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.

Cambodia

Leaving Myanmar was more straightforward than the guidebooks and blogs implied. Unless we just luckily slipped through the net, the US$10 'departure tax' no longer exists, no one searched our belongings to ensure that we did not take any local currency with us (I smuggled out around 10 pence worth - rebel), and no one checked that we did not remove artefacts of national importance, as stated at immigration.

Back in Bangkok, we made the snap decision to leave straight for Cambodia - staying overnight at Aranyaprathet in a sleazy hotel with the thumping night club next door, before crossing the border the next morning.

Stories abound about the enourmous number of visa scams at all Asian borders, but this border, as a backpacker favourite, is notorious. So when we hired a tuk-tuk driver to take us straight to the border, we were comforted to be dropped off at an impressive building with a large car park, air conditioning and formal desks where uniformed staff were on hand to help fill in the forms.

Only two things were unusual - all the pens were from various different Thai banks and private companies; and the standard $20 fee was to be paid as 900 Thai Baht - which a little maths tells us is $30. When the manager assured us that this was the official visa application room (and indeed there was a digital photographer on hand for those who did not bring photos), we would have trusted him... were it not for the fact that just a few days earlier friends had gone through and confirmed the price was meant to be $20.

The manager invited us to go to the passport control to confirm the price - a long queue and about 20 minutes walk away. We called his bluff and went. Sure enough, we strolled out of Thailand with no fees whatsoever, and found the real visa point much, much further on; the well oiled scam, where taxis will take a cut for dropping you at the large building placed and designed just to fool us Westerners must take in a massive sum each month - enough to fund a large staff and building; and it's easy to be none-the-wiser. They will process your visa for you - by going themselves to the real place, taking a 50% cut and wasting a huge amount of your time.

On the other side, we presented our forms, and were told the fee was $20 plus 100 Baht administration fee. The hand written sign concurred. The official sign did not. A brief refusal to pay any administraion fee resulted in getting our Cambodian visa for the real price of $20 and not paying any bribes, or submitting to any cons - there are plenty of destitute people to give money to in both these countries. Corrupt border police are not the correct ones.

The scams continue - a free shuttle bus stands ready at the border to take tourists to the 'international bus terminus' a shed in the middle of absolutely nowhere where one bus company sets a falsely high price for a trip to Siem Reap - once there, there is no choice but to pay - bribed police stop taxis and minibuses approaching the terminus, so all duped people pay the bus company or walk dozens of miles. We walked a mile or so from the border to find a cheap taxi to take us traight to Siem Reap. Hot, and irritating, but worth it on principle, even though it didn't save all that much time or money.

En route to Siem Reap - we passed the scene of a car crash - where a truck had driven off the road and hit an electric pylon - the cables subsequently pulling down around another 8 pylons on either side. Watching work men dig a hole with hoes, while others built by hand brick foundations for a pylon that had yet to arrive and be assembled (if it had even been ordered) - we were blissfully unaware of the implications - that most of Western Cambodia was without its link to Thailand's power stations, and hence without power - and was to remain so for at least the duration of our stay.

Even our taxi driver screwed us - by dropping us outside town and forcing us to take a tuk-tuk to our booked hotel. The benefit of the massive number of tourists staying in Siem Reap is an extremely high standard of accommodation. $20/night got us a large ensuite with TV, DVD, balcony, access to the DVD collection, free wifi and PC use, free bike rental, and nice service. The powercut got us a boiling hot room with not even a fan, candlelit toilet visits, and not much use for a DVD player. So important is the tourist industry that the centre of town enjoyed a specially diverted electricity supply during evening and night, so that the bars, restaurants, shops and pickpockets could make their living.

Siem Reap, while quaint, really is a tourist reservoir; just next to Angkor, the world heritage site filled with dozens of temples and religious sites up to around 1000 years old (a little toddler compared to Jerusalem, but who's counting), the town is bursting with pubs, overpriced Western food, loud music, baseball cap and flip flop shops, and not a hint of Cambodia. But to buck the trend slightly, we took bicycles instead of the lazy tuk-tuk and headed up to the temples for sunset, meeting up there with the other 6000 tourists who visit every day. Nonetheless, the awesome architecture and stunning views as sun set behind the towers of Angkor Wat were only slightly dampened by the masses of flashing cameras, and the local mothers parading their disabled children with gross deformities and / or hydrocephalus to make a quick buck (see below for why this scene was yet another con).

The next day we enjoyed an early start to get to the temples before day break and the rest of Siem Reap's tourists arriving. Cycling through silent roads of countryside, past temples engulfed in the roots of giant trees was bliss, until the tuk-tuks arrived and every view was slightly changed by a Japanese tour group, a hot and grumpy child, or a vendor shrilly shouting, "Sir? Lady? You wan' some col' wader? Col' coca-cola? Hot caffeee? Hammock? Baseball cap?"

Like seeing the ten best movies of all time back-to-back, by late afternoon we were fully numbed to the greatness of what we saw. Realising that even the most ornate and intricate stone carving from 1350 was inducing a teenage-style shrug, it was time to head back and enjoy a different culture for the evening.

In true middle class style we attended a cello concert, which was truly inspirational, but not for the music. The performer, Dr Beat Richner, is a Swiss paediatrician who has dedicated his life for the last several decades to the children of Cambodia. Previously a comedian-cum-celloist known as 'Beatocello' in his home country, he is now the founder and director of 5 children's hospitals throughout Cambodia, and plays twice weekly concerts to encourage the visiting wealthy to fund his entirely free hospital, the visiting young to donate blood to deal with the endemic Dengue fever, and the visiting young married couples with a little cash and fresh blood to give both. The hospitals received just a few percent of their costs from the government, and provides western medical services to all who require, even covering patient's travel expenses so that no family need become more destitute to care for their children. So engrained is the corruption in this country that even the cleaners earn more than 12 times the national average, to eliminate the temptation to extort money from patients' families. For those interested in donating, look for 'Kantha Bopha hospitals', named after the late King's daughter, who died of leukaemia. The cello performance only took about ten minutes, but hearing his stories of Cambodia and watching videos of hospital life during the rule of the Khmer rouge were equally, if not more, entertaining and moving.

We made a quick morning getaway to Cambodia's capital, Phnom Penh, by bus. Once again, a single stopover in 6 hours at a cafe in the middle of nowhere, most likely owned by the bus company or offering back-handers, enticed a bus load of tourists to pay stupid fees for mediocre food; even the bus times in each direction were calculated so that we would be gone in time for the bus travelling in the opposite direction to arrive - they in turn would be out just in time for the next bus in our direction to arrive.

The capital is a semi-metropolis where Cambodian culture still bursts through in pockets among the luxury coffeeshops, internet cafes, and budget hotels where $13 may get you air con, but no windows. Street vendors will sell their fried chicken feet and entrails just outside places offering burgers for twenty times the price. The buzzing central market hosts stalls selling herbs, veg and live chickens alongside genuine top-brand rucksacks for a few dollars, and genuine Rolex watches for just $30. All genuine. Real. Gold. Honest. Tourist drive-by snatch muggings are a daily occurrence, with us meeting three victims in 36 hours.

Having checked in to a grubby little hotel in the middle of touristville, we headed out to explore. Hiring a tuk-tuk for the day, we followed the voyeur-tourism trail, first heading to Tuol Sleng, formerly a high school, but which reached world notoriety as Security Office 21 - a detention and torture centre of the Khmer Rouge in the middle of the city, where people would be sent for protesting against the regime, having an education, being monks, not reporting other people who did not support the regime, or in the case of some of the Khmer Rouge's own soldiers, not arresting enough people... or in the case of many survivors, no reason whatsoever. The site itself was remarkably poorly put together - a random mismash of photos, torture instruments, cells and the occasional testimonial, with little educational value or emotive presentation. Here and there, some cash would buy you a photo opportunity with a survivor, or a little more cash would pay for one to give you a tour and show you their own cell; given the horrors that occurred here, the site could be used for so much good - after the investment at Yad Vashem holocaust memorial in Jerusalem, where an incredible analysis of the events leading up to the largest genocide in history is catalogued and presented alongside so much explanation and documentation, and where survivors volunteer their time to talk to children to educate them in tolerance, and all funded by the government due to its significance to the state's identity, it seemed bizarre to be paying for smiley photos with survivors of Cambodia's own massacre.

Like the many victims of Tuol Sleng, our next stop was the killing fields at Chuoeng Ek - the surprisngly small compound where thousands of people were exterminated at the hands of the regime. As most of the buildings were demolished before the government realised the importance of preservation, little remains except pits where remains were exumed, and a large modern memorial - a tall tower fillled with thousands of skulls of the victims - grouped by age and gender. As one walks through the grounds, the occasional human bone wrapped in an old piece of clothing sticks up through the ground, where rain has eroded another burial site. Signs request from tourists not to touch the remains - but to leave them for the staff who periodically do the rounds and gather up pieces to re-bury. The occasional chicken roams freely around, pecking at the ground.

 

 

Cambodia is a country still shaken by its past, unable to come to terms with its history, while suffocated by corruption and trying to cash in on voyeur tourism. As it looks to a brighter future, so we looked onwards to Vietnam.

Bangkok and Burma

Monday 18/02/13

Before I even finished writing the last blog entry, the adventures had already begun. While somewhere very high up, trying to doze on the long flight, I felt a thud; the sort of thud one hears when a large bag falls on a hard surface. In this case, it was followed by a little murmuring - enough to make me hesitantly remove my complimentary eye shade and ear plugs. Looking in the direction I'd sensed the thud, I saw a pair of feet lying in the alley.

I'll tell you from the outset that this isn't an exciting medical emergency - a middle aged man with a history of vasovagal syncope who has a syncopal episode after standing up for a pee, after 4 glasses of wine and 7 hours into a night flight, with no significant clinical findings is hardly noteworthy... but what IS noteworthy was the implication. I decided that to play on the safe side I would check the guy's blood pressure before sending him off to sober up. Other medics beware - the minute you use any of the flight medical equipment, even if just a blood pressure check - you are declaring a medical emergency. All the medical boxes (and there is an impressive checklist of medical gear on an A380) were brought from the front to the rear of the plane by a hoard of in-flight crew. Contact was made with the international aviation medical emergency control room in Kansas USA, where some shmuck doctor was on hand to thank me for my assistance, and I had to spend my shut-eye time writing a report and explaining to a charming Singaporean lady with crap English what vasovagal syncope was. Of course, after that the lid was off - I was no longer simply a human being - no no. From then on, all staff called me Doctor Albert, and most came by, one at a time, to thank me for 'saving the day', and 'keeping us all safe' (and on one occasion, to ask me what the long term side effects would be of continued zolpidem use on an intermittent basis) - all I'd done was check a guys pulse, check he wasn't post ictal, and stuck an automatic BP machine on his wrist. AND ALL I WANTED WAS A BUSINESS CLASS UPGRADE. But no - now an eternal point of contention between me and Debs, they could not upgrade both of us, so I missed out, instead settling for the consolation prize of a duty free voucher. Words are cheap. I wanted a fully reclining bed and soft slippers.

Thanks to a late departure, we missed our connection at Singapore - which was fine with us - after a lavish complimentary meal at a vegetarian Indian restaurant in Changi Airport and a quick tour of the cactus garden on the rooftop there, we boarded the next plane, 2 hours later. Nowhere near the quality of the A380 (seriously, it felt like business class - from the incredible menu to the legroom, to the attentive staff, to the mouthwash in the bathroom, and the huge amount of storage in the cupboard between the chair and the window), not sure I ever want to fly anything else ever again.

Bangkok 

Landing in the metropolis, we took a long hard look at the map and decided that the directions to our first night's accommodation - a simple room for ten quid a night courtesy of Air B'n'B were complete trollop. So we set off instead on what seemed to be a much shorter and cheaper journey on Bangkok's skyrail and underground to arrive somewhat smug in the required neighbourhood not much later than we expected to from our missed earlier flight.

Unfortunately, finding the building was another issue. In the poorly lit backalleys of Bangkok, where perhaps one in ten buildings has a number on it, and they use the Israeli system of number ordering (start at one, then two, then 17, then the age of your first cat when you were six, then divide your least favourite number by 4.28 and round up until you get to an integer divisible by 17 etc), the system is made even more complicated by the fact that we didn't know that a side street apartment has at least three numbers. So we were in room B, apartment 19, building 34, on the side street closest to 55 Soi Sri Bumphen / So Si Bumpen / Soi Sri Brumphen (depending on whether you're using Google maps, Lonely Planet, or offical directions. Naturally, the very first person we spoke to in Thailand turned out to be an Israeli expat - but even with his ten years in Bangkok, he didn't know the road numbers on the street where he lived. With the help of a Thai lady who sent us in the wrong direction, then realised her mistake and came running after us to apologise and correct herself, we found the room - let out by two guys, one Thai, one Russian - who seem to make their living by renting some rooms, doing some laundry, selling some underwear, and plying the blackmarket with small mammals such as the baby squirrel that disappeared during our stay. I like to think that all these trades are independent of one another. But I cannot be sure.

Tuesday 19/02

Our first morning - and I was now officialy thirty years old - we headed out of our room to be hit by the wall - less of heat, but of humidity - that summarises life in this city - breathing feels like effort, everything rubs, and getting on to a packed train is sheer bliss thanks to air conditioning.

One of the big dilemmas of our trip planning was whether or not to go to Myanmar. On the one hand, this fascinating and unique country would be an amazing place to see, especially now that it looks like the military regime may be loosening its grip on the population; as international trade sanctions start to fall, and foreign investment rises, this could be the last chance to see the old Burma. On the other hand, the foreign office warnings, border fighting, interrogation of visitors, not to mention the difficulty in getting a visa, make it a little less comfortable than shuffling through Thai customs with a thousand other tourists waiting for a free and inevitable visa.

So, naturally our first stop was the Myanmar embassy in Bangkok. Form filling, lots of queueing surrounded by the other folk trying to get off the beaten track, and a big wad of Thai Baht later, and it was off to rejoin the trail of the masses - boat up the Chao Phraya river to Wat Po to look at the giant reclining Buddha, lots of smaller Buddhas, and then onwards in a Tuk-Tuk to a giant standing Buddha, a big Buddha on a hill, and at the request of the Tuk-Tuk driver, to a couple of tour and travel operators where people woud try to sell us overpriced bus tickets,. and in the case of a Welsh ex-pat called Steve, tell us that all our travel plans for South-East Asia were crap and we should pay him a lot of money to arrange for us a trip that he would like to do which takes in to account none of the things we came to see.

A Tuk-Tuk, if you were wondering, is an incredibly fun and hilariously dangerous way to get around - effectively the front half of a motorbike attached to the back half of a cart, these very light vehicles, driven by a driver often sitting on a plastic seat, and naturally devoid of walls, doors or other luxuries like seatbelts. They re fast, cheap, and seemingly exempt from both the highway code, and the laws of physics as they drive on the wrong side, swerve to avoid oncoming lorries, and squeeze through gaps that an average human wouldn't get through.

Food was an interesting subject from day one in Thailand.

Firstly - if you like fresh food, keep away - artificial preservatives may be frowned upon in the UK but here they seem unavoidable in most foods - the most repulsive example that springs to mind is that, in the 30 degree heat, one can buy in almost any corner shop a tuna sandwich sitting on a none-refridgerated shelf, with a use-before date 5 days in the future.

Second - veggie food is easy to come by. Vegetarian delicacies here include chcken, sausage, and ham. Many shellfish are vegetarian. Rice must always be seasoned with oyster sauce, and even the carrot sticks we tried to buy were seasoned with shrimp powder.

Third - the Thai diet is incredibly unhealthy. If living here on a shoestring, street-eating is the way to go. The smell of grease, fat, and burning scum at the bottom of a vat of an unclassifiable cooking animal permeates all clothes, and giving the lack of a breeze and high humidity, sits on the street throughout the night. Every few metres on every busy street, someone wil be selling something 'edible' - from tiny omlette things, to pad thai rice, pigs trotters, or soup. If you go to the tourist ghetto, you can add beetles, crickets and scorpions to that list. But as you can also find Bangkok's only kosher restaurant on the same street, it's not too tempting to put a scorpion in my mouth when I'm used to treating their venom.

That all said, if you are prepared to risk requiring a lot of imodium - which you have to be if you wish to eat - there are veggies, fruits, and inoffensive rice and noodles to be found on many a corner.

The next day or two of wandering in Bangkok flew by as we used the time to prepare to our last minute trip to Myanmar (Burma). In this country that only changes money from crisp, unused US dollars dated 2006 or later with no pencil markings or other defacements, and runs a strict policy of internal currency, we had to make the most inefficient money deal ever - change our Sterling travellers cheques to Thai Baht, take the Thai Baht to another changer who provides US dollars meeting Myanmar's rules, so that we can get to Myanmar and change them again into Kyat (pronounced Chat). Combined with flight bookings, trying to find accommodation (Welsh Steve assured us that we couldn't find accommodation in Burma without booking in advance so we got scared into booking- of course, he was talking crap), and making a tentative itinerary, the time blurred by until we were on a taxi to Don Mueang Airport - the diddy one in North Bangkok - the Luton to London's Heathrow.

A short flght later on Air Asia (basically Ryanair with a different colour scheme and more noodles), we were in Burmese airspace. As we descended towards Yangon, we passed the mountainous Eastern border region and the arable plains - at the end of the dry season, an expanse of straw and brown fields.

I may be pretty clued up on my Israeli history, but I'm very lacking in Myanmar knowledge - I'm going to write my interpretation of the brief history of the region because it is very relevant to our experiences there. I apologise for any misinformation, lies or bias. Any claims of damage as a result of this information, or lost marks if someone plagiarises to write a history project, will be disregarded with cheerful disinterest.

Burma gained independence in 1948 from the British, spearheaded by General Aung San. In 1962 General Ne Win led a military coup and gained power. With extreme socialist ideals he isolated the country and decimating the economy over a period of decades when the rest of Asia advanced, suppressing peaceful protest, arresting opponents and imprisoning Aung San Su Kyi, the daughter of the General of the same name, who became a prominent face in the democracy campaign, and later the leader of the National League for Democracy - which in the last elections before she was put under house arrest, gained 82% of the vote - which the military junta decided to totally ignore.

The leadership decided to change fundamental features of the country - the name was changed from Burma to Myanmar even though most locals, the US and UK, and even the NLD continue to use its former name. The capital Rangoon is now Yangon - and is no longer the capital (now Nay Pyi Daw).

Gradually things are starting to change - the country has opened its doors to foreigners in the past couple of years, and while still limiting movement in the country, deciding where you can go, no longer restricts them to plane and train - as long as you declare your passport number and where you're staying, you can take a bus too. Yay.

Based on the impressions all this gives, we were somewhat disappointed to land and step into an airconditioned jetty leading right into a shiny airport fit for any modern city. A billboard proudly announced that for the first time in history, one bank will allow use of Mastercard in the country. There is still no international mobile phone roaming there, but it surely isn't far behind.

Changing our crisp, unused US dollars for local Kyat, our $100 bill wass exchanged for 85500 Kyat - the largest note of which is 1000. Leaving the airport with the fat brown envelope, I felt rather wealthy. Despite the customs decaration regarding bringing gold into the country, we successfully managed to smuggle our wedding rings in without even taking them off.

Entering Yangon, the feeling was a world apart from Bangkok - dotted with the occasional new car, lorries from the 1950s, buses with people literally hanging out of the doors and on the roofs, and masses of old motorbikes and bicycles filled the cramped streets. At the same time, adverts for smartphones, construction of new lanes and flyovers, and large digital displays promoting local business created a bizarre paradox of new pushing in and covering the old.

We arrived at our guesthouse in the late evening as the streets were dying down. In Myanmar, your money will not get you anything like in Thailand or (we hope) the rest of Asia. Our $25/night room did have air conditioning, but no windows.. and plenty of mosquitoes. Having settled in, we set out to see a stupa just around the corner. The feel of Yangon was so relaxed - so quaint and quiet compared to any other (until recently) capital city. Locals would curiously look at us, unsure what to make of these rare foreigners, while children would just stare; but a quick smile and a hello (mengel-abba) would without exception break even the most sceptical glare into a big smile and a hello. Arriving at the stupa in early evening, people were praying in peace, the incense settling on the still air, and the quiet buzz of the electric pylons powering the LED lights around the buddhas' heads drowned out the mantras of the monks. The modest little place, even with its grand golden stupa, felt a hundred times more real and significant than being herded past the far bigger and ornate temples of Thailand with a thousand other tourists.

The complimentary breakfast consisted of two pieces of toast, one boiled egg, one banana, and one cup of instant coffee, and we headed off to explore again - deep in the Muslim market just west of the centre of town, down a narrow street filled with traders sitting on the floor selling only fresh natural fruit, veg, nuts, fish and meat (and decapitating the living fish only when bought), we came across Myanmar's only synagogue - home to the 25-strong community who 100 years ago numbered 3000. Mostly Iraqi Jews who moved over the last couple of centuries, this beautiful building was just like any other Sephardi synagogue, with its stunning silver torah scroll cases, and a mikveh next door, 4 metres from being full at the end of the dry season. Pictures of David Ben Gurion, Israel's first prime minister, visiting and meeting the Burmese Prime Minister, and multiple other photos of dignitaries throught the decades consituted a tiny museum of Burmese Jewish life, and the man who now heads the community gave us some shabbat candles as a little memento.
Onwards to the waterfront, where we paid $2 for the ferry ride across the river. Cheap, you might think? No. Well, yes, but not when you know that it costs 50 kyats (about 6 pence) for a local. Between the two of us and a single other tourist on the boat, the government made about as much money as from all the other passengers put together.

This ferry 'cross the Mersey took us to Dalla, a very simpe township of bamboo huts, many without electricity, and the occasional wealthy person who has made his money by fishing in the right areas who may have built a solid house, even with a car. Just a week before we arrived, the municipality had replaced some of the dirt tracks with concrete roads - a sign perhaps of the change taking place here. We hired a rickshaw to cycle us round, and it was rare for people not to wave and shout 'hello' and laugh as these two fat westerners were pulled round on a cycle rickshaw around their beautifully kept village.

That evening we took an overnight bus to Inle lake - 13 hours drive up in the North of the country. Once again, the government's $5 entrance tax to this area is a nice way to fund their regime, but unless willing to risk the consequence of sneaking past the booth - not easy in a taxi - unavoidable.

Having arrived at 0500, we were delighted to find one of the last remaining rooms anywhere in the town of Nyaung Shwe very quickly and headed out to try and see sunrise. As we walked along a canal, we were invited to hire a boat with an English-speaking driver, and ten minutes later were speeding down the miles of canal to the lake itself, not realising that the miles of marshland between the town the the lake are marked as water on the map. As fishermen stood on the very tips of their boats, balancing on one leg while pedaling with the other on the utterly still water, a beautiful sun rose over the mountains, and we headed over the lake to find breakfast in a small market, devoid of tourists - so much so that once again WE were the attraction. As we sipped coffee and ate some sort of samosas and mashed beans from another vegetarian street seller, we sat on the tiny chairs that toddlers use - this being the norm in most eateries in the country.

As the day broke, the lake showed its true colurs - a place that is much more developed for tourism than most of the rest of the country, but still small enough to feel special. We sped over the lake to villages built entirely on stilts in the lake, to see silk workshops, cigar 'factories' (two women sitting on the floor with pots of tobacco, aniseed, tamarind and coconut, rolling them up in fresh leaves with some bamboo as a filter, before sticking them shut with sticky rice), a monastry, and a posh floating restaurant where the boat pulled up at a bambo pier, and we were welcomed with cold face towels and a balcony seat before homecooked rice and noodles - for about $3 each. We added our own fresh tofu, bought that morning in the market.
The next day was no less beautiful as we hired two bikes to travel around the lake, visiting a winery, watching the farmers ploughing their fieds with oxes, and harvesting the corn with scythes, and found in one miniscule remote village, where children ran about with a wheel and stick, a bamboo hut with just four chairs, selling just one single meal - a vegetarian traditional Shan province meal. $1.50 each bought a freshly cooked tofu curry, potato curry, tomato salad, rice, and an avocado milkshake.

We were very sad to leave Inle lake when we climbed aboard the night bus to Mandalay. In contrast to the last bus we took with ample leg room and air-con, this one was sheer hell. For the 9 hour journey, we sat in seats so tightly packed that even Deborah's knees were flat against the seat in front. The aisle was lined with fold up chairs so that there was no aisle at all, and therefore not even a place to stand or to stretch one leg out. And to top it off, they decided to play a Burmese karaoke TV show, where one after another, video remakes were played. I stopped counting and entered a traumatic coma after the tenth consecutive 'Gangnam style' video. Honestly.

When we arrived in the unsigned wasteland outside Mandalay that is considered a bus-stop, at 3am, a quick taxi ride took us to the 'hotel district' - a sprawling grid-system of roads where packs of dogs exploit the cool night air to wake up from the hot day's moping around panting and terrorize unsuspecting tourists wandering the deserted streets looking for a bed. A lot of barking and thoughts about rabies post-exposure prophylaxis later, we had found one of the few unoccupied rooms in the city, courtesy of a brand new hotel that just opened its doors. Treated like royalty by staff who stop and bow when they pass, we were escorted to our room - with all the mod cons, even television, fridge and wi-fi. When asked for coffee to go with the kettle, it took four staff - one to go out at 4 am to buy coffee (they had just run out / never had a coffee drinker before), one to bring it to the room, one to hold the door to the room open, and one to run off and find a silver tray to pass the coffee over the threshold. Plus the manager to oversee the important transaction. Shame they bought tea by mistake. I decided not to tell them.

Mandalay is a city of contrast - big and covered in smog, with the same small-town feel of the capital. An economic and cultural hub with massive Chinese investment meant that the next day we went out to streets full of cars, in particular Chinese jeeps which pumped out masses of smoke and noise. Large buildings, smart phones, and LED adverts adorn the streets, as do the multiiple Chinese language signs and shops catering for the expats cashing in on Myanmar's impending boom.

Exploring the city on foot revealed the slums, just an alley or two away from luxury banks and businesses, where running water, sewers and surfaced roads have not been installed in the wood and corrugated iron shacks. Alongside the jeeps, impossibly old bicycles and horse-drawn carts negotiate the hectic junctions.

A guide to Burmese highway code.

1. Drive on the right.
2. Do so in a right-hand drive vehicle. Don't ask why - no one seems to know.
3. Drive with no shoes.
4. If red light shows, go.
5. If amber light shows, go.
6. If green light shows, judge situation before proceeding cautiously as other people may be on red.
7. If turning left, drive on wrong side of road before junction for up to 200m. Don't worry, everyone accepts this as normal. Once turned, drive through oncoming traffic at your leisure to regain your place on the right side of the road.
8. If turning right, traffic lights do not apply.
9. When crossing a junction, give-way laws do not exist. DO NOT STOP. Proceed at a steady consistent pace aiming for gaps between crossing vehicles and adjusting your speed accordingly. He who beeps first (or rings his bicycle bell) first or for longest and with the most enthusiasm is deemed to be the next person to cut through.
10. Helmets are for losers. So are lights, chain oil, brake lights, indicators, and brakes.

Debs and I cycled through a huge chunk of the city to reach a temple in the South; I raced a young monk en route. I felt it only fair to let him win. He was in sandals and robe carrying his alms. I was on a bike. Amazingly, the driving system works. Cutting corners, moving at steady speed and exploiting gaps between other vehicles means that the traffic keeps moving, even though the roads are wholly inadequate. We didn't see a single accident, which really defies probability. There were very few damaged vehicles around, and not too many damaged people either. One or two glasses of cool, crisp Mandalay beer the the roads were much less scary.

We had just 36 hours in the smog of Mandalay, so extreme that when we climbed Mandalay hill to watch sunset (apparently with every other tourist in the city - it was heaving up there), the sun set about ten minutes early - as it disappeared behind the smog long before it reached the horizon. It was time for what I expect will remain one of the epic experiences of our whole trip - the train from Mandalay to Yangon.
The dated, decrepit, dangerous Burmese rail network, built by the British in the imperial days, is even more like a time warp than the rest of the country. Known for delays, derailments and probably some other 'D', we boarded at a station where the platform overflowed with well wishers, porters, cargo, old leather trunks and livestock.

Seating options varied between 'ordinary class' which would get you a wooden bench in a packed carriage with a single toilet between around 100 people with holes for windows and no lights, to 'upper class' featuring reclining soft seats, and for real luxury, a sleeper carriage - a four-person en-suite berth complete with closeable windows, metal toilet with hole down to track, running water, and a ceiling fan. Windows and metal shutters could be lowered, but in the absence of air conditioning, was not recommended.
Given the 15 hour planned journey, we invested in sleeper tickets for the overnight ride. At $33 each (obviously, government foreigner tax - locals pay something in the region of $2 for a sleeper - which few can afford), it was worth every single cent.

As a guard escorted us to our carriage, we took in the art-deco surrounds of the ornate railway station. [Translation: As some guy in a sweaty shirt pointed us to our 50 year old filthy door, we looked at the crumbing remnants of a once beautiful station]. We found our two plush seats, each as wide as any business class flight and ready to be collapsed into a full size bed, and relaxed by the window to take in the sounds and sights of the platform. [Translation: The threadbare seats, not upholstered since the train was moved to Burma from India in 1990 (too old for the Indian network), collapsed as we sat on them, as their slide rail has broken over the years, meaning the running wheels on one side hung loose. Not, we hoped, a metaphor for the rails of the train. People popped up at the window to inspect the white folk, and the children of the train found immense joy in being photoghraphed and shown themselves on the little TV screen on the back of the camera.]

A waiter came to ask our orders for the evening meal in the restaurant car, where we could transfer when the train arrived into Thazi 4 hours later. [Translation: Noodle or rice? No chicken. OK. Beer?]
Some 12 carriages away from the engine - also an Indian retiree - we neither heard nor felt the train ever so slowly move off. As children ran down the track to race the train, or hung off the side to hitch a ride downtown, we passed into the poorer and poorer suburbs until green broke through and the fields, lakes and hills of Burma passed by as the train happily threw us from side to side. A peep out of the window revealed dozens of heads leaning out, ducking as a tree, fence or pylon reached them. The gaps between carriages were filled with people escaping the crowding of 'O Class'. People in the villages aside the track would eat, wash, defecate and undress as we passed, seemingly unaware that for a few seconds they had become a peep show. Children would almost unanimously stop and wave, faces lighting up when we in the carriages waved back.

Sun set, the train chugged on, and at Thazi when the train slowed, a man ran alongside our window with a plastic bag with two polystyrene pots of noodles and rice, a bottle of beer, and a glass beer mug. Payment was made through the window, as the man apologised that the restaurant car was not opening. Some 12 hours later, the same man would run alongside the window to politely request we return the beer mug and to take a breakfast order which we declined.

I am often a little unsympathetic to beggars - I am more inclined to give money to someone trying to sell a piece of straw than to someone who expects money or nothing. But when grown men and children came to the window to beg not for money, but for food, the guilt of travelling in this relative luxury became ever more acute. We quickly made up some parcels of food from the fruit and snacks we had bought along the way, and passed through the barbed wire designed to keep the poor away from the rich folk what we could before the train gained too much speed.

Deb got bottom bunk, I got top - a hard, narrow piece of wood with a thin mattress and a lumpy pillow which would have done nicely except that when the train reached top speed - which felt like 100mph and was probably more like 40mph - the jolts of the carriage literally made my entire body leave the bed. Each landing created a new point of discomfort, especially when the metal side railing was involved.
The journey ran smoothly, and we pulled in right on time at 0615. When we gathered our things together, the platform guard confusedly pointed out that we had a long way to go - about 3 hours. No particular reason - the train just went slower that night.

Some 18 hours after departing, we arrived at Yangon, not one person surprised or rushing after a three hour delay. A much needed shower later, we set off to Shwe Dagon, the largest pagoda in the city, where 8 hairs of the Buddha are said to be buried. Lunch at a little street stall - more delicious noodles, vegetable soup, and a long chat with a drill-engineer-cum-monk who had travelled 450 miles to see the pagoda, and invited us to sit with him, before trying to pay for our meal.

If other countries on our trip are half as special as Myanmar, I'll be very happy. Good, honest people, devout yet modest, happy yet impoverished, proud of their country despite oppression and intimidation. A country so far all but untouched by Western commercialism, yet so welcoming of Westerners - even if that is in part due to stickers in public places ordering, "Take care and warmly welcome tourists".

Words and even the many hundreds of photos we took will not do this one week justice. If Bangkok is anything to go by, South East Asia is already first world and tourism has made it a homogeneous lump of tourist experiences. Burma still feels real.

Musings at 35,000 feet

It's time to resurrect the blog. Almost 12 months since the last entry, and there has barely been a single moment to write anything - and that's no exaggeration. Since well before the end of the army, life has been hurtling by - during the final six months of the army, every free moment (and there certainly weren't many) was spent trying to figure out what next; where to live, what to do to make a living; basically what we wanted from life, while simultaneously trying to plan the immediate future afterdischarge - to go straight to specialist training, or to make up for the time apart by splurging our meagre earnings on a once-in-a-lifetime trip. Happy dilemmas, no question. But stressful ones at the same time, and not helped in the least by the two camps interfering on each side.

"Go travel - you'll never get another chance. Spend every penny, see everywhere." "Don't you want children? You're both coming up to thirty; what if you have problems conceiving? You can travel when you retire, but the fertile age is only a one-off."

For better or for worse, the travel bug won. And so began the super-stressors: trying to make the money to fund such a trip, and then of course, where to go. How much money could we make in a reasonable non-specific period of time, and how far could we travel? Where are the most important places to go to and what can we put off until, say, retirement?

It quickly became evident that a trip to the UK was in order. 18 months of army service without seeing most of my family apart from brief visits to see us in Jerusalem, a desire to keep my foot in the door of the UK medicine establishment, and the chance to earn more than double the salary I could earn in Israel made this first step very clear.

Of course,there's also the building yearning for the old life - the polite drivers, the British TV, the customer service. No matter what perks life has in Israel, ignoring for a moment the ideological fulfillment and meaning that life has, and notwithstanding the completion of a dream to be an Officer of the Israel Defence Forces, the sheer joy that my Britishness generates when a pedestrian smiles and mimes 'thank you' when you stop at a red light and don't run them over is surprising. Of course I'm going to stop. But why shouldn't I be thanked for not commiting murder? Why should that snooty Israeli feel that it's his/her right to walk in front of my car without saying thank you or even acknowledging the effort I just made by first elevating my right foot, and then depressing it a few inches to the left? It is perhaps petty, but day after day of the ingratitude (or, for the sake of argument, the lack of expressed gratitude) builds up, and wears you down. Day to day non-events, like queueing at the supermarket generate irritation at the check-out person's bad attitude, whereas a little smile would have changed the whole experience to a positive one. After three years of the same, and half that time in the dregs of society working with the young runts who comprise Israel's young conscripts, I have not adapted; instead, I have had my pride in my Britishness reaffirmed. The British culture is not 'different'. It's better. And the simple concept of mutual respect, a Jewish concept as much as a British one, needs to be applied for Israeli society to progress and be the light unto the nations that Israel needs to be to achieve its potential. Many people will say they prefer the honesty of Israelis who will say what they mean. Well, I don't. I prefer tact, subtlety, and patience. It works in civil society, and it's nicer.

Looking back so long after leaving the army, it is very hard to think of juicy stories to tell. There's the time a Palestinian and his British activist walked into the middle of a live-fire exercise where I was the doctor on standby. As the subtle officers started to shout at them to "get out, or you'll be shot", I quickly saw the opportunity to prevent a classical media distortion. When it was explained by one British gentleman to another (even though one was in combat greens with a loaded M16 machine gun and a 20kg medical kit, and one was in sandals with a keffiyeh around his neck) that the broken English was not a threat, but a cheerful warning that several tanks were loaded and pointing in their general direction, they were far more willing to move along, and The Guardian was not compelled to write its usual sh!te about Israeli soldiers shooting at the British Friends of the Earth bloke who was wandering next to the site where, so it is rumoured, we Israelis genetically modify Palestinian kids so that we can make them into felafel, or sell them for Tesco burgers.

After a handshake with both guys, as they turned around and walked in the other direction, one of my soldiers cameup to me as asked, "why did you bother talking to them? Why not just tell them to get lost?" And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how one of the most moral and humane armies in the world can be so midunderstood and misrepresented by a misguided press looking for a classical underdog tale.

Incidentally, on the same day, one of my soldiers was bitten on the face by a camel spider. Have a search online a find a picture. Lovely things, about the size and fluffiness of a small kitten... but with ten legs. Yes. Ten. And although it is non-venomous, its bite is so vicious that you treat is just like a wild dog bite. Beats the usual dull scorpions.

So... September, and suddenly I'm a civilian. Home each night, choosing what clothes to wear, rather than just the bits no one will see. And instead of flashing a card before taking my gun into the bus station, cinema, bar or nightclub, having my possessions checked to make sure that I don't have one at all. Inconvenient. But worth it. My bed, my diet, my entertainment, my shower. And my wife. After trundling through 18 months of isolation, we could start to live like a couple again. Dates to the theatre, restaurants, seeing friends, and getting stuff done. Bliss.

October, and we're onto the next step of the big plan. Back in the UK, enjoying all the novelties as mentioned above, and getting to know our now-much-larger nephews and neices. Mum's food. Seeing the friends who haven't had the desire to come visit us yet. Hrmph.

November, and we're getting back into the flow of British life. Both seeking out locum work, which sadly is no small feat these days for a pharmacist; as Deborah picks up the odd shift here and there, I settled for the only safe option to ensure our trip could go ahead, and accepted a full-time job for two months all the way over in Wakefield and Dewsbury. Somewhat misguided by the clever person who advised me that Dewsbury was a very posh area where most of my patients would be pony-accidents or sore throats, I was surprised to have abuse hurled at me by the drunk and smashed-on-coke-and-hypoglycaemic-after-taking-his-own-mother's-insulin-for-a-laugh distant cousin of a July 7th bomber. NOW I remember why I left the UK. Turns out that Dewsbury is NOT the same as Daresbury.

December, and I'm tired of commuting across the country. Deborah and I decide that if we did it in the army we can do it in the UK - I take a room in the hospital and live like a student; obscene hours in A&E, roll back to bed, get up, do some planning or learning, make myself a meal for one in a communal kitchen, and get ready for work; perhaps with a little exercise and fresh air thrown in here and there. Debs, meanwhile, moves in with her folks, and we split the times where I have enough of a break to justify the perilous snowy M62 to come back between seeing her folks and my own.

January, and the money starts to accumulate - guestimated budgets, enough money to buy tickets, and suddenly we have a departure date, a plan for an itinerary, and a lot of work to do.

February. Work is completed, the plan to save up for the trip was more or less successful (although thanks to the pharmacy world being swamped with locums, much much less successful than hoped) - but we still have enough to delay bankruptcy until later in the year, so it's all systems go. Packing, tying up a million loose ends, shopping to buy smaller and lighter versions of everything we may need, saying goodbye to family and friends.

NOW: 17th February 2013, 2358 GMT, 100 miles North of Tehran. Deborah is curled up next to me wrapped up in a Singapore Airlines blanket, snoring in that nice girlie way that isn't really snoring. I'm listening to 'Du Du Hao' by Claire Kuo on my shiny Airbus A380 enertainment system, the lights are off, and as I sip a glass of mineral water and nibble on my fresh fruit platter before taking out my own blanket to get some sleep before our descent into Singapore in seven hours, the title of one of my friend's blogs springs to mind. "Don't forget to breathe".

The trip ahead is about exploring, seeing places that only the priviledged few get to see. It's about gaining perspective on what is truly important in life, and appreciating the opportunities we have been given. But for me, right now, what I really want is to just slow down, enjoy the present and not think about the future, and breathe.