After the success of the Harmony Express – a new line which boasts an average speed of over 250mph and has slashed journey times between the cities of Guangzhou and Wuhan by an incredible 8 hours – the Chinese are looking West for their next project.

The proposed Sino-European rail network is exciting news for low carbon travellers, and while we may have to wait a decade to see its completion I’m already thinking about booking my ticket. Negotiations are under way to build new tracks across Europe, through Siberia to China, Singapore, India and Pakistan. And with the rapid development of high-speed bullet trains, this project poses a real alternative to eastbound flights from Europe.

Wang Mengshu, a member of the Chinese academy of engineering and a senior consultant on the domestic high-speed project claimed that there is still a lot of work to be done, and we may have to wait ten years to see the project in operation. But his aim to build “trains [that] run almost as fast as aeroplanes,” is music to my ears.

Read more about it here.

Photos: ockam

Now Google have teamed up with Russian Railways, to offer the ultimate in virtual travelling: a trip on the Trans-Siberian railway!

If you have a spare week or so but can’t leave your computer because you are addicted Facebook, then why not open this in another window, and you can have the best of both worlds.

That’s right, the entire length of the track has been filmed and embedded into a Googlemap so that you can experience the whole journey. Not only can you watch everything you might see out of the window, but you can listen to light-hearted tidbits like the whole of War and Peace by Tolstoy.

If you’re wondering who on earth Russian Railways are, it is relatively self-explanatory, but if you want more info then I’d watch this video interview with the cheerful chap who heads up the company. In his words (and I quote): “Yearly, we are carrying like one billion three hundred million passengers”. Blimey.

I personally would prefer the real thing, especially as at the end of the week I’d be in Asia, rather than still sat in front of my computer. But it’s a cool idea, and here at Loco2 the journey-planning tool we’re releasing soon has some similar features in terms of helping you know what to expect on a long rail-based adventure.

Photo credits: Brostad, Denis Tang, Magical World

We began the final leg of our adventure from Mongolia totally saturated with dairy products and severely bruised thanks to ten days on horseback. To the Trans-Siberian… oooohh, aaaaah, the very mention of this journey makes people swoon. An epic journey over thousands of miles, from one continent to another, from the mighty and powerful West to the erm…mighty and powerful East.  Across Siberia with the company of vodka swilling Ruskies, and views of snow-swept tundras and reindeer herders. We imagine a beautiful train. Maybe it’s got velvet curtains, and mahogany panelling or oil burning lamps à la Orient Express. Dream on suckers. This is a former Soviet train.

Let me just clear this up, once and for all. Yes it is an epic route, you can watch incredible landscape whiz past the window and it’s wholly satisfying to know that you have crossed the biggest country in the world, and passed from one continent to another by rail. However, this is a four night, five day journey…on a train and it ain’t got no mahogany! Now I love trains, you probably won’t find a bigger fan when it comes to long journeys (the bus can take a running jump of a large cliff!), but five days is an awfully long time to be sitting on any kind of vehicle non-stop. So perhaps it isn’t necessary for me to say that we became a little bit bored.

We looked out the window a little: trees, mostly alpine, some deciduous; towns, mostly industrial, definitely gray; people, mostly Caucasian, probably Russian. What shall we do now? Cue the fanfare, light the torch…so begins the Trans-Siberian Olympics; an opportunity to do all the things you’ve ever wanted within the confines of a train. Can I fit in the luggage compartment? Yes. Can I get back out of the luggage compartment unassisted? No. Can I fit an entire boiled egg in my mouth, whole, without breaking the shell? Affirmative. Press ups between the bunks? Bring it on. Stand on one leg on the wobbly bit between carriages while the train goes around a corner at 60km an hour? In your dreams Andrews! Somersaults down the aisle before you are busted by the carriage attendant? Three. Well that took about an hour, only 119 hours to go.

Once these activities were exhausted we decided it was time to venture out of our carriage. Maybe there are other small spaces to squeeze into. To be honest I was borderline obese at this point due to boredom induced over-eating so didn’t have high hopes – pot noodles, instant porridge and boiled eggs are a Godsend on this kind of journey but will eventually lead to lardiness of first year student proportions. Put down the fork Kate.

Ours was the first carriage on the train so getting to the restaurant car was an adventure in itself. Eight sets of doors, each with a pre-door door and a post-door door, all guarded by humourless Russian railway employees who clearly hate their job and are suffering from the aforementioned Trans-Siberian obesity crisis. Once you’re through the doors you have to walk down the aisle, all the while being accosted by crazed Mongolians chasing you with the dairy product lunchbox they’ve brought from home (run for your lives!!), and the Russians who look as though they want to stab but probably want to drink vodka and sing along to The Eagles.

Having fought off the various assaults on our progress we made our way towards the end of the train, and then heard the sweet sound of fellow tourists, who we immediately coerced into joining us in the restaurant car. The remainder of the journey passed easily. There’s nothing like a few beers and some board games to pass the time, and there were enough characters on that train to write a small play. There was a batty old English lady who commended us for our first rate mingling: “there aren’t enough young people these days who know the true value of mingling” she said, and then proceeded to talk at length about how they make clotted cream in Devon, and on the role of the potato in international cuisine: “you just can’t go wrong with a potato”. Later we were joined by a pair of 6ft 7″ South Africa twins who challenged us to a game of Scrabble and went on to insist that ja was a legitimate word, “ja bra, it is, ja”. Translation: yes dude, it is, yes…hmmm I think not, but entertaining all the same. And then came Jim from Canada (I am forever meeting Canadians called Jim, have they no imagination!?) who was so happy about finally achieving his dream of doing the journey that he did little else but look out of the back window at the retreating landscape and smile to himself.

The border crossing was an interesting one. Note to self, get a new passport. I have long known that my passport photo isn’t the best likeness. I was sixteen, blurry, and appear to be wearing some sort of heavy eye make-up on (damn you teenage Kate), and roll neck jumper (curse you 90s fashion). The curious effect of all this is that I somehow appear, in the words of one fellow traveller to look “like a small Indian child”. Little wonder that the Russian border guard eyed me suspiciously for what felt like hours.

During those tense minutes I considered pulling out another coconut pun: so I hear that Russians are responsible for numerous deaths on tropical islands as they fall from palm trees…maybe not. This one was among the hardest, and thus most coconutty of all the Russians we’ve met and in retrospect I’m glad I kept my mouth shut. Vicki later informed me that in a recent survey of Russian border officials, over 75% were found to be mentally unstable and inappropriate for any kind of work involving fellow human beings.

Once I was sure we were safely in the country and not going to be flung into Siberia from the train window I was able to relax, get stuck into a book, and a few more pot noodles, and before we knew it we were in Moscow, a little fatter but as happy as ever.

The bustling shopping malls of China quickly seemed a world away, and it soon became clear that this was going to be a trip like no other. Milk derivatives and offal jokes aside, our fortnight in Mongolia was one of the most memorable parts of our jaunt across Asia.

With dehydrated camping meals, fake North Face jackets and woefully inadequate sleeping bags we ventured 360 miles South West from Ulan Bator to Tsetserleg, the capital of the Arkhangai province, to begin a two week venture into the interior. We had booked ourselves onto the most genuine nomadic life experience we could find. This sounds like an oxymoron doesn’t it? But we had done our research. In the past twenty years numerous nomadic experiences have popped up all over Mongolia, bringing daft tourists into the heart of a fragile community and lining the pockets of foreign tour operators. We were determined to do this properly, and had picked a sustainable geo-tourism, socially responsible type organisation. We were ready for a real Mongolian experience, or so we thought…

We put up our tent, indulged in a little airag (vodka made from the milk of a female horse) and pulled out the trusty phrase book. As with most countries outside of Europe the conversation revolved around Vicki and I being in our twenties, not being married, and not having any children. Curiously, in Mongolia they were also astounded to hear that we didn’t have any animals. Horses? Goats? Yaks? Really…where are your children? Cue puzzled facial expression. We would have this conversation many times. And as the days wore on Vicki miraculously conjured up a couple of kids, a husband and a smattering of livestock, while I remained a lonely spinster with Vicki for a sister and about 7 other siblings. The disappointment in their faces was just too much to bear.

Back in our tent we congratulated ourselves on our authenticity. A little white lie never hurt anyone, besides it gave us something to talk about. Let’s get back to being authentic; where’s the toilet? This question was answered with a smile and a large sweeping arm gesture. When in Mongolia, do as the yaks do… No complaints from me, some of my most memorable toilet visits have been open air – under a starry sky in Egypt, atop a volcano in Nicaragua. So off I wandered into the treeless landscape in search of something to hide behind. Nope. No rocks for you Kate. Not even a shrub. I was forced to hide my derriere behind a yak. This would become a regular occurrence, though be warned that unlike a rock a yak will sometimes wander off.

That night I awoke at 4am to the sound of wolves howling somewhere in the distance. I was shivering, and despite donning every item of clothing I owned I couldn’t get warm. I consoled myself with the fact that this was a very authentic Mongolian experience, and managed to drift off to sleep. The next night I was awoken by a goat tripping over our tent and falling face first into my feet; the night after that a yak had a coughing fit a few metres away; the night after that, wolves scared the herd and four hundred goats ran directly though our campsite. -4˚C at 4am and these things don’t seem quite so funny, and we were not much consoled by the authenticity of the experience. By day fourteen our enthusiasm was severely eroded. The wooden saddles and insane horses had given us mighty bruises, I could barely look at yak milk let alone drink it, and I’d eaten enough offal to put me off meat for life.

On the other hand we had ridden horses through extraordinary landscape, scrambled up rock faces, rolled down hills and fallen off a motorbike. We had a bash at archery, got pretty good at anklebone shooting, made some cheese and used a shotgun. Vicki tried to milk a yak. I tried to ride one. We were both unsuccessful. We had a dance off with a local family, and watched with some extremely homoerotic wrestling. I helped to gut my mate marmot – the obese cousin of the guinea pig, not even remotely similar to marmite – and made sausages out of the intestine and semi-congealed blood of a goat, (delicious?) But most importantly we’d met some real Mongolian characters, good and bad.  Beautiful and sweet children, hospitable and hard working women, hard drinking  old men and everything in between, including my pick for best beard 2009 (see inset).

On the final day of our trip I must admit that we were pretty eager to get back to civilisation. Our faces were wind-burnt, we hadn’t washed since leaving Ulan Bator and Vicki was starting to get a scurvy look about her, but frankly, we were very, very authentic.

We came back to civilisation a few days ago – to beds, running water, toilets and pickpockets. Beer and vegetables were our diet for the next few days as we waited for our train across Russia. We played expats in Ulan Bator, a favourite game of ours that was well honed in Tonga. We hosted a pub quiz and rescued a kitten from the side of a busy road. We did things like cook risotto and make friends with the street vendor who sells boiled eggs. We went to an impromptu party and got our names on the wall of fame for successfully sliding under a chair in under 10 seconds. So you see it’s all very worthwhile stuff, and excellent preparation for a five-day train journey. Roll on Russia.

An unmarked van dropped us at the border; we stayed in an empty hotel above a bus station, and in the morning we were driven by a toothless maniac, through no-mans land to the edge of the Gobi desert. We were glad to see the back of Mao, and even happier to wave goodbye to a billion queue jumpers.

Mongolia was our heart of darkness. Yaks, gers and Genghis Kahn had been the topic of our conversation for months, and this portion of our trip had been booked far in advance. From one extreme to another: overnight we passed from one of the world’s most densely populated countries to one of it’s most barren. Mongolia’s vast countryside is home to fewer than 2 million people and the horse to human ratio is 13:1.

We were to spend the next fortnight living alongside some of Mongolia’s many nomadic people, sleeping in tents, riding yaks, milking horses, and slaughtering goats. So of course we were terribly excited. Not only that, but we’d heard that the Mongolians were great fans of cheese.

I love cheese, am fond of butter and used to carry a spoon in my handbag for the express purpose of eating yoghurts. In fact, one might say that I am a fan of milk and its many derivatives. So when I heard from a fellow traveller that Mongolians were keen on dairy products I salivated at the prospect. Cheddar, Brie, Gorgonzola; I knew I was going back to Europe for something. Kraft cheese slices in Tonga, Laughing Cow triangles in Laos, I definitely can believe that this yellow paste isn’t butter. Bring on the deli counter…

Never has a person been so misled. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not suffering from calcium deficiency, dairy products are plentiful. You might even say that the country is rife with them. That’s right, rife. In the last week I have eaten an incredible number of things made from milk; cream, fried cream, sour cream, cream cookies, hot milk, hot milk with salt, milk tea, butter, yoghurt, soft cheese, hard cheese, cheese curds, milk with rice, milk with meat, dumplings in milk, and a few questionable hard curd-like things which defy definition. In fact, I have eaten some sort of milk derivative for every meal of every day for what feels like an eternity.

Not only that, the culinary tomfoolery doesn’t stop there…oh no! There’s not only cows to contend with in Outer Mongolia, don’t be fooled. What about some delicious yak milk? Would you care to suckle that hairy cow? Or maybe you’d like some mare’s milk? That’s right, it’s a lady horse. And wouldn’t it be a nice idea to let that mare’s milk ferment so we can all drink refreshing, delicately flavoured sour milky champagne? Or shall we go totally crazy and make vodka out of milk, doesn’t that sound yummy-yummy in your tummy, with it’s totally unique gone off milk aftertaste? Scrumdiddliumptious! Sarcastic, me? Well read it as you will.

Maybe I enjoyed it; maybe I’m going to hang out near dairy farms hoping for warm weather to sour the milk so I can bathe in it. Or maybe I wanted to cry every time I approached a ger and sensed the imminent dairy coming my way. I’ll let you be the judge.

And how do you think I feel about offal? That’s the “culinary term used to refer to the entrails and internal organs of a butchered animal”. It’s probably just peachy isn’t it, since I’m a “culinary adventurer” as I have often described myself. That’s karma for you. Brag about scorpion eating, regale you with tales of snail tasting and cricket munching, and then what happens? That’s right. Offal. Insert turbo pub here: I tried to eat the goat’s organs, but they were just offal. Boom boom. That’s the sound of a comedy drum.

Just to clarify I’ve mostly been eating intestine, blood sausage, lungs, liver and a medley of others animal innards. Maybe chuck in a little face for good measure, boil it up, et voila! Goat Surprise. The surprise is it’s 100% goat. If you can get it off the carcass it’s going in. And I ate the lot. As the non-vegetarian it was my duty to take one for the team. Vicki’s not going near it, she doesn’t even like chicken flavour crisps for God’s sake.

What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger they say, so let’s assume I’m stronger. Please let me be stronger, otherwise that’s a whole lot of offal for nothing. On the plus side I have remixed the classic Peter Andre hit and have paid Vicki back for her abstention by singing “whoa, whoa, whoa, mysterious meat, I wanna get close to you…bring your offal close to mine” at every opportunity. I’m pretty sure that she loves it. Although right now she’s ignoring me so I’m not totally sure. Just kidding, it’s a hit!

Photos: Kate

If you were to multiply this hazard, by say…around 17 million, make each offender roughly 5ft 4 inches – the mean height of people in China, and coincidentally the height at which my eyeballs reside on my face – then you’ve got yourself into a world of full blown jeopardy.  Welcome to Beijing.

To be blunt China is grossly over populated. With 1.3 billion people theirs makes up almost 20% of the population of the entire world! There are 17 million in Beijing alone, and about 3.5 million of them ride the underground on a daily basis. This makes for some delightful face squashing on trains, widespread chaos at anything of interest and frenzied jostling on the pavement. Statistics are one thing, but in reality this is terrifying, especially since almost everyone is staring at you and may or may not want to eat your dog! Add to this the threat of umbrellas, parasols, and tour groups with matching caps and telescopic camera lenses and you’re into a new realm of danger.

Jokes aside, Beijing is in many ways a fantastic city. It is a hot bed of tourist sights. From Tiananmen Square where nothing of historical interest took place in 1989 (no comment), to the Mausoleum where Chinese tourists fight tooth and nail for a peek at the former tyrant. There’s plenty to see and do, so long as you don’t mind the CCTV. On the other hand it is busy, crowded, noisy and smoggy. You can forget a tuk-tuk accident in Thailand, a moped collision in Vietnam, or even a drunken rope swing incident in Laos, the biggest threat to your health in Asia – as far as my small experience goes – is that you will be trampled to death by a group of colour coordinated human sheep outside a Beijing tourist attraction, or cough out your lungs. Nothing major.

Katie Melua tells us there are 9 million bicycles in Beijing. Now doesn’t that sound romantic? Lots of cyclists winding between ancient pagodas and lakes overgrown with Bamboo, maybe the odd Giant Panda lazing in the shade. Ah-hem…what about the cars Miss Melua? And the 6 lane motorways, the concrete, and the tenement blocks and ‘Beijing Lung’; what about the buses, taxis, and mopeds? Noise pollution, air pollution, space pollution…did I mention 17 million reckless umbrella users? If this kind of overpopulation is the future you can count me out. Someone’s going to lose an eye…it’ll all end in tears.

Despite feeling the need to constantly repeat these age-old Dadisms, I’m not one to be easily dissuaded. And if four months of Asian adventures have taught me anything it’s how to use my elbows as weapons. So I fought through crowds, wore sunglasses as safety goggles, and trod on people’s toes as a pre-emptive strike. I was greatly rewarded for my efforts, and though I left Beijing a little bruised it was worth the effort. In the space of just a few days in the capital we saw Mao lying in State, entered the (formally) Forbidden City, cycled around a nice lake, impersonated Mongolian warriors at the Great Wall, ate some scorpions and took a bobsleigh down a mountain. What more could you possibly ask for?

It was a city that I loathed at the time, and if I’m truly honest I wouldn’t like to go back. But thanks to our old friend retrospect, it doesn’t seem so bad after all. I still shudder at the sight of tour groups, the guide gesticulating wildly with no concern for passing pedestrians, and I automatically shield my eyes when I spot anyone under six feet tall in command of an umbrella, but looking back it was just another notch on my travelling bedpost and all part of the China experience.

A brief jaunt to “nearby” Xian (600 miles or so) – pandas, a tandem bicycle, karaoke and an 8000 strong terracotta army – and it was almost time to leave the country. What awaited us was the most exciting part of our overland journey so far: Mongolia and the trans-Siberian railway. No more battling with the Chinese alphabet, no more “no chicken, pork or beef, I’m a vegetarian” noodle soup dance for Vicki, and most excitingly, no more huge crowds, and definitely no more umbrellas. On the other side of the border lay the Gobi desert: horses, goats, a barren landscapes and a nomadic population of less than 2 million people TOTAL. Bring it on.

Photos: Kate

It seems this was a good introduction to Hong Kong. It’s a rich man’s Asia; all sky-scrapers, bright lights and Imax cinemas. Far fewer filthy guesthouses for $1 a night complete with cardboard walls and cockroach infestations. You could still buy a faux-lex, and sit at a roadside noodle house, but if you want to stick to budget here you’ll have to work a hell of a lot harder.

With that in mind, we boarded the immaculate metro and took ourselves to Kowloon in search of budget accommodation. Our Lonely Planet seemed a little thin on the ground when it came to cheap and cheerful in Kowloon – $15 a night!? You’re having a laugh. And so it was that we took ourselves in a backpacker’s paradise, the infamous, and ironically named Chungking Mansions.

Described by Wikipedia as “a centre of drugs, and a refuge for petty criminals, scammers, and illegal immigrants” – a reference I found while finding out exactly how many rooms have been crammed into this seventeen story death trap (one thousand nine hundred and eighty) – it seemed like just the place for us, and at $5 a night, much more our style. Not only that, but after weeks of cultural homogeneity in China it was a pleasure to be surrounded by people from all over the world for a change. No longer were we the lone foreigners amid a sea of staring Chinese locals, the Mansions were home to people from all corners of the globe, and it was buzzing with energy.

The Mansions are full of dodgy dealers, curry houses, pirate DVD salesmen and exposed electrical wiring. We fit right in. Vicki and I are well practiced at shooting down unwanted offers of tailor made suits, stolen watches and marriage so we felt right at home, and wasted no time in digging into a superb meal of daal and chapattis before going out exploring. We hopped aboard the ferry to Victoria Harbour and found ourselves in a different world. One country, two systems my arse! Hong Kong city is another kettle of fish entirely.

My initial reaction to Hong Kong was one of disdain. Granted, getting my hands on a veggie sub after weeks of mystery meat in China was a treat at first, but when I realised that fast food was all we could afford I suddenly longed for the bargains and culture of the Asia I’d lived in for the last 3 months. Where were the roadside beers of Vietnam, the deep fried locusts of Laos and impromptu dance-offs of Cambodia? All these polished floors, bank managers, and hotel lobbies were getting me down.

We strolled through the pristine network of pedestrian walkways, and looked at well-mannered drivers through Perspex windows. We window-shopped in Dior, and got lost in Gucci. We ate dim sum in a café staffed by men who looked like butlers; and even caught a funicular railway up Victorian Peak to pose alongside a waxwork of Jackie Chan, but somehow I wasn’t quite satisfied. It was all too shiny for me. I felt like I was trapped in a parallel universe somewhere between Milton Keynes, Harrods and China town. So we took ourselves back to the dodgy side of town and approached some men outside Chungking Mansions. By appearance I would say that they were probably petty criminals, drug dealers and illegal immigrants, but who better to ask about a good night out when you’re on a strict budget.

That is how, dear readers, we found ourselves at Hong Kong’s most exclusive bar, club and restaurant alongside hundreds of other revellers. Beers for a couple of bucks, music, dancing, neon lights and more snacks than you can handle. They had beer, Pepperami and Quavers, all for under a fiver. What is this über-cool secret underground hangout I hear you cry; the Milk & Honey of Hong Kong, the Mayfair Club of Kowloon? Why it’s the 7/11 of course! That’s right folks, the convenience store we all know and love has risen to a new level in Hong Kong. No longer an afterthought to a big night, a stop-off on the way home, here, the 7/11 is the destination. And what fun we had.

We awoke the next morning with hangovers worthy of a very expensive night out and patted ourselves on the back. Who needs top shelf spirits and waiters in uniforms when the cashier will open your beer for you at the counter? There was life outside of  Dolce & Gabbana after all, you just have to know where to look. Funnily enough, after all my worrying about leaving my creature comforts in Australia, it was the grittier side of Hong Kong which excited me. The lowlights were my highlights. We were happy to wave goodbye to the land of HSBC, SONY and the world’s only Feng Shui Disneyland, and boarded one of the twice-weekly trains to Beijing. Overnight this 21^st Century space shuttle train would shoot us 1350 miles in the blink of an eye, and take us from one grossly overpopulated city to another.

Despite the sensory torture, Vicki and I were feeling pretty pleased with ourselves, having rocked up at Kunming station at 5am that morning with a vague notion of catching a train. I wouldn’t normally advise this sort of reckless behaviour, but one of the major problems with Chinese train travel is that there isn’t really a central booking system. While it’s possible to find timetables and get an idea of price from places like this (they have an excellent map), it’s rarely possible to buy tickets except at your point of departure.

Besides, our well-rehearsed routine of pointing and jumping (stick man on stilts, telegraph pole, dance party) only just got results in person so we didn’t fancy our chances of explaining 桂林 over the phone. We’d got lucky this time and managed to secure a berth on a train leaving that day, what a result.

The train was packed – as with everything else in China – and our hard sleeper berths, while not “hard” per say lacked in the way of headroom, so we ventured to the restaurant car for beer, a game of cards and a little nǐ hǎo. Here we made a handful of new friends, and sparked all manner of animated conversation among the railway staff, before retiring to bed for a blissfully peaceful sleep. This is where low carbon travel really pays for itself; where else would you be invited to play dice with old men over a cup of suspicious mushroom tea, or help an aspiring Mongolian poet improve his English vocabulary before retiring to a bunk where the train rocks you to sleep like a little environmentally friendly baby? I may not need to say it, but I am a fan of the sleeper train.

At 7am we were rudely awoken by the music once more – “I’m strong to the finish, cos I eats me spinach”, grrrr. I’ll admit that this part of bus and rail transport in Asia can be somewhat painful on the ears. But we consoled ourselves with a breakfast of fresh mango and spicy noodles (all Chinese trains have a hot water urn) as the train pulled up in Guilin station. Guilin is another “small” town by Chinese standards, with a mere 1.5 million inhabitants. I know I keep hammering this point, but China really is massive and full of people. I am from a small town, so I know one when I see it, and Guilin ain’t small. Because of this Vicki and I didn’t take the time to explore, but chose instead to board a bus at the railway station and continue our journey to Yangshuo on the Li River. Compared to it’s neighbour Guilin, Yangshuo is a mere dot on the map, and a lovely dot at that.

Surrounded by dramatic limestone peaks (karst if you’re into your topography, and frankly who isn’t?) Yangshuo looks like something out of Lord of the Rings, and though not populated by elves it was nearly as exciting. Chickens strapped on to the back of bicycles; eels, toads and dog on sale in the market, hundreds of bamboo rafts complete with sun umbrellas floating down river, a canal network running straight through the town. Granted there was ample neon, rip-off DVDs and novelty phones but we’re still in China afterall. I loved it.

From family dinners in an exceptionally friendly hostel and late night games of beer pong, to cooking lessons, and bikes rides, this 300,000 community was by far my favourite place in all of China. We had barely put our bags down before a member of staff burst in to invite us to float down the Li on some old inner tubes, before dragging us up to the rooftop bar to challenge the proprietor to a drinking game. We saw local boatmen dozing on their narrow boats with their domesticated cormorants, clambered around caves and had a mud fight in an underground pool. Vicki took to the skies in a hot air balloon, while I mastered the art of Liar’s Dice. I was having so much fun that I barely slept in 3 days, but the Russian visa was looming ever nearer and we were going to make it the 1000 or so miles to the border, we’d need to get our skates on. And so to Hong Kong.

Yúnnán translates rather beautifully as “South of the Clouds” and although I was alarmed to find it’s towns heaving with busloads of umbrella touting tourists, the landscape did not fail to amaze.

We started off in the region’s capital Kunming (昆明), a fairly typical Chinese city full of banks, neon lights and fast food outlets. My expectations of China had been vague, but somehow I was surprised to find myself under the Golden Arches of McDonald’s looking out onto endless swarms of people. Although I had steeled myself for overpopulation – after all there’s 1.6 billion people here – I was still shocked to find that a city of which I had never heard, and which holds no particular significance was home to a staggering 5.7 million.  Needless to say this wasn’t quite what Vicki and I had in mind having so recently escaped the incessant horn honking of Vietnam, and so after a night in a hostel and a few cheeky Tsingtao beers we dragged ourselves back to the bus station and spent several hours trying to catch a bus.

Although China has not managed to successfully resist the onslaught of the likes of Pizza Hut, KFC and Disney Land, they’re sticking to their alphabet like glue, and if you think that any of the bus drivers are going to humour your vain attempts at mastering their language…well, you’ve got another thing coming.  China was the first of a number of countries that were less tourist-friendly than their neighbours; that’s not to say that you’re not welcome, but that you have to work a little harder to get what you want. I’ve already talked about Vicki’s ever expanding symphony of animal noises, but now consider catching a bus.

“OK, it looks like a square-headed dalek trying to climb a step-ladder”, says Vicki as we walk for the forth time around the parking lot searching for our night bus to Dali. We peered at the stickers on the windows of the many buses, then back to our handwritten Chinese characters that a kindly member of hostel staff had scrawled into our book. Nothing. “Wait, dalek step-ladder is Kunming, we want headless stick man doing the splits in front of half a step-ladder leaning against a window with a bookshelf underneath…obviously”. How embarrassing. 大理. This was to be a defining feature of the next few months of travel.

The next ten days featured rather a lot of overnight travel: from Kunming to Dali, from Dali to Shangri-La, and from Lijang back to Kunming by bus, then on to Yangshao by train, and then from Yangshao to Hong Kong. Ouch. On a map this looks suspiciously like a ridiculous waste of time, and though it was at times a battle against sanity it was a fantastic two weeks of adventure. Did I mention that China is massive? By the time we reached Hong Kong we were well versed in stick men, daleks and step-ladders as a means of communication and had had an extraordinary two weeks.

My overall impression of China was that it wasn’t really for me, just too big and too busy for my appetite. But the Yúnnán province is an unsung gem, and one of only a few places that we found in China that I’d like to revisit. The town of Shangri-La had a very Tibetan feel and provided yak meat skewers and foot massages at the ‘Au Predestined Relationship Foot Bath Shop’. The walled city of Dali shone despite the rain and constant assaults on your eyeballs by passing umbrellas. And the trek through Tiger Leaping Gorge was as exhausting as it was rewarding. Despite the imposing damns and hydroelectric plants that litter the valleys, and the cavernous quarries that scar the landscape, the province is still clinging to its majesty, though for how much longer I’m just not sure.

Capitalism is alive and well in China and it’s only a matter of time until there’s a Coca Cola vendor at the top of Tiger Leaping Gorge. For now though, the beauty of the peaks that are south of the clouds is preserved, and we found a little old lady in her ancient blue suit shelling walnuts at the summit. I relished this moment of quiet reflection as we headed back to Kunming, and onwards to Hong Kong and Beijing. We would have very little peace for the next three weeks.

We had arrived in China the day before after being unceremoniously dumped into no-man’s land by the Vietnamese border guards. We waited nervously on the Chinese side as the guard ruthlessly scrutinised our passports; he looked at me, then at my picture, then back to me, then back to the picture, then at my bag, then me, then Vicki, then back to me. All this took around a minute, which isn’t long in the scheme of things, but if you were walk outside right now and lock eyes with a total stranger, let me tell you, a minute holding their gaze would feel like an awfully long time, especially if that stranger had a machine gun. “Aliens are permitted” said the delightful Chinglish sign, so why on earth was it taking so long?

I tried to ease the tension with a little nǐ hǎo, but he continued to stare me down, so I let my attention wander to the evaluation machine on the counter. These are a pretty common appearance at border controls now; a how am I driving sticker for passport authorities if you will. Curiously, this one appeared to be broken and the only button available to press was “very good”; ah Communism, you’re on to a winner there. Pleased that I had evaluated him so well – and so fairly – I was allowed to pass, but could still feel his eyes boring into the back of my head as I walked away. Little did I know that staring would be a key feature of my time in China.

We took ourselves to the nearest noodle house and took a seat by the window, all the better for people watching we thought. After all, as a backpacker, watching the world go by becomes a favourite pastime. What we hadn’t realised was that in China we were interesting to look at, really really interesting. “Moo, mooo, quack, quack”, Vicki had another bash at avoiding mystery meat in her lunch while I did a little chicken dance to hammer the point home. The waitress smiled awkwardly, then began nodding furiously before bringing poor Vic a bowl of mixed carcass. Vegetarianism really is a foreign concept here. While all this was going on we failed to notice the small crowd of locals gathering outside the window for a good old stare. I kid you not, one man literally held his small child up to the window for a better view, and this was just the beginning.

Minutes later we were running across a car park in a desperate bid to catch the only bus to Kunming, a town that looks to be close to the border, but is in fact a 12 hour bus ride away. This is something I would learn quickly about China; it is massive, like really, really big, (insert some sort of comparison to Wales here), big enough so that every place we wanted to visit was at least 12 hours away. Gratefully we made it onto the bus, and began the first of many journeys we would make on a Chinese sleeper bus.

The sleeper bus is a fantastic invention, and one that is yet to make its debut in Europe. In fact, consider this the beginning of my campaign to get some loco2 sleeper buses on the Continent. Granted they ain’t great if you’re tall – I think my 5ft 6” was pushing it a bit – but being able to lay horizontal on a long journey isn’t something that should be sniffed at. And if you’re really lucky you’ll get the added bonus of watching Chinese love songs on video all night long, and a couple of crates of ducks strapped to the roof rack above your head. While not the great sleep you get on a night train, it sure beats a night in a seat on a coach.

I tucked myself into my Vietnamese silk sleeping bag, pad-locked my backpack and tied it to my ankle, ipod in ears, eye patches on. I know it doesn’t sound too glamorous but believe me, when you’ve done a 17-hour coach trip across Mexico with the air conditioning on full pelt, these buses seem like heaven, ducks and all. With that in mind I drifted off to sleep, dreaming of paradise: in the morning we’d be in Shangri-La…

Cross the bridge and you will see the border control said our guidebook. That sounds easy enough. But then I should have known from experience that going overland was never easy. Fun? Yes. Exciting? Definitely. But easy? No. I had with me my little book of Chinese sayings, and turned to it for advice: “be not afraid of going slowly, be afraid only of standing still”, ah yes ki mo sabi, these are wise words indeed and well in tune with the Loco2 ethos. But when you’re this close to the fourth largest country in the world and you still can’t find it, standing still is the least of your worries.

After a short break, a fit of giggles and a video blog, we decided to seek advice from passersby; we must have asked fifteen people, including one man who was casually doing some welding atop a digger. Yet mighty China remained elusive. Maybe this is part of their neo-Communism thing; open markets, mass production, fake google and a hide and seek nation, you never know.

Finally, we fell back on common sense and consulted the trusty compass. We reasoned that if we headed north we’d have to bump into it eventually. After all, there are a billion people there, they couldn’t all hide from us forever. And so it was, after an hour of wandering around the periphery that we got ourselves to the Sino-Vietnamese border and were promptly arrested.

OK, so arrested may be a slight exaggeration, there were no handcuffs, but we were definitely in trouble. It seems that in Vietnam, paying for a 30-day visa doesn’t necessarily mean that’s what you get. Note to reader: always check the expiry date of your visa. And if in doubt, feign ignorance. Vicki and I looked around the interrogation room. Blank walls, bars on the windows, a lone desk and a solitary uniformed man with a stern look on his face. $100 fine. Shit!

We looked in our purses and counted out our worldly possessions. I had somewhere in the region of 26,000 Dông, Vicki had twenty American dollars. Our guard did not look impressed, and asked us to face the wall as he counted out the cash. Twenty-six grand you say, not too shabby for a backpacker. But if I were to tell you that this sumptuous wad of cash works out to a little less than $2 then perhaps you’ll better understand his stony face.

Luckily for us, our ignorance was totally genuine, and Vicki’s not one to part with money without a fight. “I must ask the leader” says our guard and marched off into an adjacent room to consult this faceless authority. A few minutes of anxious waiting later, he returned to tell us that the leader was not prepared to accept our meagre offerings, and he once again re-iterated the laws of over staying visas, and $100 fines. We, in turn, opened our empty purses and shook ticket stubs, rogue chopsticks, and origami frogs onto the desk; we really didn’t have any money*.

“We’ll have to go the bank” we declared, and made to collect our bags and head back into Vietnam in search of an ATM. He liked this even less than the paper frogs, and went, once again to consult the leader. Now, at this point I was of the impression that the leader was a big fat suited man with a giant moustache sitting on a swivel chair stroking a white cat à la Inspector Gadget, but in retrospect I think it may well have been an empty room and all this was a charade to make us nervous. Either way, when he eventually returned, the matter was resolved. “The leader will accept this”, he said, gathering the pitiful collection of cash on the desk, but “don’t come back”.

Well, in all my many years travelling; through 40 countries, across two oceans, 50 pages in my passport, umpteem visas, and even more visa extensions, I have never been banned from a country. Damn it! “So we’re never allowed back?!” exclaimed Vicki. Our guard pulled one of those faces that we normally reserve for the most moronic people on earth; “no, don’t come to bank” he said, clearly anxious that if they let us back into their country they would never see us again. And with that, he ushered us out of the interrogation room and unceremoniously dumped us into China. Talk about arriving in style…

*Vicki actually had another $50 in a different bag, oh great sneaky one how I admire you.

Photos: Kate

Grab a stopwatch, and some sort of horn, preferably one with an ear piercing, eye popping, brain-shattering high pitch. Count for one minute and simultaneously honk your horn as many times as is humanly possible. You are not even close to recreating the noise in Vietnamese cities. Pass the taser, I’m in a bad mood. I blame the beer. Actually, I blame Vicki, in fact, it’s all your fault. Why are you looking at me anyway? Stop honking that horn!

I’d been rather enjoying myself in Vietnam. I’d watched the people of Hanoi play roadside badminton at 6 am, and those of Saigon doing Thai Chi. I’d clambered though the tunnels of the infamous Vietcong, ridden a bicycle through the glorious walled city of Hoi-An, dodged jellyfish in Halong Bay, and seen a water puppet show in the Capital. But then I awoke to find myself in a bustling city; penned in by the heat, sweltering in a rooftop bedroom where the fan only graces you with its presence every 14 seconds.  I was ill, and nothing seemed so sunny anymore.

If you take one piece of advice from a seasoned backpacker, it should be ask the locals about the water. If they drink the water and seem to be in fairly decent shape then I say more power to you. What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, and you can give your immune system a work out. Not to mention saving money and plastic bottles. I was always trying my luck, but in Vietnam I went a step too far. And the immediate consequence was Gardia, a lovely illness of the vomiting nastiness kind. Lucky me. It took a week to get myself back on my feet. And just in time too, because I was borderline psychotic thanks to the aforementioned honking.

It was time to leave Hanoi. I boarded a night bus and headed north for Sapa, leaving the hustle and bustle behind me for a few days’ reprieve. The North of Vietnam is a totally different place. Lush rice terraces draped in rolling mist are home to indigenous hill tribes; the altitude brings frequent rain and cold weather, and the local people will go out of their way to help out a lone backpacker at the crack of dawn on a Tuesday morning (one accepting a meagre 25p offering to take me by motorbike to my hostel after the cash machine turned me down). It was bliss.

But the calm of the countryside was to be short-lived. The next leg of the journey was underway. We were going to China; the fourth largest country in the World, home to well over a billion people. One problem. We simply couldn’t find it.

Photos courtesy of Kate

So this month I made the decision to focus on the good things in life, you know, the heart-warming stuff. And so it was with that in mind that I entered Vietnam, absolutely determined to find lots of nice things to talk about. And then I witnessed the murder of a small frog.

Vietnam is, perhaps unsurprisingly, a country of contrasts. And in retrospect I’m at a loss to sum up my thoughts on this beautiful, yet infuriating country. I was ripped off, lied to, misinformed, misled and woken up by blaring music at 5am. I was so irritated on some occasions that I entertained fantasies of buying a taser to inflict my own form of aversion therapy. But on the other hand I was delighted, entertained, and amazed by the kindness of strangers. I shared jokes with street vendors, sat up late into the night at pavement bars, and left the country in fits of giggles and with a huge grin on my face.  So maybe this is one you’ll have to see for yourself.

We entered in the South from Cambodia, finding ourselves quickly in the heart of Ho Chi Minh City (formally Saigon), where we were immediately given a taste of Vietnamese life and thrust back into hustle and bustle of an Asian city. Cyclos pedalled by ageing men threaten to knock you down as you cross the street, a million vehicles speed around roundabouts in seeming chaos, and people carry every conceivable thing on their motorbikes. It seems too good to be true but I actually witnessed one man carrying a kitchen sink. This is the stuff dreams are made of.

When not fighting for my life amid the traffic I continued my culinary adventures. I ate clams, snails, and waterlilly seeds. I discovered my new favourite fruit, the almighty mangosteen, and sampled the surprisingly delicious weasel poo coffee, brewed to be eye-poppingly strong and served with condensed milk. The only thing I took off my menu was that poor frog. Seeing it’s murder with a mallet was just too much for me. It croaked.

It’s not all frogs, snails and puppy dog’s tails though. Vietnam actually had some of the best food I’d tasted during my months in South East Asia and I was like a child in a sweet shop, munching away on whatever came my way. However, in a cruel twist of fate, I was brought crashing down. Not by a weird and wonderful meal, an actual blackbird pie for instance, or a hot dog. Oh no, I was brought to my knees by our good old friend tap water, and within days I was transformed from happy-go-lucky hippy, backpacker type, to a grumpy, vomiting moan machine. I told you I’d focus on the good things…

Photos courtesy of Kate and Gonzo Carles

I have been here a fortnight, and although I briefly unleashed my inner Lara Croft in the form of 5am sunrise army rolls in a ruined temple, played a little Jenga, and indulged in a dance off with a group of middle aged shirtless revelers, I have mostly been volunteering at an orphanage in Phnom Penh.

One day became two, then three, and before you know it you’re an English teacher and you are simultaneously in love with 40 small children and will give up all your plans in order to be there as beautiful orphaned 6 year old reads The Little Mermaid. I am so moved I could cry. Maybe this is my calling. I am officially hooked. Take a look at see where I’ve been working: www.savechildreninasia.org, give money, send books, help! Plans to venture south have been abandoned and I will be going again tomorrow, and possibly even the next day, aaaaahhh!! Lucky we have a Russian visa with a fixed date or I may have been in danger of staying indefinitely.

The Cambodian people are amazing, I cannot emphasize how much I am enjoying myself, I’ve even donated blood at the children’s hospital, now that’s love, I hate needles. This may actually be my favourite place I’ve ever been, although Nicaragua and Guatemala are still putting up a good fight. Laos proved to be a place full of hazards but Cambodia has affected me in a much more emotional way.

I was in tears as we waved goodbye to the kids. And not only that, as we left Camdodia we were also saying goodbye to the Mekong River, that had been our guide for over a month. After hearing the stories of friend we met along the way through Thailand, Laos and Cambodia, it seems that we’ve been left off pretty likely by this backpacker trail. A little miscommunication and injury is all.

The tubing scars are fading, eating crickets wasn’t really that bad (although they were a little leggy), and I’m getting quite adept at hanging on to the back of a motorcycle taxi as it speeds through traffic, and red lights without helmets or mirrors. I am almost totally unharmed, although I’ve got some way to go before I’m in the clear. And in fact as I write this there is storm of biblical proportions going on outside, and quite a lot of it is dripping through the ceiling onto the monitor. Granted it’s atmospheric but the sofa cushion which a kindly member of staff has draped over the computer’s vital organs doesn’t fill me with confidence. So before I recieve a nasty electric shock I will love you and leave you.

Images courtesy of Kate

Running for almost five thousand kilometers I’ve seen that River almost everyday since, and I’ve probably swallowed a few litres of the filth too. Our two-day boat ride took us to Luang Probang where we got involved with some serious waterfall jumping, and watched monks in safron robes collecting alms in exchange for blessings at 5am. Very cultural me thinks.

After all that Lonely Planet stuff we thought we’d try something no-one else has ever heard of. We went tubing. Only joking, this may be the single most talked about activity on the entire SE Asia backpacker trail. But like the Full Moon Party you can’t knock it til you’ve tried it. So we donned our compulsory ‘Beer Laos’ T-shirts and headed to the Mekong where we swung from rope swings, zipped down zip lines, and slid down slides. As you do. Didn’t actually fancy paying for an inner tube so stuck with good old fashioned swimming to get me between bars but had a blast anyway. Although I will take this opportunity to point that no matter how much whisky you’ve drunk it is NEVER a good idea to attempt a mid-air “Brucey” from a 20 foot swing.

For those of you not familair with the Brucey here’s an activity for you. Try it your self. Stand up, put your left arm forward and place your clenched fist to your forehead, a la ‘The Thinker’. Now take you right hand and place it on your back in a ‘I’m a little tea pot’ manner. And there you have it, the Brucey. Do not attempt while falling from a great height. I honest to God almost put my arm out of its socket. You have a lot to answer for Mr Forsythe. But plenty of fun, and if I’m honest I’d do it again.

After a day of recovery we braved a ‘VIP’ bus to Vientiane. In this instance VIP does not stand for very important person but very inconvenient position, as seats are designed for midgets and air conditioning comes in the form of hastily opened windows that allow a slight draft. Sweaty much? But it got us to the capital. Although Vientiane doesn’t hold much appeal with a small gang of mates and some rented motorbikes you can have at least one day of fun. Herbal Sauna…get in! One hour massage for a dollar, yes please; big park full of Budhas and Co. why the hell not? And all while wondering whether I could crush my friend with my thighs as I sit on the back of the bike. Seriously I reckon I could break a rib given half a chance. All kinds of fun I tell thee.

So that was Laos in a nutshell. But there was also some low rider style cycling to Khmer era ruins in Champasak, a night bus with beds designed for teeny tiny people, a seemingly drunk tuk tuk driver who honestly almost fell asleep at the wheel and had to be screamed at (don’t know how we survived that one). Four Thousand Islands in the South (not to be confused with the salad dressing) offered hammocks and happy shakes (a very bad idea; laughed until I cried then lost the ability to form sentances, freaked out and had to go to sleep, never again). And so to Cambodia.

Images courtesy of Kate

The next few weeks was an adventure in alternative modes of transport (I really am an advert for my own values aren’t I?) There have been buses, and boats and trains, and bicycles, and night buses, and night trains, and mopeds and motorcycles, a slow boat, a long boat and an elephant. I love it! I’ll show you airline companies, I can go wherever I want and I don’t need you, in your face! My first moped experience was a scream. Literally. And involved rather a lot of dodgy swerving and erratic acceleration. The teeny tiny Thai lady who rented me the bike didn’t seem remotely concerned that I had no experience what so ever, nor did she have any helmets.

But it’s ok, I substituted conventional safety gear with a bikini and a flip flops so it was totally safe Mum; knee pads, helmets…pah!. And I had aviators, so I was pretty much the coolest person who ever lived, maybe. You should have seen us, we surely were the pace setters of the whole island, not even remotely wobbly. At one point I went so fast that I was able to overtake a small child on a bicycle and, wait for it…a parked car!

Just for the record the moped is now my vehicle of choice, although it seems I am not alone. The very funny people at  Stuff White People Like point out that “as it stands, every single white person on earth either owns, has owned, or is dreaming about owning a Vespa Scooter…They are Italian, feature vintage design, low emissions, make the rider look more sophisticated, and they carry a little bit of risk. In fact, were it to have a liberal arts degree and a steady income,  a Vespa scooter would possesses every important quality that a white person looks for in a spouse”. So it’s decided, when I move home I am going to marry a Vespa. Lovely. But I digress.

The month of June involved lots of very interesting (even if i do say so myself) and funny (of course) stories. But as I’m often chastised for writing insanely long posts so I won’t bore you with the all details. Don’t get too excited though as I rarely do as I’m told. In fact perhaps you’d like to go and have a tea break now, and maybe a small nap, tuk tuk??! Just checking.

But just so you know what you’re missing out on there was an incident with an elephant slapping my friend in the face with its trunk, deep fried crickets, long next tribes, and a few ill advised three on a motorbike taxi rides. If you want to hear more about these stories please send a stamped addressed envelope to Kate Andrews, Room 19, A dodgy guesthouse in Asia. It’s the one with lots of motorbikes parked outside, you can’t miss it.

In conclusion Thailand was not really mine or Vicki’s cup of tea, we’re less organised tour, more see what happens sort of girls so we weren’t too fussed about waving goodbye to the beaches and getting ourselves into Laos on a very slow boat.

Images courtesy of Kate

Street kids climb you as if you were a tree, your anti-malaria tablets will give you dreams worthy of an acid trip (Lego man hands anyone?) and you will constantly be accosted to buy a book, a bracelet, a ride in a tuk tuk, some drugs; maybe you’d like a prostitute, or to see a shocking sex show…no? really, are you sure? Perhaps I should ask you an additional twenty times just in case you change your mind.

But these things are mere trifles in comparison to the many varied opportunities for serious injury that come your way. Crossing the road is a logistical nightmare, involving rather a lot of running, jumping and praying for your life. You are actively encouraged to get drunk and fling yourself from 20 foot rope swings into a raging river whilst an eight year old lifegaurd watches over you.

And what with spider bites, drunken taxi drivers, blood banks, allergic reactions, near dislocated shoulders and ill advised Tomb Raider army rolls inside crumbling temples I’m lucky to still be standing. Breathe parental structure, I’m ok…just, and frankly I brought most of it on myself. But before I go on, are you quite sure you wouldn’t like a ride in this tuk tuk?

When I left you I was bound for Thailand’s infamous Koh Phangang in search of my soul amid a mass of vodka saturated, glow in the dark backpackers. And guess what?! I actually found myself, who needs culture, it turns out that all I really needed was a plastic bucket full of whiskey, dirty dirty house music and a flaming skipping rope. I’m found.

To think I wasted all this time getting cultural and trying to get off the beaten track, I’ve wasted my life. Jokes aside, there was plenty of banter, I mean who can really complain about a four thousand strong rave on a tropical beach, but I must admit that I after watching the sun come up through bleary eyes I was happy to get myself off to more far flung corners.

Photos courtesy of Dominique Claessens and Kate

I arrived in Singapore by air after much deliberation. To cross the Torres Strait by sea, while not impossible, demanded far more advanced planning and hard cash then I had. And in the scale of things, I decided that a few miles airborne were preferable to another 6 months desperately trying (and so often failing) to save money in Australia.  Although I have sufficiently justified this to myself by now I will graciously accept abuse and you should feel free to throw otten tomatoes at your leisure.

However, when I arrived in Singapore I was less worried about my carbon footprint than by the notion that I might have forgotten how to rough it. But within minutes of stepping out of the air-conditioned airport into the familiar clammy heat of the tropics I knew I had rediscovered my inner traveller – pass the henna, I need a temporary tattoo immediately! Oi, street trader, sell me an anklet this instant!

Singapore is a city of contrasts (blah, what a cliche) but it’s true. My first site was a small gathering of traditional Buddhist monks, swiftly followed by a group of officials equipped with surgical masks and heat seeking cameras to catch feverish passengers (Swine flu anyone? Pass the oinkment). Next I was handed a list of rules to which I must adhere while in Singapore, for instance: it is illegal to chew gum, smoke within 5 metres of any entrance, drop litter, or J-Walk, hefty fines apply. I was also politely informed that the possession of drugs is punishable by death!! eeek, not that I’m trafficking drugs let me assure you but I did have chewing gum in my bag for the duration of my stay. Contraband!

But what a great city, full of diversity; from Little India with its curry served in a banana leaf (about one pound for a stomach stretching quantity, now that’s a takeaway), and the heady scent of incense and spices assaulting you at every turn, to China Town with it’s herbal eggs and Turnip Cream. But it is clean, tidy, relatively crime free and as organised as a lego city built by a neurotic child. You’ve got a love it! It may not be to everyone’s taste, perhaps a little sterile – Topshop and Marks and Spenser in mega malls, $500 a night hotels etc – but it was a perfect start to my re-immersion into the world of travel.

After a few days I made tracks by bus to Kuala Lumpar to meet a friend. Vicki had proved a great companion through tears, triumph and heartbreak in Tonga (that’s another story entirely), and she had bravely agreed to be my partner in crime for the next few months. She’s very organised and is sure to whip my lazy arse into shape whether I like it or not. And though this makes us like chalk and cheese, she did get a henna tattoo yesterday and I’ve got my eye on an anklet so maybe we’re the perfect team.

Kuala Lumpar was not to my taste, a bit on the insanely hot and so smoggy you can’t breathe side. But the twin towers were pretty cool, and of course the flag pole!!!! Every guide book for KL recommends this sight and believe me it’s not to be missed…a 100m metre flag pole, yes that’s right, a pole with a flag on it. If you can’t imagine it try holding a toothpick really close to your face and looking up in awe. OK, so sarcasm aside, it’s not the most exciting thing I’ve ever seen but I took thirty photos of it anyway, from different angles and with the flag fluttering at different wind speeds, just in case…you know…something…memories. Thankfully, the city redeemed itself on our final day as we went to the Batu Caves, a little north of the city. Imagine a mighty cave cut into a sheer cliff face, and adorned with extraordinary giant Hindu sculptures and teeny tiny monkeys. Brilliant.

That brings you up to date. So here we are, in a hostel, waiting for a night bus to Thailand to get ourselves to the infamous full moon party of Ko Pang Yang. After all if I’m going to be a cliche traveller for a little I might as well do it properly. Otherwise how on earth am I going to ‘find myself’? Who says that my inner self isn’t somewhere on a white sand beach with lots of drunken hooligans covered in UV paint, you never know!

And as if all these circus antics weren’t enough I threw in the added excitement of doing it all from Australia. Below you’ll find a pretty general description of the steps you need to go through to be granted a visa. But if you’re in any doubt of my dedication to the cause, rest assured that I spent hours on hold to the Russian embassy in Sydney, sent in excess of twenty emails back and forth to the UK and eventually posted my passport to New Zealand where it was processed by the slightly more amiable embassy there.

Sort it out

First you need to work out an itinerary, Russia isn’t interested in going with the flow, they want to know what you’re up to, every minute of everyday, so get a map and guide book, and make a plan. The people at www.realrussia.co.uk are mighty helpful and very capable when it comes to answering queries about train times and all that jazz. They also have the benefit of offices in Moscow and St. Petersburg so they really do have their ears to the frosty Siberian ground, and can give you some accurate estimates of travel time and price. Once the visa has been issued you have a little more freedom but the consulate doesn’t reward laziness so just make a plan; places to visit and stay, things to do, trains to catch and don’t forget to factor in insanely long train rides in between destinations.

Then you have to score yourself an invite. The Ruskies don’t want any old riff raff gallivanting around their fair state, after all you might well be a 007-esque, exploding watch type spy of some description. So play the game and take your self to www.myrussianvisa.com or www.visatorussia.com and apply for an official invite. These can only be issued by registered travel agents each of whom has a unique tour operator code which will appear on your invite. This part is relatively painless and will only set you back around £20 for a standard issue 30 day tourist visa, which is normally emailed to you within a couple of days. You can ask to have a hard copy posted to you for an extra 45 quid but my advice is to simply print the document straight from the PDF. It should print out on one page so make sure it comes out as it appears on screen because the consulate won’t look kindly on any dodgy comic sands font or borders falling off the page!

So now you’ve got an invite you can bask in the joy of reading your name in cool Cyrillic letters, and gather your strength to apply for the visa itself. Some of the online agents can apply for the visa on your behalf and although this is tempting, it is usually twice the price of applying directly to the consulate. Do not be afraid, anyone can do it so long as you read the document carefully and maybe complete it in with a pencil first.

* Fill in all the fields and check the instructions which will come with the application as many forms ask that you ‘N/A’ any questions with do not apply to your circumstance e.g. please list any relatives you have in the Russian Federation.

* You will also be asked fill in your invite number and travel insurance policy number (remember to take hard copy of these with you to the border as they may be asked for).

So that’s it, now all you have to do is wait anxiously for 3 weeks while someone has your adventure, and your passport in their hands. Depending on your nearest consulate you might drop the application off in person, or send it along with a prepaid return envelope (I would recommend registered post, a little more expensive but it will save you a fortune on manicures after all that nervous nail biting).

Despite the aforementioned fire juggling my application was fairly painless. Just get organised, be patient and you’ll be laughing all the way to the Kremlin.

Image courtesy of Kate

Hue to Hanoi: letting the train take the strain

In Hue we elected to tackle the next leg of our route by train. We were looking forward to getting back onto the rails again, rather than onto yet another bone-rattling, leg-twisting, ironically-named ‘sleeper bus’.

The photojournalist Tim Page, who’s rattled along a few Vietnamese railways in his time, puts this better than me:

Train travel allows the mind to wander, the eyes not really focusing on the passing countryside, the heady clackety rhythm becoming white noise, a mere sound tapestry to meditate upon…On a train you actually have a sense of getting somewhere, denied the traveller sealed in an aluminium tube zooming across the sky.

Inside the small dusty waiting room, we occupied an entire row of flimsy plastic seats, our enormous bags dwarfing the slender locals hemmed in around them. I poked my head around the door to glance at the platform: it was uncomfortably quiet, hardly a soul moved, let alone a train.

As the minutes ticked by and the time dragged well past our designated departure time. Still no train.

The locals seemed unconcerned, dozing in the seats, nonchalantly sipping green tea and gazing at the traffic outside.

Finally, 50 minutes later it was action stations: a guard stirred, a tinny loudspeaker croaked out some kind of announcement and we were allowed onto the platform. People plus baggage began shuffling onto the platform. Hardly a great swarm of people like you’d have to contend with in China, more a trickle of the unhurried.

A group of men crouched down on the platform, lay a battered old briefcase on its side and immediately started playing cards. They fingered their dirty old dong notes whilst others crowded around, watching the gamblers.

A young couple strolled up and settled down on the bench next to us, resuming the cooing they had been so rudely interrupted from back in the waiting room.

And still no train.

I began to wonder what it could be that was causing such a severe delay. Mexican bandits? The wrong type of snow? Richard Branson?

Finally, an hour later than scheduled, the noise level seemed to pick up, passengers stirred and, to much whistling both from its driver and the sundry guards on the platform, a train appeared, its headlights piercing through the descending gloom.

The dusty green carriages hauled up in front of us, the grimy windows obscuring the interior. We quickly boarded, hauling our bulky loads through the narrow corridors as the rabble pressed up eagerly behind us.

Peering into our cabin we found it already occupied: a large family, big enough to fill a small village stared back at us, their grubby kids sprawled all over the beds. Cue frantic hand signals and pointing at beds and tickets before finally the guard came along and turfed these stubborn train gypsies out.

Although ‘soft sleeper’, our cabin didn’t quite live up to our expectations: it held six beds rather than four, crammed in so that each bed had about two and half foot of space between it and the one above. Grimacing as I adopted a contortionist pose I squeezed my slim frame into a bunk at the top, hauling my pack up behind me.

There was a jolt, and we started moving: ten hours through the night to the capital.

A short night, abruptly ended at 5.30am. Raised voices, doors slamming, a knock at our door: we’d arrived. Hanoi.

THE DO’s AND DON’Ts OF ASIA

Sun, sweat and scooters; trains, temples and tours; bananas, buses and lager. The tourist infrastructure in Vietnam, Cambodia, Thailand and Laos turns traveling into a wonderful holiday. However, alongside the tourist trade come touts and tricksters to be wary of. So to supplement your Lonely Planet/Rough Guide (delete as appropriate) here are World in Slow Motion’s top tips for S.E. Asia:

Do:

• Take a sheet sleeping bag. There is a curious lack of bedding in these parts.
• Carry plenty of U.S. dollars cash. They are a useful back-up and the currency of choice in Cambodia.
• Drink bia hoi on plastic chairs in the street in Vietnam. 20p for a glass of draught lager.
• Drink fruity drink and coconuts with a straw. You can spot a fruity drink stall by the glasses of chopped fruit to which condensed milk, coconut milk and balls of sticky rice are added and served with crushed ice.
• Eat amok. This creamy Cambodian curry is the among the best food in SE Asia.
• Take the sleeper bus. A bus with beds is a sight to behold and an experience not to be missed, but don’t expect to have a good kip.
• Have a massage at Seeing Hands in Siem Reap or Phnom Penh. These blind masseurs know what to do.
• Help out at Big Brother Mouse. Either chat with the children in English or buy one of their books to help promote literacy in Laos.
• Get up early to see monks collect alms at sunrise, a special sight in Luang Prabang, Laos.
• Go to the flag lowering ceremony in Hanoi, Vietnam. A triumphal affair every night at 9pm at the Ho Chi Minh memorial.Learn to say “no thank you” in the local language to keep the hawkers and touts at bay.
• Stay at Golden Temple Villa in Siem Reap. Excellent value and unlimited free bananas make it a winner.
• Stay at Hong Thien Hotel II, 46 Chi Van An Street, in Hue, Vietnam. Tien at reception is very helpful, but don’t book a Halong Bay tour through them (see below).

Don’t:

• Stay at Greenfields in Hoi An, Vietnam. Poor value and dreadful service.
• Rely on your guidebook for accommodation and eating recommendations. Use the Web, get tips from others and explore by yourself to find some real gems.
• Go on a Halong Bay, Vietnam, tour with Tuan Linh travel agency. These tours are sold through Kim Adventures and various hostels in Hanoi. The boat is broken and the guides lousy. If your boat is called the Duy Tan Junk 02, don’t get on it. Electricity is intermittent and the motor may give out.
• Use the travel services at Victory Queen Hotel (formerly Old Darling Hotel), Hanoi, Vietnam. They take a whopping commission without telling you.
• Buy shoes at Cham H’Mong, 495 C’ua Dai Street, Hoi An, Vietnam. They fall apart within hours.
• Buy your Cambodian visa at the ‘Cambodian Consulate’ in Aranya Prathet, Cambodia, it’s a scam. Buy it at the desk once you’re through Thai immigration.
• Take any price as given – accommodation, food, things – all are up for negotiation. Pay what you think is fair.
• Sleep at the back of a sleeper bus. The bounce prevents sleep.
• Lose your temper with a local. If you cause someone to lose their temper they will lose face and make your life very uncomfortable as they try to regain it.
• Expect a peaceful sunrise at Angkor Wat, Siem Reap. You will be joined by hundreds of tourists all jostling for the same perfect sun-rises-over-ancient-temple photo.
• Wear shorts and sandals in Khao Yai National Park, Thailand. The leeches will eat you for breakfast.

We are sailing…

So, farewell Asia.

After four months on the road and rails across this mighty continent, from the low mountains of the Urals to the warm waters of the South China Sea, we will finally bidding a farewell to this huge, diverse chunk of the planet.

Tomorrow we set off into new waters…literally. For the next two weeks our new home will be the CMA CGM Hugo, a container ship sailing across the Pacific Ocean, from Hong Kong to Long Beach, USA.

Beyond the ocean lie the delights of another continent: North America?

But first we have the small matter of a large pond to cross.

Laying my trusty Michelin out last night I realised that the Pacific covers a good third of the planet. It’s going to be a long and (hopefully) fascinating voyage.

See you on the other side…