I’m on a bus to China.

I never thought that this would be the case, but I’m utterly beguiled by China; and I’m nursing an unexpected, irrepressible, and potentially insurmountable desire to come back.

Yeah, so it turns out that the desire was insurmountable. A tuk-tuk picked me up at 06:00 and took me to the bus station, where the crescent moon grinned askance at me, as he melted into the dawn. My fellow passengers and I circled the bus, waiting until the last possible moment to get into what will be our home for the next twenty-four hours (or more). We left at 07:17. I’m psyching myself up, listening to ‘China Girl’ by David Bowie. Let’s see how this goes.

0:55
I’m feeling pretty relaxed and sunny after listening to The Specials. I couldn’t believe my luck when I left the bus station and there was no one sharing my ‘bed’, but I’ve since been joined by a man, probably in his early forties, sporting a nice beige jumper. The road we’re on is bumpy and windy, so I’m squishing myself against the window to try and avoid contact. It doesn’t help that he’s splayed out on his back. This could be uncomfortable.

1:09
Maybe he’s from Beige-ing. Hahahah.

1:15
Also, he snores.

1:30
The spitting has started, but at least people are doing it in plastic bags.

1:44
First pee-stop, by the side of the road. When I got back on the bus the lady in the bed above me asked if I’d like to share with her; I promptly replied in the affirmative. Her name is Li and she’s very small and has a fuscia fluffy cap. This is better.

2:11
The road has turned into a dirt track. Too bumpy to read.

2:43
We’re nearing the top of a mountain. The engine of the bus has been switched off. Li says we’ll be here for an hour.

3:14
We’re off again, crawling round the side of a mountain, with a sheet of cliff on one side and a perilous precipice on the other. We’ve passed a couple of diggers, some men with spades, and a roller. I think they’re making the road.

3:40
My ears are popping as we keep going higher and higher. I thought it would be cold but the sun is hot on my face.

4:31
I hope there’s another toilet stop soon.

5:39
The bus has stopped again – now they’re clearing a tree out of the road. Still no toilet stop. Getting moderately concerned.

5:51
We’re definitely descending now. The bus is silent. I bet everyone is trying not to think about toilets.

5:57
We’ve stopped!

6:24
I’ve duly gorged myself on Pringles, peanuts and Oreos. I’m now back on the bus, which seems to have acquired an extra twenty people. I wonder where they’re going to sit. Minor drama; my tablet seems to have acquired a hairline fracture. It still seems to be working okay, but if it gets worse my journey might feel even longer. Fingers crossed it doesn’t.

8:05
Everyone is sleeping. I like sleeping, but it’s 15:22 in the afternoon. Might make it harder to sleep tonight. Beige-ing’s snores seem to indicate that he’s not worried.

10:07
We’ve just crossed the border. First a man in a dark green camo suit came onboard and looked at everyone’s passports, then we drove about three kilometres to the actual border. There we disembarked and formed two semi-orderly queues to get stamped out of Laos. I was surprised at being asked for 40,000 kip to leave the country, and no sooner had I voiced this than a man offered to pay for me, in a prime example of the generosity that made my last visit to China so special. I politely declined, having found a few more kip in my bumbag, and proceeded to cross. On the Chinese side I was met by another helpful man who showed me how to print my arrival card. We went straight through – the only people at the border were those on our bus. It was probably my most painless crossing to date, facilitated by the fact that we don’t have to change buses, this one goes all the way to Kunming. Li left to get another bus going to Jinghong, so once again I have the liberty of a bed to myself. I changed the last of my kip at the border, making sure I wasn’t getting ripped off too badly by using my XE app (what did the world do without smartphones?!) And after bartering hard, I managed to save about two pounds off the original offer. After a quick toilet stop (my favourite kind – the open trough) we are now back on the bus, speeding through some gorgeous countryside. The sun is glowing yellow as it sets behind fluffy white clouds. The green hills are going dark.

10:41
There’s been a bit of a switch around. More people came on the bus but the conductor moved me to a single berth so I didn’t have to share. That was nice of him.

11:38
It’s dark now. There hasn’t been any indication that we’ll stop for dinner so I guess I’ll have a pingua.

12:43
We did in fact just stop off for dinner. We were shuttled off into a cheap restaurant were we were all served up tin trays of what looked like a school dinner. It tasted okay, though I can confirm that chopsticks are not an efficient way to eat sweetcorn. A young couple started talking to me, and there are a few older men who are looking after me – one of them speaks good English. They made sure I got served, and paid the right amount. We’ve just got back on the bus and the driver has put on Golden Eye. It’s dubbed and subtitled in Mandarin. Maybe I’ll pick up some vocab.

13:36
Some police just came on the bus and lazily cast their eyes over everyone’s passports. Not sure why, but you know, it’s the “Traffic and patrol police brigade of SiXiao expressway traffic safety inspection service station” – I’m sure they’re just doing their very important job, worthy of such a convoluted title. Now they’re flashing torches at people. The lights are already on.

15:22
I’ve been swinging in and out of consciousness for the past few hours. I’m really comfortable now I have my own bed and the roads are so much better. I’m not even listening to music to help me sleep. This really hasn’t been a bad journey so far.

22:03
My alarm just rang because I forgot to switch it off from yesterday. We’ve stopped, I think we’re at a petrol station. It’s ridiculous how well I slept, considering I’ve been laying down literally all day. I guess we’re nearly there. Its pretty chilly but the scummy duvet is warm. Beige-ing’s wife must either sore as loudly as he does, or sleep in a separate house. The man is a machine.

24:07
That last stop wasn’t a petrol station, it was the bus station. I was a bit befuddled, not expecting to arrive for another few hours. It was still dark, and I’d been on a bus for a long time, so I decided to get a taxi rather than take another two buses (and an hour and a half) to get to the hostel. A guy tried to charge me four times the price that I knew it should be, and didn’t have a meter. Luckily I learnt from my experience in Xian. I found a real taxi, with a meter, paid the price the hostel quoted me, and now am sat on a sofa, waiting for check in. I made it! It really wasn’t that bad! I didn’t think laying on my back all day would make me so lazy. I slept so much, didn’t read enough (although the roads made that hard), and didn’t engage in the existential circumspection that I thought I would. But I’m here, I’m back in China, I’m ready for round two. And a shower.

Sausages and late-night bowling.

I initially sat shotgun in the minibus on the way to Luang Prabang, but my conscience forced me to rescind my seat. I donated it to a Korean guy of basketballesque proportions and felt better, even though my knees were touching the seat in front. The driver (somewhat worryingly) kept pouring water into the leaking tank, but we arrived safely at 16:00. I tagged along with some girls from Enfield to watch the sunset from the top of Phu Si – a vantage point from which you can see the whole town. After climbing countless steps we were faced with a wall of people, blocking the view that we’d paid for. The sunset was beautiful through phone screens. We then went for something to eat, before hitting the night market. Stunning embroidery, delicate paintings, gorgeous clothing and ethnic jewellery were on sale. I regretted making hasty purchases earlier in my trip, and resolved to see how much money I can scrimp over the next few days to buy another unnecessary souvenir.

The following morning was cold and grey, but to pass the time, me and the Enfield girls went to a small convenience store to watch a lady make sausages. She minced the fatty pork in a squealing machine, mixing the pink pulp with herbs and seasoning. She then expertly filled the limp casing with a an empty plastic bottle and a wooden club made to fit snugly inside. It was both mesmerising and revolting – an interesting way to start the day. By the time Ana and Cèdric arrived at the hostel on their motorbikes, the sun was shining and the sky was a deep blue. We drove to Tad Sae falls, passing through small villages with smiling children waving frantically. We arrived at the river, and took a boat across. Cèdric engaged in his usual tomfoolery, pretending to surf as the tiny wooden boat swung from side to side, like a bucking horse trying to throw off its rider. We made it across, and were met by a herd of desultory elephants, gazing at us glumly under feathery lashes. We fed them some sugarcane, because that seemed the kindest thing to do, before walking up to the falls. The water was aquamarine, flowing down perfect smooth steps worn into the stone. We shivered in the shade, but as soon as the sun came out I felt my skin tingling from the abrupt transition into warmth. We passed a lazy afternoon, listening to music and reading, before going back to town. I went for a walk as the sun was setting, and watched the last glimmer of reflected light vanish from the Mekong, before returning to the hostel for some very exciting life admin.

The next morning was as cold as the one before. I wrapped myself up and visited a reconstructed traditional house. I learnt about the Liu, Taidam and Hmong people and their customs, and the importance of sticky rice in Lao culture, then went to visit a photo exhibition on meditation. I met Ana at the hostel at 13:30 and we squeezed into a minibus with some fun-loving Londoners to visit the Kuang Si waterfalls. It was even more spectacular than the last, the water tumbling down a series of tiers. We hiked to the top, dipping our toes in the cool pool, got a bit lost, and ended up running back to the bus.

Later that evening, we all met up to have a few drinks at the hostel. The bars close early here, so when it hits 23:30 there’s only one thing to do: go bowling. We fiercely negotiated a price with a tuk-tuk and were soon blinking in a brightly lit bowling alley, the sound of falling pins echoing regularly through the hollow hall. We threw some terrible shots (I was more appalling than usual), but we had a great time laughing and dancing until 02:00, when the alley closed and there really was nowhere else to go.

I spent my last day in Luang Prabang completing some more life admin and chilling in Utopia; a relaxed bar on the river. I also visited the Traditional Arts and Ethnology Centre, where I learnt a bit more about the ethnic people of Laos and their traditional crafts. I met Ana and Cèdric in the evening and we had dinner, trying to forget that it may have been the last time we’ll see each other. I’ll miss them so much; it’s been awesome to share each other’s journeys, and I’m sure that if not in the next few months, at least at some point in the future we’ll meet again.

I’ve sped through Laos in two weeks, and as a result I don’t feel like I understand the country as well as if I’d spent more time here. It is a place of extraordinary natural beauty, and that’s something I didn’t expect. Nor did I realise that Laos harbours a rich cultural heritage, preserved in the divergent traditions of intriguing ethnic groups. I’ve probably seen enough waterfalls for a lifetime, and I’ve definitely eaten enough baguettes to feed an army, but my time here has been really enjoyable, if a bit sedate. I’m ready for a bigger challenge.

Rain stops play.

As I left on the mosquito-filled bus from Vientiane, a light spatter of raindrops began to coat the windows (which were soon also bespattered with the smushed bodies of the haematophagous pests). We wound along vacillating mountain roads, past soggy homes with umbrellas blocking the doorway and bedraggled dogs sat in puddles. The rain had graduated to a persistent drizzle by the time we arrived in Vang Vieng. I found my hostel and ate a late lunch, gazing out at the karst mountains shrouded in mist. I’ve only ever seen these formations in grey, rainy weather; Guilin, Yangshuo, Halong Bay. Maybe I just bring it with me! I brooked the rain for as long as I could, before descending on a café and Skyping home.

I woke up shivering in my hoodie; the yawning wooden structure of the hostel didn’t provide much protection from the chilled air. I could hear the dull drumming of raindrops on the tin roof, and resigned myself to another damp day, reading and eating. Resigned isn’t really the right word – these are two of my favourite activities, so I was pretty happy to pursue these interests, unharrassed by the prickles of a guilty conscience.

On the third day, a tentative ray of sun fell across the dorm. The air was fresh, but there were no clouds – giving us just enough optimism to do what we came for – tubing. This extreme sport involves hiring an over-inflated inner tube (the kind you get in lorries), plonking yourself in the centre, and drifting along the river to a succession of bars. An eager group of fifteen left the hostel together, our expectations as inflated as the tubes, after days of being cooped up, stewing in inertia. We hit the first bar and were greeted by a painfully enthusiastic team whose sole purpose was to get us to buy as many drinks as possible. Ana, Cèdric and I had been a bit cheeky and made up some whisky and coke (with a squeeze of lime) before leaving, which we sipped surreptitiously when the fun-patrol weren’t looking. We played a couple of rounds of beer pong before heading to the river and flopping into our tubes. The current was weak – too weak to drag us down the shallow stream. We paddled ourselves with our flip-flops about 100 metres until we reached the next bar. Bottles were thrown out to us, attached to a rope which pulled us in at a much faster rate than we’d been floating. At this bar we were met with a mud pit posturing as a volleyball court. The boys couldn’t get in quick enough, coating themselves and throwing up a cheer whenever anyone made a particularly spectacular, if ill-calculated dive. Once they’d exhausted themselves, we went down to the next bar, and the next, but at this point the sun had concealed itself behind the mountains, and a familiar chill was beginning to fall. We huddled around a fire pit before admitting defeat, returning to town, and debating whether food or a hot shower should take precedence. The former came out triumphant.

Vang Vieng has been a strange one. I was in two minds about coming here because of the party-hard reputation it’s constructed for itself. As with a lot of these things, the reality wasn’t as mad as the rumours. I had a great time tubing because we were such a big group, and everyone was on a similar wavelength. I even enjoyed the rubbish weather – it was like being at home. Vang Vieng is a picture of the touristy Laos – something that I still recognise as Laotian, but which has been produced in direct response to western needs. That doesn’t undermine its value – it just has to be measured on a different scale. I had a good time, but it didn’t offer anything special. The scenery is gorgeous, and I’ve heard that there are great caves and a lagoon that I didn’t have the weather or time to visit, but from what I saw of the town, the people have made compromises, with the wholly justifiable intention of making money.

Go there anyway.

A boat and two very big buses transported me to Savannakhet. We poodled along at a bewilderingly illogical pace of 30km/h down a freshly-tarmacked road, but as soon as it got dark we began to bomb along at the speed to which I’ve become habituated. Frequently we would stop, and a herd of young girls with ringing voices would board, offering us whole chickens on a stick and plastic bags of steamed rice. We only arrived three hours late, and along with an American couple I found a guesthouse, ate a hurried meal, and fell asleep.

Savannakhet is apparently a slightly strange place to visit. My logic in going was that it is closer to halfway between Si Phan Don and the north than Pakse is, although Ana sent me some photos of waterfalls at the latter that were truly spectacular. I hired a bike and cycled around aimlessly, sometimes following the river, sometimes zigzagging up and down the wide roads, bordered by French colonial houses, the paint flecking off their worn wooden balconies. I visited Wat Sainyaphum, where I watched a team of craftsmen sculpting, painting and varnishing bright golden Buddhas.

There I met a football-loving monk called Pon, who was eager to practise his English. He told me about life in the temple, and his cherished ambition to travel, before thanking me for my time and wishing me a good trip. I spent the entire afternoon in a Japanese café (I’m yet to find a cuisine that I love more), flicking through a book about the Hmong people, and an old Lonely Planet guide to Mongolia.

I took a night bus to Vientiane; my first for a while. It’s a different set up from Vietnam. Basically you share a bed with a stranger. I was fortunate enough to be partnered with a small Laotian lady, but I did feel guilty about my broad hips taking up 75% of the room available. Somehow we managed to squeeze in, occasionally invading each others personal space, but I must have got some sleep – I got through four albums on my MP3. We arrived at 05:30, shivering in the cool morning air. I took a jumbo to my hostel, where I slept in reception for an hour or so, before hitting the sights. I walked around the Wat Si Saket, admiring the semi-obliterated Buddha statues and the detailed (though rapidly deteriorating) paintwork of the main temple. I then visited Haw Pha Kaew to see more Buddhist relics, before walking down to the COPE centre; a project tasked with informing people about the horrors of the Secret War in Laos, and the consequences of the thousands of unexploded shells (UXOs) that remain in this, the most bombed country on earth. It was both heart-breaking and inspiring to see the victims of the mines striving to live full lives, and to see the courageous work being undertaken by the Lao people themselves for the safe disposal of these devices. In the afternoon I had a massage, did some shopping I couldn’t afford, and tried pork laab with a group from the hostel – constantly aware of my privileged existence.

The following day I went to the Buddha Park with Ashley, a girl from Canada. There are a few ways to get there; you can pay 150,000 kip for a tuktuk, take a private bus, or take the local bus. We opted for the latter, paying a mere 6,000 kip each way. Pleased with our thrifty decision, we arrived at the park an hour later. We clambered up the bizarre stupa, which housed a number of cobwebbed, disfigured statues and examined the multifarious personages from both Buddhist and Hindu theology, smiling beneath the yellow lichen that had spread across their faces. Laughing schoolchildren dashed from statue to statue, taking rapid photographs with their smartphones. We spent about an hour wandering around, before taking the bus back into the city and losing the afternoon in a bakery.

In the evening we met up with some more people and ventured to the night market, where we nibbled on anonymous meats and steamed rice.

I like Vientiane. A lot of people warned me before I arrived that it was very nondescript, and that there wasn’t much to do. Two days was about the right amount of time, but I really liked the vibe of the place. Like Phnom Penh, it doesn’t feel like a capital city, but that’s because it’s so relaxed. The proliferation of bakeries, bars, and boutiques makes it feel like a very livable location, and while I agree that there aren’t a lot of sights, I’m glad I visited. I’m a big advocate for making up your own mind about a place, rather than going off the opinions of other people, and while speaking to travellers is still perhaps the best way of getting an idea of what somewhere is like, I think a true impression is something only you can generate.

Leah hrey, Sába̖ai-di̖i.

I spent a day in Banlung recovering from my jungley exertions, before embarking on my voyage to Laos. I had anticipated that it wouldn’t be very straightforward, but the first leg of my journey – the minibus from my hostel to Stung Treng, passed without a hitch, even if I was scrunched into the back with a few chunks of wood and some buckets of something that smelt like wine. I waited in Stung Treng for an hour or so – that listless kind of waiting, with no object, no expectation. Eventually another minibus picked us up, and took us to the border. There, we were met by a lovely man in a white shirt, with a very official laminated badge, who tried to charge $45 for what I knew should have been a $35 visa. Disgruntled, me and a few others decided we’d skip the middle man and do the crossing ourselves. We made it through, narrowly dodging another $2 fee for an unnecessary stamp, but we had to admit a slight concession of an extra dollar on top of the normal fee, because it was the weekend. We met another minibus on the other side, and finally made it down to the dock, where a tiny boat, groaning under the weight of our backpacks, took us out across the river. By this point, the moon was rising in the sky, it’s cool glow softening our weariness. We arrived on Don Det, I secured a single bungalow facing the river – the first private room I’ve booked for four months, and met up with Cèdric and Ana. We sat in a bar on the riverside, watching the rippling moonlight, and a drunken Australian fall asleep in his chair.

The next morning I woke up to the sound of spluttering diesel motors as tiny boats passed my balcony. I hired a bike, and decided to cycle around Don Det. Sleepy farms were just beginning to stir. Water buffalo stared at me vacantly as they ruminated (literally, and perhaps on some of life’s big philosophical questions). Women swung on hammocks, children rode on bicycles, and the overall atmosphere was of a lazy Sunday morning. I later realised that it was Sunday, and that made the whole thing more authentic. I eventually came to a bridge, and crossed over to Don Khon (conveniently not hearing the man I was meant to pay). The dirt track that I was following was deserted, the faint impressions of tire marks in the sand were the only indication that others had been there before. I cycled to an empty beach, my only companion was a man who was painting the wooden shell of his boat a bright royal blue. I spent an hour reading and watching, before heading over to some waterfalls. I inhaled the breathtaking view.

The roaring water was both inviting and terrifying. Fortunately there was no way down, so there was no room for a fatal error in judgement. I then went round to the other side of the island, and stumbled across some more falls, accessible only by a rickety bamboo bridge. Once I’d satisfied my curiosity, I went back round to Don Det, returned my bike (which I’m not wholly convinced was the one I set out with), and spent the evening reclined on embroidered cushions at Peace and Love Bar, playing an elaborate murder mystery game with Ana, Cèdric, and their Spanish-speaking friends.

On Monday I decided, on Ana and Cèdric’s recommendation, to go kayaking. I didn’t really think much about it, but turned up promptly, donned a lifejacket, secured a paddle that still had most of its blades, and teamed up with David and Karen, a couple from the Czech Republic and Austria respectively. Things started out well enough. The Mekong flowed slowly, its wide trajectory occasionally broken by an island of foliage. Soon, however, the course became narrower. Our speed increased as the river picked its way between more substantial islands, changing direction as if it was trying to lose a pursuer. The calm waters became rapids, white spray gushed into our over-laden kayak, dragging us further under water. After an adrenaline-filled almost-capsize we made it to dry land, and visited the falls that I’d accidentally stumbled upon the previous day. We then rejoined our kayaks (we managed to secure a more buoyant vessel on this occasion) and paddled down to open water, where we caught the infrequent glimpse of a dolphin’s fin. By this point the sun was scorching my arms, a dull red began to creep over my skin, tingling as it intensified. I was glad to stop in the shade for lunch (and apply a tonne more suncream). Lulled by a full stomach, we lazily clambered into a sorngtaaou (a truck with benches) and were driven to the magnificent falls at  Khon Phapheng. The water was a mist of white, cascading down rocks that were luminous green at the base, graduating to a sturdy grey at the level the water couldn’t reach. It was unreal, like something out of a film set, and I had to consciously remind myself that what I was seeing was natural, physical, existing.

We then made our way back to the kayaks for the final time, just as the sun was beginning to make its descent. Exhausted, I flopped into a bar, waiting for some sensation or feeling to confirm that I still had my arms.

The transition from Cambodia to Laos has been more subtle than that from Vietnam to Cambodia. The landscape so far has been pretty similar, the people are just as friendly (and have the same wicked sense of humour), and even the bungalow that I stayed in on Don Det could have been on Koh Rong. Cambodia exceeded my expectations, where Vietnam failed to fulfill them. The sheer variety of environments, from the city, to the beach, to the jungle, brought with it a constantly renewed sense of adventure, and a fresh set of challenges. I met some great people (and one terrible one), sat on a lot of interminable buses, and learned how to do nothing. The scars of the recent past are still fresh in Cambodian minds, but so too is the determination to emerge from the ashes, and I really hope that the people can work through the difficulties presented by the current political situation, to rebuild the future that they deserve.