We’re in the passion of Chile. Demonstrative couples snog on park benches, the metro, in supermarkets. Wherever, whenever, oblivious, in enjoyment. Elderly couples hand in hand, stroll, nodding good day. Dogs roam freely, alert for food and attention.

Life here has a pace without urgency or pretention. It is for living and showing it. I feel welcomed and safe. I like the Chileans, they’re warm, sensual, proud of their thin, five thousand kilometer long country and their heritage.

We arrived in Santiago in hot sun, the light smog lifting from the nearby towering snowcapped Andes as late afternoon turned to evening. We rode the funicular high onto Cerro San Cristobal to take in the vast sprawling city, a white beatific Mary towering still higher over us.

We have less than a month before we return to England so time is pressured to cover this enormous continent. Already I know we will not do it justice this time.

Two days later we took a sixteen hour bus journey, a thousand kilometres further south to Puerto Montt, the capital of the Lake Region, Los Lagos.

At eleven pm we arrived at Casa Perla.

Perla herself greeted us in pajamas and dressing gown. Round, short, late sixties, cropped straight brown hair, white smile, and two dark eyes, neither of which pointed straight, she surveyed us and kindly announced we had booked incorrectly. We needed a twin not a double!

For fear of being turfed into the ill lit catholic streets, homeless, neither of us took the opportunity to correct her. We slept soundly in our single beds, piled high with eiderdowns, wool blankets and crocheted throws. Cold is the climate.

On the edge of the Chilean Fjords, the huge deep, still Lakes and the southern Pacific, fish and shellfish are the diet. We gorged one lunch time at the bustling fish market on fresh grilled salmon and huge, hairy steamed mussels. The latter disagreeing with me.

Huge snow laden dormant volcanoes look down on the lakes, their melt waters feeding ferocious rapids. The scenery is dramatic, the sky compressed, lower still. The majestic Andes always present.

Circling birds of prey, Kingfishers and Cormorants are common. By the side of a freezing torrent, Giles spotted a bush in bloom, three humming birds, hovering in blue, feeding.

In need of speed we flew a further two thousand kilometers to Punta Arenas, recently deluged and devastated by mud and water from the swollen river. We lodged at Hostal Betty.

Betty, late thirties, dressed in heels, tight, half mast faded jeans, striped socks, and virulent blue jumper, phone at her ear, greeted us casually as though old acquaintances.

Completely in Spanish, so mine is improving daily, she informed us that, Muss her beloved dog had gone missing during carnivals in July and Mona her cat had been swept away in the floods. The relevance being that these are the names of the Wifi network and password!

Betty never questioned our request for a ‘cama matrimonial’. Down to earth she and her assistant Jimena considered us friends, to the point of exclaiming our gloves were ‘feo y sinteticos’ ugly and synthetic. My response, ‘cheap, 1000 pesos’ (£1.50).

Even colder here, close to Tierra del Fuego and Antarctica, our ugly gloves are our friends.

We’ve spent the last three days relaxing in the small town of Puerto Natales. Tomorrow we cross to Argentina, to El Calafate to meet our friends Tony, Bianca and Lewis

The journey continues.

I’ve been lax at writing. I’ve been busy. I’ve been silent.

We booked to join a Vipassana Meditation course in Kaukapakapa on the west coast of the North Island, New Zealand. Ten days of meditation, nine in silence.

Within ten minutes of arriving, Giles who had volunteered to “serve” during the retreat, had been handed the mantle of “cook”. Responsible for the stomachs of seventy people. Helpers were at hand but thin on the ground, his retreat had started.

At six pm, we, segregated male and female retreatants, were served a light meal of soup and herbed bread.

At 8pm we entered the meditation hall and silence began. No eye contact, no gesturing, no writing, no reading, no speaking. Feet soon became my fascination.

Ten days revealed to me my mind. I need detail, labels, specifics.

Within two days I had worked out the names of the eight men sat in the two neat rows before me. Pride in my honed sleuthing skills gave me comfort and purpose.

I retained the names of three men I had shared our final speaking meal with. I noted the names of a further three men as they were called to their places in the hall, before me that first night. Two men left their place name labels in my view and finally, two were called by name to kneel before the Male assistant teacher for instruction.

The men beside me and behind me, eleven in all, I allocated various nicknames, derived from overheard conversations pre silence, or their appearance.

By day four I could identify the shoes of “Chilean”, “Dutch”, “Him”, “Smiley”, “Buster” and “Bali” along with several others.

I took great pleasure in identifying the shoes of who had arrived at the hall before me each day. I felt disproportionate irritation when “Mike the Monk” decided to go barefoot.

I could identify the feet of men occupying the two sit down loos. I knew the ones I had to beat as they lingered too long and our bowels seemed to be in synchrony.

These things are important.

One evening I arrived at the hall after Giles. I left my flipflops resting on his. An allowed show of affection I reasoned. He returned the signal next sitting. I sniggered out loud, but softly, at our covert audacity.

Another time I “borrowed” his flipflops. Then worried that they were not his. This latest action was a distraction I did not need from the job at hand. Meditation. Training the mind. Concentration and focus.

Our schedule was grueling. A wake up bell at four am. Sitting in meditation for two hours until breakfast. Our last meal of the day, after a morning totaling five hours of sitting, was at eleven am.

At nine pm, after ten hours of sitting, an hours video discourse, two meals and a fruit break, my day ended delightedly, horizontally in bed, in my own room and a secret stash of lightly roasted almonds.

One day I had counted them furtively on my bed. I needed to know. Thirty six almonds a day is a lot. I relaxed.

Intense discomfort and the search for the ideal sitting position also preoccupied me. Discomfort was a problem.

By day six I had a fine array of blankets and cushions at hand and I noted my comrades similarity. By day six most of us had established our makeshift scaffolding.

Day eight was my worst, only two days to go, yet freedom seemed far. I wanted to scream. My mind ran images endlessly. I revisited many many faces from the past, the far past. Long forgotten and unmissed school acquantances, neighbours, landladies, friends, loves, crushes. I registered disinterest and surprise. Revamped old arguments. Won some, lost some, re filmed them and dismissed them.

I became intensely bored and uncomfortable. Pain set in between my shoulder blades and I felt petulant, greeting in my mind, people as they arrived in the hall.

“How you doing today female teaching assistant (I never discovered her name), nice shade of grey you’re sporting today”

“Hey Mike, nice shawl, too orange for my liking though”

“looking tasty today Chilean, fancy an empanada sometime”

I sweated and I fought my mind back to the task and sought a meeting with “male teaching assistant” (later to be revealed as Andrew)

He told me it was normal, a sign I’d been working. Hard. I returned to the cushion and my work, reassured. In my mind I unpacked my bag and remembered my almond reward.

Giles and his team fed us grandly and I savoured the home baked bread, daily vegetarian delight they served and company, people to watch. Eating, overeating, internal, oblivious to my eye for habit and mannerism.

Often last to finish after second helpings I was always disappointed that my co-meditators had all left after a mere twenty minutes. A missed opportunity I considered, to observe something other than our breath and body sensations.

I loved eating, a distraction to be enjoyed, a meditation in itself. Daily I enjoyed a bowl of porridge with honey then toasted and buttered three fine slices of freshly baked sourdough bread with Marmite and tahini. “Dutch” sometimes had six slices of processed white toast. I had to be quick as he was uncensored on his use of the rationed butter. I’m not a marg man

These things are important too.

Intense and fascinating, I will repeat the experience again. I’m a perfectionist I discovered, so my mind must be tamed.

Day eleven. We left at nine am and Giles and I hit Auckland and a 5Rhythms class. There is beauty in movement too and a stilling of the mind. I needed that to arrive back in the world.

We had lunch alone, spoke (my voice hoarse from underuse) and feasted on each others words then caught the ferry back to Waiheke Island. To the peaceful, understanding sanctuary of our friends Sasha, Neal and Tula.

My mind is a mystery.

We’re on the North Island. Exploring, following our noses.

Wellington to Napier, an Art Deco town rebuilt after a devastating earthquake in the nineteen thirties, then on to the Bay of Plenty.

Descending a valley between Taupo and Rotorua we found a campsite surrounded by shifting warm cloud.

It sits next to the source of a hot river. An endless, timeless reservoir gushing to the surface, forty litres a minute, ninety eight degrees centigrade. The mineral rich water hits the air, turns to steam and bathes everything in hot cloud obscuring the valley and the rivers course.

The earths crust is thin, the tectonic plates active and you know it. Sulphurous mud pools abound and occasionally you encounter a hot stream to sweat in and absorb the riches. Hours passed, meditating, relaxing.

I’m astounded daily by the diversity of this country. One minute mountains and geysers, the next long long beaches, pounding surf, and nearby islands spurting plumes of vapour.

Near Opotiki we walked along a white sandy beach, blue skies flecked with cloud, to a river spit. A fisherman stood by the bank, his horse grazing from a bag. They galloped past on our return, blanket for a saddle, catch slung over his shoulder. White mane flowing, thundering hooves, sand in the air. Ageless and free.

I’m sat now in the recreation room of a naturist campsite. There is a small tattooed builder from the English Lakes playing pool. He has a Prince Albert piercing. I notice there is more to take care of when playing naked. He’s managing well.

I’m fascinated.

I’m not one for casually stripping. I was brought up clothed. The nakedness of my parents a mystery. Taboo.

We arrived yesterday and decided to “tick a box” – something we had done. I took a breath and dived. Now, eighteen hours later, my nakedness is becoming ordinary.

I’m still fascinated.

Last night a short, but large bosomed lady, in her late sixties, named Gill, enlightened us on how to cook our flounder. She wobbled dramatically, all over, as she beheaded the fish and bustled around for cookware. Her large breasts, she occasionally jostled with her arms, all but entered the frying pan along with the catch. She joined us for the meal, with beer, and a slightly lewd eye for Giles.

Back at the van I notice a large meaty motorbike has arrived and pitched tent next to us. The couple, both well endowed, in their fifties, are inflating air beds, Presumably they look very different in leathers.

Alistair, in his seventies, a resident for four years since his wife died, is hairless, paunched and knowledgeable. He spends hours in the sauna and is assuredly cooked.

Kevin and Joan own and run the place. Joan was full frontal in her living room window when we arrived. Pert ,I’d say, for seventy.

Kevin, white bearded, wrinkled and folded in many places, is jovial, helpful, unabashed and ready to sell. I encountered him this morning showing an Estate Agent the property, who, fully and immaculately dressed tried hard to look at ease.

I’m going to ask Prince Albert if he wants to challenge me at pool.

See you soon.

I’m sat by the van in a large, quiet, flat, camping field dotted with large green and white plastic bound circular hay bails. Inland are rolling green hills covered with tall shrub and occasional pine. The clouds move quickly, casting huge fast moving shadows on the slopes. The sun is strong. There is a myriad of bird song, some quite beautiful sonorous notes.

We are at the head of Kenapuru Sound in the north east of the South Island, an area of astonishing convoluted sea inlets. The wind is alternately fierce then calm. I hear it coming, fresh long blasts furiously buffeting the trees, grass and me, only a minute later it drops and the sound of waves lapping the shoreline takes over.

We are resting today, reading, sleeping, writing.

Yesterday we left Golden Bay and Farewell Spit where ninety or so Pilot Whales had beached on the shallow sand flats. The fourth beaching in a year.

The local radio called for volunteers. In the area, we responded and at seven thirty am a thick wheeled bus drove us seven kilometers along the sandy, low tide mud to the stranding site.

Twenty hours after they had beached, thirty were dead, twenty two swam out during the previous evenings high tide, leaving nearly forty in need of help.

I was directed towards two living whales, one baby, and one larger of unknown age or gender, about four metres long. They were surrounded by the dead, red tagged unfortunates, some nearly eight metres in length, lying on their sides, mouths open, showing teeth and the tell tale grey anchor shaped marking of the Pilot under the chin.

Their tiny, almost undetectable slit eyes closed, sleek black skin drying rapidly in the morning sun, we laid sheets over the living, constantly soaking them with buckets of cold sea water.

Strangely it seemed so ordinary to be kneeling by these huge mammals.

Every minute or so the blowhole opened and a gush of air was released, sometimes accompanied by a flick of it’s huge tail, and an attempt to arch it’s head upward.

Six of us rolled the larger one to horizontal, digging sand out to release its trapped fin. For nearly two hours we bathed them until the tide turned and we were ferried off site to allow the experienced and wet suited volunteers to encourage them to freedom.

The experience and image stays with me, vivid, forty eight hours after we left. Helpless, vulnerable and huge. Fascinating and mysterious. Yet again my eyes are opened.

I’ve been struggling to be in the present this past week, my mind turning to a UK return in April. Work, home, unknown.

The whales brought me right back to the moment, the future is unknown, enjoy what is now.

I have a sense of freedom here in New Zealand, different from elsewhere. No throngs of people. No insistence on spending. Just wide open spaces, untouched forest, towering peaks and rare internet.

We’re resting a night in Wanaka, showering, laundry, stocking up, before the next stage.

We’ve just returned from Fiordland and Milford Sound, where crystal clear lakes and rivers flow through rainforest. The New Zealand Beech trees drip with moss and lichen, standing next to ferns, succulents and the exotic. I understand why The Lord of the Rings was filmed here. It is ancient, stillness is very present, breathing and alive.

We woke chilled one morning to snow lying on surrounding mountains. The drive into Milford wintry and wild. Rain, sleet and snow alternately filling the summer skies making the northbound road more dramatic. Clouds descend and rise within minutes, the scenery changing in a flash.

On board a boat to the mouth of Milford Sound Fiord, the mountains dwarfed us. Rain cascading down the sheer slopes finds its way into a myriad of white veins, waterfalls tumbling into the dark watered Sound.

Seals slept on flat rocks seemingly basking in hail stones, the Tasman Sea swelling with the storm.

Bellbird, Kingfisher, Chaffinch, Swallows, Harrier, and duck are constant reminder that we are deep in nature. It is meditative and calm. We overnighted, no other campers in view, by the fast flowing clear Eglinton River, trout occasionally leaping from the water, the far bank littered with silvering sun bleached trunks swept ashore in some long gone high water. Sleep is deep and long and my bones feel rested.

Our only disturbance the last few days, female sandflies, eager for our blood and it’s protein.

It’s hard to describe the heavens here. The sky when clear is a vibrant, clean, refreshing blue. The clouds, dramatic, elongating, then forming into soft, powder white, wind tossed bundles or cirrus formations stretching wide and blankets hugging the mountains, hiding the peaks. The sky seems bigger, higher, translucent, full of impact. I could watch it for hours.

Today we leave for the west coast, heading northward.

Our Australia leg finished with two days in Sydney, where we caught the Manly ferry across the harbour, to a packed beach of board and body surfers followed by extraordinary Aboriginal art in the city centre. At five thirty am we bade my old friend Tim farewell, thanked him for his and Davids boundless hospitality and were whisked to the airport by a rotund and talkative Lebanese cab driver, who appraised us of house prices in Paramatta, a western suburb, and the delights of home cooking. Useful information or not, his jovial nature set us on our way in  good cheer.

We landed in Christchurch at eleven thirty am local time and by five that evening we were sipping wine in my friend Yvettes house in Ashburton, having travelled the ninety kilometers in our newly rented Campervan.

The legalities of renting the van included the discovery that Giles photocard drivers licence had expired a year ago, with mine to follow suit in less than three months. Both of us completely unaware that they ever would become out of date. Luckily they accepted an email scanned copy of the paper version which I’m proud to say was safe and pre uploaded on my phone. I knew efficiency would pay off.

Two nights with Yvette were nourishing and full. Neighbours and friends dropping by to give their advice on travel sights, camping do’s and don’ts and to appraise the poofs from England. We passed the test, were taken milking at five thirty am, given wine, fed and also engaged in the discussion of God. It’s all in the world of a traveler!

Night two there I woke at one am to what I thought was Yvette’s son crashing into a wall. Then the bed leaped and I sleepily realised there had been an earthquake. Confirmed in the morning as 5.1 on the Richter scale. No damage, we carry on.

The camper van is small, very small. In the campsites it is dwarfed by the luxurious four berth, indoor toilet varietes that are common. A Toyota LiteAce, expertly converted to include a minute kitchen, cooker sliding from under the bed/sofa and a cigarette lighter powered fridge box. The bed, says the website, measures a generous 1.04m by 1.9m, so sleeping, especially with a man of six foot three, is snug, and requires yet more efficiency and economy of movement. Two nights in and we have discovered old fashioned top and tailing. Luckily Giles fungal feet affliction is being administered the apparently failsafe apple cider vinegar cure!!!

I’m sat now at the open tailgate, kettle boiling, in a camping chair. We are overnighting near Omarama, in a free campsite, which are common. A secluded spot, willow trees overhang to give shade, next to us is a fast flowing stream, ten foot wide. The birds are singing, the breeze has dropped and it’s peaceful.

The stream meets a wider glacier fed river in which we stripped, dunked and washed an hour ago. Freezing and fortifying.

Earlier we walked to one of the regions glaciers, the Tasman. A ninety minute walk by winding, climbing, rough, rock road showing avalanche warnings led to a ridge where we spotted a group climbing high. We followed and found ourselves, ten minutes later, peering over a cliff to a milky blue lake dotted with icebergs and the massive glacier feeding it, groaning, cracking and shearing chunks as it edged it’s way imperceptibly downward. Astonishing and almost incomprehensible in its vastness.

It’s summer, the sun is strong, you can feel it burn, even through cloud. The mountains, snow capped, have swathes of purple foxglove on their lower slopes, lowland fields of wild lupins in purples and white with pine forests as their backdrop. Wide vast plains of gold grasses turn to silver in an instant as the wind bends and the sun lights them.

There are few people about.

Strange to realize we’re in another new country. Vastly different to anything we’ve seen so far.

Day 194 of our journey. I’ve neglected to write for two months. A lot to fill in, too much to say in one post, but worth a synopsis.

From Laos and flooded Bangkok I made my way via overnight train and boat to Koh Phangan in Southern Thailand.

The intention, to join Giles, regain my energy and continue onwards together.

Giles had been living in a primitive wooden hut on the beach whilst engaging in an intensive month long yoga course with Agama Yoga.

Intrigued after one free days taster and several evening lectures I suggested we change flights and plans, (the prerogative of ‘traveling’), and enrolled for the month Level 1 myself, Giles on Level 2.

We rented, for a pittance, a larger more luxurious home, with kitchen and hot shower. The coercion of my body into yogic bendiness began.

Intensive six day weeks were my routine. Yoga of the body and mind assisted by cleansing techniques, meditation and clean food shifted mood and health.

A fascinating, intense retreat into rediscovering my body and stillness, highlighted my resistance to change and ability to fall in and out of love with yoga and it’s profound teachings.

As each day passed and new postures were introduced, I alternated between jealousy, bliss, anger, joy and wonder. My judgement of others and their relative flexibility to my own, often knocking me off track from concentration.

The course ended, marked by voluntary performances. Surprising myself and apparently entertaining an appreciative audience, I offered up a parody of myself performing my least favourite  asana, the forward bend.

Via Bangkok  we returned to Bali.

After a brief two week fix of Balinese heartfulness we flew to Sydney.

As I write I am sitting in a friends house in the Hunter Valley, two hours north of Sydney, we have been here a week, since Christmas Eve.

Remote and beautiful, the valley’s slopes are forested with Eucalyptus of varying types. Monitor lizards and Goanna lazily climb a tree and exotic birds serenade us, flashing their bright plumage as they swoop through the bush. Bull frogs call out from hiding and the Cicadas set up their background call.

Intermittently the dogs alert us to the presence of nearby creatures, and occasionally we catch the aloof long legged Wallabies grazing nearby. Oblivious to the barking dogs they shy away from the camera, bounding gracefully out of sight.

We are relaxed and pampered here, Tim and David’s self built house and pool, affording us all the luxury, peace and seclusion for an intensely chilled Christmas in the sun.

The days are lazy. We are happy.

2012 has arrived eleven hours ahead of England and I feel the year will be full.

Up to date, more to tell, more to come.

Tired of miming requests, uncertain travel arrangements and border crossings, in need of company, identifiable food, and Giles, I’ve cheated!

Four dusty hours on a rattling bus with seriously cracked windscreen and spitting, mucous ridden Chinese businessmen I was  back in Luang Prabang. My planned seven day trek across Laos to southern Thailand abandoned.

I headed straight for the Laos Airline office, booked a bargain flight to Bangkok, checked back into my trusted guesthouse, showered and bought a two hour massage at the Laos Red Cross.

I have given myself a hard time, giving in, not ‘traveling’, opting for the less environmental, less intrepid and more expensive route. I wanted to be a brave individual, strong man, face opportunities and the unknown, but right now I cannot do it.

Perhaps it is the aftermath of Dengue, I don’t know, I’m tired.

So, at seven am yesterday, I boarded a small propeller driven plane and landed two simple hassle free, plastic food filled hours later in Bangkok.

Three hours after landing, I checked in to a hotel!

I had been advised by an apparently friendly minibus driver, to take his number 553 to the Victory Monument, take the 59 to Bang Lamphu and arrive.

The 59 he pointed me to, was in the middle of a large bypass, surrounded by traffic, with firmly shut doors, conveniently tinted windows and no bus stop. I walked in the ninety six degrees in search of Tuc Tuc or Taxi.

Available taxis waved and drove on. Tuc Tucs were rare and occupied.

Eventually a taxi slowed, I entered, showed him the card of the hotel, with map on reverse, he perused for several minutes, then said, “No, don’t know”’ and suggested I exit.

It is his job to know!

Dripping with sweat, heavily laden, furious, unimpressed with Bangkok, their manners, map reading skills, interest in earning a fare, or indifference to a lost foreigner. I backed out of the cab muttering a few satisfying, and (unintelligible to him) oaths.

I made it, by expensive but air conditioned taxi, eventually, to a waterlogged street. The River is overflowing it’s banks and Bangkok is under siege.

On arrival a wall was being constructed in front of the hotel, along with all the neighbouring shops and properties. By seven pm ours was four feet high, scaled by makeshift sandbag steps.

A trip to three local banks revealed that Laos Kip are unacceptable in Thailand. A discrimination the Laos, myself and my three hundred thousand Kip feel affronted by.

My mood is unsettled, irritable and impatient. At seven tonight I take the sleeper train south. By all accounts a chilled, still, foreigner hungry environment.

I will smile again, enjoy the adventures and the unknown. Things change, that is their nature.

Xx

Finally, I left Luang Prabang.

A Tuc Tuc driver dropped me at the Southern Bus Station, helpfully informed the waiting, interested crowd that the “falang” was off to Sainyabouly, relieved me of fifteen thousand Kip (£1.30), wished me luck and left me in the hands of a particularly camp conductor.

My ticket said seat No. 42. The seats were not numbered.

The camp conductor and his burly yet friendly assistant perused the few vacant seats, chose one at the rear, by a window, in front of a row of silent monks, requested my approval, dusted it down, smiled, said “good luck” and left.

All the good luck wishing was unnerving me.

Five minutes before we set off, a stooping, pock marked man, of around fifty five, sporting a white baseball cap, asked in heavily accented English, if he could sit next to me. He reaked of alcohol. The aisle then filled with tiny blue, plastic, mud caked stools, which were occupied by latecomers.

I was trapped. I wished myself luck.

The five hour journey took three and a half, including a ‘car ferry’ across the Mekong. Actually an alarmingly small metal raft, overladen, pushed by a hulking, noisy tug.

Songthaews, open sided trucks with barely padded benches, were waiting for onward transfers. I thought I accepted a twenty thousand Kip ride into town, but we sailed straight through.

Tapping on the cab rear window brought us to a halt, I heaved my rucksack off the roof and turned back towards the centre, a kilometer away.

Greeted from the road by three people eating lunch on a shop floor, I showed them a map and desired guesthouse, hoping for directions. One of the young men jumped up, taking a slug of his beer, sought keys from the young woman, jumped on his motorbike, patted the seat for me to hop on, said “sorry, I drink beer”, and we left…….. at speed.

I wished myself luck, again.

Free bicycles at the guesthouse. I explored the uninspiring, tourist free town. I am the new spectacle, greeted enthusiastically everywhere.

Three teenage monks at a beautiful all wooden tiny monastery, perched on the edge of the Nam Heung river, practiced their English on me, an Internet café owner, who seemed oblivious to the existence of wifi, bemoaned his Internet problems, and an eighteen year old, bright, charming, volley ball playing, music enthusiast led me on his bicycle, carrying his blue checked umbrella in one hand, to an alternative internet place, where he assured me I would get connection. All this in broken and mimed language.

No.

My laptop said “yes”, requesting a wifi password. The manager said “No, no wifi”. I showed him. The laptop seemed alien to him, his response “No”.

Feeling strangely stranded and uncomfortably out of contact I continued my cycling exploration.

At the market I was approached by a man, in overly long khaki shorts, calf length tartan socks and walking boots. Laos, living in Australia, his English was welcomingly good. An impromptu tour of the market was commenced and a promise to procure me a motorbike for eight am.

He arrived, as promised, with his nephew’s motorbike, helmet, half tank of petrol and the assurance that if the police stopped me to call him, “my brother is a captain”

I sit writing this, motorbike parked, at a staffed, but otherwise empty restaurant, overlooking the Nam Tien reservoir, backed by two mountain ridges, Blaring Laos music has been put on, solely for my benefit. My luck is in.

Earlier I followed signs to “Houey Kaeng Medicinal Plant Preserve”. Thirteen kilometers of unsealed road led me to a woman selling boxed drinks at an otherwise deserted centre. I bought one, much to her delight, used her loo and retraced the thirteen kilometers.

Several rural villages lay along the road, winding down to a peaceful, remote river valley, with rolling misted hills beyond.

Two working elephants passed me, plodding, huge, graceful, laden, their mounted mahouts waving. It is wild here, forested, vine and palm, tall straight trees cutting through the growth, then rice fields where the land flattens.

I passed a small black and white checkered snake on the road, avoided a scurrying wild black, silken ferret, a pig, leaves stuck to it’s snout and drove through numerous clouds of butterflies, their vibrant colours shimmering, changing with the light.

Isolation is unusual, for me, strange, unreal. I am here, Tim, anonymous, reliant on my own resources, no community or companion. It heightens my need for contact, craving familiarity and tenderness and touch. I miss Giles and today I miss a home, and Sam and Lucy and friends. It’s good though….. I think. To be put back on myself, my individuality.

Tomorrow I move again.

Wish me luck.

ps. I returned to the internet shop, a different man entrusted me with the password. I’m connected…….could still do with a hug.

Two days ago I met a monk, Monk Phonh, wandering through a temple. He eagerly engaged me in conversation, delighted I was authentically English.

Twenty years old, even featured, piercingly kind eyes, with the vestiges of youthful acne, he told me he entered as a novice six years ago.

Needing shade from the searing midday sun we moved to the shelter of his room, an annexe of the untidy, youthful male smelling novice dormitory.

Inviting me to sit opposite him cross legged on the cracked brown patterned linoleum floor, he proudly showed me his study books of French and English.

The room had one narrow bed with sagging mattress and mosquito net, and an array of robes in different hues draped over it. A rolled mattress in the corner evidence of a roommate, and a small, high, square, barred window with wooden shutters cast steep shadows in the room, the walls plastered with browning newspaper articles and a calendar.

We sat chatting, a scrawny ginger kitten playing in the corner, and he told of his monks life and his dreams, to study. He seemed ambivalent about the monastery life. Happy with its simplicity, yet constricted. He dislikes the four am starts.

I gave him three hundred thousand Kip, about twenty five pounds. I wanted to help. He pays for private language lessons.

Yesterday I returned, on invitation, and gave five pens and three pads. He beamed with appreciation.

Now it’s time for me to move on. Luang Prabang, Thony 1 Guesthouse and manager Sy, have become familiar, comforting and safe. I feel unnerved at the prospect of the unknown. Making decisions, negotiating the language, finding clean, friendly rooms.

Laos is not large but has vast areas to explore and numerous alternatives for crossing the border into Thailand. The choice is daunting now and I’m unsure which direction to take. The ultimate goal is to meet Giles on Koh Phangan in southern Thailand, possibly seven days of almost constant overland travel.

I’ll keep you posted. xx