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.

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.