Belated tales from Indonesia...

Just to tidy up loose ends from the previous post Mike and I ended up back in Kuala Lumpur for three days where we opted not to stay in backpacker central and after traipsing around some more homely hostels found ourselves lodging at Pondok Hotel (nothing to do with being situated above a bar with Guiness draught!) a large building with bare rooms but gigantic, relaxing common rooms and a free breakkie:) It later turned out to also have bedbugs, requiring pesticide spray machines, and rats running about the common rooms... It was a peaceful few days spent pottering around the markets, sorting out the next legs of our differing ventures, exploring the Golden Triangle area (and taking comic "boy" photos of the Twin Towers) and indulging in some western fancies, combining giant plasma coverage of the premiership with proper battered cod and chips washed down by a draught pint and topped off with apple crumble and custard. We parted ways at the train station with Mike taking the shuttle off to the airport while I caught an overnight train to Singapore. The train station at Singapore is little bigger than Sandling and surprisingly unconnected to the airport so I had to wander through the city to find an underground station and take two lines before I arrived. At least this afforded me the briefest of glimpses into the city though my limited observations were confined to the startling obedience to traffic lights in which hordes of people line up politely, almost in formation, on the pavement edge and don't twitch a single muscle until the green man appears. Now bred a Londoner who knows that you will never get anywhere in the city without suicidal forays onto the roads to forcibly halt traffic it was a strange experience. My second observation also derives from the cultural difference between two supercities as after getting lost in finding the underground and then spending another ten minutes trying to locate an attendant who could help me make sense of the ticket machines when I finally did get on the train and prepare myself for the fourteen stops to my destination I was ravenous and tore open the breakfast I had picked up and began devouring it only to realise I was attracting a number of disdainful looks which had nothing to do with my frenzied gobbling but the $500 dollar fine for being caught eating or drinking on their spotless trains... Having not been particularly keen to stay in a city almost expensive as London my fleeting experience of Singapore did nothing to make me rue my decision and I was more than happy to have reached the airport, meet Rich and catch our connecting flight to Bali without any problems. We reached Denpasar later in the afternoon and found ourselves queuing for visas only to realise that I had left half of my stash of dollars in my checked in luggage as part of my security checks and didn't have enough to pay the extremely irritated attendant...it meant losing our place in the huge queue, being escorted out of the visa checkpoints to an atm and withdrawing the Indonesian equivalent before returning and queuing up again. Having eventually passed through we headed straight to Kuta, the intensely touristy part of the island, and managed to find a room at Kedin's Inn which though on the pricey side had the luxury of a bath and a swimming pool and slap up breakfast included in the price. We spent three days in Kuta mainly on the surfer's beach and wandering around the labyrinthical back passages of the Poppies Lanes checking out the cheap shopping. On the first night we headed north up the coast to Legian and ended up in the legendary Engine Room and stumbling out realised we were so lost amongst the maze of alleys that we didn't know how to get by. It's a sad indication of the commercialism of Kuta that we were only able to signpost our location by the McDonalds, Starbucks and Dunkin Donuts outlets though even these weren't enough and to our shame we had to hail down a taxi (the urgency enhanced by being physically accosted by ladyboy prostitutes) and take the poor driver down every alley until we eventually reached Kedin's... Tearing ourselves away from the sun, and hundreds of aggressively minded touts, we booked the cheap Perama bus to the central island highlands determined to do some less touristy and commercial activities. Most people opt to head to the Gurung Volcano but we went even more off-piste and headed to the mountain top village of Munduk. Taking a bus to a tiny village halfway between Kuta and Munduk we found ourselves and bags bundled off and informed there was no way we could reach our destination unless we hired the extortionate private taxi as the roads were too small for the bemos. Reluctanly, we agreed to the rip-off which turned out to be the best option as we plunged down roads cut seemingly on a knife point into the mountains that only a local taxi driver would have dared! We stopped off on a plateau to look at the two giant lakes filling the valley caused by the mountains en route to our beautiful homestay. Run by the softest spoken staff in the world who met us with ice-cold orange squash we were shown to our vast room and taken to lunch on the balcony terrace overlooking the spectacular drop into the mountains. It was so peaceful in contrast to the hustle and bustle of Kuta that we were perfectly content to lounge about the homestay and just soak up the incredible vistas. We did finally stir and explore the little village, gaining looks of consternation from the locals unused to seeing tourists invading their sanctuary which turned into looks of incredulity when eschewing the option of motorbikes decided to walk to the waterfall. This involved an almost sheer vertical climb back up the mountainside which had us drenched in sweat within minutes before leaving the road behind and tumbling into the lush rainforest. Following the little dirt tracks we eventually found one, and fortunately largest, of the four waterfalls and then embarked upon finding the remaining three on the circuit. Sadly our every twist and turn was thwarted by my old travel nemesis...wild dogs!! Once we had to run back up a clifftop to escape two ferocious dogs and on another occasion found ourselves blockaded between two territorial sets of dogs having to wait (a long time) for the arrival of local children passing on the track who beat the dogs away and allowed us to follow in their wake! Sadly this prevented us from finding the other waterfalls or the beautiful paddy fields we could espy from our balcony and so had to settle instead for glorious sunsets drowning in a miasma of golden smoke in the valley. After a few days of retreat it was time to reimmerse ourselves into the tourist scene and we headed south-east to Ubud, the cultural capital of the island. A sprawling town with art galleries everywhere you look and a vibrant cafe-coffee culture it was the perfect way to ease ourselves back into the hustle and bustle of Bali. The transition was made easier by our Hanging Gardens of Babylon hostel, Sania's, which came complete with pagodas, Hindu shrine, swimming pool and a menagerie of pets wandering about the grounds. Every morning we woke up to find a thermos of tea on our verandah and then would sit out and order breakfast. Rich had brought over some squeezy tube marmite from the UK as I had been complaining about withdrawal symptoms so we used to ask for an extra plate of toast with our brekkie to lather the marmite on but became so predictable that on the last day the staff brought out a plate stacked high with toast before we had even asked - was like being at the Ritz! Our first stop was to the Monkey Forest Sanctuary, a sacred forest filled with crumbling temples and now heavily populated by tribes of monkeys protected by the sanctity of their Hindu environment. Turned into a tourist venture you pay a small entrance fee and can wander around the temples clad in the traditional green and yellow sarongs and buy a bunch of bananas to feed the monkeys. However, you have to be extremely quick as the monkeys are well practised in the art of de-bananing and as soon as they espy them emerge from nowhere in there hundreds to swarm you - we saw one girl who was sadly too slow and had her top removed by one particularly laviscious ape. Even when you don't have any food the monkeys still play up to their mischievous tag pouncing on you from the trees and there was one temple ruin accessible only by a stone bridge upon which hid one of the monkeys who waited until you had crossed the bridge then sprung you from behind the pillar and pushed you down the staircase; we had to wait until one unseeing Japanese photographer was being attacked before we could run back across the bridge without being caught!
Our second stop was to go walking along the Campian Ridge and explore the area surrounding the urban centre of the town. This involved trekking through elephant grass that completely submerged me and carving our way through rice fields and remote villages on the very outskirts of the border that revealed a completely different side to the town. On returning to the centre we rewarded ourselves with chocolate cake and library books at my favourite cafe, Rendezvousdous, before heading onto happy hour mojitos and thus undoing all the hard work of our physical exercise.

In fact because of all the culture on offer we had no choice but to gorge ourselves in true Balinese style during our stay in Ubud. Every night there was different live music on in the cafes and bars from ultra cool funk-reggae to karaoke-esque air-guitar rock to rhythm jazz that had everyone dancing. Every other building was some kind of pastry selling cafe so that all we seemed to do was roll from one venue to another snacking on all this incredible food including a superb tapas restaurant that served up all the Balinese delicacies on a deceptively small plate but which were so rich and filling we had to waddle home.

Leaving Ubud provided the complete contrast as we endured the public bus to the coast and then sat on the public ferry to cross to Lombok during which my sea legs completely gave out as our lumbering pile of rust lunged back and forth in the middle of lurching waves that rocked us from one side to another and left me pinned to the deck trying to think about everything but the spinning world around me. A route that takes four hours to do 20km took six and a half hours, with the additional two and a half hours coming sat at the port on the other side queuing to dock at the one ricketty port to the extent that locals row up to the ferries and for astronomical fees offer to whizz you over to land as long as you are willing to jump through the windows onto their boat! We refused, in spite of my need for solid land beneath my feet, and had such sensibility punished as disembarking from the ferry we realised that in spite of all our militant security consciousness we had somehow been fleeced of our wallets and bank cards during the journey by one of the many aggressive touts who had been cornering us on our desks where pinned by our huge backs we were completely at their mercy. Fortunately we had spares hidden away in secret places but spent the evening frantically trying to cancel our cards in the town of Sengiggi which was best comparable to the location in the League of Gentleman and suffice to say as equally unhelpful and unfriendly. Instead of progressing with our trip we were unfortunately confined to Sengiggi for another day as our insurance policy required a police note from the scene of the crime and so we spent all afternoon in the local police station with the one officer who vaguely spoke English running to and from our prison-cell themed hostel in the scorching heat of the day to fetch the various bits of paperwork he kept forgetting to ask us for. To heap insult to injury at the end of this debacle in which the officer had tried his best in his broken English to console us by appearing to be our friend he charged us a "fee" to process the note he had made; completely at his mercy as he had copies of all our documents and fearing we had entered one of those towns where the eradication of our existence would not be blinked at by anyone we reluctantly gave into the bribe and angrily gave up the remaining hard cash we had.

It should have been an indication that we were meant not to leave the joys of Bali behind and that we should have stayed in the land of indulgence rather than trying to be intrepid travellers as things went from bad to worse. Finally escaping Sengiggi we were able to start our trek up Mount Rinjani, a beautiful active volcano that had only recently been reopened to the public and was the sole purpose of our excursion to this island. The trek started well, albeit with difficulty, as we marched for eight hours up the crater ascending 2600metres on the first day. The journey was made lighter by the accompaniment of a Swiss-South African couple who were far more hopelessly prepared for the climb in spite of their brand new sparkling climbing gear and our two shared guides, Adi and Andre, who with the porters cooked all our food and kept us entertained with their anecdotes, clean and filthy....The last hour was really difficult as though only about a 500metre path was covered in volcanic ash that imposed a one step forward two steps backwards style of climbing that had everyone slipping and covered in dust. It was however well worth it as reaching the edge of the rim, above the cloud cover, we camped for the night looking down the crater which afforded a view akin to feeling like you were standing on the periphery of heaven looking down on the world. It was so warm in the evening sun that we all, alongside the twenty or so other trekkers camping for the night, ended up stripping off and lying on the grass soaking up the rays. By the time dinner was ready the wind was picking up and swirling the dust around so that instead of sitting around the campfire we had to retreat into our tents which we didn't mind as we were all exhausted. Unfortunately the worst storm in six years brewed that night and we didn't sleep a wink. The wind was so fierce it ripped two of our walls so that we were protected only by the mosquito mesh on two sides and prevented us from being able to step outside as it bent the poles and flattened the roof against our faces, suffocating us. We could hear each squall brewing up in the valley and then gaining in velocity and sound as it gathered momentum before smashing us perched on the rim. It was all we could do with the weight of two bodies and bags to keep ourselves from being blown over and within an hour or so we were caked in inches of dust blown through the mesh. It got so cold that in spite of three layers of clothes and a sleeping bag we were frozen to the bone. When the storm finally disappeared with the morning sun and we were able to get out of the tent without fear of being blown away we realised that we had in fact been the luckiest in our group; every other tent had had their poles smashed and canvas blown down the crater. No-one had slept and everyone had been petrified. The guides quickly packed up our tents and insisted we headed straight back down rather than continue over the crater edge into the hot springs as we had planned but perhaps because of the sleep-deprived madness we all insisted that being only a few minutes away from the very tip of the volcano that at the very least after everything we had been through we wanted to see the crater lake that was the focus vista of the whole trip. Eventually we persuaded our guides and picking our way through the wreckage climbed the final part of the ascent and were rewarded with an indescribable view of the shimmering blue volcanic lake and the burnt ash cone through which the lava is pummeled as it erupts before we very, very quickly headed back down to lower and safer climates.

Just when we thought we had endured everything that could be thrown at us in the last 48 hours our up until then overly friendly guide told us that there was no refund for the loss of the trip and we were out of pocket for two days budget to compound the bank-cardless state of our finances. That was enough for me and while everyone else swallowed it I called up the manager to complain that while we didn't blame them for the weather neither should we expect to be punished and after much wrangling got him to agree to put us up at a hotel he knew for free for the next couple of days as a partial recompense. While not fully placated it was enough to gain a mere concession and when we arrived at the hotel we realised we were staying at somewhere far more luxurious than we would normally pay for and were receiving what we had lost on the trip in the accomodation and free breakfasts provided which felt like some kind of moral justification.

After all the traumas we spent no time hanging around in Sengiggi and headed straight for the Gili Islands to collapse and lick our wounds. The Gili Islands comprise of three separate land masses, each only a mile or so in length and width, so small that there is no motorised transport, only old-fashioned horse and carts! They are famed for their pristine white sand Robinson Crusoe tropical beaches, turquoise water with reefs for snorkelling and little thatched huts on the beach that ensure you feel as if you have left the real world truly behind. Each one has its own character: Gili Air is the family friendly island with lots of beachside restaurants where you lounge the days away under the cabana thatched roofs eating, drinking and sunbathing; Gili Trawangan (or Gili T ai it's lazily known) is the party island with lots of beachside bars and clubs, where the alcohol is insanely cheaper than the food; Gili Meno is the honeymooners paradise, the smallest, most remote and most untouched. We started off on Air and treated ourselves to the luxury of a two-tiered "bungalow" complete with a daybed and hammock downstairs next to the bathroom and a verandah overlooking the sea upstairs. While our lungs, muscles and minds recovered we did nothing but move from the bungalow to the beach hut to the beach and when it got too hot the water. Eventually we plucked up enough energy to go snorkelling, which for a pound a day was a veritable bargain as the reef only a couple of metres from the shoreline was packed with marine flora and fauna. We spent most of our time hanging out with a hilariously London yuppie couple who helped us sample the many cheap restaurants and when we finally felt young again took the narrow longboat to "hop" across to Gili T. The crossing was derailed by the appearance of a 6ft long seasnake on the jetty which sent the female contingent running while I amongst all the men fought to take the best pictures of the serpent! It was perhaps a symbol of our arrival on Gili T which in many ways was like being back in the Thai party islands in the sense that there wasn't much to do except walk down the main strip and drink through the long, long happy hours. Having geared ourselves up for the first night I ended up devouring a salad with peanut sauce, throwing up in the toilet and being in bed by 9pm...After the peace and beauty of Gili Air it felt a bit marred as we were surrounded by ghastly British property developers, lads-abroad holidayers and gap yearers with more of mummy and daddy's money to frolic with than sense to use it. To be fair it was nice to go out and party and meet lots of people our age and I loved the sunset bar where we watched the sun disappearing behind the volcano at night causing a fantastic silhouette of peak and horizon in a burning orange sky. However we did feel like we were turning into grandpas with our complaining about loud music and all-night partying neighbours so we escaped to the idyllic and remote Gili Meno which was stacked at over-hyped honeymooner prices which meant we could only afford to spend one night (because the islands have no atms or banks you have to take all your money with you before you go and ours was rapidly dwindling...) and so decided to see out our time back at Gili Air where we had so enjoyed ourselves. Due to the dwindling finances it was a downgrade to just the one floor cabin though by then we had sussed out the cheapest eateries and gave up nights of table dancing to make the most of the free DVD booths with dinner, eat Devil's Rings doughnuts stuffed with Bailey's ice-cream on the island peninsular in front of sunset and order the cheapest fish on the huge open air barbeques lining the beach.

Having planned a week on the Gili Islands we had made our money stretch to ten days and would have seen out the rest of our visa here had the rupiah not disappeared so quickly from our pockets....so it was with great reluctance we endured the horrific journey back to Kuta which began with a longboat from the Gilis to Lombok, a mini-bus down the coast to the port, the awful ferry journey back to Bali and another bus to Kuta, eating up a whole precious day of our time.

The last few days in Kuta were spent shopping down the Poppies Lanes where I bought an unprecedented number of ripped off DVDs for an obscene price (having been deprived of TV for half a year) as well as kitting out our anticipated campervan by buying lots of cheap brightly coloured sarongs to upholster any unsightly travel-worn material...We ended up staying in a wicked hostel next to two Canadian girls and a Scottish lass who took us out surfing and taught us for free and in return we treated them to a moustache-themed party with Geoff the Giraffe (our travel mascot) at the Engine Room. We also found the mall with a pick'n'mix bakery that tasted like manna and managed to explore the nearby resorts of Legian and Seminyak though everywhere was so heavily security-conscious with the anniversary of the two Bali bombings approaching the end of our stay that we didn't want to pry any further than we were allowed.

As we returned to the airport I actually felt a bit sad to be leaving Asia behind me. Sure, at times it's been difficult, hassle-filled, frustrating, confusing, and nonsensical but as well as being part of its charm after six months that had all begun to feel like normal. I was actually feeling a tad apprehensive about immersing myself in western culture again and the prospect of having to plan my life by more than just at which bakery I wanted to eat at for brunch or which country I wanted to wake up in. However with a job, home and campervan to find I'm sure there's going to be little time to miss anything...

Postscript from the Elusive One...

PS: Mike is alive for now, if you ever want to see him again make payable a worthy sum into his account. He'll see that I get it but for now I shall remain nameless. He has only the following message; 'Don't worry about me guys I'm sure I'll be fine just do as he says. Apart from the chilli spiked meals and assaults from ladyboys I remain unscathed. But who's to say how long these torments will be kept at bay for! I fear Sam is an insider, after unknowingly spiking my drink on my Bday and conspiring with the barman to make me powerless and vulnerable. My memory is vague after that. I attempted a get away on a motorbike in the Philippines but was thwarted by a cactus and tree combined as well as my own incapabilities. I shall attempt to slip Sam at the KL train station and head for America. If Iam successful you shall have word from me soon, if not I fear this may be my last contact.' Enough of his whining - just remember what I've said. Cooperate and no harm will come to him. I await your answer!

6/7107

As with most of my south-east Asian adventures so far the Philippines began in Bangkok, my final visit to a city I have grown to have a hate-love relationship with. This time around it verged more on the love edge of the spectrum mostly due to staying in the brilliant My House hostel tucked round the corner of Rambuttri Street which not only requires navigating a pathway lined with rotis but having accomplished this permits you to snooze in the great little chilled lounge downstairs showing films on the big screen which offered a more relaxing alternative to the boozing of Khao San Road. Such downtime was required after the heart attack of shipping home 14kg of acquired goods leaving my bag considerably lighter and easier to haul around the archipelagic Philippines.We had a quick flight down to Kuala Lumpur staying in a room that literally had room only for a double bed to the extent that we couldn't open the door properly and had to squeeze our bags through the chink of space offered. Arriving at 10pm and leaving at 3.30am it wasn't the most plentiful of sleeps especially when we had to be at our most alert whilst loitering in the depths of the bus station basement defending ourselves from dog-sized rats...Four hours later we touched down in Clark - the cheap AirAsia airport two hours north of Manila and famous for little else than its prolific red-light district - catching a bus featuring Step Up on its screens (!) into the capital. We had heard lots of negative things about Manila, one being the extortionate prices, and this was in evidence when checking into a dorm room that cost us more for our solitary beds than we'd paid together anywhere in Laos! Having said this Friendly Guest House more than compensated with a fantastic rooftop lounge, huge selection of DVDs and books to play on the TV, internet by the sofas and a giant kitchen complete with mammoth fridge where we could indulge in the rare luxury of making our own food.Asides from the appalling traffic there is actually little justification to the disservice that all our prior reports had delivered in anticipation of our visit to Manila. Staying in Malate we were halfway between the old historic Spanish quarter of Intramurros and the thriving cheap cafe night life and so being good tourists we trawled around the museums and parks during the day and saw out the nights in some incredible bars.Manila, and indeed the Philippines, is most famous for, and most indebted to, Josef Rizal, a young revolutionary doctor who lived at the end of the nineteenth century and resisted the corruption of the colonial Spanish. Whilst never advocating violence or uprisings his publications were highly inflammatory to the extent that the Spanish decided to execute him to cease the uproar he was causing amongst the locals only to find this backfired when the said masses decided to revolt after learning of his execution. This is probably the most celebrated moment in the country's history and as a result most of the historic tributes refer to this. The huge Rizal gardens offer an oasis of peace and quiet amongst the snarling multi-laned roads with their serenic Japanese gardens, fountains and grassy areas littered with young dance troupes in earnest practise. It also includes a gigantic monument of Rizal and a newly formed commemorating garden to his legend which features gigantic metal sculptures of his execution where he was shot by a firing squad overseen by the priests.Continuing through the Intramurros you reach Fort Santiago at the opposite end. This historic castle has been the site of most of the military battles for the city and country and was where Rizal was imprisoned before his execution. The room he was kept in has been mocked up as it would have been, complete with the alcohol lamp that he stashed his famous poem to the Filipino people, 'My Last Farewell,' urging them to continue to remain true to their nation and not give into the corruption and oppression of the Spanish. This lamp was left to his sister and the officials not realising what was hidden in it handed it to her without question only for her to release it and cause an American supported rebellion that eventually saw the Spanish driven out and many, many years later the current Philippines established. While we were visiting the fort a group of school children were re-enacting the scenes of execution for a film project and dressed up in the traditional clothes performed the whole process from the dungeon to the spot of execution which has been marked by the authorities with a path of golden footsteps that signify the final route taken by Rizal.Asides from the testaments to Rizal we also managed to visit the National Museum which hoards an archive of relics recovered from the sunken 16th century San Diego boat and details the history of the Filipino people. It was heartbreaking to read that American intervention was not provided to establish their independence but win a colony that even in the twentieth century the Americans had the audacity to buy for $20million from the vanquished Spaniards before the atrocities suffered in the Second World War eventually led to them finally being granted their independence in 1946. Since then the country has lurched from crisis to crisis, mostly due to a national tendency to elect charismatic personalities rather than policies or philosophies to lead their country. They have elected either a series of good-looking, yet clueless, actors or voted with their emotions electing widows of previous Presidents with just as alarming consequences best summed up by the shoe-loving Imelda Marcos who with her husband have driven the country into bankruptcy but she can still be seen swanning around the capital in her soft-top car apparently with no sense of guilt!The museum also hosted on the top floor the National Artists' competition winners and runners-up and we had a brilliant time looking around the gallery of sixty odd entrants, though sadly the winners had been taken down and shipped to the ASEAN competition so we were unable to offer our highly esteemed opinion of whether they were justified!Our days of culture ended with a hilarious moment in the Cathedral. Having been closed during the day, on our way back to our hostel we discovered a side entrance that was open and snook in to take a peek. There was a bit of commotion going on near the alter with lights and musicians and we thought some kind of concert must be going on as the church filled up with important looking well-dressed people. Only as the band played out Canon In D to which lines of red satin clothed women were escorted up the aisle did we realise to our horror that we had gatecrashed an important wedding! As everyone had been fussing around apart from a few contemptuous looks which we attributed to wearing shorts and sweaty t-shirts in a shirt we had had no idea of what was going on. We then suffered the embarrassment of being caught on camera by the roving cameramen as we were seated in the pew opposite where they decided to set up and film the entrance of all the distinguished guests. By the time Robbie Williams' 'Angels' was belted out and the bride delivered by her father we were completely stuck and only once all the cameras had backtracked to the altar for the ceremony did we have an escape exit and leaving through the main doors found ourselves accosted by many ordinary well-wishers peering in through the windows trying to get a glimpse of the action. Goodness knows what they thought but we managed a swift get-away, abandoning the traditional horse and cart taxis for a less conspicuous exit!Our nights were spent alternating between the cinema (watched the fantastic, very black, 'Dark Knight') and the great live music scene centred around the main square in Malate. We flitted from the salsa at Havanna's to the jam -rock sessions at The Penguin to some incredibly corny karaoke in a dingy bar down the side streets. I had never associated live music with the Philppines but every bar and cafe offered something and there was too much to choose from to even begin to sate our whetted appetites.Slightly worse for wear we had a flight the following day to Caticlan on a tiny little plane complete with airstaff who wore khaki shorts and flowery shirts in lieu of a uniform, enjoying a lively taxi journey with a Canadian from our hostel who took great comic outrage in arguing with the driver who professed to not know where we had asked to go when confronted with the fact that he was driving the opposite way to the airport.... Touching down we then had the circus of catching a ferry to the small party island of Borocay which necessitated having to buy three separate tickets for the boat, terminal and environmental fee! Combined, this 10 minute boat ride, was nearly as expensive as the whole flight!While Manila did not match up to the reports we had been given, Borocay lived up to every praise uttered in its name. Basically a 7 km expanse of sand known imaginatively as White Beach with stacks of bars, restaurants and water sport ventures there is enough to keep you here for weeks. We started with the intention of spending a few days in order to do my kiteboarding course but the first few days were perfect sun, cloudless skies and no winds and so the course kept getting deferred meaning we had the unfortunate imposition of lying on the beach, gorging ourselves on the all-you-can-eat buffets (with strict penalty fines for not finishing our plates!) and indulging in the ridiculously cheap local San Miguel beers from our balconied room in La Isla Bonita, a hop, skip and jump from the aforementioned beach!

Somewhat ironic given the number of times I've been on a tennis court, or about to step on one, praying for the wind to disappear and when I finally want it I'm faced with a sea as flat as the pancakes I'm comfort-eating to pass the time. Finally on our fourth day there, and fourth day of traipsing all the way up the beach from our room to the kiteboarding venue..., there was enough wind to begin and I promptly spent most of the afternoon wrestling with stunt kites, failing to get the hang of the dual arm pumping motion and sending my kite crashing into the sand over and over again, thus ensuring I got my money's worth from the guys who race out of the huts to launch the fallen kites. Once I finally got the hang of it I progressed to the fourteen metre kite proper having to somewhat scarily harness myself into what can only be described as a steel nappy which when the wind catches your kite rides up as the most uncomfortable wedgie that causes the most spectacular bruising. I was a tad nervous when my instructor left me to play with the kite by myself and instantly forgot everything I learned and sent the latex monstrosity hurtling to the sand and with incredible precision managed to wrap it twice round a fellow learner staring innocently out to the sea garrotting him with my hundreds of strings...It was fast becoming one of those activities that I thought I would love but in reality finding I had no aptitude was wishing it would come to an end. Ending day one a bit disillusioned I was tempted to cut it short and claim my money back but my instructor, a German-Filipino called Maurice, who had the patience of a severly martyred saint encouraged me back and sure enough when I turned up the next day I was like a different person. Having spent the whole of the first day just trying to grapple with the basics they came instantly to hand and soon I was in the sea upwind and downwind dragging and in complete control of my kite so that Maurice was able to retreat to the safety of the beach without having to spend every five minutes picking my fallen kite up and relaunching it by hand (as by then I had perfected the solo launch:)). I spent about four hours in the water with my kite that day in what was the hardest workout I have ever endured. Not only do you have to constantly look up at your kite, giving you the stiffest neck the following day, but in having to hold your position in the moving sand and against the buffeting waves which crash over your head (allowing you only to think about keeping the kite up before wondering how and when you might breathe again) as well as being whipped through the waters when your kite unexpectedly catches a tornado of wind you develop a perfect six pack (though by the end of the second day I could barely traipse back to our accomodation!) The final day saw me tackling the kiteboard and putting the two together. After about an hour I had worked the board and was about to practise riding it with my kite when the snarling wind, with absolutely no forewarning, disappeared and we were forced back onto the beach hoping, along with every other kiteboarder for a returning wind. By 6pm, and after three hours of lying on the beach, there was no wind and having to leave the island the next day I was begging Maurice to go back out on the waters in the falling dusk just so I could at least ride on the board once and managed to talk him into taking me in the light breeze. What Maurice hadn't told me was that the strange cloud formations signalled the arrival of a squall which he believed once it had whipped through would have enough of a drag for us to catch and use to ride. Ignorant of the impending catastrophe I hooked my feet into the board, readied my kite and on his count pushed up into the wind and onto the water succeeding, finally, in riding my first kiteboard. It lasted all of a few seconds as I toppled headfirst over my board and into the sea. Coming up spluttering I saw my kite nosediving towards the water and desperate not to land it in the sea used all my strength to hook it back up the following direction towards the sky. When you do this you enter the most powerful part of the wind window and you have to be careful to steady it so you don't go shooting off the other side. Unfortunately, belly down in the water with my hands submerged and trapped I was in no real position to prevent it being caught by the squall that broke just at that moment and the next thing I knew my kite was rocketing towards the beach with me harnessed into it lying flat and facedown into the water completely out of control. It was only when we reached the shallows that my feet pushed up on the sand and righted me into an upright position that I could see what was happening, but this same motion gave my kite that final bit of power to pull me clean out of the water and a couple of metres into the sky heading straight towards the forest of palm trees. Maurice had seen what was happening and had luckily already been sprinting towards me on the beach so that with his 6'5 frame jumping into the air he managed to catch me just before I got splattered against the trees and haul me down to safety. A tad shaken and very, very bruised by my steel nappy we abandoned the kite and dived to the shelter only for us to be greeted with sheer derision by all the pros huddled inside for attempting to ride in a squall!!! Was a dramatic end to the day and the course but I was delighted to have ridden my board and to have thrown in a bit of flying for free!!!

We celebrated that evening with a gorgeous Mexican meal, watching Arsenal on the big screen and Mike's ladyboy stalker once again managing to pick him out of the crowds as we made our way home;)

We were both really sad to leave Borocay as the island is a brilliant place to stay with so much going on as well as having the best beach either of us had seen. It was probably also partly due to the fact that we had spent a whole week there (because of waiting for winds) which had allowed us the illusion of beginning to settle in one place, unpacking our bags, singling out our favourite eaterie and drinkeries and getting to know the area and its inhabitants. But it was back on the ferry to Caticlan and then a five hour bus round the coast of Panay to Ilolio where we boarded another ferry to the island of Negos and eventually stopped off for the night in Bacolod. Having only seen the grime of Manila and the beach of Borocay this multi-vesselled journey offered us a glimpse of non-touristy Philippines as we drove through jungled rainforests and tiny villages of corrugated iron huts with children playing out in the dust as their parents tugged away in the ricefields lining the road.

We were so tired we saw nothing of Bacolod except the hotel we stayed in (and conveniently caught the Olympic Tennis finals!) and rose so early to catch our bus that I wouldn't even know where we stayed if we had to go back again. It was another epic journey that morning as we caught another bus to Sipalay, an 18km tricycle ride and then an extortionate longboat that sailed us around the spit and into the secret, secluded cove of Sugar Beach - a gorgeous stretch of beach and jungle reminiscent of Robinson Crusoe adventures. It only has a couple of buildings and we opted to stay in the cute, cabana style huts at Driftwood Village set up and owned by Swissman Peter and his Filipino wife Daisy who were the perfect hosts. In addition, the rest of the staff are made up of Daisy's large family who all are christened with names beginning with 'D' so that we were well looked after variously by Divines, Dorothys, Dinas and Delilahs!

We spent a gloriously lazy couple of days lounging in our bungalow (Cockatoo Hut), swinging in the hammocks, lapping up the sun and swimming in the sea. This was exactly what I needed after the injuries suffered from my three days kiteboarding as in addition to my steel nappy bruises and aching abs my feet had been sliced open on the coral when my kite would catch a gust of wind and drag you through the water before you reigned it in. Given the packed tourism of Borocay it was the perfect antidote with its absence of tourists and secluded hideaway location. On top of that Peter knows exactly how to keep his guests at the Beach having hired in a top Thai chef to teach his clan of girls (who he calls the chicken coop owing to their striking ability to crow the same things at the same time so that when you order a meal or ask for a towel you are greeted with a perfect chorus of five voices that materialise out of nowhere!) how to cook so that we were treated to round-the-clock food cooked to perfection. The nights were spent either huddled around the huge bonfire built on the beach engaging in Flo Rida dance-offs with the staff or in the quirky games room where again visitors could take on the staff at pool, darts and fusball, invoking severe penalties if you lost.

When we had recovered and were able to tear ourselves away from the peace and quiet and delicious food it was another longboat and two buses around the coast of Negros to reach the port of Dumaguette for another night's stop-off. We were traveling at this time with an Irish lifeguard called Steven who in bolstering our numbers warned off the touts and reduced prices of shared costs such as taxis and accomodation which was an added bonus. Dumaguette is described in the books as a genial campus city with a great student feel so were looking forward to a chilled night, but having been cocooned in the haven of Sugar Beach were completely unprepared for the snarl of jeepneys and tricycle dust that seemed to ensnare the whole town. We eventually found a cool little restaurant on the seafront called WhyNots where we ate and waited for the promise of live music that never came before having to give up on the town and head back to the spooky Vintage Inn which seemed to be modelled on a WWII hospital (with a shopping centre running straight through it...)

The following day introduced us to the joys of Filipino ferries! We had been relatively lucky up to that point in that huge tourist areas like Borocay have very regular ferries operating every 15 minutes or so. In untouristy Philippines we were faced with the usual lottery of ferry operation whereby no such thing as a timetable exists and companies only operate as and when they feel like. Having got up early to get the 11am ferry and get to our next destination before dark we found billboards with 'cancelled' signs run through them, and every succeeding ferry after that until mid-afternoon. There's nothing you can do except offer the typical Filipino smile and resign yourself to an unpleasant few hours in the heat of the sun stranded at the port and hope, against hope, that the promised afternoon service won't cancel. Fortunately it wasn't and we were able to get across to Siquijor just before dark and haggle a tricycle for the three of us and all our bags (!) to take us to the northern coast where we settled in to a beached cottage at the aptly named Islanders' Paradise resort which is host to the annual turtle egg-laying invasion. Still caked in the sweat from loitering at the ferry terminal all day Mike and I couldn't resist the turquoise sea lapping at our door in the evening dusk and ran into the sea only to find to our immense disappointment that as far as we waded the water never rose above our calves! As we progressed further we had to negotiate huge coral beds and banks of weeds that halted our advance and reluctantly turned back. It was only then that we noticed the coral and weeds we had carelessly charged through in our haste to get to the sea were littered with huge black spiky urchins. How we hadn't stepped on one was a miracle, but according to Steven we made a great sight tip-toeing back through the water as the sun faded clutching to each other!

Islanders' Paradise is run by an old English guy from Croydon called Brian and his considerably younger Filipion wife, Iffi, as a pet project that allows them to come back to the Philippines for some sun and fun a couple of months a year. The resort is staffed by Iffi's family and friends and has that lacksadaiscal feel to it which was best exemplified in the kitchen; boasting a giant menu that offered a rainbow selection of food we would order from it only for the woman behind the counter to run into the kitchen to confer with her colleagues and emerge to tell us that that particular dish wasn't available. After several conferences and polite apologies and an inability to convey to them our request to find out what was available we asked them simply to surprise us!

Siquijor is famous for its witches, shamans and alternative health doctors who congregate in the three days between Good Friday and the Resurrection when the absence of God allows them to practise their crafts. For the rest of the year they go 'underground' on the island so that it is impossible even for Brian and Iffi to know who is and isn't a witch - even the owner of the resort next to ours was a professed witch! This isn't dark magic but more of an animistic, spiritual folklore. While the Philippines is officially predominantly Catholic most of the rural Filipinos on islands without churches or priests declare themselves as Catholic but actually practise a combination of Christianity and traditional folk beliefs so that it is common to find money hidden in hollows of trees as offerings from the locals to the spirits of the forests.

We had planned to take a motorbike around the small island and explore it for ourselves but having hired the bike and decided to practise it before taking it on the road Mike ended up hitting a cactus bush and then when changing gear careered into a tree that sent the bike crashing to the floor and him hurtling off the side. The staff rushed to check the bike was intact and mortified to discover a tiny scratch in the paintwork while Mike was left to pick himself up off the floor - I was far too busy bent double laughing to offer any help! After witnessing this Brian said he would give us a tour in his jeepney instead - an altogether much safer means of circumnavigating the roads full of darting chickens and dogs - though I suspect he wanted to be out of the house as his son received his A-level results by post!

As well as being able to show us all the spots of the island that we would never have found by ourselves Brian threw in a free tourguide in the shape of the cook who as a local knew the island like the back of her hand! We wound our way around the coast and then drove inland to the mountain that rises out of the centre. Brian and the chef waited at the bottom trying to unearth the mysterious rattling while Mike and I climbed the mound which doubles up as the Stations of the Cross route so that at every flattening out of the path was featured one of the stations locked away into a wooden cross with a glass window so that we felt as if were doing a pilgrimage! At the top lie the three crosses of the crucifixion and then above them a rusty watchtower which despite climbing had our view of the island hidden by the canopy of the unpruned trees!

Returning to Islanders' Paradise we left Brian to deal with the fallout between his wife and son and crept down the steep incline to the beach to catch sunset and the army of metallic blue crabs scuttling across the sand. I have never been to a beach that is so still, both of us agreed that it was almost eerie. In the two nights we spent on the beach there wasn't even so much as a ripple across the flatness of the water; even the miniscule waves that broke on the sand were like a whisper. It was as if we were standing in a huge vacuum where every sound, even our voices, got sucked into the void. It was as I imagine standing on the edge of the world would feel like.

Having seen all we wanted and deterred by the invasion of ants into every line and crack of our hut we left Siquijor and took a ferry via Dumaguette again onto the island of Bohol. Navigating a tricycle from the port to the bus terminal and then one of those public buses that I have come to love and loathe we got dropped off at the entrance to Nuts Huts. In the midday sun we had a 1km walk with all our bags on a tiny path cut into the rainforest; even when we thought we had arrived we were faced with a steep drop into which 276 steps were hewn before we even reached the reception. Bohol is famous for its rainforest jungle and the brave owners of Nuts Huts have created a small retreat in the middle of the jungle for hardy backpackers with a spectacular lounge/restaurant/games floor cut into the side of the hill overlooking the emerald green Loboc river that makes the difficulty of getting to the resort worth every penny. They have cleverly even turned the steps to their advantage, incorporating them into the healthy-lifestyle ethos supplemented by their health foods menu, ideas for exercise and herbal sauna that they describe as exotic and erotic! We dropped our bags off in treehouse Casablanca and then lounged the afternoon away in the hammocks, playing tabletennis and enjoying watching the passing party boats chugging away miles below us.

Bohol is famous for two things: the chocolate hills and tarsier monkey, and in true tourist style we did both during our stay. The chocolate hills are a series of 1200 conical mounds in almost the exact same shape and height that protrude out of the valley floor. Formely coral deposits that formed under the sea, when the waters receded they were left as this bizarre quirk of nature. Locals are quick to romanticise them describing the myth of the heartbroken giant whose tears fell to the ground and crystallised when they hit the floor as these chocolate drops (so called because in the burnt out dry season become browned and do look exactly like giant chocolates!) However, if you speak to those locals not bothered about wooing tourists you will hear the alternative explanation that they exited the opposite end of the giant....Having scorned the tourist package Mike and I had made our way to the hills by ourselves and whilst indulging in the photo opportunities offered by the watchtower on the highest of the chocolate hills then hired a motorbike (and driver after our previous experience!) and scurried in and out of the drops, stopping off to climb them and being introduced to The Triplets, The Nipples and the Eight Sisters by our driver who also took us into his home village and allowed us to stop off and meet some of the locals who live in the shadows of these giant molehills.

The following day we took a jeepney (like a squashed minibus - with no ac!) to the Tarsier sanctuary in Loboc established in the 90s to protect the Tarsier of which this particular species is native only to the Philippines. There a guide took us around the sanctuary which is their natural habitat in a huge wired pen, and showed us about five or six little Tarsiers, weird Gollumesque creatures about five inches big with a huge hairless rat's tail, large saucer eyes and knobbly knuckled fingers and toes with which it clutches to branches. You could hardly call these animals cute but they are certainly eye-catching! I was being all David Attenborough and getting up close to take pictures of these poor nocturnal animals whose yellow eyes grew and grew as my camera got closer and closer! The resident star of the sanctuary is Charlie, the little Tarsier who popped out to welcome the Prince of Charles when he visited the Philippines, in lieu of his angry parents who stayed hidden away in their cage! There are only about ten in the sanctuary (including a mother and baby that we spotted) but it is doing sterling work in protecting this endangered species who has suffered from having its natural habitat destroyed by deforestation and the epidemic of cats to the islands that feast on the poor mites and it was a privilege to be able to see such a rare animal at such close and natural quarters.

After leaving Nuts Huts we had to get a jeepney back to Tagbilaran where we were due to fly back to Manila. Like Dumaguette or Bacolod there wasn't much to recommend it and we ended up spending the evening there watching the new X-Files movie in the mall for just over a pound! We did however discover the fantastic Garden Cafe, a project set up to provide work for thirty deaf people in the city. With Mike's knowledge of sign language we were firm favourites and rewarded with one of the best meals I have had in the Philippines, a perfectly toasted chicken quesadilla followed by a blueberry pie!

Arriving back in Manila was like coming home as we checked into Friendly's, dined at Dematisse and enjoyed one final night's celebration before having to catch the bus to Clark where we were to fly out of. Clark is a former American air base (former as in the Americans fled the base in the early 90s when a potent volcano erupted and nearly destroyed a whole city dependent on the employment and economy the air industry had provided them with...) and is now famous only for its rife prostitution - we lost count of the number of pot-bellied, middle aged European men trumpeting young girls on their arms...We were saved fortuitously by a typhoon that hit the city almost as we checked into our hotel and was so fierce that we could do nothing but watch HBO in our rooms and eat in the restaurant.

It was sad finally having to say goodbye to the Philippines as considering it was a last minute decision proved to be one of the best places I have visited. Its people are unbelievably friendly and so laidback, it offers a complete diversity of natural wonders with great tourist opportunities for adventures and watersports and serves an incredible array of food (and not to mention the cheapest beers I have ever found!) With 7107 islands we only managed to get our way around six of them and I left this country, unlike any others on my travels so far, with the feeling that I have only barely scraped the surface.... BEST PLACE: La Isla Bonita, Borocay - beach on our doorstep, giant room with sea-facing balcony and a whole strip of incredible restaurants and bars within stumbling distance!
BEST FOOD: Red Horse tinnies - especially when supped on a balcony, Mister Donut, Garden Cafe quesadilla. All the food was so good that Mike has a new friend called Winston who sits on his belly.

WHAT I'M GOING TO MISS: Kiteboarding! 30p beers! Island hopping. Tarsier monkeys

WORST PLACE: Many of the port towns are just grimy, dirty places that seem to know they're only useful for stopping over

WORST FOOD: Tried to love the national dish of adobo but far too spicy and tomatoey...

MOST BIZARRE: Having spent weeks trying to cultivate a Chris-Turnbullesque beard I eventually had to give in to the comments that I looked more trampish than distinguished and hack it off in Manila only to have a conversation with one of the girls in our dorm who we had got friendly with to discover that she thought I was a newcomer who had just arrived until I informed her it was still me...Mike's incredible talent to attract ladyboys no matter which island we were on!
BOOKS:'The Woman In White' - Wilkie Collins (So good to read a classic again, and this was an absolute ripper, supposedly the first ever Crime book), 'The Kitchen God's Wife' - Amy Tan (Beautiful story of the struggle of a Chinese mother and her American daughter to communicate, where language is only the smallest of barriers when compared to the horrors suffered in the war), 'The Good German' - Josef Kanon (The story itself is neither here nor there but Kanon's attention to detail of what life was like in the war, and more pertinently in the immediate aftermath of war, reminds you of the full horrors that were suffered and meted out in WWII), 'Tooth and Nail; - Ian Rankin (Bowing once again to Mike's choice and realising that Rankin is selling out a bit as this book is clearly written with one foot in the TV series and royalty cheques...), 'Papillion' - Henri Charriere (Incredible true life story of one French prisoner condemned to labour camps in the Caribbean and his determination to escape to the point that you can barely believe what he had to endure), 'Tesseract' - Alex Garland (One of the BEST modern novels I have read, written in the fragmented postmodernist style of interweaving stories but set in the Philippines which having traveled through as I read added another dimesion to its potency). 'Age of Innocence' - Edith Wharton (Saved by its incredibly sad ending that finally justifies the sacrifices offered by two people who love each other but cannot be together because of the people it would hurt), 'Manual of the Warrior of Light' - Paulo Coehlo (Didactic tails on how to live your life with enough gems in them to stave off the drone of the repeating messages); 'The Seven Dials' - Agatha Christie (Been ages since I read Ms Christie and while this isn't a Poirot genius, the tongue-in-cheek parody offers a humour I'd never found before in her books)

BEST QUOTES: "Our words are giants when they do us an injury, and dwarfs when they do us a service" and "'This is a matter of curiosity; and you have got a woman for your ally. Under such conditions success is certain'" ('Woman In White' - Wilkie Collins); "It had never happened that way, but he had a memory of it all the same" ('Tooth and Nail' - Ian Rankin); "We have too much technological progress, life is too hectic, and our society has only one goal: to invent still more technological marvels to make life even easier and better. The craving for new scientific discovery breeds a hunger for greater comfort and the constant struggle to achieve it. All that kills the soul, kills compassion, understanding, nobility. It leaves no time for caring what happens to other people" ('Papillon' - Henri Charriere); "Although I have been through all that I have, I do not regret the many hardships I met; because it was they who brought me to the place I wished to reach...I carry with me the marks and scars of battles - they are the witnesses of what I suffered and the rewards of what I conquered." (Bunyan); "...the warrior knows that intuition is God's alphabet and he continues listening to the wind and talking to the stars", "A warrior knows that an angel and a devil are both competing for his sword hand. The devil says 'You will weaken. You will not know exactly when. You are afraid.' The angel says 'You will weaken. You will not know exactly when. You are afraid.' The warrior is suprised. Both angel and devil have said the same thing. Then the devil goes on: 'Let me help you.' And the angel says: 'I will help you.' At that moment the warrior understands the difference. The words may be the same, but these two allies are completely different. And he chooses the angel's hand." ('Manual of the Warrior of Light' - Paulo Coehlo)

Sabaidee!

So Mike and I christened our south-east Asian adventures with a swift pint in the Bangkok bar, much window shopping on the Khao San road and then a fully blown shopping trip in the Chatuchak market, a market so ginormous that if you turn round two alley corners you become forever lost amidst stalls of cactuses, printed t-shirts and beads. Sadly, getting lost means asking stall owners for directions and in true Auntie Wainwright style escaping (with unhelpful navigational hand gestures) with a grateful plastic bag or two...so after a full day's shopping we were glad to escape back to the Khao San Road to catch our night bus into Laos. We arrived in the capital, Vientiane, later the following morning and true to the heavily prophesised relaxation of the country had the unusual problem of being greeted by no taxi drivers and had to stumble about the central fountain until managing to check in to Kipps' Guest House, a little ramshackled hostel just off the main road but with a brilliant people watching balcony. In keeping with the chilled vibe of the country we slowly sautnered to the much lauded Scandinavian bakery and recuperated with several doughnuts and cookies. It's crazy to think that Vientiane is the capital of Laos. As we sat in the cafe barely a tuk-tuk rambled past, in fact we barely saw another person except for the table full of crazy French tourists. Even in the evening when we located the riverside restaurants we had our pick of the cushioned floor tables and viewpoints with only a handful of other foreigners to compete against. Oaklands Park seems to see more action than this capital city! As much as we could have luxuriated in the never-ending rest that the locals seem to indulge in we decided to inject a bit of purpose into our Lao ventures and the following day hit the culture trail turning up at the National Museum gates before they had barely even opened. As with most of my knowledge about this part of the world before I arrived I had only the sketchiest idea of Laos' history and so it was brilliant to spend the morning in the fantastically curated museum filling in those huge blank holes. It also makes it even more difficult to understand how a country which was ruled by a successful monarchy, had established progressive trade links with the Dutch and existed fully independently and successfully has been decimated by colonialism and Western wars. The French colonial rule served only to drive corrupt segregations in the ruling elite and then the American bombings during the Vietnam war (justifying them by Laos' permission of Ho Chi Minh to traffic goods through their country) wiped out many innocent civilians in a war that their country was not technically part of and has now left them as the most heavily landmined country in the world, to such an extent that they have been forced to concede that they will probably never locate all the landmines and so a nation is left in fear every footstep it takes... Laos has only been independent for just 35 years and while not having suffered the atrocities of its neightbours Vietnam and Cambodia through war and genocide it is still an incredibly green and undeveloped country that, ignoring the poverty barrier, only seems to enhance it as a place renowned for its friendliness, hospitality and unrivalled relaxed attitude to life. In the afternoon we successfully navigated the local bus service which is modelled on the transportation of battery chickens and found our way to the incredible Buddha Park: a smally grassy enclosure in the middle of the nowhere that houses one crazy man's love of sculpted Buddha's, with over fifty gigantic stone statues of various Hindu and Buddhist gods carved in every position, from the beautiful to the comedic. It was like being seven years old again and running havoc in a National Trust estate with Mike, posing amongst the statues, many of which you can climb in, on and through - something that would cause heart attacks amongst most of the NT faithful. Ignoring the traditional traveler's route to Vang Vieng we took another night bus and drove all the way to Luang Prabang, the ancient capital and in consequence of its heritage has far more of an ambience to it than its southern rival. Unfortunately, these two days were marked by the most continual rain I have ever witnessed (and before I get hauled up on my grammatical failings, yes, continual is the only word that can describe it;for 72 hours it never varied in pace or volume, just one perpeptual, drab drizzle) and which forced us back into the cafes (including the terrifically conceived Books and Tea shop that combines two of my favourite pasttimes where you can sit and pay to borrow books to read in their cafe with gigantic pots of tea!) aborting our planned trips and opting to outrun the rain by the third day and head early to Luang Nam Tha.

Because of the landmines Laos only has one major artery road that runs the length of the country and as Nam Tha is rarely frequented the only means of getting to it was via public bus where ac is provided by open windows and you simply have to pray that your bag won't get soaked strapped to the roof of the bus. Having taken a couple of these buses elsewhere I urged Mike on early to save us a seat while I oversaw the bag loading and this proved to be extremely providential as once having filled all the seats on the bus they then shoved a row of plastic, backless stools down the aisle and proceeded to place people on these for the duration of the thirteen hour journey. I spent most of the night with a Laos man snoring away on my shoulder who having valiantly resisted the urge for the first part of the journey eventually had his resistance broken and with nothing to lean on but me (to be fair he was also supporting his son in front of him) had a comfy night's sleep on my shoulder!s the mecca of ecotourism. The town itself is little more than a few shops and guest houses alongside the main road as most people only come to visit to take part in the treks, mountain bike tours and white water kayaking that weave through the incredible jungle countryside just a few minutes eitherside of the main road. Having done several treks already (and Mike naturally choosing the most dangerous options...) we opted for a one day mountain biking trip and a one day white water kayaking adventure. The biking consisted of 30km wending through local villages (where stopping off at the Lan Tan village we were presented with lovely handwoven bags by the chief's wife, which went some way to compensating for the fact that the cute guinea pigs we saw playing in one of the huts were being fattened up for food later on in the rainy season...), temples housing the Buddhist monks now embarking upon their three month Lent period and gigantic fields full of rice paddy fields in which children run to the tracks to wave and shout "sabaidee" as if we were A-listers rather than mud-spattered, red-faced blustering failing bicyclists.... Owing to the previous rain most of the biking was conducted through thick mud that made it feel like we were cycling double the distance and not helped by our friendly guide's insistence each time we approached another hill that this was the last one....Fortunately, we had a really good group of people which included a pair of young physios on a six month sabbatical only three years into their profession and who speaking to further discovered that the guy, Ben, worked in the William Harvey Hospital and said that he knew Dad from his days at the Royal Vic in Folkestone. I was a bit sceptical about this connection but when Ben elaborated on a conversation he had Dad had shared with him that the NHS was full of bureaucracy and red tape and that it was best to stay out of management and with the patients I knew that he had his man! The second day I had developed a bit of a cold and was not looking forward to the kayaking. This apprehension was doubled by the discovery that not only were we booked into white water rapid kayaking (where I had naively presumed a leisurely float down a congenial stream...) but that I had to share a vessel with Mike, the world's most incorrigble daredevil, who seeks out danger like iron filings to a magnet. I was told that I would be in the back seat as the power came from the front which put Mike well out of my shouting range and increasingly ignored my navigational steering around the rapids to propell us into the rapids....Having survived all the rapids, including one going backwards where Mike typically ignored the command of the steer that comes from the person in the back to try and drive into the foam, I was mightily relieved to learn we were nearly at the finish when our boat suddenly swerved towards the bank and several overhanging branches. In true sacrificial older brother style I managed to turn the boat so that the front missed the branches but was not quick enough to save my half clattering into them; twigs and boughs gave way, grazing against my face, and I thought I was going to be lucky when the last, somewhat stouter branch, clotheslined me straight out of the boat and into the river. Having swallowed most of the water through my surprised open mouth I came up spluttering only to see Mike in absolute hysterics, unable to swing the boat back towards me because he was doubled up with laughter. When he did finally get to me we hit another tree and I ricocheted off back into the rapids only to be rescued by the guide and haul my soaking body back into the boat. According to the other two boats it was the most comic falling out of the day as apparently when the branch hit me I went flyings spreadeagled, arms and legs akimbo, in true starfish style into the water. These are the trials and tribulations of being an older brother. When Mike signalled his interest in the more exhausting and dangerous options I had no choice but to wearily accompany him. This is nothing to do with competitivism or fear of being out done by a younger sibling, I long ago abandoned that the day in France when not wishing to show I was scared agreed to traverse the cliffs with Mike and emerging only with my life and pride intact by the thinnest of webs vowed never to agree to such foolishness again and revel in my role as the mature, wise senior brother who sagely avoided all such unnecessary traumas. No, my decision to join him was made out of that unbreakable bond forged in childhood when assigned to look after younger brothers, "Now just keep an eye on them while I pop into the kitchen," "You should never have let them do that!" and "I thought I told you that you were in charge of them and responsible for them?" Once an older brother always an older brother and so with heavy heart and dramatic sighs I end up agreeing to these things still worried that if I don't some travesty will occur which in my role as protector I would never be able to endure the guilt of having permitted. However, Mike does know when some lines were crossed and so huddled up in the towel in the tuk tuk back to our hostel it was agreed, without demure, that we would be leaving Nam Tha the following day and heading back to the safety of Luang Prabang's cafes. I did have my revenge though when our kayaking guide (who despite his contact and involvement with the tourism industry maintained his ambition was to become the chief of his tribe, the bigwig who sorts out all the village problems and is held in esteem and revered by the villagers without question, which was refreshing after the many natives you see succumbing to the lure of Western materialism) mistook Mike for a girl asking me how my sister was which was all the more poignant as Mike had just been proudly boasting of the stubble he was beginning to grow! In fact, there was sadly little cafe chilling to be done in Luang Prabang because we arrived back in glorious sunshine, an environmental miracle that seemed to transform the city, lulling citizens and tourists out onto the streets. This gave us a chance to visit the Kuang Si waterfall which is the most incredible one I've seen in all my travels. In true Laos style there is virtually no health and safety issues and so working your way up the hill past the black bear and tiger enclosures (rescued animals, there is a huge illegal trade in bear bile) you reach a series of idyllic small pools where you can jump from the trees and ridges of the mini waterfalls into their bowls or just lounge by the side watching the bravado (no, I did jump in!) When you reach the main falls you can't see anything because of the spray and there is one shaky handrail to guide you. As you climb higher and higher up the muddy path gives way to a knee high stream that is so powerful it nearly knocks you over - the French guy behind us lost his footwear climbing up because of the water...It is worth every minute though because the view from the top is breathtaking and the adventure in getting there is half the glory. Our second day was taken up by the fabulous Three Elephants' Cafe cookery course. We began with a delicious egg-fried noodle dish and progressed through the day to the Laos specialities of Chicken Laap, Pork and Chilli casserole and Pork and Eggplant. The chefs would demonstrate at the main station and then with our little guidebook we would collect our ingredients and begin cooking! The course was great in that there is a huge flexibility in how much of each ingredient you use, so while you are given the outline you can vary it as you like to your own tastes which caused several slightly heated debates with Mike's preference for peanuts and chilli versus mine for salt and salad! Saying that though we developed a great little routine that sped us through the day reproducing some amazing dishes and learning how to cook the much coveted sticky rice that we were becoming addicted to. Both the waterfall and the cookery course meant we had a long walk from our riverside guesthouse through town and the fabulous night market which is as cheap as chips and sells local, authentic goods from hand-stitched bedding to woven lanterns. Inevitably we were unable to pass through each time without accumulating bags of goodies (and presents, I hasten to add!) with Mike indulging in the local artists' paintings on bamboo paper and I stocked up on all the luxuries I will need for when I get my own place....! Half the fun, and battle, is haggling with the vendors. You always get floored when they send in the cute, innocent-looking little daughter who seems about to cry making you feel guilty for trying to knock off another 10 000 kip and somewhat taken aback when the stout granny snorts with derision at your initial starting price. In addition our trips back were always further bogged down with me having to stop off at the bakery and Mike making intimate friends with the female baguette vendors.... It was really sad to leave Luang Prabang as we had brilliant accomodation, the most fantastic hosts, a fascinating city and a whole host of activities to be tried but with Mike's birthday looming we had to make it in time to Vang Vieng, the party capital of the country! Having had my birthday plans to go tubing down the river in Vang Vieng villaniously scuppered at the very last minute it was great to carry them out, via proxy, through Mike's birthday which we turned into a dual celebration given that 'we' hadn't celebrated mine together! Having met several travellers coming from the opposite direction who had been unable to tube due to high waters and a death we were fortunate to be blessed with blue sky and scorching sun and we hired our tubes (gigantic tractor tyre inner tubings, hence the name...) and perched on the edge of the tuk tuk were delivered up to the top of the hill to be sacrificed to the waters. The journey itself only takes a couple of hours but there are several bars dug into the riverbanks along the way with little children who spear you with bamboo poles and drag you in. Each bar is different in characteristic. The first one is determined to sink all your inhibitions and get you to know your fellow tubers with plenty of mud and water pistols around. It also has a gigantic swing that everyone goes up on and spectacularly falls off on their first go to the delights of those watching but always emerges with a smile and clambers back up until they are able to perfect a double backflip and enter the water like a bullet! The second bar has chilled lofts to sit in and survey the riverside with volleyball and football pitches for everyone to take part in mass games with no rules! It also has a huge swing and a zip wire which when you hit the end sends you flying uncontrollably across the water - Mike landed a spectacular sideways bomb that left his back red with impact:) The third bar is marked with a free shot of some disgusting local spirit (I suspect the evil rice wine...) and blasts out reggae music with everyone sitting cross-legged on little thatched floors elevated upon stilts. The fourth bar is heaving with people, dancing on the tables and benches if not taking part in the giant mechanical swing...In true birthday style we never made the fifth or sixth bars somehow ending up in the final group due to leave and discovering that our tubes were being hauled onto a tuk tuk and we unceremoniously herded into a longboat to be sped down to the finishing line passing flailing tubers in the pitch black completely unaware of where they were or how to get out! Unfortunately the day was marred slightly by a disagreement with the tubing company who on returning to without our tubes tried to fine us in spite of the fact that the guy who had brought our tubes back was standing in the vicinity. When I pointed to him he denied all knowledge and it wasn't until I threatened to report them to the Lonely Planet (a trick that always works when wee foreigners are dared to be taken advantage of by unscrupulous locals;)) that we were allowed to leave and later discover this is a typical ruse used against stragglers to try and squeeze a bit more money...In spite of this mishap it was a brilliant day, the most fun-filled I've had on my travels and a great way to celebrate our birthdays in a style I don't think either of us will forget!! Apart from the tubing Vang Vieng is notable only for its plethora of 'F.R.I.E.N.D.S' bars - an invention I believe deserves Nobel prize worth accolades. Whether you are tired from just arriving in the town, slightly worse for wear from the previous day's tubing or waiting for your bus out of the town, they are the best way to spend a few hours chilling. The seats are all lowered so you slump into a mound of pillows, with the table drawn up onto your treat replete with a veritable banquet of Laos goodies and Western guilty pleasures within chomping distance of minimal effort and huge screens dropping from the ceiling that play the FRIENDS dvds all day long; think about it, no adverts, just one episode after another. Whole afternoons can be lost to the second half of series three without even realising you haven't moved for five hours! It's also a brilliant communal ploy, uniting newbies, oldies and recoverees in a melee of theme-tune clapping and uninhibited laughter that transcends language. Having passed through all of Monica and Chandler's getting together up to the wedding, Ross and Rachel's wedding and Rachel and Joey's engagement it was time to move on with a day of travelling which included three buses through Vientiane and Pakse until arriving in the 4000 islands right in the southern tip at the Cambodian border (requiring another minivan and boat). We nearly didn't make it when changing buses in Pakse we were assured by the bus inspector that the bus we had loaded our bags onto was the one to the islands only to be told, only as the bus was about to leave that he had got it wrong and our bus was on the other side of the station. At this point, even though neither Mike or I were boarded, the bus with our bags on pulled out of the station causing Mike to run after it waving his arms to stop it and rescue our bags!

When we did safely arrive we stayed in Don Det which has no electricity and is truly back to basics with gorgeous stilted bungalows lapping in the river with hammocks strung outside in which you can pass whole days reading from the brilliant library at Mr Tho's. Impressed by Laos' chilled out attitude, this was taken to a whole other level. A bungalow for 60p a day, a bike rented for another 60p a day in which you can traverse the island's criss-crossing network of paths that take you by the biggest waterfall (in terms of volume) in the country, dirt cheap meals at the riverside restaurants and a menagerie of animals that would make Dr Doolittle blush - what more could you want!? Our guest house owner had a litter of tiny kittens who would come running out every morning when we emerged to play, there was an unrivalled panorama of the gorgeous sunsets at a brilliant restaurant on the western tip of the island and an undiscovered beach on the eastern side to lounge upon in the sun. Don Det is attached to Don Khon by the only bridge that the French built in their entire occupation of Laos and for a nominal fee allows you to explore an island larger and more diverse. One day we ended up on a typical Mike mountain bike expedition in the middle of a jungle where we had to carry our bikes over a rickety railway track high above the river not knowing where we are and the heavens opening while another we fulfilled a long held ambition of mine to take a boat out into the delta and watch the rare Irriwaddy dolphins. Having failed to find orang utans in Borneo I was beginning to worry my David Attenborough days were being numbered before my pre-pubescent fledgling TV career had developed time to even emerge from its pupae but was saved by a whole afternoon of watching the glorious snub-nosed, round-headed sperm-whale looky-likes diving in and out of the waters. Apart from a struggle one night when after it had gone pitch black we had to hold hands to try and walk back from the sunset restaurant to our hostel in mud and rain it was a fantastic ending and complete testament to our time in this incredible country. Everyone says Laos is going to be the new Thailand with its untapped natural resources, hospitable nation of people and combination of fun and relaxation and it was a pleasure to be able to see it before this, sadly inevitable, transformation. Having feared that Mancunian last minute panic had ruined my chances of visiting this country it has been absolutely brilliant to experience this with a brother who has helped me explore every edge (willingly or not!) and who epitomises the laidback ambience to a T! As well as exploring the many faucets of the country we have also made a lot of time to relax and take things easy; with our artillery of books and notepads it has also been a creatively productive time, which after three months of non-stop jet-setting has been much needed. It is sad to bid farewell to this country and its beautiful people. It has been my favourite place to visit so far with its balance of fun and relaxation, adventure and rest, natural beauties and true parties - not to mention the innumerable pastries and fantastic eateries. Sadly, it was back to Bangkok briefly to sort out flights and post stuff home as I was carrying about four extra bags. But we quickly escaped to the island of Ko Chang to "decompress" which essentially involved staying in a treehouse on Lonely Beach and lying in the sun reading, swimming, dangling in hammocks and chilling out in the brilliant open air bar at night listening to the brilliant house band and eating ourselves silly. So now we're recharged it's a marathon haul to the Philippines for three weeks as we get back on the traveling bandwagon! FAVOURITE PLACE: Luang Prabang - the perfect cluster of everything that epitomises the country within easy access and shared by incredibly kind people/ FAVOURITE ACCOMODATION: Cold River Guest House (Luang Prabang). Embarrassingly cheap prices for a real homely feel, complete with a surrogate family who adopt you completely during your stay whether it be the uncle loaning you the tuk-tuk or the grandmother cooking you parcels of sticky rice wrapped in banana leaves for your next bus journey. FAVOURITE FOOD: Joma's Bakery wins a very tight contest with its superb apple pie and unrivalled chocolate cake! (I would say our own cooking at The Three Elephants but that would just be egotistical...and setting me up for a fall when it's demanded I cook a Laos dish...!) WORST PLACE: The bottom of the Nam Tha river.... WORST FOOD: Could eat Laos food forever! MOST BIZARRE: Mike collapsing the hammock in the 4000 islands, which after his laughing at me in the river I had every misfortune to miss...Everyone competing for other people to join their tours in Nam Tha to bring the cost down...the tourists become the touts! The minivan driver deciding to leave the late French tourists behind at the Khang Si waterfall because they hadn't arrived at the time due to leave (tantamount to Laos hypocrisy - they don't believe in anything running on time as that requires a schedule that contradicts their relaxed, to the point of horizontal, attitude to life!) condemning them to a night in the jungle with the bears and tigers only to be stopped on our insistence! The annoying yapping dog at The Three Elephants Cafe which attacks everyone that walks through the gate but defended by a sign hanging from the gate of warning you of its grumpiness and that if you get bitten it is your own fault, as testified by an Ozzie on our course who had her toe bitten when she tried to go to the toilet! I wonder if this dog perhaps enbodies the grumpiness of the whole nation...?!; the Lan Tan tribe tradition of women shaving their eyebrows off to signify they are of marrying age and avoid the awkward confusion of wondering if they are "legitimate' WHAT I'M GOING TO MISS: If you hadn't guessed by now, the chilled atmosphere! Lazing in hammocks. Tubing down the river:) The brilliant nightbuses with their Casino Royales playing and proper reclining seats, not to mention the freebie biscuits and fruit! WHAT I'M NOT GOING TO MISS: Having to leave Laos? BOOKS READ: 'Zorro' - Isabelle Allende (a departure from the mysticism of the Chilean's usual canon for a ripping swashbuckling yarn); 'Exit Music' - Ian Rankin (decided to try a Rankin, especially as Mike loves him, but having chosen the final book think I missed out on the supposed brilliance of the relationship that develops over the 16 previous books between the curmudgeonly Rebus and his deputy that deprived me of fully enjoying it, that and the lame 'surprise' solving of the case...); 'The Wild Sheep Chase' - Haruki Murikami (utterly bizarre as ever though not anywhere near as superb as 'Kafka On The Shore'); 'Stay Alive, My Son' - Pin Yathay (I cried at the end of this as the more I find out about the Cambodian genocide the more extreme it seems to get. This was different from 'First They Killed My Father' in that it is written from the perspective of an adult suffering the cruelties and interestingly seems to lay more blame on American withdrawal and the shameful absence of the rest of the world to intervene. A MUST READ); 'Eleven Minutes' - Pablo Coehlo (as the author admits in the Preface as he's lighting a candle at Lourdes, couldn't be any more different from the book that made him famous but nonetheless revealing of the human psyche); 'Amsterdam' - Ian McEwan (at the risk of repeating myself, brilliant poetic prose language but a farcical story that verges on Ben Elton incredulity without, I fear the consciousness of being so sharply satirical); 'The God Delusion' - Richard Dawkins (brilliant to get my teeth into something intellectual again, though philosophy remains a troubling ache to my poor brain...makes a lot of good points but essentially if you are going to disprove something it is better to make a case of your own rather than pick and choose what parts of that thing you don't like in an attempt to disavow it - anyone can do that!)

QUOTES: "There is no such thing as absolute truth...everything passes through the filter of the observer. Memory is fragile and capricious; each of us remembers and forgets according to what is convenient. The past is a notebook with many leaves on which we jot down our lives with ink that changes according to the state of our mind." ('Zorro' - Isabele Allende); "We know so little about each other. We lie mostly submerged, like ice floes, with our visible selves projecting only cool and white." ('Amsterdam' - Ian McEwan); "He is a man. He is an artist. He should know that the great aim of every human being is to understand the meaning of total love. Love is not to be found in someone else, but in ourselves; we simply awaken it. But in order to do that, we need the other person, The universe only makes sense when we have someone to share our feelings with." "Really important meetings are planned by souls long before the bodeis see each other. Generally, these meetings occure when reach a limit, when we need to die and be reborn emotionally. These meetings are waiting for us, bur more often than not we avoid them happening. If we are desperate, though, if we have nothing to lose, or if we are full of enthusiasm for life, then the unknown reveals itself, and our universe changes direction." ('11 Minutes' - Pablo Coehlo)

The Culture Vulture Is Dead....

After near on three months of rocketing around the continent taking in the museums, galleries, architecture, a couple of Natural Wonders of the world and an indecent amount of pastries it was time to pluck the feathers of my favourite culture vulture and give in to the sun, sand, sea and 18-30s gallavanting of the Thai islands and what better company to do it in than that of the boys with whom I weaned myself on Wednesday imbibations and cheesey clubs for three years. Having met the boys in Bangkok after a long bus ride from Battambang it was straight out to the Khao San Road for some catch-up drinks and rite-of-passage street food (prompting dubious looks from the ever-sceptic DS Adams...) for the uninitiated travelers to our group before heading to the club virtually in our room at the Four Sons Place...Taking environmental and financial objections to the planned flight from Bangkok to Phuket I made my way down to the south of the country via another psychedelic night bus, this one complete with a downstairs 'lounge' and TV that made sleep near to impossible. Exchanging a bus for a boat I actually beat the boys in arriving in Ko Phi Phi, a small island about 35 km off the Phuket peninsula which was virtually wiped out by the Boxing Day tsunami. Now it is a teeming hotspot for party-goers combining a gorgeous bay of white sand beach and turquoise waters with a hub of bars and clubs in the centre of the island that offer Full Moon parties, Half-Moon parties, Black Moon parties...get the picture?!It's much pricier than anywhere else but we got a good room in the PP Princess Resort which is just off the main road and away from the paths of vomit and Bryan Adams looped soundtracks and instead backs directly onto the beach. Four days were spent lying on the beach, reading and paddling in the ridiculously shallow water spiked with rocks that prevent you being able to get any deeper than knee height resulting in you resorting to sitting in the water to try and cool off while the nights were spent indulging in the multitude of bars offering free buckets (and/or Wimbledon coverage on the big screens!) and beach parties where fire-limboing and dancing in the sea were the norm. It was both the much-needed blow out from a very packed agenda over the past few months and also, for various reasons, the perfect time just to chill out and relax on the beach and take stock of what I've done and where I'm going. Resisting the urge to become a complete bum Hiren and I resurrected our boating muscles and managed a two hour kayak ride out of the bay and into the ocean to traverse the island, a somewhat more indomitable trek than the mere pond in Pokhara! The following day we took a boat out to Maya Beach, the location where they filmed The Beach (and which blasted out All Saints' 'Pure Shores' as we approached it...) which included one of the best snorkeling trips I've been on and a chance to see the incredible evening sunset. Due to the many rocks in the low waters we had to anchor some distance away in the sea and swim to The Beach during which unsurprisingly virtually everyone managed to cut themselves on the low-lying rocks turning the turquoise sea a bloody red...It also marked the beginning of a very patient lesson from Dave in how to use my camera properly, prompted by his exasperation that someone who has filmed for television broadcast cannot deal with over-exposure on his cheap camera and promptly cued many a moody silhouetted backdrop shot! The last night was somewhat bizarre as I randomly bumped into an old friend from school in an art shop on the beach. We spent seven years catching the 10A to and from school and formed part of the back seat possy along with Matt, FK and some other undesirables from the outer echelons of Saltwood and Sellindge so there was plenty to reminsce upon as we saw the night out at the Sunset Beach Bar where it seemed like a good idea to try and learn how to fire-eat and prove that I could do the fire-limbo.... We eventually forced ourselves off Phi Phi and headed to Phuket for a night. The town itself is an ugly, industrial site but going a little beyond to Kata we discovered a gorgeous beach where we could surf and stayed in a fantastic little villa apartment overlooking the sea. The stay was made memorable by lunching in The Dino restaurant, a place dedicated to dinosaurs with a mini-volcano blazing all night, giant fossils for children to climb in and out of and waiters and waitresses dressed as the Flintstones! From Phuket it was (begrudgingly on my behalf...!) a flight to Kuala Lumpur where the pristine beaches and sun gave way to a bulging metropolis of skyscapers and spiralling alleys. We managed to check in to the very bizarre Wheelers guesthouse with its art-deco murals, cages of birds and giant fish tanks (not to mention rooftop restaurant with sun-loungers so you can breathe in the smog better) and got to go up the Menara Kuala Lumpur (telecommunications) Tower for sunset where getting a lift up 271 metres we were able to sit in the observation tower as day turned to dusk and the city burst into a kaleidoscope of flickering electricity. Walking back to our hostel we headed via chinatown and some brilliant streetfood and then pottered around the market (finally managing to replace the sunglasses I left on the Mekong Delta boat). Begrudingly it was back to the airport and another budget AirAsia flight and we had landed in Sandakan. Formerly the home to the largest proportion of millionaires in the world it now looks like a battered and derelict east London council estate complete with the requisite yoofs supping from bottles on the seafront. There wasn't much to do to entertain ourselves in the evening and so having discovered the Catholic church on the hill (again advertising mass times that bore no relation to real time...), been deterred from climbing the hundred steps hill by the proliferation of rabid dogs and dined at the Tomato which had none of my first three preferences, it was back to the May Bank hotel and our ginormous TV to watch the Wimbledon final! In spite of knowing I had orang-utans to trek the following day I stayed up and with them until 5am, huddled in the dark of the room with the volume muted so as not to disturb the boys who had flaked out several rain breaks ago, and watched in torturously enraptured silence.

Nothing to do with my having stayed up most of the night we annoyingly missed the initial orang-utan feeding session at the rehabilitation centre and had to content ourselves with the all-you-can-eat amazing buffet until transferred via taxi and boat to Uncle Tan's stilted cabins submerged under the floods of the Borneo jungle river. I think it was impossible to be any more remote, a fact made apparent by that night's boat trek where under the canopy of the most immaculately star-studded sky (which was worth the price of the whole expedition alone) we fished for monkeys, reptiles and birds amidst the drowned trees with only flickering torchlights - Granji, you would have loved the kingfishers, which transfixed by the light, allowed us to sail to within spitting distance of their perch.

The following day, by now already smelling permanently of deet, divided into our three separate groups (we were the fearsomely known Tarantulas) we had two jungle treks, clad in wellies plunging through knee-high mud and picking the leeches from our skin, and another boat trip where we saw a plentitude of monkeys, more birds and a crocodile or two. Bizarrely, it was back at camp where we saw most of the action with monkeys swooping into the dining area to swipe the glass bottles of jam and monitor lizards circling the huts and making us all wary of having to wade through the water to our boats.

I opted out of the final night trek as it coincided with the timing of Michele's funeral and wishing I could be there I wanted instead to spend the hour alone; it was extremely peaceful to be in camp completely by myself, lying on the bench of our hut and looking up into the stars and saying my own private goodbye knowing that thousands of miles away she was being given a proper send-off back in Hythe by everyone else.

The last day was spent hopefully in camp with a platter of banana fritters looking out for orang-utans. My disappointment in not seeing my own King Louis would have been less had it not been for the videographic evidence of the previous group's sighting of the gingered apes the previous day which served only to rub salt into the wounds. But it was not to be and soon we had been whisked back to Sandakan where a delayed flight scuppered our arrival back in Kuala Lumpur compensated for by Dave's refusal to slum it any more and book us into a hotel which on sight with its huge bedrooms, bath and kitchen looked fantastic but proved less adept at flushing heavier objects down its u-bend and an immovable air-conditioning that caused us to sleep with shirts, trousers and two blankets!

Sadly it was time to part with the boys who were off for one final frolic in Singapore while I headed in the opposite direction back to Bangkok to meet Mike. Refuting the airlines again I bravely tackled the route by bus, all 35 hours of...There's something romantically whimsical about trains which whisk through the gorgeous countrysides (as opposed to the tarmaced hells favoured by buses) that give you a real insight into a country as you bypass its labourers in the fields and children playing in the parks (as opposed to the sterile coffin nature of being huddled in an aeroplane). In my opinion, as long as you have a good stack of books, fully charged ipod and bag of snacks it is the best way to travel: privileged with beautiful sights (and sunsets), the opportunity to meet new people and strike up friendships over shared food and card games and an open window letting the hair whip through your long traveler-accumulated hair.

Having negotiated theborder crossing at Hat Yai and then the public bus in Bangkok and inability of the Four Sons staff I eventually found Mike and now have seven weeks traveling Laos and the Philippines with him. Rumour has it he may even prove his existence to certain fretful friends and relatives by appearing on this blog!!

FAVOURITE PLACE: Being in the middle of nowhere in Uncle Tan's quaint cabin huts.

FAVOURITE FOOD: The huge buffets and mountainous pancakes laid on at Uncle Tan's

WHAT I'M GOING TO MISS: The stars in the jungle; lounging on Phi Phi beach; hunting for orang-utans

WORST PLACE: Wheeler's - stained walls and sheets, ricketty bunkbeds, no sheets and a bathroom half a mile away....WHAT I'M NOT GOING TO MISS: Taking half an hour to haul our kayak out to deep enough waters to sail and having to pick our way through the landmine of rocks that lacerated our feet under the deception of the water's shallows; people embarking upon their gap years and making me feel a million years old; deet MOST BIZARRE: Bumping into Alex! Being warned to be vigilant against the food-thieving monkeys who promptly as soon as I put my t-shirt over my head had swooped down and nabbed the pancake from the plate literally under my chin! There ensued a moment of staring out in where cowed by the monkey's resilient prepared-to-fight-to-the-death glare for the pancake (and wariness that no helicopters could pervade the Borneo jungle to airlift me to hospital) I conceded my batter to the jungle and took another fresh one from the pile! The train showing Alien vs Predator on the overnight journey to Hat Yai which caused repeated nightmares throughout the rest of the journey to the three small girls seated behind me... BOOKS I'VE READ: 'Saturday', Ian McEwan (A 'Mrs Dalloway' style 24 hour account of the day of the London Iraq protest march; as always, found his writing style brilliant, inspirational and so creative though sadly showing how poor his narrative plotting is by comparison with wildly unrealistic events opportunely designed in order for him to expostulate on the chosen 'theme' selected for that novel); 'Bitter Fame', Anne Stevenson (Not having read any of Sylvia Plath it was interesting to read a biography deliberately written to refute the hard, put upon, subjected wife line that is usually propounded by Hughes' enemies. It was also interesting to compare, inevitably, against the biography of Woolf who I do know about, though more difficult to resist generalised summaries lumping the two together. Must now read the Ariel poems and 'The Bell Jar.'); 'Time-Traveller's Wife', Anne Niffenegger (fantastic concept and must have been a logistical nightmare to plot! easy read and very addictive, with a bittersweet ending that had me...) QUOTES: "How I long to write on my own again! When I'm describing Henry James' use of metaphor to make emotional states vivid and concrete, I'm dying to be making up my own metaphors...I feel like throwing up my books and writing my own bad prose and bad stories and living outside the neat, gray secondary air of the university. I don't like talking about D H Lawrence and about critics' views of him. I like reading selfishly for an influence on my own life and my own writing." (Sylvia Plath - I know exactly how you feel!!!!); "...in general, the human disposition is to believe. And when proved wrong, shift ground. Or have faith, and go on believing." (Ian McEwan, 'Saturday')