Welcome home weary traveller!

At last, the official release of the long awaited book. It will be available to buy from 1st June 2012, !

ISBN: 978-0-9572645-0-2 

Distributors website link: YPD Books

Cost: £9.99 + P&P

Book signing venues:

Bangor Public Library - Saturday 9th June, 9.30 - 13.00

Cafe Caban, Bryn Refail, Nr Llanberis - Sunday 10th June, 10.00 - 15.00

Blue Sky Cafe, High St, Bangor - Monday 11th June, 10.00 - 15.00

 It will be available from any book supplier, so ordering can be done at your local bookstore or the large town centre chainstore. Of course by ordering it from a store you'll save P&P, but it will take a while for the order to go through. I'm urging people to buy it from the on-line distributor simply because I cover more of my costs this way. Having self published it's my own money invested in the book, and the retail suppliers take such a large cut of the cover price it can actually mean I lose money on every book sold through them. What a shame, I'd much rather put money their way and see high street shops remain open. Unfortunately I have to try and protect my own investment on this one, I've put heart and soul into the production of this book and would like to recoup some of the financial side of the endeavour. (Photo: Nant Ffrancon, from Ogwen Cottage - North Wales)

So things happen fast once the ball starts rolling. My focus since getting home has been on seeing the book onto the printing press, delays getting over jet lag and getting my bike back on the road were inevitable though. But it's pleasant spending time with family again, I'm also aware of how important they see this too, that's reassuring. In all honesty though I've been really bad for making myself accessible for the majority of friends and family, not intentionally, it's just the way it happens. After eleven months away it does feel strange being back, if only it was winter I could legitimately hibernate. No chance of that, the sun is and everyone's gearing up for festivals and holidays. Typically British, expectations are high and people reach new highs in religious fervour, preying for nice weather. Let's face facts, sunshine or a lack of it can be make or break for any outdoor gig in Britain. If we got to grips with this concept of a water festivities we'd not have a problem. We have no shortage of water in North Wales, it's the perfect type of festival for here. The fist week back it rained virtually every day, I felt glad to be in the garage working on the bike rather than out in the elements riding it. Normally it doesn't faze me, i ride whatever the weather, not this time though. You couldn't really call it cold, but neither could you kid yourself it was warm. I wore multiple thermal layers, and needed waterproofs for the first two weeks of being back. That's a thing of the past now though, the sun is shining and everyone's happy, summer is here. (Photo: Bryn Bella bridges - Tregarth, North Wales)

Before leaving Asia I was unbearably keen to be back on the bike, so it came as a shock to find myself deliberating over how positive the experience actually was. The first time I rode it again the BMW felt top heavy and cumbersome, the overall impression was of riding an unresponsive, wallowing brute. It took some getting used to, whereas I generally adapt quickly to different vehicles, and only improved after many minor tweaks to the tyres and suspension. A slow puncture didn't help, nor the realisation of how sensitive the BMW is to incorrect tyre pressures. There's a vast improvement now they're adjusted within the narrow parameters of operation. I thought it was me, too long on flyweight little machines, but it had been set for carrying a heavy load, the weight distribution of the two axles was all wrong, and didn't it just show. How could I have manhandled that lumbering hulk across the Gobi, was there any surprise I'd reached my limits? (Photo: Penrhyn Quarry - Bethesda, North Wales)

 All the birds are nesting and the hedgerows are thickened nicely. Sitting in a friends garden I identified seven different types of birdsong, basking in the sun, with my eyes closed it was heaven, one of the loveliest welcomes imaginable for my return. We may not have any big game but there sure is plenty of nature. There are buzzards soaring high rather than vultures or eagles, they still look as marvellous though. Our mountains may not reach the lofty heights of the Himalayas, but they never fail to impress. Riding my favourite short circuit through the hills takes me over Pen y Pass and back along Nant Ffrancon, a glorious ride by any standard. Wet roads hindered progress a touch, a fidgety front end ensured a lot more caution than normal. Maybe it's just a sign of getting wiser with age, if it is I'd better worry, I might be growing up at long last. (Photo: Busy bees - Newborough, Anglesey)

A proclivity for isolation was outweighed by the excitement of finally being published. Nothing was going to get in the way of promoting it's release. when the proofbound copy was ready I didn't hesitate, within the hour I set off for the four hour journey to York to pick it up. I haven't read it though, which I do mean to. How stupid of me to think I'd be inured to the emotional effect it might have. It will always be an emotional jolt for me to relive those moments, they are more manageable though. The overall affect is positive, worries about how good my story telling is have largely been overshadowed by praise from the few people who have read it, whether in part or as a completed work. Holding the one and only copy in my hands was a magic moment in itself, there was no denying my sense of achievement. It could have rained all the way back home without dampening my spirits, and just to prove my point it did just that. I may have been knackered when I finally arrived back in North Wales at nearly mid-night, but it was with a contented sigh that I lowered my head on the pillow and fell swiftly asleep. (Photo: Malltreath railway bridge - Anglesey, North Wales)

Topping off the trip

If comparing a double bus ride, a total of over sixteen hours, with some I’ve done in the past, it isn’t so drastic. But when boarding the bus for the second leg of the jaunt, I knew it wasn’t going to be the easiest of journeys. Sprawled across the whole two seats was the fattest bucket of lard on the bus, why, oh why, was I the one having to share a seat with her? Not only could her ungainly bulk defy the laws of physics and fit into a single seat, she also had two bags wedged between her and the window, leaving me with the thinnest of margin to park my rather slim backside on. But even I’m not that slim! Anyway, I believe it setting the standard before misconceptions can take over. So I politely gestured for her to move over so I could sit down, and she politely did, all of an inch or two. Then I had nearly a third of a seat to luxuriate in, no way, I persisted and gained another couple of inches. Unfortunately with a large roll of flab still taking up much of my valuable space she set her face in an expression that read quite clearly, that’s your lot buddy. (Photo: Porking down the beach - Kgwe Saung, Myanmar)

I’d hate people to think I have an unreasonable bias against obese people, if someone chooses to gain so much they become unhealthily ungainly that is their privilege. But when it proves to be to the detriment of others, especially me, I get niggled about it. I wouldn’t relent, therefore the whole six hours was pretty much a fight for seat space. It didn’t matter that I showed clearly that she was half over my seating space, however often I tried she kept a gap of a few inches between here and the window at all times, wedging her knee into the back of the chair in front to ensure I couldn’t lever her over. Was I unreasonable? I don’t think so, with my arse numb from the metal bar that bordered the outer edge of my seat, it was very uncomfortable. I wasn’t a happy bunny, and didn’t handle the situation too well. Not that I got angry, not openly anyway, but inside I seethed for six hours while maintaining the pressure against her flabby thigh. Wasn’t I ever glad when we arrived at our destination! She was the first and only obnoxious Burmese person I had the displeasure of meeting, in many ways it surprised me, almost without fail they go out of their way to please visitors.  (Photo: One of many beautiful sunsets - Kgwe Saung, Myanmar)

Being weary of public transport that episode could easily have put me into a foul mood, but it didn’t. Relieved with an end to my purgatory, I gratefully sank into the first trishaw offered. Myanmar is the first country I’ve carried a guidebook with me, so I knew exactly where I was headed, a quiet beach resort with good quality luxury rooms. Just the place to relax for my last week of a long, and sometimes arduous, journey. I didn’t baulk at paying $40 for a near palatial beach fronted room. And what a beach, all thirteen miles of it. Waves rolled onto the shore, constant breakers to hurl myself into, which I wasted no time in doing so. With temperatures around 40^o the water was certainly the place to be, and I love playing in crashing waves anyway. It looked like I’d made the correct choice, lonely planet’s choice next door certainly had cheaper options, but the whole compound was more cramped, with smaller bungalows squeezed in tighter than I’d been with blubber guts on the bus.  (Photo: Never ending sand - Kgwe Saung, Myanmar)

As with all the other Asian countries I’ve visited this time round, domestic tourism is thriving. Myanmar may well be one of the poorest countries on this continent but they have a very prosperous sector of society. With an average salary of less than $100 pm room prices in the bigger resorts were staggeringly high, at hundreds of dollars per night. Bearing that in mind I didn’t expect to find them so well frequented, but the wealthy do like to flaunt their wealth. Between Yangon and the coast there’s nothing but small scale farming, rush built shacks house extended families, dressed in threadbare, dirty caste offs. Agricultural wages are very low, wherever possible family members will travel long distances for the chance at working in the tourist industry. The seasons work in their favour, high season on the coast is a slack working period in the countryside. For those lucky enough to gain a position in the resorts, it requires living apart from their families. Talking to most guys this is a great hardship, the family is still very important here, they’ll make incredibly long journeys to spend a few days with their wives and kids.  (Photo: Fun as the sun goes down on me - Kgwe Saung, Myanmar)

My last week in Myanmar, and the last of this trip, was pretty much about lazing around. The sun was too strong to linger for long in the open, most days I spent an hour at most topping up my tan. For hours I’d sit in the shade, catching a balmy sea breeze, while reading books and watching the world go by. Not that there was a lot of it passing by, the highlight of each day had to be the glorious sunsets. Little else happened, except for the tide going in and out. In itself that’s nothing unusual, but they weren’t to be misjudged. At low tide it’s possible to paddle over to a small island where a makeshift set up sells basic meals. If you misjudged the excursion, it got a touch wetter than you’d banked on. You couldn’t judge the oncoming waves either, because they came from two directions, from each side of the island. And there was the risk of getting run over by at low tide too, The holidaying Yangonites have a habit of joyriding along the newly exposed hard sand. You’d get some young guys posing as they rode along, simple stunts to attract admiring looks, pleased as punch for being such daredevils. It brought back memories of my own antics as a teenager on my first bike, and caused reflection on Cai and his joy of the simple pleasures of bike riding.  (Photo: Another magnificent display - Kgwe Saung, Myanmar)

Generally I didn’t mingle very much, I was content left to my own devices. It was a time of contemplation, after eleven months returning home is a big event. The process wasn’t wracked with emotion, I’m pleased to say. In fact the strongest emotion I had was jealousy. Jealous of the couples wandering happily along the shoreline, splashing in the water together, they made me want some companionship. It made me wish I had someone to share my experiences with. I’m not feeling particularly lonely, it’s not that I’m desperate to jump into a relationship. It lead me to realise that I no longer feel frightened to delve into the realms of emotional involvement. After the loss and emotional upheaval of recent years that underlying fear has stayed with me, I’ve been unable to shake it. It’s the effect bereavement had on me, magnifying a reluctance for emotional commitment. Basically I was frightened to hold anything precious in my heart, frightened to lose it again. I now feel more wholesome, maybe I’m ready to risk loving again.  (Photo: Back to the deprivations of Bangkok)

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)

Whiling away the days in paradise!

With a shortage of cash I couldn’t stay in the same place for the whole month I was in the Togean Islands. Being two days travel, each way, to reach the nearest ATM suitable for my Visa card, it wasn’t an option. It’s one of the biggest problems of visiting these islands, you really need to bring a whole wad of cash for a prolonged stay. And the locals know it, I don’t mean local to the islands either. More and more stories have emerged of people being robbed surreptitiously on night buses. The victims all seemed bound for the Togeans, the culprits knew what they were doing and were very good at it. There are solutions, you must have a lock on your bag or you valuables on your person. For me, I don’t like the discomfort of a money belt, it also makes me, as a person, the target rather than my bag. Make sure your bag has a two way zip on it, then loop a padlock through. It won’t stop a determined thief but it’s a good deterent. (Photo: Bajo fishing hut - Offshore atoll, Nr Malenge, Togean Islands, Sulawesi)

I found alternatives to cash, but it meant using one of the only two resorts that dealt with credit/debit cards. They also happened to be the main dive centres in the island chain, the combination fit my requirements hand in glove. After a perfectly lazy fortnight I was ready to pack my bags and head off for Kadidiri. A freeby snorkeling trip was an unexpected parting gift, so my last day gave me the only exploratory look off the actual island of Pengampa. The first site was pretty good, a lot of coral and reasonable numbers of fish. I was somewhat spoilt by the boatman anchoring into clumps of live coral. Three times I went back to the boat and chastised him, to be honest I don’t think he understood my reasoning behind the request. Each time he’d lift the anchor looking confused, then drop it back into coral once I’d gone back out snorkeling again. I nearly stopped snorkeling in disgust, I felt so angry. It wasn’t my money paying for it though, I’d been invited by another guest. I made a serious point about it with him but he was completely non-plussed. (Photo: Forbidden fruit - Malenge, Togean Islands, Sulawesi)

Anyway, moving islands was a way of starting afresh. The diving centres both ran their operations using western guides and instructors, they had to be more conscientious about the environment they earned their living from. Hearing of projects to wipe out the crown of thorns starfish on their reefs raised my hopes. I had a choice of two and the decision was an easy one, there was only one boat waiting at the ferry when we pulled into Wakai. I could have still chosen the other once reaching Kadidiri, but in all honesty the Paradise resort was in a much better setting. I actually let a couple I’d met on the ferry check out the competitors, they were back in no time having undergone a hard sell from the staff at Black Marlin. To be honest there wasn’t much difference in the quality of accommodation, prices were similar too. It really depended on what you were looking for. A younger crowd were in residence down the beach while I was there. They weren’t rowdy at night or anything, but hearing them whooping and hollering on their way out in the boats made me glad to be chilling out where I was. (Photo: Black tipped reef shark - Kadidiri, Togean Islands, Sulawesi)

While at Kadidiri Paradise I got ten dives in, all at different places, and every one different in its own way. It was great getting up close to the coral, looking in the tiny nooks and crannies, spotting the little critters. And yes, my buoyancy is good enough to get real close without risking damage to the coral. I saw some lovely nudibrachs, flat worms, and minute polycheates. But the wall dives were my favourite, just for the overall effect. Immense underwater scenes, superb cliff formations, and the chance to see some of the more impressive beasties. We did see a napoleon wrasse, but that was the most impressive sized creature we saw, everything else was on the small scale. But it’s not just how impressive the sea life is, it’s the whole experience. Weightlessness is sheer poetry, with spot on buoyancy it’s as close as you could get to being in space. In fact you are, in inner space, rather than outer space. You don’t need to fin, there’s no need for correction, can you imagine jumping out a plane and not falling. (Photo: Flying lizard - Kadidiri, Togean Islands, Sulawesi)

A couple of us had a lot more experience than the others diving, other than Gonzag the instructor. We both got some free dives by accompanying near novices. It was a chance for Gonzag to give all his attention on those who needed it most. Other than that Janique and I buddied up, it made for stress free diving, neither of us needed to worry about the other, we set our own pace and let the others race ahead. Our first 40m dive was awesome, we did a few at that depth, eventually taking a couple of others on their first dive of that depth. Though that was my worst dive, I used a different regulator, which sucked in water. I was meant to be leading the dive and concentrating on so much at one time reduced my own pleasure, For our 50m dive I was on it for personal pleasure only, but it wasn’t a difficult dive for that depth, only a quick swim through a crack starting at 42m with an exit no lower than 52m, if you squeezed through as low as you could. (Photo: Fidhal, my little friend - Kadidiri, Togean Islands, Sulawesi)

Relaxing on an evening I'd often be joined by a young lad, Fidhal, who'd jabber Bahasa at me. Any time I managed to actually repeat his words he'd compliment me with obvious glee. And to be honest I never tired of his unintelligible words.

But diving was certainly the focal point of my stay at Kadidiri, there was only one day I didn’t dive. There were even words about possible involvement on a paid level, if only I were to hang around for long enough. I’m not interested though, I really enflamed my old passion for diving, but as before I want to do it for pleasure, not money. In all honesty the level of incompetence of many casual divers is shocking, putting in a couple of dives every couple of years will never improve your skill level. There again I’m lucky, I logged a high number of them continuously for a decade. I’ve just had a four year break, but was still one of the most conservative when it came to sucking my tank dry. For me, I still needed a few dives to fine tune my buoyancy, and my air consumption would improve if I was fitter. If I wasn’t plagued by cramps from having dodgy hamstrings it would improve. The most important thing here though, is just how wonderful I found my rediscovery of diving. (Photo: Blue tailed skink, I think - Kadidiri, Togean Islands, Sulawesi)

Travelling has become tiring. Don't get me wrong, I'm not fed up with it, just weary of the hassle of organising transport and hotels. Lethargy rules, I don't want to look for yet another hotel, negotiate with yet another taxi driver. On the flip side of the coin though, I can't imagine trying to lead a mundane life either.

Sailing through Sulawesi

An endless expanse of total darkness engulfed my world, punctuated by widespread flickers of distant lightening. As dusk had encroached on the ferry’s watery world dense clouds descended, obscuring the twinkling of heavenly delights. It seemed set to mark a passage beset by squalls of water from every which way, a lumpy passage at best, gut wrenching if the increasing wind continued. Fortunately it proved a localised storm, it came and went in the blink of an eye. On a calm and tranquil ocean our sluggish leviathan laboured ever onwards, under a moonlit sky, filled with a million glittering stars. Casting my eyes upon the swell from our blunted prow, I marveled at the electric sparkles streaking along our bow-wave. Phosphorescence glistened in the frothing spume, a miniature Milky Way created in our watery wake. Forgotten was the deep throb of our marine diesels, the hubbub of wailing karaoke and the combined stench of foul latrines and dirty exhaust fumes. I rode on a contented wave of silent appreciation of nature’s beautiful response to human interruption. (Photo: Kids working the traffic queues - Makassar, South Sulawesi, Indonesia)

It was a slow and laborious ferry that took me across the ocean from Flores to Sulawesi, but it was far from tedious. Apart from the natural delights, haphazard attempts to engage me in conversation helped pass the time. It also helped procure a ride with a bunch of students, at local prices, in their pre-arranged minibus. Turning out to be no more than a 7-seater people carrier, we still managed to squeeze in ten passengers, such is the way in Indonesia. Nor was the ferry destined for Makassar as claimed at the port, hence the need for further transportation. I’m only glad I wasn't a victim of the extortionate prices levied for Boulay, which is a rare pleasure indeed when having to make private transport arrangements in this volcanic archipelago. That’s proved to be the most tiresome aspect of travel through Indonesia, they’ll unashamedly misinform you and rip you off, knowing your options are limited they are quick to exploit the fact. (Photo: Weird and wacky island formations - Togean Islands, Sulawesi)

In southern Sulawesi commerce seems to centre on marine life and coconuts. The coast is lined by fishing hamlets consisting of rickety shacks and drying racks. Tiny whitebait are dried en-masse upon bamboo platforms, baby barracuda and wrasse hang from racks, and tuna, from little more than bite size to giants, sold fresh. Saltwater inlets feed man-made lakes, extensive fish farms, circulating clean seawater with the tide. The inland side of the road consists of a mix between brick and wooden built homes, not the hovels of the poor folk but substantial houses of intricate design. Their gable ends culminate in geometric wing designs, with double sloped roofs, higher pitched in the middle for better air circulation. Unlike the fishing shacks they are well presented, fresh coats of paint, balconies adorned with latticework and hanging pot-plants. For the humble fishing folk their utility time is spent maintaining their boats, when not out to sea they lavish their attention on decorating their vessels. (Photo: Boys having fun on wrecked ferry - Wakai, Togean Islands, Sulawesi)

Makassar is the southern capital and the largest city in Sulawesi. Whilst not favouring high rises it gives a false impression of being smaller than it actually is, but the urban sprawl spreads over a large area. Shopping malls are, like most modern Asian cities, becoming more popular. Outside their entrances a confusion of taxis, motorised tri-shaws and cyclos, their pedal driven equivalents, vie for custom. It appears that many of the drivers have invested their whole lives in their vehicles. They eat, work and sleep in their mobile workplace, often with the family whiling away the hours on the pavement from where they base their operations. Kids weave in and out of traffic, hands held out for the chance of spare cash. If money isn’t forthcoming they’re almost as happy to receive empty coke cans or plastic bottles, any little thing that has some redeemable cash value. None of these street dwellers are pushy or overly demanding, their energy and happy countenance is contagious. (Fadhila Cottages beach - Pangempa Island, Togean Islands, Sulawesi)

Little time was spent in Makassar, I was impatient to reach the Togian Islands; for me they marked the finishing point of my overland journey. Within 24 hours I managed to sleep, locate the central bus terminal, book a ticket and settle into my reclining seat for the overnight ride to Palopo. The road through Sulawesi is notoriously long and increasingly rough going. I wanted it over in one foul swoop, so I could lie back on a secluded island and watch the world go by, a well deserved rest after many months of being on the move. For me Indonesia, in many ways, has been the hardest place to appreciate. I expected more from it and found myself disappointed with the many forms of extortion. Its transport infrastructure is basic to say the least, and many people capitalise on this. It makes tourists a prime target, mainly because time is often of the essence to them. I’m sure a solid grounding in Bahasa would negate such problems, but try as I might I’ve only managed to grasp the basics. (Photo: A glorious sunset to welcome me to Fadhila Cottages - Pangempa Island, Togeans Islands, Sulawesi)

However much I bitch about locals taking advantage of tourists I must concede that the police are even worse. They make little effort in any form to uphold the law, their position as law enforcement officers seems solely a means to relieve all and sundry of their hard earned cash. Checkpoints are regular occurrences, supposedly to scrutinise ID and vehicle documents. They are no more than an opportunity to extort bribes, I didn’t see a single document inspected. A simple procedure is followed; drivers slip a Rupee note amongst the document, it’s removed and they’re free to proceed, nothing else is looked at in the process. When dropped off at one such checkpoint, to wait for my on-going lift, the officer tried demanding 200,00Rp from me, supposedly for the lift I’d already paid for. He seemed surprised when I poured scorn on his clumsy attempt, even more so when I set off by foot rather than be subject to his ‘help’ in finding me the appropriate lift. He said it would cost 150,000Rp, I paid 70,000Rp. (Photo: Bajo houseboat - Katupat, Togean Islands, Sulawesi)

And so for the first time I’ve booked a plane ticket, to get me from Sulawesi back to Kuala Lumpur. It will be the first leg of my return to Europe. If I expected a sense of elation, it wasn’t to be. It should have been, having come from Wales to Sulawesi without a single flight. Unfortunately it was marred by the discovery that I’d been robbed, for the second time since leaving home. Opening my document case, I casually flipped over the inner flap, only to find no money there at all. No 3,000,000Rp, no $50; a total loss of nearly £250. I was gutted, absolutely flabbergasted, and clearly to mind came the event of waking from the overnight bus journey and finding my day-pack misplaced. I only gave it a quick once over, everything seemed in place, document case, camera, iPhone; if only I’d checked fully. Of course, the last thing you want to do in public is expose a large amount of cash from the darkest recesses of your luggage. I’m only glad I’m in the habit of dividing my money, stashing it in a couple of different places. It does however leave me very short of cash for the islands, where there are no ATMs, no chances to obtain more cash. But I still have my debit card, my passport and all my electronic gadgetry, others have not been so lucky. (Photo: Flurry of fish escaping predators - Off Katupat village, Togean Islands, Sulawesi)

Despite my mood plummeting, I wasn’t about to turn tail and run away. These islands have been my goal for many months, why should I let one unhappy instance rob me of my dreams? Have faith, trust in life! I still have my health, and my wits, I’ll muddle through somehow.

Fadhila Cottages, on a tiny island in the middle of the Togian Islands, first came recommended nearly 8 yrs ago. I guess since then it’s been kept in mind for a future visit. A secluded island paradise is how it was first described, and for once it wasn’t a let down. There’s nothing else on the island except the guesthouse, which is just as well as there’s little room for anything else. For the eternally restless it could be described as boring, for a weary traveler it’s perfect for winding down. The journey through Indonesia has often proved frustrating, but once on board the ferry from Ampana the outside world slid slowly away. Uninhabited islands dotted the way, often little more than a lump of rock on a sandbar. We saw more flying fish than fishermen, there was a distinct lack of settlements. Very few islands are close enough to supplies of freshwater to make occupation viable. I must admit, it took a few days to settle in, but that was more a sign of how cheesed off I was at losing so much money. (Photo: Air breathing mud skipper - Pangempa Island, Togean Islands, Sulawesi)

How is it possible to remain disgruntled though? By 9.30pm the generator stops, leaving the whole island in a darkened slumber. All is still, all is quiet, only the gentle sounds of nature at rest remain to lull you into peaceful tranquility. Waves lap lazily onto the shore, a few metres from my doorstep. The rising moon silhouettes drooping palms, the stars twinkle through their fronds. Rustling in the undergrowth suggests animals on their nocturnal wanderings. The flickering glow of fire-flies trace their haphazard flight through the foliage. An occasional chirrup of insects joins the subtle noises of night-time. There is nothing to break the spell, no background rumble of traffic, no pounding dance beats of late night revelers. My world is one at rest, undisturbed by the chaos of the outside world. This is the magnet that has drawn me here, this is reward enough for months of travel. It’s too easy to find fault in the mayhem of the modern world, this is just what I was in need of. It may not be perfect, but it’s pretty damned close. (Photo: Romantic sunset - Pangempa Island, Togean Islands, Sulawesi)