For reasons that fly in the face of logic Ben Hopkins chose to compete in Asia’s largest Adventure Race. Here’s how it unfolded

The race is over and hundreds of hungry competitors are refueling under the stars. Event organizer Serge Henken’s, a wiry Belgium with a thick French accent takes to the stage to proclaim. “Zee race was a success. I have ordered several casks of beer. Now is zee time to celebrate.” Traditional Thai music, dancing girls and an unlimited amount of free beer are our reward for enduring several hours of hard chore racing under a scorching sun. By the umpteenth glass I manage to convince myself all the suffering was worth it.

Over the past four years the River Kwai Adventure Race has grown to become South East Asia’s largest. Set in the harsh and beautiful countryside around Kanchanaburi the event attracts around 300 competitors from around the world. People of all nationalities and age brackets form teams of two and set out shortly after dawn. The disciplines include running, swimming, cycling and kayaking. The main difference with triathlons being that no one except the organizers know where the trail will lead or how long the race will be.

At the pre race briefing Serge enlightens us a little as to what to expect. The hall is packed with 300 disturbingly healthy looking people. “It will be tough” Surge says. “Zee heat will be intense. Take a lot of water and follow zee purple ribbons through zee jungle.” With the briefing over we file off to bed, apprehensive of what the following day will bring.

There are two race categories. Extreme for the serious athletes and Adventure for guys like me who start choking up alien substances after a few laps in the park. At the pre-race jamboree the Governor of Kanchanaburi takes the opportunity to get on TV while we bunch up at the start line and wait for the gun.

If the official had misfired and shot me through the heart he’d have spared me six hours of torture. But he didn’t and there’s no turning back. Three km’s into the running section and I’m gasping for air like a fish out of water. For my partner, a long legged marathon runner with a chiseled torso and competitive bent, the opening section is like a walk in the park.

An inner voice tells me to focus, hold in there and don’t give up while my partner starts chatting casually about god knows what. Reaching the river marks the first milestone. The water is warm and inviting but with steamed up glasses, a life jacket and cycle helmet on any attempt at looking cool quickly gets washed away. Instead I’m left floundering on my back. Kicking at the water and trying not to lose too much time before the cycle section.

Out of the water, over a rope wall and onto the bike – finally I feel like I’m in a race.

Focusing on holding the wheel in front it’s easy to miss the beauty of the landscape around Kanchanaburi. Fields of corn and thickly forested hills unfold before us as we gradually make our way toward the front. For a moment I’m having dreams of competing with the fast guys. Entertaining thoughts of punching the air at the finish line and striking the kind of pose that would sell a men’s facial cream.

And then it happens, a puncture. Our spirits are deflated as streams of cyclists race past and disappear in the dust. Frantically we change the tire and attempt to claw our way back, but it happens again and again and again. Any chances of a high placing are blown away but we’re not alone. At the next running section we find about twenty cyclists all fixing punctures. The trail was ridden with thorns. Five punctures per team was probably the average. One grown man, in a state of distress is having tantrums. “How could they do this, how could they choose a course like this” he cries while fixing a double puncture under a burning sun.

Fortitude is called upon as we enter the second running section and scramble up and over a steep, forested hill and enter a wide open space of rice fields and narrow tracks. The landscape is stunning but the heat is cruel, slowing me to walking pace but not quite breaking my resolve to finish.

On a shaded trail we pass a small farmers house. An old lady looks me in the eye as I attempt to break into another jog. She must wonder at my sanity. For field workers like her, working the harsh arid land from dawn till dusk is suffering enough. When work is over it’s time to relax. Most of the Adventure race competitors are city workers like myself. We sit in offices all day, eat in nice restaurants and watch TV in the evening. We need this as a jolt from sloth, a boost to the endorphins and a way to stave off a slow descent into old age.

When I’m passed by a couple of  fat blokes with short legs I snap out of my reverie and speed it up to the next section – a 300 meter swim across a lake, another jog, another swim, another jog and back to the punctured bikes section. Dozens of competitors are dipping inner tubes into buckets of water and frantically pumping tires. The misfortune splits competitors between those who can laugh it off and those for whom the whole event is ruined.

With our punctures fixed we’re back on the trail, following the purple ribbons tied to trees and sensing the finishing line is drawing near. And then, whaddya know, another puncture.

Reaching the river’s edge we jump off our bikes and kayak our way to the finish. In the distance we see the famous River Kwai Bridge. Pulling up the kayak I manage to jog like a rag dole what I think are the last few hundred meters. Every fiber in my body feels like it has been stretched, removed, beaten and bruised with a mallet. But finally it’s over. The crowds are gathered, the finish banner is up and ice boxes full of beer are being drunk. In my mind I’m already on my back, nursing a can of amber delight. Then, just as I’m about to lunge over the line some low down, good for nothing race official tells us we have to swim 300 meters up the famous bloody river and run back to the finish.

Six hours and seventeen minutes from the gun and it’s all over. I really am on my back with an ice cold can of beer in my hand. This is what heaven feels like. The winners came in two hours ago but there are still competitors out there two hours after we finish.

The celebrations continue late into the night. Awards are handed out and for reasons that fly straight in the face of logic I vow to return again next year.

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River Kwai Trophy Adventure Race – Blood, Sweat and Streams of Beer

It’s natural that the harried cosmopolite seeks to put space between him/herself and the office.  But putting “time” between the two points makes the adventure even more rewarding.  That’s what a journey down Lao rivers is all about.

Rural Laos is cut off from the outside world.  Most of it is as remote as Thailand was 40 years ago before the introduction of electricity and roads:  simpler, quieter, and more connected to nature.  In an inflatable kayak down a river, the experience of simpler times is enhanced.  Silently you pass villagers at work and animals, observing them when they cannot view you so you see them in their natural state.  Awakening on the headman’s verandah and listening to a village come to life at dawn is to experience a connection with the stuff of life not available in an urban setting.

Four key rivers flow through the remote corners of Laos:  the Hinboun, the Khan, the Ha, and the Ou.  Adding the Mekong in the 4,000 Islands region at the southern tip of Laos provides all the ingredients for adventure.

The Hinboun River

The Hinboun begins in the Khammoune Range near the border with Vietnam.  These craggy limestone mountains wall off a hidden valley

that shelters the village of Ban Natan.  Entering it, you discover farmers living on their wits and local resources.  Houses are built of wood and bamboo cut from the forest by carpenters who even carve the wooden roof shakes.

Ban Natan is the starting point for an amazing journey through a huge cave.  The Hinboun River disappears into its vast, pitch-black interior, fully 20 meters tall and 30 meters wide at some points and holding beaches and side caves to explore.

Two hours later, you exit this 7.5 km. tunnel and bounce down a flume-like ledge.  The river then sidles past a tall limestone wall, passing rice paddies and water buffalo that still pull the plows.  You pass riverside vegetable gardens stairstepped up the banks, and greet shy families bathing and washing their clothes.  Climbing the bank, you encounter villagers living in woven bamboo houses, and worshipping in small Buddhist wats, each of individual design, and generally the only concrete buildings in the village.

Several days downstream lies a second cave, this one leading to a mysterious hidden valley.  Entering it requires that you wade through water, walk gingerly along a submerged bamboo pole, and climb along river-polished ledges to reach the upper end.  In the valley beyond, you discover the remains of an ancient city that was abandoned for reasons unknown.

The river then flows to the take-out at the intersection with Highway 13.  After a few hours drive to the southern tip of Laos, you arrive at one of the Mekong’s most dramatic areas:  the Khone Falls and the 4,000 Islands.  Here, on the border with Cambodia, a cataclysmic earth shift dropped the lower portion of the river 21 meters, and spread the waters to the east and west, creating the islands.  At the height of the monsoon season, the river is nearly 14 km. wide.

The edge of the fault is marked by several waterfalls.   Paddle to the upper edge and watch the mist boil over the lip and hear the thunder of its water.  The only runnable portion is the Sahong channel and even then only in the dry season when water levels have dropped sufficiently to allow passage.

Among the most beautiful falls is Liphii.  Villagers set traps in it during the monsoon, and risk their lives to extract the fish.  Inflatables are launched just below them for a paddle into what has been dubbed the “Flooded Forest”.

Its trees, the Anogeissus rivularis, are a botanical anomaly.  In the month before the Mekong is swollen by the monsoon, they shed their leaves.  As the waters rise, they are completely submerged and remain so for several months.  The absence of leaves, a survival tactic, reduces the force of the river current that would rip the trees from the riverbed.  When they emerge in November, their branches and root systems bend downriver, as though contorted by a gigantic wind.  Take a break from paddling to pull into a beach for a closer look…and a picnic lunch.

Downstream from the Flooded Forest, the Mekong broadens.  Its waters are the home of a rare pod of Irrawaddy Dolphins.  These threatened mammals are one of two such groups in the entire Mekong.  They are shy animals, no doubt because the Khmer Rouge slaughtered them to obtain oil for their lanterns.  No surprise, then, that they keep their distance from humans.  Nonetheless, you can sit in your boat to observe them feeding as the sun is sinking in the west.

In the Sahong channel are gigantic fish traps that are a wonder to behold.  The fish swim along them, thinking they are the passage to safety.  But the traps tilt upward and the fish quickly find themselves stranded; fishermen simply collect them in baskets.  Unfortunately, the Lao government is planning to dam the channel to produce electricity, robbing the fishermen of a major source of their catches, and kayakers of a route.

The centerpiece of the 4,000 Islands is the spectacular Khone Prapheng Falls whose power has to be seen to be believed.  Over the Khone Prapheng flows a major portion of the gigantic Mekong, and it is huge.  At floodtide the wild Colorado in the Grand Canyon flows around 700 cubic meters per second.  The Khone Prapheng witnesses the passage of 11,600 cubic meters per second, the highest volume of water of any falls in the world, double that of Niagara Falls.

In 1866, the French envisioned what they called a “River Road to China” to carry goods between their Cambodian and Vietnamese colonies and ports in southern China.  Imagine their shock when they reached the Khone Falls.  But they were not entirely daunted.  They built a wharf at the lower end with a funicular to raise cargoes to the upper level.  The cargoes, and often the boats themselves, were then hoisted onto a railcar and shunted along an eight-kilometer track that ran up the island, through the jungle, across a bridge, and to the terminus at the northern end of an adjacent island.  There, the cargoes were transferred to a new boat and moved upriver.

Although the system was an engineering marvel, it was unwieldy, taking 37 days and seven boat changes to complete the distance between Saigon and Luang Prabang.  The railway was ultimately abandoned in the 1940s as economically unfeasible.  You can walk, then cycle, the old roadbed before floating down the Mekong itself on innertubes back to the lodge.

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The Khan River

Central Laos holds a more intimate river, the Khan.  It begins high above the old royal capital of Luang Prabang and flows through a quiet agricultural valley inhabited by Lao Loum and Khmu tribesmen.  The Khan nurtures a unique river weed that villagers harvest, generally in February.  It is a joyous, communal celebration in which, it seems, the entire population descends into the river to extract the hair-like vegetable.  It is dried and turned into a tasty snack.

A journey down the Khan ends at Luang Prabang where the Khan contributes its waters to the Mekong.

The Ha and Ou Rivers

Two rivers, the Ha and the Ou, take you into the true heart of Laos.  Here, you are cut off from the outside world, thereby providing you a chance to experience rural life as it has been lived virtually unchanged for eons.  The Ha passes pristine forests and the occasional village as it wends through the mountains.

Half a dozen tribes inhabit the area including the Khmu, Lao Loum, Lao Thung, and Thai Lu.  My favorite is the Lanten of which there are only 25 villages in all of Laos.  They are a gentle people who write in a Chinese script and whose women pluck their eyebrows and shave their hair back from their foreheads, the better to accentuate their gentle eyes.

By contrast to the woven bamboo houses of the Lanten, Khmu village homes are planks knocked together from rough boards.  Villagers harvest a dry-land rice that grows on the steep hillsides.  Unlike farmers elsewhere who cut the rice stalks with a sickle, these farmers strap a basket around their waists and strip the grains from the stalks.  It seems a laborious way to harvest but one quickly realizes that they can harvest standing up, saving themselves painful backs brought on by bending over all day.

At the very top of Laos, in the wee wedge between Vietnam and China, is the source of the Ou River.  Most visitors to Luang Prabang know the Pak Ou Caves.  “Pak” means mouth and indicates the point at which the Ou River joins the Mekong.  The caves are famed for the thousands of Buddha images that boatmen have left there to ensure their safety.  On this trip, you begin at the other end of the Ou, at its northern source.

From the put-in, the river passes through a NBCA, National Biodiversity Conservation Area, the Lao designation for a protected forest, where walls of vegetation rise 60 meters on either side.  The trees are filled with birds and the occasional family of macaques.  Settlements are prohibited which means that you have it virtually to yourself, a rarity in Asia.

Farther downstream, beyond the park confines, are Lao pioneers eking out a living on recently-cleared land.  Subsistence farmers, they plant crops and catch fish.  Their dugouts are without engines that would enable them to move downstream.  Even if they could, they would be blocked by challenging rapids that put excitement into a kayaking journey.

The first connection with a road is seven days downriver at Hatsaa.   An hour up a rough steep road from Hatsaa, takes you into Pongsaly which is reminiscent of a Nepalese hill town.  Its houses line a long ridge that is often shrouded in mist.  It has the air of ancient China from which many of its inhabitants likely made their way over the mountains from Yunnan late in the 19th century.  That may explain why it was the first Lao province to declare for Communism in the 1950s.  The principal crop is tea which it ships north to China and south to Luang Prabang.

Despite their beauty these five rivers are endangered and a journey down them may soon be the last one possible.  Thailand and China need electricity to fuel their rapid growth and Laos has the rivers to produce it.  Under intense discussion is a series of seven dams on the Mekong itself and 38 on the tributaries.  Five of these are already under construction.

But, see for yourself what may soon be lost.  Paddling down Lao rivers, you quickly meld with your surroundings.  It is the ease with which you travel back in time and the relaxed attitudes of the Laos themselves that give Laos its allure and creates memories that linger long after you have returned home to a dramatically more frenetic lifestyle.

For information, schedules, and more photos of the trips Steve organizes, see www.stevevanbeek.com

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A Time Traveler’s Life

We’d stopped off at a stall in a small, near anonymous vil­lage in the north of Sabah, Borneo. We were loosely following the routes of the horrific Sandakan death marches of the Second World War, and were in a spot that was used as an impromptu stop off during the marches, where thousands of Allied prisoners of war were force-marched to their deaths by the occupying Japanese. I was told the story of a local man who had recently passed away, he was enforced as a cook for the Japanese captors, and told the tale of how he was once forced to cook two prisoners for the soldiers to eat. By this stage they were so malnourished that there was no flesh on their bones, so he was told to take out and cook the intestines, it just beggared belief, but it was true and documented along with so many other atrocities.

Our ride was around 250km and three days in all, along a mix of jungle jeep roads, palm plantation trails and some hard core. This was more or less along the lines used in the marches, although many things have changed since then, so conditions are nowhere near as harsh today, and we also chose to skip the impenetrable jungle scrambles, which were near impassable with a bike, and also to skip some of the road sections where logging trucks make conditions treacherous.

The port of Sandakan is situated on the north coast of Borneo, and was used by the Japanese during the war. It was where they shipped in and initially held the POW’s. All in all there were some 2600 POW’s shipped to Sandakan between 1942-43, mostly all Australians, and a fair amount of Brits. They had mostly been captured during the fall of Singapore, and others from the Philippines. This made the town the obvious starting point for the route, and we literally rode out from the remains of the POW camp, where many were to meet their end.

Maybe you wonder why we did this ride! Well, it had not been followed by bike before, and had a real sense of purpose. There were just six survivors from the marches, all of whom escaped to safety, and it was the worst atroc­ity ever in Australian military history, and one of the worse crimes of the war.

Our initial section was a long slog from Sandakan to Teluipid. This is relatively fat country, so not too demanding. We wound our way along miles and miles of sweet palm plantation trails, great for cruising and clocking up distance, but back then this was primary jungle, and no easy slog for the prisoners.

The Japanese saw great shame in surrender so showed little respect for their captives, or for the Geneva Convention. The war was nearing its end, and they knew it, and the allies were bombing the ports heavily, so they decided to move the prisoners inland to force them to work on a new airfield, and to slowly kill them off.

We had the full luxury of a support vehicle and supplies, and a nice clean shower and bed waiting at the end of the day – the prisoners had none of this. It was tough enough just riding easy in the intense heat, which was getting up towards 40 degrees at times. The soldiers were given little or no food or medical supplies, many didn’t even have footwear, and they were literally marched until they died, or were executed along the way – beheaded, shot, or simply kicked to death when they were too weak to continue, no mercy was shown.

Day one had been a hot and humbling day, but in real terms our ride, and the tale of the marches had only just reached the opening chapter. This is where the going starts to get tough, seriously hilly and hot, and through dense and humid jungles.

We were heading for Tampias, a small village used as a stop of point during the marches. The scenery  is  truly spectacular here, especially during early morning, when  the mist rises  from the jungle, like a magic carpet. The noises of the jungle can be deafening when you choose to listen, although the climbing ensured we had little time to do anything but concentrate on getting through the day.

We eventually came out above the Tovud River, a major crossing point during the marches. Bellow us I could see the river, in the time of war this was a serious torrent, and the weakened solders were forced to try and cross, many were too weak and were swept away to their deaths. Those that survived were faced with a two hour dense jungle scramble out of the gorge, while Japanese soldiers kicked them back down the gorge, shooting those who did not have the strength to try and climb again, for us it was time to rest up and contemplate what had happened.

Our final day dawned, and we were headed for Ranau, the ending point of the marches, where those that did survive were finally slaughtered. Many locals also risked, and lost their lives trying to aid the prisoners. There was a little old lady living in one village we passed through who is known as the ring lady – when she was a young girl she used to sneak the waste food for the pigs and feed the prisoners.

It started with one, and became six – then one morning she returned to feed them and found seven rings in a tin, wedding rings belonging to the soldiers, they had gone, and had lef a small thank you for her.

That last day in the saddle was long, hard, and hot. As we drew closer and closer to our destination so the riding got tougher, and the heat seemingly hotter. Crossing in towards Ranau we entered the final section, and an evil climb from Muruk to Ranau, passing through numerous paddy fields. This 30km out and back slog is where the surviving prisoners were  forced to carry sacks of rice from camp to camp, until they finally died. For us it was just a hard day in the saddle, nothing by comparison.

Death March Cycling

With or without the death march element this is a classic ride. The going is tough, hilly, the scenery amazing, but it’s the history that gives it some meaning, and no matter what your beliefs you cannot help but become absorbed.

From the end of this ride you can extend to make a whole  two week trans Sabah epic adventure, by following dirt roads, logging tracks and some road sections – to eventually arrive in Tenom, in the deep south – a section which has its own eerie war tales, and is a fantastic ride.

On the whole the riding is hilly and demanding, although not technical. At certain times it can be wet and muddy, but with the heat things soon dry out.

Without a doubt you need some local support for such a trio, both for route finding and for back up. The undoubted local experts are Borneo Bikers, by far the best set up and most experienced bike and adventure tour providers in Sabah, check out www.borneobikers.com and for general info www.sabahtourism.com.

Other Sabah biking adventures

Once you get away from the traffic and turmoil of Kota Kinabalu you’ll find some great cycling and mountain biking in Sabah – but finding it isn’t easy, which is why it’s best to arrange something with an experienced operator in advance.

To the far north, from Kota Belud to Kudat are many fat “kampung” – village – roads, which lead to dirt roads stretching to the tip of Borneo. In the southwest you will find sleepy kampung dirt and coastal trails around Kuala Penyu – while inland it’s possible to traverse  the very spine of the Croker Mountain Range, from Sipitang to Mount Kinabalu, an epic adventure – but to avoid the logging traffic you will need a guide.

Check out the organised and bespoke options at www.borneobikers.com.

Climbing Mount Kinabalu

The majestic and imposing Mount Kinabalu is the iconic Southeast Asian mountain, and at 4100 meters tall is the highest in Southeast Asia. Climbing the peak is a tough, but none technical, accomplishment, and the memory of a Borneo sunrise will live forever in your mind.

But, don’t just rack up and expect to climb – permits and overnight mountain hut spaces are severely rationed, and you need  to arrange well in advance with an agent for all of this and hire an obligatory guide.

Borneo Bikers can add this to your biking package, but best leave it till last – you will certainly feel the effects on your body!

Sabah

Sabah is one of the two Malaysian states on the island of Borneo, the other being Sarawak. In between the two you have Brunei, while the rest of the island is made up of Indonesian Kalimantan.

The weather here is typically equatorial – hot, humid, and often rainy. No special visas are required to enter Sabah, and it’s a fairly easy going and a safe destination, although obviously not as well facilitated as western countries.

Getting  to Sabah  is via Kota Kinabalu, which  is well connected via Kuala Lumpur, Singapore, Brunei, and many other regional destinations.

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Riding Back Through Time

The most popular adjectives with which to describe North Korea are Orwellian, paranoid and totalitarian. Repressive and isolated get ample play, as do dystopian and Kafkaesque. Vanity Fair writer and former Trotskyist Christopher Hitchens described it as a “slave state”. Former US president George W Bush declared it evil in his infamous “axis of” speech. The word that best describes the North Korean experience for most visitors, however, must be surreal.

Life in the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea (DPRK), to use its official title, revolves around the personality cult of the Great Leader Kim Il Sung, who – absurdly – was made presi­dent for life after his death in 1994, and that of his son and suc­cessor Kim Jong Il. Kim the younger is usually referred to as the General or Dear Leader, but has also been variously described by the Korean Central News Agency as the Sun of the 21st Century, the Highly Intelligent and Almighty Leader, the Greatest Personifier of Human Wisdom, the Incarnation of Might Displaying Infinite Creative Ability, and Top Brain of the Socio-Political Organism.

Though the citizens of the DPRK worship their Incarnation of Might, and many accept stories explaining how his birth at Mount Paektu, which strad­dles the border with neighboring China and is worshipped as the mythical birthplace of the Korean people, was heralded by a double rainbow forming over the volcanic mountain and the arrival of a new star glittering in the heavens, they are surprised to learn of the Western media’s regular regur­gitation of an urban myth: that they believe ol’ Top Brain scored multiple holes-in-one during his first ever round of golf. The DPRK does boast two golf courses, however.

In the capital Pyongyang, your tour group (there’s no other way to enter but on an offi­cially sanctioned tour) will cheerily clap along as your shy guide, exhibiting all the undis­guised nervousness of a karaoke virgin, bal­ances at the front of the bus while warbling the cheery Korean song Pan Gap Seumnida, or Pleased to Meet You, into a microphone. Should your country ever cross swords with hers, however, rest assured that she would have no qualms about cutting you in half with bullets from an AK-47. The DPRK is perma­nently on a war footing, and all outsiders are viewed with suspicion.

Souvenir hunting proves tricky, and foreign visitors are kept clear of shops frequented by everyday folk. Books, all published by the state propaganda department are available (big seller: the snappily titled The American Imperialists Started The Korean War). Post­age stamps are also popular, especially a de­sign – frequently sold out – featuring former US President Richard Nixon being stabbed in the eye with a pen. Splash out on a beer with lunch and, should the eatery be short of Euros or Chinese yuan (foreign visitors are not per­mitted to handle North Korean Won, and US dollars are a political no-no), you could get two more beers as your change.
Postage stamps are also popular, especially a design

Pyongyang is a meticulously planned city. Many of its multi-lane boulevards are broad enough on which to land a 747, but most accommodate little more than creaking cantilever buses and the oc­casional bicycle smuggled in from China, the DPRK’s neighbor to the north. In startling contrast to other East Asian cities, there is no brash advertising lining the roads, just hand-painted social-realist billboards promoting juche, the state ideology that pursues a society characterized by self reliance. While the rest of the world suffers propaganda that insists we’d all have many attractive friends if we only drank more Bacardi Breezers, the word on the North Korean street is that they don’t need any friends at all.

Every Pyongyang monument is in some way linked to armed conflict. Soldiers, packed tight into open trucks, wave and beam like harmless, apple-cheeked children as they pass by. The English-language MP3 narration at Kim Il Sung’s Mausoleum is performed by an emotional man from Yorkshire who sounds as if he’s about to burst into tears. Hardline communists enthusiastically accept packs of Marlboros (preferably Reds) as gifts.

And while neighboring China has marshaled its masses to provide cheap labor for the rest of the world, and thereby become an economic superpower, the DPRK invests an estimated 200 million of its people’s man-hours each year in a choreographed extravaganza of gymnastics, music and dancing. That way the politically vetted elite permitted to reside in Pyongyang can watch kids in fuchsia leotards doing back-flips through hula-hoops. They call it the Mass Games, and it’s the most surreal sight in the most bizarre nation on the planet.

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North Korea: Mass Dystopia

In the mid-1970s the charismatic abbot Luang Phor Pern, be­gan administering Sak Yant tattoos and activating them in the Bang Phra temple 50 km’s west of Bangkok. More magical than intellectual, his special skills drew a following that grew to the point where thousands of mostly young men from all corners of the country would bring gifts for the monks to be imbued with protective tattoos. The abbot died in 2002 but is today re­vered annually at the Wat Bang Phra Tattoo Festival.

The roots of Sank Yant tattoos can be traced back thousands of years to Hindu legend and were later adopted and developed by the Khmer as Buddhism spread from India into South­east Asia. At Wat Bang Phra the tattooists are the monks themselves and the images repre­sent powerful amulets of protection against evil spirits, car crashes, knife thrusts and gun
shots. For example, Hanuman – the monkey god – is supposedly a great and clever fighter, dragons are brave and wise, geckos are loving. Not surprisingly the tattoos attract a sizable following from the lower echelons of the Thai underworld and those whose lives are constantly under threat. Since the empowering spell wears off over time, true believers like to recharge their talismanic batteries at least once a year at the Tattoo Festival.

When I arrive at 6am a pale sun is diluting the sky and a steady stream of people are emerging. In one of the temple’s outbuildings a score of men are waiting to be tattooed. A roly-poly monk in ink stained robes is etch­ing a portrait of a lizard into a teenager’s back using a 20-inch needle with split ends. The ink, I’m told, is a secret recipe of snake venom, herbs and cigarette ash. The prods are short and rapid and every couple of min­utes he soaks up tiny droplets of blood and ink with a strip of toilet paper. The process is swift, about 15 min­utes and once administered the skinny and watery eyed teenager bares his chest to join the swelling number of tattoo devotees in the concourse.

Though the monks administer tattoos throughout the year devotees in­sist the etchings done on this day carry the most potency. For many, it’s regarded as the only time to get tattooed.

By 7am the numbers swell and the temple comes to life. There are count­less stalls selling amulets that span the centuries, monks giving blessings and children running wild between the ubiquitous food vendors.

Back on the concourse the atmosphere is theatrical. One by one people work themselves into a trance to become supposedly possessed by the creatures represented in their tattoos. According to occult tattoo theory, the spirits of the men’s tattooed images are calling out to their monkish creator embodied in the wai khru deities on stage. Some will leap up, flap their arms and pirouette toward the stage, screeching like birds. One regular attendee is a wild-eyed hulk who roars like a prehistoric behe­its balls in a clamp and rips out chunks of hair as he bolts toward the gauntlet of security guards who’ll wrestle him into submission before releasing him from his trance by rubbing his ears.

For a nation where expressing passionate emotions is frowned upon the op­portunity to freak out in public must come as a welcome release for those who struggle to tip toe through life with an inane smile on their face.

As the morning wears on and the heat rises the numbers of those purport­edly possessed increases. At times a Mexican wave of wild-men jolt toward the stage, falling over one another and overwhelming security before finally succumbing to a good ear rubbing – sensibly, no alcohol is sold during this festival.

When the abbot finally comes on stage around 9:30 am, the packed arena re­sembles a religious mosh-pit with soldiers, volunteers and many exhausted trancees covered in dirt and grazes.

After quieting the crowd, the abbot will give a short speech. Then, using hose pipes decorated with bamboo stalks, his acolytes power-bless the ec­static crowd by spraying them with water. By 11 am, the only remnant of the morning’s melee is the debris blowing across the hot dusty arena – and of course, the statue of the beloved abbot, Luan Poh Perm, looking out serenely as if nothing had happened.

Published by Traversing The Orient Magazine. You want to make an online travel business? Please go to www.web.com.

Tattoo Temple

There are two things you need when explor­ing the ancient city of Angkor in Cambo­dia’s Siem Reap: first -hire a quick-witted guide who can snake you in and out of tem­ples without getting tangled with tour-bus crowds. Second, a swimming pool. Cambo­dia is one hot little country and even the most intrepid temple prowler will want to slide into cool water after clambering around the tumbled ruins of these looming structures of the ancient Khmer empire.

The Angkor temple complex, once a fabulous city that thrived from 802 to 1295AD is sprawled out with several kilometers between the temples. The history, the moats, the passageways, the bas reliefs, the confusion of Hinduism that changed to Buddhism – it’s all wondrous to see, and it’s a mass of information for the mind to process.

Though Angkor was what I had come to see, finally after living four years in Southeast Asia, I found myself every bit as intrigued by the Cambodian people. It is a country that has been through so much turmoil, home to a generation carrying the skeletons of a harrowing history wherever they go, yet not a hint of bitterness was to be sensed. From the bright and canny young booksellers or my fellow native bus passengers, to the moto drivers, the temple guide and the hotel staff, a gesture of kindness and gratitude intertwined with their delightful sense of humor and endearing way of wanting to share Cambodia’s beauty – it enchanted me and typified my experience with many Cambodians in Siem Reap and Phnom Penh.

The closest hotel to the legendary temples of Angkor Wat, Le Méridien Angkor fuses European elegance with understated Khmer style to create an ambience that allows you to digest the day’s sights, with a gentle hint of an observed moment at the temples on every corner. Stunning architectural design, inspired interiors and all the ameni­ties of modern living, blend with the traditional to provide luxury that is contempo­rary yet inspired, to offer a haven after a day’s exploration of the breathtaking wonders of Angkor.

We hired a guide and driver for the first day, arranged through the hotel. Our first sight of Angkor Wat was just after sunrise – the crowds were beginning to cross the first bridge but there was still tranquility to be found on the grounds, the silence bro­ken only by birdsong.

Clouds hovered like magic carpets behind the dark towers of the temple. As the sun reached its midday peak, only floating lotus flowers in full bloom interrupted a mag­nificent reflection in the pond. This is just one example of a snapshot that provides visitors with a very personal moment at Angkor Wat.

Angkor Archaeological Park’s temples have been designated a World Heritage Site, and increasing numbers of tourists have found their way there since the opening in 1993. Anyone thinking the antiquities will afford a chance to commune with ancient spirits is likely to be disappointed. Tourism is on the fast track in Siem Reap with hotels mushrooming from the airport to the city centre and a guesthouse under con­struction in every alley.

One of the wonderful sights though, is the eclectic mix of tourists Siem Reap attracts. Inevitably, interested wanderers to this part of the country have a cultured interest in history and the arts, so it’s no surprise to find Siem Reap offers visitors an array of quality art and photography galleries, artisan centers of textiles and pottery, cafes and nightlife. An evening spent people watching along Pub Street reveals all generations and every nationality nurtur­ing a healthy interest in a history by day and a modern social life by night.

Unfortunately tour groups tend to dominate today– and that can include the breakfast buffet too. The trick is to create a different schedule and explore the most popular temples at sunrise and at noon after tour buses have de­parted or are having their feeding time at the local res­taurants.

One thing you really do not have to do, no matter what the guidebook may say, is to see the sunset from a hill be­side Angkor Thom. The rate at which the masses race to the top you would be forgiven for thinking it was the final cup match between Liverpool and Manchester United. It’s getting to the extreme of being dangerous, especially con­sidering the dark conditions the descent will involve and if you decide to become one amongst the flock, be prepared to see no more than the crown of the person before you. Take the advice of our guide, get to the top thirty minutes before sunset, enjoy the view, capture a wonderful pho­tograph in good light, and descend before the masses ar­rive!

Our day began at 9am at Angkor Thom, or “Great City,” thought to have housed a million people at one point after its construction during the years 1181-1220 by Buddhist king Jayavarman VII. Our day with the guide and our driver took in the odd and familiar sights at four temples. We went on to see the Scenes of Heaven and Hell intricate­ly carved along the corridor walls, a terrifying perspective of Judgment Day including hideous devils hauling sinners to hell.

Ta Prohm is a temple on everyone’s list. Here you can encounter uncanny feelings as you climb over rubble of crushed and tumbling walls, where banyan tree trunks wind like snakes through the once-grand structure. The jungle-strangled temple, discovered in the 1860s, was in­tentionally left this way, conveying the eeriness of the lost civilization. Ta Prohm was used in a scene for the movie Lara Croft: Tomb Raider. Today, an Indian funded restora­tion project has workers baffled for years on how to restore a section of the temple that originally took relatively little time to build.

Next to Bayon temple, for the last six years the French have encountered a similar headache as the Indian restoration project at Ta Prohm; trying to piece together the building blocks that originally took just one year to create a temple continues to leave modern civilization in awe of its beauty and complexity of construction.

It’s a safe bet that Cambodia’s Angkor temples will con­tinue to climb on the travelers’ list of favorites; right now Siem Reap is still a relatively small city, with Cambodi­ans eagerly learning to speak English and employing but a minimum of ways to snare your money. You will encoun­ter children selling postcards and trinkets. Although per­sistent, they are more fun than obnoxious and as long as they are practicing their entrepreneurial skills after school is out at 1pm, you don’t need to feel your commercialism is robbing them of an education.

Published by Traversing The Orient Magazine. You want to make an online travel business? Please go to www.web.com.

Siem Reap: Abode of the Tourists

Not so long ago the town of Pai – nestled away in a pastoral valley amongst the mountains of northwest Thailand – was a haven of tranquility. A bucolic idyll of teakwood houses where Karen, Shan, Lisu and Muslim families lived peacefully with the indigenous Thais. Then, around 2002, Time Magazine and a number of other international publications decided to run a feature extolling its virtues and Pai quickly became the place to tick off on the backpacker  itinerary. Guest houses, open air restaurants, music venues, massage, tattoo, and  beauty parlors sprouted up like mushrooms and the tourists came flooding in.

There goes the neighborhood”, may have been a common refrain, but somehow Pai managed to keep its soul and is today the ideal starting  point for those seeking adventure. Travel shops tempting farangs into  the wild sit amongst a myriad of businesses offering everything from courses in fower arranging to kick boxing.

When I arrive on a late November evening I know a few days of adventure lie ahead. The only problem is choosing –  should it be a course in jungle survival skills followed by a trek into the wild, a rock climbing excursion or a mountain bike tour along the forestry tracks.

Checking into my guesthouse at dusk the sound of Muslim prayer blends with reggae from a bar opposite. Spiritually bereft I’m magnetically drawn to the reggae. Three young women from England are emptying out a bucket of Red Bull and Sang Som.

“Awesome, awesome,” one of them keeps repeating. “Yeah, like, I was sort of
holding on for my life when that guy, what’s his name, anyway, you know, sent the dingy down the rapids.” One more Sang Som and I’m off to an ad­venture shop to book myself on a two day trip down the rapids.

The morning sun is low as we labor the dingy down a narrow track and clumsily climb aboard. The heat rises along with the sun while diamonds dance in the water and dragonflies the size of sparrows hover overhead. “Hold on,” someone shouts as we hit the first set of rapids. Breakfast is the first thing to go overboard as the boat is thrown over white water crests.

Within seconds we’re through the first test and the waters are swift but calm. There are eight of us on board. An Irish couple who are experiencing leaving home for the first time, a couple of thrill seeking Canadians and a motley crew of three tour guides who introduce themselves as Ray, Banana Man and Chili Man.

There are only a few rapids on the first day which suits us fine. All the travel­ers on board are novices and the scenery is spectacular. Trees like sky scrap­ers draped in vegetation veil the mountainous landscape. The sound of bird-song and the screeching of cicadas fill the air on the rare moments when Banana Man and Ray, our raconteurs of wit take a break from making jokes about how farangs have heads the size of cabbages and how Chili man man­aged to acquire such an unfortunate nickname.

Puffing away on a green cigar Banana Man leans over and hands me a plas­through my system and singes my nasal hairs. It’s rice whisky. Banana Man has a plastic barrel full of the stuff and everyone on this boat wants some. Any plans I had for an alcohol free weekend are thrown overboard.

As we approach our lunch stop Ray raves on about how we’re going to see some wild monkeys in the jungle, swinging from the trees. There are mon­keys and they’re wild – wild with rage because they’re swinging from chains. Convenient for taking photo’s but when the Irish guy whips out his lens and starts snapping away the monkey flips, tears at his shirt, rips out a container of mosquito repellent and proceeds to drink it. Perhaps he thought it was moonshine but as we leave the scene all that’s left is the horrible screeching of a monkey puking up and Banana Man’s ongoing monologue about how he managed to acquire such a fortunate nickname.

Night falls fast in the forest where our accommodation is a few bamboo poles draped in mosquito netting. The mosquitoes in this region of north­west Thailand are known to carry one of the most virulent strains of ma­laria in the world. Danger hides in hidden places but when Ray produces an antique rifle from a make do shed, loads it with gunpowder and starts shooting bullets into the sky the danger of being mauled by wild animals disappears pretty quickly. Gun shots echo off the mountains sending a bolt of fear through every living creature from here to Chiang Mai.

Spike Milligan once wrote, “There are holes in the sky where rain gets in. The holes are small, that’s why rain is thin.” Tonight the holes are letting in beams of light from a thousand stars, forming a theatrical dome overhead within which hundreds of glow worms are putting on a show for my benefit. Perhaps it’s the moonshine but I’m almost tempted to applaud as I doze off to sleep.

At breakfast a creature with the body of a stick insect and the face of a dried up grape emerges from the woods and sits himself down next to Ray. “Eve­rybody, this is Mau.” Exiled from the town he grew up in Mau is a wanted man, a renegade who lives in the woods far from town. His only contact with the outside world is Ray who’ll supply his old friend with moonshine and tobacco. “Mau can’t go home,” Ray explains. “They’ll put him in prison; if he stays here they’ll leave him alone.” When I ask what his crime was Ray just says, “Mai pen rai” (never-mind).

Today we hit the rapids. The boat bounces over the tumbling water and crashes off the rocks to set everyone onboard whooping and wailing and screaming obscenities. For Banana Man and his cohorts it’s all in a day’s work but for us it’s a moment to overdose on our cravings for thrill seeking adventure.

I’m not sure the moonshine would be wise at such moments and I’m relieved to see Banana Man saves the grog for after the rapids – whether that’s because it’s less likely to spill or for safety reasons I’m not sure. In Thailand, as with most of Asia when accidents happen you alone take responsibility. Raising the bar for safety would also mean raising the cost considerably so we make our choices, pay western prices and be looked after or fling caution to the wind save the money for more adventures.

It’s late in the afternoon when we reach the final challenge of this tour, a ten meter high slab of rock jutting out from the river bank. The challenge isn’t to climb it but to jump off of it. My immediate instinct is to scramble to the top and jump. Then I pause to figure, “hang on. Here I am, a brittle boned middle aged has been plummeting ten meters into a river that’s cursed with limb shattering boulders.”

So I nominate my Irish friend as a sort of crash test dummy. He’s half my weight and young enough to still have bones like rubber. Just as I’m about to suggest he should think twice it’s too late.

With a loud “Jayssusss” he hits the water at full pelt, disappears for no more than a second and immediately springs up again, as if his scalp were at­tached to a bungee jump. When he crawls out of the water we’re all relieved to discover nothing has snapped, which means I was right – the water was too shallow and his limbs were made of rubber.

Banana Man just chuckles, lights another Burmese cigar and hands out the moonshine.

Later that night I’m back in the reggae bar, sharing a bucket of Sang Som and Coke with a new group of backpackers, telling them about my awesome ad­venture and finally convincing them to follow Banana Man and his cohorts into the heart of darkness.

There are numerous outfts offering rafting  trips  in Pai. Here is a couple to get you going.
Northern Green Pai Adventure Tours  Tel: 053 699 385
Email: pairafting@hotmail.com

Thai Adventure Rafting Tel: +66 (0) 53 699 111
www.thairafting.com

Published by Traversing The Orient Magazine. You want to make an online travel business? Please go to www.web.com.

Into the Heart of Darkness

Beijing West Railway Station  -  the  largest  in Asia  -  is a hub of frenetic activity where all corners of China converge and disperse. A dizzying array of indecipherable timetables direct streams of bobbing heads down corridors and tunnels in a cacophony of whistles and clangs that disorientate the senses.  Or at least that’s how it seems when I arrive on a mid October night to claim my berth on The Trans Manchurian – a six day train journey that’ll deliver me from the autumnal humidity of Beijing into the early winter chill of Moscow.

The Trans Manchurian – a primary route of the Trans Siberian – rep­resents one of the great engineering feats of mankind. Constructed on the command of Czar Nicholas II of Russia in 1891 the line is an 8,961 km blood vessel that passes through eight time zones breathing life into the frozen wastes of Siberia. 25 years in con­struction the cost to the Imperial State Budget set a record only to be surpassed by the military budget for WWI. The human cost was far greater; countless thousands of lives were lost during the 16 year construction period, many of them political exiles to the imperial powers of the time.

It’s the kind of journey that stirs anticipation and sets sail the imagination but as I loiter in the main hall I’m quickly jolted from my daydream when I realise my god damn watch is slow. With a rucksack and guitar flung over one shoulder and a bicycle over the other I race through the crowd to reach the platform at the final whistle.

A Russian guard with the complexion of a puffball faces me with the palm of his hand and asserts, “No bicycles.” Those two words, spoken seconds before the train departs hit me like a ball and chain. “No bicycles,” the wheezing puffball repeats with an accent as thick as the Beijing smog.

For a moment I’m torn between prostrating myself at his feet and lunging for his windpipe. Then, at what seems like a split second before the kill a Russian lady with broomstick hair leans out of the train window and shouts; “Just give him thirty dollars, then we can all go home.” Two minutes later I take my place on the top bunk of a four man cabin. Images from Dr Zhivago pass through my mind as the train roles out of the station and into the vast expanse of Central Asia.

For those seeking luxury the Trans Manchurian is a no go. Most of the cabins are four berth where conditions are cramped and basic. Climbing in and out of bed demands a certain degree of dexterity in assuring your big toe doesn’t end up lodged in your cabin mate’s nostril. The diner on board is usually empty because the prices are extortionate and the food is average meaning most people stock up on the bare necessities at station kiosks in towns where Armageddon can’t come soon enough. There is a hot water supply to soften those noodles but there’s no shower and only one toilet for each carriage.

No, the appeal of the Trans Manchurian lies wholly in the appeal of travel for travels sake. After a couple of days the rhythm of the train becomes almost therapeutic as the vast expanse of Siberia glides past your window, changing shape and colour like an epic cinematic sequence. There’s no point in wor­rying about worldly trivialities when you travel the Trans Manchurian. For six days you’re detached, absolved of all responsibilities. If the outside world were to implode there’d be nothing you could do about it. It’s the perfect opportunity to forget your troubles, drink lots of vodka and pity the plight of Napoleon.

The journey also presents an opportunity to meet people from different cul­tures, rummage through their mindset and forage their cuisine. On my car­riage there are a large number of itinerant Chinese workers heading for the building sites of Moscow and St Petersburg. An aging French singer who’s fear of flying keeps him earthbound but far from immobile, a young Pole re­turning home from a teaching post in China and a Fin guy named Jan who’s dry, caustic wit goes down well with the Russian vodka.

Sharing a chunk of bread and cheese with Jan we stare listlessly out of the window as the train ploughs its way through the barren steppes of Siberia. The landscape gives credence to the notion that there is an end of the world, a place where life ceases and the land evaporates into space. On one stretch all I can see from the rail track to the horizon is a graveyard the size of a football pitch, no road leading up to it and no sign that there ever has been or ever will be life from here to the edge of the world. Seeking an explanation from someone I wonder out loud where all the people are.

“Underground,” deadpans Jan, before silencing himself with another vodka. Time slips by while the wheels trace the tilt of the globe; emerging from the barren steppes of eastern Siberia into a landscape dominated by mountains, forests and lakes. On days when the sun bursts through the autumnal hues of gold, yellow and red leap forward from a landscape where snow capped peaks hover above crisp blue lakes and dark green valleys. When the clouds gather and  light  fades  the  landscape  is  transformed  from brilliant  to leak  in an instant.

Tolerance for your fellow passengers is a must, especially when your cabin mate snores like a brewery and spends his day picking dry skin from the sole of his feet,  chewing  it  and  depositing  the mushy  remains  into  empty  noodle  cups. Through teeth grinding tolerance friendships are forged and parties occur. Towards the journey’s end I drum up the courage to uncase my guitar and sing a couple of  songs. A  round of polite applause emanates  from  the berths. Faces and bodies appear and within moments the Chinese contingent are goading one another on in a stirring rendition of a Chinese folk song.

Another round of vodka  leads to the Frenchman belting out a rousing rendi-
tion of Kalika, bringing to life the pufall of a train guard who emerges from
his cabin and breaks  into a frenetic display of Cossack dancing. He may have
been good at this during the Brezhnev years and for a moment he recaptures
the magic before  tumbling down  and  rolling  across  the foor, dethroned  like Humpty Dumpty of old. You can’t buy entertainment like this, it just happens.

When the train finally roles into Moscow the wind is blowing hard and winter’s beginning to bite. “Come back in January,” advises the Russian train guard in a more conciliatory tone, “and everything will be white, just like in Dr. Zhivago.”

I may just do that.

One way prices begin at around $250
For more info regarding cost
and schedules try;
www.chinatripadviser.com or
www.seat61.com/Trans-Siberian.htm

Published by Traversing The Orient Magazine. You want to make an online travel business? Please go to www.web.com.

Full Lilt From Beijing to Moscow

The following titles; 2 fngers, 3D, Forest and Children’s Playground may remind you of reading the back of a CD cover of a Linkin Park album, when in fact they are the  appropriately named climbing routes I was introduced to on my latest vertical adventure on the rocks of Khao Yai.

Geared up with top of the line climbing attire I bravely joined the congenial staf of Bangkok’s one and only rock climbing company, Te Climbing Factory.  Khun Ohn and his crew, Khun Note and Khun Ti, who collectively tally up more than 13 years experience, valiantly stood up to the task of not only guiding and teaching but also entertaining one of Bangkok’s resident adventure addicts. Afer shimming into a comfortably familiar safety harness I clipped on a chalk bag and completed the sweat breaking task of cramming my size 38 foot into a size 36 climbing shoe, much like a ballerina would do slipping into toe shoes; though I didn’t look quite so elegant nor nearly as graceful.  I curiously watched on as Khun Ti diligently tied and secured the figure 8 knot on my safety harness and gave me the “check” command as if to say, “show time climber!” With only a few century old climbing hours under my belt I naively, yet confidently approached the facinately steep Swiss cheese  looking slab. “Belayer on?” I  loudly questioned my trusty belayer, Khuh Ti.  He shouted back, “On Belay,” two universally used climbing terms in his repertoire of only a handful of English phrases.  “Climbing,” I responded as I took the frst of many calculated vertical steps towards what seemed like 50 meter high anchor.

As I began climbing  it became  increasingly evident that this  feat was not going to be quite as easy as the skilled  lead climber demonstrated. In an efort to investigate just how vigorous rock climbing was, I wore a heart rate monitor.  I not only monitored my heart rate but also the total amount of calories burned.   Trough the stinging salty beads of sweat  that had dripped of my  forehead and eyebrows and  ran  into my eyes  I could barely make out  the numbers, 1….blink,7…blink, blink 8…..”Whoa, I shockingly thought to myself….178?”  My heart was really pumping!  At 178 my heart was working at 95% of its maximum capacity (according to the Karvonen formula), much harder than its output during the 6km mid-night run I completed last weekend.  I pressed on blindly, trusting my underdeveloped skills and relying heavily on  the attentive belayer below.  “So  far so good,” I confdently yet silently said  to myself, naively underestimating the power of a climber’s personal mantra.  Perhaps a bit over-zealous about my swift ascent and beginner’s luck I allowed my confdence to take over.  And just as fate would have it, my beginner’s luck ran out, or was it my physical steam?

Admitting  exhaustion was an  insult  to my  religiously vigorous  training  schedule and a blow to my ego – something I wasn’t willing to accept.   As Khun Ohn patiently watched on whilst hanging  from his easy  take approximately an arms’ length below me, he generously ofered up some words of wisdom coupled with welcomed advice.  “Take a rest, Khun Allison,” he gently said.  With the feeling of defeat upon me, I took his advice.   I carefully  listened as Khun Ohn instructed me how to safely secure my carabineer to the nearest anchor.  “Relax Khun Allison,” I hear from my fellow climbers below.  “Stretch out your legs and arms, just rest.”

The word “rest” did not sit easy with me, it stung just as the word “walk” does as it enters your eardrum during a race. I replied in defense of my fitness, “I’m not resting, I’m thinking!”  My climbing comrades below broke into a roar of laughter.  It was then that I realized despite our cultural and linguistic differences my new friends and I shared a like sense of humor.  “Okay, that’s one beer,” I shouted down to them.  Another roar of laughter broke out.  The game was on!  For the duration of our adventure we silently conceded that “falls” were now to be called “beers”.  Upon completing a route it was announced for all to hear how many “beers” the climber would owe the team.  Substituting the word beer for the word fall felt much more acceptable. About now  is when things started to get technical.   I had reached what my fellow climber’s called the “crux”, the critical part of the climb.   I was meant to reach up and over the protruding cliff,  lock  in a tight grip, and push of my toes using as much leg power as possible in an effort to hoist myself onto the ledge.  Exerting as much physical force as my scrunched up tippy toes had to offer I thrust my body weight in an up-ward motion hurling my right arm over the ledge frantically feeling for a notch, dent, cranny anything closely resembling a hole in which to shove my ring finger and middle finger to grab

My lef leg continued to struggle to support my body weight as the two fngers on my right hand were straining to maintain their clinch.  I’d mistakenly allowed my body weight to shif outward away from the rock as I desperately searched for somewhere to grab. I suddenly felt my fngers slowly peeling out of their hook.  I frantically tried to brush the ledge clean of dirt and pebbles with  the palm of my hand all  the while slipping  further and further from the rock. Te jagged rock cut into my fngernails and my forearm fexed as I attempted to cling to the ledge.  My heart was heavily palpitating, I was panting and drenched in sweat.  My lef hand and arm felt completely numb from the amount of lactic acid build up coupled with an awesome burning sensation.  All at once my exhausted body lost the battle against gravity, gasping for air I fell backward away from the steep slab.  A spacious blanket of blue, dabbed in marshmallow white fufs flled my eyes, for an all too short moment in time I have entered into a nirvana like state.  I deeply inhale the euphoric sensation of free falling.  I allowed my eyes to gently close and my body to completely relax much like the dead man’s foat.

Completely swallowed mentally and physically by the adrenaline rush I was abruptly startled awake to reality when my body came to a jerking halt in mid-air.  Taking a deep breath I said to myself, “What a ride,” with a huge satisfying grin on my face.  I took a few more deep breathes, wiped the sweat of my brow and out of my eyes then, got back in the saddle, as they say.  Evident that I had survived with only a few cuts and bruises which an adrenaline addict proudly refers to as battle wounds, the climbers below smart-alecky hollered up, “that’s two beers Khun Allison,” I couldn’t help but let out a roaring laugh.  As relieved as Khun Ti and Khun Ohn were that I wasn’t injured in the fall I secretly and mischievously hoped it would happen again.  The cheers that came from below when I fnally reached the target point brought a feeling of accomplishment over me.  I raised my arms in the air Rocky Balboa style and yelled out a, “Whoo hooo!”  The reward of the beautiful view from above, the battle wounds I honorably acquired and the adrenaline rush were more than worth the vigorous efort however, nothing compared to the exhilarating repelling that followed my triumphant victory.

As my “Elvis  legs” touched the solid earth a feeling of accomplishment came over me.   With very  few hours of  training  I had completed a grade 6A climb, according  to Khun Note,  the trusty and extremely knowledgeable coach for the day.  Khun Note, in a philosophical manner went on to explain the “climber’s creed” to which he adheres.  Rock climbing is comprised of
three components: mental, physical and technical.  It is a sport that challenges the climber to trust himself and to rely heavily on inner energy.  It is a sport of strategy and puzzle pieces.  It is a sport in which the climber competes with himself and nature.  Troughout the day it became more and more prevalent how passionate this group of spider men is about the sport of rock climbing.

Published by Traversing The Orient Magazine. You want to make an online travel business? Please go to www.web.com.

Rock Climbing in Khao Yai

“How about we have a wander round the observation deck at the tower and a bite to eat?” suggested Big G, our adventure-loving friend and the ring-leader of our naughty trip to Macau. It sounded innocent and leisurely enough, surprisingly so, for Big G. But then again, it was day one. So myself, Little G and Clod, who made up the rest of the motley crew, happily agreed. Of course Graham (aka Big G) had other plans up his sleeve.

We rocked up at the 338m Macau Tower and before we could utter a word, we were ambushed by reps from AJ Hackett 233m Macau Tower Jumps. Aha, that’s more like it. I always love Big G’s surprises. And let’s face it, I am an adrenaline junkie.

Immediately mesmerized by the mass of photos and videos on display I was already reaching for my wallet. Added to that, being told that the weather was perfect for a jump, and that Macau Tower is, in fact, the world’s highest sky jump, it was clearly a no-brainer.

I looked at my daredevil companion Graham with a questioning, “Are you in,” look. Of course there was no need to coax Big G into anything. By the time I could get a look in at the booking desk, my thrill seeking crony had already signed up and paid for the Bungy Jump. So, by default, that left me the Sky Jump.

The Sky Jump and the Bungy Jump at Macau Tower both start on the same platform and land on the same air inflated pad, however the experiences are vastly different. Giddy as two naughty need-for-speed junkies we proceeded to the elevator that would transcend the 233 meters we were about to dive down to the jumping off point. After many, ‘sign yourself up for a near death’ experiences, I’ve become very familiar with the generic risk waiver form, or shall I say, the ‘sign-your-life­away’ form. By the looks of the photos however, I took it very seriously, reading every word so as to buy myself some time; paying a final visit the bathroom before suiting up in the Sky Jumpers uniform.

With the assistance of one of the instructors, I tucked my floaty black linen dress inside the dreadfully tacky, yet functional flight suit. Gracefully and as appropriately as he could, in­structor Jeff fastened me snugly into the safe and sturdy harness. It felt like a security blanket and I can’t tell you how thankful I felt for it. The uniform was nice and cozy, and coupled with the weight of the metal buckles and straps I felt like I was being hugged. The last hug I might have ever gotten had things not turned out the way they thankfully did!

The time between gearing up and actually getting out onto the jumping platform was like time in slow motion. There was techno music blaring through the speakers on the waiting deck. I was a bit anxious, the way I usually feel at the start line of a race. The anticipation was eating at me slowly. The only thing that took my mind off my own plunge was watching Big G’s an­kles being bundled and strapped in towels and bungy cords. His face looked so peaceful. He was peering out over the Macau cityscape without so much of a flinch on his poker face face. His cool-guy demeanor inspired me to suck it up. No way could I show fear, not now. I was already suited up and ready for go-time!

Anxiously waiting for Graham to nose dive into the hot, muggy, mid-afternoon air I began to get irritated. I should be used to this by now, considering how many times I’ve done this kind of thing, but for some reason I’m very anxious. More often than not, the heavier of the jumpers go first which usually leaves me dead last. Dead last and waiting. And here I was again. Nothing seemed to calm my nerves: I swayed back and forth, I tapped my feet together, I shook out my arms and legs. I tried everything. I was seriously about to explode when finally, they opened the door to the jumping platform and graciously invited me in.

The air was hot and sticky but I didn’t mind, I was so happy to be the next one in line at last. There was a slight breeze which I welcomed with open arms. As it turns out, sky jumping suits are really quite warm. I could feel the sweat dripping down my back and my legs. The heat was rising inside the full body armor. By the time I was allowed out on the preparation deck, Big G had already plummeted the 233 meters, attached to a bungy cord, to safety on the air bag below. A feeling of relief came over me knowing he had landed safely and that there was good evidence I would do the same.

“I was more than ready. I was practically salivating for the adrenaline rush. Like any addict I began to feel out of control.  I wanted to feel the rush; the free feeling of falling at high speed through the air.”

As I attentively listened to the instructions being given, suddenly I could hear familiar voices and, out of the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse of the Kiwi video-grapher inviting my biggest fans and supporters out onto the deck.

“I’m in a rare mood today Al, so I invited your friends out on the deck to cheer you on,” said the typically hyper cameraman. A sense of calmness came over me as I turned my head to be welcomed by three huge smiles and six thumbs up! The G’s and Clod not only contributed to the positive peer pressure I was already feeling but also to the candidness of the video narration. To distract myself, I tried to convince the Kiwi dude that we were in Macau as guest go-go dancers for a newly-opened club. He didn’t buy our story and the dance moves the three stooges quickly broke into didn’t convince him either.

I am released to fall at approximately 75 km per hour towards the landing pad. I scream at the top of my lungs all the way down.  In the background I can hear my roommate and fellow go-go dancer Claudia screaming in fear for me.

Without hesitation I eagerly shuffled my way to the edge of the plat­form. Looking out over the beautiful, water-spotted landscape of Macau and its surrounding islands I felt at peace. The breeze was comforting; as were the voices of my friends cackling in the back­ground. Then suddenly, the overwhelming need-for-speed took over. I was more than ready. I was practically salivating for the adrenaline rush. Like any addict I began to feel out of control. I wanted to feel the rush; the free feeling of falling at high speed through the air. It came crashing to my attention that the feeling wasn’t going to be any­thing like the thrill of skydiving which I also love. With skydiving there is no depth perception. From that many thousand feet in the air cars look like ants and you can barely make out roads. The view now, from this jumping platform was much, much scarier. The height of the building I was jumping from was undeniable. The perception was totally different, and to be honest a lot more terrifying. But there was no doubt I was ready for the jump.

The countdown begins. Five, “WHOA only from five, ten seems like a much more comfortable number.” Four, “okay Allison, no backing down.” Three, “what is this bungy doing poking me in the neck?” Two, “boy oh boy I have to jump on the next” …..ONE and without even a hint of fear I dive face first off the 233m world’s highest Sky Jump platform!

I free fall for only a few seconds before the cable catches and I am suspended some hundred and something meters in the air. Thirty seconds go by about as fast as salt sifts through an hour glass. I hang there in anticipation of what is coming next. Thoughts are flying at me like bugs towards a windshield. If the first thirty seconds of this was a free fall and hanging suspension how exhilarating are the next 7.5 seconds going to be? All at once I am set free. I am released to fall at approximately 75 km per hour towards the landing pad. I scream at the top of my lungs all the way down. In the background I can hear my roommate and fellow go-go dancer Claudia screaming in fear for me.

At once I hit the air bag. I was happy to be on the ground, but, in all honestly I was disappointed. In all the waiting and anticipating I had built myself up for a breathtaking adventure. Although a defi­nite adrenaline rush, I craved something more. I craved the heart palpitating, breath stopping, fear-of-death feeling that all adrenaline junkies do. I realized at that point that I had graduated to a new level of dares. If a person could die doing it, then it was for me. And, for that matter, it was for Big G as well.

Nonetheless I was buzzing when I met the troops outside the elevator after my lift up. The T.V. screen was showing the video the camera­man had shot of the jump and in Little G’s hand were my belongings and two photos to prove my achievement in a nice tri-fold frame with a Sky Jump certificate. The video turned out to be quite candidly comical, so Big G generously bought the fantastic foursome a copy. More treasures from Macau weekend 2008!

As we enter the elevator and descend to the first floor I say to the crew, “We aren’t here for a long time friends, just a good time, so let’s make some memories!”

If you are ready to take the plunge call (853) 8988 8656 or email: ajhackett@macautower.com.mo

Macau Tower Convention and Enterntainment Centre: www.macautower.com.mo/eng/main.asp
For more information on Macau visit: http://www.macautourism.gov.mo/

Published by Traversing The Orient Magazine. You want to make an online travel business? Please go to www.web.com.

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