Magnificent Myanmar

3 SMALL KIDS, 2 CRAZY ADULTS, 1 YEAR TO TRAVEL THE WORLD POST 5: 7th October 2016, Bago, Myanmar.  

We are now six weeks into our travel adventure. So what have been our greatest challenges so far? Firstly, trying to avoid losing any more stuff. Our latest loss was our guidebook which was not ideal given there is barely enough internet to find anything online but luckily we got hold of Le Routard instead. Whilst it’s a bit of a pain being the only who can translate it, the French are arguably the superior nation in terms of pickiness over cuisine, so it has been a nice change to frequent restaurants recommended by them and not to be surrounded by the usual Lonely-Planet crew.

Photo caption: sitting Buddha (top left); one of the large temple compounds (top right); an Indian Jones-style complex (bottom left); reclining Buddha (bottom right)

Secondly, I've been desperately trying to instill a sense of hygiene (or rather a fear of lack of hygiene) into the children which is an issue when most restaurants don't offer anywhere to wash your hands, let alone soap. I therefore carry around with me at all times a portable mini pharmacy, oodles of sanitising gel, a soap and antiseptic wipes. Despite my remonstrations, they still love to put their hands in their mouth at any occasion and I have caught them rubbing their mouths and even licking surfaces that are at the right height. Another stumbling block has been the hole-in-the-ground loos. These have taken the kids a while to get used to as they are often very slippy (which means keeping your balance is even harder) and 'flushing' them by hand with a one-handled bucket is an art. Thankfully, they are actually less of a potential germ trap than ‘foreigner loos’ because the kids are less likely to touch things during their visit.

This is all outweighed by the pleasure of being back in South-East Asia: the noises (scooters with up to 6 people riding on one tiny seat, cackling diesel tractor engines tacked onto tuk tuks belching out black fumes); the unusual spice combinations; Asian vegetables; the constant heat; the rainbow-coloured tropical fruits; the elegant traditional costume; the east-meets-west housing;  the lush vegetation; the street markets; the ubiquitous stray and domestic animals (pigs, horses, goats, cows, hens and cats) living cheek by jowl with their human neighbours; the crazy traffic; the bustling markets selling everything from ironmongery to clothes, to dried and (still live) fish to jewellery (the smell of a market is quite something) and the tiny shops found every 5 metres selling strings of individual sachets of creams and shampoos, one plaster and one battery – just enough to supply a micro economy.

Photo caption: street food and street markets

The only thing that bothers me is the apparent lack of respect for the environment. If it seemed bad on Ikaria, here it is colossal. Not one second is wasted on pondering what to do with an empty bottle of water, it is merely thrown out of a window into the roadside vegetation or dropped onto the pavement; villagers think nothing of living right by (and sometimes literally on top of) pools or mounds of rotting debris dotted with hungry pigs and dogs; there are heaps of non-biodegradable plastics clogging up streams, and even markets selling fresh meat, fruit and fish are located right next door to these putrid piles of waste (indeed it is probably created by its stall-keepers). Sadly, I’m not sure it will ever change – there are too many other bigger issues to tackle first (poverty, the rich/poor divide, opium production – Myanmar is the second highest global producer – and lack of family planning, to name but a few) so you just have to accept it as part of life and make sure you at least do your bit.

Photo caption: rotting waste (top left); tuk tuk (top right); wearing the ubiquitous, unisex, Burmese sunscreen which is also make-up (bottom left); a Burmese feast (bottom right)

Despite this, what has struck me the most since arriving is not how different we are, but how similar. The kids here all love eating sweets, playing tag and watching TV, the men talk about football and the women sit and gossip together and all are exasperated after having had their kids forced on them for the school holidays. Which makes me so pleased we didn’t pre-arrange our visit with a tour company out of a fear of the unknown because travelling couldn't have been easier! We have been going where we fancy when we fancy and relying on the expertise of our hotel reception to book transport to our next destination. Taxis or motorbike-powered tuktuks are used to visit local sights and we are doing without guides (and more recently guidebooks), preferring instead to drink in the energy and feel of a place rather than take loads of facts on board during the visit only for them to evaporate a couple of hours later. Apparently it's also the correct thing to do, as it means our relative wealth is distributed more evenly on the ground rather funnelled into just a handful of (mainly western) companies.

Photo caption: a street carnival (top left); street scene with temples and monks (top right); novice monks posing for a photo (bottom left); domestic animals wandering the streets for food (bottom right)

Budget-wise, we are on track so far which is a bonus given how relatively expensive Myanmar is. Hotel rooms are around 40US$ each, which is much more than you would pay in a neighbouring country for the same quality, and there are entrance fees for tourists to all the major religious sites. Food however is very good-value (our average spend for one meal is about £7) and it really is delicious! That said, it has been hard to find outlets that serve proper Burmese fare as opposed to Chinese dishes. This is apparently because the former requires the use of a lot of different spices and takes a long time to prepare.

As a result, we have only eaten truly authentically twice – once in a restaurant picked by our driver in Yangon for the day, and once in the home of the founder of the orphanage we visited in Bago. Highlights are: a fermented bean, pomelo, fish sauce, peanut and chilli pickle; another pickle of sour, fermented green tea leaves; smashed butter beans topped with crispy fried onion; sweetcorn puree; a delicate herb soup which is taken alongside a meal; a caramel-flavoured fudge made from the sap of a palm tree and eggplant curry (made with tomato, garlic, ginger and marsala). What is unusual for Asia, is that there is no soy sauce. Instead you get fish sauce with raw garlic and hot green chilli marinating in it. There is also only a sparse use of coconut milk here. This is reserved for the dried-fish-based curry only, which is their national breakfast dish. Despite my love of Asia, I have not yet felt local enough to try first thing in the morning.

Photo caption: playing with the locals in the park (top left); our home from home in Yangon (top right); street scenes in the capital (bottom)

Are we missing home at all after six weeks on the road? Yes, a little. I miss quiet, undisturbed time to myself; not living out of a backpack; eating the food I really want to eat when I fancy it; immersing myself in nature and my yoga practise. I’ve even thought wistfully about wearing skinny jeans and boots...

Hopefully we will get some more ‘me-time’ and the children will enjoy more of a regular structure to their days when we are able to enroll them in school. Because it feels like we all need a bit of a break. Staying three nights somewhere and packing each of the days in between with sightseeing feels too fast. Five nights is more manageable. But travelling for a year means that our accommodation is in the budget category and this makes chilling out so much harder with no private outdoor space available or pool. So our next destination needs to be a beach one. It's time for some rest and recuperation (and a bit of homeschooling of course)...

Photo caption: another street, another golden temple (top left); sarong stall (top right); praying with the locals in the most auspicious spot of the temple (bottom left); what is left of a colonial past (bottom right)

To see where we are on a map, click here!

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Eat, Pray, Love...

Eaten: way more gluten/dairy/animal protein than my body needs or wants (and it shows)

Prayed: for safety, health and happiness during our travel adventure and thanked the universe for our good fortune in two Greek orthodox monasteries and most of the churches on Ikaria

Loved: both what is different and what is the same about the various people and places we have met, as well as each other in different and more lovely ways than I had imagined

Thea and Ilia of Theas' Inn

3 SMALL KIDS, 2 CRAZY ADULTS, 1 YEAR TO TRAVEL THE WORLD

POST 4: 29th September 2016, Athens, Greece. 

We have been ‘on the road’ now for exactly one month. One down, ten to go. This is both comforting – we did it! – as well as scary, because the last four weeks have felt very much like a holiday and for that reason I’m not convinced that they 'count'. Although holiday is exactly what we wanted – a warm up for us all: time to practise living out of a rucksack, to acclimatise to being together all of the time, a chance to slow down and enjoy the lack of deadlines. I thought I might feel panicky and perhaps regret our hair-brained decision once we’d left home but actually it’s been quite the opposite (apart from a 2 minute wobble when scrolling through everyone's 'back-to-school' photos).

Photo caption: strawberries, purslane and vines (left); feeding the goats (right)

In fact, not having any routine to follow nor having anyone to answer to has been SO liberating. We can do what we want! When we want! Which is kind of odd for me. Because as a Virgo, I like structure. Actually, that's an understatement, I LOVE structure - I followed the Gina Ford parenting method for goodness sake. But too much of anything starts to feel restrictive. And we were at that tipping point just before we left (come to think of it, this might well have been precisely because I birthed three kids in three years all of whom were 'encouraged' to follow Gina Ford). So in keeping with the walking paradox that I am, I had to go from one extreme to the other: from a strait jacket to naked; from parochial to feral; from a settled life to a nomadic one. And whilst I felt a bit guilty about dragging the kids along with me during the plannings stages, my doubts were proven to be wholly unfounded. We are all having a brilliant time!

Photo caption: pottery workshop - making traditional coil pots (left) and painting my wheel-made dish (right)

So what did we do in our last two weeks on the enchanted island of Ikaria? Well, we built on the rapport that the kids had already helped us to establish with the locals during the first week of our stay. This was made easier by the fact that the tourist 'season' had already come to a close and we were part of only a handful left. In fact, even the majority of the Greek owners of shops, restaurants and rooms had either already headed back to Athens when we got back from Syros or were planning to. So our first move (in an attempt to manage our waistlines and watch our budget) was to move to self-catering studios just opposite our old lodgings at the aptly-named Artemis.

Photo caption: chillaxing in a beach bar (left); the view from our room at Artemis (right)

This boasts a stunning view of Nas beach, a gorgeous pottery shop and overlooks the ruins of the temple dedicated to the goddess of the same name. And we filled our time with the simple things in life: we created ceramic cups, pots and jewellery by hand and on a wheel at the Artemis pottery workshop; I thinned the vines on Ilia’s farm (from which the food and wine is harvested for Thea's Inn), and we fed his menagerie of goats, sheep, hens, geese and rabbits. We milked his goats (or at least attempted to - I thought it would be easy with my extensive experience of the Mandela swing pump but no, I got a mere squirt compared to Ilia's strong jet) and then learnt how to make fresh cheese from it. And whilst Andrew shovelled and spread fertiliser amongst the vines, the kids picked the last of the season’s strawberries and my new favourite salad vegetable: purslane (a delicious leaf whose firm, crunchy stems and small leaves taste like a cross between salty samphire and watercress).

Photo caption: modelling my new hand-made necklace and bracelet on our balcony (left); Raphael on the wheel - not bad for a 3 year old (right)

We did quite a bit of exploring too: we drove from one tip of the island to the other in the search of yet more secret beaches and trekked to a beautiful waterfall at the end of a steep canyon where we left five individually-crafted cairns in homage to it. (We had intended to go swimming in the fresh water pool below but I boycotted the idea after spotting no less than three crabs and an eel swimming in the river just round the corner. Luckily I only found out on our return that our sandals were “the wrong shoes” to have worn as there are snakes and scorpions on the trail!). We pilgrimaged to a haunting cave whose energy I found so moving it was almost overwhelming (I later found out that it is said to be the birthplace of Dionysus - no wonder the energy was strong - he was the God of wine, fertility and divine ecstasy!). We discovered even more formidable, pre-historic rock formations and came across yet more charmingly quaint churches (I have a new thing for tiny, village Greek churches – oozing spiritual energy with their simplified forms and pared-down but still gorgeously ornate, decorations).

Photo caption: the teeny church on the very tip of the eastern edge of Ikaria both outside (top right); and inside (top left); Dionysus' birthplace (bottom right); the stalactites inside the cave (bottom left)

I even had my bottom warmed (actually ‘burnt’ is probably the better word) whilst hovering over an underwater, boiling-hot, thermal-spring jet. Apparently it had also recently been visited by Jamie Oliver whilst on the hunt for new, super-food recipes!

So clearly the island holds an energetic attraction for many and not just for those who want to join the Blue-Zone centenarian club. We have continued to enjoy meeting an eclectic range of visitors: a musician and the new star of the Time is Art documentary sequel who also introduced us to a slightly far-out branch of Mayan Astrology according to which each of us has their own Dreamspell Galactic Signature (I’m a Blue Night in case you were wondering); a fellow women’s circle holder and healer from New York; and a bohemian Austrian couple who were one of the first groups of travellers to come to Nas 35 years ago when it was renowned for both its authentic food as well as for its nudists (the beach still boasts a few ageing versions). Maybe its allure lies with its palpable energy (apparently some can’t stand it and have been known to leave the very day they arrive) or maybe it's because it is, for the most part, so unspoilt (there was no electricity in the village of Nas until the 1980s) which has allowed its raw and haunting natural beauty to remain mostly intact.

Photo caption: my solo hike to Dionysus' cave - to ward off impending vertigo (at times it felt like the path was leading me off the edge of a cliff) I told myself to "just follow the red dot" (top left); half way there (top right); our trek upstream to find the hidden waterfall. The view back to the sea (bottom left) and into the mountains (bottom right)

And what are the things that we have learnt during our first month of travel? That the kids culinary repertoire has not really expanded despite forcing them to try at least one mouthful of each new food (“too many herbs”, “too spicy”) and that instead they have discovered a new love of olive oil and have been gorging on white bread drenched in it at every meal; that I need to wear a hat in the sun if I am to avoid returning looking like a mottled prune (I am now speckled with sun spots despite wearing daily factor 50 – one of the disadvantages of being over 40?) and that I should take photos of every room in every Airbnb we stay in as evidence of the state in which we left it: we learnt this the hard way - to our shock we were wrongly accused of leaving our accommodation in Syros in a complete mess which, according to the photos that were sent to us, looks like it had actually been burgled. And unfortunately for us, the owner doesn’t know that I am a Virgoan, control freak as well as a neat obsessive because I have no photos to prove it. It is slightly stressful knowing that her email notifying us of this was cced to her ‘family lawyer’ and that she hails from the most litigious city on the planet, but we are trying to let it go for now.

Other things that we have learnt? That Andrew and I still have no will power when it comes to eating out and that we consistently over-order; that one should never eat olives fresh off the tree - they are inedible; that the kids are amazing swimmers even when faced with waves that are much, much taller than they are (thanks to the intensive swimming course they underwent just before we left); that Raphael never, ever stops talking unless he is eating or asleep and that Coco never, ever stops singing unless she is asleep (when she sleep talks instead).

Photo caption: dramatic scenery - where the mountain bowed before the sea (top); very rough seas didn't deter my lot. To clarify this shot somewhat, Andrew is 6ft 5 - see how much bigger the waves are than him and yet my brave little kids didn't bat an eyelid. Bobomama preferred to stay on the beach reading Vogue (bottom left); views of nearby islands from the very eastern tip of the island (bottom right)

Most importantly perhaps, we have learnt that we need to keep an eye on our budget earlier on in the month rather than tallying everything up in the last week. Currently, we are £200 over which I blame entirely on a overzealous bourgeois side: we booked flights to and from Ikaria rather than a ferry (the 35 minutes versus 7 hours just looked too tempting despite costing double) and we opted for a taxi to take us into the centre of Athens from the airport rather than the metro (this cost us a whopping £89 instead of £15). Needless to say we didn't repeat this mistake.

Since doing the books, we have however managed to keep the overspend down by subsisting on just 65 euros over two days including accommodation, food and wine - I splashed out on a 500ml plastic bottle costing 1.20 euros containing a white of no known provenance, no known grape variety and no known vintage. It was delicious. (Just don't tell anyone I am a wine specialist). Unfortunately though, this meant we didn’t sleep a wink. Our budget Airbnb flat may have been superbly positioned in some respects (only 10 minutes walk from the Acropolis and based in a very up-and-coming district bursting with trees and vegetation, dilapidated mansions, quirky boutiques and trendy art galleries cum coffee shops) but it was also located a) on the first floor just above a traffic intersection (think revving motorcycles) b) facing a busy roundabout (think accelerating motorcycles) and c) literally no further than 10 metres away from an overland subway line (think very loud screeching of metal on metal as each train went round the bend opposite our room every 15 minutes).

Photo caption: culture balanced with play - view from the Acropolis (left); view of the Acropolis (right)

To make matters worse, there was a crane stationed just outside the front door for both days of our stay relieving the builders in the flat above us of the rubble and furniture they had just demolished (think hammers banging, saws cutting and the crane device inching up and back down all day long). How every single person that bothered to write a review of the flat failed to notice this beats me. Were they all deaf? Drunk on Ouzo? This hardship was partly assuaged by our tour of the Acropolis itself. It is just as splendid (despite undergoing renovations) as it was 23 years ago when I last visited. Predictably, I took pretty much the same photos as I took then although these now include a few more wrinkles and three small people.

Photo caption: another day, another cliff walk (top left); majestic scenery (top right); a beautiful cat we fell in love with during our river gorge walk who followed us back to our room and whom we decided to secretly adopt for a couple of days. Just don't tell the hotel (bottom)

Our next destination is Myanmar. It feels exciting. And also slightly daunting. Not just because it is one of the South East Asian countries to which I have never been, nor only because I haven’t been back to the region in 7 years. The thing that makes me most nervous is that it is the first time I’ve been with children. Three of them. All under 7. And that Myanmar is not touristy. At all. In fact, it only really opened its doors to foreigners in the last decade and some still feel it should be boycotted because of its political regime. But I'm not going to focus on that. I'm going to stick to my new mantra which is to ‘follow the red dot’ just as you do on a European nature walk – you know, those little chalked or painted stripes and dots that are placed strategically on trees or stones to show you the right way? Well I’ve decided to keep in sight only the next metaphorical dot and no more than that. To live just one day at a time and to react to the circumstances that unfold around me rather than try to map out an unknown future.

This is partly as a result of the Human Design reading (a bit like astrology) that I was gifted for my birthday just before we left (which said that if I adopt patience and accept the flow of life rather than pushing my own agenda regardless, all the right opportunities will come my way - and I like the sound of that!) and partly because it’s not that much fun being a planner. Unsurprisingly, it’s actually quite stressful trying to control the unknown because guess what? You can't! What is surprising however is how easy I’m finding this! Probably because I am a far less stressed parent since we left. The children definitely are being raised by the proverbial ‘village’ here which means that I am hardly ever in charge of all three by myself and if I do get to the point where I am about to get annoyed with them, I leave them with Andrew until I’ve got over myself. Thankfully these episodes is now quite rare because the kids are generally much better behaved as a result of spending so much time with others. They now get a lot of attention from a lot of people. The one potential downside of this is that they get too used to it. I worry slightly that they might come back super needy and assuming that everyone already loves or should love them. But since that's eleven months away and doesn't fit in with my new mantra, we’ll just have to cross that bridge if and when we get to it...

Photo caption: a very tall man in front of a very tall building (left); our ridiculous flat in Athens - please note traffic light bottom right, crane in front, roundabout just to left and overland subway line right ahead (right)

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First the shabby, now for the chic...

Kids’ Homeschooling: 3hr     Bikram Yoga Series completed: once     Rain: once     Books read: 0     Parks visited: 5     Favourite local dish so far: giant prawns     Local food now sick of eating: goat’s cheese/yoghurt     Average adult one-on-one time spent per day: 2 minutes     Number of steps required to descend/ascend from our Syros dwelling to the edge of town: 275     Number of times we have had to carry moaning children up them: every single time     Total number of Greek words learnt and used: 10     Number of cheap pairs of sunglasses bought and damaged before I had to resort to a decent (ie. expensive) pair (despite leaving my three expensive pairs at home so that they didn’t get damaged/stolen during our trip): 2     Item of packing I definitely didn't need to include: hairdryer

3 SMALL KIDS, 2 CRAZY ADULTS, 1 YEAR TO TRAVEL THE WORLD

POST 3: 14th September 2016, Ano Syros, Greece. 

Living like locals is all very well but sometimes a girl needs a little bit of glamour. Especially on her birthday. The older I get, the more I feel it necessary to ‘go away’ in order to feel sufficiently special. (Demanding? Moi?) So having weighed up various options, including Amorgos (almost purely because it is where my favourite film ever, Le Grand Bleu, with its formerly swoonsome lead actor Jean-Marc Barr, is filmed) and Mykonos (dismissed as too Ibiza-chic for our current parents-of-three-under-seven status – it would just get frustrating not being able to join in with the parteeee) we settled for an injection of sophistication and busyness from the nearby island of Syros. Its bustling main town, Ermopoulis, is the capital of the Cyclades group of islands and is home to the Aegean university, immigration office and even a casino. It offered the perfect antidote to the stupor induced by seven days on the rural idyll of Ikaria. That said, the island is actually pretty tiny; it took only ten minutes to cross over to a beach on the opposite side and you could probably explore the whole thing in a day.

Unlike Ikaria, which mostly consists of barren rock rising steeply out of the ocean, with its main road circling at least 50 meters above this, on Syros most of the road network is at sea level itself. This has made for a blissfully welcome change because going to the beach no longer demands we assume the qualities of both goat (balancing precariously on tiny outcrops whilst scaling down a rock face) and donkey (carrying towels, body boards, water, snacks, towels, wallet etc) at the same time. That missing adrenalin rush has been transferred instead to the place in which we are staying - largely because there are no internal stairs. These have been added as part of a renovation and since railings wouldn’t fit in with the rest of the (very arty, tasteful, minimalist) decor, there are none. We tried to ban the children from using these vertiginous death-traps joining each of the house’s four floors by themselves but that only lasted about an hour. Now I’m just crossing my fingers.

Photo caption: narrow medieval streets with overhanging balconies (left); our scary, internal stairs (top right); multi-coloured wood contrasts with white-washed walls, green cacti and mottled stone pavings (bottom right)

Otherwise the house (found on AirBnB) is pretty awesome. It is part of the original medieval settlement of Ano Syros founded by the Venetians in the 13th Century. Crammed higgledy-piggledy on top of one another, as well as scattered on either side of a steep hill, the stocky, thick-walled dwellings slightly resemble a giant’s unsuccessful Jenga game, all of which is ring-fenced below by a crumbling, brick-lined moat. Counter to expectations, crowning the hill-top is not a castle but a huge Catholic cathedral, the latest (and fifth version of a religious monument erected on the site) built in the 19th Century. So, sitting proudly atop the opposite hill (no rivalry intended of course), is an equally huge Greek Orthodox church built at exactly the same time.

Narrow, winding steps criss-cross over the steep mound that is the old town, both connecting as well as separating inhabitants from each other. Our house boasts no less than three doors onto street level, each of which is at a different height. Our windows look almost directly into our neighbour’s about a metre away on each side. It is both comforting as well as disconcerting.

Photo caption: he timeless back-streets of Hermoupolis

As glamour goes, Syros is not particularly so. We’re not talking designer Mykonos. But there are funky shops, majestic Venetian mansions, shady outdoor restaurants and a few cool-looking wine bars. The scene feels both timelessly Greek as well as up-and-coming; authentic as well as swanky. This balance was beautifully exemplified by Ono: a cool beach bar/restaurant sufficiently in tune with the scene to consider itself not merely an eatery but a ‘concept’, adorned with pre-requisite sunset loungers shaded by crocheted parasols, outdoor and indoor massage areas accompanying the in-house spa (which I did sample), Crystal champagne at 400 euros a bottle on the wine menu (which we didn’t sample), a designer clothing and eyewear shop, and anthemic beats. Unbeknownst to us before choosing it as the venue for my birthday celebrations, it has already featured on Vogue’s list of ‘under the radar’ must-visit Greek island bars. So as a true Bobomama, I did.

Photo caption: BoboMama loves a bit of Champagne (top); sunset at Ono concept (bottom)

As for the nitty gritty of travel, I am already bored of all of my clothes. In fact, I was fed up after about 5 days and my daily selection hasn’t got any larger (apart from a sneaky pair of sandals and some jewellery). I am also most definitely over doing the laundry. Rather sadly (as it is so mundane), this is proving to be the second biggest challenge of the trip so far. Not surprisingly the kids are not producing any less for me to wash than they did at home and yet here I am equipped with only two paltry tubes of travel wash and a miniature travel washing line (pegless though – pretty nifty actually) which hangs only half a load at the best of times.

Past outsourcing experiences have not been entirely positive: our old hostel in Ikaria managed to re-categorise everything that would formerly have been considered ‘light’ into a new ‘shade-of-blue’ category (despite my having pre-divided the load before submitting it - clearly they thought I was being fussy and just bunged it all in together); and they then managed to shrink Andrew’s t-shirts in the tumble drier. These shouldn’t be allowed on the island at all frankly, given its searing temperatures and its famous meltemi summer winds, but it was exactly because of the latter and the staff’s fear that our clothes would be blown off-shore by them that they resorted to using one (at least that was their excuse).

Unfortunately for Andrew however, when you are 6ft 5 with a long body, not one millimetre of t-shirt material can be spared; his resulting crop tops had to be ‘let go’ of. In Syros, I do now have my own machine but the spin cycle doesn’t work so everything comes out weighing a ton and needs individual hand-wringing before being hoisted up the gravity-defying, rail-less stairs onto the roof terrace to be scorched of all colour (I have at least learnt this – clothes must be dried inside out here).

Photo caption: the 19th Century Greek Orthodox church of Syros. There is something about the unabashed gawdiness of these that I just love. They always have a great atmosphere and feel very warm and inviting (left); I'd never seen this before but I'm assuming this was the fashion at one point? It's not a great one. Tiny spaces are left for the head of the painting to poke through; the rest has been "adorned" with silver. Presumably because it was thought to be more precious at the time and therefore more of a tribute to God? Unfortunately all of the paintings in this church had been covered in this way (right)

The biggest challenge of all however has been carving out adult together/alone time. As we are now in a house as opposed to spread over two hotel rooms, this has meant we can share a room instead of being divided up amongst the children (good). Unfortunately however, this has not meant that we have actually spoken together for longer than 5 minutes without either being interrupted or falling asleep with exhaustion (bad).

At the moment we are still being very active and like to go out for most if not all of the day to explore our destination. This is exciting and fun but does not leave much time for anything else. The time left over has to be spent on eating, food shopping, pharmacy visits, homeschooling or catching up on work, which doesn’t really leave any space for reflection, self-reflection or adult conversation. I am finding this quite frustrating, but know that we will get better at this the longer we are abroad and the more we are able to stay in one place.

Photo caption: The warden of the church had been looking after it for no less than 45 years. Prior to that he had sold fish and chips on Manley Beach, Australia. He couldn't wait to sneak out into the vestry to play his harmonica and show the children a little jig. You can never judge a book by its cover! (left); My birthday "cake" Greek style. The most honey-drenched baklava you can imagine alongside orange and honey-drenched polenta (?) cake. Luckily the kids didn't really like it so I had to have their portions too (right)

I have nonetheless managed two bouts of solo exercise even though this freedom came with a price to pay: yoga on the beach (I felt like a pretentious numpty doing it in the first place but even more so when the whole of the local Greek population stared me through the sequence) and a brisk walk to the nearby village in the dead of night (the only time I could squeeze this in was between 10.45 to 11.45pm). The positives on both occasions were serene, beautiful surroundings and in the latter case, nothing other than the moon and starlight to lead the way. It was pretty special.

Other travel perils to note so far have included a horrible, poisonous anemone sting for Xanthe which has metamorphosed over the last week from what resembled a large burn, to a criss cross of varicose vein-coloured lines and finally to an itchy host of slightly oozing, pitted scratches. I had no idea anemones were poisonous. Luckily at the time I had some Anthisan with me on the otherwise deserted beach which, I was later told by a pharmacist, made all the difference. We will now be avoiding all rocks with any form of sea vegetation on them just to be safe!

Photo caption: school lunch time entertainment Greek-style. Having popped to the park we heard whistles and shouting so I rushed the children down to the port to see the street "carnival". It turned out it was just the kids on their school lunch break. Hoards of them playing in the square surrounded by mothers sipping coffees in the cafes surrounding it. There were about 15 of these electric cars doing a loop round some trees. Irrisistable (left); on our walk into the port one evening we came across this 7 year old boy putting on a puppet show for passers-by. His grandfather in the room behind had proudly made it for him based on his favourite boytime activity. The "soundtrack" to the puppet show was blaring with granny and a friend sat on little wooden chairs showing encouragement. It was so lovely (right)

What I am loving on the other hand, is meeting so many new people, each with their own story and intrigue: a Bulgarian/American couple in their 60s from San Francisco tracking down every centenarian on Ikaria as part of their quest for the secret elixir of life; a ceramicist from the Acropolis museum (we have already lined up a family pottery day); a renowned Turkish director; an aspiring Greek actor/director and his wife who founded the quirky This Famous Tiny Circus Theatre Group; a half-Indian/half-Italian (just think of the food delights he must have sampled growing up) former New Dehli B&B owner who will shortly be returning with his lovely French/Swiss/German girlfriend to set up and run a new one this autumn (he has inspired us to re-route our travels in order to go and visit them), the French host of a residential 5 Rythmns dance group and a beguiling young man who I met on the deck of the ferry leaving Ikaria who had been staying, along with various other urban hippies, in part of a controversial "camp" located on the beach of Nas. I had already learnt from our former hostel owners that these were somewhat pejoratively referred to as ‘river dwellers’  (since they merely sleep in the gorge at night but enjoy the creature comforts of the restaurants above the rest of the time). Half way through our esoteric conversation he let slip that his father is an eminent politician. I do love a fellow Bourgeois Bohemian.

Certainly we must seem above-averagely fascinating for once with our family-of-5-taking-12-months-off-to-travel-the-world tale, and perhaps this is bringing out the best in others. Or maybe we are just being exposed to the more laid-back, off-season travel crew. Either way, the world does definitely seem like a more open, exciting place once you’ve committed to exploring it!

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When in Ikaria, do as the Ikarians...

3 SMALL KIDS, 2 CRAZY ADULTS, 1 YEAR TO TRAVEL THE WORLD POST 2: 8th September 2016, Ikaria, Greece. 

Ikaria. So similar and yet so different. There is so much about this island and its people that is utterly charming and quite a bit that could be seen as pretty irritating. It is all a question of how you view things. Because they are not going to change. Their modus operandi is one of acceptance. And you either fit in with them and accept the way things are or you don’t.

Like many southern European communities, the Greeks we have come across exude warmth and hospitality in a way that is so foreign to us, cold, repressed northerners with our ready-made, defensive ‘wit’ and our almost impenetrable sense of personal space. Here, whether you like it or not, you are counted as one of them. Your attitude towards life is presumed to be the same as theirs. And this has both benefits and disadvantages.

The benefits are that after just one week we already feel part of the community. We have had what feels like a rare insight into ‘real’ life on the island. (The children are actually largely to thank for this as, having no form of social restraint or boundaries they have been ‘forging’ relationships everywhere we go with Andrew and I somewhat meekly following in their wake). The disadvantages are that there is no attempt made to manage your expectations as a guest on this island, if that is the role you mistakenly assumed on arrival. So, if, as occurred the other night, there is a baptism taking place in the restaurant, and there is going to be a fully amplified band playing until 4am just below your balcony (Greek style = VERY loud), then this is just how it is. It is not mentioned to you in advance because there is nothing that can be done to change things. There is no explanation because why would there be? It is what it is and your routine will have to be adapted to the situation. It is assumed that you will join in. Or adapt. (We were actually invited to join the party but in true English, sheepish fashion, declined). Sleep here is not important. Or at least not within set time frames. There is no such thing as antisocial hours so there is no need for apologies. We are all the same here: guest, host, foreigner, local, child, adult.

The Ikarians define laid back: Greek time is flexible; Ikarian time even more so. Meals are when you fancy them, morning and night time are almost interchangeable. There is even a village here whose shops are open only throughout the night. The tourist ‘map’ we were given features only a handful of the ‘roads’ that actually exist which has lead to every one of our excursions across the island taking three times longer than it should. We could get annoyed. But what is the point. Time is not of the essence here – we have come across beautiful, hidden beaches, crumbling castle fortifications, allotments bursting with bright red tomatoes and 10th century monasteries through taking the ‘wrong’ route.

Photo caption: the orginal 10th Century monastery carved out of one huge rock (top left); the inside of the later monastery built 200 years later. It was absolutely gorgeous (top right); every wall was decorated with frescoes such as this. Here, the painting is Byzantine in style (bottom left); Here, the painting (this time of Mary) is more 'realist' - both styles were fashionable at the same time. Personally I love how Mary has been placed upon a chair (bottom right)

But this laissez-faire attitude also has its disadvantages. For example we have seen countless discarded vehicles, cooking utensils and electrical goods scattered by the road side. We even saw a long-abandoned JCB digger so dilapidated and rusted that the roadside vegetation had already started to grow around it. Communal spaces seem to serve the same function and often act as dumping grounds for unwanted goods (fridges, hobs, broken chairs, plastic cans, huge planks etc). And it doesn’t seem to bother anyone regardless of how unsightly or un-environmentally friendly this policy is.

Likewise, there is often only limited fresh fruit available on a restaurant menu. And yet every single time we have taken the car out on an excursion we return laden with pilfered fresh figs. Yesterday we went for a walk and within the space of 100 metres had helped ourselves to figs, apples, peaches, walnuts, grapes and blackberries. Why is no-one out gathering these? Or making things with them? I have only seen one fresh fruit tart, no compotes and no home-made jams or preserves. The same goes for fish: the only (albeit delicious) seafood we have been offered is prawns and squid. But what about the rest? It may be that the locals keep it for themselves so that there is not enough to reach the restaurant or it could be that things like figs are just so easy to come by that no-one thinks they are special enough to put on a menu. Personally, I think that whatever is a little out of the ordinary doesn’t get done. Hence there is a preponderance of honey and goat-related foods as both of these are ubiquitous. Multi-coloured hives are sprinkled all over the mountainside and goats of all shapes and sizes can be spotted both running wild across the island, perched on the most precarious cliff edges and road sides, as well as grazing quietly in their domestic pens. Goat meat, milk, cheese and honey are therefore plentiful. As is bread. And for the Ikarians, I assume that deviating from these staples is both unnecessarily difficult and unnecessary.

Photo caption: road-side figs just ripe for the picking (right); the kids were adamant that they had found the REAL billy goats gruff (top left); multi-coloured bee-hives and goats grazing in between them (top right)

No doubt this partly explains why the island is a member of the exclusive club of global blue zones. Here, and in four other locations, people live longer and healthier than in any other place in the world. One assumes that a large part of this is due to lack of stress (over and above a healthy diet and a sense of being valued by the community). And having witnessed how this pans out in daily life I would agree. As one that is famous for doing rather than being, I get it but I don’t get it. As the weeks go by I may become more and more like them. Or not. Either way, what I think doesn’t matter a jot. Because Ikarians aren’t really that bothered whether you fall in with them or not!

Photo caption: that block of cement is a road. The cliff edge beyond and to the side of it are just that. Roads are very narrow with few passing spaces. Driving is terrifying (top left); scraggy bushes and towering Cyprus trees (top right); the island's ruined fortifications up to which we actually attempted to drive (bottom left); another cliff-edged road with a gradient that would be described as a black run if it were part of a ski resort. Driving was so scary I insisted we get out and walk to inspect the (now ruined) castle. I felt safer on two feet (bottom right). 

This is also an island of physical extremes and varied vegetation: barren rocky outcrops rising threateningly out of the water, cool pine forests, olive groves and terraced vineyards interspersed with towering cypress trees and tomato allotments, heather-covered tundra and megalithic formations that look like they have only just been forced up out of the ground by some giant mole furiously digging up the earth beneath them. We are staying on the greener, northern side which until yesterday was buffeted by what felt like gale force winds. Great for would-be kite surfers but not so great for kids who have only just learnt how to swim properly. Amazingly however, the children have not batted an eyelid and have blown me away with their stamina for repeatedly being knocked over and under by scarily strong waves that are far larger than themselves. This has meant for quite stressful beach time – we haven’t felt able to take our eyes off them for one second – and yet the kids have emerged from the experience as super strong swimmers that aren’t phased by anything. So having avoided the beach nearest to us until yesterday because it resembled a white, foaming inferno, today things have changed entirely and the very same water resembled a peaceful lagoon. It meant we were finally able to see the true colour of the water which is of the most gorgeous turquoise hue.

Photo caption: the path to the beach with the craziest blue sea I have ever seen. Created by a landslide, one had to tackle these boulders first (top left); all of the nicest beaches require considerable climbing skills which the kids are picking up very nicely = another homeschooling lesson (top right); our newest find - a hidden jewel of a beach, tucked away from the main one and only accessible by climbing down over the rocks (bottom left); Seychelles beach - created by a landslide (bottom right)

Another highlight of this week was the local panighieri (spelling?) – a village festival which is held once a year and centres around the eating of goat (of course), the drinking of lots of local wine, and dancing to a traditional band until past daybreak. The youth of the village are in charge and the purpose is to raise money from food and wine sales which is then spent on improving communal infrastructure such as road surfaces and lighting. The entire community is present from babies to centenarians and all take part in the traditional dancing. Coco, Xanthe, Andrew and I joined in and quickly learnt to imitate their steps (I count this as part of our homeschooling) but there was no mistaking who the real dancers were. It seemed superficially easy but was actually subtly difficult: lots of half steps and hip and knee-swaying - learnt in school from very youngest age - which passed clean over our head. We were all balls of sweat by the time we retired at 2am to be “lulled” to sleep (or rather in and out of it) by the hypnotic Ikarian melodies. The band finally came to a stop at 7.15am. I have no idea how they kept up their stamina during their energetic 10 hour shift. Perhaps something to do with their symbiotic relationship with the dancers themselves who also didn’t stop as long as the music played.

Photo caption: the girls getting ready to dance with their new partners: Polish Lisa who runs breakfast, and Australian Melissa from the next door room to ours (top left); BoboMama getting stuck in (top right); the first, money-raising part of the village festival - eating and drinking at one of the many wooden tables temporarily lining the streets (bottom left); 6.55 and still going strong. Just the locals left (bottom right)

So on the whole I think we have, so far, managed to live by the motto we set out with on this adventure: “to live like locals”. We have danced with them, eaten and drunk with them, been treated by them (for a mystery jellyfish sting) and shared stories with those like-minded tourists that are also drawn to this slower pace of life. The kids too have adored running around as though they own the place – petting the cats and dogs that come with each new visitor, “helping” the staff and absorbing stories and affection from the wide range of nationalities that share our space (Australian, American, Hungarian, Polish, Greek, English). Their confidence never ceases to amaze me and whilst I feel a bit guilty about not having yet fully started our official “home schooling” programme of reading, writing and maths, I know that this invaluable interaction with such a varied slice of human life in terms of age, attitude, background and nationality, will be even more valuable to them in the long run.

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So long, farewell, auf wiedersehen, goodbye...

Kids' homeschooling: 0     Beach time: 1 and a half days     Weather: awesome     Books read: 0     Time spent in kids' parks / soft-play areas: 2hrs     Time spent on cultural activities: 1hr   Alcohol consumed: alot    Quality of alcohol: pretty bad

3 SMALL KIDS, 2 CRAZY ADULTS, 1 YEAR TO TRAVEL THE WORLD

POST 1: 1st September 2016, Ikaria, Greece. 

Family rooms: book them at your peril. Three nights into our trip and we have tried as many different combinations. Each is almost as bad as the other and all result in not wanting to have anything to do with the other members of that so-called 'family' by the time morning arrives.

Our first shot at it came after a 5 hour journey (which should have taken just 1 - thank you rubbish airport train, probably the ONLY thing you need to provide is a service that runs on time) to the glorious Premier Inn at Stansted. We were given the 4-beds-in-a-row-with-a-cot-bed-on-the-end option (the only way they would actually take 5 of us was by pretending that Raphael, now 3, still sleeps in a cot). Source of arguments: who got to sleep nearest/furthest to the window/mummy & daddy and who was allowed most time playing in the "den" underneath this row of bedding. (Luckily, this was partly made up by the fact that the beds actually ARE damn comfortable - you were right, Lenny Henry).

Second night we thought we'd try it Greek style and mixed it up with three sets of bunk beds:

You can guess the source of the arguments this time: who got the top bunk versus who was actually old enough to stay in the top bunk not to roll out in their sleep and splat themselves from the potential 8ft drop below. Third and last time (in that we are now stuck with this for at least two weeks because of a reservation 'oversight') is the two-room family option: one adult in each supervising either one or two children depending on which combination of the three is causing most problems, with clothes/toothbrushes and shared toothpaste/shampoo/soap shuttling back and forth across the communal patio depending on which room needs them most desperately. Unluckily for her, we are separated by one quiet, single, female traveller occupying the room in between ours.

Do any of these options work? Well, we are just four days into travelling and we are all knackered. Each time that sleep is required the kids suddenly decide that they are either not tired at all (having moaned about being tired all day) or all of them suddenly need the loo. And when they do eventually drop off, two of them sleep "shout", the littlest sometimes still has accidents, and one is a massive fidgeter (which wouldn't usually be a problem but it is when you are sleeping so close to them that they are practically in your bed or if their bed is tied to yours in the form of a bunk). Indeed, I really should be trying to nap now but instead I am writing this whilst it is fresh in my mind lest I forget the more challenging aspects of this travel adventure malarkey. Because in true authentic Bobomama style, this blog will provide the realist counterbalance to my edited highlight reel of beautiful instagram shots.

So how has the trip panned out so far? It has been an almost perfect mix of struggle and beauty. Our rubbish train journey to the airport was balanced by a serendipitous encounter on our flight to Athens: our neighbours from Cambridge sitting in the row in front of us. Unluckily for them, the prospect of a peaceful flight with just their quiet ten year old who keeps himself to himself (whose double-figure birthday and obsession with Ancient Greece was the catalyst for their trip) was ruined by our three lively, entertaining under-sevens kicking seats, crawling under seats, swopping seats, crying, singing loudly and arguing!

City Circus hostel in Athens was uber cool and had a terrace overlooking the Acropolis which looked amazing lit up at night. The hip mixture of guests included travellers who had brought their instruments with them and when we discovered the view they were having an impromptu, alfresco jamming session on fiddle, ukulele and mini accordian.

The hostel environs were also an eye-opener: urban cool in a way that reminded me of Barcelona's Gothic Quarter - lots of quirky shops, bars and restaurants and its once-grand town houses now tattooed with multicoloured political slogans and graffiti. It felt edgier than Barcelona though - enough that I felt a bit vulnerable with the kids: boarded squats, crouched figures in corners doing secret things to their bodies and glazed, lost looks to many of the local residents. My wariness was justified by the fact that the group of policeman I had assumed were just hanging out at the end of the street the afternoon we arrived, were still there in the morning.

We didn't get to see any of the sights this time round (we will be back for two nights at the end of the month) but had a quick preprandial wander through the park, up the street vendor-lined avenue to a pleasant square dotted with cafes-with-a-view. Needless to say the kids stopped at every stall to pick-up/man-handle all of their goods and when not doing this they were either moaning that all we ever do is go for walks or that the path was too steep. We appeased them with half an hour spent on the swings and see-saw in an impromptu playground found in amongst the cafes. (It never ceases to amaze me just how many of these there are around. I'm sure I never noticed even one as a traveller before I had kids!)

We had a quiet supper in the hotel's funky restaurant with our old neighbours and left the staff to entertain/babysit our children who not only nonchalantly sat themselves at the bar with other guests to chat with the sommelier (adorned with pre-requisite funky handlebar moustache and Parisian-style stripey T) but also ordered their own (totally inappropriate) adult desserts from him (which they then left) and spent the rest of the time playing in the (edgy) street. Luckily my children can be kind of cute and charming sometimes too and the waitress very sweetly actually thanked ME for (unknowingly) entrusting her with them as we went up to bed. Odd.

And so here we are now in the first destination of many: Ikaria, the Island of Long Life which is just off the coast of Turkey. Despite choosing it because of its slow pace of life, we did the Bobo thing and opted for the 45 minute flight on a teeny aeroplane rather than the 7 hour ferry from Athens. Just as well because the 70km car ride from the airport along a road/dirt track that literally 'hugged' the coastline (part glorious, part hair raising) and the fact that the host of the Inn we had booked online was not actually expecting us until October 1st would have finished us off otherwise.

The rooms are more shabby than chic, small and hot but they overlook the sea and the staff are affectionate, kind and super tolerant with the kids. The food so far has been hit and miss (home-made bread, fresh figs, fava-bean puree, lemon meringue pie, ourzo pasta, prawns, goat stew, yoghurt - more like UK Onken than the rich Greek yoghurt we have at home, goat's cheese - think ricotta meets burrata, local honey, sardines, tsatsiki: HIT; squid and then chicken so grilled they had turned to carbonised cardboard: MISS).

And rather disappointingly, the wine so far has been crap. (For those of you who want a more detailed vinous update,  I have so far tried 5 different indigenous varieties: Roditis - very average, lacklustre and thin, like a cheap Pinot Grigio; Malagouzia - because my favourite type of wine is rich and full-bodied and this is meant to deliver just that - it didn't; Assyrtiko - from Santorini - it was the best so far with reasonable fruit and a medium body; an unnamed red wine which was so old/had been so badly stored it was light brown and tasted of off prune juice and an unnamed white wine (to take away the taste of the red) which was similar in style to Retsina. I actually secretly like Retsina - just don't tell anyone I'm a wine specialist). Luckily, or unluckily for me (this has yet to be decided) Greece has a huge range of indigenous grapes on offer (not surprising given that winemaking originated here) so I still have a long list to work my way down slowly. I just hope the quality is better than the quantity offered...

To see where we are on a map, click here!

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