The Oz Bus - two weeks into the journey ....

Blog 1:

London / Bruges / Heidelberg / Prague / Vienna / Budapest /Sofia / Plovdiv/Istanbul

I am now sitting in a roof-top café in The Orient hostel in Istanbul. There are several tables of Oz-Bus people around me, all chatting and eating breakfast. It is mid morning and it is at least 26 or 27 degrees. Although it is two weeks since we boarded the Oz Bus in London, it is truthfully the first time that I feel in any way inclined to write. If I’m being totally honest, for the first week, I found myself to be almost ‘shell-shocked’ and at times over-whelmed by the experience. It has been a whirlwind of a journey so far for me – one which I have found to be both challenging and simultaneously stimulating.

My fellow passengers are from England, Scotland, Wales, Italy, America, Germany, and Australia and there is one other Irish girl from Roscommon. The gender breakdown is about 10 men and 18 women. It has been such a strange few days and at times I have felt that I’m in the middle of the twilight zone. When I had booked my hotel in London for the Saturday night prior to the early Sunday morning departure, I anticipated being lonely and emotional and to compensate, I booked a hotel with far more stars than it should have …. in fact, I booked the equivalent of a galaxy.
Arriving at Cleopatra’s Needle at the Embankment at 6.15 a.m. on the 5th of September was such a strange experience. I stood against the wall and scanned all the faces of the 28 strangers with rucksacks, knowing that in three months time, I would know each of those faces and people very well. I found myself trying to guess which ones I’d become closest to, which of the passengers might drive me demented and which ones I’d drive demented! The bus journey to Dover and the ferry across to Calais was spent talking to whoever was nearest to me – trying to make friends, finding out what circumstances brought the various passengers to undertake the journey …. making extremely polite and civilised conversation. Conversation with no wit, no sarcasm, no humour …. there would be time for all that later.

Arriving in Bruges that evening, I hit my first low. (it didn’t take me long, did it?). We were escorted up three flights of winding stairs and shown into the tiniest little 8 bed dorm – grubby, old fashioned and so so cramped. I sat on the bunk bed, my new rucksack on the bed with me, seven strangers all trying to find space for themselves and their bags and all I could think of was ‘December can’t come quick enough’. Although wanting to call my folks and to say ‘I’ve arrived and everything is fantastic’, I felt I’d be found out by my very intuitive mother! I opted to text instead – far easier to pretend. Half of the group had opted to take up the option of a cycle ride around Bruges – I couldn’t, I needed the time to sort out my head. Instead I found myself taking a boat ride through the city and sitting in the middle of a beautiful Bruges square by myself for a couple of hours. In hindsight, I think it was exactly what I needed, though I concede, although entirely my own decision, I felt like the ‘Minnie No Mates’ of the Oz Bus.

As I type, I’m now realizing that I shouldn’t have left it so long to write my first blog entry as in truth all the cities are starting to blend into one. However, my primary thoughts on each of them are this –
Bruge is so picturesque and filled with romantic couples who hold hands and rub their hands through each others hair. Heidelberg is also very pretty and lots of el fresco dining on cobblestone streets. Despite visiting Prague almost 18 years ago, I remembered practically nothing from that visit. It is now very tourist orientated and it has a distinct Eastern European feel to it (although I’m not quite sure what that is as I’ve practically no experience of Eastern Europe until now.).
Whilst in Prague, I suffered my first injury. I was leaving the hostel to walk across to the canteen in an adjoining building and had my laptop nestled securely under my auxter. I stepped down of a small step and not anticipating the uneven surface, my gammy left ankle gave way. Did I flutter gracefully to the ground? Not a chance. I fell like a tonne of bricks and despite my outstretched arms, the laptop fell like a tonne of bricks. Unfortunately the two American lads (also from the bus) were walking a few paces in front of me and despite my desperate outstretched arms, the laptop hit into the back of their knees and took the legs clean out from under them. One small miscalculation and I nearly brought the numbers on the bus from 28 to 25. My right knee was cut, my right wrist was cut and my right finger was cut. But warrior that I am, I hopped up (literally), declaring that ‘I was so unaffected that I could possibly run a marathon’ and marched on into the pub. Poor Alan and Matt meanwhile spent the night on Google trying to find out how to re-attach their severed cruciate ligaments. Whenever they’re walking in front of me now, I’m told that they walk with a look of genuine fear in their eyes.

Vienna was larger and more populated than I had anticipated. I’m not convinced that it lived up to my expectations – whatever they were. The two nights in Budapest were most enjoyable. On the second day, Vicky, Amanda (two fellow passengers of similar ages to myself ….. well I’m really YEARS younger … shhhh!) and myself spent hours walking around the city. The city was hosting the World Championship Triathlon that weekend and in the course of our meandering, I came across a family from Dublin who were leaning over the hoardings, draped in tri-colours and were eagerly awaiting to see the first sight of their husband and father … John … who was participating in the race. The mother and three children screamed in excitement when John eventually rounded the corner. I must admit, I did a bit of screaming and cheering myself when I saw him …… especially when he squirted his water bottle at us! For half an hour or so, whenever one of the fifteen Irish competitors passed, I clapped them on as if they were a close blood relation. I felt extremely proud to be Irish.

The hostels have been, without doubt, the most difficult thing of the two weeks so far. Some nights there are 8 in the room, 6 in the room or if we’re fortunate, 4 sharing a bunk bedded dorm. I would be lying if I were to say that I don’t find the limited space a problem, but interestingly, I’m sleeping exceptionally well. I insert my ear plugs each night, put on my eye mask and tend to sleep better than I do at home in the comforts of my own bed. However, I’m losing an average of one ear plug a night – where they go, I haven’t quite figured out.

Looking back at my thoughts and concerns prior to commencing this trip, I would have thought that the long bus journeys would be something that I would struggle with. Each journey takes from eight hours to twelve hours – I never tend to know until we arrive in the destination. I’m not sure if it’s better to know such details in advance of the journey or is it better to just accept the duration, however long or short that may be. Generally I decide on the latter strategy. But strangely enough, I have found the bus to be so comfortable and enjoyable and it feels ‘like home’. Although the average day on the bus is in excess of eight or nine hours, I have never found the journeys to be excessively long or boring and I am sincere when I say that I feel more at home in the bus than I do in the hostels. From talking to my fellow passengers, I know I’m not alone in thinking this. My fondness for the bus, in a perverse sort of way, reminds me of Stockholm Syndrome – when one falls in love with their captor. The Oz bus is my captor …. and I have fallen in love with it! Now in case I’m scaring any of you and you’re contemplating calling in the men with the white coats, there really is no need to. I promise that I’ll refrain from sidling up to the bus, eyeing it flirtatiously, pouting my lips at it and suggestively caressing its …. sump ….! However, I hope that my loving relationship with it continues and it doesn’t turn bitter and resentful. (on re-reading this, maybe I am losing it after all … keep the telephone number of the men with the coats close to hand).

So that’s it for this blog entry. Maybe now that the back is broken on it, it’ll be easier for me to write and update it. I know that I’m not specific on things and places I’ve seen but I’m no good at that. One museum is the same as the next, one palace is the same as the next and one church is the same as the next and my descriptions wouldn’t do it justice. However some of my fellow bloggers are wonderful at doing such locations and places justice so I think I’ll leave it up to them. (I will forward you their blog links if you really would like to be educated). To-morrow we head to Goreme for a couple of nights and then onto Erzincan and then to Dogubayazit where we cross over into Iran. I’m spouting of those names as if I even know what they are or where they are and to be honest, I haven’t a clue. I think I’m the most gormless of travelers.

But for this moment in time, I’m sitting here on the balcony, overlooking an aqua blue sea, the Turkish chanting / prayers has just started bellowing out in the background on the city tannoy …. and you know what, I feel like the luckiest gormless traveler in the world.