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.

It’s 1am in the morning and I am spending the night at YYZ (Toronto Airport) – by choice – because I couldn’t impose on anyone to get up in the middle of the night to deliver me the required two hours before my 6:30am flight. (“4:30am? Are you kidding!?”, was the exact response I think.)

I’ve been here since midnight but I’m happy enough because I’ve found a quiet place to write, power for my laptop and I’m at an airport that has the good-sense and generosity in 2010 to offer complimentary WiFi. Dr Pepper in hand (for the caffeine hit) I’m ready to work the night away.

(Btw, here’s a list of airports you don’t mind getting stuck in for a few hours, while these are a bunch you might want to avoid.)

Sitting here though I’m reminded of a far less comfortable night I spent at an airport: it was the first time I flew into Karachi, Pakistan. I had been living in London for some time, being spoiled by a friend’s Aunt who fed, watered and laundered* us.

We arrived into Pakistan in the middle of the morning – 2 or 3am if I recall – and as backpackers at the time we weren’t game enough to venture into town in the middle of the night and try find our way around a foreign city, much less shop for accommodation.

We weren’t allowed to stay IN the airport, so after running the gauntlet of taxi drivers eager to give us a lift into a city we didn’t want to venture into, we settled down at the far end of the terminal – outside – and tried to fall asleep … and did rest well enough, until the rats came to investigate. I think that was my first up close and personal experience with rats … very brave rats at that!

They weren’t menacing, just curious enough to keep us from sleeping for fear of getting nibbled on. Thankfully day came soon enough.

*An aside: It may be strange to some or perfectly understandable to others: I just remembered I had a laundered T-shirt that I preserved throughout my travels through Pakistan, India and Africa. The region was hard travelling, challenging on many levels – particularly given the lap of catered luxury I had been living in in London. So when things got a bit overwhelming, I would pull out this T-shirt, lift it to my nose and breathe in deeply. Sure it was only laundry detergent, but the clean, Spring-fresh scent immediately reminded me of home – or at least the sense of ‘home’ I had in London while living with my friend’s Aunt. I never washed the shirt during that trip, I never wore it. It’s scent was far more valuable to me. It was my connection to a more familiar and secure place at the time. One sniff and the chaotic world of the Indian subcontinent was manageable again.

Have you got a colourful airport overnighter story you’d like to share?

Experience # 174

Leave to the Kiwis to take caving one step further to create an adventure sport called Black Water Rafting just so they can clean their clothes. I went underground for the full story.

I first discovered New Zealand as a backpacker in 1990. I spent three months traversing the Land of the Long White Cloud and fell in love with every cm of its 2,000kms from tip to toe. I’ve lost track of how many times I returned to what is firmly one of my favourite countries, but I never leave without trying some new adventure that some mad Kiwi has cleverly concocted. This, Black Water Rafting, was one of the first out-there adventures I had and I’ve been back to repeat the experience I loved it so much!

Ever had the urge to descend fifty metres underground and then immerse yourself in frigid, eel-invested waters in order to see a few million glowworms?

Then black water rafting is the sport for you.

Black water rafting is in fact a misnomer. The water is not black, there are no mighty rapids to conquer, there are no rafts, or paddles to coordinate. Instead thick wetsuits, goofy white boots, colourful bloomers and hard hats fitted with waterproof electric lights are de riguer. The ‘rafts’ themselves are tire inner tubes, which you wedge your backside into in order to float through an underground river.

The home of Black Water Rafting is just two and a half hours drive south of Auckland at Waitomo, where limestone, water droplets, and eons of gravity have combined to create a network of caves famed for their resident glowworms.

The sport started innocently enough when local cavers, sans washing machines, decided the best way to clean off the dirt and grime of a long day’s caving was to float and tumble their way downstream as they exited the cave system. Returning to the surface clean, they dubbed this last adventure of the day, the ‘Laundry Trip’.

It wasn’t long before they realised that others may also want to run the rinse cycle and thus a commercial enterprise was born.

While there are a number of different ‘trails’ on offer, my adventure began with a 30 metre abseil into the nether world through a narrow throat-like opening in the ground.

The tight squeeze required some maneuvering before the earth consented to swallow me whole. But unfortunately, having shifted in my harness incorrectly to gain the gullet, I was unable to enjoy the drop. Why? I’d cut circulation to a trapped testicle awkwardly caught in the harness. Rapidly descending like a spider on his thread I raced down the wet walls in damp darkness only finding relief when I reached the bottom of the cavern, and both feet were firmly planted on the (under)ground.

Moving through the tunnels single file we scurried around upreaching stalagmites and ducked under century-sharpened stalactites and crossed metal grill bridges spanning gaping chasms that plunged further than the helmet torch light could reach, before arriving at challenge number two: a flying fox run deeper into the darkness.

Given the choice of speeding along the cable with or without your helmet lamp on, like most others, I made the macho choice to ride blind, but managed to completely destroy this pretence of masculinity by screaming when the freefalling ride overwhelmed my senses.

At the halfway point of what was to be a four-hour underground trek we stopped for a picnic on the banks of an underground river. Tasty sandwiches and warm tea/coffee were on the lunch menu.

Asked by our guide to ensure any loose crumbs fell into the river rather than on the ground where they would attract hungry moles, I thought he was joking when he suggested that it would be better to feed the river eels. “Oh right, as if there are really eels,” I uttered in disbelief, “C’mon mate we don’t scare so easily!” That was until he turned his headlights to the water below to reveal two black eels silently slithering against the current. Swallowing my cynicism, I decided my best option for a peaceful river journey was to make friends with the eels so I shared my sandwich with the appreciative creatures. It seemed to work, as they didn’t bother me when we finally entered the water although some not so generous with their meal found they had the odd eel slither up against them.

Lunch ingested, it was time for the big splash. One by one we jumped off the 6 metre cliff we had just used as our picnic perch and hurled ourselves through the air, ass first, to land on our inner tube before breaking the river’s icy surface with an enveloping splash and further wedging our bodies through the tires. A shocking experience made all the more painful by the chilling water slowing seeping into all corners of my wetsuit. If I thought my genitals had suffered abuse from the climbing harness, it was nothing compared to the discomfort endured by the frigid water. They quickly retreated from the experience.

Thoroughly immersed, we floated, swam, splashed and crawled our way upstream consistently tripping over an uneven river bed, marveling at the stalactites and stalagmites, and the various sea life fossils embedded in the walls that our narrow mining lights would illuminate.

Reaching the end of one arm of the cave we created an “eel” ourselves. A phrase coined by black water rafters, ‘eeling’ is a process whereby everyone links together by placing their feet under the arms of the person in front of them, thereby forming a chain of floating people.

With my protruding bum acting as a keel and my dangling feet my rudders, I was able to rest my head back against the tube and with the aid of the current steer myself downstream. It was in this manner, with our lights extinguished, that our group of eight snaked its way through the caves under a galaxy of glowworms so intricate as to make one believe that we were in fact floating under a night sky rather than 50 metres below the earth’s surface.

This image was further enhanced by our guide creating a resounding ‘bang’ with a small firecracker, the vibrations of which made the glowworms brighten and intensify as their delicate, hanging webs trembled sensing that food might be nearby.

Numb and pickled from the water we stopped in an ankle deep puddle and were offered a spot of hot apple cider from a communal cup that everyone slowly sipped. The leftover cider was creatively used to warm up those with a stronger chill by tempering the boiling liquid with river water and then pouring down the inside your of wetsuit for an experience that can be best described as ‘secretly erotic’.

The ascent to the surface is equally as challenging. Explorers squeeze through narrow passage ways sometimes on hands and knees other times on stomachs, into small chambers barely big enough for the group. Climb up through an underground waterfall. Reaching for grips beneath the tumbling/cascading water – following the water fall to the surface.

The whole trip takes about five hours, although there is a shorter and simpler three hour journey. Time goes quickly underground.The end of the trip comprises of much-welcomed hot showers and hot soup to warm the inside.

Who: The Legendary Black Water Rafting Company

Where: Waitomo, New Zealand

How to get there: Map

To do or not to do? There is no question!: Adventure comes in many forms and challenge is a personal and highly subjective thing. Sports are a great way to get out there and challenge yourself on regular basis. Mix in a bit of the fear factor and you’re off to a winning start.

Other bizarre adventure sports worth experiencing:

In New Zealand: Bungy jumping, Fly by Wire, Zorbing

Internationally: Dune buggying in Oregon, Treetop Tours in Costa Rica

What’s one of the whackier experiences you’ve ever had?

Experience #936

Hoping to tread the path to enlightenment I took the Tibetan challenge and travelled the rough road from Katmandu to Lhasa discovering a rural land trapped in time and ruled by religion.

Himalayan hidden and oft-shrouded in secrecy, Tibet has always attracted attention because of its blocked borders. More recently Tibet’s political plight and the Dalai Lama’s celebrity connections have piqued the world’s interest in what really exists within. To many, the very mention of Tibet conjures up images of a land long locked in mystery where Buddhist monks levitate above the roof of the world, attaining peace and perspective from their lofty view.

Not that I want to be the one responsible for popping political balloons and denouncing media-manufactured mystery but let’s dispense with romantic notions upfront and tell it like it is: a journey to Tibet is not the promised Shangri-la of Hollywood hype but a hard slog.

Annexed by China in 1950, Tibet only opened its borders in the mid-80s and is still largely un-touristed. No walk in the park, facilities are limited outside the capital Lhasa, the countryside inhospitable and the Chinese landlords ever present, but for those hungry for adventure the rewards are great.

Up for the challenge? Prepare yourself for the seven trials of Tibet:

1. The altitude

With a consistent altitude of between 3800 to 5500 metres Tibet is tough work on the lungs. Put good physical condition aside as altitude sickness affects everyone differently.

Leaving Katmandu in a Nepalese-organised minivan with my five fellow explorers Bob from Chicago, two Spanish women both called Maria Jose; David, also Spanish, and our Tibetan guide Toshi it wasn’t long before we were all feeling lightheaded.

Climbing from the lush rice terraces of Katmandu into the barren Himalayan hills I attributed my slight intoxication to excitement not altitude sickness. Distracted by the surrounding scenic snow-capped peaks and intrigued by mountaintops littered with flapping prayer flags and discarded yak horns, I took little notice of my condition. Better if I had. By evening I was drunk on the thin mountain air. The Himalayan heights literally taking my breath away and giving me a headache worse than any hangover I’ve ever known. Dizziness and shortness of breath followed.

By the second day it was worse. My pounding headache was accentuated by every bump in the country’s pockmarked roads. My sickness culminating in a need to vomit, I ordered the van to stop. The Spanish women rushed to offer headache pills while our guide volunteered a thermos of hot water. Both had affect and took the edge off my symptoms, but the only real cure for altitude sickness is acclimatizing or, in more serious cases, to descend to a safe altitude where the symptoms disappear almost magically.

Suffering, I soldiered on. By the afternoon, I was better acclimatized to enjoy the view of Mt Everest haunting the horizon. Taking a roadside moment to marvel at the majestic mountain I wondered how man finally managed to claim it. I released in my present state of anti-altitude adaptation, my dream to scale Everest would never come true. This was as close as I would get, so I’d best soak it in.

2. The roads

Forget about paved road comfort during your Tibetan trip. It’s not a luxury you’re likely to enjoy. In fact during the entire seven-day trek from Katmandu to Lhasa the only significant stretch of paved road encountered along the Friendship Highway was during the last 90km outside the Tibetan capital.

Make no mistake the roads are rugged. Offering spectacular scenery, at times the ribbon of road clinging to the mountainside narrows to give a stomach-sinking vertical view of a river far below. Another time we drove through a glacier that had edged across the road. And on one particular spine shaking bump the back window of our van shattered bringing new meaning to the term air-conditioning.

Not that we needed it. Tibet is warm during the day, and the open window only invited more of the dry, arid landscape into the mini-van. Broken window or not, dust is a problem. My bags were covered in it; my clothes were too; and worst of all my throat and nose were coated inside and out.

The Maria Jose-s improvised by cleverly wrapping toilet paper around their faces. Dubbing them the “toilet paper bandits”, it was a look I wasn’t man enough to adopt myself but next time I’ll remember to pack a dust mask.

3. The food & accommodation

Tibetan food should be approached cautiously. Perhaps this is why you don’t see a proliferation of Tibetan restaurants around the world. The food is awful. Standard fare consists of a doughy bread that upon closer inspection looked un-baked; too many fried eggs and meat that in its appearance alone is enough to make the most ardent carnivore think about adopting vegetarianism.

The accommodation isn’t much better. Typical Tibetan homes consist of two and three story square houses slanted slightly inwards, their white walls accented by black windows. Inside, low ceilings keep the heat in, while heavy door-hangings keep the crisp mountain air out. Accommodation in local hotels consists of a small square room with nothing more than two single beds and enough heavy blankets to suffocate you in the night. Careful you don’t bump your head on the locally designed ceiling. Chinese hotels are slightly better but less charming.

With plumbing severely limited outside of Lhasa, toilets are of the squat and drop variety. Not fun when finding your way in through the darkness in the cold mountain night air. Without a flashlight one false step could be disastrous.

4. The language

Not even on the United Nation’s list of nine official languages. Tibetan is hard to master and community colleges are not exactly brimming with courses offering the opportunity to study. Even our guide, Toshi, an enthusiastic Chinese-trained Tibetan, English skills were extremely limited. More frustrating then informative, when asked about why pilgrims prostrate themselves at temples she replied, “No, we go to the local medical clinics for that sort of problem”.

Unfortunately, limited language can mean limited exposure to the Tibetan people. But all is not lost. Although shy, Tibetan’s innate sense of curiosity often gets the better of them and as I found, they may in fact be the ones approaching you.

Coming across a construction site I found the tables turned, when the locals proved equally interested in me as I was in them. The tourist had become the attraction. My attempt at taking photos was thwarted by these camera shy locals, who were nonetheless photo-fascinated, expressing great delight when I handed my camera to them so that they might snap the shutter.

5. Yak butter

Yes! Yak butter. Integral to Tibetan temple life, I discovered it is the only thing in the world that I am allergic to.

The highly perfumed lard pervades the dark and musty monastery temples. No sooner would I wander into one of these temples then my already oxygen deprived nose would stuff up and I would start to sneeze uncontrollably.

Still the Tibetan temples are well worth the inconvenience of not breathing. Like a set straight out of Indiana Jones, the temples are draped in silks darkened by the burning yak butter no less. Light is limited to the illumination provided by yak vat flames.

Wondering clockwise around these shadow-strewn candlelit temples, somber clad pilgrims each carry a golden chalice of yak butter. Chanting prayers before vats of the stuff, they offer a melted drop of their own butter to the temple’s tub in the hope that their prayers will be granted.

6. The gods and symbols

Identifying and understanding all the Buddhist gods, statues of former Dalai Lamas, and symbols adorning temples is a huge Tibetan task. Inside the monastery’s temples, maroon wrapped monks preside over altars resplendent with a mind-boggling array of Buddhist deities and gold enameled incarnations of past Dalai Lamas. (The exiled Dalai Lama is not acknowledged nor discussed under the Chinese regime – even our Tibetan guide avoided direct answers on the subject.) After a while they all start to look the same, their significance lost. A good guidebook to the Gods would have definitely come in handy.

Count yourself lucky that you’re not Tibetan, as those monks not getting their lessons and prayers correct are believed to slip on the reincarnation ladder and come back as one of the many surly dogs resident at temples throughout the country.

Oddly enough, one popular symbol in Tibet comes from the West. Confounded by the number of Chicago Bulls hats worn in the country – does the team have an exclusive Tibetan franchise? – it finally dawned on me. With the yak as the country’s most venerated animal, its not Michael Jordan that has Tibetans wearing their Chicago Bulls hat, but the team’s logo that, to Tibetan eyes, looks like a yak! Wear one and you’ll be an instant hit.

7. The politics

Seeing through to the heart of Tibet is difficult. As China continues its deliberate policy to corrupt the indigenous Tibetan culture with the steady immigration of Han Chinese they may one day outnumber the Tibetans in their own country.

The Potala Palace remains a Tibetan cornerstone. A privileged peak into the country’s centuries-old seat of power, majestically perched atop the city, reveals larger and grander temples lined with huge bookshelves of dusty Tibetan tomes than elsewhere in the country. Of particular interest, the modest rooftop apartments the deposed 14^th Dalai Lama left behind when he fled to India in the fifties.

Despite the Potala no longer acting as a seat of government the palace is still animate with numerous monks scurrying about, while others, sequestered away in tourist-restricted rooms, chant – their incantations audible throughout the palace.

For a truly undiluted look at life in Tibet before the Chinese I discovered Lhasa’s Jokhang Temple and adjoining Barkhor Market. The most peopled place in Lhasa, this humble temple has monks aplenty and is of great religious significance to the country’ faith.

Layered like an onion, the temple’s exterior is encircled by the busy Barkhor Market. Catering to both locals and tourists, stalls with fur hats, heavy door hangings, turquoise jewellery, paintings and prayer wheels offered along side groups of busking burgundy-robed monks, make it one of the best places to see daily life and pick up a souvenir at the same time.

The temple’s inner sanctum offers yet another layer. Awash with flickering candles reflected in melted pools of yak butter, pilgrims chant while, with an imperceptible flick of their wrist, they keep their personal prayer wheel magically spinning. Monks gathered under the courtyard canopy beat drums, blow long alpine horns, and chant in unison only to find themselves the subject of another tourist’s lens but they seem not to mind.

Outside the temple prostrating pilgrims armed with knee and hand pads they drop to their knees, then fall flat against the ground, before getting up and dropping down again. In this slow and somewhat ‘hard on the knees’ manner once yearly every good Tibetan makes a ritual circuit of the city demonstrating devotion to their Buddhist faith.

Nevertheless Tibetan tradition is slowly slipping under the weight of the Chinese and anyone with romantic visions of Tibet is advised to include it on their got-to-go list before it vanishes completely and simply becomes another province of China.

Altitude Sickness

Those with heart trouble or breathing difficulties such as asthma might want to check with a physician for preventative medicine before exposing themselves to the extreme altitudes of the Himalayas.

Any traveler to Tibet should be aware of the dangers of altitude sickness. Problems occur in the altitudes above 2400m and are a result of ascending to high altitudes too quickly – such as flying directly into Lhasa which sits close to 4000m. Symptoms of faster and harder breathing, a pounding heart, headaches and possible swelling of ankles and hands can occur one to three days after arrival as your body seeks to cope with the thinner air. The trick is to take it easy for the first couple of the days as your body acclimatises to the new altitude.

Experience #924  

Walking along the statue strewn slopes of Easter Island’s extinct volcano Rano Raraku is a magical, almost spiritual experience. Essentially the main quarry and workshop for the island’s famed statues, it is here the volcanic rock was carved into life by the Polynesian islanders. What remains today is an empty studio of enigmatic statues in various states of progress, almost as if someone blew the quitting time whistle and none of the workers ever returned to complete their sculptures.

The feeling of walking amongst the hundreds of heads littering the mountainside is slightly eerie. Isolating even. Statues stand at various angles: some bear down on you as they lean precariously forward while others are content to watch you pass by as they rest against the hillside. Others stand tall while some, still struggling to escape earth’s grasp, are buried up to their ears barely managing to poke their distinctive noses above the ground.

Inside the volcano’s caldron more statues perch. Each looking like a sleeping giant who could at any moment, break free from the mountainside and come to life. It’s a magical electricity which is only rivaled by the mystic blocks of Stonehenge, particularly as the setting sun casts elongated shadows against the rich, green volcanic slope.

A tiny speck of land concealed by the vast Pacific, the first thing I noticed after arriving in Rapa Nui is the island’s remoteness. With its nearest neighbour, Pitcairn Island, more than 1900km away and Chile, its parent country, a long five hour flight across the Pacific, its hard to imagine a more isolated but more rewarding tourist destination.

The island is small and easily traversed by jeep in a day.  In fact, all of Easter Island’s sights can be covered in a compact two days or an easy three. Its triangular shape is the result of converging lava flows from the island’s three extinct volcanoes and it is this fiery heritage that confers the island’s vibrant colours: iron-rich ochre soils supporting fields of crisp, green grass on which wander wild horses under a perfect Pacific blue sky.

Paradise? Possibly. But rough and ready Easter Island offers more than South Pacific appeals. It is shrouded in mystery with riddles waiting to be unraveled by would-be anthropologists.

Sculpted from the same volcanic rock that created the island itself, the resident statues or maoi for which the island is renowned, have origins that have never quite been confirmed.

Thought to be Polynesian burial markers or perhaps even ancestral images, questions remain to this day on how the impressive 10 metre stone sculptures were transferred from inland quarry to coast. Once at the sea’s edge, they were erected on stone platforms or ahu, their backs mysteriously to the sea, to stand as silent sentinels over their island.

Sadly, the coastal statues did not stand the test of time as a tour round the island’s shore shows. Tidal waves have knocked a number of the statues from their pedestals; many have quite literally fallen flat on their faces. Others have not weathered well, their porous stone worn and pockmarked, often rendering them beyond recognition and simply another rock.

Thankfully, preservation agencies and interested countries have come to the statues’ aid, repairing and re-erecting them on their platforms. But in some cases, as in one Japanese rebuilt site, the re-erected statues lined in a perfect row come to look almost sterile. The magical electricity is lost.

Top Tip: Rent a jeep to tour the rugged roads or tour the island via horseback.

Where: Easter Island

How to get there: Map

To do or not to do? There is no question!: Easter Island may be in your future travel plans (I certainly hope it is!) but closer to home there’s every opportunity to delve into your local history. Every town has a mystery or two to discover, what’s yours?

Other mysterious places worth exploring:

In South America: Macchu Pichu

In the Pacific: Nan Madol

Internationally: Angor Wat

Where’s your favourite spine-tingling place? Where some deeper, possibly mysterious, meaning shrouds the place.