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

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.

Macau Mania

For the first half of the journey I sat in the observation car at the back of the train to watch the landscape and to view the crossing that links Singapore with Malaysia. As the train left Johor Bahru I made my way through 18 carriages to my compartment, where I met my steward, Mon, who had been looking after me ever since we left Singapore.

Having shown me the features of my cabin, he asked me if he could serve after­noon tea. It sounded like a wonderful idea and within minutes he returned with a large wooden tray lined with immaculate, starched linen. On the tray stood a large silver teapot surrounded by an array of silver and porcelain ac­
cessories. I sat and worked with conviction through my afternoon tea. Twenty minutes later Mon returned and asked if I would like some more tea; how could I say no.

After a short nap, I made my way to the bar car in the middle of the train for a pre-dinner drink and to meet some of my fellow travellers. The bar allows customers to run a tab throughout the journey and to settle their account shortly before arriving in Bangkok. Due to space restrictions in both dinning cars, lunch and dinner are served in two sittings.

I had chosen the second sitting, so having changed into formal dress, I had dinner just before we arrived in Kuala Lumpur. Dinner was sushi of smoked fish with a pickled cucumber salad, followed by poached lamb with baby vegetables and lemon grass bouillon. Dessert was warm mixed fruit tartlet with passion fruit sauce finishing with iced petit fours and tea or coffee. An a la carte menu is available at additional cost if required. The place setting was immaculate; Ital­ian designed chinaware, crystal glasses and silver cutlery by Orfeverie Chambly of France.

After dinner I went to the bar car where a pianist was entertaining guests, while the Singaporean bar staff tried to encourage the guests to indulge in a little karaoke. The boys had written out the words of their favourite 50 songs. They wanted to do their bit to add to the guests’ enjoyment and their efforts were appreciated.

Back in my cabin, the bed had been turned down and an E & O Belgian chocolate thoughtfully placed on my bed. Some of the guests had difficulty sleeping on their first night due to the motion of the train; I however, slept the whole night through. The cabins are compact and the design of the bath­room and shower optimises the space. A few people have made less than kind comments about the shower, comparing it to a broom cupboard, but I found it perfectly adequate.

The train has two kitchens of limited space within which three chefs and three porters conspire to create a cuisine to satisfy every client.

The next morning, Mon brought my breakfast tray with a silver pot of tea, a bowl of yoghurt, some fresh pineapple and a basket of warm rolls and croissants with a selection of jams and butter. I was eating my breakfast as we passed through Malaysia’s tea growing area of Ipoh. After breakfast we stopped at Butterworth for a two and a half hour tour of Georgetown on Penang Island. Motor coaches with guides were waiting to take us across the Straits by ferryboat. An orientation tour highlighted the colonial history of Georgetown with its busy waterfront and markets. We passed by the historic Eastern & Oriental Hotel that once formed the triangle with Raffles in Singa­pore and The Strand in Rangoon, owned by the Sarkies brothers. There was a trishaw tour of the city, returning to the ferry terminal where we met up with our coaches that were to take us back to Butterworth and the Eastern & Oriental Express.

Once the train left Butterworth, lunch with a main course of fillet of sea bass in crispy potato skin with tomato and peanut salad was served. I wanted to know how meals for 100 guests were planned and prepared with such limited space, so I asked the executive chef Kevin Cape about the tastes of Eastern & Oriental Express.

Kevin joined Eastern & Oriental Express when the service was first started eight years ago to launch and implement the excellent selection of meals served on board. The planning of menus have a lead time of three months and are subject to constant tasting and fine tuning of each of the dishes. Many factors have to be taken into consideration. Firstly, no pork is served out of respect for Muslim Malaysians. There are high volumes of American, European and Japanese guests, each with different and demanding expecta­tions. The majority of the passengers are at an age where they have estab­lished which herbs and spices best meet their taste range. Certain meats, such as duck and veal, simply do not work on the train. Fish and lobster cannot be served as a main course; neither can chicken as it is considered a cheap meat amongst the Japanese clientele. Game is not liked by the Asian market because of its smell. Likewise, although the smell of roast lamb is popular in Europe, it is not so with the Asian market and can only be served odour-free as poached meat.

The train has two kitchens of limited space within which three chefs and three porters conspire to create a cuisine to satisfy every client. Organisation is the key to the kitchens working successfully, as staff cannot move freely and must remain static during the meal service. Considering the space re­strictions it’s amazing how many wonderful dishes can be created.

I returned to my cabin for afternoon tea as we went through the Thai-Malay­sian border at Keluar/Padangbadar. Guests entering Thailand on the Eastern & Oriental Express are given a special Thai Immigration stamp bearing the name of the train – a nice touch.

In consideration for ladies who have managed to drag their husbands away from the office to spend quality time together, there are no commu­nication facilities on the train.

With showers in every compartment and all those dishes to wash, the train is a thirsty creature. Each sleeper car has a capacity of 1, 200 litres of water and each service car has a storage capacity of 1, 700 litres. Those tanks have to be re-filled no less than four times between Singa­pore and Bangkok. In consideration for ladies who have managed to drag their husbands away from the office to spend quality time together, there are no communication facilities on the train. Regrettably, because of the narrow corridors and the general motion of the train, it is not possible for the disabled, or those with walking difficul­ties to travel on the Eastern & Oriental Express.

Dinner on the final night was salad of grilled sea scal­lop and chicken with a black bean dressing. This was fol­lowed by medallion of beef with Szechwan peppercorn sauce and a deep fried bouquet of vegetables for the main course. The dessert was a delightful chocolate and hazel­nut gateau, followed by petit fours and coffee.

I lay awake as we travelled through a rainy, dark Hua Hin at 5am. Shortly after daybreak, Mon tapped on my door with my breakfast tray. We came to a halt in Kanchanaburi at 11am for our excursion to JEATH Museum and the POW cemetery at Chungkai; returning to join the Eastern & Oriental Express before traversing spectacular cliffs and crossing the Tham Kasae viaduct. This proved an ideal moment to capture some spectacular images from the observation point at the rear of the train.

Finally, the Eastern & Oriental Express crossed the Bridge over the River Kwai and came to a halt at Kanchanaburi Station. As we pulled out of the station another exquisite lunch was served and once again I tipped my cap to the chefs on board.

Passing through Nakom Pathom, Mon served me afternoon tea for the last time. As we neared Bangkok’s Hualampong Station, good-byes and thanks were exchanged. I found the whole ex­perience memorable and the service impeccable.

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

All Aboard The Eastern and Oriental Express

The Mekong River is the lifeblood of mainland Southeast Asia. It serves over 60 million people who depend on the watercourse and its tribu­taries for food, water, transport, trade, farming and many other aspects of their daily lives. This vital ecosystem is currently under threat from dam ‘developments’ and hydropower plants and despite lobbying from environmental organisa­tions; I wanted to experience it for myself before the damage really sets in.

My journey began at the heart of the Golden Trian­gle in Chiang Rai, Thailand. Once the domain of bandits, this corner of the notorious triangle, shared by Thailand, Burma and Laos, placed Thailand on the global map as an opium free area and today comes complete with cappuc­cino outlets and a museum worth the trip on its own.

The driving force behind the transformation of this region lays in the opium eradication project through crop substitution inspired by His Majesty, the King of Thailand. In 1959, coffee plantations became a major replacement for one of the world’s oldest substances taken by humans for medicinal pur­poses, but largely abused to become a debilitating addiction. The memory of that addiction lives on at the Hall of Opium – a world class museum depict­ing cultural heritage and history, initiated by Her Royal Highness the late Princess Mother as part of the Doi Tung Development Project. Any visitor with an interest in the history of this region should spare a few hours to explore this superlative museum.

Known as the Mother of Waters, the Mekong supports one of the world’s most diverse fisheries, second only to the Amazon. Its annual flood–drought cycles are essential for the sustainable production of rice and vegetables on the floodplains and along the riverbanks during the dry season. The 12th longest river in the world, the Mekong runs 4,800 kilometres from its head­waters on the Tibetan Plateau through the Yunnan Province of China, Burma, Thailand, Cambodia, Lao PDR and empties into the sea through a network of streams at the Mekong Delta in Vietnam.

In many ways Mark Twain’s Mississippi River of the 1880s had much in com­mon with the Mekong River of today. Like Twain’s Mississippi, the Laotian Mekong is a dividing line, the gateway to a wild and undeveloped frontier. Like Twain’s Mississippi, life on the Laotian Mekong is just now being af­fected by telecommunications, land transport and electricity. Like Twain’s Mississippi, life on the Laotian Mekong is just now beginning to forget its civil war past in favour of a more prosperous and dynamic future and like Twain’s Mississippi, life on the Laotian Mekong is on the verge of changing forever.

Until seven years ago Laos was, like Bhutan or North Korea, strictly off-lim­its to adventure travellers. This all changed in 1999 when Vientiane revoked long-standing travel restrictions as part of its 1999 “Visit Laos Year” cam­paign. I was booked on a two-day Luang Say cruise operated by Asian-Oasis, destined for the UNESCO World Heritage town of Luang Prabang. The port town on the Laos side, Houay Xai, marks the start of the lower Mekong and serves as a rough midway point between the river’s mostly inaccessible Chinese course (which begins with snow-fed headwaters 15,000 feet up in the Tibetan Plateau), and its more well-known Indochina passage, which culminates in the famous Vietnamese Delta. It was the perfect start to my journey.

Because the Mekong does not naturally lend itself as an international superhighway, it is, for now at least, one of the few great rivers of the world that has retained its somewhat pristine character. As I sat on the prow end of the boat, I took in sights that probably hadn’t changed much since French explorer Francis Garnier arrived there in 1866: rattan-and-thatch homes clinging to hill­sides at the high-water mark; smiling locals coolly navi­gating rapids in dugout canoes and long-tail boats; sa­rong-wrapped women bathing beneath black-rock cliffs at sundown; naked, tanned kids clowning around in the shallows, gleefully calling out to me as we drifted lazily by.

However, “pristine” is a purely relative term here in the 21st century. Whereas Garnier’s expedition notes de­scribed the Laotian wilderness as an “unending, unpen­etrable forest,” clear-cuts are evidence of a more recent phenomenon: commercial logging and the most obvi­ous result of this deforestation is the lack of wildlife. Whereas Garnier reported seeing all manner of tigers, leopards, wild elephants, monkeys, crocodiles and boa constrictors haunting the shores of the Mekong, today you can enjoy dancing butterflies the size of your palm, buffalos basking in the sun, goats taking a sip of Mekong waters and where logging is carried out, you may even see an elephant in the water – get that camera ready!

An early departure meant the autumnal colours on the banks peaked through a light morning mist while fishermen avidly collected their catch from the nets attached to rocks and trees along the way.
Just before sunset, our riverboat pulled into the village of Pak Beng and the purpose built Luang Say Lodge, perched on a steep slope overlooking a gorgeous, can­yon-like stretch of river. Passengers were greeted with a refreshing drink as lilac skies invited us to sit and watch the chameleon horizon serenely disappear. Mas­sage services in your room added to the relaxation upon request before sitting down to a demonstration of Laos Hill Tribe dance and music, choreographed so tastefully without infringing on its authenticity for tourists’ tastes – it was the most delightful entrée to an equally delecta­ble evening buffet.

Waking from a deep, soothing slumber under a cricket lullaby, the morning was infused with revisited thoughts of the waters’ assets and anticipation of our final destina­tion later that afternoon. An early departure meant the autumnal colours on the banks peaked through a light morning mist while fishermen avidly collected their catch from the nets attached to rocks and trees along the way. From the bottom of the river, jagged rocks extend to and above the surface, making navigation challenging. Our crew had done the journey many times before and conducted the voyage with ease and serenity, I was con­fident our captain knew every rock in the river.

After visiting a couple of hill tribe villages along the way, we arrived in Luang Prabang at 4pm. This is one of the most enigmatic and beautiful ancient cit­ies in Southeast Asia and to wander the quiet, timeless lanes today is akin to entering a living museum where the past sits comfortably with the present. It’s easy to while away the days in Luang Prabang; taking in the sights, rum­maging through the markets and exploring the temples in a land where life flows as slow and easy as the Mekong itself. (To discover more about cruising down the Mekong go to http://www.asian-oasis.com)

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

Meandering Down the Mekong

Gloomy sky after a heavy rainfall. The air is cold and the soil is sticky along the banks of the Pangi River in New La Union, Maitum, Sarangani Province, Philippines. The water slams against the boulders creating threatening splashes and quickening my heartbeat at the thought of careening down these rapids in an inflated inner tubing of a vehicle or salbabida. The contraption looks like a gigantic doughnut with flat rope webs converging in the middle of the hole.

Standing on high ground between two cottages and listening to the deafening current below, I contemplate the stunt I am going to attempt today. Being in a situation I have almost no control of will probably be the most outrageous thing I have ever done in my life. This is exactly why I decide to throw all caution to the wind because if I do not go water tubing now, I know I will regret it forever.

Behind me, a handful of residents mill about a sari-sari store and play billiards. I enter one of the cottages and sit down to partake in the edible fern salad, tinola or native chicken dish, dried fish, and durian laid out on the table. After lunch, I hurry to join the other vacationers back in the van and we speed off to where our guides are waiting.

The bumpy two-kilometer ride down a dirt road ends at an open area. I leave my cellphone and knapsack in the van and then follow the rest passing nipa huts and smiling residents already used to thrill-seekers like us. The narrow wet path has turned my feet soggy so I remove my slippers and continue walking barefoot towards the roaring river that gets louder with each step. We arrive at a sight better than I had been expecting: a river bordered by imposing cliffs overgrown with grass, vines, and trees. This is the Adventurer’s Point.

Waiting knee-deep in the river are our guides, each one holding a salbabida and discussing among themselves which one of us should go with which one of them. The bigger and stronger guides take my heavier companions. Because I am small, I get paired with a young man of about 17 years old. He hands me a bulky orange life vest and a red helmet, and inserts my slippers between the rubber ropes of his salbabida, beside his own slippers.

I step into the surprisingly cold river and am told to sit with my bottom firmly inside the hole and my legs hanging out. I should not lean forward but sit back and distribute my weight to steady the salbabida. I should not also push against the rocks because doing so might injure me.

Off I go towards Makbuluk Junction, anxiously covered in safety gears while my super-confident guide has not even a helmet on. He follows me from behind while holding my salbabida, and steers me along the river. Every time it seems as if I am going to capsize or crash, he pushes me over the rocks in the water and pulls me away from the boulders.

Each time we speed up, turn left or right, or drop down, I shriek, delighting in the twists along the way. The way down the river has become a bump car ride with water splashing all over me. I steady myself for the wet roller coaster ride as my tube rolls over mini waterfalls. I am now absolutely soaked and cannot stop shivering.

Up ahead is Baboy Pinga where a bamboo footbridge has been installed for friends to photograph the action below. I smile broadly for the camera despite tired arms and painful abs, the result of sitting in the same position. Our tubes pass under the bridge and are carried downstream to the next stop, Balite Drop, which is the second chance for friends to take our picture.

By now, the skin on my fingertips looks like the shriveled skin of raisins. With teeth chattering like crazy, I catch up with the rest at the last stop, Batong Piña, where a pineapple used to grow on top of a huge boulder. Our guides signal each other to group by the riverbank where we are given five minutes to stretch our legs and exchange small talk about who fell off their tubes and who suffered the most scrapes.

We then clamber unto our tubes again and let ourselves be carried by the current to the dam site where our journey finally ends. Exhausted, I drag myself to our cottage for a refreshing buko juice and maruyang kamote or fried sweet potato glazed with brown sugar. All these—lunch, merienda, the unforgettable thirty-minute water tubing adventure—only cost a reasonable 250 pesos per head.

With my head still spinning from the incredible experience, I lie down for a minute, hands clasped behind my head. I close my eyes and remember the feel of the ice-cold water around me, the awesome sight of the towering cliffs, and savor the rush and unpredictability of it all.

I cannot help but think that while this is vacation for me, my guide has probably gone down the river uncountable times. Judging from his face, it is work he enjoys tremendously. What started as a past time of a group of friends has now become a source of income—and an ingenious way to enjoy nature without taking anything away. Just pictures. Cool.

How to get to the water tubing site:
Take an air-conditioned van from Bulaong Terminal in General Santos
City to Maitum for P100. Then take a habal-habal ride to New La Union for 25 pesos.

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

Down the River on a Gigantic Doughnut