Sydney, Sydney or Sidney…Sidney?

28 05 2009

Sydney harbour mw

      “I can’t get over how much it looks like Australia!”    (Sydney Harbour)

Recently, I was in my local bookshop when I spied a book on Eritrea in the Asia section. I contemplated advising the staff member of their error, but decided that simply re-shelving the book in the correct spot was better than being publicly identified as the geo-geek that I am.

Eritrea is a relatively new country so their mistake can, I suppose – and somewhat reluctantly – be forgiven. Finding a CD of Paul Potts in the Cambodia section would be less excusable.

There are many places in the world that share similar or identical names despite being separated by thousands of miles. Like Dakar, Senegal and Dhaka, Bangladesh or San Jose, California and San Jose, Costa Rica. It’s not surprising then that every year travellers end up somewhere other than where they intended.

A famous one was a British honeymoon couple who ended up in Sydney, Nova Scotia…instead of Sydney, Australia. It’s an understandable error given that both are in former British colonies, located by the ocean, renowned for their fresh seafood and overrun with kangaroos. The young couple had booked their flights on the internet and couldn’t believe the bargain price. They weren’t particularly alarmed when their first flight headed west to Canada rather than east to Australia as they assumed they were “…going the long way round.” Their eyebrows only arched in Halifax when they boarded a small propeller-driven 25-seater for the trip to Sydney. When their story reached the media they were treated like royalty by the locals…but I’m still not sure that the affection made up for not seeing the Opera House or throwing another shrimp on the barby.

Another error that made the news was of a London businessman who left a terse message with his secretary to book a seaside cottage in Donegal for a week. The secretary, accustomed to her boss’s requests and armed with his credit card, struggled to find a property but eventually succeeded in making the arrangements. The documents were issued and dispatched. He didn’t bother to look until he was on his way to the airport…at which point he discovered he was booked for a week in Senegal, West Africa and not Donegal, Ireland.

Finally, there was the passenger booked to connect in San Francisco for Oakland, California. He arrived in San Francisco late and dashed to his gate hearing his flight called as he ran. He raced on board as the last passenger, and the doors were closed. It was only once airborne and the pilot announced that their flying time was expected to be 16 hours and 20 minutes  via Honolulu that the passenger became alarmed…as Oakland was only 12 miles away. Once the aircraft had finished climbing he signalled the flight attendant and explained his confusion. She checked his boarding pass – which is more than can be said for the boarding agent – and somewhat sheepishly advised him that the flight was destined for Auckland, New Zealand and that he had gone to the wrong gate. Two days later he arrived back in California.

Rule of thumb here is to ensure that you have a good travel agent…and always pay attention – unless you want two weeks in your Speedo in January in St Petersburg, Russia instead of St Petersburg, Florida!


Post and photo by: Simon Vaughan © 2009

Lenins Learned the Hard Way – No. 1917

31 07 2008


That’s fare!



If there are three things I learned from my mother it was never to venture outside without clean underwear; not to mix colours with whites when doing the laundry, and never to hitchhike. A pair of pink and grey dappled boxers and a harrowing experience in St Petersburg suggests that I should have paid more attention!


I was in Russia as the dust of the fallen Berlin Wall still floated in the air and Glasnost and Perestroika were news headlines and not the names of technopop bands. I had discovered that one way to avoid the necessity of a visa was to travel by Russian ship from Helsinki and stay on board from 1am to 6am each of the three nights in St Petersburg.


We had arrived just after dawn and cruised into the labyrinthine port slowly passing rusting hulks and spits of land glowing with small campfires. The enormous art deco terminal still bore the legend “Leningrad“. I headed down the gangway and had my passport stamped, was met by a friend and headed into the city.


Later that evening after dinner and a few drinks in a hidden courtyard patio reached through a dark and damp passageway, it was time to return to the ship before curfew. With the ‘White Nights’ burning bright and mosquitoes devouring my ankles, I hailed a taxi.


“Be here tomorrow morning at eight and we’ll get the train to Tsarskoe Selo, the Summer Palace.” Lena suggested.


“Can I get a bus from the port?” I asked optimistically.


“Ummm, no.” she replied.


“There are buses but they don’t run very often – and you won’t find a taxi there either. You’ll have to hitch a ride.”


“Hitchhike?” I stammered unenthusiastically, visions of every slasher film I had ever avoided dancing in my head – except this time in Russian with English subtitles.


“Yes…just flag a car heading in the right direction. Someone will give you a lift. But don’t get in a car with more than one person…just to be safe.” she said as I climbed into my taxi.


“Oh…” her voice rang out as I was whisked away, “…and don’t get in a BMW or anything expensive: they’re probably mafiya.”


The next morning I set off towards the road with great trepidation, glancing over my shoulder every few feet in search of a suitable ride. Docks tend to be industrial and generally unappealing in any city. St Petersburg was no exception. The cracked sidewalk was deserted and weed-strewn and the surrounding buildings seemed abandoned, overgrown and darkened by the long shadows of dawn. Apart from a stray dog and squad of jogging naval cadets, I was worryingly alone.


I surveyed the traffic intently. BMWs and SUVs were avoided, less resplendent vehicles carefully scrutinised for multiple occupants. Finally, a battered and exhaust-spewing Lada chugged into sight. There was only the driver and he seemed old…and harmless. I raised my arm and he stopped.


“Petropavlovskaya, puzhalsta?” I implored using half of my entire Russian vocabulary in one sentence.


The driver leaned across and let loose a rabid torrent of Russian, his right arm gesticulating wildly.


Nyet Russkoya” I struggled unnecessarily, exhausting the rest of my Russian and backing away from the car.


He beckoned me back and opened the door. I climbed in but unfortunately we didn’t drive away. Instead, we sat there by the side of the road while he continued his diatribe. I shrugged intelligently and went to reach for the handle to leave, just as he stepped on the accelerator and we jolted into the rush-hour traffic.


I have often found that the longest moments in life tend to be when you’re with someone and there’s little or nothing to talk about. True friends are those with whom you can be silent in complete comfort. This particular one-sided conversation was the verbal equivalent of a trip to the dentist.


My driver’s tirade continued as we wheeled through the busy roads. His finger tapped the fuel gauge furiously.


After the longest trip of my life, we arrived at Petropavlovskaya station. I reached into my pocket and removed $5 in rubles – a lot of money in newly post-Communist Russia.  I proffered it, unsure whether it was an acceptable payment or not.


My driver went silent for the first time, took it, held it in his hand, and then beamed the biggest brightest gold-toothed smile in the world. He gripped my shoulder and rigorously shook my hand. Reaching under his seat he removed an unlabelled bottle of a mysterious cloudy liquid, took a swig and handed it to me with a hearty “moi drug” (my friend). I smiled politely and raised the bottle to my lips, the scent of pure alcohol singeing the hairs in my nostrils and almost causing me to cough. I pretended to drink and, spaseba-ing him profusely, returned the bottle and escaped his car.


Heaving a sigh of relief I watched my new best friend tuck the bottle back under his seat and drive off waving enthusiastically…and then checked to see if at least my underwear was clean.


Photo and post by: Simon Vaughan © 2008

You’re Not From Around Here, Are You?

28 03 2008

Spot the local

Always blend in with the locals







I don’t think anyone ever really wants to look like a tourist, unless the government is rounding up locals to serve in the military or is randomly stopping them for extra taxes. Although being a visitor often attracts genuine warmth and friendliness it can occasionally bring about the less attractive attention of the pick-pocketing or souvenir-selling variety.


Blending in with the locals isn’t always possible even if you visit the hotel gift shop and buy the fez, clogs and kilt, carry a local newspaper and memorize the phrase book. Even countries that have rich multicultural diversity seem to be adept at spotting visitors…and not just by the mammoth backpack that’s bending them double or the map that’s sticking out of their pocket. No, there seems to be a little flashing neon light above most travellers’ heads that says: “Hello, I’m on holiday”.


Many places charge residents considerably less at museums and occasionally even hotels. This discrepancy is sometimes posted as separate tariffs for residents and visitors or as a tourism tax or surcharge. Either way, the temptation to try and pass as a local can be quite strong. Assuming you speak the language, aren’t wearing loud polyester, following in a group behind someone holding an umbrella, or waving your passport, you may get away with it.






A friend of mine from St Petersburg was showing me around that city’s great sights not long after the end of communism.  After seeing me paying double or triple entry-fees for most places, she decided to smuggle me in as a local. I was dressed nondescriptly, or so I thought, devoid of all flags and souvenir McLenin t-shirts. She instructed me to stand a few feet away, handed me a Russian magazine to feign reading and then she stepped forward to buy the ducats.






She approached the kiosk, requested two resident tickets and handed over a small wad of rubles. The woman looked up from behind her half-spectacles, took a cursory glance at me through the scratched glass, and said a cheerful and smiling “Hello”.




“Hello.” I promptly replied to the attendant.


She turned to my friend and dourly exclaimed a loud “Nyet”, before demanding the extra fee for a visitor’s ticket!


Post and photo by: Simon Vaughan © 2008