Boating in the backwaters.

Not wanting to waste a day just flying, we decided to visit Old Goa on the way to the airport. We slunk around whitewashed churches and admired golden altars; the focal point of the heavy Portuguese influence of the town. The sweat drenched our clothes, and we regretted not being able to change before our flights. We had two short journeys, from Goa to Mumbai, then on to Kochi. We arrived at about 23:00, exhausted and a bit smelly.

The next morning we met our new guide, Sanjin, and three English girls who were joining us. We exchanged pleasantries, then hopped into some tuk-tuks to visit the oldest synagogue in the Commonwealth, which now has only seven devotees. After a little incident involving a flat tyre, we caught up with the others and looked at the unique Chinese tiles and the Belgian glass lamps of synagogue. We then got dropped off at the side of the road, and caught a local bus. Alexa and I sat at the front, to benefit from the panoramic view and the breeze coming through the open windows. An hour later we arrived at a harbour, boarded a boat which functioned much like a bus, and chugged along the Keralan backwaters, lined with luscious palm trees. Men hitched up their mundus as they lurched into the boat, and women smiled as we squished up to offer them seats. Soon we arrived at a beautiful homestay in Chennamkary (near Alappuzha), set on the river.

A delicious lunch was waiting for us, and later induced a food-coma on account of our inability to stop eating. After we’d recovered with some chai, we followed Thomas as he showed us his village. Combine harvesters were gathering rice as men sat watching and chatting. We passed an arboretum of fruit trees, and a litany of churches and Hindu temples. When it got dark we boarded a canoe, just as lightning lit up the sky like a strobe. Thunder rumbled over the song that the boatman was singing, and a few reluctant drops fell on our heads. We were back in time for dinner, and gorged ourselves silly once more, before winding down the night with travel preparations and stories of home.

The next morning we woke up to the sounds of cooing birds and the gentle chug of the houseboats as they patrolled the river. We caught tuk-tuks to the main boat station, then boarded a two story ferry which would take us to Kollam. The engine spluttered to life and we set off, at a sedate 12km/h, watching the emerald palms flutter as we passed. The dingy waters were sometimes so choked with vegetation that it didn’t look like the prow would be able to slice through.

After a couple of hours we came to a lock, which was manually operated by a small man in a mundu. The slightly bitter smell of salt water wound up our nostrils; a contrast to the fresh water that we’d been traversing all morning. We stopped for a quick banana leaf thali, before hurrying back on board as soon as the drivers had finished their meal, the horn honking at us impatiently. The waterway grew wider, expanding for fishermen’s nets, suspended on wooden frames. After eight hours the scenery got a bit repetitive, but it was nice to have some time to reflect and absorb as much of the experience as possible. We arrived in Kollam, caught tuk-tuks to the hotel, which was overly plush in an Austin Powers kind of way, and had a bizarre meal in a rainforest themed room, with a fake wooden bridge, and a cot in the corner. The food was an interesting Chinese-Indian fusion, and not in a good way. Nevertheless, we ate it and went to bed.

Kerala is one of the most beautiful places I’ve seen in Asia, and is the first place in India that I could imagine living in. The calm serenity of the waters makes the bustling cities seem like a bad dream. People are noticeably friendlier down here, and are more likely to smile than stare. I miss the others who have already left, but I’m equally so happy that I’ve stayed on to experience more of India’s diversity. Every town could be a new country, and that’s what’s so exciting.

One night in Bangkok and the world is our oyster.

We spent more than one night in the capital, but that’s not how the song goes. We got up at 08:00, which was pretty impressive considering our journeys the day before; Mariana slept for one hour in the previous thirty-eight. The sun was already beating down, and it felt utterly ludicrous to know that the hat, scarf and gloves that have been saving me from frostbite for the past two weeks are now redundant. We followed the line of the river, passing countless wats with their cool white walls and flaming gold roofs, and squeezed through a market selling small metal amulets and buddhas, inching between elderly monks who peered over their glasses at the intricate craftsmanship. We then joined the hoards of tourist groups visiting the Grand Palace, but were put off by the price. Instead, we walked around the back of the grounds to Wat Pho, which houses a forty-six metre reclining Buddha, and is the oldest wat in the country.

We then made our way up to Wat Mahahat, to do a bit of casual meditation. If any of you have ever tried to sit perfectly still for a prolonged amount of time, you’ll know that it’s one of the most painful things imaginable. We started the session with some mindful walking, before sitting in half-lotus until we lost the feeling in our legs. We repeated these exercises with the monk leading the session for three hours, and somewhere in the depths of my discomfort, I found a brief stillness.

We quickly eradicated the effects of our serene self-awareness by delving into the chaos of Chinatown. After a few misguided attempts we found the neon lights and the steaming street stalls. We grabbed some food, then took a tuk-tuk back to the hostel, exhausted after our exertions.

The following morning we checked out and caught the local bus to the bus station. It took ages, partly because we had to wait for three trains to pass at a hugely impractical crossing. We arrived, and fifteen minutes later we were sat in a minivan on the way to Ayutthaya. We arrived just over an hour later, and walked in the sweltering heat to the hotel. We had to book a private room because there were no dorms available, but this wasn’t a problem now that I’m no longer a solo traveller. Our room wasn’t ready, so we hired some bikes and went to see the temples. They were similar to those at Angkor Wat, but refreshingly there weren’t many tourists; the sites were steeped in an atmosphere that was more calm, serene and reflective. We saw the famous Buddha head which is mysteriously trapped in a tree trunk, and wandered past the various chedis and walls which have fallen into disrepair.

We got some lunch at a random shed, and then cycled down to the river and chartered a boat. We circled around the whole island, past huge lizards that leered at us as they gnawed on fresh fish. We passed beautiful houses and more wats, and were surprised to find that we were one of the only boats on the water – perhaps that’s why the locals were so happy to see us, young and old alike waving as they saw the boat approach. We disembarked and then cycled over to the ‘floating market’, which is really just a load of tourist shops set on a wooden walkway around a lake. It was a little disappointing, but maybe we’ll get a chance to see the one in Bangkok. By this point it was getting dark. We returned our bikes, had some dinner, before planning our next move.

We’ve been ridiculously busy since we arrived in Thailand. Mariana and I are very similar in that we want to do everything, but I think we might be forced to slow down a bit before too long. It’s great to have someone to make decisions with, to laugh at bizzare things with (we cycled past a shop today which dealt solely in statues of cockerels), and to share experiences with. We’re having lot of fun.

Kampot calm.

I was glad to escape the chaos of Phnom Penh after an intense few days. We rocketed through the flat countryside, which was occasionally punctuated by the slender form of solitary coconut trees, heading south to Kampot. I arrived in the early afternoon, and as usual was promptly accosted by a swarm of tuk-tuk drivers. My reaction to this is always quite defensive – probably unnecessarily so, but regardless, I defiantly refused assistance and started walking (be-backpacked and boiling) by the river. About fifteen minutes later I arrived at my hostel, drenched. I apologised for the sweat dripping off my nose onto the receipt for my dorm, dumped my bag, then meandered back into town, grateful for the absence of my burden. I walked past dilapidated colonial buildings, the yellow prison cowering behind rusty barbed wire, the cinema boarded up, shedding its peeling paint. The pace of life here is much quieter. The endless flow of Phnom Penh motorbikes has been replaced by the occasional solitary buzz, melting into silence as it flies out into the countryside. As I walked down the sun-blanched alleys, people watched me from their shaded hammocks. One old woman grinned at me toothlessly as she extracted sugarcane juice, stutteringly churning her heavy iron handle. I did a few circuits of the town, with a pitstop at Kampot Pie and Ice Cream Palace (yes, it was as glorious as it sounds) before heading back to the hostel to submerge myself in the pool. I had a relaxed evening in the bar, taking full advantage of the shockingly good Western fare, and the sugary cocktails. Mercifully I remembered my Grandad’s birthday, so had a homely Skype session, before benefitting from a luxurious sleep in a double-non-bunk-bed – the kind that dreams are made of.

The following day I was collected by a minibus, which drove us the short distance to Bokor National Park. As we wound up the mountain, the sea became visible, stretching away from the mainland until it lapped the shores of the islands just off Kep, and even the Vietnamese-owned Phu Quoc, which was a silhouette in the distance. From our vantage point we could see the flat land carved geometrically in to golden rice fields nearing the harvest, and aqueous salt plains, glistening near the sea’s edge. The wind deafened us as we looked out, whipping our hair across our faces, and keeping us cool under the hot sun.

We then visited the Popkokvil Falls, where water reddened by iron cascaded down in sheets. Temporarily sheltered from the wind, it was now the sound of gushing water that rang in our ears. We dipped our feet in the cool water, trying not to slip on the rocks worn smooth as ice by incessant pounding. Afterwards, we scrambled back up to the minivan, which took us to the ‘Ghost Town’. Built in the 1920s, the Bokor Palace casino, church, school and police station were abandoned after they became the site of conflict between the Vietnamese and the Khmer Rouge. The windowless structures gawped at the vistas below, having succumbed to the ravages of graffiti and lichen. A peace had settled on the place, which may formerly have been just as vibrant as the new casino complex that has been built just down the road.

We were driven back to Kampot, where we had a couple of hours to use to our benefit (never kill). I thought I’d try a blind massage. I had mixed feelings about the concept, recognising it as profitable employment for the masseurs, but equally aware of the potential for their exploitation. I thought I’d see for myself. I was taken into an air conditioned room and offered some cotton pyjamas. The masseur was then guided in and began to feel for the position of my body. He then began to work into my densest knots, applying a firm pressure that manipulated the muscles and tendons connected all the way along my arms and back. He clearly knew what he was doing, and I emerged feeling very stretched and clicked, though still confused about whether I approved of the idea. I then rejoined the group to board a small boat that would take us downriver. The sun set as we slowly chugged along, the sky awash with pink, blue and yellow. The palm trees presented an exotic skyline, bordering the rippling silk of the water. Once darkness had set in, we began to imagine we were seeing sporadic flashes of candescence peppered among the trees. The glow of the fireflies faded in and out rhythmically, like my favourite setting on the Christmas tree lights. I disembarked shrouded in a warm sense of calm, completely relaxed by our immersion in nature. I had dinner with a lovely Dutch girl called Lisa Marie, and we listened to some terrible live music before sharing a tuk-tuk back to the hostel, where the luxury of my room was augmented by me being the solo occupant of the dorm – a phenomenon that I haven’t enjoyed since Datong, about two months ago. Bliss.

Miss Saigon, Miss Mekong.

I stepped off the bus into the sultry humidity of the Saigon afternoon, checked in at the hostel and then made my way to The War Remnants Museum, which documents the atrocities of the Vietnam War. I walked past the American helicopters and planes that stand poised outside the entrance to the main building, and veered left to see the barbed wire ‘Tiger Cages’ – which were used to hold up to five people as punishment. The lurid descriptions of the myriad methods of torture made my stomach turn, and whilst I felt horrified on the behalf of the victims, I couldn’t help pitying the people who inflicted these punishments, who had become utterly brutalised by violence and war. I then entered the main museum and was exposed to devastating photographs depicting victims of Agent Orange. Adults and children alike where dismembered and disfigured, yet many of them smiled through their pain, heroically reconstructing and adapting their lives. The second generation of mutilated victims were a haunting testament to the lasting consequences of war, and whilst today I have experienced Vietnam as a peaceful country, memories of the war will never completely fade. I then moved upstairs, and my feeling of nausea returned as I saw photos of soldiers desecrating corpses, and phials containing the deformed shapes of stillborn foetuses. Despite having studied the war at A Level, it wasn’t until I saw these images and read the testimonies of the people who suffered that I realised the true horror of what occurred.

The following day I visited the Cu Chi tunnels – a subterranean complex developed by the Viet Cong as part of their guerilla strategy. The site was heaving with tourists, but we did our best to follow our guide, Jack, through the throng. In a bunker he showed us a model of the tunnels. He then demonstrated how to use a concealed entrance into the tunnels, hopping into a hole, before raising a camouflaged plank of wood above his head and lowering himself down. I don’t really have the stature of a Vietnamese person, particularly in the posterior, so it was a bit of a squeeze as I lowered myself into the hole. I managed to hide myself, but I wouldn’t have wanted to be down there for very long.

Then we were shown the ‘booby-trap gallery’. Jack used a pole to demonstrate the ‘folding chair trap’ and the ‘clipping armpit trap’ – evoking shudders and grimaces as we imagined the plight of the unsuspecting victims. Then it was time for the tunnel itself. We filed down a narrow stairway, descending about two metres below ground. It was stuffy, and I tried to suppress the anxiety that was rising in my throat. We stooped through the tunnel, which was only a metre tall, occasionally lowering ourselves further underground, and at one point being forced to crawl. This continued for one hundred metres, and while that doesn’t sound like much, it felt like a long time to be in that environment. I can’t imagine how people managed to conduct their lives in similar spaces, with the added threats associated with war. We emerged sweating into the sunlight, and were glad to head back to the bus.

When we returned to Ho Chi Minh City I walked down to the market. The vast hall was a warren of vendors, much like I’ve seen elsewhere. I bought some cashews for a reasonable price, but decided against the rest of the touristy tat on offer – I’m determined not to have a repeat of the tea-set debacle (though for those following its progress, it arrived home safely). In the evening I offered pearls of wisdom to my team in the pub quiz, securing a respectable third place, before crashing into an early night.

The next day me and my hostel buddies, Franzi and Adam, went to the Independence Palace, where North and South Vietnam were reunified into one country. We walked through impressive conference rooms, furnished with questionable mustard carpets and vile brown chairs, which spewed out the late sixties with vehemence. After surveying the upper rooms we descended into the bunker – which proved highly essential on the 8th of April 1975, when the palace was bombed by a communist spy in the Vietnam Air Force. The dingy rooms were like something out of an old Bond film, boxy switchboards and bulky typewriters stuffed into the cells. We found our way out, glad to see daylight, and admired the industrial kitchen, before watching a documentary about the role of the palace in the war, and how it was eventually stormed on the 30th of April 1975, and the puppet government removed.

We then wandered down the leafy boulevard, grabbed some lunch, and separated. I went for a walk around the north west of the city, to see the strikingly European Notre Dame Cathedral, and the cavernous Post Office, operating under the benevolent gaze of Uncle Ho. Just as I got back to the hostel, the heavens opened and within seconds, rivulets were coursing down the streets. We watched a couple of films, drank our free beers (it would be rude not to), and made some preparations.

Franzi and I met for breakfast at 7:30, and then contorted ourselves into a minibus straight out of the eighties. Mildly concussed after two hours of bumping our heads as we catapulted over the road, we arrived in the Mekong Delta. We stopped of at My Tho to see the Vinh Trang Pagoda, complete with giant ‘Happy Buddha’ – his raucous laughter almost audible, his protruding belly almost jiggling. We then took a boat across to Ben Tre, where we were shown the process for making coconut sweets, and shamelessly coerced into buying them. Our palates still cemented with the cloying toffee, we were taken to a restaurant for lunch by the water’s edge. We finished our meal and were herded past a bask of crocodiles, which we were convinced were made of plastic until their keeper began to taunt them with meat on a line, at which they snapped furiously. We swung in some hammocks before getting back on the boat and visiting another island, where we tried local honey tea, and held an apathetic python.

After we’d all taken our pictures we were put onto smaller boats in groups of four, and were rowed under a canopy of leafy ferns. The roots of mangroves arched out of the water, forming claws at the base of the trees. A silence fell, the only sound that of rhythmic paddling and the occasional snagging branch. We soon fell into another tourist trap, and were plied with fruit while we listened to traditional Vietnamese music, which I quite liked. The lilting melodies seemed to meander like the river itself, virtuosically weaving across the pentatonic scale. Then we were shipped back to the harbour, where half of us were sent on a bus to a home stay, and the rest of the group made their way to a hotel.

I had enjoyed my day, but some people in our group complained of the touristic nature of the ‘tour’ (one could argue that the clue is in the name), and were frustrated at not having seen ‘real river life’. After dinner they proceeded to moan that there was nothing to do, to which I suggested that this may be the ‘real life’ they wanted to see. Sitting on buses through small towns, I’ve seen a lot of Vietnamese people lying in hammocks or sitting on plastic stools watching the world go by. Life here is slow, relaxed, and unhurried. This was obviously not the life that the group wanted to see.

We were up at 5:45, and watched the sun rise over the river as we had breakfast. A long boat then took us past homes constructed of corrugated iron, panels of wood, and crumbling concrete stilts. We saw men showering, children eating, and women washing clothes as we chugged along, their daily routines continuing as if they were unobserved. We met the rest of our group at the floating market, where boats laden with everything from pineapples to pumpkins converged. We steered through the chaos, occasionally offered coffee or Coca Cola by persistent oarsmen. We then went to see how rice noodles were made. A woman artistically spread a rice mixture onto a hot plate, forming a crepe which would then be dried on bamboo for two or three hours. Once a disk of rice paper had been formed, it was shredded through a machine into noodles. Thus edified, we boarded the boat once more where we were taken to a garden, and shown trees laden with papayas, jack fruits, dragon fruits, dambian, mangoes, plums and oranges. We were then taken back to the mainland, where we had lunch and were bundled off back to Ho Chi Minh City.

I had limited expectations of the tour, and as a result didn’t feel disappointed or frustrated by the experience. It would be very naive to believe that a tour, or even a home stay, is a legitimate means of immersing oneself in a different culture. An outsider’s view will always be refracted by language, cultural background, and prejudices. We could have eaten dinner with the family at the home stay, but what if they wanted to enjoy some frog, rat or dog? These are traditional meats in Vietnamese cuisine, but unthinkable to a sterile western palate. Moreover, it seems unfair to expect people to speak English in a country where it isn’t an official language, so the potential for communication with the family is reduced to the visual and indirectly, the superficial – there isn’t a forum for deeper cultural understanding beyond observation. I also think it’s important to remember that most of the time people work, and work is pretty dull. An alternative of the Mekong Tour might be a London Tour, where you can get up at 06:00, crush into the tube at rush hour, have a brittle cereal bar for breakfast, follow a weary and crumpled man into an office and watch him stare at a screen and procrastinate. We saw people doing what they do every day – and yet some of the group expected an original experience. I enjoyed the tour, but I found it hard to do this while being assaulted by the negativity of the others. I did my best to justify what I thought was a perfectly reasonable itinerary, but was met with the circuitous arguments of hypocrites who wanted both exotic authenticity and home comforts.