Mike Sinkovich Tells You How It Is

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A small child, no more than three, wanders out of the pho shop to the street to lean against my table and wave a cleanly bandaged index finger at me. I mime compassion back with a point to my head, aching from a previous late night, and say 'ouch'. This seems enough to amuse her and she begins to dance and sing as I slurp my noodles. I haven't had breakfast this early in a long time, and I try to remember why I left my bed this early to go and get breakfast. The kid tires and sits on the stool opposite me, watching my strange chop-stick technique.

A US draft dodger from the 60's projects a quiet but impressive question from the next table that instantly stops my thoughts of what to do with the day,

"What do you believe in?"

I acknowledge his presence with a pause between mouthfuls, to signify the beginning of a thinking process, then fix my eyes back on the traffic. Two bikes somehow move through each other at high speed, feet away from where we are sitting. Neither of us flinch. The girl begins to sing.

While I try to exude the atmosphere of incredible knowledge, a thousand cliches run through my mind, each becoming more and more detached from what I actually believe. Confusion gives way to reason, and I respond with another question

"Are you talking religion or....."

I turn my head to take a full look at me interrogator, shocked to see an overweight, bald, tourist looking man. He grins back behind strip sunglasses and lights a cigar. The building heat of the morning and the smoke crawl over me and I begin to sweat. His face forms into an intense look of interest, thick rivers of smoke draining from his mouth as he answers.

"What do you believe in"

There is no question in his tone this time, it is a command. The kid clambers off her stool and begins to poke his arm with her bandage. For the first time I gain a feeling of humanity from the dodger as he plays up to her games, exclaiming fake pain when she jabs him. Apparently this is all she wanted, and wanders over to the edge of the busy road.

I have bought enough time to think of an answer that will move the conversation past its preliminary defences. I am intrigued.

"I don't believe in God, but I do believe that we are all connected, now more than ever. I don't know about reincarnation although I do wish for it to be true. I find modern religions to be lacking in their reach into a modern society.....the rest....."

The little girl ran back from the road singing louder than ever, her index finger seeking a path to my chest, upon which another "ouuuuch!" was exclaimed. Having fulfilled this duty she leaned against my knee, staring at the traffic with little interest. The cigar took a break from sucking the life out of the dodger, and he allowed his lungs to refill with exhaust fumes before he replied.

"When you get back, you won't know what to do. You've probably got more questions now than when you left. But you will remember what you left for, and everything up until now will make sense when you are alone again"

The child looked up at me blankly, inducing me to look back with an honest expression of confusion and fear. She began to sing again as the waitress brought me the bill.

"I have to go, I need to go check my flight is still happening to......."

"You're leaving tomorrow, yeah. Good luck"

I brush the kid out of the way and she spins off to another table, incorporating the interruption into her dance.

".......yeah urrrh......see you around man"

"you will"

The pavement became very light, and the morning warmth felt overpowering as I trudged back to my room for a shower. I don't know what that morning was about, but something put me there, and I don't need to know any more than that.

Happy Tet!

After a two weeks on the beach in Mui Ne, Captain Timbo and I decided it was time we got back on the road and headed further south down to Ho Chi Minh city (Saigon for anyone who didn't make it past 1975). After crashing in a very cheap but reflectively squalid room for one night, we caught a bus over the border into Cambodia to meet back up with Sarah and her friend Laura.

Phnom Penh provided a mixed entertainment of cheap but nice drinking establishments coupled with a shocking and quite disturbing realisation of the Khmer Rogue's genocide. That latter taking the form of a visit to prison of Thoul Sleng, a converted school preserved in time since its discovery, and the killing fields about 10km outside the capital. While the effects of finally visiting the places I have seen in films and books from an early age are still haunting me, I would recommend anyone who has yet to fully grasp the scale that the term "genocide" requires to visit Cambodia.

After five days in Phnom Penh we headed back for more beach time, and caught the appropriate bus down to the south coast. Beautiful weather and balmy nights provided a perfect scenario for Captain Timbo to take some "alone time" with Sarah on an island off the coast, which Mr Sinkovich took to a relatively strict and undemanding schedule of breakfast at 12pm, guitar on the beach until 4, some refreshing 50p beers in the late afternoon before dinner and a few white russians to reward a hard day at the office. During one evenings drinking I was privileged enough to meet the worlds most conversational American revolutionist whose ability to stun his audience with truly unoriginal political ideas was shadowed only by his track record for doing absolutely fuck all about them. Such was his ability to conduct a two way conversation, he managed to not only alienate, but piss off two young and highly suggestible US students that were within Mr Sinkovich's powers of persuasion only minutes before.

As a side note Mr Sinkovich would like recommend this guitar/beer schedule to any future employers as a sure-fire method of keeping him on-side, as it were. And please ignore his habit for referring to himself in the third person. He will be seeking help upon return to home soil.

So the days ticked on and the day to head back to Vietnam came round. After a short bus time session back to Phnom Penh, it was time to meet back up with Captain Timbo for a final salute goodbye in the form of an Indian meal (ironic considering where we started off), a few drinks around town before catching a tuk-tuk out to a local night club. Although I intended to partay the night away, my services were.....ahem, required elsewhere and so I bid a premature (being the only thing premature about the evening.....sorry, couldn't resist) goodbye high-five to Captain Timbo and Sarah, knowing that this would be the last I would see of the 'ol bastard for some time.

So I have been back in Vietnam for two days now, and it feels good to be back. After getting in late yesterday, and wandering around trying to find a cheap place to stay, I spend the rest of the evening asleep. Today was a hard day of buying toothpaste, shampoo, and playing my guitar in the park. Back to the grindstone indeed.

Since Captain Timbo has been honourably discharged, my new second in command will be landing tomorrow and will take the form of General Si. Unfortunately for me, he lands early in the morning, so I will have to get some shut eye before I go and find him at the airport. Fortunately for him he will be landing on the first day of the Tet festival, and so there is much partay on the schedule for the General.

I wish all you scumbags a happy Tet, and much luck for the future year!

Happy Birthday To Meee!

Yeah it's my Birthday, and what are you going to do about it? Well you could show your appreciation for me as a human being and send me cold, hard cash and hope that someday I might say thank you. Then you can die happy knowing that Mr Sinkovich has aknowledged your existence, then run and cry about it on a chat show.

Thank you to everyone who sent their Birthday wishes, you will be rewarded when the revolution comes, and a place in my cabinet will be waiting for each and every one of you. For everyone who forgot, you will be first against the wall when the revolution comes. Sorry, you should have been better people.

I hope you are all having a great time at work, slaving away for the man. I will take a sip of my white russian for each and every one of you. It's a tough life guys, but stick at it.

See you on the beach.

Hue To Go

After one random night in Dong Ha, where there is officially nothing to do except drink beer that is chilled at your table in a paint can full of ice (like a hobo champagne cooler) and wait for the next day to come, we got another early start and set off on our tour of the DMZ with a Mr Dien, friend of Mr Tinh who ran the guesthouse in which we crashed. While I would thoroughly recommend the tour from the DMZ cafe in Dong Ha, I would suggest you stay somewhere else, unless you don't mind a room that smells like wet dog ass, and is particularly cold in the winter months.

The tour was, for me, very interesting (due to my fascination with the history of the country) and Mr Dien was a veritable fountain of knowledge, since he fought with the US troops for the whole war ('65-'75). When the south fell he was offered the chance to flee back to the US where he would be housed and given a new life, in order to avoid capture by the NVA. He said he was literally on the convoy when he was told his family (who were in Saigon at the time) would not be allowed to come, so he jumped ship to stay with his family and suffer the wrath of the northern army, which took the form of 6 years in a 're-education' camp where most of his friends died from lack of care.

For anyone who has read '1984' and had trouble imagining what a person looks like after they have had their political ideals smashed out of them, and new ones forced into their place, I suggest you talk to Mr Dien. Watching the action of 'doublethink' take place on someones face as you ask them about their opinions of communism is truly chilling.

I have managed to get my film pentax shots onto the website via the gift of CD, so our tour of the DMZ, and our travels in Vietnam since, can be found in the photo section.

After the tour we re-assembled our packs and caught a lift to Hue, about 70km down the road, on a DMZ tour bus that was headed back there. Randomly, or maybe not so considering how many times this has happened during our travels, we meet back up with some nice English lasses who were on the Mekong boat trip to Luangprabang, in Hanoi at new years, and a completely dead night club in Cat Ba. So having secured a room, that later turned out to be damper than your girlfriends pants at a Brad Pitt movie (...sorry), we headed out to sample the delights that Hue night life had to offer. As usual this turned out to be some okay music, another attempt to find the best white russian in southeast asia (so far Tim at Bluehouse in Chiang Mai is way, way ahead), getting hassled by cyclo drivers before finding ourselves completely lost in a new city.

The next day a random wander down a food-stall street would throw me into the path of Chi and her sister I, who would call me over and ask me to sit down and speak English with them. Being the obliging gentleman I am, and never one to turn down the company of a couple of lovely ladies, I spent the next hour or so having a bit of banter and trying out some local street-dishes. Eventually it transpired that Chi was a tour guide for Vietnamese tourists, and offered to take me on a tour of the city for free, so she could practise her English. If my old man taught me one thing, it's a free tour is worth one for a lunch but too many chefs could kill the cat if you waste what you want. None of which ever made any sense to me so I took her up on her offer and went off to go and tell Captain Timbo of my good fortune and see if he wanted to climb aboard.

In a massive display of the usual over-enthusiasm only Captain Timbo could employ, he agreed with an explosive "uhh....yuh, okay" and we both broke into a dance routine neither of us knew or was aware of, but would rival any west end performance you've ever seen or dreamed of (that last bit is not true, but it would be cool if it was).

So the following day we were treated to a morning and early afternoon in the company of two lovely ladies taking us to see the citadel and heavenly lady pagoda in the old city.

Today Captain Timbo has finally had enough of the city and has set off down south to check out Hoi An, avoiding Danang under the impression it was another city, claiming he may "go check out China Beach, since I've heard lots of good things about it", unaware that Danang contains within....China Beach. With travel research as solid as this, I'm amazed either of us have made it this far. It's a good thing neither of us were involved in planning the D-day landings.

I have decided to stay in Hue for a couple more days and check out two museums on the other side of the Perfume river that looked quite interesting, say goodbye to Chi and I and make my way down to Danang for some R'n'R. Hopefully the weather will be a bit better and I can catch some more beach time and take a day (or two) to get back to the grindstone that is white russian research in south-east asia. It's a tough life this backpacking thing.

The Road to HaNoi, and Beyond

So I hugged Captain Timbo and Sarah goodbye and caught a tuk-tuk out to the bus station, scaring a small child by singing The Who at him, I assume badly since I had my headphones on. With a smug sense of satisfaction that only bus-time can bring, I made my way past the tourist bus queue and booked myself onto a cheap local bus up to Phonsavan.

After waiting for about half an hour, and watching all the tourist buses leave, we finally pulled out of the bus station and began making our way north. There were no other westerners on the bus, and I seemed to entertain most people by laughing uncontrollably as Bill Hicks told me how it was via the gift of MP3.

Two hours into the journey and I noticed an intense visual disturbance in the left corner of my vision, which I instantly remembered as the first sign of an incoming migraine. Although they run in my family, I have been lucky and not suffered one since I was 18, and I couldn't quite believe my brain was going to cash one in on me during a 10 hour bus ride. For anyone who is lucky enough to never get migraines, don't believe the stupid adverts where the woman walking around shopping suddenly looks a little pained, gently touches her temple and says "ooh, migraine". What she would really do is go blind, feel like all the blood has drained from her body, feel like her head as been re-positioned to the bottom of the sea and is about to implode and spend the next 6-8 hours curled up and unable to decide between having another convulsion from the pain or suffering the extra pain involved in moving in order to get to a toilet and throw up, from the pain.

I quickly noshed two paracetamol and codeine, downed about a quart of water and got my head down before the pain would make it impossible to sleep. Luckily this seemed to stop it from breaking and about two hours later my vision had seemed to restore itself. When we stopped for food I bought another two litres of water, scared some more people by downing almost a whole one in one go, and banged my head against the language barrier in order to check with a local that I was on the right bus.

After a quick breakdown at about 4am, bumping a 10 hour journey up to 16, and waiting for a few hours for another bus to come pick us all up, I treated myself to a $10 room in Phonsavan and resolved to sleep for a day before getting the bus up to Sam Neua. It would mean missing the plain of jars, but I was at the wrong end of an energy deficit and there was no point going to see something if I was just going to wish I was back in bed.

Catching the bus out of Phonsavan threw me into the paths of a nice couple from South Africa (Johan and Jennifer) and British bloke named Mikey. Once again, our 7 hour bus journey was bumped up to 10 when a steering pinion-bolt sheered itself as we were climbing up a mountain. The following procedure to fix such a problem, in Laos at least, appeared to be smacking the shit out of it for about 30 minutes before taking the wheel off, smashing the shit out of the stuff behind that for about another hour, then resolving to the idea that nothing could be done and there is, after all, one more bolt left holding the wheel in place, so fuck it, let's put the wheel back on and get back on the road.

When we limped into Sam Neua we found a place to stay and I finally got what I had spent the last two hours of the journey fantasising about, some laap with sticky rice and a big bottle of beerlao before crashing into an awesome sleep.

We spent the following day over at ViengXai, home to the old headquarters of the Pathet Lao during the secret war held by the US during the American war in Vietnam, hidden away in the caves a little valley. Some of the caves we saw were unbelievable, complete with volleyball courts, swimming pools, bars, meeting rooms and even emergency rooms with air-purifiers for when the US dropped gas-bombs. One general even turned a massive crater formed from a 200lb bomb, dropped practically on his doorstep, into a heart shaped swimming pool. That has got to have pissed some of the pilots off.

We finally made our last bus journey from Sam Neua up to HaNoi, which came in at another orgasmic 15 hours, with our original bus which was supposed to drop us about 3 hours south of HaNoi actually dropping us just the other side of the Laos border and giving us a $6 refund in order to catch another $15 bus that was going "the long way round". The bus was full of an extended Vietnamese family who were all shitfaced on grain-alcohol, and proceeded to spend the next few hours singing, shouting, and trying to remove the trousers of Issac, one half of two Canadian brothers we met at the border. Eventually the afternoon booze caught up with them and we watched them crash out like dominoes until the bus was practically silent and conversation amongst ourselves became possible.

We finally got into HaNoi at about 2am, and being unable to barter down the taxi drivers to a sensible price, the Canadians and I decided to crash out at a hotel near the bus station and try and get more centrally located the next morning, as well as treat ourselves to a rather swanky lunch at the Sofitel Metro hotel. I would also have to start trying to find out if Captain Timbo was anywhere around town and meet up with his badself.

As always everything worked out just fine, with Timbo being on MSN when I logged in, and within a couple of hours it was catch-up chats and beers before moving into new-years celebration dinner with some Mexican girls from the bus, the Canadians and, of course, Captain Timbo. Suffice to say the rest of the evening was a memorable blur with, okay, maybe a few too many drinks but wins as the most surreal new year celebration as we watched a huge ballet display on a stage erected in the middle of HaNoi before the countdown started, then watched nearly 2000 people all on motorbikes try to leave all at once, as soon as new year had arrived.

Since HaNoi we have been on a round-trip to HaiPhong, CatBa island and HaLong city before we decided to start making our way down south and into the better weather. Today we arrived in DongHa, about 100km north east of Hamburger Hill and just south of the DMZ where tomorrow we should be going on a tour of the US firebases, NVA tunnels and the scenes of some of the largest battles during the American war. Since I have been obsessed with the history of Vietnam since I was a kid, you can imagine I'm rather excited about this.

We have managed to lose the second of our digital cameras, which means we have no more photos of Laos and we are unable to take any more of Vietnam. I do still have my pentax, so hopefully I will be able to find somewhere down south with a negative scanner so I can put some of my film shots on the site. If anyone I met in Laos has any shots they could send me, it would be much appreciated.

Laos-a Fun

After spending just over a week in Pai, Thailand, we had successfully achieved next to nothing, our major acomplishment of our stay there being a day on a rented scooter, driving around to see waterfalls and enjoy the open road. It soon became apparent that we needed to get back on the road or risk getting stuck in a routine of lazy days and the same run of bars every night, so we made a move to get up the Chiang Khong and hop the border into Laos.

Since we are huge fans of public busses we planned to get up early and catch the local bus back to Chiang Mai, where a connecting bus would take us up to the border. After a few drinks to celebrate our last night, getting up at 6am was a hard task, but one that we rose to and conquered, lugging our packs and guitars into town to find that the 7:30 bus was full and the next one would probably not get us into Chiang Mai in time to get the connection.

As we wandered around trying to figure out what to do, and forming a vauge plan with a couple from Alaska that had encountered the same bus problem, I ran into Sarah (who we met on the bus up to Pai) Helen and Felicity, three lovely aussie lasses who we spent some time with, and who we would encounter again in Laos. Not sharing the same love of the local bus as Captain Timbo and myself, they had opted for the cop-out mini-van-bus-thing and even had time to score a breakfast. It was all a bit too lonely planet for us.

After securing a pick-up truck taxi between myself, Captain Timbo and the Alakans we were soon pacing it up and over the mountains, trying to suffocate from the exhaust fumes that were sucked into the back of the truck. Four hours later we would find that the bus to Chiang Khong was also full and resolve to spend a night in Chiang Mai.

Eventually we make it up to the border just in time to find a bank and get some dollars (there is only one ATM in the whole of Laos, and we were going to be nowhere near it) before catching a long boat across the Mekong. Goodbye Thailand, hello Laos.

The immigration dude on the other side took great pleasure in telling us we should have scored Laos visas before we arrived, and that we would have to go back to Bangkok in order to do so. As we were laughing at how completely screwed we were while saddling up our packs he burst into a fit of laughter and told us he was just kidding. Apparently this joke never gets old, and every day he fucks with line after line of backpackers who wash up on the Laos border. I guess everyone has something to get them through the day.

The next day we caught a two day slow boat down the mekong to Luangprabang which was, in effect, a two day piss-up on a boat complete with my first taste of Laolao, Lao whiskey that is basically grain alchohol, and closer to rocket fuel than a beverage. Apparently it is good to build up and appetite, but after consuming a few shots of the stuff I realised it's actually just an appetite for more Laolao, and I had to consciously decline any more as getting horrendously drunk on a boat isn't going to be fun for anyone involved.

We spent a few days in Luangprabang before I travelled north to Luangnamtha with Sarah and Helen who we bumped into as we were walking around town trying to find a place to stay. Captain Timbo stayed in Luangprabang for a few days with his young (but older) swiss lady before travelling south to Vang Vieng.

Meanwhile, up in the north, we undertook a three day trek into the jungle which was, for me, the best trekking I have done so far. There are no adjectives left to describe the landscape we walked through that haven't been over used to the point of losing their meaning, so all I will say is that if you ever go to Laos, Luangnamtha is the place to go trekking.

Currently I am in Vientienne, where I met back up with Captain Timbo and Sarah for Christmas celebrations, and in about an hour and a half I will be catching a bus up to Phonsavan and the 'plain of jars'. Before you ask, yes, it is just a plain of large, stone jars and no, no-one knows who put them there, or when or why. I could not begin to make my own theories but I will say this, if you can't time travel, isn't the next best thing just to fuck with people in the future by confusing the hell out of them?

I plan to stay only one day in Phonsavan before heading further north-east, up to the border with Vietnam before making my way up to Ha Noi where, if the vauge plan succeeds, I should meet up with Captain Timbo for new years drinks and stories about "being in the shit" and "where were you for Tet '69" and I can barely wait.

So I have loaded my mp3 player with 80 more albums, for the shockingly low price of 30 quid, all thanks to the Full Moon Cafè opposite my guesthouse who not only serves 241 litre pitchers of Beerlao, but deals openly and extensively in pirated music that they load onto your player. The next 10 hours on the bus will be passed nicely with a brand new soundtrack for my thoughts, and I have already spent the morning sitting outside sipping pepsi and exchanging smiles with girls walking past.

I am not scared of the future anymore, or at least not right now. I am alone, I have no definate plan, I have a bag that contains everything I will ever need, and a guitar. I am alive and, at least for today, I am begining to realise what that really means. See you in 'Nam.

Merry Christmas!

A quick Merry Christmas to everyone! Sorry to hear it's so cold back in Blightly, shame it's fucking hot here in Laos, we will be thinking of you in the cold over there.

We managed to find a place that provided a vauge synthesis of a Christmas dinner, and some santa hats, so we have fulfilled our obligations to eating lots while looking stupid.

In a couple of days we will be heading north-east to get into Vietnam for new years. I am working on an update post for Laos and our (somewhat separate) journeys since leaving Thailand.

All the best for the new year. See you on the beach!

Chiang Mai

Tim and I are sat in the front of a white-water raft, while Wayne and Joe who we had just met a few hours ago, are taking on the back. We are all staring at the Thai rafting instructor, who we can't help but notice is not sitting in the raft but standing on the bank, shouting out our last minute (and only) instructions on how to get down a river in a massive inflatable dingy. Having already had a fair assumption that paddling forward was "forward", and the reverse was inevitably going to be "backwards", I couldn't help but feel that the dudes instructions left a little bit to be desired.

By now panic has set in, and Tim, Wayne and myself deal with the understanding that we are about to go down the river alone, and with no previous experience, with the highest maturity and burst into hysterical laughter. Joe, who had already lost all colour from her face when she stepped into the boat, is now well into a second course of panic, having placed an order for a side dish of terror.

Just before the boat leaves the bank, the Thai dude jumps on board and we are all relieved to find we were mistaken, and proceed to paddle out into the river and down towards the rapids. The adrenaline soon blocks out any previous concern we had and by the time we get to the end, even Joe is up for doing it again.

Before Captain Timbo and I booked the trek we had kicked it around town, found some cool little things like art galleries and the like, and went to check out some Kickboxing, at which we witnessed one of the most surreal scenes I have ever seen....four kids of about 6, one in each corner of the ring, blindfolded and pushed into the middle (video here). The ensuing fight is hilarious, and when the kids took the blindfolds off at the end they all looked as happy as a pig in the proverbial.

After the rafting experience with the aussies, and the shared discomfort of sharing a mini-bus and a day of activities with a couple of american girls whose ability to whine about everything came second only to their stupidity ("I guess we'll get wet when we go in the water...huh?"), we seemed to get along fairly well and while Timbo went on his 3 day trek (check out photos here) I kicked it around Chiang Mai with them, checking out temples, local silk, silver, lacquer and pottery industries, and getting my sweet ass blessed by a monk, no less.

After a few days Wayne and Joe had to jam back to Bangkok, and to their 9-5 grinds (suckers) and I was left with an extreme feeling of dejavu of Eulas departure as I watched them walk from the bar towards the street and disappear back into the world. My sadness was not to be around for long as the american owners of the bar (and guesthouse) in which I was sat, Tim and Tony, proceeded to ply myself and some of their guests with cocktails that started with a kick and ended in lethal as measuring cups were dropped for the more liberal tip of the bottle.

Come closing time I found myself on the back of a bike (more flashbacks from Sirsa and Vinod) headed for a quick B52 at a bar comprising of a VW camper van and a very nice Thai lady who very carefully constructed a flawless shot of weapons-grade cocktail. The rest of the evening was, inevitably, rather blurry but much fun, although I am no less able to explain to a Thai guy that I'm not gay while trying not to offend but simultaneously preventing him from kissing me than I was at the beginning of the night. I assume it is not a skill I will be practising with regular occasion.

The following day saw Timbos return and we headed back to Tim and Tony's guesthouse where we accidentally spent the day playing Thai poker with the staff and making enough money to cover the breakfast we had six hours previously. I would recommend anyone who gets a chance to play this game to give it a go, it is very addictive but you play with pence so it's (relatively) safe from financial ruin.

I'm not sure when we will leave Chiang Mai, and I'm not sure where we will go when we do, although I've heard good things about Pai. Soon we will have to start sorting out visas and moving towards Laos, to get to 'Nam for crimbo where, hopefully, we should be meeting some friends for a tipple, and we're still only half way through.

From Travel to Tourism

So November has run along rather quickly and we're a week short of being in Thailand for a month. I'd rather put the rather rapid passage of time, a lot of it I can't seem to account for, down to the mild culture shock induced by our travels in India after we landed in Bangkok. Others may tell you that it's because, after two months of very little access to an evening tipple on the sauce, we may have had too much fun with respect to madame alcohol. Ignore these 'others', they are filthy liars, and if you're heading to the bar, mine's a white russian.

We only stayed in Bangkok for one night as, for me and I think Timbo, it appears to all the senses as an 18-30's club resort. I'm sure if you wander ten minutes from the main tourist track you can find something a bit less like an episode of "Club Reps: How to lose your dignity" but we didn't hang around to find out, catching a morning bus down to Ko Samet the morning after we landed.
After racking up some proud hours of, what we now refer to as Proper Bus Time, in India, we were fairly disappointed to find that we were crammed into a mini-van complete with air-con, tinted windows, reclining seats and an overwhelming sense of detachment from the culture you know is out there, hiding behind the money changers and the tour companies.

After spending a hectic (if you count daytime beach lounging and night-time cocktails) week on Ko Samet with Mark, Paula, Natasha, Adrienna and Scott we decided to head futher east along the coast to Ko Chang. With everyone else having left to go on to other travels or rotate back to the world, we were left with the, by no means lesser, company of Mark and Paula.
Having landed an awesome, yet surreal bungalow at the north end of the main beach, up in an outcrop of rocks, we proceeded to take up similar routines in doing very little during the day, and indulging in some rather strong cocktails and bad dancing at night. Timbo, in my opinion, should be awarded a medal for services to the cause after clearing a hole in the dance floor through fear and confusion caused by some of the most awesome dance moves I have ever witnessed. I even put a precautionary five foot between us as he took the definition of "rocking out" and gave it a new meaning. Demonic possession.

Before Mark and Paula moved on we hired some scooters in order to have a look at the south of the island. It was rather disturbing that, having never ridden anything with an engine and two wheels, I was able to pay a stupidly small sum of money and jump on one. With the hire-dudes "oh no no" fading into the distance, I somehow managed to get the scooter under a vague semblance of control as I shot across the car park, just about missed a wall 10ft from where I started, turned into the road and introduced myself to a world of whirring trucks, beeping pick-ups and a fear that had been bred into me from a young age, ringing in my ears "deathtrap.....deathtrap...".
Turns out the parents were right, and while I didn't crash the bloody thing once, and even grew some confidence and enjoyment by the end of the day, I took my unscathed experience of bicycle-automation as a lucky escape rather than a sign of more for the future. I don't think I'll ever get on one again, I wasn't made for those things.

After Ko Chang, and goodbye to Mark and Paula, it was back to the dreaded Bangkok, where we had to stay for a couple of days to get a replacelemt camera, after which we moved slightly north to Kujanaburi, home of the bridge over the river kwai and some interesting, but depressing museum visits for me, before heading up to Ayuthua (both place names are horribly misspelt) with the intention of getting up to Chiang Mai without going via Bangkok.
We succeeded, all to easily, via another horrible tourist bus from which we were herded, like cash cows with dollar signs branded on our faces, to guesthouses we didn't want to stay in, ran away from, and found our own. And here we have been for a day.

We plan to do some rafting, mountain biking, elephant trekking and quad biking maybe tomorrow in an all rounder day. Timbo plans to go off on a three day trek into the mountains, which leaves me with a butload of bookshops and a new found interest in greek philosophy after finishing "Zen and the art of motorcycle maintainance". Cups of tea and a load of books, a Sinkovich school of meditation.

A Farewell To India

So we're counting down our hours left in India, having spent the morning back in Delhi, trudging around the streets that just under two months ago felt very strange and today, trying to find somewhere to dump our packs, induced a warm feeling of familiarity. Since my time in Chautala a lot has gone down, and I could write all too much just on the one week I spent out in Harayana, so let me try and outline our journey so far without the need for a toilet/boredom/suicide break.

After Rishikesh we caught an un-godly 15 hour bus journey up to Dharamshala to meet up with Eula. Sometimes you see these swanky air-con, reclining seats, curtains and sick bag tourist coaches pacing it around the roads. Not for us, oh no, that's far too "Lonely Planet" for us. We opt for the local government bus, easily identified by the large streaks of vomit emanating from each window. Spurred on by an over-confident Mr Sinkovich declaring that it will be fine to sit with our packs on our laps for that long, we jump on board in high spirits and wait for the fun to start. After a few hours I notice the words deep, vein and thrombosis are having a cup of Chai with my imagination and have decided to convince my brain I have a clot forming in my leg and very soon it will take a quick vacation to my lungs.

Always the adept travellers, Captain Timbo and I McGuyver a hanging rig using our chains and padlocks in order to suspend our packs inches above our laps. High fives all round and a few hours of sleep, occasionally interrupted by my pack smashing into my face as we make a sudden stop, and we are in Dharamshala. Timbo got really lucky and scored a bit of dribble off a local kid who fell asleep on him.

We spent just under two weeks in McLeodganj, up at the bottom of the mountains, above the actual town of Dharamshala. I fell into a deep love for this town as they openly sell beer, and have a large selection of restaurants all willing to cook you chicken, bacon and let you bring your own beer of a cheaper variety into their establishments. I didn't get to see the Dali Lama because I am physically incapable of waking up at 5:30am, as our friend Jess discovered upon our room door swinging open to reveal a blurry-eyed Mr Sinkovich, scratching his head and muttering if the nice young Australian girl had come about the croutons.

We did, however, dine in the same restaurant as Pierce Brosnan did once. Well not so much dine as drink a load of beer. I'll let you decide which one is better.

After McLeodganj we decided to get back on the road and head out to Agra where we had arranged to meet Eula, again, who had left Dharamshala a week or so before we did. We kind of sold out for the bus journey back to Delhi, booking in on a "luxury" bus, which basically means you can put your shit in the boot and your chair reclines to an angle that juuuuust about reminds you how it feels to be horizontal. Another 15 hours of bus, and 8 on a train, and it's hello hug time in Agra train station as we meet back up with Eula.

We spent a night in Agra, and the next day seeing the Taj Mahal before the road lust saw us back on a rickshaw across town to score another train out to a village where we just about made it onto a bus out to Khujarau (It's hard pulling yourself, your pack, a rucksack and a guitar onto a moving bus, even if you work out 50 times a day like I do). The last bus part of this trip took us back to our hardcore bus roots, as it was another local bus, and required us to get up close (like, yes that's someones balls resting on my knee) and personal with the locals, none of whom spoke English, but all of which responded well to my rendition of "Dance Magic Dance" and Timbo and Eula's "Country Roads".

We kicked it around Khujarau for a few days, checking out some of the erotic temples, which didn't fail to deliver with their weird and wonderful depictions of what three guys "getting their groove" on with a horse looks like. I have, however, never wondered what an orgy with a dragon looked like. I wouldn't have guessed it would look like that, though.

We got a little too comfortable in Khujarau, hiring some bikes and spending a few days out at a swanky five-star hotel in order to shoot some pool, drink some cocktails (the first, and only good alcohol we have found in India) and have a swim when it got a little too hot. Suffice to say, we lowered to tone with our raggy clothes, bombs in the pool and occasionally smacking the cue ball onto a marble floor. It was time to get back on the road.

From Khujarau we had our final destination of Varanasi, which had me slightly concerned as the guidebook suggested we were in for death everywhere, burning bodies and even some flesh eating dolphins (the latter were never visually confirmed but I am a big fan of the concept). What we found was an awesome city, the best part of which, in my opinion, were the miles of tiny alleys filled with useless tacky crap, jewelry, more useless tacky crap, dead dogs, tacky crap that flashes and music.

We happened to luck out and arrive just before Diwali, completely ignorant to what this meant to the Hindu population, and were treated to three days of virtually non-stop fireworks. I am a big fan of any culture that has no problem with lobbing very large firecrackers into moving traffic, and dancing with glee when the tourists on the rickshaws nearly die from the shock. On the last night we got involved in our own little way, and let off half a dozen rockets, and I got the chance to send my smelly old shoes to Valhalla via four large firecrackers (kaboom).

We had intended to travel north for our last few days, but with time moving a little faster than we were prepared to, we settled for a few extra days of sunset boat rides and roof-top beers as Timbo, Eula and I waited for the inevitable breaking of paths.

One more last supper (my count makes it number 3) with Eula was over all too quickly, and before goodbye hugs and garbled well wishes as the sky began to dim towards another sunset, we watched her wander down toward the road and disappear into the traffic. For me, the city felt suddenly dull, and the knowledge that we too would soon be headed onto the next part of our travels was comforting.

As I write, we have 8 hours left in India, and it's fairly hard to imagine what the next four months are going to be like. If they are even half of what has gone in the past two, I will be more than happy.

Rishikesh To Chautala with Mr Vinod

3:30pm 19th Sept: I leave Rishikesh with Mr Vinod, the manager of our guesthouse to make our way to Chautala, his home village out west in the state of Haryana. Captain Timbo will be staying behind and going on his own private mission in the form of a trek up into the mountains. We hail a tempo down to RamJhula and stop while Vinod buys some lockets for his nephew and niece.

4:00pm 19th Sept: After a dispute, the cause of which I have no idea about, he finally pays for the lockets and we leave. I try to ask what the hubbub was all about, but the language barrier pops up and I eventually give up trying to ask. I already see this is going to be a problem when we get out into the remote areas, and I will need him to translate for me.

4:28pm 19th Sept: We get to the bus station. I still don't know how you're supposed to tell which bus is going where as it is a general melee of people, money, tickets and shouting. I suggest we ditch the bus idea and get a rickshaw to Haridwar trainstation instead, so we negotiate a price, get into the rickshaw and watch the driver get out and wander off down the road. After a few minutes we give it up and head back to the bus.

Vinod shows me to a seat, and just as I get comfortable (as much as you can, crammed into a tiny seat with no legroom and a massive pack crushed into your chest) some dude gets on and starts shouting at me. I look to Vinod who neither translates or attempts to calm the madman. It transpires after heavy gesticulation, that he is the conductor and this is his seat. We move.

6:45 pm 19th Sept: We get to Haridwar trainstation and proceed to score some general tickets. As I will find out later, Vinod's plan is to bribe the conductor in order to score some sleeper seats. I'm secretly dreading this, as I don't fancy an 8 hour train ride crammed into the non-sleeper carridge if it doesn't work out.

7:10 pm 19th Sept: It works out, as Vinod uses me as leverage, playing the keep-the-tourist-happy card and we score top sleeper seats. The train leaves and we start playing some card. I quickly realise Vinod is a dirty cheater when it comes to cards, stashing them in his top pocket and sneaking them out while I'm arranging my hand. I call him a dirty cheating fuckwit, and he laughs because he has no idea what I'm saying but can tell I'm pissed at his cheating.

2:00 am 20th Sept: We should be there by now, but we still have 60km to go. I finally give in and try to sleep, but I just lie there with my eyes closed, praying for a fast, temporary coma.

4:00 am 20th Sept: I wake up suddenly to shouting and people running up and down the train. I ask Vinod, and in a moment of clear, translatory lucidity he quickly informs me that it was a thief nicking a necklace off someone on the bunk below me. He then tells me, with a smug grin, that he has eaten all the snacks we bought for the journey. It's going to be a while before any more food. I go back to sleep, or as close as possible.

5:30 am 20th Sept: I am woken by Vinod shouting "Williams!" over and over again, and open my eyes to see him stood below me looking in a state of panic. We are in Bahtinda, and he's waited until he's got all his stuff packed and ready before waking me to get off the train. I lug my stuff off the bunk and we jump off the train just before it pulls away.

A short walk down the tracks and we catch a cycle rickshaw across town Vinod's sister's house, where we have breakfast which consists of tea and some buscuit things, and some (what I would loosely describe as) bombay mix. After a quick exchange, it becomes apparent that there are little things living a happy life in the bombay mix. I don't get a chance to see them, but judging by the expressions they are not pleasant. The mix returns after being filtered throught a siv. I avoid it anyway.

8:50 am 20th: We get another rickshaw back across town to the bus station. Vinod immediately falls asleep and after a few minutes I try to remove a bottle of water from my pack without catching his head with my elbow. The noise of the plastic bottle crackling causes everyone to turn and stare, and just as I'm about to pour the water into my mouth, I realise this and go to say sorry, but my hand is already in motion and I end up pouring water over my face while gargling the word "sorry" through it. Everyone finds this amusing, and I have a chuckle.

110:05 am 20th Sept: Switch busses

11:31 am 20th Sept: See my first camel. I'm so tired I can only remain awake for a few seconds before nodding off. Vinod prods me awake every time to point out of the window and tell me things like "that's rice", "that's corn". I don't have the energy to complain.

11:50 am 20th Sept: We arruve in Sirsa and get a cycle rickshaw over to Vinod's 'Owners' house (his bosses father)

12:05 pm 20th Sept: I'm pretty tired by now, and we are told to sit in a spare room of the house and wait for the big cheese to appear and give Vinod some cash. I consider lying down on the bed and sleeping, but am worried about offending. When he finally does appear, he and Vinod have a long conversation in Hindi while I sit and try to regain some energy. I hear the words passport, visa and notice several glances at me, which combine with my tiredness and distill into a creeping paranoia that I try to repress. Have I been set up, are my parents going to find my body, throat slit and passport nicked somewhere in west India? Apparently not, they are talking about Viniod. I wash, look at my stupid, knackered face in the mirror and we leave to visit Mr Chopra, a crazy friend of the owner of the hotel in Rishikesh, who came to see us in Rishikesh and now "wants to see me" at his communications company on the other side of Sirsa.

12:20 pm 20th Sept: Chopra isn't there when we arrive, so we wait with his son, eat some random curry-burger things and drink tea. After an hour or so his son produces a CD from a random desk drawer and puts it into his computer. They sip more tea and watch porn as I fall asleep in my chair. I still have no idea how Vinod is still awake.

2:45 pm 20th Sept: Chopra turns up, at last, and sends myself and Vinod off to the other side of town to get him some cigarettes. Great, this is what I waited over two hours for. We take his motorbike, after Vinod reassures me he can drive one, and head off on our mission.

3:00 pm 20th Sept: Vinod is full of shit. He drives a bike like a nutter, dropping it into too lower a gear, causing me to lurch forward into him whenever he tries to slow down, and accelerating away too quickly, causing me to almost fall off the back every time. We, somehow, arrive at his mates house, where I am forced to try some random fruit I have never seen before which tastes like shit, but I eat anyway as I don't want to offend. We get Chopra's fags and head off back to Vinod's Owner's house to get out bags.

4:58 pm 20th Sept: Wearing a heavy backpack, made heavier by 4 litres of water strapped to it, while clinging on for dear life on the back of a motorbike, driven by a nutcase is highly sobering, and by the time we are back at Chopra's, I am wide awake. My MP3 player is passed around, and I introduce everyone (more have gathered since we left, after Chopra has called, what seems like, everyone he knows) to Steely Dan. They like it.

5:28 pm 20th Sept: Chopra wants to buy me a beer, so I am ushered onto the back of his motorbike and we burn off across the city to some dingy wine/beer/gin shop resteraunt thing. I narrowly avoid falling off, due to the weight of my pack, as Chopra makes wild turns down random alleys in order to show me friends houses along the way. I feign interest, too distracted by my own mortality to pass more comment than "uh-huh".

We make it to the bar, and I enjoy a few (too many) cold ones as I try to relax and calm down after the bike fiasco. They bring us some innocuous chesse, that they cover with lime and pepper, causing it to taste like the smell of stale urine. I eat it anyway, so as not to offend.

5:52 pm 20th Sept: We make it to Sirsa bus station, a little drunk, but feeling a lot better. I managed to convey to Chopra that I was close to falling off his bike, and he finally calmed his driving down. I try to sleep but I get that spinny feeling when I close my eyes and the motion of the bus becomes too much. I listen Bowie, and as I am staring out of the window, listening to Bombers, I notice an old man sat in a massive expanse of white sand wizz by my view. I give a smile, and try not to think about the odds of that happening.

9:08 pm 20th Sept: We finally get to Chautala, and trek it across the village to Vinod's Aunt's gaff, where the power promptly cuts out (over the next week I will come to realise, the power, out here, is never on for longer than 10-20 minutes for a couple of times a day). It's so hot sweat pours out of me faster than I can wipe if away. The magnitude of the trip is begining to pull me down, and I realise I will need to sleep very soon or just collapse here and have done with it. I try to wash but it's too dark to see inside my pack and I can't be arsed to remove every item to find the ones I need. We leave after some tea.

10:12 pm 20th Sept: Almost 31 hours after we left Rishikesh, and with just over 3 hours sleep keeping me vertical  we arrive at Vinod's house where I decline any food, make my excuses and fall asleep on the roof as it is too hot to sleep downstairs. Now I just have to make it through the week.

Upwardly Mobile

After a week at RamJhula, we have decided to move location up the river, to the other bridge. We spent most of yesterday looking about for a new home, and found a doozy of a gaff, up on the hill, with a balcony encompassing a pretty awesome 110 degree view back down the river, and up towards LaxmanJhula. The owners right hand man, upon learning my name was Bill, has taken to calling me Clinton, which makes Timbo my Monica, a joke we laughed at and then felt the regulated amount of hetro repulsion at the idea of sharing a room and possibly a cigar tube after this innuendo. And all for 150 rupees a night! (1.74 quid, between two). We get to live like kings of the preverbial for just over half a pint of beer in the ship. I think I have officially fallen in love with India.

Captain Timbo is getting his Yoga on every day and got his head shaved. I tried Yoga, but was fairly rubbish at it, and I have found having a cup of tea and reading a book much more to my tastes. Old dog, new tricks, not likely.

During our mission to locate new premises yesterday, we ended up having a lengthy conversation with some woman (or rather Timbo did, I sat and avoided heavy disagreement with some of her opinions) in a rooftop resteraunt, who went on to advise on a method of meditation for Tim. After talking in a very relaxed tone for just over an hour, she became slightly pushy for him to take up studying said meditation with her, and just as I thought "I don't think you should do this", she snapped up and accosted a group of travellers on the other side of the gaff about how they had no right to say he shouldn't study with her, and various other derogatory comments regarding their tourist status. I didn't hear them say anything, as they were sat a fair distance away, and my first reaction was that she was a nutter. I am still to decide as to this, as apparently, and I find this quite unnerving, spiritual gurus can become rather perceptive at "reading" (for want of a better word) your thoughts.

When I divuldged my inner monologue to Tim after the encounter, we decided that one explination was that she could be fairly good at this, but fell down at the stage of identifying the source of the thought. I hope this is true, as if she heard any of my other thoughts such as "you really need to wash that top" and "where were you when they were handing out breasts", I should probably try to avoid her in future. However it could mean that I am capable of throwing my thoughts onto other people, like a mind ventriloquist, and in an area of the world where there are quite a few people capable of the almost Jedi Mind Trick of intercepting thoughts, this could be a lot of fun for me. I intend to hang out around some spiritual dudes and make them all paranoid by thinking about how hot their wives are, and how I'm going to steal all their shit when their backs are turned.

Other than the awesome possibility that I posess super mind powers, and have the opportunity to use them for entertainment (or read bad if you want), we are planning on a four day trek into the mountains, and have attempted to recruit a group of people we met back down the river. Mostly because it would be more fun with other people, and a little bit because it's about 1000 rupees per person if we do. We were also thinking about rafting, but we've yet to figure out what happens if you get lobbed from the boat. I'm fairly sure it's alright, but a little seed of doubt can soon grow into a forrest of terrifying reality when you're pacing down white water rapids with little idea as to what you're supposed to be doing.

Someone remind John he has to sing at my funeral if I don't make it (he knows what song). And no-one go looking at me naked if I die. Unless you're a hot girl. Even then, that's a bit wierd that you would want to, but I won't mind because I'd be dead. Ah sod it, everyone grab a camera and come round.

The (abridged for your pleasure) Story So Far

5:20 AM (London): I'm climbing into a cab to go to the airport. Having spent the last 3 hours either wasted or hung-over, nothing seems real, and it will be approximately 22 minutes before I realise three key things. I forgot my glasses, I have nothing but a t-shirt and shorts on and it's cold and I, as always, let my cowardice get the better of me and failed to say things to people I wanted to say before I left. I'm ready to leave.

6:00 AM (London): Sat in check-in, wondering why the fuck you can't get a cup of coffee this side of Heathrow airport, and debating if I can be arsed to rummage through my pack to find the anadin my brain keeps telling me I need. I'm already ready to go home.

8:50 AM (London): The plane leaves the ground and I open a present I was instructed to. I read it and want to smile, laugh, cry and die all in the same breath. I put The Shins on my player and go to sleep.

3:30 AM (Delhi): Airline meals are the worst hangover ingredients, and we manages to get what seems like the only seats that had faulty games consoles. We meet Mike again, a Canadian we met on the Dubai-Delhi connection and he introduces us to Eula who he went on to meet on the same plane. We share a cab, and in a few minutes we're pacing it across town with a cabbie who only stops to take some amphetamine at the traffic lights.

6:00 AM (Delhi): I'm stood, stunned, tired and generally twisted out of my own reality by the past 24 hours, ontop of the hotel looking at the city. The dream is begining to lift and the realisation that this has actually, finally begun peeks its head round the door and asks if it can come in for a quick chat and discuss this whole "six months" thing. I go to sleep.

10:15 PM (Delhi) Three Days Later: The train from Delhi to Haridwar pulls out of the station, and Timbo and I begin constructing a rather swanky table by stretching my travel towel across the top two births of the sleeper carridge, to start playing some cards. Two girls from the lower births get involved, and we spend the next 3 hours or so playing "The Big Two" before crashing out. I use my pack as a pillow and try to breathe through my mouth to avoid the smell from the toilets.

5:22 AM (Haridwar): We finally get off the train, and we lug our packs down to the centre of town where we negoitate an auto-rickshaw up to Rishikesh. The ride is awe-inspiring, at the risk of sounding clichè, despite the drivers best efforts to kill my ears with some god-awful music. Something about "disco style!". He drops us off ages short of where we agreed, and we hop on another rickshaw to get up to the bridge across the river.

6:15 AM (RIshikesh): Timbo and I are sat on the back of a large wheeled metal truck thing that some guy offered to wheel over the river to our hotel for 10rps each. Almost every local smiles and greets us as we pass by, a glaring contrast to the intensity of Delhi, and I can already tell I'm going to like it here. The dude rips us off by charging 15rps for both, but we don't mind as it was some hard work on his part. We check out the room, agree the price and dump our stuff. The world begins to stop spinning and I fall asleep wondering what the next few weeks will have in store.

End Of An Era, Begining Of A New

Yesterday, my car was officially dead. For those of you who don't know the legend that is my car, it has done over 146,000 miles. Now considering the moon is 225,745 miles away, my waggon has made it over half way. That's pretty fucking awesome. How many things do you own that have travelled that distance? Yeah, didn't think so.

But it's not only the almost terrifying ability of my car to never die, it's the hundreds of memories I have invested in her that make it a very sad occasion, but alas, I am to be out of the country for the next 6 months, and with a recent hole blown in the exhaust timed with MOT expiration, it just makes no sense to pay the best part of £500 nicker to keep the beauty in service.
Please feel free to cry.

So it's the end of an era. The car I learnt to drive in, made my first and many road trips in. The car I crashed for the first time before an A-level biology exam, is to be no more. But as they say, "nein, du kannst nicht macht das mit mein hund!", or for those of you who don't speak a really bad version of German, life goes on.

It goes on a little too quickly, actually, and I find myself in the pant-wetting yet somehow woody-popping situation of being in possession of a multiple destination plane ticket and the next six months off work. Sweet fucking deal. Jealous much?

So here's the deal. I'm going to do my best to use this....urm, violation of a literary effort as a portal for summing up various stages in my travels, as I'm not too fond of doing the whole round-robbin email thing. Although I will probably end up doing that as well*, because I like writing shit, and you love reading shit because, let's face it, you'll have nothing better to do, and reading my inane babblings will buy you 5-10 minutes from your day gig and remind you why you hate your job so much.

Due to Visa and other preparations proving particularly time consuming at this stage I will leave it at this for now. When we get out to India and get a vauge semblance of a plan together I will try and kick this thing into gear. Considering we leave on the 29th, this shouldn't be too long, so hold your horses and.....I dunno, read all the old shit, or something.

*NB* If you would like to be included in the highly exclusive Mike Sinkovich travel emails, hit the 'contact' bit in the top right and drop me an email. Free porn download links are highly appreciated as well.