Q: Where Are The Andes?

Lima to Cusco

A: On the end of your wristees! Always liked that joke.

Anyway, a long time ago, in a galaxy far far away, I received a letter from a novel sounding man called Tom Champagne. On the envelope it said,

"Congratulations! Inside is a cheque payable to you for one million pounds."

Sure enough, inside was a mock-up of what a cheque for one million pounds payable to me would look like. Without even lifting a finger, I had somehow made it through to the final stages of a Readers Digest prize draw and if I just returned my lucky draw numbers I would be in the final, final stages and that much closer to the magical, mystical one million pounds. I was overwhelmed at my good fortune!

Tom was so convincing in his prose that for the next six months or so I continued to return different sets of lucky draw numbers in the sure and unwavering certainty that the cheque would appear through my letter box any day. Along the way I received a number of free gifts as a thank you for all the hard effort I was putting into this process. I also had to sign up for some "no obligation" book purchases. No problem, I thought, because with my million pounds I'd soon be able to buy a library in which to store the rapidly growing pile of literature.

Imagine my disappointment then when one day the letters with the lucky draw numbers stopped appearing but the packages with the books did not. Tom had rejected me as quickly as I seem to have digressed from insightful travelogues to incoherent rambling. (Honest, there's a point to this story any second now.) The days dragged on (a bit like this story) but Tom would not return my pleading letters or phone calls. I was heartbroken. Meanwhile, the stacks of books in the living room towered over me menacingly.

One day I decided to pick up one of the books to see what it was I was ordering. The title was something like "Unexplained Mysteries Of The World" and on the front cover was a picture of an ancient city sitting high in the mountains. It was Machu Picchu in the Peruvian Andes and I was captivated by its striking aura not least because I was going through an Indiana Jones phase at the time. I already had the leather hat and whip but that's another story. Sitting there among the heaps of books as high as the Andes themselves I said to myself, "One day..." Well that day was yesterday and it was absolutely awesome! And I don't EVER use that term lightly.

Twenty six and a half hours after leaving Auckland in New Zealand, my plane touched down in Lima, capital city of Peru. I only spend two full days in Lima and although it's warm and fairly relaxing during the weekend daylight hours, there's something unsettling about the place. I'm not sure if it's the armed police everywhere or the burly security guards fronting every sizeable store. Perhaps it's the high steel gates in front of most residences but it doesn't encourage me to venture out into the streets much after dark.

Even my efforts to ingratiate myself with the local population through demonstration of my fluent Spanish seem to fall flat.

Neil: "Donde esta Starbucks por pavor?"

Local: "No Starbucks aqui, you greengo peeeg!" (He was more polite than that, but only just.)

I stay in the more modern, westernised suburb of Miraflores and it's a lovely place to wander around or just linger in the street side cafes. The parks are full of artists selling their work and young bands of musicians tour the cafes playing their traditional guitars, drums and pan pipes. It's pleasant to listen to but honestly, there are only so many times you can hear "El Condor Pasa", the melody from the Andes popularised by Simon & Garfunkel. One more rendition and I know who's going to be the hammer and who's going be the nail!!

Leaving Lima, I take the short, one-hour flight over the Andes to Cusco. It's a bit hairy flying through the clouds with the mountains on either side but I get there in one piece. And then feel like I'm crumbling into different pieces as the effects of the altitude kick in immediately. I haven't been this high since... well, let's not go there just now.

Cusco sits 3,400 metres (about 2.1 miles) above sea level and the head rush feelings are not unlike those I experienced on the bungy jump or underwater on the scuba dive. At the hostel I'm given the local coco tea to help combat the symptoms but climbing the stairs to my first floor room is a real effort, struggling for breath and feeling dizzy.

Walking around the town the next day, I have a dull headache similar to a mild hangover. Recklessly, I decide that the best cure for this is to get an actual, stinking hangover so I indulge in a night of heavy drinking and card playing in an Irish Bar with some youthful travellers from the hostel and then repeat the event two nights later.

I really feel my age though when none of the youngsters recognise the 80s soundtrack that's playing in the bar. "Duran who?"

One of the girls is wearing a pair of those woolly ankle sock things (it gets cold here at night) and I helpfully and enthusiastically observe,

"Hey, you look just like Leroy from the Kids from Fame!"

She looks at me blankly as if my unquestionable Alzheimers has just taken a turn for the worse. At least they were polite enough not to comment on my pipe and slippers.

It's the rainy season here in the Andes and it has rained every day I've been here but it can't spoil the bewitching character of Cusco. It's quite a large town but feels small with much of the activity centred around the central plaza. Heavily influenced in style by the long term occupation of the Spanish, there are colonial churches and museums everywhere and markets seemingly on every corner. The cobbled backstreets often reveal cool, airy courtyards filled with flowers and fountains just down an alley or two.

Most of the photographs I've taken seem to be filled with this Catholic imagery, an exhibition of which will take place at Uncle David's in Dollar when I return! Ho, ho, ho!

Every single vehicle in this town seems to be a taxi of some sort and the bigger ones all have Starsky & Hutch type stripes down the side. Very cool! The air is constantly filled with the noise of horns abusing other road users or trying to get the attention of tourists.

On the streets, my most used phrase quickly becomes "No, gracias" as a constant barrage of locals young and old try and sell their wares. Postcards, chocolate, toilet roll(!), tin openers, blankets, jumpers, the list is endless. The kids in particular work the same charm offensive as those I met in Asia, asking me where I come from and then reeling off the capital city and population count of Scotland. Apparently though it's grown to some 500 million since I left. Where on earth do you all live?

To visit Machu Picchu, I really wanted to undertake the four-day, Inca Trail hike, a walk of some 32 kilometres rising to over 4,000 metres at it's highest point. Unfortunately most of the trail is closed during February for cleaning and repairs so I sign up for a two-day trip instead.

To get in to the mood, I first of all undertake the one-day tour of the Sacred Valley which visits various Inca sites in the region and offers spectacular scenery and lunatic driving along the way. I also visit the local ruins around Cusco including Sacsayhuaman (pronounced 'sexywoman') which sits proudly at the top of a hill overlooking the town. Mounting her is an exhausting exercise.

My two-day trip to Machu Picchu starts early with an alarm call at 05.00 and a train departure at 06.15. In our party is a girl from Ireland, a geezer from Norf Laandon and a young Japanese American family with two twin boys aged 6. They're all mischief and Gameboys on the three and a half hour ride to our dropping off point.

It's a warm day and Victor, our guide, explains that we're going to be undertaking a gradual climb for the first few hours until we join the main Inca Trail for the last trek down towards Machu Picchu. If his definition of 'gradual' means lung bursting ascent, then he's spot on! I've never had the greatest knees in the world (disagree at your leisure, girls) and they're soon creaking with the big steps up and down, but mainly up. All of us in the party find any excuse to stop, drink and breathe... all, that is, except the twins who are running and sprinting up the trail with unlimited energy. This would be annoying as hell if they weren't so cute.

The views are tremendous at all times but some of the sheer drops off the side of the mountain have my already sore knees growing even weaker. After lunch the trail flattens out and we're sheltered from the heat of the day by some lush rainforest foliage. I really do feel like Indiana Jones at the beginning of 'Raiders of The Lost Ark'.

Turning a corner, we come across some steep stone steps carved into the mountainside. There's a walled building of some sort at the top and as I struggle upwards the excitement grows within. At the top, however, there's only the remnants of a guard house or some type of watch tower and more of the trail beyond. A little further on, more steep step upwards and another building at the top. I'm all ready to be disappointed again but this turns out to be Inti Punku, the Sun Gate, with the most astounding view down across the valley to Machu Picchu saddled serenely between two sharply peaked mountains. It is the definition of breathtaking as what little breath I have left is sucked out in an astonished gasp. It's four in the afternoon and the sun is drowning the entire scene with a beautiful light. We all drink it in silently for what seems like an age.

By the time we get to the site, most of the day trippers have gone and the whole place is very quiet and still. We only stop at the highest point to take a few photos because we're coming back the next morning to explore it at length. Again, we're lucky to arrive early before the hordes turn up and get a very informative tour from Victor. Machu Picchu is only some 500 years old so it's not the age that makes it so special. The unparalleled setting and the fact that it was only 'discovered' less than a hundred years ago gives it its magic quality. Machu Picchu was once a legend, a fabled place and it's exhilarating to note that there are still legends about other cities and places, perhaps yet to be discovered.

I would unreservedly recommend that you visit this place if you get the chance. Yes, it's growing more and more popular but seeing it for the first time as I climbed over the mountain is a sight that I will never forget for as long as I live. Unless, of course, the Alzheimers continues diminish my already faltering faculties. Now where was I? Oh yeah... "Can I just play outside for another ten minutes Mum?"

And finally, a public information announcement. If you've inadvertently deleted any of the e-mails I've sent and are now kicking yourself at this bewildering lack of judgement, fear not. As well as being published in the Daily Record, I've just signed a staggering two figure deal with multi media colossus Tacky Worldwide Inc. to have the original e-mails posted on their fantastic website in all their original and unedited glory.

This organisation is a bastion of independent thinking, constantly championing the underdog and vigorously resisting the takeover efforts of the Murdochs of this world. Their website is fresh, original and always entertaining so tell all your friends and log on today to be transported to another dimension. It's a different kind of experience altogether.

http://www.tackyprod.pwp.blueyonder.co.uk (2007 Update: The emails have gone but the site is still brilliant.)

Well, time to saddle up and move on because the posse are on my tail so me and Sundance are heading south for the highest lake in the world and possibly Bolivia.

Till then amigos.

Love, Neil x

Tin Cup

Wellington to Auckland

A couple of days after crossing the Cook Straits by ferry and arriving in Wellington, New Zealand's capital, I'm at a bit of a loss. I've got no rental car, no travelling companion and no idea what I want to do next. And I've got two weeks to get from Wellington to Auckland, roughly the same distance as London to Glasgow.

Time then to fall back on the staple ingredients of the backpacker's life. My backpack(!), an open bus ticket, a map, a big pin to stick in the map, a blindfold to wear while I'm sticking the big pin in the map and a couple of band aids to patch up my bloody fingers after all the pin-sticking! Here's what happened next...

Wellington
A relatively small capital city and during all but one of my five days there, it gets lashed and battered by violent storms. Luckily, it has one of the best museums you could find, Te Papa Tongarewa or Museum of New Zealand. Apart from all the cultural stuff (and The Lord Of The Rings merchandise store) it has some virtual, simulator rides to take you through New Zealand's past and future.

Wellington was the centre of operations during the filming of the LOTR trilogy but disappointingly, there's not a lot of evidence around to underline this fact. You can't visit the film studios and the larger fortress and city sets have all been dismantled. I do get to see "The Return Of The King" though in the beautifully restored Embassy Cinema, the venue for the world premiere back in December.

Just before leaving Wellington however, my world is rocked to the core after reading a headline that says that J-Lo has split up from Ben!!! How the hell did that happen? They just seemed so, you know, so solid, so together. I for one, didn't see that coming - fair took the wind out of my sails. Please, somebody, say it ain't so?

Turangi
It's a four and a half hour bus trip from Wellington to Turangi, "Trout Fishing capital of the world" and on the way, I pass through Taihape, "Gum Boot capital of the world". Thankfully, I pass through quickly.

Travelling by bus around New Zealand is markedly different from similar journeys in Australia or America or the UK for that matter. There's no real motorways to speak of; very few straight roads at all actually and it turns out to be a rather uncomfortable mode of transport. The drivers cruise way too fast round some of the mountain bends but more alarming than that is the way they dress.

The light blue, short-sleeved shirt with matching shoulder epaulets isn't too bad I suppose (not clubbing gear obviously) but the navy blue shorts are WAY too short in every manner possible. A couple of sizes too small around the waist certainly but also riding too high up the thighs like every footballer you can think of from the 80s. I'm not sure I should really be dwelling on this subject matter as much as I am but it doesn't stop there. Add in some long woolly socks, usually white, and some shiny black shoes and you have the whole eclectic ensemble. I'm dying to ask if they have a spare pair of lederhosen in the back of the bus for special occasions but don't have the nerve.

Anyway, I've come to Turnagi because I've read about something called the Tongariro Crossing, advertised as the finest one-day tramp (hike) in New Zealand. For ten miles, it climbs up between two active volcanoes, traversing a barren landscape full of lava flows, craters and emerald lakes.

I sign up as soon as I arrive in town and wake early the next morning in anticipation of a memorable day. When I step outside, the summertime's in bloom but ninety minutes later at the foot of the volcanoes it's a very different story. For one thing, the cloud and mist have swallowed the volcanoes and the wind is howling at a dangerous rate of knots.

Looking around, only a few of the trampers seem up for the challenge. They're the ones with the proper hiking boots, goggles, woolly hats, ski poles(!) and teams of huskies. Okay, so there're no dogs but they do look like they could survive in the wilderness for months on end. In stark contrast, my flimsy rain poncho and floppy golf hat don't really cut it. Plus I've left my homemade sandwiches back at the hostel.

It's an easy decision then to get back on the bus and go visit the little golf course I noticed back in Turangi. There, it's sunny and warm and it ends up just being my floppy hat and me on a deserted course - I did have other clothes on as well. Or did I?

Napier
A three-hour journey from Turangi brings me to Napier on the east coast, "art deco capital of the world". This seems an unlikely claim but it really is a pretty town. Completely demolished in two and a half minutes by an earthquake in 1931, it was rebuilt in the dominant style of the times and still retains a lot of charm. (God, I'm sounding more like Judith Chalmers every day!) I half expect to see Gatsby driving along in a big car with white wall tyres and the weather's so warm when I'm there that I stay longer than I intended. Don't do much except drink the local wine, sit in the sun and then drink more of the local wine.

Gisborne
Four hours up the east coast from Napier, the sign at the edge of town says "Gisborne - Chardonnay Capital" but doesn't offer any further geographical clarification. I reckon that they're just too scared of the French to add "...of the world" on to it. New Zealand, remember, is the place where French agents sank Greenpeace's Rainbow Warrior back in the 80s. More recently, the French conducted nuclear tests in the South Pacific which unleashed Godzilla on to an unsuspecting New York public. "Another glash of chardonnay over here pleesh!"

More impressive about Gisborne though is their claim to be the first city in the world to see the light of any new day. They certainly have the perfect setting to witness this, a wonderful beach, long and wide like the West Sands in St. Andrews. I thought about setting my alarm early to behold this natural wonder but then forced myself to think about something else. Sharks, for example.

For around seventy pounds, you can be taken ten miles offshore and then have the pleasure of being partially lowered into the sea in a metal cage while the local shark population circle menacingly around you. This almost seems like an expedition worth undertaking until I discover that for around twenty pounds, I can play a nationally acclaimed, links style golf course, all equipment and a free drink included. Hmmnn? Sharks? Golf? Sharks? Golf? Tough one that. Yet again, it's a scorching day when I roll in the last putt for a round of 63... all right, 83!

Rotorua
On the four and a half hour bus ride to Rotorua I get quite excited when I read in my guidebook, "everywhere you look, there're signs of vulcanism".

"Ooo, maybe there'll be a Star Trek convention there," I say in a voice a little louder than I intended.

All around me on the bus, the other passengers begin to shift uncomfortably in their seats and pretend they're looking out the window.

Rotorua is "sulphur capital of the world", in other words, "stinking, rotten-egg smelling capital of the world". It sits slap bang on the Pacific Ring of Fire (no curry jokes please) and the "signs" referred to in the guidebook pertain to boiling mud pools, hot springs and geysers.

It's very touristy with Maori music and dance shows every night and a multitude of places offering spa treatments but it has some of the best restaurants I've seen for a while. And it has two golf courses. I choose the cheaper, public one for a couple of rounds, managing to avoid the regular thunderstorms on both occasions. (Do you think this photo looks like J-Lo?)

Hamilton
I don't play golf in Hamilton but I spend an extra day here, primarily so I can watch the Superbowl at a reasonable, lunchtime hour and so I can visit the nearby small town of Te Awamutu. A detached, unruffled farming community, Te Awamutu holds a greater significance for me as the birthplace of two of my musical heroes, brothers Neil & Tim Finn. They don't live there any more of course, but the local museum has an interesting exhibition of their life and times through bands such as Split Enz and Crowded House and their solo work.

Auckland
And now I'm in Auckland, the biggest and busiest city in New Zealand. They've got galleries, museums, markets, a tall sky tower, ferry rides and beaches, none of which I've visited. I've been more content with the bars, restaurants and coffee shops although I travelled a bit out of town yesterday to visit One Tree Hill, a place made famous in a U2 song. Nice view, shame they cut down the tree.

The other night I went to see hot-rockin', blues-singin', guitar-pickin', ass-kickin', finger-lickin, lip-smackin', thrist-quenchin' Bonnie Raitt in concert - me and a couple of thousand other middle age rockers. I was one of the youngest there! I'd never seen her before; don't have any of her albums (why is that?) but her performance was compelling. She has a voice that just soars. And Neil & Tim Finn were in the audience! Would have asked them for their autographs but they haven't dropped the restraining order yet.

So, all in all, it's been a fairly leisurely tour around the North Island, grooming my golf swing for the challenges to come later in the year. I haven't had much motivation to do anything more energetic over the last couple of weeks, no real strength of will to push the envelope. That may be down to the fact that I tried the "extreme" activities on the South Island or it may be because I got drunk last week and shaved off all my hair. Who knows?

Anyway, later this afternoon, I get on a plane for a twelve-hour journey to Los Angeles. I'm there for all of five hours before I get on another plane for an eight-hour flight to Lima in Peru. And I'll arrive there on the same day that I left New Zealand. Mental!

Till then.

Love, Neil x

Dude! Where's My Balls? Volume 2

Queenstown to Wellington

Having struggled to find the balls to do a bungy jump, I get to know the feeling of liberation and relief when I discover that they were attached to me all the time. Curious then that I do my best to batter, bruise and sever them for good on a gruelling jetboat ride and a horse called Wilson.

If you only do one thing in Queenstown then you really aren't getting out enough. Seriously, the one thing that everyone of all ages and sizes seems to sign up for in Queenstown is jetboating. There's an endless queue at the dockside for the hourly jaunts along the Kawarau and Shotover Rivers and the happy, chirpy people in the promotional literature look like they're having non-stop fun in the sun. As I pull on my heavy, wax, rain jacket, the thunder is rumbling overhead and I'm not smiling.

The next hour is a jarring roller coaster ride. Imagine though that the roller coaster cars actually leave the track for a few seconds and then come crashing back down without any consideration for the delicate parts of the passengers, especially the male passengers, none of whom are strapped in incidentally.

I'm sitting up front beside the driver, the best seat to occupy I'm told. It's only when we get going that I realise why everyone else is cowering in the back and why the driver himself is wearing something akin to an industrial welder's mask. The spray and rain pierce my eyes like daggers and the frequent 360 degree turns - the 'extreme' element of jetboating - have my head and stomach going in opposite directions. The Japanese girls in the back row love it though and scream for more. Crazy kamikaze chicks! By the end, I'm longing to be back in the warm, comforting bosom of the bungy community.

Now a word of warning. The next few paragraphs talk a bit about various film locations sites used for the Lord Of The Rings (LOTR) trilogy and make reference to miscellaneous Tolkien trivia. If you're not a big fan, I won't be offended if you scroll down past this point. Join us again at the paragraph that begins "After the arrest..." Just kidding. Or am I?

Queenstown is situated about half way along the right hand side of a large, s-shaped lake called Lake Wakatipu It's not difficult to see why the LOTR crew spent a considerable amount of time here shooting footage for all three films. Everywhere you look, the scenery is breathtaking and you only have to travel a few miles in any direction before stumbling across a multitude of film locations.

Directly opposite the town the skyline is dominated by a range of sharp peaked, craggy mountains called The Remarkables, surely the most aptly named mountain range in the world. This backdrop was used for various scenes including long shots of Mordor (where the bad guys live), the people of Rohan (some of the good guys) fleeing to Helm's Deep and Dimrill Dale, the bit in the first movie after Gandalf The Grey (good wizard) dies. Hope that didn't spoil the plot for anyone?

Nearby, in a lovely little gold mining town called Arrowtown, I saw The Gladden Fields, the place where the Ring goes missing for a number of years and also the Ford of Bruinen where the Nazgul (bad guys on horses) get washed away.

My favourite location though is the road that wanders 45 kilometres out of Queenstown, running north along the lakeside to a place called Glenorchy. The lake is hemmed in by steep mountains on both sides and along the way we pass Amon Hen (where Sean Bean gets killed - more plot spoiling, sorry) and Ilithien (getting bored with these LOTR names yet?), finally ending up at Isengard (big tower, bad wizard). High above all of this in the far distance is the permanently snow covered Mount Earnslaw which doubled as the Caradhras Pass (Fellowship's ill fated skiing trip).

We've come to Glenorchy because I've somehow been talked into doing an all day horse riding adventure that will visit Lothlorien, the magical forest where weird, telepathic elf, Cate Blanchett lives. Thing is, I've never been on a horse before.

On arrival at the stables, we get the news that the day trip has been shortened to a two-hour ride because the rivers are too high to cross due to recent rain. I'm pretty sure this wouldn't have stopped Aragon or Legolas but for a novice like me it's not too disappointing.

I was hoping for a horse with a gutsy or mystical name like Brutus or Champion or Shadowfax but up plods a nag called Wilson who, like me, has clearly not had his breakfast yet. I'm also a bit disgruntled to be made to wear a frankly, unstylish white riding helmet with a tight chin strap. I had been hoping to ride wild and free with the wind blowing my long flowing blond mullet behind me! Mullets are still all the rage back home, right?

Mounting the horse (no giggling please, Russell) is a chore in itself. As soon as I get on to the saddle from a platform on one side, I'm sliding off the other because it hasn't been tied tightly enough. What is it about people in this country miscalculating my weight? Once secure though, I'm a picture of man and beast in perfect harmony. I get an overwhelming feeling that I was just born to be in the saddle - this is where I belong. Not actually out riding you understand, just sitting there slightly slouched looking cool like Steve McQueen recruiting potential gunslingers.

Finally, it's time to head out on to the plains of Rohan but not before we're given a seemingly endless list of instructions.

"Keep your heels down, knees in, back straight, hands up, reins short, do the hokey cokey and oh, did I mention, KEEP YOUR HEELS DOWN!"

My ankles joints are creaking at a tortuous angle and we still haven't left the stables. Just as I'm about to utter the macho, cowboy command, "Giddy up there boy" to get us going, Wilson takes off on his own accord, following the horse in front of him at a slow walk. I guess the novelty of carting tourists around all day wears off quickly. The sooner he leaves, the sooner he gets home to eat. My kind of animal.

Once we're out in the fields it's time to change gear and accelerate into a trot. More instructions.

"Heels down, stand slightly out of the saddle, grab the mane, a quick snap of the reins and Neil, will you keep those heel downs. PLEASE!"

As the pace of the horse quickens, I finally understand why more girls go horse riding than boys. This is absolute murder on the balls, the nuts, the precious ones, whatever your descriptive preference might be. No wonder John Wayne walks like he does. I pull Wilson up quickly and tell him either we walk the rest of the way home or we visit the glue factory, his choice.

After the arresting (see what I did there?) views around Queenstown, the road east towards Dunedin is no less interesting. Every few miles the landscape changes throwing up scenes and views reminiscent of other parts of the world.

The goldtowns of the Otago region with its scorched rocky mountains could be wild west Arizona or California. The perfectly ordered rows of vines at the nearby wineries bordered by tall poplar trees evoke images of Tuscany. And approaching the coast, the Scottish borders come to mind with their rolling green hills crammed with sheep. Talking of which, if you get a bit lonely in New Zealand... eh, never mind!

Dunedin ("Edinburgh of the South" is the Gaelic translation) was established as a Scottish settlement back in the 19th century. It's full of familiar names like Princes Street, the Canongate and Corstorphine and I was hoping to get a bit of a Scottish 'fix' by coming here. Unfortunately, it's shut. Well not shut exactly but a bit drab and lifeless and it's principal claim to fame seems to be that it has the steepest street in the world. Spend all of two minutes looking at this on the road out of the city.

Two days, and a lot of miles later, we're at the top of the South Island. We had intended visiting Abel Tasman National Park, "sea kayaking capital of the world" but in the end, we just can't be arsed! It's reputedly very busy and very difficult to access and we end up doing a relaxing sea kayaking day out around the beautiful Marlborough Sounds. Top tip for sea kayaking - always take the rear seat in a two-person kayak - you can have far more sly wee rests while your partner does all the hard work at the front! "Honest, I'm paddling!"

Next up, the North Island, where every town, big or small, has some kind of bizarre, international claim to fame. Gum Boot capital of the world anyone?

Till then.

Love, Neil x

Dude! Where's My Balls? Volume 1

Christchurch to Queenstown

True story. A few years ago, I was in a taxi in Las Vegas trying to escape from a seedy hotel in order to check in to an ordinary, gaudy one instead. The cab driver, in between shouting obscenities at well endowed women, asked me where I was from. When I told him, he replied,

"Aw yeah, Scotland. That's, eh, over da sea, beside Noo Zealand, right?"

Now this may say more about the fact that only around 20% of Americans are thought to own passports but from a certain point of view, he's not too far off the mark. In terms of spectacular scenery, changeable weather and friendly people, New Zealand is indeed a very close relation to Scotland.

The adventure starts before I even land as my plane from Brisbane glides perilously close to the majestic Southern Alps and then crosses the flat Canterbury plains to touch down safely in Christchurch, the biggest city on the South Island. For the first time on this trip I have a travelling companion, my friend Meredith from the States, who's flown in to tour around, see the sights and share some of the driving. However, when we're presented with a crappy looking, pale green, manual transmission Hyundai, she quickly books the passenger seat and stays there for two weeks.

Christchurch is a slice of middle England. Driving in from the airport through tree lined suburbs, we could easily be in Chester or York and the central, pedestrianised square is dominated by a huge cathedral. We're only here for one night because the quest is on to find Middle Earth and as many recognisable Lord Of The Rings location sites as possible. What a geek!

Decide on an anti-clockwise sweep of the South Island and begin with a crossing to the west coast, up and through Arthur's Pass. Arthur doesn't seem to mind too much. Immediately, this is stunning stuff. The road weaves through mountains draped in cloud and rises and falls through steep, rainforest valleys. It's high summer and the east of the island is suffering its worst drought since records began but you wouldn't know it here when the rain thuds off the Hyundai with a violent intensity bordering on assault.

Turning south to drive down the west coast, the Alps are ever present, squeezing the road towards the sea. Spend a couple of days near Mount Cook, New Zealand's highest mountain, which reaches 12,300 feet into the sky, three times the height of Ben Nevis. Nearby, two massive glaciers, Fox and Franz Josef, wind their way down and through the mountain valleys for nearly twelve kilometres each. I'd never seen a glacier before and when we hike up to the foot of Fox Glacier, it really is an awesome sight, an ice wall of 100 feet or more towering above us.

From the glaciers, the road south continues to hug the coastline and then turns inland through beautiful, sublime Mount Aspiring National Park. I know it's beautiful and sublime because my guidebook tells me so but the day we pass through, it's been swallowed whole by a dark, brooding thunder storm that's come straight from the land of Mordor.

Finally, we reach Queenstown, self proclaimed adventure capital of the world. It's a relatively small tourist town, a bit like Aviemore except nice! The number and diversity of extreme sports on offer here is exceeded only by the amount of adrenaline-fuelled idiots willing to sign up for them all - horse riding, jetboating, white-water rafting, white-water sledging, river surfing, canyoning, skydiving, paragliding, hang-gliding, off road driving, mountain biking and of course, bungy jumping.

Up until now, my idea of an adrenaline rush has been asking for an extra shot of espresso at Starbucks or scrambling about looking for the remote control when The X-Files is due to start on another channel. However, knowing that I would eventually reach New Zealand during this trip, I've had quite a committed notion in the back of my head that I would definitely attempt a bungy jump while I was here. For people who know me well, this may come as quite as a shock, especially since I announced my official retirement from rollercoasters a couple of years ago after a rumoured throwing up incident on the Indiana Jones ride at Disneyland Paris. Must have been a dodgy Pernod!

Despite feeling nauseous in my 23rd floor hotel room in Hong Kong and dizzy in a cable car ride in Singapore, the notion to bungy jump hadn't left me. That all changes however when I go and visit the Kawarau River jump site near Queenstown, the place where bungy jumping originated in New Zealand and one of many such places now dotted around the country. The notion disappears as fast as a Rangers fan at 4.15 every Saturday and it's an effort just to stand on the viewing platform and fight a losing battle with my buckling knees.

HOLY SH#T, what was I thinking? People actually throw themselves, WILLINGLY throw themselves off a bridge secured only by a strong(?) and flexible latex rubber rope, the same material incidentally that goes into your average condom... unless you order those 'special' ones from Amsterdam over the internet at www....., but I digress. Talk about ultimate protection! After recovering from my hyperventilation with a cup of coffee indoors, I decide that there's just too much of a chill in the air to even think about signing up for this madness today.

The next day I'm back, feeling pretty psyched. Slept fitfully during the night weighing up the possible outcomes and ramifications of jumping. Thirty seconds of heart pumping excitement if I do? Regret and permanently damaged self-esteem if I don't? Agonising, horrible death if they calculate my weight wrong? Hmmnn, interesting dilemma. It's blowing a gale as I get out the car and make my way down to the bridge and this time it takes me all of 3.6 seconds to decide that I'm definitely not jumping today. No way, not in that hurricane. Think how bad the hair would look in all those action photos.

After leaving Queenstown for 'extreme' adventure elsewhere (see Volume 2), it's a couple of days before I'm back in the area for a last chance to tame the bungy beast. If I'm ever going to do this, I have to turn up as soon as it opens and get it over and done with so I can enjoy the reward of a massive cooked breakfast, free from regret and feelings of inadequacy and self-loathing. Step out of the car at 9.05am with the feeling that there's no turning back.

9.06am
Get an overwhelming feeling to turn back, start the car and the find the first flight home.

9.09am
Stagger nonchalantly (yes, it is possible to do both) up to the booking desk.

"I'd like the combined jump and video package please," I squeak in a pitch that only dogs can hear.

"I'm sorry, did you squeak something sir?" replies the nice girl behind the counter, smiling sympathetically.

I point to the relevant part of the promotional leaflet with a grunt and she gets busy on her pc.

"Leet's see," she muses. "We're eectually preetty fully booked thees morning" (Kiwis use the 'ee' vowel sound A LOT!)

My heart leaps. I don't have the time to wait around all day and Nice Girl is going to deny me my dream of jumping. I'm going to be able to say that I really wanted to jump but it was full up and a third party just wouldn't let me. YES! Virtual triumph snatched from virtual disaster!

"No, heeng on. We can eectually feet you een streeght eeweey sir. Just steep on the scales please."

"Great," I whimper. "That's really... great news."

9.12am
After wrestling the credit card from my cold, paralysed hand, nice girl writes my weight on my left wrist, giggling to herself quietly as she does so.

9.15am
Remove my jacket and make my way out to the bridge, resplendent in my new Falkirk away strip. I had thought about wearing my Celtic strip to delight all you Rangers fans but I don't want to spoil it in the event of any accidental bowel movements.

9.18am
The walk to the centre of the bridge is actually quite relaxing. The weather is sunny and calm and it's not easy to see down through the railings to the river below. When I get to the ledge, the p.a. system is pumping out "Pride" by U2. "Is that what I'll really feel when this thing is over?" I ponder to myself.

9.20am
"Over here mate. Leet's see that wreest of yours," shouts the jump guide. I get a little concerned when he makes a double take of my weight and then starts to test the latex rope by pulling and tugging it vigorously with his fists. With a kind of resigned shrug (did he cross himself as well?) he starts to bind my legs together and tells me everything's going to be just fine.

9.22am
The construction of the ledge means that I still can't see down but when he gets me to my feet and tells me to shuffle to the edge, the river comes into view. At least I think it's a river. From this height it looks like a mountain stream! The music has changed to U2's "Angel of Harlem" and I struggle hard to hold on to the hope that this prophetically means that they're watching over me rather than I'm about to join them.

9.23am
For a split second, my knees are weak and I feel like I'm going to cave and take the long walk of shame back along the bridge. Before I have time to deliberate though, my guide is shouting out the countdown with my rapid, panicky, breathy swearing punctuating every number.

"5" Oh f#ck! "4" Oh f#cking f#ck! "3" Oh f#ckity, f#cking f#ck! "2, 1, GO!"

And I do. Arms stretched out before me like Christopher Reeve (well, not these days obviously), diving furiously for a hill in the distance trying to replicate the action that I've practiced from the safe height of 18 inches on to my bed for the last few nights. I try to yell but I've stopped breathing and then a remarkable thing happens. After the initial rush of the first two seconds with the river accelerating up to meet me, time seems to almost stop and everything happens in a quiet, peaceful slow motion. There's no sound, no rush of wind or shouts from the onlookers that I can hear. There's no violent jerking of the rope or strain on any part of my body. I come to a very smooth stop just a few feet above the water and then immediately fire upwards, repeating this cycle three or four times. If I didn't know better, I'd describe the whole 30 seconds as one of the most relaxing experiences of my life.

9.25am
I don't feel overly excited or energised as I lie quietly in the boat that's come out to retrieve me but I do feel that overwhelming sense of pride... or is it just merciful relief that the whole thing is over and I'm still in one piece? The Kawarau River jump, at 141 feet, is by no means the highest bungy jump in New Zealand but as we say in the bungy game, the only distance that matters is the first twelve inches.

The whole bungy operation is very slick indeed and two or three other jumpers have dived off the bridge by the time I make my way back to the top. It doesn't take much to persuade me to add the three commemorative photos to the video package I've already bought and I carry the whole lot around with me for the rest of the day in my special, jumpers-only, carrier bag. I'm dying to wave it in the faces of everyone I meet like a VIP back stage pass but think better of it.

Finally for Volume 1, a quick update on the lyrics game, remember that? Some of you might know that the Daily Record have just started publishing abridged versions of my e-mails in their Saturday magazine and I was surprised but delighted that they decided to include the lyrics game. Because I drone for so long when I write, I had to edit my previous e-mails into smaller, more palatable chunks which meant, in turn, that I had to think up some new song lyrics for the newspaper articles.

Rest assured however that the original lyrics game will continue in these e-mails and a separate, stunning prize will be available to all of you who so wisely subscribed to this service some months ago. Your are, and will remain always, my first and most important priority. You are the wind beneath my bungy wings. (NOT this week's lyric!)

In Volume 2, I'll have a full Lord Of The Rings location round up for all you fellow geeks including a thrilling journey with the Riders of Rohan and a river adventure to the Pillars of the Argonath.

Till then.

Love, Neil x

Frying Nemo

Cairns to Brisbane

“...it's only when I get back from what seems like quite a long trip and check the map that I start to get a sense of how big this country is; it's absolutely huge!...”

Wise words from an astute and perceptive traveller only two short weeks ago. Pity then, that I didn’t heed my own advice in tropical Queensland and end up taking three bus trips totalling 33 hours to get to where I need to be at Christmas.

Originally, I intended to leave Sydney and fly to Melbourne after which I would fly up to Brisbane for Christmas with my Mum’s brother Hughie and his family. But the prospect of another city left me feeling a bit fatigued so I decided to get out into the wild, battle with nature and munch a little bush tucker (NOT rhyming slang!!!).

Landing in wet and humid Cairns, I’ve got a week to get to Brisbane so I’ve already decided that I’ll trek through the rainforest for a couple of days, sail round the Whitsunday Islands and then go off on safari to Fraser Island. It’s only then that I check the map. All three of these activities are hundreds of miles from each other and Brisbane itself is 1,000 miles away so after spending all of 16 hours in Cairns, (more than enough, actually) I’m on a bus heading south for Airlie Beach, gateway to the Whitsunday Islands.

Now I’ve never been much of a water baby. “Aw look at him splashing about, he’s at one with the sea” is not an endearing compliment I’ve ever heard heading my way. More often than not I’m signalling for a lifebelt. So signing up for a three-day sail around the islands on a boat that once took part in the Americas Cup is enough to have me breaking out the travel sickness pills, or crèche boy pills, as they’re more fondly known.

There’re 19 passengers and 4 crew in total and as we amble along the dock trying to identify which boat is ours, my mind is desperately trying to find a comforting image of a happy, seafaring movie where nobody dies, gets eaten by a shark or is subjected to Celine Dion. But I can’t think of one. Are there any? Scrambling on to the deck to find a spot to sit, only one thought lingers – we’re going to need a bigger boat!

There’s a little light rain and a stiff breeze (The Perfect Storm?) as we leave the safety of the harbour and with the sails up, the boat is soon zipping along at a seemingly impossible angle that only The Poseidon would be proud of.

The Whitsunday Islands, like most things in the southern hemisphere apparently, were named by Captain Cook back in the 18th century as he was spreading his travel agency business across the globe. He named them after the day he arrived, not the most original idea in the world but one that could have been worse I suppose. The Pancake Day Islands or National No Smoking Day Islands just don’t have the same ring.

There are 60 to 70 islands in total but only a handful are inhabited with resorts so they maintain the appearance of being very unspoiled. Sitting in the clear blue and green water of the Pacific Ocean and surrounded by the Great Barrier Reef they are nothing less than spectacular.

My strategy for the three days is to keep the heaving and retching to a minimum, work on my tan on deck or on the beaches and at the very most, try a bit of snorkelling in the shallow waters of the reef. However, before I realise what I’m doing, a very funny sales pitch convinces me to sign up for an introductory scuba dive and I’m pulling on the second skin of a wet suit and strapping on the air tanks convinced that I’m going to find Nemo.

Our instructor informs us that the only thing we have to concern ourselves with underwater is breathing, first in and then out. Smart ass! I’m relieved because I’ve had a knack for breathing almost effortlessly for a good number of years now. This is going to be a doddle. It’s not.

To have to consciously think about and then execute the act of breathing in and out through my mouth is a LOT harder than I imagined, especially when I combine it with blowing my nose to pop my ears and clear my mask of water.

Then there are the hand signals to remember so that communication underwater is straightforward and unambiguous.

We learn how to ‘say’ “I’m Okay”, “I’ve Got A Problem”, “Up”, “Down”, “Left”, “Right”, all of which I forget the instant I have to breathe, blow, pop and clear. Instead, I introduce a couple of new phrases to the international scuba language.

“What the fuck was that dark shadow?”
Continuous flailing of the right arm coupled with frantic pointing with the left.

“Watch out for the f#cking jelly fish!”
A frenzied turn of the head together with flippers flapping in the opposite direction.

“The next time you kick me you Swedish b#stard I’m gonna rip that f#cking tube from your mouth!”
A very determined hard stare and a lot of expletive bubbles

However, after fifteen minutes of this initial panic and terror, the sales pitch comes good. It IS a different world down there. The coral sways and comes alive in the current and the fish are everywhere, all colours and all sizes. They encircle and envelop me and at times I don’t seem to be able to move in any direction, a spider web and I’m caught in the middle. I didn’t find Nemo but I did see a big turtle and a small shark and collapsed exhausted half an hour later on the beach to tell the tale. Easily the best thirty pounds I’ve spent so far on this trip.

All meals are provided on the boat although the price of good food is a meticulous washing up rota that everyone follows without question. We also spend both nights aboard and are allocated bunks that are only slightly roomier than a coffin. I endure this on the first night but on the second, I need more space and fresh air so I grab a mattress and sleep up on deck. It’s calm and peaceful and there’s only a slight breeze to bounce the ropes against the mast sending an occasional, hollow cowbell sound across the flat, dark water of the inlet.

With no artificial light around, the sky above appears overwhelmed with stars interspersed with satellites speeding from one side of the horizon to the other. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen this and at first I think it’s some kind of UFO phenomenon but the skipper puts me right before I can get too excited about the possibility of a close encounter of the Agent Scully kind.

Arriving back at Airlie Beach after three days, I’ve managed to avoid being sick but I’m quite sunburnt and in desperate need of a wash. We were rationed to one, thirty-second shower during the whole three days! 24 hours after alighting from the boat, I step off a bus on the Gold Coast of Queensland only slightly behind my clothes with have developed a ripe smelling, active life of their own. Nice!

For the past ten days or so then, I’ve been enjoying all the traditional features and activities of Christmas and New Year with family. Lots of food and drink (excellent pies and fish & chips!), some seriously average television, pulling a few crackers, barbeques by the pool, lying on the beach and going to surf school, which turns out to be bloody hard work. I now have even more respect, if that’s possible, for the cast of Baywatch!

My cousin Susan and I also went for a day trip to The Australia Zoo, home of Steve ‘Crocodile Hunter’ Irwin, where “Crikey, Crocs Rule”! He’s actually there in person, a rare event apparently, and we witness his exhilarating crocodile feeding display with only a slight sadistic hope that it’ll all end in tears. A few days later, he's splashed all over the news media feeding the crocodile with one hand and holding his four week old son in the other. Crikey!

The zoo is run in a very impressive manner with lots of interactivity for kids and adults alike. I get to fondle a koala bear and touch a snake and everyone can wander freely in the grassy areas where the kangaroos roam...

“What’s that Skip?” I ask a hyperactive joey. “Ten percent off in the gift shop, today only? No worries mate!” These animals are well trained.

Anyway, now it's a new year and having just watched Celtic win the league, I’m leaving my Rangers-loving uncle to fly to Christchurch in New Zealand to journey across Middle Earth. I’ll no doubt encounter Wizards, Kings, Hobbits, Elves, Dwarves, Orcs and the mystical Ring of Power, which is… eh… nothing to do with my toilet blocking escapades!

Till then.

Love, Neil x

Crocodile Dunrobin

Perth to Sydney

The heat is constant, a searing, blinding heat with the surrounding scrub and bush providing little in the way of shade. I swat away a fly but another takes it's place, then another and another. How many constitute a swarm? The sand stretches away on all sides, brilliant white in the middle of the day, a subtler shade of beige now that the sun is lower in the sky. How long have I been out here? 2, 3 days? Check my watch - it's still working. Christ, it's only been 4 hours. When did I last eat? Not hungry anyway, must be the heat. Some days, I've been living on coffee and nicotine. Must drink water. Only a drop or two left now at the bottom of the bottle, warm and stale, enough to coat the back of my throat but no more. What's that in the distance, a hint of green? Oasis? Shade? Mirage? Rub my tired eyes. Try to focus again. Definitely something. Must find the strength. What'll it take to get there? Did I say that out loud? The answer comes...

"Just one more good five-iron, two putts and we'll be sipping a cold one in the pool before you can say Woolabonga mate!"

Yep, life sure is tough down under, playing golf without a cart.

I've been in Australia for almost two weeks now but in truth, I've only spent one night out in the outback. First stop was Perth on one side of the country and have just spent my last night in Sydney on the other side.

Perth is a warm, welcoming, windy city with a relatively small downtown area and a large and very neat suburban metropolis surrounding it, hundreds of Ramsay Streets fanning out in every direction. In fact it reaches the neighbouring port of Fremantle (or Freemo, as they say here) a place famous for producing the first boat ever to beat the USA in the Americas Cup back in 1983. In order to defend the cup in 1986, millions of dollars were poured into the community and it's now a very smart, laid back town with markets, museums and coffee shops galore. And while we're on the subject, how come Switzerland is the current holder of the Americas Cup? I mean… Switzerland?

My one venture out into the wild was an overnight camping jaunt north to a geological oddity called The Pinnacles, a round trip of some 300 miles. I booked it through one of the many backpacker travel agents that abound here and was assisted in this by one of those energetic, over-enthusiastic guys who look like they've jumped out of a plane and wrestled a crocodile before breakfast.

"OW'RE YOU GOIN' MATE?" he screams at me as I cross the threshold.

"Well I'm using my legs and feet to get around on… you know… FOOT and later on I'll be getting a train home," I reply dryly.

"Eh, right. Nice one," he continues, regardless. "So what's your name then?"

After telling him he says, "Aw great. Good English name, that."

"Scottish," I correct him coldly as my fist connects with his jaw releasing a torrent of blood... or would have done had I been able to release my arms from the straps of my backpack.

The trip itself is very good and includes a visit to a brewery/winery, sunset at The Pinnacles (tall sand and limestone pillars jutting out of the desert sands), tents and songs by the campfire, sandsurfing down some huge dunes and swimming in the Indian Ocean. It's all conducted by Terry, a huge bear of a man (more grizzly than koala), who drives his four wheel drive truck with a passion and is never shy to tell us that he needs to pull over "cause I'm bursting on a shit." He also thinks that the best way to rouse us from our slumber at 5.30am is to march round the campsite belching and farting. Strangely though, if you listen quite closely, there's a haunting, melodic quality to it. Must be an aboriginal thing!

It's only when I get back from what seems like quite a long trip and check the map that I start to get a sense of how big this country is. It's absolutely huge! Imagine getting into your car in Glasgow and driving to, say Rome, only you'd not see many people and you'd pass through only a handful of towns on the way. That's like driving half way across Australia.

Sydney has a different feel to the laid back atmosphere of Perth. Bigger, obviously with a real buzz about the place, as Paul McStay used to say. It's more like London or New York; continually on the go although like Perth (and most great cities I suppose) it does its recreational spaces very, very well. Lovely waterfront full of bars, restaurants and shops and some beautiful parks only a short nine iron away from the city centre skyscrapers. I've been on the harbour ferries and travelled out of town to see the Blue Mountains but there's nothing to beat just wandering around Sydney, stopping for coffee (or anything else you might be "bursting on") and drinking in the views. I was tempted to do the 150 dollar Harbour Bridge climb but settled instead for the zero dollar Harbour Bridge stroll.

So, I hear that Christmas is coming. I know this because I've finally started to see decorations and trees and slightly sweaty Santas in the street but it doesn't FEEL like Christmas at all. That was until I went to see 'Christmas With The Sydney Symphony' in the concert hall of the Sydney Opera House. This is really something. Outside, the harbour waves lap up on the rocks, the clink of champagne glasses ripple the air and the building is beautifully illuminated against the night sky. Inside, the Symphony play a variety of classical pieces (some of which I actually recognise), a solo sopranoist sings a selection of arias and a huge choir of children sing Christmas carols, old and new. (I was tempted to insert a Cliff Richard lyric here but thought better of it.) I come away from the concert thinking that if there's a more simple or beautiful melody than 'Silent Night' then I've yet to hear it.

It's a great concert and is almost as good, not quite, but almost as good as seeing Robbie Williams two nights later at the Aussie Stadium on the last night of his world tour. If there's a better opening song to a gig than "Let Me Entertain You" then I've yet to hear it. Answers on a postcard please. He's got two bands supporting him, Machine Gun Fellatio (OUCH!) who are crap and Duran Duran who are excellent. They've got all the original members back and despite being in their mid-forties, can still get away with singing 'Wild Boys' without much embarrassment.

Anyway, now that I can feel Christmas coming I've had to rethink my Christmas card/greetings strategy. I had such a simple yet brilliant plan. I was going to have my picture taken on Bondi Beach in nothing but my skimpy Speedos and a Santa hat (I even bought the hat) and after five minutes on the pc, I could dispatch Christmas greetings to you all and return smartly to the beach without missing a beat. No stamps, no post office visits, not much writing... the definition of efficient, 21st century communication. However, I realise now that that kind of misses the point - misses it, in fact, by some considerable margin so I'll be revamping the strategy to ensure that Christmas greetings have a far more personal or individual feel.

And yes, okay, I admit it. This George Bailey sentimentality was further fuelled by going to see "Love Actually" at the movies... the absolute definition of a twenty first century chick flick. It's over the top and ridiculous at times (Hugh Grant is Prime Minister for God's sake) but it caught me with my usual, cynical guard down.

And now to local news. Since I've been in Australia, there's been quite a debate gathering in the media as to whether politicians should be subjected to random breath tests, not while they're in their cars, but while they're at work! This follows an incident where the leader of the Democrats in the Senate verbally and physically assaulted another Senate member on the floor of the Senate itself. He is currently taking time off "to seek help in addressing personal health issues". I would have let this stereotypical Aussie incident slide if I hadn't been bombarded with advertising for what looks like being the top cd stocking filler this Christmas - "The Absolute Best Beer Drinking Songs Album In The World... Volume 2"! Classic!

Anyway, later today I fly north to tropical Queensland, Cairns to be exact and the Great Barrier Reef. I'm going to find out how to surf, find out how to explore the reefs and then find bloody Nemo.

And finally, in case you're wondering, Dunrobin is the ancestral home of the Sutherland clan and is located near Golspie in the north of Scotland. Come for a visit some time and I'll make sure my people (clan brethren and the help) look after you big style. It's well worth it.

http://www.clansutherland.org/FrDunrobin.htm

Till next time.

Love, Neil x

The Beach

Koh Chang to Singapore

MONDAY: Wake at sunrise. Open my bedroom door. Step out on to the beach. Lie in the sun. Swim in the sea. Drink at the bar. Watch the sunset. Eat under the palm trees. Go to sleep.

TUESDAY: Wake at sunrise. Open my bedroom door. Step out on to the beach... you get the idea!

One of the things I definitely wanted to do during my time in Thailand was visit one of those idyllic, picture postcard islands that I'd read about and seen in movies. Only trouble was, I couldn't decide which one to go to because everyone I spoke to about them had good things to say about them all.

Koh Samui? - Original backpackers paradise, now much more tourist-centred?
Koh Pha Ngan? - Full moon party every month… unsurprisingly?
Koh Phi Phi? - where 'The Beach' was filmed?
Koh Tao? - Tiny, remote outpost with excellent diving opportunities - rumoured to be favoured by most Rangers players???

Eventually I said to myself, "Phuket! I'm gonna go to Koh Chang" so I slung on my backpack and headed for the beach.

Throughout my month in Asia, I've wrestled with the issue of whether I'm a tourist or a traveller on this trip. I've got a backpack but does that make me a backpacker? I don't seem to have many of the trappings of other 'travellers' I see around me.

No dreadlocks, no shaven head, no scrawny beard, no bandana, no piercings, no (new) tattoos, no fake Diesel t-shirt, no decent sandals, no sarong, no flappy linen trousers and no Lonely Planet guidebook - can't stand them, I'm a 'Rough Guide' kinda guy.

Instead I've got nice comfortable gutties (sneakers for you Americans), too many socks, a floppy golf hat, a Celtic strip, a blue Brazil strip (to annoy the England fans cause let's face it, a Scotland strip isn't gonna do it), baby wet wipes from Boots (greatest invention of the modern age) and a bright green, rain poncho from Universal Studios with Fred Flintstone on the back and yeah, okay, I lied about the scrawny beard!

I arranged all my travel and some of my accommodation throughout Thailand and Cambodia through a travel agency in Bangkok and came away with a heavy sense of guilt that I wasn't exactly winging it or enduring long, arduous, overland journeys interspersed with hectic border crossings and the bribery of customs officials. I even flew to Koh Chang, or to be more accurate, to Trat on the mainland which has the prettiest airport in the world - two large bamboo huts set in perfectly landscaped surroundings, one for arrivals and one for departures.

But now, after a week or so of doing not very much at all, I couldn't really care less what category of traveller I fall in to. It's my party and I'll fly if I want to (NOT this week's song lyric) and after reflecting on the quality of some of the roads I saw in Cambodia, I'm very, very happy not to have spent 12 to 14 hours on the back of a bus/truck/donkey in the baking sun.

Koh Chang is Thailand's second largest island (after Phuket), about 25 miles long and eight miles wide and it's absolutely gorgeous. One main road winds round almost all of the shoreline and the centre is made up of towering, rain forest covered mountains. It's one of those places where you expect to see Ursula Andress (or Halle Berry for you youngsters) emerge mermaid-like from the surf and strut confidently on to the pristine white, sandy beach. I'm pleased to report that every night, she does!

"Nighsh to shee you," I call out, suavely, from the mango trees but then I wake up before she can reply.

There's one or two up market, 'resort' type hotels sprouting up here but in the main, accommodation is predominantly of the beach hut/bungalow variety. It's basic but more than adequate. Every night, I fight a running battle with the mosquitoes in the bathroom, me wielding the shower head like it's a lightsaber, and every night I hear the slightly disturbing, shrill cackle of a creature that lives in my roof. I'm sure it must be one of the little gecko lizards you see running around everywhere but to me, it sounds like a velociraptor!

Next door to me, lives a 62 year old Australian who, for the purposes of this story we'll call Jim, because that's his name. This man can swear to Olympic standard but curiously it doesn't sound offensive when he does it, just very colourful. Still, the following is sanitised for those of you with Big Brother IT departments at your place of work.

He tells me that he's going back to Bangkok for "a bitta business" at the end of the week but before that, he's going to have a couple of nights in Pattaya for "a separate bitta business, if you know what I mean, mate?"

I tell him that I don't (even though I do) and he goes on to explain that there's "50,000 f#cking prostitutes in a f#cking 10km square radius, mate!" This number seems awfully high to me as I quickly try and calculate a myriad of trivial statistics. How many to the square metre? How many can you get in a phone box if there's a phone box every ten metres? How many can you get in a Mini if there's two nuns in the front?... that kind of thing.

He asks me if I've been to, or am planning to go to, Pattaya and is dumbstruck when I tell him that I haven't/am not. I just know it's the kind of place where years of dormant, Scottish Presbyterianism would resurface and I'd be hopelessly out of my depth. Picture the scene, I'm sitting at a local roadside restaurant in Pattaya and get approached by a smiling, eager woman.

Woman: "Hey Mista, you wanna fock?"
Neil: "No thanks. I'd really like to try and master these chopsticks."

See, hopeless.

Jim is invaluable though when I ask his advice about whether I should consider signing up for one of the local cruise, snorkelling, diving packages.

"F#ck that mate! F#cking friend 'o mine wasted his f#cking money on one of those f#cking trips last year. No f#cking fish mate! They f#cking dynamited the f#ck out of this place f#cking years ago!" Informative, educational and to the point.

Instead, I rent a motorcycle and am immediately transported back to Ibiza 1984, the last time I drove one. It's the same exhilarating feeling - no helmet, no insurance and no long trousers to protect my legs from the scorching exhaust pipes... and sadly, no pal Doug (greatest drummer in the world) riding on the back asking me when its going to be his turn to drive every 2 miles. As I pull away from the rental place, the "Easy Rider" soundtrack is pulsating in my head. 5, 6, 10 miles an hour and I'm gone baby, a blur of green in my spanking new, fake Diesel t-shirt. Nothing between me and the Swiss border but 1,000 German troops and a big f#cking wire fence mate, as Jim would say.

It's amazing to me how much time you can spend here doing absolutely nothing except enjoying simple things. I've been on beaches before but have always been restless to do something different every ten minutes. The other night, I sat on the beach for two hours watching the tide roll away, watching the sunset change to twilight and then change to stars and moonlight... two hours... in exactly the same spot... in exactly the same position... just staring... and I'm only smoking Marlboro Lights, mum!

But here's the thing. I'd strongly urge you all to come to a place like this before it gets over commercialised with McDonalds or Starbucks (much as I love Starbucks) but when you do come, come with someone you know. Could be a best friend or a family member or a partner but ideally it should be with someone you love. Take it from me, to experience this beauty, this peacefulness, this level of relaxation and not have someone to share it with is a crime.

Anyway, I left Koh Chang at the weekend and have spent the last three nights on the small island state of Singapore. Singapore reminds me a bit of Hong Kong and Bangkok but there's more affluence, more humidity (it's very close to the equator) and more trees and greenery than I've ever seen in any big city. It's clean, safe and the shopping opportunities appear to be endless - Gucci, Prada, Top Shop, they're all here. They have some strange laws though that attract big fines if broken such as no jaywalking and no chewing gum and God help you if you leave a public toilet unflushed... although I haven't worked out how they enforce that one!

I've been staying in a dormitory style hostel for 6 quid a night, my first experience of such a place since the second year Latin trip at High School (year withheld to protect the old). Like then, it has creaky bunk beds, the lingering, stale aroma of sweaty feet and some world class snorers. These people really are so inconsiderate!

And tonight I fly to Australia, Perth to be exact, to discover another new continent for the first time. Asia, even the very little that I've seen of it, has been fascinating. It can assault all of your senses, overwhelmingly so at times, and is an extreme contrast of the old and the new. Happily, the most consistent aspect of it though has been the friendliness, politeness, humour and level of service of the people I've encountered. Some, especially the taxi drivers in Cambodia, can't seem to do enough for you and offer two or three extra services in addition to just transportation.

"You want nice smoke? Nice girl? Go to shooting range?" I presume he's inviting me to his ranch to meet his sister and share a Hamlet, no?

My favourite though, is one of the kids I met at Angkor, a little girl selling 10 postcards for a dollar. After asking my name and where I come from she meticulously lists the capital, main cities and population count of Scotland. I'm so charmed and impressed that I generously hand over the dollar without a hint of bargaining and tell her that she's very sweet. Just as I'm climbing back into my motorised rickshaw, she runs after me and gives me a little pen drawing of a house and flowers that she's sketched herself. Now for all I know, she's running off 100 of these an hour on her colour photocopier back home but all the same, I was very touched.

Anyway, before I cross that fine line that separates Santa Claus from Michael Jackson, I'll say bye-bye for now. Till next time.

Love, Neil x

Apocalypse Then

Chiang Mai to Phnom Penh

"Whatever you do Neil, don't miss the temples at Angkor in Cambodia."

So said my much travelled and much admired cousin, Murray, when I asked him where in the world I should go earlier this year. "Cambodia, you say?" I reply with a gulp and a sudden overwhelming urge to pee. "Eh, okay then."

To me, Cambodia has always been a mysterious and dangerous sounding country, often linked with the Vietnam war and ruled in the late 70's by a brutal regime led by the Khmer Rouge and Pol Pot. Seems he wasn't as laid back as his name would suggest cos I've seen "The Killing Fields" and there's not many hilarious outtakes at the end of that movie. The description of the current health and safety situation in my guidebooks does little to ease my overactive bowels.

On snakes... "by the time you see them, it's generally too late." WHAT?
It goes on... "If you are bitten, stay calm, try to kill it..." presumably by using whatever appendage is free of venom " ...and bring it to the nearest doctor." Why? Is he a collector?

On the countryside... "Cambodia is one of the most mined countries in the world. Don't pick up or kick anything that you can't identify." Don't eat the grey coloured pineapples then?

On crime... "Gun crime is actually more frequent in Phnom Penh than anywhere else in the country..." Yeah, that's because everywhere else is MINED!

So I arrived in Siem Reap, tourist gateway to Angkor, with more than a little trepidation but that's quickly dispelled by a guy at the airport holding up a sign with my name on it. He's there to take me to the hotel I booked from Bangkok and actually transports me around for the rest of the day. Will talk more about the people and customer service in this part of the world at a later time but safe to say, I started breathing a bit easier.

Just before I left Thailand, I was considering purchasing some jungle camouflage gear for this 'tour of duty' but just in time, I came across an article in a magazine that suggested that this may not be met with universal hilarity or approval. Close call on that one but I've had a hell of a time trying to conceal my bazooka!

I've seen a good few temples in the last three weeks but they've been of the more 'modern', pagoda variety, all sharply peaked roofs and shimmering with red and gold decor. They're impressive in their own way I suppose, but they've left me fairly unmoved. To me, they look like the kind of things that Michael Jackson might buy three or four of and then scatter aimlessly around his Neverland ranch!

The temples at Angkor, on the other hand are breathtaking. Some are over 1,000 years old and are in remarkable condition, others are crumbling and are being swamped by the jungle and these, if anything, have even more character. Initially, I had a romantic notion that I would be crawling and hacking my way through the vines and mangroves to actually discover the temples for myself. Instead, on that first late afternoon visit to Angkor Wat, I'm crawling and hacking my way through hordes of Japanese tourists and local hawkers to squeeze in a few sunset photos. There's more people here than attended Ghandi's funeral!

Thankfully, I bought myself a three day pass and on the second day I hired Mr Dany and his motorised rickshaw and went exploring the more remote temples. I'm there early enough to stay one step ahead of the tour buses during my clockwise sweep of the area but still end up seeing the same people everywhere, even a couple that I saw on the underground in Hong Kong!

It's hard to grasp just how big an area we're talking about here. Angkor Wat, the most popular and complete example of Khmer temples, occupys the centre of a site the size of Central Park in New York... and it's not the biggest. Angkor Thom, or 'big city' was once home to a million people and streched over a vast area. My favourites though, are the smaller temples which you actually do approach along jungle paths and only see at the last moment when you're really up close.

Make arrangements with Mr Dany to collect me next morning at O5.00 (quick movie quiz - what does the 'O' stand for? First reply gets a prize!) so I can see the sunrise over Angkor Wat. Initially, it seems like hundreds of headlights have the same notion ("if you build it, they will come"!) but after a spectacular sunrise, the place actually feels deserted as I wander about. This is opportune because one of the best things about roaming the temples is to find yourself a nice, quiet corner, preferably in the shade, and take a moment to have a right good scratch.... eh... sorry.. I mean, take a moment to contemplate the world as a whole and your place in it.

All in all, nowhere at Angkor disappoints, from the largest ancient city to the smallest, hidden ruins and I'm grateful to you Murray for pointing me in this direction. If you want to get a feel for the place, check this out:-

http://www.asiaphotos.net/gallery/Angkor/

After three nights in Siem Reap, I leave on the early morning boat for a five hour trip down to the capital Phnom Penh. In my imagination, this is going to be a hazardous and hairaising voyage down a claustrophobic river with me having to dive under a tarpaulin with the livestock every time a Vietcong gunship approaches for a spot check. In reality, we zip down on the Mekong Express, a modern, sleek, fast ferry with air conditioning, widescreen televisions and complimentary lunch. To be honest, I'm a little disappointed with all the modern trappings... but only a little!

Phnom Penh is another busy, bustling place, a smaller version of Bangkok, and it's hard to imagine that this city was all but emptied when the Khmer Rouge came to power in 1975. A million people occupy the place now and every one of them seems to own a motorbike. Watching the traffic here is mesmeric. Haven't quite figured out on what side of the road they drive - let's just say they seem to favour the right - more of a whim than an actual rule. Nobody's going that fast but they effortlessly weave in and out of each other like some expertly choreographed dance, with little regard for stop signs, red lights or junction/intersection etiquette. Somehow it all works though and I quickly deduce that the best way to cross the road is to just step out into the traffic and walk casually across - they just avoid you.

Only have a couple of nights in Phnom Penh and spend my one full day visiting the Toul Sleng Genocide Museum, and the Choeung Ek Genocide Centre, the 'killing fields'. These are stark, haunting, sobering places, particularly the museum which is a former high school that was used as a prison and interrogation centre by the Khmer Rouge. It's hardly been altered since 1979 and doesn't pull any punches displaying images of hundreds of victims and the instruments of torture. Twenty thousand people passed through this place between 1975 and 1979. Only seven survived.

The 'killing fields' site, 10 miles south of town, is surprisingly peaceful, serene, picturesque even. Shallow, overgrown depressions in the ground give evidence of the mass graves and it's not until you get close to the central memorial and see rows and rows of human skills and blood stained clothing that the place really hits you for six. On a lighter note, a bird shat on my leg on the motorbike ride back to the city!

So now It's Sunday and I'm back in Bangkok. Can it really only be three weeks since I arrived in Asia? When I spent June and July in the States, the summer seemed to last forever but these last three weeks have felt equally as long.

Bangkok has changed though, something's different. It's only when I overhear an animated, bar argument, do I realise that I've clearly travelled back in time to 1966 because England have apparently won something. Better be careful not to alter anything in this timeline in case they win something else in the future. Damn, I just stood on a bug!

Anyway, finally, my top, top tip when you visit Bangkok - do not, under any circumstances, casually flick your cigarette butt into the gutter like some Western, litter terrorist. Like me, you may find yourself getting a tap on the shoulder and being faced with a thin but athletic looking policeman demanding to see your passport and then leading you off to his buddies and making you a pay a 1,000 baht (15 pounds) fine for your misdemeanour. I tell you, for the first time in my life, the health warning "Smoking Can Seriously Damage Your Health" on the side of my cigarette packet took on a whole new meaning! So from now on, no smoking (in public), no spitting, no swearing, no littering, no loitering, no chewing gum, no jaywalking, no running with scissors, no running by the pool, no bombing and no trying to walk like Shaggy from Scooby Doo - that's just asking for trouble!

Tomorrow I travel to a Thai island paradise to stay in a beach hut for a week and give my six pack a nice tan... although I suppose that'll make the beer inside warm. Oh well! Tune in next time to discover which island. Till then.

Love, Neil x

Right, where's my 'Braveheart' video?