This is East London's famous Sunday morning market that has been trading for more than two centuries. In Elizabethan times, the market was called Hog Lane, because this is where pigs were sold. The Sunday market grew out of observance of the Jewish Sabbath on Saturday. Amongst the bargains hanging up on the rails were second hand goods, hence the expression 'hand me downs'.

The name of todays’ market is derived from the petticoats that French immigrants used to sell in the area, but in 1846, the horrified Victorian authorities renamed the street Middlesex Street as it was deemed improper to have a street named after ladies underwear. However, it was too late and the original name stuck.

Prices are rarely shown, so you should bargain with the trader for the best price, particularly if you're paying with cash. There is said to be over a thousand stalls spread over Middlesex Street, Wentworth Street and surrounding roads. The market is known for its cut-price fashion clothes, fabrics, jewellery, china, toys, textiles, household gadgets and electrical items. At the Aldgate East end of the market, there is a large area devoted to leather jackets. Frying Pan Alley', is at the opposite end of 'The Lane' close to Liverpool Street. It got its name from the ironmongers who used frying pans to identify their premises.

The founder of the AMSTRAD Computer business and Chairman of the Tottenham Hotspur Football Club, Sir Alan Sugar began his career as a Petticoat Lane Trader. His earnings in 1999 totalled some £9.45 million.

Middlesex St, E1. Open Sunday 9am to 2pm Wentworth Street also open Monday to Friday 10am 2.30pm Nearest Underground Stations – Liverpool Street & Aldgate East.

Next month: Portobello Rd

Greetings from Guatemala! Yes, the South Amercing Circuit is finished and our overland is finished. Hopefully everyone who left Caracas over the past few days got home to their various destinations and I just wanted to let you know that I got to mine. The last two weeks of the trip were very relaxed, except for the aquaplaning outside Maturin and the theft of my lovely hammock from a beach camp. We (passengers, drivers and truck) suffered minimal damage from the first event and the second was sheer stupidity on my part as I had been warned. Apart from these excitements the last days were spent on beaches, packing (and re-packing) my bags, getting a little sunburnt and wondering where the time had flown to. It seems no time since I was excitedly joining the truck in Quito, and 31,203kms and many tears and laughs later, I was in Caracas and waving the truck goodbye.

Moping, however, is not allowed so…yesterday I flew off to Guatemala, via Panama, and got here in one piece, tired, hungry and really excited to be on my own again. (that doesn't mean I don't miss you all!) Found a nice hotel and am spending a couple of days getting my bearings before I start some more Spanish lessons. I am hoping to go out to Lake Atitlán to do these and will let you know what I decide. Antigua is gorgeous and a real gem, if a lot touristy. As I will be here a number of times over the next couple of months I am trying not to go shopping and be sensible with the spending. Difficult for me!

So, that's the state of things. All is well and I am just enjoying being here. Get back to me if you get the chance – email is cheap and easy here.

Thanks Jacqui and keep us posted! If anyone would like to contact Jacqui, her e-mail is: jacquitrotter@yahoo.com

What have you seen on your travels? Drop a line to the Beetle!

Many travellers have their own tale to tell about Aeroflot. The Beetle has a vivid and scary memory flying from Dublin to Havana via Gander in Canada. It was December, and so cold and wintry in Gander. On final approach to Gander to refuel, the pilot decided to go around twice, which was worrying, then he decided to give landing a go, and the plane somehow missed landing on the runway and instead landed on some uncleared snow and drove the left wing through two huge snow piles. The entire Irish contingent of passengers were making signs of the cross and praying loudly.

Even Fidel Castro is said to have jokingly responded to a question asking about the most dangerous moment of his life, that it might have been one of the many CIA attempts on his life, but then again, it might have been flying Aeroflot!

According to a recent PR release, Aeroflot has hired a UK brand consultancy to give its image a lift. The consultancy are said to have remarked: the problem is one of perception….people think of Aeroflot as dangerous and unreliable, but it has one of the best safety records in the world and is value for money”

Let’s forget about the time when a pilot handed the controls to his 13 year old son, or the incident when the pilots put the plane on automatic pilot, went for a walk then realised they had accidentally locked themselves out and had to force their way back in with an axe, or the times when stewardesses served vodka actually on take off, or when a passenger cooked up a meal on his own portable gas camping stove at the back of the plane…………………

Good luck to them!

The morning was cool and fresh and immediately I knew the rest of the day would turn out perfect. From the lodge, we were looking down over the Tari Valley in Southern Highlands of Papua New Guinea. It was an incredible feeling. I mean, how many places on earth give you the unique opportunity of looking down on cloud formations. It was like looking down over the pages of National Geographic. The clouds looked like flat-lying cobwebs, occasionally punctuated in places by protruding mountain summits. Normally, you would be looking up to the sky and across the horizon to see incredible cloud formations in the mornings or evenings.

It was December 2001 and I was on this early morning bird watching trip with three American bird watchers, husband and wife, Bob and Penny and Sharyl, a lone traveller who later turned out to be a cross between a bird watcher and a diver. Reason – apart from being excited about seeing the birds in the wild, she couldn't stop talking about diving at her next destination – Alotau in Milne Bay Province, situated south of Port Moresby and an hour's plane ride away.

Our starting point was world famous, Ambua Lodge, a luxury bush material accommodation in the form of village huts, set on a hillside of flowering gardens with panoramic views of the surrounding mountains and rainforest.

The design of the huts is based on traditional architecture. Just being here is an experience in itself. The crisp mountain air is perfect for taking advantage of the many guided tours, especially bird watching. You can also take moderate walks along rainforest tracks to go bird watching, see the waterfalls cascade into crystal-clear pools or drive to one of the local villages and watch a traditional singsing (group dancing and singing).

Back to birds, the rule is to set out to the forests as early as you can, in time for the morning choruses and courtship displays on tree branches and tree tops. Too, for birds in the wild like Papua New Guinea's bird of paradise species, they perch on tree tops in the morning when it's cool and where they can drink water drops from leaves and tree branches. When the sun is up, it gets a little bit hot for them, their sources of drinking water dry up and they are gone and it can be a difficult waiting game. Out of the 43 known bird of paradise species, Papua New Guinea has 38 species and Tari has ten species including the most exotic species, Brown and Black Sicklebill, Superb Bird of Paradise, Blue Bird of Paradise and its close cousins, the bower birds. After driving for about twenty minutes, our tour bus came to a stop and the guide, Joseph told us to get out. He was first out with his tripod and a pair of binoculars. Hardly had Joseph set up his tripod when Menzies, the driver jumped out of his driver's set. He looked towards us, did a hand sign, gesturing us to come to him while whispering in some English that I hardly understood. He pointed in the direction of some tall trees and said, “Look, there!.”

Without the aid of his binoculars, Joseph, being the expert that he was, looked in the same direction, nodded in agreement and said, “Yes, Princess Stephanie! Three of them”. Bob took no time catching the bird in his binoculars while Penny and Sharyl struggled. Penny, with her own pair of binoculars pointed in the same direction, slowly whispered, “I can't see anything. Can you see anything Bob?” “Mmm, mm”, came the reply. “Maybe it's my eyes or maybe it's my binoculars,” said Penny. “Stay focused, you'll see 'em. Wait until they jump,” said Bob, almost in angry tone.

Sharyl, closely following Joseph the bird guide, was having the same difficulty spotting the birds. “I can't see either.” “There, look, it's on the tree,” said Joseph. “Which tree?” “There, on the right, under the tall tree,” said Joseph, and by this time, Sharyl was about to give up, saying, “There's an awful lot of tall trees out there Joseph. What have you got double vision?” No reply from Joseph, obviously not understanding the remark. Even I was confused and it took me a while before I saw the birds.

We had left the lodge at 6.30 am and an hour later, the sun had risen and it was time to go back to the lodge. We had seen three different species of the bird of paradise and three species of parrots. It was only an hour and the observed bird list was not long enough, but for Bob, Penny and Sharyl, they had seen the exotic birds in the wild, and that was all that mattered.

Penny said to me back at the lodge, “I am satisfied seeing only three species. My God, they are wonderful creatures. Up till now, I have only seen them on books. This is why I came and I like birds. There's something special about them that I can't explain. They are such lovely creatures and they should be protected.”

I thought I would give the last word to Sharyl. She said to me over watercress soup at dinner time, “I would have loved to have seen them closer but then again, I shouldn't complain. They were where they should be, in the wild and on tree tops. At least I didn't see them in a zoo and that's the beauty of coming to a place like Papua New Guinea. You have rainforests that are still pristine. You should not let logging to come here because they destroy a lot of the habitat.

“You have such a lovely country and you still practice your culture which is great. I am really looking forward to dive in Alotau – at least there, I can see the fish and lovely corals right in front of my eyes.”

ABOUT TARI:

Tari is in fact a Basin and situated in the Centre of the island of New Guinea. Clans in the Southern Highlands have a strong and intricate social system little affected by change. The Southern Highlands is a land of lush, high valleys wedged between impressive limestone peaks.

Tari is one of the few places in Papua New Guinea where the traditional way of life can be seen in everyday living. Ceremonial rituals are strongly observed. Men and women can still be seen wearing traditional dress, tending their gardens and pigs and building their bush material huts.

Visitors to the tribal wonderland of the Southern Highlands can stay in a variety of accommodation from basic guest houses to luxurious mountain lodges.

Tari is known all over the world for its Huli Wigmen, famous for their elaborate and colourful traditional dress, body decorations and facial paintings in vivid colours.

These proud warriors have great reverence for birds, especially the bird of paradise. They imitate the birds in ceremonial dances and decorate their mushroom-shaped human hair wigs with bird feathers, flowers and cuscus furs.

The wigs, woven from human hair, are donated by wives and children. Everlasting daisies are especially cultivated for use in the wigs, while their faces are painted with yellow and ochre. The women, by contrast wear black for their wedding and coat themselves with blue-grey clay when mourning. The women's traditional dress, like those of their men folk, has not changed over the years.

This is a letter from Nicola telling us about her time as a volunteer for Trade Aid in Mikindani, in southern Tanzania.

After eight months in Mikindani I am preparing to depart with a mild sense of apprehension about returning to cold and grey Old Blighty, finding work and somewhere to live and dealing with the fact that the Little Chef breakfast I’ll be treated to on the journey back to Norfolk will cost the same as a week’s wages here. Oh well, Qué sera sera. Homeless and jobless, but plenty of tales to tell the girls over a few glasses of wine and a pizza.

I think they’ll be surprised to learn that despite the daily toil required of rural women in Tanzania they do not appear to allow themselves to be overcome by any negative spirit of bondage. Life is incredibly hard, no doubt about it, but the ‘fairer sex’ dominates hardship by accepting it as necessary for survival and embracing friendship and humour as a way of enriching their lives.

It has been with a rather embarrassed awkwardness, so typically English, that I have donned my kanga and flip-flops and taken part in women-only activities.

Despite this, the fact that my Kiswahili is still appallingly bad and that their encouragement was largely for the entertainment value of seeing a ‘mzungu’ woman display her incompetence in performing basic tasks I definitely experienced a deeper sense of what is called ‘female bonding’.

I have learnt to cook chapattis, mandazi, ugali and coconut rice and to prepare an exquisite dish of pilau rice under the patient guidance of Mama Mohamedi, Mama Abuba and her 13-year-old daughter Fikira. Standing outside in the midday sun stirring a pot of sizzling oil over red-hot charcoal left me light-headed and parched, but whilst I fussed about the heat the others just wiped the sweat from their faces with a corner of their kangas and laughed and gossiped.

I have been to a couple of funerals, but visiting Mama Abuba as she lay swathed in a kanga in a darkened room grieving for her father on the day of his burial was an especially significant occasion as my own grandmother had died just a week earlier. Many women resplendent in a myriad of colourful kangas lined the street where the deceased had lived. Most were just chatting or reminiscing, but a group of about 12 women were standing and swaying in time to the deep, guttural mourning chant redolent of primeval times. It was International Women’s Day and being one of them felt hugely symbolic.

A morning’s work at Zainabu’s shamba caused much hilarity amongst our neighbours, but left me tired and my hands blistered. Five of us walked a kilometre to the shamba, hoed out the weeds between the maize and picked cassava leaves and pumpkins whilst being attacked by armies of ferocious ants. Zainabu had lent me her boots, but they were so badly split that my feet were filthy. So, before we headed back to the village she brought me some water and washed my feet for me, not out of deference, but friendship. Walking back we shared the load of the fruit of our morning’s work and carrying firewood on my head I (almost) felt part of one of the hundreds of thousands of small groups of women on whose labours so many people depend.

More recently I finally plucked up the courage to get my hair braided. I sat on the stone seat of a crumbling colonial house and as Mama Fatuma meticulously braided each strand of hair three or four other women took turns to hold down the rest of my unruly locks. While I enjoyed the chat of the women as they gossiped about what they’d done the night before and commented on every passer-by I realised that this was not so dissimilar from a visit to the hairdressers at home!

At the risk of seeming naïve and sentimental I have to say that I am happy to have been able to break through some of the cynicism about cultural barriers with which I arrived in Mikindani and shall leave with an enduring respect for the resilience and strength of spirit of the women of Tanzania.

Thanks to Sherie at Trade Aid. For more information on the work carried out by Trade Aid in Tanzania, see their website www.mikindani.com

DVT poses a threat to some airline travellers. In the UK, DVT used to be called economy (or coach) class syndrome, but this is very much a misnomer. DVT can happen to any one of us, whatever our style of air travel.

It is now possible to take a blood test to determine your vulnerability for blood to clot.

This test examines the number, type, form of your red and white blood cells, platelets and includes the genetic (inherited) tests including Factor V Leiden. It is estimated that 2 million people in the UK alone are at risk through the Leiden V Factor.

By identifying travellers who are predisposed to thrombosis they can be given pre-travel advice or treatment in order to reduce the risks of clot formation and it's consequences.