Off the top of my head....

Whose generation?
Had I heard of the Korean Wave while I was in the UK I would probably have assumed it was an Asian take on a Central American football terrace tradition. The closest I ever came to being subsumed by it was when hiring a copy of Spring, Summer, Autumn, Winter and Spring from a North Liverpool Blockbusters. A good film it was, but it hardly seemed at the forefront of a pop-culture tsunami hitting the shores of Asia.

When I moved to Korea my ignorance matured into scepticism. In the Land of the Morning Calm, where everything from the genes to the ginger are considered the best in the world, you learn to take things with a pinch of salt - even the MSG. Recently, however, after moving to South East Asia, my Wave-scepticism has begun to lift.

I was sitting in a Kuala Lumpur coffee shop when it first hit me; jangling away, the tune took a while to ring any bells. I turned to see a group of fashionable twenty-somethings sipping their mochas. The jingle didn’t abate and a girl reached into her handbag in a bid to silence it. It was as her triumphant phone-clasping hand emerged that it hit me – ‘Oh, oh, oh, o-ba-leul sa-rang hae. Oh, oh, oh, man-hi man-hi hae’! It made me Korea-sick in a homesick kind of way.

That was the first of many Wave moments on my journey through South East Asia. As long as the phones kept ringing, Girls Generation et al wouldn’t stop singing. K-pop-by-mobile is more unpleasant than you’d imagine.

It’s hard to describe just how popular Korean culture is in South East Asia. Go to any market from Phnom Penh to Vientiane and visit the DVD sellers - photocopied sleeves piled high, the poor quality, techni-colour screams ‘pirated in China'. It takes no small amount of courage to hunch over and penetrate these shaded grottos, shielded from the sun and prying eyes. Amongst the digital harvest there will always be at least one side dedicated to Korean films, and at least two to the music. Then there are the dramas.

Dining in a noodle bar it is not uncommon to see three generations sat round a DVD player, watching the latest dramas of the Seoul socialites. Turn on Thai TV and be hit with daily, hour-long specials on Korean music, with live rundowns from Seoul every week. Walk past comic book stores, deep with lurking Manga maniacs, and eye the racks of pop-culture magazines, sporting names such as Seoul and K-Idols, adorned with collages of The Wonder Girls and Big Bang. If this is the Wave on its retreat, its advance must have been frightening.

What explains this continuing Asian zeal for Korean pop-culture? Amongst the teeny boppers, haircuts and (pirated) DVD sales, does the Wave have a deeper significance as we begin what many commentators believe will be the ‘Asian century’?

A Chinese revolution
The Wave began in the late 90s, when a compilation CD of that name was released in China. The name was picked up by Chinese media and it stuck. It wasn’t long before Korean ‘maniac groups’ were formed to emulate their idols and Korean music was the only foreign representative in the Chinese charts. Korean actors topped popularity polls and the mania spread throughout East and South East Asia.

During industrialisation, the ‘Asian Tiger’ economies initially looked to the West and Japan for their cultural icons, but with growing confidence the cultural flow over the East Sea has arguably reverted to west-east, something the Koreans and Chinese may point out is a reversion to type.

Korea now seems to have usurped Japan as the arbiter of cool in the region and there is increasing interest in Korean food, language and culture. Korean teacher, Kim Young-Il, a one-time journalist with the Choson Ilbo and long-time South-East-Asian resident has seen the changes around him.

“As Korea developed people became more interested in our language and trade. I have seen it in Vietnam, Thailand and now Laos. More recently there has been interest in our culture, too,” he said, proudly. “Here in Laos the main cultural influences are Thailand and Korea.”

Letting the rabbit out of the hat?
As the sleeping tiger (or is it a rabbit?) has awoken, everywhere from Shanghai to Singapore has begun playing to the Korean cultural tune. Seoul, amongst the youth of South East Asia, is seen as a glamour capital, rivalling Tokyo in the fashion, movie and music stakes.

The tendency to look to the West has decreased and a modernised, self-defined Korean identity is being expressed. Korea may offer Asia something to relate to in the way the West, or even Japan – with its colonial legacy – cannot.

As a teacher in a (Korean-owned) Vientiane language school, it is hard not to notice the Big Bang pencil cases and K-pop paraphernalia that accompany students into the classroom. I asked students why there was such a strong identification with Korean pop culture.

“It just seems natural for us to listen to Korean music. I don’t know why but it seems more accessible than American pop. We like American pop, but we more follow K-pop,” one said.

Another, more mature, student, said that she has seen the change and feels the Korean stars are better role models for the younger generation than most pop stars.

“I quite like Korean music and the groups are good role models so I let my children listen,” she said. “We can see Korean influence in many places today. Many people buy Korean make-up and get Korean hairstyles.”

K-Wave paves the way
The Wave may be defined by pop culture, that most throwaway of exports, but it isn’t stopping there. The whole of Indochina is, even in this age of austerity, feeling the finger of Korean investment.

Drive down Cambodia’s country-dissecting rural expressways, and keep your eyes peeled for Korean factories. Once you hit the suburbs you’ll see the expected Hyundai car dealerships, then once downtown the banks start popping up.

Korea set up Cambodia’s newly opened stock exchange and is currently leading the investment in its Lao equivalent. Investment by Korea in what are known as the CLMV ASEAN countries (Cambodia, Laos, Myanmar, Vietnam) has risen exponentially in the last decade.

Alongside being the number one foreign investor in Cambodia, Korea is also the biggest investor in Vietnam in recent years and is in the top five in Laos. Japan, so long the regional powerhouse, ranks below Korea on most measures of foreign investment in the region.

This regional expression of cultural and economic power is certainly intriguing to those of us who feared the hegemony of Westernisation and although it may only be a matter of years before China starts to flex its cultural muscles, the success of Korea may give hope to CLMV countries.

It is Korea’s unique path to development that can in some ways serve as a role model to neighbouring nations, prompting admiration and hope, rather than fear. A Cambodian NGO worker, Sophat agreed,

“The appeal of Korean development is that they have gone from being least developed to rivalling the top economies in the world. We can relate to them for that and we want to emulate their growth,” he said.

It was in November 2009 that Korea officially joined the OECD Development Assistance Committee (DAC) and as such became the first country ever to have graduated from a receiver of aid to an official donor within the OECD. Teacher Kim Young-Il also believes that such economic growth is inextricably linked to cultural resurgence.

“The Wave seems to be steadying now, but we can see a growth of Korean investment on its back. It is almost like one helped the other. People come to know Korea through our music and dramas, so they are more willing to do business with us. This is certainly true for teaching Korean. All of the girls in my class were inspired by Big Bang, or some other group,” Kim said.

The fact that Korea has become a leading cultural and economic light in Eastern Asia is not to be lauded for its own sake, but when an Asian identity is only going to strengthen in the coming decades why shouldn’t Korea, with its recent history of triumph against adversity, be at the forefront of what it means to be Asian in the 21st century?

Suffice to say, the next time I hear The Wondergirls plead ‘tell me, tell me, t-t-t-t-t-tell me,’ rather than mutter my dislike for bubblegum pop, I might just tell them “thank God you’re not Girls Aloud.”

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Diversity is the spice of life in Kuala Lumpur

Arriving into KL LCCT felt fairly familiar after the three month-old visit of January. The bus ticket sellers had the same pushy jovialness and the Air Asia horde had the same bone idleness. Even the walk out of arrivals past the coffee kiosks and taxis felt over familiar.

The flight over was typical fare for Air Asia – changes, delays and arguments at check-in. Well, to be fair, I was at fault for the low key dispute, but I will still be checking the Air Asia website for hoodwinking tactics in the pre-pay baggage section. A walked through departures $10 lighter.

Arriving in at the LCCT the first stop for the budget traveller is the Sky Bus terminal. Being an Air Asia-affiliated service it was no great surprise to endure a two hour journey, rather than the advertised one. My hotel was in the vicinity of the now-defunct bus station and I knew of a proper English curry house not too far away. I urged the bus on as the anticipation in my stomach grew.

Visiting Kuala Lumpur for the first time back in January was like a pilgrimage for me. I had never been in a place with real Indians, eating real curry. Whether an Indian in Kuala Lumpur is more real than an Indian on Turnpike Lane is open to debate, but for me the KL Indians win.

Kuala Lumpur has the smells, vibes and hustle of an Indian city. You are woken at 6am by throngs of worshippers at temples, throwing melons at deities and met with equal frequency by lunatic street dwellers and lady-dealing pimps; maybe even Mumbai wouldn’t live up to this, I thought.

All of my proposed itineraries seemed to involve curry house crawls. I imagined Mughlai dishes being assaulted by a plump, sweet, coconut-dusted Peshawari naan, washed down with a sugared lassi. With these dreams swishing around my head like a worshipper in the Ganges I hit the streets of Little India.

I quickly realised my dreams were delusions and immediately felt like a fish out of…the Ganges. I walked into curry house after curry house and stared blankly, attempting to decipher menus I could read, but not understand: Sappadu? Poli? Rasam? I soon realised the Indians of Turnpike Lane were very different from the Indians of Kuala Lumpur - a few thousand miles different.

It’s our fault, again

Everywhere you go in the old British Empire you meet with Indians; Africa, Asia, the Caribbean and South America have all been settled by enterprising souls from the Subcontinent. Over the course of the Empire, Indians ventured everywhere around the globe that was Empire Red. From South Africa to Guyana and Fiji, enterprising market traders often speak with Indian accents.

All this is largely because, having laudably abolished the slave trade, the British establishment were left with a dilemma – how to make people do stuff for free? They came up with the brilliant ruse of signed-for slavery, or indentured labour. Indians were soon doing capitalism’s bidding on shores as distant as Spanish Town and Mauritius. Up to a million and a half Indians were scattered across the globe before the practice was outlawed in the late-nineteenth century.

What does this have to do with the price of Darjeeling in Uttar Pradesh, I sense you mutter. Well, the Indians in the UK mostly arrived over the years from the Punjab and Bengal, either directly, or via East Africa, where they were originally indentured, whereas the Indians of Kuala Lumpur have a long history of migration from Tamil Nadu, as indentured or free labour. I was in a city awash with Tamil curry, but where a good chicken Karahi wasn’t available for love, nor money. The British obsession with treating the world like a game of Risk had led to forlorn 4-day rummage through the backstreets of Masjid Jamek for a non-existent culinary holy grail.

It was on my final night of that first trip that fate dealt me the hand I had been seeking. As I wandered the streets for my last meal I took a double take as a fleeting menu seemed to offer up a daal. In I trudged, sunburnt, sleep-deprived and more than a little peckish.

Bingo! I walked up to the self-service counter and was met by names as familiar as fish and chips – rogan josh, saag gosht, biryiani! I filled the plate with all and sat down to contemplate my harvest. I then ate what was the greatest plate of curry mankind has ever produced. I went back for more in the morning.

On leaving that night I burdened the proprietor with the tribulations I had encountered in finding real English curry. He seemed genuinely pleased that I disliked Tamils as much as he did. When I stressed it was the food, not the people, I had a distaste for, he remained upbeat. I vowed to return. This was back in January and with this all in mind I disembarked from the bus at Pudu Raya and marched back towards Times Square to drop my bags off and indulge myself.

Many types of indulgence were on offer, including cheap girls and expensive alcohol, but I plumped for poppadom and mango chutney. On leaving the restaurant for the third time I finally noticed its name – UK Asia. A lump grew in my throat as I contemplated that the greatest achievement of 400 years of empire was the dissemination of turmeric and cumin.

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Whatever you think of street food, you can't say it's Laos-y

Saunter down any street in Vientiane, day or night, and you will meet hawkers of every description cooking up all sorts of unknown delights.

Every evening, before navigating into the secluded market outside my flats, I am struck by an Eyjafjallajokull-esque pall ascending from smoking grills. I splutter past the fumes, cooking up evening meals for homeward-bound Laotians.

Thanon Dongpalane is an industrial street in central Vientiane which caters for a variety of metal dealers, stallholders, shopkeepers, mobile peddlers, students and tourists. The street is dirty and oily, with the eternal presence of lottery vendors, mechanics and flower sellers by the road side. The evening pavements are almost as dangerous as the roads.

Behind this scrum of sellers, wares and motorbikes, are food stalls. The dirt and grime is caked into the concrete and wooden stalls are blackened from the fumes and soot. The food receptacles are greasy and shineless and oil pools float on the surface of the soups and stews.

Where the meat surfaces for air, it often looks fatty and stringy, drowning in its personal lather of spices and sauce. The liberating spoons slop into the bowls and surface to deposit their harvest in elastic-bound plastic, tied with impressive dexterity by your patron. You walk off with a dripping bag of swill-like nourishment.

This was my first impression of Lao street food, and it took a while before I was adventurous enough to order anything beyond the rice and noodles. Admittedly sometimes it goes wrong, like when I received a bowl of raw pigs feet, but that is a calculated risk.

The offending grill I encounter every commute cooks up what are to all intents and purposes bbq'd hash browns. Served on a wooden skewer with spicy sauce, and for under 10p, they are the perfect early-evening snack.

The neighbouring stall's fare is far less recognisable, and each container is dark and gloomy, with steamed rice lightening up the counter. The sausages are the real prize here; a speciality of Luang Phrabang. I have never tasted anything quite like them. They are a mixture of pork, citrus, lemon grass and spices, in sausage-form.

A couple of stalls down, interspersed by Chinese greengrocers and temple flower sellers, is the omelette maker. There are few better breakfasts. A thin crisp omelette folded in two, filled with bean sprouts and minced pork. A sweet, spicy sauce is dripped over it like honey, and it is served. At 40p a go you just can't go wrong.

I have had quite a few dodgy stomachs since coming to Laos and doubtless many have been courtesy of my mealtime habits, but it is a price worth paying. And, when your own kitchen contains a resident rat, who's to say street food isn’t the healthy option?

Much more palatable to sanitised western taste, is the variety of fruit sold streetside. The most ubiquitous are the melon sellers, who labour their carts city-wide, searching for custom. Sold spliced by a wooden splint, the melons are easily handled and accompanied by a stinging dip of salt spice, which is the Lao condiment of choice for fresh fruit. After trying it, you will wonder why.

Fruit isn’t just sold fresh; it comes fried and grilled too. Bananas are the most favoured and grilled Ladies' Fingers are not as off-putting as they sound. Bbq’d for a good 15 minutes, they are golden brown when served and there is a perfect combination of soft sweetness with grilled banananess.

Finally, and possibly most unhealthily, there are the fried banana crisps. I have developed an addiction for these and tend to run out of the office for elevenses at least every other day. These are thinly, very thinly, sliced bananas deep fried and served warm. They come in savoury and sweet varieties. The sweet variety having been soaked in fresh banana syrup and being plumper and juicier because of it. Putting the bag out of reach is a necessity, as hands take on a life of their own when within striking distance!

Admittedly, my Lao food habits are tame compared to the Lonely Planet favourites of live creepy crawlies and boar penis wine, but that doesn't take away from their authenticity. The best food the streets of London have to throw up is a half-eaten kebab in the early hours of Sunday morning, so I know where my loyalties lie.

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Do opportunities knock, or explode?

Things didn’t end up too well at the NGO. Many of my fears were realised early on and I decided to seek pastures greener. NGOs are fairly thin on the ground in this Communist state, but that doesn’t mean opportunities are.

I rattled off emails to as many organisations as I could find and despite the scarcity I did receive some fairly interesting offers. One very tempting one was to live up in the hills in the far north of the country writing an old hippy’s biography. It sounded like it would make a good chapter for my own yet-to-be-published equivalent, but nevertheless I held out.

The hesitance soon paid off, as none other than the UN came knocking and a meeting was hastily arranged. I didn’t exactly look the part, rolling up on my Chinese bicycle in sweat-soaked shorts, a 10 year-old Next shirt and a pair of £5 Sports Direct slip-ons. I made a mental note to start dressing in the way expected of a modern-day imperialist; or aid worker, as we are otherwise known.

The meetings at UN House turned out to be a ruse, as the position for which I was wanted was actually a marital favour. The next day I received a phone call which began, “Darren, we need to meet.” By morning I was joined for tea by an Englishman with an accent of deepest Henley-on-Thames.

I was handed some documents and told to read them thoroughly. Mr Home Counties worked for a regulatory authority on Unexploded Ordnance (UXO) within the Lao Ministry of Labour. He was no mid-Atlanticist and took great pleasure in implicating the US for its war crimes against the Lao people. In summary:

In excess of 260 million sub-munitions (bombies) from cluster bombs dropped between 1964 and 1973 by the US in a secret war
30% is the estimated failure rate of sub-munitions under ideal conditions
78 million is the estimated number of UXO across Laos
Over 2,000,000 tonnes, a tonne of explosives for every Lao alive at the time, were dropped
All bombing flights were against the Geneva Convention
Laos is the most heavily-bombed nation on earth, per capita
Someone is killed or injured everyday, almost half a century later
Some people never stop talking

Convention on Cluster Munitions

These sub-munitions, or bombies, are like lethal nail bombs waiting in playgrounds, schools and fields. They splinter into flesh-destroying shards of lead and disfigure and maim any living thing within reach. Years exposed to the elements have made them highly volatile. They are shaped like baseballs and children pick them up thinking they are toys. Many lose hands, legs or bleed to death in remote villages.

All this became a bit of a blur and I wondered what I had got myself into. It sounded a lot better than the glorified begging that is the bread and butter of NGO work, but I wasn’t sure I was ready for actual responsibility. I had spent the last 4 months on the dole in London and felt even the bi-weekly signing-on an assault on my liberty.

I finally stopped Mr Home Counties mid-flow, which is a bit like trying to cross the North Circular on foot – every attempt inevitably recoils back to safety as a renewed tsunami of verbiage rushes by.

“What exactly is my role in all this?” I asked.

“I’ll get to that…” Mr Home Counties clipped.

Cue tsunami. I ducked below the proverbial parapet and sat it out. Then there were signs of retreat.

“In November major Heads of State from around the world will be coming to Vientiane to attend the States Parties to the Convention on Cluster Munitions. For this we need to produce strategy documents on the level of service provision across the country for victims of UXO. You will be researching this service provision,” Mr Home Counties summed up.

And thus began my 6 months working for the Communists.

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Laos - The land where people listen to the rice growing, but do little else

Having been in Cambodia with Sulky at the Europe-Asia Development Seminar, we flew together to Vientiane. Arriving at the airport was slightly surreal as it was about as busy as a rural English train station. We were picked up immediately by a friendly lady who I was later to learn was my ‘grandmother’ and we went for dinner.

The first night was uneventful but I felt an instant attraction to the city and its people. I had never been somewhere with so much, well, laziness. I loved it.

I started work straightaway at the office and was introduced to Shara and Irek, the Lao volunteers we would be working with. They were both national champions in Taekwondo, but you would never have guessed it from their placid natures.

A couple of slow days in the office were livened up by my finding out I lived right next door to the Lao-Korean College. I had an inkling there was a sizeable Korean presence in the city from the development projects and restaurants in the town centre. In the evening I dropped in for a chat.

Of course, none of the receptionists spoke Korean and the professors were busy. I took a number and went away slightly disappointed. Learning Korean would provide the perfect hobby while in Vientiane.

The next morning Shara answered the office phone and I was surprised to hear it was for me. Greeted with ‘yoboseyo’, I began a conversation with the Korean professor from the college. After 15 minutes the professor reverted to Lao and it was then I realised he thought I was a Laotian.

‘Odi-e-seo wasseoyo?’, he asked. I replied I was English and working here in Vientiane. Once his initial amusement had worn off – Koreans only need the slightest encouragement to laugh at foreigners – his brain went into hagwon mode:

‘Yeongeo-leul ka-leu-ch’i-go ship-eo?’

Although I’d already told Sulky I wouldn’t be doing any volunteer English teaching, I was all for the paid kind. And with that I became both a student and a teacher at Logos Academy. I then looked at the Professor’s business card I’d procured earlier and was disappointed to read ‘God is Love’.

Saucy Weavers

Back at the NGO, we were due for a visit to a local women’s weaver group based in a village for veterans of the Indochina War. My NGO was funding a microfinance project which was supposedly enabling these women to market their traditional skills.

The regional head of the UNDP from Zimbabwe via Bangkok was in attendance and the villagers did their best to display their skills. It was an impressive show, using all traditional weaving equipment and techniques. To see the blue dye made from fresh leaves in a matter of minutes was fascinating for industrialised eyes.

After taking us through their wares, the women invited us into their home for some dinner. It was a veritable feast of Lao sticky rice and fish. No one was left unsatisfied.

Towards the end of the dinner the conversation took an interesting turn as the women spoke of their use of Sulky’s herbal energy concoction. At first I wasn’t sure I was catching the translation right, but sure enough the women were sharing last night’s bedroom antics with one and all.

‘My husband took one sip and he was going all night. Ask any of the women here, we all experienced the same. Our husbands usually have no energy, but last night they couldn’t stop,’ the head weaver said with a beaming smile.

Luckily I was at the end of the feast and so no one could notice my childish giggling. Seemingly not to be outdone on the knicker action, Sulky then began to regale us with innuendo involving the UNDP economist beside her.

“George and I shared a hotel room, but I had to refuse him on the second night. Do you remember when we both went down to the meeting in the morning?’She asked

It wasn’t altogether clear why she had sought to outdo the weaver husbands’ sex drive, but Sulky was getting into her stride and even the weavers seemed uncomfortable now. Luckily, just as she began to share the lurid secrets of a Shanghai hotel room, the dessert was brought out.

After dinner there was still room left for some ant larvae on the ride home, to add to the frogs, baby birds and duck foetus I’d had so far on the trip. They weren’t too unpleasant, but once you’ve eaten live octopus everything is relative.

Breakfast, monks and torture

In the morning I went for a little jog and found a nice little restaurant that I thought might serve as a base for breakfasts and dinners. This feeling grew when the family greeted me in English and the brother came to sit down for a chat.

His name was Scot and he now lived in California. He was an estate agent there, but from tomorrow he would be a monk. He would live in the monastery for a week in memory of his father who had just passed away. He began to share some of his story.

At 16 years old, during US bombardment, he had grabbed an empty oil barrel and swam the Mekong to Thailand. He was swept downstream, but was saved by a Laotian jumping in to save him.

‘I didn’t know anything of politics at the time. I didn’t even know what the US was. I just knew we were being bombed and I needed to get to safety,’ he shared.

His time in Thailand was tough. 4 years were spent in prison, often under torture. When his freedom came he escaped to The Philippines for 6 months, before finally reaching California. After his ordeal it was not a surprise to learn he had nothing but praise for the US and its treatment of him.

He was now a successful estate agent in California, living amongst the many other Lao ex-pats. Meeting people like Scot always makes me thankful for the freedoms I am able to enjoy. I tried to draw analogies with my own life, but the nearest I could come to 4 years of teenage torture were the Spice Girls and acne.

I was invited to come and stay at the temple when I had some free time. Although I guessed the food there would be meagre compared to the feast enjoyed the day before, I was sure the conversation would be slightly more nutritious. I bade him farewell, never to meet him again. Yet.

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Siem Reap and Angkor Wat

I left Kuala Lumpur having spent 5 days there and I felt I had at least got under its skin a little bit. As I made my final walk to Kuala Lumpur Sentral I lamented my leaving and hoped to return one day, although at least not to the cockroach-infested hostel I had just left.

An hour’s walk to the station to catch my airport-bound bus had given me all sorts of aches and pains, and with my lack of sleep the night before I felt I would need to sleep the hour or so on the plane. This was wishful thinking due to a jolly West Country couple next to me and before we knew it we had touched down in Siem Reap, the home of Angkor Wat.

It had been an ambition of mine to visit here since I had read The Fingerprints of the Gods by Graham Hancock at 16 years of age, in which he proclaims the temples were designed by an ancient master civilisation, whose remains were in ruins all over the globe.

I’d become increasingly sceptical about his claims that ancient monuments, such as Giza, Easter Island, Angkor and others, were laid down to celestial master plans in recent years, but it still remains one of my favourite crypto-history books.

With over ten years of excitement inside me I jumped on a motorbike and reached the hostel, only to realise my whole body had given up on me! I managed to force a Khmer curry down me and dragged myself up to my room. I put my head on the pillow and came round four hours later.

Upon waking I was almost hallucinating with pain! I kept telling myself that no matter how ill I felt, I had to make an effort to get to the temples. My head wasn’t so much spinning as pulsating and my body was shivering.

Some people may think it was stupid to leave the hostel in that condition: they’d be right. Some may think it was stupid to then make the 20km round trip by bicycle, in tropical mid-day heat: they also’d be right.

Slowly I pushed onwards to the town of Siem Reap, around 4km from the hostel, and from there I turned north towards the temples. By the time I had reached Angkor I think the adrenalin had fought off the worst of my fever, and I parked up my bike to be harassed by hawking children. Amazingly a child tried to sell me a coke for $3, but I bargained it down to $1, still feeling robbed.

Angkor was amazing in the late-afternoon heat. The sandstone-coloured bricks warmed by the sun seemed to be timeless. Without a guide I knew nothing really of the history, but for now the spectacle was enough. I wandered inside and snapped away with the camera.

Angkor is just one of the many temples at the whole site, which spreads over hundreds of square kilometres. I reasoned I could visit another few tomorrow after resting for this evening.

I felt transfixed by the place and wandered from room to room and before I knew it I must have been there a couple of hours. All of a sudden my upper body became weak and my legs shaky. I needed to find the exit and make my way home as soon as possible.

I went straight for the exit and after paying an additional bribe to a young girl, who insisted on greeting me with ‘lovely jubbly’, I got on my bike. I cycled straight out and never looked back.

Well, I did look back, frequently, but that was only after 45 minutes of cycling and having no idea where I was! I asked a young boy and he said straight on, so on I dragged myself and the bike. All the time the last vestiges of energy seemed to be draining from my body.

Upon reaching a crossroads I orientated myself towards the temples and reasoned it was a right turn towards the town, relieved it would only be a matter of getting there now. However, 10 minutes later the scene was even less familiar. At the next crossroads I enquired a local. The old woman couldn’t hide her mirth as she pointed me back the other way – the way I had come. 15km back the way I had come.

Distraught, I scraped my bike around and cycled back, fighting back the tears of pain and self-loathing at having got myself lost again. I began a long, hot and draining cycle down a seemingly endless, characterless road.

After 10kms I saw a sign for Angkor and thinking this would be my best bet took it. I was pleased as immediately I recognised the shops and hotels which became more and more familiar. There was just a lingering doubt as to whether they were on the right side of the road for someone going back towards town.

This was settled around 20 minutes later when I found myself at the ticket office. The same ticket office at which I had entered Angkor Wat. The ticket office I had hoped was around 10km behind me by now. I cursed, felt even sorrier for myself, and began cycling again. At least I knew the way back now.

My head, shoulders, thighs and calves all strained with pain and the bike had almost given up itself when I stumbled back to the hostel. Somehow I got myself up the stairs and into the shower and hoped to put the 50km cycle behind me.

Coming out of the shower I began shivering uncontrollably and my head was increasingly somewhere else. I lay down in bed and wondered if I would ever see Angkor again. Welcome to Cambodia.

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Final days in KL and a trip to Melaka

When leaving London I saw an advert which claimed the city never slept . While it is true of the addicts and thieves, it is less true for the services and infrastructure. Ideas of open and close and start and finish are much more transient in other countries, particularly in Asia.

Because of this a pre-break of dawn stroll through a closed-up street market doesn’t make one feel nearly as vulnerable as it should. Within each little crevice and behind each market stall there is bound to be a makeshift kitchen serving up bargains to late-goers and early-comers alike.

Soft greys and blues drape the city at dawn, revealing a deeper side to its character unperceivable in the force of the midday sun. The colonial buildings almost begin to complement the huge sky rises all around them.

At dawn our senses are more open to the smells around us. The markets of Little India and China Town abound with oils and spices from the night before, while the early diners add to the broth for the day ahead.

It was in such a scene that I caught my early morning bus to Melaka, an old colonial town on the south-western coast of the Malay Peninsula. I managed to limit myself to a couple of rotis for breakfast, reasoning breakfast would be cheaper in Melaka, and I set on my way.

The bus was very reasonable – around £2.50 each way – and far more comfortable than your average National Express. It sped through suburb after suburb, traditional Malay and high-rise. I was impressed with the sight of Malay development, at least from the roadside.

I had not yet seen any of the poverty expected of South East Asia, and I wondered if Malaysia would soon be joining the elite club of developed nations. A couple of days later I was to learn what these suburbs looked like close up, with the makeshift shacks shattering any lingering delusions of prosperity. It seems the Government does its best to hide the poverty from the roadside.

I arrived into the charming harbour town of Melaka to be met with the huge Tescos that greets all arrivals at the not-so-central Melaka Sentral Bus Station. Maybe it was wishful thinking on the planner's part, but whoever named the interstate bus terminal failed to take into account it was a 45 minute bus ride outside of town. Anyway, find the right bus I did thanks to a friendly Thai couple and we were on our way.

Some more quaint Malay suburbs, interspersed with Japanese super malls later, we found ourselves dumped by the dual carriageway, tourist map in hand. Luckily we could orientate ourselves via the truly second-rate London Eye, known as the Eye of Malaysia. More planner optimism as it stood barely 100 ft tall. We deduced a stroll off to the left would send us towards the historic town centre.

I bid the Thais goodbye and went on my way, although I was to continuously bump into them throughout the day. I was searching out a wi-fi signal so I could look at a town map online and found myself a place in a shopping mall coffee shop.

It was at this point that a rather over-friendly German came over to question me about my netbook. I gave him the rundown on the Asus EeePC and then asked how I could best access the historic town centre. He seemed to know the way and offered to guide me, but due to my unfinished coffee I declined and thanked him anyway.

I stayed for 5 minutes, found my bearings on an internet map and got up to leave, only to find the German stood right in front of me. Slightly shocked, I asked if he was still heading in that direction, to which he said he was and off we went.

The man seemed to be on holiday, perhaps a yearly trip out to Asia that he treated himself too. At first he seemed to warm to the Asian culture, saying that he initially enjoyed the smiles and laughter of Asians, particularly compared to rather stern Northern Europeans. I agreed and laughed, but wondered what was coming next.

"I used to like all that, when I first came, but now I've realised why it is, it annoys me. Basically they are still children, even the 40 year old men are mentally children. That's why they laugh so much."

I was taken aback. He seemed so mild and even charming, but he seemed to hate Asian people.

"They only see me as money. I'm just dollars to them. They always ask for more, and when they get it they spend it on rubbish!"

I stopped replying at this point, looking for an opportunity to part ways. The conversation had moved onto how Asians couldn't look after their cultural heritage when a group of Malaysian students interrupted us.

They were four girls, all from the Muslim University. They introduced themselves and said they were doing a task and had to teach some Malay to foreigners. At this point the German retorted:

"That's it in Asia, it's just me, me, me."

The girls were shocked and embarrassed. I apologised and insisted there was no problem. The German goose-stepped off into the distance, never to be seen again. I spent the next 10 minutes learning a Malay phrase which goes 'Keralan Musul Bian Babisan.' It means:

‘What you say destroys your soul.’

It was a pity the German didn’t stick around to learn the lesson, although I doubt he would have heeded it.

I spent the day wandering around the town in the heat of the midday sun, joined by mad dogs. The colonial architecture was very quaint and starkly different from the architecture of Kuala Lumpur.

The city reminded me of Valletta in Malta, as it was a series of maze-like streets with chocolate-box shops and fairy tale scenery. Influence has been retained from Portuguese, Dutch and British periods of dominion. No matter what you think of Colonialism, it was definitely a boon for global architectural heritage.

After a long afternoon of sightseeing I caught the bus back to the big city and settled down to sleep. Still without a full night’s sleep since arriving, I was hoping the tiredness and a head full of Melaka memories would ensure an end to that.

Read More 1 Comment | Posted by Wonderlust

My Trip to Laos, via Malaysia and Cambodia

Landing in Kuala Lumpur

The greeting as we landed on our Air Asia flight from London was “Welcome to Malaysia. Anyone caught carrying drugs will be put to death. Enjoy your stay.”

I’m pretty sure I wasn’t the only innocent passenger on board who started to open his proverbial bowels at this point at the warning-cum-welcome. If nothing else, I was happy I hadn’t bowed to my neighbour’s invitation for a departing spliff before I left London, and possibly this life.

After being threatened with death I was surprised to walk unchecked through customs. I don’t know if it is just me, but whenever this happens I have momentary pangs of frustration at not having at least tried to smuggle in something. I was 30 seconds in to my plans for a drug-smuggling return to Malaysia when I saw the Sky Bus ticket counter.

It was my first piece of bad news – the bus would be going to KL Sentral, not Pudu Raya. I had planned my stay in Stansted on the assumption the airport bus alighted at Pudu Raya. Thus, I did what any self-respecting Westerner would do in a crisis abroad. I went to Starbucks.

Having decided I would try the metro system to get to Pudu Raya, I made the short walk to the correct gate. Everything was immediately buzzing, with people everywhere. This was just the airport and I was met with smells and sights that were exotic to say the least. Based on very little evidence, I decided I would like Kuala Lumpur.

Kuala Lumpur Underground

Having reached KL Sentral I was directed towards the ticket counter and I encountered what seem to be as archetypal of Asia as rice and noodles – giggling schoolgirls. These two Malay girls directed me onwards and I thanked them before being greeted again by a middle-aged Indian man on the escalator.

This almost-too-friendly Indian man was actually making the same journey as me and offered to be my guide. I was sure he was either mentally-ill or some modern-day Asian Fagin about to lure me into a world of crime and vice, but I followed him anyway.

Upon reaching Plaza Rekyat, we parted and I reflected on my short flirtation with life in the Kuala Lumpur underworld. I approached the ticket counter for advice on how to find my hostel and I had another of those Asian moments, when women giggle through conversations in what could be any number of languages, none of which are English.

Nonetheless, they were very helpful and they called over the security guard who personally escorted me out of the station and towards my hostel. I had only been here an hour or so and yet another person was going out of their way to either help me, or move me on. It wasn’t altogether clear.

Casa Villa and the Match

The hostel was nice enough, with a nice communal front courtyard with wi-fi and a team of Indian workers working round the clock. To be honest I didn’t care much about any of that as my mission was to find somewhere to watch the Spurs match in four hours.

Hallelujah! A TV with ESPN was perched above the pool table, empty! My nightmare had been averted – finding a TV encircled by annoying backpackers watching some kind of ‘movie’, as they would call it, while the football was on. I had encountered such blasphemy before on my travels and my thirst to kill that night has never quite been quenched.

Well the match started and it finished. I promptly went to bed wondering why I hadn’t watched a movie.

Breakfast

Technically this was day two, but the inter-lapse between full-time and breakfast was merely a freezing-but-refreshing shower. I ventured straight out to discover what Kuala Lumpur had to offer. I opted for the restaurant perched over the junction at Pudu Raya as it was fairly busy. I ordered roti teran having no idea what it was.

Well, that is slightly disingenuous as I know roti is a kind of flat fried bread, similar to a chapatti, but the teran I was in the dark about. It manifested itself as a pancake-cum-omelette, and it was delicious. Served with a range of curry dips and all for around 30p, it was the perfect light breakfast.

I eagerly finished up and politely left my dishes on the counter, hoping my impeccable manners would be noticed by the locals. I walked out proud at having eaten my first Malay meal and began the search for my bus station, stopping en route at a street stall and buying a handful of what were mini Cornish pasty-like samosas.

I must have walked about five times around the bus station looking and asking everywhere for the bus to Batu when I realised my mistake - I hadn’t paid the bloody bill in the restaurant! I hustled back, certain I was to be greeted by machete-wielding locals grinning as they sacrifice the polite-but-imperialist Britisher! I was instead greeted by Malay indifference. He smiled, I nervously shuffled and bought water as a peace offering and we both went about our day. Very civilised.

No.11 Bus

After numerous false hopes, I finally found my bus stop opposite Bangkok Bank. The number 11 pulled up and I jumped on. The ticket collector was a jovial little fellow and seemed to take great delight at taking the piss out of passengers with the driver.

When I boarded there was a young lady in a Malay head scarf aboard. The joker turned out to be a bit of a lady’s man too, and I was surprised at their open affection on the bus. Obviously Islamic mores are challenged by some of the younger generation.

He really did seem like a laugh a minute, or just an absolute tosser. Luckily due to my poor Malay I had no way of knowing which. After his lady friend departed he seemed to cast his eyes upon every female who boarded from his perfect vantage point. I was pretty sure he had a girl at each bus stop.

At every stop he would lurch out of the bus shouting ‘BATU’ at the potential passengers. Even if the bus had passed the stop by up to 30m it would still allow each passenger to board. As each boarded he would have to grab his tickets, follow them to their seat and engage in his beloved banter.

Travelling by public bus is definitely the best way to get to know somewhere when travelling. We began to pass through some gorgeous suburbs with Malay houses, which are big and broad, much like Thai homes and built from tropical woods, like teak. The result is much like an alpine hut that has been flattened and broadened, as if under immense gravitational pressure. Those with gardens are stunning and I imagined a life in one.

Batu Caves

Reaching Batu Caves I was advised by the driver where to catch the bus when returning to town and I thanked him. Surprisingly for a pilgrimage site that attracts millions of visitors each year, I found that the only way to enter Batu Caves was to traverse six lanes of traffic akin to the North Circular. All part of the purification process I suppose.

On entering I was immediately met by two men carrying pots on their heads and naked but for Beckham-esque saffron shawls around their waists. Not so much Golden Balls, as Golden Shawls.

I can’t remember how many steps Batu has, but it is over 200. This is quite tame when you consider what other religious trials people do to prove their faith, but it worked for me, especially in the tropical, albeit morning heat.

All the way up I encountered devotees richly adorned in colourful garments and make-up. At the top I turned to look down and the sun was rising behind the cave, casting the shadow of the huge Murugan statue down on to the streets below. Everything seemed tinged with gold.

I entered the cave and was surprised by its wetness. Stalagmites and –tites were all over, and they dripped constantly. The birds and/or bats were ceaseless and to say the scene was otherworldly would be an understatement.

The music and Tamil chants reverberated all around the cave and I followed them to find a group of worshippers gathered around the main temple. A family seemed to be undergoing a cleansing process. Fire burnt near the entrance to purify the devotees and the priests blessed those within. I felt like I was in India.

After having a mull around the caves and observing the atmospheric statues all around, I made my descent. As the morning was ageing, more worshippers were making the ascent. Most harrowing were the screams of a young child, which seemed to be rising from within the cave itself.

I started suspecting a couple near the bottom of the stairs who were carrying huge palm leaves, but I could see no child. Then I realised, they had constructed a hammock and hung it from the palm branches and intended to carry the baby all the way to the top!

I left thinking that if the baby didn’t need purification before the ascent, it certainly would after it. Maybe that was the point.

Read More 1 Comment | Posted by Wonderlust

Wonderlust

He who blogs

I alternate between teaching, doing development work and writing articles for media and blogs. Currently doing research 9-5 in Laos, and teaching in the evenings. Weekends spent, doing more work. In light of this heavy schedule, annoyingly, my favourite hobby is sampling the different varieties of alcoholic beverage the world has thrown up over the years.

Off the top of my head....

Diversity is the spice of life in Kuala Lumpur

Whatever you think of street food, you can't say it's Laos-y

Do opportunities knock, or explode?

Laos - The land where people listen to the rice growing, but do little else

Siem Reap and Angkor Wat

Final days in KL and a trip to Melaka

My Trip to Laos, via Malaysia and Cambodia

Wonderlust

He who blogs

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