A Ravaged Country

Skyline from Miss Loi's
The War Remnants Museum may have changed its name from The American and Chinese War Crimes Musuem, but the former title is still the more fitting. Located in a quiet street near the city centre, the musuem highlights all the well-known atrocities the American's committed (the My Lai massacre, Agent Orange devastation, heavy bombing strategies) without mentioning a single-incident painting the North Vietnamese Army in a bad light.

Communist societies probably have a worse record at providing a balanced, fair assessment of events than non-Communist ones, but the museum is really just another stark reminder that in any conflict, truth is as much a casualty as the people.

Bearing that in mind, the museum is still a powerful illustration of what war means at the level of individuals and the suffering and madnesses they have to endure. The most chilling photo is of two American soldiers grinning like wild men while holding aloft the recently decapitated heads of two of their enemy. To me it shows how far ordinary men, outside of many of the controls of civilized society, can have their moral resources eroded to the point at which a human becomes less than an animal.

Additional exhibits of deformed foetuses--killed by exposure to Agent Orange--preserved in jars of formaldehyde, helped to show how the technologies of modern warfare can have the most devastating consequences for ordinary men and women. I hope one day the human race will become mature enough to renounce violence because in the not-too-distant future there will be weapons created that no enforceable level of security will be able to contain. It is only through a universal agreement to not develop these technologies that we'll be able to have a worldwide peace.

Whatever you're opinions about the use of war as a means of settling disputes, the human cost should always be borne in mind, and a museum such as this one does a brilliant job of cataloguing that cost.

After the museum I walked a good part of the city, trying to get a sense of the place. The city seemed deserted, but perhaps that was because tonight marked the beginning of the Chinese New Year and many people were probably at home or visiting relatives in the countryside. The scars of the war, which ended less than thirty years ago, are still painfully visible everywhere in the urban landscape. The damage is primarily economically caused; splintered pavements, decaying buildings needing urgent renovation, and potholed roads. And this is in the city centre.

I walked over one of the bridges that crosses the ponderously-moving Saigon River, and hit an even more degenerated area. Here I ducked into a typical Vietnamese diner and enjoyed some fat spring rolls, a seafood dish in a fish sauce called nuoc mam and a drink all for less than forty pence. Talking of food, one curiosity is the culinary legacy of the French occupation. It is probably the easiest place in Asia to find baguettes and good coffee!

Back at Miss Loi's I met an English guy called Francis, who'd been travelling for a while through other parts of South East Asia. We went to a vegetarian restaurant called The Bodhi Tree (a fig tree under which the Buddha gained enlightenment), and during the conversation I learnt Francis had once been a software engineer at Vega (the first company I worked for) too! What a coincidence--although if there was one company to put a person off IT and go travelling around the world it was Vega.

After dinner we went to the 'Bamboo Bar', a pub at one end of Ho Chi Minh City's own Khao San Road--only this road was smaller and dirtier. It seems that what the average traveller wants most, is to feel like he is back home, minus the bad weather. This means every tourist bar is a dead-ringer for a bar back home. Any elements of the country's own particular brand of alcohol consuming establishment are lost in the effort to make the bar as similar to the ones back home. Not that I don't like English pubs, it's just I want to see how things are different here. Mental note to get away from the tourist spots when I can.

At Miss-Loi's we camped out on the roof and waited for midnight and the fireworks to bring in the New Year. Enjoyable except for the American girl who had to sit on the roof's wall and make me nervous that she was going to fall. Back downstairs we ate some traditional New Year foods which included hybrid fish/rice cakes which tasted disgusting.

When asked how they tasted I, of course, said they were delicious, not wanting to belittle my host's efforts.

Their reaction? They laughed.

Later I found out the dish was intentionally bad as it symbolised the hardships endured in the creation of Vietnam.

Maybe brussel sprouts fulfill a similar role in the UK.

War and Peace

Bangkok, Thailand - Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam

Spirited Away
Good Morning Vietnam!

Apart from a delay at Vietnamese customs, where an American tourist loudly denigrated the country he was visiting ("What do you expect from the commies?"), the journey from Bangkok to my guest-house on the edge of the city's centre was pretty invigorating. First, sat next to me on the plane was a beautiful Vietnamese woman who spoke Vietnamese and French. My Vietnamese isn't up to much, so I dusted off my French and proceeded to butcher the only langauge in the world in which it is hard not to sound sexy. Second, once I'd negotiated customs--distancing myself from the ranting American--I decided I was going to boldly step past the air-con coach counters and the taxi-touts, and find a more traditional means of getting into town.

Emerging from the scrum of cabbies into a forlorn looking super car-park withering under the harsh midday-sun, I found myself wondering if I'd made a big mistake. Pride said I couldn't go back, but the only apparent form of transportation was a gaunt gentleman leaning against a moped. Not breaking my stride and giving away my chancer status, I marched up to him and pointed at his moped.

Maybe he wasn't a taxi-service and was just waiting for a relative, but when he realised there was a money-making opportunity he snapped into action. I paid a fifth of what the car-taxis wanted, hoisted myself onto the back, and gripped his waist.

We were off.

We rode for a long time, skirting along the bank of a putrid looking stream and seeming to make-up the route of the road as we went. Three scenarios came to my mind: the airport was miles from the centre; my pronunciation of the destination had been mistaken for 'Take to me the dirtiest place you know'; or, I was being taken to the secret police, suspected of being in cahoots with the loudmouth in the airport.

Whatever happens, think of it as an experience, I said to myself.

Part of the experience that wasn't necessary was holding the driver's waist I discovered after a little experimenting. My seasoned-traveller cover was blown, or worse, the guy thought I was groping him.

Eventually we came to Miss-Loi's guest-house. A tall, slender building with clean rooms and friendly staff on the periphery of the backpaper area. More accurately would be to say it was a good twenty minute walk from the next guest-house, as I found out when I went for a little walk after dumping my bags.

I was just adjusting myself to the rawness of the streets; the broken pavements, the dust, the intense smell of sewerage, the open houses where whole families sat in circles, and the crumbling state of the buildings, when I stumbled into a street with the most chaotic market imaginable.

All the produce was green and vibrant and laid out in large circular weaved bowls attended by crouching women in conical hats. A rich aroma of fresh leaves and herbs permeated the air. Both sides of the street were lined with vendors. Between these banks of merchants a river of people flowed full of chatter and smiles. Occasionally the stream would split in two to make room for a trader who'd set his stall in the middle of the road. A kind of mist or smoke floated around giving the whole place a dream-like quality.

It was the most amazing spectacle and I moved with the current in a trance, giddy with the feverish anticipation I felt in the air.

Later I learnt this was the last day's trade before the Chinese New Year started and everyone was stocking up for the holiday. The next day when I walked down the same deserted street I had a weird feeling I'd invented the whole experience such was the contrast. (It reminds me now of the deserted market in Spirited Away which has a energetic life at night).

I'd been having trouble crossing the roads because of the constant stream of bikes, cyclos, mopeds (with up to seven passengers), cars and buses, but had always managed to dart across during a gap in the lesser streets.

Then I came to the enormous plaza outside Ben Thanh market which was ensnared by an huge roundabout of tarmac and spoke-like avenues leading off it. No darting was going to happen here. The numerous paths of the vehicles meant even a supercomputer wouldn't be able to find a way to cross the street.

It was impossible!

I stepped away from the kerb flummoxed.

And watched a crinkled octogenarian hobble into the road, not even bothering to twist his arthritic neck to check if anything was coming. He kept up his snail's pace across the whole road never deviating from his path or tempo.

Instead of making way for the traffic, the traffic making way for him!

Enlightenment! I burst out laughing, realizing it was my expectations which were all askew here. It made me realize how easy it is to paint yourself into a small box of behavior because of assumptions taken for granted.

In the evening I dined alone unable to break the unwritten rule that you should never join a person who is dining alone...and then wished someone would join me! The stupidity!

I have a long way to go to be free....

How did the chicken cross the road?He followed the old man.

Yogic Flying

Revenge of the Mopeds
Back in the steamy metropolis.

The train pulled into Bangkok's main station around six in the morning. Bruce was (and still is!) an experienced traveller, and kindly offered to show me some of the tricks for making a tourist's life easier. This was put to immediate effect as we hailed a taxi to take us Khao San Road and found ourselves heading in the wrong direction. Bruce subtly let the driver know he knew the route and we were soon going the right way.

I wouldn't have had a clue.

We agreed to share a room and then he came out with his next gem. There is one budget priced hotel on Khao San Road that has a swimming pool on the roof. The D & D Inn. Without Bruce I'd have probably ended up back at the first guest-house with its cleanliness issues, instead of being able to tan myself next to the pool, up and away from the hubbub of the street.

After giving me plenty of tips on laundry, internet, restaurants, and somewhere I could keep all those travel guides until April (when I would fly from Bangkok to Delhi), Bruce, the consummate host, then took me on a tour of the city. We glided above the streets on Bangkok's skytrain, taking in the banking district and Siam Square, where on the top-floor of a gigantic multistoried shopping centre we ate lunch in a state-enterprise style food hall.

You first walk down a long aisle filled solely with fruit stalls. The range of produce is astonishing. I used to think I was fruit-aware when I (occasionally) shopped in Waitrose and bought kiwi-fruits and mangoes. Really I was fruit-deprived. Some of the fruits they sell in Thailand I'd have trouble describing, let alone naming.

One that did leave a lasting impression on me was the durian fruit. It has the rough shape of a rugby ball, but its surface is bobbled like egg packaging. The skin is pale orange and very tough. To get to the (arguable) delicacy you need a dirty big knife. More importantly you probably need a peg on your nose.

The thick, syrupy liquid inside smells of vomitus...but tastes of heaven. To my mind the two senses aren't really separable when you eat so I had to give the tropical fruit the thumbs down.

At the food hall the first have to buy food coupons because cash isn't accepted at the counters. Whether this is due to hygiene, untrustworthy staff, or socialist ideas of profit sharing, I don't know. Maybe it just allows the cooks to concentrate on food preparation. A theory that gains credence by the delicious plate of freshly-made sushi that I enjoyed after finally picking a dish from the hundreds on offer.

Back on the hotel rooftop next to the pool, Bruce led Ben and I through the entire gamut of yogic positions. Frankly, some of the ways Bruce contorted his body would be more suited to a zombie flick than a breezy, balmy evening in Bangkok.

His stomach seemed to be missing in a couple of the positions--a state I got no way near emulating by the way!

Tomorrow I fly to Ho Chi Minh City. I can't wait. Any anxiety I had at the beginning has drifted away and my mind and body are ready for more adventures.

Foodtastic!

Koh Lanta - Bangkok

Bruce and I
Long day of travelling back to the capital today.

Just to put the parameters of the trip in perspective, I'll mention the way I planned the whole thing. I knew I wanted to go around the world, and the only proviso I had was that I didn't want to include Australia/NZ (because those places are the most common destinations for British backpackers and I wanted to experience places which had less in common with the UK). I phoned STA Travel to book my ticket and ended up spending an hour plotting my course with the operator (who was a seasoned traveller). The ticket I bought was through Star Alliance: a network of big airlines which cover almost every route on the globe.

Basically I could have an unlimited number of flights, up to a total trip milage of 29,000 miles. This allowed me to backtrack, change the dates of flight (but not the route), and take little hops to avoid gruelling bus journeys. For example, one leg of the ticket involved a one hour flight from Bangkok to Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam on January 30; a road journey equivalent of twenty-four hours plus more difficult border crossings than in the airport. So my travels were very open ended with the only obligation that I needed to be in certain places at certain times to catch a plane. And I could always change the date of the flight for no extra cost if I wanted to stay in a place longer. Very cool system which I would recommend for anyone thinking of a similar venture; in fact, Star Alliance has grown considerably so the choice of routes must be even better.

Two ferry crossings, a minibus leg back on those avenues of death, and a proper bus ride, and I was back in Surat Thani, ready to take the train back to Bangkok.

Except the station was nowhere to be seen. I was in Surat Thani, that much I was certain.

Sadly the station wasn't. At least not geographically.

Thirteen kilometres between station and town is stretching the definition of said station belonging to said town, I think. I was actually aware of this and had been assured I would be delivered to the station. However, one hour before my train was due to depart I found myself standing in a travel agent's office more than eight miles away.

The rep said everything was under control, but he was acting very strangely. He kept hanging around on the street outside the office. Every few minutes he would suddenly furiously beckon me outside, only to wave me back just I started to come.

"I bet he's flagging down local buses to take me," I half-joked to another traveller headed in the other direction.

That was exactly what he was doing! He must've been waiting for the right bus to come along, because finally one time he did start beckoning and didn't stop.

"Quickly," he shouted, as I tried to run out of the office with my overloaded backpack (for some inexplicable reason I thought it'd be a good idea to carry travel guides for every country I was visiting--even when I wouldn't need the books for months).

The bus screeched to a halt and the conductor hauled me on just as it began pulling away.

Once aboard, the conductor sold me a ticket and then offered me a large green leaf. He mimed the action of removing the leaf from the stem by running a pinched hand down the stem, and then indicated I should chew the leaf.

Not wanting to snub his hospitality and being genuinely curious about eating leaves, I happily scrunched up the gift, popped it in my mouth and started chewing.

And chewed some more.

And some more.

Little more.

That's enough.

You know those kinds of things that no matter how much you chew they don't break down--you know, dirt, mud, grass; the kinds of things two-year old kids stuff in their mouth as they're learning about the world in a very hands-on way (I'll never forget the sight of half a slug in my younger cousin's chops when I was eight). Leaves are in that category, too. I was a two-year old child again.

By now, the leaf had transformed into an inedible, gritty mulch in my mouth. It tasted how I'd imagine cardboard would taste and it made my mouth really dry. If I really wanted to eat this I'd have to swallow and regurgitate just like a cow. No thanks. I spat the mulch out the window and try to gauge the conductor's reaction.

It was probably a practical joke on gullible tourists, but the guy showed no signs that it was. Maybe I'd really offended him, I don't know. The merest glint of mischief in his eyes suggested I hadn't.

At the station I still had some time to kill so I checked my email at a nearby internet cafe. I found out that my Nan had died two days earlier. She'd been sick in hospital but recovered sufficiently to come out. Although not well, nobody had expected that she would die so suddenly. I was pretty distraught. I hadn't considered that the goodbye I gave her when I left might've been the last. Everybody said I should keep travelling and not come back for the funeral--it would be what she wanted--but it felt awful not being around to support Mum and everyone else. Later, on the day of the funeral I had some quiet moments of reflection to myself.

Death is a natural part of life, but it's still such a cruel thing. All we can do is live the days we have to the fullest. Dream hard, work hard, play hard, love hard. Never dehumanize anybody; remember that we're all trying to find meaning in a meaningless universe. How are you doing?

On the overnight train back to Bangkok I met two interesting characters. Ben, a recently retired Thai woman, and Bruce, a former Democrat party member now living in Japan. Bruce had plenty of stories about political life in America. For example, on election days basically being a taxi for people who were too lazy to go to the polls otherwise. Democracy?!

Bruce also practices yoga.

Tomorrow he's going to teach Ben and I the basics!

Easy Rider

Tree with a View
So I hired a moped.

How hard can it be? In France they let children as young as twelve ride them--without helmets, such is the confidence in the Gallic youth. But then again they do a lot of things in France that are considered foolish elsewhere--snail chomping and wearing strings of onions the way Hawaiians wear garlands of flowers, for example.

Although mopeds don't have gears and clutches, they do have a particular feature which makes mopeding more difficult for the absolute beginner/fool: they allow you to accelerate and brake simultaneously. Not an especially useful feature. One that might well lead to quite a comical situation.

After hiring the moped from a shop in the main town I sped out of the town, keen not to demonstrate my complete lack of moped prowess in front of the shopkeeper or the legions of tourists freshly arrived after a hard night's travelling and now looking for easy entertainment.

Cruising is easy.

I cruised along the island's sole dusty highway, a spitting image of Dennis Hopper in Easy Rider. As I got further from the town, the building-sites of partially constructed hotels and restaurants at the roadside gave way to the jungle, helping to shade me from the scorching glare of the sun. Every 500m I passed what I thought were fizzy drink pumps; indigo and crimson liquids in small twinned cylinders like.

It was only when I looked at the fuel gauge and discovered I was nearly empty that I realized these tiny pumps were petrol stations.

As I came onto the next one I tried braking for the first time. The moped began to slow. A Thai man sitting in a deck chair next to the pump spied my approach and began lazily unfolding himself from his seat. I veered towards the side of the road readying to stop.

Something wasn't right though. I wasn't slowing fast enough.

The man got to the pump and started unfurling the petrol hose like he was coiling rope.

I still had the accelerator on; my right hand still twisting the throttle.

Panicking because I was going sail right past the man, or worse, into him, I tried to to simultaneously clutch the brake harder and release the throttle. Somehow the signals got mixed up on the way from my brain to hands, and the reverse happened. I eased the brake and raised the throttle.

The moped shot forward. Suddenly the man's laidback attitude vanished as hundreds of kgs of man and machine beared down upon him. He jumped out of the way and I missed him by a whisker, meekly raising my left hand as a gesture of apology. Of course this meant I took my hand off the brake and I accelerated past even faster. He probably thought I was some hit and run prankster.

I was too embarassed to go back so I refilled at the next pump.

Eventually I got the hand of the thing and had a great day zigging, zagging, climbing, and bombing down the single road which snaked more and more as I headed into the interior. Near the tallest part of the island I stopped for refreshment in a fantastic bar which had a palatial open-aired treehouse with great views over the bay. Sequined cushions were liberally scattered about and I plumped one up, curled into a little nook where the trunk met the platform, and enjoyed the scenery.

Later, down by the coastline, I parked up and walked to the end of the second town's pier. Three kids were fishing under the concrete struts, keeping out of trouble and the sun. They seemed slightly forlorn, but maybe they were just chilled-out youngsters and I needed to readjust my expectations. In England boys of that age would be trying to blow up the fish with smokebombs or graffitiing the pillars. I thought how cool it would be to grow up on a small island like this. Have a tight circle of friends of different ages and know the whole place intimately. Great fun.

In the evening I went to the bar and got chatting to a guy who wanted to visit every country in the world, and a couple who'd travelled overland from China, arriving in Beijing on October 1st (the day the People's Republic of China was established in 1949) and been awed by the crowds in Tiananmen Square. Talking to new people was really exciting, and I know I'll meet some interesting characters over the next few months.

At one point the barman rolled me up a traditional Thai cigarette.

Strong doesn't come close. It nearly knocked me off my stool.

It was time to go to bed.

Bad Boys, Thai Style

Killing the Muse

Another great sunset. How passe.
The travelling really began in earnest today.

Saw Mark and Luke off from outside the hotel early doors. It's been fantastic to have their company, but even though I'll feel lonely later, it is time to go my own way in the world. By nature I'm an easygoing, accommodating person and am generally happy to go along with whatever, but in some ways that attitude is a path to unhappiness.

I believe, more so than ever these days, that every person has a responsibility to themselves. To fight hard for that space where they can grow as their personality and desires dictate. What a human can achieve, in any one of the infinite bands which make up our spectrum of activity, truly staggers me. What a human can waste equally staggers me.

Today I started to shape my life in line with my own instincts.

It was a tentative beginning; I moved a small wooden table from inside the hut out onto the veranda.

And then spent most the day writing. I've harboured a dream to write for many years, but aside from a creative writing course in 2001 and occasional bursts of productivity since, I've never been consistent enough in my approach. As of 2006 I've developed many good writing habits and I'm now convinced the key to any kind of success has as its foundation in discipline and hard work. What about creativity? Or literary dexterity? Or a deep well of life-knowledge? Hard work can help progress all those aspects.

Anyway, sat at that table, listening to the waves gently breaking on the shore and the shrill cries of birds in the palm trees above, I still hadn't absorbed those lessons about routine and discipline yet, and I tore through two-thousand words in a few hours thinking the moment of epiphany had come. The muse! Inspiration! All I needed was the right environment and the words would come! How I was going to replicate this tropical environment back in England when I finally returned I didn't consider.

I trotted down to the beach staring into the middle distance. I was contemplating book deals and conversations with the literary glitterati and award ceremonies when I walked straight into an ongoing volleyball game. Three locals were playing two lithe, muscular, kiln-brick tanned Brazilians. They seemed to be doing oaky despite their numerical disadvantage, but even so, as I soon as I strayed onto the sandy court they beckoned me to join.

I think they mistook my daydreaming meander into their game as a not-very subtle hint that I wanted in. I flapped off my T-shirt revealing my pasty, flabby flesh and picked-up the ball. How these two Adonis's could benefit from me and my birthright of cold, pebbly beaches rather than the sundrenched avenues of sand they were used to in Rio, I didn't know.

I did my best. I served. I spiked. I dived. Where my team-mates got sand into their tousled hair and over their sweat-sheen backs, I got it up my bum. When I jumped acrobatically to save a point I got friction burns and the ball ricocheting off into the sea; they got gasps of adulation and perfect set-ups.

Eventually, I left them to it and went back. I had books to write. No more harmless frippery for me. Leave them to their childish games. We made casual arrangements to meet later in the evening. I finished the story. More a parable than a story, but it had a character, a conflict, and an ending. What more is there to fiction? I put the pen down pretty happy with myself. And only managed to pick it up again about twice more over the next seven months. I think I learnt something about writing from that day and the unproductive ones that followed.

Later I waited for the Brazilians, but they never showed up. Too busy having a good time I supposed. I ate dinner alone wondering why I'd spent most the day not two metres from my bed when there was a whole island to explore.

Tomorrow would be different!

Money Making is a Wonderful Thing

Ventured into Koh Lanta's main town today, although perhaps town is too generous a label to apply to the assembly of shops which line the place's only road. To my overactive imagination it has echoes of the wild-west settlements which sprung up around gold prospecting country in the States. This time the gold is the natural beauty of the island, and the propectors are the tourists.

Everything revolves around commerce here. This isn't a place to live, but a place to do business. Every building is festooned with advertising hoardings each reaching a little further into the street or higher into the sky than the one before. They all offer the same things, the actual number of products of services relatively small. The only differences being the marketing slant.

Do you want 'Tour Exclusives' or 'Eco-Tourism' or 'Travel Services'? They all mean the same thing. Due to the limited products and the fact the history of the place stretches back five or ten years at the most, walking through the town gives an immediate sense of deja-vu. How many internet cafes can a place support? Didn't I just walk past the Koh Lanta Travel Shop (no, that was Lanta's Shop of Travel).

There was only one bank, but unlike the old wild-west, I don't think it was subject to too many armed robberies. Also, bar brawls, gun fights at sundown, and the streets awash with the paralytically drunk were thin on the ground (actually, scratch the last one). The biggest danger came from walking in the wrong direction after a few beers and falling off the pier.

Anyway, I changed some of my traveller's checks but cocked-up the exchange-rate calculations and came out clutching enough Thai Baht to last a month rather than the week I had left before I flew to Vietnam. Maybe I would be experiencing one of those ladyboys--just to lighten my wallet and spread my wealth, as it were.

Actually this illustrates a serious point. The world has seriously bought the idea of capitalism. It's a great invention. I once saw a quote describing trade as a kind of magic which can turn raw materials into flashy things like iPods and laptop computers. Maybe that's stretching the notion a little, but I perfectly concur with the idea that it is commerce which is the driving force behind making these things available to all.

The big question, for me, is where is this ideology leading us?

John Maynard Keynes, one of the twentieth century's leading economists and one of the people best placed to understand and predict where capitalism will lead, once said:

"Capitalism is the absurd belief that the worst of men, for the worst of reasons, will somehow work for the benefit of us all."

Perhaps I'm selectively misquoting him. I don't know. Trickle-down economics has often been trotted out as an excuse to leave the markets alone and let wealth spread of its own natural accord. It's true that in absolute terms capitalism makes us all richer. The problem is, it doesn't make us all richer at the same rate, and it is the relative wealth that divides people which is far more important than any absoulte measures (once basic thresholds of poverty are breached--still a way to go there which is why economic booms in India and China are great engines for raising standards of living).

Really, the developed nations of the world should be doing far more to understand the limitations of free-market economics. Some believe there are self-correcting mechanisms which will make everything all right in the end. I don't buy it for a second. Even if it is true over the long term, slavish adherence to the market will lead to plenty of strife on the way.

Goldman Sachs have predicted world oil production will peak in 2007. When US oil production peaked in 1973 and OPEC (Middle East dominated oil producing countries) lowered their production the world suffered a major energy crisis and prices rocketed. Unless we find another sustainable energy source this is coming again. Permanently.

My own tentative solution involves not aiming for economic growth but for economic stability. Increasing technology and mechanisation will continue. This will mean more productivity for less human labour which in turn will mean everyone can work less. Eventually we'd all have ten hour weeks with the same total economic wealth as today. Then we can all focus on our creative sides! Also bikes in towns and cities would be compulsory.

Seriously, if anyone knows any economics can they let me know why we always aim for economic growth and whether this means the entire future of the human race will involve 37.5 hour weeks and taking sickies. Not too ennobling a vision if you ask me.

So, I came out the bank, spent a few Baht on a couple of gifts for Luke and Mark as they're leaving tomorrow, and went for a beer to mull it over.

Bit off topic for a travel blog today, but travelling's there to broaden the mind too, right?

The International Jet-Set

A Hard Life?
My sleeping-patterns still hadn't settled down yet, so Mark and Luke had to wake me around eight otherwise I'd have slept through to midday. A converted jeep was awaiting us after breakfast, and we jumped in the back and set off for the boat.

If the short journey in the jeep was an indication of the boat ride we were going to be in for an exhilarating day. We bombed down narrow, bumpy dirt tracks that twisted all over the place with the jungle canopy looming over us. Sunlight would occasionally come into your eyes and then it was all about the warm breeze rushing past, the metal frame you were clinging on to, and the roar of the engine. A few other tourists got picked-up and then we gunned down the island's main road to the port in the main town, the driver keen to show us that the jeep was good on the flat too.

Our party was the last to board and the boat left shortly afterwards. Unfortunately, the jeep ride hadn't been a good indication of what to expect for travelling over the waves. The sea was pretty flat and we coasted along too far from any landmarks to give us any real sense of speed.

There's something strange about the allure of pleasure boats. From your average landlubber's perspective, such as myself, the dazzling white hull, the trim of silver railings, the black-tinted windows, all hint at something cool going down. Homo sapiens is one hell of a curious species and if there's one thing that gets us off our butts it's seeing other people having a good time and wanting to get part of the action. Pleasure boats or yachts are a prime example. The windows must be tinted black because of all the naughty but fun adventures going on behind; white tuxedoed waiters serving flutes of champagne to supermodels and great wits. The silver railings hinting at danger. Masts and rigging to be used for high-sea heroics.

The reality is a little different. At least for me on this boat.

Behind the windows below deck were a few sorry looking tables and a wooden-planked floor around which sea-water sloshed. This meant everybody was above deck. Now maybe this boat was a little slimmer than normal, and maybe there were more passengers than usual, but the upshot was that everyone was practically on top of one another. The combination of fifty strangers, the early hour, and no spaces escaping the blaze of the sun is not a good combination for interesting conversation. I gazed at the sea, got sea-sick, and then gazed back at my fellow passengers.

And got thinking about national stereotypes. Now the word stereotype is often used as a pejorative term. I think it comes from a personal desire not to be stereotyped ourselves. We are bigger and more complicated than any of the generalizations which can be made about ourselves. Of course we are. I wouldn't dare to try to understand one person's life through a list of attributes: race, sex, nationality etc.

But...in a complex world, stereotypes allow us to function without crippling ourselves into inaction. Everyone makes judgements based on imperfect information. And the gaps in our knowledge get filled by things like stereotypes. The one thing I would say is that everyone should try and make their own stereotypes and not just rehash the ones that have gone before--ones that are often more to do with power struggles, disagreements, political or religious animosities. The other questions are how much do stereotypes shape people, and do we get influenced by what we've heard before?

So with those caveats in place, on this boat with my limited observations over this day I found people from the Low Countries were outgoing and respectful. The Americans were self-confident and energetic. The English were reserved. The Japanese were serious, and the Israelis were strong-minded.

After we moored up at a small deserted island I spent a lot of time snorkelling, peering down at the colorful shoals of fish and the coral which had an other-worldly feel. Spectacular! I can't imagine what a proper dive on a place like the Great Barrier Reef would be like.

When I got out the water my back was as pink as a lobster. Sleeping was painful that night!

More Interesting Below the Water!

Notes from the Andaman Sea

Ko Lanta, as of 2003, was one of Thailand's less developed resorts. Further down the claw-like peninsula of the south than Phuket and other islands, it takes the better part of twenty-four hours to reach from Bangkok, and consequently has been less exploited as a tourist destination.

The hotel we were staying at, and the entire cluster in this bay, were a case in point. There must've been an average of three or four guests per hotel. At night the staff outnumbered the customers in the bars. To my vivid imagination it felt kind of apocalyptic. Here was a paradisiacal place: crystal clear waters at a temperature perfect for a newborn baby; gentle breezes rippling through the palm trees; miles of golden beaches. So where was everybody?

A vision of the future?

People, tired of dying, will slough-off their physical forms and upload themselves into virtual immortality, emptying the land. Or, the age of cheap flights having ended, every Englishman will holiday at the Great British seaside just like his Victorian forebears instead of in the global village.

The lazy feel of the place quickly gets under the skin and everyone seems to loll around in a daze. Very cool in its own laid-back way, but for me, with my propensity to take the easy option at every opportunity, it just meant I spent the first full day on the island covering my own little Bermuda triangle where I was lost to the world. Its apexes? My beach hut, a small strip of beach, and the hotel's bar-cum-restaurant.

Swinging in my veranda's hammock, I spent a good part of the day reading 'The Diary of Anne Frank'. Probably not an ideal location to try and empathise with Anne's terrible plight, it was nonetheless, an inspiring read and a kick-up-the-bum to take every opportunity life and these travels bring--except the ladyboys, perhaps. To not do so would be an affront to people like Anne, and millions of others whose circumstances deny them the freedom to pursue their lives as they wish.

In my diary I wrote a quote from the book. If I remember rightly it was said by one the neighbours Anne was annexed with.

"The Spirit of the Man is Great,
How Puny are his Deeds."

When I read it I thought this would be perfect for a motto to live life by.

Tomorrow will be a day of action, I decided.

We booked three tickets on a luxury boat trip.

Perplexed bar personnages

Suratthani - Ko Lanta

Another safety-conscious driving experience
The train was delayed during the night so instead of arriving around six we rolled into Suratthani around seven thirty. This didn't mean anyone got any extra time in bed. Oh no. The first rays of sunlight and the train guards were forcibly ejecting people from their beds. I'd like to see a little more of the democratic principle in these situations; can't everyone make their own choices? Those who want to sleep, can. Those who don't, can get up. The upside was being treated to great view of dawn breaking, though. A light green chequer-board of fields slightly hazy from a dewy mist, and avenues of palm trees marking the boundaries of the land. I'm in the tropics, I thought, rather obviously.

Ko Lanta is one of the less developed beach islands off the west coast of southern Thailand. To get there involves a journeying by train, bus, minibus and ferry. This in turn means opportunities for commerce for lots of locals. Hence the scrum-like scramble for your business everytime you arrive in a new place. Especially in a half-way sort of town like Suratthani. So how do you choose?

This is the traveller's chance to redistribute some of his not-very-(in absolute terms compared to the locals)-hard-won money. Contribute to a fair and even world for all. Make all those greenhouse emissions that it took to get here a little less shaming. Demonstrate that though our governments and multinationals may be power and profit-driven monstrosities, the average Westerner is an all right sort of bloke and sympathetic with the people of the poorer nations.

We got on the bus with the air-con.

The minibus leg gave us some memorable times. For all the wrong reasons. The roads in southern Thailand are pretty straight. Kilometers of tarmac over the flat landscape with not a single bend. You'd think this would make accidents less likely. Maybe it does, in which case I don't want to think about what the mortality rate would be if there were more turns.

Anyway, the road was a simple one-lane-in-each-direction affair with a kind of dusty track to either side for slower moving vehicles such as bikes and scooters. A car one hundred meters ahead started to indicate right and slowed to a stop in the middle of our lane. An old man was cycling on the track just before the car. Traffic kept passing in the other direction preventing the car from turning. We got to fifty meters, still humming along at seventy.

The car hasn't turned.

Thirty meters. Still no braking. I'm pushing an imaginary brake pedal like I always do with drivers who make me nervous.

The car still doesn't turn.

Ten meters. Seventy miles per hour. Unless this minibus has got some shit-hot technology, braking isn't going to help any longer. Other passengers moments ago in deep slumbers awake knowing something's up. The atmosphere feels electric.

Our driver suddenly apprehends that, just maybe, the car ahead isn't actually going to turn in time and he's the only person who can do anything about it. He slams us hard left into the track and I swear we're going to take out the old man on the bike.

We pass between the stationary car and the old man like a bullet down the barrel of a gun. Milimeters. If I'd rolled down the window and pursed my lips I could've given the old guy a smack on the cheeks we were so close.

And the best bit? The driver veers back onto the road proper and doesn't skip a beat, dragging on his cigarette with all the nonchalence of Humphrey Bogart in Casablanca.

Later, for the last part of the journey on the island we rode on an adapted scooter. Try and imagine two benches jury-rigged onto the back with a kind of roof awning above. I was pretty happy when we could get off and help push the thing when it got stuck in a sandy ditch in the road.

At the resort we walked back and forth down the beach, finally choosing the hotel we'd been dropped off at. I've got a log cabin a stone's throw from the water with a hammock on the veranda. Another Kodak moment.

Bangkok - Suratthani

Campbell had to leave for the airport at five in the morning so it was an early start to see him off. Some might have had reservations sharing with the descendent of a convict, but I shared no such prejudices and I'm happy to report nothing untoward happened upon my person over the entire time I shared his company.

I think I must've still been in a bit of a daze what with the place, the heat, and the enormity of what I was doing (I mean in a personal way; this travelling was perhaps the first 'real' choice I'd made in my life) because I don't have too many clear memories of these first few days. I know a lot of my awareness was directed inwards at the time; I thought a lot about life in England continuing and how I was like the missing piece of a jigsaw puzzle, far away from its familiar home.

I was finding myself.

It's a tired cliche, but does have a kernel of truth. Most of the time we live in social structures which are pretty rigid. With friends, family, and work colleagues we follow familiar patterns of behavior. Hopefully they're happy, healthy patterns for most of us. But even then, as well as providing comfort, they constrain us from what we might become. Putting yourself in a alien situation provides a way of finding out what makes YOU tick. Obviously this is an idealistic scenario: going round-the-world still involves plenty of things we're used to. It's hard to get away from all your social and human and cultural references, but I do believe the further you go from these 'safe places' the more you let your own natural personality out.

I think the dazed feeling I had was the unconscious realization--and fear--I was going to be as free as I'd ever been. And I was looking inwards and towards home as a means of ignoring this. Fortunately I snapped out of this mode after the first couple of weeks.

Anyway, to end my life-guru rant, do something different. You might even enjoy it.

The big cultural event of the day was a boat trip over the river to the Temple of Arun (Dawn) - photo below. If there's one thing I'd have liked to done differently with the whole travels, it would've been to read some history before I'd left. Without knowing the significance of a place to the people who built the place and the people who used the place afterwards all you're really looking at is architecture--not that architecture's not a damn fine subject (which I don't know much about again). Seeing edifices such as these does help to convey how important religion was though; everything must have been appreciated through such a conceptual-prism for almost everyone.

We left Bangkok by train in the late afternoon, and not so long after boarding the carriage transformed into its night incarnation--bunk beds lining both sides. I sometimes think I'd prefer this to be the default arrangement for all trains so a crafty sleep is always possible! Outside Bangkok packs of kids boarded the train as it trundled dead slow through the night--I thought they were cute until I realized they were just trying to rob tourists. I'd probably do the same in their position.

Didn't fall asleep for a long time thinking about the past, future, dreams, and where the safest place to put my valuables was (down my pants--pretty rare visitors there--but there are comfort issues!).

Bangkok Tourist

Campbell planned to make the most of his limited time in the city and was up and out by the time I rose. (Although later I found his good intentions in tatters: by mid-afternoon he was back in bed).

Met Luke and Mark for breakfast in the guest-house lounge. Fruit seems to be the thing to eat in the mornings and despite the rumours that watermelons can house lots of bacteria I dug into three enormous slices of mouth-watering lushness.

If today is anything to go by, travelling involves many long, meandering walks with constant breaks to consult maps and gawp at unusual things--unusual to a Englishman with little to no previous knowledge of other cultures and religions, that is. Like a visitor to England stopping and admiring a post-box or a hoodied youth, I suppose.

We ambled. We consulted. We took our shoes off and went into a Buddhist temple. I've got to admit, I've never got the hang of going into places of worship. I'm not religious (I know, I know, Buddhism's not technically a religion) and I always feel like I'm intruding on other people's spiritual sanctuaries. Being there as an observer alone feels kind of wrong, like attending a Singles Party to check-out the scene when you've got a partner. What am I missing not being a Buddhist? Lots of statues of the Buddha in the Lotus position, for one.

After booking tickets on a sleeper train for tomorrow night at the main railway station--a painless affair, unlike later mishaps, notably in Delhi--we made an equally circuitous route back to Khaosan Road, taking in Chinatown, the Golden Buddha, the Royal Barge Museum, and a gentle boat ride up the river. Chinatown was a blacksmith's paradise, the Golden Buddha was golden, and the Royal Barges were very, very long.

In the evening we watched Lord of the Rings--to help understand Western cultural influences on the Thai mind, of course--and during the course of the film I got to witness first-hand the Thai bride phenomena. A lecherous, sixty something English gentleman was basically letting his dining-mate--a young Thai woman--be his personal slave. Perhaps it was true love and the woman was just spoiling her man, but I always feel slightly uncomfortable seeing relationships where there are gross imbalances of power. It makes romance seem to be solely about self-interest instead of mutual respect and love. Am I hopelessly naive?

Crashed out early, still adjusting to the time-difference.

Somewhere Over Asia - Bangkok, Thailand

The plane landed in Bangkok at 4pm local time, coasting down through cloudless blue skies. The view from the window seat was spectacular; the patchwork of fields giving way to the edge of the capital with the city's minareted skyline shimmering in the distance.

Not that I saw any of that.

A woman with a window seat told me all about it as we disembarked.

I couldn't see anything squeezed into the middle seats of the middle aisle and was too busy worrying about a landing disaster to do anything more than stare stiffly at the back of the chair ahead.

It was my first time in Asia and the thing I remember most as I got off the plane was the intense heat. A kind of heat that has substance and you have to push your way through it to move like wading through water. And then you breath it in and the heat comes into your chest like your whole body is regulating itself to the climate. It sparks a feeling that everything will be more leisurely here, more sedate. Or maybe that's just a cliche looking for a susceptible mind....

Attempting to look like a seasoned traveller I confidently left the airport ignoring the offers of taxi touts and walked up to the bus stop just outside. There were lots of other backpackers milling about so I guessed this was the right place. If it wasn't at least I was in company.

Eventually a bus pulled up and everyone, including myself jumped on. It was here I met my first travel buddy - a strapping Australian named Campbell. He'd been working on a cattle farm in England for six months and was on his way home, stopping over in Bangkok for a couple of nights only. It was good to meet another lone traveller and we agreed to share a room in town.

Khaosan Road. If you're in Bangkok and you're a backpacker you will almost certainly stay in or around Khaosan Road (Cow-A-San if I've got the pronunciation right). I don't think I've seen any other city with such a compressed tourist area. It's a long wide street but it doesn't seem so due to the almost relentless activity and life which plays out on itself. The contrast between the quiet early mornings and the rest of the day is amazing. Stalls line the pavement on both sides of each sidewalk (next to the shops AND the kerb). They sell T-shirts, alarm clocks, jewellery, perfume, batteries, sarongs, coconuts pierced with a single straw, and a lot of other stuff. Between these stalls a single-file line of mainly young tourists bustle, looking for bargains or trying to get access to the numerous internet cafes, hotels, guest-houses, bookshops, pubs, restaurants, travel agents, laundrettes, bars, tattoo parlours. Most people walk on the road proper with scooters zipping past and the occasional honking car.

For a tired, first-time traveller it's a bit of a sight. With night descending we walked the entire length of the road in a daze. Then we hit one of the street's lesser tributaries and walked down that. Eventually we shook our collective heads and ducked in to a chilled-out looking guest-house. (Actually once inside, discharged of bags, and sipping a beer, everyone does there best to give an air of pitying nonchalence to the poor sweaty fools still trying to find a room--the lounging is so affected on occasion). We checked in, dumped our bags and went back out with newfound confidence.

I'd arranged to meet Mark and Luke at 8pm outside Gullivers--a bar on the corner of Khaosan Road. They'd been travelling for a few months by that stage and happened to be in Thailand when I arrived. I jumped at the chance to have some familiar faces around--especially with such seasoned hands. We were a little early so we sauntered down the street again. And bumped into Mark and Luke half-way down. Like I said, Bangkok starts and ends with Khaosan Road for most. I was really happy to see them.

We went to a vegetarian restaurant. I don't remember the conversation, but I do remember still being on edge a little and Luke really helping me relax with his bouyant mood. I barely ate my food and was happy to get on to a bar. Beer is a real good fix for calming nerves. We laughed and I found out a lot about Mark and Luke's adventures in India. By the time I crawled into bed--not even that late--I was pretty drunk.

Travelling's the best I thought as I slipped to sleep, completely removed from reality by the logic of the intoxicated.

Later I woke with a raging hangover thinking 'Oh my God, no turning back now....and who's that strange man in the opposite bed?'

Hove, UK to Somewhere Over Asia

It was half past five in the afternoon. My fifty litre rucksack, a purple and lush green affair still a little dusty from long days spent in dark cupboards, lay in the middle of the lounge floor surrounded by a archipelago of traveller's must-haves. Guidebooks, malaria tablets, a small mountain of socks (a grevious misjudgement I realized not much later), underwear, a small first-aid kit, fiction, blank diaries, travellers cheques, misc. clothing. There was no way everything was going to fit.

And the flight was leaving in less than three hours.

To be honest, after talking about this round-the-world trip for the better part of a year, thinking all the time about tropical paradises, crazy characters, spiritual enlightenment and the freedom from working-life, now it was finally happening I was really bricking-it.

Shaz and I would be breaking-up, or at least spending a hefty amount of time apart. Also I was, in effect, throwing away my career as a software engineer and the financial security that brought. And lastly, I was jumping into a situation I had no real experience of and would be at the whim of all the nefarious agents of the world.

No wonder I was stalling as much as possible.

But if there's one trait I do possess it's keeping my appointments and after hastily packing the rucksack to bursting point we were ready to leave. I'd already said goodbye to Mum and James, so it was only Shaz and I who were passengers in the car as Dad bolted up the motorway to Heathrow. Aren't roads the most depressing way to come and go from a place? Rivers of tarmac through the countryside and everyone divided into little metal boxes. I was glad this would be my last journey by car for a while.

At Heathrow check-in was a painless affair as there was no queue. Afterwards we sat in a Burger King--if in is the right word to describe airport terminals and their indivisible spaces--and picked at some fries while my flight got nearer. Then we suddenly realized I had to get through customs and this weekend looked like one of the airport's busiest. That's why there was no queue at check-in. Everyone else had sensibly gone through early. There were rushed goodbyes and hugs and then I sped to the rear of a very slow-moving line. Dad and Shaz stood together while the queue inched forward. I shed a few tears and shuffled past a screen that seperated the travelling hordes from the non-travelling hordes.

And came to the custom's queue proper.

It was a like an entire hangar devoted to customs. How many people were leaving the UK? Was this normal, or was their some 'Lets Leave Britain' conspiracy afoot? There was no way I was going to make it in time if I waited. I waved over one of the custom's helpers and got fast-tracked through.

Then I sprinted. Endless avenues of glassed corridors flashed by with views onto the runway. My pace slowed. Are airports deliberately designed for maximum distance between terminal and plane? It seems so. To shed a few last ounces of fat for overburdened planes? To enjoy the scenery? Finally I ended up walking.

When I got to the gate they were just calling last passengers.

I flashed my passport and boarding pass and left British soil.

A Confession

Between January and August 2003, I spent seven months visiting nine countries in two continents. I kept a personal diary for the entire trip and made a promise to myself that I would write-up this private journal into a publically-consumable travelogue one day. I made this promise because foremost I wanted to share my experiences in a way which was convenient for those who might be interested. Secondly, I wanted to make something that I could look back on and spark memories of this amazing time in my life.

It is now 2006 and I've finally got myself in a position to do this project. I will try to write each day of the trip's journey on the corresponding day in 2006 so that everyone who wants to can re-live the experience with me. I hope the length of time between then and now doesn't detract from the diary too much. It was a timeless experience in many ways, after all.

I openly encourage anyone to make comments on my posts. I want this to as rich and flavoursome a stew as possible!

Steve