Eorasdail village, Vatersay

An early start. Up to catch the bus to Aird Mhor jetty to catch the ferry to Eriskay, only to find it cancelled due to high winds. “Come back at noon,” the bus driver translated the ferry-hand’s sweeping pseudo-semaphore from the on-ramp where we stood. “That’s island life,” shrugged the only other person on the bus, an old lady, who presumably has seen her fair share of grounded ferries.
Back to Castlebay then, to camp out in the hostel living room until the next attempt. The owner’s mother-in-law, another nice old lady on an island full of nice old ladies, is busy cleaning up. We get onto the topic of poor John the bipolar Glaswegian, fate unknown. “You get a lot of people with emotional problems coming to Barra,” she says in her easy twitter. “They either get better, because of the island, or it becomes too much for them and they just crack up entirely.” She has such a comforting voice that I almost miss that last bit.

It was suggested to me that I phone the ferry office at Lochboisdale in Uist, to confirm the 1230 sailing, since the Castlebay office would be closed around noon for a funeral. A bit of a local celebrity, the man who founded the local Search and Rescue passed away yesterday. Slave to the bus schedule again, I’ve got a 2-minute window between confirmation and catching the jetty bus. “Et’s a goooh! Get on that boos!” the jolly Scotsman shouts through my mobile, and I’m off, racing down to the stop, only to find the bus sitting full and with no intention of moving. “Oh, you’ll never make the ferry. I can’t move: funeral coming through town,” she shrugs, and like that, I’m stuck on Barra for another day: the one road out of town, blocked by the funeral procession for a man who helped stranded people.

Still, if you have to be stuck somewhere, Barra’s not a bad option. The bus to Vatersay was unaffected, so off I went. This little island off Barra is the southernmost inhabited island in the whole Hebridean chain and was, before 1990, only reachable by boat. Cattle farmers would swim their cattle across the little sound to Barra. Disaster one day when Bernie the prized heffer got swept away; the causeway came in shortly after. The ruined hulk of Vatersay House loomed over the only settlement on the island. Not a soul in sight as I got off the bus and made southwards.

I criss-crossed Vatersay that afternoon, stumbling through the rolling fields and barren outcroppings, dodging cowpats and freak hailstorms. A ghost village called Eorasdail to the south overlooks the ocean. Hard to believe it was only abandoned in the 70s: eerie stone gables are all that’s left, like unnamed tombstones staring blankly at the sea. Back to the north is a single obelisk, monument to a nasty shipwreck in 1853. The Annie Jane, bound for Canada, went down with more than 400 men, women, and children aboard. Something in how they’ve maintained this marker, on a deserted, windswept hill over a choppy bay, on an island with 70 residents and few visitors, seemed to lend it more poignancy and gravity than the memorials we pass in hectic cities, usually without a second thought.

For all its foibles, island life holds a pretty powerful draw. As an outsider ignorant of all the issues, mind; I’ve heard it’s an economically depressed area—that many are gravitating towards the mainland for the opportunities it represents. At the same time, people are moving to the Hebrides as well, perhaps seeing the same things I’ve seen. Passing motorists wave hello. Old ladies chat with you on the bus. The air smells like the clean, deep ocean, not the crushing, body-odour of civilisation. And for a brief, beautiful moment, a ray of sun lights up a derelict village, chimneys cold and veined with moss against the sky. “Island life” with a shrug: because in the end, better to be stuck on Barra because your boat didn’t sail, than at the bottom of the bay because it did.

The stunning view from the wrong hill

With the only bus servicing this part of the island making its last run soon, I had to go. Down the other side of the hill was a nice looking bit of beach facing west towards the North Atlantic that would lead me back past Cille Bhara to the bus stop. After a good slog, I arrived at the beach, dropped my camera bag, turned around, and scrambled back up Wrong Hill because I’d left my gloves up top. After searching Wrong Ledges 1, 2, and 3, I find them with little time to spare. Sprinting down the hill, I notice the waterline’s moved a lot closer to where I’d ditched my gear.

Swish-swishing my way down the beach, watching that ominous tide, I made it halfway along the nice, dry beach before, in an instant, I found myself up to my thighs in North Atlantic seawater. Not the biggest fan of water at the best of times, in full-on panic-mode I scrambled madly across whatever rocks I could find above water level, dragging my gear, my ridiculously unuseful tripod, and my sadly waterlogged but increasingly comical “waterproof” pants up a cut in the dune and into a field.

At this point, I fancied I deserved a rest, given my near-fatal encounter with a cruel sea in my race against tide. Two things made me get up and sprint across the field for the bus stop:

Scraped, fatigued, drenched and with half a barnful of hay clinging to my trousers, I arrived at the bus stop, heaving but fiendishly proud to be right on schedule.

The bus pulled up, 15 minutes later.

I still love Barra, though.

Sound of Mull

Another nick-of-time sprint for Victoria Coach Station landed me on the overnight to Glasgow, where I’d be catching another bus to Oban: quaintly seaside and port for the 5-hour Calmac ferry that would, nearly 24 hours after the initial dash, deposit me in the village of Castlebay, Barra, from where I’d begin my trip northward. The adventure (or at least the sleeplessness) began on the coach. A temporary, alcohol-fueled stay of xenophobia spurred the Preston supporters next to me, down to London for the football, to attempt conversation with a group of Poles inexplicably bound for Perth (Scotland, not Australia). They were a jolly bunch, though; they’d lost their friend in the post-match drinking melée and, when it came time to head home, abandoned him in London to the rough sleepers and free-newspaper hawkers. “We hate London,” they confided. Even if their friend didn’t before, bedding down on a park bench after being ditched by his buddies would surely have him seconding that. We chugged along to Glasgow, leaving a trail of dazed passengers at Preston and a series of nameless towns behind us in the night.

Oban seemed pretty much the same since I was last there, 8 years ago. In fact, so little had changed that I was bamboozled again by what I call the “Scottish Burger Paradox”. In a past life I’d walked into a chippy there and ordered a “beefburger”. This turned out to be two battered, deep-fried patties in greaseproof paper, buns conspicuously absent. This time, I walked into a restaurant and ordered a “venison burger”: lunch that day was two juicy patties, on a hill of mashed potatoes. I think buns in Scotland are shy and don’t like to be eaten: somewhere in the Highlands there’s a lost colony of survivors, bread products who’ve escaped their fate and live together in a slightly moldy but utopian society.

Five hours of ocean swells, half-sleep, and fevered, yeasty maunderings later we’d crossed the Sea of the Hebrides. Walked off the ferry, onto the jetty and into the darkened village. The breeze had freshened a bit; my ludicrously overpacked bag provided the ballast to keep me from getting blown away into the departing ferry’s wake.

The hostel was a little clean, well-lighted place facing the inky bay. There I met John the bipolar
Glaswegian. He never married: the lost love of his life, a Barra woman, spurned him because he’s Protestant and she was, as most Barra people are, Catholic. Like a true tourist, wide-eyed and heartless, I thought “That’s great, my first tragic Scottish island story! I smell movie rights.” He went on to relate how he’d had a dream earlier that day, foretelling the arrival of a Chinese guy from Canada. He was to take the ferry to the mainland to seek medical help in the morning; apparently I was a sign from God that He was watching over him.

Heaven-sent but utterly fatigued, I collapsed into bed and only woke the next morning when the village constable came through the hostel, gathering up John’s things. He’d been airlifted to Glasgow early; we never heard what happened to him. 24 hours into my trip and I’d already been entrusted with a divine mission. Travelling through this isolated, most palpably religious part of Scotland, it wouldn’t be the last time I’d have a near-God experience.

Nazma brought up a good point, that I might want to bring along a pair of trousers that don’t swish-swish as I walk. I’d toyed with the idea of going to a church service on Sunday, since staunch Presbyterianism is such a big part of the culture (with everything shut down, what else is there to do?). But aside from the intrusion my presence would already be, the last thing the islanders need is a Chinese kid rustling away in the back pew, like I’d started a parachute-packing factory in the nave.

Through the boarding scrum, bypassing the slow-moving people who don’t know or don’t care that they’re destined for middle seats within stench-radius of the toilets, we always make for the middle of the small 3-3 planes, looking out for emergency-exit seats for the (often only perceived) extra legroom. We usually find these seats already occupied and jealously guarded by lanky single men, so we often end up a few rows behind. This is usually a pretty nondescript area to sit in, with neither first choice from the drinks trolley nor the right to gripe because there’s nothing but lukewarm tomato juice left. Most of all, since you’re equidistant to both lavs, you should never get hip-checked mid-nap by some incontinent passenger, since in theory they should always be headed away from you.

This time, though, the middle of the plane was exactly where the exercisers wanted to be. You know the ones: typically overweight, sweaty package-tourists who’ve read somewhere that long flights = potential for sudden brain death. Boo to blood clots, I say—but usually I’m already so self-conscious about appearing in front of audiences that I’ll limit myself to a quick scamper to the lav, weaving through the Weekend-at-Bernie’s-style obstacle course.

And so cruising altitude meant a succession of airborne wobbly-kneed lunging-enthusiasts. Truly, in any other context, no one would ever put their bum so close to a stranger’s face without some deeply suppressed childhood trauma to back it up. And don’t think this was solely a floor show: the interactive portion involved executing weird, standing push-ups off of my chair back, the springiness of which nearly pitched me into the warm perspiratory enfoldings of those generous posteriors. Resigned, I buckled in and clung desperately to my armrests; I didn’t need the “Fasten Seatbelt” sign to tell me it was going to be a long and turbulent flight.

Booked all my tickets today for the mainland legs, at least. Most importantly, rather than 20 minutes at best, now I’ll have a few hours in Inverness on the return leg, so no getting into town late just to watch the London-bound service motoring into the distance. I can even get dinner now. I’ve managed to sidestep the feverish change by booking a “bargain berth” on the Caledonian Sleeper train, leaving me bleary-eyed but hopefully rested in London the next morning not a mile from home. Travelling solo means instead of Sleeptalking Nazma in the bottom bunk, it’s a lucky dip whom I’ll get in my cabin. The last time this happened was in Vietnam, when we ended up with Typhoon-Snoring-But-Likable-Guy-From-Ontario. Though it can’t beat my 8-hour exercise in sleep-deprivation back in 2000, trapped sitting-up between two unyielding Scotsmen at the back of an London-Edinburgh coach, tearing far too slowly through the night.

But for a while now I’ve been dying to get away from the city, and the last few trips we’ve taken have all been to other cities: Krakow, Bilbao, Berlin, Brussels, etc. And all our trips have been outside the UK, which seems a funny thing since we’re in London. In the same way living in Vancouver might mean you’ve never been north of 60 or east of the Prairies, but somehow have been to Mazatlan 4 times, too many Britons moil through their whole lives within 5 miles of their home, never even venturing to other parts of their own city, let alone the rest of the UK. It’s a real shame.

I’ve also always been the kind of guy who likes to just sit somewhere, in the middle of nowhere, by myself, and take my time doing something. Photography’s a good example of this need to slow down: even at the pace we generally travel, sometimes I just need a few more minutes to get that shot right. Since touring around Scotland almost 8 years ago, I’ve known this is a great country for that contemplative, escape-from-your-routine getaway: spectacular scenery, rugged landscape, and total isolation. This last one’s hard to come by: 60 million strangers shoehorned into a BC-sized island means you’re never that far away from a binge-drinking 250lb football fanatic. I reckon the Outer Hebrides, off the northwest coast of Scotland, ought to do the trick. After 5 hours on a ferry, the next stop is Iceland.

So for the first time since getting married over 3 years ago, I’m planning a solo trip. While unemployment has few benefits (and none from the government, according to our UK Visas), one of them is freedom to travel. The only thing stopping me was the guilt of abandoning Nazma for even a few days, attached at the hip that we are. No regrets, though: I have her blessing (and even encouragement) and, since she doesn’t particularly want to go where I’m going, she won’t feel like she’s missing out. As she says, it’d be a bigger regret if we left the UK without my ever having gone.

The internet-research is underway, and what I’ve found is, logistically speaking, difficult. Seeing as it’s so isolated, the ways are old: staunch Christianity means there isn’t any question about shopping for groceries on a Sunday—it’s not on. In fact, a lot of restaurants will be shut, and not even the buses will be running. I’m not up for renting a car, so I’ll be relying totally on public transport or hitching. I won’t be cycling, and I’m also not equipped or experienced enough for any off-road hikes longer than a couple of miles. And, urbanite to the end, I won’t be camping. Because of all this, I’m preoccupied with dodging the Sabbath shutdowns and playing Connect-the-Hostels now. But it promises to be a total romp. Even with Gale Force 8 winds (yesterday’s weather).

There’ll be interminable rides: 8-hour coach up to Glasgow, 12-hour coach back to London, 10 hours total on ferries in butt-clenching seas.

There’ll be anxious transport connections: despite the laid-backedness I’m looking for, I’m still bound by the timetables. 20 minutes between buses in Inverness means the difference between arriving home triumphant the next morning, and sleeping in the bus shelter that night.

There’ll be potentially miserable conditions: 2 rain days out of 3 even in summer, and it ain’t summer yet. After huddling around our radiator all winter, I’m thinking of fashioning an insulated, fake thumb for hitchhiking.

And if the winds keep up, I might be flung, flying-squirrel-like, off a sea cliff.

But if I’m right, there’ll also be vast sea-bird colonies, whales and seals, misty peaty expanses, sandy beaches (!), the oldest rocks in the world, mad storm-watching opportunities, friendly people, plenty of photo ops and, hopefully, the wind-swept isolation that I’ve been looking for.

I love getting my hair cut on the road. Not only is it necessary—to avoid looking too hippie-ish (important when you’re living the life of one by backpacking for months on end)—but it can be the start of all kinds of wacky adventures. We were in Đà Lạt, Vietnam, drowning my sorrows after a disastrous clearcutting, when the owner came and took us on a tour of the other, closed-off floors in his bar. He’d turned them into an enormous Gaudi-esque indoor concrete cave complex—complete with rivers and secret passageways. At one point we lit candles and clambered down into a cavern below street level, where he was working on installing a lake. Why he was doing all this we couldn’t divine from him, but who cares—it was a fantastical experience and it all started with a botched crop.

* The Cuban government apparently gets somewhat nervous about locals interacting with foreigners outside of hotels, giftshops, and other touristy venues. By “nervous”, I mean one day you might realise “Hey, where did JC go? Haven’t seen him or his family in a while”. So I’m changing the names of any Cubans we met. In this case though, I’ve conveniently forgotten his name anyway.In Cuba, in the old Havana slum, JC* runs a tatty but proud shop, with his bare-fluorescent lighting and torn Chevy benchseat-cum-waiting-lounge. He was a hoot, an astute political commentator, and a magician with the scissors to boot. In a country where you make do with what you have, JC crops your chops with the creakiest pair of shears you’ve ever seen. And he had more than a few cutting remarks about Castro. Not just Fidel (”Liar!”) but his heir-apparent too (”He’s worse. Fidel, at least he talks. But Raul, he doesn’t talk: he just does!” Ominous.). An enlightening chat while the scissors whizzed away: he’s learning English at night-school, for the day Cuba finally opens up, and he has to pay for his textbooks in pesos convertibles—that pesky double-currency that keeps the people poor and the tourist-dollars flowing straight to the government. Even though we were probably paying 10 times the going rate, what’s CAD$4 to us? “I can buy books now. Because you come to my shop, I can live.” Yikes.

In Luxor, wheel-and-deal-capital of Egypt, I was getting a bit shaggy, so off we pop to the local barber. Borat-lookalike but a meek fellow, not a word of English, and our Arabic wasn’t up to snuff, but the customer he’s working on obligingly chimes in, and so the negotiations begin. I don’t even remember how much we finally paid (something like CAD$4 again), but we knew we’d been E-gypped when he finished up and gave Borat a fraction of what we’d just agreed to. Whatever: he looked like he’d been working for 16 hours straight (I mean, we wandered in around 1030 at night) and he seemed like he appreciated the money. As a result, he took his time getting it right: I’ve never had someone take so much effort before. Kept asking if it was okay and would adjust on the fly as requested. Another pruning pro. Snipping away as the old black-and-white tv blared its song out of our well-lighted chopshop and into the night. Great success!

If you know me, you know that all good things must come to an end. Uganda was my follicular Waterloo. On the advice of Nazma’s mom I head out to their barberman a block from the house. Recall that myopia means when the glasses come off, I’m effectively relinquishing all control. He was an earnest sort: brimming with enthusiasm, he makes like he knows exactly what I want. I couldn’t see a damned thing but I knew something was up when the scissors never once made an appearance. No trace of a comb either. Just a succession of increasingly smaller clipper guards. Now to be fair, I’m probably the first Chinese customer he’s ever had, so granted he doesn’t know what to do with my hair. This is Uganda, and without a trace of racism, everybody—I mean everybody— has the same close-cropped do. And so after a half-hour of old-growth littering the floor and an icing-on-the-cake application of Jerri-Curl oil (no kidding), I was sporting my own Asian mini-fro. You may think this helped me blend in with the locals more, but astonishingly, it didn’t. Nazma’s mother was very proud: a cut that short means longer till the next visit, which makes it good value for my (strangely again) CAD$4.

In the end, no Samson-like rampage ensued; no bitter tears; just the usual histrionics-via-blog-entry. You take the good with the bad and something as mundane as a haircut becomes a great way to meet the locals, and it may make for a good story. In this case, now we’re several weeks on: I’m sporting a hastily bought Fidel-style hat these days (funnily enough), hiding the remnants of what I’ve come to call the Changing-of the-Guards haircut, and waiting for that day when it finally grows out and I can run the Barbicide gauntlet once again.