Back in the land of Scotch Eggs and Cider

When I left England back on January 18th I was worried about my flight being cancelled due to the thick snowfall carpeting Heathrow. On my return I walked into the choking heat of the glass-walled hall of terminal 5. The car ride back was fogged with sleep deprivation and lazy heat. 

At home, I was happy to find an Easter egg waiting for me in my bedroom. My cat sulked at me and mum talked to me about badminton. I had fun giving Pete his ridiculous souviners; a New Zealand all-blacks stubby holder complete with muscly arms, a kangaroo jumpsuit from Australia, a capsule machine Rambo figurine from Japan. Dad was chuffed with his Australian leather sun-hat. 

The garden at home was in its usual overgrown state; the apple tree had another plant growing in it and the honeysuckle had eaten the stone wall to one side. The lawn hid sleeping neighbours' cats and dangerously camouflaged cat poos. 

Reverse culture shock. Experience, metamorphose and then get dumped smack bang back into an unchanging constant. Back into stasis. Back to my family home with its garden of cats and the predictably unpredictable English summertime.

It's very arrogant to say nothing has changed for anyone else; my friend Rimli had a baby. Pete left his job and went freelance. Perry had one of his best teaching years. Frances moved house. Mum started snooker lessons. Dad lost a stone. Lots of things have changed for lots of people. The thing that is eating away at my brain is this:

I haven't really changed!

Now a week has passed. I'm living in Pete's house. Unemployed. The same weight as when I left. I'm back on six cups of tea a day. I'm back eating toast and fajitas. Cheese and tomato swirlies from Tesco. I feel like I never went away at all.

With my big trip the winding down set in early. The last four weeks snowballed into the finale. I started to buy things, heavy things. I lost my faithful pair of moldy converse shoes. I started to resign myself to the going home. It was already over in my head, I was counting the days. Pete was waiting for me, and I was waiting for Pete. I was forgetting the present.

I've spent the morning looking through my photos from Peru. It feels further away than last year, but I remember the returning travel high. It's where I seriously caught the travel bug. I realised I could go and do what I wanted- I realised I was an adult. I look at pictures of beautiful ancient valleys where condors fly. At low lying clouds and llamas trotting through crumbling ruins.

It brings me back to what I've seen. What and where and who and when I've seen all over the place. Tropical rainforests, skyscraper cities, mountain rivers, lightning storms, suicidal tuk tuk drivers, saffron-clad pilgrims, turrets of multi-coloured spices and medieval streets; the smells of Phad Thai, chillis, coconuts, tumeric, fresh paddies, the mellow-sour of the ocean, human detritus. The sounds of buzzing insects, a crowd of water-fighters and distant base, the tunes of tubes and the ear-splitting bugle of traffic horns. The quietness of wind atop a mountain.

I need to grip on to the inspiration and the memories. I need to re-read this blog and keep it alive. I need to keep moving forward- keep finding and embracing change and enjoying the smells, sights and sounds of the new and exciting world of... the World!

The Bath House

There are plenty of teeny bath houses in Kiyomizu where I'm staying in Kyoto, but I've chosen Funaoka Onsen because of the fact it has a rotemburo (outdoor bath) and the fact that it comes highly recommended in Lonely Planet. I'm hoping that the latter might mean that they are a bit more sympathetic to confused tourists. The place is a bugger to find- half an hour on the bus to the middle of no-where (the bus driver is really helpful and shows me where to get off) and then I use my best Japanese to ask for directions. A very nice old man with a liquor shop points it out to me and says "Look for the big rock outside."

It looms into view- a bit more grand than the Gion bathhouses  which are identifiable by curtains outside with the hirigana "yu" (bath) printed on them. The front boundary is made up of giant boulders and there's a very traditional Japanese looking facade, dimly lit with paper lanterns and a flourescent sign that contains a cartoon drawing of Hokusai's great wave. Inside, I remove my shoes as a smiley elderly women chants "Irashaimase," and without prompting gives me the price in English and points out the ladies entrance. The Japanese are unmatched in helpfullness.

Emma forewarned me about the bath house: "Everyone will stare at your boobs because - you have boobs. Oh, and the bushes! Japanese women take absolutely no notice of their downstairs." I walk into the ladies' changing room and am confronted immediately by naked bodies. Lots of ladies drying their backs with rolled up towels, rolling out their stockings and gossiping . A middle-aged lady stands talking to her friend in a 'power stance' - hands on hips and full on scraggly bush to greet me. I bashfully tip toe over to a locker and try not to stare.

I know how the bath house works and that everyone will be naked- It's the point in trying it out- but I can't help the fact that I feel really awkward. Undressing is the worst part- I feel like everyone's eyes are on me (even though the ladies are actually pretty nochalant) and I sheepishly cower by my locker to hide my clothes in it.

When I'm undressed I demurely wander over to the sinks. There's an ante-room to the actual bath house beyond. It has a long sink with a stack of plastic washing-up bowls at one end. No idea what it's for so I continue onwards. Inside there are a couple of blue-tiled shallow baths to the left, with some attached small bubbling pools. To the right are the shower rows: in the public bath you must wash yourself before bathing. I pull up a tiny plastic stall and start to lather myself in soap and shampoo.

Each 'washing place' has a stall, a mirror, hot and cold push taps and a shower head. There's a young slender woman behind me soaping her hair as her two kids run around her causing havoc, and an old lady next me getting on with soaping her undercarriage. 

It feels very normal very quickly. There are women here of every age and I feel that no-one is judging anyone else. There's a fantastic freedom in the nakedness. And there are lots of boobs too- I thought Japanese women didn't have any- but there are enough impressive ones here that I don't feel like some anime mutant sporting beach balls. When I'm done washing I move into the main bath. It's really quite hot and I lean against the edge in case my blood pressure does a number on me. I can see some little kids looking at me sideways. One of them is only about 3 and keeps walking over to stare. I am definitely the odd one out- but none of the adults seem particularly bothered; I imagine tourists are quite common here. I am really worried about etiquette in the bath house, but the old ladies are very kind and tell me what to do if I look confused (such as, one should shower post-sauna) which puts me greatly at ease.

I give all the baths a go; there are a few electric baths, a sauna, a freezing plunge pool and a really hot bath that is too hot for me (there's a hardcore old lady standing in it and I've no idea how she hasn't melted) and when I'm done with these I strut confidently to the outdoor bath, the rotemburo. There's a bucktoothed lady with steamed-up glasses sitting under the tap (enjoying it a bit too much) and a women with a young child in the other end. The child pounds and plays with her mother's breasts and she isn't bothered. The other staring-kid opens the door after me and then runs away, returning with her mother five minutes later. I settle into the water and close my eyes. The rotemburo is uniquely pleasant. Sitting outside of it in the open air after a steam is really refreshing and by this stage I am completely at ease with exposing my body to everyone else.

I don't last very long in the steaming tub. After cooling off outside it I walk back through to the main area (the lady with glasses is now enjoying the electric bubble bath a bit too much) stick my feet in the plunge pool and leave to get dressed.

In the changing room the little girls are running around playing tag, and Dad placates them from the men's changing room next door (the two rooms are joined at the ceiling). I think that it's nice that the whole family come here to enjoy bathtime.

I leave feeling cleansed and refreshed but mostly struck with how charming the experience is. How nice it is to be so used to one another's bodies, to not be judged and not feel ashamed and to be equalised. To go bathing naked with mum and grandma and your little nieces, with dad a partition away and that be totally normal and pleasant. I have gotten naked with the Japanese and thoroughly enjoyed it.

Oh and when I'm rich and famous- we're definitely getting an outdoor bath.

The Best Shop in Shinjuku

I've got a pretty selective memory. I'm crap with birthdays. No Grandma, I can't remember when D-day is and telephone numbers? Forget it!

I wasn't even confident that the shop was in Shinjuku. It could have been in Ginza which is probably better known for shops. But I remembered Shinjuku when I walked out of the train station. I remembered walking down the hill with the tower of department stores on my right (now the biggest UniQlo I have ever seen) and the sushi places under the railway bridge. I remember the wide crossing across the mental road.

I remember it being stupid-busy, like now, and also stinking hot. Advertisers hand out promotional 'uchiha' fans - I get one with a green gorilla on it and gratefully waft myself with it. After a brief accidental detour in which I pass a lot of ramen and tonkatsu shops and buy a few mystery-flavour riceballs to tie me over, I wind up on the street I want. I remember it isn't this street, but another street round the back of this one somewhere.

I try my luck round a few corners. I can see the limits of the street which means that there is at least a perimeter where this shop exists. Go me for being logical.

I decide that I've been walking around in the heat a little too long and must rejuvinate with an ice coffee. I duck into a busy basement shop full of cigarette smoke and hurridly slurp one down. When I emerge, the glare of the sun illuminates the sign of the building opposite. I'm standing outside it! - damn my blind air conditioning and beverage lust!

I dance around all the displays like a gleeful child. I look at the beautiful postcards and Japanese print style letter kits; the moomin-themed stationary, the animal-shaped corrector pens, the multi-coloured folders, the rubber stamps, the patterned sellotapes, the origami sheets, the character notebooks and the millions and millions of different pens.

Sekaido has 7 floors of stationary. Every type of stationary you can imagine. And
I am a celebrated stationary perv!

After my gleeful dance of the first floor I prance up to the second, which sells all the manga supplies and I have a small neopiko pen and screentone binge (these things tend to be hideously expensive or hard to find back home). There's some serious kit up here which makes me think seriously about drawing manga again.

After a good hour of dancing up and down the escalators in a cloud of excited manga sparkles, I have to backtrack and pay for my postcards that I've accidently robbed from downstairs. As with most department stores in Japan you must pay for your purchases on each floor before progressing to the next.

As I walk back into the disgusting heat with my nicely wrapped purchases I feel a great sense of achievement. I, alone and unaided by persons or smartphones, being of shockingly bad memory and sense of direction have found a shop that I went to once, four years ago, in the middle of Japan.

And it was still as awesome as I remembered.

Crawling Queenstown

I managed to lose absolutely everyone before the start of the pub crawl. Apparently they've been thrown out of Nomads Hostel for drinking in the rooms and must have taken residence in a nearby pub.

I show up at Bar Cowboy dressed as a hipster golfer in preparation for 'pub golf' -  I say hipster golfer because the best I can do out of my backpack in knee high stripy socks, baggy pants, a shirt and a cardigan.
I rock up to the bar alone and order a rum and coke. I start chatting to Liam, an Aussie guy in Queenstown for a skiing holiday, who obviously hasn't noticed that I'm dressed like a complete goon, and within 10 minutes a group of raving drunk mental Kiwi experience patrons tumble through the door cheering and chanting. The barman shakes his head.

After they top up with a few litres of beer the group stampedes into the bar next door and I'm pleased to see my good chums Amy and Jenny having an up until that point quiet beer. We've also found Hamish, Jonas, Michael and Thibaud. Within ten minutes a hearty cheer signals that it's time for the next pub, and the group piles out of the door with golf clubs raised.

Amy has just bought a pint and refuses to down it in order to follow. I've also just bought a glass of rather nice Mount Gay and am in no hurry to see it off. Like a cartoon we see the group stampede in and out of Bar Up (we later learned that this was due to $10 pints being offered) and manage to skip a pub before entering the Boiler room.

As the night progresses my brain becomes more rum clouded. I remember declaring to Hamish (a wee bairn of 19) with my glass of rum raised that this night shall be his University preparation in drinking. I remember screeching 'Wonderwall' at a most likely quite talented live act. Hamish got us thrown out of the -5 ice bar for nicking a shot and then a bunch of us lost the main group. Jenny, Amy, Hamish and I followed a debris trail of broken golf paraphernalia in order to find everyone, to no avail. At some point Amy wisely ducked out and I ended up dancing on a table in a different club to music that I usually despise with a passion.

I woke up for my morning bus to Christchurch still drunk and managed a hilarious slurred Skypecall to Pete.

The dramatic mountains and beautiful lake surrounding Queenstown were sadly lost on me as I tried to avert my bloodshot eyes from the daylight.

The Kiwi Experience

It's green, it's fresh, it's got dramatic mountains and rolling hills. It's got a million acres of sky. It's got geysers and hot pools and volcanoes and waterfalls and crashing rapids. It's got fantastic sunsets.

It's got chocolate marshmallow fish.

I am completely in love with New Zealand. I love the fact that it's beautiful and eco-conscious. The indigenous culture is a source of national pride. They love bakeries and ice-cream. You can buy Cadbury's chocolate WITH TOASTED COCONUT IN IT!

I've joined the 'Kiwi Experience', known to some as the Big Green F*ck Bus or the Big Green Slut Bus, but known to us simply as 'The Bus.' We know that our beardy bus driver's name is Ben, but he introduces himself as something different every day (today it's 'Erasmus'). And he likes to show us unusual tourist sights such as giant vegetables and tell us interesting place-name facts ("Greymouth is popularly known as 'Grey-hole"). He goes out of his way to take us to various bakeries for pies. He hates Jafas.

There's lots to do in New Zealand too, if adventure sports are your thing. I've been doing some cave-tubing, white water rafting, glacier climbing, jumping off of high objects. Next time I come I'm going to go kayaking and horse-trekking- why not eh?

And oh yes, there will be a next time.

Throw Yourself in Head First

"How are you feeling today?"

"Alright."

It's freezing up on the Karawau bridge. I thought I would forget about that. The jump team bind my legs tightly with a bath towel and a strap. The wind is whistling around the canyon, no sign of the sun today. The instructor can see the blank stare of my eyes watching his hands.

"When did you decide to do this then?"

"About a week ago.... because I'm a f*cking idiot."

The instructor snickers. He helps me up and quickly shuffles me towards the edge. Look at some cameras for photos. Give a nervous thumbs up. Then as casually as saying "Nice weather today eh?" he says "Nice big jump then."

It's an order, not a request. And this is the moment. I've been having dreams about the falling sensation, but not about the ledge. The ledge is the worst bit of the bungy. Your brain says something like this:

"no no- we're not doing this today. Humans do not throw themselves from high cliffs. Lemmings throw themselves from high cliffs. Throwing yourself from a cliff should win you a Darwin award. I forbid you. See how your stomach has that squirty feeling? Yes Baldrick, that's fear."

Well brain- this is a bridge, not a cliff. I'm attached with a proven 2 inch thick latex cord. There are a lot of people watching. I'm proving something to myself! The best way to get it over with is to jump.

Jump!

And actually, I don't really remember that first jump. I know I tried to make it a big one. I let out an involuntary manly growl. I don't remember the canyon whooshing past, or how close to the water I was. I have a brief memory of my stomach jolting at the very beginning, and then my brain has blotted out the rest of the fall for its own reasons.

A few scary secondary bounces as the tension releases from the cord and then I'm rescued from the rope by two men in a rubber dingy with a stick. It's over within 2 minutes. When we reach the shore I'm asked to stand up and take off the harness from around my legs, but they're all jiggly. Walking up the stairs is a jiggly battle.

I stop halfway up the path to watch my bus buddies Christina and Laur do their jumps (Laur lets out by far the best scream of the day so far). I can feel the adrenaline high dissolving into my bloodstream. I start to feel really cold.

And then I realise the fear is over - I'm hungry!

Beautiful Places

From the lookout on Whitehaven Beach you can see the shadows of stingrays lying in the gentle turquoise waters of the estuary. The shallow sand flats spread across the bay in white, surf-ringed circles, and the vibrant aquamarine of the shallow water stretches across to the distance like a glimmering bedsheet. The beach is fringed by low cliffs and a lush rainforest whose mangroves sneak their roots onto the edges of the sand.

The sand feels like flour under your toes. The sun occasionally pokes out from behind dramatic clouds to warm you and there's a gentle breeze on the air, slightly chilly.

I walk along the tide-line and notice a collection of yellow leaves punctuating the shore. This place is stunning, and nothing to do here but dip your feet into the water and enjoy the very fact that such a place exists.

Australia

For anyone travelling to Australia, let this be known: it's bloody expensive. I stared longingly at the processed white supermarket bread. $4, which is just under 3 pounds, and way over budget for someone living the backpacker life. I looked hopefully at the chocolate, but a mars bar cost an extravagant $2.50... and it wasn't even be a big one.

I spent four days in Sydney sitting on my arse doing pretty much nothing. The three days of planes had worn away at my enthusiasm, as had the bollock-freezing Australian winter. On the first day I grossly underestimated the cold, tramping around town in a t-shirt and cruisy cut-offs and regretting my decision on the arrival of a cold breeze and light tropical shower. Luckily a kind girl in my dorm bequeathed me an enourmous grey knitted jumper that her luggage allowance would not allow and I invested in some $30 skinny jeans to keep the cold off of my tropic-conditioned knees.

I wasn't having a great time in the hostel. A large group of the Englishman's natural enemy; the French, was routinely occupying the cluster of dinner tables in the courtyard, and I was starting to get fed up of the hostel staff trying to get in my pants.

As a now more seasoned traveler, I recognised that I had come down with a chronic case of 'the lazies' and needed to take action or risk becoming a part of the hostel furniture.

Dodging pissed backpackers and the occasional prostitute on Victoria Street I marched into Wicked Travel King's Cross and grilled the lazy agent as to the main East Coast sights, which include some very expensive trips to Cape Tribulation, the Whitsundays and Fraser Island. I fought the brief handing-over-cash heart attack and brandished my well-worn Mastercard for a $1000 workout, ensuring that my next two weeks would be action packed with fantastic un-lazy experiences.

Realising that with my tours and extra internal flights I'd pretty much spent twice my Australia budget already (about half of what I'd spent in my 3 months in Asia) I popped into the local Coles to stock up on 60c instant noodles, the staple sustenance for the poverty-stricken backpacker.

In Transit

Delhi pisses me off again within 5 minutes of being there. After arriving from Mumbai at the domestic terminal I have to haggle with cab drivers who want ridiculous prices for a 5km cab ride. I know how much it should cost, and so do they, but they also know I'm at their mercy.

In the end, I have to pay 300 rupees for the fifteen minute journey, and the smug little shit driving me tells me "It's fixed price" to which I reply "No it isn't you thieving bastard," as the costing is clearly displayed on a placard in the back of his cab.

I've just done an overnight bus, and 7 hours in the Mumbai terminal. I am tired and pissed off.

I plan to have an easy evening in, plan my trip to Australia, order some room service and grab a good night's sleep. I'm hopeful when I walk up to the desk "Ah yes, Miss, breakfast is included in the rate and we will organise your transfer to the airport in the morning, which is of course complimentary. If you need anything just dial 9." Aaaah... yes! The room's nice too - clean and crisp - I'm feeling very good about this.

But the chinks in the armour start showing immediately. I can't get the wi-fi to work, which is a considerable thwart to my plans. I can find all my favourite channels on the TV- but none of them work (even when I resort to News or cartoons - nothing). The only thing I can watch is Hindi news or 70s Bollywood. The hotel is surrounded by nothing of interest -  I chose it for the purpose of it being close to the airport and a free transfer. I try not to boil over- maybe I'm just hungry. I decide to order room service:

"Hi, this is room 209 -  can I have a menu card please."
"What?"
"Yes, um, I want to order room service but there's no menu up here.."
"Menu"
"Yes."
"We have restaurant downstairs."
"Yes I know that, but I want room service."
"Oh, menu card is on the table."
"No, it isn't. That's why I'm calling."
"Ah.. Menu?"
"Yes"
"... there is restaurant downstairs."
"Right. Okay. Never mind."

I march downstairs fuming in my cat-print pajamas and snatch a menu from the desk. I order a grilled veg sandwich and a mango juice. An hour later I am served the dampest sandwich I have ever seen and a mango shake so thick I think they've made it with cement. The porter hovers around awkwardly after delivering it. I am not amused by his tip fishing after the crappy service and say "yes?" to which he replies "Shake. You must pay now. We don't have so we go across the road." I avoid pointing out that this order is wrong anyway and fish around in my purse.

"If you don't have it you should say so on the phone."
"Why?"
"Do you have change of a 500?"
"You don't have small money?"
"No. This is why you should tell people what's going on."

He then leaves without any money.

Resisting the urge to throw the bedside lamp at his head, I grab my tablet to vent at Pete - Wi-fi still not working. I check it at regular intervals throughout the night, and eventually give up at 11.30pm. My stress causes me to have punctured sleep and all my problems reel through my head; I have nowhere booked to stay in Bangkok. I told Pete I would call. I need to plan out Australia.

After the 4 hour flight from Delhi, Bangkok greets me like an old friend. I am instantly cheered by the bright lights, the bright pink taxis and the lack of honking.

But again my plans are thwarted. I know that the cab to town costs about 450 baht. There's a train, but it's miles away from where I want to be. I search around desperately for someone to split it with. There are two French guys standing near the stand.

"Hi! Are you guys going to Khao San."
"Sorry What?"
"Where are you staying? Is it near Khao San. Did you want to share a taxi?" I gesture to it.
"Ah yes -  you can get taxi here - it's a very good taxi."
"Yes I know but- where are you staying?"

Their blank faces are a sign for me to give up.

When I'm finally there, I can enjoy all my old haunts. Eat some water spinach on Rambuttri road, use the internet Cafe on the corner for 10 baht, shop for Souviners on Khao San. The tiredness is still lingering, but at least I don't feel the urge to murder anyone anymore.

I have a good nights sleep -  but the tiredness is still lingering beyond check-out time, and by the time the shuttle bus arrives all I want is to be asleep on the plane.

When I get to the airport, I'm right on time. I'm happy in the fact I'm getting a big flight out of the way, happy to be in Bangkok's fabulous shiny airport.

"Thank you Madam. Here is your boarding pass. Just to let you know the flight is currently delayed by 2 hours."

"..."

There are no words.

The Smells of Jaipur

Walking down a street in Jaipur smells like this:

Outside the hotel there's a sickly sweet raw-meat smell from poultry shops that makes me choke. There are also huge open bins that smack you in the face with the sour smell of rubbish; it reminds me of how the grounds smell at the Reading festival after a few days.

Along the shopping arcade there is the earthy smell of turmeric, the fruity tang of dried chillis. Peppery sour smells from a pickle shop, the acrid smell of urine from a public urinal. From the sweet shops I get a seductive waft of sugared batter.

Round the corner is the wonderful smell of fried bread from a row of street vendors, and then a waft of jasmine from men making religious flower garlands.

Everything is lightly dusted in the smell of earth from the road.

Delhi Mental

Me and Pete knew we were in trouble in Delhi from the moment we stepped off of the plane.

A well meaning person decided to pull all the bags and cling-wrapped boxes from the luggage belt and place them in a line in front of it, making it impossible to reach the remaining bags. As I tried to establish a space in one of the gaps, people just pushed in front.

Our hotel driver was waiting for us, and managed to scam us out of an extortionate parking fee. The drive to our hotel gave us our first taste of the Indian traffic; 6 lanes of traffic battling on a road meant for two, with cows getting right of way and everyone's hands constantly on their horns. The traffic consists of cars, auto-rickshaws, cycle rickshaws, people, ox-drawn carts and stray dogs.

At our hotel, the staff were a bit strange, with their understanding of English coming and going; our details were written down in an enormous ledger. A porter showed us to our room before turning on every switch (about 20 in total), the TV and demonstrating how to work the air-conditioning unit. All in all this took about fifteen awkward minutes before Pete placed a hand on the man's back and said in a Stephen Fry-like  fashion "Yes. That'll be all"  causing me to giggle uncontrollably until the porter had left.

The room was beautiful and looked luxurious, but nothing worked in it. The plugs were all blown up or hanging out, and in the shower the hot and cold taps were the wrong way round.

Walking around the main bazaar in Paharganj, we got stared at... a lot. Some little kids waved hello to us. The housing consisted of very old venetian looking apartments, with laundry hanging between them out of the windows. Women sat on the street chewing. There's rubbish everywhere you look. Plastic is truly the scourge of India.

We learnt how to spot the touts in Connaught place by their odd behaviour. People who suddenly turn direction when we walk by, people who stop and loiter until we reach them. People who just want to chat and helpfully point out the travel agencies for you (where they will get commission).

After our first day we are physically and emotionally exhausted. Welcome to India!

Mumbai Munchies

The old town of Mumbai reminds me of Bloomsbury. It's chock full of grand, gothic brick buildings and crumbling colonial mansions with wrought-iron balconies. As I walk through the leafy avenues, watching crows breakfast on stinking rubbish bins and shouting 'bollocks!' as I trip over uneven paving stones in the sweltering humidity, I come to the conclusion that I am done with India.

It might be because I am now travelling through it Pete-free and am having to stare down groups of leery men on my own; though I am finding Mumbai is generally much more chilled out than mental, medieval Delhi. It's more likely because India is a uniquely frustrating country, and I have reached the pinnacle of my frustration. Nothing works. Everything is bodged or falling down. The bureaucracy of simple tasks is crippling. People try and swindle you -  a lot.

But I'm not signing it off forever; there are still some awesome things about it.

For me, predictably, it's mostly about the food. On the street next to my hotel there are two men with a tiny cart whipping up savory pancakes, curry and vegetable Bahjis every morning. It must be good as there's always a crowd of around 20 men, seduced by the warm smell of garam masala, who stop for a quick breakfast before work. Carts like this are everywhere in India churning out wholesome meals for less than 50p.

In Rajasthan we feasted on pooris (fried flatbreads), parathas (buttered flatbreads) and chickpea curry, in Uttar Pradesh we had fresh rotis, samosas and some fantastic Thalis. West Bengal had the bengali egg-rolls and some fabulous noodles and dumplings courtesy of the influence from Tibet. I've been scoffing bright orange Jalebis everywhere (that is, Jale-bingeing) and making myself sick on burfis and luddus.

I'm now on the gateway to Southern India, so now it's all about the dosas (savoury pancakes) and idlis (steamed rice cake). I had some idli for breakfast and they were fantastic. I then had a battata vada (potato pakora) roll for lunch, followed by a raspberry frozen yogurt and an iced coffee (yes a coffee) at one of Mumbais slick, super air-conditioned snack chains.

I'm glad I can eat veggie easily and all the time; a walk past a miserable stinking poultry shop reminds me that chickens don't have a fantastic time here.

I'm off to Goa for 3 days of R&R before heading off on a convoluted route to Australia. I'm hoping for some awesome fish and coconuts to make the most of the time I have left in this culinary paradise, before entering a land of organised traffic, sexual liberation and even paving stones.

The Tea Hustler

The 5 Second Tea Lady's tasting room is filled with pink and green polyester rose pillows and various stuffed animals wearing baseball caps and sunglasses. On the lacy white tablecloth in front of us she lays out six small bowls of different tea leaves.

"Hold part in your hand like this and blow. Strong. Four or five times. Then smell. Put them in order best first -  very easy to tell the quality."

The room is in a tiny building in the middle of the Happy Valley tea plantation, next to the factory. It's a small, steep plantation just below Darjeeling town and exports most of its tea to Harrods, London. It's apparently the highest altitude tea plantation in Darjeeling.

After ten minutes of us involuntarily ingesting tea leaves nasally, the lady beckons us over to her stove to show us the process of brwing the famous 5 second tea. She throws the leaves into boiling water and immediately strains the liquid through a holey, blackened filter into another pan. It produces a surprisingly vibrant golden tea. Banishing us back to the lounge she follows is out with a tray carrying two teacups and a tall teapot and pours us a cup of what we are assured is finest first flush Darjeeling orange flower pekoe.

I hold the cup to my nose and let the steam warm my upper lip. The tea has a slightly sweet smell and a rich golden colour. It's a light black tea - bitter and refreshing without the smoky flavour of the Assam tea used in most of the blends back home.

The 5 second tea lady displays a tea leaf to us and explains which ones are picked. "Only tippy, two and three leaf." She also shows us a tea flower, and shows us the difference in quality between first flush (first pick) and second flush tea. Then she slaps her thighs, her eyes twinkle, and she gets down to business.

"So -  You want to buy some tea?"

I can tell Pete's been tempted since we walked in; lured by the glamour of the kitsch decor and the subtler Darjeeling taste. He goes for the white tea - it's the least processed and therefore the most expensive; we pay 600 rupees for 100 grams.

The lady explains to us that the workers on the plantation are given tea but aren't allowed to sell it. She claims to be making extra money for the workers. She makes a grand show of packaging it in front of us, weighing the tea out with a set of ancient iron hand scales and strapping a tea leaf and flower to the package. We give her a thousand rupee note and she stashes it in one of her rose cushions, digging around in it for change.

"In the factory don't tell them I sold you tea -  tell them you bought it in town. We are not allowed to sell." We assure her that we are secret safe, sign her guestbook and head down to the factory for a factory tour.

The guide shows us through the production processes; withering, rolling, drying and grading, explaining how these processes differ for the different varieties. He asks us if we bought any tea from the lady further up the hill.

The bottom line is that it's all total bollocks; apparently there is no such thing as 5 second tea -  the workers aren't given tea from the estate - it comes from a different estate further along the mountain. The lady is a tea hustler, selling lower quality teas to idiot tourists for extortionate amounts of money.

Who do we believe? Have we been tea hustled? I choose to believe that we have bought nothing but the highest grade first flush white flower orange pekoe, sold in Harrods, London, also for extortionate amounts of money to idiot tourists!

The Flight of Bats

I'm sitting on a wall in front of a Cambodian graveyard. The graves are mounds covered sparingly with coloured paper streamers. A little girl comes and sits next to me, which makes me nervous as children in close proximity usually results in a request for money.

It's nearly sunset, the clouds are closing in. The little girl chats to me about where she lives. She sings songs to me and stops every ten minutes to say 'you're really beautiful...' I ask her if she likes animals.

"Yes. I like animals.'
"Do you like the bats?"

She nods her head and we both look towards the jagged gash in the mountainside. We can hear thousands of them chirping inside waiting to burst out into the sky.

I keep thinking that it will be like an enormous cannon ball, and the bats will explode into the sky as one evil-looking shape- but in fact they emerge slowly- just a few at first and then a steady stream emerges, getting thicker and thicker as though a dam has been released.

My driver shuffles up and tells me there's another place we can see the bats from. I say my goodbyes to my little friend (who presents me with an origami pigeon as a gift) and then zoom off to a nearby field.

From here it's more dramatic- I can see the black miasma snaking into the distance over the rice paddy - off to do its evil bidding.

I stand there for a long time until the driver starts looking awkwardly at the road as the night creeps slowly in.

Beautiful Decay

After my tuk tuk tour around Angkor, I decided to bike there the next day.

The temple complex is only 8km out of Siem Reap and you can hire a bike fore $1. It seems like a great idea until the 38degree heat starts to pick up and you realise that there's next to no shade. No matter; I'm armed with 5 litres of water and some suncream so thick it's like smearing mayonnaise onto your skin.

The temple I really want to see is Ta Prohm, known informally as the 'Tomb-raider" temple after the movie that was shot there. It's a ruin choked by enourmous mangrove trees, the roots strangling the efforts of man as though the forest got annoyed at the intrusion and decided to eat it.

As I walk up the entranceway I get excited as I see my first mangrove; it's about 25 metres high and stuck in the middle of the flagstone courtyard, feeling it's spindly roots between the gaps in the stones. I get momentarily mobbed by tiny Khmer children trying to sell me magnets and postcards for a dollar. There's some restoration work going on in the centre of the complex, the scaffolding shielded by bright green nets. This work is being partly funded by the Indian government.

As with many places on the Asia tourist trail, my experience at the temples of Angkor is blighted by Chinese tourists. At the daily alms-giving to the monks in Luang Prubang, busloads of them turned up to shamelessly crowd round and photograph the monks from two feet away, reducing this traditional ceremony to a fairground spectacle.

In Ta Prohm temple they crowd around any possible photo-spot, flashing V signs and silly poses in complete  ignorance of anyone trying to view the temples, trees, or waiting to grab a photo themselves. Every corner I turn there is a great horde of them crowding a particular spot; I end up having to take a roundabout route to dodge them and escape. There's no reverence in their visit or respect to their actions. It's all just a big hilarious spectacle to be photographed.

I cycle irritably to the next sight on my hitlist- Bayon. This turns out to be my favourite of the Angkor temples, and it's the only one where I am really impressed with my surroundings. Bayon is a nice mix of ruined and complete; enourmous grey faces smile enigmatically from the towers and resident bats chirp from the spires. Climbing the numerous stairs to reach the main part of the complex gives it an air of drama, and I'm happy to see some working Buddhist shrines wafting sandalwood incense from some of the corners.

Angkor Wat is famous for its completeness (despite some very obvious dodgy cement-work), and you can fully appreciate this after seeing the other ruined temples. However in terms of raw beauty, what it is missing is that stamp of nature; the green tinges of moss, the spindly decoration of trees and the pockets of intruding light that truly highlight the beauty of stone. Also the desertedness that can return the sense of reverance and dignity to what is viewed by some as merely a photo-op.

Sunrise at Angkor

I arrive at Angkor Wat at five in the morning in blackness, amongst a convoy of lighted tuk-tuks. 

''Okay. We here. I wait for you outside when you finish.''

I wave my driver goodbye and walk along the uneven flagstone causeway. I can just make out the pointy towers of Asia's centrepiece looming in the darkness ahead.

I follow a steady line of tourists through the gatehouse; thankfully some of them are carrying torches to light the oppressive passageways. There is a real adventure element to following the dim lights through the dark caverns of ancient stone construction. Carvings of dancing "Apsara" grin dimly from the walls as we tread carefully along ancient stones.

The morning light is creeping in as I reach the other side of the gatehouse. I can see the three iconic Angkor columns against a background of murky blue. Tourists crowd the lawn on the left side of the causeway, by one of the great square ponds. I suspect this is the best place to grab that much coveted perfect photo. 

As the sun rises I am once again confronted with the classic 'world monument anti-climax' that hit me at Machu Picchu. I think the reason is this: films spread the lie that every sunrise involves a spectacular lion king style orb of yellow rising majestically against a background of shocking red. Your spectacular world monument of choice will be silhouetted against this masterpiece of nature and you will live smug and satisfied that you have experienced something truely unique and amazing that you will never forget.

At Angkor Wat, the sky makes a slow transition from murky blue to shocking pink. While this is not on a par with the lion king, the temple silhouetted against this pink results in a beautiful photograph, and I admit that the sky was ethereally beautiful.

I wait eagerly for enough light to filter through to explore the inner recesses of the temple. For me it's much more about nerdy exploration than magical experience, and I can tell these temples will not disappoint.

Welcome to Cambodia

Rubbish. Everywhere. Plastic bags, bottles, paper plates, straws; all strewn at the side of the road for miles and miles and miles. This is the first thing I notice about Cambodia.

As the bus lurches out of the immigration checkpoint I can see the ruins of half-finished casinos; a border frontier development project that never took off. The bus pulls into a service station for a lunch stop. Immediately, young children and old women crowd the doorway with begging bowls (the same plastic bowls used to flush simple squat toilets). There's obviously an agreement that these people cannot enter under the tarpaulin roof of the canteen; as we sit down to eat they linger at the threshold watching for movement.

As the bus continues to Phnom Penh I watch long stretches of arid fields dotted with a few skinny cows, lakes clogged with weed-like lilies. The houses are on stilts - I am guessing that this flat land is prone to wet-season flooding.

The social disparity in Cambodia is obvious; there's something very suspicious about the Cambodian People's Party, whose sign is always the accompaniment to a gloriously lavish out-of-place mansion.

The bus parks up onto a ferry to take us across a lake to the capital. I get a good look at the people surrounding the gaps between the cars. In Cambodia they don't wear pointy hats like the Vietnamese; the national hat here is a wide-brimmed straw planter's hat. I can see a lady in one of these hats carrying a large platter of deep-fried beetles. A young man points at a few and she cheerfully scoops a heap of them into a plastic bag.

The other main thing that you notice is the smiling. The people here, even the begging children, are the most smiley people I've met so far in Asia.

Understanding Anger

I have no photographs from the war remnants museum in Ho Chi Minh City.

I met Mif in the shade of the foyer, the backs of my knees dripping from 36 degree heat. I had taken a wrong turn out of one of Saigon's many leafy parks and walked the scenic route through blistering concrete to the museum. The enourmous US helicopters and tanks displayed in the courtyard provide a dramatic entrance to a museum which actually largely consists of photographs.
 
Of course, with the former name of the museum being 'The Museum of American War Crimes" you expect that you may have to take the exhibitions with a pinch of salt,  however the museum steers away from propagandaist explanations, preferring instead to use photographic evidence.

In the first gallery that Mif and I enter, the first image I am confronted with shows a ditch full of murdered villagers, mostly women and elderly people, their bodies contorted and bloody. Then an image of two little boys shot dead in a road, the eldest no more than 8 and shielding the younger. Then a large stone well displayed in one corner. The plate reads that a villager's family were discovered hiding in it, shot, and disembowelled. A chilling photograph shows a GI setting fire to the roof of a wooden house. Three GIs grin next to pictures of dead Vietnamese on the floor. Mif has to walk out to catch her breath.

As we slowly shuffle through the galleries, another displaying the evidence of debilitating birth defects as a result of contamination with agent orange, I begin to understand some of the anger held up in this country.

As evidenced by the photographs, and understood by the Vietnamese, the country's landscape was completely burned, contaminated and permanently scarred by the use of illeagal chemical warfare. It seems that the US used the country as a testing ground for a new generation of vile chemical weapons, the liability for which it has not accepted.

A gallery on the second floor entitled 'Requiem' is relieving in that it does not continuously point the finger of blame. Its focus is on photojournalists, non-combatants, who documented the war on both sides. Many of them died in the field. The image that haunts me here is that of Dickey Chapelle (American photojournalist) being given the last rites as she lies dying on the ground. Larry Burrows (who himself later died in a helicopter crash) documents an American GI crying after a tour in the storeroom. . Again there are murdered civilians, terrified civilians. A lady wading through a river carrying a British stamped supply crate reminds me that my own country is not exempt from the conflict.

After a couple of hours we leave the museum emotionally drained, and agree that a stiff drink is required. Seeing this museum makes a lot of Vietnam make sense. The older generation have worked incredibly hard to get their country where it is. The cosmopolitan, friendly and affluent city of Saigon does not seem like a place that has horrific suffering lurking in its living memory. The North seemed unfriendly to me, but if people there are still pissed off at the rest of the world, I totally get it.

Our tourist restaurants (that Vietnamese can't afford to eat in) are irritating. Our insistence on people speaking our language is irritating. Our tourist-only beach resorts and binge drinking are irritating. Tourists it seems, never step lightly on the world; some people in Vietnam would rather that foreigners don't stick their noses into their business.

On the way back to my hostel I am approached by some university students in the park. They say that they are practising English and I indulge them for a while. They are apparently studying tourism. After chatting about Vietnam and England for a while, I say my goodbyes and they present me with a small woven scarf as a gift. It's my final image of Saigon.

Return to the Hostel

I spent the morning looking for all the stuff I'd lost in the Than Thoc Hotel. When I asked the receptionist if she'd seen a rolled up sleeping bag (with the aid of Van De Graf's ingenius 'point it' picture book) she looked at the picture, looked at me, and stated "no."

This was highly irritating considering there are about twelve other porters and receptionists that she couldn't be bothered to ask, she didn't look anywhere behind the desk and to top it off she couldn't even muster the strength to be polite. After asking said twelve other staff members I eventually retrieved my sleeping bag, but didn't find the earring I'd dropped, as this question was too answered with a blank "No."

Sod this shit. The tour is over and so is my stay in this hovel of incompetant morons. I hoik up my backpack, say my teary goodbyes to the group and march off to my new $5 hostel down the road.

At first I can't find it, as it's tucked behind a weird side alley behind a travel agency, but a strategically placed lady on the road points it out to me. My My Arthouse looks very basic, but the two staff members sitting at the communal table give me a hearty welcome. In a timespan of 5 minutes the gay concierge has taken my passport details, given me my key, marked out the major sights of Saigon on a map and given me prices and timings for the bus to Cambodia. He then minces off to stash my passport in the safe.

I'm enjoying the return to the hostel after two weeks. The staff act without the snobbery and pretention of hotels. The rooms are basic, but are combatted with cleanliness. You can get a breakfast, minus the silverware, glass bowls and inflated price tag.

Our tour's Saigon hotel involved a sighting of the biggest cockroach I've ever seen. It provided an expensive breakfast of rotting fruit and cheap bread. The 'secure luggage room' consisted of a net placed over our bags in the reception area.

I've enjoyed the tour- mostly for the group rather than the regimented structure -  but now I'm looking forward to the renewed freedom to make my own bad hotel choices, rather than have to suffer them at the hands of Intrepid Travel.

Parks

In an unheard of show of efficiency, our overnight train to Saigon arrived an hour early.

In an indescribable show of crap organisation, we were not allowed to check into our hotel.

At 5.30am, Viet marched us bleary-eyed through the streets of Saigon. At this time in the morning the heat is already crushing, and I drag my feet in heavy steps along the pavement. Viet wheels us into the park; and it's heaving.

Dance music pumps out of distant boom boxes, and we can see clustered groups of people in sportswear on the lawns between the flowerbeds and in the bandstands. We have to move round some men setting up a badminton court in the pathway. People are waiting patiently for a go on the outdoor gym equipment, including chin bars and exercise bikes. We group under the shade of some trees to watch a women-only exercise group doing frantic chest pumps.In the distance some elderly people are doing Tai Chi.

Viet jumps opposite the group; for one crazy second I think that he is going to start taking the class, but he simply performs his usual suite of bizarre (though impressive) ninja stretches. He invites us to join in the exercise, but I think that he can read the collective sleep-deprived faces that say 'Sod. That. Shit.' He says he'll meet up with us later. We wander around the unselfconscious exercisers for a while, then pile into a Starbucks coffee for some calories and some glorious air-conditioning.

Touring

Okay, you may have noticed that I've been rather lazy about posting as of late. My excuse, officer, is that I've been under the regimentation and resultant laziness of an organised tour.

Our fearless leader is called Viet; self-proclaimed kung-fu master. In fact, self-proclaimed master of many things including badminton, fencing, pool and karaoke. He speaks in a slow steady drone and often repeats himself. I find it hard to listen to him for more than 10 minutes, possibly a sign of the old family ADD coming through, but also a sign that I am not going to have an easy time being 'guided.'

Other members of my group include a lot of Aussies of various ages, one kiwi (my roomie, Lauren) and a recently married, very welcoming couple from Liverpool, Paul and Viv. Although the group seems very mis-matched at first, after a few days (and the hilarity of a drunken overnight train journey) we're all getting along swimmingly.

I struggle to get to grips with the tour at first. I've become used to doing my own thing; staying in £5 hostels and eating £1 meals. Walking everywhere. Having the odd beer and eating when I feel like it. On the tour we are piled into restaurants on a nightly basis. These restaurants usually cost 5 times what I am used to paying and bar the staff, you never see any Vietnamese in them. I know what the 'authentic' places are; I've been eating in them for two and a half months. In Vietnam they are everywhere on the roadsides, identified by the swathes locals crouching on tiny plastic stalls on tables outside. Even in Hoi An, the classic tourist-dominated town there are ban mii and noodle shops tucked away by the river banks and cloth markets. In Hanoi Stu took me for some Pha Ga (chicken pho) and some local girls took us through the seasonings to add; in an authentic eatery these are always provided on the table and include baskets of fresh herbs, chillies and limes. Viet says that street restaurants are dangerous, though I suspect that his restaurant choices have less to do with authenticity and more to do with pre-arranged back-handers.

Despite my moaning I've had some great experiences that I wouldn't have had alone. Swimming and kayaking in the rubbish polluted waters of Halong bay, drunken nights out and resultant bruises from dancing on pool tables, a bike ride around Hoi An where we saw how peanuts and the ubiquitous betel nuts are grown and a fantastic boat and snorkeling trip in Na Trahng where I managed to top up my sunburn whilst viewing some fantastic flower-shaped corals. The enjoyment was mostly due to the fab and fun set of people in the group, who for the lone traveler become a surrogate family. I soon have adopted aunts, uncles, sisters, and even that weird cousin that no-one wants to sit next to at dinner.

I'm not sure the tour structure is something I'm fond of anymore. After travelling alone it feels restrictive, as you must choose between being independent or being sociable. I found eventually that I would rather hang with the group, as this would ultimately guarantee fun, though it also guaranteed greater expense. It will also be the group which shapes your experience of the country.

For the most part, I had a great time in Vietnam. The landscape is a spectacular web of lush rice paddies, backdropped with sheer-sided limestone mountains and sapphire coves, and populated (genuinely) with bicycle bound ladies in conical hats. The cities have their own rough and dirty character, and present their own crazy charm.

Although I leave Vietnam feeling monetarily drained, I feel like I did maximise my time there. I don't feel like I missed out on anything and my deep seated loneliness has disappeared. Doing the tour allowed me to appreciate the advantages of travelling independently. I travel into Cambodia refreshed and ready to go.

Hanoi

Hanoi doesn't have pavements: it has motorcycle parking zones which fill the space between the shops and the road. The tourist must dice with death on the latter to get anywhere, dodging bikes carrying fridges, flowers, saucepans, bricks, goldfish, mops, woven baskets, vegetables and entire families. In Vietnam anything can be carried by motorcycle and in the morning rush hour a tide of colourful bikes surges through the intersections, engines spluttering and drivers honking.

Stuart gives me a short tour on the back of his bike. As he wobbles and swerves through the intersections and we brush toes with the crowd of other bikers, he points out that the shops are located by trade, and as he navigates the crazy traffic I spot party decoration street, bamboo ladder street, catering equipment street, rolled up stuff street, packaged coffee street, wedding invitation street and wine and biscuits street.

This is definately the most mental city I've been to so far. The roads meander in random directions. Electrical wires are tangled in clumps around poles. There are hundreds of 'Pho' and 'Com' shops which clutter the pavements with low plastic stalls and clouds of meaty smoke. There are ladies in conical hats carrying fresh pineapple on shoulder-suspended baskets. There are cafes selling tasty locally brewed beer.

Stu does a lap of the enourmous West lake and then takes me to one of his favourite coffee shops. Locals sit on stalls chatting over low marble-topped tables as the smell of roasted beans wafts through the air. We have great fun chucking sunflower seeds on the floor and sipping the smooth local brew.

It's not the prettiest city in Asia. It's not the most interesting and the people aren't the friendliest. The pollution leaves a greasy layer of dirt on my face that I can feel when I hop off the bike. But it feels very genuine. It's not a town set up and sanitised for tourists, it's a town set up and maintained for the Vietnamese. This in itself is a refreshing experience for a major town on the tourist trail.

The Bus of Doom

Thank god there are some other tourists waiting for this bus. American Travis, painfully Irish Dermot, Mr. Liverpool and myself are nervously waiting for the international bus to depart, shoulder to shoulder with some locals who unlike us seem to know exactly what's going on.

There's a terrifying middle-aged Vietnamese woman in a Prada t-shirt who keeps shouting explosively at random passengers. A man on a motorbike wearing an incongruous flowery lady's hat whisks her away somewhere, and for a moment we breathe a sigh of relief, only to suck it back in moments later when he drops her back off with some extra luggage and she walks onto the bus and starts the engine. She's either a total nutcase, or worse, the driver, and we wait in a cold sweat for an alternative to appear. Eventually he does, and relieved we remove our shoes to step on.

The nutter woman is handing out the shoe bags, which means that although she is not driving the bus she is working for the bus company. She spends the entirety of the journey through Laos barking down her phone in a voice clogged by smoking what sounds like a good 4000 Vietnamese cigarettes a day, and scowling back at the passengers.

The bus to Hanoi is a fully kitted out sleeper with three rows of comfy bunks, and we grab four at the back and settle in. We are supplied with blankets and pillows, and frosty air-con wafts from the ceiling. Dermot pulls out his laptop and invites me to watch 'Ideal' as the pulls pulls away from Luang Prubang.

 I'm very worried about this journey. There are horror stories abound about this particular land border crossing from Laos to Vietnam. For this reason, I'm wearing my money belt for the first time; anything of value I have, including my passport, is on my person.

The nerves escalate when we reach the Vietnam border, as the rip-off potential increases when you need an official rubber stamp. We follow the locals to the looming checkpoint building, an empty concrete edifice, constructed to place fear into the hearts of nervous 'farangs'. I hand over my passport, watch it get placed into a separate pile from the Asians, and then sit down to accept my fate. Scary woman shows up. She prowls alongside the glass screen and scowls at the uniformed officials. She gets her passport back first and immediately expresses disatisfaction at how it has been stamped, flashing the pages at a young official who nervously re-checks it for her.

Miraculously, 20 minutes later our passports are back and we're back on the bus, no money having been demanded and no possessions having been relieved from our persons. It becomes apparent that scary woman is looking after us. When we change buses in Vinh, she jabs her finger at the correct bus and has a shouting match with the driver on our behalf. The Hanoi bus leaves without incident.

The bus should take 6 hours, but instead it takes 9. The journey is interrupted by various stops; to onload and offload bags of concrete, to allow the men to piss at the side of the road (I guess that women have to hold it or squat) and to do a small amount of welding on the wheels of the bus.

We arrive exhausted in Hanoi at 10:30 and grab a highly inflated cab to the town centre. I check into my hostel and call Stu, who shows up on his scooter and whisks me away for a drink.

When I talk to the hostel owner in the morning, he asks if I had any trouble on the route. Apparantly a group of tourists on the bus two days previously were marched off it and watched terrified as the driver drove away with all their possessions and left them in the middle of nowhere. I tell him no; we were lucky enough to have a terrifying nutter woman on board.

The Canopy

I was already convinced that the Lao were a mental people by the trying-to-catch-a-catfish-with-a-bin-whilst-on-a-passenger boat scenario, however after participating in The Gibbon Experience I'm coming around to their way of thinking.

You are invited to contribute to conservation and explore the jungle. To support local communities; oh, and to zoom through the forest canopy on 500 metre long, 100 metre high ziplines with only a rope to prevent you from becoming a splatted bug on the windshield of nature.

It is a truly fantastic way to view the jungle, and from the viewpoint of the canopy you really can see the wood for the trees. You can see the sun flare off of the forest rivers and in the mornings the evaporating moisture hits your face as the forest reveals itself from the mist. You get to sleep in a 50 metre high tree house, open to wildlife and the elements at the sides. You get to swim in a waterfall. You get to try weird jungle fruits. You get to muck around like a gleeful child whilst knowing that you're contributing to something educational. Yes I'm feeling very smug right now.

Once we've coaxed them out of their shyness, our two guides, Jun and Budlun are a hoot. Jun is quizzing Anthony about how to talk to girls and returns after his shift in the evening to play cards with us (bringing a hot kettle and an enourmous bag of peanuts with him). Budlun shows off by taking the zipwires backwards, doing them in tandem with other people and jiggling them about to throw us off once we've got the hang of it.

The only downside is that we don't see any gibbons, or any other wildlife really. I wonder how invasive zipwiring is (it seems less so than the trails- but I wonder about the noise). The guides also don't seem very interested in telling us about the environment or really looking for any animals.

My reckoning is that the Gibbon experience is much more about feeling like a gibbon than seeing any.

P.S- In case anyone is interested my injuries sustained were as follows:
-Bruises from crashing into a treehouse.
-bruises from falling off of a waterfall.
-hilarious burn on my forehead from catching it on the wire.

Lonely Laos

I'm having a bad day today. Me and Pete had a little fight this morning as I took offence at his mentioning I've made him late for work everyday this week by calling. In true girl style I have commenced a silent treatment Skype snub of indeterminable length.

I came over with a small group on the accursed slow boat of doom, but though civil, I didn't really gel with anyone in the group. I bump into people around town, but for the most part we exchange civilities and go our separate ways. My guesthouse is comfortable and the staff are friendly, yet I've yet to meet another guest.

I'm feeling very lonely, and also very bored. Luang Prabang is a nice town (especially it seems if you're a groan-inducing honeymooner) but it's incredibly boring. Yes the french architecture is charming, yes the markets are lovely, but believe it or not there is a limit to the amount of crepes and fruit smoothies I can ingest!

I've been fatigued since the boat, and it's messing with my eating and sleeping patterns. I'm finding the energy seeps out of me by midday and haven't had the drive to find somewhere more sociable to stay.

I'm also stuck waiting for my visa to Vietnam to be processed. This takes three days at the cheapest price, which means I'm sitting it out. I've been looking into trekking and kayaking trips but annoyingly the tours are for a minimum of two people and no-one else in this lazy town can be arsed; I am forced once again to feel disadvantaged by being alone. I wanted to hire a bike today, as being active usually takes my mind off of things- but oh! What's this? Apparently they need your friggin passport to do this AND MINE'S AT THE VIETNAMESE EMBASSY.

So yes, I'm frustrated once again. Ironically, Pete is working six day weeks so that he can afford to come and see me for a month (take that you smug honeymooning bastards!) But it means he is low on chat time when I'm at my loneliest. Oh, and I think dad has forgotten how to use Skype. Sigh.

So I must rely on my own sociability. I must resolve to be more sociable tonight! Onward, to the famous and hideous one pound all you can eat backpacker buffet!

UPDATE: the buffet was actually pretty good and I met a guy called Jeremy who's cycling around the world. You can read his blog at quinsadventure.wordpress.com

Longboat to Laos

We're seven hours away from Luang Prabang on the Mekong river when the slowboat suddenly turns around in the water. We're all confused; are we stopping for more passengers? The boat circles round again and a tourist shouts down to the back "they're trying to catch a fish!"

Passengers run to crowd one side of the narrow boat. We can see the catfish in the milky brown water swimming near the surface with its whiskers sticking out. It seems to be gasping at the air and is moving quite slowly. My view is obscured but I hear someone shriek "there's a man in there!" and in a few moments I see him - he's paddling in the water after the fish and trying to catch it in a plastic waste paper basket. He's not having much luck; the slow-moving fish is actually fairly agile and keeps jumping out of the basket.

The boat swings round again. The man has given up with the basket; we see him run down the length of the boat in his pants (MANCHESTER UNITED on the waistband) to retrieve a big pole with a hook on the end to try his luck with that. As he's about to launch himself in again a local fisherman glides up on a narrow speedboat and hooks the fish out with a similar pole in one swift movement. Our man looks dejected, but the fisherman turns his boat towards ours and has a brief exchange with him. After the two men come to an agreement the fisherman quickly beheads, guts and slices up the fish, giving our man half of it, and speeds off to the bank. All parties satisfied, the boat continues on its journey.

Waxing

After returning to Chiang Mai I had started to feel a bit grubby. Days of camping out in toilets as a result of my food poisoning was making me dubious about the cleanliness of my clothing, and my insides felt suitably hollow and acid-burned.

I also realised how hairy my legs had gotten. Since buying a pair of the ubiquitous 'baggy backpacker pants' (don't resist them; their coolness and practicality more than make up for the hideous designs) I've been very unselfconscious about them. I've been unselfconscious about underarm hair also as the general drop in the standard of hygeine amongst backpackers, the result of sharing ramshackle bathrooms with a full spectrum of wildlife, mean that lots of girls have it. Also, you learn to really not care. Body hair? Ha! When I have a bed for the night THEN I'll worry about how some stranger judges me on a small aspect of my appearance.

My legs didn't really start to bother me until Jackie and I went kayaking and the cut of my short leggings made me sport an impressive pair of hobbit feet. Dammit. Now the hairy toes are bothering me. It's actually really quite long.

So I decided, in true masochistic girl fashion, to get them waxed. There were several reasons for this; one because waxing lasts a long time- I could have up to 3 weeks before I have to do anything else to them, two because my razor is blunt and tearing up my legs everytime I use it and three because I haven't had it done in so long I've forgotten how immensly painful it is.

When I walk into the tiny salon, two smiling girls inform me I must wait a few minutes for the waxer to arrive. They bring me some 'ice tea'(sugar syrup with ice-cubes in it) in an old fashioned wood and metal bowl and invite me to put my feet up and wait for the master of my destiny to arrive. When she does she's a small middle-aged Thai lady wearing shocking pink. She rushes in clutching a mobile phone and slips off her shoes, then fixes me with a beady eye and says "wax" in the manner of the grim reaper pointing at someone and saying "soon."

I follow her through the curtains of the salon into the darkened treatment area as she swats at mosquitoes. She invites me to lie on a free treatment couch and speeds off into the depths of the salon to prepare. There's one other customer in the booth next door yowling with pain. I think he's getting a Thai massage; I can see his torturer driving her elbow into his back.

My therapist returns brandishing an electrified tennis racquet. She scans the room, catches my eye and growls "mosquito." She then pulls back the other curtain slaps the massage patient's couch and chants"don't cry! Don't cry! You will survive!"

I'm now feeling slightly nervous as the staff have revealed themselves to be a bunch of sadistic nutters, and one of them is about to come at me with a spatula of hot wax.

She rubs my legs with a strange smelling slightly numbing lotion. A special Thai secret? Does waxing not hurt in Thailand? I'm hopeful as she spatulas a layer of burning wax onto my shin and presses a strip of fabric firmly on top of it. This hope is then dashed as she violently rips the strip from my leg, throwing her arm back as though she's starting a speedboat engine, and causing me to gnash my teeth together as every folicle of my leg burns in protest. She pulls her glasses to her nose, inspects the strip and says "ohh!" impressed at the number of hairs ripped from my stinging shin. She does this for the next four or five strips. Jesus woman, if you're that impressed make a bleeding carpet.

At one point she hands me the electric racquet to defend myself from the mosquitoes. I can still hear the poor bastard howling next door as his agressor bends his back in half.

This place is mental and these women are gleeful sadists.

As she tears the last of my hairs from my toes, the therapist inspects my blotchy legs for any impudent remaining hairs and then rubs a lotion into the now smooth but red and sore skin. I return to the waiting area for another cup of syrup to pay and leave and wander back the hostel with slow, stingy steps.

The inevitable undigestible

In hindsight it's amazing that I avoided it this long considering I've been feasting at dirty street stalls. When the cramps and nausea began whilst walking down a street in Pai I waved them off as a minor complaint, but now I'm camping out in the hostel toilet, hoiking my guts up every half hour. Because I'm in the top bunk up a rickety bamboo ladder a bucket must accompany any attempt I make at sleeping or I risk puking all over my mosquito net.

Jackie suggested I drink gatorade as it works as a salt and fluid replacement. I take a sip, but all it does is make the next wave of vomit a vibrant electric blue colour. She is an absolute rock though, and it helps to have someone looking out for you when you are feeling so crappy.

My previous experience with food poisoning tells me to get it all up and avoid eating anything for 24 hours. It's grim business. I've done a lot of toilet hugging. Jackie's being polite, but I can tell I look like shite. My accomodation for this night is up, and the lure of a private hut in town with its own bathroom rallies me to don my heavy pack and dawdle to the town centre riverside in a sweaty delerium.

It's clear that I can't face the bus today; I nearly vommed on it on the way here in perfect health, and the souvenir t-shirts declaring "bus to Pai: I survived 872 turns" remind me that this is a battle for another day. I check into my hut to ride it out and spend the entire day sleeping and hydrating. I'm glad that there's room in my schedule to do this; I don't want my prevailing memory of Pai to be covering the entire population of a mini van in electric blue puke.

What an elephant is

I think that elephants have dead eyes; if you want to learn an elephant's personality look at its trunk. The one behind us makes a sneaky grab for our bananas, its nose tip-toeing over our shoulders like cartoon fingers.

Their wrinkly skin makes them look supple, but an elephant's skin is actually very solid and rough. The hard wrinkles and thick hairs scratch my skin like a wire brush. They seem aware of their size, moving gracefully and lethargically about their business, apart from the baby which tries to put its feet up on the mahout's shoulders and rolls around in the dust.

They love the water. The second they see it they rush forward to roll and wallow in it. Their trunks waving in gratitude as we brush their hides for them. The baby rolls and splashes everyone; he likes it the most of anyone.

They also love sugar cane; the owner gives it to them as a treat and they snap the canes greedily in their colossal mouths. To make them open their mouths to feed them, you use the command 'bonsung!' But I find that this only works half of the time; elephants prefer to feed themselves and like to snatch the treats from your hands.

To climb onto an elephant's back you can use its strong legs as a ladder. The command 'yo-kaa' will make them bend it into a convenient shape and you can hold onto their tough leathery ears whilst you swing your legs over its back.

I'm convinced that their personalities are distinctive; our one definately has a temper. It ignores our commands, walks away from the track, eats everything in its path and sprays us with muddy water.

(We did woody elephant training out of Chiang Mai, Thailand: woodyelephanttraining.com)

Easy Paider

Last night, whilst standing on a rickety bamboo bridge, Monica, Jackie and I watched a column of paper lanterns rise into the sky over Pai, next to a river reflecting the yellow glow of wooden restaurants. On our walk back to the hostel some happy dogs joined us. 

Every traveller I've asked has recommended Pai to me, but none of them explained how simply beautiful it is. Coloured lanterns hang across the pedestrianised main street, lined with souvenir and hemp clothing stores. At night handicraft vendors and street food stalls stuff into the sides of the road. The vibe from the bars and coffee shops is distinctly chilled hippie and the on-theme clothing on offer means that the town displays a full spectrum of colours.

It's a bit higher up in Pai; its residents are rewarded with cool evenings and mornings, and an abundance of strawberries and mushrooms in the surrounding mountains.

In true visitor fashion, we decided to hire out motorbikes to explore. If you are feeling masochistic you can explore Pai by push bike, however with the number and scale of the surrounding hills I would say this is inadvisable. The idea was that we would hire two motorbikes, as Monica was more keen to be a passenger. I was cool with this; hadn't ridden one before but you see idiot Australians doing it all the time, so how hard can it be?

It didn't help that the bike distributor was a moody arsehole Thai (a rarity amongst the Thai people) who assumed that every person knows how to ride every bike ever. He pointed at two 'scoopy-i' scooters and grunted. Jackie, who had wridden a couple of times before demanded an overview of the controls from him and he scowlingly obliged.

My first go on a scooter went as follows: I pulled too hard on the accellerator whilst the front was tilted sideways causing me to lose control, panic, and drop the bike. Mr. Arsehole rushed over to tell me to go and get my money back,  which I started to argue against until Monica agreed to drive it instead.

This actually turned out to be a good thing, as Monica is something of a natural. She had no problem carrying a passenger and was soon speeding us up the hills and into the sunset. We all spent the day visiting waterfalls, hot springs and canyons. If we were hungry we parked up at random places and ate. It was the first time I've felt like a proper adventurer. Even if I can't ride a scooter like an idiot Australian.

The Sunday Market

Allow me to paint the picture: It's evening and the crowd is so squeezed into the narrow pathways that you cannot change direction. You have no option but to move with the flow of the crowd. Vendors sit on the floor along the sides and centre of the street with their wares spread out on blankets; and lord what you can buy! Coloured fairy lights and lanterns glow out of the corners. There are Thai silk pashminas and skirts. Purses, carved soap flowers, dragons made of rope, little coats for dogs, beaded jewellery and t-shirts printed with Banksy-esque designs.

Temples line the road shoulder to shoulder with coffee shops and restaurants, and tonight their grounds are turned into spectacular outdoor food courts. I sit down next to an enourmous gong and a gold painted buddha and enjoy the foods of asia; curry puffs, phad thai, takoyaki, fried chicken and potato spiral washed down with cendol and Rosella red date tea.

The tinny sound of ancient speakers project the musical performances of various blind musicians, some doing tragically awful karaoke and others gathering a huge huddle of people as the flow of traffic is blocked by listeners. I watch a troup of four blind men sitting one behind the other rock out spectacularly as the baht notes fly into their busking tin.

In the early afternoon before the market is in full swing, I cross a through road and realise that everyone is stood still in silence. I stand with them confused until I am enlightened by the distant whine of the king's anthem, for which everyone is expected to stand and listen respectfully. It makes for an eerie break within the chaos of bargaining and the exchanging of notes and coins that is the market's usual soundtrack.

Thai cooking

"My name Gay. But I'm not gay. Just happy and sexy."

Kae (pronounced "Gay" in Thai) goes through the methods of cooking rice, particularly sticky rice, which is popular in the North. She says that sticky rice is more filling but bad for the waistline. She does a demonstrative pantomime of being hungry and full, finishing with her natural toothy, crazy smile.

After this essential Thai cookery staple we are marched round the local market to buy ingredients. Kae stands before a coloured mountain of produce and shows us a variety of vegetables and roots; thai ginger, ear mushrooms, pea aubergines, chillis in every size and colour - then onto the noodle shop for the wheat noodles, rice noodles and the mung bean glass noodles - and the tofu vendor for a bright yellow turmeric spiced slab.
She gives us free reign to explore the market for a while and I return with some thai donuts and a coconut and banana smoothie; this is to be my first mistake of the day.

We are allowed to choose which dishes we want to make and our small group of 8 is soon interspersed with other small groups depending on what we selected. I start with phad thai; mostly because I want to know what a proper one should have in it; turns out that the khao san road version is missing the tofu and dried shrimps. In comparison it is a bit bland.

Our instructor speaks english softly with a slight lisp and the typically asian loose "R". Her instruction and demonstration is concise and laced with humour; "turn on your station, medium heat- take care your eyebrows!"

We learn that Thai seasoning consists mostly of sugar, fish sauce "for salty" and oyster sauce. We suprisingly never add any soy or chilli powder. Everything is measured into the wok using a metal spatular. When we add the rice noodles they are not boiled first. A small amount of water is added to the wok and the noodles are flash-boiled before being mixed in with the other ingredients.

In the 6 hours that the course runs I also make and eat spring rolls, thom yam, chiang mai noodles and deep fried bananas. Chiang mai noodles are my new favourite dish and consist of red curry paste (which we pounded up from scratch in the morning), Indian curry powder and coconut milk which is then topped off with crispy fried wheat noodles and chopped shallots. It's the fifth dish we make and it's so delicious I eat the whole bowl.

This is a mistake. When we cooked and ate the first dish I was already full from the smoothie, now I'm full to bursting. When the class finishes at four I heave myself up and lurch round the corner to my hostel. Determined not to give the beautifully cooked food the indignity of being puked up into a communal toilet I glug some water and lie down.

Was the food worth the ensuing stomach cramps and the next day's crippling bout of what Dad calls "the shits"? You bet the hell it was.

For the love of Bangkok

I've been so excited about coming to Thailand- and I haven't been disappointed. Even though Bangkok for the most part is a mental traffic clogged concrete mess of a city. Even though the food so far has been greasy tourist-tweaked phad thai. It's the little things that I'm enjoying.
I love the chugging tuk tuks, and the Thais carrying their entire shop/food stall/wordly posessions balanced on them, with various makeshift shelves added as and where needed. I love  that you can get syrupy iced drinks everywhere (in the past few days I've had enough iced teas to amount to a lethal dose of sugar). I love the lewd low-quality t-shirts on the stalls stuffing Khao San road. I love Chang beer. I love chicken noodle soup and the meaty fishy smell that wafts down the road from the stalls.
Yesterday I got the water taxi and got lost. I got drunk with some Scots. I was nearly run over by a tuk tuk and I accidentally threw my rubbish into a grumpy man's shop (he kept his stock in a large metal bin on the road). And I loved it!
I have been indulging myself by buying a plethora of crap. Casio watches in every colour. Paper thin dresses. Coconut ice-cream and fresh papaya.
Bangkok is by no means perfect- but so far I am loving it!

Riding the overnight train

I'm annoyed when I get to my berth and there are 3 burly Fins sitting on it. But I have now been travelling a month and am not to be messed with. I assert myself by brandishing my ticket and declaring "this is MY bunk."

Actually they turn out to be very pleasant guys and they move aside without complaint. I've armed myself with snacks to combat my erratic bursts of hunger, and my kindle and tablet for erratic bursts of boredom for the thirteen hour overnight train journey to Chiang Mai. As I sit on my bunk I notice a faint pissy bleachy chemical smell reminiscent of festival toilets. Definitely not the best seat in the house.

Although the mattress and pillow are comfy and the yellow bed curtains offer a good degree of privacy, I get a really patchy nights sleep, mostly  because of the air conditioning which is turned up to the "bollock freezing" setting, which causes me to raid my bag for a jumper mid-way through the night.

I find that I have morbidly nostalgic dreams. I dream of my dead cats Siddy and Jack.  Of my Uncle Frank's wake and when mum and dad phoned me at university to tell me that Granny had died. I remember the bawling group hug my cousins and I had in a pub stairwell that same day. I dream a little of my ex-boyfriend's parents, and a little of him (though mostly with the words "bastard bastard bastard" running through my head). It makes for an unsettling night's sleep, but I awake bleary-eyed to be rewarded with views of jungle-covered mountains.

Am I feeling a little homesick? No time for that- the legendary city of Chiang Mai awaits!

Well, it awaits after a three hour delay anyway.

Bangkok Style

The small crowd scattered about the road claps slowly to goad the next peformer into topping the one before. After readying himself with a breath the gangly baseball-capped boy launches himself at the pavement and spirals into a gravity defying head spin, limbs jerking like a spider in its death throes. The next performer does an acrobatic somersault over a passing tuk tuk. The kids dance about in unison, flip their legs up, pogo hop on their hands and finish with a pantomime-style joint bow before handing around a baseball hat for change.

I gladly hand over a note; dinner with a show, or more accurately beer with a show. After a day of 'culture' at the floating market ( an entirely different kind of tourist show) I ventured onto the bar-stuffed Rambutri Street for some Chang and social interaction. I chose this bar as I like the live accoustic sets it offers, which today made a strange backdrop to the break-dancing flashmob that appeared. I end up talking to some Germans and Swedes, and naturally one beer morphs into several. The guy from Munich seemed particularly pleased with his acheivement of squeezing a ladyboy's boobs the day before, brandishing photographic proof on his phone. The Swedish boy Oscar it seems I might bump into again in Chiang Mai.

I leave my share of the beer money and stumble round the food stalls at the end of the block back to my hostel. Another fun night in Banlamphu and another pissed Skype call to Pete. I resolve to be more sober when I phone Grandma tomorrow.

Mood Improved!

No offence Lombok. I tried cycling round you. I tried your famed beaches that all the posh hotels have sectioned off and concreted over. I even went for a nice dinner and a drink with a nice Japanese guy in you.

But without your Rinanji volcano climb you are just damn boring.

Lombok

 I got the feeling that I was associating Lombok with being frustrated and scammed. I spent one full day there and then decided that I was incapable of enjoying it. I had one roommate in the entire dorm - a beardy long-haired skater called Rintaro who worked for a chain of  hostels in Japan. He seemed to be staying there for the sole reason that it was dirt cheap (5 quid a night including breakfast) but admitted that there wasn't much to do there. We went for a beer, and it was then I decided that I needed to move forward.

I'd already been for two long bike rides the day before which I think lifted my spirits enough for me to be decisive. Annoyingly the internet cafe shut at about 9pm (because no one is out in Sengiggi after this time) so I instead booked my transfer back to the Eka Jaya fast ferry and to Bali.

Considering that Kuta had been annoyingly busy and touty the first time I was there, on my return it was like an old friend. Immediately my spirits felt higher, and I waved the touts away with smiles and "No thank you"s.

I booked myself into a swish homestay room. It was brand new and had a fan like a helicopter. My own bathroom, breakfast, and two beds to choose from for 10 quid a night. Oh, and no ants in the shower. It also handily had an internet cafe next door, so after dumping my backpack I sauntered in to book my flight to Thailand.

The guys running the shop were practising songs for their live accoustic set, and on hearing I was English played a not bad rendition of 'Don't look back in anger'.

I spent the evening being a total cheap-arse (dinner cost me about 1.20) and getting a good night's rest.

I arrived in Bangkok on Friday, relaxed and glad to be on the move.

A Message for my Valentine

Dear Pete,

I think you should get your arse out to asia.

I need you to collect the tourist crap I've bought you -  as I probably won't be able to take it into Australia and postage from here is well expensive.

Also, my tan -lines are so hilarious, I really think you should see them in person.

Lave and snogs,

Lou X

The Pinnacle of my frustration

I am incapable of enjoying Lombok.

Whilst sitting in the Wira Guest house yesterday I came to this conclusion;

I am chronically frustrated.

I had a whole day and I used it for sleeping and reading. I have no desire to see anything or go anywhere, and also no desire to stay where I am.

This all started from that bad night's sleep in Gili, I hastily bought a ticket to Lombok in order to escape. But I got scammed - although I have arrived here and at my hotel for the correct fare, the travel agent lied to me about the possibility of climbing the Rinjani Volcano. It's common knowledge here that the route is shut, and his only intention must have been to get me here so that I will buy other tours off of him. I am in Sengiggi -  there is absolutely sweet FA to do here. But oh! what's this? You can buy a transfer to somewhere more exciting for a small fee! The travel agent will also recommend you his friend's guest house for a special price (most likely a lot more than the room is actually worth).

Nope, that's it, I've had enough. I'm catching the first plane out that I can. Trouble is that now it's Chinese new year all the fares have doubled. Crapsticks.

The plus of this story is that when I was sold my ticket over here, I hadn't paid for it. The vendor told me to pay for it when I arrived in Lombok by calling him. Lucky for me, the transfer driver took my ticket off of me, tried to undercut the agent by offering me transfers elsewhere, and I realised yesterday when I asked the driver for the vendor's number as written on the ticket he gave me his own mobile number instead.

So now I can't pay for the ticket, and I sure as hell am not using this company or any party associated with them to book anything else.

I was a bit better today and went for a long bikeride, which cheered me up a lot. However it just reinforced the fact that there really isn't much to do on this island, though it's much more local and less touristy than Bali or Gili.

I think I am fed up of Indonesia - Thailand here I come!

...as soon as I can afford it.

I Can't Get No Sleep

Yesterday as the sun descended into the sea in an orange haze of spectacular clouds, I sat on the beach with the wind gently wafting in my face thinking; this is an island paradise.

This morning I walked along the beach in a red mist of insomnia rage. My normal sleeping troubles (which had seemed to have disappeared) were further flouted by the droning snores of the dorm, then a drunken crowd crashing in and out, switching on the main lights and talking at top volume. A couple started to have sex in one of the top bunks. They had stumbled in around 4am to loudly discuss a drug comedown and ask their friend for a load of ibuprofen. To avoid the rhythmic slapping noise that was acting as ear sandpaper I climbed down my bunk ladder, threw on some clothes and went for a walk.

Gili Trawangan is an island paradise; you can see sea turtles just by snorkeling a few metres off of the beach, which itself is a stretch of soft white sand. There is no motorised traffic; only the jingle of pony-drawn carriages and the gentle hum of island hopping boats.

So far the nightlife has been fun. I had a great night yesterday whizzing around the night market with some hostel buddies, eating satay, seafood, tacos and pancakes for tiny sums of money. I then had a great time sipping Bintang in a bar as the live band bounced out a steady flow of reggae classics.

But drugs are not my scene.

I understand that people want to try new things and have a good time, and don't get me wrong- I am a bit of a square. But I am a square with some fairly rounded edges. Three years a special constable in the metropolitan police showed me a side to the drugs trade that isn't widely viewed. It is an exploitative industry on every level with a hideous cycle of victimisation for everyone involved. I have seen wasted faces and teeth that look like black pins. I have seen utter human despair. All of this starts with an individual making a bad choice. And then another bad choice. And then the bad choices pile up in a spiral of addiction that they could never foresee. And no, the kids here aren't just doing mushrooms and weed; they're also doing coke and heroin. Gili Trawangan is famous for 'drug tourism.'

And it is the industry that I don't like. Amsterdam's policy in regards to cannabis is incredibly progressive; in in this scenario I have no problem with people taking a drug that is properly regulated and produced legitimately.

So I know this island is a place for people to let go. I know it's a fairly secure environment to uncover the mystery of recreational drugs (the media industry also perpetuates the myth that this is some kind of normal rite-of-passage) and there is a part of me that thinks "Should I dive in and have a go?" But no. I know myself well enough to know that I am not the sort of person to be pressured by perceived social norms.

I'm obviously in the older set here. There is a younger set of twenty-somethings here whom you can usually tell from the crowd because they will be boasting about something, and that something is how drunk they were, how many drugs they took or how many people they have slept with throughout the week. It's a sense of having achieved something I think. And there are people here like me who simply don't do drugs. It's not my scene and I'm not above letting that be known.

I'm comforted by the fact there are some fellow bleary-eyed very pissed off people at breakfast, but for now I think I've had my fill of Gili for a while. I snuck off and bought my ticket to Lombok off of a shady-looking guy in the street.

Telling my Fortune

There must be something in my face, because I've now had my fortune told three times in three weeks, all unprovoked and all in different ways.

In Singapore a whiskery botanist grabbed my palm, after showing me some specimens of lemongrass and kaffir lime, and told me that I had had 'romantic problems' last year and was very sad. Apparently I have a wounded look about my face. He went on to tell me that I am now in a process of change and decision making that will lead me down the correct path. Alright then.

In Kualar Lumpur a fat Indian man with gold teeth, bought me a bag of hairy rambutan as I was perusing the Chinese market. He told me that I have problems feeling sexually satisfied, that I change my mind a lot, and willed me to 'experiment' with as many different men as possible. This apparently was divined by way of numerology. Given the prying and seedy nature of his conversation I figured he was trying to come onto me, so I quickly jumped on the LRT and sped off to the airport as quickly as possible to wait there for four hours for my flight to arrive and my skin to stop crawling.

In Ubud, Bali I was woken by the sounds of gongs, cowbells, roosters crowing, birds, dogs barking and  people speaking in neighboring houses. I floated out of the delirium of sleep and ended up in the Dewa Warung to eat some Tempeh. A local man with long hair and a tattoo of a tiger was sitting in the corner chain smoking.

"Hey you! Strange girl! Where you are from?"

After a brief conversation about reiki and reflexology (my knowledge on these subjects courtesy of mum) 'Beki' boasted that he could tell my fortune just by looking at me. I said "go on then".

As a psycological exercise he made me draw five objects on a page; a snake, a chicken, a bridge, a house and a tree.

I'm not going to go into the details but he told me that; I love my job (Rimli and Saffron - if you're reading this I know you'll be laughing), that I don't care about my boyfriend and he has curly hair (sorry Pete - you're out), that my money is very up and down (these days I'm pretty sure it's mostly down) and that I don't live with my family.

He then demanded $500 from me, which I refused on the basis that his analysis was a load of shit.