(I didn’t. And he’s about to become famous for all the wrong reasons.)

With regularity, the one thing that pulls at my heartstrings and emotionally overwhelms to the point that tears are guaranteed to form and spill is when I see ‘community’ getting together; when people put aside their differences for a common good and a united effort.

Many of you will have likely seen this video (below), so great is its momentum that it is speeding around the internet – one of the top trenders on Twitter, being shared from Facebook profile to Facebook profile – in the few short days since it was released on March 5th.

It’s a 30 minute video. A healthy investment of time when attention-grabbing, piano-playing squirrels have us laughing in 30 seconds. But I can tell you – without giving much away – that it is absolutely worth your time.

Beyond the content of the video, it’s an interesting and continuing idea that we’re on the verge of a new world order based on our recent inter-connectivity through social media tools such as Facebook and Twitter. An instantaneous connection to each other that transcends borders which at the same time illustrates that despite different cultures, races, religions, and geography we’re all global citizens that share similar basic human desires for life, love, family, freedom and security. This video takes the next step and suggests that our shared existence makes us responsible for each other regardless of the distance and divides that separate us. (I couldn’t agree more.)

It also strives to make people power / the will of voices raised in unison a recognisable force for change and focus beyond what our respective governments and our local media may deem appropriate to engage us with.

Finally, it challenges our perception of fame and celebrity with a paradigm shift that suggests fame (or perhaps better termed: notoriety) can be used to flush out those hiding in the shadows and on the fringes of our focus can no longer get away with murder when the global glare of the world’s spotlight is shined upon them.

What do you think? A slippery-slope of a witch-hunt on a global scale OR people power affecting the balance of power through a chorus of raised voices?

For further reading on the issue check out this article published this past November: Obama Takes on the LRA

Dutch airline KLM has taken social networking one step further by not only letting you pick your seat on its flights but letting you pick WHO you sit beside.

KLM’s newly launched service, Meet & Seat, allows those with facebook and/or LinkedIn accounts to share their profile details pre-flight with other passengers. So when it comes to choosing your seat, in addition to waffling between window or aisle (does anyone ever intentionally choose a middle seat? Well, they many now!!) you can also peruse fellow passengers’ profiles to determine where and next to whom you’d like to sit.

I’m already envisioning a large scale game of musical chairs — although there is no word if you’re able to change your seat if you discover via the same social networking that your seat mate isn’t someone you feel like sharing your space with — where seat stalkers follow you around the cabin every time you choose a fresh seat. Until there’s no more seats left to choose … and … then … you’re … stuck!

How successful the initiative will be remains to be seen. The video used to launch the service (see below) suggests that this will address the previously-missed opportunity for networking, making friends (or even (blind) dating!) in the sky – AND that passengers on the same flight will have enough common interests (business or otherwise ) that they’ll want to connect before the flight and even share a taxi at the end of their flight to their final destination.

Personally, I think it might be a little creepy wondering if the person walking down the aisle giving me an intense stare has already read my LinkedIn bio and rifled through my facebook photos. Or that the person sitting next to me, would have contacted me before the flight so he/she could get to know me better – as if being squeezed into economy for a long haul or night flight wasn’t enough time to get to know each other more intimately than normal.

“Hey buddy, I’m Jeremy. I’m going to be your seat mate on Flight #77. You excited? I’m revved up. I’ve heard we can expect turbulence over the mid-Atlantic! Are you ordering the chicken or beef? Btw, what are you wearing for the flight? I want to make sure we don’t clash – you know, colour-wise.”

I don’t know about you, but apart from exchanging some initial pleasantries with my seating companions as we jockey our carry-ons for overhead storage supremacy at the beginning of the flight, I don’t really have any further interaction. For me flying’s always been more of a personal journey. The very nature of noisy planes with face-forward seating with little if no twisting room, combined with ‘don’t talk to me’ earphones so I can watch my personal entertainment selections have done little to encourage social interaction … save for the apologetic bathroom break that causes your whole row to shift. Then again there was that time that I woke up to discover that comfortable shoulder I’d nestled into was my neighbour’s. Maybe and only maybe (!), at that point, you might want to consider becoming facebook friends.

Maybe I shouldn’t knock it after all. Hey, it worked for Fran Drescher right? She apparently sold ‘The Nanny’ by pitching the premise to a TV exec she was sitting beside on a flight.

Useful? Something you would try? What are your thoughts?

Whether working from home (unstructured), or at the office (structured), or knee-deep in a project (oblivious of the time) the importance of taking a lunch break can’t be underestimated.

Not only is it a chance to refresh your focus, replenish your body with fuel, and with any luck an opportunity to get some fresh air, but it can also be a time for exploring and adventuring.

Sure, I know, most of us have limited lunch hours – if indeed they even are a full hour – but even 20 minutes set aside can be enough to (re)discover your neighbourhood and soak up the sights that exist within blocks of your workplace. A new shop, a new restaurant, a nearby art gallery, beyond the closed doors of a church you’ve always been curious about — however grand, however small there’s plenty to discover the moment you step outside.

And if 20 minutes is too tight, why not set aside one lunchtime a week where food isn’t the priority – a sandwich on the go, an apple in your pocket – and use your hour to feed your soul. Even without a destination, I can promise, life will come to you the moment you step out onto the street OR sit in the park. Observe the world as it moves around YOU by people watching, contemplating the current state of the trees – in spring blossom, rich with autumn colour – etc, the list goes on ….

Today, I went on one such walk through San Francisco’s Haight/Ashbury district. The sun was out, the sky blue from end to end. It was warm in the sun and chilly in the shade. I’ve been in San Francisco for some time now, but I still hadn’t gotten to this corner of the city despite it being an easy stroll from where I’m staying.

As a city of neighbourhoods, San Francisco never fails to impress, but this area – the epitome and focal point of West Coast hippie-ness  – has got to be one of this city’s more colourful neighbourhoods. Brightly painted Victorian homes, tattoo shops, tourist shops filled with retro T-shirts line the Haight street, while denizens are equally bold in their statements and colourful in their dress.

I was back at my desk within the hour, but my day felt fuller as I entered the afternoon, my mind abuzz / energised by the external stimuli and ready to redirect that energy back into my work. The afternoon didn’t seem half as long as normally does.

What is there around your workplace that you have yet to discover?

I think I might be slightly crazy, but I’ve decided that today – March 1st – is the day I will give up sugar.

Apart from the inherent health benefits of reducing my intake of the delicious white stuff, I’m doing this because I want to exert control over my body, overrule desire with willpower, prove to myself I have an inner fortitude and strength – a lesson in self-discipline if you will.

That said, I’m sure I’ll need some support, so I’m making this public so that I’m accountable.

To understand how monumental this is for me, I need to come clean as to how much sugar I knowingly consume:

• I have frequently arrived at the supermarket checkout only to realise that my shopping basket contained nothing but sugar repackaged and reconstituted in various shapes & forms from cookies to ice cream to doughnuts (oh doughnuts!! Bugger! I hadn’t even thought till this very moment that they’d be part of what I’d be giving up!)
• I have cavalierly referred to sugar as my friend in the past.
• It’s been a comfort food, picking me up in down times (until my blood sugar plummets following the initial high – and I either have some more, or have a sugar coma-induced nap).
• I’ve celebrated with it in good times; an accomplishment easily translated to a celebratory slice of cake or chocolate bar.
• I’ve used it as a meal supplement. Sadly, yes, a sweet thing satisfies and makes it easy to skip past a meal.
• Or, like many, I’ve used it as a reward for a meal consumed. I’m not alone in my thinking that based on childhood lessons, the only reason to finish your meal is so that you can get to dessert.
• I’ve used it as an energy boost, guzzled in various flavoured sportdrinks and sodas.
• I’ve used it to kickstart my day, carelessly stirring in loaded teaspoon after teaspoon into a morning tea or worse yet, supplementing an already sweet hot chocolate.
• Speaking of chocolate, this more than any other coated-sugar, has been responsible for my mass consumption. I’m already pining for my favourite candy – M&M’s (when will they ask me to be their spokesperson?!) – having symbolically eaten my last stash last night.

I’m allowing myself some leniency. I will limit myself to the recommended daily intake of 40 grams of sugar — if only to force myself to read the labels of sport drinks and other things that I consume unknowingly packed with sugar.

I’ve heard rumour of sugar-free people talking about how they don’t miss it, how the palette readjusts so that a return to sugar becomes sickly sweet, and how they have more energy as result (without stressing the body with all the highs and lows sugar can induce).

Goodbye sugar. It’s been nice knowing you. We’ve had an loving relationship, but I’ve become a bit too co-dependent and I need to re-exert control.

Wish me luck.

Have you had something you’ve successfully given up? Do you have any advice for me?

Today I swung. I walked by an empty playground and realised it had been ages since I’d hopped on a swing.

(Why is it an activity that imparts such a sense of freedom – of exhilaration – is relegated to children? Why aren’t more adults hopping on swings and flying high?)

I got some amused looks from the people in the neighbouring dog park as I walked up to the middle swing of the swing set in my business pants and sat down. The rubber seat gripped around my hips and buttocks, my hands wrapped around the cold chain, and tentatively I pushed off from the sandy floor.

Like riding a bicycle, it didn’t take long to remember how to shift my weight at the end of each swing – first my legs, then my back – to create powering momentum. Cautiously at first, my eyes looking up the chains to the connecting hinges above and wondering briefly if they were made to take my weight, and before long with wild abandon – throwing all my weight behind each successive swing until I confidently climbed higher and higher and higher still …. till finally the buckling slack in the chain told me I’d reached as high as I could go. (I’ve heard whisper of a swing in Europe where you can swing all the way around in the safety of some contraption.)

I’d broken a sweat. My abs were tight from being engaged. I was flying. I was tempted to jump – but I didn’t. Not until the swing slowed considerably, but then I bravely launched myself into the air and landed well enough.

I walked away lighter of spirit.

I won’t leave it as long till the next time I fly free, fly high – and let the children have all the fun.

When was the last time you let out your inner child? What did you do?

Funny how time flies.

It seems like it was just yesterday that I was living and loving life in Guatemala. (What an amazing country for anyone who’s looking for an action packed destination that fits so much variety – topography, culture, history – in one postage-stamp sized country.)

Unfortunately, life started getting lonely & isolated there and heeding the call of friends in Vancouver who’d recognised my solitary symptoms from afar I began thinking about leaving.

Oprah says that life first speaks to you in whispers – giving you the chance to respond – and then the voices start getting louder until you’re hit over the head and have no choice but to listen. Something similar happened to me: while I was hemming and hawing over whether I should stay in Guatemala or move on, the house I was living in underwent some management changes that at first made it unpleasant to live in, then if that weren’t enough of a hint, the house – no longer sustainable without sufficient tenants – closed down and I was given four days notice to leave.

My main concern was my adopted street pets – Cenizo (dog) and Pepe (cat). I spent morning till night each day sending emails / making phone calls to try and find a home for them.

On the day I moved out, a local friend kindly took Pepe into her backyard for safe keeping – along with close to a couple dozen other cats she’d rescued from the street. Pepe was in good hands, good company, and even had a large ‘budgie’ cage – Bird TV, my friend called it – to keep him entertained.

Later that afternoon, I took Cenizo to the same friend’s dog shelter. In the attempt to get him integrated with the other dogs I wasn’t allowed out the back. And once he was safely situated they thought it best that I didn’t distract him. Unfortunately, this meant I never got a chance to say goodbye.

Within the week, a volunteer at the shelter had taken him home to live with her, and within a couple of months he was sent to Michigan to a new home via a dog shelter that the Guatemalan shelter has affiliations with. My boy’s an American now.

In the meantime, with all my worldly belongings packed in three overstuffed bags, I set off to discover the one country that I had yet to tackle in Central America: Nicaragua. A final fling before heading north to Canada.

Nicaragua is deserving of a post unto itself. (And I will write one!) One of the larger Central American countries, it’s also among the friendliest, and the poorest. There were some great colonial towns, some cool adventures – including volcano boarding! – but my favourite find had to be the Isla de Ometepe, an island anchored by two massive volcanoes merged into each other in the middle of the expansive Lake Nicaragua. The slow (4 hour) ferry ride across the lake was one of those journeys where you’re forced to adopt an unhurried pace and left no choice but to watch life unfold before you.

Flying from Nicaragua to Canada, I stopped in Los Angeles for less than 24 hours to catch up with a dear friend AspiringActor, and was back on the plane to arrive in Vancouver just in time for their absolutely incredible international firework competition, Celebration of Light, where music emotively drives the artistry of the firework show. Of the three nations competing, China was my favourite.

I made the most of what was the tail end of a cold, wet summer in Vancouver – usually a spectacular place with long dry summer days –  by spending the bulk of my time on Vancouver Island. First, braving the elements (and the wolf that circled our campsite) while camping on deserted beaches, kayaking wild waves, and soaking in hot springs,  in one of my favourite corners of the world – Hot Springs Cove (I hope to have my post on it completed shortly). Then to Victoria to visit a friend and play Barry Poppins to her three lovable children and cast of pets – one of whom (an ailing cat) died on my watch, testing my nanny-ing skills to their utmost. And finally, over to the incredibly picturesque Galiano Island, one of the Southern Gulf islands just off the coast of Vancouver Island, to spend supportive time with a fellow ManAboutTheWorld and learn the art of plucking eggs from underneath uncooperative chickens.

My purpose in Vancouver was to find a job. And despite networking and countless resumes posted I found it exceedingly difficult and disheartening trying to get into people’s schedules, much less get a reply to my correspondence. So I turned my attention back to my one true passion and best expression of myself and my beliefs: The Experience Junkie — and crafted a television show out of it which I’ve since been breathing life into. (Here’s a taste of what I’ve been working on. Two short videos that sum up my ideals for the show, but to be clear they by no means represent the flavour or the formula for the show. Interested parties please contact me directly for the full brief on how The Experience Junkie’s been conceptualised for television.)

Late October saw a trip to Florida and by and large one of the best Halloweens I’ve ever had – my favourite holiday – with no less than THREE nights of spooky celebrations, thanks to a fellow fan of the fright night. The highlight of which was Universal’s Halloween Horror Nights. With little expectation or knowledge of what I was in for, I was blown away! Ironically, I remember saying at the outset of the evening that I would be happy if I was scared once, just once. In the end, I lost track how many times I jumped, screamed, yelled, and giggled in absolute nervousness. Then I had the twisted pleasure of applying all the tricks of the horror trade I’d learned on the Trick or Treaters (and their unsuspecting parents) canvassing the neighbourhood for candy the following night.

At the beginning of December, I went back to California, Los Angeles at first, with the hopes of creating some contacts and to spend some time with AspiringActor. Our adventures included, my first (yes, my first) attempt at Karaoke (I don’t think there will be a second) and an amazing journey through Joshua Tree National Park.

From LA, I travelled North to San Francisco to house/cat sit for some dear friends over Christmas, with the added bonus of spending the holidays with my mum who had journeyed to meet me. I give her full credit for tackling San Francisco’s hills in step with me and for never complaining despite our city hikes averaging 5 miles daily . But perhaps the highlight of our time together had to be the uplifting Christmas Day service at Glide Memorial Church and volunteering in the soup kitchen afterwards.

Mum left, my friends returned and while I figured out my next step, I let the blue skies and unseasonably warm T-shirt temperatures seduce me … and I’ve been hanging here (and biking and hiking and writing) in San Francisco – a city that’s stolen my heart countless times –  ever since.

Ten years ago to the day I thought my life had come to an end. As I ran from a collapsing building that looked destined to fall upon me; as I was swallowed by a barely breathable black cloud so dense that no light penetrated, I thought ‘this is it’. For nearly 3000 people that was indeed the case.

As pitch black gave way to a lesser grey, I emerged from the cloud to find the world had changed. Cities were stunned into silence, then tempers flared, rants of revenge spewed from the mouths of politicians, and mother’s cried not only for their lost children but for those soon-to-be-lost on the other side of the world.

Ten years on. Cites churn once again in noisy commercialism, tempers have been tempered by time, once ranting politicians have retired, retreated, bequeathing their costly and continuing wars to a new establishment, while the tears spilled continue to ring true.

I have continued to live my life, embrace my life as I would have pre-9/11, though on this anniversary of the attacks I’m aware of being gifted with 10 years more than would have expected on that near-miss day.

There’s no question I continue to suffer from Post-Traumatic Stress disorder – something I initially didn’t have a name for, something I was embarrassed to admit affected me, something I’ve now come to accept. It’s one lingering effect that regularly catches me by surprise is being in a serene situation, something as innocent as a children’s playground, and seeing disaster strike on a catastrophic scale, as if I was horror movie writer. I’m sure I’m not alone in my visions. Even those who weren’t there on the day can picture a darker world now that the realm of possibility for evil has been widened, bridged.

I worry too about the chemicals I ingested while breathing in that black cloud. I still have my shirt safely preserved from the day, caked with the dust of a pulverised building. I can only imagine how much of it reached my lungs.

I have problems in parkades. Particularly in the basements, the cold unfinished concrete doesn’t sugar-coat the huge building precariously balanced above me, so I never linger long.

I cry now for more people lost. The Boxing Day tsunami while not born of the rage of man but by hands of nature dwarfed the death toll of 9/11 by a 100 times. Subsequent floods, earthquakes, tsunamis continue to bring more tears.

But while Mother Nature seems careless, Man still appears callous.

The planet creaks and groans under the weight of our demands.

Wars started shortly after 9/11 still rage a decade on, costs mounting while millions still die from hunger and disease.

Social networking which initially had people dancing in the streets, then coalesced entire nations in overthrowing governments, now has people  rioting in normally quiet streets.  (I often wonder what would have happened if social media would have been around ten years ago … the clearer picture we would have had of what was going on within the towers, within the planes even … the greater ability that loved ones would have had to share their final thoughts …)

They say frowns take more muscles to create than smiles, and I have to believe that hatred takes an energy that for most is unsustainable. I’ve travelled a lot. People are intrinsically good, they want to be. Fear, ignorance, greed and in so many cases indoctrination from culture and childhood can in my mind, literally be wiped out in one generation, two tops. Imagine if everyone was taught to love and accept, that social networking succeeds in being able to show us that we’re all the same. I’m not sure how you get rid of greed (and with it envy), I don’t know that corporations can be taught.

The legacy of 9/11 is far from settled. Ten years is but a blip forward. Sadly I don’t think we’ve moved forward at all.

I’ve been reminded recently by a friend about the importance of staying in the present …

… and how sometimes if your mind is already in the future then perhaps it is better to fast forward to the future so you can get back to the present.

Anticipation is one thing. To look forward to something is a treat sweeter than spontaneity, despite the immediacy of the thrill fulfilled. While edging ever closer to a planned event on the horizon affords the opportunity of contemplation and growing excitement of how sweet that treat will taste.

Preoccupation is another thing. It robs you of your focus on today; on the feast of opportunity laid before you. And herein lies the “if you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em” advice of the aforementioned friend: if your focus is on tomorrow and you can’t pull it back to today, perhaps you’re better stepping into tomorrow (and whatever it is that you are focused on) so that you and your mind are once again in the same place.

I’m preoccupied at the moment. My head is seeking to read the clouded crystal ball of my future and not surprisingly is stymied by its veil of secrecy. I’m getting ready to move from Guatemala and am nervous about the future. I’m also sad about the loss of my sense of home here, but for reasons of increasing loneliness and isolation I have decided to address my emotional health and make a move.

Which leads me to share with you something another friend sent me earlier this week about the importance of ‘commitment’ and how once we commit to a path everything else falls into place.

Until one is committed there is hesitancy,
the chance to draw back,
always ineffectiveness.
Concerning all acts of initiative (and creation),
there is one elementary truth,
the ignorance of which kills countless ideas and
splendid plans;
That the moment one definitely commits oneself,
then Providence moves, too.
All sorts of things occur to help one that would never
otherwise have occurred.
A whole stream of events issues from the decision,
raising in one’s favor all manner of unforeseen
incidents and meetings and material assistance,
which no man could have dreamt would have come
his way.
I have learned a deep respect for one of Goethe’s couplets:
“Whatever you can do, or dream you can, begin it.
Boldness has genius, power and magic in it.”

The Scottish Himalayan Expedition
W.H. Murray, J.M. Dent & Sons, Ltd. 1951

Excuse me if I don’t smile for the next 4 months I’ve just had my face selectively paralysed in the name of beauty, the pursuit of youth, and most importantly because it was something I hadn’t tried before.

Actually I’m joking, not about the Botox, but about being able to smile. I can still smile.

A doctor friend who youth-ens, beautifies, and generally clarifies people’s skin with various laser treatments and skin peels etc told me I looked five years older than I really was – professionally speaking of course. An insult? A sales pitch?

He then told me that he was recently given a trial vial of a new Botox-esque drug called Dysport (which is meant to have a more immediate and longer lasting effect) and was looking for a candidate to test it on. I jumped at the opportunity to shave a few years off my face – if only for a few months.

Up front, I was highly sceptical that a bit of Dysport could make a difference and perhaps even a little nervous when the day came to give it a shot. Now I’m a convert.

When I was a young teenager I contracted Bells Palsy in my face. Essentially a virus that attacked and compromised my facial nerves it left me paralyzed one side of my face. Quite literally, one half of my face didn’t work; was unresponsive to my mental commands. As a result I had a lopsided smile (because the other half of my face wouldn’t join in), a mouth that remained in a constantly relaxed state (partially open so I had to drink through a straw and even then stuff would still dribble out), and an eye that wouldn’t close (so I had to tape it shut at night so it wouldn’t dry out). If that weren’t cruel enough all this occurred just as I was attending my first day of secondary school in a new town. I won’t use names but I’m still haunted by a less than sensitive student yelling across the science classroom for all to hear: “Hey you! What’s wrong with your face?” My fate was sealed.

I thought Dysport would be like that – that I would once again be a prisoner in my own face, egging my muscles on to react but getting no cooperation. But it’s not. In fact I’m completely unaware that I don’t have full facial access; it’s only when I look in the mirror that I realise that all my muscles aren’t onboard.

A number of carefully placed pinpricks – some without any feeling and some that hurt – around the far sides of my eyes and I was promised I’d no longer have crow’s feet extending out to my hairline when I smile.

Disappointingly the results weren’t immediate. I would have to wait three days before I could expect to difference. In the meantime for the first two hours I had to continue to squint, squeeze my eyes, contract my face to somehow work the poison into my muscles that were being paralysed. I also wasn’t allowed to laydown (side or back) or lean forward for fear that the neurotoxin would shift from its intended target.

The before shot. Notice how the crow's feet extend towards my hairline.

That was it …

So I waited …

A few days later, as promised, the muscles along the outside of my eyes were paralyzed and not accruing ‘wrinkle-time’ while they lay dormant. When I squeeze my eyes now, as tightly as possible, the area doesn’t budge. It’s only preventative  but for the moment my crow’s feet have evaded Father Time for roughly four months, taken a forced vacation before the muscles will come back online and engage when I smile.

The after shot. Despite squeezing my eyes shut the wrinkles don't extend beyond my immediate eye area.

Do I look younger? I’m not sure about that but I can see how using it – particularly from a younger age – can minimise the damage done to our skin. I’m hoping to use the next four months to adopt an organic, longer term plan: to break my bad habit of squinting.

In a poetic tale of hedonism, guest writer Aram McLean recounts drunken days & free-loving nights in Laos and still manages time to experience the country’s raw beauty.

The way is a mix of clay, mud and manure, making a soup of epic slime. Leeches roam the path. And they jump! Yes, jump. Curling their bodies like some blood-sucking mutant of an inch-worm, they hurl themselves at our bare ankles slipping past through the muddy clay cocktail.

Blood creeping from our bitten wounds, my two companions and I falter onwards, trudging through muck sprung from the bowels of hell itself. Onwards till we curse our inability to stand, unable to stop disappearing up to our calves in pits of unknown depths. On we march, countless leeches ripped from our skin, again and again, in rushed, disgusted haste.

And yet, we bear smiles, all of us, smiles for the crap and laughter for the ludicrous. We paid for this? And so we did, at the trailhead. Then, our destination is before us. It is a cave, yet again a cave. It sometimes seems that Laos may have more caves than people.

Into the gap we plow, down the slippery rocks where a cool fresh underwater creek washes the blood and muck around our ankles away. The cavern calls ever deeper, up to my waist now, and getting darker. Up to my neck the black water continues to rise. Dare I swim on? Hesitation stares into the deepest shadow. My headlamp gives off a last gasp glow from its dying batteries. Only the tiniest circle of light points the way.

Mark, the Englishman, bumps up behind me. Francois, the Frenchman, stands with him. A young Canadian couple appears out of nowhere behind them both. Their names I never knew.

I decide to push on and they all decide to follow. I’m swimming now, swimming into the earth. My feet touch nothing; only icy water surrounds my body. Onwards, onwards, no way to know how fast I’m moving, and then, just as I’m beginning to believe the whole world is water, my feet bump against sand and land, my head-lamp breaks feebly past the edge of nothing.

The cavern is massive, marked out by fire pits and crude divisions. It looks like a former refuge, likely in days of rampant bombing from wars past.

The five of us scramble up the slick ledge. My light sweeps weakly over the motley group and I can’t help but laugh at the sight of these people I barely know, dripping and shivering in their soaking underwear. Then I slip on some human waste, left behind by some asshole in a rather thoughtless place, and nearly fall back into the flowing darkness. My light flickers in a crisis of energy.

We choose to go no further. No one else has a light and mine cannot be trusted. Lowering my body again into the underground stream, we swim again, this time towards the light, moving with the current. Pure hot sweaty sunshine leads the way.

Scrambling out into blessed open space again, we strip down to nothing to dry ourselves. A squawking gaggle of middle-aged French tourists march past in the middle of our naked display. They stare at us blankly, saying not a word, as if we were just another style of Buddha. Naked Buddha.

The Canadian couple pushes back to the ongoing trail, further on and further up, another cave lies that way. Mark, Francois and I have seen enough caves and Buddhas. We take our leave and once more clay, mud, manure and leeches safely guide us home.

Lao-Lao whisky is evil. A drink made from fermented rice, we three new friends mutually decide it’s a good idea to partake in this local custom of devious debauchery.

It is not a good idea.

Lao-Lao whisky is evil.

Come morning Mark and I leave the river village of Muang Nga. Francois the Frenchman stays behind, intent on his own journey. My heads pound and my body cries. Not for leaving the Frenchman, but rather because the whisky bottle is empty, and so am I. Mark and I are on the boat, heading downstream, to Nong Khiew where a bus waits, idling patiently. We pile in with the rest of the touristic cattle. Two rows face each other and people hang off the back. The ride begins and could be a chapter out of The Neverending Story. Mark and a local girl are content to rest their heads on each other, not saying a word, only dozing peacefully, blonde hair spliced with brown. The Lao man sitting next to me is all smiles with blackened teeth. He offers me his shoulder. Never has such an uncomfortable mound of bone and sinew looked so desirable. I manage to hold myself upright, as Luang Prabang arrives, barely.

“I’m just going to stay a couple days,” I say to Mark. “I’ve been here before.”

Six days later I’m beginning to feel like a bit of a liar, though not from a lack of trying. The only place that serves beer past midnight, in all of Luang Prabang that we could find, is a bowling alley. Mark and I become ridiculously good at ten-pin, for the first three or four frames at least.

Mark from Manchester and Aram from Vancouver, both in our early thirties. Mark arrived in Laos via China and Pakistan. I came from Thailand via Cambodia and Vietnam. We have met in the middle of nowhere and found everything in common.

Our day begins at noon. We usually stumble up the road to watch a film in a little place which offers private television sets and scores of DVD’s for rent. Then we eat dinner on the street, always with a Beerlao or three. After that it would seem to the average bystander that our sole goal is to search out the oddest, most insanely ridiculous characters we can, and spend the evening with them. To end with the usual blurry ten-pin and home to a guesthouse, where the owners may seem to love us, but also may be getting a wee bit grated by the constant four o’clock in the morning wake up knock.

During one of these nights we meet one such character, Charlie.

“LSD at Angkor Wat, now that was an experience,” Charlie the Australian tells us over our street dinner spread. Charlie owns a landscaping business in Byron Bay and is proud to boast that he only hires beautiful women. His company lunch breaks are solely allocated to skinny-dipping in a river which flows near his shop. Two of his employees, Sara and Disa, travel with him, he’s paid their way, and they certainly are beautiful. They may also have only experienced one week of sobriety in a full year between them.

An American named Linda is tagging along with their group as well. Linda’s a ‘jazz singer’ from LA, who is quick to point out that she is bi-sexual; in fact those may have been her very first words to me. We can only agree that yes that would indeed increase your options.

Last and least is a timid English girl who seems to simply follow. Perhaps she is ‘with’ Linda, I couldn’t say. The ensemble is complete. Mad stories flow and Mark & I can only crack another Beerlao and listen.

We all go bowling as usual, we mingle, and we soon realize half the travellers in this town are insane, yet of course we end up meeting almost all of them. I suppose we are one of them.

And then we do it again the next day.

This night finds us with an Italian-Scot, Vanessa, who has so many trinkets stuck in her face it’s hard to see her through the metal bits. She is joined by her flamboyant friend, a lad named Sky. Two Canadian lads jump in the back of the tuk-tuk with us, happy to tag along to the bowling alley. Young wrestler types, the two Canucks fail miserably at defeating their fear of gay. They leave when they realize that no one else agrees with their empty conclusions.

Sky seems like a pretty nice guy and we chat for a bit. Unfortunately, it’s not long before he’s heading out the door as well, looking for a more compatible person to love. After some hopefulness on his part, he finally clues in that my passion for sharing hugs doesn’t mean that I fancy him.

So it goes.

Vanessa decides to fill in the available space, now sure of my persuasion. Her bottom half begins to appear in every direction I step. Her metal bits clink endlessly against my face. Meanwhile, Mark has spent most of his time chatting to the most beautiful nineteen-year old I’ve seen in months, Sandra. And more importantly, she seems to be sane in every way that matters. Then Sandra has to leave due to an early morning bus with her name on it.

More pins fall and Mark and I head home alone, again.

We do make it out to a nearby waterfall, mostly by accident, but it’s our only achievement. It’s nice. Water falls and stuff like that. We swim about. We leave again. On the way back down to the bus, we pass some cages where moon-bears play in recovery. They roll around happily like gigantic teddy bears that can rip your head off.

Onwards we pass a tiger that was saved from poachers. She is large and muscled and truly magnificent. Fangs like knives made to easily tear through flesh. She looks up at us through the mesh. She rolls over and springs to her paws. Her jaws gape open, showing off their jagged teeth. We stare into that contraption of destruction and as her tawny face contorts we prepare ourselves for her mighty growl.

The tigress lets out a glorious trio of farts. She lies back down and licks herself in satisfaction.

We return to Luang Prabang.

Again we meet up with Charlie the Australian and his mighty crew of skinny dippers. After a few beers he makes us an offer. “We’re going to do LSD while tubing down the river in Vang Vieng this time. You want in?”

I’d been to Vang Vieng already. I’d made my way north from there. Bars dot the area’s river banks, each sporting a forty foot trapeze swing into the wet, volleyball courts and whisky buckets beyond counting. So many pasty and smashed, leering young English folks roam past that I had begun to think Britain must truly be enjoying some peace and quiet. Nice boys and girls, sweet hearts of gold I imagine, but away from home for the first time their excitement cannot be contained. Drugs and alcohol flowed freely in an ambitious attempt to match the river’s enormous volume. Everyone was king of the chaos.

It had been too much for me, despite the beauty, and I’d found myself lost briefly to the madness. I had to get out. Leaving Vang Vieng, I had fled north to Luang Prabang and eventually onwards to Muang Nga. It was here that I met Mark and Francois. It was here that Mark became one of the first real friends I’d met in South East Asia. It was here that I learned that some leeches do jump.

And this was where my story began.

“Acid tripping in Vang Vieng.” I look at fifty-five year old Charlie who could pass for seventy. I shake my head. “Thanks man, but not my thing.”

I do end up sleeping with Sara that night though. I’m not a saint.

It finally becomes evident that Mark and I can’t drink all the beer in Laos, because that wouldn’t be fair, and so day six finds us moving on again. Mark to head back north and trek deeper into the jungle that is northern Laos, and me the catch the incredibly slow boat, to the Thai border, and on to Chang Mai.

The ghetto lunch lady I’ve bought a sandwich from every day is sad to hear the news of my departure. She steps out from behind her little counter to give me a humongous hug. She barely comes up to my chest but still manages to kiss both of my cheeks. She wishes me nothing but luck and tells me I am welcome back at any time.

“No, no, free for you, free for you,” She insists, wrapping my last sandwich with even a little bit more love than usual. I am sorry to leave her country.

“It’s been good.” I give Mark a hug at our crossroads.

“It’s been mad,” Mark expands. “Keep in touch.”

Laos is a beautiful country with beautiful people. This fact being all the more remarkable when you consider that since the Vietnam War, Laos is officially the most heavily bombed country per capita in the world.

The French coined a saying during their Indochina Protectorate: “The Vietnamese plant the rice, the Cambodians watch it grow, and the Lao listen to it grow.”

“Too much work is bad for the brain.” say the Lao people, and they feel sorry for people who ‘think too much’.

So as it turned out, Mark and I did them proud.