Biking Burma style

Once the water festival was over my main concern was to finalise the process of publishing my book: America – Through a veil of tears. There’d been little or no internet access during the festivities, everywhere was closed down for a week. With relief the pdf was waiting for me, all I needed do was to work through listing all the relevant corrections. I’ve lost count of the times I’ve read my own book, but I still found plenty of small mistakes. It wasn’t about rewriting at this stage, the whole book had been typeset for final printing, this was my last chance for getting it perfect. So holing myself up for two days I taxed my brain, and strained my eyes late into the night to get it done. A couple more photos were needed, which proved difficult to upload, by some miracle I actually managed, for the first time since arriving in Burma. I’m buggered if I could do it again for blog photos, amazingly the super slow and unreliable internet connection pulled out all the stops and for a once only opportunity went in my favour. Fortune truly was smiling on my literary attempts. I even got the cover design through and approved that, if I must say myself, it's looking good! (Photo: Typical rural homestead - Northern Myanmar)

As for Mandalay, I’ve largely ignored it. A shame that may be, but I’ve seen too many cities, too many temples, and treated it simply as sorting out the admin of my current life. From Mandalay Hill there are superb views over the whole city, so I was worth a laboriously long haul to the temple at the top. I cheated though, a local guy wanted to escort me up there, so the hour long trek up the hill was managed in 15 minutes on the back of his bike. Sunset from the highest viewpoint around, isn’t that a wonderful way to see a city. Heavy cloud cover spoilt it a touch, but I’m glad I made the effort, it’s my sole concession to sightseeing while here. I’ve made more effort mixing with some of the locals, they appreciated my dancing in the streets, loved me joining in wholeheartedly with dousing all and sundry. The people are an integral part of visiting other countries, I may not have been fortunate enough to be invited into private homes, to share family life with Burmese nationals, but joining in with their celebrations was great fun. (Photo: When you're too poor for a motorcycle - On the Road to Hsipaw, Northern Myanmar)

For my last time on this journey I arranged a motorcycle, a chance to travel independently. Prices are high here, $12.50 a day to hire a poxy little step thru, a glorified moped. As with most of Asia these are what the people rely on most heavily for daily transport. Though there are a few Japanese 125cc trail bikes, they aren’t available to hire, or not that I could obtain. I had to make the most of availability, so I arranged a week’s hire at preferable rates. My plan was simple, to do a circuitous route; north-east from Mandalay to Hsipaw, swing south then west to Inle Lake, and back up to the city. I must admit to being dubious about taking such a machine over the distances involved, but the engine wasn’t that different than what I used to ride the whole of Vietnam, Cambodia and southern Laos. A set of spare clothes was all I took, I had no rain protection, or any for my own safety either. Reckless or not, I rode in shorts and T-shirt, but I at least wore proper shoes, rather than flip-flops. (Photo: Local longhouse - Hsipaw area, Northern Myanmar)

Departure from the city was almost on the dot of 9am, I wanted to give myself plenty of time. The first leg being to Hsipaw I was faced with a journey time of 7hrs, of course with various stops and photo shoots it could prove to be a lot longer. My faith in the bike was minimal, so much so that at first I wouldn’t even fill the tank full, in case I broke down. Mandalay is not too bad as far as city traffic goes, it must be one of the calmest I’ve experienced, if only they’d add the occasional road to give some indication which roads led where. It’s good for showing where tourist sites are, but bugger all else. There again, whereabouts in the UK do road signs offer translations into a foreign language, even for tourist sites? It isn’t hard though, stop and ask, with people as friendly and helpful as the Burmese it’s never a problem. I had to resort to this a few times, but pretty soon I’d left the city far behind and the open road lay in front. (Mountain trail to Namhsan - Northern Myanmar)

For some distance from the urban conurbation the roadside played host to wealth of opportunists, a string of apparently makeshift huts lined the way. Black-market fuel was the dominant product on offer, with fuel rationing this is often the only way to obtain what is becoming a rather expensive commodity, by Asian standards anyway. Snack bars and noodle stores make for the bulk of other business interests. Whole families live in woven bamboo shelters, little bigger than your average garden shed, I’m talking smaller than 3 x 2 metres here. More room is given to lean-to shelters, shade to entice the hungry and weary travellers. They aren’t living in squalor though, I was encouraged to see tidy areas around their living space, though I’m sure hidden from sight are ugly piles of domestic refuse. Burma is one of the worst places I’ve seen for rural waste tips, every hamlet and village is liberally festooned with discarded plastic bags. With a greedy and corrupt Junta as their dictatorship for so long no effort for waste disposal has ever been made. As with countries in this part of the world, it’s an ever present problem. (Photo: The long and winding road - Namhsan, Northern Myanmar)

Pyin oo lwin is supposed to be two hours at most from the city. By the time I passed through it felt I’d been on the road for most the day, without a watch or working speedo it’s very hard to judge time. Thankfully reaching this old colonial hill station was a marked relief, the temperature in significantly less than hot and muggy Mandalay, it wasn’t quite cool enough to add a layer, but it was refreshing. The long and painfully slow climb to get there was draining, the temperature soared, unless I had air brushing past me I was bathed in sweat. No wonder the English used it as a summer retreat, it proved tempting to stop and luxuriate in the coolness. But no I was on a mission to reach a certain destination that day, and reach it I would. On reaching the Goktiel Gorge, where the road plummets through a rapid succession of precipitous switchback, the unbearable heat was back. It was more comfortable riding, it wicked away the sweat, to stop was to melt into the semi-liquid tarmac. I’m only glad traffic wasn’t a problem, the only potentially hazardous part was the trucks and buses on the steep switchbacks. They swing as wide as possible, on every turn, though once I got used to this I began to whip past on the inside of the bend, whichever side of the road it was. (Photo: Mountain top temples - Namhsan area, Northern Myanmar)

I chose Hsipaw for its proximity to mountain villages that retain the same look and traditions as yesteryear. Close to Pyin many of the abodes were wooden framed, with adobe bricks filling between the frame members, they looked like the smaller versions of the Tudor housing we’re so used to in the UK. Even there styles are mixed with the more traditional local styles and materials. Woven bamboo is the most common materials for walls, though thatching seems to depend on the available vegetation. Out on the western plains they used fan shaped palm leaves, most common on this ride was what looked like a very broad leaved grass, which I actually think is the leaves from sugar can. It stands to reason, use what’s readily available, especially if it’s for free. Construction only really changed once past Hsipaw, heading up into the mountains on a very rough and dirty track. At higher altitudes more houses were made of teak, again it was cooler up there, no doubt the whether can become quite inclement at times. However old world these villages are claimed to be though, apart from slightly grubbier and obviously less wealthy there is very little difference between them and the more modern Burmese. Gone are the facial tattoos and distinctive dress, the only thing I really noticed in one area was the wearing of canvas fatigue boots and football socks. I think the football socks are a modern replacement for the decorated leggings quite common with many indigenous peoples around the globe. (Photo: Bamboo raft, it's child's play - Nr Hsipaw, Northern Myanmar)

Any hope of a circuitous route was dispelled on reaching Hsipaw, which is why I took the trouble of the long ride into the mountains. All roads on from Hsipaw are closed due to insurgency, various factions are busy fighting the Burmese army. Not that is mattered, I stayed a few days in Namhsan, a high mountain market town. The folks there don’t get that many foreigners, a trickle is all. Spending my time riding abysmal trails was great fun, only when I came down with cronic diarrhoea were my exploits forestalled. One day of bedrest and a gutful of medication enabled me to make the return trip. I don’t like retracing my footsteps, but it had to be done. Unable to make Inle Lake without returning to Mandalay put me off. I made a snap decision, my last few days in Burma was to be relaxing on a beach within easy reach of Rangoon. I have to fly out in a week, and I deserve a little R&R before returning once more to the UK. (Photo: Stuck in colonial times - Pyin oo lwin, Myanmar)

Oh foolish man, what was I thinking? In too much of a hurry in the city I went out on the bike without a crash helmet, I’d noticed many people doing the same before. But of course that was during the water festival, when anything goes. With dripping wet dreads I simply wanted to blow-dry them. I only got two blocks before the police pulled me over. Amazing, they looked at my documents and let me go. Where in the supposed civilised world could I have gotten away with such flouting of the law? I felt so stupid, the people weren’t actually admiring my flowing dreads, no doubt they were thinking what a prat I was.

Fun and frolics amongst the temples.

Cities have worn me out too often, each leg of a journey necessitates being stuck in another transit point. And yes, as you’ve probably guessed, these are generally in the city. How many times must I relax in a beautiful place only to have the blissful tranquillity ripped asunder by arriving in yet another huge urban monstrosity? Isn’t this why I love the practicalities of independent travel? Of course it is! So once again I creep ever closer to the end of one journey with a deep determination not to succumb to another journey that relies on the foibles of the various transport services. Leaving Rangoon was a nightmare, it was bound to be, hordes of people were desperate to vacate the city before Thingya, the Water Festival. Absolute chaos ensued, it took hours in gridlocked traffic to reach the bus terminal, and then it took the bus three hours to get through the traffic and reach open highway. By the time we actually got moving it was past 9pm, though being three hours late wasn’t to be complained about. Arriving at our destination would be 6am, rather than 3am, and I know which I’d prefer. (Photo: First view of Temples - Bagan, Myanmar)

Bagan, an area renowned for it’s prevalence of Buddhist Stupas, or temples, an arid zone of seering heat and blinding sun. I’m not quite sure why I chose this place in preference to other destinations, truth be told I’ve seen enough shrines and temples to last a life time. I wanted to head towards the northern regions of Burma, a chance to see life out in the sticks. There isn’t really much apart from the temples around Bagan, I’m told there used to be a thriving community, especially in Old Bagan. Trouble is the government moved them all out into a new city, they wanted to have the areas around the temples clear, so it didn’t spoil the scene for the steady flow of tourists who make their unholy pilgrimage to the place. Naung u is another town, just north of the main concentration of temples, and at least there is a good mix of Burmese and foreigners. It houses the budget end of the tourist market, the cheap and cheerful guesthouses. But when I say cheap and cheerful I’m talking prices up to $20 a night, getting much for less than $15 isn’t easy. (Photo: Across the Northern plain - Bagan, Myanmar)

I must be honest, apart from the first few minutes on arrival, there are very few people touting for business. You can walk around unmolested, if you want to arrange transport you’ll need to find out where to go, it doesn’t come looking for you. Which is nice, I get fed up with constantly apologising because I don’t want whatever service is on offer. When I walked around the market, eyes followed me wherever I went. I certainly wasn’t the only tourist there, but there weren’t that many seen walking about. The domain of tourists is the main road and what’s referred to as restaurant row, after that they’re to be found amongst the numerous temples. And they are numerous, the temples that is. They’re spread over an enormous area, too far and too many to cover in only a day or two. The main sites see plenty of tourists, mainly domestic or Thai tourists, who far outnumber the westerner visitors. I wouldn’t say there were hordes of visitors either, even though coach parties are seen, is simply bad luck to catch a place while there’s such a group. If you wait a few minutes they’ll be gone and you can have the place to yourself, almost. (Photo: A monks' day out to the temples - Bagan, Myanmar)

Taking the easy option I booked a horse and cart to transport me around, the area is too vast to contemplate walking, and I was too lazy to cycle. The choice was sound though, my driver proved to be a good guide, providing a wealth of information as to the origins of various temples. With over 2,000 individual structures some guidance is invaluable, he had a good understanding of which ones gave decent views across the extensive plains. No doubt many we visited were the easier ones to access, the most popular amongst tourists. But it wasn’t necessarily for individual glory I appreciated the tour, it was the overall effect that left me stunned. Wherever you look, from whichever angle, the Stupas litter the landscape. Despite spending many hours that day hopping from one temple to another I never failed to be amazed at their sheer number. I may have been privileged to see some spectacular sites in the past, but few as wide ranging as this, or as complete. (Photo: Sunset view of across the temples - Bagan, Myanmar)

Ancient cities are widespread over Asia, huge complexes abound, but Bagan stands apart from them all. There is no single complex, no definitive central structure, just thousands of individual shrines from neat and compact to soaring giants. The diversity of shape, design is staggering. Most are constructed of compacted red brick, though many are coated with lime plaster, often adorned with gold leaf. There’s plenty of the archetypical bell shaped Stupa, many more suggest more worldly design. Some are easily liken to temples found on the Indian subcontinent, others more reminiscent of Mayan temples. Built over hundreds of years there is little uniformity, though duplicates are often to be seen built in small clusters. Multi-storeyed monstrosities give ample opportunity to climb to dizzying heights, though compact buildings can often provide access to the upper reaches through backbreaking passages and tight winding staircases. As big as small castles, at times they consist of nothing more than a couple of small chambers housing diminutive Buddha statues. (Photo: New but still traditional - Old Bagan, Myanmar)

After two days of being out amongst the temples I was worn out, hot and bothered I couldn’t face exposing myself to the debilitating heat. And that is when the water festival began! Not on the official date, a day earlier, like our own celebratory festivals, many people are just too keen and enthusiastic to wait. So as I walked along restaurant row I was somewhat surprised to see groups of kids lining the roadside, buckets in hand, a look of mischievous glee on their faces. The first group looked unsure as I approached, but only for a brief moment. They were restrained though, approaching sheepishly and carefully pouring half a bucketful down one side. That’s all it took, once seeing me wet the others were much more enthusiastic. Which was just the start. Next day every corner of every street, and plenty of places in between, sported groups of kids with an unlimited supply of water to soak every passer-by. Water wagons were wheeled round to top up their supplies, ensuring the fun would not abate for the briefest of moments. (Photo: High jinks to start the water festival - Bagan, Myanmar)

Water festivals are part of the Buddhist calendar, shared by most Buddhist countries in Asia. Any other place it’s a day of celebration, no holds barred jubilation. Unlike other countries they celebrate for a whole week in Myanmar, perhaps they need to extra release of tension, or maybe they are just more fun loving. No-one is sacred, though monks are rarely targeted, and anyone can join in the fun. Passing motorcycles are the prime targets, I think because they present more fun in trying to score a direct hit. The youngsters ride round, up and down the streets, presenting themselves as targets, rejoicing in the dousing they receive. But to my observations, the ultimate joy is soaking a foreigner. Often unsure of the reaction they’ll hesitate before letting fly, but it won’t stop them. Embracing the moment gives them immense pleasure, and lets face it, if you can’t embrace the local celebrations you’ve no right to be there in the first place. (Photo: Small only in stature, Water festival showdown - Bagan, Myanmar)

After three days of dripping wet fun in Bagan I decided I’d better get on with seeing other parts of Myanmar, so booked a ticket for Mandalay. Celebrations are reputed to be wilder, and wider spread, in the big city; how right they are. Not even the train journey there made us exempt. Pulling into stations, or slowing down near towns, inevitably saw a flurry of activity as passengers spotted locals waiting to hurl water through the windows. At one place they actually lined up with hoses on both sides of the train, it was like going through a chicken run of pounding water jets. It made me laugh to see the panic on the faces of other passengers. Of course loads of us had our cameras out to record the countryside scenes, and the local populace. A cry of warning would often go out, shutters would slam shut, most often too late. One window at least would remain open long enough, keeping the water out was nigh on impossible. Once reaching Mandalay it was complete chaos, taxis weren’t running to the hotels, the only choice was by motorcycle taxi. By some miracle we managed to make it with only one minor dousing. (Photo: Amongst the revellers - Bagan, Myanmar)

Having dumped my stuff in my room the first port of call was somewhere to feed myself. Not being far to the most convenient restaurant, it was still too far to remain dry. Four times I got drenched in only two hundred metres, at least I’d learnt the knack of only wearing beachwear. Being already wet I thought I may as well have a walk around and join in the festivities. The palace and fort form a hub to the city centre, they’re surrounded by a two hundred foot moat. Absolute mayhem surrounded all four sides to the complex. Numerous high capacity pumps drew water from the moat, every road was lined by fire hoses washing down every person and vehicle that passed. Jeeps, motorbikes and trucks full of people waited in turn to drive past a series of stages, lined with hoses. As the only foreigner in sight I quickly became the focus of attention, the word would go down the line, the jets of water homing in on me. My progress was met with hearty welcomes and much pumping of hands. The crowd got so dense it became impossible to get any further, and I’d only managed to get halfway along one side of the palace quadrant. Eventually I turned back and joined a group of guys opposite the hotel, in the rather meek use of buckets to soak people, rather than fire hoses. I got overly inebriated, and had a great time. I failed to understand the few tourists who took great exception to getting wet, it wasn’t a way to gain respect form the locals, and they ignored your pleas to remain dry anyway. A few times I joined in the fun, which seemed to mean so much to the local revellers. I’d like to think they had something special to celebrate this year, after the recent election, but I’m lead to believe it’s as manic every single year. (Photo: And the fun goes on - Bagan, Myanmar)

Battling with Burma

Boy didn’t lethargic angst bite deep when I reached Rangoon. I did pull myself out of it, but it took time. From the very start, when the plane touched down, I noticed subtle differences. An ornate but ancient looking building stood alongside the terminal, intricate golden decoration crowned it’s slightly grubby exterior, giving it an appearance of being worn through time. But it still felt depressingly similar to a thousand other dirty, dingy cities. I’m used to Asian cities, whether I like them or not, but Rangoon is one of the most run down I’ve come across. It screamed degradation without shower the abject squalor as seen in the likes of India. Almost every building is besmirched by decades of traffic borne pollution, a filth encrusted veneer over cracked and crumbling mortar. Heaven knows the last time any of them saw the lick of a paintbrush, if ever. Signs of maintenance or repair are few and far between. Now and then a hotel or golden stupa stands out from the begrimed cityscape, but even these lose their glossy sheen when viewed from close proximity. It’s so obvious there has been no investment or care taken of the infrastructure here for some time. Stories of Rangoons colonial past glory can only refer to the far distant past, whatever money the military dictatorship has amassed has certainly not been squandered on the cities architectural heritage. (Photo: Central Railway - Rangoon, Burma: Now known as Yangon, and Myanmar)

The whole city looks like that, even the police township opposite my hotel is filthy, it isn’t a very good standard to set, a fine example to the average citizen it is not. Actually the whole issue of a huge tenement for police officers and their families raises questions. Is it an act of kindness to encourage loyal service, or is it segregation at it’s worst? It could easily be a bit of both, I have a strong feeling that there is a desire to keep some separation between them and the general public. These bastions for public security services are placed at intervals around the city, I’ve seen two already. I’ve quickly noticed numerous complexes of red brick buildings that have fallen in a terrible state of delapidation. Huge turreted blocks with interconnecting passageways, empty, with no windows intact and the roofs collapsing in on themselves. They could only have been public buildings, whether hospital, school, or enormous administration centres it’s impossible to tell, only their neglect is obvious. In passing I wondered why they’d been so completely abandoned, the only life was the raucous crows, staking out a claim to the ruins as their own territory. The structures still seemed capable of providing basic shelter, in parts of it at least. And then it became obvious that it did in fact do just that for some people, one end section of the immense compound was in use. People were outside collecting water from a standpipe, using it as a communal bathing area, women and kids played on the steps. (Photo: Roosting site for rooks - Old Administrative centre - Yangon, Myanmar)

All the warnings I’ve heard about, before coming to Burma (Myanmar as it’s officially called now), concern filling the coffers of the military junta. The advice is to try and avoid organized tours, the larger hotels and official money changing facilities; all of which are either government owned or sponsored by the junta, and therefore a percentage of profits make the main perpetrators of the country’s ongoing misery richer. Even the slow and expensive railway is government owned, and believe me there isn’t a lot of these profits ploughed back into the system. So my initial concern was to change my US dollars into kyat, using the black market. It isn’t hard, there are touts changing money everywhere. There is no slight of hand if you do it openly in a public place, I told the guy how many dollars I wanted to change and checked his rate and every note he gave me before I even produced my dollars. The only hiccough were two of the $100 bills I gave him, their serial number started with CB so he’d not accept them. Luckily I had another few to use instead. (Photo: Police township - Downtown Yangon, Myanmar)

The whole money transaction thing was a moral issue for me, the state licensed exchange were offering a better rate. Changing $500 meant losing $5 in effect, which took a little consideration. It wasn’t only the $5, that’s naff all! I don’t want my money going to support the tyrants who’ve run this country for decades, but they’ve just had elections and the notorious Aung San Suu Kyi, leader of the National League for Democracy, actually won with 80%. So, in theory, there is no longer a need to go to extremes to avoid filling the government coffers. However, in 1990 the military rulers held elections, and lost them drastically, only to then arrest all the opposition and refuse to hand over power. Whilst the locals seem hopeful I’m holding my breath for the time being. It’s a historic time to be in the country, hopes are high and so is everyone’s spirits, it could easily go belly up though. I’ve a mind to use my money in support of the new government, but would rather wait until they actually assume full power. (Worship throughout the ages, religion and money - Central City, Yangon)

The city took a lot out of me that day, energy I didn’t have to begin with, and with a week of festival just around the corner if I hadn’t made a move without delay I’d be stuck there. Determined to get away I walked for many hours and refused to give up hope until I finally managed to find somewhere to buy a bus ticket to get the hell out the place. Only after procuring my ticket could I sit and finally relaxe. As I did so, over a few pints of beer, at which stage I watched the world carry on regardless of my predicament, and also found a strong desire to record the minor details that passed before my eyes. It's somehow reassuring that even when feeling at  my  worst, it's never enough to give in. I seem to be suffering from a delayed acceptance of new locations I find it me time to settle in, which just isn't my normal self. But I do settle in, quite quickly generally, I just wish  it didn't involve a period of doubt and dissatisfaction. Really I should be pleased that these periods of adjustment are accepted and dealt with. For now I'm just happy to feel relaxed enough to appreciate the finer points of where I am. (Photo: Botutaung Pagoda - Yangon, Myanmar)

I thought a lot of men in Sri Lanka wore longhis (sarongs if you prefer), it’s nothing compared to here. It isn’t only for comfort within the confines of their homes, as seemed to be the case there, nor is it restricted to older men and the poorer classes. I’d go as far to say the majority of males wear them here, though amongst the youth there seems to be an increasing number who are adopting western style clothing. Observing ages and physical shape, a pattern seemed to emerge in the style in which guys wear them. In general younger guys wear them on the hips, accentuating their slender figures. As they get older it seems they’re more likely to wear them further up, on the actual waist or even higher. Not all though, certainly those who put on a noticeable paunch hike them up higher, but for the slimmer older guy it’s still the mode to wear it on the hips. There are some middle aged guys with pot-bellies who insist on letting their gut sag over the top of their longhi, but in general there are few of that age who’ve got too much of a gut. Luckily, because it really isn’t a very nice sight. (Photo: Local river ferry - Arawaddy River, Yangon)

Likewise for the women, being slim and lithe is more the norm. I haven’t noticed any actually fat young women, or even middle aged ones. They might put on a touch of middle-aged spread, probably after numerous experiences of childbirth. They’re the exceptions though, most are slim without flabby bellies, not that I can notice anyway, and I have been looking. From what I can see most females have rather nice shaped behinds, and they move fetchingly when they walk. I don’t think they do it purposely either, just a naturally alluring wiggle. Again they adorn themselves most often in traditional saris, of thin cotton or silk, which hides nothing of their shape, if anything it actually heightens it. For the increased numbers of the young women who are starting to prefer western clothes, they choose jeans or pretty summer dresses, micro-shorts are not seen around the streets at all. Of the people’s genetic characteristics I can’t honestly tell them apart from any other Asian nation, there is a great variety of features and they have obviously been influenced from many ethnic groups from the surrounding regions. (Photo: Budding stallholders - Yangon side street, Myanmar)

A real thumper in Kuala Lumpur

With four weeks of chilling out on the islands it came as somewhat of a surprise at how quickly the rigours of travel caught up with me. No sooner had I hit the mainland when I became overwhelmed by the petty inadequacies of living life in the real world. I like to think we create our own realities, but this is always dependent on the multitudes we must deal with, each minute of the passing day. Ampana isn’t such a chore to spend time in, the people are unbelievably friendly and generous with their charm and hospitality. It doesn’t make organizing anything easier though, this is Asia after all, and Indonesia is one of the more disorganised of these tropical nations. Hotel space was at a premium, courtesy of a sudden influx of business groups heading for a weekend of team building on the coast. I had work to do, my edited manuscript was finally downloaded and I had the task of laboriously going through it once more to make my final corrections. After spending two whole days and still not completing it, I needed a break. It was time to jump on another bus and head for my departure point. Palu was the destination, a ten hour ride away, not one I was looking forward to. Reputed to be small in comparison to Makassar, it was a city all the same, it was also in one of the most hotly contested areas of religious disharmony, through a region of extreme fundamentalism. Only a few years ago a couple of Christian school girls were kidnapped and beheaded. (Photo: Quirky restaurant, with actual dining cars - Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia)


It isn’t so much a situation to be afraid of, there is no use running scared of horror stories, but knowing of such happenings can easily sour the experience of such places. I needn’t have worried the bus hardly even slowed down, only briefly pulling into various terminals to give local hawkers the chance to ply their wares. The journey was through a variety of environments, none of them unpleasant. First of all it was a delightfully twisty road, winding round a rocky, rugged, totally undeveloped coastline. A succession of tiny coves broke the rocky shoreline; backed by shady coconut groves, their only inhabitants were the occasional fishing family. Once moving away from the immediate coast, the broken hilly slopes were divided into fields of maize. No attempt had been made to create terracing for the production of rice, only when we reached flat, open land did the paddy fields put in an appearance. Then they once again became the dominant crop. It’s hard to tell why some areas, or islands, put in so much effort to turn even the steepest hillsides rich areas of rice production. They didn’t there, merely utilizing the lay of the land with minimum effort. So when the sea finally inundated the last coastal strip it was hardly a shock to see little done with the natural wetland. Was it down to laziness? It wouldn't have been the first country in the tropics where inherent laziness was rife, nor will it be the last I visit. Java had quite intricate terracing in it's central regions, as did Bali, so it isn't an Indonesian quirk. Sometimes there is little else to do but accept that things are different wherever you go, and maybe that is precisely why some of us travel. (Photo: Very precarious painting contract -  China Town, Kuala Lumpur)

Both the beginning and the end of the journey were along coastlines, though completely different coasts and completely different environments. Neither boasted vast riches, the local populations lived in rustic huts with few visible means of wealth. Not so the interior, more houses were solidly built, most of bricks and mortar, though rusty iron roofs were ubiquitous. Of maybe more interest was the emergence of Hindu shrines, which I hadn’t noticed since leaving Bali. There were also more churches than Mosques, it was easy to see why some fanatics would feel threatened by such a strong presence of opposing religious fervor. I wouldn’t like to cast dispersions, but I can’t help thinking that fundamentalism is little more than insecurity in your own belief system. After all, if you’re that strong in your convictions surely there is no point to prove, doesn’t it speak for itself? It’s about time the people of this screwed up world became more tolerant, don’t most religions advocate tolerance and understanding? In truth, I think inaccurate translation, often purposefully to suit specific controlling bodies, is the cause of so much inter-religious friction. Most religions I have any understanding of preach similar tenets, don't steal, don't kill, respect your fellow man etc. So why is it alright to kill someone if the church says it's fine, but not otherwise? It's beyond me, but there again, I don't go into the realms of begging for forgiveness on my knees. A forgiving and understanding person/entity surely wouldn't demand such humiliation. (Photo: Petronas Towers- Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia)

And so after ten months of travelling the snail trail from my humble home in North Wales I’d reached my final destination, Palu, in Cental Sulawesi. It was time to hit the airways, and make tracks homeward bound. With a mere two days to wait until my flight I had enough time to finalise my manuscript before it gets typeset and printed. It wore me ragged, the editor claimed she saw a lot of potential in both the book and my writing; so she gave it a harsh editing. I swore and cussed, working my weary little head into quite a frenzy. I’d have to work off my frustration with walks, morning and evening. Pounding my way down the side of the road it would be to a continuous cacophony of ‘Hello mister’. I can’t help it though, however much I wanted to be left to my own thoughts I had to smile and wave, calling back the appropriate greeting in Bahasa. It might be a hassle at times, being the centre of attention, having constant demands made of every little snippet of your day, but I insist on reciprocating these well wishes, it means so much to the people who’s lives I pass through. (Photo: A young Malay(?) woman - Kuala Lumpur)

So did I feel relieved to finally take to the air, maybe I should have felt remorse because it was the end of something special. Actually the relief was at getting the final version of my book successfully returned to the publisher, and if being ripped off and robbed on private buses is special then it good riddance. Neither good nor bad feeling accompanied the event, like the rest of my travelling, I took it all in my stride. Two shorts hops of a couple of hours a piece and I was lined up at Malaysian immigration, wondering how they’d be deal with the security issues of persons unknown in full burkas. Simple really, ignore it, just stamp their passports and let them through, there wasn’t even a dog to sniff up their skirts. I did have a laugh though, at a guy who cheekily walked straight through a queue of more than fifty people. There must have been some discrepancy with his passport, he was questioned for ages, last I saw of him was being lead away by two officials. It’s petty of me I know, I could have played the outraged member of the public, ‘Oi, who do you think you are?’ In all honesty the last thing I want is to draw attention to myself, at least not when queuing in line for the powers that be. (Photo: Of Nigerian descent, well partly - Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia)

Ah, KL again! A city I understand, whether or not I fully appreciate it is another issue altogether. But how can you not like it at all? Yes it’s busy, noisy, polluted, and the pace is frantic. Without doubt there are some rundown areas, often those that cater for the backpacker brigade. You can also get where you want, what you want whenever you want, just about. Not only is it a shoppers paradise, it has an amazing arrayof ethnic cultures, which gives it a richness that few other places fully encompass. You will see a wealth of genetic diversity at every turn, Black, brown, yellow and white, even blue-blooded Celts put in the occasional appearance. Nymph like Chinese girls, with alabaster skin, skitter around in micro shorts, often in giggling groups, always shopping. Serene Indian women saunter, in saris or chemise and pantaloons of silk, poised and elegant. Young, hunkish, Nigerian guys tower above the crowds, sometimes in small groups, more often with female accompaniment. Matching them for their depth of deepest ebony, are the short and broad Tamils, when they’re with women it is of their own kind. Though there is no norm here, there doesn’t seem a majority race. Wherever you look the people are infinitely multi-cultural, it really is a huge melting pot of ethnicity. It may be true that like often attracts like, but you’ll find folks of any race partnered with each other in KL. Just what is a Malaysian nowadays? The closest I could come to answering that is a person who resides in Malaya. However deep you dig you’ll only find more diversity, there’s a whole lot more ethnic minorities spread around Malaysia, maybe these could be claimed to be the true Malaysians, of original genetic stock. (Photo: A distinguished, older gentleman - Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia)

And it’s still so much more than genetics, with cultural diversity comes the inevitable wide range of culinary delights. There’s never a shortage and it’s hard to get bored with food here. My favourites are the food halls, whether inside or out there is simply a jumble of tables with numerous stalls around the peripheries, each offering a distinctive range of dishes. This is also the cheapest way to eat, a plate of rice with two or three other dishes for about £1. But I still favour nice crispy waffles for breakfast, freshly made and dripping with honey. It may not be very Asian, but they are so nice with iced coffee. But of all the pleasures of the city I’ve left the best to last, taking the time out to go and dance myself stupid. Admittedly the first time wasn’t anything to shout about, the place was so packed it made it hard to find space to have a decent dance. Going mid-week to the Reggae solved that little problem. I only went there for a beer with Rudy (Canadian guy from the hotel), and shook ‘ma thang’ till they kicked us out at 3 am. (Photo: One of the more oriental denizens of the city - China Town, Kuala Lumpur)