a wrong turn in lhasa

The first day of a brand new tour; the Thailand tour that has been chronicled to much critical acclaim pomp and fanfare (well, my mum says the sunset pictures are nice) has begun.

So for the coming two weeks I will once again be treading the route I have explored several times over the past year. The concern now is with all the twists and turns, all the amendments to the route, will I remember which turn was the right way and which was to a rubber factory full of cheery waves, greetings, and offers of palm wine, but little in the way of opportunity for onward travel.

This concern brings to mind the first cycling tour I ever led. I was in Lhasa for the second time, the first time having been ten years before. It was time to take the group for their inaugural ride in Tibet, just a few kilometres to get a feel for the bikes and experience cycling in low oxygen conditions. I wanted to reach a bridge that crossed the river to a little Tibetan village. ‘Follow me group’ I commanded with great authority. There were several amongst the group’s ranks that looked doubtful; ‘fear not, I know the town well’ I fibbed. It all began well as I steered a course in what seemed to me to be a fine approximation of the right direction. From time to time I would drop to the back, apparently checking everyone was OK, when in reality I wanted to stop and have a sneak peep at my map. Then I would dash breathlessly to the front and resume control.

It was alas too late when I realised I had gone wrong. We had passed the bridge but fearing it would prove bad for moral to admit error at such an early and delicate stage in the proceedings I decided to bluff it. I knew the river turned in a loop ahead and if there was a path along it, which I considered likely,  surely it would lead me back to the bridge. We reached the water, sparkling crystal and blue in the rarifieded  atmosphere of altitude, and there by the river was an adventurous looking gravel track heading back in the direction of the bridge. ‘Yippee’ I said very quietly, ‘victory is within my grasp’. We regrouped by a small wall where I made lots of confident noises and explained that it was always a good plan to have a little ride on this gravel path to see how the bikes handle off road. I explained how I knew the track so well it was like being back in the presence of an old and dear friend and its company made my heart swell. We rode off line astern, I felt good, I smiled and sang a little song, the bridge was getting closer and closer. We were but fifty metres from the bridge when rounding a corner my singing was bough to an abrupt halt. There, across the path, was a large imposing grey concrete building. ‘Bugger!’

‘Bluff it Walks’ I told myself. I jumped up onto a small wall and turned to address my flock. The looks that greeted me were many. A wonderful Kiwi chap wore a look of great amusement. I knew that he had clocked me from the offset. He knew I was new to this game and was watching with amused interest. He was kind and would from time to time give me little compliments that would cheer my heart. His face now said ‘go on then, what are you going to do about this?’ Some faces wore frowns and brows became furrowed, whilst other’s countenances seemed to say ‘oh, this is fun, how exciting, what a jolly adventure’.

‘A fine example of early twenty first century Sino-Tibetan architecture’ I explained pointing to the ugly grey box. They looked unconvinced, ‘I will now check that the path round the back is still open’, I said pulling myself up to peer over the wall, no one said a word. I looked at the group, they seemed to be ignoring me and looking beyond, I turned, ‘Oh bloody hell’ I spluttered as as half a dozen armed Chinese soldiers appeared on the bridge. Tibet  is a sensitive area, foreigners need permits, snooping around the military is not good. ‘Um, OK, nothing much going on here, the path seems to have been blocked, silly Tibetans, let’s, erm, lets go home shall we?’

Fortunately I didn’t have to call the office explaining how, within 24 hours, I had managed to get the entire group incarcerated, chained to radiators and unpleasantly interrogated. We continued with no further excitement beyond a puncture and the incident was kindly laid to rest by the group. Let’s hope that all goes well this time.

ok, enough is enough, no more sunsets

a new dawn

I woke early this morning, I made a coffee and strolled to the beach a little before sunrise. this was the view

Oh dear, it has been a long time. Odd that just as this blog is getting more and more hits I am saying less and less. Probably something I can learn from.

I sat the other day devouring a plate of fried noodles for lunch. The restaurant was empty save for the waitress and I. The television was on and we were both enthralled. She with the TV and I with her reaction to the drama unfolding before her on the silver screen. The main protagonist was a beautiful young girl of around 20 years . The other two were handsome men of a similar vintage. Understanding Thai was not necessary to follow the plot. Clearly through revelations slowly brought to light by dramatic words and deeds it became apparent to the first young man that his girlfriend was unexpectedly with child. For a few moments the young fellow’s facial features distorted this way and that as he flapped his arms around in bewilderment until a strained silence fell upon the scene as the other young chap strode into the room.  The looks these two men exchanged bellied a lack of fondness for each other, the revelation a few moments latter that some uncertainty hovered around which of them had been responsible for impregnating the young lady, who was by now slump over the kitchen table sobbing unconsolably, turned out to be the final straw in their strained relationship and they began battering each other with whatever household objects fell readily to hand.

 If you have read this far you may well be wondering what on earth I am babbling on about, well, the point is that the chubby waitress was enthralled by this, totally engrossed, and her body language and facial expression suggested that to her this was really happening and of great importance. People are fascinated with what is going on in other peoples lives, and so if  I said that the reason I have not been posting on this blog would be of no interested to people it would quite likely be untrue, but still, I am not going to tell.

 Instead I will leave you with the few photographs I have taken during the last month.

i recently rode with a friend along the small roads south of Bangkok. The area is one of salt production teaming with workers heavily dressed against he sun's vicious glare as in attacks not only from above, but also reflecting up from the glittering salt below

long tail boats stranded high and dry by a low tide

a lone tree on the beach

the full moon rises

happy birthday

The clouds, small white black and light grey puffs float in diagonal lines across the ocean from the horizon to the distant hills behind me. They hang low in the sky, a stark contrast to the great bluish stacks of cloud looming up from below the earth’s edge all along the distant horizon to where the silver flash of an airliner glints in the sun.

The beach is deserted save for a young dog that sniffs at me for a while before deciding I am dull and trotting off, tail held erect, looking for something altogether more interesting and worthy of her affection. A cool breeze blows in from the east playing lightly on my bare skin cooling me as the last heat from the setting sun glows on my back.

And so I sit on the 19th of January, the second birthday of this blog.

Two year ago I sat on the bed in a windowless room in a Malaysian hotel waiting for a Thai visa to be granted. Whilst I waited I conceived and created the first version of this blog. I had little idea where it would go, all I knew was that I enjoyed writing, I enjoyed photography, and I seemed to be doing things that people were interested in. Anyone delving back in the archives here will notice entries going back to early 2009. Those entries are my contribution to a blog that was a joint venture, a blog conceived to chronicle an adventure from the far north of Colombia to La Paz in Bolivia. A wonderful adventure taking my travel partner and I six and a half thousand kilometres along the Andes mountain range in South America.

Since then the blog has centred around my work in Asia and annual mini-adventures around the UK with my brother. Where it will go over the coming twelve months I am unsure. Before me lay several ideas, possibilities, opportunities. Although some more so than others they are fragmented, like a camera with a smut of grime upon its lens they whirl into and out of focus with dizzying regularity.

Whatever happens, whichever direction I go, I hope that I will continue to find the inspiration to photograph and write of my observations and thoughts of the world around me as I float gently through it.

a recent sunset from Koh Yao Noi island near Phuket

a recent sunset over Ratchaprapha Dam

a condensed history of my 2011. aka a few of my favourite images from last year

 

I returned to the silent room, lowered myself quietly into the armchair by the bed and poured a glass of wine. I checked my watch, it was two in the morning. I looked at the figure laying in the bed, I waited for his chest to rise, it did not. I had become accustomed to the surge of adrenaline coursing through me, the hollow feeling in my chest and the pit of my stomach each time I thought he had passed away, and the relaxing calm that followed when his chest moved once again. This time though his chest did not rise. I waited, nothing. I put the glass to my nose and breathed in the gamy earthy aroma of Châteauneauf-de-Pape, my father’s favourite. It is a wine he introduced me to more a quarter of a century before and it seemed fitting that I should drink one final glass with him now that he was gone. As I drank I talked to him about the year ahead. It struck me as odd that after a week of sitting mostly in silence together I should sit talking with him now that he was dead; but, heigh-ho, maybe his spirit was still with me. I told him that I was off to the Andes. I toasted him with the wine, I thanked him for all he had done for me, I wished him farewell and went to find a nurse.

And so 2010 ended. We buried my father on the 11th of January and two weeks later I returned to Asia. I flew to Thailand and then on the Vietnam. I never did get back to South America and now 2011 is over.

Two thousand and twelve began for me on the banks of the Mekong looking across that huge river as it winds its way from the Himalayas to its estuary in Vietnam. The moon was quite a sight that night, glowing fiercely as the old year’s end was marked fittingly with this red hemisphere laying on its back as it dipped down bellow the horizon in Thailand.

I now have a few days in Vientiane waiting for a Thai visa. Vientiane is no bad place to have to wait for a visa, I know a little place that serves a splendid pizza and a little place that serves a splendid steak, I will satiate myself well whilst I wait. And whilst I wait I think. I have pondered the past year and what it meant to me, what I did. It was in someways an odd year, it didn’t go quite as I had expected but it was not a bad year. I wondered what I had done and went back through some pictures; and whilst looking I thought ‘wow, you actually did a fair bit Walks’.

As I said, I left the UK mid January and began the year leading a group of cyclists from Hanoi to Vientiane. Then back to Bangkok and on to southern India where I led a group of cyclists through Kerala. On the way from India back to Bangkok I stopped off for a little ride around Sri Lanka, a pleasant journey across a pleasant Island. In April I researched a Thailand tour that I will be running for Redspokes next month. Then off to Nepal and Tibet for a months work cycling through The Himalayas, a tour I was to repeat again in September. I repeated another tour, the Vietnam Lao tour, in November and finished the year again leading a cycling tour through Lao with a small and highly jovial group of individuals.

July was great; early in July I utilised my air miles with Thai Air and flew to Vietnam where my colleague and great friend Phong and I set of to explore a cycling route through a remote area of NE Vietnam. That was a wonderful journey through some of the most spectacular scenery I have had the privilege to ride through; what a great few weeks that was. Following that I spend a fine six weeks in the UK, mostly with my family. My brother Dicki and I had a few fine little adventures bicycle touring through Cornwall, mountain biking on Exmoor and from time to time sampling a small glass or two of traditional English ale.

If you have read this far dear reader then I will take the opportunity to wish you not just a wonderful new year, but a wonderful future ad infinitum.

I will leave you with some pics from 2011. Most of these images have been featured on this blog before and I have chosen them for no other reason that I like them.

for me 2011 began with a funeral

and then back to asia for my first tour of 2011 and more importantly a glass or two of the wonderful bia hoi with my young chum Mr Phong

the expression on this nomadic Tibetan girl's face captivates me. I wonder what she made of this odd looking fellow crossing one of the worlds highest road passes on a bicycle. I dare say that I will never know

 

into Lao where this early morning rural village scene was taken

this small estuary acts as a harbour for squid fishing boats. it is along the route of my upcoming Thai Winter Escape Tour

rural Vietnam

these two lads tending their water buffalo personify rural Vietnam

this old lady has such a lovely friendly face. for me the happy communists on the tattered poster nailed to the mud wall behind her completes this portrait

tea drinking; a street scene from the pilgrim town of Palani, southern India

another street scene from southern India, this time Madurai. the old fellow looks so sad, the boy so unsure, so puzzled, is it the same though troubling them both?

midsummer and Phong and I took to the back roads of the mountainous region of Vietnam that borders China. These deserted unsealed roads made for fantastic cycling and rejuvenated my slightly flagging passion for adventure cycling

august saw me back in the UK where my brother Dicki and I took off as our custom dictates on a series of mini-adventures. we had five great days cycling through Cornwall where despite the constant pessimism from those tasked with predicting the weather we were blessed with fine clear days

Chomolongma, The Earth Mother Goddess, more widely known as Mount Everest peaks out from behind the clouds at base camp on the Chinese side. in the foreground prayer flags flutter gently in the breeze

Cat Ba island Halong Bay Vietnam

the final barrier before the Tibetan Plateau begins its near 5000 vertical metre decent into Nepal. toted as the worlds longest down hill it is from here that we begin the decent that finaly finishes some 120KMS later

 

a merry yuletide dear reader (a trifle late I am aware)

in Lao this year santa made his deliveries on a speedy bicycle...

bringing such wondrous gifts as snake and scorpion wine…

which, when skilfully blended with coconut milk produces the world famous Nut Juice cocktail…

that consumed in suitable quantities brings about all the syptoms of inebriation and just a dash of campness

have a splendid 2012

some pictures from lao

sunrise as seen from Kiewkachamp

 

warming up after a cold night sleeping benith a broken down, urm, well, not really sure what it was but according to the chilly chap's mime whatever the contraption was it was past its prime and broken down

National Highway 13, Lao's main north to south artery, busy as ever

an old lady warms herself by a fire fuelled with corn cobs

 

child care duties begin at a young age in Lao

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woof

a bar terrace rumpus and some pics from Hanoi to Lao

I take a seat at a street corner café, smile at the proprietress and hold up my index finger. She responds by unceremoniously plonking one glass, its light golden contents sloshing over the brim, onto the low plastic table at my side. The scent of pork marinated in herbs wafts across the street as a lady barbecues spare ribs. An adolescent boy with a spotty face chases a giggling girl  through the maze of plastic tables, the girl doing a poor job of pretending that she doesn’t wish to be caught . I look round and greet the young lad who has been shouting enthusiastic hellos at me ever since I arrived. His excitement at having a real live genuine foreigner with whom he can practise his english is overflowing in torrents. He comes over to great me. “What is your name?” he asks. “David” I tell him and ask after his name. He tells me his name and asks where I am from. We spend some time going through the phrases regarding age, domicile, siblings, and Premiership football clubs that he has been learning at school and I feel that this bright faced young lad will go far with his enthusiasm for learning. As if to save the day when the conversation begins to fade there is a commotion a few tables over as someones beer is spilled. I look up and the boy looks round to see his father,  a skinny man who has clearly spend the entire afternoon and a good proportion of the morning in the bar, making his way on unsteady feet towards us. Quite a kerfuffle follows him as he sways his way in our general direction, bumping into tables and stools upon which perch men with beer glasses in their hands. With a trail of curses and glares scattered behind him he finally reaches his destination, me, and lowers himself onto the empty stool thoughtfully left by my side. “Oh dear” I think as he peers at me through watery eyes. He attempts to look me squarely in the eye but as his eyes cross and uncross in a half hearted bid to focus he fails and falls short by several inches and settles on focusing on a point midway between us. I judge that he is about to speak as his brow furrows with concentration and rivulet of saliva dribbles from the corner of his mouth.

“Peter!” he barks. Taking this as an enquiry after my name I reply,

“David”.

“Peter” his words this time sprayed at me in an a sour mist of stale alcohol.

“No no, David”.

He guzzles at his beer and orders another glass; a disturbing development that seems to indicate he is settling in for the evening.

I look across the street, the spotty faced boy has caught the girl, she is punching his chest and he looks puzzled as to what his next move should.

“Peter!” He is looking unsteady on his stool now and his chin keeps dropping to his chest.

The girl has broken free and is standing in front of the boy swaying her body from the hips, I want to tell him that she is waiting to be kissed, but decide that as I would have to use sign language this may be misinterpreted and turn back to face my inquisitor. He is by now eyeing up the pork ribs across the street, undoubtedly a good sign. I look at the bright enquiring face of the young lad sitting at his side and remember what a hero and roll model my father was to me when I was growing up, I wonder what chance this bright young lad has with a father like this and decide that it is quite probably his uncle. I understand that uncles can sometimes be like that.

a typical bar scene

a non typical drinker

this girl was studying hard outside a shop in the back end of beyond…

she was franticly flitting from pen to chalk as she scribbled equations on the desk, and, unlike me, seemed to understand them

boys will be boys, he explained in mimes that an iPod is more fun

a rural petrol pump beneath a makeshift sun shade

the rice harvest has just finished in north west Vietnam

free range ducks forage for food in the mud of the rice terraces

the first time I saw this huge river it was little more than a brook. a damn two hundred kilometres down stream has created a massive lake at the bottom of which now sits the hotel in which we used to stay. the road at the left of this image is new, the old one along which we used to amble is now submerged.

The Streets of Hanoi

I sit in a teaming mass of hectic, seemingly disorganised humanity all vying for space, all trying to eek out a living and exist in a labyrinthine web of narrow streets criss-crossing in a bewildering maze that never fails to draw me in, hypnotise me with its limitless fascinations, and leave me lost with no idea of a way back home. An old lady stooped of back and wrinkled of face hobbles past shouldering a bag barely any smaller than she. Her quarry of discarded cardboard boxes weighs her down as she weaves through the melee  en-route to a trader who, in exchange for her day’s toil will pay her enough for a little food. She steps into the road in front of me and is narrowly missed by a Range Rover. The Range Rover seems twice the size of any Range Rover I have seen before as it dwarfs these narrow streets and the swarm of bicycles and motor scooters that make up the mass of the cities transport. A white Bentley coupe passes by blocking my view of a child hawking gum and pencils from a tray hanging from her neck. A middle aged woman wears a weary  face telling of too many sleepless nights as she weaves her way through the shin high stools supporting men drinking beer on the pavement. As I sit consumed by the spectacle of life being played out on one of the world’s most fascinating stages a familiar face fills my field of vision; “I knew I would find you here you old friend of my grandfather”. I burst out laughing, my old chum Phong has tracked me down. “Come on, down your beer, we have to go shopping”. He throws me a plastic helmet and I clamber onto the pillion of his Honda. “Did you forget” he shouts as we weave throughout a mass of motorcycles pedestrians and bicycles “it is my son’s birthday today”. We pull up outside a small shop and a man plonks a child’s bicycle onto my lap, “for my daughter” laughs Phong as I try to position the peddles so they don’t leave too many bruises on my chest and his back. As I wonder how we manage to make a safe passage through so much disorganised traffic without collision we hit the numberplate of the machine in front of us. The rider looks back and as Vespa collides with the little bicycle on my lap. The pink basket falls from the bicycle, we, that is the seven of us on the three motor scooters, all look at each other, smile, and continue. We pass by rows of cafés lit with pink neon, pretty girls sit outside selling themselves for an hour, or a night. We peel right down a street lined with wicker baskets containing chickens. Phong pulls over and after several moments inspecting the contents of one of the baskets he selects a large cockerel; “tonight we eat boiled chicken to celebrate my son’s birthday”. It takes seven minutes to slaughter, pluck, and prepare the rooster for the cooking pot, one cannot complain that it is not fresh. And so passed my first evening back in Hanoi, a city that truly never sleeps.

street life: punter repair service

pavement bars with their tiny stools and tables abound on street corners. Vietnamese men gather to talk, smoke and quaff the light and refreshing bia hoi, and white men with camera sits and observes

the beer is chilled by keeping the barrel in a huge bucket full of ice. the ice is delivered like most things on a small motorbike and hacked to size with a savage looking blade

in Hanoi it appears that a motorcycle cannot move unless the rider is akin a phone call

a shop on a bicycle

fruit shop on a bike...

and veg

Flood, What Flood?

“Tomorrow I shall travel to Hong Kong, and then to Macau, and after that I shall visit Peking, I have to get away from here”. The lady’s brow furrowed thoughtfully, “I have to escape Thailand” she said, “everywhere is flooded” My companion in conversation was the owner of the guest house I had been staying at and she was voicing her concerns for her safety. I looked around me, it was hot sunny and dry; very dry, dry-as-a-bone. I had at that stage been cycling for several hundred kilometres through Thailand and had seen no sign whatsoever of flooding. I had spent several days in Bangkok and seen no flooding. I have now been a month in Thailand and have travelled nearly the entire length of the country and seen very little flooding.

I am, as I write this, sitting on a train rumbling across Bangkok. From time to time I look up from my MacBook and gaze out of the window, I see no water, and yet the lady from the guest house was off to China to escape the flooding.

Now don’t misunderstand me, I am not denying that there is flooding here in Thailand, I am sure that there is, this is becoming worryingly apparent by the dwindling stock of Singha beer across the land as one of their breweries slowly submerges. My point is more that rather than judging things on their own experiences people generally harbour a tendency to judge things on what they are told. My wee brother Dicki and I once lay in my tent listening to the rain drumming against the tarp. Dicki prodded at his Apple or Orange or Raspberry flavoured Phone for a while, looked thoughtful and said, “it’s not raining”. I told him that I felt sure that it was and were he to poke his head outside his senses would confirm this. He studied his phone for a little longer and assured me that he was confident it was not. He unzipped the tent and, as rain drops spattered his phone, he prodded at the virtual buttons, shook his head and said “no, definitely not raining”.

I do see the television as I move along, be it in  bars or cafés or restaurants, and with these periodic observations of the news I, like most of the world, have seen a Thailand submerged in a torrent of biblical proportions. It is a land blighted by shoals of crocodiles and venomous serpents, but when I look away from the TV, from the south of the country to the far north I see no sign of flooding at all, leave alone hostile reptiles.

A valid criticism that could well be levelled at me is that I should pay more attention to the news. Being away from newspapers and television for prolonged periods I long ago came to the conclusion that the world seemed to be muddling along quite splendidly  without my keeping a close eye on whatever is taking place, and through this approach I feel that I do see the world slightly askew from others. My understanding of the world is based more on my personal observations and experiences rather that the observations and experiences of others. Whether this is right or wrong, good or bad I am as yet unsure, but it is the understanding of the present situation in Thailand that I have from personal observation rather than third party observation that has set me thinking, a most unusually occurrence and one I felt worthy of report.

plenty of water here, but ’tis a lake. the bridge would appear to be some way beyond its prime

plenty of boats should the water levels rise here...

but for now a scooter and VW sidecar will suffice…

a stormy sky but below it the road remains dry and sunny

for my recent time in Thailand a parasol has been more of a requirement that a brolly

my staple cycling nourishment in Thailand, noodle soup