The subterranean cities of Cambodia

Each year, over two million pairs of feet pass over Cambodia's famous Angkor temples, former capital of the Khmer Empire until its decline in the 14th and 15th centuries. Angkor is a place of mystery, much more is known about its years of activity than its reason for decline. But now a new, subterranean discovery has thrown an architectural spanner in the works, adding another layer of intrigue to an already cryptic place.

My Angkor guide, Lychee, was early, parked up outside my sprawling hostel.  It was still dark, but as we raced the dawn light through the outskirts of Siem Riep, Angkor's popularity as a tourist hotspot became clear by the sheer abundance of gargantuan luxury hotels, gaudy even from a distance.  At the ticket office, $20 was dutifully handed over for my day pass, a regrettably (albeit self-inflicted) short amount of time to explore this world wonder, caused in part by the relaxing time vortex of Kampot and an impending flight to Myanmar.

Lychee raced us in his tuk-tuk to Angkor Wat in time for sunrise. We joined others on the banks of the ponds, where people jostled for position, cameras and smartphones poised. Slowly, the sun appeared behind the largest religious monument in the world, obscured by clouds but nonetheless atmospheric, whereafter the crowds departed to begin their days of exploration.

My time in Cambodia coincided with the tail end of the rainy season, so inevitably as the sun rose so the clouds converged, bringing a deluge of rain that intermittently continued throughout the day. Rather than a hindrance, the rain seemed to bring the temples to life. At Ta Phrom, "the tree temple", emerald leaves were vivid against the grey stone, while the eyes of the 200 faces of Lokesvara at Bayon glistening knowingly, shielding their secrets. The vast, majestic, ancient temples are a sight that naturally encourages the eye upwards, but in doing so, many visitors do not realise what lurks beneath, just a short distance away.

Research published in the Journal of Architectural Science last year has found evidence of multiple cities between 900 and 1,400 years old beneath the forest floor, some of which rival the size of Cambodia’s capital, Phnom Penh. Using cutting-edge airborne laser scanning technology, archeologists believe these cities would have constituted the largest empire on earth at the time of its peak in the 12th century. Evidence of elaborate water systems has also been discovered, built hundreds of years before previous estimates of their existence.

The sheer scale of the discovery makes it one of the most important in its area of study in recent years. This aside, it reminds us of the layers of history of the earth we walk on, where others have tread, and where future feet may still walk. Like many others, I left Angkor on that wet September afternoon unaware of what could lie underneath mine. 

Singaporean blancmange

It's long past sundown in Singapore. The streets are bustling with Friday night crowds, illuminated by fluorescent mall lights. My dining companion sits opposite me, a look of delight on his face, the kind that only comes with the opportunity to introduce someone to a controlled substance they haven't experienced before.

He tells me he knows just the street, just the guy. We'll have to drive there though, as it's some way across town. We climb into the car and make our way through the traffic, which slowly thins out as we pull up at a small roadside stall, lit up with flickering lamps. A few low plastic tables are laid out. We are not alone and thus, clearly in the right place.

A few minutes discussion with the vendor, some minor negotiation, money is handed over and it arrives at the table. The translation, meaning 'spike' or 'thorn', is apt both visually and odorously.  Here, sitting on the table in front of us, is the infamous durian, King of Fruits.

Rewind to an hour earlier in the evening. We are discussing my few days experience of Singapore, and talk inevitably turns to food. Earlier that day I had noted with a chuckle to myself the presence of signs in the subway system insisting that customers should not consume durian on board. Then it occurred to me that I was yet to consume it myself. I had heard of it and of course smelt it since I had been in Southeast Asia, but was yet to try it.

The smell is something notoriously difficult to describe. The novelist Anthony Burgess likens durian to "eating sweet raspberry blancmange in the lavatory". The durian smell/taste dichotomy is much like that of aged blue cheese. You probably wouldn't want to wear a necklace made of it, or use it as perfume, but the taste is sublime, unctuous and sweet, a cross between avocado and almond ice cream.

Like a fine wine, choosing good durian is something of an art form, and, like a fine wine, durian can be an expensive luxury, with some Singaporeans willing to pay up to US$50 for just half a dozen fruits. At the more affordable end, I'm told by my King of Fruit guide to never buy pre-packed durian segments, which are wrapped tightly in plastic and left to sweat in a polystyrene state of limbo. Having later ignored this advice and bought a substandard durian against my better judgement, I can attest to this. Once it has dropped from the tree, the durian has just 3 to 4 days before it starts to overipen.  A common saying is that a durian has eyes and can see where it is falling, because allegedly the fruit never falls during daylight hours when people may be hurt by its heavily armoured shell and weight of up to 3 kilogrammes.

Back to the table. Since polishing off a small, gateway durian, another, larger one has appeared enthusiastically in its place. Our companion recoils as our second course is sliced open. She tells us that while durian is enduringly popular in her hometown Jakarta, she is one of the many people who cannot stand it. Indeed, durian is so divisive, it is banned from many hotels, taxis and public transport systems, including the aforementioned Singaporean subway.

Equally however, the durian is subject of much adoration, the centrepiece of statues (Kampot, Cambodia), the inspiration for architecture (Esplanade Building, Singapore) and suggested aphrodisiac ("when the durian falls the sarong comes up", a traditional Indonesian saying).

Whether you love it or hate it, it's reputation, and stench, proceeds it.

On noodle soups

The journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step. The journey of a thousand meals begins with a single dish. Mine was a bowl of thick, sweet, spicy laksa, eaten underneath a piece of tarpaulin slumping under the weight of the June monsoon rains, on a street in Kuala Lumpur.

I was excited but discombobulated,  poised and ready, and very aware that I was struggling to hold my chopsticks properly. A father and his teenage daughter smiled at me from across the small plastic table we were sharing, and eased my nerves as I ate tentatively, telling me all about the city I had just arrived in, what to do, where to go, and most importantly, what to eat.

Enduring travel memories are rarely the cinematic, Instagram filtered snapshots we tend to make them out to be. More often than not, they are sensory in nature. Many of mine are food based, shared and solitary moments of gratitude, mostly involving noodle based soups. Wherever I am in the world, I seem to gravitate towards noodle soups like a moth to a broth based flame. Burmese Mohinga, Vietnamese pho, Malaysian-Chinese lor and wonton mee. Oh, noodle soups of Southeast Asia, let me count the ways as I sit on a tiny plastic stool on a low table on the side of the road, chopsticks and spoon poised in anticipation of your spicy, life affirming goodness.

This experience is almost universal among travellers. The excitement at finding (or finding again) that tiny little stall where the food is fresh and fast. You may have to chase the vendor with their cart down the street, you may have to wait for what seems like an eternity in the midday heat, mouth salivating and forehead perspiring, but you know it's so worth it. You know this is where you want to be.

Roll on the next adventure, the next stall, the next dish.

Memories of Myanmar

Myanmar is the largest nation in mainland Southeast Asia, home to around 51 million people. The country is surrounded on three sides by densely forested mountains and plateaus, and around one third of Myanmar's total perimeter forms an uninterrupted coastline of over a thousand miles along the Bay of Bengal and the Andaman Sea.

I visited Myanmar in October last year and was immediately enchanted. Since returning home from my trip many people have asked about my favourite country. It's a question that is not easy to answer, as I loved each place I visited for completely different reasons, but Myanmar stands out in my memory as a country I will hold dear to my heart forever.

Mountains surrounding Hsipaw

There are many reasons for this. The landscape is beautiful and the people incredibly friendly. But it is perhaps a single evening that retains a hold over my many recollections from that month spent in Myanmar, taking place in a little village high in the mountains surrounding Hsipaw, a town in the Shan state in Eastern Myanmar. Many visit Hsipaw to undertake one of the many scenic, hillside treks, and we were no exception. We were around an hour into the walk, passing through some rice paddies on the outskirts of town when our friendly guide told us that there was going to be an annual festival in the village that night.

It was already a special day, as our trek that day coincided with my travel companion's one year travel anniversary. At sunset, we made our way up to the village temple. Already, a crowd of people from the surrounding villages had arrived ready for the festival. Monks prayed inside as people made offerings. Shortly afterwards, a drum beat began and the young people in the village began dancing in concentric circles, alternating between boys and girls. Some of the girls were in beautiful traditional clothes and danced with soft hand movements that mimicked the picking of tea, while the boys dancing was more vigorous, rhythmically kicking up their feet, their arms draped around one another.

Riding in the back of a pick up truck

Our guide encouraged us to join the women. We did our best to copy their grace and ease of movement. At intervals, the drumming ceased, the circles broke apart, and the boys rushed to stand in small groups in front of a girl they liked. The boys began singing traditional songs of love and romance, as the girls replied. No sooner had it stopped than the drumming began again, the circles reformed and the dancing resumed.

Our guide told us this was an annual matchmaking festival, a once a year chance for young people in the villages to meet and, just maybe, find the person they would marry. To be part of something like this, even for just an instant, is the reason we travel. It felt like a true honour to be there in that moment, to be present, alive and on the road.

That feeling was something of a theme during my time in Myanmar. Getting lost in the countryside and endless temples around Bagan, weaving our way through herds of cows and goats, climbing Mount Zwegabin in the searing afternoon heat to sleep overnight in a monastery, ascending higher and higher into the hills in the back of a small pick up truck, these are some of my favourite and most treasured memories of a trip that changed my life forever.

Waterfall, Hsipaw

A postcard from Hanoi

The midday sun beats down over Hanoi, a rare full appearance from its customary hiding place behind a thick pillow of urban smog. Sitting at its highest point, it bathes the lake below in a light that crowns the muddy water with a gentle shimmer.

Lying down in central Hanoi's Thống Nhất Park beneath an eclectic group of trees, leaves that hang languorously like snakes and coconut trees that reach towards a sky that has today honoured us with a shade of azure blue. Fishermen cast hopefully into the shallows of the lake, young lovers kiss tentatively beneath the shade. Pedalos drift across the water, undisturbed by the stillness of this warm March day.

This isn't the quintessential Hanoi scene, but the distant sound of traffic is an aural reminder of your place here in Vietnam's quirky, wonderful capital. A city of 7 million people, a thousand years of history, a university dating back to 1010, and the fastest growing GDP of any metropolis in the world. Known as 'a city of lakes', Hanoi's sometimes chaotic layout is juxtaposed by the presence of numerous parks, open spaces and swathes of verdant, ancient trees.

It's a city that oozes nonchalance, from its wide boulevards to its labyrinthine streets and claustrophobic alleyways. A feast for the senses, a place where a beer can cost less than 50 cents, but the cars parked outside can cost a lifetime more. Beautiful in its contradictions, sometimes reluctant to relinquish its secrets, but so rewarding when it does.

Sitting on the side of a busy street, motorbikes whizzing past, is a chance to escape the chaos, if only for a moment. The constant flow of glasses and plates of food, set to the soundtrack of friends catching up, backpackers trading travel stories and the cracking of sunflower seeds.

Hanoi is not just a city. It is truly a sensory experience. Stop by, pull up a stool. Enjoy.

Traditional tattoo methods in Southeast Asia

There was something about the rhythmic prod of the bamboo stick and the heat dissipating as the sun went down, that was peaceful, almost therapeutic. My first Thai bamboo tattoo was almost over. Thanks to the incredible craftsmanship and talent of the tattoo artist Kig, I was left with something I will treasure and travel with forever.

Getting a tattoo while on the backpacker circuit of Southeast Asia is something undertaken by many who pass through the region. I got my first ever tattoo in Cambodia and instantly fell in love with the experience. But while tattooing is understood to be a relatively new phenomenon in the west, it is an art form that has been practiced in Southeast Asia for hundreds, if not thousands, of years.

In the Philippines, tattooing has been an integral cultural practice for many centuries. Similar to the Thai bamboo tattoo proccess used today, the traditional Filipino method uses a sharp object such as a thorn or a piece of bone, metal or wood, attached to one end of a stick and dipped in wet charcoal. Traditionally a slow and painful method, sittings are usually short and a large tattoo can take months to complete. The tattoos are said to possess spiritual powers and magical qualities which give strength and protection, and to enhance women's beauty and fertility.

When the Spanish first arrived in the Visayan islands in 1521, they described the Filipino people they met as "painted people". With them, and the expansion of Christianity in the archipelago, traditional methods of tattooing began to die out. Nearly 500 years on, the practice is slowly being revived not just in the Philippines, but also by Filipino communities all around the world, such as the "Mark of the Four Waves Tribe" in Los Angeles, who have grown into a global network looking to revive Filipino heritage and traditional tattooing methods.

Traditional tattoo method in the Philippines

In Thailand, and to a lesser extent Cambodia, Laos and Myanmar, Yantra tattooing is still widely practiced. Consisting of sacred geometrical, animal and deity designs, the tattoos are often accompanied by Pali phrases (the language of earlier Buddhist literature). These offer power, protection, fortune and charisma, among other qualities. In Thailand, these sak yan tattoos are usually given by spiritual or religious leaders, traditionally Buddhist monks, using a khem sak, a metal rod sharpened to point. The process of getting one is intensely spiritual, accompanied by chanting and prayers, while the placement on the body is said to have great significance, the closer to the head (the centre of the soul), the greater the power.

In Borneo, among the Kayan people, tattooists are usually women, a hereditary honour passed down from mother to daughter, whereas it is more commonly a patriarchal role in other groups such as the Dayak and the Iban. As a young male member of the Iban tribe, you would traditionally first receive the Bungai Terung, an eggplant flower, to mark the Bejalai tradition (a journey of knowledge and wisdom), where an individual would leave their longhouse to experience the world. While nature is overall the main focus of Bornean tattoo designs, tattoos among the Iban people act almost like a diary on the body, a record of journeys and life events recorded on the skin.

Across Southeast Asia, and particularly in Thailand, the traditional "stick and poke" techniques used in all three countries remains popular, not just in the spiritual contexts outlined above, but also in more mainstream tattoo culture. It is believed that the this method is less traumatic to the skin and heals faster than the modern, mechanised tattoo gun. However, the skill involved in both methods is one of the intrinsically enjoyable aspects of getting a tattoo. As someone who is not blessed at creating art, for me, watching a tattoo artist create something of indelible beauty on your skin is almost as satisfying as walking away with the design itself.

Trekking in Sa Pa

4am on a sleeper bus somewhere in the hills of Vietnam's Lào Cai province. Resting your cheek against the glass you feel the air turning noticeably chillier as the bus climbs higher, ascending through the darkness to the famous Hoàng Liên Son mountain range.

Somewhere between wake and sleep, the bus grinds to a halt, the lights are abruptly switched on and we alight into the semi-darkness of Sa Pa Town. Bleary eyed, we search for hot coffee and warm our hands round the first bun ca (a barbequed pork and noodles dish) grill we see. As the sun slowly rises the mist unfurls around the mountains, and, after a warming bowl of noodle soup and much-needed second cup of coffee in the town market, we begin our ascent out of Sa Pa Town and into the hills.

By now the sun has emerged from behind the clouds and the mist has dissipated, revealing the famous, verdant landscape that attracts so many to this region of Northern Vietnam. Even in the height of winter, seven months away from September's rice harvest season, the hills and the rice paddies are visually enchanting. Our friendly guide, Ching, hands us small, apple-like fruits and chats to us about life in the mountains as we make the steep climb up to our first viewpoint. For the next couple of hours we walk through the hills. It's a quiet and peaceful morning, and after a couple of weeks in Hanoi it feels spiritually restorative to escape the chaos of the city.

At our highest point we gaze out over the valley towards Vietnam's highest mountain, Fan Si Pan, 3,143 meters above sea level. Prior to the 1990s, Sa Pa's economy was mainly based on small size agriculture. Today, it's estimated more than 100,000 people annually visit the region and it is fast emerging as one of Vietnam's top tourist draws. The Lào Cai province is home to around 24 ethnic groups, including the Hmong, Tay and Dao, each with their own language, culture and traditions. As we wander through villages, Ching shows us the plant used to make the natural indigo dye for the beautiful, handmade hemp and cotton clothes worn by the ethnic groups.

As the sun sets in the mountains, we gather round the table at the homestay to eat dinner and commence that night's consumption of rice wine, known colloquially in English as "happy water", a popular, homemade spirit consumed across Vietnam. In between the belly warming shots, the family tell us stories about growing up in the mountains.

For the next two days, we trek through rice paddies and villages, making our way through the awe-inspiring landscape. After a final morning walking, we opt to take a motorbike up the hill from the valley back to Sa Pa Town, winding our way back for a final mountain view coffee. As we sit there, the transient, passing mist clears a little once again to reveal Sa Pa's famous peaks lurking through the fog.

A new adventure

Shweinhmyaw Pagoda, Hpa Ann, Myanmar

In June 2016, I watched London's iconic skyline fade beneath the clouds on a plane bound for Kuala Lumpur. After seven years in London, I felt it was time for a new adventure. Twenty hours and four blast chilled meals later, the plane descended into the clouds and over another urban skyline.

The first few days were sedative and restless all at once, a blur of humidity, highways and thunderstorms watched from hotel balconies. Kuala Lumpur is one of the fastest growing metropolises in Southeast Asia, a maze of skyscrapers and a veritable banquet room of Asian cuisine, a city where getting lost is an inevitable part of its discovery.

Four days later, I flew to the Philippines, where I was lucky enough to be joined by some travel companions who had flown in from London and Australia. With over 7,000 islands to choose from, we were not short of options, but Guimaras Island, world famous for its nectarous mangos, proved to be a good place to start.

Cameron Highlands, Malaysia

Most of the days in the Philippines were spent in or around the sea, snorkelling with majestic turtles in Apo Island or exploring the great karsts and lagoons of the Bacuit archipelago, snorkelling beside clouds of tropical fish and underwater cliffs of coral.

In Malaysia, days passed wandering the streets of Melaka, discovering hidden Buddhist libraries, seeking out food courts and stalls in Georgetown, Penang, eating endless roti canai. In Pulau Kapas, time glided by, the gentle curling waves a quiet metronome lapping the shore.

Durian stall, Singapore

After a few days in Singapore, I landed in the organised chaos of Hanoi, and begun an adventure in a country I knew from the outset would steal my heart, but there was something about the north in particular. Perhaps it was the verdant rolling hills of Sapa, the thrill of winding round the rugged mountain roads of Ha Giang on the back of a motorbike, or the joy of exploring the labyrinthian streets of Hanoi. Whatever it was, my melancholy at leaving was somewhat appeased by a sense that it wouldn't be the last time I was there (spoiler alert, it wasn't).

Crossing the border into Cambodia, onto a new adventure, and to meet a much missed travel kindred spirit. Days passed lazily in sleepy Kampot, before heading north to gaze up at the iconic Angkor temple complex through a curtain of tropical September downpours.

Lan Ha Bay, Vietnam

Passing briefly through Thailand's chaotic capital, we made our way to Myanmar. For three wonderful weeks we hiked mountains, slept overnight in monasteries, took part in a traditional matchmaking dance festival, crossed the highest bridge in Myanmar, and fell deeply in love with this magical, unique country.

Monasteries and mountains aside, my time at Chill Out House on the beautiful Thai island of Koh Lanta will probably be my most treasured memory of my time away. The energy of this little treehouse tucked away behind Long Beach was like nothing I've ever experienced, which may explain why an overwhelmingly significant proportion of guests stay much longer than anticipated. Guests turn into staff, days turn into weeks, casual chats on a swing at the bar turn into lifelong friendships. I am coming away from this little slice of paradise with a heavy heart, but also a refreshed outlook on life, love and travel, and an immense gratitude that I was able to call this place home, even for a short while.

Travel is, by it's very nature, transformative to some extent. Time becomes truly fluid. Days pass languorously, weeks fold into one another, while a month passes in what feels retrospectively like a blink of an eye. Half a year feels simultaneously like a minute and a millennium.

Six months, seven countries, two new tattoos later, the adventure continues.

TBC.