondering the logistical nightmare the journey posed.
Greg and Emma are friends of mine through my old job as a travel agent and are probably two of the most ‘down to earth’ people you will meet. I think without this carefree attitude to life a trip like this would be impossible. Seriously just think about the planning involved in making your way from the far east of Asia through some of the most difficult countries to navigate by land!!
They have been kind enough to give as an insight into the mammoth life changing journey that ensued. Here is the start of their story…..
The Journey Begins………..
QF32 landed in Singapore just before 11pm. Our connection with air travel is hopefully going to be severed for the next 18 months. We walk down to collect our packs and watch intensely as each item of luggage emerges and descends with a lifeless thud. The wait seems more intense than normal, we are after all waiting for our “homes” to arrive. Trekking equipment, sleeping bags, tents, boots, this is not like loosing a few shirts and a toothbrush; although we do have those packed. Our “homes” finally drift towards us on black rubber scales, what relief!
Approaching immigration control, the officer gives our packs a fleeting suspicious look and then nods under his cap to go through. The arrival hall bursts into life. A wall of people waiting for loved ones, mixed among drivers and tour operators holding signs up for clients they have never met. We thread our way through the masses and head straight for the taxi rank. The glass doors of the terminal slide open, and we are instantly punched in the face by the warm tropical evening. The yellow streetlights barely penetrate the steamy air. You know at once you are in Asia.
Singapore is by most Asian cities a very orderly affair. The taxi drivers all wait patiently for not so patient passengers to bark instructions. With bags crammed into the back we speed through a corridor of Banyan trees towards “Little India”. Our taxi driver is finding it difficult to locate our hostel, and much stopping, questioning and arm waving is yielding so far poor results. I keep reminding myself we have all the time in the world but the meter reminds me we certainly don’t have all the money in the world. After a series of turns down increasingly narrow lanes we arrive at Footprints Hostel, the cheapest place we can find to sleep in Singapore.
The room is a clean and sterile affair, and the bare fluorescent tube mounted on the ceiling does little to improve the drab character. It doesn’t matter we have a bed and it’s the first night of our long trip away. A celebration seems in order but the time on the clock and the long flight over have us unrolling our sleeping bags instead. Sleep comes easily that night in spite of the hard bed and limp pillows.
It’s still dark the next morning when we are awoken by our first “call to prayer.” The little India district is very close to the Muslim quarter. Normally one might feel angered at sleeping so close to this audile intrusion, but the call invokes in us far off lands yet to be discovered. It’s a sound that will become ubiquitous on our travels across the largest continent on earth. The sense of no work and little responsibility is powerful and soon we are wide-awake discussing plans of how to get to Kuala Lumpur. Over a breakfast of oily fried eggs (which I try to salvage by dabbing with tissue paper) we decide to take the bus to KL. It’s a far less romantic mode of transport than the train but in this case it’s faster, less expensive and easier to organize. A few clicks on the dirty hostel mouse and our bookings are complete. We are leaving tomorrow at 11am giving us a full day to explore Singapore. Some might say 24 hours longer than is required but that would be cruel. Singapore does on the other hand have an excellent zoo, so we both decide to pay it a visit.
The large iron gates of Singapore Zoo hide behind them an impressive array of flora and fauna. I feel guilty about visiting animals held in captivity, but still I find myself drawn to have a look. Fortunately and aesthetically speaking the zoo has barely a bar or cage to be seen, opting instead for cleverly designed enclosures with moats preventing any escapes. I can’t help to think that the heat of the day and ample supply of food has most of the animals in a state of lethargic apathy. Some time during the afternoon menacing clouds gather like huge grey bullies. You can smell the storm coming. The wind starts to dance with leaves on the ground, spinning them in circles and then flinging them into a sky, which is turning ugly shades of deep green. Deafening cracks of lightening send both human and beast scurrying in all directions. We manage to take shelter under the entrance to the Mandrill enclosure just as heavy warm drops become a ragging torrent. The sound above is like ten thousand tiny tap dancers auditioning all at once on a tin roof. CRACK BANG! Children crying. CRACK BANG! Mandrill’s howling, what a show Mother Nature is turning on. It is a good hour before the rain abates and the winds subside. Now all we can hear are hundreds of frogs and crickets singing in grateful appreciation. The Mandrills re-emerge damp and composed to continue with their pre storm grooming.
Returning from the zoo that evening we decide to head down to the Raffles hotel. The Long Bar at the Raffles dishes up a large serving of old world colonial charm. It drags the patron back to the days of ladies in long dresses and men who wore suits in a climate not suited for both. Bamboo fans gently sway giving only a visual sense of relief from the heat. Our waiter resplendent in his cream suit takes our order for what else? “Two Singapore Slings please.”
“As you like sir.” he replies with a smile that depicts his contempt for our lack of originality. The drinks arrive but it’s the ambience of the bar as opposed to the ingredients in the glass that make them go down a treat. The same cannot be said when the bill arrives, and I find myself somewhat in disbelief. It’s a hefty price to pay for a kitsch cliché. We make our exit over thousands of peanut shells discarded on the floor and walk back to The Little India district. The night is balmy and a cool breeze still lingers from the afternoon storm. Our first day draws to a close with hundreds more remaining to be born, what a magical feeling.
Tomorrow we start our long Journey to London.
