Nine days in Romania

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Well it’s been a fair old while since I last had some backpacking to blog about. But, it was bound to happen again eventually and so here it is, nine glorious days in Romania.

Weds 7^th July

I arrived in Bucharest, to be greeted at the airport by the usual dishonest taxi drivers offering to scam me out of varying amounts of money for inflated taxi rides. So I took the bus to the train station, and remembered the joy of travelling on buses that play music. First music heard in Romania: The Winner Takes It All by Abba.

Thursday 8^th July

Walking in the mountains of Sinaia is great, but when you are walking about 1500m up at cloud level, things can get a bit foggy. This is how I nearly became an episode of Ray Mears’ Survival. All the walking trails in The Bucegi Mountains are clearly marked with posts in the ground or painted stripes on rocks and walls. But when you can’t see more than 20 metres in any direction, finding your way from one to the next is a little more challenging! Anyway, I was only really lost for less than an hour and then found my way back.

Only other hairy moment up there was when something looking very large and wolf-like loomed out of the mist. Happily it turned out to just be a shepherd’s dog, just a slightly wolf-ish one. Phew.

Friday 9^th July

Went to see Peles Castle and take a tour of one of the most ridiculously opulent buildings I have ever seen. As a rule of thumb, I think the interior designers back in 1883 were of the opinion ‘why have a simple wall when you can have a carved oak panel inlaid with a relief made from white stone?’

In the afternoon I took the train to Brasov, a medieval looking kind of city, with walls all the way around and its own Hollywood-style Brasov sign in the hills. Brasov also has am amazing town square, not only because it looks great, but because if you sit there for a while, things just happen around you. Whilst having an ice-cream I witnessed a procession of traditional guardsmen, then the bell tolled 6pm and trumpeters came out onto the balcony of the clock tower and played a mighty fanfare. Then an accordion player and his six piece male choir struck up with some Romanian folk/religious music. (I couldn’t really tell which, it was in Romanian).

Friday night was my first experience of Tuica, the local powerful liquor of choice. It is essentially a clear, plum brandy which is about 60% proof so it really does hit the back of your throat with a vengeance. This preceded me meeting some Romanian guys, having a couple of beers with them and then getting taken along to a drum n bass night in Brasov.

One thing noticeably different about pubs and clubs in Romania is that you can smoke inside. The club we were in was small and completely unventilated. I would say it made my eyes sting a bit. Is that what the Rhino used to be like, back in the Southampton days?

Saturday 10^th July

Re-learnt the pain of booking yourself onto a tour at 9am, only to go out the previous night until the silly hours. It was a trip to Bran Castle that was to be my slightly hung-over expedition. Bran Castle is famous for being a temporary residence of Vlad Tepes, aka Vlad the Impaler aka, who Bram Stoker based Dracula on.

Vlad the Impaler earned his nickname by being something of a mad bloodthirsty bastard. When his armies won a battle, he would hold a feast. Which seems like a nice idea, a job well done to his troops and generals perhaps. Except surrounding the feast would be his vanquished and rather dead enemies all impaled on large wooden stakes. Lovely man that Vlad. He did have an impressive moustache though.

One thing I got used to in Romania is the service in restaurants. It can be slow, surly and smile-free. None of your customer is always right crap. The customer is a necessity but an annoyance, and shall be treated as such! This was not the case in all the places I ate, but on the whole this is not service-with-a-smile, hi there, how are you country.

Sunday 11^th July

The thing about backpacking is, that if you go away on your own, you will only spend the whole time on your own if you want to. (Or if you are completely socially inept). So it was that I found myself playing frisbee in Sibiu with two Dutch guys shortly before the Holland versus Spain World Cup Final. I mentioned that I planned to try and hitch a lift along the Transfagaran Road, or rent conceivably hire a car if it was cheap.

Instead, they invited me along on their camping trip along the Transfagaran road and the surrounding areas. So, with no camping equipment whatsoever, (I only took a normal sized rucksack for the trip) the next day I went camping for two days in the Romanian mountains and countryside.

Unfortunately the football result did not go the right way. I even wore an orange hat for the entire match. That’s how dedicated I was.

Monday 12^th July

So, a rented Ford Fiesta, two dutch guys called Hugo and Willem and a British guy that apparently sounds like Hugh Grant set off for the Transfagaran road and the Romanian wilderness. On the roads, people driving a horse and trap is a common sight. Unfortunately, trying to get a good photo of them from the window of a moving car is tricky and so I failed repeatedly. Not to worry though, you can enjoy a donkey poking it’s head through the open window instead.

As I’ve mentioned it about three times already, I should probably explain exactly what the Transfagaran Road is. It is a road. A road which navigates its way through mountains, over streams, through tunnels etc. It is only open for about 4-5 months of the year, because during the Romanian winter it gets completely covered in snow and is impassable. And public transport doesn’t use it, as it isn’t really the most direct route to anywhere at all. It was essentially built as a bit of a powertrip by the one time President (read: dictator) of Romania, Nicolae Ceauşescu.

Man versus nature and all that. Still it is an amazing road to drive along, you have to resist stopping the car around every bend to take another photo or you’d never make any progress.

After driving through the mountains we eventually found our camping spot, an idyllic location next to a mountain lake. Whilst gathering wood for a fire, we noticed that the two guys fishing a bit further along had decided to dispense with the drudgery of collecting wood and instead had brought a petrol-powered chainsaw, to chop down dead trees and cut into chunks as required. Obvious really, I don’t know why I’ve never gone camping with a chainsaw before.

Tuesday 13^th July

Hugo and Willem had a two-man tent which three people could probably fit into, but seeing as they are both about 6”5 tall and make me look short, I slept in the Fiesta. And after a reasonable night’s sleep in said car, and another swim in the lake, we set off again to have a drive around before finding a camping spot for the second night.

We stopped at Curtea de Arges to take a look at what is a very impressive monastery there. If there’s one thing you can say for religion, it’s that without it, there definitely would not be as many amazing old churches, cathedrals and monasteries to gape at.

Then, for our second night camping we headed back north in the direction of Sibiu, and found another beautiful spot, next to a stream this time. A stream that I had a quick bath in. Not because it was warm, no it was absolutely freezing, hence the ‘quick bath’.

Wednesday 14^th July

Bucharest is a hot place in July. I’d forgotten what it is like to sweat through your t-shirt with a backpack on, so that every time you take the backpack off, then put it back on you feel the damp re-clinging to your back. Lovely imagery there eh? But seriously, even at midnight Bucharest was 23 C, which is just a bit silly really.

Bucharest is home to the Palace of Parliament which is the second biggest building, in terms of landmass, after the Pentagon. Building it meant millions had to starve but needs must when you’re a megalomaniac dictator, and Ceauşescu was certainly that. It’s just an absolutely enormous concrete and marble monument to power and stupidity really. Although I think it’s put to good use now.

In the evening, my last in Romania, I tried a traditional Romanian dish called Ciorba de Burta. Which in English is tripe soup. Very garlicky tripe soup. Which, surprisingly was actually quite good. As long as you don’t think about what tripe actually is. Or look at it too much. Yum.

Thursday 15^th July

My last day was a day of slowly wandering around Bucharest. Slowly is the only way you can do it really, when the temperature is in the mid-high 30s. Bucharest was much hotter than the Sinaia, Brasov, or Sibiu, but then I guess that’s because they all have a little more altitude. Anyway, I kind of felt like I’d seen Bucharest by mid-afternoon, or just couldn’t be bothered to keep walking, so I finished the trip off by visiting the cinema to see Predators in Bucharest’s oldest cinema. Nutshell review of Predators? Load of old bollocks. Ah well, the Dracula exhibition I’d been to earlier in the day more than made up for that.

And that was Romania. Highlights were too many to mention, although camping in the wilderness rates pretty highly. And I learnt what it felt like to be the shortest person, so I am probably a more rounded human being now for it.

The End.... or is it? (mwahahaha)

So, I landed back in England almost two weeks ago, Wednesday 26th September, exactly 10 months after leaving. I just thought I should give the blog some kind of closure, rather than leaving it dangling helplessly somewhere in India. Now I shall be throwing myself back into the real world. But, more importantly it means that all those who were reading the inane babble at work will now actually have to go and do some of that work. So, go on, be off about your business and I'll let you know if I decide to skip the country again anytime soon.

Because, at the end of the day, you would think that a hefty stint as a dirty backpacker would get the travel bug out of my system. Not so. I think I can say with some certainty that there's more travelling to be done yet. I've seen a fraction of the world. When you start a book, you don't tend to stop after two pages do you?

Not long left in Paradise...

Part of a festival on the beach, celebrating the Elephant deity Ganesh

Same again, but cool and blurry

More Ganesh

Arambol. My house is just around the corner of the cliff on the far left hand side.

Current social group comprised of (from top to bottom): Phil and Carly, who I used to be at university with and just happened to pass me in a restaurant. Surprised would be the word. And also a couple of cockneys, Adam and James.

My little bungalow. Does it get much better?

Mumbai University

Well, it's nearly all over. This Wednesday I fly home, back to England to rejoin the real world. But that still gives me time to make totally sure that everyone hates me by the time I get back, by telling you about Goa, India, the final location in what will be 10 months of backpacking.

And my god is it a good place to finish. I'm in a small beach town called Arambol in North Goa, on the west coast of India. It's a bona-fide paradise. We're at the tail end of the low-season for tourism here, the place doesn't start to get busy until October so there's a good number of people but it's not crowded at all. I've got an idyllic hut on the edge of a path that goes round a cliff between two beaches for the princely sum of about two pounds fifty a night. I think everyone realises they've struck backpacker gold too because everyone's so relaxed, happy and there's almost a community feel to the place.

All I can say is, if it stays like this, it will be bloody difficult to try and leave next week. There's even a trance rave in a waterpark that we're all going to tomorrow, you couldn't beat it with a really big stick. And another thing, every day that I've been in Arambol there's a steady increase in the amount of pretty girls wandering about. What's going on, am I being punished for having to put an end to the backpacker life? I had to come home at some point, what kind of cruel God would do this to a poor boy? Well Ganesh seems to be in charge around here so that's who I blame.


Before I got here it though, it all went a bit unnecessarily hardcore on the travelling front. I came into India from Nepal which was right over the other side from Goa, where I was aiming for. From Kathmandu to Mumbai went as follows: 12 hours on a bus which was delayed numerable times to Nepali border. 3 hours from border town, Sunauli to Gorakphur in India where I can get the train. Gorakhpur was not a good first impression of India, the station was more like a refugee camp. And my train was at 5am. I got there at 10pm. Slept on a bench in the train station. 37 hours on the train from Gorakhpur to Mumbai. All very silly, I think you'll agree. So, after a day and a half in Mumbai which is a nice enough place, I got a 14 hour train down to Goa and enlisted the help of (read: followed) an Indian family going the same way to Arambol. Trust me though, it's worth it!

So, see you all soon. I'll be the old git in the corner whinging about how much cheaper everything is in Asia. "Why, you can get a car and a house for about 35p in Nepal I tell you, it's all too expensive here bla bla bla...."

Riding the bus Nepali style

Who the hell wants to go to Liverpool?

Three Nepali women in red

The river we rafted along part of the way to Kathmandu

It's safe to say I nearly wet myself when I saw this in a Kathamandu bookshop among all the climbing/hiking books. If only the lady behind the counter could have known my joy...

Check out the birthday present hat. It says "Free Mark". Like "Free Tibet" but with a Mark twist. Also, worryingly, this photo may be proof that I am turning into my Dad, as I am holding a glass of red wine, akin to my father in just about any photo you will ever see of him

Q. How much fun can you have getting from Pokhara to Kathmandu?

A. Loads!

Yesterday I needed to make said journey. One way to do it was to go on a direct coach from one city to the other. But the far better choice was to get a bus part of the way, then do some white water rafting and then get another bus the remaining way. Even better though is when you realise there is no organised bus from the rafting end-point to Kathmandu but that the Nepali guys are just trying to hitch a ride for you on a bus going there. And that there's no room inside the bus so you can ride on the roof! I'll admit I was a bit apprehensive at first seeing as the bus/lorry drivers here seem to have a mild death wish but riding on top of buses is definitely the way to go. Although my arse would not agree, I think it was suitably numb and bruised after 5 hours sitting on a roof rack.

Pokhara was also the place from where I'm now travelling alone properly for the first time as Haya has headed for North India, while I am going in a more southerly, beachy direction. Thinking about it I did have four days on my own in Byron Bay, Australia but I always knew that Nick would be waiting for me in Brisbane with both arms wide open.

So it's India tomorrow (touch wood, as I haven't booked a bus ticket down there yet) and off towards Goa and Mumbai. I'll probably leave Goa til last so that I can spend about a week doing as little as possible on a beach before I face up to coming home and do stuff like getting a j-o-b. Eeek.

Oh and now Mark is 23 too. Which means Mark can speak about himself in the third person. Mark had a fun birthday in Kathmandu and went out for an expensive meal (by Nepal standards) which was paid for very kindly by his parents on the now decrepit credit card. Then Mark and a bunch of other people went to a bar called Tom and Jerry's and had a drink or few while the DJ played "classic" tunes from the 70's and 80's. Most of the others were closer to 30 than 20 so while Mark could have pointed out that many of the songs were before his time, he also wanted to live to see 24 so thought better of it.

A note on cynicism. Of course a healthy dose of cynicism helps when travelling as not everyone you meet is always genuine. But too much non-trust can also lead to you missing out on something that you otherwise might not see or experience. A case to illustrate this point was me walking through Thamel, Kathmandu last week. I'd deliberately got myself a bit lost as I find that's one of the best ways to see a city, kind of semi-aimless wandering. Anyway, I'm taking a picture of a cow or something (they just walk the streets here as they're sacred to Hindu's so can do more or less what they please) and a Nepali guy starts talking to me about this and that and walking the same way as me. I'm waiting for him to tell me he's a trekking guide and ask me if I have any friends that want to do a trek. But instead he starts telling me about an orphanage he runs. He asks me if I want to go with him and see it. So I say sure, why not.

All the way there though I'm still waiting for some kind of sales pitch or spiel at which point I'll politely say goodbye and find my way back. But it doesn't come. We just walk to his orphanage, and he shows me round. The kids have just finished school, and it turns out they're all Tibetan children aged roughly between 4 and 11. We chat for a while about things like charities and government aid (of which there is little or none in Nepal), drink some tea and he asks if there's any way I know of in which I can help. I gave him my email address, took his details and said I'll see what I can do when I get home. And I fully intend to.

The point of this story is that I've met countless people while travelling that wouldn't have let the guy get far past an initial hello without cutting him off or saying they needed to be elsewhere. Maybe on a different day I would have done the same. Maybe on a different day, a different guy would have just been trying to sell me some crap. But going around expecting everyone you don't know that's friendly to be trying to screw you over is missing the half the point of travelling in the first place. How do you think Lenny Henry finds all those places that need his help every two years for comic relief? You think he has a large BBC research team doing all that work for him while he sits in his arse? Of course not.

On top of the world at Everest base camp

Woohoo!

Woohoo again!

Our arse-numbing transport from Lhasa down to the Nepal border via Everest

A little girl in Gyantse.

(I wanted to add more photos to this blog but the computer I'm using has decided against it...) 

Well, now I've seen the top of the world. Mount Everest or Mount Qomolangma as it's known to those who know it by that name.

What am I supposed to go and see now that's going to be better than that? I suppose I could climb to the top but that would require that I am physically fit rather than the athletically challenged wreck my body actually is. The altitude at base camp alone makes walking anywhere seem at least twice the distance, so maybe I'll save the trek up to the summit for the next time I'm in Tibet...

Seriously though, Tibet and Everest have to be among the most ridiculously stunning places on Earth. Unbelievable. Mountains everywhere, big rivers, small rivers, huge valleys, more mountains and the friendship highway that passes through a fair few of them on the way from Lhasa to Nepal. You can just spend hours looking out of the window of your jeep/bus and not get bored.

There was even a desert in the middle of Tibet, we drove through it on the way to a small monastery town called Gyantse. Having had no idea that we would be driving through a desert in our 4x4, or that deserts existed in Tibet, you could call it a nice surprise. Like having extra jam in the middle of your doughnut.

While we were in Lhasa we became creatures of habit in our eating patterns, in that a group of us would inevitably end up in a restaurant called ‘Tashi 2’. On our last night there, we were playing cards after more bobi’s and momo’s and maybe even a Lhasa beer or two when a, let's say slightly inebriated, Tibetan guy comes in, goes into the kitchen and starts singing with the staff. Turns out he's singing a song about freeing Tibet.

Which may not sound like so big a deal but it can actually get you arrested in Tibet, as can wearing an image of the Dalai Lama around your neck. This guy had had a few so didn't seem to care and told us with a mixture of hand gestures and one or two words of English that the Dalai Lama was good and China chased him away.

Again, this doesn't sound like much but imagine if you could be arrested in England for something similar e.g. political protest. Either way, after a few beers with us he staggered off on his way home and left us to agree that such random encounters are such a great part of traveling.

No doubt everyone reading this knows it's my birthday in two days time - I'm going to be celebrating it in Kathmandu, Nepal! Seems like there's the odd bar or two here that stays open late so there shouldn't be too many problems there then.

Kathmandu is an interesting place after China and Tibet. It's been a destination of people traveling through Asia even before the first hippies first started making their way here in the sixties. Back then there probably wasn't a hundred guys trying to offer them treks, tiger balm or (in a very hushed voice) "the ganja".

It's also got more of a ramshackle feel to it than anywhere in China. I think some of those who were the hippy inhabitants way back when are still hanging around too, there is a much greater age range among those who aren't local. What I mean by this is that, you go to Thailand, and virtually all backpackers are in the 18-30 bracket. Here, you've got them from the young and excitable to the old and crusty, I saw a guy earlier who looked like Santa with a long-term crack habit.

So in conclusion, add seeing Mount Everest to one of those stupid lists of "things to do before you die" as well as all those other things we're supposed to do like swim with dolphins and the like.

Maybe managing to watch anything presented by Russel Brand without wanting to tear off your own arm just so you have something to throw at the television is on there too? Is he still incredibly annoying? Let me know.

Momos, Bobis and Monasteries

Tents on the Tibetan Plateau

Lake Nam-Tso. The highest altitude salt lake in the world, about 4700m up

Buddhists prostrating themselves on the ground outside the Jokhang Temple

Part of the Jokhang Temple

Not sure why I decided to follow this goat and take its picture but I did

Is anyone reminded of Schwarzenegger in Conan the Barbarian? No?

The Potala Palace, former home of the Dalai Lama before he was exiled

A large Yak. Also tastes good in burger form

A big pile of dried yak poo, which the Tibetans use as fuel

Buddhist prayer flags flying over Lake Nam-Tso.

Ni Hao from Lhasa, Tibet - the highest capital city in the world! The good old Chinese government doesn't make it the easiest place to visit if you're not Chinese but a short flight and a Tibetan travel permit later and we're here. I would have to say it's very much worth it too.

Before getting to Tibet, our last stop in China was Zhongdian, also known as Shangri-La. The hostel that we stayed in there was possibly one of the best I have stayed in, in Asia or Australia. Called the Dqing Area Tibetan Youth Hostel, it had everything that a good hostel should have. A bar/restaurant with an open fire, good cheap food, it even had a basketball court. The showers were like little wooden saunas, the whole place just had a much more personal feel to it than some of the places you end up in.

My only complaint would be that they played Dido too much. But this was made up for by the fact that we met a very tall German guy there who sounded exactly like the policeman in 'Allo Allo' who spoke with a terrible french accent...

While Lhasa is a beautiful place, I can't help but feel I would have liked to have seen it 40 years or so ago, before the Chinese moved in. Okay, it is a valid argument that the Dalai Lama was a religious dictatorship that left the country way, way behind the times and incredibly poor, but with economic progress you lose some of what makes a place unique. Especially with Chinese economic progress, they are moving along so fast you're not sure if they really pay any attention to the past when they're looking so much to the future.

For example, before we came to Tibet, one place we stayed for a couple of days was Lijang. Which was a nice enough place but quite false at the same time. It had a kind of Chinese Disneyland feel to it in that a lot of the buildings were meant to look old and quaint but quite clearly weren't. Whatever was there before was not Chinese enough or not attractive enough to bring in tourists and so was replaced with ornately carved wooden shop fronts. However, in a place like Lijang or Zhongdian it is still possible to find the old buildings and relatively untouched places if you just take a walk elsewhere so maybe I have no cause for such whining and should just keep quiet.

While in Asia, there have been a fair few visits to various temples, monasteries and pagodas. None more impressive than Angkor Wat in Cambodia. But the Jokhang Temple comes pretty close. Whereas Angkor was an area full of ancient ruins, the Jokhang is still an active place of worship for Buddhists.

You walk in and everything feels old, like it has been around for centuries, as it has. Inside it is dark and a bit musty, lit by huge candles made from yak butter. The place is full of brightly coloured statues of the many different deities that are a part of Buddhism. To be honest, if I was a monk, I think I would get fed up with a thousand tourists a day (95% Chinese, half of them wearing brightly coloured cowboy hats) roaming about in my temple but they seem to just get on with things. When you see a couple of monks laughing together about something, you wonder if they are making fun of all these people who barely know their Buddha from their Bodhisattva...

I should give a special mention to the Chinese family that gave us ice lollies the other day when we were sat on a riverbank. About three generations of Chinese or Tibetan, (my Chinese isn't really of the standard where I can ask where they come from) all sat around with a picnic and doing their clothes washing in the river. We even had semi-conversations, despite the fact that they could not speak English and we couldn't speak Chinese.

As I'm hungry now I'm going to wrap up, before possibly having a momo or a bobi for lunch. A momo is a kind of deep fried-thingy which can be filled with meat, vegetables or the ones that we are all getting fat on the fried apple momo's. Bobis are kind of like fajitas, you get given a few flour-based wraps and put all the stuff you want inside them before rolling them up and shoving them into your face. And they taste goooooood.

Ball Cupping Police of Hanoi

Three guesses why I took this picture.

Dali, China

Kunming. The old and the new

Next summer you'll be seeing a lot of these little things

Kunming at night (I love my new camera!)

The walls of Old Dali at night

This kid was a bit of a demon card player. I'm not sure what the game was, it seemed to be who could slap their card down in the most dramatic fashion.

Lijang (Did I mention I love my new camera?)

Guess who's in China now? ME! Land of 1.3 billion people and counting and at least half of them really hock one up when they need to spit. Spitting was fairly common in Laos, Cambodia and Vietnam (as is the man-bra style of t-shirt wearing: the men rolling their t-shirts up to just above the belly) but here they let you know about it. So far though I'm still to find a place that does sweet and sour. Maybe it's called something else. I must investigate. Or learn Mandarin Chinese. Hmmm...

Now we are in a town called Lijang, very picturesque, loads of cool looking old Chinese architecture. Cobbled streets, little streams running through them, you know the type of thing, you've probably seen it in a badly dubbed kung-fu film. Very much the old traditional style China.

Which is completely different to Kunming, the first major city we got to after crossing the border from Hanoi. Kunming is a perfect example of the speed at which China is growing, and why America knows its days as the world's economic superpower are numbered. Kunming isn't even one of China's big cities as such, (only 3.5 million population) although it is the capital of the province we are in - Yunnan. The only problem is that you are in constant danger of being run over by a stealthy scooter. As with a lot of Asia, scooters (or moto's) are all over the place, they are a good, cheap way of getting around the city. But in Kunming they were ALL electric. Which means you will never hear them coming until you sense you are about to be run over at the last minute. And the Chinese are usually too polite to beep at you to get out of the way!

Ah politeness, a human trait which I nearly forgot about in Hanoi, Vietnam. I think I have found a place that I dislike even more than Eastleigh! (C.F.I.P.) If I can some it up in a nutshell, it's just a crap city filled with people that want to scam you and rip you off in one way or another. One example (although I filled about 3 pages of my journal with an anti-Hanoi rant) is that no-one ever just smiles and says hello to you in the streets of Hanoi because they just want to say hello or talk to you. You're lucky if 1 in 10 of the Hanoi people give a shit about anything other than the contents of your wallet. Anyway, enough negativity, Vietnam was an amazing, often beautiful and consistently unique place. It's just that Hanoi was utter arse.

But you haven't read all this way because you enjoy it. You've seen the title of this entry, become intrigued, and want to know about me having my testicles grabbed by a police officer don't you? I can tell. So, gather round and I'll tell you a tale... It all started when my camera got stolen in Hanoi by the lake. I have a new one now, obviously. Anyway, thinking it was the obvious next step, I went to the police. Just to try and get a police stamp for my insurance claim mind, I didn't expect them to actually do anything about my camera being stolen. But it seemed the stamp which I required was some elusive magical object which the other police station across town could help me with. Or they just flat refused to help and told me to go back to my hotel. So, that night after zero success with the local "police" I was in a bar, chatting to a German guy who, as it happened, was part of a team that trains the police in Vietnam. He suggested I bribe the police, just a few hundred thousand dong (about a tenner) to get the stamp I needed. Good idea I thought, maybe they are so stupid, corrupt and lazy that money is the only way a tourist in their country can get some help.

So, the next day, with renewed enthusiasm, I went off to the police station which the previous day had been the least shite, to offer an "administration fee". (This is what the German guy told me to call it). Upon me waving a bit of my dirty western money about, I at least go a reaction of semi-interest. So they ask me to go on a bike and point out the exact spot where I reckoned my camera was half-inched. Wow, I seemed to be getting somewhere. Off I go on the back of a bike driven by a police officer. On the way he starts to talk to me about England, his English isn't much so it consists mostly of Frank Lampard, Wayne Rooney, etc. Then he mentions how English men are much taller than Vietnamese, also with arm movements up and down to illustrate. Then he says how English men are much 'bigger' than Vietnamese if you know what I mean. How does he illustrate this point? He just reaches back and gives me a cheeky grab of the meat and two veg! Twice, in case I didn't understand his point the first time! What can I do, tell a police officer that it's not normal behaviour to cup the balls of those on the back of his bike?!?


Dodgy policemen aside, now we're heading North through southern China and should be taking a short flight to Tibet on the 23rd. It's already getting colder, I had to wear proper shoes yesterday rather than my dirty backpacker sandals which are now rapidly dying and held together with superglue. Love every minute of this travelling stuff...