LULOK ISLAND. PART 1. ARRIVAL

22nd -  23rd May 20

Lulok Island. South coast

Well, I have at last managed to escape the pestilential UK with it's paranoid cowering citizenry and arrived on the Island of Lulok. Lulok is situated in the Fistula Sea about 20 miles off the south coast of Mesipia. Actually it consists of one main island and several surrounding ones.

I flew from Luton airport on a rare, possibly illegal and surprisingly cheap (and empty), flight courtesy of the Mesipian 'flag carrier' Nuzdyv Airways to Maidai International, Mesipia. The facilities on board were rather basic, to say the least. Some seats had seat-belts and the toilets had no doors (for security reasons I was told). There is sometimes a flight from Maidai to the small airstrip on Lulok but due to 'technical reasons' this had been suspended. After paying the mandatory bribe to imigration officials I did not delay here. I took a bus to the port of Glodz and set about securing a ticket for the approximately, depending on weather and mechanical vicissitudes, 5 hour sea crossing to Lulok. The port was fairly deserted. While waiting here I bumped into a couple of Brits who were also, by chance and as I later discovered by mistake, going to Lulok. They are called Nikkla and her daughter Annabella. More about them later,

The ferry we eventually boarded (left) could not be described as luxurious. Horse-drawn carts, goats, pigs and other passengers boarded via a ramp at the back end. The engines made a strange noise and a lot of smoke. This was a vessel built for neither speed nor comfort. I don't think it displayed a name, or if it did it had been rusted over. Possibly intentionally.

During the crossing, as there was nothing else to do, I took the opportunity to visit the bridge and meet the skipper. He was a rather monosyllabic gentleman who spoke little English and whose name, I think, was Dontutzzat, or something  similar. He seemed to know what he was doing (not very much). The sea was calm, fortunately.

The Island of Lulok was historically a part of Mesipia. It is a lozenge-shaped island about 200 miles long (east -west) by 80 miles wide. It is described in guide books as a 'Bucolic community steeped in the past living in rustic surroundings of beguiling contrasts of concrete, wattle and mud. Untouched by Western pollution, and pleasantly devoid of mass tourism, it boasts an unpretentious lifestyle with stupendous panoramic views and uncrowded beaches. The weather in Spring and Autumn is wet, in winter freezing cold and in summer oppressively hot'.

Indeed, as I discovered, the landscape is one of fertile flat coastal plains surrounding a volcanic mountainous interior; the Lulok Alps. The plains are noted for the agriculture of crops such as beetroot, hemp and marijuana. Other natural resources consist of tin and asbestos which are mined (in both senses) profitably, if lethally. The tin deposits are mainly of old buried food cans and car parts. Their main export, other than forged currency, is the famous Lulok Black Beetroot which also features largely in their diet, if nobody elses. The exports go mainly to the construction industry where this robust vegetable is used in the building of cheap sea walls, dams and dykes.
The mountainous areas were home to numerous warring bandit clans which have now, mercifully, almost wiped themselves out. To add to the exotic demographic mix of inhabitants there is a small but vibrant Aztec community living on the east end of the island. This is the result of Aztec refugees fleeing the plagues and diseases (and slaughter) introduced to Central America by the Spanish 'conquistadors' in the 16th century and finding refuge here; a bit like the Welsh settlements in Argentina (but not sure what they were fleeing....maybe just attracted by the Patagonian sheep?). By the by, I discovered that 18 million Aztecs and other Central American indigenous peoples died of the pandemics between 1545 - 1550. Rather puts our Covid-19 fatalities to shame! There is also a leper colony on the south coast.
The island is surrounded by a magical sea of various changing hues; sometimes glorious azure, sometimes vivid green, orange, red or brown depending on the outflows. It is reported that in some parts it is even possible to walk on the surface. There are some interesting golden sandy beaches, if you dig down far enough.  

Lulok was granted independence in 1990 and is now entirely self-ruling. Actually I was told it was not so much 'granted' independence as officially disowned due to the rampant and uncontrollable corruption and violence which plagued the island. It has an interesting history as it was for centuries the chosen bolt-hole for various escapee warlords who set about forging the grateful islanders to their idiosyncratic tastes.


Left: Vlod the Inhaler. He was a notably feared ruler in the 18th century. He is revered for abolishing slavery on the island...by the simple expedient of calling it 'welfare'.
Most rulers did not die of natural causes.














The current self-elected 'President', Coplan Coccyx, is fondly known to his devoted and well paid admirers as 'Crackhead Coco'. He is the guy in the centre (right). The country is run by a small powerful autocratic and corrupt clique, but the situation has improved since the rest of the population has got the hang of it.






We arrived on Lulok late in the afternoon at the charming little port of Alluu (left). After paddling ashore amongst livestock, empty bottles and beer cans (the water wasn't too deep) myself and my fellow Brit travellers and 'new best friends', Nikkla and Annabella (N & A), found a traditional Lulok café in which to relax, get a drink and plan our next move.





Right: The Café Ulala in Port Alluu. I mentioned that N & A had arrived here by mistake. They came from Scotland where the lockdown rules are even more draconian and confusing than those in England. They had originally attempted to escape via some dodgy 'black market escape line' to the charming Vietnamese holiday island of Phu Quoc, but had been misled, or misread, and ended up here. They weren't aware of this mistake until they were on the boat, which shows an extraordinary degree of naiveté. We ordered glasses of the local brew called Blitsovitre (try saying that with false teeth). It is distilled, unsurprisingly, from beetroot. The first sip was eye watering; a fiery concoction which to the discerning palate might indicate an underlying suspicion of kerosene.  You have to be careful not to spill any on your clothes as Nikkla found out when it burnt a hole in her kaftan. Definitely an acquired taste but after a glass you can taste virtually nothing.  Payment here is always upfront as I came to discover. Which brings me to the subject of the local currency, the Gröné (pronounced 'groaner') abbreviation Gr.


Left: A 500,000,000,000 Gröné note. The currency is tied to the Laotian kip, and as you can see inflation has been rife. There are 13,728,000 Gr to the British £, as of today, which makes calculations somewhat difficult.
Getting change is a problem, it is rarely offered and it's easier to keep drinking until you have spent it all. Hence there is an endemic alcoholism problem amongst the locals....and probably tourists if they stay too long. In reality most local transactions are settled by bartering cigarettes, alcohol, beetroot or 'substances'.


We found a taxi (payment in advance) to take us to Zlakalitze, the capital city. It was a 30 mile drive and fairy exhilarating. I'm not sure if our driver was entirely sober. He spoke no English and made lots of 'whooping' noises. I tried to work out which side of the road they are meant to drive on. It was by no means clear and I suspect it was just the middle...and take avoiding action when and how necessary. The road was tarmac in parts and much potholed. The traffic was light, mostly horses or donkeys and carts plus the occasional tractor, and I suppose the driver just stuck to the 'best' bits of the road. Thankfully the maximum speed of our smoking shaking rattling vehicle was about 30 mph. At least the horn worked well accompanied by lots of interesting and expressive hand signals out of where the driver's window should have been. We arrived dusty and shaken but unscathed.

Left: The main street, Vlod Allee, where we were dumped. I had a primitive guide book but had been unable to book anywhere to stay in advance due to the fact that the communication systems on the Island are erratic to non-existent. I think they mainly rely on a system of 'runners'.







I had noted there was, according to my book, a large hotel on the edge of town which was described as 'one of the best' in Zlakalitze. So off we trudged. Nikkla is 'getting on' a bit and has a game leg which causes her to limp and tire easily. I discovered that she has an interesting history, but we'll come to that later.
Anyway, we made it to the Hotel Clamydia and, as time was getting on and Nikkla refused to go any further, we booked in. It appeared remarkably free of other guests. Lulok hotels are not graded with stars, but by repossession notices.


We were rather taken aback by the receptionist (left). I suspect she has another more lucrative job. The price of a room was around the equivalent of £5 per night, or 100 cigarettes, or 2 bottles of blitsovitre.
She acually spoke some English so presumably had been to night school. We were told, if we had any, not to take any blitsovitre into our rooms as it was considered an unacceptable fire hazard and the hotel fire extiguishers were all in for servicing.










Right: My bedroom. It had a TV.....which didn't work. Purely for decoration. Spartan to say the least but, surprisingly, I didn't suffer from bed bugs. I expect they were staying somewhere better.










The ladies shared a room. They thought it was safer to do so. They invited me to have a look at their bathroom (left). Bleedin' Nora! It might have been elegant once. No plugs in bath or basin. There was a trickle of water from the cold tap whether turned on or off and a special hosepipe which delivered an intermittent supply of smelly pale brown coloured tepid (hot) water. Goodness knows where that supply came from.












Right: The hotel 'lounge'. We never saw any other guests. The 'lady' at reception said they were always full during the festivals, but being the harvesting and shooting season most people were out in the fields and mountains. I expect they were more comfortable there.
There was no bar. I think you were expected to provide your own refreshments.





Left: The view outside my bedroom window as I pulled back, or more accurately off, the curtain the next morning. The steam from what is presumably a volcanic outflow reeked of sulphur. I smelled this foul pong during the night and was worried it was me!
I think I now know where the hot water supply comes from.





Breakfast, served by an ancient mute hunchback, consisted of a warm drink meant to be coffee I suppose, plus a bread roll, cheese and beetroot. We discussed our plans and decided bravely to sally forth and investigate the countryside. That was the first 24 hours and, by the cringe, it felt longer.
More  revelations to come from this enchanting island.