Briefly back in England

I anticipated culture shock. Instead I felt at home.

After Asia and before California, I went to England for eight days. I was excited to see old friends and eat familiar food, but I thought it might feel strange being back.

Unexpected differences surprised me. Grubby old London looked clean. I'm used to seeing rubbish everywhere and was struck by the capitol's unlittered pavements. England was colder than lowland Nepal, but indoors it was warm. I welcomed the world of central heating where you can relax in restaurants in short sleeves. In the West it seems, the cold is made to stay outside. Once the sun goes down in Nepal the cold permeates everything. Cement and stone are not very cosy and cafes are open to the elements. I dressed in layers and didn't take them off. England was colder outside but inside was toasty.

I was keen visit a supermarket expecting a jarring contrast after open-air markets with tubs of writhing fish, peculiar bumpy vegetables and yelling vendors. I envisioned strolling down sterile aisles jammed with thirty kinds of pasta, shrink-wrapped broccoli and overly packaged imported treats. Perhaps the comparatively high cost and staggering variety would stun me. Maybe it would seem wrong seeing so much attractive food for sale when elsewhere most people have simple locally produced diets.

Once inside the comforting glow of the supermarket, however everything seemed...well, normal. Although it was my first time in the shop, basket in hand I quickly hunted down yoghurt and satsumas. The layout subscribed to a familiar formula whose logic is imprinted on my brain. I am a child of the developed world. It was all so easy. No bargaining either.

For the first few days I still smiled at strangers and thought of other whities as "Westerners". Initially I did a doubletake when I overheard people speaking English. One busy lunchtime at Bill's in Brighton, tables close together, the woman to my left talked loudly to her companion about her philosophy of romantic relationships. It seemed so personal I couldn't help but blush. Didn't they realise I understood what they were saying? The ironic thing is that in Asia where personal space is at a premium, I got used to squeezing in next to strangers, but I had no idea what they were talking about.

The lesson was promptly forgotten because while walking that night, my friend discretely told me a bizarre story about his flatmate. "He laminated his pubes?!" I loudly echoed. I followed him across the road before I realised the detour was to distance ourselves from the man directly in front of us who had of course heard my outburst. I quickly apologised explaining, "I just keep forgetting that everyone speaks English!"

Finally, being away for so long has rendered me slow to interpret puns. My favourite sandwich chain, Pret a Manger has introduced free internet access. The poster advertises with two pieces of fruit and reads something like: "Wi-fi in-store now. But we still like to pick our apples and blackberries straight from the garden." A bit random but fair enough, I thought. They're saying they've gone high-tech but their food is still fresh and natural. Three days later I got the pun.

So "reverse culture-shock" isn't all it's cracked up to be. I quickly adapted to the change of scenery. I rode on the top level of buses instead of on the roof. I enjoyed meaningful conversations with old friends rather than traveller small talk. Oh and the food! Pesto pasta, fruit smoothies and green salads. Wet plate? Not a problem. I was even able to drink the tap water without getting ill. Amazing.

I've realised that travelling has made me more relaxed and better able to calmly deal with problems. Throughout Asia the notion of "saving face" rules all interactions. Getting angry and godforbid yelling makes you look ridiculous in locals' eyes and gets you nowhere. My newfound skills proved useful in England as well.

There's no public transport in London on Christmas. I had a flight to the States to catch and with Heathrow 20 miles away I wasn't walking. I pre-booked a mini-cab whose website proudly advertised they still charge their standard price on Christmas. However the dispatcher insisted it would cost an extra £10 because of the holiday. I calmly said I would like them to honour their price quoted online. After some resistance she spoke to her manager and agreed. In the taxi, my travel instinct told me to confirm again. The driver gave me the inflated price! This is when pre-Asia Fay would have flipped out. I would have belligerently insisted I was right and the driver would have argued back, making us both flustered and peeved. Instead I phoned the mini-cab company, confident it would be painlessly resolved. And it was. I paid the normal price, empathised with the driver over the confusion and we continued in good spirits. Success all around.

- Enroute to California, 38,000ft above Colorado

Leaving Asia

I'm in the final days of an incredible 11½ months travelling through Asia. I've been thinking a lot about everything I've experienced out here and what it will be like to be back in the West again.

It seems like a good moment for reflection.

I'm looking forward to...

• Cheese
• Bread that hasn't been deep fried
• Fresh crunchy salad
• Wearing jeans
• Anonymity
• Hanging out with my family in California
• Speaking English with everyone...and them understanding me perfectly
• Having friends around me
• Set prices in shops
• Digital radio (Especially BB7)
• No smoking in public places
• Watching films
• Borrowing books from libraries
• Wearing skirts, dresses and other pretty, girly clothes
• The Guardian
• Hot showers and baths
• Cooking my own food

I'm not looking forward to...

• Significantly higher cost of living (My toothpaste cost me US$0.43 – How much was yours?)
• Reality TV
• Junk mail
• People being unfriendly
• Drunken rowdiness (unless it's my own)
• General hum-drum
• House cleaning
• Our over regulated society (As Liam and I sang, "There are too many rules in the West.")
• Feeling prudishly shocked by Western women in skimpy clothing
• Lots of cars on the roads

I won't miss...

• Getting stared at
• Having little kids look over my shoulder all the time to see what I'm writing (yep, including right now)
• Being asked "Where from?"
• Banging my head on low doorways
• Having to be ultra careful about water (Microbes from a wet plate can really ruin your day)
• Being asked how much everything I own cost me (Response: "I don't know it was a gift.")
• Rubbish and poo on the streets
• Mosquitoes
• The "Om Mani Padme"song on repeat
• Spitting and the hacking sound that precedes it

I will miss...

• Delicious curries
• Walking past lush green rice paddies
• Glasses of milk tea for US$0.08
• Riding on top of buses
• Genuine, friendly locals
• Mangoes
• Buddha statues
• The joy of finding a really special guesthouse
• Feeling like a celebrity and seeing people's faces light up in surprise when they see me
• Terraced farming cut into steep hillsides
• Noodle soup in its many beautiful incarnations
• Shampoo in single serving sachets
• Parle-G biscuits
• Street food
• Walking barefoot around temples
• Being able to eat out every single meal
• Vibrant religious festivals and ceremonies
• Animals out and about, taking themselves for walks and hanging out in the street
• Tailor-made clothes
• Markets!
• Meeting amazing travellers from around the world
• Tasting exotic fruits for the first time
• The Muslim call to prayer
• Overnight train journeys and waking up somewhere new
• Swimming in warm sea and snorkelling
• Feeling intrepid at land border crossings
• My own child-like wonder at the newness of the world around me

Sacrifice

What would you do if you only had a few hours left to live? If you're a goat you apparently nibble leaves, head butt your neighbour, pleasure yourself or some combination of the three. Of course goats don't know when they're condemned to death, but if they did I like to think they would spend their final hours in the same way.

"We have to make God happy," a man told me.

A marching band led a procession of several dozen families. Boys held tall bamboo branches adorned with single red and white cloths. Women carried flat baskets with offerings of fruit, popcorn, fried bread and rice. I walked with Upsarah, my guesthouse owner's 21 year-old niece. She carried a small jug of milk. "For the rice pudding," she told me. A few people brought large red parasols. Men walked their goats, leading them on short ropes. We arrived at a grassy hillside next to the oldest tree in the area. A shrine stood at its base.

I was a guest at Family Reunification Day, an annual ceremony in which offerings are made to ancestors and a god. Everyone gathered was part of the Khatri Chatri caste. In Nepalese Hinduism, different castes sacrifice a particular animal be it water buffalo or pigs. Khantri Chatri sacrifice goats.

The women got to work separating their family's offerings. A giant basket filled up with everyone's fruit, another with breads, another one still with popcorn. The women heaped a selection of goodies from the baskets into individual leaf bowls. A caldron of rice pudding bubbled away.

Meanwhile the men had tied their goats to shrubs. All the goats were decorated with red tika powder. A few had red and yellow painted horns. One wore a garland of marigolds. All were male.

Leaf bowls in hand, people munched happily on the snacks. Goats were given orange rinds and banana peels which they scoffed. They won't have the chance to digest them, I thought.

Finally after an hour and a half, the band started up again. Men untied their goats and led them around in a circle, parade style. For a moment it seemed like a dog show with proud owners showing off their animals for the judges. The illusion dissolved when they lined up along the shrine path. The goats remained calm but the excitement amongst the people was palpable. Small children gathered on the slope vying for the best view. A holy man with a shaved head was dressed all in white. Another man sat cross-legged nearby was suddenly overcome by a writhing fit as though possessed.

Before I could ask about the flailing man, the first goat was brought forward. Someone firmly held his hind legs and another the rope, extending the animal's neck slightly. The goat was sprinkled with water. The following pause felt like the moment before freefall on a fairground ride. You have signed up for something thrilling and maybe horrible. You are strapped in, waiting at the top. The only thing left is to plummet to the ground. You know it's coming, but when?

With one strong blow, a man with a machete hacked off the goat's head executioner-style. Thunk. I think I must have gasped. I was not expecting this. I thought the throats would be slit or punctured like the water buffalo. The holy man in white touched his lips to the blood spurting out of the severed body. This I thankfully had been warned about.

The next goat was brought forward, held in place and with a swift swing of the blade his head was separated from the body. The holy man was given blood, the dead goat taken away and the next held in position. The process was quick and dramatic. By about the third goat the holy man in white had blood splattered gratuitously down his front.

We've all heard about the running of headless chickens, though I for one have never seen it. It seems beheaded goats also have a disturbing repertoire of reflexes. I witnessed mad twitching, kicking and perhaps most unnerving, tail wagging. Even after the bodies were laid on the grass while the artery in the neck was tied, they sometimes continued to jerk and throw their legs about. Despite all this, the queue of waiting goats remained calm. Only occasionally one would call out, bleeting.

People believe the god they are sacrificing to enters the holy man's body through the animals' blood. I watched his shaved head bob up and down, feet prancing like a boxer's before a fight. He was jazzed up. One by one the bodies of newly killed goats were held to his lips. An assistant wiped his mouth with a cloth, like a coach wiping a fighter's brow.

Once all the goats were killed, their tied feet were strung through stout bamboo poles and taken away. Young boys carried heads by the ear. Back at home, individual families cleaned their goat and divided the meat between them. The goats' lives are an offering to the ancestors and a god, but it is the living who enjoy the meat. The sacrifice is believed to bring good luck to the whole village.

Someone handed me a leaf bowl of rice pudding. It contained milk from the whole community and raisins, dates and pieces of coconut. I ate with my fingers enjoying the sweet creaminess.

- Panauti, Nepal

Trekking in Nepal

Before Nepal, my longest hike was three days. Several years ago after trekking in Morocco's High Atlas mountains, by day three I was utterly exhausted and my legs were so sore I could barely walk.

Last month I trekked the Annapurna Circuit and Sanctuary in the Nepalese Himalayas to raise money for British non-profit MAG (Mines Advisory Group). My friends Peter, Meg, Liam (who we met in Nepal) and I, organised the trek and paid all expenses ourselves. All money raised goes straight to MAG, to remove landmines from countries like Laos and Cambodia. Nothing like a charity counting on you to keep you going during a challenging 21 days at high-altitude. Yep, that's seven times longer than my previous treks and with an elevation of 5,416m (17,769ft) at Thorung La Pass, the highest point. Before setting off I felt anxious and extremely excited.

Annapurna Circuit and Sanctuary are two separate treks and most folks do one or the other. We decided to do both. The Circuit trail connects a series of charming villages in a giant upside-down horseshoe with Thorung La Pass at the top. We began Sanctuary at the tail end of the Circuit climbing steadily up to Annapurna Base Camp (aka “ABC” - elevation 4,130m/13,549ft) and back down the same path.

Fun and Games
At high elevation, trekkers are advised to sleep no more than 500m higher each night. During the day you can hike as high as you like as the guideline only applies to sleeping altitude. The rule of thumb is, “Hike high, sleep low.” This meant on the way up to the Pass we had some very short days where we met our 500m quota after only two or three hours and had to stop. This gave us ample time for reading, journal writing, clothes washing and playing cards. Our favourites were “500” (an excellent team trumps game), “Casino”, Aussie rules rummy, “Shithead” renamed “Full Retard” and “Solitaire” with several backseat drivers. Our deck of cards was very ordinary and we were in awe of a Welsh couple's see-through plastic glow-in-the-dark set and a beautifully illustrated taro-like deck from Bavaria belonging to three German trekkers.

We played pool in a dive called, “Local Bar” and inside a garage next to racks of drying yak meat.

Thanks to Liam we found ourselves singing a great deal. We sang the full score of “The Sound of Music” through a forest and Top 40 Hits from the 80's and 90's on the way up to ABC in the snow.

You Know You're Trekking in Nepal When...
* You have to wait five minutes to let a caravan of heavily laden donkeys cross a bridge.
* The correct trail is marked with a littering of banana gum wrappers and coconut biscuit packets.
* Guesthouses advertise “hot showers” but they're solar powered so the best you're going to get is “warm”. Arrive late in the afternoon and you're looking at cold water or wetwipes.
* Dinner costs about four times more than your bed for the night. (Guesthouses make their money from meals and as it is assumed you will eat where you sleep, a token amount is charged for rooms. Our record low was US$1 for a quadruple room.)
* Apple pie, spring rolls and Mars rolls are all wrapped in dough and deep fried. My group also sampled Snickers rolls and Twix rolls (you get two).
* Apple is the only fruit you see for three weeks. You can have apple muesli, pancake, pie, juice, tangy dried apple slices, or just plain apple.
* You get breathy hiking up a mild incline. It's the altitude!

How hard was it?
The trek was challenging for me though it wasn't as difficult as I anticipated. Because we had never done this sort of thing before we hired two Nepalese porters. This provides employment and made the experience more enjoyable for me only carrying my daypack. We met a lot of trekkers who were carrying their own backpacks and a lot who weren't. Those without porters covered the same ground as us each day, they were just generally a bit slower. One of our porters didn't work out for us, so after the initial 15 day contract was up, Peter volunteered to carry one of the bags. He appreciated the added challenge.

The funny thing about altitude is you never know how it is going to affect you. You might be lucky and only experience minor symptoms (breathiness, loss of appetite, frequent urination) or you may suffer full-blown flu-like symptoms, bad headaches or worse. We met some people who were so ill they had to turn around for lower elevation until they were better. One unwell Irish woman hired a horse to carry her over the Pass.

On the way up to the Pass, Peter and Meg had trouble sleeping. Liam had headaches and wasn't hungry. Personally I fared well and other than breathiness and slower hiking speed was grateful for my good health.

On both treks there are villages all along the way. It's easy to regulate accent and the next teahouse is never more than an hour or so away. Those who fall fowl of the altitude can descend a few hundred meters and rest until acclimitised.

The duration was not the obstacle I anticipated. The trek was seven times longer than Morocco but it was certainly not seven times harder. We got into a rhythm of rising early, walking, eating lunch and walking some more. Nights were bitterly cold but during the day the sun was warm and hiking pleasant. Especially challenging were the steep climbs and decents. Hiking up then down then up again in a single afternoon can be a bit soul destroying. We kept telling ourselves it all is part of the process and was making our legs stronger. Other days were more enjoyable. I loved having endless hours to talk with my friends and other trekkers from around the world, while passing gobsmacking scenery.

Scenery
Spectacular views of the Himalayas are some of my lasting memories of the trek. The varied landscape on the Circuit was particularly rewarding. We hiked through subtropical forests, past chalky blue lakes, across vast valleys, along narrow rocky trails with gushing rivers far below and over wobbly suspension bridges. We saw yaks grazing on scrubby plains. We visited remote stone villages that are many days' walk from the nearest road. We were blessed by a 92 year-old lama in a tiny Buddhist temple built into a cliffside. We trekked in the shadow of snow covered mountains and eventually through the snow itself.

On the approach to the Pass, I was surrounded by rounded, snowy mountains. Whereas previously the mountains had towered above us, now they seemed closer and in the early morning light, smoother. I felt a surge of joy. Visually the landscape was one of the most stunning we had seen so far, but it occurred to me at this could have been the view from the top of a ski lift in the French Alps or perhaps the American Rockies. What blew me away were two things:
1) I knew I was looking at the Nepalese Himalayas, nearing the highest point of our journey. It was exotic because I knew it was exotic.
2) It had taken us nine days to walk there. In short, there was no ski lift.

I would highly recommend the Annapurna Circuit to anyone who is a reasonably fit hill walker. It's not just for young people either. We encountered many dozens of trekkers in their 50's and 60's and one incredible woman who was 72.

We are still accepting sponsorship in support for MAG. So far we have raised £318 and we would love to reach £500. All donations however small are greatly appreciated. Please visit: www.justgiving.com/riceherders Thank you!

- Panauti, Nepal

Baby's First Food

"Hi there Maude. How're things?"
"Oh, real good, Nancy. Would you believe it, little Timmy's on solid foods now?"
"You don't say. They do grow up fast."
"The other day we gave the little tyke banana and rice for the first time."
"Isn't that sweet. My Alice used to love mashed pumpkin."

The world over, eating solid food for the first time is a baby milestone along with the first smile and sleeping through the night. In the West, proud mothers might share the news with friends. Steamed carrots brave the blender or parents buy puree in diminutive glass jars. And that's pretty much it. The baby eats her first "meal" in front of a doting audience of two.

In Nepal they throw a party. Today I was fortunate enough to be invited to a baby's first food ceremony. Nepalese babies continue to nurse until they are two or three, but at six months real food is introduced into their diet. As of this morning, an infant known to me as "Babu" ("Baby boy" in Nepali) had only consumed breast milk. Breakfast, lunch and dinner, milk was the only thing on the menu. Today all that changed.

I was welcomed into a simple house, much like the 150 year-old guesthouse where I am staying. I sat on a mat on the dry mud floor, next to Suresh, the president of Panauti village's tourism development committee, who acted as my guide. He explained the baby's family is Bramin, the highest Hindu caste. Lucky Babu should have access to education and the resulting better job prospects.

An imam officiated the ceremony. Spread in front of him on the floor was what looked to me like a chaotic mess of religious trinkets, a brass teapot, spilled rice and grain, leaves, garlands of marigolds, incense and so forth. Babu sat contentedly in his uncle's arms, decked out in a little hood and cape and wearing thick eyeliner to ward off evil. The imam began chanting, flinging grains of rice and painting dots on the teapot. Guests continued to arrive and were seated on the floor.

Babu's father, chin-length hair framing his round face took turns holding his son. He is a Hindu priest and an astrologer. He was clearly enjoying his role in this joyous day. A young woman took dozens of photos with her mobile, calling, "Babu!" and clapping her hands to get his attention. Curiously, for a while Babu's mother was nowhere to be seen. Suresh thought she was downstairs, so perhaps she was busy helping to prepare food. However even when she did appear, she lingered behind the other guests, as if reticent to get involved. Is this custom, I wondered, or is the woman just very shy?

A tray containing a book, brick, knife and pencil were placed in front of Babu. Suresh explained this was a test. The chosen object gives an indication of the baby's future. Babu picked up the pencil. A cheer went up in the room. This means he will be a good student. It's hard to imagine an infant picking up a brick, but if he did he would be a skilled builder. Fortunately he didn't go for the knife as this could signify a future as a thief.

A woman entered the room carrying a mallard. One of the main ways Nepalese and Indian Hinduism differ is in the former's use of animal sacrifice. Most Indians are vegetarians so killing animals ceremonially or otherwise is a big no-no. I happen to be fond of ducks. I think they have a lot more personality than chickens. I hoped this duck was not about to be slaughtered. The truth as it turns out was significantly more unpredictable. Babu and the duck were going to kiss. It is good luck apparently. The woman gave the duck's bill and webbed feet a little wash. You know how babies like to put everything in their mouths? The duck's bill was held closed near to Babu's face and he happily latched on to it for a taste. Someone wasn't fast enough with her camera and wanted the kiss repeated. Babu and duck obliged.

Babu's clothes were removed and he was wrapped in a red shawl. He sat on his uncle's lap and his father fed him some banana. Another piece was lit on fire for the sun god. Large platters of food were set down. Babu was given rice, egg, and small tastes of many other foods. He seemed to like everything.

Babu was dressed in special red and gold ceremonial clothes. The guests showered him with petals and popcorn. Someone offered a handful to Babu's mother, still lingering in the back, but she declined. We filed outside, Babu in tow and made a tour of the village's closest seven or so Hindu shrines.

Back inside the house, it was the guests' turn to eat. The feast was staggering. Rice with almonds and raisins, tender stewed goat, chickpeas, potato and aubergine curry and tomato curry. Our hosts kept ladling more food onto our metal plates. I got to eat with my hand which was enjoyably tactile but messy. Dessert was yogurt with sliced fruit. Heavenly. Fortunately I was served my yogurt in a mug with a spoon, though some dexterous folks ate it with fingers off plates.

Before leaving I congratulated Babu's father and thanked him profusely for letting me take part in this special day. I told him the food was delicious. I would have thanked his shy wife as well but she was nowhere to be seen.

- Panauti, Nepal

Deconstructionist Nepal

We got up early to see the sunrise and take some footage of the temples. But there wasn't much of a sunrise. I suppose I've been spoiled lately with some spectacular dawn displays in the Himalayas where the crimson heavens appeared to be cracking open. My friend Liam borrowed a video camera from work and I've enjoyed hunting for distinctively Nepalese shots with him. Flapping prayer flags, spinning prayer wheels, women carrying baskets strapped to their foreheads, that sort of thing.

I had just been lamenting the morning's non-event of a sunrise when I noticed a young water buffalo lying on the bricks with its legs hobbled together. A small crowd was starting to gather around. I spotted knives and large basins. I knew what was about to happen even if the beast did not. Liam, focused on the temple, hadn't noticed the animal yet. “Liam, come here,” I called. “I think they're about to slaughter this water buffalo.”

And they did. A sharp knife punctured its throat. Another incision was made lower down on its neck. Blood poured into a basin. Steam rose out of the two cuts into the cold morning air. The creature struggled a little and made a few noises, but then fell quiet. I kept thinking it must be dead by now and then it would surprise me with a convulsion. I thought it might put up more of a fight, but even for a large animal there is a limit to what you can do when you're tied up, restrained by several people and literally bleeding buckets. Liam had asked permission to videotape and recorded the whole thing. This was not the "Beautiful Nepal" his work wanted, but it's not every day you stumble upon butchery and we thought it would make an interesting short film. It was certainly fascinating watching it all take place in front of me. The small children were riveted. Liam said it was different watching through the viewfinder than seeing it all for real. Perhaps the cameraman is a film's first spectator and is therefore one step removed.

The water buffalo's head was separated from its body and placed ceremonially in front of a small shrine. The offering was blessed and a candle was placed on its head. Straw was arranged along the beast's flank and set on fire. This was repeated again and again in order to burn off the fur. Men heaved the carcass onto its other side and created more fires. By this point most of the children had lost interest and walked away. Liam was offered what he initially feared must be hot blood but thankfully turned out to be tea. I sipped mine and watched the blaze. At what point does something cease to be an animal? Is it the moment of death, when its head is cut off or sometime later when its innards have been removed and its bones are hacked apart with a hatchet?

Wishing to warm up, we went to our favourite cafe in the village, a family-run place with superb milk tea. When we returned half an hour later, they were at the internal organs/ hatchet stage of the operation. The stomach the size of a small beanbag, was spliced open to reveal what appeared to be a lawn's worth of partially digested hay. We watched until the end. Everything was carefully cut and washed with hot water. Nothing was wasted. From start to finish the whole process took two hours. The short film will cover everything in about three minutes. Meat requires a lot of work. I was struck by the process of deconstruction. The village men transformed a living, breathing water buffalo into a series of parts. They turned an animal into raw pieces; ingredients.

Later in the day, Krishna, our guesthouse owner, accompanied me to a fabric shop. I told him I was interested in having two traditional Nepalese tops made for myself. These wrap-around, tie at the side, shirts are still worn by many women in rural parts of the country. They're form-fitting, distinctive and I think very flattering. I get excited by fabric stores. All those different colours and textures. I selected a heavy black and red print and a retro design of rhododendrons, the country's national flower. Krishna brought me to his own tailor, an old man with a hand-crank machine who has sewn Krishna's clothes since he was a little boy.

The tailor's wife measured me and the tailor set to work, eschewing the tape measure, deftly inching his hands and fingers across the fabric. He had no pattern. The shapes were in his head. He swiftly cut the forms which were to become sleeves, front, back and darts, out of my material while we watched. Once again Liam's video camera came out. It was the opposite of the water buffalo. I wanted to record the transformation from cloth to clothes. Parts to a functioning whole. Constructionism.

In the West, our animals are slaughtered and butchered out of sight. The process is discreetly hidden from view. Our clothes are now made in the developing world, often here in Asia. We buy meat and clothes from shops as finished products. We don't get to watch patterns being cut. It happens somewhere else.

At the village tailor's, a crowd of young children gathered around. They can see clothes made every day, so naturally the magic occurring on the sewing machine wasn't what piqued their interest. They were watching me.

- Panauti, Nepal

Pilgrim's Progress – Jodhpur to Ramdevra on Foot

"Try to have no expectations," they told me. Volunteering is never what you think it will be. Sure enough, rather than teaching English and crafts in a classroom for the Sambhali Trust, in Jodhpur, India, I spent the first week of September walking in the Thar Desert. Most mornings we woke while it was still dark and walked a few kilometers before sunrise. After sun up, in a sort of plodding race against the clock, we tried to cover as much ground as possible before 11am when the heat became unbearable.

Each year over a million Indians take part in the Ramdevra Pilgrimage. They walk from all over Rajasthan (and sometimes further afield) to the temple where Baba Ramdev Ji, a Hindu saint and incarnation of Krishnu, is buried.

Peter and I were accompanied by an entourage of twenty Dalit (Untouchables caste) girls and women from Sambhali, the charity's founder Govind, three other Western volunteers and a support team of a few drivers and cooks. Hundreds of thousands of people traversed the same route that week. We walked 165km in just five days. One day we walked more than the distance of a marathon, only to wake the following morning and walk another 30km.

It was exhausting, exhilarating, hauntingly beautiful and remarkable.

We followed the road past pastel scrubland and through rural villages. Lunch, often in the company of goats and transfixed children, consisted of delicious dhals and curries. We relaxed in the shade or washed ourselves and our single change of clothes at water pumps. Around 3pm, though the heat was still powerful, we were able to start walking again. We exchanged warm greetings with old women, families and children, all on foot. We had started our journeys from different towns, but we were all headed to the same place. As the sun grew low in the sky, the colours of the Thar Desert began to intensify. This was one of my favourite times of day. In terms of sheer beauty it was rivaled only by the vast, starry night sky.

We five foreigners were apparently the first to ever make the pilgrimage in its five-hundred-odd year history. It's hard to believe, but everyone we met enroute attested to this, including a kind doctor who had made the trip for the past fifteen years. Consequently we received a lot of attention, both from the media (we were interviewed by a number of newspapers and TV stations) and from the people we encountered on the way. Although most were simply curious, sometimes we were given a little too much attention. Once when we stopped in a tent for chai, a crowd gathered around us and a few men leaned so far in to get a better look that they nearly fell on top of me. In these instances Govind and the girls snapped into action and shooed the men away with wonderful Hindi witticisms such as, "Yes, they drink tea too just like you," before telling them to get lost and give us some privacy.

It was this protectiveness from the girls which I found particularly endearing. Although they had only met me a few days before, they were brilliant at carefully guiding us through crowds and loudly telling off leering young men. I was grateful to them for helping me navigate this at times bewildering environment. Also I was delighted by their boldness. They never hesitated to stand up for us and showed phenomenal strength of character. Sambhali aims to empower girls and women. It is clear to me it has been doing its job.

Over the course of the pilgrimage the contingent of Westerners fell foul of a variety of ailments from massive blisters and sore legs to hurt knees, knotted stomachs, sunburn and colds. We loudly discussed our latest debilitating pain and generally moaned a lot. The Sambhali girls on the other hand put us all to shame. The walking wasn't easy for them either, but they didn't complain, at least not to us. Additionally many were fasting, eating only one small meal a day. The girls were stoic, but at times I worried for their health, particularly when one started throwing up. Dehydration in a desert is a serious cause for concern. After a little bullying, she agreed to drink rehydration salts and fortunately was alright.

Incidents like these made it clear that although we were walking to Ramdevra together, we were on a very different path. For our little group of largely secular foreigners, it was about taking part in a distinctively Indian experience, spending time with each other and the girls and testing ourselves physically. For the girls and indeed the million other Ramdevra pilgrims, it was about faith. This was the largest display of faith we had ever seen. Although we were taking part, we also stood apart.

This was clearest to me when we finally reached the temple at Ramdevra. At this point everyone was exhausted, including the girls. We walked through the town barefoot, sidestepping mud and filth. Due to Govind's connections, we bypassed the hours' long queue and went straight into the temple. Inside we were whisked from one room to another. It was frenzied and confusing. I remember a baby's cradle and people offering alms for a personal wish. Immediately outside by a holy lake, we splashed ourselves with water. Our newly painted bindis ran red down our noses. A true religious fervor overtook the girls. Their aches and pains forgotten they formed a circle and began chanting. Yelling. Singing. Suddenly I really was just a spectator. They were experiencing something I can't understand. The temple, the lake and indeed the previous five days of walking meant something to them of which I was not a part.

We drove to Setrawa, Govind's hometown and the village where Sambhali's other project is based. It felt strange and good not walking. Utterly worn out, we laid our blankets on the roof of the Setrawa school. One last night sleeping under the stars.

- Jodhpur, India

Shoe Repairs and Chai Tea

On the warm nighttime drive from Delhi airport, we passed cows resting on the road and a cyclist on the motorway. The old brick buildings with crumbling plaster reminded me of Morocco. There were dogs everywhere. Apparently they form vicious packs at night, but during the day they seem sweet and docile. Still, we know not to touch them.

We have arrived in India. It is a country I have long dreamed of visiting. It is famed for its exotic, rich culture. Spices, saris, sitars. Bollywood and "off shore" call centres. Travelling here is said to be both difficult and deeply rewarding. After the ease of negotiating Japan and South Korea the past several months, I was anxious that my travel street smarts had atrophied through lack of use. However, many of my fears have been unfounded because our first two days in India have been amazing. Thanks to the country's colonial past, people speak excellent English. I'm having so much fun joking with the locals, something which was very difficult in northeast Asia where we had no shared language. Peter and I have been enjoying Delhi's markets, enlivening hustle bustle, beautiful historic buildings and of course the delicious food. To avoid being taken for easy targets by scam artists, we told anyone who asked that we'd already been in India for "several weeks" and even that this was our third visit to the country (lies, all lies). However, yesterday really was our very first day in India. The following is an account of our first day.

"Your shoe is broken," said a voice from the ground.
"Yes, I know," Peter said. "I will fix it," said the streetside cobbler. When you spend hours of every day walking, as we do, your shoes take a real beating. A few days earlier in South Korea, the leather strap of Peter's hiking sandal separated from the base of the shoe. I joked that someone in India would be able to mend it for him.

"How much?" We asked the cobbler. He had set up shop on the ground in a market with a small arsenal of tools, polish and a bag of leather scraps. He turned Peter's shoe over in his hands.
"Ten Rupees," he said. We were amazed. Ten Rupees is US$0.22.
"Can you really fix it?" We asked. The man assured us he could.

We squatted beside him and watched. As the craftsman expertly glued and stitched a new piece of leather to the broken strap, he told us he has fixed shoes for 30 years. He has four children. He is not originally from Delhi, but I did not recongise the name of his hometown. Carefully, he prized the sole away from the inner and wrapping sturdy string around a hooked implement, punctured through the layers of leather and rubber and deftly stitched the strap back into the shoe. The workmanship was staggering to watch.

He wanted to polish the shoes with sandpaper and rebuild the scuffed sole, for an additional fee of course. But Peter declined, explaining they'll only get dirty and rescuffed again. Considering the amount of filth in Delhi's streets, it would only take a matter of days. However the man did apply a little glue to the other shoe, so we thought fifteen Rupees was fair. We paid with the exact amount which neatly ended any further negotiations.

Next we visited Jama Masjid, one of India's largest mosques. Admission is free, but if you want to bring your camera in with you, it will cost 200 Rupees (US$4.35). It seems like a disproportionately large amount to take a few photos, but it was a moot point for us as we'd decided to explore without our camera. We wanted to be a little less conspicuous on our first day. The mosque was nothing short of stunning. The grand, domed roofs were reminiscent of the Taj Mahal. Food was set out for pigeons in the central square and they frequently took flight, decorating the negative space between the scalloped archways. We climbed the narrow minaret for a view of the old town. The buildings are all short and squat, so the minaret towered above them. A little ways off we spotted the Red Fort, a sprawling rust coloured structure.

Between the mosque and the Red Fort is a bazaar which sells bric-a-brac and religious paraphernalia. Piles of cheap watches were submerged in paddling pools as proof they are water-resistant.

Hot and tired, we stopped at one of the market's chai tea stands. Glasses were lined up and the vendor poured a messy cascade of tea down the row from on high. The tea was poured through a net which filtered out the leaves and spices which looked like coffee grounds. Sugar was heaped in along with dollops of foam. The sweet drinks revived us. A cup cost 5 Rupees (US$0.11).

Beautifully dressed women in saris came to the counter to beg. Appearance seems to be very important and even beggars are tidy and well presented. They transferred a fistful of coins to a friend and begged with only two coins in their open palms. As routinely as pouring chai, the tea vendor doled out a one Rupee coin to each.

For dinner we went to a simple, brightly lit restaurant which was so packed there were no free tables. We asked two local men if we could sit with them. One said it was fine and gave a friendly Indian head wiggle. We ordered a vegetable thali, (a selection of different curries and flat breads on a platter like a painter's palate) and Kashmere paneer, one of the day's specials which turned out to be a wonderfully smoky curry with onions and cheese. As we ate, the place became even more crowded with families waiting for tables and ordering take away. No surprise the restaurant was a big hit, the food was incredible. Curiously, throughout the entire meal, the men at our table did not say a word to each other.

"Do you think we cramped their style?" I asked Peter after they'd left.
"No," he said. I guess they just didn't feel like talking.

Our bill for two mains and two sodas came to US$5.50. On a good day, this is what we would have paid in South Korea for one main and the food would not have been any where nearly as enjoyable. I think I am going to like India quite a lot.

On the way out of the restaurant, plodding along the dark street with the autorickshaws and buses, I spotted an elephant.

-Delhi, India

Will Work for Fruit - Volunteering on Japanese Organic Farms

After several days of volunteering we were considering staying a month. The friendly host family consisted of American Michelle-san, her Japanese husband Haraku-san and their two little kids. The title "san" denotes respect and we became Fay-san and Peter-san. Thrown into the mix were two additional volunteers from the US and Taiwan.

A rice paddy, we learned, is called a tombo and our hosts only had four (one of which fed them). The household's real income appeared to come from Michelle-san's English lessons. Rather than farming, as we had been expecting, the bulk of our time was spent restoring an old Japanese farm house which will become the family's new home.

Our hosts were thrilled when they learned Peter-san had tiling experience. He was put to work straight away in the new kitchen and seemed to thrive on the task. However the jobs I was given were a bit less fulfilling. The day I spent hunched over a short-handled brush, sweeping out a barn was not so enjoyable. Even more frustrating was when Haraku-san remembered they had a vacuum cleaner.

This was our first experience with WWOOF Japan. WWOOF stands for World-Wide Opportunities on Organic Farms. Founded by a British woman in the early '70's, the organisation is now global but its simple premise has endured; volunteer on an organic farm in exchange for free room and board.

My first time WWOOFing was in 2002, harvesting pumpkins in the Netherlands. The monotony of slicing stems in vast fields was broken by hearty meals with the Dutch family. We always worked together and I was made to feel like part of the household. In England I WWOOFed at three different farms and I have returned to one near Brighton several times. Its doctor owners always make time to teach me about chickens or tell stories about their donkeys.

Peter and I were already ankle-deep in mud when we learned the Japanese work ethic extends beyond the cities and into the countryside. WWOOFers in Japan are expected to work a six day week. This came as a blow as we were counting on weekends to explore the surrounding area. Perhaps this was negotiable, we hoped.

Our work day began at 5:30am with two hours of pre-breakfast tombo weeding. This was followed by house renovations and ended with cleaning up after dinner. It came to over nine hours a day. It was exhausting, but it felt good to throw ourselves into the work. Besides, we liked the family and felt motivated to help them.

The departure of the other two WWOOFers marked a U-turn. Haraku-san had seemed happy with us. Michelle-san was uninvolved with our work, however this didn't stop her from telling us we weren't working hard enough. A new schedule had been drawn up which curiously had us working fewer hours. The priorities had shifted. Despite being desperate to move into the new house, we were now to do more weeding and kitchen chores.

The household's inconsistencies were hard to swallow. That morning, Michelle-san had offered fresh fruit to all four volunteers. In the evening, with the other two gone, we were told off for taking a banana and peach each. We became increasingly aware of dozens of strange house rules. Chopsticks don't go on the table. Certain dishes are stored in a different cabinet. You can't have a shower on a bath night.

We bought our own bananas (hardly worth quibbling over at US$.30 each). We bought cereal and local milk for breakfast. Michelle-san told us it was the wrong brand because they are "not happy cows". Due to our extended morning weeding, we were no longer eating elaborate miso soup, rice and bread breakfasts with the family but they still wanted us to have some later so we would be obliged to wash up all the dishes. We stuck to cereal and they got the hint.

By this point Peter and I were cycling to the tombo and the new house across town, rather than being driven. This freed up Haraku-san's time considerably, but as he wasn't at the new house very much, asking him questions was difficult. Projects were mentioned and then dropped the next day as the priorities shifted again. Once I cleaned up my painting supplies and cycled home in the heat to start cooking dinner only to be told that there had been a change of plan. I wouldn't be cooking after all and should go back to the new house.

Haraku-san wanted us to repaper old sliding doors. He had never done it before either, but not to worry, his mother would show us. Perhaps this was never communicated to her because she came and left without giving a papering lesson. We eventually figured it out for ourselves and the doors turned out beautifully. However WWOOFing should be an exchange of knowledge, not just winging it on your own.

Morale was particularly low amongst the Riceherders when Haraku-san took his children to the beach while we had to work on the house. This was a far cry from harvesting pumpkins with my Dutch hosts. Furthermore, the little kids mainly communicated by whining and seemed to find the endless household rules as confusing and frustrating as we did. The house was a stressful place to be. We started taking the bikes out in the evening and pottering around town or strolling past lush green tombo just to get away. As a small act of defiance, we started dropping the "san" off Michelle's name when we talked about her to each other.

We had hoped to stay for all of July, but we decided to only do two weeks and move on.

Next we went to an organic fruit farm in the Japan Alps. There were already five other volunteers and a separate, purpose built WWOOFer house. Akeio-san and Terumi-san had been hosting for seven years compared with just five months at the previous farm. "Great!" We thought, "They'll be super organised and we'll have all the fresh fruit we can eat." Our first assumption quickly proved accurate. On arrival, Akeio-san talked us through the daily schedule. Good news: Six hours a day. Bad news: It was a six day week with a 5am start in order to avoid the most punishing hours of summer sun. Even so, by 9am it was boiling.

A note to the uninitiated: Starting work at 5am hurts. We gave ourselves a child's bedtime, but the early starts were still hard. My "rebalancing" tomato plants or worse still, Peter strimming weeds, when we should've still been asleep, was not easy.

Although the work was physically challenging, thankfully the home life was a breeze. The hosts' kids didn't whine or cry. With so many WWOOFers, we didn't have to wash dishes after every meal. Plates were stacked on labeled shelves. Chopsticks were allowed to rest on the table. The schedule remained constant, the farm work more supervised and we were shown how to do every task.

Now how about that fruit? Two days in and the table had a decided absence of the apples or peaches we saw in the orchards.

"The fruit is not ready yet," Terumi-san explained.
I asked, "Do you ever buy fruit for WWOOFers and your family?"
"No," was her reply.

Somehow we'd gone from a rice farm where they were too cheap to buy enough bananas for their free labourers, to a fruit farm with no fruit at all.

The location was also an issue. Being a proper farm with lots of land, it was rural. There were only two bikes between the seven of us and the nearest shop was a 30 minute cycle each way in the blistering heat. In the name of love and fruit, Peter cycled to get us bananas, oranges and other treats. But the bike was terrible and he vowed he would not make the trip again. We had several hours free in the middle of the day, but there was no where to go. I have new empathy for isolated migrant workers, unable to speak the local language.

The fatal flaw with WWOOF Japan is that rather than volunteering to enable travelling, the farming becomes your whole life. Our first hosts were using WWOOF for very cheap labour to renovate their house and to enable Michelle to teach more. Our second hosts had a steady stream of WWOOFers which served as an integral part of their farm's business plan. When you're not getting much back in return, it feels a little odd realising you're just helping them make money. It is a shame that unlike my hosts in England and the Netherlands, in Japan neither hosts had the time to teach us very much.

During our three weeks volunteering, we stained wooden beams with persimmon oil and charcoal. We learned how to tell the difference between actual rice plants and "fake rice", a grass which cunningly looks a lot like the real thing. Peter made metal lampshades, fitted glass and constructed screen frames. We thinned carrots and peaches. We quite literally separated the wheat from the chaff. I won't be going back.

If I'm ever lucky enough to have keen young people volunteering for me, I promise I'll be very generous with the fruit.

- Osaka, Japan

Capsule Hotels and Rebel Calligraphy in Tokyo

I am surrounded by beautiful words I cannot understand. Vast canvasses of inky black shapes. Brushstrokes. Lines. Squiggles. I see thin, scrawny marks which bloom unexpectedly into dark splotches. Others were painted heavily with a fat brush allowed to run dry partway through a word, as though alternating between shouting and whispering. Characters descend rapidly down long strips of paper as though falling to the floor. They all appear to be penned with great confidence. Stark black on white. Some look as though they are blowing in a windstorm.

I am at a calligraphy exhibit at the National Art Center in Tokyo. I study the museum-goers enjoying the art. "Can they read the pieces?" I wonder. Some of the Japanese characters seem so abstracted, it's hard to imagine they can be deciphered. If they can, then the art would be half painting, half poetry. If not then they are experiencing the same things I am.

The longer I examine the canvases, the more certain I am that this is modern Japanese calligraphy. The old conventions have been broken. These artists have eschewed neatly ordered characters painted in uniform strokes. This is rebel calligraphy. Suddenly I am desperate to talk with someone and find out more.

After a few false starts, I manage to find a young Japanese man who speaks English. Excitedly, I ask him if he can read the paintings. "Not really," He tells me. "I can read a little but mostly no. You have to be a calligraphy expert to really read it." He gestures to the elderly women at the ticket counter suspecting they fall into this category. I learn that these pieces I've been admiring were painted at a local calligraphy school by teachers and their best students. Only after they master the traditional methods may they develop their own personal style with unique flourishes. I thank the man and he hurries to catch up with his group.

This calligraphy strikes me as a fitting metaphor for Japan. In our nine days in the country, we have seen white gloved bus conductors help old ladies. Bicycles are left unlocked and our umbrellas are still waiting for us when we come out of shops. People are astoundingly polite. They offer gifts for minor inconveniences and bow constantly. It is so foreign yet it's a little familiar because our own societies used to be a bit like this.

But on the other hand, Japan is more modern than home. Commuters watch TV on their mobiles. Phones convert 2D barcodes on posters into web addresses which can then be visited while waiting for a bus. In fact, our mobiles don't even work here. (The system is G3.) There are vending machines on the street everywhere, dispensing Asahi beer, green tea and the best ice cream we've had in months. In Hiroshima, we encountered a group of American tourists visiting the city as a daytrip from Kyoto. The two cities are almost 200 miles apart, but that's only two hours on the bullet train so why not?

Here in Tokyo, we're staying at a capsule hotel. Space is at a premium in this sprawling metropolis and consequently, stacked private pods make sense when all you need is a place to sleep. Considerably more spacious than a coffin, each capsule is tall enough to sit up in which makes it a lot more comfortable than plenty of sleeper trains. There are lockers to stash your things and Japanese baths upstairs. For 3,000Yen a night (about US$30), these hotels are popular with Japanese businessmen who have stayed out drinking and missed the last train home. They're also a hit with foreign travellers like us, who enjoy drifting off feeling like we're on a spaceship.

The country is so traditional and so modern. In Tokyo we've seen women walking down the street in kimonos and teenagers dressed as manga characters. But my favourite so far has to be the Kyoto shrine with a UV sterilizer for its ceremonial water scoops.

At the Art Center, delicate lines bleed into thin rice paper to form grey inky starbursts.

- Tokyo, Japan

Just like Jackie

It's a funny lifestyle. Ours is a diet heavy on rice and light on cheese. Peter may have a local beer or two at dinner, but he's drinking less than he did at the pub with his friends after work. In London we spent a sizeable portion of our waking lives sitting at an office desk. Now much of our day is on the move, exploring new places on foot. When we're looking for somewhere to stay, we walk with thirteen kilos on our backs and another few on our fronts. I like feeling independent with a map and compass in a new city and everything we need in our backpacks. But although lugging our belongings around gives us strong calves and shoulders and is pretty hard work when it's hot, it's not exactly an aerobic workout.

A few weeks ago in Malaysia's Penang National Park, we went on a few very sweaty jungle treks. We swam on the Perhentian islands. In Kuala Terengganu, staying with my brother Ezra and his girlfriend Sarah, I participated in a yoga class Sarah taught. (She has cunningly renamed “downward dog” as “downward pose” to be more palatable to her Muslim class.)

But in all honesty, our efforts to exercise are few and far between. We haven't put on weight while we've been away, but I know we've lost a bit of muscle tone. Back in London, Peter and I both belonged to a gym for almost two years. It was easy to drop in on my walk home from work and I used to go about twice a week. Peter's personal trainer Srbo, put him through the wringer on a regular basis. I terminated my membership last summer to help save for this trip. Peter eventually left too and diligently went on long runs along Regent's Canal. For me however, exercising pretty much ended with my last hoola-hoop class.

Then a few days ago in Hong Kong, Jackie Chan promised to give us a much needed workout. Okay, so we didn't meet the man himself. But our muscles are still aching from our two day membership at the Jackie Chan gym in Kowloon.

Inside reception, a sign boasted a lengthy list of his various achievements. For example, in 2003 he was awarded the prestigious prize of “Best Male Butt Kicker”. Work out at his gym and who knows what you too can become.

Ready to be transformed into kung fu super stars, Peter and I slurped down freshly blended fruit juice from the gym drinks stand and marched upstairs to begin. And up and up...My goodness there were a lot of stairs. It was an unusual layout for a gym to be on seven floors. But with everyone there to exercise, no one is going to complain about stairs. Six flights of stairs? Excellent. Bring it on.

Peter and I got changed and split off to different areas. I selected “random hill” on a bike and Peter started running on a treadmill. It was hard going on that hill and I was appreciative for a bit of distraction from the Korean soap opera on one of the TVs. We first discovered these soaps in Hanoi and love the fun stories and expressive actors. This particular story was about a spirited young woman who became pregnant and sneaked extra portions of rice, not wanting her parents to find out. Fast forward a few years. The baby is now a toddler and a welcomed member of the family. The young woman is offered a much needed job and is so thrilled she looks straight at the camera and punches the air with her fists. Whoo-hoo! I'm not sure why thugs later smashed up the family's living room, but I can tell you one of the older women didn't stand for it and looked pretty threatening wildly swinging a baseball bat.

Warmed up from cycling, I completed an uncomfortable set of stretches on the hard floor before finally spotting the mats. The weight machines were easy to figure out however. Something convenient about gyms is how similar they are the world over. Some of the equipment is exactly the same and the rest close enough. The stomach cruncher at Jackie Chan's was a bit fancier than the one in London, but it made me ache in the same way. The rowing machine was identical. The only difference was my speed, which I was sorry to see had dropped significantly.

As I moved from machine to machine, Peter continued running on the treadmill, eventually notching up an impressive 12 kilometers, paradoxically without going anywhere. Treadmills are certainly the same everywhere.

The women's changing room had reassuringly familiar lockers, benches and showers. Rather than bemoaning the utter similarity of gyms around the world, as McDonalds aficionados of the globe will tell you, it's good to know what to expect. Peter sweated it out in the sauna and was struck by how they are a unique thing unto themselves. The comforting fragrance of hot wood is distinctive to saunas and a constant. Inside, you cease to be in Hong Kong, London or Helsinki. You are just in Sauna and nowhere else.

Back outside in Hong Kong, Peter and I had dim sum with my brother Ezra and his girlfriend Sarah in Maxim's at City Hall. In my experience, the idea of dim sum is generally more fun than the actual dumplings themselves. I may have been helped along a bit by the fantastic, post-gym glow, but this meal felt pretty special.

Over a shrimp dumpling, I mentioned the hilarious Korean soap. I was delighted to learn that on a treadmill on a different floor, Peter had watched the same show. We recounted our favourite moments and punched the air with our fists.

- Guilin, China

We're going there too, what's it like?

Let me tell you something about Cambodia. Perhaps you'd like to hear about our afternoon as celebrities in a floating town. No doubt my description of tasting the best crab ever on an undeveloped tropical island would make you a tad envious. And naturally I am itching to try and convey the sheer scale of the temples at Angkor Wat.

Incredibly, we might not have gone to Cambodia at all.

Back in London, I had heard mixed reviews about neighbouring Vietnam. Folks who had been several years ago complained of hassle. People who visited more recently usually loved the country. So before we saw our first conical hats or stepped foot in Hanoi, it seemed safe to assume that Vietnam had improved in the past few years. In fact, Peter and I enjoyed it so much we extended our visa.

Cambodia on the other hand, was universally lauded. Friends and former colleagues in London raved about it, particularly the incredible warmth and friendliness of its people. Amazing considering they endured the atrocities of the Khmer Rouge in the late 1970's and the civil war that followed. However, a few months ago when we started talking with tourists en route, they painted a very different picture.

“You were in Cambodia before here?” I asked a traveller in Vietnam. “What's it like?”
“Well,” She paused, perhaps trying to be diplomatic. “Angkor Wat is amazing.”
That's what everyone says but I still had no idea what the ancient Khmer temples were actually like.
“But what's it like travelling there? What about the food? The people?” I asked.
“It's okay,” She said. “There's a lot of hassle.”
I conjured up images of aggressive vendors, pushy taxi drivers and dishonest hotel employees.
“More than here?” I asked. Although apparently better than it used to be, Vietnam still had a fair amount of overly keen touts, particularly in the south.
“Yeah, it's worse than here.”

I asked a lot of travellers about Cambodia and each time, the same conversation played out. I still knew next to nothing about Angkor Wat and over all was bracing myself for a pretty unpleasant experience.

I didn't know what to think. Were Cambodians spectacularly friendly or a nation of touts? Places change after all and Vietnam seemed to have changed for the better. What if Cambodia had changed for the worse?

We toyed with the idea of just going to Angkor Wat (they say it's “amazing”). Afterwards, we could hightail it over the border to Thailand where we could easily spend our allotted “Cambodia time” in peace and red curry comfort. Appeased knowing we could always leave early, we decided to give it a try.

One of our first stops was Kampot, a quiet riverside town. The guidebook described ageing colonial architecture and a laid back feel. Consequently, we were certain Kampot would be bursting with tourists, but incredibly there weren't many at all. We were the only foreigners at the market where we bought noodle soup, a set of dominoes and a hipster baseball cap for me. The hat reads, “Hollywood American Berkeley 1986 X-Men” with a picture of James Bond. Peter unstitched the “X-Men”. One too many conflicting messages we thought.

We took a daytrip to Bokor Hill, a former French Colonial Hill Station, perched at the top of a national park. It has been abandoned for years and the old hotel and casino are now covered in bright orange moss, their battered cement staircases falling to pieces from exposure. While I was pleasantly surprised by the beauty of the peeling paint, I was even more delighted with the honesty of our tour guide.

Our guide Viet, told us Bokor Hill has been sold to a petroleum company who has shelled out US$20m to pave the road and plans to develop the site into a luxury tourist resort at a total cost of US$2b. A staggering amount in a country where the average monthly income is just US$30.

Viet shared his concerns about the impact on the park's wildlife. Later he told us what life was like under the Khmer Rouge. Being a few years younger than us, he had not lived through it himself, but like all Cambodians, his family was personally affected by the brutal regime. It's an incredibly sensitive subject and since we never would have broached it ourselves, we were grateful that Viet brought it up.

A few days later in the seaside town of Kep, Peter and I hired a couple of motos (motorbike taxis) to the pier. From there we caught a boat to Koh Ton Say, Rabbit Island. My moto driver was a young Cambodian called David. As we drove he chatted about his wife and daughter.“I work seven days a week,” he told me. It's always humbling learning how hard people work when we are merely travelling for a full year. Lately I've felt shy telling local people how long we're away for. When someone doesn't even have a weekend, it seems pretty unfair to be “on holiday” for months on end.

I mentioned how friendly I found Khmer people. David told me about driving a grumpy tourist earlier that day. “He wouldn't talk to me or even smile.”

I laughed, “You work seven days a week! He's on holiday and he won't even smile?”

David agreed it made no sense. Perhaps the travellers I spoke with in Vietnam had been like this, so anxious about being scammed that they were suspicious of friendly locals.

Rabbit Island was a gem, rustic and tropical. We'd never been anywhere like this before and were giddy at our good luck. Jaded travellers in Thailand talk about how much better the islands used to be “back in the day”. Well this is the day for Rabbit Island.

There are no pizza places showing pirated blockbusters, no coconut shell handicrafts for sale, no internet cafes and no beach bar karaoke. Rabbit Island is home to a handful of fishermen. Its one “developed” beach only has a few basic wooden bungalows and a couple of family run seafood cafes. Basic is the word of the day. Generators provide electricity in the evening and it's lights out at 10pm. During the day, cows and goats wander freely between the palm trees. Of course a total lack of luxuries does come at a price. With no fan, our room was a bit damp and there were a lot of insects on the island. However, there was good snorkeling right off the beach. The succulent fresh crab soup was one of my best meals of our trip so far. When I relaxed in a hammock, curious cows disturbed me from my reading.

Tourists who fly in just to see Angkor Wat miss out on all of this.

A week later, on massive Tonle Sap lake, a little motorboat puttered us around the floating town of Kompong Luong. Houses, cafes, schools and even mobile phone shops, bobbed on boats and rafts. The residents were Vietnamese and Khmer. The guidebook warned they are wary of strangers, so we certainly weren't expecting the endless waves and “hello's” from every child we passed. Some even blew us kisses. I felt like a celebrity on a parade float, waving to the excited throngs. We know from the official visitors' log, the town only receives about 14 tourists a month. So while not properly “off-the-beaten-track”, it is not on most people's itineraries.

We finished up with Siem Reap and the vast collection of ancient temple ruins known collectively as Angkor Wat. This is Cambodia's chief attraction and the Khmers are understandably proud of the awe inspiring temples.

Imagine a sprawling area of 400 square kilometers, dotted with 1,000 year-old stone structures. Angkor Wat itself, the name given to the largest temple, is covered in ornate stone carvings and is framed by a vast moat. But this is just one temple and the entire Angkor Wat complex collectively has literally dozens. Some have been swallowed up by the jungle with immense trees growing up through the stones. There are diminutive temples with detailed carvings depicting religious fables. Others are huge, pyramids with steep steps you can climb to each level. Some are in good condition and others can only be described as ruins. You can spend days visiting temple after temple and will have only seen just a smattering of what Angkor Wat has to offer.

I felt similarly about Cambodia itself. For most visitors, Angkor Wat is the star attraction and the rest of the country and the Khmer people themselves are perhaps viewed as obstacles. So where do the stories of relentless hassle come from? Probably from Angkor Wat itself. Many of the temples were crawling with tourists and also as can be expected, a number of locals keen to make some easy money. “Cold drink, ma'am?” The little boy selling bamboo flutes didn't want to take no for an answer and a pushy girl really wanted to sell me a scarf. Thankfully they're not allowed inside the ruins. And I suppose I was appreciative to have an endless supply of water and fresh pineapple to hand, even at inflated Angkor Wat prices.

Travellers' holy grail, or so they say, is the quest for truly off-the-beaten-track places. Some hillside village where the kids have never seen a westerner before and you stay with locals, because there is no guesthouse. (Of course there's probably nothing to do in these remote villages, but never mind.) Although part of me aspires to find these sleepy farming communities too, this was not our Cambodia experience. We simply sought out some less obvious places. Our three weeks in the country were no different than what you could do on a long holiday. The problem seems to be that too many many tourists only see Angkor Wat. The ruins are remarkable and while I certainly recommend going all the way to Cambodia to see them, it seems a shame to not take the time to see other parts of the country as well. We chose a few slightly out of the way places, responded to friendly people with friendliness and were richly rewarded.

- Penang, Malaysia

Durian!

It smells like rotting flesh. It looks like a spiky dinosaur egg. After four months in Southeast Asia we finally got up the courage to try the strange fruit for the first time. Our guesthouse on Penang, Malaysia was also a small time durian producer, so after staying a few days, it was only natural that the owner, the elderly Miss Loh would kindly offer us a taste.

Her daughter handled the fruit with thick gloves and prized it open for us with a wooden stake. Inside were just three bean-shaped seeds, each the size of a squashed plum. The seeds were covered in a creamy white goo, enveloped by a thin membrane. Up close it smelled like stinky feet. I plunged my fingers into the goo and tentatively had a taste. Then another.

The consistency was just like custard. The flavour is much harder to describe. It is a little like a strong fruity cheese. Sugary but with a peculiar damp aftertaste.

Peter choked his down so the experience wouldn't last too long. I slowly ate the pulp off the last seed, trying to understand the flavour.

“How did you like it?” Miss Loh asked.
“It was okay,” Peter nodded.
“It's very unusual,” I said.
“Like custard?” Miss Loh asked.
“Yes!” I said, pleased others have had the same association. “Just like custard.”
“We ate it all,” Peter said.

Miss Loh looked pleased. “A lot of people don't like it when they first try,” Miss Loh said. “Then they eat it again and again and like it more.”

I agreed that made sense.

“Would you like to try another one?” Miss Loh asked.

Could I eat another one immediately out of politeness?

“Ooh, not right now thank you,” Peter said. “We'd better let this one settle first.” He patted his stomach. Thank you Peter!

I placed the empty shell and seeds on the compost heap. Miss Loh's dogs excitedly licked the fruit clean.

- Penang, Malaysia

Dalat Motorcycle Diaries & Litter pickup in Mui Ne, Vietnam

We finished off our time in Vietnam with Dalat and Mui Ne. Dalat has pine trees and cool evenings, vineyards and fields of strawberries and artichokes, all much like California. Beach town Mui Ne is the windsurfing capital of the world, surrounded by dramatic sand dunes.

We visited both on borrowed time as we'd just gotten our one month visas extended. This was our fifth week in Vietnam. The country was so familiar at that point, I finally felt comfortable with my various Vietnamese phrases. I'd even begun to understand the responses to “Bow neo dien?” (the phonetic spelling for “How much is it?”). However, here were two parts of the country totally unlike anywhere we'd been before.

Dalat marked an important first for us as independent travellers. It was the first time either of us had driven a motorbike. We hired our wheels for US$6 a day plus $3 in petrol. Peter drove and I sat on the back, attempting to navigate. We had only the most basic map and the roadsigns didn't correspond to places we wanted to go. “Biological Institute: 3km” “Sewage Treatment Plant: 5km” Still we managed to find some real gems.

There were more staff than visitors in the sprawling park with a stone “Great Wall of China” and a petting zoo for animal freaks. The six-legged cow was reasonably friendly and Peter was taken with the little bird that said, “Sin chao!” (“Hello”). But it was the three-legged dog that completely won our hearts. It was all we could do not to try and take her home. Next we drove to a waterfall which is surely far more impressive in the rainy season. But we were pleased to have found it and enjoyed a quiet moment by the slow river.

The following day we hired the motorbike again. On an empty mountain road I had my first go driving the bike myself with Peter on the back. I was supremely focused as I got a feel for it. We rode past a huge lake and semi-wild horses. We received smiles and waves from the Vietnamese people we passed. Living the dream I tell you. Living the dream!

On a motorbike, we found half the fun is the adventure of getting to the destination. Tourist minibuses are convenient, but mean seeing the same places as every other visitor to the country. Chartering a tuk tuk or taxi gives you more control, but haggling over the price is tiresome. A trip to the waterfall in the dry season would not have been worth a $10 tuk tuk drive. We never would have gone to the kitsch Vietnamese park with the animals if we hadn't stumbled on it ourselves.

Next we went to Mui Ne, a windy beach town which has experienced something of a tourist boom in the past several years. It has rapidly transformed from a sleepy fishing village and fish sauce producer, to a premiere kite surfing destination with a growing number of four star resorts. Our modern bungalow at “Small Gardens” could hardly be considered luxury, but it was right by the beach and for $27 a night it included free breakfast. The delicate crepes with fresh mango were excellent.

Not ones for lazing about roasting on the beach, we kept busy with morning litter pickup, swimming in the ocean, drawing animals in the sand and playing frisbee. Unfortunately, with the tourist boom and increased town population came a lot of garbage. Indeed the amount of trash on the beach was a bit hard for me to fathom. Some had washed up from the sea, but there were plenty of food wrappers and plastic bottles which were newly dropped each day. Most of the big resorts carefully raked and cleaned “their” patch of the sand immediately in front of the hotel, but simply left the trash closer to the shore.

Every morning before it got too hot, we set off along the beach, each with an empty black garbage bag. We picked up large pieces of styrofoam, sandy bags and a multitude of straws. It took us an hour to fill our black bags so full of trash that it became hard to lift them. We then dropped them off at the nearest resort to be disposed of with their own trash.

Naturally most people ignored us, but some of the Vietnamese beach vendors tried to discourage us from our daily litter picking. They didn't see the point as the beach only gets messy again. Also perhaps judging from the way refuse is handled in Vietnam (and much of the developing world) it simply isn't an eyesore to them as it is to us.

However, we persisted and our efforts started to make a noticeable difference. Day after day we removed two large bags of rubbish from the beach. True, each day more trash was dropped and every night more washed up. But we were able to remove it faster than it accumulated, so little by little, the beach became discernibly cleaner. Very occasionally people stopped to talk to us. A middle aged Australian woman expressed her appreciation. Another day a Muslim Vietnamese man thanked us. Throughout the day, we greatly enjoyed strolling down the beach in areas which were previously marred by trash. Travelling long term with no job, sometimes leaves us feeling a bit aimless and undirected. Our litter pickup gave me real sense of purpose, a feeling I would like to replicate elsewhere on our journey.

Mui Ne is famed for its kite surfing so we decided to test the wind for ourselves. We bought a phoenix kite, an important creature in Vietnamese mythology. Peter and I had a stunt kite in London, but unfortunately the double strings made it tricky to fly and the wind was never quite right. This time, we sat down on the sand and tentatively released the phoenix. Immediately it took to the air. Letting the string out, we watched as it flew high into the sky. It's a beautiful kite, bright orange with nylon feathers on the long tail. Keeping a firm grip on the spool, we relaxed on the sand and watched our phoenix soar.

- Phnom Penh, Cambodia

Mekong Delta with Visitors

We’ve had chance meetings on freezing sawngthaews, struck up conversations with folks at the next table over and on the slow boat down the Mekong. Often, we’re on the same route (Thailand, Laos, Vietnam, Cambodia…) which means we keep bumping into the same lovely people.

What gets a bit tiresome however is constantly having to ask and answer the same questions all the time.
“Where are you from?”
“Where are you going?”
“Where have you been so far?”
“How long are you travelling for?”

Sometimes we feel it’d be great to just hang out with people without first having to wade through the same tedious Travel Small Talk. Enter my brother Ezra and his girlfriend Sarah. Having just graduated from university, both are currently living in Malaysia, teaching English this year. Malaysia is just a hop skip and a jump away from Vietnam (or two hours if you’re flying rather than jumping). So when Ez and Sarah had a week off from work, they came out to see us.

What a treat to see familiar faces out here. How fun to spend a full week travelling with people we already know and love. Peter and Ez went for a beer in Saigon. Sarah and I scoped out a good tailor to make her an Ao Dai (a traditional Vietnamese tunic which women still wear in the south). We were off to a good start.

The four of us decided to explore the Mekong Delta region by hiring a driver named Minh and tour guide, Chanh for a three day trip. A private tour meant we’d have more control over where we went and have as much time as we wanted at each place. Particularly appealing it meant not stopping at the “handicraft” factories which serve as regular pit stops on many group tours. (“Mother of pearl inlay coffee table not your thing? How about a crushed eggshell lacquered ashtray?”)

A stop where we weren’t expected to buy anything but did, was on an early morning boat ride through the floating market at Can Tho. In a dense, patch of the river, larger vendor boats advertised their wares by attaching them directly to a long wooden pole. Imagine a sort of bendy flagpole on each vessel, with carrots, pineapples and mangoes flying in the wind. Meanwhile smaller boats moved between the vendor boats, buying bags of cabbages and papayas. Our little group chugged in on a small motorboat and we were the first tourists to visit the market that morning. We bought a kilo of sweet mangos and took photos to our hearts content without any westerners sneaking into the frame. Breakfast was delicious, savoury rice porridge, served up by a woman who rowed over to us. Not so tasty was Sarah’s winter melon juice. Ezra thought it tasted like the sweetened milk at the bottom of a bowl of cereal.

Living in Malaysia, Ez and Sarah have incorporated some Malay idioms into their speech which we’ve been quick to pick up as well. As in Chinese, in Malay if you ask someone if they can do something, the answer isn’t “yes” but “can”. The four of us found ourselves saying this all the time.

One evening, Peter ordered the snake set menu. Naturally this consisted of snake spring rolls as a started followed by snake curry. Interestingly there were no stand-alone snake dishes on offer. Either you got the full, snake set menu or no snake at all. The meat was cut into thin, ribbed strips.
“Can I try some snake?” Sarah asked.
“Can,” Peter said.

It was slightly salty and chewy. All in all quite nice.

We visited a local fair one evening in a park in Can Tho. 2,000dong (US$0.13) bought us a ride on the Ferris wheel. It turned so slowly, the operator didn’t need to stop the ride for us to get on. We just walked into a moving carriage. The dusk breeze was relaxing and from the top we could see out over the park. We went around for a while, enjoying the ride. In fact, the ride didn’t seem to end. When would it be over? Would the operator stop the wheel or yell to us to get off? Peter called to me from the next carriage over, “I think we just need to get off when we’ve had enough.”

“I think you’re right!” I said. A few more times around. Ezra, then Sarah got off and then we followed. The wheel kept spinning.

In the riverside town of Chau Doc, the four of us played hearts in the shade of a giant fish sculpture. Ezra and Sarah are great card players, but they tell us they haven’t been playing much in Malaysia. Although they of course aren’t gambling when they play in cafes, they’ve been asked to put the cards away. Peter tried to shoot the moon and Sarah stopped him. A Vietnamese woman and her toddler in squeaky sandals watched us. It struck us as a nice reversal, as usually the foreigners watch the locals playing games.

Back in Saigon, for our last night together until we go to Malaysia in mid-April, we had cocktails on the roof terrace bar at a fancy hotel. Sarah wore her new Ao Dai and I wore the fitted skirt from my tailor-made suit. At US$6 each, the drinks cost the same as our dinner that night, so we sipped them slowly and enjoyed the view. The sun set over the skyscrapers, the city darkened and the lights came out.

At some point we’ll all have to get off the Ferris wheel. But I’m going to have a good ride before I do.

- Mui Ne, Vietnam