Asian adventure

The last post

2007-12-16T05:41:00.000Z

After a needlessly long and complex journey from blissful Koh Jum, Amanda and I arrived in Phuket Town - which is nowhere near as awful as we'd been told.

Everyone we met along our travels warned us about Phuket: 'Horrible. Horrible!'

But I'm pretty sure they were talking about Patong, the island's main beach. It's supposed to be Thailand's answer to the Gold Coast or Benidorm. But Phuket Town, the island's capital, has its charms.

It's not on the beach at all, and is a Thai city for Thais rather than a resort for tourists. We were reminded of a Chiang Mai-On-Sea, and it was nice to end our trip in a real Asian city - with busy streets and bustling markets.

Phuket also has a colonial past - both Chinese and Portuguese - and that's left a nice little legacy of streets packed with pretty and historic little shophouses and fading, European-style hotels.

Admittedly, it's only a few streets and a couple of hours is all it takes to see them. It's interesting that Phuket makes little noise about these lovely buildings - preferring to point tourists straight to the beach. You get the feeling that perhaps they'd really rather keep Phuket Town for themselves. I don't blame them.

We wandered about for a day, taking our time and going nowhere in particular until it came time to jump aboard a taxi for the airport and fly out of Phuket, out of Thailand, and out of Asia.

Leaving one Asian town seemed familiar enough, but not arriving in a new one was a strange feeling after six months on the road. The Asian adventure was finally at an end.

While it's a little sad saying good bye to Asia, there's a lot to look forward to: seeing my native Australia for the first time in seven years, catching up with friends and, best of all, enjoying my first family Christmas in 13 years.

And Amanda and I have some memories to treasure. The past six months has been the greatest of our lives, an eventful and thrilling adventure through some of the most interesting and exotic places in the world.

Highlights? It's tough to pick some favourite moments, but if pressed to pick a top three it would probably be the slow boat down the Mekong, Hanoi and Angkor Wat.

But then there was also tooling around the DMZ with a former South Vietnam soldier, climbing Thailand's third-highest mountain (and somehow surviving) and, of course, spending nearly two months actually living in Chiang Mai - immersing ourselves in genuine Thai culture.

I could go on and on like this, but I won't. As for lowlights, well, the only one I can think of is Hoi An, and at least that was a learning experience - Amanda and I learned never to go there again!

Even the travelling itself has been fun, mainly thanks to the astonishing variety of local transport we've found along the way. We've been on planes, trains, boats, cars and motorbikes. Small planes and big planes, long boats, speed boats and row boats, buses, song thaews, tuks tuks and motorcycles. For a while, it seemed as though every town or city we arrived in had found a new and novel way of getting us about.

We learned a lot about Asia and Asians along the way. We discovered that travelling around Asia is a lot easier than you'd expect - we felt as safe there as anywhere in Europe, and often a lot more welcome. On the whole, the people of Thailand, Laos, Vietnam and Cambodia are the friendliest, warmest and most generous people you could meet anywhere.

Up until July, neither Amanda and I knew the region at all - I had been to Bangkok for a few days and Singapore for a weekend, and that was it - and now we've been all over South East Asia.

And this fascinating new region we've discovered is not a long-haul destination for us any more, to be visited only ocassionally. Now that we live in Australia, Asia is in the neighbourhood - like the Continent was when we were living in the UK.

So we're looking forward to coming back again and again, and discovering somewhere and something new every time.

And so now I'm coming to the end of my final blog post. I've enjoyed writing it even more than I expected, and I hope you enjoyed reading it, too. I've not won an Oscar, but I feel I should thank some people for the whole experience...

I think I've already thanked Asia and Asians for giving us a such a great time and welcoming us into their countries, their cities and their homes.

I should also thank a certain online media corporation for inadvertently and reluctantly paying for the whole thing - they know who they are!

And thanks to Amanda for sharing the whole trip with me, and making it all so exciting and worthwhile. If you're looking for a travel partner, you couldn't find a better one than Amanda - except she's mine, so go get your own.

And thanks to everyone who regularly read our blogs (Amanda's got one, too, but I'm sure you know that!), especially to the many people who took the time to leave comments. A special thanks goes to one Dominic Greves, who made the effort to leave insightful and witty comments on practically every post I wrote - Dom, it was like you were with us at times!

And foreign adventures aren't over for good. There are still many other places to visit in the world and I know one day we'll visit them - and blog about them.

So does anyone know how much a one-way ticket to South America costs?

The rocks of Ting Rai Bay

2007-12-09T06:33:00.000Z

When Amanda and I arrived at Ting Rai Bay, we were disappointed in one aspect of the place. The welcome was warm, the weather was perfect, the bungalow was comfortable and the beach was beautiful - so it wasn't any of those.

No, it was the rocks. As our longtail pulled into the beach after one very long journey, the water was so shallow that it couldn't quite reach the beach.

As we climbed out and into the inches-deep waters, one of the staff warned us to keep our shoes on - we looked down and saw why. The floor of the sea was positively carpeted with rocks. Big ones, little ones, sharp ones and flat ones.

I turned to Amanda and said 'this place is great, but we won't be able to swim'. We were feeling a little disappointed.

We can't have been the first to think this, because Tam, the lovely owner, immediately told us not to worry. The tide was especially low right then, she said, because the moon was full. Wait until the next morning and everything will be perfect, she said.

We smiled but we doubted her - the tide would have to come a long way up the beach to cover all those rocks. But the next morning, I woke up and stepped out of the bungalow and onto our balcony to look down on a welcome sight.

The tide had come in and, as promised, it had come in a dramatically long way and all we could see was dreamy clear blue waters lapping a now much, much smaller beach. We walked down for a dip and found the rocks had receded to the depths of the sea - you'd need diving equipment to reach them now.

In the two-and-a-half weeks we were there, we got very used to the dramatic differences between the low and high tides: the high waters perfect for swimming and the low tide transforming the beach into a bleak but beautiful rocky landscape.

And there's a story behind those rocks - they are the scars of the small part this little beach played in very recent and very traumatic history. Once this beach boasted nothing more than blonde sands, no matter how low the tide was.

Then the Tsunami came.

On Boxing Day in 2004, not even three years ago, while the guests of the bungalows slept or ate breakfast up on the hill, a wave of unimaginable force pounded the pretty little beach, bringing with it countless thousands of rocks from the depths of the ocean.

Tam told us how the staff first noticed that the waters were rapidly receding and a high tide suddenly turned into the lowest tide any of them had ever seen. The approaching Tsunami was sucking the waters ahead of it, but they didn't know that.

Tam said she and a few others walked a little way down the hill to investigate, and then they saw it. Far offshore was a thin but solid band of white breaking water, forming a long line that reached from one end of the horizon to the other.

And it was moving towards them very, very quickly. They continued to watch until it hit, first from the right of the beach, then from the left of the beach and finally right through the centre. This last one was the most powerful but, Tam told us, they didn't see that one - they were fleeing up the hill as fast as they could run by then.

Fortunately for all on Koh Jum, the island is steep and even a wave that powerful couldn't make it very far inland. Nearby Koh Phi Phi was not so lucky - built on a flat sandbar, the wave hit from the front and the back and at least 2,000 people died.

Besides a few broken arms and legs, no one on Koh Jum was hurt - but much was still damaged. At Ting Rai Bay, a longtail was deposited in the branches of a tree that is now high above the water.

Further down the beach, a longtail lies high on the beach - destroyed by the killer wave. It now looks like the skeleton of a long dead dinosaur, languishing among the new rocks of Ting Rai Bay. Destroyed with it was someone's livelihood.

And at the other end of the beach lie huge dead trees, roots and all. They were ripped out of the earth and dragged back to the beach as the tsunami eventually retreated into the sea.

At Ting Rai Bay, only the beach-side bar was close enough to the waters to be touched - and it was destroyed. Replacing it must have been expensive.

Expensive, too, was clearing the beach of rocks. They were everywhere - far more than there is now - and many couldn't be lifted even by several burly locals. Earth-moving equipment had to be hired.

And when the climate here means you can only open for six months of the year, this is not the sort of expense that's easy to bear in the middle of the high season. Even worse, the guests who were there at the time left immediately and tourists stayed away for years. They're only now beginning to come back.

Times have been tough since the Tsunami.

But that's nothing compared to the personal toll of the Tsunami. Mango, the older of the three brothers who serve and entertain everyone at Ting Rai Bay, told me sadly that he lost one of his closest friends at nearby Kao Lak.

Although no one died at Koh Jum, Mango told me that everyone he knows - and everyone in this huge part of Thailand - knows someone, or was related to someone, that was killed by the wave. Most know many more than just one.

Homes and businesses were destroyed by the tsunami or by the disappearance of the tourist trade that followed it. Many locals had to move away from beaches and islands and lives they loved.

But now things are getting better. New longtails have been launched, destroyed buildings have been replaced and people are moving back to the Andaman coast. And the tourists are returning in droves.

It's almost as if the Tsunami never happened. But when the tide is low, those rocks reappear, and they will never go away.

I'm a tourist, get me out of here!

2007-12-03T11:14:00.000Z

I'm beginning to think Amanda and I have recently angered the gods of travel, if our ill-fated day-trip to Koh Phi Phi is anything to go by.

After enjoying a week on our secluded and tranquil beach – doing little more than swimming, reading and eating, we decided it was time to see the local sights. The place to go around here is Koh Phi Phi, a little chain of islands – a national park - famed for their almost supernatural beauty.

So on Saturday morning we climbed aboard a longtail boat for the hour's journey from our island of Koh Jum, along with a charming Dutch family – the children are our age on a year-long sojourn around the world, and their parents joined them for a sunny holiday in Thailand.

It was a windy day and the hour-and-a-half trip to our first stop, a place called Bamboo Island, was a little on the rough side – but fortunately uneventful. We arrived to find an island straight out of central casting: brilliant white sands rising out of stunningly turquoise waters and fringed with palm trees. And Bamboo Island is not even the prettiest place we would see that day.

All the islands around Koh Phi Phi are famed not only for their beauty, but for the swarms of tourists who come to appreciate it. But on that morning we were alone on the beach but for some friendly local fisherman tending to their catches of crabs.

We all went snorkelling for a while, but the water was very shallow and there's not much to see. All these islands were hit very hard by the tsunami three years ago, and where there used to be abundant living coral there is now just a vast bed of shattered dead coral. There's new life poking through here and there, but I suspect it will be years before this part of the sea has fully recovered.

After lounging around on the fine, white sands, we got back in the boat for an hour's journey to Koh Phi Phi Leh. Koh Phi Phi is made up of two islands, the main one is Koh Phi Phi Don – where you can eat and sleep – and the smaller is Koh Phi Phi Leh, which is not inhabited.

If you've seen The Beach, then you've seen Koh Phi Phi Leh. It's the where Leo Decaprio finds his backpacker's paradise. But the film put it firmly on the tourist map, and no one who comes near here misses it.

And with good reason. If you've seen the film and wondered if they made it look as spectacular as they did with a little creative effects, then I'm here to tell you that they didn't. If anything, it's even more beautiful in real life.

The famous beach is surrounded by enormous rocky cliffs that rise high in the sky, and which circle the beach almost completely to form a sort of tropical lagoon. As our boat rounded the cliffs and entered the lagoon, we all gasped. I've seen a lot of beautiful beaches – I'm Australian, after all – but I've never seen one to match this.

The water is so clear it could have been shipped in by the Evian people, but at the same time manages to be a shade of turquoise that doesn't even seem possible. The sands of the beach are the whitest I've ever seen – in the bright sunlight it's almost blinding.

And, of course, it's packed with boats like ours filled with sightseers like us. And being a national park, there's a fee to get out of your boat and onto the beach. We hadn't been told this and didn't have enough cash on us (we were planning to get some money out at the town on Koh Phi Phi Don).

But the beach was so crowded with sunbathers and – sadly – rubbish that we weren't fussed. We jumped aboard the boat and our boatmen headed back to the centre of the lagoon so we could snorkel. The water is so clear that you can see all the coral as if it were inches below you, even though the water is actually some four or five metres deep. And the coral was largely untouched by the tsunami, thanks to the sheltering arms of the surrounding cliffs.

And diving in, we discovered that the lagoon is teeming with life. There were hundreds of fish just inches in front of my face – completely unafraid of us. We counted dozens of kinds of brightly coloured tropical fish, jellyfish and coral. As Don, one of our Dutch friends said, it was more like an aquarium than the sea.

Our new friends had an underwater camera, and shot some great photos of the local aquatic wildlife....

And the lagoon is easily large enough to accommodate a lot of people snorkelling in it without feeling crowded or busy. We spent a long time there, and found it hard to pull ourselves away.

Incidentally, one of the people staying in our bungalows caused a little local ruckus when he came here on the same tour a few days before us. This guy, a vaguely creepy Norwegian who may or not be the navy diver he claims to be, took it upon himself to dive to the ocean floor here and chisel a huge clam off the coral and bring it back with him.

While it didn't concern him that clam was an endangered species and this is a national park, it certainly outraged an older Canadian guy who is also staying here. He wrote a long J'accuse-style notice condemning all who went on the tour and demanded the staff post it in the restaurant. They did – but only while he was there. As soon as he left, they'd hide it so none of the accused guests would see it. A little soap opera can enliven any holiday.

But the clam got its revenge in the end: the Norwegian got the staff to barbecue it and he ended up spending a couple of uncomfortable days with acute food poisoning.

We weren't tempted to take anything away with us apart from photographs, and were soon on our way to Ko Phi Phi Don – and that's when it started to get a little hairy. The wind had picked up and our wooden boat was being mercilessly bullied by big waves. Each wave would smash into the side and we would all hold our breath as it shuddered. It wasn't far to go, but we all got off the boat relieved and soaking wet.

Koh Phi Phi Don is also a stunningly beautiful place – two mountainous islands connected by a big sandbar and a gorgeous beach – but it's all rather ruined by Koh Phi Phi town.

The town is actually built on the sandbar itself, and has everything you'd never imagine could possibly be built on mere sand: Bars, multi-story hotels, paved roads, ATMs and plumbing.

All of this was destroyed by the tsunami in 2004 – which swept over the town from both sides and killed thousands – but it was very rapidly rebuilt. Now the only sign of the recent disaster is the 'I Survived' shirts on sale at every shop.

Which is a shame, because it's a horrible place. It's packed to the gills with young party people. It boasts German bars showing German football and serving German food to German people, and English pubs showing English football and serving English food to English people. And French bars... well, you get the picture.

There's nothing Thai about it - you could be at any beach resort anywhere in the world, which is why we nicknamed it Koh Ibiza.

Koh Ibiza is also terribly expensive. There's no doubt it's catering to young Europeans who have saved up all year to go on a raucous two-week bender in the sun.

But we were meant to be there only for a couple of hours, so the cost wasn't bothering any of us much. A couple of beers, a chat and back on the boat home, that was the plan.

So much for the plan. We had barely put Koh Phi Phi behind us when our boatmen decided to turn around and go back. And we thanked our stars he did – that short voyage felt like a scene from The Perfect Storm.

OK, I'm exaggerating. But the wind was fierce and the waves were even bigger and more threatening now. We would watch in fear as a wave picked up the boat until the prow was pointing up at the sky, and hold it there for a frightening moment that seemed never to end. Then the boat would be thrust back into a deep trough between the waves with bone-rattling force. Over and over and over.

So now we were stuck in Koh Ibiza. Amanda went to hunt down some rooms for us – not so easy at the end of the day, and in the high season. Standards were low, but prices were high. At first she couldn't even find a room anywhere, but eventually three materialised – for a whopping 2100 baht each. Ouch.

It was officially the most expensive hotel room of our entire trip. And the worst. In the rest of Thailand, 2100 baht will buy you a palatial suite, with a a big TV, luxury breakfast and all the conveniences you can imagine. On Koh Phi Phi, it didn't even get us a complimentary bar of soap in the shower. But, hey, the loud nightclub next door and the 100% pure nylon bed sheets were a nice touch.

At least we got to eat dinner watching a beautiful pink-and-orange sunset over the many dozens of longtail boats parked on the beach.

The next morning we all gratefully clambered aboard the boat – in which our poor boatman was forced to spend the night – as the sun was coming up. The family with us were catching a flight out of Krabi that very afternoon, and Amanda and I were just as keen to get the hell out of Koh Phi Phi.

The ocean that morning was not the one that forced us back the afternoon before. It was still a little choppy, but the waves were more playful than menacing. An hour and a half later and we were back on our beach in Koh Jum – no ATMs, no faux-English pubs, no thumping dance music.

No wonder I kissed the sands of Koh Jum as I finally tumbled from the boat.

As usual, there are lots of my photos of Koh Phi Phi right here

The long way to paradise

2007-11-26T11:21:00.000Z

Kanchanaburi over with, it was time to set sail for Koh Jum, the paradise island where Amanda and I were planning to spend the last few weeks of our trip.

It was always going to be a long haul south, but it turned out to be much harder than we'd imagined.

You see, Koh Jum is remote. It's a little off the usual Thai-beach tourist trail, unlike the islands around it that are said to be as beautiful, but crowded and expensive. Koh Jum – also known as Koh Phu – barely rates a mention in any guide book.

Best of all is the arrival: the regular tourist ferries only pass Koh Jum, they don't stop there. So a small longtail boat is sent out to meet the ferry that plies its way between Krabi and Koh Jum, and you climb off the big ship and into the little boat for the short cruise to the island.

Amanda and I thought this would be a great way to arrive. The romantic vision of leaping off a crowded ferry and waving goodby to bemused tourists as we headed for our own private tropical island kept us going through the cramped, two-hour minibus ride back to Bangkok.

But it was not to be.

Unlike our last trip south, we got to the train with plenty of time. We even had the time to buy novels for the beach and check the internet – to discover to our unalloyed joy that that vile racist reactionary John Howard had been resoundly beaten in the election back home.

We celebrated with a few beers on the train and climbed into our beds with dreams of sunsets over the white sands and blue waters of Koh Jum.

And that's where it started to go wrong. I woke up at three in the morning to find that our mobile dormitory on rails had transformed itself into a very stationary hotel on the tracks. The train had broken down.

For nearly four long hours it stood there, going nowhere, and our chances of catching the ferry from Krabi to Koh Jum were slowly evaporating.

When the train finally arrived at Surat Thani – at 10.30am instead of 6.30am – the buses to take us further south to Krabi were still waiting for us. But that was the last piece of good news we were to get in a while.

The coach took us some of the way, but we were soon crammed into the back of yet another minibus, for yet another two hour drive. We knew we'd never catch the 11am ferry from Krabi, but the 2pm version looked a definite possibility.

We arrived in Krabi – now with two other Australians we met on the train, who liked the sound of Koh Jum and joined in the fun – at 1.30pm and headed straight for the ferry terminal. We were elated... we could still catch the 2pm ferry!

Except that the 2pm ferry didn't exist. Apparently, the second boat is in dry dock at the moment.

Amanda got on the phone to the Ting Rai Bay Resort, where we were supposed to be staying for the next couple of weeks (Incidentally, it's not actually a resort, just some bungalows on the beach). The owner told us to get a taxi south, from where a boat would be sent to pick us up.

So we piled into a taxi for an hour's trip south. We arrived in a scruffy little town which boasted a wooden pier. The boat to pick us up was 10 minutes away.

That would have been perfect, had it not been for two insane and hysterical older French women (it's always the French), who were intent on muscling in on our ride.

They weren't staying in the same place, but somewhere else on the same island, and they didn't want to catch the normal express boat to the main port of Jum. Instead they wanted to divert our boat to save themselves the princely sum of 100 baht.

OK, fine. We were all too tired to argue. If only the same were true for our French friends, who continued to argue the toss with the bemused staff at the pier. They wanted to continue to bargain down the price, and confusion reigned.

Suddenly a man appeared with a sunny smile. 'Ting Rai Bay Resort?' he asked. That's us! We followed him down the pier and onto his boat. It was only 20 metres or so, but the French women insisted on being driven there, which further slowed us down.

And while we sat on the boat, they continued to argue and argue and argue. The staff at the pier got annoyed. Our boat driver got annoyed. The passengers on the express boat next to us – the ones the French women refused to pay an extra 100 baht to get on, even though it was going precisely where they wanted to go – were getting annoyed.

And we were getting very, very annoyed.

As this dragged on, our boatman gave us a knowing grin. We understood immediately and all four of us urged him to go – just go! He pushed away the boat, started the engine and, with the French woman screaming after us, pulled away from the pier and into the open ocean.

For good measure, we all gave them a cheery wave goodbye from the boat. They looked furious. And then, just to add to our joy, the express boat – their only remaining chance to get to the island – decided to do the same, and left them fuming on the pier, boatless.

We rounded Koh Jum and in an hour were jumping off the boat and wading through the water and onto a tranquil and secluded beach. It was everything we had hoped for: beautiful and peaceful.

There are only 14 bungalows, so not a lot of people around. The electricity is from a generator and only comes on in the evening (but somehow you can always get a cold beer, so someone has their priorities straight). And the sunsets are the most beautiful we've seen.

And it only took 28 hours, two minibuses, two taxis, a coach, a train and a boat to get here.

Riding the Death Railway

2007-11-22T10:23:00.000Z

For such a pretty little town, Kanchanaburi has a very nasty history.

North of Bangkok and nestling against the picturesque River Kwai, Kanchanaburi was the setting for The Death Railway. Here, during World War II, imperial Japan sacrificed hundreds of thousands of prisoners to build a vital rail link to its conquered Burmese territories.

As is the way with these things, what was once the site of such misery is now the source of fascination for millions, and tourists flock here every year to see the famous bridge over the River Kwai and to ride the Death Railway.

Amanda I hopped onto a packed mini-bus for the two-hour ride to Kanchanaburi from Bangkok yesterday. Many travellers just visit for the day, leaving the capital early in the morning and returning late in the evening.

But we thought it deserved a little more time than that and, fortunately, we were right.

Our first stop was the Death Railway Museum, a short walk from our guest house. There are several museums devoted to the infamous railway in town, but this one is supposed to be the best. It's small but fascinating and informative.

The atrocities committed by the Japanese are many and varied, and recounted in full in the museum. It tells of how thousands of captured Allied soldiers were shipped here and to Burma to build the railway, living and working in the most inhumane conditions possible to build a railway through some of the toughest terrain and in the most squalid conditions imaginable. Very few survived.

The whole Death Railway experience tends to focus on the ordeals of the Allied soldiers, mainly Brits, Australians and the Dutch – 16,000 Allied POWS died building the railway. But, and I didn't know this, the museum informed me that the number of Asians killed was far, far greater – something like 100,000.

Most of them were labourers left unemployed and desperate by the war raging around them, and were tricked by the Japanese into coming to work on the railroad. They were told there would be work for them. Of course, there was no shortage of work – there was just no pay, no days off, and no escape.

Next to the museum is the beautiful and poignant Don Rak cemetery, where 6,982 POW graves are set out in neat rows. The Thais are deeply respectful people and they take great care to look after these graves and keep the cemetery immaculate. It's very touching.

It's sobering and sad to wander the grounds of the cemetery and read some of the thousands of names of young men who died unwillingly serving the Japanese war effort. As we walked among the graves, the sun began to set and all was missing was the distant strains of The Last Post.

When the cemetery closed, we grabbed a song thaew and raced upriver to see the sunset over the River Kwai and its famous bridge. It doesn't look much like the one in the film, but it turns out the film wasn't all that accurate, anyway.

Instead of being destroyed by commando sabatoeurs, the bridge was badly damaged by Allied bombers towards the end of the war. But it was long ago repaired and is still authentic and in regular use – it even has wooden guard posts with Rising Sun flags at regular intervals. And unlike most rail bridges, you're welcome to wander across it when the trains aren't using it.

Amanda and I strode on to it, and it's a bit of a hairy crossing. The tracks are only a metre wide, and then there is an unguarded and very long drop into the river on both sides. That wouldn't be a problem if there weren't thousands of people trying to cross it and, inevitably, take photos of themselves while they do it.

I would be very surprised if tourists don't regularly fall off the bridge. Particularly annoying are the busloads of Japanese tourists – I know they have as much right to be here as anyone else but I was surprised to see them here, frankly – who push and shove anyone and everyone aside in their haste to see the bridge and leave. Anyone would think they built the bloody thing.

We didn't even make it halfway, fleeing the bridge and instead watching the sun set over it from the banks below. It was a beautiful sight.

The next morning we did what every tourist who comes to Kanchanaburi does – we rode the Death Railway.

We headed for the station to catch the 10.30am train and bought our tickets. You wouldn't know it, but you can ride the route with the locals for just a few baht, but the staff want you to buy the 300 baht tourist ticket. Fair enough, you get a guaranteed window seat and the ride is pointless without one, so we paid the full fare.

The train takes you across the bridge and to a place called Nam Tok, about two hours away. The route is often described as Thailand's most scenic train ride. I can't be certain of that, but it's certainly very pretty – through rice paddiesand farmers' crops, and past pretty little towns and stations. And always with some impressive mountains marking the Thai/Burmese border in the distance.

The tourist carriage is identical to the one used by the locals – wooden seats facing each other – but 300 baht buys you some comfortable cushions and some free coffee and snacks. You even get a certificate to prove you rode the railway. And see if you can resist whistling Colonel Bogey as you cross the bridge.

The words on the certificate are as charming as they are incomprehensible: 'The train ride passes the sorrow of the nation to the era of beauty and peaceful moments given lovingly by Mother Nature.' And: 'The voice of the jungle brings back memories from the real soul of the human nature out of this busy world.'

It's hot outside but the windows are down and the breeeze is blowing through the carriage. The view is varied and spectacular. All in all, it's a grand day out.

Which seems ironic given the horrendous cost of building this picturesque stretch of railway - endless suffering and countless lives.

The POWs who were forced to build it didn't get comfortable cushions, free coffee and snacks, or a certificate suitable for framing. They got dysentry, typhoid, cholera and malaria. They got the life beaten out of them by brutal Japanese soldiers. They got buried.

It's impossible to forget the horrors of the Death Railway as you take the two-hour ride. Especially when you pass some of the more shockingly tough terrain. At one point, we travelled through thirty-metre-deep solid rock cuttings, dug at a place called Arrow Hill. Someone had to dig through that solid rock, against their will and with little more than a pickaxe. Few who did survived.

Even more spectacular is a spot near the end of the line where POWs had to build an enormous wooden trestle bridge high above the river, clinging to a bare stone cliff for some 300 metres. I could hardly believe it would even have been possible. Every man who worked on that bridge died.

Finally, we reached Nam Tok, a one-horse town that probably wouldn't exist if the train didn't terminate there. There's lots to see around there in the way of waterfalls – Thais are obsessed with waterfalls, I don't know why – but you really need your own transport or the local song thaew drivers will positively gouge you.

So we turned around and headed right back.

It sounds like a long journey that gets you nowhere, but the Death Railway is the classic example of one of those trips where the journey is the entire point, and the destination is irrelevant.

After all, you get an unbeatable view of some breathtaking scenery, as well as some free coffee and a certificate. And, even better, you're rewarded with a brief glimpse into the brutal cruelty of which people can be capable, and the indominatible resilience with which others can respond.

The Asian adventure is very nearly over. On Saturday, we leave Kanchanaburi for Bangkok - our fifth and final visit to the capital - to catch the overnight train south to Surath Thani. From there, it's a bus to Krabi and a ferry to Koh Jum, a remote island off the Andaman Coast. There Amanda and I will end the trip the way we started - spending a few weeks doing very little on a beautiful beach.

The dawn of happiness

2007-11-20T06:54:00.000Z

So it was 'bye bye' to Chiang Mai and 'hi' to Sukhothai.

After a seemingly endless coach trip from the northern capital, we arrived in Sukhothai in central Thailand, once the ancient capital of the nation. It was also the first capital of Thailand, founded in the 1200s.

Once upon a time, swathes of Thailand – along with much of South East Asia – was ruled by the Khmers, with Angkor as their administrative capital. So ancient Angkor was once to Asia what ancient Rome was to Europe.

And just like the Romans, the Khmers' powers eventually faded, and the ancient Thais leapt at the opportunity to strike out on their own, founding Sukhothai as their first capital. Thais now consider this the very beginning of modern Thailand and Thai-ness – which is why it's called Sukhothai, literally 'dawn of happiness'.

While the town is still a thriving one, it's moved several kilometres away from its original site to a place called New Sukhothai, leaving a collection of ancient ruins crowded into a beautiful park at the centre of Old Sukhothai.

The park is justly popular with tourists, foreigners and Thais alike, and most stay in New Sukhothai and are ferried in by car or bus to the ruins each day. But Amanda sniffed out a guest house well away from New Sukhothai, and it turned out to be a great choice.

The Mountain View Guesthouse is just a few kilometres away from the ancient city, but still too far away to walk to. Fortunately, the owner is a very helpful guy who is happy to ferry guests to and from the site as often as you want.

In fact Malcolm, who hails from Colchester of all places, is about the most helpful person we've met in Thailand – he just can't do enough for you. He picked us up from the bus station and drove us to the guest house – a beautiful and appealing place, but still cheap, with nice rooms and a great swimming pool, set amid rice fields and pretty paddocks. There were even cows grazing nearby. I highly recommend it.

That night he organised dinner for us, driving into town to pick it up and serving it right there on our terrace. The next day he gave us an invaluable run-down on what to see in the ancient city – he's been here the best part of a decade and knows everything you need to know about Sukhothai – and then drove us there, even organising cheap bike rentals for us.

Sukhothai may sound like the same deal as Angkor Wat, but it's much more compact, and if you're pressed you can probably see all you need to see in a day. But it's not so compact that you can easily walk about, so rent a bike.

We rode ours to the ticket office – unlike Angkor, tickets are embarrassingly cheap – and then on to the main part of the site, Wat Mahathat. Wat Mahathat is a very large collection of well-preserved ruins, mainly the remains of temples and other religious buildings that were at the heart of the ancient capital.

When Sukhothai was founded, the new rulers spurned the Khmers' fascination with all things Hindu and went for Buddhism in a big way. And it shows – there are more Buddhas in this one site alone than seems feasible. Seated Buddhas, standing Buddhas, teaching Buddhas, meditating Buddhas, small Buddhas and big Buddhas. Mainly bloody big Buddhas.

Most of these Buddhas are in superb condition, and are still being worshipped today. Their feet and hands are adorned with floral offerings, and incense sticks and candles sit before each of them.

With lakes and moats all around, all in a very peaceful and verdant park, the historical site is a truly beautiful and serene place. We cycled about all day, stopping every few minutes to take in one ancient temple or another.

At one, I stumbled across a couple of monks who had travelled down from Chiang Mai and were taking in the sights with the rest of us. The foreign tourists were all standing at a respectful distance and snapping their photos with long lenses, but I just bounded up to them and started chatting.

These two were very friendly guys. I took photos of them with their digital cameras (for an order that eschews all things material, monks have a lot of modern gadgets), and they took photos of me with mine.

Obviously karma actually works, because I then got to wander around one of the temples snapping photos of them to my heart's content – they didn't mind at all. I got some very jealous looks from the other foreign tourists, though.

Later in the day, we left the main historical park and headed north – there are various ancient sites dotting the countryside around the old city as well. The north zone is the most interesting and, fortunately, it's only a short ride from the rest of the site.

We wandered through one set of crumbling ruins that pre-dated most of Sukhothai. It was built by the Khmers and it shows – it wasn't just reminiscent of some of Angkor's ruins, it was exactly the same. You could even see some fading Hindu imagery and signs of various Buddhas being built over the top of them.

These ruins had the added attraction of a herd of cows grazing among them – a very picturesque scene. Amanda managed to coax a few over and was soon patting a cow for the first time. It was a blissful friendship until the cow tried to nibble on her toe. Ouch!

Back on our bikes, we rode a little way to Wat Sri Chum. There's not much in the way of ruins here, just a seated Buddha. But what a Buddha. This guy is enormous – something like 11 metres from knee to knee and 15 metres high. One of his hands was as big as any of the people looking up at it.

By now, the heat of the day – and it was very hot – was getting to us, so we rode back to the Mountain View for a swim and some beers. Malcolm went and got us dinner again that night.

The next morning we followed a route that Malcolm had marked out for us on a map, taking us to some of the more remote temples to the west of Sukhothai. Well, we tried to follow the route. There was nothing wrong with Malcolm's map, but a lot wrong with our ability to read it, and we ended up cycling for a long way down the wrong road.

Eventually, some local men – apparently drunk at 11 in the morning – set us straight and we found ourselves touring crumbling ruins with barely a tourist about. To be honest, few were that exciting in themselves, but it was a nice ride among lovely rural scenery.

But one of the temples was interesting – another vast Buddha, but this time perched atop a hill. We parked our bikes at the bottom and climbed a stone path up to the top. It wasn't a very tough climb, but after the whole saga of my mountain ascent, I hope never to climb a slope of any kind ever again.

From there we rode back into Old Sukhothai for lunch – despite most of the town being in New Sukhothai, the old version still has enough shops and restaurants to keep you going. Malcolm came and fetched Amanda while I went to get some sunset shots. Sadly, the clear skies vanished for the first time in two days, but I still managed to get a few interesting pictures.

And the next day we were off again, this time to Bangkok. It was a whirlwind visit, just two full days in the end, and a place as lovely and as fascinating as Sukhothai probably deserves more than that.

But at least now we have an excuse to return.

See lots and lots of my Sukhothai photos here. If you like Buddhas, you'll love this!

Climb every mountain

2007-11-14T06:46:00.000Z

I wanted a serious trek, and I got one. Maybe a little too serious.

I don't know what I was thinking when I decided I would climb all the way to the top of Thailand's third-highest mountain. Have I ever been mountain climbing before? No. Am I particularly fit or athletic? No. Do I even enjoy camping? That's right... no.

But, like most bad ideas, it seemed a good idea at the time.

It began early Sunday morning when a song thaew pulled up outside my hotel to take me to Chiang Dao, a town an hour and a half north of Chiang Mai, from where the trek up Doi Chiang Dao would begin.

The mountain is at the centre of an untamed and largely untouched national park, and the peak is 2,245 metres high. Nearly two-and-a-half kilometres. What was I thinking!

I climbed into the song thaew and met my two fellow travellers on this trek, a great couple from Brooklyn. Chaim and Jen had only just arrived in Chiang Mai less than hour before, from Bangkok on the overnight train.

I was worried I might be teamed with a couple of athletic fitness freaks who climb mountains before breakfast, and who would make me look like the unfit fool I am, but I got lucky. Both Chaim and Jen were fit and sporty, but they were friendly and found the climb a challenge. Not as much of a challenge as I did, but a challenge all the same. And they were fun to spend three days with.

It wasn't long before we caught sight of the mountain. And I thought it looked big in photos. In real life, it was more than impressive, towering miles above us. We tried to pick the very summit, our destination, but it was obscured by clouds. Now I was getting nervous. What had I got myself in to?

Soon we were at Chiang Dao Nest, the guest house at the foot of the mountain that was organising the trek. I didn't stay here, but I think I can safely recommend the place anyway. Beautiful views, attractive bungalows, friendly and helpful staff and great food.

The first day of the trek didn't involve the mountain at all, except to look at. Instead, we were kicking off with a gentle wander around some of the Lisu hill-tribe villages that live beneath the shadow of the mountain.

After breakfast we were driven to the first one, where we were met by one of the villagers and taken on an hour long journey through the forest to see a cave. One of the owners of Chiang Dao Nest told us they only hire local guides for the hill-tribe treks, because outsiders tend to look down on the villagers. Instead, their guides are villagers.

The countryside was pretty, the walk not too taxing and the cave spectacular.

It was in the middle of nowhere and not one of the many caves around the area that are visited by busloads of tourists. It was just us, two local guides and some torches.

We walked, crawled and clambered through the hot and dank caves, admiring dripping stalactites and stalagmites - apparently made of some kind of iron ore, judging by their metallic feel and appearance - and the ocassional bat.

We went deep into that cave - it took us about an hour to get to the deepest point possible, before we turned around and headed back the way we came.

Back in the village, we enjoyed a tasty lunch (all the food on this trek was simple but satisfying fare) before embarking on a long hike by and through a pretty little stream to an even prettier waterfall.

After splashing about in the ankle deep, and refreshingly cold, water for a bit, it was off the the next village - where we would be spending the night.

Here's where the trek started to get tough. The path between the two villages was through the jungle and straight uphill. That's the problem with hill-tribes - they tend to live on hills.

After an hour and a half of hiking, we emerged from the forest and into a village with a spectacular view. It was built onto the side of a steep hill and directly faced the mountain - a stunning sight.

I might have enjoyed it a lot more if my heart wasn't filled with dread at the thought of climbing the damn thing. Already my muscles were aching and I was out of breath - how was I going to climb all the way up there?

I drowned my worries in a couple of cold beers and a long chat with the lovely woman who hosted us that night, Alima. She spoke little English and I speak no Lisu, but we still managed to establish that Alima was the sister of the villager who guided us through the caves and to the waterfall, and that they were two of seventeen children.

She kept pointing to the very top of the mountain and asking 'you go up?'. That's right, she couldn't believe I was going to do it, either.

We had an early start the next morning so, after half an hour of sitting on a little deck in front of my comfortable room looking at the most spectacular blanket of stars I've seen in many years, I went to bed.

As I dozed off, I wondered if I was really going to be able to hack this climb. I was about to find out.

The next morning we were driven a short way to the bottom of the mountain to meet our guides and begin the serious trekking.

We had three guides taking us up. An older guy called Lun was in charge, assisted by a young Burmese fellow called Han and another guy whose name I can't remember - mainly because we didn't see much of him.

Lun was particularly impressive. He must have climbed that mountain a thousand times, and you could see every single trek etched into his face. He was friendly but serious, and made sure every aspect of the next two days went smoothly. He was a pro, and we always felt safe with him around.

As we got ready to go we were each given sturdy bamboo stick - and that stick saved my life. If you ever attempt the same climb, make sure you get one. You can use it to keep you from sliding down slopes or for hauling yourself up them. You can use it to push away branches in your path or test out the ground in front of you in the dark. Best of all, you can lean against it and whimper when you feel you can't go on any further. If I could have, I would have adopted that stick and taken it home to raise as my own.

All we carried up that mountain was a small pack each and our trusty sticks. The same could not be said of the guides. They got up to leave and started hauling enormous loads on to their backs.

Only Lun had anything that approached a proper pack on his back. The other two had enormous plastic sacks tied together, old towels strapping them to their backs.

We were a little shocked. As Chaim said, 'I feel like a slave owner here.' I knew what he meant but, short of quitting the trek, there wasn't much we could do about it. So we tried to put it out of our minds.

To give you an idea of the size of the packs these guys carried, here's a photo of Lun, and this was taken on the way down, so it doesn't include the food or the - count 'em - twelve bottles of water he carried up the mountain.

Amazingly, none of our guides seemed to have a problem with these huge loads. They practically skipped up the mountain - Lun even rolled and smoked a cigarette every time we stopped for a breather!

While Lun lead the way, the other two guides fell behind, which was great. I wasn't quite keeping up with Chaim and Jen, but I didn't need to as long as two guides were somewhere behind me. It meant I could stop and catch my breath whenever I needed to. Which was often.

In my defence, I'm not that unfit. But this trek was tough. Very tough. How could it not be - we were trekking a 10-kilometre uphill path to reach the summit of a mountain nearly two-and-half kilometres high.

Some parts of the walk were difficult, some were nigh on impossible. But for the next six hours I hauled myself up a narrow and steep dirt track through the jungle with nothing but grim determination and a bamboo stick to keep me going.

The countryside we travelled through was as diverse as it was stunning. We seemed to experience new kinds of terrain every 10 or 20 minutes. First it was jungle, then it was a vast expanse of tall grass growing higher than our heads, then meadows full of pretty flowers, flat fields of black rock, and heathery gorse straight out of the Scottish highlands.

I noticed none of it. All I could concentrate on was placing one foot in front of the other - my concentration ocassionally broken by looking up to see the frighteningly high peak of the mountain, which never seemed to get any closer.

My heart was pounding through my chest, my muscles screaming in pain, my feet aching with every step, my mouth getting dryer by the second. So, I thought, this is exercise. Perhaps I should do more of it - and before I attempt to climb a mountain, not after it.

At least I was distracted by an entertaining soap opera, as it slowly dawned on the three of us that the youngest guide had somehow disappeared. We had stopped in a clearing, about four hours into the trek, when we realised.

The two younger guys had fallen so far behind that we hadn't seem them for at least three hours. Lun motioned us to stay where we were - no need for that, I was already lieing on the ground trying to work out how much it would cost to call for a helicopter to get me out of there - while he went to find them.

He returned with Han, but without the other guy and we pushed on. We managed to work out that the young guy - who had looked a bit distressed after just a few minutes of the trek - was not coming with us.

Later we were told he'd got lost. We never did quite work out what happened. But we never saw him again, at least not until we returned to our starting point the next day and the trek was over.

Finally, after six hours of solid trekking, we reached a field of tall grass in the shadow of the summit itself. By the time we got there, a beautiful sunny day had turned into a grey and overcast one - and the main reason I'd come was to take photos of the the sunset. Depressing.

Much to my relief, Lun got across to us that the day's trek was over. With no sunset, there was little point in climbing the summit that day and that field of flat grass was our base camp.

In the blink of an eye, Lun had set up our tents and started a fire for dinner. We fell in a heap on the ground. We couldn't believe we were here, at the base of this intimidating mountain. I couldn't even believe I was still alive.

Lun and Han cooked us a simple but delicious dinner. But we were concerned because, as far as we could make out, the missing guy had left the trek with their dinner, and they weren't going to have enough to eat.

We tried to share our food with them, but they politely but firmly declined. We felt bad about it, but we weren't sure what else we could do.

So we crawled into our tents and went to bed, me praying that the clouds above would break long enough to show us a spectacular sunrise the next morning - and that I could get some great shots that would make this whole thing worthwhile.

I woke up several times that night and looked out the tent flap each time. And each time, I saw no stars. But, at 5am, we were roused by Han and I stepped out and looked up. Above me was that same spectacular blanket of stars that I saw the night before, and my heart lifted.

Torches in hand, we began the final ascent. This was the toughest part of the journey. There was little in the way of path, and a lot in the way of rocks. At times, we were climbing them almost vertically.

But as first light began to creep into the sky, we could see the summit just feet above us. My arms and legs found new energy, my lungs new air - it was so close.

With one heave up and over a large rock, I was there with the others. I had hauled myself up to the top. There was no further to go. I had finally arrived.

I felt, literally, on top of the world. I raised my arms and whooped in delight with Chiam and Jen. I thought the mountain was going to conquer me, but I conquered it.

And it was worth it. The view was astonishing - but the sense of achievement, of rising to the challenge was even better.

It didn't even matter that we still had to make our way back. And don't let anyone tell you that walking down a steep hill is any easier than going up - it's not.

But my muscles fed on elation, and I all but skipped the 10 kilometres back - this time drinking in the view, enjoying the varied terrain and all the time looking up at the daunting peak behind us, pointing at it and smiling and cheering.

'I've been up there! I've climbed a mountain!'

How much for the buffalo?

2007-11-10T08:38:00.000Z

If San Pa Tong is famous for anything, it is the weekly buffalo market where hundreds of traders and farmers meet to exchange money and the uniquely Asian form of livestock.

But San Pa Tong is not famous. A non-descript town half an hour south of Chiang Mai, San Pa Tong is completely off the Thai tourists' beaten track. Which is suprising, because what could be more uniquely Thai than a noisy, frenetic cattle market?

Search for it on Google and you'll find just a handful of mentions. Now that's obscure. Maybe because it's only in full swing around dawn on a Saturday morning. You won't find a lot backpackers around here willing to get on the road before daybreak to see a buffalo market.

Amanda found it, mentioned only fleetingly on a map of Chiang Mai and the region, and suggested I go. We thought it might be a great opportunity to take some interesting photos of something tourists rarely see.

But try as I might, I couldn't find out how to get there. I could barely work out where it was.

But someone at Amanda's school knew of it, and knew a man who could get me there. So on Friday afternoon, as I was beginning to run out of hope of ever working out how to reach the place, a driver was arranged and booked for me.

The next morning I left our room at five and climbed into the front seat of a song thaew and raced out of Chiang Mai.

I was hoping to pass some pretty countryside on the way, for some nice rice-paddy-at-sunrise sort of photos. But it turns out that San Pa Tong is practically a distant suburb of Chiang Mai, and we passed nothing prettier than a few car showrooms and an enormous Tesco superstore (yes, they have Tesco here - Boots and M&S, too).

After half an hour we reached the market. There were people everywhere, but I could see no sign of any buffalo. But there was certainly plenty of market. San Pa Tong market, as I soon discovered, is about a lot more than buffalo.

It's actually an enormous market for all the people of the region - selling everything from home-made sickles and machetes to t-shirts, shoes and socks, second-hand jeans and a hell a lot of used motorcycles.

It's a local market for local people. No hill-tribe bags, no fisherman's pants and no bloody 'Same Same But Different' T-shirts. Everything's vastly cheaper, too - a pair of socks that would have cost me 100 baht in Chiang Mai cost me 10 baht (14 pence) in San Pa Tong.

But no tourists means no English, too. And I could see no sign of the cattle market. I was worried about that, because you'd think a cattle market would be just a little obvious.

I asked for directions, but no one understood. Not until I curled my fingers and help them up to my head in a rudimentary impression of a buffalo. That did the trick. They may have laughed, but at least they pointed me in the right direction.

Off I went, towards the very depths of the market, and within moments I knew I was on the right track. Not that I could see any cattle yet - But I sure could smell that unmistakeable fragrance of farm animals.

I was spat out of the back of the first half of the market and into the main attraction. It was still dark but I could hear the snorts and lows of many, many cows.

My eyes adjusted to the dim light of dawn, and I could finally see it. Many hundreds of cows crowded into a muddy paddock, surrounded by hopeful sellers and buyers. Even in this light, I could see the buyers cautiously circling one cow or another, affecting indifference while being enthusiastically roped in by the used cow salesmen.

The cows were all of the Asian kind - Brahmans, the ones with the big hump just behind their shoulders, enormous ears and often very impressive horns. There were all kinds; white ones, brown ones, smaller ones and some frighteningly large ones.

And more were arriving by the minute. A road running alongside the fringes of the market, which I missed earlier, was backed up to the main road with trucks and pick-up trucks hauling even more cattle into the market.

But where were the buffalo? I'd seen one or two in some of the holding pens near the cows, but one of the few mentions of this market on the net suggested it was the biggest buffalo market in northern Thailand. Surely there had to be more than one or two?

I tried my buffalo impression again, and a laughing trader pointed to the other side of the road, which was obscured by a phalanx of parked trucks. I squeezed between two of them and over a little hill. And there they were.

In another large and muddy paddock were more buffalos then I've ever seen at one time. Which is not saying much, I've only ever seen a few at once. But, trust me, there were a lot of buffalo here.

I'm not even sure what you need a buffalo for in Thailand - they're often seen pulling a plough in Laos and Cambodia, but you don't see that much in Thailand. But someone must need them, because there was a roaring trade going on.

Men inspecting their teeth, their hooves, their horns. Smacking them on the rump - is this the buffalo equivalent of kicking the tyres of a car you might want to buy?

I hung back taking photos - much to the amusement of the buffalo traders. I don't speak Thai, of course, but it was pretty plain they were gently taking the piss out of me.

I've never been too close to a buffalo before. And with good reason - have you ever seen one? They're huge and their horns look lethal to me. But they're supposed to be docile, so I gingerly joined the traders inside the buffalo pen.

They all wanted me to take a photo of their buffalos, so they could have a look at them in the screen of my digital camera. Odd, they're right there in front of you, you know.

I got close up with a few and found them to be friendly giants. I swear one of them was trying to pose for me - he seemed to love the camera. That big fella was the first - and probably the last - buffalo I've ever patted.

And how much does a buffalo cost, I hear you ask? Well, I can't be sure, but judging by the rapid transactions I saw going on around me I'd say they cost a couple of thousand baht - a little under 30 quid.

Looks a good deal to me. But now I'm having second thoughts about it. Anyone want to take this new buffalo off my hands?

There are a pile of photos of the Sa Pa Tong cattle market right here

A trekkin' I will go...

2007-11-07T08:00:00.000Z

Remember my last attempt to enjoy a trek from Chiang Mai? It didn't go well. In fact, it didn't go anywhere.

But after spending the last 10 days recovering from two months of constant travel and sightseeing - by basically doing little more than lounging around the hotel room surfing the internet and watching the movie channel - I was getting itchy feet.

So a couple of days ago I started to looking into treks again. Like last time, I wanted something substantial and something a little out of the ordinary. Not your average, run-of-the-mill, one-day elephant-riding-and-bamboo-rafting trek-lite. After all, I've already done one of those.

So I scoured the internet and found somewhere interesting: Doi Chiang Dao, Thailand's second-highest mountain. An hour or two north of here, it is the centre of a national park and is dotted with picturesque caves and waterfalls.

I found a guesthouse in the area, Chiang Dao Nest, which has a good reputation for organising private treks up the mountain to watch the sunset and the following sunrise.

Problem was, I'm the only one I know who wants to go and private treks with just one person are very expensive. So I emailed them to see if there was a group going up the mountain I could join.

I soon got a reply. There was a place on a trek, but instead of being a two-day and one-night trek to the summit, it was a three-day two-night trip - with a day's exploration of the surrounding jungle, caves and waterfalls thrown in. Plus visits to two fairly remote hill-tribe villages.

Sounded perfect. So I slapped down a deposit this morning and will be picked up from the lobby of my hotel early on Sunday morning.

The trek combines two existing schedules offered - the first day of this one followed by all of this one.

It was put together for two others, but the price drops substantially when the group rises from two people to three (the number of trekkers starts to outweigh the number of guides, for one thing), so I guess these two were keen on more people.

So on Monday night and Tuesday morning, I will be at the summit of a mountain more than two kilometres high, hopefully admiring a spectacular view and taking a whole lot of photographs.

Stay tuned.

PS Fortunately, I still have the right shoes!

The road to Chiang Mai (again)

2007-10-27T03:01:00.000+01:00

So here we are in Chiang Mai, two months after leaving 'the rose of the north'.

This time, the trip here was not the hellish experience it was back in July, but it certainly had its interesting moments.

We set out early in the morning from Siem Reap with trepidation. The road that connects Siem Reap with Poipet on the border and Thailand beyond is notorious. Traveller legends and myths about scams, dangers and extreme discomfort abound.

There are many ways to make the trip - we hired a car and a driver to tackle the journey. It wasn't long before we'd left the dusty streets of Siem Reap and were on the road to the border.

This road is bad. It's very, very bad. Essentially, it's nothing more than a dirt track. Someone has made the effort to seal it with tarmac here and there, but never for more than a few metres at a time.

The story goes that Bangkok Airlines, which has an exclusive deal to fly between Siem Reap and Bangkok, makes sure the road never gets fixed. I have no idea if that's true - and I don't want to be sued - but the road is certainly a great incentive to fly.

Our driver was clearly in a hurry - it took him just three-and-a-half hours to make what is supposed to be a five-hour trip. It helped that it hadn't rained for a while, though the road was still swampy in spots. I don't want to know what it's like after a heavy rain - impossible, probably.

So after a few hours of being thrown around the car like reluctant ragdolls, we climbed out of the car in Poipet - a lively and scruffy little town that marks the frontier between Cambodia and Thailand.

Most of the legends about the dangers of this trip centre around Poipet. Scammers, con-artists, thieves and bandits - you name them, they're supposed to spend their days hanging around Poipet in search for their next victim.

But we had no problems. A few young guys descended on our car when we pulled up and started to hoist our packs onto their backs - we think to carry them to immigration, not steal them - but we quickly put a stop to that.

We found the Cambodian check-out point easily and were stamped out of the country exactly two weeks after we arrived from Vietnam.

Cambodians and Thais don't need a visa, or even a passport, to come and go through the border, so it's something of a free-for-all. People are everywhere, going in every direction. I can see how you can somehow come a cropper if you don't keep your wits about you.

We strode through the no-man's land between the Cambodian and Thai immigration points and marvelled at the sight. I've been through a lot of these, and it's the first time I've seen a no-man's land populated by half a dozen sparkling and plush 'casino resorts'.

Thais love casinos but they're illegal in Thailand, so wherever there's a border with the country there's a huge casino on the other side. There's one across the border with Burma in Mae Sae, another across the Mekong on the Laos side of the frontier. But none are quite as gleaming as these ones.

Once past the casinos, it was across a little bridge and a dirty creek that marks the border. We raised our arms and cheered as we entered Thailand. Minutes later, we were through Thai immigration and into the bustling little market town on the other side.

We could immediately tell we where back in Thailand. We couldn't quite put our finger on it, but it was unmistakeable. Whatever it was, we were loving it. We felt like we'd just arrived home.

Soon we were on a minivan to Bangkok, another three-and-a-half journey but this time on smooth sealed roads all the way. We unloaded our bags on Khao San Road and piled into a taxi to our hotel next to Hualamphong station.

And that's where it all started to go a little wrong.

We had booked a room at a place called The Train Inn. The rates were reasonable and the rooms looked good. But when we got there, we found the rates had, magically, been inflated by 25%. And that's before they added mysterious charges for each piece of baggage and - wait for this - a charge for using electricity in the room. To cap it all, the rooms on the website must have been in another hotel - the rooms we were shown were miserable and dirty.

Worst of all, the tickets for our train to Chiang Mai the following evening were supposed to have been sent to the hotel. They were nowhere to be found. So we picked up our bags and headed straight to Baan Hualamphong - another hotel near the station where we'd stayed before. Nothing special, but clean and honestly run.

It was too late in the day to ring the travel agent and find our tickets. If you want a sleeper to a popular destination like Chiang Mai, you need to book at least a few days ahead so we spent the night worried about our chances of getting out of Bangkok.

The following morning I woke early and rang the agent - they had the tickets and couriered them over within an hour. What a relief. Now we could enjoy a day in Bangkok.

The metro was nearby, so we used it for the first time. Unlike London's Tube, its range is pretty limited so it's not always very useful. But also unlike The Tube, it's cheap, clean, cool and efficient.

We visited Jim Thompson's House, a mildly interesting collection of Asian artefacts and artworks, and wandered through Lumphini Park - Bangkok's answer to Hyde Park or Central Park.

We returned to the hotel, grabbed our packs and marched to the station. We learned a lesson from the last trip to Chiang Mai - three months before - and this time booked sleepers aboard an air-conditioned carriage, and made sure we got at least one lower berth.

We were rewarded with an infinitely more pleasant 12-hour trip to the north. Not even the obnoxious American who got himself outrageously drunk and tried to feel up every female tourist in sight could ruin it.

The next morning we were in a song thaew to The Emporium, the pleasant and cheap hotel where we spent two weeks the last time we were in Chiang Mai.

The familiar sights and sounds of our favourite street greeted us, and we were treated like long-lost friends by the people at our favourite eatery across the road, by the man who makes our coffee next door, by the flamboyant lady boy who runs our favourite neighbourhood bar, the brilliantly named Golden Ball. Even the chap who does our laundry was pleased to see us.

That's why Chiang Mai is the closest we've got to a home at the moment, and we love it.

Amazing Angkor

2007-10-23T10:11:00.001+01:00

You know when you spend years looking forward to seeing something amazing, and build it up so much in your mind that you're just a little disappointed when you finally see it in real life? Well, Angkor Wat is nothing like that.

Despite wanting to see it almost since I first heard of it, and despite looking forward for months to visiting these ancient ruins as one of the big highlights of the trip, I was still surprised and amazed by Angkor Wat. It is, literally, awesome.

You know it must be great - it's not only on the national flag, but the national beer is named after Angkor. Can you think of a higher honour? Me neither.

We got up to Siem Reap, the nearest town to the temples, by boat from Phnom Penh. The boat plies its way up the Tonle Sap – which starts off as a river, then widens into a flooded plain and, finally, becomes the biggest lake I've ever seen. It's virtually an inland sea, and its waters help feed practically all of Cambodia.

The boat up here isn't particularly pleasant, unless you like to be squeezed into a cramped seat deep inside a narrow metal sweatbox. If the boat were operating anywhere outside of Asia, it would be sealed from the off – you wouldn't be allowed outside.

But in this region devoid of health and safety regulations and personal liability laws, you're more than welcome to climb out the front doors and risk life and limb tiptoeing along a precariously narrow apron along the outside – all while the boat zips along at about a million miles an hour.

But the boat is always overbooked so someone has to make that dangerous journey to get to a spot on the roof. Fortunately, it wasn't us.

After five hours, we reached Siem Reap and were picked up by a cheerful tuk-tuk driver sent by the guesthouse. We spent the afternoon checking out the town, which is great. A bit Wild West, Siem Reap is dusty and a bit backwards, packs of stray dogs wander about and the electricity seems to go off at three o' clock every afternoon – but the people are friendly and the whole place has a great vibe.

And how many other towns do you know can boast a restaurant with a pit full of live crocodiles – big ones – in the corner?

The next morning, we were ready to see Angkor Wat. The name 'Angkor Wat' is used to describe a whole region of many and varied ancient temples and ruins, but Angkor Wat itself is just one of them – it's the most famous one you will have seen in all the pictures.

It's not like, say, the Taj Mahal – you can't just go to one spot, see it and go home. You need transport and at least a few days. You can hire a car or a van, you can go on an organised tour on a bus, or you can hire a tuk-tuk driver to pick you up each morning.

We hired a tuk-tuk. We chose the driver who had picked us up from the boat, Sukla. Sukla ferried us about for most of the next week for about $10 or $15 a day. A bargain – he was knowledgeable, helpful and attentive (his contact details are below if you're coming here anytime soon).

We climbed aboard that first morning a pair of very excited tomb raiders. First we had to stop off at the ticketing area and buy a pass – we opted for the full week version for $60. You can also get a one-day and a three-day version, but the one week pass is the best value if you have the time to use it.

Then it was back into the tuk-tuk for the short drive to Angkor Wat. We were practically leaning out of the tuk-tuk to grab that first glimpse, and as we rounded the temple's enormous moat we finally saw it in the distance.

We gasped. For a start, it's absolutely enormous. The three towers, shaped like lotus buds, pierced the sky in the distance as we scrambled to reach the stone causeway that bridges the moat.

But first we had to negotiate the crowd of kids you get at every one of the Angkor sites, selling guidebooks, drinks, scarves and all manner of souvenirs. After a while , the shouts of 'Lady, you buy from meeeeeee' or 'Meester, you wanna a cold beer' (at 9.30 in the morning?) become as much a part of the Angkor experience as ruins and carvings.

Fortunately, the kids are sweet and not too pushy - although you can't help but feel concerned that they are here selling things when they really ought to be at school. But that's Cambodia - you work before you can even walk, apparently. For all its cute-ness, it's a sad thing to see.

And these kids are smart little cookies. When they find out which country you're from, they spout all sorts of amazing facts and figures, and a stunning variety of expressions in poor Aussie accents. We've had everything from 'g'day mate' to 'how you goin', Sheila' to - a classic, this one - 'a dingo stole my baby!'

But my absolute favourite had to be the young girl who drew a deep breath and blurted out, as if it was one long word, this little gem: 'John-Howard-is-your-prime-minister-but-not-for-very-much-longer'. Girl after my own heart. Still didn't buy anything off her, though.

Once past the kids and across the causeway, we were in Angkor Wat itself. You walk through an enormous stone structure and find yourself in something akin to a courtyard - the biggest damn courtyard in the world.

In the distance are the beautiful three towers - right at the end of another stone causeway flanked by beautiful ornamental nagas and other figures from Hindu mythology. It's a breathtaking sight.

The temples were built around a thousand years ago by the Khmer kings - Khmers are ethnic Cambodians, essentially - who once ruled huge swathes of South East Asia. They traded mainly with India and were apparently deeply impressed by their culture. So they adopted the Hindu and Buddhist religions, and built many, many great temples to display their piety.

Inside many, if not most, of the temples are intricate and elaborately carved bas reliefs depicting scenes from the Ramayama, the great Hindu epic, stories about the kings that built the temples, and hundreds and hundreds of Apsaras - the topless celestial dancers who entertained the gods. Some of the reliefs take up 50 or 60 metres of wall, all in meticulously carved detail.

There are something like 30 or 40 of these temples scattered across the countryside - some of them, like the main Angkor Wat, beautifully restored and as close to pristine as a 1,000-year-old temple can be. Others are ruins buried deep in overgrown jungles.

And as huge as Angkor Wat is, it's not even the biggest of them. Just to the north is Angkor Thom, an enormous complex of temples and royal palaces.

That was our next stop on that first day - to see The Bayon, a brilliantly crumbling collection of black-rock towers. There are dozens of these towers, each carved with three or four serene and enigmatic faces. It's hard not to be in awe as you look up at all these huge and ancient faces smiling down at you.

One of the surprising things about Angkor is how free you are to do what you like. Some of the most precious bas reliefs are roped off - though no one guards them - but in most of the temples, you're free to wander around and touch anything you like.

I don't know if it will last forever. It probably shouldn't, really. But while it lasts, it's certainly fun to scramble around, through and over just about anything you see.

Another essential part of the whole Angkor experience are sunrises. If only seeing them didn't involve setting off at five in the morning. But, the very next morning, we did just that. It was worth it - witnessing the golds and purples of the sun rising over the towers of Angkor Wat is something Amanda and I will never forget.

Unfortunately - there's another essential part of the whole Angkor experience: the crowds. It's not even high season yet, but there are a lot of people here at the moment. A lot.

Even at that ungodly hour there were at least a couple of hundred people awaiting the sunrise. In a temple the size of Angkor Wat, there's plenty of room for everyone. But at our next stop, a distant but small temple called Banteay Srei, the crowds made the place uncomfortably cramped.

And, after we took a day's break, we found the crowds not only large but obnoxious on our first visit to one of the 'jungle temples' - temples rising out of a barely cleared stretch of dense jungle. This was Ta Prohm, an incredibly atmospheric crumbling ruin.

The bits of ancient temple lie around covered in years of moss, or are half-choked by the grasping tendrils of huge strangler fig trees.

It's an enormously picturesque scene, and that's part of the problem. The masses of tourists we encountered here are not content with standing back and taking photos of the ruins.

Oh, no. No, they have to put themselves in every picture. These people were practically fighting each other - I certainly saw a little pushing and shoving going on - to get themselves in front of one of these trees for a keepsake photo. And many of them weren't happy with one - they did it for every one of these trees they saw. Do they have shockingly cynical friends who simply refuse to believe they went to Angkor Wat unless they bring home photographic proof?

Even a tough climb doesn't put off the crowds. One late afternoon, Amanda and I walked for 20 minutes uphill on a dirt track to watch the sunrise on Phnom Bakeng, a steep hill overlooking Angkor Wat. It was already crowded when we got there, but as sunset approached more and more people streamed in. When the crowds got so thick that we literally couldn't see the horizon, we gave up on that sunrise.

Then on the way down we passed one tour group after another. We must have passed, literally, 600 or 700 people on their way up. God knows how they all managed to fit up there - or how disappointed they all were when a storm eventually blotted out the sunset.

But don't get me wrong - the crowds are nowhere near bad enough to ruin the experience, but I wouldn't want to be here in high season and I certainly wanted to get away from them.

Fortunately, I found a way to do it. It's pretty simple, really: get up very early and head for one of the outlying temples.

So the next morning I was up at 5am again for a trip to the Rolous group. This group of three temples were part of an older city built by the Khmers before they moved some miles away to Angkor.

I headed for the main temple of the three, called Bakong, to watch the sunrise. There's a working, modern monastery at the foot of Bakong and when I got there at first light there were just a couple of monks about.

One had a torch and raced up what is basically an enormous ancient pyramid topped with the same lotus-bud tower as Angkor Wat. The orange-robed boy's name was Somna and he was just 12. I didn't really need his help getting up, but I was happy to have his company as I sat at the top and waited for the sun to rise.

He was as fascinated by me as I was with him, but he was even more fascinated by my camera - it all looked deceptively professional sitting atop a tripod and pointing towards the spot where I figured morning would break.

I was still barely awake, but the early rise was worth it. I got to sit atop an ancient temple pyramid, just me and a monk, and watch the sun rise over the surrounding fields and rice paddies.

I wanted to take a photo of the young monk but as the dawn arrived, the sounds of chanting started up from the monastery and Somna raced off without a word. Never did see him again.

I wandered around the ruins for ages - enjoying seeing it bathed in a golden morning light. And even after all that time, there was no one else around.

Except for a cow...

...and some kids on the way to school.

After Bekong, Sukla drove me to Beng Mealea. This ruin is even further away - it took more than an hour to get there - and if you want 'jungle temples', this one is the real deal.

It's well off the beaten track and it's a completely unrestored ruin. I wondered why that was until I crossed what was once the temple's moat and saw a sign on either side of me. They both proclaimed that 'This minefield has been cleared'. And only about five weeks ago. I was a little stunned.

You need a guide to get around this one, and one of the gaggle of uniformed girls who staff the place leads you around. Over piles of precariously balanced rocks, through tiny holes in walls, down darkened internal corridors. And, again, not a tourist in sight.

If you have an Indiana Jones or Lara Croft fantasy, then Beng Mealea is the place to live it out.

But travelling to somewhere well off the beaten track is no guarantee you'll miss the crowds. The next day kicked off at a place called Kbal Spean. It took well over an hour and a half to get there, crashing and bumping along the most diabolical dirt track I have ever seen.

'This is great,' I thought to myself. 'No tourist bus is ever going to drive across this.' Wrong. When I got there I instantly noticed - count 'em - nine tour buses parked outside. Bugger.

Kbal Spean is not a temple, but a length of burbling river running down a mountain. What makes it remarkable is that someone, a thousand years ago, carved depictions of Vishnu and Shiva, a Yoni and hundreds and hundreds of stylised Lingam (ask your mum).

These things are carved into the living rock below the waterline. Someone actually waited until the height of the dry season and laboriously carved shapes and pictures out of the rock of the riverbed. It's amazing.

But what's even more amazing is just how many tourists are happy to ignore the very clear warning signs to wade into the river - which flows dangerously fast down a steep hill until it reaches a waterfall with a very long drop to the bottom - to stand on these precious, and slippery, carvings. All for a photo opportunity.

I'm surprised none of them died. Maybe some did. Here's hoping.

But for all those crowds, Kbal Spean remained a remarkable sight.

That was the last of five days of exploring temples, and I spent the rest of the day touring East Mebon, Ta Som and Neak Pean - all uniquely interesting places in their own way.

Sukla was keen to keep going for a sixth day, but I was finally all templed out. It took five solid days of exploring, two sunrises and something like 24 temples. I was tired, happy and completely in awe - and resolved to visit Angkor Wat again someday.

But next time, I'll make sure I'm there in low season.

If you're coming to Angkor Wat and want to hire Sukla, you can give him a ring on 012675726. Or you can find him parked outside the Two Dragons guesthouse - look for the guy with 1079 on the back of his tuk-tuk tunic. I can't recommend the guesthouse (it's rubbish) but I can definitely recommend Sukla!

Oh, and all my Angkor Wat photos are here.

The other Cambodia

2007-10-14T08:44:00.000+01:00

Phnom Penh isn't all broad boulevards and happy pizzas. Far from it.

Even in a corner of the world known for its miserable recent history, Cambodia still stands head and shoulders above the rest for tragedy.

As most people would know, the notorious Khmer Rouge spent a little less than four years, from 1975, apparently attempting to wipe out all vestiges of anything good from Cambodia - killing around two million people in four short years.

As an act of genocide, this horrible episode has few parallels.

While tourists come to Cambodia mainly to see he ancient ruins of Angkor Wat - ourselves included - the country's grim past can be confronted by foreign visitors. You can ignore it if you want to - that's not hard - but most choose not to.

It's not a pleasant piece of sightseeing, but a necessary one if you want to try to understand Cambodia and Cambodians.

The place to begin is Toul Sleng museum in the suburbs of Phnom Penh.

Toul Sleng was an innocent school before Pol Pot and his vile cohorts decided to turn it into a prison - the notorious S-21. But it was more than just a prison, a lot more.

S-21 was a centre for interrogation and torture for the Khmer Rouge. Detention was just the beginning for the many of thousands of innocents who were brought here. Over periods of weeks, months and sometimes years, people were forced to concoct one ridiculous confession after another, and were brutally tortured.

Only a handful of the poor souls who were brought here survived.

The prison has been kept pretty much as it was found when the invading Vietnamese chased the Khmer Rouge out of the country in 1979 - only with a ticket booth and gift shop added.

You're free to wander from classroom to classroom - each turned into a grim cell. The bigger cells - used for interrogation and torture - usually hold a rusting iron bed and the implements of torture are placed upon them - batteries, shackles, whips.

The smaller cells, in which prisoners awaited their turn to be tortured, are in a second block of the complex. Here the jailers knocked holes in the classroom walls to connect them, and then built hundreds of tiny brick cells. They are so small you could barely sit down in one.

The landings outside the cells are covered in barbed wire - not to stop inmates from escaping, but to stop them throwing themselves to their deaths as soon as they got the chance.

Some of the cells are turned over to chilling exhibits: there are torture contraptions I wouldn't even want to describe, and room after room of black-and-white photos of doomed inmates taken by the prison administrators - who were meticulous record-keepers.

Another room contains some of the most powerful exhibits here: simple written accounts by people whose husbands, wives, brothers, sisters, sons or daughters were taken away to Toul Sleng. Few of these people knew exactly what had happened to their loved ones, but most suspected and there was nothing they could do about it. After 1979, they learned the devastating truth.

It's very easy to lose sight of the individual terror and pain felt in a place like this when you're overwhelmed by photo after photo, cell after cell. But these stories bring home the countless personal horrors and heart-breaks that go to make up a national tragedy.

If you ever come hear and read these stories, you may shed a tear. I did.

But, strangely, the locals don't seem to feel the same. Most of the visitors on the day we were there were foreigners, but the few Cambodians that were there seemed to find the whole thing dreadfully funny - laughing at everything and mucking about. Odd.

Out the front of the prison are the white tombs of some of those who died here. But with at least 10,000 people perishing at Tuol Sleng, there was never the room here to dispose of the bodies.

So the Khmer Rouge used to take them out of town - to the now notorious 'Killing Fields'.

One of these Killing Fields - there were many - is at a place about half an hour outside of Phnom Penh called Choueng Ek. Choueng Ek is where most of those who were held at Toul Sleng were eventually dumped.

They were driven out to this part of the countryside - often being told they were going to spend the day labouring - and unceremonially shot. As the Khmer Rouge's policies ground down the country and bullets became scarce, they were stabbed or beaten to death.

However they died, their bodies ended up being dumped in mass graves at places like Choueng Ek.

Choueng Ek is a moving memorial now. The government has built an enormous pagoda, filled with skulls recovered from the surrounding Killing Fields. The skulls are arranged by gender and age - and there are thousands of them.

You buy some flowers and some incense sticks from a stall nearby and step up onto the memorial, offering the flowers and incense as a tribute to the brutally murdered. Or you can do what I saw an American guy do, and get your laughing girlfriend to take a photo of you in front of the skulls with a big grin and both your thumbs up.

After that, we wandered around the Killing Fields themselves, basically shallow pits into which corpses were thrown. If you keep looking at the ground, you'll soon notice that bits of human bones are still lieing around.

In fact, some young locals boys ran up to me, holding a human leg bone for me to look at.

I'd like to have asked these kids if they knew what this place was all about, but they ran away moments later when a policeman suddenly appeared in the distance.

They were just little kids, but I hope something of the significance of the place has sunk in for them. Just so all this never happens again.

There are some more photos of Tuong Sleng and Choueng Ek here.

Holiday in Cambodia

2007-10-12T02:50:00.000+01:00

Sitting in a boat moored on a choppy river in the pouring rain while waiting for your passport to be returned by a mysterious Vietnamese guy is not the best way to spend the morning.

It's even worse when it happens to be your birthday.

In the end, crossing the Cambodian border was pretty straightforward but, as usual in South East Asia, no one gives you any idea what's going on - so you can't help but worry.

We climbed aboard a tiny enclosed speedboat - like a mini-van of the water - with four others and raced upriver through a thunderous storm to the Cambodian border.

When we arrived at the Vietnamese exit point, we pulled up at a jetty and a man boarded to collect and take away our passports. Given that your passport is the most valuable thing you own when you're travelling, it's amazing how often and how easily you have to give it up.

So who was this guy? The guy captaining the boat didn't speak enough English to explain, so we just had to trust the man and hope for the best. An hour later, we pulled away from the jetty - without our passports.

The boat captain smiled and grinned when we protested, obviously trying to tell us not to worry. A few minutes later and we're floating somewhere between Vietnam and Cambodia, watching a local woman washing her clothes in the river. For no apparent reason.

Finally, we pulled up at the Cambodian border jetty - still without our passports - and we were asked to get off and sit around a table. Suddenly, the first man turned up and started distributing passports - and now they've got Vietnamese exit stamps, a Cambodian visa and Cambodian entry stamps. Phew.

A few hours of river cruising later and we arrived in Phnom Penh. The capital is not what I was expecting at all. I had imagined a run-down provincial capital crippled by poverty and neglect.

But when you arrive, you find yourself on a pretty waterfront packed with happy locals and tourists in bars across the road. The French influence is obvious here - it looks exactly like the croisette in any Riviera town.

We climbed into a tuk-tuk - a different design here, and they're so large you feel like you're tooling around town in a golf buggy - and headed for the hotel. The hotel - which Amanda had chosen for my birthday, was beautiful. A renovated French colonial pile with a sparkling swimming pool in the gardens. I felt like a rock star.

The hotel is owned by a foreigner, as is - apparently - every business in Phnom Penh. Every hotel, restaurant, bar and shop we've been into has been staffed by Khmers, but run by and for foreigners. Magazines for foreigners abound. It's an expat sort of town.

Unfortunately it's been a public holiday since we got here and the place is empty. Big broad streets, no cars - it's a little eerie, especially at night.

Actually, it's probably not the best place to be at night. It's immediately obvious that anyone that can afford it places their buildings behind impressive walls, and all have at least one security guard keeping an eye on the place.

But during the day, it's a pleasant place to be. Fortunately, a couple of museums were still open, despite the holiday.

We visited the National Museum, a slightly ramshackle collection of ancient busts and statues, many from Angkor Wat.

Many of the statues are of Buddha and, unlike any other museum I've ever visited, they are being actively worshipped. Incense, flowers and prayer mats are placed before them and the locals stop and worship in between admiring the rest of the exhibition. When was the last time you saw that at the British Museum?

Also open was the National Palace and the Silver Pagoda. One is the ceremonial heart of royal Cambodia, the other is its most venerated temple - but it's really all one huge complex.

The main room of the Silver Pagoda is particularly impressive. It's named for its many thousands of solid silver floor tiles. Unfortunately, most of them are covered up by rugs.

Here you can also see hundreds of Buddha statues and images made of solid gold and encrusted with diamonds and precious stones. In a country of such crippling poverty, it's odd to see such amazing riches on display.

But since they are charging all us foreigners six bucks apiece to see them, I'd say they've found an effective way of making their riches pay for themselves.

Later we found ourselves down along the quay, watching the locals promenade along the waterfront while a spectacular lightning storm lit up the sky over the river.

Here on the waterfront is a great place to see in action Cambodia's general attitude for the law. They have them, but who cares? For along the waterfront is a variety of establishments selling 'happy pizzas'.

Yes, they're pizzas topped with marijuana. Of course it's technically illegal, but given that they are being sold quite openly and without fear of arrest or prosecution tells you all you need to know. And, yes, we had one and, yes, we were pretty happy.

Why not? Phnom Penh is a pretty happy kind of place.

Last day in Vietnam

2007-10-09T07:08:00.000+01:00

It's our final day in Vietnam. Tomorrow morning we'll be on a boat to the Cambodian border and then on to Phnom Phem.

The trip to Chau Doc was the usual Vietnamese shambles – picking us up from the hotel in a car too small and too crowded to actually fit our bags (they ended up piled up on a back seat with me on top of them). The driver got us to the bus terminal on the fringes of town and walked off.

Fortunately we were able to work out which of the dozens of unmarked buses and mini-vans were ours. The trip was supposed to take four hours, but the driver went like the clappers – much of it in the wrong lane – and got us there in just two.

Chau Doc turns out to be a great place. The local tourism association ought to call it something like the 'Pearl of the Mekong'. Like Can Tho, it's not overly pretty, but it's been a very pleasant place to spend a few days.

The town manages to be bustling and laid back at the same time, with plenty to see and do.

Our first stop – after a night in one of the best and the cheapest hotels we've enjoyed anywhere in Vietnam – was Sam Mountain. We hired two scooter drivers for the trip – 10 or 20 minutes all told, with a very and bumpy and steep ascent up the mountain.

Sam Mountain is a 'mountain' in the same way Vietnam is a 'socialist republic' – both do just enough to live up to the label, but no more than that. Anywhere else in the world, Sam Mountain would be just a hill.

But the Mekong is flat – oh so flat – so any elevation is remarkable. The view from the top is even more remarkable, and we watched the sun go down – at least until a storm raced over the horizon and blocked it out.

It's about the only rain we've seen here – we've been very fortunate with the weather. It's been hot and dry and sunny almost without a break. If we didn't have news channels in the room, we'd never know dozens of people have been killed by a typhoon in nearby central Vietnam.

The next day we embarked upon a little voyage that is the main attraction around these parts - a boat tour around some of the many crowded tributaries of the Mekong Delta.

We rocked up to the waterfront and negotiated a hire of a boat for two bucks an hour. It's an easy thing to do here, you're practically accosted by boat owners as you reach the waterfront.

We gingerly stepped onto a makeshift pontoon and into a wooden motorboat. Thank God it had a roof, it was scorching out on the water.

The boat took the two of us out onto the river for a close-up look at the rickety houses crowding the opposite bank. From a distance, they seem to be built on the shore, jutting out on to the water.

But when you're next to them, you can see they are either houseboats or stilthouses - built on wooden or cement stilts hammered into the riverbed - and are far out from the shore.

Many of these houses operate as fish farms, and our boat guy took us on board one of these farms. They are quite ingenious contraptions built over the water, with enclosed sides beneath them that keep the fish in.

Built into the decking that forms the floor of the house is a trapdoor - lift it and the water laps just beneath it, and the farmers can feed their fish until they are big enough to drag out and take to market in Chau Doc.

The next stop was Con Tien island. We reached the island by clambering onto a wooden boardwalk far out in the river and walking into a Cham - indigenous Vietnamese tribespeople - village.

Inevitably, we were lead straight into their workshop - really a giftshop with a loom on display. But at least the textiles they were selling were of superior quality and reasonably priced. Amanda bought three pretty scarves.

We were still over the water, in a wooden stilthouse, but soon we found ourselves on land, on the island itself.

Con Tien is an interesting place. The locals are actually Muslims, and it feels as if you've stepped into a tropical version of the Middle East. The people don't look Vietnamese, and the men wear Islamic skullcaps and some of the woman wear hijabs. There's even a rather grand mosque.

That was the last stop of the trip, and our last bit of sightseeing in Chau Doc - and Vietnam.

We are going to miss Vietnam - we'd stay longer if they were more generous with their visas. The people have been great (except in Hoi An!), the sights amazing and the food spectacular (better even than in Thailand).

But there is something we certainly will not miss, something I've been dieing to get off my chest for a while!

That something is the apparently irresistible urge of anyone involved in the Vietnamese tourist industry to twist the truth. I don't know what the reason is, but they just cannot help themselves.

A perfect example is the trip we took to Ha Long Bay, when we were told explicitly and repeatedly that there were only 10 people in our group. They omitted to tell us that there were three groups of that size on the boat.

Okay, technically it's not a lie. But it certainly isn't the whole truth and, at best, it's, er, 'economising with the truth' - that's the most polite way I can describe it.

It's also completely typical. Time and again we have been mislead on small but crucial details of tours we've taken. The sad thing is, it's completely unnecessary. Tours are dirt cheap and you don't need to imply that lunch is included when it's not - no one minds that it isn't, they just want to know so they can take enough money with them to buy some.

But when you're lied to - even inconsequentially - it leaves a sour taste in the mouth.

It's as if the country can't believe it's luck when it comes to a pretty sudden influx of tourists, and that they'll all go away if they don't tell little fibs all over the place.

They need to take a leaf out of Thailand's book - what you see there is what you get, and there's no messing about.

Fortunately, it's not bad enough to prevent anyone having a great time in Vietnam - we certainly did.

But if you want my tip on how to best enjoy seeing the sights around the country then - and I cannot stress this enough, people! - hire a xe om.

For just a little bit more cash you will avoid the half-truths and shambolic disorganisation of the Vietnamese tourist industry. Instead you will get a local who knows his part of the country inside and out, and you will get to spend some time seeing a slice of real Vietnam in your own time and at your own pace.

As a bonus, it's great fun.

One other tip I can offer - if you're interested - is to learn to say 'thank you'. Sounds obvious, I know - being able to thank people in their own language is a well-known golden rule of travelling.

But in Vietnam, you can say more than just literally 'com on' - the 'on' is pronounced like the Spanish 'un'.

Depending on who you're talking to, there is one word you can add to the end of that. It's 'em' for someone younger than you (for us, practically everyone we've dealt with in Vietnam!), 'ong' for an older man, 'chi' for an older woman, and 'ba' for stooped and grey-haired old folk.

Learning this makes all the difference, believe me. The Vietnamese go a little ga-ga if you get it right. At the very least, you'll get a big grin - but I've had slaps on the back and shakes of the hand just for making that little bit of effort. At the very least, the service will improve infinitely.

It's the single most useful piece of advice I can give to anyone about to enter Vietnam, just as we're leaving it.

So we've loved this country, we've had an amazing time and we'll definitely return one day.

Com on em, Vietnam.

My mate the Mekong

2007-10-05T16:51:00.000+01:00

The Mekong has become like an old friend of ours.

From our first glimpses of the mighty river in Thailand to the slow boat journey down one long stretch of the Mekong in Laos, we've come to know it very well.

It was only a matter of time before we saw her again. And so we found ourselves back on the Mekong, this time crammed into a tiny car ferry near the end of a journey from Saigon to Can Tho.

We were the only foreigners aboard the ferry and with all eyes upon us, we felt like animals in the zoo - but everyone was smiling and friendly. Amanda found herself chatting to a young boy in an immaculate school uniform, while a man with a shy young daughter asked me, quite inexplicably, for my phone number.

From the ferry we could see the rubble of a major new bridge that collapsed a couple of weeks ago, killing around 60 but somehow not gaining a fraction of the media attention garnered by a bridge collapse in America that killed eight.

The short hop from one bank to another took just minutes and soon we were in the heart of the throng spilling out of the ferry, two human islands surrounded by a sea of scooters - and their delightfully aromatic fumes.

And so we were in Can Tho, the largest city in Vietnam's Mekong Delta - where the river finally ends its epic journey all the way from the Himalayas and spills out into countless tributaries as it strains to reach the sea.

The river ensures this part of the country is Vietnam's breadbasket - the vast majority of the nation's produce is from the green and fertile delta.

Can Tho is the delta's unofficial capital, but as we walked off the ferry and first set eyes on it, we though the signs weren't good. We arranged a couple of xe oms, jumped on the back and were relieved to see that the town gets nicer as you get closer to the waterfront.

I'll admit that Can Tho is never going to win any prizes for beauty, but it has a certain scruffy charm. The waterfront is busy and breezy, dominated by a huge and fantastically ridiculous statue of Ho Chi Minh, made entirely from tin.

Across the river, just over Uncle Ho's shoulder if you see him from the right angle, is an enormous neon sign advertising '100% Natural Latex Matresses'. How can latex be natural?

There are tourists here, but not many - so Can Tho feels properly and satisfyingly Vietnamese. But there are enough facilities for tourists to make it easy enough to travel to and find a place to stay.

Amanda found us a hotel right on the waterfront. It's nice... OK, 'nice' is possibly an overstatement, but it's clean, comfortable and cheap - so we're happy with it.

The only drawback has been the place's owner, or manager, or whoever he is. In a country where selling unnecessary tours to tourists is a much-loved national pastime, this fella still stands head and shoulders above the rest.

Even before we had looked at a room, he was asking us to go on a tour the next morning. Amanda went upstairs to check out a room, and he continued with me. I said I wasn't interested.

When she came back, he motioned us to sit down while he checked our passports and gave us the usual paperwork to fill out - standard practice here. Or so we thought.

In fact, he dispensed with the usual routine in favour of continuing to talk us through the tour we were apparently going on the next morning. You know... the tour we didn't want.

We told him we were tired and wanted to check in and enjoy a shower, but he refused to even give us the door key until we'd heard him out in full. We politely turned him down - again.

When tried to leave the hotel to get something to eat and take a stroll around Can Tho, he had another shot. Now he was beginning to get really irritating.

But that was nothing. An hour or two later, we were walking off lunch with a good look around town. We were many blocks away from the hotel, when who should suddenly pull up next to us on his motorbike? You guessed it. The hard sell continued. The man was stalking us!

We were aghast. It was so pathetic and amateurish we were almost embarrassed for the guy. Almost. So we refused yet again and he reluctantly drove off. He tried yet again late that night, and I finally had to tell him we'd leave the hotel if he didn't bugger off. We've not seen him since, so he must have got the message.

Or maybe he's sitting all alone on the tour he just can't seem to shift tickets to.

The trip he was trying to sell - and all those like it - is the main reason tourists come to Can Tho. The area right around the city is famous for its crowded floating markets.

All the tours take you to the nearest one, Cai Rang. But Cai Rang has a reputation for having almost as many water-borne foreigners as local traders, and we turned down his tour because we thought we could do better than that.

Besides, we've not exactly fallen in love with the crowded-bus-and-boat tours the operators pack us foreigners on to. The best trips out of town we've done in Vietnam have been on the back of a pair of scooters, and when you're on to a good thing you should stick to it.

So we got up at the very un-holiday hour of half past five this morning, with the hope of finding some xe om drivers to ferry us to a more distant, and less visited, floating market called Phong Dien.

I headed to the ATM for a wallet top-up, while Amanda scouted out some drivers. Fortunately, even at that hour, they are everywhere and she soon recruited two friendly drivers to get us there and back.

Can Tho is no Saigon and we were out of town in no time, racing past some of the countless tributaries of the Mekong, over rickety wooden bridges and through little market towns. We were under clear blue skies for the first time in some 10 days, and enjoying the real Mekong Delta.

At one point, we slowed a little to navigate through a muddy patch and around a corner. Suddenly I was delighted to see we were manouvering across a wooden pontoon reaching out onto the Mekong, and racing onto a crowded and tiny ferry.

There are many of these little things, taking commuters from one bank to the other - some just feet apart - where there are no bridges.

After 45 minutes, we got to Phong Dien and our drivers dropped us off. We walked along the waterfront to see the hundreds of wooden boats making up a bustling and authentic local market.

We were told we'd immediately be offered a boat trip by an enterprising trader - not true. In fact, no one was interested. But one of our drivers appeared and lead us across a wooden bridge. Within moments, he'd negotiated a deal for us - with a deserved cut for himself, I'm sure! - and we were soon aboard a long and narrow wooden boat.

Our captain headed straight for the thick of the market: hundreds of boats selling all sorts of produce and goods. If they sell it, they advertise it - by hanging a sample from a bamboo rod mounted high on the front of their boats.

And you name it, it's sold here. Not just produce, but drinks, ice and even cooked food - with little makeshift ovens aboard someone's boat.

At first we were powered by a noisy engine, but once within the market it becomes so crowded that people get around by merely pushing or pulling themselves against the boats crowded around them.

Best of all, there were no other foreigners around. We did eventually spot one other couple of travellers - a far cry from the hundreds at Cai Rang at the same time of the morning.

The people of the Mekong are said to be the friendliest in Vietnam - especially the ones not accustomed to seeing tourists all the time. While on the ferry over to Can Tho we felt like zoo exhibits, here we felt like celebrities. Everyone waved and grinned, all the children shouting out 'Hello!' and giggling when we shouted back.

Eventually, we reached the outer edges of the market and the guy piloting the boat stopped to score us a couple of coconuts for the journey back. It was getting hot - and it was still before eight in the morning - and we lapped up that coconut juice with great enthusiasm.

We were on the water for an hour, and smugly congratulating ourselves for avoiding an organised tour. If you ever come to Vietnam then take my advice, see the country on the back of the scooter. You'll have fun and experience parts of the country most others don't.

Tomorrow morning - at a far more reasonable hour - we're moving even deeper into the delta, to a town near the Cambodian border called Chau Doc. It's supposed to be a pretty and relaxed place, so we'll be whiling away the final days of our visa there, before we cross the border on the 10th.

It's longer than most people spend on the Mekong Delta. But why not? There's a lot more of it to see.

Saigon crazy

2007-10-04T09:03:00.000+01:00

How great it is to be back in civilisation.

We flew into Saigon and soon had our love for Vietnam revived, after Hoi An almost sapped it completely.

Saigon is wild. It's lacking the charm of Hanoi - one of our favourite places on the trip so far - but it's still a fantastic and fun place.

We're ensonced in a nice hotel in Bui Vien Street - the heart of the city's backpacking district. It's Saigon's answer to Khao San Road in Bangkok, except it's good.

Unlike Hanoi, there's no taste of France in this part of town. Around Bui Vien, you are in a pulsing, noisy, bustling and unmistakebly Asian metropolis. Maybe that's why we love it.

Sure, there are plenty of foreigners around - especially from the I've-got-dreadlocks-and-a-same-same-but-different-shirt brigade - but even in the centre of cheap tourism, the locals outnumber us by hundreds to one.

In fact, the street buzzes with local life. Cafes and bars that spill out on the street at night, packed restaurants pumping out delectable barbecue smoke, incessant beeping horns and the shouts of the locals as they chat from opposite sides of the street. It's heaven.

But the French influence certainly does exist in the centre of Saigon (no one seems to call it Ho Chi Minh city, by the way). In fact, once you leave the packed Asian alleyways behind, you venture past the enormous and spectacularly out-of-place Catholic cathedral and the beautiful European-style GPO.

In fact, as we wandered the wide boulevardes of the city centre, we were reminded of any large European city. There were even a couple of streets that are reminiscent of Manhattan.

Of course, there is an American influence in Saigon - but it's not in the architecture. If you want to see it, you don't have to go far - just visit Saigon's number one tourist attraction, the War Remnants Museum.

The museum is not the greatest, I'll admit. Its displays are pretty much limited to gruesome photos of the horrors visited upon the nation's citizens in the Vietnam War - and a set of deformed foetuses pickled in a jar, silent victims of Agent Orange.

The captions on the displays are full of anti-American vitriol. A lot of people I've spoken to and guides I've read are deeply critical of this sort of rhetoric. Perhaps I'm biased, but I think this stuff is almost measured given that the Americans spent more than a decade here letting loose an historically unprecedented number of bombs, napalming innocents in the countryside, and supporting more than one vicious regime in the name of fighting Communism. What else would you expect?

But the museum's main attraction is its grounds, which are packed with captured American helicopters, jets, tanks, heavy artillery and all sorts of frightening military equipment.

That theme is continued around the corner, where a Soviet-built tank sits just inside the grounds of the Independence Palace, also known as the Reunification Palace.

The tank - and the palace - are part of history. On a hectic and frightening day in April 1975, the tank - at the head of conquering North Vietnamese forces - smashed its way through the gates of the palace.

The palace had been the seat of the government of South Vietnam, and on that April day the war finally ended. More NVA forces followed the tank and stormed the palace, raising the flag of a unified Vietnam.

A few blocks away, at the now-destroyed US embassy, US and foreign personnel were desperately fleeing the country in helicopters leaving from the embassy's roof. After the loss of countless lives on both sides, America had lost - and the North's reprisals were about to begin.

The palace itself is a brilliantly tacky 1960s affair. The ticket includes a mandatory guided tour, so Amanda and I followed around an enthusiastic young chap who spoke a new and incomprehensible variety of English.

The building boasts floors and floors of tacky and ostentatious rooms that once housed America's puppet regime. The highlight of the tour is the basement - a bunker from which the war was (unsuccessfully for them) executed.

It appears untouched from the mid-1970s - with maps, furniture and hulking communications and computer equipment still in place.

Although the guide was incomprehensible, he was at least friendly - something he has in common with most of Saigon.

After the aggressive hostility of Hoi An's unpleasant citizens, it's a relief to be back where people are friendly again.

Sure, there are still a lot of people trying to sell you stuff you don't want or need, but it's done politely and without harrassment. Even those who don't want anything from you still smile brightly.

And we've had a lot of fun mixing with the locals. On our second night, we wandered down to a street nicknamed Restaurant Alley for dinner. We didn't quite find it, as a crowd of locals eating in a restaurant on the street noisily persuaded us to dine where they were dining.

One even pressed a beer into Amanda's hands and urged her to down it one. And she did - what a trouper!

The menu was entirely in Vietnamese and we were able only to figure out bits and pieces with the help of some back-of-the-guide-book translation. Somehow we ended up with barbecued prawns on skewers and some baked pork. Both were unbelievably delicious.

We returned a few days later and tried again. This time we ordered different prawn and pork dishes. The prawns arrived cooked in delicious roasted garlic... and then we got the pork. Even as it arrived, we could see it wasn't meat as we usually know it.

I picked up a piece and slid it into my mouth. It was liver. And I love liver. And it was the most beautifully delectable liver I've ever eaten. Amanda's not as much a liver-lover as I am, but after one taste she ate as much as I did. It was that good.

And remember, if you're a food lover head over to Amanda's blog for a lot of Asian deliciousness.

Unfortunately, the restrictions of our visa mean we can't spend as much time in Saigon as we would like. In fact, we're about to board a bus for Can Tho, a city south of here in the Mekong Delta.

But don't worry, Saigon - we'll be back.

Going underground

2007-10-03T05:47:00.001+01:00

I think I've had enough of tunnels.

Although I've already seen the tunnels in which a whole beleaguered community lived in Vinh Moc, I wanted to see the Viet Cong's fighting tunnels at Cu Chi, a popular day trip out of Saigon.

The tunnels here were never really lived in, but used for sheltering guerillas from American raids and springing attacks of their own. They were never meant to be any more than functional, so they were never widened to accommodate facilities like maternity wards or small theatres, like those at Vinh Moc.

Consequently, they are narrow. Very narrow. To get inside them, I had to go down on my hands and knees and climb into a muddy hole and crawl through. I still don't know why I did it.

As I moved through the tunnel, with most of the rest of my tour group, the clay tunnel got darker, hotter and more frightening, until it's pitch black and the walls are pressing against my head, my feet, my shoulders.

I admit it – I was absolutely terrified. I found myself having to fight off a rising tide of panic, concentrating instead on moving ever forward until light appeared, and I could gratefully clamber out of the exit.

Fortunately there's a lot more to the Cu Chi Tunnels than just the tunnels. A couple of hours outside of Saigon, it's the most popular day trip you can do and it's on offer with all the tour agents in around the backpacking area of Bui Vien Street.

You can opt for a half-a-day tour to the tunnels, or a full-day tour that includes a visit to the Cao Dai Great Temple at Tay Ninh, a couple of hours from Saigon, and that's the tour I took.

The Cao Dai temple is really something else. Cao Dai is an indigenous Vietnamese religion, and a wacky one at that. Founded in the 1920s by a civil servant who was into seances, it attempts to fuse Taoism, Confucianism, Buddhism and Christianity (why isn't it called 'Christism'?) and any other religion it can find.

The religion has a load of saints, including familiar names such as Shakespeare, Napoleon and – get this one – Winston Churchill. I have no idea how or why this lot were chosen to be part of their pantheon, but play your cards right and they might worship you one day.

A weird religion should really have a weird temple, and Cao Dai's got one. The seat of the religion, the Great Temple could have been designed by Walt Disney. It's a riot of bright colours, fairytale flourishes and strange imagery – the most common being the Divine Eye, the same eye-inside-a-pyramid you see on the American one-dollar note.

The temple hosts four services a day, and we're dropped off to see the one at noon. You have to take off your shoes and enter through one of two doors to the side of the main entrance – men on the right, women on the left.

Once through the door, I had to step over dozens of men in white robes congregating around the entrance, waiting for the service to begin. Some look like they've had their fill of tourists, but most smiled or waved as I passed them.

I was ushered up some stairs and onto a walkway running the length of the temple, and offering a great view of the altar below. The whole place was enormous and inside it's very reminiscent of a Catholic cathedral. Apart from some pillars painted day-glo pink, the interior is much more restrained than the exterior of the temple.

Suddenly the service began. From behind me a band struck up, music that sounded rather like the high drone of an Indian snakecharmer.

Hundreds of men and women in many versions of the one white robe - segregated and each sticking to one side of the temple – filed out and formed neat rows. At first they stood, and then they fell to their knees.

They began softly chanting in time, and the chanting filled the temple like the sound of a breeze. Their heads nodded up and down, hundreds of men and women in synch - until somewhere ahead of me a gong sounded, and they all bowed to the ground.

That continued for many minutes – simple but mesmerising. Like many religious ceremonies, it's basically absurd but somehow touching.

If you want to see more photos I took of the temple and its worshippers, have a look here

It was all so fascinating that I forgot the time and had to race back to the tour bus before I was left behind forever. But I made it, and we were soon on our way to the day's main attraction – the Cu Chi Tunnels.

Cu Chi is a town just outside Saigon – in fact it seems more or less a satellite suburb these days – that everyone involved in the Vietnam War was keen to hold and protect as a gateway to Saigon itself.

In the nearby jungle, Viet Cong guerillas were encamped and were able to harass American and ARVN forces. Americans and south Vietnamese would try to catch them, but the guerillas would vanish into the complex of tunnels hidden in the undergrowth. There's something like 250kms of tunnels here – one of them even ran right under an American Army base.

You kick off the tour by watching a mandatory and very hilarious propaganda film about the tunnels, before being lead into the steamy jungle to see them. We were shown tiny hidden trapdoors that lead into the tunnels and a whole series of vicious and lethal booby traps used to hinder the enemy in finding them.

It started bucketing down with rain the moment we got there, and track that takes you around the sight was instantly flooded. We gingerly stepped through the undergrowth, especially after one guy trod on what appeared to be an innocent puddle and suddenly found himself waist deep in mud.

You're never going to get closer to the experience of a GI in the Vietnam War than creeping around the jungle in the pouring rain, especially with the rat-a-tat of nearby gunfire ringing in your ears. And I don't mean a piped soundtrack of gunfire, I mean the sound of real guns shooting real bullets.

It turns out that the complex includes a firing range next to the souvenir shop, set up for us tourists. Yes folks, you get to fire a gun. It's tacky and it's tasteless, and I had to have a go. The bullets cost abut $1.50 each, but you have to buy a minimum of 10 – more money than I had on me.

So I split the cost with another guy on my tour group and together we decided on an AK-47 – you have a choice, but that was the only one we'd heard of – and we were lead onto the so-called National Defence Firing Range.

The guns are all lined up on a low brick wall, each with an official looking after them – and you.

He locked and loaded the gun – or whatever it is you do with them – and showed me how to stand and how to hold the AK-47 – a fearsome looking weapon up close. The gun is actually bolted to the wall, so you can't actually pick it up.

I've never even touched a gun before, let alone fired one, and it's a little nerve-wracking when you get it in your hands. I took aim at a distant paper picture of a tiger and gingerly pulled the trigger.

Click.

Nothing happened. The attendant pulled back on some part of the gun on the side, spitting out a bullet, and I tried again. Same thing. He did it again and I did it again, and still it didn't fire. He messed about with it some more, smiled and signalled that I should try again.

I squeezed the trigger. This time it worked. The AK-47 is bolted down so tightly that there's no recoil, although you can feel it fighting to break free as it lets loose the bullet. It made an almighty crack that scared the life out of me. It's the loudest noise I've ever heard, and my ears were ringing for an hour afterwards.

For the record, I hit not a thing with my five bullets. But at least now if anyone asks if I've ever fired a gun, I can say in grizzled voice: 'Yeah... back in 'Nam.'

Just don't ask me about the tunnels.

No fan of Hoi An

2007-09-28T14:15:00.000+01:00

On the way down here, we heard a lot of great things about Hoi An.

'It's beautiful.'

'It's peaceful.'

'It's great.'

There must be two Hoi Ans, because the one we stumbled into is not beautiful, it's not peaceful and it definitely is not great. The Hoi An we have found is a disappointing and irritating tourist trap.

The disappointment began with the famous Japanese covered bridge, the town's top tourist attraction. Yes, it's old. Yes, it's historic. But that doesn't mean I have to like it. And I don't. It looks like it was slapped together yesterday afternoon out of someone's left over timber.

How appropriate, then, that the bridge is the emblem of Hoi An. The historic and supposedly beautiful streets are all made up of old buildings that are either decaying, and not elegantly, or are pretty poor fakes.

And just to make it a little less attractive, someone has come up with the brilliant idea of linking up a system of loud speakers in its tourist district, playing a soundtrack all day long. Great idea – if they had decided to play, say, traditional music. But they don't – they play elevator music at full volume. Walking the streets while hearing a Muzak version of You Don't Bring Me Flowers makes me feel like I'm in a movie. A very, very bad one.

Perhaps I'm being unfair. I'm sure Hoi An was a charming place once upon a time. And I think many of the old buildings would be very pretty, if only they weren't all packed to the rafters with tacky tourist tat and shouty shop owners.

And there's your problem, Hoi An. A once appealing place has been wrung dry for all its tourist appeal until its original charm has been utterly obliterated.

The most significant sights are now little more than big shops with small museums attached. People scream at you from every shop and pounce on you if you dare to walk within a few feet of the door. Shopping in peace is simply not possible here.

Even more irritating are the people who follow you on their scooters as you walk the streets, aggressively demanding to know where you're staying. As if it's any of their business.

I couldn't fault all this hard sell if the shops – and my God, there are a lot of them – were packed with buying tourists. But every single one of them is deserted, because the tourists – who are of course keen to spend money – are too afraid of the inevitable aggressive sales pitches to enter. Many dash from street to street trying to avoid the hawkers and touts.

If the shop owners took a leaf out of Thailand – or indeed, the rest of Vietnam's – book and sat back and let their products on display do the work, I'm sure they'd find their shops full of happy buyers. And even happier shop owners.

Instead, Hoi An is flirting with trading its reputation for being a pretty and historic town with one of being a charmless and irritating tourist trap. To my mind, it's already there.

It's not that I'm naive or new to persisent sales techniques (hello India!). But never have I seen traders behave with as little grace or humour and as much aggression and hostility as I have in Hoi An.

It's a tribute to its complete lack of appeal that we tried to flee after little more than half a day there. We climbed onto the back of a couple of scooters and headed for Cau Dai beach, not far from Hoi An.

The beach turned out to be a lovely place to spend the afternoon. Locals still wandered the beach trying to sell us stuff, but at least they were friendly and took 'no' for an answer, a change from the sour and insistent attitudes encountered in Hoi An.

Unfortunately, there are no Thai-style bungalows in which to stay in Cau Dai, just resorts beyond our budget. So after sunset we returned – to book a tour the next day and a flight out of here as soon as possible. We wanted to get the train, but again it's been booked out for weeks.

So this morning we got up early for a half-day trip to My Son, ancient Hindu ruins about an hour and a half out of Hoi An. The ruins were beautiful, but the tour we took was shambolic – it left half an hour late and then forgot to pick some people up, leaving us waiting in the bus outside of town for another half an hour while they were ferried to us.

We got to My Son so late that we got little time to actually enjoy it. In fact, there were major parts of it they wouldn't even let us go to, such was their determination to stick to their schedule. Disappointing.

So tomorrow we finally head for Danang, where the nearest airport is, to catch our flight to Saigon.

You won't be surprised to learn that I will not miss this place, although I appear to be alone in thinking that. I'm no fan of Hoi An.

Hue to go

2007-09-26T09:09:00.000+01:00

One thing Hue is famous for in Vietnam is terrible weather. And it lived up to its reputation while we were there. It has some sort of micro-climate which turns it into a warmer version of Britain. It drizzles a lot in Hue (pronounced 'Hway').

When it isn't drizzling, it's pouring. On our first day here, we braved the drizzle and got up to explore the town's famous citadel. Within half an hour we were trapped in a torrential downpour that lasted all day. Hue's sights are mainly out of doors and are unfortunately tough to enjoy when it's raining so hard you can only see a few feet in front of your face.

But yesterday morning we saw the sun poking through the clouds and had to take full advantage. I may have been a little saddle sore from my tour of the DMZ, but I still climbed up onto a bike. A bicycle this time.

Amanda and I braved the traffic – Hue is a hectic place – to get to the old part of town. The old town is completely surrounded by a massive citadel wall, inside of which is a living, breathing city. Homes, shops, restaurants, bars and schools. But deep inside the citadel is an ancient Imperial City, from which a succession of emperors ruled central Vietnam until they were supplanted by the French.

We parked our bikes inside, admiring from close quarters the massive flag tower that dominates Hue, and which was one of focuses of the Tet Offensive in 1968. It faces the main gates of the Imperial City, through which emperors, their mandarins, wives and elephants once paraded.

Now it's only tourists coming and going across the beautiful moat, filled with lotus flowers, and through the imperial gates. You buy a ticket from a man at the desk and then, a mere three feet later, hand your ticket over to a ticket collector. That's communism for you.

The complex inside is enormous. There are all sorts of beautiful palaces and pavilions built on endless green lawns, dotted here and there with elegant ornamental gardens. Most of the buildings have been well restored and conserved, but some are slowly crumbling away – and you can scramble through the ruins and go wherever you feel like.

You could easily spend hours at the Imperial City, and we did. The afternoon slipped away as we explored the place, imagining what it must have been like to be an idle Vietnamese royal before the French came and took all this away.

When we got back on our bikes and rode back into the city of Hue, we soon discovered we were on the roads during rush hour. Hairy. There were scooters everywhere, racing by at impressive speeds while hammering their horns.

And there were Amanda and I, stranded in the middle of various intersections as we tried gingerly to navigate a safe crossing. We successfully got to the iron girder bridge which only allows bikes and scooters to cross the river – and it was so packed with people on two wheels that we could barely see where one lane ended and the other began.

We got behind an old lady on a bicycle and just followed her, as all the scooters raced by us. All seemed well, until we got off the bridge and discovered just how hard it is to turn left from the right-hand lane when the frantic – and unsympathetic – traffic is against you.

In the end, we made a hasty decision to go with the flow and turned right instead, careering down the road until we got a chance to turn around and head back in the right direction.

With our visas running out on October the 10th, we really had to move on from Hue, but there were still sights we wanted to see. Amanda organised a bus ride to our next destination, Hoi An, for the following afternoon, which gave us the morning for some more sightseeing.

To my surprise, she went and bravely booked a half-day motorbike tour, her first, of the royal mausoleums that dot the countryside around Hue. So the next morning, we donned some helmets and jumped on the back of two scooters.

This time we got two young guys with big smiles. Mine was leading the tour, Amanda's guy didn't speak much English. Unlike Bill, who took me through the DMZ, these two were keen to move a little faster.

They raced out of town, darting in and out of the traffic to get us to the sights just a little faster. I was having a great time, but I could see Amanda was hanging on tightly to her driver, but grinning all the same.

Now, while the emperors of Hue lived in their Imperial City, they chose to be buried in the countryside – in beautiful and ornate mausoleums they designed themselves. The mausoleums are more than mere tombs, they are huge complexes which often served as country estates for the emperors who built them while they were still alive.

The first was Tu Duc's mausoleum. This guy was a funny chap – he wasn't much interested in ruling and instead spent most of his time holed up in the mausoleum with his hundred wives and countless concubines, drinking lots of wine and writing poetry.

He also found time to write his own eulogy, which is carved on a stone tablet erected above his last resting place. It's apparently a 4000-word explanation of why it was so tough to be him. What did a man who spent all his time drinking wine with his wives and concubines have to complain about? He obviously felt life was hard on him, but I wish I had his problems.

He may have been a whinger, but he had great taste. Tu Duc's mausoleum is a beautiful place. You start with a reflective lake, full of lotus flowers and hosting a serene wooden pavilion, where Tu Doc drank his wine and wrote his poetry.

Away from the lake is a variety of evocative stone tombs, gates and pavilions, all built near ponds or bubbling waterfalls – and all in relaxing gardens full of whispering pines. You could easily get lost for hours.

But we had our bus to Hoi An to catch in the afternoon, so we reluctantly left the mausoleum for our next stop. We were going to go Minh Mang's mausoleum, which is the most popular one amongst tourists because it's right by the river and therefore simple to get to on one of the many thousands of boats plying the waters of Hue.

But our drivers told us Minh Mang's resting place was pretty similar to the mausoleum we'd just seen and recommended Khai Din's tomb instead. Well, there's nothing like a little local knowledge, so we took their advice.

The road there was circuitous and bumpy, and a lot of fun. Our drivers took us on an insanely enjoyable roller-coaster ride, racing around corners and haring it up and down the hills. We were driving higher and higher, and eventually emerged in a clearing in a pine forest on a hill, offering a view of the countryside for miles around.

But it was Khai Din's mausoleum that drew our eyes away from anything else. This emperor was an even stranger chap than Tu Doc. He visited France once and was taken with all things French and decided to design a tomb that combined classic Vietnamese and French styles.

Unlike Tu Doc's tomb, which covers a wide area, Khai Din built his bizarre confection on a steep hill, and it basically amounts to sets of stairs climbing ever upwards as if to heaven, with his actual tomb at the very top, crowning the complex.

The climb is broken every now and again with enormous terraces populated by stone mandarins, horses, dragons and elephants. The view of the surrounding hills from each terrace gets progressively more impressive, until you reach the Baroque tomb at the top.

The rooms here are filled with French ornaments and architectural flourishes – you could easily be inside the Louvre. In the very centre of all this is a huge, stepped tomb, every surface covered in a riot of colourful and garish mosaics and topped by a life-size bronze statue of the emperor himself. It's all a little odd.

We climbed all the way back down to the entrance and raced back into Hue and followed the Perfume River to the Thien Mu Pagoda, an old but working temple populated by monks of all ages.

As beautiful as the temple is, it is for its place in recent Vietnamese history that it's best known: in 1963, one of its monks, Thich Quang Doc, drove his blue Austin down to Saigon, got out at a busy city corner and became the first of many monks to set himself alight in protest at the repressive policies of the American puppet regime of President Diem.

The car is on display, along with a chilling photo of the brave monk committing fiery suicide, a photo that shocked the world at the time.

And that was our final stop in another highly enjoyable motorbike tour. The guys got us back to our hotel with half an hour to spare, and hung around to chat with us until our bus arrived. The bus turned out to be comfortable, climbing the mountains south of Hue and through a very impressive tunnel – it took more than 15 minutes to get through it – under the Hai Van Pass.

That brought us to Danang, Vietnam's third-largest city and once the main base for US troops in the Vietnam War. We didn't stop there for long, and drove south past the Marble Mountains – little like a mini-Ha Long Bay without the bay – and enjoyed the briefest glimpse of the famous China Beach, where so many exhausted American GIs enjoyed a little R&R.

After yet another packed day, Amanda and I could do with a little R&R ourselves.

Weird scenes inside the goldmine

2007-09-24T15:10:00.000+01:00

That's me, deep underground in the Vinh Moc tunnels, an amazing complex of subterranean tunnels and rooms that once sheltered hundreds of Vietnamese from the incessant bombing of US forces during the Vietnam War.

Families each got a tiny room off a main tunnel, none larger than a single bed, and the tunnels contains wells, washrooms, a medical centre and a maternity ward, even a small meeting hall and a theatre.

The whole thing appears at first to have been carved out of stone, but when you scrape your fingernails against the walls you soon discover that it it's been dug out of soft, red clay.

The tunnels were the last stop on a brilliant tour I did yesterday of the 'Dee Em Zee', the part of Vietnam that once officially formed the border between the warring north and south of the country, and which was the focus of much of the fighting and bombing that makes the Vietnam War such a miserable episode in the life of this country.

Everyone offers tours of the DMZ out of Hue, usually in a bus and usually with dozens of other tourists and a tour guide. I opted for something a little different - I was driven around the DMZ on a back of a motorbike by a former soldier, for whom the many sights along the way had a personal resonance.

The trip was advertised as a motorbike tour but, of course, there was no motorbike. I don't think I've even seen a motorbike in Vietnam. Instead I was on the back of a Honda scooter, so it was just like a longer version of my many trips around Hanoi on the back of zippy moped - except I got a helmet this time.

The DMZ covers a wide area, so an early start is required. At 7am, the irrepressible Bill turned up at our guesthouse and together we were off through the streets of Hue, where Amanda and I are staying, and were soon heading out of town.

Our first stop was for breakfast, and Bill told me his story over a strong black coffee.

Born in 1945, Bill joined the South Vietnamese army, the ARVN, as a young man and his ability to speak English soon got him involved with the American Marines attached to the 21st Airborne Division as an interpreter.

He was with the Marines throughout the rest of what is known here as 'the American War', but in 1975 found himself on the losing side as US forces left the country. He had to lie low, and became a monk for five years. It's only in the past few years he has been able to be open about his past.

Bill - he had to choose an Anglicised name when he hooked up with the Marines - had a tough time of it and is still angry with the Americans for not taking him to the US, and safety, when they left. But he's not bitter in fact, you couldn't ask for a more cheerful and fun tour guide.

And Bill had plenty of stories – more than I could ever tell you here. If you come to Hue, look him up and you're sure to be as spellbound as I was.

After breakfast, we got back on the bike and headed for one of the many, many cemeteries built by the Communist government for the countless thousands of North Vietnamese soldiers who died in the war. There doesn't seem to be any equivalent for the soldiers who fought and died for the ARVN.

The cemetery was empty and quiet, a sombre sight. But it turned out to be just a prelude for Troung Son, the national cemetery built just inside the area officially designated as the DMZ in 1954.

Here enormous Socialist-style statues tower over more than 10,000 graves - all exactly the same but for the name and dates, all in neat rows. It is a sea of yellow stars on red fields. I found myself completely alone there, just the noise of a gentle breeze to keep me company.

After half an hour gazing on this sober sight, we were off again. Out on the open road, it felt like we were racing along at breakneck speed - but I could see Bill's speedo and we never got over 40kms an hour.

We passed and were passed by dozens of locals on their own scooters, all waving and smiling at me as soon as they got the chance. One women even accelerated to catch up with us, so she could chat. Wheel to wheel, racing along in the same lane, she shouted to be heard.

'Where. Are. You. From?' she screamed over the wind and the sound of both our bikes. I told her and she grinned. 'I. Am. From... Viet. Nam!'

This has to be the friendliest part of South East Asia, and that's saying something. I think that by the end of the day I had chatted or waved to every child in central Vietnam.

As we raced by giant Communist billboards (I was moving too fast to get any photos, sadly) and rice fields, Bill pointed out apparently innocent ponds in the paddies. 'Bomb holes,' he said. There are hundreds of them.

Later he pointed out an enormous empty field behind some houses, with more bare red earth than green fields visible. It was what used to be the largest Marine base anywhere in central Vietnam, and you can still see where buildings and airstrips used to be.

Soon we were passing by rubber plantations, owned by the government and planted on land that has only recently become fertile enough for agriculture after years of lying fallow - because of the damage done to the land by the immense scale of US bombing here.

He drove into and past one plantation and soon we were off the road, scaling a hill via a muddy track. The ground here still cannot support much life, although the view of the surrounding countryside was impressive.

Which is exactly why the Marines chose this spot to build Con Thien firebase – the name literally means 'fairy hill', but it was not a happy place during the war. Here the Americans were able to pound NVA positions, and the NVA pounded them right back.

All that's left now is a cement bunker, riddled with bullet and heavy artillery holes – scars of intense fighting that virtually never stopped here, even after the North Vietnamese overran the place in 1972.

Bill showed me decaying sand bags left over from those troubled times, and on the way back to the bike we spotted an old artillery shell lying innocently on a rock. Bill warned me not to touch it, but he need not have bothered. I had already taken note of the many signs around the countryside warning people not to go in various areas where unexploded ordnance remains – waiting to cruelly end someone's life more than 30 years after the end of the war.

Bill told me he came up to Con Thien firebase once during the war, aboard an American helicopter. Now he ferries occasional tourists to it – mostly American veterans who, said Bill, see it and cry for hours.

Back on the bike, we drove to Hien Luong Bridge – which once marked the very divide between the north and the south. You can still see the towers from which both sides used PA systems to assail each other with rival propaganda. Bill said they often got into petty arguments with each other, arguments that could be heard for miles around.

The original bridge was destroyed in 1967 and the one there now was built in 1973. In turn, it's been replaced by a modern road bridge nearby and has fallen into disrepair. A big sign clearly warns you not to cross, but Bill insisted I should.

I was doubtful, but the bridge looked strong and safe. So I clambered over the fence and walked from one side of the Ben Hai River – the famous 17th Parallel – to the other. And I was now officially in North Vietnam.

The final stop was the Vinh Moc tunnels. Hot and claustrophobic, it's impossible to imagine that hundreds of people made a life here. The tunnels emerged on a beach from which hundreds more launched another life – risking everything to climb aboard a tiny wooden boat and float to Hong Kong or Australia. The so-called boat people were trying to escape the triumphant North Vietnamese. Many never made it. For most, this beach was their last view of their homeland.

So then it was time to return home to Hue.

Unfortunately, I had no idea just how uncomfortable sitting on the back of a scooter can be. Around Hanoi, the trips never lasted longer than 10 minutes – not nearly long enough to discover just how tough it can be on your backside.

And on the way up to the tunnels I didn't notice it, either – we stopped every half an hour or so to look at something.

But coming back from Vinh Moc is a three-hour ride. At first the seat is very comfortable. At first.

Half an hour later is a different story. It's not like you can move around or change seating positions when you're flying along on the back of a scooter. First your bum gets numb, then it feels red raw.

Fortunately Bill felt my pain, so we stopped every half an hour for a short break, and that was enough to save my posterior from permanent damage.

So Bill and I spent the late afternoon cruising down the freeways of central Vietnam – part of the world so recently ravaged by an utterly pointless war.

As we rode, Bill and I watched the sun set over rice paddies and small towns you'd usually never see, until he got me home at around seven – tired, with a slightly sore bum, but with a whole new view of Vietnam.

If you're in Hue and you're interested in touring the DMZ with Bill, you can ring him on his mobile on 0982859152 or email him at nguyenvanthanh1945@yahoo.com. Don't let the slightly sore backside put you off, it's well worth it!

I love the sight of Ho Chi Minh in the morning

2007-09-21T06:16:00.000+01:00

The ultimate tribute you can make to Vietnamese Communism is to go and meet Ho Chi Minh. But be warned, he's not well.

Like Lenin and Mao, the father of modern Vietnam is preserved in a mausoleum and you're welcome to take a look.

Unfortunately, the tediously strict Vietnamese visa rules mean we had to abandon plans to get the sleeper from here to Beijing and back and so I have yet to see Mao's body. But 10 years ago I saw Lenin's in Red Square, so visiting Uncle Ho is the second part of this sacred troika.

Perhaps they could get the three of them together and tour the museums of the world – I think a Dead Reds tour would be huge.

Anyway, if you ever find yourself in Hanoi and fancy seeing Uncle Ho, make sure you get there early – the mausoleum opens at 7.30 in the morning (who wants to view a corpse before breakfast?) and closes at 10.30.

I suspect he's actually still alive and gets up for a cuppa at half ten.

The first time we went to see Ho, we arrived at just after 10.30, and missed him entirely. For the next few days we had to make do with seeing his loveable face smiling up from every banknote, T-shirt and poster in town.

The next time we made sure we got there in plenty of time. Just as well, as there are a lot of pointless procedures to go through before you come face to face with the father of modern Vietnam.

First, you have to submit to a metal detector and drop off your bags – you can take nothing with you but yourself - while a very stern woman demands to know if you have any guns, knives or bombs on you. Who would own up? She doesn't miss the chance to sell you a pointless and uninformative brochure, either.

As Amanda fairly asked: 'Why all the security? The man's already dead, for God's sake.' Good point.

But that's not the way the Vietnamese think, apparently, because you still have to go through another metal detector.

Then you follow one of two long white lines on the ground that seem to snake half way across town before finally turning the corner into the long road facing the mausoleum.

It's an impressive sight. Not pretty, but impressive. A monstrous grey granite building faces you – surely far bigger than a man of Ho's diminutive physical stature should ever need.

As you continue the walk, the elaborately uniformed guards become more and more common. And judging by their behaviour, more and more bored. They look for anyone straying off the two white lines, which are only inches thick, and force them back into place.

Amanda found that out the hard way when she meandered a millimetre out of place and was shoved back where she apparently belonged. Seconds later, as we climbed the steps of the mausoleum itself, one of them barked at her to remove her sunglasses. Yeah, these guys are seriously bored.

As soon as you enter, you're hit by a blast of cold air. It takes only moments to round the corner and enter the room in which Ho Chi Minh, who wanted to be cremated, rests against his will.

You come in behind him and walk a short loop around him. He's a little below you, in an elaborate wood and glass sarcophagus, dressed soberly and with his hands resting on his lap. Even dead, he somehow looks benevolent and loveable.

Behind him on the granite wall is the hammer and sickle and a Communist star motifs. The atmosphere is, not surprisingly, sterile and sombre.

You have no chance to pause – the guards make sure everyone moves along at a fair clip. Amanda – who by now must be listed as an enemy of the state - dawdled for one second and a guard grabbed her by the arm and shoved her, not gently, along.

And then you're out. An hour's queuing, a minute's viewing. Well Uncle Ho, it was nice meeting you.

That's it for amazing Hanoi - tonight we're flying south to central Vietnam and the country's ancient capital of Hue. We were going to get the overnight train, but it was booked out weeks before we got to Vietnam. No matter - turns out it's cheaper to fly!

We heart Hanoi

2007-09-20T06:41:00.000+01:00

“I could live here”

Amanda's words on just our second morning in Hanoi sum up just how quickly and easily we've fallen for Hanoi.

After the hassle of the amateurish taxi scam, we slept soundly in the right hotel and woke up with fresh eyes, determined not to let that first bad taste of Vietnam sour our view of the capital. And when we stepped out on to the street and wandered the Old Quarter, we were thrilled and amazed.

Hanoi looks nothing like any other Asian city I've ever seen. Sure, it's busy and crowded but as we wandered the tight alleyways and lanes of the Old Quarter we were reminded not of Bangkok or of Chiang Mai – but of Paris.

The similarities are uncanny. The colourful awnings of the cafés, the Belle Epoque architecture, the narrow streets. And it's not just of Paris that we're reminded – we've seen streets that could be in Barcelona, squares that could be in Italy.

In fact, there's an enormous Catholic cathedral here – St Joseph's - that is built in a square that is the very replica of any such square in Mediterranean France, Spain or Italy. We were standing in one of the alleys leading away from the cathedral – green louvred windows, the walls painted yellow and graffiti that read: “Milano!” - when its bells rang out. We were suddenly in Italy. It was surreal.

It even has districts, like you sometimes see in European cities and towns. There's a clothes district, a haberdashery district, a shoes district, a hardware district, an electronics district, a toys district, even a banging-shiny-sheets-of-tin-into-something-mysterious-but-probably-useful district.

The best I can describe the look of the place is a Paris that's been transplanted in South East Asia and slowly allowed to go to seed, elegantly and in the most pleasing way.

But where Luang Prabang had that French colonial look, Hanoi is very different. Its similarities are to a more urban France, and while Luang Prabang is preserved in aspic for the tourists, Hanoi is anything but preserved.

Luang Prabang is also pretty quiet. Hanoi is not. There's the traffic for one thing. My God, the traffic! Its streets are as busy as Bangkok, but without the ridiculous gridlock. Maybe because everyone – I mean everyone – is on a scooter. Scooters must outnumber cars by at least 100 to one.

You see scooters piled high with some amazing loads - you wonder how it's possible to stay upright when you're carrying a passenger who's holding onto an enormous fishtank, complete with water and fish. I actually saw that!

Add to that all the woman in the conical straw hats (yes, they really do where them) carting all manners of things in baskets hanging from yokes carried over their shoulders.

There are few traffic lights, so if you're going to get around Hanoi you quickly have to learn to get across the road. On our first attempt, Amanda and I spent about 10 minutes just staring at the constant traffic – how were we going to get across?

Then we saw an old lady near us. She stepped, without fear, onto the street and just walked as if the street was empty. To our amazement, the crashing river of traffic just absorbed her – scooters seamlessly darting around and past her until she was across.

So we took a deep breath and dived in ourselves. And it really is like being in a fast-flowing river. You feel like you're being buffeted one way and the next, but you push on until you clamber safely on to the opposite bank.

Now it's second nature. We just walk across the road with our heads held high as scooters whiz by us, millimetres away, and don't even think twice about it.

Of course, there are other ways of getting about besides walking. There are taxis – same as everywhere else, but check they're licensed before you get in or you'll be vastly overcharged.

There are cyclos, which are basically rickshaws that travel at slower than a walking pace and are strictly for tourists – they are everywhere, and if you've not been offered an hour's tour in a cyclo four hundred times in one day then you're obviously not in Hanoi.

But the best way to get about is the xe om (pronounced 'say om'). This mode of transport could not be simpler – it's you on the back of someone's scooter.

The drivers hang about on practically every street corner and wave as you walk by. If you're interested, they jump on their scooters and pull up for you to climb on. Then, for a few pence, you're off.

It took me until yesterday morning to get the nerve up to try a xe om (and until last night to persuade Amanda to give it a try!), but now I'm addicted. It feels a lot safer than it looks, and it's exhilarating to be darting in and out of the traffic, and past the pedestrians that used to be you.

You would think all this hectic excitement would have been dulled a little in the capital of a country still actively ruled by a Communist regime. But no one seems to notice that.

It certainly affects the look of the place, though.

In the French Quarter, where the alleys become wide boulevards, old French mansions stand next to the occasional Soviet-style granite edifice for organisations with names like 'Hanoi Power Company Number One'.

Statues in the Socialist realist style abound – white granite depictions of workers and soldiers striving to reach a workers' paradise, that sort of thing. We've even seen a couple of Lenin statues – and you don't even see those in Moscow any more.

In the Old Quarter, there are little areas where party announcements and posters are pasted up to be viewed by the locals.

There are little socialist touches everywhere. My favourite so far has been the napkin holder you see in restaurants – a cartoon of a stereotype Italian chef holding a pizza is beneath the proudly emblazoned words 'Work is Glory'. Weird.

For a Communism junkie like me, it's heaven. Of course, I don't have to live with it.

But none of this seems to get in the way of Hanoi's love for life. It doesn't dull the cacophony of beeping scooters, the chatter of the locals, the astonishingly good food, the drive to buy sell and trade you see everywhere.

It's an exciting place, Hanoi. And, yeah, I could live here.

Messing about on boats (again)

2007-09-16T18:06:00.000+01:00

After our epic voyage down the Mekong, boats are becoming something of a theme on our trip.

But a three-day cruise around north Vietnam's Ha Long Bay wasn't quite the same voyage as a trip down the Mekong. This time we enjoyed a little luxury, locals weren't climbing on and off board and it cost a whole lot more. But, to be honest, I didn't enjoy it nearly as much.

The Ha Long boat cruise is a standard one for most tourists that come this way - from independent backpackers to pensioners on package tours. It's offered by every guesthouse and travel agent in Hanoi. We picked the tour we did after a lot of research on the Net and finding it highly recommended - and decided to pay the extra, about £100 each for three days and two nights. You can do the same for as little as £30 each, but horror stories about the cheapo deals abound.

But in the end, Amanda and I didn't think it was worth what we spent.

But don't get me wrong - we had a great time. It didn't quite live up to our expectations, but they were probably a little high. And we did have fun, thanks to the great bunch of people we were on the boat with.

We met first thing in the morning in Hanoi when we piled into our mini-bus for our three hour drive to the coast, over Hanoi's Red River for the first time - seeing a bridge still sporting the scars of American bombing in the 60s and 70s - and through the towns and villages of north Vietnam.

On the bus with us were a lovely Aussie couple from Brisbane, a fun pair of Kiwi guys, an Australian guy returning home after a long time in the UK (sound familiar?) with his English girlfriend and Matt Damon and Salma Hayek. Well, actually, a great Californian couple who could have doubled for them.

It's just as well we all hit it off, because the tour company was determined that we stick together at all times. When we arrived to board our boat - a beautiful replica junk called Dragon's Pearl - we were put at the same table for lunch and positively discouraged to mix with the other 18 people on board. One woman sat down with us and was shooed away by the staff.

And speaking of other people... we had all been told repeatedly that there were only 10 other people in our group. But when we got there, we found that this was technically true, but that there were two other groups aboard.

The boat was easily big enough to accommodate us all comfortably and we had not been technically lied to, but we'd obviously been mislead and that left an early bad taste in the mouth.

And that's a neat segue onto the topic of food on board the boat. It wasn't bad, but it wasn't good, either. Faux Asian food - none of it even vaguely Vietnamese - for Western tastes. And never enough to fully satisfy. Disappointing.

Now the good news. The boat itself was beautiful. The room was small, of course, but lovely and clean and well appointed. To be honest, it was one of the nicer rooms we've stayed in so far!

And Ha Long Bay itself is beautiful - astonishingly beautiful. It's famous for its karsts, rocky outcrops that suddenly emerge from the emerald green seas. There are, apparently, 1,969 of them - they are everywhere. As you gently cruise about the bay, they are always all around you, and behind each one is several more fading into the heat haze. It makes for a very beautiful and dramatic sight - like a mountain range in the sea.

Unfortunately the water is not as clean as it could be, thanks to the floating villages that appear here and there. Literally little huts built onto makeshift pontoons, they gather together in little clumps and house the local fisherman.

Ha Long Bay is a World Heritage site and the government, we were told, has tried hard to stop the fisherman polluting the waters but it still happens. I can't fault them for that - life has to be tough when you have to live in a bare hut on a floating pontoon. I'm sure they have more important things to worry about than the cleanliness of my swimming water.

Being a World Heritage site, the tourism is strictly controlled. That means that all the tours, and there are a lot of them, have to moor at the same beaches and spend the night in the same small stretches of water. You see a lot of replica junks!

But some tours - ours included - offer kayaking, and in a kayak you can go where you want. It took us somewhere where the water was clear and clean. Kayaking is something I've never done, thought I would never do, and never want to do again. But it seemed a great idea when we signed up.

It turned out to be hard work, but worth it. We got to see some of the karsts very close up, even getting to go inside an enclosed lagoon. That was the first of two sessions of kayaking that day - with a barbecue lunch on a deserted beach in between.

But as much as Amanda and I enjoyed the morning's kayaking, we'd had enough and hung around on the beach for a few hours while everyone else went off to see the inside of a partly submerged cave instead.

While they were gone, a local woman rowed up to the beach with her two little girls to try to sell us some of her crisps, beers, fruit and just about anything else you can imagine. We declined, but her kids took such a shine to us that she left them with us while she went off to hawk her wares to some nearby boats.

The kids were a great laugh - swimming with Amanda, trying on all our hats, sunglasses and generally having a great time.

When we got back, we enjoyed an evening that ended with a few of us being smuggled by the staff into the private back deck for some free beer and lessons in Vietnamese. It was the birthday of one - possibly two, it was hard to work out - and they were keen on defying the captain's orders not to fraternise with customers.

The night before some uptight Australian pensioners had whinged about the staff making a little noise after hours and some had been docked some of their already measly pay. Apparently they had decided that they may as well make the crime fit the punishment, and were intent on enjoying themselves that night. We happily joined in.

The next morning we were taken to the Amazing Cave, also known as the Surprising Cave. If you don't want to know what the surprise is, look away now... the cave boasts a stalactite that looks rather like an enormous penis. In case you miss the resemblance, it's all lit up in pink. Perhaps they ought to change the name to the Childishly Amusing Cave.

After that, the boat pulled out and moored somewhere in the middle of the bay and we got to leap off the deck - an impressively long drop - into the sea. A blast, and the best swimming of the whole three days.

We made it!

2007-09-12T16:39:00.000+01:00

At last, we're in Hanoi. And it's been an interesting trip.

The delay was a pain but there was a bright side. For one, we got to enjoy a little more of the boat race festival in Luang Prabang. I say boat race festival, but the boat races themselves seemed to be little more than an excuse for an orgy of drunkenness. My kind of town.

On the way back from writing the last post in an internet cafe, we were waylaid by one particularly drunk local. He dragged Amanda and I into someone's house and we found ourselves in the midst of a major party.

We were plied with alcohol, we joined in the karaoke – inevitably, it involved South East Asia's most popular song, Hotel California. We were only there for half an hour, but we were treated like the guests of honour.

Another bright side was meeting some of our strandees. James, an English guy living and working in Saigon, his girlfriend Mae from Saigon, and Rob, a backpacker from Jersey. We ended up hanging out with them for a few days, and are going to look up James and Mae in Saigon.

After a night in a nice hotel – free – and a dinner, breakfast and lunch – also free, and worth every penny – we were bussed back to the airport and piled on to the smallest commercial aeroplane I can ever remember boarding. It had propellors, for God's sake.

We figured we'd get a great view of Luang Prabang after take-off, since a flight path goes right over the centre of town and we've been watching planes fly so low over the main street that we felt as if we could reach up and touch them.

We weren't disappointed. The view of Luang Prabang was stunning, and so was the sight of the hills and dense jungle surrounding it from high up in the air.

The flight was quick and easy and soon we were through immigration and officially in Vietnam. But that's when things went a little awry.

The taxi the hotel was supposed to have sent to meet us was nowhere in sight, so we got our own. He raced into town, leaning on his horn and dodging scooters, trucks, bikes, cars, cows and pedestrians all the way.

We made it pretty clear where we were going, but not clear enough. The driver took us to the wrong guesthouse, and some guy practically ripped open the door and tried to hustle us out of the taxi. We knew the street we were supposed to be on, and we knew what street we were on – and the two were definitely not the same.

We knew instantly what was going on – it's the oldest trick in the book. The cab driver takes you to the wrong guesthouse, he gets a commission and you don't have a clue what's going on. Fortunately, we were wise to that one.

But despite our protests, Fake Hotel Guy kept up his desperate patter. Yes, this was The Hanoi Guesthouse. Yes, he had our booking. But it was one of a group of three guesthouses and we had been placed in a better room in the better guesthouse.

Of course we were confused. It was all fishy, but who knows? But Amanda came up with the brilliant idea of demanding that this guy name the hotel manager – she'd been emailing her for a while.

He made a wild stab at it, and the answer was wrong. At about the same moment I spotted a street sign up ahead and recognised it as the street we were supposed to be on. We demanded the driver take us around the corner. Fake Hotel Guy protested. The cab driver protested. We protested right back, and prevailed.

Sure enough, around the corner we found the right guesthouse. Amanda leapt out to check everything was okay. I stayed in the car, but the driver – minus the commission he'd no doubt already spent in his head – was out and trying to throw our bags into the traffic.

I clambered out and told him to hold on. He was hopping mad and decided to start squaring up to me – a pretty comical sight given that I had about two feet on this little chap. I'm sure he was trying to get into my face, but all he was doing was getting into my chest. And even then he was on tiptoes.

I tried to calm him down, but the guy was doing a brilliant job of pushing all my buttons, so in the end I taught him a few English phrases he might not have heard before.

Turned out the hotel was the right one – everything was fine. The owner was painfully apologetic for our minor ordeal, which wasn't even her fault, and gave us a great room with an enormous terrace overlooking Hanoi's old quarter.

The hotel is, according to its brochure, “your ideal resting place”. Well, I don't know about that, but after two long days trying to get from Luang Prabang to Hanoi, we rested very well indeed that night.

So now we've just spent our first day in Hanoi and we're rapidly falling in love with. It's one of the most exciting and intriguing cities I've been to. But I'll have to wait to tell you about that because it's late and I have to start packing.

Yep, Amanda and I are moving on already. But we'll be back in three days for an extended stay in Hanoi. In the meantime we're heading to Ha Long Bay for a three-day cruise - click here to see what we'll be doing...

Famous last words

2007-09-10T11:14:00.000+01:00

"Tonight we'll be eating dinner in Hanoi..."

That's how I ended my last post. Well, no... tonight we'll be dining in Luang Prabang. Again.

Because half an hour after that last post, we were sitting at a cafe enjoying a coffee and teaching ourselves Vietnamese phrases when the heavens opened. And I do mean 'opened'. We've seen some pretty impressive rain storms so far, but this was a whole other category.

Within 10 minutes, the streets were submerged. The steps up to temples had been transformed into powerful cascades. We made a dash for the guesthouse where our bags were being stored, but got as far as a food stall at the end of the street. We took shelter under the vendor's umbrella with a few of the locals. By this time, we were already soaked through.

We had timed the spending of our money very carefully - you cannot exchange the kip for any other currency and we didn't want to get saddled with any significant amount of useless paper. So we had exactly enough to get a tuk-tuk to the airport, but not enough to get a tuk-tuk to the guesthouse.

But Amanda smiled and sweet-talked a driver into taking us to the guesthouse and then the airport for nothing extra.

When I slid and slipped my way into the forecourt of the guesthouse - intent on getting our bags as quickly as possible - I was waylaid by some Laos celebrating that festival I was telling you about. And celebrating it very merrily indeed.

A glass of beer was thrust towards me.

'Drink for good luck!'

I had a bulging pack on my back and another in my hand - this was not the time for a convivial social beer. I refused, but they insisted. 'Drink it, drink it!'. Well... if you insist. I downed it in one, thanked them and raced out into the downpour with the bags.

We made it to the outskirts of Luang Prabang without trouble, but then it became clear that the tuk-tuk had problems. It kangaroo-hopped and spluttered its way along, threatening to break down at any moment. The driver wrestled it, but I think it was the furious silent prayers of Amanda and I that got it there.

It actually did break down - right outside the airport. What a stroke of luck (but not for the driver). We heaved our bags into the airport.

But we weren't so lucky after all: The flight had been cancelled.

It wasn't all bad news. Contrary to all our expectations, Vietnam Air wasn't planning to let us fend for ourselves. We were bussed back into the city and to a hotel they're paying for - meals included - and we're due to fly out at 3pm tomorrow instead.

The hotel has turned out to be quite nice. It's certainly the most luxurious place in which we've stayed in the past two-and-a-bit months (that's not saying much).

I'm going to be sorry I typed this, but... tomorrow night we'll be eating dinner in Hanoi.

Last day in Laos

2007-09-10T04:36:00.000+01:00

Today is our last day in Luang Prabang, and Laos.

We're back in town after four days out in the jungle in a secluded guesthouse that turned out to be nice and the four days of relaxing and reading were much needed - about the only break we've had since we left the beach about six weeks ago.

But it wasn't all relaxing with a book: we enjoyed a trip out to Kuang Si falls with one of the owners of the guesthouse, Khoun. Khoun is probably the friendliest man I've ever met. He bounds up to you with endless enthusiam - you half expect him to lick your face and wag a tail.

He took us out to the falls in his battered old Chinese jeep. No roof, no seatbelts, no rear-view mirrors, no working instruments. A good part of the way there was on a muddy, dirt road through the jungle and, perched high up in the backseat, I felt like Hawkeye in one of those episodes of MASH where they leave the base.

We passed endless air-conditioned mini-vans full of tourists going to the same place. They looked more comfortable than us, but they didn't appear to be having as half as much fun. In fact, on the way to the internet cafe today, we heard an American voice say 'Look, there are those people who were on that jeep'. We must have made a memorable image.

The falls themselves were amazing - nothing like the rubbish one we saw in Koh Phan Nang. The Kuang Si waterfall towers above you in a mountain of crashing water. I'd love to show you a photo, but the spray of the falls made it impossible to take one close up.

Further downstream is a natural pool where everyone goes to swim in clear, blue waters. At least, they are supposed to be clear and blue. But it had been raining for three days by the time we got there, and the pools were muddy, flooded and dangerous. Even the paths and bridges to get there were completely submerged. So no swimming for us.

We did see a tiger, though. Years ago, poachers killed one and someone rescued her cub and they built an enclosure here. The enclosure is the largest I've seen for a big cat, but the poor thing just stays at one end, pacing sadly back and forth.

It's a magnificent creature - and you can get frighteningly close to it - but it's still a sad sight and we didn't stick around. I didn't even have the heart to take a photo.

On the way back, Khoun stopped a few times to let me take photos of the beautiful countryside we were passing - vivid green paddies crowded with rice almost ripe and ready to harvest.

We also passed a large paddock on the side of the road where, in the distance, we could see dozens of buffalo escaping the heat and the humidity by wallowing in a pond of mud.

I wanted to take some photos, but they were too far away. Not a problem for Khoun. He spun that battered old jeep around and hurtled across the paddock, while I stood up in the back snapping of dozens of shots as quickly as I could. It felt like we were on safari in Africa.

Now we're back in Luang Prabang - where it's festival day. It's the last day of Buddhist 'lent' (the first day is the reason I had to drink beer out of a Hello Kitty cup in Chiang Mai). The streets are all closed off to traffic and have been turned into a bustling market selling all sorts of junk for the people in outlying villages to buy - this is their one day in town all year.

Tomorrow the festival culminates in a series of boat races - a little like the Henley Regatta in London. Everyone fights for a spot with the best view of the races, and then drinks themselves senseless and ignores the actual boat race. So exactly like the Henley Regatta, then.

Sadly, we'll miss the boat races - we're flying out of Luang Prabang at five this afternoon.

Tonight we'll be eating dinner in Hanoi...

It's like a sauna in here...

2007-09-05T14:07:00.000+01:00

Amanda and I found ourselves stuck for something to do, with Luang Prabang being pounded by torrential rain - not the best conditions for riding about on our rented bikes.

Amanda suggested a herbal sauna. It's a Lao thing, apparently. I can't remember the last time I set foot in a sauna, so we waved down a tuk-tuk and headed for the local Red Cross. Yep, the Red Cross run a sauna in Luang Prabang. In fact, they seem to do it all over Laos - and plough the profits back into all sorts of local good works. So you get to pamper yourself and feel altruistic about it.

After a false start - the tuk-tuk driver misunderstood us and drove us to a local chemist - we reached the Red Cross headquarters.

I don't want to overdo the whole French Indochine-Graham Greene thing, but there's no other way of describing this place (incidentally, the Greene novel I've been referring to is The Quiet American and, yes, I know it's set in Vietnam).

The place was built in a textbook French colonial style half a century ago and apparently not renovated in any way since - whitewashed walls, exposed beams, shuttered windows, lazily-swooping ceiling fans high above us, verandahs overlooking the jungle.

My guess is that it used to be a hospital until someone built a more modern one - and the place is right out of a period film. I wish I had some photos to show you, but I didn't think a sauna was the best place to bring an expensive new camera.

We ascended the stairs to a deck that runs around the front of the place and bought a ticket - for 50 pence - from a man sitting at a desk out the front. In return we each got a sarong. We got our kit off in the changing room and wrapped the sarong around our waists - it was time to sweat.

We were pointed in the direction of another room and at the back were the saunas. To dispel any doubts, there were signs above each of the two doors: 'woman room' and 'man room'. Amanda gingerly opened the right door and was assailed by steam and the sound of 'oohs', 'ahhs' and giggles.

I could hear she was being beckoned in by some old biddies and she disappeared. I opened the door to my sauna and pulled back a plastic curtain. Inside, it was dark and steamy and it took a moment for my eyes to adjust. There was one other person inside mine, but from the other side of the wall I could hear Amanda being peppered by questions.

"Are you married?"
"How long have you been married?"
"Do you have children?"

The guy in mine asked me more or less the same questions: they're standard questions in Laos, where the family is extended and everything.

I sat down on the bench and breathed in the steam. I can't quite see where it's coming from but it's very pleasantly pungent - it is a herbal sauna, after all. I was sweating and feeling good, feeling my pores open.

After about 10 minutes I could take no more and stepped outside. Amanda was already out, chatting with an old Laos lady wrapped in sweaty sarong and with a towel on her head. I could see she had been adopted by the woman, because she was already pouring Amanda a cup of tea.

I joined Amanda on a wooden bench and was introduced to her many new friends as I poured myself a cup of herbal tea from an enormous and battered old metal teapot. A woman appeared from nowhere to top up the tea every now and again.

After a few minutes of chatting, we climbed back into the saunas for another session. This time I was alone in the 'man room', but I could hear the old ladies next door chatting and gossiping animatedly, with the odd question and comment in broken English thrown in for Amanda's benefit.

I'm not alone for long. Rush hour had begun, and soon eight of us were in there. I was asked quite a lot of questions, with each of my answers mulled over at length in Lao. Two guys were involved in a very animated conversation - about what I will never know - and the rest nodded in agreement with whatever it was that was being said.

Amanda and I got out for more tea and went in again for one final sweat.

But it wasn't over. Now it was time for the massage. Two tiny Lao women lead us to some makeshift cubicles in another room. They may have been tiny, but they were extremely strong. They worked on us both for an hour, ironing out countless kinks. By the time it was over, we both felt great.

We decided to celebrate with a splurge - we've budgeted for the odd one, but haven't enjoyed any yet. But that evening marked exactly two months we'd been on the road in Asia, so we enjoyed an amazing dinner at one of Luang Prabang's posher restaurants.

But since that's about food, I'll be leaving it to Amanda to tell you about that one.

Tomorrow we'll be moving on from Luang Prabang, or at least away from the centre of town. We'll be spending four days in a highly recommended guest house out in the bush. There's little to do but to read and watch sunsets over the nearby mountains.

It will be a welcome way to recharge our batteries before dive into the chaos of Vietnam on September the 10th.

I'm just here for the beer

2007-09-04T07:07:00.000+01:00

Obviously the headline is a joke.

But anyone who knows me knows that I have a passing academic interest in the amber nectar. So I was looking forward to trying a drop of Beer Lao, the famed national brew.

I had heard a lot about Beer Lao from travellers who were moving in the opposite direction, and had just been in Laos. The word is, it's the best beer in South East Asia - and there are many fine beers here. Yet it's almost impossible to get hold of outside Laos.

And why is it so good? Because Laos is a communist country. You see, many years ago brewers from a fellow socialist nation, Czechoslovakia, came over here and taught the locals how to brew the stuff. And all beer drinkers know just how good a Czech drop can be.

So when we first got on our boat to cruise down the Mekong, I couldn't help but notice the sign at the little makeshift kiosk at the back: Beer Lao - 15,000 kip.

But it was still only 11 in the morning, so my curiousity - and my thirst - would have to wait.

By the time the boat got going, it was past midday, and it was hot. But I didn't want to look like an alcoholic, so I waited until after someone else went to the 'bar' first.

That took all of 30 seconds. And I was right behind him in the queue, watching the cheerful Lao lady dragging an enormous bottle of local beer out of the icy bowels of a portable electric fridge.

I snapped off the metal cap and drank in the beery goodness.

My conclusion? The finest beer I've ever tasted. But that had more to do with the surroundings and situation than the quality of the beer. So I felt I needed to do a little more research and testing.

Since then I've given Beer Lao a thorough sampling. My friends, it's good. Really good. Smooth, thirst-quenching, very satisfying. An excellent drop.

And it's cheap, too. Good beers in Thailand - basically Singha or, at a push, Chang - are good value, but not a whole lot cheaper than you'd pay for a decent beer at home. In fact, in the right offie in North London, you could easily get six big cans of Stella for less. But then you'd be in an offie in North London, not a bar by the beach in southern Thailand.

But Beer Lao, once you're off the boat, goes for 9,000 kip for the big bottle I'm holding in the photo - about 40 pence. If you shop around, you can get it for about 7,500 kip. Fortunately, I'm not quite that desperate.

When we finally leave Laos I will miss many things about the country. And, yes, one of them is going to be the beer.

Enigmatic Luang Prabang

2007-09-03T08:07:00.000+01:00

Remember the 1930s and 1940s? Nor do I, but walking around Luang Prabang, it's easy to imagine you're back in an other era. A time when the French were running Indochine.

A time when Pierres and Henris lived in elegant colonial compounds and sat in their leafy and expansive gardens sipping pastis while the local hired help hovered behind them in formal uniforms. In the evenings, the colonial interlopers might slip out to drink champagne with their Lao mistresses.

Whether anywhere in Asia's former French colonies was ever actually like this, I'll never really know. But when you wander down Luang Prabang's elegantly fading boulevards, it's impossible not to feel like a character in a Graham Greene novel. Especially since I love Graham Greene novels.

Not that there are many boulevards to wander down; Laos' ancient capital is a small place. But what it lacks in size, it makes up for in originality: so far, Amanda and I haven't been anywhere else quite like it (though we imagine it might be something of a preview of parts of Vietnam).

The French flavour is unmistakeable. Laos' former overlords may not have busied themselves building anything useful here – like, say, a rail network – but they couldn't help but leave behind a culture of beautiful colonial architecture, leafy elegant streets, bakeries and patisseries and really good coffee.

Baguettes are sold at every food market. So is ground coffee. Fading old signs remain in French – yesterday, we rode around town on our bicycles and passed, among other things, Le Ecole des Beaux-Arts de Luang Prabang. The architecture here remains defiantly French colonial – even the newer buildings are in a faux French style, including our very pleasant guesthouse, the Rattana on Kok Sak Lane (you at the back, stop giggling).

But the French left a long time ago, and the Laotians have long since claimed back Luang Prabang. Riding around on our rented bikes yesterday and the day before, Amanda and I had to constantly dodge not drunken French civil servants posted to the colonies, but deafening tuk-tuks, women carting immense loads of food on baskets hanging over their shoulders and monks in bright orange robes.

But most of all, you have to dodge other tourists. At times, there seem to be more of them than Luang Prabangers. The other day we headed up to the top of Phou Si, a hill that overlooks the very centre of town, to watch the sun go down over the neighbouring Mekong. When we got there, we found there were so many other tourists they almost blotted out the sun. Quick tip: if you want to see the sunset, get up there very early – probably sometime around sunrise.

Unfortunately, we get the feeling the locals have seen just about enough of us. You couldn't describe them as rude, but they are certainly not as effusive and instantly friendly as the neighbouring Thais. Perhaps you could describe them as 'reserved'.

For the first couple of days, we were unsure about them – we wondered if we were even welcome here. But we soon warmed to them. A smile is always greeted with a smile, but you have to smile first.

We think the problem may be that too many tourists have stopped off here for a day or two, stayed in a hermetically-sealed five-star hotel, snapped some photos and gone home, all without showing any interest in the locals. Amanda and I have found that if you ask a few questions, show a little interest, you soon find yourself in a long conversation with a very friendly Lao. Like the chap we met yesterday, standing nonchalantly next to the Mekong while his monkey groomed his balding head.

Fortunately, it hasn't been too difficult to find the real Luang Prabang. Renting a bike helps. We did that yesterday and the day before, and simply took some deliberately wrong turns to see what we'd find.

What we found was lots of people living their lives, very happily away from the tourists but only too pleased to chat to a couple of curious foreigners who wandered onto their patch.

Of course, Communist rule probably isn't helping anyone feel warm and cuddly. The Party is definitely in charge here in the Peoples' Democratic Republic of Laos and, unlike anything-goes-Thailand next door, there are a lot of regulations to follow.

Exchanging money at a Laos Development Bank kiosk involves an absurdly long form, and the only ATM in town refuses to accept Visa cards. Every business seems to employ far more people than could ever be necessary, yet everything takes ages to get done. Want a coffee this morning? Then try ordering it last night.

But the rulers of Laos make sure they don't make tourists' lives too difficult. Laos is a desperately poor country and they need the kip. What's the kip? The local currency, which seems to be designed to drive me mad.

I thought the baht was bad. But where a pound is worth about 70 baht, it will buy a whopping 19,000 or so kip. And, conveniently, the various notes look almost identical. Most shops and traders will accept kip, baht and US dollars and prices are quoted in any one or another of these currencies – depending on the whim of the shopkeeper. So, we're spending our pounds earned in the UK, and trying to work out what they are worth in baht, dollars and kip all at the same time. My brain hurts.

The locals don't care which you use, just so long as you use one of them and use them quick. Like any other tourist town, there's a lot of pressure to spend, spend, spend. Tourist markets selling the same old stuff abound – there's not much here you can't buy in Bangkok or, for that matter, in London's Camden or Sydney's Paddington markets.

On the main tourist strip, very young kids crowd around you and try, very hard, to persuade you to buy all of the cheap jewellery they carry around in trays made of old cardboard boxes. If you decline, they eventually change tactics and ask you to buy them a Coke.

Most people shoo them away, but Amanda decided to ask one a few questions yesterday – how old are you, do you go to school, and so on. Well, the girl was surprisingly happy to forget the hard sell and chat instead. She was soon joined by several other kids, who also forgot their sales jobs in favour of telling us about their lives, and to ask us about ours. At great length.

When we got up to leave, one of them wished Amanda 'good luck, good luck'. A far cry from the little boy we heard on our first night – telling a small group of tourists who were being casually and gleefully rude to him, 'I hope you die now!'

Just goes to show, a little genuine curiosity in others can take you a long way when you travel.

Messing about on boats

2007-08-31T15:16:00.000+01:00

If you love food, then have a look at Amanda's blog - which has returned after a bit of break while Amanda was studying in Chiang Mai

The slow-boat journey down the Mekong turned out to be everything we had hoped for: long, slow, a little uncomfortable... and one the most fantastically memorable journeys of our lives.

I had been looking forward to this two-day voyage for so long that, as it got closer and closer, I began to worry. What if it rained from beginning to end? What if it was so crowded we couldn't get a seat by the window? What if, what if, what if.

I need not have worried. We got to enjoy something quite magical: a meandering and serene trip down one of the world's greatest rivers, taking in stunning scenery most can only dream of.

The trip began when we piled into the back of a pick-up truck owned by our guest house in the Thai border town of Chiang Kong and were driven to the immigration checkpoint on the river. We presented our passports for a quick inspection, and then clambered aboard a long and narrow speedboat for a very brief trip to Laos.

At last, we were on the Mekong! But it wasn't long before we were back on dry land, but now we were standing in the People's Democratic Republic of Laos. This was Houei Sai, not much of an introduction to Laos.

We strode up to the immigration office and handed over our passports, along with 30 American dollars, and were soon proud owners of 30-day visas. You can get an agent in Thailand to do this bit for you for a fee, but I don't know why you would - the process takes all of five minutes and is completely painless.

We jumped aboard a tuk-tuk, dodging people everywhere looking to sell us tickets for the voyage at vastly inflated prices, and were taken to the main ferry dock. There you can buy a ticket for the slow boat easily and more cheaply than from the many, many agents selling them in Chiang Mai, Chiang Rai and Chiang Kong. If you're wondering, a ticket cost us 730 baht each - about £10.

Someone, inevitably, also tried to persuade us to board the speedboat to Luang Prabang, which takes about seven hours instead of two days. But these speedboats are notoriously dangerous, loud and, by the looks of them, uncomfortable.

You have to wear a helmet, a life jacket and get strapped in for a hair-raising rocket ride down the Mekong. We were passed by several, and they are phenomenally fast. According to all the rumours, one tourist a week dies because these boats flip over so often. I'm certain that's exaggerated, but I know that several tourists have been killed and I would never climb aboard one.

Anyway, don't they defeat the purpose? Isn't the meandering journey down the Mekong at least as important as actually getting there? If you're in such a hurry, why don't you just fly?

There was certainly no danger of our boat ever flipping over. Long and skinny, these wooden boats can comfortably accommodate about 70 or 80 people, which is about how many ours took to Luang Prabang. They look a little rickety at first, but they are very sturdy, steel-framed ships designed to last a lifetime.

Each one has two rows of about 20 bench seats on each side, with a narrow aisle running down the middle and connecting the pilot at the front with the cheerful lady doing a roaring trade in crisps and beer at the back. Just past her is the loo (cleaner than you'd expect), an engine room boasting an enormous motor (quieter then you'd expect, and without the noxious fumes we were anticipating).

Just past the engine room is a storeroom for all the bags and, finally, an open kitchen area for the crew - this is where all the pot-smokers gathered and enjoyed their, er, trip.

I'm not going to pretend the boat is luxurious. The bench seats are hard and they get harder by the hour. But cushions are provided, and most of us also brought our own. But you can get up and walk around, and you can lounge around in an empty area behind all the seats. In the end, I heard few people complaining.

And no wonder. We spent our time watching the river roll by, gazing in awe at the pace with which the banks turned into sheer, steep hillsides, towering above us. All covered in jungle, or banana crops, or corn fields. The lush greens of the jungle, the yellows of the corn crops, the occasional burst of purple flowers - all were mesmerising.

And of course, there were animals - domesticated cows and wild deer, water buffaloes wallowing in the shallows near the shore, even sightings of monkeys playing in the trees - although, sadly, I never spotted one.

I felt like Martin Sheen in Apocalypse Now, roaming downriver to find mad Marlon Brando. Of course, Sheen didn't have 60 or 70 backpackers and a woman selling crisps and beer with him, but you get the picture.

There was something else about it that was so intoxicating, something harder to put your finger on. Perhaps it was the feeling of attempting a trip so exotic, or perhaps the excitement of being deeper in the wilds of Asia than most people will ever go in their lifetimes.

The captain made navigating appear so easy. He seemed to be doing nothing more than pointing the boat towards the middle of the river. But I soon noticed that he was gently, almost imperceptibly, tacking from one side to the next to avoid countless vicious little whirlpools and the occasional set of small rapids.

The Mekong flows surprisingly quickly and from the shore you can see that the current is extremely strong. I'm no sailor, but I suspect the river might actually be rather treacherous - it was a testament to the captain that so few of us even noticed.

Every now and again we would stop at tiny villages by the riverside to let locals on and off. A woman in front of me complained to her friend about the delays these stops they were causing, but I was delighted to see this was still a working, local ferry - not just some hokey 'Mekong Experience' for jaded backpackers.

Plus, meeting the locals is always a hoot. Amanda, who had nabbed a comfy seat with lots of legroom next to the kiosk at the back before anyone else had the chance to spot it, befriended more of them than any of us.

Seeing them watch the foreigners trooping up and down the boat to buy the cheap beer they probably can't afford, Amanda reached into her pocket and bought a couple of beers for them to share. The beer comes in very big bottles for less than a pound each, so there's plenty to go around.

The looks on their faces! Some declined, but were still impressed, but a couple of others took full advantage and were delighted. They shared their snacks with Amanda and enthusiastically attempted to chat in broken English. Amanda was the most popular person on that boat!

After six hours of chatting, drinking, reading, sleeping and, in my case, just watching, the boat disgorged dozens and dozens of tourists in Pak Beng. The only reason we stop here is that the boats can't navigate in the dark and it's a convenient place to stop for the night.

Pak Beng is, in a word, notorious. In backpacker lore it figures highly as one of the worst towns in Asia; for being lawless, for being populated by no one but violent, thieving con men, for not boasting a single guest house that's both clean and without rats. Rubbish.

Pak Beng is no Monaco, I'll admit that. It's just one dreary street running up a hill. But it took us all of 10 minutes to find ourselves a clean and basic room in a friendly guest house. It won't go down as the best place we've ever stayed in, but it wasn't the terrifying toilet we'd been bracing ourselves for.

Touts offered us rooms, but they were polite and easily shaken off. We enjoyed a simple but pleasant dinner and sat and drank a few beers until the power went off at 11pm.

The next morning, we wandered back down the dock to get the second day underway. Unlike the first day, when the boat didn't move until after midday, we had been told by the boat's crew to be there at eight in the morning.

But we couldn't work out which of the many boats was ours - yesterday's boat had moved on and we were taking a different one. There was a lot of conflicting advice about which boat was the right one, and for a few minutes we weren't sure what to do.

That's when Amanda's friend, one of the men she bought a beer for the day before, stepped out of a crowd of locals and, with a big smile on his concerned face, lead us to the right boat. So, when in doubt, buy a man a beer. You'll be glad you did.

The boat finally got started at half past nine. This time there were less locals aboard, so there was a lot more space, and most people got a bench to themselves. Just like the day before, the locals who were on board all shared seats to give the tourists more space. I'm sure we paid more for our tickets, but I still thought there was something not right about that.

Even though the second day's journey was longer than the day before's - eight hours instead of six - the time seemed to pass more easily. We had all become accustomed to the gentle pace of life on the Mekong.

And the river is itself endlessly entertaining. It changes all the time. One moment you're in the centre of a river hundreds of metres wide, feeling at times as though you're on a vast lake instead of a river.

At other times, the river narrows sharply. The banks suddenly become steeper and steeper until they are rocky cliffs hanging hundreds of metres just above your head.

There are villages and villagers to see, and even the water itself changes: sometimes as flat and as reflective as a sheet of glass, sometimes ruptured by rapids and whirlpools, cluttered with driftwood and natural debris. It even changes shades from a muddy red-brown at the beginning of the trip, to something closer to the colour of milky tea by the end.

As the journey's end approached, the ship was abuzz with excitement and rumour. Some of us had heard that Luang Prabang was an hour away, others had been told we would be there within minutes.

In the end, our destination appeared around a bend so suddenly, most of us weren't even sure if we'd actually arrived. But, 30 hours after we had set off from somewhere a long way away , we were finally there. As happy as I was to be off the boat after two days, I felt a little sad that this voyage of a life time was over.

Bye bye Thailand... hello Laos!

2007-08-28T14:38:00.000+01:00

Do you know how much an hour is worth in Thailand? 47 baht, or 71 pence.

Here's how I know that: we turned up bright and early this morning at the Chiang Rai bus stop and had to choose between two local buses to Chiang Kong. One took three hours and cost 10 baht, the other took two hours and cost 57 baht.

So, now you know what an hour is worth in Thailand.

Of course, we took the two-hour option and enjoyed a bumpy but entertaining drive to Chiang Kong - an amazingly scenic trip.

Once we got here, it took us all of five minutes to find ourself in our guest house, enjoying amazingly scenic views of the Mekong, about 30 feet away from the balcony of our room.

In fact, I'm looking at it right now as I type.

The guest house lends out bikes for nothing, which is very useful in a one-horse town like this, that still insists on having a main street that runs for miles and miles.

Unfortunately, they only have two girls' bikes - which is how I ended up singing Steppenwolfe's Born to Be Wild while tooling around Chiang Kong on a woman's bike.

There's nothing about this town to encourage you to stop for longer than a night, so we've just finished filling out our Laos visa forms and tomorrow morning we'll be heading to Thai immigration on this side of the Mekong.

We'll be checked out of Thailand, take a small boat across the Mekong, and be checked into Laos. From there, we'll be straight on to the slow boat for the two-day journey to Luang Prabang. Can't wait!

But I'll miss Thailand. What a great country. But, hey, we'll be back in a couple of months.

Into the Golden Triangle

2007-08-27T19:24:00.000+01:00

Fortunately, the journey to Chiang Rai was a lot easier than the road to Chiang Mai a month ago.

Despite enjoying my trip on a local bus to Lamphun, we opted for a luxury bus to Chiang Mai's little northern sister. Well, it's a long ride and we're not masochists. For once, 'luxury' was not an ambitious overstatement, for this bus was indeed luxurious.

Wide leather seats, lots of leg room, air-con and free drinks and snacks. You have to enjoy a little luxury occasionally.

The bus travelled through the northern Thai countryside, showing us plenty of jungle, rolling hills, pretty villages and picturesque rivers – in fact, as we crossed over one river we were lucky enough to spot a water snake racing from one bank to another.

Once in Chiang Mai, we grabbed a room at the Baan Bua guest house. Simple, clean, friendly and central – about all you can expect for 250 baht. Although I wouldn't mind a free explanation of the odd smell that haunts our bathroom at night.

Chang Rai turned out to be everything we expected, which was not much. Chiang Mai's provincial little sister about sums it up. Nothing wrong with that, but we could find little reason to hang around – and we certainly looked for a few.

But then most people don't come here for the city, they come here for the surrounding region. We're not most people – we're here because it's a necessary stop on the way to Laos before our visas run out on September the 1st – but, hey, when in Rome.

So we booked ourselves on a tour of the notorious Golden Triangle for today. Sound intrepid? To be honest, it's not – it's on the itinerary of every tourist who visits Chiang Rai. But that's for a good reason, it's an interesting tour.

So this morning, our guide Jimmy showed up to collect us. Turned out we got lucky – no one else had opted to do the same tour, so we had the car and a guide all to ourselves. And we're twice lucky: Jimmy was funny and fun, helpful and informative.

Our first stop was Mae Salong, a mountain towering high above the region here – 1,300 metres to be exact. By the time we got to the top our heads were already feeling a little light and our ears were popping.

The mountain is beautiful – lush and green, peppered with pretty little villages and occupied almost entirely by ethnic Chinese. It all seems so safe and innocent – and it is – but just 20 years ago, it was one of the most dangerous places in Asia.

For this mountain is where one sizeable left-over of the Chinese Nationalists sheltered after Mao's Communists won their titanic battle for control of their country. Since they loathed the Communists, they were cautiously welcomed by the Thais - who were getting a little concerned about some of their neighbours' interest in Communism.

But the Nationalists needed money to keep up their fight against Communism and turned to opium cultivation to make it. By the time the Vietnam War ended and Communism didn't seem quite the threat it was, heroin production in the area was out of control.

Eventually, the authorities persuaded the locals to replace opium with something far more innocent (although equally addictive, if you happen to be English): tea.

And that solution seems to have sorted out the problem convincingly, at least in Mae Salong. Just goes to show the truth in that old adage: a good cup of tea solves everything.

Anyway, enough of the history lesson. After driving past and through endless tea plantations, Jimmy pulled up at one of the many, many teashops on the roadside. We got out and a lovely Chinese lady beckoned us to sit down for an elaborate tea ceremony.

The woman spoke Mandarin as a first language, not Thai, so I finally got an opportunity to use the two expressions in the language that I have always remembered being taught by Mum when I was little. I don't think my attempts at saying 'hello, how are you?' and 'thank you' were too impressive, but they went down well – so thanks Mum!

As part of the tea ceremony, we got some snacks, mainly dried and candied fruit and toasted, salted grubs. Did I say grubs? Yes, I said grubs. If you want to know more about me and grubs, check out Amanda's blog. But let me tell you, I ate them and, yes, I loved them and I would eat them again.

We moved on from there to a tea plantation, but there was little more to enjoy there than the amazing view. Nothing was going on except the staff clowning about. But we got to see a bit of how tea is produced and it sure looks like bloody hard work. I felt like I needed a cuppa just to get over the explanation.

Then it was back down the mountain and on to a place called Mae Sae, Thailand's most northerly town. Jimmy took us to a temple atop a hill overlooking the town to take in the view. It was nothing particularly remarkable, just a Thai market town built around a river, which cut through the middle of it.

Nothing remarkable except that the river was an international border: one half of the town is in Thailand, the other half is in Burma. Everything looks normal at first glance, but when you look closely you can see a bridge over the river with no vehicles, just lots of people carrying luggage, and a checkpoint at either side. And Burma is so close, you feel you can reach out and touch it.

In this picture, the top half above the river is Burma and the bottom half below the river is Thailand.

Now the idea on these one-day tours is to pay $US10 for a Burmese visa and cross that bridge yourself. 'Hey everyone, I went to Burma for an hour'. Well, we would have enjoyed that as much as anyone else does, but we couldn't bring ourselves to do it. It's not going to Burma for an hour that we had a problem with – that would have been fun – it's giving their monstrous regime 10 bucks.

I'm sure the Burmese government isn't going to miss our cash but, without getting on a high horse about it, we just felt it was wrong to give them anything. So we stayed on the Thai side and just looked at Burma.

After we'd had a good old stare, it was off to 'the Golden Triangle'. Of course, we've been in what everyone else in the world would call the Golden Triangle for some time. But someone bright at the Thailand tourist board must have come up with a great idea – find the spot where you can see three countries at once, put up a sign saying 'Golden Triangle' and watch the foreigners flock to have cheesy photos taken in front of it.

And flock to it we did. Fortunately, it's actually a pretty good sight. We were driven to a look-out on the top of a hill, to a place where you're in Thailand but Burma is on the left and Laos is on the right.

But never mind what's to the left or the right, it's what's slap bang in the centre that makes this sight so amazing: the mighty Mekong river.

What a river. I had been looking forward all day to seeing it for the very first time and I wasn't disappointed. It's without a doubt the most impressive river I have ever seen. It's absolutely enormous.

That was the last stop of the day, and it left Amanda and I panting for more Mekong. Fortunately, we'll be getting it tomorrow, when we're heading off to Chiang Kong – a town on the Mekong from which you cross into Laos.

It takes about as long to get there as it did to get here from Chiang Rai. But this time, there's no luxury bus.

My 15 minutes

2007-08-25T13:36:00.000+01:00

I've just found out that one of my photos was named Travel Photo of the Week on some site called Backpackers.com.

I've never heard of them, they never told me they had picked or featured it, and there doesn't appear to be a prize - but thanks anyway.

Check it out.

Fame at last!

Last day in Chiang Mai

2007-08-24T03:25:00.000+01:00

Amanda finishes her course this afternoon, so tomorrow morning we're leaving Chiang Mai after a fantastic month in 'the rose of the north'.

As excited as we are about what's to come, we'll both miss Chiang Mai. It has a way of getting under your skin. We've especially enjoyed the past two weeks, since we moved out of the touristy centre and into the corner of real Thailand in which we've been staying. Feels like we live here!

The good news is that we'll be back. And I don't mean on another, distant holiday. I mean in about another two months, when we'll return so Amanda can move onto the next stage of her course. Next time, I'm going to make sure I get a trek in!

So where next? Well, tomorrow morning we'll be catching a bus north to Chiang Rai, a small place that is the most northerly town of any real significance in Thailand. We'll be there for a day or two before heading to Chiang Kong, which sits on the banks of the mighty Mekong - where the river forms the border with Laos.

We won't be stopping in Chiang Kong - apparently there's nothing there. Instead, we'll be heading straight to the dock to catch a boat across the river and into Laos. We'll be spending the night in the town right there on the other side of the Mekong, Huay Xai, before catching a slow boat south.

For me, this has been one of the moments of the trip I've been most looking forward to. We'll be spending two days meandering down the Mekong, with plenty of time to chat, read, take photos and, best of all, see what life on the Mekong is all about. I can't wait.

The trip ends in Laung Prabang, Laos' most important city after Ventiane, the capital. It's a UNESCO World Heritage site and is supposed to be very beautiful. We're not quite sure what to expect, so it should be an exciting week there.

After our week in town, we're going to spend four days chilling out in a highly recommended guesthouse out in the sticks.

Finally, on the afternoon of September the 10th, we fly out of Luang Prabang for Hanoi, and a month in Vietnam.

We'd have preferred to play Laos by ear, staying longer if we felt like it and not have such a fixed itinerary. But the comrades in charge of the Socialist Republic of Viet Nam - as is now proudly emblazoned a page of our passports - are rather inflexible about visas.

We had to say exactly when we will arrive and exactly when we will leave, which left us with little choice but to guess precisely how long we'd want to stay in Laos - and stick to it.

And a month isn't a long time to explore a big and fascinating country like Vietnam, but a month is all you get. There's an outside chance we may be able to get our visas extended for a week or two - but it's very unlikely.

So our visas end on October the 10th (my birthday!), so that's the day we'll be crossing over into Cambodia. We'll be spending a couple of weeks there before returning to Thailand, and Chiang Mai, for the last leg of our trip.

So we'll see you soon, Chiang Mai.

I'm not sure when I'll next get a chance to write again - hopefully it will be in Chiang Rai in a couple of days, but if I miss that chance, it probably won't be until we reach Luang Prabang in the middle of next week. Watch this space!

I get around

2007-08-22T03:47:00.000+01:00

With the much anticipated trek cancelled and Amanda still deep in her course, I've needed to find other ways to amuse myself.

So yesterday I went to Lamphun, a town south of Chiang Mai that boasts a very grand Wat complex - the serenity of which was somewhat disturbed by the huge amount of noisy construction work going on there.

To be honest, I found the town to be a little uninspiring, so I'm not going to go on about it here. But I did enjoy the trip there, so I'll talk about that instead. If you have no interest in knowing how to get around this region and around Chiang Mai itself, you may want to find something else to do now.

You can get to all the interesting places around Chiang Mai on one tour or another, but for once I wanted to avoid the whole tourists-jammed-into-a-minibus thing - I've seen enough fake tribal villages selling worthless trinkets to last a lifetime, thanks for very much.

Instead I want to get around the way the locals do. When it comes to navigating Chiang Mai, Amanda and have had that down pat for a while - thanks to the song thaew.

What's a song thaew? A song thaew (pronounced 'song tao') is a miracle of modern urban transport and I wish they had them in the rest of the world. Simply, they are a combination of a taxi and a bus.

They are a taxi because you can hail them anywhere you want and get them to take you where you like; they are a bus because they pick up others going in the same direction on the way. Convenient and cheap - the best of both worlds.

Why are they better than their rival forms of transport? Well the tuk tuks are much more expensive and can't carry much - they're for tourists, really. And I can't bring myself to get on a samlor - better known outside of Thailand as a rickshaw, with an old guy straining every muscle in his body to drag someone around in a carriage at the back of his bicycle.

Song thaews are pick-up trucks, with a roof built over the flat bed at the back and two (barely) padded benches built into each side. You can get about eight people into them, but sometimes you'll see them full and one or two people are standing on a running board out the back of the truck.

Song thaews come in three flavours, in Chiang Mai at least: red, yellow and blue. The yellow and blue connect the city to various spots in the region around Chiang Mai, while the red are for travel within the city itself.

The red ones are everywhere, so when you want to get somewhere you just wave one down and, sticking your head through the window, tell the driver where you want to go. If there's no one else in the back, then he'll usually take you anywhere you want to go. If someone is already inside, he'll only take you if you happen to be going in the same direction.

Now, here's a tip if you're coming to Chiang Mai. Never - never - agree to a price before you get in. You won't get the opportunity if someone is already in the back, but if the song thaew is empty then the driver will be looking for the opportunity to hire out the whole truck to a wealthy foreign tourist.

I know it goes against every instinct you may have as a backpacker, but talk destination and don't talk price. Amanda and I learned this the hard way: we always negotiated the price before we got in and wondered why the drivers never stopped to pick anyone up. The reason was that we had chartered the whole truck and were paying way above the odds.

Instead, just jump in the back and off you'll go. Others will wave down the song thaew and jump in the back with you, and that's a great way to meet the locals - who are usually keen to chat.

When you get to where you want, hit the buzzer on the ceiling, jump out and pay the driver. Since you didn't charter the truck, you'll play the flat price no matter how many people the driver picked up along the way - and even if he didn't get any other fares. It will cost you 15 baht (22 pence) within the city centre and 20 baht (31p) outside it.

So, to cut a short story long, that's how I got to Chang Puak bus terminal in the north of Chiang Mai. It's one of two main bus terminals and handles the local buses travelling relatively short distances within the region around the city.

These aren't your double-decker, air-conditioned, reclining-seat luxury buses only tourists in Thailand ride. No, these are rickety, rough-and-ready buses the locals use to get around. That's why they cost only 15 baht.

I admit I would never get one of these things to Bangkok, or even to Chiang Rai, about three to four hours away from here. But they are perfect and great fun for an hour's ride to Lamphun, with the windows wide open and the bus full of chatty locals going about their everyday business.

It's what travelling is all about.

If you're planning to come to Chiang Mai and want to use the buses to get around the region, you might find this site very useful.

Temple in the sky

2007-08-19T14:48:00.001+01:00

And I thought Wat Umong was amazing. That's before I visited Wat Prathat with Amanda and a bevy of her massage school classmates yesterday.

Better known as Doi Suthep, the name of the mountain on which the temple sits - and which overlooks Chiang Mai and dominates the city's skyline - Wat Prathat is the most important of the region's temples. In fact, it's one of the most important in the whole of Thailand.

The ancient story goes that a holy Buddhist relic was placed on the back of a white elephant, which was left to find the right spot for a temple. It decided to ascend the tallest mountain around and expired at the very top - and so the temple was founded.

You can see it from practically everywhere in Chiang Mai, its gold chedi glinting in the sun high up in the distance. Amanda and I have been trying to get up there since we arrived three weeks ago, but every time we planned the trip the weather got in the way. Not much point in being up there in the pouring rain, after all.

But perhaps karma does exist, because we were awarded for our patience with perfect weather when we finally got ourselves there.

To reach the temple, you have to get a ride - usually in a song thaew, which is the pick-up truck with a roof over the back and a long bench on both sides, and which serve as taxis-cum-buses throughout the north of Thailand.

After a long drive, going higher and higher up the mountain and catching the occassional teasing glimpse of the city below, you reach the base of the temple. After getting past an almost unfeasible number of souvenir shops you reach a stairway to heaven: a 306-step staircase flanked by a naga all the way to the top.

At the top is the temple itself. A verdant, shady and peaceful island with the city stretched out far, far below - it actually feels as if it is somehow floating in the sky.

The ethereal impression is helped by the deep echo of the prayer bells surrounding the temple and the sound of the monks chanting rythmically and softly.

Inside the temple proper is a stunningly beautiful chedi - plated in gold - and an enormous number of golden Buddha statues, in all sorts of guises and poses.

In one room of the temple, you can get yourself blessed by a monk. I usually don't go in for these kind of things because I feel a bit of a fraud - given I don't follow this or any other religion. But I decided that an experience was an experience, so I gave it a try.

I got on my knees in front an orange-robed monk who smiled beatifically and somehow made me feel very comfortable with the brief ceremony. He dipped a sort of brush made with sticks into a metal pot of holy water and lightly splashed me with a few drops of it.

Then he beckoned me forward and tied a piece of white cord around my wrist. Doesn't sound like much, but it was somehow quite moving. It must have done something for me, because I'm still wearing the cord more than 24 hours later.

After an hour or more of meandering around the temple, our bare feet on the cool and smooth marble floors, admiring the many Buddha statues, the wooden nagas and the gently flaming oil burners, it was time to return home.

As we descended that steep staircase, an afternoon away from the haze and noise of Chiang Mai behind us, I think we all felt like we were gliding on air. I know I did.

There are even more pictures of Doi Suthep here

Trek's off

2007-08-19T14:23:00.000+01:00

Remember the three-day trek around the Burmese border I was so looking forward to? The one I was supposed to be embarking upon tomorrow?

I was emailed during the week and asked to go tonight to the office of the trekking firm, Pooh Eco Trek - to meet my fellow trekkers, to be briefed on the whole adventure and, of course, to pay the balance of the cost of the trek.

Sounded good to me - very professional. But when I turned up, three clueless and very unhelpful staff (the owner who emailed me was nowhere in sight) told me they had not been able to attract anyone else to the trek. The minimum number they require is two, so the whole thing is off. You can't imagine just how disappointed I am.

I have to admit I was a little surprised to find that the owner was capable of emailing me to ask me to come along to the orientation meeting - with my cash - but was apparently incapable of emailing me to let me know the whole thing had been cancelled.

I also found myself wondering exactly how a trekking firm in Chiang Mai - the undisputed trekking capital of South East Asia - is unable to attract more than one person to it's flagship trek. I mean, going on this sort of jungle adventures is the reason about 99 percent of foreigners come to this city!

Perhaps there was a good reason, one I don't know about? Perhaps I dodged the proverbial bullet?

Not to worry, I'm going to console myself by heading to my local for a few beers and to take in the Liverpool-Chelsea match. And decide what I'm going to do this week instead. Watch this space!

Truth in advertising (part 2)

2007-08-18T20:19:00.000+01:00

Remember the restaurant that sold 'spring rolls in crap filling'? It's called Palaad Tawanron and we went there tonight. Guess what? The ad was entirely accurate.

The food was appalling, and extremely expensive. But, hey, at least the service was terrible and the restaurant was really hard to get to.

Thanks to the Rough Guide for that recommendation.

Temple in the jungle

2007-08-17T16:13:00.000+01:00

With Amanda studying all day, I've been amusing myself exploring all of Chiang Mai's nooks and crannies.

Today was the turn of Wat Umong - a temple in the jungle on the western outskirts of town. It turned out to be one of the strangest temples I've been to.

It's more like a park than a temple, with its various parts spread out across some untamed jungle. Leading you in is a roughly hewn path which gives you the feeling of diving ever deeper into the jungle. Except most of the trees are adorned with little signs expounding Buddhist philosophies. "Clever men don't boast", "He who borrows with interest pays back with tears" and so on.

All the while, a cunningly hidden public address system emits the soothing tones of someone, presumably a monk, talking endlessly in Thai, presumably about Buddhism. I didn't understand a word, of course, but it was mesmerising all the same.

As with all the temples I've been to in Thailand, stray dogs abound. But here it's a little spooky to keep catching glimpses of them amongst the thick vegetation of the jungle.

When you emerge, you find yourself in some untamed gardens. Wat Umong is most famous for some ancient tunnels, which you're welcome to explore. Inside are a few dimly lit shrines - and the occasional person praying.

Outside the tunnels is a very strange collection of Buddhas - old ones, new ones, broken ones, metal ones, stone ones, plastic ones - and all sorts of statues, dolls and broken toys. I don't know what it all meant, but it was a little surreal.

But further on is something even more surreal. Up an enormous flight of stairs and next to a giant chedi is a statue of Buddha.

Nothing strange about that, right? Well this particular statue depicts Buddha fasting - and I mean fasting. Apparently he's not eaten for years in this image and the effect is ghoulish - something straight out of a horror flick.

Weird, huh? Yet it doesn't seem out of place at Wat Umong, probably Thailand's strangest temple.

The right shoes

2007-08-16T04:30:00.000+01:00

I have taken the plunge and signed up for a three-day trek around Mae Sariang - basically in the jungle right on the border with Burma. It's an 'eco-trek', apparently. That means the people who run it take care to have as little impact as possible on the jungle and the villagers who live there. Well, we'll see.

Lots and lots of places offer 'eco treks', but my investigations have found most are talking nonsense - they'll do anything to get your money. I'm doing my trek with a firm called Pooh Eco-Trekking, which by all accounts is sincere and genuine. But you can never know until the trek is done, so I'll reveal all then.

I'm leaving for the jungle very early on Monday morning and returning on Wednesday evening.

And if you're a regular reader who is wondering if I'm going to embark upon this trek wearing just sandals, then be assured... I have bought the right shoes:

Truth in advertising

2007-08-14T02:57:00.000+01:00

I know I shouldn't be making fun of poor English translations in Thailand - after all, most Thais' ability with my native tongue is a lot better than mine with theirs. But when you see a magazine advertisement like this, you just can't help but laugh...

Movin' on up

2007-08-13T16:56:00.000+01:00

Amanda and I have been in Chiang Mai for so long now, we've actually moved house. Guest house, that is.

A week later than planned - thanks to that bout of the flu I told you about - Amanda has begun her intensive massage course, so we needed to move close to the school. The place we were staying - the brilliantly named Montrara Happy House - was nice enough, but smack bang in the middle of tourist central.

So when Amanda signed up for the course at the weekend, we found the nearest place to stay and booked ourselves in to the grandly titled Emporium Resident, just a few doors down from the school.

As nice as Happy House was, this place is even better. It's cheaper, the rooms are bigger, the bed is larger, it has a balcony - it even has free internet in the room.

While Happy House would certainly please your average Western tourist more, with its tastefully appointed rooms, the Emporium is definitely geared to Asian tourists: white tiled floors, a bed as hard as a wooden board and weird little touches here and there. Like the sink out on the balcony. I'll let you know if I ever decide to wash the dishes in the great outdoors. What a thrilling blog post that will be.

What's great about this place is the area. The window above the bed has a commanding view of Doi Suthep - one of Thailand's most sacred Buddhist temples, which is built high on a mountain overlooking Chiang Mai.

But even better is that we have left the touristy side of the town far behind and we are deep in urban Chiang Mai. Chiang Mai for Thais. I spent two hours wandering around today and didn't see a single sign in English. Everything here is for the locals, nothing is aimed at tourists.

Street stalls sell all sorts of weird and wonderful food, bars and restaurants are full of locals, moped stores abound and clothes shops boast cheerfully sinister mannequins.

And after three weeks in the tourist-oriented beaches of the south and the tourist magnet centre of Chiang Mai, we couldn't ask for more than this.

To boldly go where everyone else has been

2007-08-10T06:00:00.000+01:00

Amanda and I finally succumbed to the lure of the trek, as just about everyone who comes to Chiang Mai eventually does. For all of the city's frantic chaos and activity, there isn't that much to do besides see the wats and to shop. Well, we've seen all the wats and there's a limit to how much we can stuff in our packs and carry around Asia for another four or five months.

Of course, there is the prospect of courses – cooking courses, language courses, massage courses. But Amanda and I have both been sick with the flu and courses have been out of the question – for now.

Instead we endured a rough week lying in bed - sneezing, coughing, blowing our noses and generally feeling sorry for ourselves. After such a long time seeing little more than the inside of our room and a lot of CNN, we were desperate for some excitement.

We began gently, with a trip to Chiang Mai Zoo. You should probably avoid Asian zoos – they are usually pretty depressing – but we had heard Chang Mai's was a good one, and so it was.

Most of the animals looked happy in some generous enclosures carved out of the jungle on a side of the hill on the outskirts of town. The birds weren't even in cages – they could have flown away at any time.

In fact, some of the animals felt a little too free – the barricades protecting us from some of the more dangerous beasts were almost non-existent and it was hard not to feel uneasy.

The zoo had some remarkable animals you would never expect to see around here. I have never before seen a white tiger. But the pride of the zoo is a pair of pandas on a long-term loan from China. You have to pay extra to see them, and they are kept in a high-tech enclosure – especially air conditioned and moistened with a cool mist. It was a steamy, hot day outside so we would have paid the extra just to cool down.

Having recovered from our flus with an afternoon at the zoo, we thought it was time to take the plunge with a trek. Treks seems to be the overwhelming reason tourists come to Chiang Mai, and they are on offer practically everywhere.

You can trek for days or even weeks, but the formula is simple enough: seeing lots of jungle and visiting some of the many primitive hill tribes who live in them. We wanted to warm up with just a one-day trek, which all seem to follow the same pattern: a walk in the jungle, a visit to a hill tribe, a ride on an elephant and a gentle voyage down a river on a raft.

I did some research to find the best possible trek and settled on one run by a guesthouse called Eagle House. We had already looked at their rooms last week – they were awful – but their treks had a good reputation for being sensitive to the tribes. And some of our money went to projects to support the tribes people, so we were sold.

Almost as importantly, neither of us are super-fit youngsters any more and we were assured that this was an easy trek, with nothing more than a forty-minute flat walk. Sounds wimpy, but you have to remember that it's very hot and humid here and even a long walk around town can take it out of you. And I'm nearly 38.

They assured us that the shoes we were wearing – basically flip-flops and sandals – were all we would need and we shouldn't go out and buy some proper walking shoes.

But things didn't begin well when we were picked up from our hotel at eight the next morning. The guide took one look at our shoes and said we'd never make it. It had been raining most of the night and the ground would be too slippery – we'd have to buy new shoes. He said the guesthouse was always giving people poor advice about shoes – anything to sell a trek.

Great.

So, after picking up two other couples – all of whom had sensible shoes on – we were driven for an hour and a half into the countryside. We eventually stopped in a small town which, rather coincidentally, had an unusually large shoe shop.

But it wasn't large enough, for it didn't have any shoes to fit Amanda and I. We were having our doubts anyway, since the shoes our guide wanted us to buy didn't seem any better than the ones we were wearing.

So we had no choice but to soldier on. Remember how the trek began with a forty-minute 'flat walk'? It wasn't very flat. It wasn't flat at all. In fact, it was more like straight up the side of a mountain. It was muddy and slippery and we all struggled a little, especially in the blazing sun and suffocating humidity.

Our shoes stood up well. Everyone seemed to be slipping around as much as us, no matter what they were wearing – so we didn't feel so bad.

It was a hard climb, but fun – with some amazing views across the countryside to keep us going.

Eventually we reached the tribal village we were being taken to see. The village that, we'd been promised, has barely been visited by outsiders and is as 'untouristy' as it gets. By now none of us were terribly surprised to find that this was completely untrue.

We were hardly the only tourists to have ever visited this tribe. We weren't even the only tourists there at the time – two other groups were already wandering about the village. The locals had set up a little high street straight through the middle of the town, selling all sorts of souvenirs. There was a drinks stall. You could even have a go on a crossbow – five baht for three shots.

Still, it was interesting and we got a little tour that explained how hill tribes live. Probably not how this hill tribe lives, but perhaps some other hill tribe smart enough to keep away from tourists. There must be one out there somewhere.

Visit over, we scrambled back down the mountain. I tried to get as many photos of the jungle and the mountains as I could, but the guide was intent on hustling us along at quite a clip. Shame.

We reached a small town and stopped for a generous lunch, watching the blue skies vanish and ominous storm clouds appear as we ate. After lunch, we were driven to see some elephants, which we were going to ride for half an hour.

I was a little wary of this bit. I love elephants and I'm always keen to be near them, but when we did this sort of thing in India we ended up feeling guilty – the elephants we rode were very obviously mistreated.

But these ones looked healthy and happy, and their handlers didn't hit them with sticks or anything else – at least not while we were looking. Perhaps we were just fooling ourselves, but we got up on the elephants anyway and rode them for half an hour through the jungle, feeding ours bananas all along the way.

It was lots of fun, and it didn't matter when the heavens opened and the torrential rain began. We were soaking wet by the time we got off the elephants, but it was a relief after the morning's scorching heat.

The next stop was supposed to be a swim in a nearby waterfall. But when got there, the rain had turned it into a raging torrent and swimming was out of the question. "No safe for swim," said the guide. His advice was unneccessary - I was scared just to look at it.

Instead we went straight to the rafting. This is supposed to be a gentle exercise, just an easy glide down a slowly flowing river aboard a raft made of bamboo poles. The photos on the trek brochures show tourists enjoying a picnic aboard the raft as they take in the sights.

We weren't surprised to find the river was swollen by the rain, which was still coming down, and flowing very rapidly and fiercely. But we were surprised to find the rafting was still a goer. Amanda wisely decided to give it a miss, along with someone else in our group. The rest of us fools decided to give it a try anyway.

We donned our swimming gear and some life vests and scrambled aboard the raft. Like I said, the raft is just a few thick bamboo poles lashed together in two places. As soon as you sit on it, it sinks to just below water level, so you can feel it under you but you can't see it. Very reassuring. It's not even that tightly put together – you can feel the poles drifting independently a little.

Perhaps this wasn't such a good idea.

The raft is piloted by a chap who stands up the front and guides it with a very long pole, but the guidance is minimal. The raft goes where the current takes it, and if that means it hares into overhanging trees or branches, you better be ready to push hard against them.

He pushed off and we were away, rapidly picking up speed as we raced through the first set of rapids. You don't really ride over them, but through them – hanging on tightly to the raft which just drops away beneath you and leaves you floating along for a minute. Then it suddenly rises back up and you're sitting on it again.

For the first few moments I was nervous, but I soon began to enjoy it and we had a great time. I was disappointed when we rounded the last bend 15 minutes later and it was all over. But I think Amanda was relieved to see me alive.

And that was the day's trek over. It wasn't quite as advertised - many things in Chiang Mai aren't – but we had a great time, especially after an enforced week indoors. Now I'm thinking of embarking upon a proper trek – one or two nights, perhaps. But this time, I'll get some proper shoes.

Comments, please?

2007-08-05T10:37:00.000+01:00

According to the counter on the right, my blog has got just over 900 views. About 899 of those are mine, checking in to see if there are any comments from any of you. And, apart from a few distinguished exceptions (Hello Dom, Oliver and Cliff!), there never are any.

So is anyone actually reading this? If you are, leave me a quick comment - it brings a big smile to my face to know a friend is keeping up with our travels. Otherwise I'm going to get bored and stop.

Oh, and click on a few ads every now and again. I need the beer money.

Capital of the north

2007-08-02T04:49:00.001+01:00

There are a lot more photos up now, many of Chiang Mai. They are here

I'm not sure how I'm going to describe a place like Chiang Mai in a few short words. I don't think it's possible. If I tried, one of the words I would never use is 'pretty'. The capital of the north is not a city of tree-lined boulevards and elegant residential streets. No, it's a hot and dusty maze of lanes and roads built with no though for city planning. If any city planner did put Chiang Mai together, he must have been a lunatic.

Other words I would never use are 'quiet' or 'relaxed'. While Chiang Mai is no Bangkok, it is a hive of frantic activity – traffic is constant and crossing the road is an adventure, people are everywhere and the noise never stops.

Yet another word I could never apply to Chiang Mai is 'boring'. Even the shortest walk reveals something amazing, from yet another beautiful temple to a performing elephant – and just about everything in between.

The city has the overwhelming feel of being a chaotic frontier town – which, with Laos and Burma very close by and China not so far away, it is. People from all those countries abound, as well representatives from the many tribes that have lived in the hills around Chiang Mai for centuries, all ethnically distinct from the Thais and from each other.

But it also attracts people from far beyond those borders. Older western men with young Thai girlfriends, students from all over the world, drifting hippies with their world-weary attitudes, enthusiastic religious evangelists. And of course, Amanda and I.

Since Chiang Mai is proving so hard to describe, I'll just tell you a few things we've been doing and hope that helps paint a picture of this amazing part of the world.

First, 'Monk Chat'. No, it's not a late-night telephone line for bored monks. It's a little program they run at a stunning Wat (a 'Wat' is a temple) at one end of town, where Westerners are invited to come into the temple for a chat with the monks.

The monks are anxious to practice their English and learn more about the world beyond Thailand. So in I went – by myself, because our guidebook had wrongly informed us that only men are welcome.

I filled in my name and my country in a little book and a young monk sat me down at a table. I was the first and only Westerner there, so I had all the monks to myself – about five or six of them at one point. All with shaved heads and in their splendid saffron robes.

One guy did most of the talking – I think he had the best command of English – while the others were a little shy but obviously fascinated by this foreigner before them, relaying questions for the talkative monk to ask me.

They were all in their early twenties and, except for one, had all been monks since they were kids. While I learned more about how monks live, they peppered me with questions about life abroad. Perhaps not surprisingly, they were keen to know more about how a materialistic life of a Westerner works. It's as foreign to them as their lives are to me.

Another subject of great fascination was English football – particularly David Beckham and Monkchester, I mean Manchester, United. I won't digress, but English football is astonishingly popular over here, even among monks.

After half an hour or so, I took my leave. I'd learned a lot about the monks and how they live, and was delighted to get the opportunity to chat to some. I promised them I'd come back again for another talk, and I will.

What else can I tell you about what we've been doing in Chiang Mai that will give you a flavour of the place? How about blind massage?

Businesses offering relaxing massages are absolutely everywhere here (and they're above board, in case you're wondering), but only one has been set up to help the blind. So wanting to do something good for the community and for ourselves at the same time, we headed out for a blind massage.

The place is very popular with locals and farangs alike, with a reputation for offering some of the best massages in town. It's also a bit of a surreal experience. You walk up the steps to a small patio, where a blind man takes your money – you have to tell him how much you're giving him and he has to trust you.

Once you've paid, a masseur – in our case an impossibly tiny blind girl - takes you by the hand and leads you up some stairs and through a warren of rooms. She massaged Amanda while I got a far more strapping chap. Also blind, he gave a new meaning to the expression 'a firm hand' – pushing and kneading me in spots I didn't know I had, and stretching me in directions I had never thought possible.

By the end of it, I felt I'd gone three rounds with a Thai kick boxer, but this morning all my limbs feel limber and my body refreshed, so he was certainly doing something right.

But before this post becomes endless, I'll wrap it up by telling you about our favourite bar. It's just across the road from where we're staying and looks like something out of the Wild West. Wooden benches and tables spilling out on to the street, and cheap beers served by a very convincing lady boy. No, it's not that sort of bar – there are many ladyboys in Chiang Mai doing perfectly innocent jobs. There's one working in the Starbucks clone up the road, and we were shown around quite a posh guesthouse the other day by another.

Anyway, the best thing about this bar is the house band. They are truly amazing. They boast a spectacularly good guitarist and a spectacularly poor singer – a brilliantly hilarious combination. When we first sat down, they were covering The Eagles. Now, I hated The Eagles – but that was before I heard Hotel California belted out in a thick Thai accent.

Then came a long list of unlikely cover versions, all staggeringly weird. The best? It was a toss-up between Radiohead's Creep and Pink Floyd's Another Brick in the Wall. To get the full effect, you need to imagine these being sung in Thai accents, while a mixed crowd of drunk locals and foreigners sing along.

Maybe that's hard to imagine. Perhaps, like Chiang Mai, you need to experience it for yourself.

Photos galore!

2007-07-31T11:39:00.000+01:00

Now that we're in Chiang Mai, I finally have access to an internet connection fast enough to upload the past month's worth of photos. If you're interested, you can see them here

The road to Chang Mai...

2007-07-30T08:16:00.000+01:00

... is a very long one. But some 50 hours after we set out from the islands of southern Thailand, we have arrived in the rolling hills of the country's deep north.

I'm exaggerating a little about the travel time, as some of that 50 hours included an afternoon's sightseeing in Bangkok, but it still felt like an epic journey. It began at 10am on Friday, when we bid good bye to everyone at Dolphin and climbed in the back of a pick-up truck taxi and headed for the port.

We had earlier opted for a combined boat/bus trip back to Bangkok, instead of returning by overnight train. Bad choice. Sure, the boat and bus gets you into the capital sooner - at midnight instead of early the next morning - but on the train you can spend the night in a comfy sleeper. On the boat and the bus you get to spend eight hours crammed into the back of an uncomfortable and decrepit non-airconditioned deathtrap of a bus for eight very long hours.

By the time we got into Bangkok, two hours late, and found our guest house near the main train station, it was nearly three in the morning. We were sweaty, tired and annoyed as we shared a large Singha at a food stall out in the street next to the guest house. We earned that beer.

Fortunately the guesthouse we chose was a nice one, and offered a late check-out, so we got to sleep in until midday. We had chosen this guesthouse over the Shanti Lodge, where we stayed in Bangkok last time and loved, because it's a short walk to Hualampong station - from where our train for Chiang Mai was leaving at 10pm. We thought it best to stay very near the station after Bangkok's gridlocked traffic nearly stopped us from catching our last overnight train.

Plus, it gave us a new part of Bangkok to explore. This time it was the city's extensive Chinatown, which lies immediately west of the station. The day began at Wat Tramit, a temple with a unique claim to fame: it boasts the largest solid-gold Buddha anywhere in the world. It's huge, about 10 feet high and six feet across - apparently it weighs five and a half tons. Impressive.

From there we wandered into Chinatown - and there was no mistaking we had arrived there. It's a little like stepping out of Bangkok and magically finding yourself in Hong Kong for the afternoon. Thai language signs seem to disappear and everything is in Chinese. Restaurants offering shark fin or bird nest soup abound.

We popped into one shop that specialised in birds' nests to check them out. The shop wasn't a restaurant, but rather a boutique selling the raw ingredient - nests. With a marble floor and chic design and fittings, this shop felt like a branch of Cartier or Chanel - but what it sold turned out to be far more valuable.

A shop assistant appeared next to us and very kindly - since all three of us knew we had no intention of buying even a single nest - went through all the prices. And they were eye-watering. Even a small presentation box with just half a dozen little nests was more than 150 quid. Although, that was before a 20% discount for Mothers' Day.

Since Amanda and I couldn't see either of our mums wanting birds nests for Mothers' Day, we thanked the nice lady and headed back out into the street. We soon found a dim sum restaurant and settled down for lunch.

When we'd finished and had left the restaurant, we found ourselves regretting that we ever ate there. For not five minutes later we turned a corner into a Chinese food market offering ten times as many Chinese dishes, and at about the tenth of the price. Oh well, what can you do? We just had to bite the bullet and eat some more. A lot more.

We spent the rest of the afternoon wandering around the market, which was enormous and offered a lot more than just food. If cheap electronic toys or plastic tat is your thing, this is the place for you. And even though we didn't see a thing we would ever want to buy (apart from food!), we had a great time wandering around the tiny lanes of the market and drinking in the bustle and the frantic hum of the place.

But soon it was time to head back to the guesthouse and get ready to leave. It was a hot, hot day and we wanted to sit and cool down for a couple of hours before we left. When the time came, we hoisted our bulging backpacks onto our backs and headed for the station, a 10-minute walk away.

We grabbed some supplies and boarded the train. Unlike last time, we weren't travelling first class - too expensive. We weren't even travelling in a air-conditioned carriage - all booked out. Instead, we had left it a little late to book and were on the fan-cooled second-class sleeper carriage.

Just to make it worse, we were both in top berths because all the lower berths were booked out. Never having been on a second-class sleeper carriage, we weren't sure of the full implications of this, although we'd been warned to always try to nab a lower berth.

Once on the train, we saw why. The lower berths are a little longer, a little wider and - crucially - have a window. The upper berth is next to a ceiling fan that does little more than circulate hot and humid air, while anyone in a lower berth can open their window to cool down.

And it was hot in the there. Really hot. And so humid that if it had somehow rained, I don't think we'd have noticed. Oh well, once the train gets going it should cool down, we thought. We thought wrong. Once the train got going, the lower berths got cooler, sure. But no air seemed to reach where we were going to spend the night trying to sleep.

But I'm making it sound all bad, and it certainly wasn't. Even in the upper berth, the bed is comfortable, with fresh sheets and a pillow, and long enough even for tall people like Amanda and I to lie down comfortably. There's even a curtain that you pull across the bed for some privacy. Best of all, after a couple of hours it did actually cool down considerably and most of the night turned out to be quite pleasant. We both slept well in the end.

In the morning, the lower berths are converted into comfortable seats and, since most people on the train seemed to leave it very early in the morning, we had them to ourselves. Our train wasn't due into Chiang Mai until nearly 1pm, so we had a lot of time to enjoy the scenery.

Our train cut its way through dense forest and impenetrable jungle most of the time, with wild banana trees and lots of bamboo covering rolling hills and deep, deep valleys. Occasionally we'd pass through a pretty little small-town train station, villages with little more than a house and an ornate temple, many rice paddy fields and even a pristine golf course in the middle of nowhere.

Finally, dead on time, we pulled into Chiang Mai. We had already booked a room and the booking included a free ride from the station. Unfortunately, we weren't that impressed with the place we chose to stay, the Chiang Mai Thai House, and plan to find somewhere else this morning. It's nice enough here, with comfortable rooms and even a swimming pool, but everything seems geared to squeezing a little extra cash out of you at every opportunity - and the manager refuses to stop trying to sell us tours there and treks here no matter how many times we tell him we're not interested. Very tedious.

Still, we enjoyed a dip in the hotel pool before wandering out into Chiang Mai. We were both so tired, that we didn't take much in, to be honest, so I'll have to give you my impressions of the town later.

But what we saw, we liked. We ate dinner by grazing from a variety of delicious food stalls at the nigh market here before retiring to a bar. It turns out that it's the Buddhist version of Lent at the moment, so selling alcohol is illegal, but the bar we were in was happy to serve it on the sly. So I ended a very long two days sipping beer from a Hello Kitty paper cup for kids.

Happy birthday, Amanda!

2007-07-25T11:47:00.000+01:00

It was Amanda's birthday yesterday, and can you imagine anywhere more idyllic to celebrate than a secluded tropical island in Thailand? No, nor can I.

The problem was buying Amanda a nice present. For one thing, it's a small place and it's not easy to sneak away to do some surprise birthday shopping when you're here together on holidays. The other problem is that the only shop around is Starlite supermarket. Admittedly, it does stock an extensive range of souvenir tat, but nothing you'd ever buy anyone as a birthday present – not if you like them.

So instead I gave Amanda a manicure, a pedicure and a massage. Well, not literally – a manicure and a pedicure from me would probably be more a punishment than a gift. But she went to one of the places that offer beauty treatments on the beach.

So while Amanda was out being pampered on her birthday, our new Dutch friends Monique and Michael arrived to sneak in a cake and hide it behind the bar. Since I couldn't easily get away, they got the job of arranging a cake and getting some candles, and did a great job – as you can see from the photos!

Off the four of us went for a slap up dinner next door – we moved the table to the middle of the beach to make it a little more special, and we dressed up for the occasion (Amanda and I each have one outfit in our backpacks for this sort of thing).

After dinner, we headed back to the bar of the Dolphin, where we surprised Amanda with the cake, candles and all, and everyone joined in with a rousing chorus of 'happy birthday'. Mi and Oh (he's another genius barman here at Dolphin – cocktails and card tricks a speciality) had even been out to Thong Sala – the biggest town on KPN – to buy Amanda some lovely presents.

All that was left was some serious birthday cocktail-sampling.

Now, I wonder what Amanda has planned for my birthday in October?

PS That's probably my last update from southern Thailand. On Friday morning we're catching a boat to Chumpon, on the mainland a very long way north of here and then a quick bus to Bangkok. We're staying there for the night and hanging around Bangkok's Chinatown the next day, before catching the sleeper to Chiang Mai at 10pm. We'll be arriving in 'the capital of the north' early on Sunday afternoon.

It's strange - but great - to be leaving somewhere like this and not be heading home, holiday over. Instead, we've barely begun. These three weeks on the beach have been great, but a little 'Asia-lite'. Now the real discovering begins!

At last, we do something! (Part 2)

2007-07-23T07:25:00.001+01:00

Not satisfied with a brief outing to the next beach, we decided to do something a little more adventurous the next day, Friday. Mike, Monique, Tania and Amanda and I decided to embark upon a snorkelling trip to a place called Koh Maa.

The trip is a pretty standard one here, every resort, guesthouse, shop and restaurant along the beach can organise more or less the same trip for you. Dolphin organised ours, and at 11 in the morning we all piled into another taxi boat – this time piloted by the guy who runs the Undersky restaurant next door.

To our delight, we were joined at the last moment by Me the Brilliant Barman, who wangled the day off so he could hang out with us.

It takes about 40 minutes to get to Koh Maa, which a tiny island a stone's throw of the main island of Koh Phan Nang – so close that they are connected at low tide by a sandbar that forms a kind of double-sided beach. Next to that is a real beach a deep harbour in between.

The boat found a spot and stopped for us to dive into the water with our masks and snorkels for a good look around. As soon as I dived in I became aware that I was surrounded by fish. As I got my bearings, I realised there were fish everywhere – of every size, shape and description. Big ones, little ones, exotic ones and lots and lots of brightly coloured ones. I've never seen so many fish.

Below me was as many kinds of coral. All sorts of amazing shapes – my favourite were the ones that looked just like giant brains. We spent a happy couple of hours splashing about and excitedly pointing at every new kind of fish or coral we saw.

When we'd tired out, we climbed back aboard our boat and were ferried to the nearby beach for lunch. The beach was nice, but nothing special. Plenty of people were staying there, but I'm not sure what the attraction was – the water was littered with bits of broken coral that were sharp – very sharp. I have the cuts on my feet to prove it (a bit of antiseptic and a band-aid... I'll be right).

After a long lunch, we headed back and enjoyed the view of the sea, the rocks and the beaches between ours and Koh Maa.

After a quick shower and a nap (I'm getting old, I suddenly need to sleep in the afternoons!), it was time for a few beers to farewell Chris, Sophie and Tania who were heading off early the next morning.

I've not been drinking a lot since we got here – partly because drinks are surprisingly expensive here, but more because in the hot and humid weather they can really knock you out – so I was feeling it the next morning.

So, naturally, we were forced back into our old routine of rolling out of bed for breakfast, meandering down to the beach and lounging about, going for a swim, eating lunch and so on. Life's tough, eh?

Food, glorious food

2007-07-23T07:24:00.001+01:00

This post was written on July 20, but I've only just had the chance to upload it today.

I am very pleased to report that since my last update, where I whinged about the food here on the beach, matters have taken a dramatic turn for the better.

Two restaurants that were mysteriously closed since we arrived suddenly opened last week – explanations for their closure vary from 'someone died in their family' to 'they've been renovating their house'.

I don't know what the truth is, but thank heavens they've opened. They're both very good and very cheap. Best of all, they are right next door to where we're staying – one on each side. Closest by a few metres is Thai House. Good simple Thai food.

Even better is the one on the other side, Undersky. Just a few tables under a tin roof with sand for a floor, this one serves up honest home cooking to practically everyone staying at Dolphin and the handful of bungalows just a little further down the beach.

The more adventurous tourists from further up the beach – the busy end – have stumbled upon on Undersky now and word seems to be getting around. It's packed most nights and, since only one or two people seem to do the cooking, you can wait a long time for dinner sometimes. But when the food is this good and you have the sunset and the beach to watch while you wait, you hardly notice the time.

I won't step on Amanda's toes by going into great details about the food – she is writing a brilliant blog on all the food and tastes we're discovering here in Asia, so check it out! - but if you ever come to Thong Noi Pan Yai beach, visit Undersky and order the Thai salad with cashew nuts and coconut shake... Bliss!

At last, we do something!

2007-07-23T07:19:00.000+01:00

This post was written on July 19, but I've only just had the chance to upload it today.

I'm the first to admit that we've been pretty lazy on this holiday so far. But then, that was always the point of kicking it all off with a few weeks on a tropical island in southern Thailand.

Roll out of bed, meander down to the beach for breakfast, swim, lounge about, read, eat lunch... you get the picture. We'd been meaning to explore a bit of Koh Phan Nang for a while, but the we-can-always-do-it-tomorrow spirit always seemed to win the day.

Until finally, on Thursday, we finally did something.

Mind you, it took someone else to invite us before we got off our bums. You see, while we've been here we've got to know and a few of the great people who have been staying at Dolphin with us. There's Kylie, who runs a market in Fremantle, and her daughter Hannah, Chris and Sophie – who are also from Fremantle, but are on their way to spending six months living in Oxford – and their kids Harvey and Lilliana. And there's Michael and Monique, who are here from Holland, and a German woman called Tania (who don't have any children!)

Anyway, Chris came and asked us if we wanted to split a taxi boat with them to go to Hat Sadet, which is the next beach along. The next beach it may be, but you can't just walk there unless you fancy trekking through thick jungle for half a day.

We jumped at the chance and before long, we're heading for our taxi boat. If you've been to southern Thailand, you'll know about the longtail taxi boats.

As the name suggests, they are very long, and very narrow, wooden boats. Painted in bright colours and boasting a collection of garish ribbons and plastic flowers tied to the bow, they are an extremely common sight here. And sound. For at one end they have a motor – a very impressive motor. I've been told that they are often car and truck motors adapted for the purpose, and they certainly look large enough to be. They have a very long drive shaft which puts the propeller in many feet behind the boat, and are steered with a long metal pole.

And they are loud. Very, very loud.

They don't need much water to sit on, but they can't quite make it right to the shore, so you have to wade out to them to get on. Fortunately, the water on our beach is quite shallow, so it's easy to get to them.

Once we were in, our driver fired up the engine and powered the thing away from the beach. Once it gets going, it moves at a fearsome speed, and our driver cheerfully pointed to many rocks just beneath the surface. Any of them would have easily destroyed the boat, and I think his point was to let us know that you wouldn't want to try this yourself. Point taken, mate.

We got to Hat Sadet in 15 minutes or so – a very small and very beautiful beach, with most of the bungalows climbing up a steep hillside on the north. The water here is much deeper than at our beach, so it was a joy to dive in. The whole feel of Hat Sadet is very Swiss Family Robinson – and there's even a rickety wooden bridge leading over the creek that empties into the sea here.

The creek and a waterfall behind the beach is famous all over Thailand. For reasons I still haven't worked out, Thai kings have been coming here for centuries to carve their name in the rocks around the waterfall. Whatever the reason, it can't be the for the impressive dimensions of the waterfall – it's about two feet high!

It was late afternoon when we set out and a beautiful evening when we returned, the sea and the boat bathed in the golden glow of the setting sun. Yep, we were glad we finally got up and did something.

A week in heaven

2007-07-15T13:19:00.001+01:00

Wondering what's happened to us? Well, we're still in paradise.

We've been on Thong Nai Pan Yai beach for a week now, doing absolutely nothing. It's bliss.

We had been planning on moving around the island, Koh Phan Nang, staying a week here and week there. But after chatting to a myriad of travellers that have come and gone through the 'resort' we're staying at, we've realised that this beach is the best on the island for us – and the accommodation doesn't get better than this, either.

So we've settled in here and are planning to see the rest of Koh Phan Nang through a series of daytrips – not that we've bothered to yet! - before we head back to Bangkok and then on to Chiang Mai in the north soon after Amanda's birthday on the 24th.

The beach here is idyllic – the stuff of picture postcards. Clear and warm water and powdery white sand fringed by a long line of coconut palms for shade. I would love to show you some photos, but the internet connections here are slow and expensive – uploading photos is all but impossible.

The highlight of the holiday so far is where we're staying, Dolphin. It's the first place we tried when we hit the beach a week ago and we got it right first time. Most of the resorts along the beach are nothing more than a collection of rickety bungalows and a bar, but this place tries a little harder.

It's a secluded set of simple but seductive wooden bungalows meandering through a lovely tropical garden – alive with butterflies, birds and all sorts of exotic wildlife. We've seen crabs, tiny geckos and even some little fruit bats.

The bungalows are comfortable and clean. Basically just solid wooden huts with shuttered windows, a private bathroom and a big deck – and each deck boasts a hammock. Perfect to while away the hottest hours of the afternoon with a book.

At the front of Dolphin, just where the beach meets the coconut palms shading the sands, is the focal point of the place – the bar. The place to eat breakfast (freshly picked tropical fruits every morning – yum) and lunch and, of course, to drink in the evening.

The place is owned by a friendly and attentive couple – a Kiwi and her Thai husband – and is staffed by a crew of Thais who smile and laugh as though they have just found the best jobs in the country. And maybe they have.

The chief character is a bloke called Me (maybe it's Mee or Mei, I'm not sure). This guy has to be the best barman in the world. Friendly and attentive without being suffocating or obsequious, he has a talent for being there exactly when you need him. And he's blessed with a brilliantly cheeky wit. He's been keeping me laughing for a week now, and half the beach seems to descend to the bar every night just to have him gently and cheerfully take the piss out of them.

It's cheap, too. We just got our bill for the first week and it was around £140 – which included loads of laundry, breakfast every morning, a few lunches, many bottles of water and a lot of drinks (not all alcoholic – they make some mean cold fruit shakes and ice crushes!).

Many people staying here have been here before, some of them many times, and there's a certain camaraderie around the bar at night. Perhaps we're all feeling a little smug to have discovered what seems to be the best spot on the whole of the island.

The weather is great now, although it was mainly overcast and wet for the first few days. That's passed and now it's hot and sunny most of the time – with a little humidity that gradually builds up during the day until it explodes into dramatic tropical showers. Ten minutes later, it's all blue skies and sun again.

If there's a drawback to the beach, I'm afraid it's the food. Dolphin's food is great but it doesn't do dinner, so we have to choose one of the many beachfront restaurants along here. Everyone who stays here seems to head for a place called Nice Beach, and it's hardly surprising. Although the food there couldn't be described as better than 'decent', it's a major step up from the rest of what's on offer.

All the restaurants on the beach are, naturally, geared to tourists. The locals certainly don't dine in them. I asked where they eat and the answer was, sadly, 'at home'. No wonder. If you like steamed rice gone cold and curries that taste like they came out of a can, then this is the place for you. And they cost about three times as much as the rest of Thailand, too.

Depressingly, most of the tourists seem to go for the western meals all these restaurants offer. And that's rubbish too. Anyway, I didn't come to Thailand to eat fried egg and chips, thanks all the same.

But at least we did a little exploring and discovered a great place to eat a short distance from the beach, back on the main road. Now we eat lunch every day at a roadside restaurant – if you can describe something that's nothing more than a few sheets of corrugated tin over some wooden tables and plastic garden chairs as a restaurant.

The owner runs the whole place by herself – she takes your order and then cooks it up fresh over some gas-powered hotplates in one corner (while her elderly mother sleeps on a board of wood to one side!). Unlike the places on the beach, she doesn't bother sticking it all in a scooped out coconut to try and convince you that a bad curry is good.

And three generous dishes of genuine Thai food and a couple of drinks will set you back no more than a pound or two. You can see why we go there every lunchtime!

Paradise lost... and found

2007-07-08T15:38:00.000+01:00

Turns out we could have done better in the paradise stakes. We're demanding about these things, you see. You're probably at home or at work thinking we're never satisfied, but nor would you be if you'd come all this way.

Thong Nai Pan Noi is certainly nice, but not quite what we were looking for. I'm not sure if it was the abundance of small children, the sound of endless bland R&B hits pouring out of every bar on the beach, or that every one of the bungalow resorts along the stretch of sands were exactly the same. They can't all have 'the best burgers in KPN!!'

Whatever it was, we felt we could do better. We'd heard and read that Thong Nai Pan Noi has a sister beach, Thong Nai Pan Yai – and that it's much more secluded and individual. So we checked out of Star Huts – admittedly quite a nice spot to stay – and jumped back into a pick up truck.

This one didn't even have a bench, we just sat on the flat-bed floor. Like all these truck-taxis, it had two comfortable seats behind the driver, but for some reason you're never welcomed into these.

No matter, it was only a 10-minute drive and we were there. First signs weren't promising – more of the same – but we'd heard that the far end of the beach was the place to go.

I looked after the bags, Amanda went to scout out accommodation. She's far more discerning than I am – I'll sleep anywhere. Amanda soon returned with a big smile on her face.

She'd just booked us into a place called Dolphin, right at the far end of the beach. We dragged our packs down there and I soon found out why she was smiling – what a place. Cheaper than the resort – they're not really resorts the way we know them, but that's what they call them – we spent last night in and much, much nicer.

Built into a grove of palm trees for shade, Dolphin is a little meandering village of lovely wooden bungalows. Ours has a verandah all around it – complete with a hammock. You also get a huge bed and a mosquito net hanging from four corners of the ceiling – makes the bed look like a four poster. All for 500 baht.

The place is dotted with little wooden pavilions – I don't know another word to describe them. They're basically wooden bungalows without walls and the staff have scattered cushions all around them so you can find one and sit in the shade. A nice idea, because it's beginning to get very warm here. Probably about 32 degrees today. Mmmm... nice.

A long night's journey into paradise

2007-07-08T15:37:00.000+01:00

This post was written on July 7, but I've only just had the chance to upload it today.

Returning from Wat Pho to pick up our bags, it was time to get on our way to the southern islands of Thailand for a spot of R&R.

Long overnight trips are always a bit of a hassle, but you never expect the toughest part to be the ride to the train station. But that's how this journey began.

We were booked to leave at 7.30pm, and we asked the guesthouse staff to find out how long it would take us to get there.

The main station in Bangkok is about 20 minutes away, but only if there's no traffic. And there's never no traffic. Answers varied, but the consensus seemed to be that we should leave an hour to an hour and a half before our train.

We decided to play it safe and gave it two hours. Just as well. Our taxi drove straight into heavy traffic – unavoidable in a city that has made an art of gridlock. After an endless pattern of waiting five or ten minutes and moving just a few metres, we turned into the street from hell.

It may have been just a couple of hundred metres long, but it took us more than 45 minutes to negotiate it. I'm not joking. At one point we spent 25 minutes standing stock still. The time was ticking by, and soon two hours before departure had become 15 minutes.

We asked our driver how much further, like two frustrated children on a long drive. He asked us what time our train left, and then answered our question with a knowing and very doubtful shake of the head. 'I will try,' he said, 'but I dunno.'

But as he saw his tip fading away to nothing, he decided to take serious action – running a couple of red lights and gunning it down the crowded streets, nipping in and out of lanes like Lewis Hamilton drives an ambulance. The train station suddenly hove into view and we dashed to our train with minutes to spare. The driver got his tip. Amanda later decided it was all a con to squeeze a better tip out of grateful tourists, and she may well be right.

Once aboard the train, everything became easier. We had booked the tickets on the internet months ago and had shelled out the little extra for a first class cabin. When we found it, we were pleased. These cabins are hardly the Orient Express, but they are a great way to travel.

A long couchette lines one wall and, after a couple of hours, a man comes and pulls the back up to turn it into a bunk bed. He puts a comfortable mattress down on both beds and makes them up with spotlessly clean linen and pillows. The beds are comfortable and beers are served, so sleep is guaranteed.

But first we had to contend with Tony. Tony was the unlikely name of our attendant – as camp as Christmas and as devious as Fagin. He reminded me of the room service waiter out of Spinal Tap: 'Oh my god, civilisaaaaation!'

He popped his head around the door and asked if we wanted a couple of Singhas. Dumb question. Before we knew it he was drinking with us, and it only dawned on us minutes later that we were expected to pay for his beer. But beers are cheap, so what the hell? We chatted to him – or rather he chatted at us. All about life working aboard the trains. We didn't understand much, to be honest, but a lot of it apparently involves sleeping only five hours a night, and even that's on a table.

An hour or two later, and Tony's back with the beers. And we're expected to buy him another one. So we do, but this time he doesn't stick around to drink it. On the way to the loo a little later, I see another passenger sharing his beer with Tony. And then it dawns on me – Tony goes from cabin to cabin, cadging beers but drinking only a few. The rest he sells to other passengers and pockets the profit. You can't help but be impressed by his resourcefulness.

I'd probably do the same if I had to spend every night sleeping on a table.

After 12 hours on the train, we hit our destination. Well, almost. Our ticket included a boat trip, and we were herded onto a rickety bus for the half hour trip to the ferry. We tried to find a seat on the boat, but the only ones were in the 'VIP Room – You Pay Extra'. It was only a few baht and we would have paid, but it stank of petrol fumes and something else unidentifiable but unmistakeably nasty.

So instead we joined the rest of the backpackers lining the 'deck' – a four-foot wide bit of space between the railings over the edge and the enclosed part of the boat. With a calm sea and a pleasantly warm breeze, it turned out to be a fun ride. Shame it took three hours and two boats.

Finally we arrived at Koh Phan Nang, but the trip wasn't over just yet. Nope, we still had to find a ride to to the beach we planned to stay at, far to the north. Fortunately there were no end of drivers hawking lifts north and we picked the one who looked most reliable and followed him.

He described his car as a taxi, but I've never seen a taxi like this: a pick up truck with benches lining both sides of the open flat bed at the back. Our bags were piled in, we climbed up the back and took our seats. We had to wait until four more tourists were persuaded to climb in, but soon we were off. Forty very bumpy minutes later and we had arrived in Thong Nai Pan Noi. Clear waters, a beautiful beach and a comfy bungalow awaited.

In the end it took 21 hours, a taxi, a train, a bus, two boats and a pick-up truck... but we had finally arrived in paradise.

'Thank you, I'm a lady boy'

2007-07-08T15:30:00.000+01:00

This post was written on July 6, but I've only just had the chance to upload it today.

Do you know how to say 'thank you' in Thai? I do. Or at least I thought I did. Turns out I was wrong. To say 'thank you', you say 'korp khun ka'. Simple. I learned it 12 years ago on a flying visit to Bangkok on my way to London.

I've been using it everywhere in Thailand to great effect. Where most tourists don't seem to bother, I've been trying to use it wherever possible. And my endearing attempts at the local lingo has been met with big smiles or shy giggles from everyone. Or so I thought.

What I didn't know was that the 'ka' at the end is used only by women. Men must say 'kap' instead. Oh dear. This was finally pointed out to me two days after we got here, by one of the staff at the Shanti Lodge, our great Bangkok guesthouse.

'So what have I been saying?' I asked, dreading the answer.

The answer was, basically, 'thank you, I'm a lady boy'.

And to make matters worse, I've been using this expression in Thai restaurants all over London for the past 12 years. How embarrassing.

Anyhoo... we spent our second and last day in Bangkok – for now – checking out the Grand Palace and Wat Pho.

Grand by name, grand by nature. The Grand Palace is one impressive sight. The revered king of Thailand – his image is everywhere – doesn't actually live here, but all the royal ceremonies centre around the palace, and it holds Thailand's most sacred religious artefact, the Emerald Buddha.

He's actually made of jade rather than emerald, and is only impressive for sitting atop a huge tower of gold and glinting coloured glass. The guy is only about two foot all, but he means a lot to the locals.

We were shown around by a guide – a real one, and not one of the shysters hanging around outside who insists that the palace is closed today and, if you don't believe him, resorts to pointing you in entirely the wrong direction. I'm sure one of his cohorts is hanging about to take you on a tour once you follow the dodgy directions and finally give up looking.

Our guide's name was Sunny, and rightfully so. A very cheerful chap, he had taken early retirement from the army some 30 years ago. 'Too many coups.' Fair enough.

Sunny was taking retirement in four years, after which he planned to tour the great archeological wonders of the world. The amazing array of facts and figures he knew about The Pyramids, Angkor Wat, the Taj Mahal and more suggested he was planning to turn up at each and try a little freelance tour guiding.

As impressive as the palace was, Wat Pho was better – chiefly because of the reclining Buddha, a 75-foot long, gold-plated statue of Buddha in a beautiful traditional Thai hall made of teak. Actually, that was the only impressive thing about Wat Pho. But if you have a 75-foot long, gold-plated statue of Buddha in a hall made of teak, what else do you need?

The very first day

2007-07-05T14:57:00.000+01:00

We had been awake for 26 hours by the time we climbed into our bed at the guesthouse last night. Twenty-six seconds later we were both in a deep, long sleep. The place could have burned down and we wouldn't have noticed.

So we awoke this morning as fresh as daisies and as eager as beavers. After a plate of exotic fresh fruits and a less-than-exotic omelette, we set out into the sticky heat. To see some famous temples? To tour the Grand Palace? Er, no. To find some sturdy shoes. Well, we need some, ok?

At least the walk to the river took us through the heart of a colourful nearby market. A market boasting bucket after bucket of live... things. Hopping frogs, wriggling eels and splashing fish actually leaping out of their containers. Several of them got thrust at us for our perusal. Rather ambitious, I thought - do western backpackers often pause to buy live frogs?

We were heading for the river to catch a ferry downtown and after one determined but pathetically transparent scam – he said the ferry was two blocks away but, hey, why not try his tuk-tuk city tour instead? - we found a boat and leapt aboard.

These long, narrow and beaten-up wooden contraptions would appear to have little in common with Formula One cars. Except that these boats also go like the clappers. Nothing stops them, not even the idea of actually stopping to let people on or off. Instead they pull along side a dock, deign to slow down (barely) and passengers leap on and off in the brief moment the boat touches the pier.

But it's a fun ride and an enjoyable way to commute – especially in a city where gridlock appears to be more or less permanent everywhere. Monks must love it the most, since they appear to get priority. Running along one side of the boat are signs reading 'space for monks'. And sure enough, when we got on there were four of them in orange robes and shaved heads. Very young they were, too. The three youngest, just little kids, smiled and stared at us throughout the trip, while the older one, a teenager, stared out of the boat with the studied, surly indifference of teeangers the world over.

After the boat ride, it was a short hop on the Skytrain – a monorail that floats above the streets and that hardly anyone seems to bother using – to Siam Square. Supposedly Asia's shopping mecca, it had everything. Which was a bit of a shame, because 'everything' included all the same high prices that prevented us buying the shoes when we were in London. Oh well, at least one of the shopping malls had an amazing food court, doing every Asian cuisine you could imagine – and doing it very well, too. A pork green curry for 70p? I'll take it!

We fled the shopping malls as fast as we could and wound up looking for shoes in the infamous Khao San Road – the spiritual home of hippy backpackers everywhere. You can get any product by any designer here, as long as it's fake. But fakes have come a long way since I was last in Bangkok and a pair of sturdy but trendy sandals looked the part and the price was right.

Finally, a beer in a Khao San bar. Amanda and I felt a little self-conscience – looking around us, we realised we were severely lacking in the dreadlock, facial piercing and tattoo departments. And were about 15 years older than everyone around us. We're just not cool enough for this scene. But not to worry, one local has a stall right there in the street selling and installing dreadlock hair extensions.

See, I told you – you can get anything here as long as it's fake.

One night in Bangkok

2007-07-04T14:36:00.000+01:00

Actually, it's two nights in Bangkok... but thats not a song title or a convenient headline , is it?

So, four months after setting up a blog called 'Asian Adventure' and filling it up with posts that had sod all to do with Asia, we're finally here. After enduring the usual hell of a 12-hour flight in cattle class, I'm sitting in a bar in sweaty, steamy Bangkok. And loving it.

But I'm tired, jetlagged and without the energy to write more. So stay tuned...

Good bye London...

2007-07-02T20:17:00.001+01:00

After 12 years, two months and 22 days, this is my last night in London. It feels very strange saying good bye to a city that I've come to call 'home' and in which I have spent most of my adult life.

There have been great times - too many to count - and bad times - a Christmas spent all alone in a freezing and dingy flat in Elephant and Castle the first year I arrived comes to mind.

But the great times have far eclipsed the bad ones, and I'm sure I'll remember even the things that drove me nuts with fond nostalgia one day. Like standing in the rain on a winter's evening in Kings Cross waiting for a 390 bus that never arrives... again. Okay, maybe not that.

What I will remember and miss most is my friends - too many of you to count. For a city that everyone claims is cold and lonely and unfriendly, I've always enjoyed its warm embrace. It doesn't matter where you come from... if you can survive London, you're officially a Londoner. No one cares where you're really from.

But instead of collapsing into an embarrassingly maudlin heap of tears and mawkish words, I've spent the past couple of days compiling in my head a list of the things I will miss - and not miss - about London.

You'll notice there are more points in the 'miss' list than the 'not miss' list...

Things I will miss:

1. Our friends
3. The history in every corner
2. Pub culture and beer in pint glasses. And the last orders bell
3. Long summer days
4. Being so close to so many other countries
5. M&S
6. The BBC
7. Big Brother (embarrassing, I know)
8. Bloody good fry-ups. Especially with a hangover (see number 3)
9. World Cups and Euros. And the St George flags stuck to every white van in town.
10. Good old fashioned English piss-taking. And the particular London sense of humour
11. Accents
12. Speculating on whether it will snow on Christmas day. Twelve years and it never happened once!
13. All the amazing West End shows that hardly any of us actually bother to go to
14. Chelsea FC and going to Stamford Bridge. I don't care what the rest of you think about that one

Things I won't miss

1. The weather. Except I love having real seasons. Perverse, I know
2. Short winter days
3. Endless commutes. Especially by Tube
4. Aggressive rude boys on the back of every bus, playing effing hip-hop loud on their mobiles and silently challenging everyone to ask them to turn it down. So they can stab you
5. Iceland
6. ITV
7. The absurd cost of just about everything
8. Tim bloody Henman every July. He's never even got close, people!
9. Oxford Street at Christmas time. Why do I always end up there on Christmas Eve?
10. Did I mention the weather?
11. Rotten service. I admit it's improving
12. Mini cabs
13. Jeffrey Archer. And Jade Goody. And Michael Winner. And David Cameron, Jamie Oliver, Ruby Wax, Kilroy, Richard Littlejohn, Princes Charles and Philip... I could go on for a long time here

So that's it. Good bye London. I'll miss you.

One week to go...

2007-06-26T18:43:00.000+01:00

I just thought you'd like to know.

What a swell party that was

2007-06-24T10:25:00.000+01:00

I'm now sufficiently recovered from Friday's farewell festivities to actually write something - though the hangover of a lifetime is still lingering.

But what a great night. The drinks flowed, and so did the chats and the laughs. Amanda and I were surprised and flattered by the turnout, which was spectacular. Some people I never thought would come travelled a long way to be there - but some people who swore they were coming didn't bother (you know who you are!)

The room was splendid and the staff really looked after us. Thanks Ian, David and Alison.

The whole shindig finally wound up back at ours via a very loud and ordinary club in Kings Cross. And then I woke up yesterday - in extreme pain and feeling every single one of my 37 years.

But enough of that: here are some photos:

PS Doesn't Amanda look amazing!

PPS Big thanks to the Swedish girls who turned up uninvited, were hostile and insulting to virtually everyone, and who tried to throw a lamp out of the first floor window. You're all class, ladies.

Free at last!

2007-06-17T18:23:00.000+01:00

Well, there it is. I'm officially unemployed. Or, as I prefer to describe it, semi-retired. Yes, that does sound much better.

On Friday I said goodbye to my colleagues at Orange - I'd only worked there for three months, but still got some drinks and pressies from the most excellent bunch of people there - and last night said good bye to everyone at The Times Online after two and half years of Saturday nights. Another great lot to say good bye to - and the third job I've left this year.

You'd think I'd be happy to say good bye to the world of work and hello to the world of utter laziness, wouldn't you? Of course, I am... but I feel a little sad, too. Not just because I'll miss the people and the banter, but because, perhaps, working somewhere is what seperates you from being a tourist. Well, that and a guidebook.

So now I'm just a mere tourist in a city I've lived in and loved for more than a dozen years, and that's made me feel a little melancholy.

But, hey - cheer up! Amanda and I have no debts, money in the bank and are about to embark on the adventure of a lifetime, and how many people can say that?

So tomorrow I'm off to Birmingham to sort out our Thai visas (it's a long story). I have to be on a train to the Midlands at 7.40am. Bloody hell, I think I'd rather be at work!

One month to go...

2007-06-03T14:12:00.000+01:00

...and so much to do.

Vaccinations, visas, tickets, bills, tax, banking... who knew it would be so hard to 'fall off the grid'? You have to untangle yourself from the grid first.

And only two more weeks of work left before the longest break I've had since I started working, and almost certainly the longest break I will have before retirement. Depressing!

Last night at the Bridge

2007-05-10T09:57:00.000+01:00

I've been a member of Chelsea FC for many years now - ever since I first arrived in London 12 years ago and found myself living within cheering distance of the club's ground - and I've had the pleasure of going to many, many matches over the years.

But I've never been able to afford a season ticket, so I've often missed the biggest league games. Although I've seen the likes of Barcelona, Arsenal and Liverpool at Stamford Bridge over the years, I'd somehow never had the chance to aggressively boo the biggest of the lot (besides us!).

So it was with great pleasure that I managed to secure a ticket to see Manchester United play Chelsea at the Bridge. Second last game of the season and, with just three points between them and us when I bought the ticket, probably the game that would decide the Premiership.

And it would be my very last Chelsea game. What a way to go.

I thought I was in for the sporting night of my life.

Well, football fans will know what actually happened in the end. We drew a few of our next games, United won theirs - and by the time they came to the Bridge, it was all over. The title was theirs.

With the FA Cup final still to come, the managers decided to rest most of their stars. OK, that's fair enough - but it meant I got to sit three rows from the pitch - three rows!!! - and watch a load of players I have never heard of play out a tedious 0-0 draw. And just to make it all the more enjoyable, it was cold, it was windy and it rained all evening.

The seat was the best I had ever secured in 12 years of going to see Chelsea play. Being that far forward would have been an advantage at virtually any other game, offering me a chance to get right up close to some of the greatest players in the world.

But at this game it meant only one thing - that I was sitting just under the spot where the roof ends, and got thoroughly rained on.

That's football.

Quiet as the grave

2007-05-07T11:43:00.000+01:00

On Saturday, I stopped off at Bunhill Fields cemetery, right next to Old Street in the City, on the way to work at The Times.

I used to go to this graveyard at lunchtime years and years ago, when I worked nearby. That's not as macabre as it sounds, it's actually a very pretty cemetery. It's been around since the 18th century at least and was closed in the late 1800s, so it's very gothic.

Apparently, that oh-so-quaint name is actually derived from the words 'bone hill' - not so quaint now, is it? In ye olden days, they had no cemeteries out of town so they just buried one person on top of another - and then stuck a few more on top of that. Needs must.

A couple of famous people are buried here, including that great poet and famous nutter William Blake. Daniel Defoe is also under the ground here - he wrote Robinson Crusoe, and is the brother of the Hollywood actor Willem Defoe and the Spurs strike Jermaine Defoe. Maybe.

Anyway, all this is just an excuse to show off a few new photographs I took there. Click on them to see them in some proper sizes. Hope you like them.

Exactly two months to go...

2007-05-03T14:09:00.000+01:00

July the 3rd. 9:35pm. Heathrow Terminal 3.

Not that I'm counting or anything...

Day at the zoo

2007-04-30T22:01:00.000+01:00

Someone, somewhere is reading this blog. Who? And why?

Well, whoever you are... you've guilted me into writing even though we're still just over two months away from heading to Asia. But before we go, Amanda (my wife, in case you don't know us very well) and I are determined to catch up with all those London sights we have spent years putting off.

First stop: the London Zoo. Why the zoo? Well, a few months ago Amanda shocked me with the news that she's never been to a zoo. Not once in her whole life. Sure, she'd been to the odd bird sanctuary and seen some kangaroos in an enclosure somewhere, but she had never been to a zoo.

So off to the zoo we went. Meandering down Regents Canal on a warm spring day is certainly a great way to spend a Sunday. And as you approach the zoo, you catch the odd glimpse here and there of the animals. An African hunting dog here, a giraffe there.

And that's when the full meaning of Amanda never having been to a zoo actually hit me. She gasped as she caught sight of each exotic animal. Because, of course, whatever the animal was, she'd never seen one in real life before.

It makes perfect sense, really. After all, where else are you going to see a giraffe, a tiger, or a lion but at a zoo? So if you've never been to a zoo... well you do the math.

So we both enjoyed a blissfull day wandering around eyeballing all the animals, and I got the added bonus of watching someone seeing them all for the very first time. A beautiful moment.

And here are some photos I took at the zoo:

My published articles

2007-04-30T18:58:00.000+01:00

Here's a collection of my published articles. If you're interested in commissioning me to write an article for your publication, please email me here.

Articles

How to talk to Ostriches - Pressureworks.org (ChristianAid)
Time to ground cheap flights - Pressureworks.org (ChristianAid)
Get back your lost money - AOL UK

Watch this space...

2007-04-09T21:16:00.000+01:00

It's a little early to be starting this blog since, well, Amanda and I aren't actually heading to Asia for another three months. We're catching a flight to Bangkok on July the 3rd (9.35pm from Heathrow Terminal 3, if anyone wants to come and see us off!).

I don't envisage writing a whole lot until then, but check back - maybe I will. I'm not sure the ins and outs of renewing passports, securing visas and transferring money to Australia is going to interest many of you, is it?

So in the meantime, here are some nice photos I took of London recently with my sparkly new camera. you can see more of them here.