Views that take your breath away, like here in Norway along the Eagle Highway. Photo Chris Raven © tripsideways.com

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Leaving London

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The sudden break up with girlfriend Emily Willow finds Simon Raven, ex-amateur rock God and bored internet producer, on a Boeing 747 bound for Seattle. Led by his twin brother, Chris, who is more than happy to exchange a career in fashion photography for the open road, they embark on a buttock-clenching journey of paranoia and self-doubt, as they traverse Interstate Highway 15 through backcountry America.

Along the way our hapless heroes bumble through bear infested wilderness, meet the eccentric and plain weird on the American freeway, escape a bullwhip wielding maniac in Montana and survive the evils of Las Vegas. Testing their friendship to the limit as they battle to reach their nirvana, which exists in the form of the bikini beaches of California, the brothers find inspiration on a journey that exposes the stark truth about work and relationships and which asks the question – what do you really want to do with your life?

Poignant, candid and true, Leaving London is honestly written and hilariously funny.

At a food pit stop somewhere outside Mazuk, Peru. Photo Simon Raven tripsideways.com

by Chris Raven

www.tripsideways.com

AS I STAND HERE in Cusco bus station with a thumping hangover, it suddenly dawns on me that the idea of catching a 36 hour bus journey that starts at 16,000 feet above sea level in the Andes and finishes in the steamy jungles of the Peruvian Amazon is absolutely crazy.

It all happened last night while my brother Simon and I were celebrating our return from Matchu Pichu and drinking warm Chicha, a popular local drink made from fermented maize, in some drinking hole off Plaza de Armas. “Get the plane” a backpacker advised us, who after a few drinks confessed to suffering from parcopresis. Hmm, why didn’t we listen to him? We spot a lone kiosk with a brightly coloured sign above the desk that reads “Turismo Mendivil” and “Pto. Maldonado”. Our nightmare journey is about to begin.

I’m in Peru, a country in western South America bordering Ecuador, Colombia, Brazil, Chile and Bolivia. It’s a country famous for the Inca Empire (1438 to 1533) and Machu Picchu (the Lost City of the Incas discovered in 1911 by the American historian Hiram Bingham), Nazca lines (ancient geoglyphs located in the Nazca Desert in southern Peru), Andes Mountains (stretching for 7,000 km), the Peruvian Amazon (largest number of bird species in the world), Llamas (originated from the central plains of North America about 40 million years ago), Traditional Andean music (panflute), Pisco (a strong, colourless grape brandy), fresh fish (861 different species), potatoes (5000 different types world wide), surfing (Máncora) and Lake Titicaca (the highest lake in the world).

So, at the kiosk local Peruvians crowd around and struggle with their luggage that’s tied up in enormous bundles. We follow suit and slip our rucksacks in thick yellow plastic bags that we’d bought from a hardware shop called ‘Plasticos’. There isn’t much to do here while we’re waiting, so we hang around drinking strong black coffee and observe our fellow passengers. They look like they might be market traders buying goods from Cusco to sell in Puerto Maldonado, or illegal loggers on their way to help cut down the Amazon rainforest for the wood or to help clear the area for the new 3,400 km transoceanic highway. At this moment in time as I write, this section of road in Peru hasn’t even been built yet. But Peruvian engineers will soon be hard at work on the road’s last, and most problematic, section: a tortuous, 460-mile stretch from the steamy Amazon Basin and over the frosty Andes, which will connect down to the Pacific coast.

Eventually, everyone slowly heads down to the platform, and we follow close behind and wait outside in the sunshine for the bus to arrive. It doesn’t. We take the delay in our stride and remind ourselves that when crossing a frontier like this nothing can be expected to go to plan.

Some hours later a huge noisy vehicle skids into the station, and as the fumes engulf us we realise our transport to the Amazon has finally arrived. The blue Volvo bus with “Turismo Mendivil” along the side appears to have a truck chassis with the body of a bus plonked on top. Raised high off the ground the truck has huge wheels with deep treads and is perfectly designed for off road driving. We feel more confident that if we are going to complete this journey at all, we’ll have a better chance if we’re travelling on one of these mean machines. Everybody immediately starts scrambling for position, but we choose to hang back and watch as they load the truck with everyone’s luggage. Hauling huge sacks onto the roof and lashing them to the metal frame. We feel relieved our bags are watertight.

Climbing aboard, we’re welcomed by a strong smell of the countryside and stale cheese and as soon as we’re settled into our seats I quickly slide open the window. Our fellow passengers are of all ages, from mothers with children to men on their own and even an elderly couple perhaps visiting family in Puerto Maldonado for the first time in their lives. It must be incredibly annoying for these people knowing that down the road is an airport where they can catch a one hour flight to Porto Maldindo instead of a nightmare 36 hour bus journey.

Before we know it we’re pulling out of the bus terminal. The driver seems to be extremely confident when it comes to controlling this tank, and I assume to drive these roads it would be a necessary requirement. We head out of Cuzco on the road to Urcos and hurtle through the beautiful countryside, passing the tranquil village of San Jeronimo on the Rio Huatanay. We drive on fairly good surfaced tarmac into the evening and watch the sun drop below the mountains, as we pass the town of Quincemil 240kms from Urcos. My ears keep popping and I guess we must be dropping in altitude quite quickly.

The road becomes suddenly more hazardous as it begins to grow dark, and I try to ignore the sound of the squealing brakes when we whip around sharp bends and skid along narrow mountain passes. Somehow, I drift off to sleep and some hours later I wake to the sound of the engine cutting out. I assume we’ve pulled up for the night at a rest stop and I feel relieved we’re not travelling in the dark. We both snuggle under our blankets and snooze until daylight.

I wake up in morning to find we’re the only ones sitting on the bus. Where is everybody? I ask Si, but he just shrugs his shoulders and tucks into a bruised apple. “Why has everyone got off?” Suddenly, the driver sparks up the tank and cranks it into gear. I peer out of the window and can see the other passengers standing on the corner. There has been a landslide and mud has covered a small section of the mountain dirt road. We’re literally balancing on a cliff edge thousands of feet up. One wrong move and we’ll be kissing the metal roof and wishing we’d got the plane. No wonder the driver waited until the morning to attempt this. We’re paralysed with fear and accept our fate; it’s too late to get off. The bus rocks slowly and the wheels spin as they battle to cross through the mud. I can’t believe no one woke us up. The driver creeps forward slowly, but stops when the bus leans over the edge at an angle which quite literally causes me to pee in my pants. Finally, the bus makes it over to the other side and the passengers all quickly leap back on board. “Thanks for waking us us!” I consider shouting. But I chicken out. We continue on our way. All in  a day’s work.

After filling up with fuel in the small town of Mazuk 1,000 feet above sea level, we continue our decent and I notice everywhere is much greener and lush with thick jungle vegetation. We pull up outside of a small restaurant. There’s a sign outside which reads, “BAR RESTARANT, EL CHEF MAGALY”, and we follow the other passengers into a dimly lit wooden building. We perch ourselves on the end of a long wooden table and wait to be served. A pretty young girl with rosy cheeks and petite features serves us a plate of rice with steaming meat and vegetables pilled on top of it. I’m not sure when we’ll get another chance to eat, so I happily tuck into the morning’s feast. The curious dark faces sat around the table glance up at us and shyly look away and a guy with a Nike baseball cap smiles. With stomachs bursting, we climb aboard the bus and once again we hit the dirt road and continue our decent through the lush jungle.

I feel hot so I wipe my sticky forehead on my T-shirt. Si rocks backwards and forwards and nods his head in time to the unpredictable motion of the bus. I pull the thin red curtain to one side and poke my head out of the window; smelling the sweet jungle. The road we’re driving on is a stony unsurfaced dirt track similar to the road we travelled on across the Andes. We approach a red iron bridge and the truck mounts the wooden boards. It seems incredible that a vehicle of this size can drive across wooden planks without them buckling under the weight, but we make it across the wide river without collapsing into the water. We cross many more of these identical red bridges, and I blink in disbelief when we pass a large billboard in the middle of nowhere promoting the construction of the new ‘Trans-Oceanica’. It shows a picture of a luxury coach cruising down a beautifully paved highway. The modern world has come knocking on the door of one of the world’s most amazing wildernesses, and nothing is going to stop it ploughing down the trees and thundering right through.

The deeper we penetrate through the Madre de Dios (Mother of God) the more trucks begin to appear, as they make the long journey over the Andes to the Pacific coast where their cargo of lucrative mahogany will be loaded onto ships bound for the United States and Europe. It’s the first signs of deforestation; the first signs of this highway cutting out the lungs of the earth.  Pulling over to allow the trucks to squeeze by I look at the faces of the loggers and construction workers travelling between Puerto Maldonado and Cuzco. It’s slow going as we reverse and shunt in the depths of the jungle.

Observing the natural beauty of the green jungle I study the tall trees and their thick vines. Grabbing my camera, I photograph the bright red tropical flowers growing at the roadside, which until now I had only ever seen plonked in vases on office reception desks or in hotel lobbies. All of a sudden I hear squawking above my head, I look up and see a flock of grey parrots with white clown faces flying alongside the truck. They’re so close I can practically reach out and touch them. They look like miniature macaws with small eyes and wrinkles on their white faces. They look at me with keen interest and continue to chase us through the forest. It’s a deeply surreal experience and I try to imagine what we must look like from above, as this strange manmade vehicle speeds through millions of hectares of sub-tropical rainforest. The parrots fly off and we struggle to pass a queue of trucks carrying wood on a sharp bend, which loops around a twenty-foot high waterfall. Fears of a paved highway immediately disappear.

This region is harsh terrain and we wait, once again, for a few trucks to squeeze past before attempting the bend. I look to my right and wonder where the smart guy has gone who was sitting across the aisle from Simon. He was reading a translated copy of ‘The Da Vinci Code’ by Dan Brown. I look up and down the truck, but he’s nowhere to be seen. I wonder if he jumped out somewhere along route, although, we haven’t passed any towns for ages and he looked too well groomed to be a logger. I look to the front of the truck and suddenly realise he’s driving! Stripped down to his white vest, he’s covered in sweat and battles with the steering wheel. The muscles on his arms look tense, but I catch a glimpse of his face in the large rear view mirror and I can see he’s laughing and having the time of his life. It fascinates me to think that a few hours ago he was reading ‘The Da Vinci Code’ and possibly imagining he was in Paris or London, and now he’s behind the wheel of a truck battling along a dirt track in the middle of the Peruvian Amazon. The bus slows down and the guy jumps out and chats to a truck driver. I look out of my window and realise we’re facing a wide river. There doesn’t appear to be a bridge anywhere in sight and the dirt track simply disappears into the water. Climbing back into the truck, the guy cracks his fingers, exercises his arms and cranks the bus into gear. We head straight for the water and I look out of my window in amazement, as the wheels gradually disappear below the surface. We slowly head down stream and hit boulders and sink into potholes. The truck rocks from side-to-side and the driver shunts and battles against the flow, causing the truck to lean sharply to the right. A few people scream and then laugh, my buttocks clench the seat and I wipe sweat from my forehead. The truck once again leans to the right and then sharply to the left. The potholes are deep and the truck struggles to get through them. As it jerks violently to the left again, a bag stored up above the seats falls onto a woman’s head. She screams and throws the bag to the floor. It all seems to be getting a little nasty. The truck suddenly leans to the right and stays at that angle for 20 seconds before correcting itself. I grasp the armrests and turn to Si. We’re speechless. This is all too much for us. If the truck leans a little bit further we’re fucked. I look for exit points in case it tips onto its side in the deep water, but realise there aren’t any. The truck is packed with people. They’ll be panic if it rolls. The windows only open a small amount, not enough to climb through. It seems the main door is the only way out. That’s if you can get there before you drown. I hate the thought of drowning with my brother sitting next to me. If I have to drown I’d prefer to do it in private. The wheels disappear completely, and the water level reaches the luggage compartment beneath the bus, which is well over a metre high. I think about our bags sloshing around in a foot of water in the luggage compartment. Our nightmare river journey from hell lasts for over an hour, and we thankfully emerge on the other side of the river and wheel spin onto the bank. I feel relieved to be back on dry land, and I’m close to handing the guy a $20 note as a thank you for not killing us. I still cannot believe this dude was originally a passenger. Sadly, this isn’t the last of our river experiences and we battle across many more flooded areas.

In the early evening we find ourselves on a dirt track again, and begin to pass shacks along the roadside. Thirty-three hours have passed since we left Cuzco and we haven’t had a pit stop for hours. As it begins to grow dark the skies open up, and hot tropical rain thunders down overhead. I feel physically and mentally exhausted. My body aches and my face is sore and my mouth is as dry as a bone. Simon looks like he’s just fought a battle and lost miserably. The thought of being close to the bright lights of Puerto Maldonado makes me want to jump out of my seat and kiss every single person on this putrid smelling truck. Cusco seems like another trip, another month, another year.

Bright lights appear on the horizon as we approach the frontier town of Puerto Maldonado. The truck is on a tarmac road now, and it truly feels like we’re driving over silk. People shelter from the rain outside the rows of tatty shops and karaoke bars and young teenagers on mopeds watch as our tank makes its presence known. It seems to be a fairly rundown place, which I kind of expect from a frontier town at the end of the line. People around us stand up and organize their belongings, and the driver/passenger who has returned to his seat quickly finishes the last page of his book. He slams it shut and blinks at his reflection in the window. We too gather our bags together, and release a sigh of relief when the bus jerks to a halt for the last time. The doors swing open and everyone charges down the aisle and pushes for the exit. We’re the last ones off. I step down and look around. It’s stiflingly hot and I’m instantly swarmed by a group of taxi drivers. They shout out to grab my attention and wave leaflets in my face. Everything seems to be in slow motion. I look down at the side of the bus and see our yellow sacks lying on the wet pavement. Simon falls off the bus close behind and runs over to the bags. They follow him too and shout in his face. It is madness, but we calmly grab our bags and walk over to a three-wheeled moto-taxi parked up nearby. The guy strikes the two-stroke engine and we speed away from the chaos  and zig-zag through the wet streets of Porto Maldonado.

We have made it to our destination. It has been one hell of a bus ride and the scariest and most dramatic journey I have ever been on. I praise the driver’s who have to battle along this road and the concentration they endure must be physically exhausting. The construction of the new highway isn’t popular with a lot of people living around here, but for the bus drivers the transoceanic highway will be a gift from heaven.

We pull up outside a hotel and fall into a small dark room. At this moment in time I’m so tired I wouldn’t have cared if the room didn’t come with a roof and four walls. My last delirious thought as I lay back on the lumpy hard bed – bollocks, the mosquitoes are going to eat us alive.

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Chris Raven on the Knivskjellodden trail with his golf umbrella. Photo Simon Raven © www.tripsideways.com

By Chris Raven

www.tripsideways.com

I’ve always been intrigued to find out what lies at the very top of Norway, 500 miles beyond the Arctic Circle and in the far depths of northern Europe. So, here I am in an empty car park on top of the world at the start of the Knivskjellodden trail, waiting patiently for an Arctic storm to pass by. The radio in my Vauxhall Corsa has broken, which has forced me to occupy myself in other ways by munching on stale custard creams and reading the information on the back of the suntan lotion (Butyl Methoxydibenzoylmethane?). Why I have suntan lotion in the Arctic is a mystery, because from where I’m sitting there’s about as much chance of grabbing some Vitamin D from the fire ball as a polar bear tapping on my window.

Mission: To walk the Knivskjellodden trail (18km rtn – starting point just off Highway E69 before Nordkapp entrance toll).

Location: Magerøya Island, Finnmark, North Cape, Norway – 3,330 km from London – 500 miles north of the Arctic Circle – 71°11’08″ latitude.

Fellow adventurer: Simon Raven (brother/journalist and photographer).

Arctic Experience: A little (once built an igloo in the back garden when I was seven).

Clothing & equipment: Scarf, walking boots, binoculars, umbrella, 99p plastic poncho (forgot to bring a coat).

Risk factor: Medium/high (may trip over rock, stray off trail, fall off a cliff or get eaten by a reindeer).

Norway “The Land of the Midnight Sun”, and a country famous for the Fjords, fishing, mountains, snow, sailors, Vikings, beautiful scenery, brightly painted houses, Lofoten Islands, pickled raw fish, cod racks, hunting and eating Whales, Nobel Prize, Reindeer, Northern Lights, oil & gas, expensive fast food (£12 for McDonalds Big Mac meal), Hammerfest (most northern city and an excellent small museum ‘The Royal and Ancient Polar Bear Society’), 24 hrs of daylight and old people driving huge motor homes and clogging up the roads. What’s even more interesting is that there are apparently more Norwegian descendants living in the United States than there are Norwegians in Norway, and if you balanced the country on its end and let go it would crash into Morocco. This is going to be fun…

The Arctic storm eventually buggers off and whips across the barren landscape and, with my belly full of custard creams and my knowledge of the ingredients of suntan lotion vastly improved, Simon and I get out of the car and smell the fresh polar air. An hour ago you could only just see a foot in front of you due to mist and now the flat, boulder-littered tundra can be seen to the horizon and in the direction of the North Cape Plateau.

It’s 6:00am, and it’s not as nippy as I had imagined considering we’re in the Arctic. Still, in case the storm returns, we take all the natural precautions for changeable weather and slip on our gloves (well, I do, Si forgot his, so he’ll be using a pair of socks), two jumpers and a fleece (we forgot to bring coats) and brightly coloured plastic ponchos and a golf umbrella. It suddenly occurs to me that we’re not as organized as I had first thought, and certainly not compared to most experienced road trippers and motor home lovers on their ‘Arctic’ adventure.

Reindeer's on the Knivskjellodden trail, Norway. Photo Chris Raven © www.tripsideways.com

Not letting our lack of experience and preparation skills get in the way of our ultimate goal, we double check we have water and a few packets of crisps and a sandwich in the rucksack, before setting off along the Knivskjellodden trail. The trail lies about 1,500 metres further north than the supposed Nordkapp latitude, which must be very annoying for the tourists who didn’t know this before remortgaging their homes to go on a coach tour to the most northern point of European mainland. Blame your tour company. Anyway, we set off feeling strong and follow the marked trail across the flat, spongy, treeless tundra with its sharp, craggy rocks and boggy puddles. Sometimes we stray completely off the trail into areas of snow, and wander in the wrong direction, but we stop, have a quick debate about which is the correct way, and get back on the trail. The markers are a little confusing and the trail could do with having clearer marker points. If we were doing this hike in a polar mist, we’d have no chance. Markers that flash orange when it’s misty would be a good idea. Or maybe it’s just our rather lousy navigation skills. I wonder how many people get severely lost up here for hours and hours in the cold, or never return? We continue to follow the arrows painted onto the piles of stones along the trail and soon make our decent down to sea level where we see a small island off the coast.

Dramatic views of the island and Arctic Ocean, Knivskjellodden trail, Norway. Photo Chris Raven © www.tripsideways.com

The views of the deep blue waters of the Arctic Ocean and the eerie black cliffs of North Cape are fantastic. A herd of reindeer’s race by and there are a couple of cute youngsters hugging their mother’s side. A dotterel appears and sings a song for us, it’s rather tame and we don’t seem to be a threat. It comes quite close. A skua flies from out of nowhere and crash lands on a small blue glistening lake to our left. The Arctic seabird flaps its wings and dips its head under the water before going airborne again and disappearing over the hills. I smell the clean air and smile at the beauty of this place. There’s nothing more amazing than being surrounded by nature and open space. Plus we seem to be the only people on the trail. We haven’t seen one single person. 6am was a good time to start. More reindeer’s pass by as we slowly climb down the plateau to sea level. The clouds are dark and menacing, making everywhere seem even more eerie and prehistoric. The red arrows keep us marching in the right direction, and after scrambling down a slope and over rocks we make it to the open sea. Suddenly, in the corner of my eye, a massive white-tailed eagle flies off a jagged ridge in the cliff face close by and swoops in circles above our heads riding the Arctic air currents. I’ve never seen an eagle of this size before. We stand and watch this beautiful bird of prey for a while, cranking our necks and looking up at it through the binoculars.

The furthest point and the end of the Knivskjellodden trail, marker and North Cape behind. Photo Chris Raven © www.tripsideways.com

Tripping sideways over rocks, we arrive at the bottom of the cliffs. Have we made it to the end of the trail? Si then spots another red arrow pointing to the left and up and over more rocks. We stop and catch our breath. I wouldn’t say we were unfit, slightly knackered, maybe, and there’s a slight pain in my chest, but I know for sure, this 18km round trip will not have us both bed bound and dribbling into our soups. Well, I hope not, anyway. I release a tiny sigh – a ‘no-way-my-feet-and-chest-hurt-but-no-problem-come-on-we’re-nearly-there; sigh, which is more than I can say for Si’s “Jesus Christ, you’re f***king kidding me!” We continue on that extra mile, jumping over crevasses and stumbling over huge boulders. A cormorant skims the ocean and seagulls cry out as they fly over head. It feels like we’re the last people on the planet and, up ahead in the distance, I see a round pink buoy and a spike with a yellow ball stuck on top of a concrete plinth. We had made it 1500 metres more north than Nordkapp and to the furthest point in mainland Europe. “Well done!” I sing, as we both link arms and have a little dance. We stop dancing and look out across the Arctic Ocean, as the waves swell and crash against the cliffs. It’s incredible to think where we are on the world map.  Iceland is way down and we’re practically on the same latitude as Greenland and Alaska. The island of Svalbard is the next land mass before you reach the North Pole, and it’s an island inhabited by polar bears, where it’s against the law to leave your house without a gun. For us, we don’t have to worry about polar bears, but it occurs to me how many people right now are currently further north than we are; maybe only a few thousand, or so. I feel privileged to be able to stand here and experience this amazing Peninsula; a Peninsula that has witnessed great explorers like Englishman Richard Chancellor, who passed by this exact point in 1553 as he went in search for a Northeast Passage.

The Knivskjellodden trail is a great five hour hike, and I very much recommend it. You really do feel as though you are on top of the world, and the atmosphere of the Arctic weather, the reindeer, the birdlife, the howls of the wind blowing across the wild tundra, the little yellow flowers growing out of the spongy vegetation and the barren landscape and views are breathtaking. It’s well worth the journey to get here, despite the hefty toll charges. Get up early and be the first to hit the trail.

My mission to hike Europe’s most northernmost trail is complete. And for those people who paid the entrance fee to enter Nordkapp and stood by the globe on the North Cape, don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone.

<Click here to buy Lonely Planet Norway & Digital Chapters>

Trip Sideways (Tromso to Hammerfest): For a scenic journey of a lifetime, head to Tromsø in Northern Norway and drive the spectacular E6 highway to Hammerfest, Europe’s Northernmost town. This region is home to spectacular fjords, Native Sami Reindeer Herders and incredible birdlife. Full article here >

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Along the way our trusty heroes tango through the Argentinean vineyards, cycle to the Moon in Chile, kiss Egyptians in the Inca City of Cusco, escape bullets in Bahia, panic in the Pantanal and experience one night with The Rolling Stones in Rio. Traveling along the notorious Trans-Oceanic Highway from the Pacific to the Atlantic coast of South America the bizarre and the beautiful cross their dusty path, as the brothers pack their pants and go in search of the real Carnival.

Buy it on Amazon

UK Amazon.co.uk: The Linger Loco!: In Search of the Real Carnival

USA Amazon.com: The Linger Loco! In Search of the Real Carnival

Chapter 1:Everything but the Moo

Chapter 2: Love and the Giant

Chapter 3: Oranges and Lions

Chapter 4: Argentina Rocks Socks!

Chapter 5: Bodegas Time

Chapter 6: Kicks like a Mule

Chapter 7: The Party

Chapter 8: Valley of the Moon

Chapter 9: The Crystal Girls

Chapter 10: Arica to Arequipa

Chapter 11: The Young Ones

Chapter 12: Monkey Magic

Chapter 13: Through the Mother of God

Chapter 14: Jungle Hunan

Chapter 15: A Smell of Being

Chapter 16: Panic in the Pantanal

Chapter 17: Jumping Jack Flash

Chapter 18: Bullets in Bahia

Chapter 19: Kitty Gomez

Chapter 20: Carnival of the Soul

Chapter 21: Shed Load of Books

]]> http://www.chrisraven.com/driving-the-trans-siberian/chris-raventhe-linger-loco-in-search-of-the-real-carnival/feed/ 0 http://www.chrisraven.com/newassignments/in-search-of-the-greater-one-horned-rhino-kaziranga-national-park-india/ http://www.chrisraven.com/newassignments/in-search-of-the-greater-one-horned-rhino-kaziranga-national-park-india/#comments Thu, 26 May 2011 14:52:59 +0000 admin http://www.chrisraven.com/?p=551 Writer and photographer, Chris Raven, grabs his binoculars and heads to the Kaziranga National Park in Assam, in search of the Greater One-Horned Indian Rhino.

By Chris Raven

www.tripsideways.com

AFTER A BUMPY bus ride from Guwhati, I have finally arrived at the Kaziranga National Park in Assam, India, with my brother Simon and photographer and journalist Lucy Calder. Our mission: To ride on top of an elephant and catch a glimpse of the rare Greater one-horned Indian Rhino.

Assam is located in the far northeast of India bordering Nagaland and Bhutan, and has the best tea plantations in the world. Not only does Assam produce tasty tea, but the popular Kaziranga National Park, first established in 1908, is one of the most highly awarded natural treasures in Asia and a World Heritage Site with two-thirds of the world’s one-horned Indian Rhino. Located on the banks of the River Brahmaputra, the park also has the highest density of tigers, is home to large breeding populations of elephants, wild water buffalo, swamp deer and over 200 species of birds.

It’s good to be back in incredible India. The last time I came here in 2008 I saw my first wild tiger in the Kanha National Park, and enjoyed a hot chai with some glazed baba in Khajuraho, who could wrap his legs around his head and lift himself off the ground, which was very impressive. I love India and its craziness. I love the great light and amazing faces. It’s the birthplace of Hinduism, Sikhism, Buddhism, yoga and chess, and a colourful, friendly, hectic, poverty-stricken country that’s the second most populous in the world after China (1.21 billion), and famous for silk and woven fabrics (lovely cushion covers), tea (try Orange Pekoe, Assam tea plantation), tigers (1,700, on the rise), cricket (won world cup 2011), spicy food, (chicken tikka masala), men with moustaches (superstar Rajinikanth, Tamal actor), Dalai Lama (His Holiness’s hobbies include meditating, gardening, and repairing watches), Sri Sathya Sai Baba (was one of India’s top spiritual leaders and had a funky hair do), the Taj Mahal (a pretty impressive example of Mughal architecture) and, finally, some bisexual dude called Mahatma Gandhi (a leader and civil disobedience champion, who left his wife to live with a German-Jewish bodybuilder).

Anyway, the following morning at 5:30am, we’re standing at the ready with puffy eyes, a bag full of food and binoculars hanging around our necks. It’s a clear morning, the sun is creeping up slowly over the horizon and our open top jeep rocks up bang on time. There’s nothing like a cold wind in your face to clear the sleep, and after a short jeep ride we pass through the gates to the Kaziranga National Park. I can’t wait to see some wildlife. Ever since I was a wee nipper at the age of six, when pulling girls’ pig tails and fighting through brambles with toy guns was a daily occurrence, I have always been fascinated with wildlife from around the world. I even had a folder with amazing photos taken by world class photographers of tigers running through swamps, lions on the hunt in the Maasai Mara, endangered mountain gorillas in Uganda, great white sharks in South Africa, crocodiles lifting 250kg blue wildebeests through the air during the great migration, polar bears in the Arctic, grizzly bears in Yellowstone and even a picture of a wild fluffy British country rabbit nibbling on a blade of grass (I was six, remember).

Driving into the national park, I see eight elephants up ahead and a group of tourists standing on a wooden tower. We haven’t seen tourists for a while, not since the Adivasi market near Koraput in Orissa. Oh, and we did see a German couple in Nagaland. We climb up the tower and hear our names being called out. The other tourists look surprised by our speedy depart and shake their heads as we’re herded to the front of the queue. It’s first come first service when booking your ride at the office, and the rangers go by the order of the names on the list, so we climb on board our trusty elephant with its large white tusks, hairy head and watery eyes. I smile at our friendly mahout, who has a pink scarf wrapped around his neck, and grab the seat at the back of the beast and, I don’t know whether it’s my large feet, long legs, bony ass, or the fact that I’m sitting on my testicles, but it’s a battle to get comfy. I don’t remember it being this awkward the last time I went on an elephant. I turn to the other tourists standing glum on the tower and wave, they don’t wave back. Three women with a North American, Texas, big hair appearance and, literally the world’s longest camera lenses hanging down to their knee caps,  shake their heads and point over to us. “Shove your camera lenses up your toosh!” I wanted to shout. The mahout smacks the elephant on top of its head using a stick and with a swish of its trunk it cuts through the long grass at surprising speed; but the other tourists are hot on our trail. It isn’t long before they all catch up with us and two bald guys, who are rather over-weight and wearing matching red jackets, bounce by, also carrying massive lenses, and who keep shouting to the their mahout “We want to see a tiger!” followed by the three big-haired women passing along side of us, who throw daggers at me and shout to their mahout “go faster!”

For us, we’re chilling, swaying and appreciating our beautiful surroundings and the sounds of the wildlife, the birds and our elephant thundering through the grass, while watching the sunrise ignite an amazing orange glow across the misty swamps and marshland of the Kaziranga. Swamp deers leap by and our mahout points out a couple of wild boars sniffing around in the undergrowth. Then, in the distance, across the open water meadows, we see what we came here to see – a Greater One-Horned Rhino with her calf. The two over-weight bald guys and the three big-haired women are already there surrounding the rhinos, firing off shots and battling to get the best position. We slowly squeeze through and catch a glimpse of the rhinos munching on the fresh green grass. I take a couple of snaps, but I put my camera down and study these magnificent animals through my eyes rather than a viewfinder. The mother is huge, like a tank, and with armor plates on her legs she is one solid machine.

We leave them to eat their breakfast and carry on through the marshy meadows and into the tall elephant grass. Suddenly, I see a grey body and it’s another huge rhino, this time on its own. Our elephant gets very close and it wouldn’t take much for the rhino to spin around and charge. Luckily, it’s too busy devouring reeds and slowly makes its way through the marsh. My heart is beating rapidly and the adrenalin is pumping fast.  Our mahout saddles up to a ranger on his elephant and passes my camera to him. We pose and smile; a memory to treasure. Before long we see another rhino and another, and another. It’s fantastic to see so many. The rhino crashes at speed through the long grass towards our elephant, snorting and waving its head, almost ready to charge. Is this the moment I had feared? I know these rhinos can be aggressive, and they’ll attack if they’re pissed off, I’ve seen a video clip on youtube. But I have faith in my mahout, although, thing’s do go wrong in the wild, its unpredictable. The rhino gets closer to our elephant, but thankfully turns off sharply and disappears through the long grass away from us. I’ve never buzzed so much in my life, truly amazing.

We head back to the tower and climb off the elephant. We hand the mahout some rupees and, in true John Wayne style’ I swagger back to the jeep. My ass is numb and my legs ache, but after that experience, it’s worth a little pain. After playing with a cute baby elephant for a while, we jump back in the jeep and head off for a few hours through the national park. We drive along a dirt track, stopping at watch towers, where we see wild elephants, pelicans and deers. The jeep ride is slow, which is great and we stop constantly, scanning the grasslands for tigers too, and watch rhinos cross in front of us and I spot the bony backbones of a family of wild elephants trudging through the long grass a stone’s throw away. It reminds me of Kruger in South Africa. We stop and watch a stand off between a rhino and an elephant; a David Attenborough documentary is coming alive. Who will win? The elephant confidently passes by and the rhino stands its ground, but no battle is to commence.

The driver shows us a family of tortoises before making his way back to the hotel. My day in Kaziranga National Park has been very special indeed, and it’s an experience I will certainly never forget. Simon and Lucy are also amazed by the parks beauty and we all agree it’s one of the finest National Parks we’ve visited in a while. The abundance of rhinos and wild elephants is truly wonderful to see. Despite reading about poachers killing at least four rhinos this year, the Greater One-horned rhino is pretty much a success story here in India and in Nepal (compared to the endangered Java rhino), and it is being heavily protected. Horns are being illegally traded through routes to the Middle East and sold for medicine and to make dagger handles – this is a reality, but from what I have seen here at Kaziranga, the rhino population is thriving. So hopefully, just like the tiger with its rising population, I won’t fear their extinction too soon and, although, there is still a long way to go with help from the World Wildlife Fund and conservation efforts, I am relieved to know that my only chances of seeing these magnificent animals aren’t just in a zoo but in the their wild natural environment.

Up the Etna: Chris Raven drives up Mt Etna in a £130 Rover. Photo by Chris raven tripsideways.com

By Chris Raven

www.tripsideways.com

ONCE AGAIN, I have returned home from a little road trip adventure with my bushy-haired brother, Simon. This time it was Europe, the Mediterranean, and the flamboyant country of Italy; famous for the anise-flavoured ‘blow-your-eyeballs-out-of-your-face’ Sambuca, the Ferrari, Lamborghini, Maserati and the Fiat, the Roman Empire, the Vatican (Pope), Pasta, Pizza, Spaghetti, the Mafia, the sinking city of Venice, trendy fashion designers, the Leaning Tower of Pisa, Sicily, the beautiful Dolomites, Mt Vesuvius and Pompeii, Mt Etna (Muncibeddu in Sicilian), da Vinci and Michelangelo, Pavarotti (god bless his soul), delicious coffee, fine wine, world class cuisine, aftershave drenched, well-groomed men who tie colourful jumpers around their necks, sexy women (Elisabetta Canalis), footballers (Roberto Baggio), the horny Prime Minister and entrepreneur Berlusconi (The Knight) and basically a country famous for fiery people who wave their hands in the air alot and drive really, really fast.

Our mission: to drive up Mount Etna to Refugio Sapienza, elevation 6,500 feet. Distance: UK-Sicily: 1908.95 km. Our vehicle: Rover 214 GSi, silver, bought for £150 in cash (£130 to be precise – it came with £20 worth of petrol in the tank). Assembled at the Longbridge car plant in Birmingham, Midlands, in the year the Iraqi forces invaded and conquered Kuwait – Margaret Thatcher, the iron lady, resigned as UK Prime Minister – the movie Dances with Wolves with Kevin Costner was a big hit and ‘I Wish It Would Rain Down’ by Phil Collins was blaring out of every Pioneer LP turntable/record player music station around the world. Yep, the car was born in the year 1990.

OK, so it was a rather old, almost classic, motor with fake wooden upholstery and a well thought out coin tray for your loose change, genius idea. The seats were comfy, music came out of the radio, it had an electric sunroof, electric windows, the brakes worked, which was important, the engine looked like a proper engine and all of the four wheels rolled. What more did we need? The fact that the steering wheel shook quite dramatically whenever the speed dial peaked 60mph, and the Rover swerved severely to the left due to the tracking, but, at the end of the day, they were all very minor technical hitches that could be easily ironed out, because nothing was going to stop us from driving up Mt Etna, the highest volcano in Europe (10,922 ft) and one of the most active volcanoes in the world. No other country in Europe has as many volcanoes as Italy, so, let’s not forget the other two, Stromboli and Vesuvius, which are equally as active. Maybe we were both being a couple of unrealistic jokers with this Laissez-Faire attitude. I mean, Mount Etna had already blown its top five months before and In 2002–2003, a much larger eruption threw up a huge column of ash that could easily be seen from space and fell as far away as Libya, 600 km south across the Mediterranean Sea. To the ancient Greeks, Mt Etna was the realm of Vulcan, god of fire, and the home of the one-eyed monster known as the Cyclops, to us, it was nothing more than a big beautiful smoking lump of rock, a challenge, and a great way to blow your gasket and burn your brakes…we were driving a banger!

Anyway, we zipped through the protest-free streets of Reggio de Calabria, a town on the boot of Italy, home to the ‘Ndrangheta criminal organization, who make money from drug trafficking, extortion and money laundering activities, and skidded into the docks just in the nick of time to catch the last ferry to Messina on the north east side of the island of Sicily. The small car ferry was practically empty, I counted more staff than passengers, and the journey only took about an hour. It was not far off 6:30pm and the sun was hugging the horizon, painting flames, as our ferry cut smoothly through the swell of the waves. Boats bound for Malta were silhouetted in the distance and to our right we saw Mt Etna and a trail of smoke coming out of the crater that was streaking across the orange sky. It was going to be fun.

Early the following morning, after spending the night in a service station on the E45 outside of the city of Messina and, with our stomachs full of cheap tins of fish, bread and coffee, we were back on the road and heading south along the coast towards the Mt Etna National Park. I still couldn’t believe our £130 Rover had made it all the way to Sicily. Driving at 55mph for 2,000kms had certainly paid off despite the unnecessary abuse from the 18-wheeler Artic lorry drivers, who seemed to think it was funny filling our wing mirror with their bloody front grill; so to speak.

Skidding onto the SS114 coastal road, we passed through the charming, historic, hillside town of Taromina (Sicily’s Monte Carlo) and one of the island’s main tourist resorts. Luckily for us, most of the package tourist and posh people had gone home, so the town was relatively quiet. Whacking the Rover down a side street, we grabbed our cameras, rolled on some deodorant and wandered up and down the main street, Corso Umberto I, admiring the architecture, the Torre dell’Orogio clock tower, the souvenir shops, the ice cream parlours and two pretty chickadees sweeping the pavement outside a trendy clothes shop. A movie or Italian advert was being filmed in a delightful, sun-kissed plaza, so, not wanting to cause thousands of pounds worth of damage, we carefully tip-toed passed and tried not to trip over any of the equipment. Hungry to reach the volcano and, to be honest, a little jealous that we weren’t staying in one of the sweet-smelling boutique hotels and eating swordfish that night, we raced back to the comfy Rover and nudged our way onto the SS114 coastal road with its dramatic ocean views.

Buying a bag of huge juicy peaches from the roadside (the best I have ever tasted), we weaved through the delightful seaside resort town of Giardini Naxos with sticky fingers, and continued to thunder south along the SS114 for 6 km, before entering the town of Fiumefreddo di Sicilia where we turned right down via Regina del Clelo and onto the SS120, a small winding road, where we zig-zapped through green countryside with citrus groves, orchards of lemons and figs, vineyards, farms, cattle, forests and little towns, and moved closer to the looming Mt Etna volcano.

We reached Linguaglossa, a pretty town, with its rich production of wine grapes, walnuts, almonds, chestnuts and cattle breeding, which sits in the shadow of the volcano and on a large tongue of lava, and then turned south for Zafferani. It puzzled me how the hell the people living in these towns and villages could relax knowing a very large time bomb is on the other side of their garden fence, which seems to enjoy puking out lava and smoke quite frequently. I mean, is it on their mind when they’re rushing to get ready for work or about to make love? If I lived underneath one of the world’s most active volcanoes I’d think about moving (although, not sure how you’d sell your property). Here’s what an ad in the local paper might look like ‘Lovely 4 bedroom house with garage and large garden…and, uh, a big active volcano in spitting distance that might erupt and possibly turn you to ash.’ Maybe, this menacing volcano isn’t really a threat, and Etna isn’t a real danger to peoples’ lives. You would think the evacuation warnings are pretty good.

After a quick gas stove meal, consisting of pasta and tinned fish with a slice of cheese and shit loads of tomato sauce, we arrived at the Mt Etna National Park. We pulled over and looked at the small road leading up into the dark clouds. It was a hot day, but the weather wasn’t looking good. What was the worse that could happen I thought to myself? Ok, so we were driving an old Rover with dodgy tracking and we had absolutely no survival equipment, and zero knowledge of volcanoes. But so what? People have crossed deserts without the knowledge of, uh, sand. Or crossed oceans without the knowledge of water, and there we were contemplating if we should drive up a silly volcano. Suddenly, a convoy of RV’s zoomed passed followed by a small fiat with a pensioner sat hunched behind the wheel. I turned to Simon and said “Fuck it, let’s drive. If they can do it so can we!” So we did.

Higher and higher we went. The landscape was amazing with patches of green forest growing around the barren black volcanic stone, called ‘sciara’. The Rover was running smoothly, the brakes were working just fine and the engine was purring like an old lioness. We were over 3,000 metres in altitude when the cigarette lighter suddenly exploded giving us both a fright. But this little test didn’t distract us from what we had come here to do; the challenge we had set out to achieve and the adventurous story for us to tell our grandchildren in front of the fire in the years’ to come. We felt like soldiers hurtling towards the Taliban; knights in shining armour brandishing sharp swords and charging towards the battlefield, the Rover our sturdy stallion. Nothing was going to stop us from reaching our goal…nothing! I slammed my foot down on the pedal and we raced to the finish line. Well, when I say raced, I mean, we went a little faster.

A wild fox ran across the road, it looked at us with its dark, evil eyes, and then a pack of wild dogs, practically wolves, soon appeared. We motored on. The landscape was now totally barren black rock at elevation 6,500 feet. What will be at the top; smoking craters, lava pouring out, a snap shot from 230 million years ago during the Triassic period? Our mission was soon complete. I was shaking. My heart was thumping. We followed the road around a bend, but sadly our illusions of being surrounded by spewing lava and dinosaurs were suddenly trashed when we were presented with a really big car park full of cars, RV’s, and tour coaches. There was even a restaurant, souvenir shops and a bloody hotel. Crowds of tourists walked by our car, filtering into the many tourist facilities. I couldn’t believe it. We had risked our lives (well, not quite) to drive up a smoking volcano and we get to the top and there was practically a theme park waiting for us. I won’t say I was a little disappointed when I reached Refugio Sapienza, and I’m not one for moaning, but I wasn’t expecting it to be such a tourist attraction. They may as well of built a great big roller coaster and a McDonald’s up there too. We parked the car, paid for a ticket, joined a really long queue and grabbed a coffee.

The clouds were low and rain was soon to arrive. It was pointless jumping in the cable car or paying for a 4×4 jeep ride to the crater another 1,000 meters up. So, after munching on a Kit Kat and a packet of crisps, we admired the misty landscape from high up on Mt Etna before jumping in our Rover and driving back down to the ocean to the smell of our burning brakes, which nearly caught fire.

It was a wonderful road trip to Sicily, but there was more to come. From volcanoes and Catacombs in Palermo to ancient Greek ruins, we were going to see it all. We had the whole of the Mediterranean to explore and, while we waited for the brakes to stop smoking, I flicked open the road map and pointed to Seville in Spain. When you are on a road trip you have the freedom to go where ever you want to go, and we like that.

Happy travels…

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Brandenburg Gate, Berlin, Germany. Photo Chris Raven

Germany Collection Coming Soon!