The Monster Gun

I do say I've found it, I declare. Yes, it's clear this is where recreation occurs and there is actually something to do. That must be why the small island of Penang was named "2nd must-see place of 2008"; why else go to Asia, if not to purchase a wife or tap some cheap Malay poontang.

In strange similarity with Bahrain is a connecting bridge (there isn't one to Langkawi; why bother as there's nowt to do there), which covers just over 8k of sea. It’s a clever bit of design and certainly necessary in order to facilitate ease of accessibility for customers. It's 10pm and the door of the pub I'm in has swung open. In its wake are four girls dressed shall we say, provocatively. Within a few minutes they've scanned the area for potential business and approached customers that have used whichever practiced code of solicitation is uniquely theirs. I've befriended a local Malaysian, who regales stories of western men picking up wives for themselves and then reluctantly converting to Islam (well, you know – you've kinda, gotta – havent you). It's a subtle and peaceful tactic by the cult to expand numbers, though as far as I'm concerned and quoting Harlem Nights; “Now you know that's some mean Pussy to make a man change Gods.”

If you're interested in other things to while away time there's always, let’s see; the Dentist College to visit for a free check-up. I jest; it's actually as serene a place as you could ask for, considering how densely packed in the numerous temples of Bhuddism, Hinduism, variations-on-a-theme-of, Christianity and Mosques are. Along the Kaptain Kelling road is the namesake mosque and several temples of other faiths. Passing by the Buddhist Yap Kongsi temple I notice it is closed, but an elderly couple are tending the plants that line it's small circumference. I'm sure they speak English (in fact the majority population are quadrilingual; Cantonese, Mandarin, Malay and English), and as the nearby mosque is praying I ask if there is any friction; "No, it's fine. They say their prayers. We say ours." I take a breath but decide not to retort; of course he'd say that – he's Buddhist.

This is, however, just how I pictured Malaysia before arriving in KL and it's annoying I've only 4 nights booked, for there is more than enough to see and do to occupy twice that number. Head to one of the numerous Hawker stalls for instance and pay around 80pence for a dish. Expect to receive less than the locals (test this and see for yourself), but it is good nonetheless. Damn good in fact; the food cuisine blend of South China, India and SE Asia makes for some awesome fried rice and prawns.

My first night and little India has to be seen, smelled and heard to appreciate just how rich with culture India must be; an aperitif of the continent if you will. The curry makes brick lane look positively amateur and whilst I'm sure I'll need to cover a half marathon to burn what I've just eaten, it is bloody superb. Exiting restaurant a local offers me help as I stand scanning my map, and shortly after gives me a brief tour of the area and sights within Georgetown in her car. No charge, no angle, no hidden agenda; just happy to help. She drops me at the bar street, where the majority of watering holes are located and wishes me a safe journey. One guess as to which religion she was.

Being a Muslim country, booze doesn't come cheap; so expect to pay London prices for a pint, which whilst silly in comparison with the food is thankfully served ice cold in a glass straight from the freezer. A few too many and stomach cramps beg for some nourishment, so we gravitate to a local place for chicken on the bone curry with rice. Eating with hands is messy work and almost as silly as using those wooden pointy things, but it's custom so I'm happy to give it a bash.


Rent a motorbike for a few quid less than in Langkawi and head off around the island for some great sights. Highlights include simply traversing the mainland-connecting bridge and back, the Lek Kok Si's enormous devotion to a multitude of differing worshipers and the largest goddess of mercy I've seen yet. With such grandiose square metre-age, several gigantic tat shops are difficult not to spend time browsing through. And along with the tram to gravitate your bone-idle legs to the top, a demonstration of the mainland chinese's devotion to religion (they paid for most of it).


Watch your step should you decide to visit the sight of a Japanese victory at the SE tip of the island. The war museum is decidedly slippery footing and also points a large finger toward the collective war crimes committed by crazed Samurai wielding fetishists. As the world’s “largest live museum”, it certainly gives you a feel for what it must have been like to soil pants and blow additional hole in eardrum each time you popped a cap in the “monster gun”; a 24-inch calibre anti-planet cannon, scuttled along with the other battery placements by the retreating British. Motorbike fans will enjoy the windy road of potential twisted and mangled limbs heading to the night market that is Pasar Malam, where Star Trek writers clearly experienced the joys of bartering and utilised the road name for an alien race; Batu Ferringhi. A heavy downpour meant a two hour wait to attempt the journey back, but watch your step if you carry a pillion passenger as it’s pretty tricky going. If you’re after some bling, take a stroll along the gold street to drop jaws at all the patrolling security guards, then realise that yes, it is indeed real and loaded.

For all intents and purposes this small drop in the ocean may as well be a separate country – it's nothing like mainland Malaysia, more laid back than the useless island of boredom to the north and cheaper than both. With ferry services to and from Thailand's southern islands, it's difficult not to recommend this island wholeheartedly. It was definitely worth throwing up twice on the ferry crossing to visit.

Where's all the bars at?

Little sleep on the train thinking about double coral and I pass out on the ferry crossing. An hour and a half go by and not even the rough waters disturb me. Your body will sleep when it needs to; don't you worry. Yawn.

Langkawi Island has no public transport; so it's either taxis to cover ground, or moped rental. Like the filling of a BLT, the island is sandwiched between Thailand and Malaysia. I just wish the former had ownership rather than the latter, for one day in and I'm about as excited as baseball fan must be watching a 5-day test match. It's expensive too; Thailand is generally around 4-5 quid for a moped – here it's 9. Over a barrel, I bite for a 2-day rental so I can look at the islands many... yawn... Attrac... yawn... tions.

Sadly there's not that much to pick from. The cable-car with a 41 degree climb to 700m in altitude elevates to a suspension bridge that wobbles in the wind. I'm more interested in how it was constructed than the views; views, schmiews. Where's the directors commentary on this bit of engineering ingenuity; nowhere to be seen. It’s always the engineers that get left out; the posters proclaim incredible views but say nothing of the intelligence behind its design. A thankless job.


Much like two days would easily cover KL; one day would do it here. It's also low season, which doesn't help, but with beaches completely abandoned by locals (either working, or not permitted to sunbath – burkas don't really aid a tan now do they), it's a little lonely on the many sands dotted around the coast. The "black sand beach" has a silly legend to explain the dark colouration, so stop off and enjoy the tale. Another site of interest is a ludicrously placed resort; almost dead centre on the highest point of the island.

Constructed by an oil tycoon with too much money, too little sense and a self-belief of gargantuan proportions; the locale features everything a resort should, and a tower to elevate you to 900m for some more... yawn... views. It's along a 12k winding road that takes at least 30 minutes to safely cover and increases in altitude linearly. The new PR manager insists there will be scores of queuing punters waiting to book the resort, come high season and with his input. With a further 20k to any nearby town or site of vague interest, one thing is desperately clear; he's new.

Two very friendly and fluent locals in the Starf*cks scribbled some nightlife areas on my map, so I'm heading there by two-wheeled petrol-propulsion. They both laughed as I strolled in and poised for a moment, before asking "Hey. So where's all the bars at?!" It's looking cloudy on the horizon and with a grunt to myself I feel a tickle on my top lip; the rain cometh. I'd forgotten just how hard it can be in SE Asia, and as a few minutes pass it's gone from a mild irritant to a full-scale downpour. I'd stop and wait it out if I wasn't such a stubborn sod; my thinking being that it would pass and at speed the wind will dry me quickly. Passing by the many mosques I’m impressed at the sheer density of megaphone-equipped structures broadcasting their wailing to anyone trying to eat, sleep, watch the telly or perhaps – write a blog. There’s one about every 500 metres; no wonder I can’t find a bar.

The strip I have marked has bled in to a mess of blue ink, but having found my way and with expectations of something like Ao Nang; I'm disappointed to find the following: A sports bar - closed, an Irish bar - empty, many restaurants - grossly expensive, an aquarium - yawn and a breakfast bar - with one couple.

One thing that does seem to attract punters is the lure of "duty free" shopping. And with at least four "megamalls" (proportionally large for the size of island, but nothing compared to a major city), offering all manner of items, I manage to pick up some warmer clothes for New Zealand. At four quid for a top and eight for some combats though, I'm fairly certain Primark isn’t far off.

A day-trip at best, I'm glad to be departing for the namesake of one of my most favourite dishes of the area; Penang Island. I hear the nightlife is better, sights more cultural and historical (due to the original settlers), and it’s easier to get around; excellent. I hope I make it in one piece – the waters are decidedly rough today and the captain is doing a sterling job making this three hour crossing as painful as it could possibly be. I'm sure I won't be sleeping through it and daren't offer my stomach anything to work at.

Pants

OK so it's a little like Thailand, perhaps somewhat similar; the roads, stalls and fauna are roughly the same. But the similarities end there; it ain't the smiling, welcoming, fun, extrovert bordering country that I loved so much. I’m reminded a little of Bahrain – you can feel the British scar left over, see the infrastructure foundations that were laid and experience the jolly good spots the officers used to sip brandy and smoke pipes in. What you won't find is a great deal to occupy your time. I'm bored; for the first time in 7 months I've become a facebook regular and it's clear as to what the cause of this affliction is.

North across the border is an insatiable appetite for new and interesting things to get the farang punters spending money on. And it's done well, possibly the best in the region in fact. Here the governing faith means bars are almost non-existent, with clubs the preferred method to cater for foreigners due to their inherent seclusion (I've yet to discover the Malay name for my kind), which is great if you fancy a boogie but utter pants if you just want to grab a GnT and prop the bar up whilst chatting to randoms. So instead it focuses squarely towards families and couples, offering countless shops, eateries and stalls selling possibly the best forges I've yet seen (the guy flushed red as I complimented him on the quality of the fakes). And this has a couple of slight issues for solo travellers; boredom and lack of social muscle exercise.

Hang on a minute whilst I wait for the morning singing (or praying or wailing, chanting, moaning - however you want to refer to it), to finish; it's completely buggered my train of thought.

Ah that's right; Bahrain. It's the same there. And while I've yet to find the seedy area where so-called devout Muslims head to enjoy such pastimes as homosexuality, drinking, drugs, prostitution and any other vice you care to mention; I'm sure one exists. I'm determined to find it too; for I refuse to believe that any Muslim country is free of such recreational behaviour. Let's be honest, it's simply something to do, and with little else allowed than shopping, eating and gorging once more that day – ensuring your burka doesn't fit anymore due to gut protrusion, and your beard needs another few inches to hide the latest addition to chin count – I'm convinced the reason for any crazed "fundies" having such anger is simply due to frustrated boredom.

The wailing is still going on; Jesus, bring me the Chinese cat-strangling any day. Not really, that's a little harsh; they're equally as torturous.

Apparently one day we will all be the same shade of brown, don the same eye pigmentation, hair colour, nose shape and cheek-bone structure. Until this day of incredible tedium and indifference arrives, Malaysia is the perfect place to see what eventual globalisation will look like; people varying from dark southern Indian, through to fairer northern and eastern Indian, right the way through to positively pale Asian – and everything in-between – makes for the most multicultural place I've seen yet. I do wonder how the differing races and religions fit in with each other; how much friction and internal conflict there may be and how accepting each clique is of one another.

I'm heading on the train to Alor Setar, which is surprisingly clean, well maintained and more comfy than the Thai equivalent. The beds are wider, the linen whiter, toilets smarter – perhaps the carriages are simply newer, but it's possibly the nicest and cheapest train ride so far; a tenner to take me there and accommodation included, bargain.

Alor Setar is 11k from the jetty. Taxi drivers have swarmed the small car park; "Langkawi, Langkawi! 25!" they shout. I know there's a bus though, but have little clue where it might go from. Following a mixture of locals, my nose and instinct; after 2k I decide to ask someone. This someone ends up being a graciously helpful and considerate young lad of stocky build (perfect for rugby), with a blue paper in his hand. Directing me to the stop, he ensures I board the correct bus and proceeds to explain how Malaysians are untrustworthy; having had his moped stolen the night before and taking his police report for stamping. "Don't take taxi. They will stop car and rob you", he warns sternly as he clocks my watch and tripod dangling from rucksack (note to self). The bus arrives and it's 1.50RM, stopping just metres from the pier - that's 30p versus a fiver. The sport of ripping off punters isn't lost here either, it seems. On to the island by ferry.

Paid a penny and only farted

3000km makes one hell of a difference. The flight was perfectly punctual and except for a brief moment of weightlessness caused by some turbulence, easy to sleep with all three seats to myself. It’s the little things that make me smile; 7-11s dotted everywhere and selling bread; brown bread with chicken inside. I know I should be eating local cuisine, but I was beginning to consider prostitution in return for some wholemeal goodness. Coupled with Cadbury’s chocolate and the endorphins released are probably comparable to cooking up some Heroin.

The information desk at the airport was as helpful as any I’ve come across; so with 8RM shuttle bus ticket in hand it was an hour to Chinatown and a brief stroll along what appears to be the Khaosan Road of Kuala Lumpur – Jalan Petaling – to find Hostel. Or hotel, depending on where you book it. It’s a myriad of faces and races in this city; a nice mixture of Indian and Asian culture and fantastic grub as a result, even rivalling my beloved eatery Thailand. One pound fifty scores me a Chicken Chilli, rice and egg dish to die for. And with chopsticks firmly thrown out the window; consuming my delectable first meal of this country is made all the more joyous by the use of spoon and fork.



To the lake garden and bird park and a public toilet charges the equivalent of just 4 pence; providing toilet paper, a clean environment, western loos and most crucially – soap. It must be something to do with the British influence I’m sure; what with the roads about the same, huge oversized 3-pin mains plugs and the cars driving on the correct side of the road. Sadly as the rhyme of ages old goes I’m a little disappointed having paid a penny and only farted; still, it’s clear I aint in China no more. Can things keep on the up, I wonder and is this just temporary joy.

The sheer amount of tourists here coupled with history with “The Empire”, mean I’m not going to bother learning any Malay. Even though it’s phonetic and therefore plausible, there’s really no need. The local news rags are even written in my mother tongue; if it wasn’t for the climate I’d honestly think I was somewhere in the UK. That is, except for the extreme challenge in navigating by foot. Public transport here is a mash of overground, underground, non-interconnecting lines and hidden stations. Trying to navigate is about as frustrating as a chronic masterbator must find a double hand amputation; even with GPS watch and TomTom on iPhone and I’m still none the wiser.



Shopping malls aplenty beckon your wasteful nature, offering untold expensive luxuries from such giants as Harrods and Marks and Spencers; yes that’s right, MnS are here and prohibitively expensive to boot. Price seem strange to say the least; bags manufactured in nearby Vietnam are cheaper when shipped around the globe to the UK. Even electronics manufactured in the millions a few neighbouring countries down the road can be had for much less back home; yet Starfu*ks is strangely more reasonably priced.

To the rear of the KLCC mall behind the Petronas Towers and a 1.25k jogging track begs to be stomped for a few laps. It’s 5pm so I’d best get a move on; back to change and train out again. At 1.60RM for the monorail journey of 4 stops, it’s good value. Nine laps later and having seen some interesting sights along the track, I resolve to return the following night to capture some photons.

It’s been 7 months of Buddhism; with too many Temples to count, let alone name. Seven months of seeing the seemingly unrivalled influence of one curly-haired Indian dude (hence the curls on all the Buddha images). Seven months forgetting about other, more sinister ways of population-management; managing brainwashing and assimilation with the precision of a jack-booted German. South Korea made me angry with shouting singing idiots, hell bent on increasing their conversion stats and treating it much like a RPG addict treats levelling up. Though whilst a minor distraction and annoyance, it cannot compete with Islam’s followers.

Back in China and communism does a grand job in ensuring the population believes – whatever it wants them to believe – creating a nation of none-the-wiser but more crucially; none-the-interested in anything other than themselves. Here the same is true, but of the religion more than the government (indeed I suppose you could argue the two are one alike). Five minutes is all it took for the first person to approach and leaflet me; “No thanks”, I say after he asks “Muslim?” and sees my head shake a negative response. This is the first time in my puny existence that I have entered a Mosque – it ‘aint lookin’ great so far. Looking down the title “The One True God” headlines and as I chuckle to myself – scanning the area for nearest dustbin – I notice the looks from exiting males after what I guess is the last prayer of the day. It’s like being back in China; though here the looks are less of racism and clearly of hatred; squinting and looking me up and down, curling eyebrowns in to a snarl and double-taking does not for a welcome guest make. I’m happy to be here, wearing a deliberately permanent grin to both contrast with my fellow children of mother Earth and demonstrate my peaceful intentions of simple curiosity. The women that notice me are thankfully a few degrees warmer, smiling and nodding as they exit their own segregated room of prayer; having watched the projected image of their husbands in the room above (clearly men are vastly more important), say their respects.

But before I can extend tripod legs and lock them in place, I notice I’ve been shadowed by another individual, who seems to have required some time to work up the courage to communicate with this strange cleanly-shaved Caucasian; “Muslim?”, he queries and sighing I reply “No. I’m nothing.”

“Do you have five minutes, I would like to tell you about the trees and the heart.”
“I’m just taking some photos thanks.”
“So you are not of any religion?”
“Er, no. Like I said.”
“Have you read the Qur’an? I would like to talk to you for just 5 minutes.”
“I’m happy to talk to you, but not about religion.”

And completely ignoring my words he proceeds to engage in explaining why his religion is the only “true” one; why God is a Man – and most certainly not a Woman – how I will come to know “peace” through reading simple words on paper and how if everyone was Muslim – there wouldn’t be any fighting. Perhaps he will gain one virgin for each converted soul he destroys and just needs one more to level-up. Such incredible open-mindedness, understanding and accepting nature makes for stimulating intellectual conversation. So I’ll move on and pray to Allah that I find more accepting people of this clearly wonderful and joyous faith, in other places of worship; we live in hope.

The Batu Caves deserves a visit; there’s little else to do here after all. It’s a Metro 11 bus journey away and passing by schools – where children are sat outside waiting for transport – very easy to see segregation as the hijab cliques circle around, ignoring the children of other faiths. Whilst China has the option to evolve and change its attitudes toward non-Chinese through its youth; sadly I don’t see this mentality changing anytime soon.

It’s not difficult to miss; the giant image of Buddha dominates the area making it very easy to locate, despite the winding back-roads route the bus takes. Whilst I’m sure the image is a modern addition, it’s free to visit and the numerous monkeys fingering, grabbing and frolicking are at least more interesting to look at than the random statues. Only two hours killed – damn, looks like I’ll be procrastinating in a café until my overnight train this evening.


Kuala Lumpur; dull, in a nutshell. Great if you’ve a family of spoiled-rotten shitbags wanting to pick up fake designer-label attire to show off to friends during their Summer holiday from school; pants as a solo backpacker interested in culture and meeting people. Of the culture that does emanate, you can see it all in two days and be done. I think the initial elation has vanished; Thailand definitely holds all the trump cards on Malaysia.

The special menu

Hot pots; definitely one of my favourite ways to dine with friends in China. It adds something to the meal – instead of gassing about bullshit for hours on end, there’s something to do. I quite enjoy stirring the pot, mulling over the meat, adding ingredients and ensuring it’s cooked thoroughly; I guess you could say I’m a control freak. My last night in Guilin before flying to Malaysia’s capital and the five of us are sharing food to die for; the hot pot contains spices, herbs and oils that generate salivation whilst we all wait patiently in anticipation for the King Prawns, Squid, Mussels and fish to simmer. It’s a little like stoking the fire, or becoming fixated on the telly – us three men sat staring as the steam cancels the nearby air-conditioning whilst it boils away.

Fear not fellow chopstick despisers, for spoons are provided – even a ladle for stirring and extracting tasty morsels. And after a brief while, it’s ready for devouring. At 65 Yuan, it’s pretty good value and enough to feed our party of five, especially with the included rice to soak up the soup remaining in your bowl. I’m happiest when well rested, having run and well fed; so today is a great day on all three counts, sadly spoiled by the last 15 minutes in the restaurant.

Two Western faces enter and are promptly directed to a table and given a blue menu. I’m confused; ours was red and had no English on it – perhaps they simply ran out of red paper. I think I’ll offer some help; I have a fluent English speaker sat next to me after all. The couple are surrounded by three waitresses, all struggling to help them decide what to order, but looking down at their blue paper the dishes are completely different from our choices of earlier. More confusion befits me; we ask the waitress why they have a different menu and are greeted by a rapidly approaching woman of managerial appearance. “We will only serve them that food, not anything from the other menu”, she says disdainfully; “What? But they’re our friends – “, we lie attempting to help “– why can’t they have what we had?”, we retort. As it happens, the one dish that is available is a single hot pot; though it’s strangely inflated by 50% on the special menu. Growing more angry at this disgraceful attitude towards non-Chinese, we query further ; but it’s futile. Disgusted, the couple leaves. And exiting I notice five Westerners eyeing the restaurant up outside – it’s only fair I give them a heads-up to the practices within. That’s seven customers lost; hardly good business practice and yet utterly typical in China. My advice if you want to see the country: Befriend a local, it truly is the only way.

My last few weeks in China spent hanging around with friends in Guilin and Yangshuo, renting bikes, running, eating (a considerable amount), and I feel truly on holiday. It’s a nice bit of RnR before being exposed to extreme heat and humidity once more in Malaysia and Singapore. My friends throughout China have all been so gracious, generous and warm; the tide of younger generations is certainly causing a turn here, albeit at a snail’s pace. Though as I peer from the window at the two waving runway attendants wishing us safe journey, I’m left feeling somewhat depressed. It’s been a two month battle of attrition with China resulting in no clear winner. What remains, however, is the friendships and memories of overcoming all the obstructions, rip-offs, scams, lack of hygiene and queues; something that will probably stay with me forever: Good times.

Trains from hell

It's been two days of consecutive train journeys. Having departed Lijiang and stopped off en route to Guilin in Kunming, this K156 is 15 hours in to it's 25 hour slog. That makes it exactly 2:08am and with yesterday's 7 hour drop in altitude of 400m ending up as 11.5 hours; it’s fair to say I’ve served some porridge on these metal sloths. I'm awake as I have to monitor any movement of bowel with extreme care so as to maintain boxer short integrity. Presently, the judges gave the first 3-day round of toilet-repetition to me, though I hope this second round ends in a KO one way or the other. You know you have gastro-entiritus when:

• A twelve pack of tissues lasts half the number of hours.
• The train attendant looks at you suspiciously as you enter the toilet for the fifth time that hour.
• A midget seems to be wedged in between your brain and forehead struggling to get out.
• Each burp is actually able to peel paint, disintegrate the bed linen or instantly rust metal.
• When your stomach groans you reach for the nearest container and poise head, instead of ringing the local takeaway.
• One minute your eyes are closed, the next you're fighting a red-eyed potato whilst ascending a spaghetti-fashioned ladder, the next you're staring at a sweat-soaked pillow.
• Your abs have suddenly gone from a flabby mass of unused fat in to a ripped six-pack.
• A dry mouth becomes saviour from another toilet visit, regardless of the urge to drink.
• Regardless of the fifty pound note's proximity, there's no way you're getting up to get it; perhaps missus will though.
• Risking a fart could mean the difference between a humorous noise and creating a makeshift nappy.

I could go on, suffice to say it's an expected part of travelling in Asia. What makes for more interesting material is surely the types of strange, weird and wonderful fellow passengers you will come across when sharing cabin or carriage space. In front of me on the upper berth asleep, is a strange old gent who occasionally appears to be chewing; nothing. Each motion and the sound of grinding rubber fills the room and drowns out even my earbuds. I'm guessing they're dentures as otherwise there's little chance of any nashers being in place come sunrise.

It's been an interesting route through China; I've zigzagged my way across almost everywhere I ever wanted to see and more. Beijing to Xi'An, then Shanghai and on to Xiamen, before Zhangjiajie and the small town of Phoenix (Fenghuang), back to Guangzhou for a Visa run and a long haul to Kunming to traverse the West tourist trap of Dali, Lijiang and Shangri La and finally all the way back to Guilin and a last visit to Yangshuo to relax. I'm annoyed to have missed Shangri La and the Tiger leaping gorge, though the former had it's only monastery closed for renovation and a hefty park entrance fee and the latter is simply a hiking trail that can't compete with Hualien.

Throughout my journey I've needed to go toe-to-toe with each and every ticket clerk when asking for a seat. The mentality is a complete mystery, for every time I or we have asked it's always the same answer; "Meiyoh. No seats". Why have people serve this job when a simple red cross permanently displayed at the ticket counter would suffice and cost far less per hour. For the nine train journeys I've taken, not a single one has managed to produce a ticket on first questioning; I've had to lie, slam fists, shout and swear, demand to see the manager and verbally abuse the staff to extract an elusive train ticket. What is the game here and what possible purpose could it have, I wonder. One train that apparently had "no seats" and I had the entire cabin to myself; another had nothing available for 8 days until I angrily questioned "What the F*CK?" and was suddenly given the option of a soft sleeper the following morning. Making life difficult seems to be the game, with points scored for turning away each customer perhaps. I guess that question will forever remain unanswered.

What has been answered in unequivocal form is that the best way to navigate China is by air and not land; funds permitting. It's enormous, gigantic and overbearing in size and would probably take a further two months to see it all. Not that I want to, as I'm happy to have seen enough of the place to form an opinion, of which I am sure I have eluded to in posts past. Simply put; except for Xiamen, I wouldn't visit or recommend it in a hurry. Just over one hour has passed and I've gravitated outside the cabin in to the hallway for some less recycled air. And in just over a month I'll have three weeks to wrap up my tour of Asia before smashing and utterly obliterating the language barrier, which I'm thoroughly looking forward to.

-----

7.29 the following morning

Startled by the dulcet tones of traditional Chinese cat-strangling, my headphones simply can't compete with such infernal noise; it's the perfect testing ground for noise-cancelling cans. Five train staff pass by, three more, four more; it's an exodus. They're all carrying standard issue tin pots for breakfast on car 6; the dining cart and hang out of blue-uniformed useless males.

Yesterday having found cabin, first course of action on the list is to locate the volume control and press mute, or dial it down to minus-infinity – there go two more staff, another three – peace and quiet is sanctity after all. Sadly the panel refused to function, randomly increasing in volume until my fingers rolled to become part of fists trying to get the thing to work. I'll go ask one of the staff to take a look; she tries all three buttons, shrugs and departs. In fact in total, no less than eight different people pressed those three buttons and then left; geniuses the lot of them. I know it's broken – two more staff – that much is quite clear, so I’ll dismantle the unit myself. Two screws removed and sadly the feed to the rear is supplied by 3mm cables; it’s probably 220V like the rest of the train – I was hoping for harmless 5V so back together again it goes and earbuds are replaced.

With three hours remaining, my penultimate train journey is coming to a close and rubber-teeth man is finally awake; one less noise to contend with. Soon the familiar city of Guilin will be my stomping grounds once more and to say I’m looking forward to it is an understatement. I think I’m finally empty; there’s nothing left in me and good timing too – we’re just pulling in.

What protection fee?

Arriving in Lijiang and it’s wall-to-wall humans; I think the entire population of China has descended upon this small town for such purposes of tourism as: Purchase of useless tat, giving money to the many singing children on the streets, drinking Coffee more expensive than London and adorning long “Tai Die” skirts sold by the truck load. It’s a tourist trap of similar magnitude to the earthquake that caused so much devastation just over a decade ago. Take the fees for attractions for example; if you want to visit anything even vaguely historic, including a pinch of culture or effervescing scenery – an 80 Yuan “Protection fee” is required. Precisely what for is dubious, when considering the unabashed inflated prices (50pence for a Yunnan coffee in Dali versus £3.80 here), and additional entrance fees for all sights on offer. No other “historical” city has such a fee, either.

And with five fluent Mandarin speakers on tap, so it was that we managed to dodge this fee of nonsense and visit every attraction free of charge: Except for the last, which I will detail for everyone else on the planet to read and avoid the 15 Yuan we each paid to two local ladies for assistance getting in. The British wheeler-dealer in me loves getting sommat for nuffink, or finding something not nailed down, so I’m ‘avin’ it and I couldn’t help but grin ear-to-ear after we’d successfully navigated the barbed-wire, slippery muddy floor and dodged patrolling guards to enter the Black Dragon Lake for free.

If you really want to go then here’s how, but before you do you’ll need some equipment:

1. GPS Device of some description (something that can locate to within 10m and will accept coordinates as way points, or you can look it up on Google Earth)
2. Hiking boots or at least something with grip (sandals/flip-flops won’t cut it)
3. Good timing and patience

Here are the way points you’ll need – in order – to skip past ticket checking:

1. 26°53.529, 100°13.873
2. 26°53.559, 100°13.914
3. 26°53.475, 100°13.941
4. 26°53.480, 100°13.957
5. 26°53.449, 100°13.981
6. 26°53.430, 100°13.979

The ladies that escorted us took half of the group straight in, but with some of us not even remotely resembling locals (all permitted free entrance), we were forced to nip around back and duck under pre-cut and opened barbed-wire. I’d already started chuckling by this point, though having rained most of the night and morning, the ground under foot was particularly slippery and as Byron fell flat on his arse leaving a brown mark of hilarity, the guide struggled to silence my laughter. With the path used so regularly that the ticket point at the South of the Lake (more of a large Pond really), almost pointless, it’s an idea to tread carefully and keep low and quiet. Once you’re ready to pass through the second barbed wire point, ensure you’ve crept up to it unnoticed as guards do patrol; skip through at whichever opportunity you find.



If asked where your ticket is here’s the trick; make the Black Pond your last stop of the day. Visit Baisha village and Suhe first (neither requiring the protection fee either), take some pictures and display them as evidence for the fee, and simply say you’ve lost or already disposed of your stub. With so much scamming directed towards me of the last two months, I’ve a strangely elated feeling giving the Chinese some of their own medicine. That’s how we do.

Herding cats

Dali

I think I’d make a good drill Sergeant. My company of 6 seem to have made me a surrogate tour group leader-come-drill instructor. I don’t mind, but with an hour of discussion and no positive conclusion made, it’s a little like herding cats.


Sat watching the five sat around speaking in Mandarin, I’m reminded of the Ents of Lord of The Rings; and whilst the communication is at a far higher frequency, the speed at which any decision is made is about the same. After half an hour I ask if any conclusion has been made – for I’ve given up at this point – and “no not yet” is the reply. I’ll check my email then instead and have a flick through websites; another thirty minutes pass and I repeat the question – “I think we should take the car”. “Great!”, I say, but in actuality that was one of only two options on offer; the other being written off several hours earlier due to cost. “That’s what I’d been saying all along?”, I add and with a few nervous laughs in retort. I’m convinced that it’s easier for me simply to take charge.



And off in the minivan we head the following day around the Erhai Lake, to visit an agreed 4 points of interest, but not before everyone has spent almost two hours deciding which food to order for lunch and too much time picking individual items up with chopsticks. I feel like handing out spoons so they can shovel it in faster, or giving out Speed, Charlie or double Espressos; anything to get a bleedin’ move on! The driver arrives, though as soon the clutch reaches biting point, a price inflation occurs and no one bats an eyelid; until I ask for a translation. “What?!”, I say and shout “Stop the f*cking car, now!”, in his general direction. He takes us around the block and back to the hotel, wasting a further 30 minutes of the day whilst we wait for a new driver. How many people do I trust in China? Precisely two.



To the lake and it’s a bumpy road every revolution of the worn tyres. I’m amazed our little toy minivan is able to withstand the punishment; it’s also been raining heavily the night before and with large puddles deep enough to flood the engine; a miracle we make it to the first point of interest. At 50Y a head to enter, instantly I’m asking why it’s 5 times more than the quoted price of Wikitravel and why so many people are walking straight by without paying. Some translating and it takes a brief amount of time for me to realise the driver’s intentions are uncouth; one shouting woman from our group in each of his ears and a few minutes is all he can take; we’re taken to the correct place.


Much like any tourist attraction in China; it’s dogged by scammers, con-artists, dodgy people and rip-off merchants. So be careful and be prepared to stand your ground; many travellers I’ve met are reluctant to admit to scams they’ve fallen victim for, handing over hundreds of Yuan for precisely nowt and yet later complaining and moaning about it on the internet in droves. People like that give sensible flashpackers a bad name, simply perpetuating the swindlers. And with many European countries having polite attitudes accompanying their innocent un-scammed disposition, it’s no wonder they get taken for rides. Realise where you’re going first before booking the flight.



The following day and a plan to follow the nearby mountain trail is put in to motion. With thunderstorms forecast it’s not looking too hopeful, though with only relatively light rain all day we all decide to head off. The start of the route and a Cable car elevates us to 2,800m in altitude, which is then followed by a 10.2k hike along a windy and slippery paved path to the chair lift back down. With this much rain, I’m happy to say my recruits did me proud; keeping up with my marching pace all the way and not complaining once of their drenched clothing, soggy feet or aching untrained muscles. It’s a great trek and whilst utterly tarnished by the presence of terrible weather conditions coupled with the fear of death from so many lost souls, a challenge we were all happy to have completed.

Hiking around the Zhonghesi Mountain

Our final day in Dali and we’re catching the bus to Lijiang, where the luxury coach bumps and rattles our gluteus maximus in to a soft putty. Sod’s law strikes again; the weather is perfect today. It seems to be a running theme of travelling; every time I decide to travel, commuting to another city or country, does the weather become perfect. I think I’ll come back and view some more sights, Dali is far better than Yangshuo and cheaper to boot. Number three in my list of favourite cities in China, I’m enamoured by the area; having paid just 32Y for a steak, egg and chips meal so good that I was heard comparing it to fornication, 4Y for a 640ml bottle of Dali beer, and a hotel room as good as any I’ve stayed in for 80Y each night.