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The French eat snails...

... but the Australians eat slugs. 

This is the only subtle difference between the two cultures. 

• Read the full story here, if you must. http://tgr.ph/a0YTiL

Hard To Swallow: China

I was in a tiny plane above China’s Yunnan province and I looked out over the massive Tibetan plateau searching for monks, yaks or enlightenment. My plan was to trek Tiger Leaping George, a spectacular mountainous natural wonder, and I couldn’t wait. As our bumpy descent began I took a nervous sip of my bottled water and spilt some on my chin and shoulder sending several droplets onto the thigh of the Chinese guy sitting next to me. It was my first genuinely awkward moment in China and he looked like a young version of Confucius with a long thin beard and now, a wet thigh. I pointed at this wet patch and wondered if it was worth speaking. He stroked his hairy chin and I figured it probably wasn’t. I recoiled my finger slowly and stroked my chin too; but in an unwise way. The way that removes lingering water droplets.  

Picking up my backpack from the Lijiang airport carousel I headed out into the thin mountain air. I inhaled deeply, as my unkempt head rustled in the breeze. With no plans and nowhere to stay, I approached a local hotelier holding a sign, which boldly stated Guest Inn. I wanted to be both.

“Hello! Can I stay at the Guest Inn?” I questioned. 

Silence. I tried again. 

“Ah… do you have any rooms?” 

He looked confused then spoke a barrage of a language. He awaited my response.

“Hmm, ah...” 

It’s usually at about this point you realise that the universal language isn’t English. Or love. It’s the simple noble art of mime. Rarely used for pleasure, or profession, now it becomes a routine of life or death. 

I prepared for the complicated mime scenario of ‘me going with him to his hotel and getting a bed for the night.’ My eyes widened and my fingers began to take the form of human legs walking, and then… 

“Are you alright man?” said a deep American accent. Then the voice said, “Something in Chinese (but actually something).” It was the cool guy with the wet thigh from the plane! He was bi-lingual. Tri-lingual maybe! Who knows how many languages he might speak – maybe all of them? I was about to find out…

Just the 2 it ends up. Together, Jiu and I walked the cobbled streets of Lijang. We ate all the local delicacies. Stinky tofu, dumplings, meats on sticks and lovely moist bread things with stuff inside, served fresh from a big wok. As nice sauces dripped down my hand, I watched the town oozing with liveliness, lit in a dull red by thousands of beautiful lanterns. It was another world and I was overwhelmed by things that my eyeballs saw. We swilled beers and laughed and I asked Jiu if he was interested in climbing Tiger Leaping Gorge. 

“Why else do you think I’ve come?” He wisely said whilst touching his Confucius beard. I hiccuped and burped simultaneously in a way that only a drunk man full of dumplings can. 

Early the next morning we were on a bus bound for Qiáotóu where we would begin our ascent. But it was raining... a lot. The bus pulled up at the edge of the mighty gorge and then, we were alone in the rain. Something wasn’t right. It was eerie and uncomfortably wet. 

“You guys want to go into the gorge? I can take you! I have a jeep.” A man said darting out from behind a jeep. 

In the distance, some officials were standing next to a bit of A4 paper stuck to a little blackboard with sticky tape:

“The gorge closed to tourist due to dangerous conditions. Chinese Government.”

Well that was that. We weren’t doing it. 

“I’m doing it.” Jiu announced. 

“But the sign! The danger!” I squealed. 

We turned around to see the man and his jeep lurking. His eyebrows rose twice, then after a small pause; once more.

“Man, we’ve come all this way.” Somehow Jiu didn’t seem so wise anymore as his Confucius beard flapped awkwardly in the rain. The man’s brows were still raised from the last time (he had held them up there for effect) and Jiu wasn’t going to stand there forever…

“Well? Are you coming?”

I had many hours to contemplate my choice as I made my way back to Lijang alone. I wandered back through the town, noticing the cobbled stones under my well-supported feet and ankles. Trekking boots indeed. I would have dropped my head with a sigh if I hadn’t already been looking down. So I just sighed, and looked back up if anything, noticing some familiar sights. Ah, the pastries place! I bought another one of those lovely moist bread things with stuff inside, served fresh from a big wok. But this time, it came served cold in a plastic bag. I headed back to the room, nibbling at the dry flaky pastry. 

I had a little drink to quench my dry, Chinese pastry mouth. I swilled it around like mouthwash, and thought about my shortcomings as an adventure-shy adult. I thought about Jiu up in the mountains, maybe leaping from one tiger to the next, playing Frisbee between the gorge with the local villagers, calling out affections to one another. I swilled. It was a dry cold pastry.

I tried to justify my decision as that of an experienced traveller. I had trusted my instincts. I had fallen back on my backpacking heritage! All those times I’d rolled my pants into balls, every time I packed a roll of toilet paper just in case, and every day when I brushed my teeth with bottled water.  GULP. The second my Adams apple made its first, irreversible move I realised…. I had just swallowed… Rural. Chinese. Tap. Water. 

Fuck! I went rigid. Shit! My eyeballs widened and my stomach dropped as if it was recoiling from the impending poisonous flush of pungent bacteria filled fluid. Shit!! It was in me. I began to feel my body caving in on itself. My mind began to expand and contract at the same time. I looked at myself in the mirror. Perhaps the reflection of my little bearded face would point to a solution!? It did not. All it did was show my true self; a silly fool with a blank expression and some Chinese tap water in his innards. 

I ran outside looking for help. Someone who could allay my deep panic and tell me that it was alright to drink the pungent waters. I saw the hotelier from the airport. 

“What happens if you drink the tap water!?” I lunged maniacally. 

I knew from experience that I wasn’t going to get far with this line of questioning. I began to sweat.   

“Cholera? Botulism? Dysentery? Typhoid fever?! WELL WHAT!!?” Was I really going to mime dysentery! I had to try… 

“Are you alright man?” a familiar voice interrupted.

“What are you doing here Jiu!?” I exclaimed. 

“It was too dangerous up there. You did the right thing dude… it was horrendous.”

“Horrendous?”

“Yeah, it was stupid to even try. The officials caught me and I had a tussle. I had to bribe my way out of there!”

His little Confusious beard had a chunk of mud stuck on it, and it was rustled – I assumed from the tussle. Maybe I wasn’t so stupid after all. Maybe all my years of experience and gauging dangerous situations had finally paid off and now Jui had swallowed his pride, and I had swallowed some harmless local unprocessed tap water. I looked smugly at the hotelier. 

“You’ll probably get quite sick.” He concluded in relatively good English. 

An Uluru sunset.

I recently visited Uluru in the Northern Territory of Australia.

Watch this grand and massive rock dramatically change as the sunset, sets.

Al-Qaeda's Bin Laden finally captured!

Oh no wait... it's just an Algida laden bin, captured on film.