Saigon, Vietnam

Like most men my age, I've watched a whole raft of films about Vietnam: the boot-camp brutality of Full Metal Jacket; the intensity of Apocalypse Now; the aftermath of Born On The Fourth Of July and The Deer Hunter. None of these movies shy away from the demonstrating the desperate futility of the conflict, but all have a focus firmly on the American victims.

Despite having studied the war at school, it took a trip to the War Remnants Museum of Saigon (or Ho Chi Minh City, as we ought to call it) to fully come to terms with the effect of war which Hollywood has largely failed to capture. Here, the immediate impact of the toll on the Vietnamese people became apparent. Just as horrific was the price which is still being paid in the aftermath of the chemical warfare which rained down on either side of the Seventeenth Parallel.

The Vietnam conflict is widely regarded as the first 'televised' war. For the first time, pictures of warfare were beamed directly into the homes of a worldwide audience. The horror could not be dimmed by distance. Intrepid reporters risked and lost their lives to ensure that some of the most poignant and harrowing images ever committed to celluloid made it back to the western world.

At the museum, blown up versions of many of these photographs were accompanied by stories of utter barbarism from the US troops who committed atrocities such as the massacre of My Lai, where over a hundred innocent villagers were slaughtered. Some of those killed included children, one of whom was disembowelled. This was no isolated incident, with many other villages sacked and burned, leaving raped and dying Vietnamese behind.

Large scale deforestation aimed to flush out the hidden Viet Cong, and the use of Agent Orange and other chemicals to achieve this has left Vietnam counting the cost to this very day. Some of the saddest images in the museum were those which showed a whole generation of children born with deformed limbs, cleft palates or co-joined twins: victims of a war in which they played no part. America is still paying the price of a war which cost them 58,000 men: every year they are forced to repay over a billion dollars in reparations.

Tears pricked the eyes as black and white images of those affected gave way to some happier stories of triumph in the face of adversity: none more so than the celebrated story of Kim Phuc (who we once dedicated a five-a-side team to) the 'poster-girl' for the war. She was famously pictured running naked down the road having been struck on the back by napalm - an image which lingers long in the memory. Now living in Canada she is an ambassador for UNICEF.

Unfortunately, the Cu Chi Tunnels failed to match the excellent War Remnants Museum. Cu Chi was a strategic target for the Americans, and South Vietnamese guerrillas fought alongside the Viet Cong to prevent it falling to the enemy. Much of the resistance came courtesy of a network of underground tunnels - over 250km of them. The network enabled the Vietnamese to take refuge from bombing raids in tunnels which were barely big enough for them to fit through (smaller tunnels are stronger and more able to resist the shelling above them). They also enabled them to undertake spying missions, as some of the tunnels crept into US territory. The guerrillas even washed in American soap so that sniffer dogs would be unable to identify them. In response, the area was bombed, shelled, gassed, bulldozed, napalmed and defoliated - but never captured.

Unfortunately, a visit to the area fails to give a real picture of what occurred forty years previously. Replicas of the booby-traps which were laid are garish and fake looking. Animatronic dummies clumsily emulate the movements of the VC, but have little impact - they look like the shop-dummies which Macauley Culkin brings to life in Home Alone. A sprinkling of bomb-craters give an indication of the levels of bombing sustained: many of the tunnels have now been destroyed. As the original tunnels are far too small for Westerners to fit down, an enlarged stretch has been manufactured and this did give some indication of the claustrophobic and sweaty conditions which the guerrillas suffered. Sadly, the site was so utterly without gravitas that I gave in to the temptation to buy some bullets and unload an AK47. You could argue it's in bad taste, but then so is the half-arsed attempt to bring a flavour of the hardship suffered at one of the most significant sites in the recent history of Vietnam.

Tubing Tribulations

The aftermath is appalling. Dishevelled youths limp and shuffle through the streets, their bodies daubed in blue permanent marker, their eyes bloodshot and their bodies aching. It's early morning in Vang Vieng, Laos and the backpacker community is recovering from yesterday's tubing shenanigans.

Tubing involves hiring an inflated tractor inner-tube, plonking yourself in it and floating down the Nam Song river. This sounds like good, wholesome fun. But of course, it is anything but. The jump-off point for the day is also the first bar and there are many more to come. Our experience began in unusually reticent fashion - it seemed that nobody wanted to be the first to take the plunge. Bronzed and beautiful bodies piled up at the starting line until, inspired by a couple of guys somersaulting directly into the river, people took to the water.

Either side of the riverbank promotional staff attempt to entice you into their premises with the promise of extremely cheap buckets, icy beers and even free bananas. Once the sales patter has worked its charm, a weighted rope is thrown in your direction. Having grabbed it, you are dragged over to the steps where you park your vehicle before indulging in some reckless drinking.

Vouchers are utterly redundant on the river (everything ends up soaked) so free drink offers are written on people's bodies in indelible ink. Staff attach home-made bandanas to people scrawled with original philosophical thoughts such as 'your mother never complains' and engage increasingly inebriated travellers in bucket throwing competitions. The whole thing is sound tracked by a typically woeful selection of R&Band dance 'classics' piped through shoddily crackling speakers.

In a blatant disregard for the health and safety of their patrons, each bar also offers an absurdly unsafe route into the water. These all involve climbing onto a rickety platform and launching yourself from a minimum height of thirty feet. As it's dry season, the river is not nearly as deep as it might be. It's not very clear either, so throwing yourself into the murky water is an act of faith which requires gargantuan levels of alcohol. Further ridiculous behaviour can be witnessed at the mudbath volleyball and a tug-of-war which takes place on the banks of a swamp: the losers get dragged in.

Those of you who know me will be aware that this sounds like my worst nightmare. I was almost certainly the oldest person at the river, lack confidence in my swimming ability and am utterly paranoid about everyone being more lithe, buff and beautiful than me. But having lost my vest and being forced to get into the same state of undress as everyone else, and then having smashed a whisky bucket down in the second bar, inhibitions were lost. I swang by my legs on a trapeze over the water, zip-lined, volleyballed (badly) and lost at tug of war. I sank beer after beer, talked to strangers, cut my foot, grazed my tummy and had a playfight with a child. An absolutely brilliant day.

Unfortunately (but certainly not uniquely) i really hurt myself. Towards the end of our aquatic pub-crawl we stopped for a drink in a bar with a massive waterslide. It appeared to be made from bricks and made smooth with ceramic bath tiles - alarm bells should've been ringing. With scant regard for my own well-being i dragged myself to the summit, launched myself from the top and was spat out high above the Nam Song. I landed awkwardly, my legs at strange angles. Subsequently i have been almost unable to walk. My knee ligaments have been strained and my suffering can only be alleviated by the consumption of unsafe amounts of painkillers. At least my pain is not as bad of that of a guy who landed on his back and spent the next two days coughing up blood. Ouch.

The Sunshine Coast

This is not a metaphor: yesterday I woke up at the end of a rainbow.

Normally being awoken at half past six would not go down to well with me, but when you've slept under the starlight on the roof of a catamaran in the Whitsunday Islands it's really no hardship. Our sailing cruise was the final day of an adventure which has seen us travel from Sydney to Airlie Beach via stunning scenery, amazing wildlife, brilliant parties and amazing people. But it's better if I start this story at the beginning...

Byron Bay is probably the hippy capital of Australia. It's also one of the most popular: so much so that when we arrived we couldn't get a roof to sleep under for love nor money. Instead we resorted for the quiet town of Lennox Heads. There was very little to do there, but after the hubbub of city life it was nice to rejuvenate in the country for a while.

Our hostel was close to Lake Ainsworth, a beautifully serene expanse of water stained the colour of weak tea by the trees which grow at the water's edge. It was here that I decided to confront one of my fears - deep water! While Rachel slept I gingerly tip-toed into the water until only my head was visible above the surface. At this point I splashed, flapped and flopped my way back to the edge - the first time I’d swum in years. I'm not sure why the thought of not touching the bottom bothers me so much - a family bereavement at sea, a lack of ability in the water, my own body image? Probably all three have played a part. But the more aquatic trips I attempted the more assured I became. It's a good job - the next few days would see me spend almost as much time in the water as above it. And as an added bonus the tannins in the water made my skin feel amazing.

After a combination of hitch-hiking and coaches we arrived in Noosa, a collection of small towns clustered around a beautiful beach and stunning rainforest. After Rachel and I fell out spectacularly (for only the second time, surprisingly) I spent a day wandering around Noosa's stunning national park. The scenery was absolutely breathtaking - gnarled trees, burnt bush, knotted vines and vast shrubs towered on either side of me as I made my way through the greenery and the koalas to the beach. Here, the vegetation melted away into colourful cliff faces and azure waters. I thought it was paradise. I was wrong...

Further up the coast we arrived at Rainbow Beach - the gateway to Fraser Island. We decided to self-drive around the world's largest sand island - a decision we'll always be glad we made. Teamed with eight other backpackers we were schooled in island life and the perils of sand (it really does get into places you didn't know existed) before being left to bond over a few beers. Rather than drinking these in the hostel we carried a crate to the top of Carlo Sandblow, a natural lookout point. After climbing a steep hill through the trees we emerged to something which shocked us all: on top of the cliff stood an enormous, steep-sided valley of sand. Formed as the wind picks up the sand and throws it further up the dunes, the sandblow is marching relentlessly up the coast. The trees which stand in the way are reduced to withered stumps. At the bottom of the valley the sand falls away into rainbow hued cliffs and raging tides. A brilliant precursor to an even better trip.

Loaded with food and alcohol, our 4x4 trundled off the barge and onto Fraser. Racing along the wet sand we headed almost a hundred kilometres, bumping over the washouts as we went. Pausing only to view the rusting wreckage of the Mehona shipwreck we pulled up to Indian Head, a beautiful cliff spur which points out into the ocean. We hiked to the top and spent the next half hour gazing into the foaming waters looking for (and spotting) sharks, turtles and rays swimming beneath the surface.

That night's campsite was erected after joining with four other jeeps of travellers and we cooked for each other, scared dingoes away, and became one with nature - not least when I was mildly surprised to see a two inch long spider inches from my face as I urinated up a tree. Thank heavens I was wearing my head torch. With a complete lack of artificial light the sky above us was a magical carpet of more stars than you can imagine.

After the sun rose, a bumpy, treacherous journey inland saw us descend upon the most amazing lake in the world. Lake McKenzie is crystal clear and the water is completely fresh: so pure in fact that there are no nutrients in it to support life. The water is filtered by the pure white sand which retains any impurities. For the second time in a matter of days I immersed myself, swimming underwater with my eyes open and enjoying every single second of being in what seemed like heaven on earth. Later that day a three-foot long goanna (a massive lizard) came to pay me a visit. Smelling me with his tongue, he licked me several times before deciding he didn't want to eat me. As he wandered off into the scrub I felt humbled to have had such a close encounter.

Further lakes, sandblows, arachnids and lizards followed, including close encounters with catfish and a headlong dive into Lake Wabby. Sadly there is very little pictorial evidence of this as I have broken my second camera in three weeks - a lense full of sand has put the brakes on my ambition to become the next David Bailey.
After little sleep on a red-hot, mosquito ridden island we hopped onto an uncomfortable overnight bus to Airlie Beach. Another sleepless night meant we were exhausted upon our arrival, but within minutes we were back on the adventure trail, leaping onto the Tongara - the aforementioned catamaran which would take us on a two day cruise of the Whitsundays: 74 islands with no inhabitants other than the ones who evolved there thousands of years ago. They are practically untouched by human hands, and all the better for it.

In my stinger suit, I again plunged into the water, walking amongst sharks and rays as they skimmed through the surf. I saw enormous turtles surfacing for air from the deck of our boat. I was soaked from above and below as a storm broke - saltwater splashing over my legs as the boat sliced through the ocean, fresh water soaking me from above as the rainbow disappeared behind torrents of rain. Eventually we arrived at the moment I’d been both dreading and looking forward to - diving into the open water and snorkelling. Initially fear gripped me every time I forget to breathe through my mouth - my panicky face broke the surface of the water every ten seconds or so. But eventually I adjusted to life face down in water, remembered that my nose was superfluous and began to enjoy myself. Swarms of fish and coral so inviting you almost wanted to touch it were absolutely everywhere - an accidental kick in the face from a fellow snorkeler became my biggest worry. A fear well and truly conquered. And I got deservedly hammered afterwards.

Travelling can sometimes be a lonely business. Friends come and go. People become very important to you very quickly and disappear just as fast. But drinking on the deck of the Tongara in the Whitsundays, many of those transient, temporary feelings faded away for a while: sandwiched between backpackers from Austria, Ireland, Australia, Germany and elsewhere, differences of language, religion, culture and all the other barriers which prevent people touching each other melted away... Our new friend Jerome plucked an acoustic guitar and held the whole group in rapture as he sang a song about the most French of institutions - the Champs D'Elysee.

The reason we travel.

Robert Makes A Point @ Robert's Point

With financial reality biting hard, Rachel struck out on her own by paying over $100 dollars to attack the face of Franz Josef Glacier with crampons and ice climbing gear. I settled on a tramp around the mountainside to the best vantage point i could find without paying for the privilege. Armed with my sophisticated ration pack (a bag of cookies, a litre of fruit juice and a can of insect repellent) and my ill fitting Adidas Sambas i set out on my solitary ascent to the pinnacle of the mountain.

After the picture postcard view over Paul's Pool i found myself picking through the pretty walkway to the beginning of the track. At that stage there seemed to be nothing to fear - carpets of green flecked with russet coloured pines discarded by the overhanging trees covered the forest floor. Low slung branches festooned with hanging mosses swayed just above my eyeline. Gradually the lush layer of vegetation gave way to increasingly large rocks and thick tree roots which coiled over the boulders like fat snakes searching for moist ground to sink their teeth into.

My journey to the top of the mountain followed the path of a river i could hear, but never see - the steep banks prevented me peering over to the water below. Sweat poured from every pore as the heat of the day took its toll on me. Thankfully i was protected from the sun by the forest canopy and cooled by splashing cold water from the streams over my face and neck.

As the terrain grew trickier i gingerly followed the curve of steep cliffs down and then up again. Rickety suspension bridges suitable only for one walker at a time wobbled and bounced under my weight. A startled deer crashed across the path just feet in front of me. I think i was more scared than him, but he didn't stick around to find out.

The air grew noticeably cooler the higher i got. My chest burned with every lungful of thin air as i climbed closer to the cloud cover. An icy blast to the face stung me as i turned the final corner and came face to face with layers of crusty snow like peaks of blue-white meringue. I could make out tiny figures on the face of the ice and assumed that Rachel must be one of the ant-like dots i could see. And with that, i could stand the cold no more...

It was a markedly more difficult descent as a misty drizzle descended. Everything underfoot become more slippery and decidedly more treacherous. I mistakenly believed that the wet air was due to my altitude, but soon realised that i was in the middle of a strong downpour.

Previously bone-dry creeks and crevasses flowed with icy water as rain deposited at the top of the mountain searched for the fastest way to the bottom. The roar of the river grew louder surprisingly quickly and by the time i reached the bottom had become a raging torrent. As soon as the rain stopped, however, steam began to rise from it as the sky sucked up what it had deposited minutes earlier.

So now our time in this magical country has come to an end. I'd love to have attacked New Zealand with all i had, bungeed, skydived, rafted and abseiled. Unfortunately lack of funds prevented that. But the real star of this country is the country itself. From firs to ferns, mountains to valleys, film sets to thermal springs, New Zealand has absolutely entranced us both. And it cost us virtually nothing to enjoy that.

A country of only four million people attracts half that many tourists each year and it's so easy to see why: roads are maintained impeccably, every town has an information centre, the ecology and terrain is protected to the hilt and the people are friendly, knowledgeable and justifiably proud of these two little islands in the southern hemisphere. There is absolutely no doubt in my mind that i'll return.

The Pol Pot Regime

For anyone who missed it the first time around or wishes to read it again, here's my (slightly edited) blog from Phnom Penh again, published alongside my photos for the first time...

Is it okay to take photographs of a mass grave? Is it morally acceptable for a tourist to record images of human remains? Does it demonstrate a lack of respect? These are questions we needed to ask ourselves today as we visited two of the most significant sites in the history of Cambodia: Tuol Seng Prison and the Killing Fields of Choueng Ek.

Less than thirty-five years ago, the tyrannical Pol Pot presided over a period of torture, oppression and genocide which decimated the population of Cambodia. Unthinkable horrors were perpetrated against anyone who opposed or were considered to be a threat to Pot’s Khmer Rouge regime. At least 1.8 million people (a quarter of the population) were simply exterminated. Yet somehow, against the background of the Vietnam War, the situation in Cambodia has largely escaped the notice of the Western world. The name of Pol Pot may be familiar to many back home, but the real story of the Khmer Rouge is less so.

And so to answer my initial questions: yes, I think it’s perfectly acceptable to take images away from these sites which can be shared with friends, family and anyone else who has any interest in humanity. When this blog was posted previously i put the photos on Facebook, but was unable to upload the images alongside my words. Now i can put some of those pictures together with what i wrote, which hopefully deepens the impact. I sincerely hope that those of you who see and read about Cambodia here will recoil in horror, cry in sympathy and maybe even do something to help.

Due to a shared border, Cambodia was sucked into the Vietnam conflict in the late sixties. US troops carpet-bombed areas of the country in an effort to flush out Viet Cong who were hiding there and eventually invaded Cambodia (along with Southern Vietnamese troops). This effort failed, and Cambodian communists joined forces with their Vietnamese allies. Fierce fighting ensued, and only ended when Cambodia’s capital, Phnom Penh, fell to Pol Pot’s Khmer Rouge on April 17th 1975.

What followed was one of the world’s most brutal and bloody revolutions. Declaring a new ‘Year Zero’, Pot abolished money, forced the people to abandon the cities in favour of the countryside, declared war on religion and free-thinking and attempted to set up a whole new system of oppressive rule centred around farming and ‘co-operation’.

In order to achieve this end, the vast majority of Cambodia’s educated people were systematically eradicated. Those who wore glasses were killed. Schoolteachers and academics were massacred. Those whose hands were not calloused by manual labour were murdered.
A truly stomach-churning visit to Tuol Seng prison emphasised exactly how bad the suffering had been. Formerly a school, the site was transformed into a hell on earth where humans were kept in battery-hen conditions. Systematic torture was commonplace, with all variety of implements used to inflict pain and suffering still on display. Water torture, drowning and beatings were commonplace and at one point an average of a hundred people died each day within the prison walls. Some cells remain untouched - rusty iron beds covered in shackles are a poignant reminder of the hurt inflicted. Darkened patches on the floor show where blood was spilled. Harrowing black and white images of prison ‘mug-shots’ give way to images of bleeding and starving inmates. When these photos are replaced by pictures of disfigured corpses it is difficult not to feel squeamish.

Only a small proportion of the prison’s inmates died in detention. The vast majority - thought to be around 17,000 - were transferred to the Killing Field at Chuoeng Ek. Here they were slaughtered and buried in mass graves. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything which affected me so much. Around half of the graves have been excavated and the bodies they contained preserved and encased in a white stupa. This tower contains approximately nine-thousand skulls and other bones. It’s possible to see the cause of death on most of them - rather than wasting valuable bullets the Khmer Rouge usually used blunt instruments, axes or knives to inflict fatal head wounds.

A walk around the site is even more harrowing. Each crater in the ground used to be full of corpses: some headless, some filled with women. As you move between these unmarked graves, items of clothing and even bones can be seen poking up through the ground - as the rain washes away the topsoil more and more human remains are revealed. Definitely the most upsetting sight is that of a tree which the Khmer Rouge used to commit infanticide: children and babies were swung head first by their legs into the trunk of the tree until their bodies fell limp. They were then thrown in a nearby grave. Close by was another tree which used to have a speaker dangling from it so that music could be played to drown out the sounds of murder and torture.

Everyone in Cambodia has been affected in some way: most people directly. Our tuk-tuk driver told us how his family were ‘disappeared’ for ‘further education’ never to be seen again. A whole generation of teachers, academics and scholars has only just begun to be replaced. The spectre of the Khmer Rouge looms large - justice has yet to be served on those behind the atrocities. Pol Pot died before he ever went to trial: a source of bitter and understandable resentment. But the Cambodians are resolute and good humoured - it’s testament to them that less than forty years on they are capable of being such gracious, smiling people.