Grosvenor Square

Tuesday 11th June was a day that was in the back of my mind for a year at least, maybe more. It was the day of the spouse visa interview to join my wife in the USA. As the day came nearer, my stress levels needed more constant maintenance. I want to write down the experience because before the interview, I trawled the net for peoples experiences of the dreaded US Visa interview, and most were scary. I want to put someones mind at rest a little. When I say put your mind at rest, the fears of a denial are real, and a visa denial on your record is a permanent stain on any travel to the US, so it is never something to be taken lightly. Especially if the outcome is like mine, effectively putting your wife in a position where she has to choose between her country and you. Anyway here was my two days in London.

I travelled down to London from Manchester, arriving at noon and checked into a hotel by Hyde Park. I recommend this. There is nothing better to get you in the right mood for an interview than a leisurely 40 minute stroll through Hyde Park, than dealing with London transport on one of the most stressful days of your life. I met with my immigration lawyer the day prior, she gave me interview tips, and an interview pack. Then back to the hotel. I knew sleep would be hard that night, but an alcoholic night-cap was out of the question. I made myself a promise, drink tomorrow in victory or defeat, but tonight relax. From there until approval, the thought, what do I do if 'I'm denied' kept nagging in my head. But I pushed that thought out. My obstinance that no negative thought or adverse 'what if' would be entertained until the event of a denial was upon me.

On the interview day, I awoke at 5:30am, showered at 6am, then sat and relaxed with tea (not coffee it would just add to the jitters), and watched the morning news. I was prepared. All my documents were checked 100 times, I was not going to add to the stress and check them again. When 7am came, I hid my iPhone in my sock and put it in my luggage at the hotel. The rule about 'no electronics in the embassy' is strictly enforced. Then I walked from Porchester Gate in Hyde Park towards Park Lane, passed by morning runners and horse riders. Stopping in the newsagents to pick up a paper on the way, I arrived in Grosvenor Square about 7:35am, 25 minutes before I was about to join the queue. In the far end of Grosvenor Square there is a monument to the British who died in 9/11, a peaceful garden where I sat and talked down any stresses I was feeling. I joined the queue at 7:55am.

Once in the queue helpers (British ones) walk down and ask if you have any electricals. They check you have your invitation letter, and passport. This is great because you find out before you've queued for too long, if something needs to be sorted out. If you've brought something you can't bring in, there is a helpful pharmacy around the corner, which will look after it for about £10. When I got to the front another friendly guy, looks at your passport and compares it to you. Then through a security room with x-ray, and round following the signs marked visa. Two gentlemen at the desk, one American and one British, give you a number. Mine was I905. This number stays with you throughout the process. I believe numbers with 'I' mean immigrant and tourist visa applications start with 'N' as that was a more common number. You are then sent to the waiting area, where you sit and wait for your number to be called and appear on the big screen. I was told by my lawyer that 4-5 hours inside the Embassy is the most common. In that case I was lucky. I would be in and out in 1.5 hours.

I tried to read my paper but noise is constant, so its hard to. In any case, your mind is making enough noise on its own. After a while I heard "I905, window 14". So there I went and met a friendly African-American lady. "How are you today Christopher?" "Lets start with your invitation letter and passport". I handed those to her under the hatch. "So you're moving somewhere pretty". "I think so", I replied. I smiled at that, the very rare positive comment I've ever heard about living in Alaska. I have been so tired of people reminding me it's cold there. She handed me back my chest xray from the medical a week prior, then said you will need this in the US. Then she checked over the documents. Turning to the form, she then announced, "so your visa will expire on 10th December". "Expire?" I panicked. "This is for an immigrant visa?". "Oh sure Christopher, but you have to fly out there before the 10th December, when were you planning on going?". "Mid-July". "That's fine then". She handed me a pink form, and asked me to complete my address. "This is for the courier, to send you your passport with visa". She was talking as if the visa was mine already. "Just complete this, and wait for your number to be called, that will be the real interview". Yes the actual interview, the decision maker was next.

I sat down and looked at my watch. My interview was scheduled as 8:30am, it was now about 9:15am. Everywhere I read, and confirmed by my lawyer, I should be prepared to be in the Embassy for 4-5 hours. I settled in the severe seats and braced myself for a long wait. However, I looked at the screens and I-903 was being served, then I-904. Shit I was next. Before I knew it the tannoy announced "I-905 to window 16". I told myself to get up calmly, breathe and be confident. That went all out the window as I arrived before another friendly African-American lady.

She pushed the document I filled in some time ago under my nose. "Please raise your right hand sir!". I did. "Do you affirm that the answers you give will be the whole truth, and nothing but the truth". "I do", I replied. The interview started. "So tell me about your wedding day". I was happy to and it was a joy to tell it. I told her it was small, about 20 people, and my sister being the only family. She replied, "but a great day, right?". "Of course" I replied. She had a cheerful smile. Next question, "so tell me how your relationship developed", again I did so and she commented at the end "thats lovely". I was relaxed, but immediately thought, don't be disarmed, by friendliness. A few more questions, but this time she was typing away staring at the monitor and less friendly as I answered. When I was done, she turned to me "Mr Novell, thank you for being forthcoming and thank you for your time, I am happy to tell you YOUR VISA HAS BEEN APPROVED". The smile broke on my face, and the same on hers. She had a job to do, a serious job. Some days she would take no pleasure in denying a married couple from living together. Today, she put a smile on a tubby chaps face. This was no doubt a perk of her job, the times when she makes a dream come true for a deserving couple.

She directed me to courier where I happily paid an extortionate £26 for my visa stamped passport to come back to me. Once in the queue, I felt the weight of a years anticipation and nail-biting come down on me. Like many men, I don't cry easily, but when I do its always in the most awkward place, and it nearly happened in the queue of the American Embassy.

The experience of the US Embassy is by no means a comfortable one. However, I come out a little more strong in my love of the good characteristics of Americans. An Embassy is a bit of American soil in the heart of our capital, but it is almost culturally a microcosm of America. The security is rightly tight (success has many enemies), the level of detail and participation required from the visa applicant is high. That said, while they do their job efficiently and seriously. They treat you with dignity and care as a person who is at their mercy.

My lawyer put me at ease a little, by telling me beforehand. "They are not trying to trip you up, they do not have an agenda to keep you away from your wife". It's different for non-immigrant visas applicants. They know that a good majority of those seeking tourist, student or work visas, would love the chance to stay in America. Someone seeking a marriage visa, is known to have that long-term agenda and is open about it. They just have to ensure that their marriage is genuine.

I wanted to tell the world as soon as I left the Embassy, but my phone was all the way back at the hotel. So I walked across Hyde Park with this amazing cheesy, pathetic, nauseating, and 'scary-to-children' smile. More poignant to me was walking past the Peter Pan Fountains by Lancaster Gate. This time I was smiling and at peace. 6 years ago I regularly sat in that area reading after work until darkness came, scared to go home.

As soon as I arrived back at the hotel and my iPhone reconnected me to the outside world, I saw a text from a friend, wishing me luck. I had to tell my wife first, before I could reply to the friend's text. Even though it was 1:20am in Alaska I woke her and told her. The line was bad, and I understood not a single word she said. But I knew she heard my news.

I have just finished booking my flights, and on 14th July, two days before my 42nd birthday I arrive in Juneau. I have so much to do.

I think a new chapter begins from then. Enough to restart this blog in earnest. Funny really, this blog named 'Bus142' is clearly a reference to the wanderlust of Chris McCandless who died in said bus in the Alaskan wilderness. When I started it over two years ago, I never thought the reference would be a little more relevant. In 4 weeks and 2 days, I leave the UK to set up home in the largest US state with one of the smallest populations. A state that borders all three of the worlds largest countries by area. Has it's head in the Artic Circle and it's feet paddling in the Pacific Ocean. It blows my mind.

Gdansk - 15.02 to 18.02

The day started at 3am. My lawyer for immigration emailed me some documents. I had to print and sign and post back, or get my sister to. I duly got up, and printed the documents but the the printer was out of ink. I collapsed on the sofa. Another precious hour in bed was lost needlessly. I drank my coffee, smoked two cigarettes and my bottom betrayed my calm exterior by sending me to the bathroom many times.

The 5am taxi arrived 5 minutes early and off we were hurtling through the empty motorways to Manchester airport. I checked in, found Gregg's and sat with a tea and a Skype IM chat to Sarah in America. I will say nothing about Ryanair, beyond it got me there and that's all I wanted it to do. The fear of being charged £50 for going a milligram over my baggage meant I chucked things out mercilessly. My weight total was 9kg and I was allowed 15kg. Still it was a joy to carry, when I think I lugged about 17kg for 6 months.

Arrival at Gdansk airport was straight forward. The only ATM that looked available went out of service just before giving me my PLZ 500. This led to a mini panic, strange country, no money, now what? I found another after some searching and I was pleased to check online later that the ATM didn't take the money out on the first unsuccessful try.

The way to get to the centre is easy. If you are unsure when you arrive there, there is a very helpful and friendly English speaking tourist desk. It costs PLZ 3 for a single on the 210 bus. Just turn left out the airport and the bus stops are in front of a black building. Now the 210 bus does not terminate at the airport so ensure you get on the bus with the destination Oruna. The other will take you god knows where. You want to get off at Gdansk Glowny (main rail station). It's clear enough to see.

The journey takes you through some slummy places on the way to Gdansk centre and with the snow on the ground it looks truly depressing. It's Poland in your face.

I chose the Hotel Zappio to stay. Not far from the water and an old merchants house, so the decor is quirky and inspiring. I have definitely arrived out of season as I have a 4 bed dorm all to myself. The mattress is the thinnest but, I had a great sleep. I feared that in cold countries they whack up the heat too much. But not here. I slept with both my legs snugly under the duvet.

On arrival at the hostel, my 3am get up came back to haunt me and I crashed on the bed, and woke some hours later disoriented, and very groggy. I went to explore after waking with an amazing hunger. Without any plan I headed straight to the waters edge, occasionally looking at my map and made my way to Dluga Targ, which is translated as Long Market. On one hand it's an East European central square which you can imagine was once filled with jugglers, dancing bears and fat men swinging mugs of frothy ale. On the other hand it's a little too big to be charming. In fact Dluga Targ, is a microcosm of Gdansk. Gdanks looks like it can't make up its mind whether to be a Munich or a Salzburg, big or charming. Actually a quick look at history and a picture on a wall in Gdansk shows that the street planning was quite out of Polish hands. The tall thin buildings used to be everywhere, neatly compacted. Of course the war (don't mention the war) bombed the shit out of this much needed port on the Baltic, and the wide ugly spaces are more or less bomb craters. Other space made by the Germans during the early 40s, was quickly filled by communist architecture. In one respect, the fact that Dluga Targ is still with us is a wonderful thing.

The Old Town as it is called is sort of ok to wander. However, while Gdansk is walkable your wandering will take you into less attractive areas, then back into a charming one. See paragraph above why.

It being cold, and not wanting to squander money on drink and food just to have somewhere warm to sit, I made my way back to the very comfy hostel. I was in bed at 8:30 and I slept a full 12 hours. With the dorm to myself, the space was amazing and I had time to think clearly.

Saturday I had a few practical tasks. As mentioned at the beginning of this post, I was unable to print out some documents for the lawyer back at home. So the first mission after a wonderful free breakfast and breath-takingly gorgeous hot shower, was to find an Internet cafe. The one I found on google up by the trains station seemed to no longer exist. No matter I was up by the station anyway and purchased my onward ticket to Olsztyn (more about that later). A three hour journey for £9. I will be leaving Gdansk on the 19th. Anyway it was no good, I couldn't find the Internet place so back to the hostel where I was given perfect directions to one much nearer. Also as I needed to post two letters back to the UK, I was kindly shown that Weilka Brytania is Great Britain. This leads me to my first post office experience.

The Polish post office or Poczwa (I think) of Gdansk looked an impressive building inside. However, it's perfectly understandably only designed for Polish speakers. You go inside and a ticket machine gives you three options, in Polish. I chose the one which said "Stamps". This was wrong as the lady at counter C, shouted and wildly gesticulated at me, telling me to sod off to counter B. Of course closer examination would have shown me that counter B which had letters and parcels all around it would have been the good choice. Anyway the lady at counter B spoke at me, and mimed an airplane which was what I needed. She handed me the stamps and stickers then slammed the window in my face and walked away. I coyly tapped on the glass and shrugged in order to mime that I didn't know where to post my letters. She pointed at a wooden box, which looked very inconspicuous. In went my letters. I look forward with interest as to whether they arrive anytime soon.

For lunch I wanted to try a Milk Bar. These, my guide books advise me, are a positive remnant of communism. They are a cheap way to eat a meal. I found a veggie one called Greens. For PLZ 18 I had a huge Enchilada with salad and a coffee. You are served with the same love we received from dinner ladies at school, and the place has school canteen all over it. You sit at benches and clear your plates afterwards. It's a great experience, and a great way to get full on a good meal with a limited budget.

After lunch I walked a further 15 minutes or so to see The Freedom Roads exhibition. The entry of PLZ 6 is good value for what it is. The overall theme is the Solidarity movement as led by Lech Walesa in the 80s. However, what you come away with is a pretty good understanding of Poland from 1945 to present. It starts with Polish lamenting how badly they came out the war. Well I was a bit unsympathetic to that, as nobody came out that good. Their beef I suppose was they didn't come out the other end or recover as quickly as Germany (even East Germany) did. The shops of Poland were empty, and a display shows a typical shop in pre-fall of communism Poland. About as empty as a hermits diary. It showed the treatments of political dissidents, including the prisons they stayed in. Not nice, but I don't think British prisons were very nice in the 50s either. So far, so uninspiring.

The story of Solidarity and the rise of reluctant king, Lech Walesa is almost fairy tale. The electrician and his Shipworker Union who put strikes to good use. Not just for better wages and softer toilet paper, but as leverage to free political prisoners. It was such an ironic smack in the face for Soviet controlled Poland. The Soviet Union, who spoke of the beauty of power in the hands of the workers, had this ethos rammed back down their throat. Polish workers wanted freedom from communism. Now in our travels last year we visited a few ex-commie capitals. It seems that most of them, especially Berlin, Budapest and Bucharest like to think that the fall of communism started there, it's like a latter 20th century badge. I think it happened so quickly and there was so much dissent at the time it's hard to say which straw broke the iron donkey's back. However, this museum puts a good solid case for it being Poland. In which case Lech the sparky from Gdansk, became the man who freed half of Europe. Later Lech was sworn in as the first non-commie President of Poland. Unfortunately, he was better at organizing strikes than running a country and as Poland moved towards wanting to be a major economic player in Europe, Lech seemed inadequate for the role and was replaced. That said from Gdansk airport taking his name to being a national hero, his weakness in government has not hindered his hero status. I quite like the story of Lech.

Lech and Gdansk are the same in another way. Both are unassuming but both have played such an important role in European History. Once called Danzig, under the Germans, there was no way this strategic port town sandwiched between the Prussias, then later Germany and the USSR, was going to be left alone. You'd think the influences would be visible, but I only see Poland in Gdansk. I can't say it looks at all Germanic. It looks like a Baltic port. Their proudest monument being The Crane. The ship crane which is claimed to be the first, sits as a big wooden ugly bastard between golden snug eateries.

My second full day in Gdansk was spent initially making a tactical substitution. While I was set to go to Olsztyn on the 19th, my first choice volunteer hosts got back to me and offered me a bed and food in return for some English teaching. The place is way down in Kluczbork, south west of Poland. I got to the station to check on ticket availability and prices. I had some idea of when I wanted to go, so I wrote it down on a piece of paper and handed it to the nice lady at the ticket office. A ticket was available for £19.15. It leaves at 10:13am and arrives into Kluczbork at 6:43pm that evening, with a 57 minute transfer time in Poznan. I tried to get my Olsztyn ticket refunded but no joy. That is an £8 loss. However, this is being made up elsewhere, as I am now nearer to Krakow if I choose to visit there.

The problem was when I tried to phone my host/employer the phone said something in Polish, and beeped. I didn't know whether it was a voicemail or saying the number is incorrect. I took a chance booking this ticket. Later I googled the school where I would be teaching, made a call to the landline and got through. The lady will kindly be picking me up from the station when I arrive in Kluczbork.

The annoying thing about important stuff to do when traveling. It makes you rush around and fluster, but when it gets done you feel a bit hollow as there is now a day to fill. I filled a few hours reading and lazing, thinking I will go to beach tomorrow. The beach would be the first time I would have seen the Baltic Sea. I sat back, played a bit more tennis on the iPad. Then I saw the tattoo on my right arm. It screamed at me in Korean - "TODAY"! I dragged myself up, swung the camera around my neck and headed out.

It's easy to get to the beach. The area is Stogi Plaza. The number 3 or 8 tram runs south past Gdansk Glowny. The cost is PLN 3 for a single and their are many ticket machines with an English option. As the tram leaves central Gdansk, you see some very run down areas. Big blocks of apartments, many in need of a lick of paint. For some reason the apartments have the blocks name and numbers in huge letters down the side. A god send for a postman, but incredibly ugly. The countryside outside of Gdansk is brown and grey. It seems the severe winter has taken all the colour from the vegetation.

I got off the tram too early and the doors closed before I could get back on. So there I was with at least 2 miles to walk, and dropped in amongst the ugly apartments. I walked briskly, hood up, following my gut instinct as to where the beach would be. It seemed the road was straight and there was little chance I could go wrong again. To the right was this lake which caused me to take a short detour. Completely frozen, it was. The only things poking their heads through the ice, were blackened grass and a few empty bottles of lucozade. My peace by the lake was shattered by a gang of loud kids and a fierce looking dog of no pedigree I know. Mindful of the murderous children in the film Hostel, and noticing my slight isolation, I made my way back to the road.

Several minutes passed. A few trams of which I could have been comfortably sat, had I stayed put, hurtled by. Then the sea was in view. The dunes dabbed in snow, I expected something very isolated. However, when I approached the beach it seemed there is whole seaside industry. Big green bars with the Carlzberg sign. Reasonably maintained playgrounds for the children. This place is still in use. The sands were the finest I've seen since Koh Samui. There is surely a pocket of good season when the families will sit here and swim in this sea, with the dockyard cranes and ships as a backdrop. Yet today there were no swimmers. It was Sunday and I can imagine that as with Britain, the brisk walk to follow church and a big roast dinner, led families to the sea. All of them sheltering behind furry hoods, and 'No Fear' beanie hats.

I dipped my toe in the Baltic then made my way back towards the rusty tram shelter. I caught it back to the town, getting off a little earlier to walk through some more outskirts. That evening I ate at the hostel for the first time. And I had a Polish beer for the first time (in Poland). Finding a beer with just 5% ABV, wasn't incredibly easy, but with the help of the bar man, I found myself a crisp fresh lager. I can't remember the name of it. That evening I had Perogies Ruskie. Lovely dumpling pasta thingies stuffed full of spinach and cheese, and sprinkled with fried onions. Very Polish and very good.

Tomorrow I head south.

Why I came off Facebook - and I am much better for it!

Straight away I have noticed that my subject heading to this post is quite preachy, yet I'm still going to run with it. I am very much like a recovered smoker, alcoholic or drug addict. Once they become free of the addiction they feel they have to enforce their life choice on everyone else. I see so many flaws in likening substance addiction to Facebook use, but I still think there is an incredible denial of addiction in those who keep using the worlds most popular social network.

Anyway I deactivated my account a few weeks ago, and prior to doing so I had many arguments with myself as to why I use Facebook. In doing this, I reconciled on how I actually use it and the ideal usage for me. Realization brought to me the fact that how I use it is a long way from the reasons I gave myself for staying.

Like all my ways of thinking, and maybe human thinking, I wanted to define FB and the reason we use it into a single sound bite. And I think I have done. It's simply the quest for attention. That sounds negative but seeking attention is a human desire and we all have it to a greater or lesser degree. It's how we seek that attention or validation which is the subject for judgement. FB brings out the worse vehicle for attention seeking.

FB's Mark Zuckerberg devised the site under the mantra "bringing people together". He is a clever entrepreneur and he meant that with a sub-text - bringing people together with advertising agencies. So what? It's a massive tool, it costs money to run, who is supposed to fund it? I will go on to admit that during my 6 years of active FB usage, the adverts went by quite unnoticed by me. Occasionally they targeted my book history to recommend me new releases, and the same goes for music. But again, it did not divert my attention to an minute annoyance. So my rejection of FB is not based on it being a massive consumer study for nasty corporations.

Privacy is something that bothers many, and only me to a small extent. Everyday before and since FB we happily gave our credit card, address and phone details to a variety of companies over the Internet. I've given less of these identity theft vulnerable details to FB. So privacy isn't a determinant either.

So what is my problem?

Well for many the attraction is that we keep up with our "friends" lives easily. Well we do and we don't. In fact people only show a very filtered happy version of their lives. Sure occasionally a pet will die, or a relative and we offer our condolences, but those are major headlines not everyday life. If we are to believe life is like FB - most of us celebrate the weekend with a glass of vino, start the Saturday with a lovely breakfast, mourn the loss of the weekend and hate Mondays. All the fatter people have photos leaning from the shoulders up with their head leant forward. All the beautiful (and some who just think they are beautiful) people pout at trendy night clubs raising a bottle of WKD. According to FB we are all such great chefs. We all have great families and days out and are always on amazing holidays. It isn't life and it isn't the genuine window into our far flung "friends" lives we like to think.

But that is other people's usage and I'm a firm believer in free expression not matter how important or trivial. My deactivation was about me and my usage.

As a FB user I was the worse kind. If FB was a drug I wouldn't be the occasional line of cocaine on the weekend, I was the £300 a day heroin addict. I could not go a few minutes without refreshing my iPhone. iPhones and FB are a bastard combination. If something funny or interesting came into my head, it had to go on FB straight away. The dopamine reward was a plethora of ´likes', telling me I was a funny and clever guy. No responses meant I'd failed myself. Like a gambler losing, I just told myself I had to do better next time. Every event had to be photographed, and all my feed needed to know how great my life was. When it was going bad, I hid that. I sneered at the ones who aired their relationship and friendship problems with everyone. Yet now I think they were the most honest.

Then there was the politics. I'm a politically opinionated person. I don't expect to be agreed with, but I reach my conclusions (I feel) after reading up on the subject and exploring all the arguments and data before my opinion is formed. In that respect I expect my challenger (usually to the right of me) to have done the same. The main issue I think is worth a damn for me is the issue with Israel/Palestine. I posted my stance many times, yet the only response I got was from those who I felt had to understand more of the issues. I compare this to a debate I had on Twitter recently over Palestine (sometimes heated) with a Jewish person living in Israel. He took me around the block. All my arguments formed with 3 books, a drama series called The Promise and many trips to Wikipedia had an equal. The bombing of the King David Hotel, the mandate of Palestine and land for peace initiatives, he knew it also and better than I. And I was in my element. This is something I couldn't get from FB. Occasionally on FB I would have conversations over trickle down economics with an old friend now living abroad. He was a very knowledgable conservative, a greater believer in individualism. The bank bailouts would cause the most lively discussion. Then someone else would come in with a well intentioned but simple comment - someone who is worthy of opinion but I will wager has not read much JM Keynes. It was like a drunk has wandered into debating society by accident.

But this is the point, FB is pluralistic in the extreme. Pluralism is a good thing usually, but when you seek a haven from everything puerile in society or things you find unimportant, FB shoves the crap back into your face. But then again, I shove my puerile crap back into everyone else's faces, it's a lose-lose situation.

FB is a lifestyle for many of us. It has replaced email, text, phone and even face-to-face communication for many of us. Myself very much included. Therefore, there are ramifications in just coming off FB. How do you just deactivate? These are the arguments I had with myself. Do I announce it to all, or just deactivate and see who notices. I chose the latter for reasons I will explain in a minute. If you announce you can lay down your reasons in message to your "friends". For me that looked too diva. I was maybe more focused on those, who would shrug their shoulders and say "so what" than those who would miss FB as a point of contact for me. You will get a back-lash (if you are lucky) whichever route you choose. I chose just to come off as a real determinant of what FB is and how shallow it is. If people want to make contact with me, they have my number or my email. I am still on passive Twitter and easily searched on google. If they want to see pictures of me and any adventures, then I can happily forward them on request, rather than be like old people who thrust photos of importance only to them into your lap, while you look at each one and forcing interest. In other words, in this day and age it takes very few clicks on the WWW to see I am very much alive and well and not faking my death for insurance reasons. I will talk more about photos in a moment.

The back-lash I had was about 7 people on my previous friend list taking the effort to find me, and asking if I was off FB, or defriending them. All asked why I came off. Going forward I could possibly send them this post. But I had to answer in a few sentences which isn't easy. It's a bit like when you go teetotal for a spell. You are offered a drink and you chose a soft one. They ask why and you feel like either a self-righteous principled arsehole, or a recovering alcoholic when you explain. When really you want it to be; I just don't want to take alcohol into my body at this present time, it is no big deal and I am happy for you to continue. But this is the point when you make a lifestyle decision, explaining it can always be received as criticism when you strive hard for it not to be that way. Your ex-friends can see your decision to quit FB as saying "my life is rewarding and my real-friends provide me with such a hectic life I have no need for FB - but you do need it". This is not the case with me. I constantly questioned why I had at least 100 "friends" at any one time, I spent most Saturdays at home, or most the guests at my wedding came out of church-charity rather than life long friendship. FB actually intensified any loneliness I had rather than gave relief.

Photographs are a large reason many stay. FB is very generous in offering unlimited storage, whereas google and Flickr charge after a point is reached. Then again, FB has defined our picture taking more than electronic cameras which were in popular use five or more years before FB. Cameras on phones were widespread a good four years before FB. The sharing aspect of FB seems to have increased usage. The idea that you can take a picture and publish it widely with a click has been a blessing but greater curser. It makes us fear a camera like celebs fear the paps. In fact maybe that's a problem with FB in general we think it has turned us all into celebs. That just because our thoughts can be published to a 100 people at once, makes them interesting or worthy. A quick look on your newsfeed brings back the grim reality that they are really not. They are caught in a big crowd of everyone shouting at once. Facebookers often criticize Twitter as you get much less feedback than FB. The reality is your thoughts are as important on FB as they are to the strangers on Twitter. I love the quote I picked up once "Facebook is 'look at me' while Twitter is 'look at that'. This is an uncomfortable thought if you deny that your FB feed is for attention seeking.

I like my photographs and traveling recently I took heaps and posted them. However, every time I wanted to relive my travels I would go back on and see the same photos. It compressed my travel experience of 6 months into a few stills. Now these aren't readily available, I relive my travel memories through this blog. Or even better through the best recorder of memories there is; my mind. Sometimes just lying in bed at night and going over my travels in my mind, brings new things out which I didn't think to snap or blog. In that respect my FB travel photos have narrowed my memory of travel not aided.

There are many many positive effects of the aftermath of quitting FB. Firstly, if you are an iPad or iPhone user, you will realize what a great gadget you have as you look round all the other apps, than that horrible blue 'F'. You find yourself searching news apps like Pulse, or Google Currents. You find news the good old way, not through a "friends" update.

It helps you redefine your friendships. Now I'm not so purist that cyber friends cannot be healthy. They can. Without FB you see the people who you may not have seen personally in years in a different life. You can encourage an email. If they have gone on holiday recently, maybe ask them to email their photos to you. If this is too inconvenient for them, question how badly they want you to see them. In any case pictures are overrated in describing an experience. People who contact me through text, email, Skype, twitter (loads of options) are obviously the ones who valued my friendship. Those who saw me as merely a FB "friend" also become clear by not making a very simple effort.

For most FB is an enjoyable, healthy and harmless experience. I may say that as an institution it has done more good than harm, just not in my case. There is also the trendy aspect as more people love the tag "I don't do Facebook", and I love that tag also. I admit it has become an elitist comment, which may become more widespread.

Quitting FB comes with some soul searching, and honest self analysis is almost always a bitter pill to swallow. But the toughest pill to digest is that your life doesn't become richer just because you broadcast it. The other pill is how unimportant you really are. And if you are important to people, you will remain important with or without FB. Another acid test for me for me was how few people on my friend list read my travel blog with infinitely more detail on my travels than my photos. It's not my friend list, they are all lovely people, but I am still one of many on their friend list, and my travels were a million times more important to me than to them.

I want to finish with another quote I read in the Guardian "don't look for happiness in your feeds, switch off and feed your happiness". Now that is surely worth a 'like'!!

Edinburgh - 7th to 9th December

There were two reasons for my popping off to Edinburgh in the second weekend of December. Well actually maybe more than two, but the main reasons were I had a heavy heart. I was very down and desperately in need of thinking space. In fact so much was needed I very much doubt Edinburgh could deliver. Well it could. The second reason is I wanted to take my new Canon for a proper spin around the block, and Edinburgh delivered that as well.

I left work early to catch the 4:15pm to Edinburgh Waverly, but Chris always gives himself too much time, you know this. I killed time with a refreshing Amstel in Piccadilly station. While the beer hit me and gave a warm buzz all problems were there, but for some reason you have a little clarity that it is going to be alright. The buzz went when the train arrived delayed, and I needed the loo too many times.

The train was stupidly crowded all the way from Manchester to Preston. But when the crowds thinned to where all had seats the jollity of the passengers came out. I realized I was heading in the right direction. I took out my GPS as soon as we left Carlisle so I could see when we crossed the border (me and borders, I don't know). I didn't need the GPS, the Scottish passengers would let me know when we crossed. The beers were cracked open and a gentleman was inviting all around him to play 'name that tune' from the music on his tablet. The prize for a correct answer was a Rowntrees wine gum. I won two.

I picked a hostel which I knew wouldn't be far from the rail station and I chose Smarts Hostels off The Royal Mile. A great place with a neat studenty bar. Only £10 a night. But this isn't important at all. Although the Scottish breakfast in the morning for £4 was one of the things you come north of the border for. And yes haggis was there to be enjoyed. The truth was the following Saturday it filled me until evening.

That evening I left and walked towards the castle in the intermittent rain. The Christmas lights were up, and I don't think there are many cities which can wear Christmas as well as Edinburgh can. The American tourists, were shuffling to the good eateries, after a day spent doing everything they could. The streets were clearing and it was just me, my camera and a million thoughts.

I walked past the vibrant bars on The Royal Mile. A mash-up of tourists looking for and finding the welcoming Scots. Edinburgh professionals winding down their week at work, and I wanted to be there with them. But I couldn't go in. I had drunk in Manchester and on the train, and I wasn't in a safe mood to be drunk. I finished my walk and returned to the Hostel Bar. I sat there with a pint of Guinness, uploaded my photos and read some before taking to the crisp white sheets of my allotted top bunk. In the limited space of a hostel dorm, there is something cosy and safe about your little allocated piece of space. I'm not going to pretend that my co-dormers were ideally considerate, but I slept ok. The only complaint was a mistake of my own making. Keeping my bag as a pillow, I slept awkwardly and carried a painful neck for the remainder of my weekend and a little into the following week.

I woke up before 8am and was one of the few to take early advantage of the Scottish breakfast. Hash browns, sausages, bacon eggs, haggis, everything. My mind flitted like a remote control surfing the TV, as it couldn't decide whether I was basking in contentment of the moment, slurping sweet tea as the sun rose without hurry. Or the magnitude of the future weighing me down. I am pretty sure that the contentment and peace won overall. I set out and walked the streets of Edinburgh before most others had. I crossed the bridge taking me to Princes Street, while other hostellers slept off their hangovers, and the American tourists were complaining about their breakfast at The Caledonian. It's the park I wanted, near the Scottish National Gallery. I walked through it not knowing what I wanted. It started to rain and I sought shelter with the fickle comfort of a Marlboro Light. I can't wander these streets all day. I needed out the city. I looked at google maps and then the train timetable on the old iPhone and there was a 9:38am train to Perth, and the fare was only £16. I had time and made my way to Waverly Station and took the 1 hour journey north of the city. Why Perth? What's so special about Perth? Nothing. I went because I could.

As the train leaves Edinburgh it also leaves the charming touristy bit and you see the houses famed by the film Trainspotting. We all know council houses exist, but these were miles and miles of gritty 1980s style damp-stained morbidity. I grew up in a council house, but this was something else. A child growing up there would see little else, especially in my era when cares were scarce amongst the poor. But still I saw the soul, I think. And this seemed as part of Scotland's fabric as the scotch-soaked lamp-lit bars pulsing the Royal Mile.

Then the countryside. The snow had fallen a little. The train made several stops and on and off jumped rosy cheaked families with technicolored hats. The kids excited about a journey they knew well. Wrinkled chain-smoking Catholic women, impatiently waiting for the train to arrive to light up another Lambert & Butler. And the big men, all very big men.

When I got the Perth I didn't know why I bothered. I recognized nothing much from my stop here in 1996 on the way to Pitlochry. I wandered a bit, taking in the churches and forcing interest in the history. Book shops always make me happy, so why wouldn't the local one? I was forcing it far too much. Trying to be cultural, when I only wanted to be in bed and warm. The snow fell a little and I found a Costa Coffee. I found a table in the corner and sat nursing a Gingerbread Latte, and nibbling at a chocolate and caramel shortbread, which I bought only as I thought I should. I looked at the families opposite. The matriarch calming the child with a hot chocolate and the father wiping his misted glasses, just like me. Happy bastards. I picked up my phone. Found my sister in the contacts and texted "Dan, how's you.... I'm in Costas and so fucking lonely!" There would be no breakdown beyond that. I took the train back to Edinburgh as the sun set. Tonight would be Saturday night and the pubs would not intimidate me. I was going out. And if it had to be on my own, then that's the way it had to be.

Back at the hostel I showered. There is something about Lynx Africa that makes everything right. Then out I went. My first stop was a backpackers bar called The Backpackers Bar. I sat there with Guinness after Guinness, pretending to be interested in the soccer. I lubricated my confidence enough to get into the next door establishment, Whistle Blinkies. A swinging place hyped as the place for live music in Scotlands capital. It was nothing like The Dublin Castle in Camden. No one here was making any attempt at taking themselves seriously. Good basic guitar sounds. A pubby voice for the lead singer, and Heh Jude to finish a set. I caught my reflection in the mirror behind the bar. The cheeks were pink and cracked above the beard, the eyes were subdued. When did I get so old? But bugger me if that wasn't a smile. I came here to seek contentment and found a crumb of happiness lying on the timber floor. "Same again please!"

The next morning there was no hangover. Even if there had been that breakfast would have banished it immediately. I had a noon train to catch on Sunday back to Manchester. This time the journey was in daylight. The train less lively, but offset by the track winding through the towns serving The Lake District. The smooth green hills and little blue and red dots of North Face and Berghaus coats bobbing along the peaks. Sometimes all you can say is "Britain, you beautiful little Island".

Days 189 to 197 - THE END. Bangkok to Britain.

It seemed a strangely familiar being back in Bangkok and with no real exploring left to do, we returned to the familiar Rambutri and Khao San Road area of Bangkok. Our only task to buy presents for loved ones back home. Baggage weight being an ongoing issue we decided to buy things in Bangkok instead of carting them around for our journey. We had an idea of going to a ping pong club but with the journey coming to an end it seemed less relevant. In any case we had to be up early the following day as we had a 10am flight back to Heathrow.

The flight on Emirates was perfect as always and I think if you can pay a little more, this is the way to start and finish travel to Asia from the UK. Also the 10th October is our anniversary. We completed 3 years of a very interesting, rewarding and exciting marriage. If our marriage has a title, it is 'travel'. We met in New York 5 years ago and for the first 18 months we were hopping the Atlantic and generally on holiday. As soon as Sarah was legal in the UK and could leave the country and be guaranteed to get back in we were straight across the English Channel to Greece, France, Holland, Belgium. Our life has been on holiday or planning them. Soon this will change drastically.

We arrived in Heathrow at 7pm on 10th, but the journey wasn't quite over. We organised a mini break in South west England, to cover the time up until Sarahs flight to the USA on the 17th October. We didn't have to go far on the first night, as we booked a hostel in Hounslow, near Heathrow airport. Hounslow is a very Indian place. It seems when the Indian immigration peaked in the 1970s from Kenya and Uganda, the new immigrants arrival coincided with the growth of Europes biggest airport (I won't fact-check that). They looked for work at the airport and the surrounding boroughs of Hounslow and Southall, and they stayed.

Hounslow is famous for the film Bend it Like Beckham. The story of a Sikh girl who battles an insular family to play football. Once we arrived in the pub which doubled as a hostel we grabbed some food downstairs. The pub was traditional British in decor but the big screens were playing Banghra music (which I love) and the food on the menu was Indian with a few chips thrown in. So there was our anniversary; a sheesh kebab listening to Banghra in a pub in Hounslow. That night in seperate bunks we had a night free from fear of bed bugs in the case of Sarah and in my case no concern for the setting on the AC (there wasn't an AC). The strangest feeling was brushing my teeth that evening and realising, I don't have to look for a bottle of mineral water, the tap water is safe.

The 11th October and day 191 we had booked a tiny hire car from Heathrow airport, and we took the drive towards Dorset which would provide our bed for the night, but also Sarah's quest of searching for her ancestors in Dorchester where they sailed in 1635 for the America's to flee religious oppression. I had to pull over for a phone interview on the way. The job search added early stress to our journey for me, but I won't waste anymore words on that as this blog is about travel not work stress which I fled from in the beginning.

On the drive down we turned off to see what Southampton had to offer but ended up not parking but continuing to Lyndhurst near the New Forest. The day was rainy but that didn't stop us getting out and walking around this little town, and finding a church and completely happening across the grave of the girl who provided the influence for Alice in Alice in Wonderland for Lewis Carol. Then (and this sounds dull) we stopped for a pot of tea in a tea shop and everything charming about the UK came back to me as I stared out at the rain soaked streets.

In fact compared to the rest of the travels this entire blog may look dull to the reader but not for me. It was a reconcilliation of how great my little island really is, at least the charming southern part where I grew up. We found a Tesco and do you know how good the inside of a Tesco looks like when you've eaten nothing that cannot be flashed in a wok for 5 months? A good second to the supermarches of France. The cheese and fresh bread and the red wine, oh fuck me - the red wine! Don't hate us for enjoying crashing in our moderately priced hotel that evening, watching English TV and eating crusty bread and red wine.

Day 192 we made our way to Dorchester and had a mission as soon as parking. Museums and libraries was this mission. To find out some story behind the reason Sarah was born in Illinois and not England. The first museum had an entrance fee, and we wondered how much it would tell us about those who left England for the New World. The kind helpful lady advised us to go to the history centre a quick walk up the road. Another thing I missed; help being offered without a concern for an exchange of money. Being able to ask for directions without being ushered into a taxi is something you take for granted. The only repayment expected is an overly long "thank you" and "sorry to bother you".

We found the history centre, an archive library, signed in and started looking for the name of Lane around the 1600s. It looked like a needle in a haystack, but I found a record of a family called Lane who sailed with their family in April 1635. It looked promising. That said, Sarah looked at her family tree and she was looking for an Andrew. We found nothing concrete but in searching got a quick idea of the Great Migration to the Americas. It was an interesting stop.

We then drove onto to a town called Beer on the south coast of Devon. I remember this place from 1997 when a student. For adventure I decided to cycle from Bristol where I was studying to Liskeard in Cornwall where I grew up. A journey taking 3 days. My first stop was Beer and I remember the fish and chip shop where I bought chips and sat by the sea after covering 70 miles on the saddle in one day. We found it, and the chips were amazing. Again amazing after so long at least.

We continued to Plymouth where we stayed the night. Passing through the spendid Devon countryside. The county with reputedly the best standard of living in the UK (not fact-checked). We tried to relive one of our cross channel visits, and drank in the same Barbican pub we did in April 2008. It meant something to us.

The next day we continued to Cornwall where we would spend the night in Newquay. However, on the way we stopped off for pasty in Marrizion and to see St Michaels Mount. Sarah wanted to compare to Mont St Michel in France. It is the same in the sense the tide seperates it from the mainland. Very picturesque, and pasties taste better when staring out at the sea in Cornwall on a bright day. Then on to Lands End at the tip of Cornwall. Every place in Lands End entitled 'First and Last'. Then St Ives for another pasty then to Newquay where we stayed the night.

My brother lives in Cornwall and its been a long time since I've seen him, almost 4 years in fact. I couldn't travel down there, without catching up. We met for drinks in the Halfway House between Bodmin and Liskeard. Family are amazing. Once you fill in the blanks of the time spent apart, you quickly settle back into familiarity. In our case the humour was there and we were bouncing jokes off eachother with ease. It was an easy visit. It lasted a couple of hours before I rejoined Sarah back in Newquay. She was too tired to take the 1.5 hour round trip.

On arrival back at the hotel we 'hit' the Newquay town. It was a Saturday night and about 8pm when we made our way out, and the place was dead. Was this really the Cornish hotspot I'd worshipped in the early 1990's. The place where you would take a hip flask as getting served at the packed bars would be long process? Yes it was. What happened. We had no time finding a quiet place to sit and chat like people of our age do. Sitting and chatting is what we had to do for 6 months now, and you'd think the conversation would be hard. That said, with Sarah returning to the States and my plans in the UK until I join her, there was much to talk about. There are still so many unresolved plans which cover the next year at least.

We left early the next morning, but made a stop off in Minions. With all Sarah's interest in ancient history, I'm surprised I never took her to see The Hurlers and The Cheesewring which was on my doorstep for so much of my life. We had really lucked out with the Cornish weather over the two days, so Minions was a perfect walk. I reconciled my thoughts of England further and more pleasant memories crowded out the bad ones.

We drove all the way to Salisbury that night choosing a comfy Premier Inn to bed down. The next day was a 6am start to get the car returned for 9am at Heathrow. We got there with 15 minutes to spare. The Piccadilly line took us to Green Park. We surfaced at Green Park tube by the Ritz Hotel, then took the tourist trail through the park, past Buckingham Palace. A sandwich at the Pret A Manger in Victoria, which served as my lunch spot from 2007 to early 2009, provided a mini nostalgia. Then the Megabus to Manchester.

We arrived at my sisters back in Tameside Manchester. Gave the nephews and nieces their presents which had a novelty value of less than 2 hours. Sarah visited friends the following day, while I had an unsuccessful interview in central Manchester.

The 17th October and day 197 was Sarah's last day in the UK. We got the train from Guide Bridge to Manchester Airport, then set about the process of seeing her off. This was a strange feeling. We were both accepting of the fact that once she passed security, we would not meet again until US Immigration says we can. A period no less than 3 months, and a fair possibility of 2 years. (The latter being the worse case scenario, and if that was the case she can visit me in the UK or Canada. So I won't be over dramatic about that.) We were both aware this is something you can't get around, the immigration process to America runs on their speed. There is no way to speed it up, we were accepting of the harshness of seperation. Still as we walked towards the security gates, Sarah cracked and had tears, and me almost too. Being a man you feel it's better to be reassuring to your partner when she is in tears. We both quickly looked back on what we had done, how far we had come rather than how far we have yet to go.

Its like walking up that hill near Chiang Mai. You can look up and see the distance you have yet to go, and the seemingly impossible hill to overcome, but still you have no option but to climb it. Then you look behind and see how far you have climbed and look back at the view and this is the reward.

From meeting Sarah in New York five years ago, to negotiating the simpler but still expensive and tricky UK immigration process for Sarah. To getting married. To negotiating our life together with a wealth of cultural and emotional differences. To reaching agreement on our goals in life. This is before we take into account of last 6 months spent covering 19 countries. 6 months killing time, searching for hotels, working out currencies, visas, various foods. Understanding different customs. Arguing, making up, eating - lots of eating.

Do I feel a better person and a better couple after this? I think I do and I think this should be an acid test of most couples if they are able to undertake it. Being virtually in eachothers faces for 6 months, in mostly cramped spaces, you get to know someone. You get to know what to say which is necessary and unnecessary. You learn this by trial and error. So the learning process for me was intended to be the world. Yet it ended learning how to be a better husband. I know the theory, yet I have to battle the stupid inclinations of myself, to achieve the ideal.

I'm sat writing this 3 days after Sarah left and the novelty of space has worn off a little, and I miss her over in America dreadfully. She has a huge job of setting up, I only have one of surviving, saving some money and keeping my life temporary but functional. I have some adventure too.

This was always a travel blog, so the journey to America from here is a story for another day. Thank you for following me. That is all!

Days 185 to 188. From Chiang Mai to Bangkok

The trek left us both quite sore and therefore a free day ensued, which were getting quite more frequent as we approach the end of our travels. Along with approaching the end of travels comes approaching the end of the allocated travel money. This is quite a sobering thought. Looking at the bank balance back in April and seeing a healthy 5 figure sum, now reduced to 3 figures. You look back on the amount spent and quantify with yourself, was it spent wisely? Did we get all we could out of it? What did we intend to get out of it? I'm probably going to ask that again in my summary and many times after that. Especially in times in the future when we are hard-up.

Day 186 and 6th October we were booked on the night train to Bangkok at 5:30pm, leaving us a day in Chiang Mai. We filled most of this day with what may be the most interesting and memorable experience of the journey. We went to the Tiger Kingdom.

You will be right in assuming that tigers are involved in The Tiger Kingdom, and you may rightly assume it is touristy. That's not to take away from it. Tiger Kingdom is about 10km outside of Chiang Mai, and once inside you can play and cuddle tigers. The tiger sizes come in Smallest, Small, Medium and Big. There are various packages on offer combining sizes of tiger to interact with. We chose Smallest + Small + Big for B1250 each (£25 or $40).

There is no set order you need to do this, but we chose the Smallest first. There are some rules and guidance to follow. The main one is to not touch the tigers head, and always approach them from behind. The opposite to approaching a horse then. In any case on purchase of a ticket, you signed away all liability of Tiger Kingdom, should these beasts chew off your arm in a rage. Therefore, it is best to follow the rules.

The Smallest are about 3 months old, and very playful they are. Mostly with each other, although they can be playful with you. But being playful is a bit of nipping with each other, and you can see from a young age what razor teeth they have. You are not allowed to pick them up, but stroking and rubbing their tummy is loved, and they become very docile. The youngest are probably the most fun, as they are awake during the day. The latter ages they start becoming more tiger and like their 18 hours sleep a day, like George Bush did.

The Small category are aged about 6 months and are showing traces of cub cuteness, but evolving into the proud creatures they will be, the Big ones aged 18 months are a more amazing experience. The same rules apply for all the tigers remember, don't touch the head. You may even tickle their balls, and all you will get is a flick of the tail, but not the head. Incidentally the guard encouraged us to tickle a Small tigers balls. I was sceptical, but I did.

I can honestly say, and you won't believe  me unless you visit Tiger Kingdom yourself, I felt no fear with the big tigers. I could see their teeth and they were huge things, and the animal could rip the flesh off me like a well cooked barbecued rib, but still they are so calming. We both approached from behind and put our arms around a resting tiger. I smelt him and they smelt like a friendly dog (a smell I miss and love) and my arm raised up and down with the tigers breathing. Only occasionally did I think; wow I'm cuddling a huge killing machine.

They are drugged Chris, you cry. All I can say is again and again we were told they were not drugged. They are petted by humans from 3 months old, so they only know the nice side of humans. After 18 months they are sold to zoos, as after that point they become unpredictable, and maybe nature takes over and tells them, they are there to hunt and kill not have back-packers tickling their balls. They are so docile, because tigers need so much sleep, so their sleep pattern is the calmer also.

It is a zoo of sorts, and the animals will never be free, so make your own moral decisions based on that. However, I don't think there are many other ways to fully appreciate a tiger than to get this close. It has made me care more about the existence of the species in the wild, and I will look into how I can help personally. There are also tigers near Bangkok which are run by monks. However, I have read that despite this being run by monks, those beasts are more likely drugged, even though the setting looks more wild.

So after a lunch of burritos we caught the night train to Bangkok. You are expecting some expression of feelings as we complete the overland journey of 5,252 miles from Singapore, to Penang to Bangkok, through Cambodia, south to north Vietnam, to Vientiane in Laos to Lunang Prubang to Chiang Mai and back to Bangkok. I don't think I have any right now.

Last night we went out for dinner and here in Bangkok and Sarah wanted to go back in at about 7pm. She has been feeling run down as we reach the end. I stayed out a bit. Just two solo beers, watching the travellers and people go by. I think I wanted to be alone with Bangkok for a bit. I also enjoyed people watching and I felt so used to seeing travellers and back-packers, I could spot immediately which ones were at the beginning of their Asian journey and those at the end or a long way into. Maybe something about the look, less wide-eyed than the new arrivals. New arrivals over-do the "I know what I doing and where I'm going" look. And if I can spot this after 5 months in Asia, you can be sure the hawkers can.

Days 180 to 184. Last adventures in Northern Thailand

Chiang Mai is instantly an easy place to like. You like it when you first see the map. A city built around a square historic section and what looks like a moat. I've never been much more north than Bangkok in Thailand before, but many I know had. From their descriptions I drew up an idea that it is a bit of a back-water. Of course I knew it was Thailands second city, but then again Battambang is Cambodia's second city, Wyella is South Australias second city. Just because Chicago is the US' second city (or is it LA), doesn't mean that another country can't have a bloody great drop-off from the big one to the next biggest. What I did notice straight away from arrival at the guesthouse, to the obligatory first confused wander up the street for food, is that if Chiang Mai has a comparison (and I'm always looking for them) it is Queenstown in New Zealand. Every two steps you pass a travel agency and each travel agency has something for you to do. Chiang Mai is somewhere you go to 'do something'. We had in our mind before arrival, a mental cruise along in the last week and a half. In reality we booked ourselves on a 2 day trek.

But first we had our teeth to sort out. Sarah came out with antibiotics and some good advice. Chris living up to the stereotype of British having bad teeth, left minus a tooth and some painkillers and antibiotics, oh and half a day of intense pain as my gum got used to being an open wound. Now it is free of pain and life is easier. This is something that should have been sorted in Saigon, but I was scared of what that teenager would do to me. The Thai dentist did an amazing job. I also think I've learnt something about myself, I look over my dental history from the nurse at school to recently, and I trust lady dentists only. Men don't put me at ease.

Anyway dentists aren't interesting so onto the trek. It was a small group, just one other couple in fact. Italians called Guilio and Ariana who were great company throughout. I read in the guidebook a trek can be good or bad based on the group not the guide or itinerary, so in that case we were set.

The action took a while to get going. Past the orchid and butterfly farm (I've wasted too many words on that already). Then a snake zoo, with a snake show. Scary cobra's and pythons etc and men goading these snakes to bite them, with a few facts how poisonous the legless reptiles are. The only entertaining aspect was the MC who had such a creepy seductive voice. "heh let big snake kiss little snake (a penis) and 30 seconds you sleep for long time.... mmm oh yeah".

A visit to the Kayan tribe, the people with long-necks was a disappointment. I thought it would be part of the trek, but in actuality it was just a turn off on the main road, and there was the most artificial of villages with the tribe making scarfs and other crafts. Everyone taking pictures and thinking they are of National Geographic calibre, but really it was like taking photos of animals in the zoo. I was quite uncomfortable with it, but left questioning what I really expected. The ladies put an extra ring around their neck, for beauty I'd imagine. The weight of rings pushes the shoulders down, rather than stretches the neck. Nowadays, it's probably done more for tourism than feminine beauty, which made me wince a bit seeing little girls started on this process. Little girls bred for tourism. I can't reconcile my view of ethical tourism with this, but it sets my moral compass in a bit of a confused spin.

After a 15 minute stop at a market (*shrugs shoulders*) we eventually arrived at the start of the trek. Lunch of rice and watermelon was a good slow release energy meal for what was to come. We met our guide, who introduced himself as 'Wit'. An adequate guide as guides go, although having got pissed the night before was often lagging behind with a hangover. We would later find out Wit is hungover all the time. It didn't matter too much as the trail was easy to see. It was also very hard work, for us anyway. The Italians suffered less it seemed.

It was uphill almost totally for about 4 hours (including frequent stops). The humidity was fierce, and sweat poured through me, and left me not caring whether it rained torrents or not. In fact rain was what I would have wanted. To see a flat bit was a relief, but often all to short before another steep climb would show itself. My coping mechanism was to go 'into myself' and meditate for a bit. One swing of the stick and count four steps, one swing of the stick, count four steps, again and again, my own pace. Of course I would often come out of this trance noticing it slowed me down and the rest of the group, including Sarah and the hungover guide were miles ahead. An energy sapping sprint would redress my moments of contemplation.

With all long uphill walks you are repaid by looking round and seeing how far you've climbed and majestic scenery. This was no exception to that rule. A stop about 10 minutes from our bed for the night, was a vendor selling drinks. I was bracing myself for exploitation. Thirsty white people, miles from a 7 Eleven, they will pay in gold for a cold drink? Wrong, a cold beer was only B 50 (£1). I opted for a coke, cold and drenched in ice, it went down in 4 or 5 gulps, no exaggeration. Then invigorated with sugar and a quenched thirst, I belched my way up the final push.


The village was basic and perfect. Of course as soon as I arrived I sat myself on the floor of the bamboo veranda and gulped down water and just... well sat and sweat. The others were checking out the sleeping quarters, and showering. I just sat. My moment of nothingness was broken by two girls and a baby playing around me. They saw my camera and asked me to take pictures. Such cute kids, more joined us later. Including a young chap who's pet was a stag beetle on a lead. I'm not lying.

After a shower, which was a tap a meter off the ground surrounded by bamboo walls, I saw our sleeping area which we would share with Guilio and Ariana. It was a big room with mosquito nets, and mattresses. It looked so cosy, but maybe after that walk it wouldn't be hard to make anything cosy.

pet beetle on a lead

None of the house had any electricity as I suspect none of the village did. A fire in the kitchen was where Wit cooked us a green curry and another stir fry dish with steamed rice. Sat on the floor with dusk enveloping the surrounding mountains, it was the perfect meal. With the smell of the fire, Guilio on the guitar and a few  Beer night caps, this was truly perfect. Add to this the kids playing around us and playing games on our friends iPhone. Really wonderful. Having this in the final weeks of our travels made it all the better. I won't say I slept brilliantly, but I enjoyed my night in the hills and possibly found a spot I will come back to one day.

The following morning after another wood smoked fire cooking our breakfast we walked back down to hill to the waterfall. Walking downhill uses another set of muscles and isn't necessarily easier than uphill. Still we made it there, accompanied by the village dog. A black mini-wolf shaped thing, whom Sarah named 'Bandit'. He went with us up to the waterfall and then went back home.

The waterfall was as scenic as you'd expect a waterfall would be, but with the heat and humidity, jumping under it was obviously the aim. It was very cold, and after 5 months in Asia, really cold water is rare. The heat bakes any water which stands still for a second. Climbing over the rocks isn't easy, neither is standing under the waterfall itself. The water dropping a great height can be almost painful as it bashes on your head. Still the refreshment from the falls, tided me over until we reached the end of our trek and the next stop. Incidentally with the waterfall reached, so was the bottom of the hill. Therefore, we had a nice level stroll back.

Our next stop was lunch of noodles followed by an elephant ride. It was ok, and we bounced along on top of these slow moving beasts for an hour. Quite exciting, but you get the feeling the elephants have done this journey a million times, and their boredom rubbed off on me.

The final bit was the white water rafting. We saw some others doing it, and wondered if we had a guide, as it looked a bit hairy at times. We did, and he made it all so easy for us. "GO" meant paddle forward. "STOP" meant stop paddling and hang onto the side rope "BACK" meant paddle backwards and "GET DOWN" meant get down off the edge and inside the boat. Four different orders to work out, easy enough. The rapids were exhilarating, and refreshing in the heat to have a huge wave hit you in the face. At one easy point the guide said we could get in and swim. I was the only one to. Just floating with life jacket down river was probably as good as the tubing in Laos. Then Sarah told me about snakes and I headed as fast as I could back to the boat. Unfortunately swimming up river is impossible so I positioned myself for the boat to come to me. Getting back into the raft was impossible without help as it is too high out of the water. The guide sorted it out by telling me to turn round, then he pulled my by my life jacket out. Once in the raft, my life jacket was around my waist and my shorts showing a considerable arse-crack, this was a beautiful moment. Also it turned out the snakes weren't a threat at all in the water, there was no need for me to head for the raft so fast.

We ended the adventure with a bamboo raft floating down to our final stop, where a truck was waiting to take us back to Chiang Mai. En route I noticed how bad I smelt. Some girl was holding a cloth over her nose the entire time, and being French Canadians (I think) they switched to French and I know I heard the word 'peu' after a struggled giggle. Oh grow a tolerant bone you Quebequi Cow!

We got back to Chiang Mai, showered off the stains of our trek, had a meal and lights out by 8:30pm, satisfied that despite our fatigue, we'd done something really memorable.

This morning we were awake for 8am to watch the US Presidential debate. Romney was impressive and passionate. Obama, seemed like he just turned up out of the goodness of his heart, and that his record will be enough. Maybe his lack of passion here, in the debate about health, taxation and the economy could cost him dearly. It's the domestic issues which will concern American voters. Maybe turning up the passion on the next debate, being foreign policy could be too little too late. Who cares? Whoever gets in, I will still be sat in front of a computer for 40 hours a week.

Tomorrow we are off to see some tigers, if I get round to booking it. Then the day after it's the night train to Bangkok.