1565: A September Weekend in Toronto, by Doug Phillips
North America, 2008. September 19-21 2008. A weekend in Toronto with excellent weather. Activities included a baseball game, a night at the symphony and visits to several restaurants. Downtown Toronto features a variety of entertainment, dining and shopping options, an efficient public transit system and a safe urban environment.

More Reasons to Love California: Dancing Cows, Au Courant Dishware, and Loveable Neighborhood Grocers
Brand-new Spruce has style and substance By Mollie Chen I had strawberries yesterday and it was a sad reminder of what we on the East Coast are missing. Even as I am excited to cook my favorite fall soup (green…

1556: 25th Wedding Anniversary Trip-Sonoma County, by Cindy Ruth
North America, 2008. 8/3/08 to 8/8/08 25th Anniversary Trip to Sonoma Wine Country with some amazing winery visits as well as hiking and shopping.

Falling off a Himalayan Cliff [2]

India is the last place you want to be when you’re in trouble.

By the time they’ve finished cleaning the blood from my face, the adrenaline’s nearly worn off. The numbing rush of endorphines that’s carried me through the last couple of hours is being replaced by the creeping realisation that I’m lying at the bottom of a ravine in North India, a mess of shattered bone and torn skin, with no obvious means of getting out again.

A policeman’s standing over me, stroking his moustache with that air of smug megalomania policemen have the world over.

He’s Not Happy either.

Until 30 minutes ago his day had been going extraordinarily well. It’s not often a Himachal cop gets the opportunity to arrest a white traveler for murder. With no witnesses to support her claims of innocence, a hefty wad of bribe money had seemed so close he could almost taste it. And now his dreams of fucking off to early retirement in Goa with a tribe of teenage Nepali concubines are all about to be shattered, simply because I have the audacity not to be dead.

This is his last chance to persuade me, if not to die, at least to give him enough evidence to support attempted murder charges.

Unfortunately for him, that’s my best friend he’s got in custody.

“So. Who pushed you?”

“Nobody. I fell.”

“How can you fall off a cliff by accident?”

It’s a good question – even I don’t quite know. I guess one or two (or three or four) chillums might’ve had something to do with it. In a pleasantly hazy state of ganja-induced nature-worship, I’d been scrambling along one wall of the ravine, my friend Jo behind me. The next I remember is the sickening feeling of one foot slipping out from under me, glimpses of sky alternating with rock faces as my body performed a full somersault in the air, then the earth coming up to meet me with an ominous crunch about eight metres down.

Ok, not one of my smartest moments. I blame God/Shiva/whoever for making the best ganja grow in the mountains. That’s just asking for trouble.

“I slipped,” I tell the cop.

Meanwhile, among the small group of people who’ve climbed down to help, conversations are being conducted in urgent whispers, fingers pointed at the cliffs and my broken thigh, heads shaken.

A local guy kneels by my side, trying to distract me from the grotesquely drooping chunk of meat that was once my leg.

“Don’t worry,” he tells me, “you’re not the first to fall here. Three others fell already this year.”

“Fuck, were they ok?”

“No,” he says, looking surprised that I’d ask such a ridiculous question. “No, they died.” As an afterthought: “that’s why we’re not sure how to get you out. We didn’t have to worry about hurting the others.”

Somehow, I don’t feel very comforted.

Pissed-Off-Cop has a plan. He proceeds to explain it to me – complete with actions, lest I fail to grasp its full complexity.

“This man” (he indicates a rather elderly villager, who looks up, alarmed) “will bend down” (bends knees). “You get on his back,” (mimes jumping onto the old man’s back) “and he’ll carry you up the cliff!”

Even sarcasm fails me. I can think of nothing to say that could possibly make this plan sound stupider than it already does.

Luckily, the locals seem well practised in dealing with their esteemed police force. They completely ignore him and devise their own plan.

“Helicopter not possible. Cliffs too close, too high. We need blow-up stretcher and ropes. We’ll pull you up. Wait.”

I wait another three hours. I’m shaking with cold in the damp shadow of the cliffs and at every move, jagged bone tears into the muscle of my thigh. Convulsing with pain, I let my eyes roll back. Hands slap my face, panicked voices dragging me from darkness.

At last, the inflatable stretcher arrives and is lowered down. I’m lifted onto it and strapped in. Pissed-Off-Cop struts around with his chest thrust out, barking characteristically stupid instructions, which everyone calmly ignores. The ropes tighten around me and, centimetre-by-centimetre, I’m jerked upwards. At every jerk, my broken thigh drags against the cliff and I cry out in pain.

Until finally, I reach the top.

The gathered crowd cheers. As a long-bearded character who looks suspiciously like Rasputin shoots morphine into my arm, I’m reunited with Jo, who tells me her story.

The minute she saw me fall she turned and sprinted back to the village, where she burst into Pappu’s, our favourite café, screaming for help. Fighting off Pappu’s wife’s attempts to force-feed her a calming cup of chai, she gasped out what had happened.

Unfortunately, the backpackers of Himachal Pradesh aren’t exactly renowned for their energy and efficiency. Great as chillum-buddies, but when it comes to speedy mountain rescues you’d be better off asking help from the local goats. Pappu’s regulars, most of whom had been there all day, stared back at her with helpless, bloodshot eyes.

Only one seemed capable of standing up, a ginger-dreadlocked Aussie. He staggered forward and grasped her hands.

“Come… to the temple…”

“What?? No time for that, she fell off a fucking cliff!”

“We’ll pray for her…”

“PRAY?? But we need to… oh for fuck’s sake.”

Leaving him to fall to his knees, eyes piously closed, Jo turned pleading eyes on Pappu. Our Pappu! Provider of chai, maker of thali! Surely if anyone could help, he could.

Pappu didn’t fail us. He ran back to the ravine with Jo, gathering everyone he could think of to help. The police turned up an hour later, quickly took stock of the situation, and arrested Jo.

That left the ordinary villagers to climb down, discover I was alive, and organise my rescue. With the eternal ingenuity of the Indian people, they’d contacted a paragliding team 60km away, borrowed the inflatable stretcher and by sheer weight of numbers, dragged me to safety.

I’m overcome by gratitude. And morphine. As my rescuers carry me to the road I wave serenely up at them, grinning in a cross-eyed sort of way and humming tunelessly to myself.

When we reach the waiting ambulance, it’s clear the whole crowd intends to come too. There’s not enough space for all of them and sharp words start to be exchanged, until the driver resolves the situation by agreeing to drive at walking pace so everyone else can keep up.

I think the concept of an ambulance has been slightly lost on the Indians.

Near the hospital we pass a religious procession, half of which promptly decides that our group looks much more interesting and peels off to follow us instead. We arrive accompanied by about 50 people, dressed in elaborate costumes, carrying massive images of the gods, and singing at the top of their lungs.

For the next few days, my ward is a carnival of bizarre visitors. Pappu provides an ever-running supply of chai, while my Israeli friends haggle with the pharmacy for my medication, a motley gang of hippies keep up a constant serenade on acoustic guitars, and the ginger-dreadlocked Aussie performs reikki on my leg (to no noticeable effect, but I appreciate the effort). Ombaba, a crippled artist from Rajastan, walks in on his hands to assure me that life without legs isn’t so bad, and the local saddhu argues relentlessly with the doctors over the obvious necessity of smoking chillum in the ward. Apart from the unable-to-move-constant-pain thing, I almost enjoy myself.

But X-rays show that fixing my thigh is going to be a trickier procedure than just banging some plaster on and trusting to Shiva. It’s an operation that has to be done in Delhi. Unable to afford an ambulance, I order a taxi.

In preparation for the 16-hour journey over winding, potholed mountain roads, my leg is put in a ‘travel splint’. This involves tying large weights to my foot and viciously twisting my broken thigh. I grip Jo’s hand, eyes screwed shut, screaming in agony. Then I’m wrestled into the taxi through the boot, and our journey begins.

At this point, all memory dies.

I’m suffering from ‘fat embolism’. This occurs when excessive trauma to a break site allows particles of fat to enter the bloodstream and migrate to the lungs, causing respiratory failure and ‘agitated delirium’. Allegedly, I spend the following days cracking bad jokes, laughing manically, and screaming abuse at anyone who tries to put oxygen tubes up my nose.

Although, as Jo points out, this isn’t wildly different to how I act normally.

I’m concious of nothing for several days.

When I regain lucidity I’m lying in bed, smothered by the sticky monsoon heat of Delhi. I have a piece of metal inserted from my hip to my knee, a face full of stitches and a head spinning with painkillers. But I’m alive. It’s taken the courage and resourcefulness of countless people to get me here, and I treasure every sweaty, aching, beautiful second of it.

Read more Hell Trips shortlisted stories

Cali, Final Edition: Keller Unbuttoned, Greasy Burritos, and Barbecued Oysters
Nick’s Cove: gorgeous views and fantastic oysters By Mollie Chen And finally, five last reasons to love California. Now I can stop procrastinating and get started on all the very late copy I owe our Production department. Liberty Farms duck…

Getting out of Town: Blue Hill at Stone Barns
A rainy afternoon on the farm By Mollie Chen On Friday, my editor Gully and I took a little field trip up the Hudson to Pontico Hills, New York, to Blue Hill at Stone Barns. There, we met up with…

1558: Mexico in August … What Was I Thinking?!, by Amarena
North America, 2008. My family, husband Jamie, sons Reed and Miles, diverted from our usual trips to Italy this summer, and embarked upon an adventure in the jungles of Puerto Vallarta. We had a great time, though the heat can be quite unbearable at times in August.

A Cookbook for the Google Generation
By Mollie Chen I’ve got shelf upon shelf of cookbooks at home - everything from Julia Child’s classic Mastering the Art of French Cooking to Michel Richard’s gorgeous Happy in the Kitchen - plus dozens more squirreled away in my…

1593: POSTCARD: Study Italian in Sicily, by PaulaGC
Italy, 2008. June 2008 Study Italian in Sicily: This summer I had the opportunity to study in three different cities in Sicily at three different language schools: Babilonia in Taormina; i Fiori Blu di Sicilia in Agrigento; Scuola Virgilio in Trapani. Each had its own personality and style. I would not have traded these experiences for anything. I gained more than I would have imagined during this month in La Bella Sicilia where the sun filled skies reflect the warmth of its people’s hearts.

For travelers with a sporty spirit, going out is more than just visiting places. If you are one of those adventure travelers, seeking an ultimate trekking and hiking adventure, here’s the pick of the best international spots that you shouldn’t miss.

Annapurna Circuit Trek

Annapurna  Circuit Trek

Annapurna region is best described as the most happening trekking destination of Nepal. The three weeks trek starts right from Besishahar and goes along the Marshyangdi River, with breathtaking view of Manashlu and Himal Chuli to the east. Along with views of the magnificient Himalayas, you will also come across a variety of mountain communities of the Gurung, Manangi and Thakali people.

Kilimanjaro National Park

Climbing Kilimanjaro is a real challenge for every climber. Not only it is the highest peak on the African continent; it is also the tallest free-standing mountain in the world. Kilimanjaro is one of the world’s most accessible high summits, attracting visitors from across the globe.

Appalachian Trail

Appalachian Trail

The Appalachian Trail is a continuous marked hiking and camping trail that goes from Katahdin in Maine to Springer Mountain in Georgia, a distance of about 2160 miles.

Santa Cruz Trek

Santa Cruz Trek is the most popular trek in the Cordillera Blanca. It covers 3 to 4 day hike covers about 45 km and altitudes ranging from 3,000 to 4,800m.  The trek goes through dynamic terrain including flower-filled meadows and glacier-fed lakes.

West Coast Trail, British Columbia

The West Coast Trail stretches 77 kilometers from Port Renfrew on the south end to Bamfield on the north end. Thousands of hikers travel the entire or part of the trail each year.

Reasons to Love California, Including the Requisite Paean to Alice Waters and Gushing Account of the Ferry Plaza Market
Annie hearts Hayes St Grill po’boys By Mollie Chen The genial woman behind the Avis counter paused and looked at me. “You know,” she said, “you can get a Prius for the same price.” Sold. As I smugly approached our…

A Cookbook for the Google Generation
By Mollie Chen I’ve got shelf upon shelf of cookbooks at home - everything from Julia Child’s classic Mastering the Art of French Cooking to Michel Richard’s gorgeous Happy in the Kitchen - plus dozens more squirreled away in my…

European Scenic Drives You Shouldn’t Miss!
Are you a road warrior? Who loves challenging terrain? Or a romantic lover, who likes spending eveni

More Reasons to Love California: Dancing Cows, Au Courant Dishware, and Loveable Neighborhood Grocers
Brand-new Spruce has style and substance By Mollie Chen I had strawberries yesterday and it was a sad reminder of what we on the East Coast are missing. Even as I am excited to cook my favorite fall soup (green…

Cali, Final Edition: Keller Unbuttoned, Greasy Burritos, and Barbecued Oysters
Nick’s Cove: gorgeous views and fantastic oysters By Mollie Chen And finally, five last reasons to love California. Now I can stop procrastinating and get started on all the very late copy I owe our Production department. Liberty Farms duck…

Seven Amazing Surf Towns
Surfing Want to take up an exciting surf trip this winter? Well, here are the seven best surf towns

Surfing

Want to take up an exciting surf trip this winter? Well, here are the seven best surf towns with plenty of sun, sand, and good eats.

BRAZIL: Fernando de Noronha

Situated 225 miles off the northeast coast of Brazil, this surfer’s paradise has so much for. Besides great places to surf, dive, and snorkel, you can soak up the lush green scenery and join the locals for at chat some of the islands best hot spots.

MEXICO: Troncones

Located about 50 miles from Ixtapa and Zihuatanejo, the remote setting of this place and the jungle backdrop will makes you feel in place away from the world. Surfers will love the miles of waves and sandy beaches.

PORTUGAL: Ericeira

A haven for surfer, Ericeira’s cobblestoned streets and tiled buildings makes you feel you have stepped into a Portuguese fishing village. The main surfing area here lies to the north and south of the village center.

FRANCE: Hossegor

The miles of beaches here have always lured surfers to this spot in southern France for 20 years.

ECUADOR: Montañita

An upcoming surfing destination, this tiny South American village offers consistently good waves from November through April.

HAWAII: Haleiwa, Oahu

Expeienced Surfers must visit this place between November and February. When not surfing, head to Haleiwa town for its cafés, and shave ice, a sno-cone-like Hawaiian specialty.

COSTA RICA: Dominical

Along with surfing you can enjoy the ideal setting - rain-forest-covered mountains and the Río Barú, long stretch of beach.

Learn More

Top Spots for a Camping Trip
For those who are new to camping, survive in the wilderness can be a strange experience. Unlike summ

Things to Do in Iceland
Considering a vacation to Iceland? Here is a short list of fun things to do to make your vacation sp

More Free Travel books - More Free Travel Guides to North America, Africa, Asia, Europe, Australia and South America
A collection of over 200 free travel books and travel guides that you can read for free online for North America, Asia, Africa, Europe, Australia and South America… Click to read more…

Journal Of An Overland Expedition In Australia, By Ludwig Leichhardt
Journal Of An Overland Expedition In Australia: From Moreton Bay to Port Essington, a distance of upwards of 3000 miles, during the years 1844-1845. Click to read more…

The Settlement At Port Jackson, By Watkin Tench
When it is recollected how much has been written to describe the Settlement of New South Wales, it seems necessary if not to offer an apology, yet to assign a reason, for an additional publication. The Author embarked in the fleet which sailed to found the establishment at Botany Bay. He shortly after published a Narrative of the Proceedings and State of the Colony, brought up to the beginning of July, 1788, which was well received, and passed through three editions. This could not but inspire both confidence and gratitude; but gratitude, would be badly manifested were he on the presumption of former favour to lay claim to present indulgence. He resumes the subject in the humble hope of communicating information, and increasing knowledge, of the country, which he describes. Click to read more…

Omoo By Herman Melville
IT WAS the middle of a bright tropical afternoon that we made good our escape from the bay. The vessel we sought lay with her main-topsail aback about a league from the land, and was the only object that broke the broad expanse of the ocean. On approaching, she turned out to be a small, slatternly-looking craft, her hull and spars a dingy black, rigging all slack and bleached nearly white, and everything denoting an ill state of affairs aboard. The four boats hanging from her sides proclaimed her a whaler. Leaning carelessly over the bulwarks were the sailors, wild, haggard-looking fellows in Scotch caps and faded blue frocks; some of them with cheeks of a mottled bronze, to which sickness soon changes the rich berry-brown of a seaman’s complexion in the tropics. Click to read more…

Pauline Frommer’s Spend Less, See More Tips for Getting Money Abroad
In this series of monthly tips, you’ll find some terrific ideas to help you get the most out of every trip. This time around, I share some insight about how to get money abroad while paying the least for the transaction.

A Lady’s Visit To The Gold Diggings Of Australia In 1852-53 By Mrs Charles (Ellen) Clacy
t may be deemed presumptuous that one of my age and sex should venture to give to the public an account of personal adventures in a land which has so often been descanted upon by other and abler pens; but when I reflect on the many mothers, wives, and sisters in England, whose hearts are ever longing for information respecting the dangers and privations to which their relatives at the antipodes are exposed, I cannot but hope that the presumption of my undertaking may be pardoned in consideration of the pleasure which an accurate description of some of the Australian Gold Fields may perhaps afford to many; and although the time of my residence in the colonies was short, I had the advantage (not only in Melbourne, but whilst in the bush) of constant intercourse with many experienced diggers and old colonists - thus having every facility for acquiring information respecting Victoria and the other colonies. Click to read more…

Tipi campsite in the Welsh Mountains
Proud winners of a Welsh National Tourism award, Eco Retreats provide a refreshing alternative for those wishing to chill out and escape the hassle of modern life. Combining the modern comforts of a hotel with the thrill of being close to nature, the tipis are set deep in the beautiful surroundings of the Dyfi Valley.

Former church hall on the Isle of Wight
Built in 1895 and only ever used as a church meeting hall, this tin tabernacle near the village of Chale on the Isle of Wight has undergone a unique transformation by our friends at Vintage Vacations, in keeping with the stylish retro charm that we’ve come to love them for. 

The Cruise Of The Snark By Jack London
It began in the swimming pool at Glen Ellen. Between swims it was our wont to come out and lie in the sand and let our skins breathe the warm air and soak in the sunshine. Roscoe was a yachtsman. I had followed the sea a bit. It was inevitable that we should talk about boats. We talked about small boats, and the seaworthiness of small boats. We instanced Captain Slocum and his three years’ voyage around the world in the Spray. Click to read more…

Medieval tents in Deux-Sèvres
These medieval pavillion tents offer glamping with a difference near the ancient town of Parthenay in Deux-Sèvres, an area boasting the second highest number of sunshine hours in France. Fully equipped inside and out, the tents are set in their own garden areas surrounded by nature in a peaceful wildflower meadow.

A First Year In Canterbury Settlement By Samuel Butler
If I was at all freer anywhere they cut it out before printing it; besides, I had not yet shed my Cambridge skin and its trail is everywhere, I am afraid, perceptible. I have never read the book myself. I dipped into a few pages when they sent it to me in New Zealand, but saw ‘prig’ written upon them so plainly that I read no more and never have and never mean to. I am told the book sells for 1 pound a copy in New Zealand; in fact, last autumn I know Sir Walter Buller gave that for a copy in England, so as a speculation it is worth 2s. 6d. or 3s. I stole a passage or two from it for EREWHON, meaning to let it go and never be reprinted during my lifetime. Click to read more…

Taking Kids out This Winter
Family Travel Winter is round the corner and its time everyone is planning for a relaxing vacation a

Family Travel

Winter is round the corner and its time everyone is planning for a relaxing vacation away from the daily humdrums. If you’ve already decided where to go with the family this winter, then happy travels! But, if you  are still planning for a getaway, let’s play around some ideas.

From theme parks and beaches to history, culture, wine and dine, adventure and outdoors, you have countless options. But, choosing a destination is where everyone will have something of their choice is really important. So, where do you want to go? If the kids prefer skiing, which is the best place you can take them to. How about a ski-vacation in Utah? Just a short drive from the Salt Lake City airport, to the west of Colorado, there are seven different mountains and excellent ski resorts.

But, if your family wants a break-away from the freezing winter with a sun and sand vacation, then the warm and sunny beach destinations are the right place for an ideal winter getaway. You can book flights to Caribbean hotspots like Anguilla or Dominica, or head to the hot and happening beaches at Miami. What about jetting to Florida? With so many attractions like Walt Disney that offers great discounts during the winter and some of the most exotic restaurants, your kids will have a blast!

Cruising is another great option. A great thing about holiday cruises is that several family members can cruise together and each can have their own cabin. Plus, the great events and activities on-board will make cruising more fun & exciting.

So, decide where you want to head with your family this winter and book in advance. For super-cheap family travel deals and great holiday season offers, check out what CheapOair has to offer!

Eccentric loft apartment in Paris
Tucked away in the heart of the famous Marché aux Puces de Saint-Ouen, the largest flea market in the world, this open plan loft apartment has been created from a former ‘fireplace’ shop in the antiques section of the market. The pièce de résistance is a genuine Citroen 2CV car which has been converted into a bed.

Lake Naivasha Sopa Lodge
The Lake Naivasha Sopa Lodge is situated on the banks of Lake Naivasha, the cleanest lake in the Great Rift Valley.

Bethwel Kiplagat
After the disputed election in 2007 he said, Leadership can not be taken from anyone it can only be delayed for a moment. Bethwel Kiplagat has also

Amid Caribbean slump, Curacao tourism booms
While other destinations are slashing prices and laying off resort workers, officials in Curacao have been trying to find private …

Book Promotion On the Streets of London

So uptight these English. But then there aren’t many left in London.

I have this little game I play when I visit England: I see how many apologies I can collect in a day. Stand on someone’s foot, slam your rucksack into them, or just watch them meekly pass you in a corridor and the odds are you can harvest a meek or grumbled ‘sorry’. The same way that you’re likely to be showered with at least three expressions of gratitude before you make it out of the door when you buy a newspaper in a shop.

I was back to promote my new book, Bozo and the Storyteller and I had a plan. I’d printed up 5000 copies of the first chapter and was now going to give them out on the streets. Readers could try out the story and then download the audio version for free from the site. It was pure guerilla promotion and as I hoped the breakfast TV shows might pick it up, I arranged for it to be filmed to give them a taster.

I had a t-shirt printed up with the front cover of the book on it and if I’d forgotten that November wasn’t the warmest month to be dressed in one cotton layer, well, I never claimed to be a genius. I tried out on Portobello Road and blagged a table that was lying around to make myself a little stand. Things went well enough, chatting to the local heads and hitting on Colombian girls in London to learn some English (but how could they if no one here spoke it any more?) until a chap from the council came along to put an end to my fun.

“What’s this? Religion, is it?” he asked, glancing at my booklets.

“No, no, it’s the first chapter of my new book. Bit of publicity.”

“I see,” he said, rolling back his head, “So you’re distributing free literature in public. Are you aware that’s a prosecutable offence?”

Orwell! Kafka! Where are you now that we need you?

I moved on and tried out down at London shopping malls and Camden town but though people took the booklets, I began to realise I’d overdone things a bit with a print run of 5000. The boxes were heavy and I only had a week or so to hand them out.

More disturbing was the initial reaction of the public before I could explain just what I was doing. People tended to either shrink away from me in disgust or else smile with pity written all over their faces, the kind of look that said ‘Poor man, I would stop and talk to you but you’re clearly too far gone.’

“They probably think you’re a Jehovah’s Witness,” a mother told me after she took a booklet, “They were down here in force when this mall opened.”

Scuppered by Bible Bashers. What ignominy.

After that my initial zeal began to wane and I decided that ‘a leaflet in the right hands is worth 100 given away at random’ and only gave them to people with whom I ended up in conversation. I also positioned them with phone boxes, empty seats on the Tube and in an act of daring, inside other books on the shelves of Borders.

London, of course, couldn’t give a shit whether I succeeded or ended up in the gutter. The city flowed on around me, priced up to the neck and sanitised to the point of non-recognition. Even a trip to the supermarket left me holding my head in wonder as I couldn’t buy a packet of oats for my morning porridge without the packaging congratulating me on my choice of fibre. A packet of goji berries let me know I was on my way to the magical target of ’5 a day’, the recommended intake of fruit and vegetables. Even at the post office a sign overhead asked me if I had drunk 6 glasses of ‘cold, refreshing water’ that day?

The bookshops and pubs had already begun playing the interminable Christmas songs and I looked around for the fire axe to stick into the jukebox. The Xmas lights were up in the streets and sales everywhere reflected the hope to kindle that old consumer spirit despite the economy having been pissed up the wall by the brokers in the City.

I was born in the UK, I grew up speaking only English and I’m grateful for inheriting one of the best national senses of humour in the world. But each time I come back here the truth stares at me from every angle: I’m a foreigner.

Then again, in London, so is almost everyone.

10 Perfect Long-Weekend Escapes

We’ve compiled a list of getaways that are close, quick, and a cinch to plan. All are easily reached via hub airports with loads of nonstop flights.

Bali: Pervasive Spirituality

Enjoy daily ceremonies at more than 1,000 temples and beaches galore: white-sand spreads for sunbathers, gnarly breaks for surfers, volcanic black cliffs for nature-gazers.

Hell Trips Writing Contest Contenders

Nightmare stories are a balm for the soul.

See, when you’re out on the road having a shit time, it’s easy to think it only happens to you. Everyone you meet is on their cosy gap years with return flights, wads of traveler’s cheques and are about to embark on highly-profitable careers. hey, maybe you’ll get to serve them fries at a ski resort some day.

That’s why we were delighted to receive so many tales of disaster, woe and suffering. It made our day. The world is full of travelers having a shit time!

We got hundreds upon hundreds of entries and have gone nearly blind whittling those down to 28 entries to run a day at a time through January. Writers tried to employ emotional blackmail, begged for the prize money and offered us sex and drugs in return to make the short list. Only the latter worked and so here are the contenders in random order:

2008 Hell Trips Contenders

Dressed Like a Hooker and Stranded in the Bronx by Alexandria Muller
After days of sleepless debauchery, she takes up the offer of some easy money posing as a sex object in a rap video. Big mistake.

Falling Off a Himalayan Cliff by Cat Rainsford
When you’re at the bottom of a ravine with broken bones, only in India would the cop watching be disappointed you’re not dead. Bang goes his chance to extort someone for the attempted murder.

Ambushed in Peru by Sarah Fine
Three American girls get ambushed at night on a country road. They take the only reasonable course of action. They run.

The Kindness of Strangers by Lucy Pickering
Hanging out with a random guy met on the street in Copenhagen seems cool until he takes advantage… But that’s no reason to go home.

Foot Fetishes on a German Train by Vanessa Wolf
It’s either strangers trying to be charming with Shakespeare or perverted sock thieves.

Dodgy Flight With Garuda Out of Malaysia by Matt Suddain
Matt’s big adventure is that he spilt a cup of coffee on a bumpy take-off. But it’s a fun read.

Robbed in Malaysia by Philip Goldman
When you’re down on your luck you can rely on the US embassy and AMEX to… to give a fuck, it would seem.

Bull Testicles, Ticks and Woofing in Central America by Caroline Rye
You arrive with a bag full of ideals but by the third day everyone is screaming for the DEET.

Mugged by Police in Panama by Johnathan Fleming
Most cops don’t point a gun at your head for taking a wrong turn. That’s all part of the fun of going to Panama.

Flashed in Falouja by Kelly Hayes-Raitt
The lighter side of the Iraqi conflict.

Up an Amazonian Creek by Aaron Smith
We don’t know about you but a psychotic ex-GI would not be our choice of jungle guide.

The Special Bus from London to Athens by Rob Daniel
Drunks, whores and disaster in one claustrophobic vehicle. Special, alright.

Drugged, Abducted and Robbed in Russia by MRP
Watch who you go drinking vodka with.

Motorbiking in Ladakh
Crappy roads, steep cliffs and Indian drivers would drive anyone to God.

On a Bus in Burma, Make Friends With the Lady Boy by Robert Moor
A journey bad enough to make you want to take drugs. So he does.

Road Trip to the Baja Badlands by James Davis
You’re barely across the border before your friends score some weed, right before the police stop the car..

Honeymoon Hell in Honduras by Kimberly Orsua
Bright-eyed innocence is soon lost in the inertia and corruption of Central America.

Wading Rivers in Nepal by Lindsy Barnfield
A tale from the old days of travel before the word ‘backpacker’ was even invented.

Saving a Spanish Cat by Nisha Coleman
Sentimentality struggles to survive in the modern world.

Lost, Drunk and Overwhelmed in Spain by Harry Buckland
Time slows down in the Spanish countryside and then goes from side to side when drinking with the locals.

Drunken Pirates in the Caribbean by Jake Lee Hannes
There really up people who still drink rum and wave cutlasses around to great effect.

Earache and Inter-Species Incest in Kazakhstan by Andy Redwood
There are places on the map where no one goes. Sometimes there’s a reason for that.

Mexicano in the Hamptons, New York by Raul Gallardo
Raul wakes up in the street after the 4th of July wrapped up in an American flag.

No Sympathy for a Hitchhiker in Canada by Kurt Provost
If you’ve ever had a shit ride you’ll identify with this tale.

The Worst Drivers in the World by Anthony Bianco
An cultural analysis of Mexicans, Italians and Zimbabweans on the road.

Escape From Mexico by Steve Fox
He cycled down from Canada, he hitches back up.

Getting Off With a Drunk Irishman in Croatia by Anomaly Jones.
She has a thing for Irish guys apparently. Or did have.

Beirut in the Baltics by John M Edwards
Antics in the Wild, Wild East of Lithuania in the early 90’s.

An Airplane Ordeal by Mike Simon
Accompanying your recently-disabled brother on flights across Canada proves as hellish an experience as any.

Getting Off the Boat in Italy, 1952
A tale of Chinese immigrants looking for a better life but finding only danger.

The Worst Passenger in the World by Bruce Northam
We reckon he was just practicing for candid camera.

Meals on Wheels in Phnom Penh by David Calleja
Third world countries are a challenge at the best of times; try to do some good in them and things get a whole lot weirder.

Hitchhiking to Los Angeles by Tom Bentley
Handy when the other passengers are professional shoplifters.

Anatomy of a River Rescue by Brian Eustis.
Brian hates hugs. And people dying on him.

Adventure Overland to Kathmandu by Kathleen Mulroy
Killer bees, xenophobic locals and a half-drunk driver – yep, you’re in with professionals at Encounter Overland.

Sexual Harassment in a Truck in Ecuador by Caroline Nye
Writers were only supposed to send in one submission but then as Caroline pointed out, we didn’t say so. Here’s her tale of escaping a molesting truck driver.

We want to say thanks to all those who sent in their stories and sorry, but we can’t afford the minimum wage college leaver to write you all personally. The contenders above were chosen either for writing style, outrageous story or their good looks.

Please keep the comments coming in on each article so we can work out which to pick for the short list at the end of the month.

1584: The Art of Chianti, by Ginaru
Italy, 2008. August 17, 2008 Seeing Tuscany Through Artists’ Eyes

Get the Best Travel Deals This Winter

Whether you’re looking for just a fun-and-sun weekend getaway or an extended journey to an exotic cultural destination, we’ve got advice on how to escape those winter doldrums on the cheap.

Reclaim Romance: The world’s most romantic restaurants

Our 12 restaurant picks from around the world have all the right elements–a seductive view, an unhurried atmosphere, and terrific food.

1566: We Love Switzerland, by Kathryn J
Switzerland, 2008. Sightseeing and walking through Bernese Oberland and Central Switzerland 8/22/08 - 9/6/08, while taking full advantage of the Swiss trains.

1557: Baguettes and Baboons: Two Weeks in Paris, by lesrosiers
France, 2008. 31 July, 2008-16 August, 2008 A husband and wife meander through Paris, cycle through the Fontainebleau forest, and spend an evening at Mont St Michel.

Enjoy daily ceremonies at more than 1,000 temples and beaches galore: white-sand spreads for sunbathers, gnarly breaks for surfers, volcanic black cliffs for nature-gazers.

The Next Great Places to Explore: Plan 2009 travel now

These places will be on everybody’s lips two years from now.

Falling off a Himalayan Cliff

India is the last place you want to be when you’re in trouble.

By the time they’ve finished cleaning the blood from my face, the adrenaline’s nearly worn off. The numbing rush of endorphines that’s carried me through the last couple of hours is being replaced by the creeping realisation that I’m lying at the bottom of a ravine in North India, a mess of shattered bone and torn skin, with no obvious means of getting out again.

A policeman’s standing over me, stroking his moustache with that air of smug megalomania policemen have the world over.

He’s Not Happy either.

Until 30 minutes ago his day had been going extraordinarily well. It’s not often a Himachal cop gets the opportunity to arrest a white traveler for murder. With no witnesses to support her claims of innocence, a hefty wad of bribe money had seemed so close he could almost taste it. And now his dreams of fucking off to early retirement in Goa with a tribe of teenage Nepali concubines are all about to be shattered, simply because I have the audacity not to be dead.

This is his last chance to persuade me, if not to die, at least to give him enough evidence to support attempted murder charges.

Unfortunately for him, that’s my best friend he’s got in custody.

“So. Who pushed you?”

“Nobody. I fell.”

“How can you fall off a cliff by accident?”

It’s a good question – even I don’t quite know. I guess one or two (or three or four) chillums might’ve had something to do with it. In a pleasantly hazy state of ganja-induced nature-worship, I’d been scrambling along one wall of the ravine, my friend Jo behind me. The next I remember is the sickening feeling of one foot slipping out from under me, glimpses of sky alternating with rock faces as my body performed a full somersault in the air, then the earth coming up to meet me with an ominous crunch about eight metres down.

Ok, not one of my smartest moments. I blame God/Shiva/whoever for making the best ganja grow in the mountains. That’s just asking for trouble.

“I slipped,” I tell the cop.

Meanwhile, among the small group of people who’ve climbed down to help, conversations are being conducted in urgent whispers, fingers pointed at the cliffs and my broken thigh, heads shaken.

A local guy kneels by my side, trying to distract me from the grotesquely drooping chunk of meat that was once my leg.

“Don’t worry,” he tells me, “you’re not the first to fall here. Three others fell already this year.”

“Fuck, were they ok?”

“No,” he says, looking surprised that I’d ask such a ridiculous question. “No, they died.” As an afterthought: “that’s why we’re not sure how to get you out. We didn’t have to worry about hurting the others.”

Somehow, I don’t feel very comforted.

Pissed-Off-Cop has a plan. He proceeds to explain it to me – complete with actions, lest I fail to grasp its full complexity.

“This man” (he indicates a rather elderly villager, who looks up, alarmed) “will bend down” (bends knees). “You get on his back,” (mimes jumping onto the old man’s back) “and he’ll carry you up the cliff!”

Even sarcasm fails me. I can think of nothing to say that could possibly make this plan sound stupider than it already does.

Luckily, the locals seem well practised in dealing with their esteemed police force. They completely ignore him and devise their own plan.

“Helicopter not possible. Cliffs too close, too high. We need blow-up stretcher and ropes. We’ll pull you up. Wait.”

I wait another three hours. I’m shaking with cold in the damp shadow of the cliffs and at every move, jagged bone tears into the muscle of my thigh. Convulsing with pain, I let my eyes roll back. Hands slap my face, panicked voices dragging me from darkness.

At last, the inflatable stretcher arrives and is lowered down. I’m lifted onto it and strapped in. Pissed-Off-Cop struts around with his chest thrust out, barking characteristically stupid instructions, which everyone calmly ignores. The ropes tighten around me and, centimetre-by-centimetre, I’m jerked upwards. At every jerk, my broken thigh drags against the cliff and I cry out in pain.

Until finally, I reach the top.

The gathered crowd cheers. As a long-bearded character who looks suspiciously like Rasputin shoots morphine into my arm, I’m reunited with Jo, who tells me her story.

The minute she saw me fall she turned and sprinted back to the village, where she burst into Pappu’s, our favourite café, screaming for help. Fighting off Pappu’s wife’s attempts to force-feed her a calming cup of chai, she gasped out what had happened.

Unfortunately, the backpackers of Himachal Pradesh aren’t exactly renowned for their energy and efficiency. Great as chillum-buddies, but when it comes to speedy mountain rescues you’d be better off asking help from the local goats. Pappu’s regulars, most of whom had been there all day, stared back at her with helpless, bloodshot eyes.

Only one seemed capable of standing up, a ginger-dreadlocked Aussie. He staggered forward and grasped her hands.

“Come… to the temple…”

“What?? No time for that, she fell off a fucking cliff!”

“We’ll pray for her…”

“PRAY?? But we need to… oh for fuck’s sake.”

Leaving him to fall to his knees, eyes piously closed, Jo turned pleading eyes on Pappu. Our Pappu! Provider of chai, maker of thali! Surely if anyone could help, he could.

Pappu didn’t fail us. He ran back to the ravine with Jo, gathering everyone he could think of to help. The police turned up an hour later, quickly took stock of the situation, and arrested Jo.

That left the ordinary villagers to climb down, discover I was alive, and organise my rescue. With the eternal ingenuity of the Indian people, they’d contacted a paragliding team 60km away, borrowed the inflatable stretcher and by sheer weight of numbers, dragged me to safety.

I’m overcome by gratitude. And morphine. As my rescuers carry me to the road I wave serenely up at them, grinning in a cross-eyed sort of way and humming tunelessly to myself.

When we reach the waiting ambulance, it’s clear the whole crowd intends to come too. There’s not enough space for all of them and sharp words start to be exchanged, until the driver resolves the situation by agreeing to drive at walking pace so everyone else can keep up.

I think the concept of an ambulance has been slightly lost on the Indians.

Near the hospital we pass a religious procession, half of which promptly decides that our group looks much more interesting and peels off to follow us instead. We arrive accompanied by about 50 people, dressed in elaborate costumes, carrying massive images of the gods, and singing at the top of their lungs.

For the next few days, my ward is a carnival of bizarre visitors. Pappu provides an ever-running supply of chai, while my Israeli friends haggle with the pharmacy for my medication, a motley gang of hippies keep up a constant serenade on acoustic guitars, and the ginger-dreadlocked Aussie performs reikki on my leg (to no noticeable effect, but I appreciate the effort). Ombaba, a crippled artist from Rajastan, walks in on his hands to assure me that life without legs isn’t so bad, and the local saddhu argues relentlessly with the doctors over the obvious necessity of smoking chillum in the ward. Apart from the unable-to-move-constant-pain thing, I almost enjoy myself.

But X-rays show that fixing my thigh is going to be a trickier procedure than just banging some plaster on and trusting to Shiva. It’s an operation that has to be done in Delhi. Unable to afford an ambulance, I order a taxi.

In preparation for the 16-hour journey over winding, potholed mountain roads, my leg is put in a ‘travel splint’. This involves tying large weights to my foot and viciously twisting my broken thigh. I grip Jo’s hand, eyes screwed shut, screaming in agony. Then I’m wrestled into the taxi through the boot, and our journey begins.

At this point, all memory dies.

I’m suffering from ‘fat embolism’. This occurs when excessive trauma to a break site allows particles of fat to enter the bloodstream and migrate to the lungs, causing respiratory failure and ‘agitated delirium’. Allegedly, I spend the following days cracking bad jokes, laughing manically, and screaming abuse at anyone who tries to put oxygen tubes up my nose.

Although, as Jo points out, this isn’t wildly different to how I act normally.

I’m concious of nothing for several days.

When I regain lucidity I’m lying in bed, smothered by the sticky monsoon heat of Delhi. I have a piece of metal inserted from my hip to my knee, a face full of stitches and a head spinning with painkillers. But I’m alive. It’s taken the courage and resourcefulness of countless people to get me here, and I treasure every sweaty, aching, beautiful second of it.

Dressed Like a Hooker and Stranded in the Bronx

The temptation of easy money proves expensive.

Having blown all my cheese on booze, I had no choice but to trust the rappers. They weren’t rappers exactly, they were “Talent Agents” for Slim Shady records and they were offering quick cash. I was desperate to get to Boston and maybe Montreal but who can do that on a deuce? The rappers spotted me on a train platform and explained to me The Scoop: I get polished and primped. They find modeling work in music videos. No nudity. No strings. $1500 for a three-day shoot.

Let me spell that out: Fifteen Hundred United States Dollars. Only in New York City.

Under any other circumstances, I would have issued a resounding FUCK OFF. Why would I ever lend legitimacy to my own objectification—in a rap video nonetheless? At the time, I was very concerned with The Authentic meaning I wanted to know the substance of everything, not just the surface and that’s insofar as self as well as others. It’s true that I have an exotic façade but I know better than to pretend that it matters. I was feeling sick and gutless about the whole affair, being a spectacle in artificiality, but damn, I needed funds so I went with the flow, can you blame me?

First things first, I met Samir at the Shady Records office on Lafayette where he arranged an interview that was actually an inspection. They took my measures, asked me some questions and sent me to a stylist. Then I was painted and ironed and photographed. I thought I looked like a clown. And by clown I mean whore. The look was complete when they decked me out in a tight skirt and cut blouse plus spiked sky-high high heels. It was just like Pretty Woman in reverse. Samir told me that dinner was in Brooklyn with the mucky mucks and other models, he’d take me there personally by train and he did.

We ate at a nice place on some higher-ups dime where I ordered Long Islands and Kamikazis to ease the banal conversation. The model on my left was obsessed with American Idol. Our waiter was an actor. Samir was getting drunk and friendly with the hands. I smiled through gritted teeth and thought fifteen hundred dollar thoughts.

Actually, dinner was okay because I could ask the models about the work. The company was named “Shady Records,” I mean…there had to be a catch, right? The blond one assured me, no catch. She was a student at NYU and did the work to pay the bills, it was legit and easy cheezy. “Usually they put you in furs so you’re covered up and down. You can get iced if you want it. And you just do a little two-step looking hot. It’s easy work, you got really lucky,” she said. I felt a little better about it all. I still didn’t trust the rappers, but hey, I got a free makeover, meal and buzz, so far so good. So what if I felt like a fake, things could be worse.

And just like that, things got worse.

It got late and my hostel had lockout, I told Samir to take me to the train. He said, “You’re not going to the train. You’re going home with me,” matter of fact to which I flipped. EXCUSE ME? First they dressed me like a whore and now I’m practicing for the part, what kind of no-strings deal is this? I didn’t wait around to find out, I just issued that belayed FUCK OFF with a stream of other expletives and ran out the restaurant into the pouring rain. My paint streaked and my heels squeaked as I outpaced Samir to the nearest subway and he lost me in the crowd.

I barely caught the train and made the drunken assumption that it was going straight to the city and would drop me off at my hostel block. Oh, booze. Instead, I passed out entirely and rode it to the end of line, deep in the Bronx. The Bronx, okay. Did I mention that I’m from a suburb? The only thing I knew about the Bronx was that I didn’t ever want to be there unless I was armed or suicidal or both.

It was 3am when I woke and realized my mistake. I did my best not to panic—I could just catch the next ride back to Manhattan, shanti. So I made the mad dash above ground to the reverse train looking strictly at my shoes the whole while. When I got there, I learned that the train was under construction and I’d have to walk three sketchy blocks to catch the nearest operative ride. It was then that I panicked. Three blocks above ground was a guarantee of rape and murder. The subway itself was crawling with shifty creatures, no way could I stay there. A group of men started howling at me and I decided to take my chances on the street. I said a fucking prayer and started the walk.

I immediately broke a sweat from fear. I’ve never set foot in a bad neighborhood by day and it was the dim lit dark of illegitimate night that I would traverse in what could have been a hooker costume. I just looked at the ground and walked hurried feigning anger. In the first block, I heard a gunshot and nearly wet myself. And then the sirens and all the shadows.

I told myself that if I got to the train alive, I’d never never never do anything reckless ever again, no more sleeping with strangers or hitchhiking or boondocking by moonlight but maybe I’d still bike camp but only with a safe man and if I just made it to the train alive, I’d try to hush my wanderlust and get a normal job from nine to five maybe I’d put my degree to use so I wouldn’t ever again spin up with shady rappers and wind up in the Bronx near death, I promise but I promise!

Just then, two men emerged from the shadows and made their way in my direction. They started walking on the outside and inside of the street so I would have to walk between them to get by. I thought, well, this is it. It’s been a nice life. I hope they find my body. And as I split the difference, one of them said,

“Give me yo’ pussy,” like it was a goddam wallet.

I just lost it then. I lost all my cool and started sprinting, I wasn’t half way to the train. I swear I moved faster than any other time in my natural born life and I was moving in blistered heels, I didn’t care. I saw the lights of a Popeye’s Chicken chain ahead and it could have been a cathedral how I wanted to drop to my knees upon entering and kiss the feet of the zit faced boy mopping the floor.

“Can I…can I just stay in here for a little while?” I asked and he said:

“This is New York. You can do whatever the fuck you want” – which is exactly what I feared but I said, thanks. And I sat there with some shitty cawfy counting the hours of sleep I’d logged in the past week. I think it was eight. Total. All of this debauchery. No wonder my mother had grey hairs.

When Popeye’s closed at 4:45am (why?) the day was still waking but I was forced back onto the street. I only went half a block when a car pulled near me and a voice said, get in. I said, yeah right, I’m not a hooker, I thought it was Halloween and he said, You obviously don’t belong here and it’s really unsafe. I’m a police officer, off-duty, here’s my badge. And just like that, Officer Ramirez escorted me to Manhattan like a night in shining armor. He lectured me the whole while about safety and caution:

New York is a fast city. The stakes are higher here. You gonna play games outside the lights and glitter you gonna see some ugly things, that’s a fact. You just lucky no harm came.

I thanked him profusely and promised to be good.

Now call me foolish, but the fact of the matter is that I never actually made it to the train that night although I did make it out alive, if you want to mince words, the promise was no more fun if I made it to the train and I didn’t. I took this to mean that I have at least ten more years license to be a pirate pilgrim or a poet and to sate wanderlust the only way it’s possibly sated: with the risk inherent in journey and freedom.

If you ask me, a little sweat in hell or the Bronx is a small price to pay.

1574: Istanbul and some Sights of Western Anatolia, by Dennis Switzer
Turkey, 2008. Over 17 days in September of 2008 Dennis and his daughter visited Istanbul, the Turquoise Coast, Pamukkale and Selcuk.

Spinifex And Sand Pioneering And Exploration In Western Australia By David W Carnegie
A NARRATIVE OF FIVE YEARS’ PIONEERING AND EXPLORATION IN WESTERN AUSTRALIA - The following pages profess to be no more than a faithful narrative of five years spent on the goldfields and in the far interior of Western Australia. Any one looking for stirring adventures, hairbreadth escapes from wild animals and men, will be disappointed. In the Australian Bush the traveller has only Nature to war against - over him hangs always the chance of death from thirst, and sometimes from the attacks of hostile aboriginals; he has no spice of adventure, no record heads of rare game, no exciting escapades with dangerous beasts, to spur him on; no beautiful scenery, broad lakes, or winding rivers to make life pleasant for him. Click to read more…

We Of The Never-Never By Jeanie “Mrs. Aeneas” Gunn
The Maluka, The Little Missus, The Sanguine Scot, The Head Stockman, The Dandy, The Quiet Stockman, The Fizzer, Mine Host, The Wag, Some of our Guests, A few black “boys” and lubras, A dog or two, Tam-o’-Shanter, Happy Dick, Sam Lee, and last, but by no means least, Cheon - the ever-mirthful, ever-helpful, irrepressible Cheon, who was crudely recorded on the station books as cook and gardener. The background is filled in with an ever-moving company - a strange medley of Whites, Blacks, and Chinese; of travellers, overlanders, and billabongers, who passed in and out of our lives, leaving behind them sometimes bright memories, sometimes sad, and sometimes little memory at all. Click to read more…

1584: The Art of Chianti, by Ginaru
Italy, 2008. August 17, 2008 Seeing Tuscany Through Artists’ Eyes

Frommer’s Smart Deal of the Week: Hotel Rooms from $52 through the New Year
Hotels.com is welcoming the new year by helping hotels across North America and the Caribbean fill beds with cuts in prices of up to 30%.

1556: 25th Wedding Anniversary Trip-Sonoma County, by Cindy Ruth
North America, 2008. 8/3/08 to 8/8/08 25th Anniversary Trip to Sonoma Wine Country with some amazing winery visits as well as hiking and shopping.

Escapes Under $500: Unbelievable deals to Hawaii and Bermuda
Whether you live on the West Coast or the East Coast, tropical paradise is still in reach.

Falling off a Himalayan Cliff

India is the last place you want to be when you’re in trouble.

By the time they’ve finished cleaning the blood from my face, the adrenaline’s nearly worn off. The numbing rush of endorphines that’s carried me through the last couple of hours is being replaced by the creeping realisation that I’m lying at the bottom of a ravine in North India, a mess of shattered bone and torn skin, with no obvious means of getting out again.

A policeman’s standing over me, stroking his moustache with that air of smug megalomania policemen have the world over.

He’s Not Happy either.

Until 30 minutes ago his day had been going extraordinarily well. It’s not often a Himachal cop gets the opportunity to arrest a white traveler for murder. With no witnesses to support her claims of innocence, a hefty wad of bribe money had seemed so close he could almost taste it. And now his dreams of fucking off to early retirement in Goa with a tribe of teenage Nepali concubines are all about to be shattered, simply because I have the audacity not to be dead.

This is his last chance to persuade me, if not to die, at least to give him enough evidence to support attempted murder charges.

Unfortunately for him, that’s my best friend he’s got in custody.

“So. Who pushed you?”

“Nobody. I fell.”

“How can you fall off a cliff by accident?”

It’s a good question – even I don’t quite know. I guess one or two (or three or four) chillums might’ve had something to do with it. In a pleasantly hazy state of ganja-induced nature-worship, I’d been scrambling along one wall of the ravine, my friend Jo behind me. The next I remember is the sickening feeling of one foot slipping out from under me, glimpses of sky alternating with rock faces as my body performed a full somersault in the air, then the earth coming up to meet me with an ominous crunch about eight metres down.

Ok, not one of my smartest moments. I blame God/Shiva/whoever for making the best ganja grow in the mountains. That’s just asking for trouble.

“I slipped,” I tell the cop.

Meanwhile, among the small group of people who’ve climbed down to help, conversations are being conducted in urgent whispers, fingers pointed at the cliffs and my broken thigh, heads shaken.

A local guy kneels by my side, trying to distract me from the grotesquely drooping chunk of meat that was once my leg.

“Don’t worry,” he tells me, “you’re not the first to fall here. Three others fell already this year.”

“Fuck, were they ok?”

“No,” he says, looking surprised that I’d ask such a ridiculous question. “No, they died.” As an afterthought: “that’s why we’re not sure how to get you out. We didn’t have to worry about hurting the others.”

Somehow, I don’t feel very comforted.

Pissed-Off-Cop has a plan. He proceeds to explain it to me – complete with actions, lest I fail to grasp its full complexity.

“This man” (he indicates a rather elderly villager, who looks up, alarmed) “will bend down” (bends knees). “You get on his back,” (mimes jumping onto the old man’s back) “and he’ll carry you up the cliff!”

Even sarcasm fails me. I can think of nothing to say that could possibly make this plan sound stupider than it already does.

Luckily, the locals seem well practised in dealing with their esteemed police force. They completely ignore him and devise their own plan.

“Helicopter not possible. Cliffs too close, too high. We need blow-up stretcher and ropes. We’ll pull you up. Wait.”

I wait another three hours. I’m shaking with cold in the damp shadow of the cliffs and at every move, jagged bone tears into the muscle of my thigh. Convulsing with pain, I let my eyes roll back. Hands slap my face, panicked voices dragging me from darkness.

At last, the inflatable stretcher arrives and is lowered down. I’m lifted onto it and strapped in. Pissed-Off-Cop struts around with his chest thrust out, barking characteristically stupid instructions, which everyone calmly ignores. The ropes tighten around me and, centimetre-by-centimetre, I’m jerked upwards. At every jerk, my broken thigh drags against the cliff and I cry out in pain.

Until finally, I reach the top.

The gathered crowd cheers. As a long-bearded character who looks suspiciously like Rasputin shoots morphine into my arm, I’m reunited with Jo, who tells me her story.

The minute she saw me fall she turned and sprinted back to the village, where she burst into Pappu’s, our favourite café, screaming for help. Fighting off Pappu’s wife’s attempts to force-feed her a calming cup of chai, she gasped out what had happened.

Unfortunately, the backpackers of Himachal Pradesh aren’t exactly renowned for their energy and efficiency. Great as chillum-buddies, but when it comes to speedy mountain rescues you’d be better off asking help from the local goats. Pappu’s regulars, most of whom had been there all day, stared back at her with helpless, bloodshot eyes.

Only one seemed capable of standing up, a ginger-dreadlocked Aussie. He staggered forward and grasped her hands.

“Come… to the temple…”

“What?? No time for that, she fell off a fucking cliff!”

“We’ll pray for her…”

“PRAY?? But we need to… oh for fuck’s sake.”

Leaving him to fall to his knees, eyes piously closed, Jo turned pleading eyes on Pappu. Our Pappu! Provider of chai, maker of thali! Surely if anyone could help, he could.

Pappu didn’t fail us. He ran back to the ravine with Jo, gathering everyone he could think of to help. The police turned up an hour later, quickly took stock of the situation, and arrested Jo.

That left the ordinary villagers to climb down, discover I was alive, and organise my rescue. With the eternal ingenuity of the Indian people, they’d contacted a paragliding team 60km away, borrowed the inflatable stretcher and by sheer weight of numbers, dragged me to safety.

I’m overcome by gratitude. And morphine. As my rescuers carry me to the road I wave serenely up at them, grinning in a cross-eyed sort of way and humming tunelessly to myself.

When we reach the waiting ambulance, it’s clear the whole crowd intends to come too. There’s not enough space for all of them and sharp words start to be exchanged, until the driver resolves the situation by agreeing to drive at walking pace so everyone else can keep up.

I think the concept of an ambulance has been slightly lost on the Indians.

Near the hospital we pass a religious procession, half of which promptly decides that our group looks much more interesting and peels off to follow us instead. We arrive accompanied by about 50 people, dressed in elaborate costumes, carrying massive images of the gods, and singing at the top of their lungs.

For the next few days, my ward is a carnival of bizarre visitors. Pappu provides an ever-running supply of chai, while my Israeli friends haggle with the pharmacy for my medication, a motley gang of hippies keep up a constant serenade on acoustic guitars, and the ginger-dreadlocked Aussie performs reikki on my leg (to no noticeable effect, but I appreciate the effort). Ombaba, a crippled artist from Rajastan, walks in on his hands to assure me that life without legs isn’t so bad, and the local saddhu argues relentlessly with the doctors over the obvious necessity of smoking chillum in the ward. Apart from the unable-to-move-constant-pain thing, I almost enjoy myself.

But X-rays show that fixing my thigh is going to be a trickier procedure than just banging some plaster on and trusting to Shiva. It’s an operation that has to be done in Delhi. Unable to afford an ambulance, I order a taxi.

In preparation for the 16-hour journey over winding, potholed mountain roads, my leg is put in a ‘travel splint’. This involves tying large weights to my foot and viciously twisting my broken thigh. I grip Jo’s hand, eyes screwed shut, screaming in agony. Then I’m wrestled into the taxi through the boot, and our journey begins.

At this point, all memory dies.

I’m suffering from ‘fat embolism’. This occurs when excessive trauma to a break site allows particles of fat to enter the bloodstream and migrate to the lungs, causing respiratory failure and ‘agitated delirium’. Allegedly, I spend the following days cracking bad jokes, laughing manically, and screaming abuse at anyone who tries to put oxygen tubes up my nose.

Although, as Jo points out, this isn’t wildly different to how I act normally.

I’m concious of nothing for several days.

When I regain lucidity I’m lying in bed, smothered by the sticky monsoon heat of Delhi. I have a piece of metal inserted from my hip to my knee, a face full of stitches and a head spinning with painkillers. But I’m alive. It’s taken the courage and resourcefulness of countless people to get me here, and I treasure every sweaty, aching, beautiful second of it.

Dating Greek Girls and Guys

The Greeks have a poor time of it when it comes to their romantic image – sure, they had the original gods of Eros and Aphrodite, not to mention those dashing young heroes, Jason and Hercules – but the culture of catamites and homosexuality lingers on and makes Greeks the butt of dirty jokes in Europe today.

You might imagine that the beaches of Greece would be full of olive-skinned Greek girls and guys lying half-naked in the sun… and they might well do so were it not for the hordes of British working class who come on 2 week holidays to get drunk, sunburnt and laid with one another wherever and whenever. With cheap booze and cheap flights, the Brits give all tourists a bad name and behave like animals, scaring