Arabian adventures: Petra at midnight by mule

German police men, Bedouin cave pirates, dubious liaisons and midnight mule riding. It was one of those whirlwind adventures travellers lust for. Someone recently told me you attract what you’re open to, I must be on the page of some Indiana Jones novel.

I’d spent a lovely serene 48 hours in my own company. It’d been a fun but hectic few months, and it was so nice to meander Jordan slowly feeling the stress of few heavy decisions melt away.

In the burning heat I wandered the lost city of Petra, admiring the ancient ruins carved into imposing stone cliffs. Suddenly, I felt a huge craving for company. It was around that very moment I ran into the two German guys staying at my hotel. They happened to be policemen. It was an instant friendship.

We walked up the 850 steps to the monastery in the golden afternoon light. Most of the tourists were heading in the opposite direction towards the exit. We sat atop a cliff overlooking the majestic monastery, mountain upon mountain and desert behind us. That’s when we met the cave dwellers.

They looked straight out of Pirates of the Caribbean. Long black curly hair, red bandanas, loose pants and coal eyeliner darkly riming their eyes. The afternoon desert winds were blowing hard, so they invited us into their cave.


Being Ramadan, it had proved impossible to find any alcoholic beverages. So when they offered us Bedouin whisky our faces instantly lit up. It turned out it’s actually just black tea with sugar. The immense popularity of the drink is visible in all the local’s rotting teeth.

They told us stories of travellers from all over the world they’d met. A few had picked up foreign wives. All day everyone had been telling me about Barbara the infamous New Zealander who’d married a local and been in the village 40 years.

The most rogue of them all proclaimed the key to happiness wasn’t one wife. “I have many girlfriends from all over the world” he bragged. “Sweden, Japan, China….”


After many a round of Bedouin whisky we were invited to stay the night, and sleep in their cave. “We’ll cook for you,” they promised. “We have blankets and bedding!” The place was authentic, but filthy. The pirates looked like they hadn’t showered in months. The German guys were keen. Wistfully thinking of my double bed with a view, I agreed to stay. Travel was after all about the unique experiences.

Next thing Ahmed, a Bedouin who’d made us tea earlier clambered up the cliff. A bit of a tiff ensued. Everyone wanted us to stay it seemed. The Germans and I exchanged raised eyebrows, dubious as why they were fighting over who we stayed with. What was in it for them?
Our favourite rogue pirate left rapidly in somewhat of a huff, before taking a photo of me. Silent tensions grew as night fell. Despite the full moon, stars began to litter the sky. We agreed to dine with Ahmed, and then go back to our hotel. In moonlight we began the slow descent down the cliff face.


Ahmed insisted I take the mule down the 850 steep stone steps. I know he was insinuating my walking was questionable, but I trusted myself far more than some donkey breed with a horse. Yet the blisters of hours and hours of walking were burning. Next thing I was clutching onto a mule who seemed intent on walking as close to the cliff edge as possible.

When we got to Ahmed’s cave, we were somewhat surprised to find three other girls there. All solo travellers, they seemed very at home with their Bedouin locals. Very at home. Nestled around a fire drinking tea, the dinner slowly cooked on the embers.

We ate a local stew with bare hands and bread. I tried not to think about my unwashed hands, or the hundreds of flies that swarmed the mules by day.


After dinner all the girls were whisked onto the mules, riding double with their Bedouins. My blisters were raw, and I was extremely tired, so easily persuaded to jump on the back of Ahmed’s mule.

Rather than make the 1.5 hour trek to the Petra entrance, they were going to drop us in the local Bedouin village from where we could take a taxi. Eager to be at home, I left the Germans on foot and we started galloping towards the village.

It started out magically, riding mules by midnight’s moonlight. I felt like the ultimate Arabian bad-arse princess. It was one of those experiences you could never pay for, never create or never find. We’d just fallen into it.

As all the horses rode in sync, I noticed the other girls seemed to be enjoying the ride far too much. They were groping the men’s chest, hugging, laughing. That’s when I clicked.

As if in a movie, I saw the girls writhing on the back of the horses in slow motion. A montage of events of the day played before my eyes. The pirate taking my photo earlier. The stories. The girls cuddling up to the men around the fire. They’d devised the ultimate pick up scheme. I wondered how many thrill seeking girls they’d lured back to their caves.

I looked back, and suddenly our pack of horses had dispersed. All the girls and their riders had disappeared into the black of the night. I was alone, in the no mans land in the dead of the night. I had a moment of panic.

To be fair, my driver was lovely, and wouldn’t have hurt a fly. The people of Jordan had been some of the kindest, most genuine souls I’d met.

But when he suggested a tea at his place, or sitting to wait for the others I put my foot down. I had a feeling they would be awhile. We rode up to the village, and he ordered a taxi for me. That’s when the Germans guys mysteriously reappeared. Something very reassuring about travelling with German policemen. I beamed at the sight of them.

“We came to find you, to make sure you were safe.”

“Of course she’s safe!” Said Ahmed. “I’m a Bedouin, not a bad one.” I have a feeling he’d used that line before.

The Germans had been picked up by a ranger, as Petra had obviously closed with the sinking sun. I jumped in the car with them, and the day of adventures played before my eyes. We’d met locals, they’d cooked for us, and told us the stories of their lives. We’d left the typical tourist trail, and had a real Arabian nights adventure. So many moments had been so surreal, they felt as if they almost weren’t real.

In life you always have two choices. You can be open in the moment, and see where it takes you or you can go for the safe option. If you leave your comfort zone, you always walk on the fringe of danger. There were many moments were I half wished myself back at the hotel, dining contently in the safety of my own company. Yet what the experience it had been. It’s good to be open, so long as you’re always in tune with your gut. I should’ve never ridden the mule down the cliff, yet I live to tell the tale.


Tourists flock to Amsterdam for tulips, its liberal take on drugs and the infamous red light district. Yet there’s so much more to lure you to this fine city. Here’s some insights from a Kiwi who’s had a damn good year in the Dam.

The frequency of English, the easy lifestyle and the working holiday visa explain why people are calling Amsterdam the new London. The weather is marginally better, there’s no long daily commute, and Kiwi brunch places dominate the local cafe scene. It feels just like home, only a way cooler Euro version.

The Netherlands are not best known for great weather, so it’s a case of suns out boats out. None of those awful glass enclosed boats with tourists sardined in. People in the know have their local, who strategically cruises the waterways catching the revered sun rays. The BYO food, drinks and music strongly appeal to the Kiwi mentality. There is no better way to soak up the myriad of canals then boating with rosé tinted glasses.

Biking is perhaps the most defining attribute of Amsterdam. It’s a small city, with a population of roughly 850,000. That’s less than even Auckland. This gives it a quaint big village feel. A typical bike trip is about 10 minutes. If embarking on an arduous commute of twenty minutes or more a lot of self-motivation is required. The petite size and delightful means of transport give Amsterdam its easy way of life.

So many bikes means bike thieves. Amsterdam may be safe for you, but your bike isn’t going to be so lucky. Thieves are rampant. So much so, most bikes have two locks. Everyone has a tale of at least one stolen bike. But don’t fret, there’s such a thing as bike fixer. Give them a description of the bike you so desire, €20 and a few days later it’s yours. Just beware of bike karma. Yes this is a thing. I’ve only managed to have one bike stolen, so bike karma seems to be on my side.

Cycling is merely transport, not exercise. This and fortunate genes mean that despite most traditional delicacies being deep fried you won’t see overweight Dutchies. Local dishes include stoopwafels (baked sugar on sugar), kaasstengels (deep fried cheese sticks), bitterballen (deep fried balls with mystery meat contents). You get the gist. It’s not all bad though. Kale was cool here long before it made it to Australasia. It’s the esteemed recipe from Grandma. Raw eateries, cold pressed juice and grain bowls are all on trend, in stylish backdrops that’d make even the coolest Melbourne hipster swoon.

The Dutch are a good looking race, for the most parts tall and slender, blessed with wavy silky hair and great bone structure. The women meander about in minimal make up, unbrushed hair and look effortlessly beautiful. Dutch men’s mane of long locks defies gravity lifting off their face, even when the wind isn’t blowing. It leaves female expats with serious hair envy. How do they maintain that volume?

Dutch fashion is minimalist, with a real Scandinavian feel. Clean lines, quality fabrics and muted tones. Think greys, creams, black and white, with maybe a splash of colour like denim or navy thrown in. Patterns aren’t really appreciated, unless it’s a stripe. A minimal stripe obviously. Sneakers can be worn on any occasion, even clubbing. Nothing about their fashion screams out at you, except the animal faux fur coat. In New Zealand this would seem very bogan Westie, alluding to Outrageous Fortune days. Here women of all ages somehow make it look semi chic. I’ve not attempted to master the look.

The work life balance is incredible. That is if you can get the work side of the balance into the equation. If you can’t? No worries, there’s no shortage of incredibly cool cafes you can pretend to work in. If I counted the hours I’d spent dwelling in such establishments, it’s almost like I had a part time cafe job here. Almost.

On that note, cafes are not to be mistaken with a coffee shop. To avoid getting a perplexed stoner wondering what an almond piccolo is, head to a cafe if you’re looking for coffee. Coffee shops are just for weed. The logic behind this is still a mystery to me, but knowing the Dutch there is indeed a great rationale behind it.

If you’re ever missing the many Kiwi waterways there’s of course an amplitude of canals. I’ve spent many an hour canal sitting. Feeling the calming nature of the water minimises the stresses of life, such as not being able to find your bike, or wondering what sneakers to wear. Some of the canals are even swimmable, though they tend to be a hefty twenty minute bike ride away.

Amsterdam masters a quaint charm and outdoor vibe that most urban cities lack. Littered with green havens and terraces, the exterior spaces breath life into the city. Rooftops, parks and the canals are flooded with people chilling, chatting, drinking and listening to music. Sun basking and people watching against historic buildings proves to be the perfect pass time.

As my year here has come full circle, the tulip’s are once again in bloom. I feel very content with my slice of life this side of the world. I’ve become fully inducted in the Dutch ways, cycling about with my cold pressed juice donning pastel tones. I’ve had many a friend come visit, all falling for the magic of this place. Must be time to head on another boat trip, and drink in my appreciation of this damn fine city.FullSizeRender-13

Viking Hunters

We journeyed far and wide, across many an ocean to Iceland in search of their infamous Vikings.

There’s something about the urban myth of tall, manly, blonde, bearded men that makes a girl swoon.

Viking explorers were said to have settled in Iceland in the late 9th Century. But were they still lingering about?

And thus, two Kiwis quest to find Vikings begins – of course at a bar in Reykjavik. We eye the swarms of modern day bearded men with curiosity.


“Are you a Viking?” my friend Michaela asks the older bearded man seated beside us.

“Yes, of course” he slurs in a thick Icelandic accent emphasised by his drunkenness. So far, living up to the reputation.

He insists on buying us multiple shots of Icelandic Schnapps the true Viking liquor.

Michaela notices that our beautiful bearded barman is in fact pouring shots of Jim Bean and Vodka. Viking credibility is deteriorating rapidly.

We get one over him by convincing him I am in fact Keisha Castle Hughes New Zealand’s infamous Whale Rider. They eat whale in Iceland, so he has no issues with animal riding ethics.

We stealthily slip away to the other side of the bar to research the younger Norsemen.

They’re not overly tall, slim bordering on skinny, and don tight jeans, beards and lush long locks that give me hair envy.

These urban Vikings are surprisingly Hipster, straight out of a cool cafe that serves on point espresso.

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Michaela interviewing a Cafe Viking

We befriend a Norwegian Viking, he’s a brunette not a blonde but has the beard and hair down pact. We even convince him to get into costume for the cause.

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A modern day Norwegian Viking

He displays a natural talent for finding hot springs which seems like a useful Viking skill. We document our findings happily over champagne, but are determined there must be Icelandic Vikings lurking in the wilderness.


We enlist the help of another huntress, Nicki from Seattle who embarks with us on the Viking road trip quest.

We circumnavigate Iceland over five days. We drive the Southern coast, the Eastern Fjords, through the Snowy mountains and the Northern highlands. We leave no waterfall, beach, glacier or hot pool unturned.

We even scour an old Viking village.


And yet, there seems to be a severe shortage of not only Vikings but people in general. We are shocked to learn there are only 3.2 people per square kilometre. That’s even less than our beloved New Zealand deemed the Iceland of the South by locals.


Maybe we’d be better off searching for Huldufolk – the hidden people. Better known as Elves, it’s claimed 80% of the population believe in them.

The Huldufolk are known for their environmental lobbyist stance, they whisper in the ears of influential individuals and have been said to help drastically reduce construction in Iceland.

I’m not sure Elves are quite a sexy as Vikings. Although no doubt we could be swayed. Time to head to the local cafe in search of urban Hipster Elves.


#tbt Romania

After months of solo roaming, I’m chilling in Romania when I get a message from a school friend living in London.

“How much longer till you fly back to New Zealand? I might join ya.”

A few days later Michaela and I are wining and dining in Cluj-Napoca the infamous Romanian hub of the young and reckless.


We start the night in true Balkan style, with shots of Rakija the local Brandy. From there everything is a blur of colour; from a surreal Bogan heavy metal underground club (the wrong sort of ponytails) to salsa dancing with a swoon-worthy Dutch man (good pony)

Fast forward a few nights and we’re trekking through Hoia Baciu deemed the world’s most haunted forest. Known as the Bermuda Triangle of Transylvania because of the harrowing tales of UFO sightings, disappearances, unexplained burns and feelings of nausea.

At midnight our group abandones us. Not because of eery happenings but as Google maps seemed set on us circumnavigating the forest only. Very suspicious.

Michaela, Dutchie, a Kiwi fella and I venture on, determined to find something remotely terrifying but after a few hours of lack lustre adventures we too make the long walk home.

Next day Michaela and I decide to Hitchhike east to Timișoara. I spend all morning crafting the perfect sign in my Rakija induced state. A Bla Bla car happens to be going our way, so we catch a ride with a few locals instead.


Michaela is a sales woman by trade – all smiles, laughs and charm. From the back seat I can see a situation developing. Our Driver keeps bestowing us with gifts of home grown fruit. He starts casually touching her arm as he offers the fruit. And the offerings keep coming. Her laughs become feigned. Next thing he’s trying to book into our Hostel.

I’m no Sales Women, but I’ve mastered the art of elusive behaviour. When we stop to drop another passenger off in town we jump out graciously, bid our farewells and head on our merry way with fruit for days.

R o m a n i a. I went there in search of Dracula, haunted castles and Gypsies. Yet Dracula and Vlad the Impaler were long gone. And Gypsies was apparently a politically incorrect term. Sigh.

Instead I stumbled upon a colourful place enchanting in its own right. Mystical mountain towns. A lot of city slicking. One too many sleepless nights. A slice of old school Europe pastures. Copious amounts of coffee’n in hipster cafes. A chance encounter with a dodgy puppy dealer. And most importantly an accomplice.