'You Don't Need a Weatherman to Know Which Way the Wind Blows...'

"Light skin, dark skin, my Asian persuasion, I got them all that's why these girls out here hatin'...Cause I'm sexy."

The above words come from no brilliant philosopher, no celebrated poet. They are, instead, the heartfelt autobiographical confessions of professional sibling and nipple possessor Janet Jackson.

When looked at closely, the inner workings of this quotation reveal a number of pertinent observations as Jackson ponders the concepts of race, envy and even stumbling upon the reason so many millions of people suffer from bullying worldwide (because they're "sexy"). No, the most interesting and only loosely relevant part is the mention of that so befuddling a concept, an 'Asian persuasion'.

Now, that phrase could be linked to a litany of possible meanings and interpretations. Most commonly, of course, it refers to a sexual preference (of which there are no anecdotes attached, unless I were to diarise Matt Bundy's gap year). Moreover, a very simple explanation is that Asian people are, in the truest sense of the word, 'persuasive' - one would only need the briefest of glances at Brewin's shoes to know that. The manner in which I mean the phrase, however, is none of the aforementioned. It's simple. Asia has a magnetic lure, without lacking the indefinable charm of weakness. Frankly, it’s a warm, dirty potency that I could only realistically compare to that of Jaxx on a night where you only ever intended to go to the Prince Arthur.

And, what is more, it's over. We have left South East Asia's delicate, colourful and oft troubled shores for a Western environment again. Gone are the mountains of rice, tired eyes and difficult L pronunciations, to be replaced by flavourless lagers, fast food and proper traffic laws. An utter shame, but we attempted to make the most of those last oriental weeks; with the following being several things that happened, just with mass exaggeration, some entirely fabricated events and huge amounts of censorship. Enjoy.

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At the last count, some time in 1994, we were on our way out of Vietnam and heading to the little-known and often mis-pronounced country of Laos. Getting there entailed yet another bus ride, but this one was extra special. Now, a lot of people reading this will have a bus career based mostly around traveling for two or so hours popping from one large public school to another in the name of sport. Well this was thirty hours spent in Asian beds (4 foot coffins) with around 110 more people on board than was necessary, safe and legal. All aisles, nooks, crannies and so on were filled with bits of Asian people, interspersed with traumatized backpackers. What’s more, the on-board entertainment consisted of the same Vietnamese music video over and over and over and over, or for the more energetic types you could attempt to clamber to the toilet over all the sleeping people.

(I realize that I spend an awful lot of time writing about how atrocious these journeys are, but in Asia they happened so darn often and made such an impact that it's terribly difficult to avoid them; a weekly horror on the scale of Charlie Dimmock's inexplicably braless nipples throughout every single episode of 'Ground Force' ever made. How Tommy even knew where to look, I shall never know. )

Within the harrowing journey, having moseyed through the 'official' border crossing in Laos (pay a man 30 dollars), we halted our progress in the country's capital, Vientiane. The city fails in offering anything for a traveler to write about, other than its own emptiness, shortcomings and fountain. Yes, it had a nice fountain. But then so does Basingstoke.

Après ça (which means 'after that'), we ventured to the charming riverside town of Luang Prabang. Here, we did things like ride bicycles, explore markets and marvel at how lovely the Laotians are. Truly the most laidback people in the world, they possess an almost British sense of humour, and immediately latched on to the fact that James Brewin is easily wound up – not giving him a mattress to sleep on until he was tired, irritable and partially undressed. A fine prank.

They weren't all sadistic amateur comedians, though. In fact, the Laotians make the Cambodians seem like miserable, adolescent Smiths' fans when it comes to a sunny outlook. They are, frankly, absurdly happy. In London, for example, if one were to cycle in the street shouting ‘Good day!’ to passers by, they would probably be stabbed or sectioned within minutes. Do it in Laos though, even from a huge distance or from car to car, they’ll just smile and shout ‘Sabaii-Di’ back at you. Being disarmingly happy and pleased to see you, the only reason you would not receive an enthusiastic greeting from a Laotian would be if it was just too darn tiring; and that lethargic way is perhaps their most notable feature. The Laotian people take ‘relaxed’ to a frightening level. You may have noticed that Thailand have built a megacity, gained a massive tourism industry and like to fight each other; while Cambodia have had a thoroughly rocky ride in the last few years and Vietnam had a right old go at the Americans - but what of Laos? They've done nothing, because creating infrastructure, committing genocide and hiding in tunnels looking for John McCain seems like ever such an effort when you could simply have a glass of rice whisky and a joint.

After having dinner with a Northern girl (see we're totally, like, tolerant of other cultures now) in a glorious restaurant overlooking the Mekong, it was time to sign our lives away and head to Vang Vieng – the backpacker capital. The town is most associated with 'tubing', which is one daytime outdoor activity that will not be part of David Cameron's 'big society' - but should. It involves sitting in a rubber ring on a river, floating down that river for a day and drifting to and from each of the 12 bars littered on the shore – (where each will give a free shot of whisky) and using their huge rope swings. This makes a fine recipe for a good time, especially when the river has a brilliant mishmash of deep water and sharp rock. It’s exactly the sort of activity that would inject some much needed popularity into the Duke of Edinburgh award.

For those days not spent on the river, people expend their days lying in any of the countless lounge bars, which all have sofas instead of seats, and a big screen showing Family Guy, Friends, Scrubs or the Simpsons. Hours and hours can be lost there, and the service tended to be the slowest and most casual we had ever seen. After ordering a meal from the single waiter (the most perennially exhausted man in the world) in our bar of choice – he would nod, sit down, watch an episode, and then fall asleep on his way to notifying the chef. We cared very little, but it was the sort of behavior which would ignite my father to carve an italicized letter of complaint into a stiff piece of cardboard.

In terms of nightlife, each evening in Vang Vieng consists of moving between three different bucket bars on the riverside. It may seem like a banal existence, but remember the inspirational words of Asher Roth: “time’s not wasted when you’re getting wasted”. Now, I have spoken once before about the dangers of buckets – and they really do decide your night, for by the morning you will be firmly in one of these two camps - buckets are either the cat's pyjamas, or the beverage embodiment of Lucifer himself.

Both of our nights in town featured this method of drinking, and tended to begin innocently enough with casual drinking, conversation and gawping at Scandinavians. Then, the slow corrosion of time leads to a rapid erosion of memory and sense as the dancing commences, buckets get filled and refilled, fire limbo strikes up and before you know it you're doing shots whilst getting a 'massage' from the female twin of All Blacks prop Neemia Tialata. Tim's neck has never been the same since. In fact, all I will say of the first night is that a number of questionable decisions were made, but that amongst the five of us some diplomatic progress was made with the Scottish, French, indistinguishable nationalities and 'spotty people'. The second night, meanwhile, can be neatly summed up by the various places people woke up: in a red ants’ nest on a building site, on the hotel roof and in a hammock at one of the bars and naked on a bathroom floor.

Feeling it necessary to flee the town before we lost our souls, we all headed back to Vientiane prior to going our separate ways, but not before we could see the most impressive sight of the travels to date. It was, put simply, a manifestation of masculinity so profound that it blew Ankor Wat, all the vistas and most of the girls out of the water in terms of impressiveness.

Rolling down a Vientiane street with little to do but gaze out of the window, there before us was a goat with the largest testicles of any creature to ever walk this earth. I mean that literally, too, for we saw those of an elephant later in the week and they were pathetic in comparison. These… ‘things’ were at least a third the size of its body, and that is only a slight exaggeration. It looked like the hideous result of an experiment to place Clifford the Big Red Dog’s two veg on a fairly diminutive Asian goat; science can be sick sometimes.

But enough of that, for the three of us were heading back for a final week in Thailand. First up was dropping into Chiang Mai for a week of frivolity before Bangkok. Chiang Mai is the calm, cultural and indie city of Thailand. It is to the capital what Melbourne is to Sydney, what Wellington is to Auckland and what Winchfield is to Hartley Wintney: the understated, chic alternative.

We spent a number of days in Chiang Mai, flitting round the place on mopeds, haggling in the oversized night bazaar and being so, like, cultural. This entailed some trekking, bamboo rafting, white water rafting, elephant riding and eating McDonalds in a power cut. The guesthouse here was most bizarre (or was it bazaar? Eh? Eh? No.) , and run by a fairy godmother figure, but less in the sense of Cinderella and more of Don Corleone, for whatever we needed, she would know a bloke who did it cheaper than anyone else. The out-building we stayed in, though, was manned by a perpetually shirtless chap who spent his entire day either showering or singing at the top of his voice.

The highlight of Chiang Mai, quite easily, was its zoo – which was essentially a large collection of caged animals, like a zoo. The difference, however, is that humans are not in charge. No, instead there is an arrogantly liberated peacock who manages to get into every enclosure, around every corner and at the scene of all the crimes, whilst at all times maintaining a front of haughtiness. The avian Hercule Poirot.
There may be fifty ways to leave your lover, but there are only three ways to exit Chiang Mai, and we decided to take a train. This train was fairly unremarkable, other than stopping for 10 minute breaks every 6 minutes and an outrageously attractive hostess, who had decided to alter her Thai Trains uniform to include a micro skirt.

Scuttling in to Bangkok, we returned to the place where it all began: the Khao San Road. When we left the city at the start of March, there were simmering protests by former Prime Minister Thaksin Shinwatra’s followers – calling for an election. Five weeks later things had escalated quicker than a Lord Wandsworth 18th party (oh no he didn’t!), to the extent that the national monument was draped in Red, streets were controlled by rogue police and there were thousands upon thousands of colour-coded protesters camped throughout the main streets and shopping district, just yards from the Khao San. The Red Shirts, though, were entirely peaceful and just as lovely as all the Thais, as we spent the day meeting them and watching the protest. Their support, too, was enormous. Brewin and I went out that evening wearing protest headbands (because we entirely understood the situation and didn’t just think we looked fabulous) – an accessory which garnered us free shots, free entry, access to shut off streets and more handshakes than you could ever realistically want.

The days leading up to that weekend saw the troubles take a dramatic turn for the worst, as the government began firing on the protesters, using riot weapons and taking lives. It must be stressed that contrary to media reports, the army did fire the first bullet; governing with all the even-handed patience and understanding of a Lord Wandsworth management team (see that, SATIRE!). It strikes me that the situation in Bangkok - with the Red-Shirted protesters fighting the Yellow-Shirted pro-government supporters - is just the world’s largest traffic light party. All they need is to get the army in green shirts, have a drink in hand, pump up the bass and let what happens happen.

Our two nights in Bangkok were enhanced hugely by the presence of a clutch of friendly faces from the Home Counties, as we then had an excuse to see the ping-pong tournament once more, and have a wild night or two. The first went swimmingly, especially when I did a bit of swimming in the small hours. In short, towards the end of the night, after a number of bars, clubs, ‘shows’ and such – a man offered to take myself and Brewin to a club on the other side of town. This seemed a wonderful idea at the time, were it not for the club in question to be a backstreet brothel. Having given us a ride, drink, and time to chat to the selection of women, it quickly became apparent that neither of us had any intentions or money with which to support the establishment, so a ‘runner’ was necessary. This proved easy enough as both of us know how to run, and Thai people only have little legs. We were slowed down, however, by a wall in a car park that blocked our progress quite literally. Upon seeing this obstacle, I noticed what appeared to be a tunnel under the wall – and, deaf to the pleas of observation and common sense, promptly slide into it.

The tunnel was an open sewer.

In the much and rightly acclaimed ‘Shawshank Redemption’, Morgan Freeman mellifluously narrates that Andy Dufresne is the only man to “crawl through a river of shit and come out clean on the other side”. Morgan is entirely correct, for I crawled through a river of shit and came out the other side filthily covered in shit. Once out and having lost my t-shirt, debit card and dignity to the river – it was necessary to steal yet another tuk-tuk in order to get back to the hotel before the wretched evening came to a close. I can only really describe the experience as ‘character building’.

The Rolling Stones sang that ‘yesterday don’t matter, ‘cos it’s gone’ – but I definitely felt that it mattered in the morning, especially given that I had to launder those clothes, which an old lady willingly did for just a few baht. How vile.
After another heavy night, involving eating cockroaches and welcoming Matt Bundy’s newly 19 year old liver to the city, we popped onto a big bird bound for Sydney – fortunately just three days before violence hit the backpacker district.

And that, dear fellows, is Asia. The first chapter of the trip all done, dusted and then dirtied again. We saw just how horrible Bangkok is; covered the brilliant and heartbreaking Cambodia; the awesome, feral and multi-faceted Vietnam; the horizontally laid back Laos and the luminous Chiang Mai. We’ve eaten more rice than Sierra Leone, seen more temples than a retired head-masseuse, witnessed dogs being spit-roasted (something probably happening in hotel rooms across the area, too…) and quite a little bit more.

Myths about the area must be dispelled. There is, for example, very, very little crime aimed at backpackers. We met perhaps 3 or so people who have even heard of any. In fact quite to the contrary, a Cambodian tuk-tuk driver drove all the way back to our restaurant one night because Tim had left his wallet in the back, gladly returning what would have been perhaps a month’s wages. What’s more, they are not as good at kung-fu as Jackie Chan films would have you believe.

Asia is all about contrast and contradictions. One of the most amusing sights, for instance, was seeing Buddhist monks doing every day things. They live a life entirely devoted to God, spending most of their day meditating and shutting off all human desires – yet are still seen using ATMs, wearing hard hats and playing video games. To the same end, the diversity of shops is outrageous – like the florist who also sells knives, or the hotel receptionist who opened with ‘you want blow up cow?’.

In truth, nothing makes sense in the whole peninsula, and that’s wholly the way it should be. South East Asia is both vulgar and processional; grand and squalid; animal and noble.

But entirely brilliant.