Hi Ho, Hi Ho, Hi Ho Chi Minh we go

Mui Ne, Vietnam coast
So fare-thee-well Phnom Pen, Cambodia and 'Hello there!' Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam...otherwise known as Saigon. The journey south east through Cambodia and over the border to Vietnam was pretty unremarkable...so I shan't remark on it really. OK, just a little. The only way you knew you were in Vietnam as opposed to Cambodia (other than having your passport stamped at the border crossing of course - a sure fire give away) was that the road and shop signs changed. Out went the complicated (for me) Cambodian script that looks like a drawing of a city skyline. In came the monosyllabic, staccato, roman script of Vietnamese complete with an abundance of 'b's, 'v's, 'x's and 'c's. Actually, it's equally indecipherable (for me).

So my first impression of Ho Chi Minh City? Two mangy dogs stuck together in a post-coital tangle; the male unable to withdraw from the female due to an unfortunate spasm of the female's yonni (medical term). I've heard it often happens to foxes and the Jack Russell (breed of dog as opposed to ex-England wicket keeper) but I've never witnessed it. The poor muts. The male had managed to dismount but his tackle was still firmly tethered creating a sort of canine Push-Me-Pull-You (Woof-Me-Woof-You).

I have to say I have been a bit trigger shy with the camera, maybe on account of all the scare stories about determined HCMC street thieves, or maybe I simply haven't been in the shooting mood. I didn't feel this afforded the right opportunity to start snapping and spared their doggy blushes. I have done a little sketch for you though:


The doggy nature of the scene reminded me of a joke that always makes me laugh.

[Two guys in a pub having a pint, Bert & Reg. Reg has his dog with him. The dog proceeds to lick its own balls.]

Bert commenting on dog's activity: Blimey Reg, it's amazing isn't it. I wish I could do that.
Reg: Give him a biscuit Bert and he might let you.

Ho ho ho.

Other than that? Well, HCMC was fun. Busier and more vibrant that Phnom Pen with more motos if that were possible. Did the usual: Vietnam War Remnants Museum (or American War as they call it here. And why not? They weren't fighting themselves...well...actually they kinda were but it was the Yanks that were the main protagonists), National Museum, a couple of temples but to be honest I think I was a little tired of city dwelling.

I have since adjourned to the coast about four hours north of HCMC for some R&R (huh? Has it been such a stressful time of late?) - a place called Mui Ne. Pretty relaxing spot but the local industry is producing fermented fish sauce so there's an over powering & pungent odour in the air.

Which made me think of Mel Brookes for some reason. Here's a minute of fun for those with the time; a bit of 2000 Year Old Man (if my embedding works that is):

On the way here I managed to attract a bit of a limpet. The sort of companion you don't want to hang around with but can't seem to dislodge. I suppose I could have reverted to some of his own blunt language.


Let's call him James...as that was his name. Without being too 'travellor' and snobbish about it, I wonder why he bothered leaving Wimbledon in the first place. Comments include:

'This mash potato [uh huh] is fucking rubbish.'
'Can't wait to get to Oz so I don't have to eat all this local shit.' [What like the mash potato?]
'I just tell moto touts to f-u-c-k o-f-f.'
[To bunch of Vietnamese lads watching him play pool] 'Errr...do you mind pissing off?'

Etc etc etc. The odd thing was he was really into bird watching. I guess you can't stereotype a twitcher (or birder as he told me is the new slang term - cunning). He's now left so I feel a little more relaxed not trying to skulk around and be vague about where I'm going to be for dinner etc.

And as an end piece to this rather patchy post, and of no interest to anyone but Will Anderson probably, when my phone shuts down to standby, it has decided to display an image of Will Anderson raising a glass of Adnams Ale in the King's Head in Roupell Street, Waterloo. (I do have that image on my phone, it's not that spooky.) Well, I guess Will is a fine fella, it's a great boozer and a jolly decent drop, so why not?

!Frente! - who'd a thunk it

Phnom Pen, Cambodia
OK, this is a bit of an 'in gag' for Brian (if you're out there Brian) but whilst back in Phnom Pen I strangely found myself in a karaoke bar. Thumbing through the menu of songs, which I have to say was vast, I chanced across a number by that Aussie power-pop, beat-combo from the early 90s - !Frente! (to be truly accurate one of those exclamation marks should be upside down but that's beyond me).

Ah, the memories of whirling round on a beer lubed dance floor at the Mean Fiddler in Harlesden (sadly no longer I understand), whilst one of the more delicate members of the party writhed in agony with a dislocated knee. That's the power of !Frente!.

Needless to say, I didn't get up and blast out Bizarre Love Triangle for fear of what carnage would be caused in the inevitably frenzied crowd.

Get the old harmonica out and cheer yourself up

Siam Reap, Cambodia
OK, enough doom & gloom, misery & depression from me. I have just uploaded a ton of pictures from my Indiana Jones (meets some friends with a baby) adventures in Angkor Wat: the famous jungle shrouded, Khmer temples in the north west of Cambodia and backdrop to numerous adventure flix...well, OK, one at least with Lara Croft as the main character. In fact, did you know that Angkor Wat is the largest religious structure on earth? No nor did I. I always assumed it was Harvey's Brewery in Sussex...or am I getting confused. Anyway feast yer mince pies. Here's a taster:





And just to prove I haven't totally lost my sense of humour - pig transport Cambodian style. Poor oinkers:

The Killing Fields of Choueng Ek

Phnom Pen, Cambodia
In fact whilst I'm on this less than humorous vibe, it's probably a good time to post some pictures of one of the most shocking things I have ever witnessed - The Killing Fields of Choueng Ek.

In fact if you're of an easily shocked disposition and suffer from weak thumbs at the sight of anything unpalatable...like I do...then I would be wary about scrolling down too far.

Choueng Ek was where the Khmer Rouge took political prisoners, dissidents or in fact any one deemed to be an intellectual or unwanted, even if it was simply that they wore spectacles...in fact pretty much anyone who caught their evil eye. And there they killed them. Thousands upon thousands were executed in an area the size of a large paddock. Blindfolded, they would be made to kneel by a big pit and then a member of the Khmer Rouge, quite often teenagers, would stove their heads in with a shovel or axe handle. That way they saved on bullets.

Walking around the area is a chilling experience knowing what took place there. This is made even more harrowing by the hundreds of pieces of cloth and clothing that poke out of the ground everywhere you walk - the last pieces of clothing the victims of the Khmer Rouge were wearing before they were slaughtered.

I also visited S21 Toul Sleng, a former school that became a security prison, interrogation and torture centre and ultimately death camp for thousands of Khmer Rouge victims. It's now a museum with mug shots displaying the frightened faces of the thousands that entered S21 alive but certainly didn't leave that way. Some of the torture equipment is still there with black & white photos of what carnage and pain it can cause. I didn't manage even a third of the museum without having to leave.

The depths of human cruelty and the ability to do harm in the most brutal and savage way is really an horrendous and mind boggling thing. And it continues in the world today.

The Killing Fields of Choueng Ek, the green grass and blue skies belying the attrocities that took place here. The temple in the centre is a mausoleum containing the remnants of thousands of unamed victims of the Khmer Rouge. The depressions in the ground are excavated mass graves.

Tour de Farce

Phnom Pen, Cambodia
I've managed to get my annual fix (how apt) of Le Tour de France, perhaps a product of being in a former French colony. On Monday I saw the Kazakh Vinoukourov storm to victory on stage 15 whilst being held together like some rag doll after his stage five crash leaving him with more stitches in his legs and arms than a mass quilting class. Amazing that he bounced back especially given his shocker in the Pyrenees on the previous day's stage (14) when he conceded about half an hour to the main GC contenders. Everyone was saying that the man has such a big heart, such spirit and fight, a never-say-die attitude. But wasn't it a bit like last year in the Tour when Floyd Landis shot off the front for a huge and unbelievable solo ride in the Alps to line up 'victory' in Paris. He too had blown up the previous day and was seemingly out of contention. And then he was subsequently found to have been doping with testosterone?

I checked in yesterday to catch the latest tour news and, oh look, Vino has tested positive too, this time for homologous blood doping (i.e. receiving a transfusion of someone else's blood to boost red blood cells, oxygen carrying capacity and recovery). Hoof! - the Astana team is kicked off the Tour.

Whilst checking my emails today I had a quick squizz at the BBC cycling coverage. What's this? Team Cofidis are out of the Tour as one of their team members, Cristian Moreni, a former Italian National Champ, was found to have been doping with testosterone. The 'zero tolerance' of the Tour management means if one rider is found cheating, then they ask the entire team to withdraw (altho' why T-Mobile are still there after one of their team, Patrick Sinkewitz, was found to have been doping on the Tour I'm not sure...probably because he crashed out of the Tour anyway on stage five). This is especially sad news for me as it means the end of the Brit Bradley Wiggins Tour and he was a favourite for Saturday's pan flat 54km time trial. Hmmm.

And then I noticed some 'Breaking News' - Rasmussen, the current wearer of the Maillot Jaune, the leader of the race, has been sacked by his team Rabobank and is therefore off the Tour. What for? Well, it turns out that he has received a number of official warnings from cycling's governing body, the UCI (and also from the Danish cycling federation) for missing out-of-competition drug testing. More than that, he lied to his team about his whereabouts in June saying he was in Mexico when he was actually in Italy. Not proof positive (so to speak) that he's doping but why lie if you're clean? Whilst I applaud Rabobank's stand it's just so shocking and sad that two teams, one of the Tour's favourite characters and also the current holder of the Yellow Jersey have been kicked off the Tour. Or is it? Doesn't this happen every frikking year? I mean, last year's winner of the tour is still hanging in the balance pending the doping investigation into the winner, Landis, and why that's dragged on for a year I don't know.

Every year I get excited and every year I feel let down, cheated and disappointed in a sport that has such a fantastic heritage, is incredible to watch and if it had the high Corinthian ideals, could be the most admired sport in the world. The debate rages - is cycling drug scandal prone because it is the most tested sport in the world (i.e. impose the same stringent testing regimes on other sports and some nasty worms would also appear in the woodwork)? Is doping simply endemic, a product of the history of competitive cycling when it was ignored or even expected? Who cares? It needs to be clean and although these anti-doping measures are the way forward, it's a losing battle with the public's impression and also the sponsor's willingness to stump up cash for a seemingly dirty sport. The sport and the cheats within it will basically kill cycling. I for one have lost my patience with it.

If you want more check out www.cyclingnews.com

More jolly light hearted travel humour when I get out of my cycling related phunk!

Foot down

Laos - Cambodia

It suddenly dawned on me that the sands of time were slipping away with only five weeks left to get down to Cambodia and travel up through Vietnam. I needed to get a wriggle on! So I put my head down and hot-footed it for Cambodia, bowling along, or more accurately bouncing vigorously along, through southern Laos. Here's a whistle-stop picto-tour and some of the conversations I had with my trusty if slightly grumpy companion Dusty Sandals.

Right, chop chop, get on the bus.
But it's got a massive crack in the windscreen.
Never mind, never mind!
[Chug chug, splutter, bouncy, bouncy.]
Is that a box of chickens?
Yeah.
And a basket of ducks?
Yeah.
And a pig in a poke?
Yeah.
Wow.

Oh look, a Che Guevara t-shirt. Nice to see some things don't change the world over.
Don't just stand there and stare...come on!
Hey, Dusty, did you see the Che Guevara mud flaps on that lorry we past?
Nah.

Ooh look, the crumbling, fading grandeur of French colonial architecture. Smashing.
Are you just gonna gawp and take pictures? For the love of Christmas, hurry up.
Keep yer hair on!

Wow, look a catholic church.
[Hech hem]
Yeah yeah, coming.

Shall we go to Don Khong in the 4000 Islands on the Mekong?
Why not? Just a couple of nights though.
Hey. Don Khong sounds a bit like Don King doesn't it.
Idiot.
Ooohhh, someone's had a sense of humour failure, haven't they Dusty?

Cool. They're big rapids aren't they?
Yeah.
Do you think you could canoe down them, like if you were really good at canoeing?
How the hell should I know?

Hey, the Cambodian border immigration office looks a bit like a garden shed doesn't it?
Yeah.

Hey, fancy an orange froggy snack, Dusty?
Not really.
Nah. Me neither.

How about some locusts?
I feel a bit queasy.

Spiders??!!
Bloody hell, I think I'm going to be sick.

Phew made it to Phnom Pen. That was quite a few days of hard travel, huh?
Yeah.
Fancy a glass of beer?
Sure, I think we deserve one.

Hey Dusty, what do you think that's all about?
Dunno.
Bit weird and slightly scary ennit?
Yeah.
Want to go in?
Not really.
Nah, me neither.

Chicken sticks and shower heads

Pakse, Laos
This is what happens when a Laos bus stops briefly in a small village: the bus is attacked by a throng of crazy ladies wearing indigo Miao (who let the cat in) jackets and bamboo hats, all trying to beat you with chicken bits on a stick or these strange green shower heads. Why do I need a green shower head when I'm travelling on a bus?

Siam Arc de Triomphe

Vientiane, Laos
What do you do when you are donated thousands of tonnes of cement (by the US, probably feeling guilty about all that bombing) to build a new airport? Knock up a Siamese version of the Arc de Triomphe of course!

To be honest, there are probably not enough flights going to Vientiane to justify anything other than a roughly cut field and tea trolley.

Laos Chintz - it's the bomb

Laos
Thought you might like to see some of the delightful guesthouse decor I have been experiencing in Laos.

Stick this whole chintz look into a boutique hotel in NYC and you'd be charging $195 per night instead of...let me see...$3.


I liked this bureau arrangement in my guesthouse in Savvanakhet upon which I could do my paper works whilst applying mascara (should I have wished to) using the vanity mirror.



I'm not sure this is the sort of scene you want to be promoting in a bathroom. It also brings a new dimension to the word fresh in air freshener.


Laos is one of the (if not the) most heavily bombed countries in the world. Called The Other Theatre during the Vietnam war, more ordinance was dropped 'secretly' (although probably not that secretly for those living in Laos!) by the Americans in order to disrupt supply chains from north Vietnam down to south Vietnam through Laos, such as the Ho Chi Min Trail. Don't wallow in self pity at the millions of tonnes of unexploded ordinance that still litter the country - decorate your home with it! Good on ya!

Be A Hero With A Zero

Savvanakhet, Laos
I've never been a very regular shaver. With my current wayfaring lifestyle I am even more sporadic but that's not to say I don't put my mind to the world of shaving occasionally. It's been cropping up lately with the final squeeze on my tube of beloved Shave.

I was remembering back to the disposable razor 'Cold War' stalemate in the 80s between Gillette and Wilkinson Sword when two bladed disposables were the cutting edge in disposable razor sophistication. Sure, the two super powers of shaving would trade minor blows with swivel heads and aloe vera lube strips, but it was pretty much a period of sensible calm.

Then Gillette forged ahead with the three bladed Mach 3. Wow! They must still talk about that heady R&D meeting with the same hallowed reverence that nuclear history buffs refer to The Manhattan Project. The atmosphere in the room must have been electric...in a wet shave type of way.

Bob: We've got to come up with something new soon or those Wilkson Sword boys are going to trump us.
Norm: Hmmm. True. Let's see. What about adding another blade to our Gillette Blue II? That would knock the stuffing out of the Wilkos!
Bob: That's genius, Norm! What shall we call it?
Norm: Hmmm, good question. How about the Gillette Blue III?
Bob: I don't think so. It's too similar to the II. This is revolutionary, it needs to be totally different.
Norm: The Gillette Green III?
Bob: Naaa. The Wilkos have the whole 'green thing' sewn up. We'd be playing into their hands and look like their bitches!
Norm: Yeah, you're right.

[Period of intense thinking...you could cut the atmosphere with a razor blade.]

Norm: Hey, what about the Mach 3?
Bob: That's IT! It says speed, it says efficiency, it says fighter jets and we love them. Brilliant!
[High Fives all round.]
Bob: Pub?
Norm: Sure.
[Idle conversation overheard as they exit the room...]
Bob: So how's that paper on the The relative merits of linear downstroke shaving over sinuous technique coming on?
Norm: Not so well.
Bob: Shame.

So, now we have the 'blade race' surging ahead. I guess it wasn't a huge leap of imagination to the four (Quattro?) or are we up to five now (The V)?...I'm losing track. How long before we have some form of post fixed in our bathrooms with thousands of parallel blades attached to it that we rub our cheeks up against?

Nope, it's getting ridiculous and all this ablutionary one-up-manship, along with my current state of not needing to shave, has got me thinking: we need to go back to basics, to the raw principles of the chap's routine and keep it simple. So ladies and gentleman, it is with great honour and pride I present to you the soon to be patented:

00000000000000000000000000000000

ZERO

The concept is devilishly simple: no need to shave - no need for blades. The Zero is lighter than a bladed model, slimmer and is easier to pack for travel. And with care, just one Zero will last you a lifetime. It's also catching a modish wave with the current trend for the retro chic beard and will be the must have accessory in any J.R.Tusting leather wash bag.

What's more the Zero works without any need for expensive shaving creams or gels, after shave lotions or moisturisers so it will save the user money. It really is as simple as that.

I thank you!
[I think I might have too much time on my hands.]

Red eyes & brown pants

Savvanakhet, Laos
I had another red-eye start today and have sped down to Savvanakhet, sort of half way down the taily bit of Laos. Decided to get a wriggle on as time seems to be ebbing away a little.

To say the bus journey here was terrifying would be like saying there were a few teething problems with the new Wembley Stadium. My Laos bowels almost returned and my old friend Strangely Brown almost reappeared on the seat next to me. The road (or surface of the moon with patches of tarmac) was awash with confused, dim and rather reckless water buffalo, cattle and goats. However, the bus driver was seemingly more confused dim and definitely reckless. He seemed to think that heavy handed use of the horn was a safer tactic than more light footed & judicious use of the accelerator pedal. At one point he had to swerve to avoid a calf that had got confused by his honking horn, or just had balls the size of water melons and was playing chicken, and the bus was almost tipped onto two wheels. Now wait a minute pal, choosing to drive at breakneck speed on livestock littered 'highways' isn't clever, but if you do, then DO NOT kill me trying to swerve out of the way of a beastie. Just hit the frikking thing and live with the consequences of your own stupidity! Better still slow down, and do everyone a favour. Maybe he lived in Savvanakhet and had just been told that his house was on fire. Maybe he was just a stupid nutter with a death wish!

No pics from me (trouble with the computer) but here's a pic of what could have ended up sitting in seat 13B of the bus:


Oh, and I know my viewing public that return loyally day on day for morsels of wordy nourishment and visual titillation are desperate to know this...I think I've got to the bottom of the rice issue previously mentioned. I shan't go into it here for fear of looking like a complete rice geek, but suffice to say I envisage nights of uninterrupted sleep and perhaps gaining some colour in my hair that has gone grey with worrying about the conundrum. If you really want to know, TAG me you saddo!

[By the way, managed to add a title at LAST! Away the puns!]

Oh, and Happy Birthday Diff...

...who turned...



...yesterday.

[And damn the lack of titles. Really bugging me!]
[Actually, now I can add titles again, I have gone back and edited this to give it a proper title. Sad I know but the devil's in the detail!]

100 Years of Reading in Solitude

Vientiane, Laos

Things of minor note:
I have really been struggling to read 100 Years of Solitude by Gabriel Garcia Marquez. I've been chewing my way through it for weeks now to about half way but find my mind and eyes wandering every time I attempt to read it. What makes it feel worse is that there's a wee rosette on the front marks it as one of Oprah Winfrey's Book Club choices and I would like to think I have slightly more literary staying power than the average Oprah fan. But no.

So I've pitched it. Not something I like doing or indeed do often. The decision was made after I thought I'd just have a quick 'look' at The Kite Runner by Khaled Hosseini that Christina had given me in Myanmar, and ended up reading it in a day.

So farewell 100 Years of Solitude. (I was going to title this post '100 Years of Reading in Solitude' by the way for those that need the crap title fix.) [Adendum - coz I can add titles again, I have, so gorge away on the crap 'straps'.]


When I say I pitched it, I swapped it at a book exchange for a book I'm finding equally challenging - The Horses Mouth by Joyce Cary.

Rice - how does it all work?
Being in the engine room of global rice production hasn't passed me by. Apart from eating it pretty much daily, I have been staring out of bus windows at square miles of green shimmering paddy fields. What I don't understand is that you see teams of people planting the stuff in little green shoot form. Where do those little green shoots grow? And why can't they just be left where they are growing rather than transplanted? Perhaps I should look on Wikipedia or ask someone. In fact just have had a look on Wikipedia and it doesn't seem to explain the transplanting element. Answers on a postcard (or Tag me).

Jeepers, this is exciting stuff, huh?

In the words of Columbo: Oh, just one last thing:
Saw this interesting collection of what I thought were Beerlao bottles, but on closer inspection...no: sulphuric acid of cause. They look worryingly similar to Beerlao bottles. I wonder if Beerlao and sulphuric acid are produced in the same factory? I can envisage classic Laurel & Hardy style mix up with 'hilarious consequences'.

The post with no name...

(...fitting of the shame...and for some reason Blogger won't let me add one!) [But I can now so I have given the post the name as previously stated, just for consistency]


Luang Prabang, Laos
It's a sure fire sign that I am feeling 100% better when I decided it's time for a beer. Maybe that was what was ailing me - lack of ale. Anyway, I have been bumping into this Irish fella, Owen, on my travels (Thai border, Vientiane, Vang Vieng and now also in Luang Prabang). He is a cheeky imp and it seems that a night out with Owen registers something swinging wildly between 'Wha Hey' and 'Uh Oh' on the fun-o-meter.

I re-bumped into Owen at a bar in Luang Prabang called the Hive Bar, a buzzing (oh dear) joint for a sleepy town. Well, after catching up on what we'd been up to, it seemed we were fairly merry and it was closing time...which in Loas is a rather nanny-ish 11 o'clock. We bumbled (stop it) out of the Hive Bar and Owen was convinced he knew somewhere 'to go on to'. I was easily coerced.


So, that was how I ended up at a Laos bowling alley at midnight. It's hardly mopping the high brow of culture is it? To add to the sordid situation I think I chucked maybe eight balls down the track and not once did I trouble those ten wee fellas at the other end altho' the gutters got a thorough working out.


Here's a (the only) snap of the back of Owen's head in the bowling alley, clearly wandering off to cause more mischief. I think the quality and composition of the shot says everything you need to know about the night.





Things didn't get any better after I left the bowling alley. I had 'forgotten' the guest house I was staying in had a midnight curfew. I mean, why not? Bars all closed at 11pm so what could anyone in their right mind do after midnight...right? Apart from go bowling...but that would be ridiculous. So at 3am I was presented with not only a tightly shut guest house but also a dangerously spiky and firmly closed gate. I decided I'd scale the gate and proceeded to do so. It didn't go well. Climbing hazardous obstacles in flip flops and when perhaps a little bit dulled in the senses isn't clever or indeed easy. I got stuck. One leg was in front over the railings, one was precariously holding me up and I couldn't seem to move from this yoga-esque position. Fortunately my attempts to be 'quiet' had clearly been far from that and a young lad working for the guest house opened the main door and sleepily rubbed his eyes, clearly bemused by the vision in front of him. Thankfully he helped me down and I have to say if he didn't save my life, he certainly saved the precious runner up in the chart of 'Things You Mustn't Lose'. Fortunately he saw the funny side of it and we had a giggle about it the next morning.

Here are some snaps of the less seedy side of Luang Prabang:

Luang Pra-bangers

Luang Prabang, northern Laos I didn't want to leave you in dreadful suspense and nor did I want the last picture I posted here to be of a loo, so you'll be glad to know that I have regained complete control of...well, me I guess. Back to feeling tippety top, in fine fettle and firing on all two cylinders once again. Many thanks for all the messages of sympathy and get well notes, bottles of Lucozade and bunches of grapes that came flooding in. I was truly underwhelmed! 'Aaannnxxx. So I have wove/wended/weven (whatever) my way to Luang Prabang further north in Laos and a more delightful spot I couldn't imagine outside of Bromsgrove. It's a World Heritage listed 'city' (yeah, market town size) dozing on the banks of the Mekong River. All sleepy, green and picturesque with intriguing alley ways, vibrant markets and even a breeze that doesn't feel like you've just opened an oven door. Could it get any better? Actually, yes it could, and it does. Luang Prabang is famous for its sausages and having sampled them, deservedly so. Never thought I'd be in Laos eating medal winning bangers and having a genuine ethnic meal, but there you go. Right, it's that time once again to make a spirited attempt to annihilate LBP's sausage stock. Let's GO!

Laos Bowels

Vang Vieng, Laos
Made it to Laos after a rather mad cap (if not down right dangerous) over night bus journey from Bangkok. The capital, Vientiane, has to be in the medal list as the world's smallest capital 'city'. It's somewhere around the size of Tunbridge Wells but with an 'international' airport or more precisely a rough strip of tarmac with cow grazing facilities. The old French colonial influence is prevalent in the architecture (including a Siam style Arc de Triumphe), food and coffee (as in proper coffee, not the ubiquitous Nescafe). Odd when getting on a bus and instead of being offered various types of rice (steamed, sticky, coconut etc), assorted bits of chicken and diced fruit from the itinerant vendors, you get offered a beautiful pate filled baguette. Nice one Frenchies!

From Vientiane it was an arse numbing 4.5hr bus ride (covering 170km) to Vang Vieng. I got off covered in what looked like fake tan from the red dust and feeling like I'd gone 10 rounds with Joe Bugner (from Pavenham, Bedfordshire don't you know). VV is a town...well, village built around the 'travellor' industry and has a hundred restaurants and bars serving up banana pancakes and 'happy' shakes (yeah THAT type of happy). Some play episodes of Friends on loop and you're more likely to hear The Streets playing than any Laos style music. Hmmm. It reminds me of Pai, northern Thailand, which isn't helping as I keep having flash backs to the lost passport incident.

There are more westerns here than I've seen in along time, all joining in the bucket of booze fun and riding tractor inner tubes down the Nam Song river. It's probably not a place I'd stick around in for too long not possessing a muscle vest, aviator shades and retro chic beard but I am stuck rather.

I was beginning to think that I might get away without the curse of the traveller on this trip - the squits. After all I have successfully negotiated the Mexican scabby dog taco, the greasy late night burger from New Zealand hole-in-the-wall joints and Thai curry of 'spank my arse and call me Susan' strength. But no. I've been struck down. Don't feel bad or ill at all, in fact haven't lost my appetite (heaven forbid...altho' I should stick to toast and boiled eggs apparently), just that I can't be too far from the dunny just now and the idea of a six hour bruising bus journey north to Luang Prabang isn't really 'doing it' for me.

So this is what Vang Vieng looks like:




And this is what I have mostly seen:


Got to dash. You can guess why.

Advertising Myanmar style

Kha Tha, Myanmar, June 07

What a mighty horn!