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The calf looked at me. I looked at it. We were both desperate. She wanted food. I wanted to feed her. It seems a simple equation for me as I held a bucket full of frothy, nourishing milk. But the poddy calf’s scared eyes that warily watched me from the other side of the paddock told me this would be far from simple.

My boss had floated the idea of me feeding the calf while he was away for a few days. I was keener than an over-exuberant child let loose on the high-jump mats. My resume would read journalist/farmer. I would live on a farm one fine day.

In hindsight, my vision was clouded by self-induced thoughts of unearned glory. The sun was already veering towards the horizon when I arrived at the property. It took me a while to find the angle paddock east of the dog’s chain. There was no sign of the pale blue bucket I’d been told the little orphan would recognise. Apparently it was under the brush tree to the east. I didn’t even know what a bloody brush tree was. Surely the black bucket would be ok? The milky slush almost enticed me by the time I prepared it and found the calf in the angle paddock again. And so the games began.

The calf backed away immediately as I stumbled through the scrub with the wholesome milk. Already I’d started thinking of myself as a Mother Teresa figure, feeding the hungry in my spare time. It wasn’t long before I felt like the Hulk, horribly imposing over a scared farm animal. I’d move a few steps forward, offering my useless black bucket and then step away hoping he’d step forward. “C’mon little calfie,” I’d purr at her. “Come and get some yummy milky.”

She saw through it. Raw away. “You filthy m***** f*****,” I shouted, running after her. Perhaps mooing at her will help, I thought desperately, taking in her hungry flanks. For the record, mooing and holding out fingers for sucking does not help. She cantered off again and I followed. Then I spotted the magical pale blue bucket under what I guessed was a brush tree, transferred my nectar and set off again. She looked at me, spotted the familiar blue, took a step forwards and another. And another. I stood a respectful metre away, as you would when meeting the queen, and delighted in the slurping sounds. Her nose came out whiter than the Bolivian salt fields. I took a step forwards before she knocked the bucket over. She ran. I ran after her straight into the prickly scrub.

Rubbing the blood from my ankle, I picked up my bucket and tried to loop around the scrub and catch her on the other side. How could this calf outwit me? Patience, patience, was all I needed, I thought as the sun dipped below the horizon and purple clouds whispered overhead. My belly rumbled but I managed to keep my head out of the bucket. Perhaps leading by example would have helped.

The cunning beast eyed me from the bushes and tottered backward, stumbling over a hollowed log. Sympathy pricked my conscience. I stepped away from the bucket again and waited. It was more frustrating than those aerobics classes that make you feel like you were born without foot-brain coordination.

She wasn’t moving at all now and the scrub was thicker than anything I wanted to scramble in. The bucket handle made an interesting clanging noise that I thought could be used to lure the girl in. That didn’t work either. But walking away worked. She followed like a wee lamb that’d lost her flock. But as soon as I tried to get the head into the pale blue milkiness she trotted off. I walked home in the dark, wondering how a starving poddy calf had got the better of me.

I set off again in the morning with instructions. I was supposed to chase him, get him between my legs and force his head into the bucket, my farm-handy boyfriend explained. What if I caught him a long way from the bucket? Well, that’s easy. Just twist his tail and he’ll move forward. My confidence wasn’t soaring as I set off with my milk, imagining myself trying to wrangle a calf that looked ragged but ultimately was stronger than me. It started as usual. She eyed me as one would regard a doctor with an syringe full of vaccine. I trotted forward and she startled into the scrub. But hurrah, the stupid little animal jagged herself on a tangle and couldn’t get out. The noose of vines held her neck and the pale blue bucket wedged easily under her mouth. Aha. It was a satisfying victory, the depths of my glory stretching far beyond her inflated flanks. There’s nothing quite like a victory over a small defenceless calf to make you feel validated. Needed. Perhaps that’s how farmers feel.

Hello dear readers,

Sorry for the mix-up with postie the yabbie story twice with no text. I was on an adventure where technology worked as well as a shearer with a bad elbow.

This was written a few days ago about the yabbie racing shenanigans in Windorah, Qld. The riot that was Birdsville will follow when the bags under my eyes have firmed up again.

I hope you are all well.

Penny

The party chopper en-route to Birdsville stopped in Windorah last night for the yabbie races. I adopted a gonzo journo style and joined in the shenanigans, depleting the bar of its low-carb beer stash and garnering an understanding of the fuzzy edges most of the party were experiencing.
I believe slight inebriation can liven up journalism on select occasions. A quick scan of my battered notebook this morning has revealed a few pearlers.
Some nice bloke has written me a poem: ‘there once was a lass from Kyogle, whose breasts some old men did ogle. She first took our shots, then our story she jots. But their intentions were far from noble.’ Classic.
I’ve written a few pars on the yabbie races where crayfish are auctioned off at absurd prices to the legless city folk. The creatures have to walk towards the green line and the first over wins. Most of my coverage focuses on a group of lads from Victoria who bought a yabbie named Pooh Bawl and won about a grand of its deft legs. They bought him for $550.
A bloke called Piglet merited a mention for his swing dance moves on the grass, but his attempts to woo me were less than fruitful when he refused to be called anything but Piglet and, sadly, I draw the line at farm animals.
The most exciting part of my night didn’t get a mention in the ripped notepad. In a moment of Birdsville-inspired abandon I chucked five bucks in a hat to buy a yabbie called Gee Bunger or something similar and ended up with a 50 tucked down my shirt this morning.
Most importantly the notebook is chockers with mens’ phone numbers.

Making friends has become the essence of my existence. It drives me more than my incessant forraging for dumplings.

My daily routine, whether it is breakfast or an early-morning rickshaw ride home from the club, have become laced with benevolent intentions. No one is safe from my ceaseless pal search.
My strike rate, admittedly, is fairly hot. I am disappointed in my day if I have not made at least four new friends. Of course, at home it’s not so intense; I settle on two new mates a week when my backpack is collecting dust.
The latest crew includes a Mexican guy, Rodrigo; a stunning Israeli chick, Danit; the endearing English guy, Tom; a Scotsman, Craig; a Chinese dude, Hunter; a lovely lass from Melbourne, Tiffany; and the beautiful Danish ladies, Gitte and Camilla.
It’s a pleasantly international crew. I’m always proud of myself with these global mash-ups, feeling more cosmopolitan than a well-stocked cellar. The ability to create an instant sense of community while traveling is a contast pleasure, for me.
There is a downside, however, to the obsessive friend-making.

The goodbyes, once sweet and quaint, have become beasts of sadness that unleash themselves upon me as soon as I’m alone, feasting on my inner peace.

I’ve become afraid of the emptiness which invariably follows any new liaison. Thoughts of empty dorm rooms and common rooms with no recognisable faces haunt me, dogging the pleasure of new company.

Traveling friendships, for me, are intense and that is what makes the inevitable goodbyes harder. Often, you see your new pals first thing in the morning, share a leisurely breakfast and then spend the rest of the day and night together. It is a million first dates bundled into one lengthy day. Sometimes the day is similar to working in field under the blistering sun. Usually it’s more akin to sipping a cocktail on the beach.

The first parting-is-such-sweet-sorrow culprit was Lina, a generous and open Taiwanese lady I met in Tunxi. Moments after I stormed into the dorm, shattering her peace, she’d spread out her map of China, patted the bed next to her and explained the best spots to see while visiting the mighty dragon. She gave me her personalised chopsticks as a souvenir and took me out for lunch. Her fluent Mandarin ensured I got my train ticket without the booking fee.

She was my first Chinese love.

You can imagine the goodbye; my tear ducts did not rsvp, but there was plenty of vigorous hand-waving and creased brows as I trotted off under the weight of my mighty Osprey.

I was lost without Lina. For a few days I thought longingly of her shy giggle and easy manner.

Soon after, I met the famous Swedish boys who showed me the most happiness I’ve known in a while. Under their Scandinavian guidance we hooked up with Yong, the Thai guy whose laugh would crack the surliest bouncer, and the three Chinese girls who wormed their way into our hearts.

We spent a few cruisy days and almost-memorable nights with them before the inevitable parting came lumbering up to greet us. Again, it was wrenching to say goodbye to ‘the best group’. Luckily, the Swedes were around to cycle on with.

We formed a quick crew with a few new strangers in Shangri-La, dispensing quickly with the usual meet-and-form-judgment clichés: ‘where are you from’, ‘how long are you traveling for’, ‘what do you do back at home ’and, of course,‘ would you like a beer’.

Generally, in a friendship-creation interrogation, once these formalities are satisfied, the depth get-to-know-you questions would show their faces. ‘Do you drink baijiu,’ we’d demand, before I’d sneakily suss out my new mate’s thoughts on alfresco nudity..

The Shangri-La friends, too, we bade goodbye to in a flurry of email addresses and empty let’s-keep-in-touch promises. Such is life on the road.

In Chengdu, the worst happened. I had to say goodbye to the bloody Swedes.

I avoided the idea until the reality of their departure slapped me with an open palm; but that was not the end of my dalliance with those good-looking lads.

In Xian, alone, the superficial friendships continued. I began to grow tired of feigning interest in people who insisted they loved food more than I did. The continual effort of making new mates was becoming annoying.

In Laos, a quick hike unearthed a few gems for me. My China funk was left at the border and the friend-making-machine fired up again.

I met the Swedes again in Laos after a heart-shattering goodbye to a funky Bolivian who I’ve promised to meet in Spain.

Round two began with the my hot Swedish boys, but my addiction to meeting people thrived. The Canadian boys in Siem Reap deserve a special mention here for bolstering the ranks of a few games of Marco Polo. Their card-playing skills affirmed a Facebook match up was on the way.

Another Swede, Vanja, won me over in Sihanoukville. I still miss her cute accent.

Then, finally, after a blissful few days loitering on the beaches in Cambodia I had to say goodbye to the guys who had been making me laugh for about six weeks.

It was a breeze. With a hasty ‘see you in Sweden’ I ducked out of there, determined to look forward.

Of course, it still feels like I am missing my left arm and an eyebrow without the boys.But, I’d hate to bore you with dramatic staements.

Waiting for me in Beijing were three British lads. I was instantly fond of their comic ways, go-hard attitude and incoherent football talk. They even checked the beer cans for the alcohol percentage and were able to put up with me waking them every morning. We were instantly friends, partying until dawn and seeing Beijing’s sights with an over-enthusiastic vigor.

Then, I returned from the Great Wall to an empty dorm.

The lads’ usual mess, instead of hanging from every available ledge and splattering across the floor, had disappeared. The empty beds stared back at me and the lonely feeling crept up again, familiar as the blue sky in Queensland.

It seems so cruel for them to leave, just as the conversations had progressed to the point where we knew what time our parents went to bed and the regularity of everyone’s bowel movements.

I was shattered.

One of the Brits had quipped the night before, in the middle of an intense chat about the people we’d met while traveling, ‘you wear your heart on your sleeve a bit, don’t you, yeah’.

I admitted my open-heartedness with pride. If you’re not going to love freely, you’ll miss out, I reckon.

Of course, the next day I was eating my words, as I noted the air conditioner’s hum was keeping me company, instead of the boys’ laughter.

As I wrote this, my next room mate, American Scott, who I’d shared some pillow talk with (from separate beds, obviously) and who’d set alarms for me to wake up in the morning, came up with his stunning girlfriend and announced his imminent departure.

It’s relentless! And I’m bloody sick of the goodbye cuddles.

But, as the cute Dane pointed out, ‘it’s your nature. You can’t change it.’

So, I’ll still pine for my travel pals and look at the photos I took of them with a fond smile. I’m thankful, really, that making genuine friendships does not take weeks or months, but can happen in a few fleeting moments when you’re on the road.

Most of all, I’ll try to keep some promises. I’ll go to Sweden next summer; I’ll meet Daniela in Madrid; I’ll go to Taiwan to see Lina’s beautiful National Parks; and, I’ll run the City to Surf with the British guys.

But, for now, the Beijing crew needs another Aussie at the table.

I must have looked incredibly pathetic this morning, limping up to the entrance of the Great Wall.
It was a kebab stick that left me walking in a similar fashion to a three-legged dog with a twitch. The bamboo stick jumped into my flip flop a few nights after a raucous night out. It pierced straight into my toe with unexpected venom, bruising and swelling my foot. Of course, this particular injury would coincide with a walk on one of the more gruelling seven wonders of the world. I also have a nasty scratch from where the Slovakian girl pulled me onto the table we were dancing on with a little too much enthusiasm. A full catalogue of my recent injuries would take far too long, but let’s say I am rocked up this morning feeling a tad battered.
Despite the injuries I’d rummaged around for some self-discipline, which had not seen the sun in about eight weeks, and got to bed before midnight. The English lads, who I’d just managed to resist joining for a night of festivities, rolled in at 5.15am (their fourth night in a row!! and they had to be at the airport at 6) and surprised me with some football songs, a spot of comedy and an icecream one owed me from a bet. So, I was mildly tired, but only 20 minutes late for breakfast. Luckily, I had a cute new pink hat to make me smile.
Now, I’d only been relatively unenthusiastic about visiting the Great Wall. To me, the joy of traveling lies in the people you meet, rather than the things you see, but my determined mother insisted I see such a splendid sight.
Thank you, Mum!
The trip started with the inevitable choice between a cable car and a slog up a hill. For me, that choice is the same as choosing to dine-in or take-away. I avoid cable cars on principle, prefering to pant my way up steep hills, thinking nasty thoughts of the rich folk on the machines above me, but with a sense of virtue that would make the Pope humble.
Today, with my super injuries and a new pair of tight shoes, it was the perfect opportunity to cast aside my values and jump on the ski lift. It’s a nice feeling, really, to have all that initial walking removed from the to-do list.
We had three hours to saunter along the wall, imagining ourselves as medievil oriental soldiers. It was a perfect, blue-sky day. A slight breeze kept the Chinese summer at bay, too.
I strode up the first side, pushing through the pain in my shoe, admiring the view all around. The surrounding hills are typical of China with their stunning colours and contours. The wall itself, of course, has a partciular charm that comes with age and beauty. It’s a pretty wall, really, although I sternly reminded myself that it was a fort, not an ornament.
At the top of the first side I decided it was time to make some new friends. I combined that task with a ritual I began in South America.
For the record, asking the nice Canadian guy to take a photo of you in the nude will help you to turn an aquaintance into a pal. Tick. Tick.
With my new mates, I strolled along the old, unrestored section of the wall for a while, blatantly ignoring the ‘No Admittance’ sign and generally being a bad tourist. But, everyone else was doing it, so it must be ok, right! Without the modern touch-ups the old wall is crumbling and deteoriated in places, although it’s even more charming to imagine the place has been less touched since it was constructed so many centuries ago. It had an air of authenticity that is often removed from Chinese architecture.
I loved sitting, blissfully and gazing out at the surrounding mountains, watching the decrepit wall stretch along the ridges that skim the horizon. The patch of wall we strolled along was only about 3.5 kilometres long, but seeing the beast strecth along the hills gave an impression that it could actually be 6000 kilometres long. Actually, that’s still a little beyond my comprehension, but I’ll take the history books at their word.
The ambience in these ancient places always strikes a human chord for me. I cannot help but imagine the poeple who built the wall in such extreme locations. It is bloody steep! Also, I couldn’t help but picture myself as a soldier, stationed on the gleaming old forts, looking out for Genghis Khan and his muscly men. Of course, I could also picture the Mongols storming up the sides and capturing the wall.
It was a superb sensation to be in-situ while contemplating the finer points of such dramatic historical events. It was also cool to imagine things that happen today, such as the popular matchmaking shows set on the wall or the locals who insist on trudging up the pitched stairs in their wedding garb. Fools, I thought; they’d get sweat everywhere!
The two Australian and two Canadians guys and I indulged in a quick Tsingtao, just to get that real Chinese feeling happening.
Of course, the Chinese culture continued as we lined up to catch the toboggan back to the bus stop. Yes, that’s right, after you’ve finished strolling along one of the seven wonders on the world, you jump on a piece of plactic and slide down the metal amusemet course. Suddenly, I was seven again and at the Big Banana in Coffs Harbour. Oh, there is almost too mcuh fun to be had at that old wall. The Chinese man guarding the slide even shouted at me, waving his hand like a puppet master, to slow down. I felt like a kid again as the wind whipped my hair back.
It was an exhilirating end to the thrill of seeing the Great Wall. And, my aching feet, now with blisters from my brand-spanking Keds, had the last laugh as we cruised down to a banquet lunch.

Sometimes it’s the scenery. Sometimes it is the local people or the food. It may even be the tourists or the mosquito population that determines how charming a place is.
I recently touched upon a new way to measure a destination’s performance. On Don Det, one of the stunning 4000 Islands that dot the Mekong in southern Laos, my tolerance for late-arriving food affirmed my love of the place.
Here, I would sit in the restaurants with my companions, hunger eating away at my sanity, but barely caring. We would casually playing cards and take bets on how much longer our food could possibly take to whip up.
“How far do you think it is from the top of that tree to the water,” one of my companions asked one morning during our patient wait.
It’s a ridiculous question, unanswerable and largely pointless, but we’d sit there, pushing away thoughts of an omlette and focusing on life’s minor trivialities.
Other questions, sush as “what’s your favourite hammock position” and ranking our favourite fruits, helped the time pass very pleasantly.
In Laos, nothing much happens in a hurry. Sometimes, especially in the midday heat, nothing at all happens and buying a packet of Pringles becomes a cloak and dagger mission.
On Don Det, this laid-back approach refreshed me on the half-way point of my travels. It is easy to assume that with no work, just play, play and more play, that traveling is a leisure pursuit. I prefer to think of it as an endurance mission, fitting in temple visits around dysentry and a rampant party scene, with sleeping only happening as an afterthought. It’s exhilirating.
But, after a hectic few days in the party mecca of south east Asia, Vang Vieng, where a simple activity such as floating down a slow-flowing river in a rubber tube becomes a tarzan-infused, booze-fuelled, best-day-of-your-life fiesta; I was ready to switch my dancing shoes for a bikini.
We arrived on Don Det, scouring the bungalows for the best hammocks. Mrs Daeng, our charming hostess, who had a glint in her eye that’d rival the hungriest of foxes, welcomed us into her pad. We were the only guests for the majority of the five-day bliss-fest and she lavished attention upon us as if we were deities, returning from the dead, fixing everything we broke and taking trips to the mainland for essential supplies, such as baguettes and BeerLao.
Most days would begin with a journey from the bed to the hammock, a few steps that could feel like a marathon at times. Breakfast would be ordered as we gazed out over the Mekong, oriental dreams afoot. In the interminable wait between ordering and receiving our food we’d play cards, constantly fantasising about food. Occasionally breakfast would not finish until well past midday and the daily activities would not start until the early evening. Quickly, we discovered island time.
Another favourite acivity was watching the local kids swim in the river. From our hammocks, or the restaurant terrace, we’d watch them climbing along a precariously-placed palm tree and jumping off the top into the river. Their wrestling matches easily replaced the desire to read a book.
Occasionally we’d join them, pushing them into the water and battling against the ferocious current.
Of course, there were the daily activities that self-respecting tourists should not miss. It’s essential not to be seen as a lazy backpacker. To relieve the hammock-guilt we would ride around the island on bikes, finding new restaurants and trying different flavours of fruit shake. One day, we rented tyre tubes and floated down the river in the monsoon rains. In a fit of exuberance, we even dedicated one day to a lengthy stroll to visit a spectacular waterfall.
Once these pursuits were tied up, the hammock-therapy continued.
My good-luck fairy paid me a wee visit, timing my stay with the rocket festival. At 6 in the morning the drums would start humming as processions of locals drinking Lao Lao made music and danced in the streets. Rockets shot across the sky as a gesture to the Gods, praying for a good harvest.
That’s my kinda religion, I thought one day as I sat in an internet cafe with firecrackers being thrown around as if they were candy at a circus.
I intended to stay just three or four nights on Don Det, but in another sign of a place’s charm, I overstayed, dragging myself off after five nights, reluctantly.
As we sat in the dugout canoe, heading back to the mainland and back to the temple-party merry-go-round I felt like a different person. The hammocks were an instant balm to my slight travel fatigue.
Most importantly, however, I have been charmed by the Laos islands, and it’s always nice to find a new place to love.

Things have gone steadily downhill since the Swedes bade a bright goodbye about 10 hours ago. It’s a small window of time, I know, but one afternoon is enough for things to slide from winning trivia to inciting China’s angriest cabby. And I use the phrase cabby very liberally here, but we’ll get to that.

My laid-back planning will shoulder the blame.

While the Vikings had been buying train tickets and logging their intended routes, I sat back and scoffed at their boring organising.

I perfected the look of adventurous nonchalance. “Where are you going, Penny,” they’d ask, voices laced with excitement at seeing the back of me. “I dunno,” I’d shrug. “I’ll just see where I end up.” I love feeling that anything is possible.

Really, I was avoiding the reality of their impending departure as a chronic smoker avoids venues without ashtrays.

As they strode out the door, I saw a photo on the wall of a beautiful waterfall. “That’ll do,” I thought.

It was 45 minutes away by fast train. “Easy peasy,” I recall thinking with confidence as I boarded the public bus. “Who needs the Scandinavians anyway?”

Standing in the turtle-paced line at the railway station, I noticed the stench of human sweat and reflected that I was contributing my little bit, as sweat dripped off my body. The lack of mates to joke with struck me. Chengdu is nicely tropical.

Briefly, I enjoyed my solitude, freedom and noticed again how much attention everyone pays you when you’re alone. My dearth of language skills hit me like I slammed onto the ground when I slipped over at the ATM last night.

It’s incredibly lonely to not be able to communicate with anyone. Crowded trains are especially bad.

But, unsurprisingly, my persistent good luck meant the folk staying until the end of the train line spoke English and, yes, they were going to the cheap mountain with the beautiful scenery.

They’d be honoured if I joined them. I thoroughly enjoy the Chinese enthusiasm for helping foreigners.

I let them guide me along like a bludgeoned puppy keen for a bone.

We stumbled through the stunning town of Qingcheng, a typical Chinese ‘old town’ comprised of sparkling modern structures. I was delighted with the scenery and hopped with child-like exuberance over the plethora of bridges which cover the crystal river that runs beneath the footpath.

The mountains were luscious and superbly green. I even spotted some blue sky.

Still, I had no plan and cockily told my new Chinese companions that maybe I’d stay in the village the night. Secretly, I was following them, waiting for them to arrive at their hotel where I would cheekily check-in.

We kept walking. And walking. And then we walked some more.

After we left the town behind, I began to think the hotel must be in a beautiful spot on the mountain. But, as the footpath made way for a bush trail, I conceded that I was going trekking with my 16 kg pack again. This time, I cleverly shunned my hiking boots for Havaianas and a pretty dress. Also, I had only a half-full belly, a small hangover and no water.

Planning is for losers, as they say. And, yes, that is irony.

Still, I was entranced by the magnificence of the waterfalls that changed around every corner. There were remnants of the 2008 Sichuan earthquake, with shattered rocks busting through the creek and drainage pipes still laying about in pieces, violently destroyed.

The water, by some ancient miracle, was as clear as a freshly-Windexed sliding door that a magpie would fly into. It was icy and refreshing. I could not believe this place was just an hour away from China’s fifth-biggest city. The contrasts were powerful.

The air was moist and chilly, which felt energizing against the Chengdu-sweat. It was a truly stunning walk, quite peaceful and, of course, I was stoked with myself that my no-plans attitude had seen things work out.

But, I arrogantly counted my blessings too soon.

We strolled back into town and I hung on to my new Chinese friends like a frightened lamb. I had not seen another foreigner in the village and, honestly, I was afraid of going it alone.

We caught a bus to some other random city where I was to look for tickets to the place they recommended I visit. “One of the most beautiful in China,” they promised.

Alas, the bus station was closed, a surprising feat in a country that seems to cater directly to public-transport enthusiasts.

Reluctantly, I caught a random bus back to Chengdu.

Then, the fun really started.

My fly-by-the-seat-of-my-pants genius did not plan how to get to the hostel in Chengdu. I was dropped at a strange bus station and a kind-hearted entrepreneur offered to take me to Sim’s Guesthouse for triple the usual rate, a meager 60 Yuan.

No-one would take me for less than 50. I had no address card. The beauty of the communication divide in China stretches beyond simply speaking different dialects and having different characters – it’s the pronunciation that gets me the most. Without being able to effectively say the street name, I was at their mercy.

I was tired and craving some shut-eye and kind company. As my shoulders sagged and my eyelids drooped, I thought I might burst into tears in the middle of the station. “Toughen up, girl,” I heard my mother’s voice say in my head.

A face bustled to the front of the crowd gesturing that he’d take me for 30.

“Maybe I still have some luck left,” I mused.

He herded me towards his bike and strapped my pack on. I chucked on the helmet and obliging put my hands around his waist. We puttered off in a cloud of laughter from the hyenas at the station.

I was taking a risk here and felt incredibly vulnerable and was scared. It’s a fascinating sensation to relinquish control so completely.

But, he seemed ok. The problem was not my safety; he drove with fuel conservation as the number one priority. Plus, he was relatively cautious in the backwardly-ordered traffic.

The issue was the address, still. I had committed the cardinal Chinese-backpacking sin – I had no card with the address in Chinese letters.

We motored around for a while as I realised far too slowly that he did not know where I wanted to go. He pointed wildly at a few hotels and as I repeatedly refused them he expressed his frustration with some impressive grunts.

I pulled out my trusty Rough Guide, elated to be getting some use from it.

Of course, Scooter Man had no idea how to read an English map, so we just yelled at each other in our native tongues for a few minutes on the side of the street.

Then, a brainwave hit me like a wave washing a small child away from their sandcastle on a beach. I saw the 28 bus.

“Follow that bus,” I yelled, as I’d caught the 28 earlier in the day. It stops outside the hostel. “Tee! Cha! Er! Baa!”

Genius!

We stealthily tracked that bus for a good 15 minutes. I was confident and relaxed a little, leaning back on my bag and enjoying Chengdu by night. It was quite the tour, although I was alarmed at that I recognised nothing after four days in the city. I had no idea where we were. Plus, the homogenous nature of the buildings and roads disturbed me.

I began to worry again when I saw another 28 bus heading in the other direction. “Which one is going toward the hostel,” I wondered, concerned, tired and anxious.

I pulled out my trusty Rough Guide and demanded Scooter Man call the hostel for directions.

It is difficult to express how disappointed I am with myself for waiting until 40 minutes into the ride to try this tactic. My clutching-at-straws logic was not fruitful.

Weirdly, it was not until I’d been on the bike for about an hour that I started to recognise buildings. I was almost pleased that we were going around in circles instead of him taking me to the back of beyond. Scooter Man, however, was not pleased at all. He starts to get quite frustrated, yelling at me sporadically.

I take solace in one of my favourite Chinese pursuits, watching people dancing in the street. “At least if Scooter Man dumps me I can go and shake some booty,” I think, desperately trying to cheer myself up.

After an hour and a half I spot the magical Hostelling International sign.

It’d been ten hours since I last ate.

Of course, we have an awesome stand-up argument in the street where Scooter Man even grabs my bag in a threatening manner. There is a satisfyingly healthy crowd of onlookers, and the traffic is slowing significantly as they pause to watch the local man shout at the stupid Western girl. He is exceptionally pissed off with my follow-that-bus maneuver.

In the end, I pay him 50 Yuan.

I stroll into Sim’s, feeling like I’m having my first bite of cheese after months without dairy. I’m home. But, do they have a bed for the no-reservation, no-plans, no-clue Aussie? Of course they do. This story has a happy ending that includes a welcome shower and dinner. I have never appreciated a bowl of yoghurt so graciously and I got to tell my fabulous story to the lads at the counter.

Often I justify errors such as this one by saying “oh well, at least it’s a good story.”

I’m questioning that, ever so slightly, tonight. Is the tale worth the hassle? The danger?

At the moment, I reckon, probably not. But, still, the experience is valuable.

I’ve learnt a brilliant lesson in the art of disorganisation, although, I reckon, the Swedes gave me a fair few of those, too.