One month on...

There once was a balloon boy who attended a balloon school. All his classmates were ballons, as were the teachers, the buildings and even the furniture inside. One day the balloon boy brought a pin into school. His teacher discovered it and sent him to the headmaster ,who sat him down and told him, "You've let me down, you've let yourself down, you've let the whole school down..."

How deflated must he have felt? Possibly a bit like me.

To begin with, arriving back in Sydney was just like crash-landing in any other city we'd visited, only one slightly more familiar than most. We wandered through the CBD, stopping for a coffee and bacon & egg roll ($5.50 meal deal) at a cafe, marvelling at how expensive everything now seemed. $5.50 for a roll and coffee? Lordy! You could get a fish dinner, ten beers and a piggy-back home for that in Laos!

Seeing friends and family was awesome, though it seemed our trip had somehow skewed the space-time continuum. Whilst I was sure that only twelve months had passed, back here on Earth it seemed longer. Babies had sprung up like watercress, the social landscape seemed only vaguely familiar in a very different way.

Still, the first week was a thrill. Sydney turned on seven days of sunshine. We frolicked in the joy of wardrobes, packed larders and going for drinks with old friends. In the distance, my return to work loomed on the horizon.

Not that you'd know it. I hadn't had so much as an email response in over five weeks. Then the news came.

It was all quite friendly. Whilst I was away, my role had been made redundant. No surprise there, the clue was in the lack of communication. I would be required to work an eight-week redeployment period after which, if a suitable role could not be found, I would join the ranks of Australia's great unwashed and get stuck into some hardcore Mornings with Kerry. Redundancy, in other words.

Rachel got stuck into some hardcore catching-up. In between, she also met with some recruitment agents. She's very clear on what role she wants - Product BDM to the stars - but the searching can be tough. Some people just exude bad energy, and a lot of them work in recuitment.

Then the scale of the adjustment began to become apparent.

When you are traveling, people ask you where you are from, where you've come from and where you're going. Here, back in the real world, they want to know what you do. Suddenly, self definition by occupation is back, clawing it's evil arms down our throats, trying to rip out our self-worth by means of comparison. Evil little shit.

There is also still a lot of negative energy floating around amongst the echoes of the GFC (Global Financial Crisis, a devlish little acronym that completely passed us by whilst away). To put it as frankly as I can, there are a lot of not very happy people doing things they don't enjoy in places they don't want to be. Being in the company of large groups of these people feels like swimming through a maelstrom of razor blades: it's not deadly, but stay in long enough and you just might drown.

Or maybe that's the way it always was. Maybe the year away has simply changed our perception of the situation. May it's not them or it, maybe it's us. Herein lies the challenge.

It all came to a head last Saturday where my repressed displeasure expunged itself in a flurry of Martini-fuelled firey ramblings. I hadn't even known I was that upset. Alas, those whom I was with soon did. Whoops and, obviously, sorry.

It's early days. We're sat in limbo (very comfortably sat, mind you). Like anything - starting a business, writing a book, going on a trip - the beginning is always the hardest. "The hardest bit of rolling a boulder is getting it underway", or some such wise ditty. The great unknown lies ahead like a big, scary, blank canvas, and the uncertainty sometimes nips away at you like piranha. Mundanity threatens to seep in and water-damage all the dreams cultivated during those magical months.

Over the past few days though, I can feel a bit of positivity creeping back in. Obviously, my frustrations are a little clearer to me now. I've had some conversations that have inspired me. Friends and loved ones have sent me some parcels of love. All good for the soul.

Today I realised that I'm back full circle. I've walked a Road Less Travelled and, wouldn't you know, it joins back onto Mainstream Freeway! It probably does that a few times along the way, I'll wager. But then off it snakes again, back down into the undergrowth and the valleys and the hills and the unexplored territoires.

A year and a half ago, a friend told me about his 'feather, brick, truck' philosophy. So, I started listening to the universe, keeping my eye out for the little signs along they way. In return, I was guided along a path that saw Rachel and I experience a year that most may never. A year of sights, sounds, encounters, realisations and epiphanies whose profound impact on our lives we have not yet begun to comprehend.

It's then I understand, the journey's actually only just begun. And I realise I'm smiling again.

Day 360 - Blood, sweat and more sweat in Phuket, Thailand

I've heard pain referred to as a barrier. It's not. It's multiple barriers.

I feel like a wheelchair Olympian doing the 110m hurdles. I race through one barrier, with no choice but to allow it to smack me full-force in the face, only for another to follow shortly afterward, adding to the pain.

Our days begin just after 7am. I drag my sore body from bed - my calf muscles feel like old, gnarled tree roots - and we make our way to Tiger Muay Thai training camp. There Randy from Michigan, who has a chest that would make Arnie green with envy, puts us through an hour of what is best described as 'Aerobics' Evil Twin at the Beach'. He makes us contort out bodies in ways that simply don't seem natural or possible. But contort we do. Amazing.

Then we break. Head for the Tiger Grill, to wolf down egg-white omelets and wholemeal toast. We watch the fighters in the rings either side of the eating area beat the living crap out of each other. We marvel at their fitness, the chiseled nature of their lean bodies and the verve with which they kick, punch and knee each other over and over and over again.

After a kip - sometimes a swim - it's back to the gym for a weights session. The heat of the day has risen palpably.  We were sweating in Randy's session. Now the water drips off us like we are showering. Up go the weights, down go the weights, drip-drip-drip go our foreheads.

Then at 4pm, we head to the Muay Thai training area. We start with running, jumping and stretching. I'm buggered already. Then it's technique. Kick, punch, block, knee. Then sparring. I take a few to the head, but I land a couple of nice ones myself. Pad work. High intensity. Bag work. 200 kicks. 200 knees. 200 elbows. 200 punches. Then, to warm down, to finish it all off 100 push-ups and 300 sit-ups. We do them, sitting in our ever-present pool of sweat. Teacher Dan - or Mr Miyagi as he is known with understandable justification - threatens that "I heet you wis my stick!" if we don't finish.

Two and half hours later, it's over. I lay panting on the floor, spent. Rach is the same. Agony over for another day.

We came here to get fit. One week on, I can feel muscles firming. The ache is being replaced by strength missed during our year away. Fitness begins to surge through my veins, making me look forward all the more to the new football season waiting for me back home.

There are people who come here to train for months. They come as novices to learn Muay Thai. At the end of it all, they fight. They go to a stadium here in Phuket, line up in front of a proper paying crowd and they fight a professional bout.

Rachel and I have talked. When we arrived, that seemed like a ridiculous idea. Brutal blood sport! Why do that?

Suddenly, the idea seems far more appealing. Enticing. Possible?

Still, one more week of agony. We'll see what we think then.



Photos from hell are here

Day 349 - Phu Quoc, Vietnam

"It's about the destination, not the journey", say the lentil-lovers at the Lonely Planet. Of course, that's codswallop. If it were true, mystery flights would be far more popular.

As regular readers will know, neither the Duchess or I are ones for long, arduous trips. Getting from Kampot to Ho Chi Minh (from where our flight to Phuket was scheduled to leave; 14 hours by bus) was proving to be a real coal in the Christmas stocking.

So when Rachel stumbled upon the information that Vietnam Airlines had flights between Phu Quoc Island and Ho Chi Minh City for $60 a head, I damn-near dropped my bacon sandwich.

You see, Phu Quoc is only twenty kms off the coast of Kampot, Cambodia. Whammy! Not surprising really, because it used to be part of Cambodia. Double whammy! Did I mention Phu Quoc was on Rachel's 'Alternate South East Asia list' too? Triple whammy! Good morning Vietnam!

Of course, it was never going to be that easy, was it?

There is some animosity between Thailand, Cambodia and Vietnam. It's a little hard to fathom at times - I speak none of the languages -  but seems to be war and land-related. Phu Quoc is caught up in it all, so going directly there by boat is a no-no.

Instead, you need to go two hours to the Vietnam border, cross, go six kms to the coast and a then take a two hour boat ride. But then you're there.

Phu Quoc is an island about 48kms long and, at it's narrowest point, about 14kms wide. That makes it quite a good size for a drop of land. Big enough to have all the necessary creature comforts, but small enough to travel around quite easily.

After landing ourselves an almost-absolute beachfront bungalow at Hiep Thanh (after the Sea Garden heat episode, air conditioning had become a must-have) we set about the business of exploration. We hired yet another scooter and, being wary of Vietnamese drivers, set off.

We soon discovered that, outside of the main town of Duong Don, Phu Quoc is, as the Alternate list suggests, about as close to unspoilt as you can get without having to revert to primitivism. The asphalt runs out about a kilometre out of town, leaving miles of clay-red dirt roads winding through national park or along pristine white-sand beaches. It's astounding.

We spent two days zipping around the island, stopping at unspoilt beaches to dip our toes and being the occasional taxi for the odd schoolkid who flagged us down in search of a lift home. We visited a pearl farm, playing with the resident monkey, Kapu, who seemed to enjoy nothing more than sticking stuff in his mouth and chewing. Cute.

Racing back in the direction of town one evening, we zipped past a small restaurant-shack advertising 'Cold Beer'. Suddenly, from the depths of the shady interior, came a brilliant smile, as wide as the Harbour Bridge and as white as the Opera House in the sunshine. We did a U-ey and stopped for a chat.

We had a beer on the shoreline. This was something special. Nothing but palm trees and sand for miles in either direction. Wing, our fine lady host, mentioned she sometimes offered a private BBQ on the beach and, if we'd care to partake, she'd be happy to head to the markets next morning.

Sometimes in life, if you really pay attention, important stuff happens in the background. Miss it and you miss out. Feather, brick, truck and all that.

Simply by noticing a smile on the side of the road, we found ourselves twenty-four hours later tucking in to a snapper the size of a cat, watching the sun set slowly down over the horizon. We even caught the green flash the moment before it disappeared.

Sometimes, you visit a place and know you're there at just the right moment in history. I felt that way about Guatemala, about Rio and about Bolivia. In two years time, Phu Quoc International Airport will open, bringing all that goes with that. In that moment though, sat on the beach with sated appetite and bottle of wine slowly chilling, I knew that I felt the same way about Phu Quoc.



All the photos from Phu Quoc are here

Day 344 - The Bokor Hill Station story

We met Mr Cheang Try outside his shop in the small village of Kampot. He is a wiry man with small, bright eyes and a big smile. He offered us the services of his van for $60 a day. Included in that price, he said, would be the opportunity to hear his story.

The drive to Bokor Hill Station took about an hour and a half. We stopped at the market beforehand, picking up water, fruit and six servings of chicken, pork and rice.

Being Khmer New Year, the company who had recently bought the site from the Cambodian government (to build a 500-room casino) had re-opened the road for the week. So, the place described as 'the eeriest place in the world' was teeming with revellers, making it decidedly un-eery.

We wandered through the empty shell of the casino for an hour, imagining 1930s French aristocracy coming up the mountain to escape the maddening heat of the coast, to fling their imperial spoils across crap tables.

Eventually, after getting our fill, we headed back to the car for lunch. There, Mr Try began his incredible story.


"I was born in 1959 - I'm 51 - and grew up under the Khmer Rouge. Times were hard. Everyone was marched out of the cities, out of our homes, repatriated to the countryside. There, everyone was made to work on the land, as slaves to Khmer Rouge. I was kept together with my parents and sister, but never saw my grandparents again.

Life was hard. We had little to eat. Usually a bowl of watery rice porridge a day. All were expected to do a full days work. Men, women, children, young and old. We were so hungry, but still we had to work.

Sometimes, I would sneak into the forest at night, looking for food. One time, I found a sweet potato. I cooked it there and then in the forest, and brought it back so my family could share it.

I don't know how they knew, but the Khmer Rouge came into our hut almost immediately. The said we had stole from the government. They tied us together in a line, our hands bound behind our backs. Then they blindfolded us and we began marching.


After some time, we stopped. They removed our blindfolds. They cut my mother and father free from my sister and I, took a club, and bludgeoned them to death with a single blow to the back of their heads. This they did in front of my eyes.


Next they cut my sister free from me. I realised that I was no longer tied to anyone else. So, when they guards were not looking, I turned and ran. I ran into the forest, away from the place where they killed my family.


I ran for a long time, deep into the forest. For many days, I could hear the Khmer Rouge searching for me. Eventually, the voices went away and I was alone. I was nineteen.

I stayed in the forest for two years. I learned what plants to eat and what plants not to eat. I found a nettle that, when rubbed on the skin, would emit a smell that made the cobra avoid me. I learned how to hunt and which animals to avoid. 

To escape from a tiger, I learned that it is important not to look into his eyes. He doesn't like that. To escape from a bear, I learned to run in zig-zags. The bear is fast, but he cannot change direction quickly. I learned that to catch a cobra, one need only come at him from the front. Cobras cannot see forward too well.


During this time, I kept moving. I never slept in one place more than once. I was seeking the Thai border, whilst trying to avoid the Khmer Rouge.


After many months, I realised I had no idea where the Thai border was. I began following the sound of gunfire. I thought that perhaps if I could find where people were fighting, I might also find the frontier. 

One day, following gunshots, I spied a young boy with a hunting rifle. I followed him at a distance. He lead me back to a house, where he began talking to his family. They didn't speak Khmer, they spoke Vietnamese. I approached them.


They were shocked to see me. I was twenty-two, but I looked like a wild animal. They took me in, bathed me, fed me and gave me a bed. The next day, they took me to the Vietnamese army command. I had stumbled into Vietnam.


I had a lot of anger inside me. So, I joined the Vietnamese army. I headed back into the jungles, with a troop. We hunted the Khmer. We laid mines up around Bokor Hill Station, because we knew how badly the Khmer wanted to hold the station. Eventually, I came to command over 200 men, all wanting the same thing. To destroy the Khmer, to liberate Cambodia. 


It was tough. The Khmer were fierce soldiers. Nixon was dropping bombs everywhere. It was a hard time. I lost many soldiers, many friends. 


One time, I was chasing two Khmer soldiers through the jungle. As I was running, I stepped on something and heard a 'click'. I knew it was a mine, but I couldn't stop. The explosion sent shrapnel up into my knee. I was lucky though. Russian doctors look care of me and removed all the metal pieces."


At this point, I got up and offered my chair to Mr Try. He gave me a kindly look and told me that he walks fine now and is very fit. I became aware of the ridiculousness of my gesture. Offering my chair to a man who had been through more hardship and pain in his life than most could even possibly compute. I sat down again and he continued.

"I remember the battle of Bokor Hill well. We captured the station. The Khmer Rouge had the Catholic Church. Our machine gun, mounted on the top of the casino, could not quite reach their position. However, they, with their anti-aircraft gun, could certainly fire at us! However, because of the land mines, they couldn't reach us. 


Eventually, the Khmer were beaten. Then the UN came in. They started to try and remove the mines. I had kept a record of every mine I had laid, written down the exact location, so I began to help them. They taught me English.


Eventually, my wife spoke to me about how long I had been away. She had sent me telegrams telling me of the birth of my children! They had been growing up without me. They needed a father. So, I went home.


I started working as a guide for Intrepid. I got quite a reputation, but I had to travel a lot. Too much. So I stopped that. Now, I live in Kampot, with my wife, my family and my little business.


It's easy to be angry. But that anger will get me nowhere. I prefer to look forward to the future, and put the past behind me. I have four children - perhaps because of all the cobra blood-wine I drank in the army! - and in them I see a strong future for Cambodia. 

Each day, I walk one hour in the morning and one hour at night. I eat well. I am 51, but I would like to live for some time. I want to be around, so I can see the bright future I believe Cambodia has before it"


The photos from Kampot and Bokor Hill Station.

Day 342 - Life's a beach in Sihanoukville?

Tolerance is a double-edged sword. SE Asia has a strong Buddhist tradition, so it seems to be the norm to turn the other cheek. Sometimes though, you question where the line should be drawn.

It had been six weeks since either of us had seen the coast. We agreed a beach should be next on the agenda. Southern Cambodia has built up a quietly impressive reputation, so we boarded an overnighter.

The journey was far from smooth, but we arrived in one piece. Rachel had done her research and concluded that Sihanoukville could be roughly divided into three areas. Victory Hill (sleazy sex tourism), Serendipity Beach (backpacker party central on a seriously dirty patch of sand) or Otres (electricity-deficient but unspoilt, about 5km out of town). She chose the latter. It was a good decision.

We jumped in a tuk-tuk and, without reservations, made an inspection of four properties. We settled on the Sea Garden. Sure, our banana-leaf hut might only have electricity for six hours a day and was as basic as basic gets, but it was literally a meter from the shoreline and the vibe felt good.

We settled in. The Sea Garden was not busy. Just us and another couple. The Cambodian staff looked underworked, and there were more than a few of them. Then we met Mike.

The Sea Garden is Mike's baby. A businessman from Colorado, he made the decision to move to Cambodia after visiting on a sex holiday.

Excuse me? In the sweet words of the Virgin Mary, "Come again?"

Yep. If there was one thing Mike was not, it was shy in coming forward. He was unashamedly unabashed about the nature of his involvement in the local economy. As well as the Sea Garden, he was also part-owner in the newest 'hostess' club in town; Victory Club. He invited us to visit to see what it was like. Mike guaranteed a 'classy atmosphere' and the 'best-looking ladies in town'. In the interests of maintaining an open mind before passing judgment, Rachel and I agreed to check it out.

We were chaperoned by Jeat, who was to be our own personal tuk-tuk driver for the week. Not only did Jeat have a willingness to join in an evening's festivities, he also had to the handy knack of turning up in the right place at exactly the right time.

Driving through Victory Hill, we soon became aware of it's denizens. More often than not, they were either young Cambodian females or older western men. Possibly not a place to take the family, unless you want the kids asking "Mum, why do all the ladies keep blowing kisses at Daddy?"

Victory Club itself was certainly a cut above the rest. It had a red carpet, and tinted windows. Inside we were met by more lasers than a late 80s rave and R'n'B blasting from the speakers. Ironic really, given the apparent purpose of the club was to enable "western men to sit down with Cambodian women and talk", before they both subsequently left to go wherever and do whatever.

In truth the place was far more tame than most western strip clubs. The atmosphere inside was more one of boredom, rather than sleaze. The girls looked uninterested and, with the exception of one lady who took an obsessive fancy to Rachel, spent most of the time texting on their phones or bopping away unconvincingly on the dancefloor.

Surprisingly, there were other couples in the place. We all watched old and (surprisingly) young men skulk their way in the door, bringing the sleaze factor with them into the otherwise-friendly venue. They flashed decay-ridden smiles and groped their way around the place, heading out minutes later, their 'selection' in tow.

Rex and Noy (and his impressive geezer accent!) were gracious hosts both times we visited. Invariably though, we left after about an hour and headed for Serendipity Beach.

That stretch of sand was somewhat different. This was about backpackers. The beach itself had seen better days. Bar after bar lined the sand and spilled up into the strip. They all sold the same thing; cheap booze and western grub. Meat pies, burgers and small sand buckets filled to the brim with gut-rot whisky and red bull. Headache material. A guy at the bar next to me sat rolling large joints and dishing them out to bar staff. Spring break stuff. A harmless waste of time, quietly laying waste to what might have once been a nice looking stretch of sand. Nice to visit, wouldn't want to live there.

So back every night we headed to the Sea Garden. Chatting to the staff and to Mike. Enjoying our pristine beach, a bumpy dirt road ride away from central Sihanoukville. Lots of dinghy sailing and sunsets to amuse ourselves with. The Sea Garden suddenly began to fill up as Khmer New Year approached. Then the heat came.

Every morning without fail, the sea breeze would drop to zero and the sun would begin to bake us in our huts at 6am. Without electricity to power the fan, sleep became impossible. The mass exodus began. That Friday, half the hotel left with us to board a bus to Kampot. And the discussion began.

We all began to chat - the ladies especially - about what was going on in Sihanoukville. It's funny, but when people present so comfortably what should ordinarily be uncomfortable, it's strange how it can grant it normality.

As long as there is a market for the sleaze, I guess it will be provided. After all, it's the oldest trick in the book. However, the comfort some display in shopping for people like groceries is odd.

Perhaps, it all came to a head when two Norweigian lads checked into the Sea Garden with a Cambodian lady. Hours later a second Cambodian lady arrived. Mike laid eyes on them and informed anyone within earshot that he "wanted her to come work for him". When did it become alright to publicly announce your desire to pimp someone's date, regardless of whether they are 'in-the-business' or not?

I liked Sihanoukville. I enjoyed the unspoilt nature of Otres. Heck, I even enjoyed the lawlessness of the bars in Serendipity. However, one thing is clear to me now. There are a people in that town that have lost touch with reality. People who believe that the kind of money that buys you little in the west but a lot in Cambodia, also gives you the right to act in ways you never would on home shores.

And that there, folks, might just be the big trouble in little Sihanoukville.


All the photos from Sihanoukville can be accessed here. Free of charge too!

Day 333 - Visit a wat?

Rachel has a list. She keeps it in a small book she carries around with her. It's based on an article she read in a UK magazine called Wanderlust, entitled 'South East Asia Alternatives'.

The basis for the article was the suggestion that tourism has spoiled many of the traditional sights of South East Asia. It gives a number of alternatives; similar types of places which have yet to fall prey to the tourist trail and it's monstrous entourage.

For example; rather than brave the touts in Hoi Ann (Vietnam), Wanderlust suggests Kampot (Cambodia) instead. As an alternate to the French colonial splendour of Hanoi, it recommends checking out the Laos capital, Vientiane. That sort of thing.

We'd heeded the list once already, heading to Vientiane instead of Vietnam. It turned out to be good advice, so we vowed to heed again. After dropping the bike in Pakse, we headed for an area dubbed 'the most laid-back place in Asia'.

Si Phan Don - Four-Thousand Islands in English - is pretty much the last stop in southern Laos before you cross the border into Cambodia. As the name suggests, the area consists of numerous islands in the middle of the Mekong, where the river reaches up to 14km in breadth. The exact number changes depending on the season, but you get the general idea.

Si Phan Don's reputation has been well earned. As long as there is nothing more you want from life than a hammock, food, plentiful beers and an occasion wander along the shoreline, then you are in heaven.

Thing is, after four days of lazing around - and I mean doing the merest above nowt - I was bored. More toey than a nymphomaniac in a nunnery. Like the rest of Laos, Si Phan Don just wasn't living up to the hype. I wasn't feeling the love. I didn't come halfway around the world to sit by the water and do naff all. Strewth, I could go on the dole and do that in Maroubra. It was time to go.

We glanced at the list again. It mentioned Angkor Wat (one of the Seven Forgotten Wonders of the Medieval Mind, no less). It suggested Preah Vihear as an alternative. We took a moment.

Were we really going to pass up on a Wonder of the World? Hadn't we said the same thing about Iguazu? The Taj Mahal? Hadn't we ended up going anyway?

That's the thing about these places. No matter how many horror stories you hear, never mind how daunting the prospect of subjecting yourself to death by a thousand "hey lady, you want a tuk-tuk?"'s, you still end up going.

So we went. And from the off, Siem Reap, and Cambodia, really surprised me.


Maybe what I'm really writing about here is expectations. My expectations of Laos were high, fuelled by the mung-bean loving praise of the Lonely Planet. It failed to measure up. Meanwhile, Siem Reap was labelled the 'tourist mecca of the region', carrying with it all the negative connotations of that phrase.

Siem Reap is a cracking city. It was apparently quite Monaco-esque back in the 70s, drawing the jet set crowd in from around the globe. Then, the war brought an end to it all. Until, that is, now.

Modern-day Siem Reap is a buzzy, fizzy little city, contained and concentrated, but riddled with all sorts of funky little bars, restaurants, boutique clothes shops, the odd Hollywood film star and enough to keep you occupied 'til well after bedtime.

We meant to stay three nights, but ended up bedding down for five, drawn to  the pool at the wonderful Antaneue Hotel. I watched as my previously-mentioned blue veil of sadness melted on the red-hot tiles underneath my padded sun lounger. Another cocktail anyone?

Oh. Yeh. I almost forgot about the Temples of Angkor. How remiss of me.

They are impressive indeed. Angkor Wat is obviously the most famous, and the scale of it is certainly grand. However, it is only a small part of a larger complex, home to over a million souls at a time when the mighty City of London housed a population of just 50,000. I personally took far more pleasure exploring Bayon (the temple of a thousand faces, all of it's builder; surely a candidate for the Russell Brand Award for the Most Egotistical Man in the History of the World) and Ta Prohm (colloquially known as 'The Tomb Raider Temple").

The problem of course is that I'm seeing the temples of Angkor through eyes that have seen a fair share of historical sights over the past few months. I feel a bit like Tiger Woods in a strip club. Because I've seen so many beautiful things, I may not appreciate them as much as I should.

Like most of the reknowned places we've seen on this trip - Iguazu, the Grand Canyon, Tikal etc - they don't always live up to the considerable hype that accompanies them. However, there is something about them that makes you glad to have been there. Angkor is no different. And when you throw Siem Reap into the mix, you have a place that we are both very glad we chose not to miss.


All the photos from Si Phan Don and Siem Reap

Postscript: As an aside, I found out really interesting fact about how Angkor Wat was built. As they laid down brickwork, the construction teams (ie. slaves) would mound dirt atop them, to enable them to then build the upper levels.


This meant that, at the end of the whole process, they would end up excavating the temple from the ground in order to reveal it.


How cool would that look caught on time lapse camera!?

Day 325 - Following the Mekong

This post should be a Richard Curtis movie; Two Confessions and a Revision. Quick! Call Hugh Grant and find out what he is doing, besides feeling sorry for himself.

A wise corporate warrior once told me; "Best to beg for forgiveness, than ask for permission". It's worked for me so far. So, here goes.

We rented a motorcycle and rode from Vientiane in northern Laos, all the way down to Pakse in the south. Sorry Mum(s). Sorry Dad(s).

That, in case you missed it, was the first confession.

It was quite fun. Not awesome though, due in no small part to two numb arses and the uniform and mostly non-descript landscape along the way. But it was good, clean, Bell family fun though. Me, the missus and our unborn, potential children.

There were highlights. However, before I tell you about them, there is the matter of my second confession.

I'm as homesick as an Australian doing winter in London. I find that I am experiencing everything through a blue-tinged veil of sadness. It's hard to write about the majesty of the lazy Mekong, without wishing I was looking out at the Harbour. It's a challenge to wax lyrical about a bowl of Lao noodles, when all I want is a pizza from Arthur's on Oxford Street. No matter who else I meet, I miss the rag-tag (but highly engaging) bunch of misfits the wife and I are fortunate enough to call friends.

So, whilst Laos is a great country, it's not having quite the impact it should right now. The towns all look the same. I feel like we are slinking from place to place, marking time before something else.

Then again; how about an underground river that travels 7km through a mountain? Would that likely stir me from my fug?

'Ken oath.

Through eyes that yearn for the familiar sights of home, I put the Laos cities of Paksan, Tha Khaek, Savannaket, Pakse (and all the villages in between) into a big box marked 'Meh'. Kong Lor Cave though is a dead-set marvel of natural engineering.

Close your eyes for a second (actually, that's not going to work, is it?). Imagine traveling - on the previously mentioned trailbike - down a 42km road of varying quality. You reach a woodland glade of watery loveliness and scramble over some rocks, to where a boatman is waiting to take you deep inside a gigantic gash in the rock. You don your headlamp, and away you go.

In describing it, my mind is wont to lapse into mythology. Charon, the boatman, taking us into the Underworld. Or perhaps Lord of the Rings, a journey into the kingdom of that ghostly army. Beowulf journeying into the lair of Grendel's mother. It's astounding, mythical, the scale and size of this place.

At times, the passageway can be 100m wide and almost as tall. A dark and cavernous natural cathedral of inky blackness. The river itself is a veritable highway of activity. No sooner has daylight faded and the darkness enveloped you, light appears in the distance and a boat, laden with tobacco from the plantations on the other side of the mountain, passes. Far from just a tourist attraction, this monstrosity is also the quickest way to get around the mountain. By road, the same trip takes around an hour and a half. Via cave, it's about forty minutes or so, allowing for the times when you need to alight the boat to wade with it through shallower waters.

Many places we've visited during the past eleven months have been memorable. But once we'd left, they fell from our minds. Occasionally we'd reminisce, talking about how we'd enjoyed being there. Kong Lor though, I can't get it out of my head. I never knew such a place could exist outside of the world of Tolkien.

Other than the cave, there really isn't too much to report. Kilometres and kilomteres of banana leaf shacks, a very close shave with a snake, many kamikaze cows, the odd road side drink stall and a general sense that Laos is probably the least developed country we've visited.

Which brings me nicely to the retraction. In writing the blog, I've often put forward the view that (western) life has become too complicated. I've suggested that in our give-it-to-me-now world of consumerism, we've lost something that made us more human than we are today.

I'm ready to revise that view. I've seen the other side. I still believe that owning fleets of great beast-cars, multiple televisions and mansion-homes with six bedrooms and equal number of bathrooms may be a little unnecessary. Western society is a drain on the world. If you ignore political and geographical boundaries, what's clear is that other people are going without simply to keep us in the decadent manner to which we've become accustomed.

Now though, I see that there needs to be a median. A point at which technology, progress and all the negative forces that drive modern life become lesser evils. Visiting villages without clean running water or electricity is a big eye-opener. Being served bowls of noodles by ten-year olds made me wish their families could send them to school instead. Visiting a hospital to get some basic antiseptic cream for Rachel's (harmless) spider bite, we were confronted with a bucket full of bloody bandages spilling out onto the floor, and a treatment room looking more oo-er than ER.

It's made me appreciate that progress is important. That the answer to the world's ills isn't as easy as looking to the past. That somewhere between primitivism and the extreme corporate greed that characterises the worst of the western world, there is a right, human balance.

It's important that the Laotian people feel the benefit of some of the massive investment that is now pouring into the country from China and Australia. The country is resource rich and, because of it, will see great development over the next few years. We have visited a country right on the cusp of huge change. We both feel very privileged to be here now, to see the final traces of what Laos and the rest of this region was like long before industrialisation, corporatisation and globalisation. Just before it all gets washed away by an inevitable tsunami of progress.

I still can't shake my craving for a Mrs Macs Pepper Steak Pie though.

For a sample of some of the photos taken on our road trip click here

Day 315 - A glimpse of the glistening underbelly of Vientiane

Sometimes you see a lot more than you expect.

There have been places around the world that have revealed themselves a little more than most. Like an Elizabethan peep show, a city lifts her skirt just an inch or two and you are treated to a glimpse of something private underneath. A world not inhabited by outsiders.

It's happened before. In Mexico City. Guatemala. Paraty. Rio was a bit different. She didn't so much show us her ankles, as transplant them onto us for a night so we could see what it felt like to go dancing with Brazilian feet.


Last night, here in Vientiane, it happened again.

Rachel and I were sat in a bar having a drink. The bar - Jazzy Brick - was an impressively decked-out affair. It wouldn't look of place in the debonair company of the Supper Club in Melbourne. Not surprising. The owner is a Laotian, back from doing time in Australia's other great city.

The night was young. Dusk was falling fast. We first sampled the wine list, then a cheeky Gin Martini. Dirty. It was good. Very good. We chatted away for a bit with, before heading to Leo's Cafe for some proper, home cooked Italian.

On the way out, we noticed three things:
1. The bar had gained a number of well-dressed, middle aged men.
2. They were outnumbered by numerous extremely well-dressed younger Laotian women.
3. Numerous expensive looking cars (Mustangs, Lexus, Hummers etc) had begun to congregate outside.

The meal was good, but the bar situation hung in the mind. We finished up and headed back for another cocktail.

On the way back we became aware that the road, normally so respectable and sedate, was lined with numerous members of the third sex. Swarms - is that the collective term? - of ladyboys. Like we were in Bangkok or something.

Arriving back at the Jazzy Brick, it was now rammed. We walked in and made our way to the top floor, with the intent of sitting out on the balcony. Up the stairs we went.

Ever want to know what it is like to be a movie star walking into a room? Go to the Jazzy Brick at 10pm on a Friday. The room went silent. Eyes swivelled in heads, training in on our every move. What was it about us that looked so out of place? Who were these people?

We took Gin Martinis on the terrace for a bit, watching the world pass by outside. More prestige cars turned up and left. All manner of intriguing and interesting encounters went on around us. People seemed to leave together, breaking off briefly, only to head off in thinly-disguised convoy. More beautiful people arrived to take the place of those who had left.

Once the mozzies began to bite, we made our way downstairs to sit at the bar. The precession continued. Then, in bowled two gents. One was Swiss. The other, well, he was just plain weird.

He had a strange accent - not alone a fair reason to label him with weirdness  - but he refused, in an almost melodramatically enigmatic manner, to be drawn on where he was from.

He was a tall man with a deep voice. North American looking. He dropped into conversations with odd comments. He lived in Thailand. Had crossed the border for some unmentionable reason. He wanted to know if the barman's dodgy acquaintance was here or not. He flashed his cash around like a millionaire one minute, and then demanded a round when we went to leave. He warmly held a conversation one minute, only to suddenly drop out, as if we had never met.

Most people in life you can see good in. In even the most flawed, you will find something to be sympathetic to. This insufferable bore was different. For the first time in my life, I had met someone utterly unlikeable.

We fulfilled our obligations. Drank a few more drinks and made conversation with the charming bar owner. Then we left. Ejected ourselves from the strange bar, with it's mysterious denizens, carrying on their intriguingly mysterious business. We walked home past the prestige cars and the ladyboys, trying to attribute meaning to it all.

We went back next day. Mr Charisma-vacuum was there again, but the other denizens of this world were not. The cars were gone. The middle aged men didn't show. The beautiful people were elsewhere. We drank our drinks, enjoyed the martinis again, then went home.

The skirt was down.

Photos from Vientiane can be seen here

Day 313 - Luang Prabang and Vang Vieng (Laos)

The well-worn path from Chiang Mai to the northern Laos city of Luang Prabang is a fearsome one. It is not for the faint-hearted. In the same way that Russell Brand probably wouldn't make a good Dalai Lama.

First, you pile on a bus to the Thai-Laos border. It takes about six hours. Alas, the timing is such that you arrive after the border has shut, meaning a requisite overnight stay. End of Day One.

Day Two involves festering in line(s) to get the necessary stamps and authorisations, before boarding a cramped riverboat for a nine-hour ride down the Mekong. Sometime just after sunset, you arrive at Pak Beng. This fetid slurry-pit of a town is your home for the night. If you're lucky, you might manage to avoid sharing a room with rats the size of beagles. It's the end of Day Two.

Day Three dawns early. It's back onto the boats again. Another long, miserable, noisy nine hours before you finally disembark at the World Heritage-listed city of Luang Prabang. It may take a few days for the ringing in your ears to stop, but you are there! And all for the bargain price of $20 per person!

Of course, there is another option. If you are willing to forgo the sanctity of "the experience", you can grab a direct flight with Lao Airlines. It takes an hour, and costs $160.

Which is exactly what we did. Subject ourselves to three days of that farcical voyage to Hell? Not bloody likely. The smelly backpacker crowd can have it. Daft bastards.

Laos, for the uninitiated, is a country of four million friendly souls. She's  landlocked on high land between Vietnam and Thailand, just above Cambodia. It's a communist country, although you wouldn't really know it. It also has a reputation for being very laid back.

There's a saying in this part of the world. The Thais plant the rice. The Vietnamese sell the rice. The Lao people watch it grow.

Luang Prabang is a good case in point. It's a sleepy town, situated on a peninsula between the Mekong and Nam Kong rivers. It's a bit of a living museum, dominated by numerous conspicuous wats (temples) and the highest-concentration of monks of any city on the planets. More bald ginger blokes than Edinburgh city centre during Hogmanay.

It is entertaining enough. However, once you've had your fill of Beer Lao sat on the banks of the river, and wandered through the markets wondering where on earth so many antiques could possibly have come from, noting all the charmless boutique hotels springing up in the city centre, it all starts to get a bit boring.

So, joined by Briar, fresh off the plane from Sydney, we headed to the hills. Three days of mountain biking, trekking, elephant riding and kayaking. Sore bums. Aching shoulders. Action Jacksons! Much more the pace I've come to know and love.

Just the tonic before our visit to the most notorious of all Laos destinations; the backpacker central and mothersbane that is Vang Vieng.

She's a bit of a controversial venue is the ol' double V. The culture-vulture crowd despise it. "Wanton rape of Laos' cultural heritage", or some such tosh. Like the twentieth century never happened.

Conversely, to your average twenty-something gap-year student it's earnt the reputation of a veritable modern-day Valhalla. Cheap booze, all manner of legally-ambiguous substances to be scoffed and a catalogue of ways to shorten an already short life.

The truth is somewhere in between. Vang Vieng won't make you a better person, but it isn't Satan's pool hall either.

Tubing down the river, stopping in at the various bars that line each side is actually quite a bit of fun (Wet 'n' Wild for adults!). The swings and slides are, in all truth, death traps. But, if you pick carefully, they can also be fun. The bars and clubs on Dhon Khang island are another world. Fun - Never Never Land meets Alex Garland's The Beach - and you'll be doing someone's Mum a favour in making sure someone vaguely sober-ish is there to ensure their totally non-sober son/ daughter doesn't fall to a certain death.

The thing is; for all the criticism, Vang Vieng and Luang Prabang are two sides of the same coin:

Vang Vieng - De-sanitised Laotian chaos accompanied by cheap beer, westernised food and plentiful cut-price drugs, to give twenty-somethings doing it on-the-cheap their gap-year fix.

Luang Prabang - Sanitised Laotian quaintness accompanied by cheap wine, westernised food, and plentiful cut-price antiques, to give middle-incomers doing it on-the-cheap their holiday fix.

And that's about the fairest comparison I can offer.


Click on the links for photos from Luang Prabang and Vang Vieng