THE LOLA BOYS ABROAD !

I thought I should end the shaggy dog story – it only seems fair.

Loula is good, she is a strong girl with genuinely caring owners – though sadly, there  is a twist!

When we first encountered Clarence, her master, and his gorgeous family – we explained all – one of his first questions was, what colour was the man on the bike?

This seemed odd to me, but he went on to elucidate….

There are four main ethnic groups living side by side here in Malaysia.

The Malay, who seem to run things; the Chinese; the Indians; and the Orang Asli – the indigenous people, who, ironically, as the name suggests, were here first:  a  tribal group, much like the ‘Aborigines’, where many are struggling with drug and alcohol dependency.

I explained that the guy who was thrown from his bike was very brown – the blood that was pumping from his foot and his knee was was almost imperceptible. It was only when it spilled over me that the claret was obvious!

From this information, Clarence discerned that the bloke must be from the Orang Asli. He thought this a good thing, as he imagined he would just need to pay for the damage to the victim’s bike.

Apparently the other ethnic groups thought of Clarence  and his family as just ‘Chinese’ and would treat them accordingly – i.e. Come down on them like a ton of yellow bricks!

Clarence went to the hospital of his own volition and easily discovered the identity of the biker. It is a small place in The Cameron Highlands, he knew there would be recourse if the matter wasn’t settled, and his conscience wouldn’t allow him to leave things be, as many would in ‘The West’.

He went to the home of the young man  and offered recompense for the damage to the bike, which we knew to be only a broken wing mirror.

Sadly this was not enough.

The crafty guy, now limping, rather dramatically, on crutches, seized his moment and demanded a large payout – much more than Clarence and his clan could afford.

He is, after all, a farmer, for fucks’ sake!

When Clarence explained his position, the injured party and his bullish family said they would come to his home and kill the dog and the rest of his family  if no more cash was forthcoming.

Ironic really, as the unobservant, drunken idiot had almost done that in the first place.

Clarence came to our hotel room, most upset, asking if we could accompany him to the police station. And so we did. The detective was fairly useless and had no intention of listening to anything he, or we, had to say.

That is until I put on my best colonial accent, and intimated I had close friends at Scotland Yard.

Both the accent and the friendship were entirely disingenuous!

Still, it worked. The copper listened.

Clarence thinks we made some difference – perhaps he got off with paying a little less, and his family, and Loula, for now,  remain safe.

Still this seems a strange and unusual way to secure  justice, but it appears to be the way of the world here.

Money talks! And on this part of the globe, at a very high volume! Everybody can’t help but listen!

We have now moved to Kuala Lumpur, where cash speaks in an entirely different manner.

Shops, shops and nothing but shops. Armani, Gucci, Tiffany!

We feel mauled by malls! They must be the best in the world.

New York, eat your heart out.

Yet, the disparity with what we have just witnessed, is all too clear.

K.L. Ummm! Kinda Like!

But can’t help thinking money is a pain in the arse – or for poor Loula – a pain in the back! Rant over –  this is a great city – but we’re still barking mad!

Our lowest point in The Cameron Highlands came yesterday, when Andrew and I witnessed a terrible collision between a beautiful, gentle honey-coloured dog and a motorcyclist!

As with all accidents with which I have had the misfortune to be connected, everything occurred in slow motion.

We both watched as this gentle creature decided to cross the road at entirely the wrong moment and inevitably disaster struck.

The poor guy on the bike was as oblivious as they both came together in the most hideous of manners.

It is a sight and sound that I’m sure will never leave either of us.

We both froze for what seemed like an age as the  flip-flop clad rider flew over his machine and landed directly on his head ten feet further down the road.

The motorbike came to a halt immediately on impact with the animal’s rib cage .

After what seemed like an age, which in reality must have been just several seconds, we both ran to the scene.

Andrew took care of the dog and me, the man. How typical!

The poor animal was writhing on her back in agony and the man silent and shaken.

I pulled him to the grassy bank at the side of the road.  He was visibly shocked and bleeding profusely from his foot and leg.  I tried to recall my days with the scouts and manouvered him into a position I thought was helpful.  It was at this point, bloody and dazed, that he gestured manically towards his bike, which was still laying in the road.  I realised he was more worried about his wheels than himself, so I jumped up and pulled the cycle and his belongings onto the verge.!

The poor animal, by this point in deep trauma, had thrown herself into an open ditch come sewer on the side of the road and was writhing in agony.

The entire scene was like something from a ‘Bosch’ painting!

I screamed at Andrew, probably in a ridiculous homosexual manner,

‘Get the dog out!’

We were both, in all honesty, terrified!

I turned back to the bloke on the grass.  I told him to stay still and breathe, though I doubt he had a clue what I was saying.  I took some water from our ruck-sack and made him drink.  He did as he was told. I then told him I was going to pour the water over his wounds but he was too frightened to let me – it was then I saw  his Patella was protruding, quite obviously, through his skin, along with some yellow stuff, that not being qualified, I didn’t recognise.  I thought I might vomit, but I held on to it for once!

He, unfortunately, did not.  One look at the mess that was his leg and he went most odd.

I must say, it didn’t look pretty!

I then looked to Andrew, who had managed to extricate the poor dog from the ditch and had ruined his new trainers in the process.  I knew he’d be furious later.

The poor girl was obviously in agony.  Whining, screaming, panicking.’

‘Do something’ I yell.

‘What?’ Andrew shouts back.

We’re almost having a domestic.

By this time we have several young Malaysian men, standing as an audience.  None of them any help whatsoever.

‘A vet’ a shout to them – they stare back incredulously.

‘The police?’ I continue, ‘can we call the police?’

One of the men lays his hand on my back and shoots me a look as if to say there is nothing that can be done.

The pain of the animal and the futility of the situation then hits me hard.

‘A gun’ I ask irrationally ‘does anyone have a gun?’

They all shake their heads, but one of the guys who is quite unnerved by the whole scene, actually checks his pockets.

Had a weapon materialised I’m not even sure I would have known what to do.  The only shooting I have ever had any experience of, is that of gunning down rubber ducks at the fairground.

Thankfully no-one possessed a firearm!

After some time the situation improved slightly. Andrew had managed to calm the wounded animal and he was cradling her gently on the grass.

He held her with such love and trust that she melted – her pain seemed to dissipate and for a brief moment everything was strangely calm.

After helping the other injured party into a passing car I made my way over to them.

We sat silent for a while as the spectators left the scene. A tragic trio bound together by an accident from which none of us knew how to escape.  Andrew covered in sewage and me blood splattered!

I’ve heard tell of ‘the accidental tourist’ but here we were, the tourists accidental.  No phone; no transport; no clue:

Eventually, the dog, as animals often do, knew best. She stood on her front paws and dragged herself, excruciatingly, like a beached whale, to a nearby gate – we realised this must be her home.

‘Carry her’ I screamed to poor Andrew.

Andrew, carefully picked her up – I managed to force the gate open and we layed her inside the grounds of the quite grand looking house, on the lawn.

I shouted for help but the windows were shuttered and the property was obviously empty.

Another dog roped to the wall by the side entrance looked on, bemused, and made not a sound.

Something silent passed between us all. A knowing that this was her place to rest.  She did not want to move.

She began to pull herself further towards the house – her back legs were redundant – her spine was obviously severely damaged.  She then lay peaceful for some moments.

We waited with her – watched – she closed her eyes.

It was heartbreaking.

I remembered I had my pad and pen with me, so I scribbled a note explaining what had happened, and jammed it into the brass letterbox outside the gate.  I left our details in the vain hope that we might hear some news later in the evening.

She became very quiet.  We stayed with her for some time.

There was nothing more we could do.

We stood slowly, and without glancing back, we left.

After a wonderfully relaxing afternoon, we had been brought back to earth, or rather, Tarmac, with a resounding bump.  We were reminded that the unexpected is always lurking, menacingly, round the corner.  Or in this case – on a straight, empty road.

The compassion and bravery my beautiful Andrew had shown made me proud.

The fortitude and steadfastness we had both exhibited, surprised me. It may sound conceited but if there is anything to gain from this experience it can only be this.

It was a dreadful happening.

It is some hours later and we still know nothing.

However, we do know how we reacted and behaved and that gives us some comfort.

****************************************************************************

The following day, after very little sleep, aided by much vodka, we still felt shocked and somewhat weepy.

We thought the answer was to visit a strawberry farm as a distraction.

Several Strawberry products later, including a jelly drink, which we had clandestinely laced with alcohol, we started towards the town.  We were still debating whether or not to go via the house where the awful events of the previous afternoon had occurred.  We were both concerned we may see something even worse.  What if we had left a dead dog on a strangers lawn?

As we strolled up the hill, discussing the events of the day before, we heard a shout.

‘Hello. Hello’

A young Chinese man, slightly out of breath was calling after us.

Shit! I thought.  I bet Andrew had left our bag and passports at the Strawberry farm – again!

‘You, Paul Darnell?’ He asked.

I wondered if news of ‘The Lola Boys’ had finally reached South East Asia.

‘Yes’ I replied.

‘You saved my dog’ he beamed.

Andrew and I stood for a moment just staring at the poor guy.

‘She’s O.K.?’ We said, in unison.

‘Not O.K.’ He said, ‘her back legs bad – but she not dead – she stable.’

I grabbed the young man’s hand and Andrew patted him on the shoulder.  We were speechless.

‘Thankyou, Thankyou’ the guy said repeatedly.

Tears welled in all of our eyes, we wanted to hug him but thought he’d had enough of a shock finding his beloved pet crippled on the drive.

‘She was so lovely’ Andrew said shakily, ‘we felt terrible leaving her but we didn’t know what to do.’

‘It’s O.K.’ The owner replied, ‘nothing you could do – no vet here  anyway.’ ‘I must take her down to Ipoh tomorrow.’

The relief we felt must have been obvious to him, we were very close to bursting into tears.

Then, the most extraordinary thing.

‘What is her name?’ Andrew asked.

‘Loula’ came the reply.

We were dumbfounded!

Her name was ‘Loula’, she is a live dog!

‘We have a dog called Lola’ we jabbered at him over excitedly.

None of us could believe the coincidence – it was like fiction.

A novel!

We introduced ourselves, and Clarence, as we now knew him, told us he had to work but that he would come to our hotel later in the evening.

We bid farewell and carried on up to the beautiful little hotel to which we’d been heading, and celebrated furiously with overpriced gin and tonics.  Marvelling at the way synchronicity can flow your way in the most unlikely of manners.

We did cry a lot – it was, after all, miraculous.

As promised, Clarence met us a our hotel, and wanted to take us for a drink at the night market, where he and his wife were selling strawberries.  She too was so grateful, and with note perfect English expressed her gratitude for what we had done.

We sat behind their stall, drinking beer and filling them in on all the details.

He told us ‘Loula’ was drinking and eating a little.  We all considered this a good sign.

By the time we left we had learnt that Clarence was an organic farmer, and his charming ‘mrs’, Angie, sold strawberries during the day and was an English teacher at night.  They were Buddhist,  Malay, but of Chinese extraction and had a young daughter.

They were also caretakers of the large house to which ‘Loula’ had attempted to crawl.

By the time we left them we were more than merry, and it wasn’t just the alcohol.

They are such charming, generous people and full of warmth.  Clarence wants to show us around the highlands in his jeep – between work and the vet, of course.

So ‘Loula’ has a chance. She may need a skateboard if nothing can be done, but the family certainly don’t want to lose her.

The dog definitely may have a future and we have certainly made some new friends.

Sometimes it really is ‘A Dog’s Life’!

Malaysia has revealed herself to be a country fecund with Oriental unexpectedness.

The famous food in the scruffy ‘World Heritage City’ of Georgetown, for which we were longing, proved to be somewhat disappointing and sometimes inedible.
We found this irritating, as stuffing ourselves is a subject both close to my own and Andrew’s stomach!

The population, on the other hand, we have found utterly delicious.

Funny, polite, intelligent and witty.

By that, I probably mean, most of them have laughed at most of my jokes.

So with an empty belly and a very full ego, we set off into the interior for Ipoh.

The unfashionable ‘third city’ of this amiable country.

An untouristic haunt, whose name derives from a tree that grows here from which the native population once made their poisonous darts!

Lovely!

I had read in ‘The Lonely Planet’ that the town was ‘up and coming’.

When our more than amicable Indian cabbie Ravi, informed us, on route, that we were staying at the hotel opposite ‘The Hollywood’, the most infamous brothel in town, I realised what the guide book had meant!

It was most definitely ‘up and cumming’!

Ravi went on to say that he was very dubious the said ‘establishment’ had ever made any stars.

At my first glimpse of her through the taxi window, I seriously doubted that.

I’m quite certain this old tart of a building has made many!

Ipoh may be on the way up, but she certainly hasn’t arrived yet and I must say, she’s all the better for it!

Of course, we’ve only been here for five minutes but we feel terribly welcome.

We left our slightly ‘Soviet’ lodgings  early evening for a humid stroll – rats and the like as our companions – not all of them quadrupeds I might add!

And we were enthralled.

Tawdry and filthy, she may well be, but this city has great appeal, especially after the sterility of Penangs’ blowsy ‘Batu Ferrenghi ‘ with it’s unswimmable beaches.

Dirty, jellyfish-ridden and flooded with inexperienced, underaged jet skiers, threatening anyone who dares enter the water with the same fate as that of the unfortunate singer Kirsty Macall.

No.  This appears to be a city into which you can jump straight into the deep end and not worry too much about being stung!

And so we have.

After a wonderfully unconventional ‘Byriani’ containing mounds of extremely flavoursome gristle,  accompanied by a ‘beer’ neither of us would usually choose – Andrew lead us to a den of iniquity he’d already discovered,covertly,  within minutes of our arrival.

A gambling arcade!

He’s always adored a ‘slot’ and just couldn’t resist this salubrious establishment.

Armed only with our very expensive ‘7/11′ Special Brew and thirty quid each we headed into the dim, noisy dive.  The former, respectfully secreted inside two carrier bags to avoid any outrage – this is a Muslim country after all.

Three hours later and having had a marvellous time with a quite unsavoury, yet incredibly friendly bunch of fruit-machine addicts, we left.

Andrew in possession of the jackpot he had won. The very respectable sum of over one hundred and forty four thousand’Malay Ringitts’.

This has been a very fortunate occurrence because due to it being the Chinese New Year here, hotel rooms have tripled in price!

Even ours – the austere ‘Seemsoon’ is charging prices akin to The Ritz’ –  well, the one across the road!

But Andy loves it here already – so it doesn’t seem we’ll be vacating ‘The  Seemsoon’  anytime soon.

And as it’s my birth year coming up tomorrow.

‘  The Year Of The Sheep ‘

I just know I’ll have to follow!

Or will I?

After all,I’ve always  known it as ‘The Year Of The Ram’!

We’ll see what the new year brings……..

Let us not discuss the fourteen hour bus trip that brought us, bumpily, to these beautiful islands.

Let us also not talk about the decor on the vehicle – suffice to say, the soft furnishings  made ‘Big Fat Gypsy Weddings’ look practically slimline.

I thought, at our first stop, we were going to be asked to help assemble ‘The Waltzer’, luckily, it was just a swift stopover to collect something alive in a sack.

I didn’t ask!

Two more buses, well, ‘pick-ups’ if I’m being literal and,of course, the ubiquitous boat and we’re here.

‘Four Thousand Islands’ in the far south of Laos on the Cambodian border. Or Sim Phan Don to give it the correct nomenclature.

I Grew up in London close to the river. It was always present. In history, myth and legend, boat-trips to Westminster pier or up to Hampton Court Palace and of course the Oxford Cambridge Boat Race.

For whom, my family, were inexplicably Cambridge fanatics. Knitted mascots, pale blue rosettes – the lot.

All this light blue zeal, in spite of the fact none of us had yet been near a university, let alone Cambridge.

I think it was the colour nanny favoured and so we all took our lead from her.

After all, ‘Oxford Blue’ can be so funereal.

I’m rambling about good ‘Old Father Thames’ because he has never left me. Whenever I return to London he’s there to remind me of times past. Good, phenomenal and terrible, yet always familiar. I feel like a pearly salmon arriving once again at my riverine beginnings.

Well now that old familiar stretch of water has a rival for my affections.

A strange old bird. At times dirty, muddy and most uninviting. A viscose avenue of churning water.

Unpredictable currents that would have even ‘David Walliams’ yelling for the safety boat.

Yet, in other parts, green and soporific, the place where the famed ‘Naga’ serpents probably do hang out.

The Mekong.

And now, this beautiful snake of water has broadened into a fourteen kilometre stretch of calm blue. Punctuated by thousands of tiny islands emerging from the river – green, partially submerged, hippopotamus as far as the eye can see.

Old Buddha certainly did a good job when he whipped up this place.

Not even David Copperfield could have done better!

It’s quite heavenly.

The Mekong must be one of the worlds most majestic of waterways.

But the way of the water may be changing soon.

A huge dam is under construction just North of here.

According to ‘International Rivers’ about  2,100 people would have to be resettled, and more than 202,000 people living in the dam’s area would lose most of their land for farming and riverbank gardens. It would also mean less access to the forest and an end to gold-panning in the region.

Eureka!

Apparently this ‘great leap forward’ is also gonna fuck up the fishing too!

Because the Mekong is a unique and particularly complex ecosystem that hosts the most productive inland fisheries in the world, the change in fish biodiversity and abundance would greatly affect the tens of millions of people in the Mekong region who depend on the river for their food and livelihood.

According to the WWF way over two hundred fish species will be buggered!

Something fishy may be going on here perhaps.

I pulled on my ‘Tintin’ shorts and left ‘Captain Haddock’ audibly sleeping off his hangover in a nearby hammock – he’d imbibed a little too much of the local grog last night and got overexcited.

The culprit, a really cool guy called Adam, who has his own bar here.  After sharing a brief conversation Andrew is already in the forward stages of planning a new ‘Lola’s Showbar here in southern Laos. He is convinced  our ex-team,  Lorraine, Jan, and the rest of the supporting cast, would follow.

Sadly not his father though – he hates long haul. Damn!

Which brings me back to the dam.

Too much time on my hands, a happy shake, and an obsession with ‘Herge’ and I was well  on to the case.

Nowhere in the tropics has a dam on this scale ever been completely successful – they are effective at just two  things  – making electricity and decimating the fish stocks further downstream.

In Laos and Cambodia, fish is the staple diet. In the latter it makes up 80% of the national diet – and there is nothing with which to replace it.

So, more heat for the stove but nothing to go on it! Crazy!

I believe China are the major financier of this controversial project. An experiment that must seem all the more attractive to them as the profit will soon be flowing upstream and, undoubtedly, all of the chaos in the other direction.

So we leave Laos with a heavy heart and an equally heavy pair of rucksacks and cross the almost, non existent, border with Thailand.

I’m desperate for a wee and jog over to the nearby conveniences – filthy squats without a loo- roll or ‘bum-gun’ in sight – and the woman wants to charge me a quid for the privilege!

I, politely, decline and nip behind the nearest Palm to use my own.

No dam in the world could have held me back.

I hope and pray it’s the same for the lovely Lao people when they want to ‘spend a penny’ in the future.

We have been having a marvellous time in Vientiane, capital of Laos , a city full of diversity.

A place where the now meets the then with no apparent friction whatsoever.

Yesterday, I had a private cookery demonstration at the Lao international food fair. I was shown how to make ‘papaya salad’ from scratch, with ingredients I had never seen. Our great friend Stella will be thrilled – though I doubt we shall find the strange fruit the brilliant lady peeled and threw into the pot when back in Spain.

We  then had a herbal steam at the local baths – I say ‘baths’ but there were none,  just two ‘Tenko’ style huts, a metal pipe shooting out hot steam that could rival that of ‘Old Faithful’,  and a large bucket of twigs.

Andrew and I have always been partial to an old geyser!

It certainly wasn’t Baden Baden!

But we were both as clean as a vicar’ s whistle by the end.                (Terrible simile – do vicars even blow?)

This morning, despite Andrew’s protestations, we headed for the Lao National Museum. The national collection is housed in a beautiful crumbling French colonial house surrounded by blossoming Frangipani  trees.

We thought we must visit, for earlier on during our trip, when in Chiang Mai, we met a gregarious American named Keith. He regailed us with a marvellous tale concerning a Buddha he had purchased whilst in a Bangkok junk shop – for, literally, monkey nuts!

It was later discovered that the Buddha was ancient and of National importance to Laos.

On learning this,Keith donated the piece to the country. A truly generous act, from a great guy, whose own country was infamous for a very different donation to this beautiful place. Tens of millions of bombs that blanketed this land during the 60s and 70s  –  30% of which have yet to explode. One of the many reasons I have been telling Andrew to tread more  carefully here.

After all, if there’s an explosive situation to be had – we normally find it!

The largest section and sadly the most detailed of this pathetic museum, was not that of the wonderful ancient pots that litter the mysterious  ‘Plain Of Jars’ in the north of Laos.

An ‘Asian’ Stonehenge’ that remains both largely unexplored and unexplained. No. This was not the choice made by the curators.

No, the main space was given up to a dry, cold exhibition, expounding the ideals and the founding of ‘The Party’ . That being the ‘Lao People’s Revolutionary Party’.

A National Museum that showed so very little of the resiliance and brilliance of it’s people and instead sycophantically glorified it’s unelected political leaders.

Dull, dull, dull!

I should be careful, ‘The Party’ could be bugging our blog – you may never hear from me again.

Phish! The Party!

What a shame they don’t have a few – they might lighten up a bit!

The star of this ‘National Collection’ – This sub-IKEA  desk and chair, at which some comrade or other sat as he planned another glorious battle strategy.  I underhandly snapped this – as photographs were also forbidden by you-know-who!

Wooden!Boring! Nonsense!

I’m afraid the jars won for me – and they were slung out the back in the most unceremonious of manners. Still, it’s not the first time the stars of the show have been made to use the back door! As we bade ‘adieu’ to the museum the girls working in the shop looked unmoved to see us depart …… Still, we had to leave……..

After a boozy lunch,  at the end of which I contemplated adding Noel Coward’s,  ‘I Always Travel Alone’, to the act, Andrew and I decided to separate for the afternoon.

My decision to go down to the river was more than a breath of fresh ‘Mekong’ air.

At once the stale, cold propagandist cocktail of the museum was diluted.

It looked as though the party was over – the food fair anyway. Everyone returning to their usual routine. Yet, I couldn’t shake off the lack of humanity and sheer ‘red-washing’ of history that we had just witnessed.

Vientiane is so beautiful. Vibrant, motivated and yet still very chilled.  An old grand dame of a city who has seen much change and seen much of it off too.

But the future is here and it’s more yellow than orange.  The Chinese are moving in in droves – massive hotels, malls and what goes along with such infrastructure is on the horizon – literally!                                                                     It remains to be seen whether this old girl will retain her ‘Miss Haversham’ style charm, or succumb to the skyscrapers and highways of so many other great Asian capitals.

In a country that comes very close to the top of the list as the most corrupt in the world, there seems a danger that the very few in power will decide what is best for the majority without a voice.  They already control all of the country’s resources, which are many, and financial kickbacks here are more prevalent than at Fifa!

Sepp Blatter would adore it!

So with the new money attempting to outdo the old, just as in parts of Essex, it’s anyone’s guess as to who will come out victorious. Will this ‘old girl’ grow old with grace, or will the developers get it wrong and have her looking like Joan Rivers in a decades time?  

As I reached the banks of the stately Mekong I was given a clue.

Here were ‘the people’ – the real people- expressing themselves, without direction or constraint.  Gardening, illegally, using the high brick river defences of their ‘Mother River’ to make allotments.

The concrete banks teemed with horticulture – decorative, edible and of course, sellable, it was like a ‘Chelsea Flower Show Garden’ with none of the wank ( do excuse me).

I smiled at the sinking sun and went all ‘Hair’ (The musical)  – these banks were magical, even if just for this moment, and what their inhabitants emphasised, more than anything was ‘People Power.’ Or to be more exact – ‘Flower Power’!   ‘Eh maintenant’ – The party’s over. It’s time to get on the bus – for fourteen hours!  I, stupidly, allowed Andrew to sort the tickets again – we’re certainly not going first class!

Although we may be travelling separately on this leg of our adventure. I have met a younger, fitter companion, who also happens to have a little Lola of his own.

AND he agrees with absolutely everything I say!

Au revoir Luang Prabang!

Goodbye Luang Prabang, or as Andrew insists on calling it, ‘Prang Labang’!

I’m still clinging on to the possibility that he’s doing it for comic effect, but after a week here, the joke is starting to wear as thin as a stale ‘After Eight’ mint!

We shall miss this little ‘town’.

Some who visit loathe the mix of Mekong and marketing, but we’ve seen much, much  worse.

We’ve had our moments but most of them have been great ones.

The French influence has been ‘merveilluex’! Even if the French here, ‘under the influence’, have not!

There I go again, xenophobia kicking in like a ‘Rampant Rabbit’! (I’m told they’re powerful).

Don’t worry I would never name and shame.

Andrew tells me every time I blog rudely about a particular nation we lose ‘likes’ on our Facebook page. Oh well,

C’est la vie!

Yet, it continues to surprise me, that travel does not seem to broaden everyone’s mind – sometimes, only their ‘Tete’ – Excuse-moi – I mean, their head!

And so with a heavy heart and a big welcome to our ‘Twitter’ followers ( who have just joined us – as The BBC so often likes to say), we leave these enchanting ‘environs’ and head South!

We have an aeroplane to catch tomorrow that resembles one of those polystyrene gliders you assembled when you were a kid.

It appears to require only an elastic band and a steady hand to get us airborne!

It’s all very Tintin and Captain Haddock – although Andrew has no idea he’s playing the part of the latter.

Blistering Banarcles!

The said aircraft belongs to the airline, ‘Lao Air’ which has one of the poorest safety records in the world, and I believe we’re sitting as far away from the emergency exit as it’s possible to get!

Mind you, with only twelve passengers, that probably ain’t far!

At least they’ll be no need to remove one’s heels before hitting the emergency slide – there isn’t one!

None of this have I imparted  to Andrew.

I just told him the price of the flight, and he grunted his approval, mid-siesta. Always the best way when talking one’s partner into flying with Sleazyjet’ or a similar airline with a bad ‘altitude’!

Neither of us are ‘natural Flyers’. In fact, we’re normally like ‘Burton & Taylor’ after a long-haul once we reach tarmac.

Only not as glamorous, and far less sober!

But everything is in hand.

After visiting the equivalent of ‘Boots The Chemist’ (i.e. The extremely helpful little pharmacist up the alley behind our guesthouse, who has a look of Ruby Wax), I have just the thing for the journey.

I have been eagerly furnished with a selection of pills and embrocations straight out of ‘Wonderland’. Although, I doubt whether that gullible, dumb, up-herself Alice, would swallow any of ’em!

They’re certainly ‘curiouser’ than anything you’d find on the ‘high-street’.

However, I have been assured by ‘Madame Wax’, that they are just what is needed for our first flight with ‘Lao Air’.

I fear she speaks from experience!

By the time I’d left her shop, I felt as if I’d paid a visit to ‘Woolworth’s Pick ‘An Mix’!

I was in possession of a rainbow of remedies that would probably have shocked even Amy Winehouse!

Of course, we won’t take them, well not all of them, not all at once, that would be far too ‘Willy Wonka’.

But then, from what I’ve been told, and since read, we may be better off flying in his ‘Great Glass Elevator!’

Shhhhhh…….

Don’t tell Andrew.

When I administer ‘Madame Wax’s’ more than comprehensive prescription, he’ll think he got there via that particular mode of transport anyway.

Up, up, and away……..