Malaysia and Singapore: the end of a continent.

With just a week left in Asia, and two countries to get through to make our connecting flight, the pressure was on. The trick was to find a balance - arrive in Singapore too early, and we would feel like we had missed out on Malaysia, plus we would have to fund time in the most expensive place in Asia. Take too long, and best case scenario we would not get to see Singapore; worst case, we would miss our flight. The next seven days would take careful planning and tight schedules.

Our Thai train rumbled through the gleaming, shiny new stations on brand new tracks, just like those seemingly being built all over Malaysia, which seems to be having a rail renaissance. Old single tracks are becoming shiny new ones, new ones are being made into double tracks, stations are modern, concrete and stylish, and the trains aren't bad either. One of the problems with taking trains across borders is that, although the gauge of the track might be the same, little else is. Malaysian trains are much lower-set and wider than Thai ones. So when we arrived in the Malaysian-Thai border control station, there was a little jump involved to get from the carriage to the platform, several feet away.

Thailand's and Malaysia's shared train station/border crossing

The Malaysian definition of 'a hippy'

Spot the tourist: three backpacks, 5 litres of potable water. Straw hat (bought in Cambodia, made in China). Lovely!

Inside the building, a governmental sign detailed the legal definition of a hippy, and stressed the policy to refuse admittance to any individual, and I quote, "Wearing wooden sandals, silk trousers, or with less than US$500 cash on his person.". With just a few dollars combined between us and all our currencies pending arriving at an ATM, suddenly our Israeli immigrant visas weren't the only thing we had to worry about. But, our leather sandals and baggy cotton trousers were sufficiently capitalist for them, and we were soon back on the platform waiting for our train onwards to Butterworth. It so happened that the same Thai carriages trundled back in to the platform with a different engine, which was unfortunate for me. The combination of lack of sleep, carrying a 20kg bag on my back, and over 5kg in each hand and a rucksack on my front totally obscuring my view, while wearing sandals, did not go down well (excuse the pun) with the chasm between me and the train. People gasped as I disappeared through the hole, handily preventing severe injury by getting wedged with all my baggage between the steps and a handle. Sadly, Deborah's poor-quality fake North Face bag will forever more bear the dried-on blood as evidence of my first minutes in Malaysia.

In Butterworth, our first mission was to book our next train - and an overnight train seemed the best option to Kuala Lumpur, from where we had to head out the next day to the jungle. But, no sleeper bays were available and we resigned ourselves to another tough night. In the meantime, we had 12 hours to explore Penang, a massive island just off the west coast.

A ferry over to the island dropped us in Georgetown, a beautiful quaint city and a true mishmash of British colonialism and Eastern multiculturalism. Grand columns befitting of Trafalgar square adorn the maritime buildings, while a few blocks away, Chinese arches demarcate China town before the smells register, and the music and spices of Little India declare the enticing Thalis on offer in the multiple vegan and vegetarian restaurants. Needless to say, we ate well in Georgetown.

Local resident, sunbathing on the street

A very nice if not somewhat bizarre finding was the Jewish cemetery. Maintained by a local Hindu family since the death of the final Jews of the area in recent years, the few dozen graves show the history of the Jewish immigration, mostly during the British rule of Malay, from other parts of the empire, such as Burma, India and Great Britain. The street itself, once also home to the synagogue, has been renamed, "Jalan Zainal Abidin", from its previous imaginative name "Jew street".

Hindu caretaker of the Jewish cemetery at Georgetown

As evening approached,it was time to get the ferry back in time for our train. Out of desperation, I asked again about sleeper spaces, and to our utter delight we were able to upgrade. The only thing that would have made everything perfect would have been a way to get clean; 40 hours had passed since our last showers, and in that time, we had travelled in three packed and hot minibuses, one tuktuk, waited thirteen hours on a stifling railway platform, travelled another three train journeys, fallen into a dirty crevice in a train station, and spent hours walking around a hot city. We were half an hour from a 9 hour train journey, before a long bus ride into the jungle and then - who knows?  There was no choice - we HAD to get clean. But how?

The only toilets in the train station were porcelain squat toilets - in other words, a ceramic hole in the floor with an overhead flush. Depending on culture, one may use toilet paper, but more common is a bum cup - a bucket with plastic cup to gather water and then pour over one's external sphincter. On occasion, one finds a hosepipe with a jet on the end, colloquially known as a 'bum gun'. In extreme situations, some cultures simply make the squat and walk away. But if other mammals can do it, why not?

In the clean cubicles in the little train station, a hosepipe lay next to the porcelain hole. No gun - just a hose. Needs must. In minutes, I was pouring the cold water over myself and taking more care than ever not to drop the soap, while trying not to flood the rest of the station, or my clothes that were balanced on shoes, so as to avoid any contact with the floor. Much more impressively, Deborah performed the same feat!

Example of a very similar toilet. But I daren't take my camera that close to a sewer.

Visibly paler after removing days of grime, cool and smelling clean, we climbed aboard an air conditioned train, slipped into crisp sheets with nice pillows, pulled across the curtains, and slept while the train hummed through the Malaysian countryside. Bliss.

Getting settled in the sleeper carriage - which was almost entirely empty; strange being that it was sold out earlier...

In the absence of any announcements to the contrary, we learned that 'Kuala Lumpur Station' and 'Kuala Lumpur Central Station' are two completely separate places, and subsequently missed our station. Fortunately our train wasn't late enough to totally screw up our plans - and we had time to get to the departure point of the bus to Taman Negara, the expanse of jungle in the middle of peninsular Malaysia which would be our home for a few days.

En route, I got chatting to a bloke called Jack, sitting opposite us in the bus and a born and bred scouser living just a few miles away from my parents in Crosby. Meeting the scouse diaspora is almost as exciting as meeting the Israeli one.

A few hours later we arrived at Kuala Tembeling, a tiny village on the outskirts of the jungle, from where we picked up a long wooden boat, two people wide and low enough that when the sun became too hot, peeking over the sides of the sheet of corrugated metal roof, you could hang a limb over the edge to cool it in the murky jungle river water whizzing by. The narrowness of the boat and expertise of the local captain meant that we tore through the water, skimming by sandbanks and submerged rocks. Nonetheless, it still took three hours to wind upstream to the little settlement of Kuala Tahan.

Our road to the jungle.

Kuala Tahan is an amusing place. One side is a town, stretching a few hundred yards from the riverside, and the other is a beautiful luxury jungle resort, where the wealthy sleep in impressive wooden chalets and feast in a restaurant that costs the earth and, to the dismay of many, serves the only alcohol for a hundred miles in any direction.

Both the resort and the village are surrounded by the deafening roar of a million animals chatting away when darkness descends. Needles to say, we didn't stay in the resort. Another straw hut was our own little resort, and the bathroom was once again our own little zoo - but jungle paranoia meant that we were even less inclined to share a toilet with a spider here than we were in Thailand. I heroically swept a spider into the toilet and flushed it away in order to save Deborah from its evil inclinations. Alarmingly, the spider managed to somehow hold on to the side of the toilet, and hid under the rim, only to truly meet its demise after a reflush a little later on.

After one of our last meals of matzah and tinned tuna, we took a narrow boat across the pitch black jungle river and headed out for a night hike, with the much needed supervision of a local - both for safety and because, frankly, we wouldn't have seen a thing otherwise. Once we were told which branch to look at, which leaf to turn, which step to avoid, suddenly we were inches from tarantulas, grass snakes, giant grass hoppers, huntsmen spiders, stick insects, 30 centimetre millipedes, and scorpions. I met my share of scorpions in the army - and the small ones are more venomous and dangerous - but when you meet a Malaysian scorpion that is so large it got into a fight with our guide over a stick (who, to be fair was trying to pretend to be an insect, and pissed off the scorpion so much that it grabbed hold of the stick and pulled it off the guide), size matters..

The next morning, we decided to take one of the well marked jungle treks, to climb a nearby hill, Bukit Teresek. The original plan had been to join up with my new scouse pal Jack and his Swiss girlfriend - but as he was ill / dehydrated / hungover, only three of us set out, planning to use a poorly photocopied A4 map as our guide, with my compass a little bit of luck. All the usual common sense precautions sprung to mind - torch, plenty of water, first aid kit, knife etc. However, it soon became apparent that my little Swiss army knife, while great for cutting avocados and bananas, was not particularly well designed for self defence. Just minutes in to the walk, en route through thick trees, a wild boar nonchalantly strolled past us - just a few feet away, and expressed absolutely no interest in us - neither fear nor hunger. That was for the best, as I'm pretty sure my knife wouldn't have cut into his fur.

We took a slight detour to climb a canopy walkway - a network of rope bridges strung between the taller trees of the forest, providing brief respite from the murky green dinginess of the forest floor. But, as we slowly ascended the side of the hill. It also became clear that our water supply wasn't ideal - the intense humidity made us sweat like never before; my boots literally overflowed with sweat each time I transferred my weight between feet, and our clothes were simply wet. The trees provided shade, but also eliminated any trace of a breeze.

We slowly climbed the hill, catching glimpses of a lizard over 3 feet in length and a foot tall as he moved away from us, termite hills twice my height and spiders trawling through the undergrowth while ants the size of an adult thumb dragged leaves back to base. The screech of gibbons playing overhead only ever drew our eyes to the rustling leaves and branches, never quite lucky enough to spot one.

Our descent was meant to take us to Lubok Simpon waterhole, but once we had reached the summit it quickly became apparent that this side of the route was much less well trodden. Paths became gaps in bushes, steps became mudslides, and rope ladders became frayed and rotten. After following the path and realising (thankfully very quickly) that we had just walked in a full circle, we were lucky to retrace our steps and end up on the correct route again, avoiding a night in the jungle with no food, water, or phones.

Back at the village, we drank. A lot. Then I emptied my boots.

Hot, tired and out of water, we celebrated our arrival back at the river with a swim. The rapid flow was too much for any one to swim against and I was very glad that I tested it at a point where I could hold on to a rope instead of taking the plunge and being swept into unpopulated jungle. Instead, while Debs enjoyed the shallows, I waded upstream and had great fun riding the rapids on the way home, narrowly avoiding a longboat as I tried to swim to shore.

In the evening we joined a 'night safari' - on the back of a 4x4 we headed in to a palm plantation to spot the potential large animals. Memories of Kenya had me wide eyed; which was a shame when the bounty consisted of a spider, a tiny grass snake, a monkey so far away that we could just about see the torch shine in his eyes, and a leopard cat. Not a leopard - no no, a leopard cat. Basically, a cute little moggy that's coloured like a leopard, and was playing in the grass; effectively playing with a ball of wool. Cute, but not really safari material. Still, that's the beauty of nature versus zoos - you only see the animals that choose to be there.

There's a leopard cat, dead centre. Honest.

Back to the big smoke of KL. If I was a Muslim, and if I didn't hate cities, this would be the city to live in. Massive, relatively clean, and the ideal mix of old and new. The incredible Petronas towers looking down on a city of modern architecture with Islamic styles, while underground trains and monorails shoot in all directions. Debs insists I mention the premium toilets at the Petronas towers - the free ones were immaculate, modern and with piped in music, but a little cash gets you access to the premium toilets - where we can only assume you get a free buffet and someone else flushes the toilet for you. We were amused to find that Deborah's US$8 Mulberry purse from Thailand was on sale here for US$400.

There's Halal food on every corner, and every style of food you could wish for. Once again, we were delighted to find a vegetarian Indian cafe, filled with Hindus eating thalis served on banana leaves and eaten with the fingers - so no washing up! Petaling market in China town is a limitless source of contraband and illegal fake goods and pushy sellers, but we stuck to roast chestnuts and coffee.

Way back when in Vietnam, we met a lovely New Zealand couple - Dave and Heather - who were on our sleeper bus, and who told us they were just starting teaching jobs in Singapore. So, they were our next port of call, and we took our last international train, arriving in Woodlands in Singapore just after dawn. Acutely aware of Singapore's strict customs laws, and aware that I was hiding a stash of 20 Burmese cigarettes in my luggage, we were very relieved not have been searched; stories abound of overland arrivees having even single cigarettes confiscated; there isn't even an option to pay duty on them - smuggle it or lose it and pay a fine.

But the stress was only just beginning. Without a single Singaporean cent, we were dismayed to find that there was not one way to get money at the terminal - no shops or banks, no money exchange, and no ATMs. The shuttlebus to the train station was not free, and our train had arrived very late - with just 90 minutes to get to Heather and Dave before they left for school, we were lucky to find a nice bus driver who let us on for free and dropped us at a subway station. The ATM directions were wrong, and when we eventually found a ticket office, we were directed to the far end of the massive station for an ATM. Back to the ticket office, but they wouldn't accept the large notes given by the ATM. So, back to the other end again, to find customer services, who changed the notes for smaller ones, back to the ticket office again to buy a temporary ticket ( the actual pass we needed wasn't on sale at this station), and then back to our platform - at the far end of the station again. Naturally, it was now rush hour and so we spent the next hour on a train packed with people, stressed,and each wearing 25kg or so of luggage.

Somehow we made it just in time, and saw Dave and Heather off to work, while we had a much needed shower, and headed off into town to meet an old ex-pat friend for lunch. Then, it was back into tourist mode.

Singapore's background as a major port, colonial enclave, and advanced economy makes it totally different to the rest of South East Asia. An entirely eclectic mix of languages and skin colours fills the streets as people in the CBD pour out of skyscrapers and into Hawker stalls selling every type of (Asian) food, or cram in to large air conditioned trains to commute back to their tiny but luxurious apartments in the outskirts. Double decker buses jostle with taxis and up-market cars on smooth and well-signed streets, and pass seamlessly between ultra-modern and colonial traditional architecture. I had planned to take Debs to Raffles hotel for a good-old English tea; but after 6 weeks of watching the budget in every place we went, we both felt that sandwiches, cakes and coffee could never be worth S$68 (34 pounds) each.

After much wandering, and enjoying a visit to Laline (an Israeli toiletry company a little like the Body Shop, which has opened up shops in the far East), we spent an evening with our hosts in Little India, and in Marina Bay Sands - an elite indoor shopping zone where Venetian gondolas sail down the centre boulevard, between Versace, Jimmy Choo, Prada and other ridiculous brand signs, before enjoying the lights of the city at the Harbour.

Dressed in my finest for Raffles. No, really. I brought a T-shirt just in case, but if I'm paying that much, then they should provide the clothes.

Israeli lovely smelly cosmetics for the ladies.

Night time at Marina Bay Sands

Gardens at the Bay

Hawker central in the CBD

Our final day in Asia had finally come, and we spent it trying hard to see every inch of Singapore; by day, the new botanical gardens which were so beautifully lit the night before were a huge let down; the massive trees lit in colours at night were in fact metal sculptures, and the only awards the gardens possess are for architecture - not exactly what botanical gardens are all about. The massive ecosphere rainforests looked impressive, but not worth the small fortune in admission charges, especially when just a few days before we were in a real one in Malaysia. A pack of ten tea bags in the gift shop would cost just S$45 (about 23 GBP). Arab street promised great Middle Eastern food, but failed to present a single humous shop, and our last hours were spent in the muggy grey rain of a typical Singaporean shower.

The most important tip for any traveller to or via Singapore; make time for the airport! Changi airport is undoubtedly the most incredible airport in the world, and if they charged an admission fee there, I would gladly pay it for a great day out. Gardens in each terminal, each with its own theme (including an amazing butterfly garden), free internet throughout the airport, free foot massage machines at departure gates, the giant spiral slide (note - only accessible BEFORE check-in), a free cinema, rooftop pool, LAN computer gaming rooms, sleeping rooms, observation decks and much much more, make this a great place to relax and spend a few hours at least.

Add to that the friendly German who couldn't finish his unopened beers in time for his flight and gave them to me to enjoy while having my feet massaged, and we had hit the jackpot.

All too soon, we were on a plane watching Asia get smaller and smaller from the window.

We knew from long ago that 6 weeks would never be enough to see all of Asia, but we gave it a run for its money. From the sheer poverty of Cambodia and happiness of Burma to the crudeness of Bangkok and the opulence of Singapore, we had seen a whole spectrum of cultures and attitudes to life. We had walked in the paths of hundreds of thousands of tourists before us in some places, and felt almost like we were breaking new ground in parts of Burma.

Exhausted but happy and with a large load of washing, we headed for Melbourne, Australia.

And the best bit - after six weeks in Asia, I still hadn't had the squits. Poor Debs.

Thailand. Take 2.

It felt a little bizarre ordering my traditional in-flight Gin and Tonic from the religious muslim in-flight crew on our Qatar airways flight to Bangkok. But then, they didn't know I had an Israeli passport either.

We hit the ground running in Bangkok - straight to the train station to book our tickets down to Malaysia. Unfortunately, they were all sold out for days to come. Why? Because the office of a private company that is actually based IN the train station buys the tickets in bulk, and then sells them on to tourists at massively inflated prices. The train company is happy because they get guaranteed sales. The private company is happy because they make a steep cut. Only the tourists lose out, so who cares?

Unwilling to be screwed over, we changed plan, and booked a bus for the next day. It amazes me that people are so willing to go with the flow and support these schemes. Even when trying to get to the other side of the city, we were greeted with a massive smile by the bus conductor, and a local saying 'good for you', when we caught a direct bus for 7 Baht (14p, less than a shekel), rather than paying 150 Baht for a taxi; so rare is the sight of a tourist on a bus. Taxi touts reassure that the bus doesn't run any more / just finished / blew up / is too dangerous / doesn't accept tourists... anything to make a sell. And tourists will often go along with it out of simple lack of knowledge.

The Bangkok forensics museum is a must for anyone medically minded, and a must-not for anyone with a weak stomach. In fact a pathology freak-show, you can enjoy dead siamese twins in a jar, premature anencephalic babies, exostosing tumours coming out of the pickled deceased, and stare at the preserved body of the Bangkok serial murderer and cannibal who ate the hearts and livers of children to aid longevity. The total lack of real explanation of these exhibits, and the repetition of similar items, exposed in my opinion that the real aim here was entertainment, not education. Perhaps the cannibal took his belief of immortality from the same medical school that sends its students to draw pencil pictures of the aborted foetus?

Rapist in a jar

In the next corridor in the museum floor of the hospital was the parasitology exhibit, where enlarged models of the various spirochetes, worms, larvae and fungae abundant in rural Thailand would make your stomach turn slightly before stepping into the visitor cafe. Naturally, we were hungry by the end of the tour and were happy to find a vegan stall just outside the hospital, nestles between the eyeballs, trotters, scrota and various other treats of the neighbouring stalls.

After a quick clothes shop (compulsory Bangkok T-shirts and the like), we raided the Chabad house to buy all the necessary foods for Passover, starting the next week. Matzah, tuna, jam, Israeli chocolate, cake and chocolate spread in hand (don't judge - what were we going to do travelling with fresh food... and besides we mainly lived on fruit and veg that we bought as we went. It's not as bad as it sounds... honest), we boarded our night bus. Or, more accurately, the first of our night buses. This one pulled up in Surat Thani in the early hours, where we waited an hour or two for a minibus, which took us somewhere else, dumped us in the middle of nowhere, to await another minibus - already full, but soon to be much fuller. In turn, this took us to Krabi, where half the people got out, each identified by a sticker applied to us like a barcode at some earlier point. Things got out of hand when the driver, without explanation, told us to remain on the bus, while proceeding to take our bags off. When Deborah objected, the bag was thrown in her direction - when she reprimanded him, the man simply raised his hand as if going to slap her across the face. As caveman instincts took over and I tried to squeeze my way through the mass of bodies and bags in the bus, a stand-off occurred, with the idiot still refusing to lower his fist, but insisting we both sit down. Only when an older driver came and calmed him down did things revert to a state of calm; that is, until he started driving again and took out his frustration on the car.

Riled, tense and just waiting for him to touch Debs so I could crush him in to little pieces, the final straw came when we arrived at yet another change-over point, the HQ of the company, to await yet another bus. We told the manager what had happened, and she shrugged it off, saying "perhaps you'll understand when you travel some more. All you tourists are the same - you don't understand the local ways. I get these complaints ALL THE TIME.". We couldn't believe our ears. So many other people have complained before us, and they couldn't even comprehend the idea that PERHAPS they were at fault...

Anyway, eventually we arrived (with a different and more pleasant driver) at the island of Ko Lanta; a beautiful yet tiny island off the west coast of Thailand, where a few little car ferries work tirelessly to connect it with the rest of the world, 8 cars at a time. The predominantly Muslim island's population centre is Ban Sala Dan, a town at the northern tip; down its west side stretch miles of golden beaches and various resorts, bungalows, spas and restaurants, while the east is a mass of mangroves and swamps. The centre of the island is hilly and agricultural with just two roads traversing it. Debs had found a sweet little place half way down the island on the West side - and we arrived by tuk-tuk to find a very spaced-out Dutchman, who informed us that the place was full, but we can stay next door for no extra charge - we were quite happy with that since the New Coconut resort that was to be our home for a few days had a swimming pool. Our bungalow was in fact a few sheets of pressed bamboo on a wooden frame, and the brick lean-to bathroom (technically, the bungalow leant on the bathroom) was a hive of 6 and 8-legged activity. But, we weren't there for the room. Just a few steps from a pristine beach and the hottest sea water I've experienced, we were destined for many a relaxing cocktail, snorkelling amongst the fish (and sea urchins - we were very lucky to have spent hours wading around before realising how many there were when we donned our masks, and not have stepped on a single one), swimming in the pool, and best of all, video chatting with the UK, who at that precise period of time were enjoying late March snow.

For the princely sum of 200 Baht (4 quid, 25 shekels), we hired a moped for 24 hours; after a crash course in motorbikes from our friendly mildly inebriated Glaswegian from the next-door bungalow, we took for a very shaky and wobbly trip up to Ban Sala Dan, and the next day all around the island. As my balance and understanding of getting up a hill on 125cc increased, so did my speed and we were soon whipping around the island at 40 kph. The tiny engine size however, required Debs to walk on any steep uphill where I failed to get sufficient momentum beforehand. Good to keep her in shape.

Our first port of call, besides the isolated beaches and beautiful view points over pristine sea to the horizon, perhaps dotted by an occasional sailing boat, was the nature reserve that covers the southern tip on the island. Starting at the cliff top, a jungle walk descends down to the shoreline. Sounds of lizards and monkeys kept us curious as we climbed over fallen trees and circumnavigated termite trails. At the bottom, troups of monkeys played in the shade under the few huts, or swam in the mud pools, splashing each other and shouting and generally looking remarkably like humans (excluding the ones who sat on the roof eating each other's ticks).

Keeping cool

We decided to abandon the idea of an elephant trek, having passed such a place on our drive; a baby elephant, chained up in the stifling midday sun, swayed side to side, gently tugging at its chain in the knowledge it would not break, head down to the floor. We instead had a self-righteous rant at the indifferent worker who couldn't understand the concept of looking after the baby, and moved on to the old town for lunch, then back via the ancient mangroves.

Tied up in the blazing heat

Finally, we came back to our bungalow, and spent our last evening on the island  drinking cocktails by the pool and eating a kosher fish freshly caught by a man in a boat. The largely muslim population of the island is dotted with the occcasional rastafarian, which although causing the occasional cultural clash, creates a perfect symbiosis when it comes to tourism; the muslim waiter will take your order for a meal, before the local rasta or western holiday worker will come over and take your alcohol order. Two separate bills will later arrive, with the bar considered a separate business and in no way affecting the spiritual purity of the halal kitchen. It's nice to know that it's not just Judaism that has its quirks and loopholes...

The next morning, we left the island by ferry to Phuket; a beautiful journey across blue seas, between other tiny islands, finally arriving the relatively enormous island, with its own international airport, high-rise holiday homes, and street after street of sleeze, debauchery and sex shows. Why did we come to this dump? Well, as one of the key tourist destinations, this was one of just two places (Bangkok being the other) that was home to a chabad rabbi, and subsequently, a Passover seder meal; we planned our trip to minimise time on the island, and arrived just a few hours before the start of the holiday.

A little bit of outline to those of you less well acquainted with Passover: like almost all Jewish holidays, this celebration (in this case of our exodus from slavery in Egypt) is marked by symbolic foods, a retelling of the story, and a lot of wine. It is a joyous gathering of family and friends, but communal events exist for those far from home, where other like minded people will gather to celebrate together. Sounds great, right?

The massive gathering of Israelis and a handful of other Jews from around the world in the huge hired hall sparkled with the flashes of a hundred cameras and smartphones as people filmed the ceremony, contravening the rules against using electricity on a religious holiday, while people chatted away, contravening the request of the rabbi to be quiet enough for everyone to hear the ceremony. Grumpy and unattended children shouted while picking at the symbolic foods laid on each table, while the 0.3% of the room who were religious or considerate enough to wait for the appropriate time looked on hungrily at their portions being consumed. Later, the same children would take the leftover matzah (the unleavened bread - symbolising the rushed departure from Egypt when we didn't have time to let our dough rise) and crumble it over the floor for unsuspecting hotel workers to later clear. As the rabbi abandoned the normal order of the service and resorted to singing Israeli nursery rhymes ("All the world's a bridge") in an effort to encourage audience participation, the Israeli ex-pat to our side told us about her tourist agency, and gave us a business card, detailing the sex services she could arrange (all very tasteful - she can even arrange a car to collect us from our hotel and take us to some sort of goldfish presentation which is apparently similar to a ping pong presentation they were doing the year before).

We had had enough - finishing the seder by ourselves, we were among the first to leave; disappointed that what could have been a really special experience had been totally decimated. Just as we had started to feel some level of significant home-sickness for Israel, it was hammered home just how difficult the culture there can be.

Perhaps it is wrong to expect more of Israeli culture - like any modern western state, there will be a sex trade, obnoxious kids and indifferent parents, and of course those disrespectful to religion and the cultures of others; and of course, this is Phuket - the people who choose to work here, or to come here on holiday will, by and large, be more inclined to fit in with the crass and coarse local culture. But still, I want to believe Israel is better than that. Perhaps it's like taking a sample of Brits in a cheap, Benidorm all-inclusive resort, and concluding that all Brits are morbidly obese, lobster-coloured, semi-illiterate and claiming disability benefits to supplement their dole money, while being paid cash-in-hand for fixing BMWs while driving one themselves. And that wouldn't be a fair representation, would it now? Ahem.

After the holiday we climbed on board a jet boat with masses of other tourists and headed out to some fantastic snorkelling spots in the clear blue waters of Loh Samah Bay, and later to the tiny desert island of Khai Nok - a idyllic lump of sand with two palm trees, a few hundred Russians, and seemingly the most expensive ice cream on the continent. Maya Bay, the perfectly formed bay where 'The Beach' was filmed was so utterly packed that boats docked touching those on each side, and some had to wait in the bay for a parking spot. The impossibility of taking a photograph with fewer than twenty people in the backdrop drove the more antisocial of us to swim out into the water with our cameras held high, to take pictures of the few grains of sand visible between the teeming swarm of humans on the beach. However, lunch was a nice treat to the contrary - having explained our difficult dietary requirements, the group of staff who were keen to ensure we were fed, led us away from the ten-seater tables to our own private table, where fruits, veggies and curries with strict ingredient lists were presented for our delectation... beating the anticipated matzah and tinned tuna. Other customers of the tour (including an Israeli family merrily digging in to their calamari, shrimp, pork and bread rolls) eyed us up curiously, trying to recall whether there was some upgrade option for a private table published on the leaflet...

The next day, a minibus picked us up, and after another chain of changes, waits, confusion and stress, we arrived in Surat Thani, Thailand's answer to Crewe. This city, whose existence is seemingly entirely due to the trainline that runs through it and some local agriculture, was to be our home from our arrival at 1130 am (after getting up at 0600 to catch the only bus) until the departure of the next train south at 0130. Had we known this is advance we would have taken our time getting to the train, but as no one could tell us train times, we hired a tuk tuk there, arriving in a rush, scared of being stuck here until the next afternoon having just missed a train. However, instead, we spent 14 hours chilling in the sweltering heat, buying ice by the buckletload (literally) to allow us to use the only cafe's wifi, popping in to the local 7-11 to peruse the shelves while revelling in the powerful air conditioning, and buying egg, veg and rice - the only food we could find that was suitable for passover (and was to become a staple for the next few days). Children slept on the platform floor as whole families waited for the only train south, while rats scuttled around and over them in search of a bite.

Catching up on the diary over a bucket of ice

Finally, our train arrived - one of the few not to be heavily delayed. Our intention was to get to Malaysia on this train, but we were told that we could only buy a ticket to Hat Yai - a town further south in Thailand at which point we would have to get off, buy another ticket and get back on again - quickly. No reason was given, and were we more than worried about wasting a whole day in another godforsaken Thai orifice, especially when we got chatting to other people with direct tickets all the way to Butterworth in Malaysia.

But, sure enough, we awoke at Hat Yai in the early morning, and went to buy more tickets, as our train was split in two, with only the front carriages continuing on - explaining why our beds at the back would not be available. Did you know that you can't use a credit card to buy a train ticket before 8am in Hat Yai? Neither did we. As we approached our last few hours in Thailand, with just a few Baht left, we were lucky to find a few other tourists who were happy to trade some of our emergency US dollars for just enough Baht for the tickets. Thailand was beautiful, fun and a great visit. But here's a tip; you can plan well in advance, or leave things to the last minute if you have time to spare. But if you like to plan a day or two in advance like us, then you'll struggle. Get tickets in advance, or turn up and see what happens.

Climbing back on to our pitifully short train, we smiled as we made our last miles of journey to the border of Malaysia.

Northern Vietnam. The one with the socialist ideals.

The bus to Hanoi was packed. Packed and smelly. And corrupt. When Debs managed to nab to seats near the front (no reservations on this one), the driver tried to get a $5 surcharge out of us, preferring to keep the front seats for his fellow Vietnamese. We were relegated to the noisy rear-end, where the faulty toilet door incessantly banged on the side of the beds - we were stuck on the upper bunks, where three single beds were crammed in above the engine so close together that we effectively shared a triple bed with a random local, whose wandering legs kept finding their way onto our territory. Combined with a driver who beeped his horn to declare his presence to any passing vehicle, we did not exactly arrive refreshed, when our bus pulled up in the arse-end of nowhere in Southern Hanoi.

Fortunately, Hanoi is fabulous. A much smaller city than its sister HCMC in the south, the former capital of Northern Vietnam is dotted with parks and lakes, eateries and cultural sights, and is home to the fabulous old city - complete with the antique gates and walls. In this area, thirty-six streets are named after the trade that was traditionally based there; and even today it seems that the trades stick together, even if they have changed through the ages. We found 'sellotape street', 'cardboard box street', fresh produce street', 'floor tile street' and 'reupholstery of the fake leather found on motorbike seats street'. The fish market was a mix between the sea-life centre, and the London Dungeons, where crabs were bound and gutted while alive, eels were sliced lengthways and fish were betailed prior to beheading simply because they were plucked out of the net that way. All by glassy-eyed indifferent tradesmen with cigarettes hanging out of their mouths - the modern day grim reapers. Of the crustacean world.

A Vietnamese Campavan

While in Hanoi, one must go to the Vietnamese water puppet theatre, where wooden puppets seemingly float on water (I won't give away how the effect is acheived - go and see). They portray the documented history of Vietnam, from the recent unification, going back to the illicit and raunchy affair between a dragon and a fairy that led to the illegitimate offspring that later became known as Vietnam. A small orchestra and crooning women plunk and sing along respectively while a powerpoint presentation littered with grammatical crimes and typos translate the stories into English.

Vietnamese Water Puppetry

Perhaps one of the most eagerly awaited (and fondestly remembered) events of our trip came the next day. Keen to see Halong bay while keeping to our tight budget, we were on the brink of booking a cheap and cheerful tour with 'Golden Sail Tours', previously trading under some other name, and much cheaper than the next cheapest tour. Tickets for all the tour opertors are available at every single hotel and travel agent in Hanoi, and every single one has the same collection of brochures, with standardised prices and the same shpiel. We were reassured by various agents and receptionists that the tour was 'fair for the price', and that 'most people come back quite content'. A quick search on tripadvisor was the final nail in the coffin - with not a good word to their name (rats on board the boat, being charged extra for hot water, charges for bringing your own soft drinks or water on board the vessel), we decided to upgrade - and it was one of the best decisions we made on the trip. Paying nearly double (still a bargain at US$115 each for a three day two night cruise), we were picked up by Halong Dragon Cruises the next morning; on a small ship holding just 17 people, we sailed out into the world heritage bay, where pristine islets covered in nature burst out of clear flat waters. Even the haze and mist that shrouded the bay didn't detract.

As we leisurely drifted from island to island, the occasional row boat would pull up along side to offer their wares.

Haggling over Coke in Halong Bay

 As the kitchen crew freshly prepared each meal, bending over backwards to provide food for our quirky dietary requirements (which they did superbly), we would be entertained with kayaking (trying to get as far as possible without colliding with a bigger ship), or would take a smaller boat out to go swimming (although the water was cool enough the make the plentiful warm water on board much appreciated), tours of the caves (where our guide made very subtle innuendo about stalactite formations) or nearby wildlife (chucking bananas at monkeys from far enough away that they couldn't swim out to us. We would be welcomed back to our ship each time with drinks, fruit or some other perk. The only treat universally declined by all 17 guests was the karaoke evening, which failed spectacularly, and I think is testimony to the great people on board with us; with the exception of a very bizarre and hostile German family, the eclectic mix of Americans, Aussies, Malaysians, Dutch, Japanese and British-Israeli bonded very well - to the extent we plan to see several of them in later points in our trip as we arrive in their countries.

On the second night, Deborah and I had planned something a little different - when the rest of the group headed off to a city hotel on Cat Ba island (one of the only inhabited islands out of the 1969 that fill the bay), we decided to head off for some village hospitality. The boat dropped us at a jetty for the village of Viet Hai, only accessible by boat and then a long cycle ride through the forest, with plans to be back there the next morning. Winding through the thick countryside on rickety bikes with rusty chains, we finally arrived in the little village; all around villagers worked the rice paddies, and chidren played with dogs on the side of the dirt path. Mud huts and crude concrete cubes made up most of the buildings, and a single cable provided electricity from the town on the other side of the island. Even our bungalow, newly built and luxurious compared to the standard of living of the locals, was a breeze block square with a straw roof. Woooden shutters were the alternative for glass in the window, giving a choice between pitch-black darkness, or jungle mosquitoes. And yet, for the first time in days, we had a decent internet connection. Bizarre.

Exploring the vilage revealed the organic fields supprted by some western organisation, which were just a foot or two from the local land-fill site (not that this village is likely to produce much toxic waste), massive toads wallowing in the mud amongst the rice, safe from the hungry eyes of the local dogs, and an elderly coffee vendor whose total lack of English let me exploit the entire extent of my Vietnamese (coffee, sugar, water, thank you. What more do you need?)

When we climbed into our mosquito net and turned off the light, it was only a matter of seconds before the racket of a dozen lizards, spiders and who-knows-what surrounded us from every direction. But prior experience had long taught us to shut our bags at night and make sure our net is tucked in all around the bed. So we left them to it, and fell asleep as the crickets outside drowned out the bugs within.

Back in Hanoi, temporarily mourning the end of the serenity of the island, we forgot about the adventures still to come. Vietnam is a country crammed with beauty, culture and character, and one that would require far more time than we have to really get to know. So much so that time ran away from us, and we ended up abandoning our trip to Laos and flying straight back to Bangkok to make our way south in time for our Australia flight from Singapore.

In those last hours in Hanoi, we saw Ho Chi Minh's mausoleum and a statue of Lenin. We had a brief encounter with US soldiers seconded to the Missing in Action centre still searching for those who are not accounted for, and were among those to wish congratulations to a just-married couple in the botanical gardens, just seconds from the filthy cages of monkeys being fed lollipops through the bars by bored children.

And our final journey to the airport was filled with the signs of progress - possibly the most gigantic bridge I've ever seen is being built to connect to the soon-to-be-built bigger airport (funded by the Japanese), Yamaha factories churn out bikes while massive digital screens advertise the latest smartphones. This poor/rich, communist/capitalist, green/industrialised, third world/developed country has so much to offer, and so much unlike our experience of Cambodia, we were very sorry to leave her behind.

Not bad for the child of a dragon who got a bit drunk and had a fling with a fairy.

Goooooooooood morning Vietnam!

Eager to get out of sprawling Phnom Penh and move into greener territory, we found a cheap and convenient three day tour, that would take us from Phnom Penh "to the border on a boat, before changing to a Vietnamese boat after our passports are processed" and then making our way to all sorts of wonderful places around the Mekong delta as stated in the glossy leaflet. Well, although the boat turned out in fact to be a cramped minibus, most of the details of the trip turned out to be technically true. Technically.

Leaving Cambodia involved walking past an unguarded gate with a Cambodian flag, through a field on a little uneven path, where motorbikes puttered by, to another unguarded gate with a Vietnamese flag, where a soldier sat with his back to the gate, shielding his phone from the sun while he texted or played on it.

Cambodia-Vietnam border. Strictly no photos. As enforced by the absent security.

Fascinatingly, the different feel of Vietnam was palpable within these first few seconds - the floors were cleaner, fields smarter and seemingly greener, and animals did not seem to roam freely.

While we waited for the boat to arrive, stranded in the 'international tourist port' where rude staff tried to cheat you out of change for their extortionately priced drinks, we chatted to the myriad of nations comprising our little group, each sharing information on the places to go and avoid, and the tips for a successful trip to Vietnam / Oz / UK etc.

Soon the little longboat arrived and took us on the three-hour long journey along the Mekong river - the key winding waterway covering most of South-East Asia, past tiny villages, little children waded through the murky water with spears fishing for lunch, and bamboo houses leaned precariously to the water's edge on their stilts.

We pulled in to the little town of Chau Doc in the late afternoon, walking a narrow jetty about one foot wide to cross the deep mud and filth of the shore, to reach the town itself. This clean, friendly town was a lovely surprise, not least due to the fabulous vegan restaurant just a few doors from our room. Catering for the Buddhist community, 'com chay', or vegetarian rice' is a popular phenomenon throughout rural Vietnam, where tofu and soya are seasoned and textured to alarmingly resemble real meat. While I tried a beef noodles dish, Deb tried her hand at crispy shrimp. Both really tasty, neither quite realistic enough to make us doubt eating them.

When I tried to order dessert, the language barrier became a little problematic, and a friendly local woman came to our aid to explain that they did not have any desserts left. Not so special... until the same lady came back a few minutes later with a tub of sweet rice dumplings, left them on our table, and disappeared before we could properly thank her, let alone pay.

The next morning, we headed off to visit a Cham floating village, part of an Islamic minority people long persecuted in Vietnam, living in floating houses where they are exempt from council taxes and bills, and make their living breeding catfish in nets under the houses, and haranguing tourists to buy their overpriced trinkets, and silk ties boxed and ready for sale in Primark, but costing double in Vietnam.

After the very early rise to get to the village 'in time' we were a little peeved when we arrived at 11am in Can Tho and were told by our tour guide that we had free time until the next morning. Simply put, we we told to wake up at 0530 so that our bus was free at 1130 to take another herd of cattle in the opposite direction. This method of highly efficient and utterly impersonal movement was to become a recurring feature throughout our (infrequent) use of tours in Vietnam. Nonetheless, we used the free time well, including a visit to the Can Tho military museum, which was in effect a collection of shot-down US warplanes, decrepit and rusty, and the shiny, maintained Russian missile launchers responsible for them. Information signs explain the skills of the resistance, the Vietnamese superiority, and the American disorder and lack of morals.

Aside from a quick visit to the floating market of Cai Rang, where a nip down to the shops involves rowing down the Mekong and bartering with the man on the pineapple/potato/tomato/coffee/yam boat as the entire market slowly drifts downstream, and a tasty visit to a fruit plantation, and rice noodle factory (factory being a field with a furnace in the middle heating water, fueled by the unwanted husks of the previous batch's rice), it was time to move on to Ho Chi Minh City, formerly known as Saigon according to the Vietnamese government, still known as Saigon to local people.

 

Pineapple for sale in the floating market.

This former capital of South Vietnam is a booming commerce centre, complete with luxury shops found only in the likes of Knightsbridge, and all the theft, drugs and prostitution of the thriving night markets, selling counterfeit bags, tacky T-shirts, and aphrodisiacs made of pickled scorpions and snakes.

We took a trip out to the Cu Chi tunnels - the massive underground network from where resistance fighters coordinated their smuggling and fighting against the occupying US soldiers.

When our very knowledgeable and enthusiastic singing tour-guide showed us the scars from the bullet wounds inflicted by a US helicopter, and told us of his siblings who died in battle, we already anticipated some degree of bias, but we nonetheless appalled by the level to which the tour descended. As we were shown the 3 foot long bamboo spikes that lay under a thin layer of leaves covering a revolving trap door, and the iron hooks that would drive deep into the flesh of a soldier triggering a trip wire or various other mechanisms, the guide reassured us with a laugh that these 'deterrants' could only inflict minor injury, unlike American bullets. Later in the tour came the opportunity to fire various guns of the war - M4, M16, AK47 for about 70p per bullet. While various Russian tourists went to play with the guns, I grimaced at the total lack of any safety demonstration, ear protection, or in fact any deterrant from taking a gun and going on a killing spree.

 

Deborah's always taken hide and seek that step too far.

Vietnamese haemorrhoid suppositories.

"Buy your bullets here. Pound a kilo"

The final amusement came from the documentary video; a bleached and tinny video showing the beauty of the countryside before, and I quote, "like heartless evil demons the American soldiers came, shooting and killing at will, not caring whether the target was pot, pan, mother, baby or field". Even through the video we waited in hope of a positive message of peace or forgiveness or coexistence; but that message never came.

I think that the reason I was so bothered by the incessant one-sidedness was due to the fact that I can so easily imagine being on the other side; however many years from now, the son of a Hamas terrorist killed by an Israeli airstrike could be giving tours of the  Gaza tunnels, proudly showing how 'civilians' smuggled in Iranian rockets to resist the Zionist evil oppressors, even though (with a smile) they were clearly no match for Israeli helicopters. To the uneducated (or miseducated) tourists gulping down new information, there would be no doubt of Israeli guilt and Palestinian innocence.

But, the most significant amusement (or, some might say shaudenfreude) came from passing the gift shop, where one could support the triumph of good over evil, communism over capitalism, Vietnam over America, by buying an M16 bullet (made in the USA), a can of Coca Cola or a Pepsi. But anyone wanting a McDonads, KFC, Pizza Hut, Starbucks, Coffee Bean, Hard Rock Cafe, Haagen Dasz or Subway would have to wait to get back to HCMC.

Over the weekend, we relaxed, slept and met the very tiny Jewish community of the city, comprising a few Israeli businessmen, a few Israeli backpackers, and of course a Chabad rabbi (chabad is an organization that sends delegates around the world to isolated Jewish communities to help them maintain some semblance of Jewishness in their daily lives) and his wife and kids. Enjoying chicken soup, potatoes and shabbat bread made a very nice change from noodles and veg, but more so was the pleasure of chatting in Hebrew for the first time in months.

We made friends with a couple of other couples over the weekend, and they decided to join us on our night bus to Dalat, Vietnam's answer to Brighton; but more on that shortly.

Sunday was our "tourist-about-town" day, where we donned backpacks with water, hats for the sun, cameras round the necks, and wandered around disturbing traffic and photographing statues of the Independence palace, opera house, Ben Thau market (another place perfect for buying that Versace iPhone cover, or a Prada baseball cap) cathedral, and riverside, all tucked away beside modern behemoths of 50 storey monsters with helipads on top.

Now, back to Dalat. This mountain town is the honeymoon and dirty weekend capital of the country for locals, surrounded by wineries, coffee groves, waterfalls and temples. We took an overnight bus from HCMC and were delighted with the result - clean, new, filled with bunk beds where each person can lie very nearly flat, I made good use of Singapore airlines' eye patches and ear plugs to get a near full-night of sleep, while Debs was suffering from the speedy corners and rocking of the mountain ascent. One of the benefits of army service is the ability to sleep under almost any circumstances.

Inside a sleeper bus

While our new friends decided to check in to a hotel and go straight to bed, we decided to make the most of our limited time and headed out to find breakfast and a plan for the day to explore most of the key sites. In addition to those above, the most significant were the silk worm farm, where the full process of silk production from worm growth to weaving takes place in the hot shade of a metal shed; the cricket farm, where jumping crunchy bugs are deep fried and served with chilli sauce; the enormous statue of the laughing buddha in the middle of absolutely nowhere ; and the 'weasel coffee plantation - where fine arabica coffee beans are fed to weasels, and then harvested from their excrement with an earthier, deeper flavour and a vastly inflated price tag. Unsure of the kosherness of eating weasel crap, we decided to give it a miss. Smelt great though. We also visited the 'crazy house', an atrocious labyrinth of poor brick work, plasterwork made into the shapes of animals and Gaudi archways, and narrow bridges at great height between wings that will be the death of someone just as soon as a gust of wind picks up. The only reason the house got planning permission is that the architect is the daughter of one of the /early Prime Ministers of the country.

 

Coffee beans. Fresh from the weasel's anus

After a brief visit to the old railway line, now used to shuttle tourists a few kilometers down the track, and a nice wedding photo backdrop, it was time for a nice plate of com chay. Again.

The next morning we wandered down the the cnter-piece of the town, the romantic lake with swan shaped boats, floating on the murky green sludge of eutrophication, and from there to the market, where we bought silk paintings - compulsory in any tourist's souvenirs, and fruit and veg for the long journey ahead. Any temptation to buy other items was dampened by the massive rats casually strolling along, staring at the humans, sitting in cages empty since the sale of the chickens that were on their way to someone's kitchen, and browsing through the offcuts of meat left convenietly on the floor.

In the afternoon, we started the long bus journey to Na Trang, starting with the stunning mountain descent past waterfalls, sheer cliffs, hairpin bends, and the occasional bus wreck. In the seaside resort of Na Trang with its long beaches and Western hotels, we had just enough time for com chay and a stroll down the Russian dominated promenade before the next bus - an overighter to Hoi An. In principle like the last sleeper bus, this one boasted faulty air conditioning and lighting, and ergonomics designed for tiny Asian people - so the lanky likes of me find their feet crushed or their heads hanging backwards. With stopovers planned for the most random and unpleasant times and locations, we were momentarily transported back to Burma, to use filthy squat toilets in cafes with no walls or doors and bare concrete floors at 3am.

Early in the morning, we arrived on the outskirts of Hoi An. Hotel touts boarded the bus (after bribing the driver) to assure us that their hotel was the best/only one available/closest to stuff/will include free transport from the bus. Forced into making a snap decision, we agreed to take their car to the hotel, but only to stay after inspecting the room. Then, hardened by prior experiences, we were brazen enough to just walk away when their description failed to match the reality. However, the resultant trudge into the old city, searching for hotels with space not costing the earth, while carrying all our belongings, was not pleasant. 'Independent' scooter riders would recommend hotels with cheap rooms, and take us to them (on foot - no three seater bikes with space for four rucksacks), only to find we had 'just missed the last cheap room... but we have another one for more money'. Out of principle, we did not submit to the simple scam, and eventually found a great hotel, with a pool, in a great location, just outside the old city. Customer service was atrocious however, and we later watched the manager telling a girl whose camera had been stolen from her room while she slept that 'it's not my problem. You shouldn't have left it alone. You don't like it, then check out.' The woman who checked us in was equally obnoxious until I had to fill in a form declaring my occupation. When she realised she could ask me questions about her unplanned and newly-discovered pregnancy, suddenly I was showered in smiles and respect; even after I refused to perform a clinical abdominal exam.

Hoi An is a beautiful town, through the centre of which runs a small river, just a few miles from the estuary out to the South China Sea. Whereas other similar fishing towns developed to become massive tourist and industrial centres over the past few decades, Hoi An was spared thanks to a period in which the river silted up, shutting down much industry, throwing the town into poverty, and thus preserving its traditional appearance, which ironically is what makes it an up-market tourist trap today. The world-heritage list 'ancient city' (a few blocks of quaint buildings from the late 19th century) on the riverside is most famous for its supposedly bargain bespoke tailoring. Bring in a picture of your dream design for a suit or dress, or even select any item from the various mail-order catalogs they have acquired (even including the latest 'Next' catalog fresh from the UK) and they will make a hand tailored item virtually while-u-wait. However, the number of rogue merchants reported to make shoddy suits that fall apart quickly, combined with the requirement to pay up front in cash now mean that paying something between the cot of Primark and Burton's for a suit may not in fact be worthwhile, especially when it has to survive a long journey to the UK. So, we broke the tradition of leaving Hoi An with a new collection of suits, shirts and dresses, and instead will visit Moss Bros and Monsoon when we get back to the UK.

The best way to see the winding streets is by bicycle, especially since no motorised vehicles are allowed in the old town through most hours of the day. A short ride out takes you takes you to the beach, where an 'official', with the usual accidentally-back-to-front ID card will show you where to park your bike for a fee, use the toilet for a fee, and get changed for a fee. Some simple confrontation and asking who employed him quickly nullified the bicycle charges; although the toilets were apparently pay-per-pee. But hey, what's the sea for?

 

The streets of Hoi An

The next day we learned a crucial tip for all Asia travellers. Superstition has it that if you make a sale with your first customer of the day, you will have a good day of trade. So, the worst thing you can do is go into a shop first thing in the morning and 'just browse', thereby devastating the owner's prospects of a good profit all day when you walk out empty handed. However, choosing a shop and ruthlessly bartering over an item that you want will usually result in a very good deal indeed. While some shop owners would use puppy dog eyes to try pry a little more cash from us, others would chase us down the street until finally relenting and accepting our lowest offer. This practice, while sounding cruel and exploitatory, has to be offset by the quite hilarious mark-ups multiple shop owners made on our earlier purchases, and will make on American tourists for evermore (US$4 for a piece of grass that when blown over sounds like a duck, for example).

That evening, with our chopsticks, chopstick resting blocks, chopstick box, and a new day bag for Debs, we boarded yet another night bus, this one heading for our next stop, Hanoi.

But more on that later.

 

Deborah's little pet bunny.