Introduction
I recall with some clarity the moment I knew that I didn’t want to sit in an office and dream up inventive ways of wasting time until 5pm any longer.
I’d made my way into the building fashionably late and winked cheekily at the receptionist who I had a bit of a thing for (she sneered and whispered something that sounded a little like ‘nobhead’). I dumped my coat, switched on the laptop, checked my voicemail for messages, decided there was nothing interesting enough to keep me from my breakfast and hit the cafeteria for a fry-up and a caffeine hit. On returning, I checked the football news and loudly hinted to anyone within earshot that I quite fancied a nice cup of tea, in the vain hope that someone may volunteer to make me one. When this didn’t seem to be forthcoming I made my way to the toilet.
Now, I know the last thing you want to hear is what went on in said toilet but please bear with me here. After a short game- playing session (playing computer games on your mobile phone whilst sitting on the toilet is a surefire time-wasting winner - not many bosses will feel comfortable broaching the subject of how long you spend on the toilet in the morning), I experienced something of an epiphany. Needing to share my revelation, I waddled from the men’s room with my trousers round my ankles, pointed my finger to the sky, announced to anyone within earshot that things were about to change, waved my tie like a lasso and hurled it into the nearest shredder, pulled up my trousers and sprinted out of the office.
I came back in of course. But what had dawned on me was that I needed to get away - and right away. I’d spent a year doing the now compulsory Brit pastime of backpacking Australia and New Zealand back in my mid-twenties - people would once marvel at the fact that you were adventurous enough to ‘go all the way down under’ but now so many have been to the aforementioned ‘down under’, that we all know it’s a one year piss-up in a sunnier, happier version of the UK doing a few odd jobs to keep a roof over your head. I began to consider how I was going to conjure up a trip that would both inspire and challenge me…
The ‘30’ idea was born from several different conversations. It wasn’t a secret that I was approaching thirty in a few month’s time (no one would let me forget it), and I had been looking for an original idea to mark the occasion for a while. My circle of friends (is three people enough for a circle?) had been discussing doing something different to celebrate, but I was looking for something truly memorable and, after a brief moment of enlightenment in the bath (seemingly all my greatest ideas come when either I’m washing or on the toilet), decided that it would be good to make the trip in conjunction with my birthday.
The money saving began in earnest whilst I waited for the final pieces to slip into place during hygiene breaks. These ‘light bulbs’ arrived shortly after: firstly, in a conversation with a female friend who told me she wanted to visit every country in the world and us attempting to work out how many there were to get around and secondly, after telling another friend that I was going travelling again, her suggestion that I should “write a book about it, your stories are funny” (actually, she may have said “utter nonsense” but that’s by the by). That was the point when I formulated the theme of the ‘challenge’: to travel thirty countries, beginning on my 30th birthday, and then write a hilarious book of my experiences.
Choosing the thirty countries was a surprisingly speedy affair; I knew that they would need to be cheap to travel, relatively safe (i.e. not in the midst of a civil war) and easily reachable in conjunction with my proposed flights. I bought two, cheap flights in and out of Europe, one into Estonia in the East and one out of Portugal in the West. This allowed me two months to cover half of the thirty countries, overland, using trains & buses. I then purchased a ‘round the world’ plane ticket (with the help of my faithful credit card) with ten flights, which would cover fifteen remaining countries across three more continents. Simple.
After much number-crunching, it became apparent that my ‘rainy day’ savings didn’t come close to covering the estimated cost of the trip and, even with a sizeable (aren’t they generous folk?) limit on my credit card, I was going to need some more cash. With less than two months until the off, it was time to get things moving. Even with working all the overtime permitted (which wasn’t much) and staying in as much as humanly possible (only going out for special occasions - such as William Shakespeare’s birthday), much more money was required. Things needed to be sold.
So it was that any item I owned that didn’t have sentimental value was fair game. I became a committed ‘E-Bayer’ and watched as my personal belongings sold for anything between highly inflated and next to nothing. I got sick to the back teeth of packaging everything up and driving to the post office on my lunch break every other day to send it out. I sold my PC to a workmate’s son, and then had a moment of horror when I realised there was a chance I hadn’t deleted some choice adult material from it. Even after all this I still didn’t make the target figure - the rest would just have to be borrowed and worried about some other time.
The weeks soon passed; my possessions dwindled and as it slowly dawned on me what I was doing, everything began to click into place. I’d chosen the countries, the flights were booked and I’d drawn up a basic (and what was to turn out to be a completely un-realistic) itinerary to try and keep me roughly on track time and money wise. I dug out my old, faithful backpack ‘Clive’ from the loft and, after a brief catch up, started to work out how I was going to fit the extensive list of equipment I’d made into a space that small (answer: I wasn’t). I was immunised against every disease known to man (several I’d never heard of) and began to cancel all those direct debits and contracts that keep you tied down wherever you are (one of the most enjoyable activities you can ever undertake).
I received a surprise call from my travel agent at work, just four days before I was due to leave. She explained that I couldn’t have my round-the-world air ticket, as there was a problem with one of the flights being over-booked (it was something like that, I’d begun to sweat profusely and was having a panic attack of sorts so was having difficulty concentrating) - they were therefore cancelling the ticket. I spent my last two days of work scrambling around trying to find a replacement ticket. In the end, I could only find one with fewer flights and had to purchase individual tickets direct from several airlines to fill in the gaps. I was also left a country short: Fiji had been lost (from the trip, not off the map) and was hurriedly replaced by Ireland.
And that was it. I had a low-key, lunchtime send off from work (I don’t think I was very popular) and on exiting the building, was struck by that strange mixture of elation, excitement and absolute fear you experience when you walk away from a job knowing that you’ve just voluntarily given up your career (if you had one) to start afresh. The tune that played on my car radio as I drove out of the car park will stick with me forever; I still smile when I hear it today.
And the book? It’s a collection of some of the most memorable stories from the trip. Written with the aid of my notes (which, due to my appalling handwriting and tendency to write after I’d spent the night sampling the local hospitality, may not be entirely accurate), my slightly fuzzy long-term memory and my inclination to visualise situations as comedy sketches in my head rather than accept the bland (or dangerous) reality. I don’t profess to being an expert in history, art, geography, architecture or politics (although I’m fairly knowledgeable on 1980’s TV shows) but will always attempt to fill you in if I felt it had a bearing on my state of mind at the time; it’s mostly an account, from my slightly warped perspective, of what I saw and what happened to me and memorable individuals I met, as some serious ‘Turbo Tourism’ swept me across four continents in nine months. I hope you enjoy reading it.
Oh, there is just one more thing - should reading this make you walk out of your job and embark on a similarly hair-brained scheme, then please don’t tell your loved ones that it was anything to do with this book - I really can’t handle that kind of responsibility.
0.5 - Clive
I have a habit of naming things I own. I think it’s because I don’t have any friends. It’s not that I make friends with things I own, you understand (that would be ridiculous) - I just name them. That way it gives me someone to blame when something goes wrong.
My backpack is named Clive. I can’t recall why, you can’t really go back and change someone’s name once they’ve got it though, can you?
As an aside: my flip-flops are named Chas and Dave.
1 - Estonia
Hostels & hostel life Now seems like as good a time as any to give you the low-down on hostels. This type of accommodation will more often than not serve as my ‘home’ during the trip and they’re a little different to your ‘Holiday Inn’ or ‘Vera’s Bed & Breakfast’ (they don’t have coffee sachets that went out of date six years ago or black and white televisions that can only receive BBC2).
A very basic hostel will normally consist of some shared sleeping rooms (usually in bunk beds, ranging in number from 4-40 to a room), sometimes with lockers for your valuables (other times you’ll need to come up with an ingenious hiding place that no would-be thief would think of searching – your pillowcase for example), shared bathrooms (toilets, showers – normally individual compartments and sinks), some type of communal lounge area and a kitchen for cooking your meals (pasta being the number one backpacker’s choice for several years running). Of course, all hostels vary greatly in terms of size, comfort, cleanliness, amenities and most importantly – atmosphere. With budget world travel becoming ever more popular, hostels are known to have bars (the bar is more important than the hostel in some cases), Internet cafés, TVs and DVDs, swimming pools, huge welcoming communal areas, help with finding work, saunas, gyms and even the occasional crèche if you wish to bring your child along with you and leave them in qualified hands whilst you gallivant around the globe for a year. Probably.
My first ever night spent in a hostel (one recalls it with great nostalgia) was four years previous in Cairns, Australia, and it set a high standard for barmy nights in dormitories. I was sleeping off my long flight from the UK (and a few opening night beers) when a skinny Scottish lad in his late teens burst through the door in a state of severe drunkenness. I watched with one eye open as he staggered across the room and finally crashed into his bed. The nights were cold (for Australia) at this time of year and our Scottish friend obviously hadn’t packed a sleeping bag, he lay shivering and fidgeting, his teeth chattering, before suddenly bursting into tears. I was about to show my concern for his well-being but, before I could, he sprang to his feet, ran out of the room, stopped a few feet outside the door and relieved himself on the corridor floor outside. He then returned to bed, put some more clothes on, had another cry and fell asleep. When I awoke in the morning, eager to question him about his behaviour, the bed was empty and nothing was left of the lad apart from a nice, big patch of piss outside our door.
Anyway, I digress. Having touched down in Estonia’s capital Tallinn, the hostel at which I’ve arrived, on the outskirts of the old town, is one of the smallest I’ve ever laid eyes on. In essence, it’s a studio apartment that’s being utilised as crowded, shared accommodation. The reception area is a small desk in the cramped entrance hallway and a door opens into the rest of the hostel. The all-in-one rooms are the kitchen, living area and 3 bunk beds. Another slightly more private dorm lies in an adjoining room (but it’s full) and there is one toilet and a shower room (the fact that this shower room contains a decent spa bath and a sauna convinces me that this place wasn’t designed as a hostel). The people are friendly enough though, and I’m not planning on spending an awful lot of time here, so I throw Clive onto an empty bed to claim it as my own (as is the tradition). I prefer a bottom bunk if possible as it’s far less hassle during the night; I’ve seen some nasty ‘top bunk’ drinking injuries in my time I can tell you. It’s funny how I’ve shifted from the childhood school of thinking that claiming the top bunk is a pre-requisite whilst rooming with a younger brother/schoolmate, to opting for a lower bunk in my later life for my own personal safety.
Another major aspect of hostel life is meeting strangers. Before you leave for a solo trip, one of your concerns is always ‘am I going to meet people?’ – That may be one of the reasons you’re going away after all. The answer is normally ‘yes’ (with a little effort on your part). Hostels are always geared up to meeting people, as there’s really no other option. Pretty much every area of the place is communal so you’d find it tough to be alone, unless 1) you make a concerted effort to, or 2) you’re the only person in the hostel – then you’re in trouble (try hooking up with one of the cleaners – works for me).
A shocking first night I will remember the first night of my trip for a long time. Not with any fondness I’m afraid, but because I was stuck in an uncomfortable situation. Still feeling a little tender from my boozy farewell the previous night, I’d disinterestedly picked at my dinner in a nearby bar with two American lads - a likeable young student and a sleazy, overweight grease ball. Estonia has more than its fair share of beautiful women, and my slimy, lard bucket of a companion has taken it upon himself to make a lewd comment (coupled with a snort) every time one passes us by. After deciding that I really don’t want to spend any more time in the company of this irritating ogre, I return to the hostel. My fragile condition soon takes a turn for the worse and, before long, I find myself kneeling on the toilet floor ‘talking on the porcelain telephone’. Being the only toilet in the hostel and slap-bang next to the communal area, this means that all in the living area are well aware of what’s happening. After a good hour of loud vomiting, I emerge as a flaky ghost to some seriously funny looks (and a queue of miffed people waiting for the toilet). As I fall wearily onto my bunk, the sweats arrive and, as quickly as I can remove a couple of layers of clothing, the shivers are on the scene. All I can do is wrap up as warm as I can, close my eyes, curl into a ball and try to ignore the noise in the communal area around me. It’s still early, maybe 10pm; the TV is blaring out ‘The Simpsons’ at full blast, someone is crashing around in the kitchen (it sounds as if they’re trying to prepare a meal blindfolded) and a girl nearby is packing and re-packing her bag over and over again (how can one bag have that many zips?) - I assume she has a stopwatch and is attempting to beat her packing/re-packing personal best.
All this combined made for a miserable night. Unbeknown to me, it doesn’t seem to get dark in Eastern Europe (at this particular time of year anyway) so the window by my head lets in the semi-dark evening light whilst I intermittently sweat and shiver. Individuals return to the hostel during the course of the night and every sound is amplified in my head. At one point during the peak of the fever, madness sets in and I decide that I’m going to walk home to England and scrap the whole trip. Fortunately, the need to vomit again means that I don’t have to follow up on the logistics of this bright idea.
When I open my eyes the following morning, I’m surprised to find myself back in my bunk bed as the last thing I remember was nodding off whilst hugging the toilet for comfort. Other than still suffering from a lack of sleep, I don’t feel too bad. I figure I must have had one of those ‘twenty-four hour bugs’ that people talk about – I’m unaware if there is an official medical name for this illness, but I’d be awfully surprised if it’s professionally recognised as the ‘twenty-four hour bug’.
The Bog I’d taken a bus south from Tallinn to my next port of call: Estonia’s summer capital – Parnu, pre-booking a night at a hostel in nearby Soomaa, which is apparently around half an hour away. Soomaa is famous for its bogs (in fact I seem to remember the name actually meaning ‘land of the bogs’ or something along those lines) and outdoor activities.
The buses out to the village where the hostel lies are infrequent to say the least, and most of the day has already passed by the time I manage to touchdown in Soomaa and locate the hut that will serve as my accommodation for the night. It’s an odd looking place, I’m not sure whether it doubles up as the community centre for the small village, but there’s an old theatre of some kind, circa 1960’s decor and the place seems to be full of young children who aren’t staying there but are using the facilities. There’s no one at the reception when I eventually locate it through the swarms of kids, and it takes me a while to locate an adult (I don’t know if you’ve ever seen the ‘Children of the Corn’ film, but I was beginning to get the feeling that this tiny outpost had been overtaken by murderous children and was considering making a run for it). Eventually I locate someone taller than waist high who works at the place and, after going through the formalities, I’m shown to my dorm. I find that the entire place is empty. I’m the only person staying here. Those bloodthirsty children have murdered all the other travelers. Possibly.
After informing the chap at reception that I think I’ll just stay for the one night, he kindly organises some cheap accommodation for me in Parnu for the following night and asks what I plan on doing for the remainder of my day.
“How about some canoeing?” I suggest. He then informs me that, as I’m the only person staying here, I’d have to pay an extortionate amount to go canoeing.
“Right, OK, what do you suggest then?” I ask.
“You could go and walk the bog,” says he, and explains that there’s a plentiful supply of bog to walk around - this one in particular being a 5km trail. He offers to drive me over there but explains he won’t be around to bring me back so advises that I’ll have to return by my own devices. Now, I’ve never been to a bog before so figure ‘why not’ and jump in his jeep. I must have missed the bit where he said that the bog was 6km away; I ask him if there’s a bus I can get back. He informs me that there’s no such thing and my choice is either to walk or hitch a ride; I decide to cross that bridge when I come to it and thank him for the lift.
I make my way into the bog through a huge, wooden wishbone and begin to stride along the wooden planks that guide the way along the trail; allegedly witches can be found in the bogs, as they enjoy the isolation. I keep an eye out for black-cloaked, green-skinned, cackling women with pointy hats, but all I see is bog and more bog. Although I’d been told that there are areas in the bog in which you can swim, I’m unsure of swimming in a location that may be rife with witches, so I remove my shoes and dip my ever-tired feet into the cool water and listen for the sound of broomsticks. Whilst I’m soaking my feet and reviewing the pros and cons of my snap decision to walk around a bog, a frog begins to croak, and is quickly joined by a few of his mates, the croaking continues to multiply until there must be over a hundred of them making one hell of a din. I’m reminded of ‘The Frog Chorus’ by Paul McCartney and join in with a couple of cheerful ‘Bay-ee-aas’. The frogs aren’t at all impressed at my gate crashing their party and stop instantaneously. I sigh; feeling a little left out, and continue walking the planks.
After what seems like hours, I finally finish the circuit, arrive back at the beginning and am then hit with the realisation that, after walking a 5km trail of nothing but planks/bog/singing frogs, I now have to make my way 6km back to the hostel. I scan the dirt track road for any sign of traffic; it’s deserted, so I reluctantly set off toward the village – at least I think it’s the track toward the village – I must admit I wasn’t really paying attention when I was given directions. I’ve still got that bloody frog song bouncing round my head and find myself singing it as I’m walking along. I try to wash it out with another tune and somehow end up with ‘I would walk five hundred miles’ (which I wouldn’t, I’m having enough trouble with 6km). After around fifteen minutes of ambling down the road singing to myself, a dusty white car pulls up alongside me and the driver beckons me in. I happily accept his offer as a ride rather than a kidnap attempt and we’re on our way. The driver, a friendly middle aged fellow, is nattering away in Estonian to me and at first I smile blankly before realising that he may be pitching some questions my way, so I let him know that I can’t speak Estonian. It becomes apparent from his body language that he wants to know where I’m heading (makes sense I suppose, that’s normally what happens with hitchhiking). That’s all very well, except I have no idea/clue what my hostel is called. I throw a few words and hand signals intended to indicate hostel, bed, accommodation and sleeping but, understandably, he has absolutely no idea what I’m talking about. I recall seeing a shop nearby and offer ‘shop?’ He nods knowingly. I really hope he’s thinking what I’m thinking; otherwise I’m going to end up very lost in the ‘land of the bogs’. With luck it’s the very one. I thank him for his kindness and walk the short distance remaining to my ‘hostel for one’.
I recall with some clarity the moment I knew that I didn’t want to sit in an office and dream up inventive ways of wasting time until 5pm any longer.
I’d made my way into the building fashionably late and winked cheekily at the receptionist who I had a bit of a thing for (she sneered and whispered something that sounded a little like ‘nobhead’). I dumped my coat, switched on the laptop, checked my voicemail for messages, decided there was nothing interesting enough to keep me from my breakfast and hit the cafeteria for a fry-up and a caffeine hit. On returning, I checked the football news and loudly hinted to anyone within earshot that I quite fancied a nice cup of tea, in the vain hope that someone may volunteer to make me one. When this didn’t seem to be forthcoming I made my way to the toilet.
Now, I know the last thing you want to hear is what went on in said toilet but please bear with me here. After a short game- playing session (playing computer games on your mobile phone whilst sitting on the toilet is a surefire time-wasting winner - not many bosses will feel comfortable broaching the subject of how long you spend on the toilet in the morning), I experienced something of an epiphany. Needing to share my revelation, I waddled from the men’s room with my trousers round my ankles, pointed my finger to the sky, announced to anyone within earshot that things were about to change, waved my tie like a lasso and hurled it into the nearest shredder, pulled up my trousers and sprinted out of the office.
I came back in of course. But what had dawned on me was that I needed to get away - and right away. I’d spent a year doing the now compulsory Brit pastime of backpacking Australia and New Zealand back in my mid-twenties - people would once marvel at the fact that you were adventurous enough to ‘go all the way down under’ but now so many have been to the aforementioned ‘down under’, that we all know it’s a one year piss-up in a sunnier, happier version of the UK doing a few odd jobs to keep a roof over your head. I began to consider how I was going to conjure up a trip that would both inspire and challenge me…
The ‘30’ idea was born from several different conversations. It wasn’t a secret that I was approaching thirty in a few month’s time (no one would let me forget it), and I had been looking for an original idea to mark the occasion for a while. My circle of friends (is three people enough for a circle?) had been discussing doing something different to celebrate, but I was looking for something truly memorable and, after a brief moment of enlightenment in the bath (seemingly all my greatest ideas come when either I’m washing or on the toilet), decided that it would be good to make the trip in conjunction with my birthday.
The money saving began in earnest whilst I waited for the final pieces to slip into place during hygiene breaks. These ‘light bulbs’ arrived shortly after: firstly, in a conversation with a female friend who told me she wanted to visit every country in the world and us attempting to work out how many there were to get around and secondly, after telling another friend that I was going travelling again, her suggestion that I should “write a book about it, your stories are funny” (actually, she may have said “utter nonsense” but that’s by the by). That was the point when I formulated the theme of the ‘challenge’: to travel thirty countries, beginning on my 30th birthday, and then write a hilarious book of my experiences.
Choosing the thirty countries was a surprisingly speedy affair; I knew that they would need to be cheap to travel, relatively safe (i.e. not in the midst of a civil war) and easily reachable in conjunction with my proposed flights. I bought two, cheap flights in and out of Europe, one into Estonia in the East and one out of Portugal in the West. This allowed me two months to cover half of the thirty countries, overland, using trains & buses. I then purchased a ‘round the world’ plane ticket (with the help of my faithful credit card) with ten flights, which would cover fifteen remaining countries across three more continents. Simple.
After much number-crunching, it became apparent that my ‘rainy day’ savings didn’t come close to covering the estimated cost of the trip and, even with a sizeable (aren’t they generous folk?) limit on my credit card, I was going to need some more cash. With less than two months until the off, it was time to get things moving. Even with working all the overtime permitted (which wasn’t much) and staying in as much as humanly possible (only going out for special occasions - such as William Shakespeare’s birthday), much more money was required. Things needed to be sold.
So it was that any item I owned that didn’t have sentimental value was fair game. I became a committed ‘E-Bayer’ and watched as my personal belongings sold for anything between highly inflated and next to nothing. I got sick to the back teeth of packaging everything up and driving to the post office on my lunch break every other day to send it out. I sold my PC to a workmate’s son, and then had a moment of horror when I realised there was a chance I hadn’t deleted some choice adult material from it. Even after all this I still didn’t make the target figure - the rest would just have to be borrowed and worried about some other time.
The weeks soon passed; my possessions dwindled and as it slowly dawned on me what I was doing, everything began to click into place. I’d chosen the countries, the flights were booked and I’d drawn up a basic (and what was to turn out to be a completely un-realistic) itinerary to try and keep me roughly on track time and money wise. I dug out my old, faithful backpack ‘Clive’ from the loft and, after a brief catch up, started to work out how I was going to fit the extensive list of equipment I’d made into a space that small (answer: I wasn’t). I was immunised against every disease known to man (several I’d never heard of) and began to cancel all those direct debits and contracts that keep you tied down wherever you are (one of the most enjoyable activities you can ever undertake).
I received a surprise call from my travel agent at work, just four days before I was due to leave. She explained that I couldn’t have my round-the-world air ticket, as there was a problem with one of the flights being over-booked (it was something like that, I’d begun to sweat profusely and was having a panic attack of sorts so was having difficulty concentrating) - they were therefore cancelling the ticket. I spent my last two days of work scrambling around trying to find a replacement ticket. In the end, I could only find one with fewer flights and had to purchase individual tickets direct from several airlines to fill in the gaps. I was also left a country short: Fiji had been lost (from the trip, not off the map) and was hurriedly replaced by Ireland.
And that was it. I had a low-key, lunchtime send off from work (I don’t think I was very popular) and on exiting the building, was struck by that strange mixture of elation, excitement and absolute fear you experience when you walk away from a job knowing that you’ve just voluntarily given up your career (if you had one) to start afresh. The tune that played on my car radio as I drove out of the car park will stick with me forever; I still smile when I hear it today.
And the book? It’s a collection of some of the most memorable stories from the trip. Written with the aid of my notes (which, due to my appalling handwriting and tendency to write after I’d spent the night sampling the local hospitality, may not be entirely accurate), my slightly fuzzy long-term memory and my inclination to visualise situations as comedy sketches in my head rather than accept the bland (or dangerous) reality. I don’t profess to being an expert in history, art, geography, architecture or politics (although I’m fairly knowledgeable on 1980’s TV shows) but will always attempt to fill you in if I felt it had a bearing on my state of mind at the time; it’s mostly an account, from my slightly warped perspective, of what I saw and what happened to me and memorable individuals I met, as some serious ‘Turbo Tourism’ swept me across four continents in nine months. I hope you enjoy reading it.
Oh, there is just one more thing - should reading this make you walk out of your job and embark on a similarly hair-brained scheme, then please don’t tell your loved ones that it was anything to do with this book - I really can’t handle that kind of responsibility.
0.5 - Clive
I have a habit of naming things I own. I think it’s because I don’t have any friends. It’s not that I make friends with things I own, you understand (that would be ridiculous) - I just name them. That way it gives me someone to blame when something goes wrong.
My backpack is named Clive. I can’t recall why, you can’t really go back and change someone’s name once they’ve got it though, can you?
As an aside: my flip-flops are named Chas and Dave.
1 - Estonia
Hostels & hostel life Now seems like as good a time as any to give you the low-down on hostels. This type of accommodation will more often than not serve as my ‘home’ during the trip and they’re a little different to your ‘Holiday Inn’ or ‘Vera’s Bed & Breakfast’ (they don’t have coffee sachets that went out of date six years ago or black and white televisions that can only receive BBC2).
A very basic hostel will normally consist of some shared sleeping rooms (usually in bunk beds, ranging in number from 4-40 to a room), sometimes with lockers for your valuables (other times you’ll need to come up with an ingenious hiding place that no would-be thief would think of searching – your pillowcase for example), shared bathrooms (toilets, showers – normally individual compartments and sinks), some type of communal lounge area and a kitchen for cooking your meals (pasta being the number one backpacker’s choice for several years running). Of course, all hostels vary greatly in terms of size, comfort, cleanliness, amenities and most importantly – atmosphere. With budget world travel becoming ever more popular, hostels are known to have bars (the bar is more important than the hostel in some cases), Internet cafés, TVs and DVDs, swimming pools, huge welcoming communal areas, help with finding work, saunas, gyms and even the occasional crèche if you wish to bring your child along with you and leave them in qualified hands whilst you gallivant around the globe for a year. Probably.
My first ever night spent in a hostel (one recalls it with great nostalgia) was four years previous in Cairns, Australia, and it set a high standard for barmy nights in dormitories. I was sleeping off my long flight from the UK (and a few opening night beers) when a skinny Scottish lad in his late teens burst through the door in a state of severe drunkenness. I watched with one eye open as he staggered across the room and finally crashed into his bed. The nights were cold (for Australia) at this time of year and our Scottish friend obviously hadn’t packed a sleeping bag, he lay shivering and fidgeting, his teeth chattering, before suddenly bursting into tears. I was about to show my concern for his well-being but, before I could, he sprang to his feet, ran out of the room, stopped a few feet outside the door and relieved himself on the corridor floor outside. He then returned to bed, put some more clothes on, had another cry and fell asleep. When I awoke in the morning, eager to question him about his behaviour, the bed was empty and nothing was left of the lad apart from a nice, big patch of piss outside our door.
Anyway, I digress. Having touched down in Estonia’s capital Tallinn, the hostel at which I’ve arrived, on the outskirts of the old town, is one of the smallest I’ve ever laid eyes on. In essence, it’s a studio apartment that’s being utilised as crowded, shared accommodation. The reception area is a small desk in the cramped entrance hallway and a door opens into the rest of the hostel. The all-in-one rooms are the kitchen, living area and 3 bunk beds. Another slightly more private dorm lies in an adjoining room (but it’s full) and there is one toilet and a shower room (the fact that this shower room contains a decent spa bath and a sauna convinces me that this place wasn’t designed as a hostel). The people are friendly enough though, and I’m not planning on spending an awful lot of time here, so I throw Clive onto an empty bed to claim it as my own (as is the tradition). I prefer a bottom bunk if possible as it’s far less hassle during the night; I’ve seen some nasty ‘top bunk’ drinking injuries in my time I can tell you. It’s funny how I’ve shifted from the childhood school of thinking that claiming the top bunk is a pre-requisite whilst rooming with a younger brother/schoolmate, to opting for a lower bunk in my later life for my own personal safety.
Another major aspect of hostel life is meeting strangers. Before you leave for a solo trip, one of your concerns is always ‘am I going to meet people?’ – That may be one of the reasons you’re going away after all. The answer is normally ‘yes’ (with a little effort on your part). Hostels are always geared up to meeting people, as there’s really no other option. Pretty much every area of the place is communal so you’d find it tough to be alone, unless 1) you make a concerted effort to, or 2) you’re the only person in the hostel – then you’re in trouble (try hooking up with one of the cleaners – works for me).
A shocking first night I will remember the first night of my trip for a long time. Not with any fondness I’m afraid, but because I was stuck in an uncomfortable situation. Still feeling a little tender from my boozy farewell the previous night, I’d disinterestedly picked at my dinner in a nearby bar with two American lads - a likeable young student and a sleazy, overweight grease ball. Estonia has more than its fair share of beautiful women, and my slimy, lard bucket of a companion has taken it upon himself to make a lewd comment (coupled with a snort) every time one passes us by. After deciding that I really don’t want to spend any more time in the company of this irritating ogre, I return to the hostel. My fragile condition soon takes a turn for the worse and, before long, I find myself kneeling on the toilet floor ‘talking on the porcelain telephone’. Being the only toilet in the hostel and slap-bang next to the communal area, this means that all in the living area are well aware of what’s happening. After a good hour of loud vomiting, I emerge as a flaky ghost to some seriously funny looks (and a queue of miffed people waiting for the toilet). As I fall wearily onto my bunk, the sweats arrive and, as quickly as I can remove a couple of layers of clothing, the shivers are on the scene. All I can do is wrap up as warm as I can, close my eyes, curl into a ball and try to ignore the noise in the communal area around me. It’s still early, maybe 10pm; the TV is blaring out ‘The Simpsons’ at full blast, someone is crashing around in the kitchen (it sounds as if they’re trying to prepare a meal blindfolded) and a girl nearby is packing and re-packing her bag over and over again (how can one bag have that many zips?) - I assume she has a stopwatch and is attempting to beat her packing/re-packing personal best.
All this combined made for a miserable night. Unbeknown to me, it doesn’t seem to get dark in Eastern Europe (at this particular time of year anyway) so the window by my head lets in the semi-dark evening light whilst I intermittently sweat and shiver. Individuals return to the hostel during the course of the night and every sound is amplified in my head. At one point during the peak of the fever, madness sets in and I decide that I’m going to walk home to England and scrap the whole trip. Fortunately, the need to vomit again means that I don’t have to follow up on the logistics of this bright idea.
When I open my eyes the following morning, I’m surprised to find myself back in my bunk bed as the last thing I remember was nodding off whilst hugging the toilet for comfort. Other than still suffering from a lack of sleep, I don’t feel too bad. I figure I must have had one of those ‘twenty-four hour bugs’ that people talk about – I’m unaware if there is an official medical name for this illness, but I’d be awfully surprised if it’s professionally recognised as the ‘twenty-four hour bug’.
The Bog I’d taken a bus south from Tallinn to my next port of call: Estonia’s summer capital – Parnu, pre-booking a night at a hostel in nearby Soomaa, which is apparently around half an hour away. Soomaa is famous for its bogs (in fact I seem to remember the name actually meaning ‘land of the bogs’ or something along those lines) and outdoor activities.
The buses out to the village where the hostel lies are infrequent to say the least, and most of the day has already passed by the time I manage to touchdown in Soomaa and locate the hut that will serve as my accommodation for the night. It’s an odd looking place, I’m not sure whether it doubles up as the community centre for the small village, but there’s an old theatre of some kind, circa 1960’s decor and the place seems to be full of young children who aren’t staying there but are using the facilities. There’s no one at the reception when I eventually locate it through the swarms of kids, and it takes me a while to locate an adult (I don’t know if you’ve ever seen the ‘Children of the Corn’ film, but I was beginning to get the feeling that this tiny outpost had been overtaken by murderous children and was considering making a run for it). Eventually I locate someone taller than waist high who works at the place and, after going through the formalities, I’m shown to my dorm. I find that the entire place is empty. I’m the only person staying here. Those bloodthirsty children have murdered all the other travelers. Possibly.
After informing the chap at reception that I think I’ll just stay for the one night, he kindly organises some cheap accommodation for me in Parnu for the following night and asks what I plan on doing for the remainder of my day.
“How about some canoeing?” I suggest. He then informs me that, as I’m the only person staying here, I’d have to pay an extortionate amount to go canoeing.
“Right, OK, what do you suggest then?” I ask.
“You could go and walk the bog,” says he, and explains that there’s a plentiful supply of bog to walk around - this one in particular being a 5km trail. He offers to drive me over there but explains he won’t be around to bring me back so advises that I’ll have to return by my own devices. Now, I’ve never been to a bog before so figure ‘why not’ and jump in his jeep. I must have missed the bit where he said that the bog was 6km away; I ask him if there’s a bus I can get back. He informs me that there’s no such thing and my choice is either to walk or hitch a ride; I decide to cross that bridge when I come to it and thank him for the lift.
I make my way into the bog through a huge, wooden wishbone and begin to stride along the wooden planks that guide the way along the trail; allegedly witches can be found in the bogs, as they enjoy the isolation. I keep an eye out for black-cloaked, green-skinned, cackling women with pointy hats, but all I see is bog and more bog. Although I’d been told that there are areas in the bog in which you can swim, I’m unsure of swimming in a location that may be rife with witches, so I remove my shoes and dip my ever-tired feet into the cool water and listen for the sound of broomsticks. Whilst I’m soaking my feet and reviewing the pros and cons of my snap decision to walk around a bog, a frog begins to croak, and is quickly joined by a few of his mates, the croaking continues to multiply until there must be over a hundred of them making one hell of a din. I’m reminded of ‘The Frog Chorus’ by Paul McCartney and join in with a couple of cheerful ‘Bay-ee-aas’. The frogs aren’t at all impressed at my gate crashing their party and stop instantaneously. I sigh; feeling a little left out, and continue walking the planks.
After what seems like hours, I finally finish the circuit, arrive back at the beginning and am then hit with the realisation that, after walking a 5km trail of nothing but planks/bog/singing frogs, I now have to make my way 6km back to the hostel. I scan the dirt track road for any sign of traffic; it’s deserted, so I reluctantly set off toward the village – at least I think it’s the track toward the village – I must admit I wasn’t really paying attention when I was given directions. I’ve still got that bloody frog song bouncing round my head and find myself singing it as I’m walking along. I try to wash it out with another tune and somehow end up with ‘I would walk five hundred miles’ (which I wouldn’t, I’m having enough trouble with 6km). After around fifteen minutes of ambling down the road singing to myself, a dusty white car pulls up alongside me and the driver beckons me in. I happily accept his offer as a ride rather than a kidnap attempt and we’re on our way. The driver, a friendly middle aged fellow, is nattering away in Estonian to me and at first I smile blankly before realising that he may be pitching some questions my way, so I let him know that I can’t speak Estonian. It becomes apparent from his body language that he wants to know where I’m heading (makes sense I suppose, that’s normally what happens with hitchhiking). That’s all very well, except I have no idea/clue what my hostel is called. I throw a few words and hand signals intended to indicate hostel, bed, accommodation and sleeping but, understandably, he has absolutely no idea what I’m talking about. I recall seeing a shop nearby and offer ‘shop?’ He nods knowingly. I really hope he’s thinking what I’m thinking; otherwise I’m going to end up very lost in the ‘land of the bogs’. With luck it’s the very one. I thank him for his kindness and walk the short distance remaining to my ‘hostel for one’.
