After one last night of Thailandness, supping Chang and slurping spicy fish soups with some friendly Australians, we slid across the Mekong river in a longboat and set foot in Laos. It was immediately different to Thailand. We were dumped at a gloomy bus station with two hours to wait till our cramped, rusty bus would depart, feeling a little bit sulky; we’d become too accustomed to air-conditioned efficiency of Thailand.
Luckily, Laos is even more beautiful than everyone says it is. As the bus wiggled its way through the tangle of green trees, lazy brown rivers and jagged peaks, we soon forgot how squashed and sleepy we were.
Four hours later we arrived in Luang Nam Tha, a small town in the north of Laos. We jumped straight in, embarking on a three-day trek in the jungly hills that join Laos to China the following morning. We were joined by another English couple, Aimee and Rick; four Frenches – Anne-Laure, Jean-Phillipe, Herman and Audrey; and our silly, bouncy guides, Bien and Syvon. The guides braved the jungle in flip-flops, knew how to make just about anything from a stick of bamboo, burst into lung-curdling song every five minutes or so and laughed a lot at us sweaty “falangs”.
By day we traipsed through the dense, pulsating jungle, scrambling up muddy slopes and slip-sliding down the other side, teetering across streams and yanking leeches out of our socks. This is what you imagine travelling to be – charging through the jungle with a backpack and a giant stick, cooling off under waterfalls. But it was bloody hard work.
At lunchtime we would stop in a clearing while Bien and Syvon cooked up and laid out a feast on giant banana leaves: sweet gooey pumpkin curry, banana leaf soup, fried fish and sticky rice. Around 4pm each day we’d collapse at a village, our home for the night. The villages were like small farms, home to Akha and Black Tai tribes and their populations of chickens, ducks, pigs and dogs. The villagers live in wooden huts suspended in the sky on sticks. Like them, we bathed in streams before dinner, splashing around and scrubbing ourselves under sarongs.
The first village had no electricity so after a candlelit dinner we passed around shots of Lao-Lao, a rice whisky which makes your chest burn and freeze at the same time, then set off with Bien and Syvon for a spot of frog-hunting. We tiptoed around marshy rice-paddies in the starlight, listening to the frog chorus and blinking at the glimmering fireflies. It was quite lovely until Bien’s holler pierced the darkness: “Falang! How many frogs you have!” Er, none, obviously. Bien had his latest victim in his hand – we covered our eyes as he shoved a long metal stick through its head and threaded it down to join the pile of squirming frogs dangling below. You can guess what was for breakfast. Snails, chicken heads and bugs were all offered up throughout the trek, too – free-range organic wildlife that Joe gobbled up and made me glad to not eat meat.
Still, it was lovely waking up in the middle of nowhere to the mad beeping of fluffy chicks, cackling of a million ducks and grunting of happy pigs. The shy village people were much less vocal but smiley and accommodating.
We were all a mess by the time we arrived back at Luamg Nam Tha with aching legs, scratchy bites and with Bien’s favourite songs ringing in our ears: “I lose control! Because of you! Baby! …Dot dot!” and “I’m not a girl! Not yet a woman!”
Saturday, 29 May 2010
Sunday, 16 May 2010
Northern delights
Thailand got a lot more fun as we headed northwards. A slidey-seated bus and midnight Seven-Eleven breaks brought us our best friends for the next couple of weeks: Stephan, a bright-eyed Canadian bear; Sammy, an Australian trance-pixie; Julie, a sleepy Norwegian puppy and Anna, a Nottingham lass whose accent reminded me of home-home. We pulled up in Chiang Mai, bleary-eyed at 7am, at a guesthouse which just happened to be really cheap with nice rooms and a ruddy swimming pool. Thailand is so easy!
Chiang Mai is delightful - a nice small city, all clean and friendly and easy to walk around, with an “old city” marked by a moat, dotted with spangly temples, monasteries and markets. The city feels a bit European in places, with canals, a big river and tons of little coffee shops and cocktail bars. The ever-present sleazy sex-tourist bars, 40 degree heat and stray dogs remind you that this is Thailand.
We spent a couple of days exploring the wonderful markets and temples, eating deliciously cheap food and bonding over beers in bars that smelt of dog poo and wee or on the scruffy rooftop of our guesthouse.
We decided to explore the north by scooter, chugging 100-odd miles over the hills to Pai. The trip was really fun and scenic, only marred by Dave falling off and smashing up his scooter when he swerved to avoid a cow. But Pai was beautiful – a twinkly little hippie town tucked into the hills by a lazy river. We stayed in the aptly-titled Golden Huts, right by the river, with a lovely green garden full of flowers and hammocks. We could have stayed for weeks, but alas we had to return the scooters so bezzed it back to Chiang Mai.
Chiang Mai was starting to feel like home, and it was too easy to loll by the pool in the stifling 42 degree heat. So for some reason I thought it would be a good idea to book a day’s downhill mountain biking. We chose a trail for “beginners", but it was a complete nightmare. Scary and uncomfortable, I spent the whole route gripping the brakes in terror, skidding around, bumping into rocks and whimpering. Joe had the time of his life though, so it was worth it…and the scenery was pretty nice. We celebrated surviving with lots of red wine back in the old city.
Dave, Joe and me took a sweaty bus to Chiang Dao, a small jungly town a couple of hours from Chiang Mai which seems to be run by women. Taxi drivers, guest house owners, tour guides...they're all ladies. We stayed there for a night, visiting some damp and tangly caves full of bats and bat poo, then relaxing in the garden of our guest house with only foot-long geckoes for company. We were tucked up in our bungalows by 9pm.
Our friends had slowly gone their separate ways, and Dave was soon flying home. There was only one thing for it – we went to a fish spa. We sat with our legs dangling in tanks of water while shoals of small fishes nibbled the dead skin off our feet. It ticked like hell! Then we undid all the good work with a last night out in Changers, starting with football and margaritas, ending in a trashy, vomit-fragranced club called Spicy with a bottle of Sangsom, surrounded by trendy Thais, drunk sex tourists and dazed travelers humping each other to terrible music.
It’s time to go. I’m ready for a new country and excited about Laos.
Chiang Mai is delightful - a nice small city, all clean and friendly and easy to walk around, with an “old city” marked by a moat, dotted with spangly temples, monasteries and markets. The city feels a bit European in places, with canals, a big river and tons of little coffee shops and cocktail bars. The ever-present sleazy sex-tourist bars, 40 degree heat and stray dogs remind you that this is Thailand.
We spent a couple of days exploring the wonderful markets and temples, eating deliciously cheap food and bonding over beers in bars that smelt of dog poo and wee or on the scruffy rooftop of our guesthouse.
We decided to explore the north by scooter, chugging 100-odd miles over the hills to Pai. The trip was really fun and scenic, only marred by Dave falling off and smashing up his scooter when he swerved to avoid a cow. But Pai was beautiful – a twinkly little hippie town tucked into the hills by a lazy river. We stayed in the aptly-titled Golden Huts, right by the river, with a lovely green garden full of flowers and hammocks. We could have stayed for weeks, but alas we had to return the scooters so bezzed it back to Chiang Mai.
Chiang Mai was starting to feel like home, and it was too easy to loll by the pool in the stifling 42 degree heat. So for some reason I thought it would be a good idea to book a day’s downhill mountain biking. We chose a trail for “beginners", but it was a complete nightmare. Scary and uncomfortable, I spent the whole route gripping the brakes in terror, skidding around, bumping into rocks and whimpering. Joe had the time of his life though, so it was worth it…and the scenery was pretty nice. We celebrated surviving with lots of red wine back in the old city.
Dave, Joe and me took a sweaty bus to Chiang Dao, a small jungly town a couple of hours from Chiang Mai which seems to be run by women. Taxi drivers, guest house owners, tour guides...they're all ladies. We stayed there for a night, visiting some damp and tangly caves full of bats and bat poo, then relaxing in the garden of our guest house with only foot-long geckoes for company. We were tucked up in our bungalows by 9pm.
Our friends had slowly gone their separate ways, and Dave was soon flying home. There was only one thing for it – we went to a fish spa. We sat with our legs dangling in tanks of water while shoals of small fishes nibbled the dead skin off our feet. It ticked like hell! Then we undid all the good work with a last night out in Changers, starting with football and margaritas, ending in a trashy, vomit-fragranced club called Spicy with a bottle of Sangsom, surrounded by trendy Thais, drunk sex tourists and dazed travelers humping each other to terrible music.
It’s time to go. I’m ready for a new country and excited about Laos.
Monday, 3 May 2010
Sun, sea and Sangsom
After one final brain-meltingly spicy Bengali breakfast with Hollie and one last eye-boggling taxi ride out of Kolkata - being winked at by rickshaw drivers and marvelling at skinny men shampooing themselves in the gutter in the morning sun - we were on our way to Bangkok.
We were soon happily ensconced in the clean, air-conditioned restfulness of my uncle Andrew, aunty Ros and cousins Chloe and Toby's house in Bangkok. It was just what we needed - a comfy bed, homemade cookies courtesy of Toby, cold beer, a big swimming pool and trashy TV.
Two days later we made our way to Ko Samet. This is the closest little island to Bangkok, so was a perfect place to await delayed-by-Icelandic-volcanoes-Dave's arrival. It's hard to find a beach in Thailand which isn't beautiful, but Ko Samet's must be way up there: powdery white sand, warm, clear sea, shade from palm trees, fruit and pancake sellers ambling by. We spent our days lazing under the trees, and our nights doing what you do on a Thai island - sitting on cushions listening to bad music, drinking cocktail buckets and making friends.
It is ruddy hot in Thailand - I don't know why I thought it would be cooler than the subcontinent! And giant snappy mosquitoes add to the discomfort.
We scurried back to Bangkok to meet Dave, staying in sleazy sex-tourist-land, Sukhumvit, in a hotel with a very retro swimming pool and a staunch anti-sex-tourist policy. We peeked at the Red Shirt protests, and it was hard to see what all the fuss was about - it was more like a little festival, with peaceful protesters selling souvenir t-shirts and DVDs. We didn't hang around, though - we headed to Ko Chang for a few more days of seaside.
Ko Chang is (obviously) beautiful - sea as warm as a bubble bath and jungly hills rising to meet the hazy blue sky. More of the obscene heat, though. It's hard to relax when your brain is constantly melting and seeping out of your face. Chang is even more of a party town than Samet, and the music is slightly better, so we enjoyed some delicious ice cream cocktails and disgusting free Sangsom.
We escaped the heat one day by scootering to a waterfall with a pool of cold, dark water underneath, perfect for swimming in and if I sat on the slippery rocks for long enough, little fish came to nibble my feet. We also spent a day on a boat snorkelling between islands. That was when the monsoon chose to poke out a teasing oar - we ended the day shivering under towels as thunder crashed around us. It was bloody lovely.
We were soon happily ensconced in the clean, air-conditioned restfulness of my uncle Andrew, aunty Ros and cousins Chloe and Toby's house in Bangkok. It was just what we needed - a comfy bed, homemade cookies courtesy of Toby, cold beer, a big swimming pool and trashy TV.
Two days later we made our way to Ko Samet. This is the closest little island to Bangkok, so was a perfect place to await delayed-by-Icelandic-volcanoes-Dave's arrival. It's hard to find a beach in Thailand which isn't beautiful, but Ko Samet's must be way up there: powdery white sand, warm, clear sea, shade from palm trees, fruit and pancake sellers ambling by. We spent our days lazing under the trees, and our nights doing what you do on a Thai island - sitting on cushions listening to bad music, drinking cocktail buckets and making friends.
It is ruddy hot in Thailand - I don't know why I thought it would be cooler than the subcontinent! And giant snappy mosquitoes add to the discomfort.
We scurried back to Bangkok to meet Dave, staying in sleazy sex-tourist-land, Sukhumvit, in a hotel with a very retro swimming pool and a staunch anti-sex-tourist policy. We peeked at the Red Shirt protests, and it was hard to see what all the fuss was about - it was more like a little festival, with peaceful protesters selling souvenir t-shirts and DVDs. We didn't hang around, though - we headed to Ko Chang for a few more days of seaside.
Ko Chang is (obviously) beautiful - sea as warm as a bubble bath and jungly hills rising to meet the hazy blue sky. More of the obscene heat, though. It's hard to relax when your brain is constantly melting and seeping out of your face. Chang is even more of a party town than Samet, and the music is slightly better, so we enjoyed some delicious ice cream cocktails and disgusting free Sangsom.
We escaped the heat one day by scootering to a waterfall with a pool of cold, dark water underneath, perfect for swimming in and if I sat on the slippery rocks for long enough, little fish came to nibble my feet. We also spent a day on a boat snorkelling between islands. That was when the monsoon chose to poke out a teasing oar - we ended the day shivering under towels as thunder crashed around us. It was bloody lovely.
Tuesday, 27 April 2010
Darjeeling limited and shivering
Joe, Hollie and me decided to leave Bangladesh through its northern catflap, heading towards Darjeeling for some much-needed brr. This involved two bleary overnight buses - with a final Dhaka day inbetween with Abi and Chris on a whistlestop sightseeing tour of the old town markets, sitting in taxis and raging at Indian beaurocracy as we prayed for our re-entry passes.
Once we'd climbed the hills in a jeep, we were in Darjeeling. It was ruddy freezing, to our delight, but also very steep and higgledy-piggledy so we collapsed in our hotel gasping before heading out to drink beer in Joey's Pub. It had been a long time! It was lovely, and a dog fell asleep in my lap. It turns out we hadn't really remembered the way up the hill back to our hotel though, and were left to navigate during a pitch-black powercut, a thunderstorm and some very spooky clanging noises (the gadanga man...). We made it, and huddled down in our dank rooms marvelling at how early everything closes in these parts.
We rode the fabled Darjeeling toy train, explored the markets and beauty parlours, ate cake and, of course, drank tea. Darjeeling feels, and looks, more like Nepal than India, as do the people. We discovered a nice homely little restaurant run by a friendly family including a spiky-haired Radiohead-obsessive with brilliant English, so ate a lot of tasty curry and momos to the sound of Creep on repeat. The weirdest moment was walking past a convent school and spying a hall full of Indian children dancing in sombre rows to Peter Andre's Mysterious Girl.
Anyway, that was enough fresh air - we plummeted back to Kolkata amid a thunderstorm. It was good to be back, but to damn hot to even contemplate doing anything except sitting in an air-conditioned cinema watching 3D animation, or reading Bollywood and cricket gossip in the papers over mango lassis. I was developing an obsession with Shah Rukh Khan, which meant it was high time to leave India.
Once we'd climbed the hills in a jeep, we were in Darjeeling. It was ruddy freezing, to our delight, but also very steep and higgledy-piggledy so we collapsed in our hotel gasping before heading out to drink beer in Joey's Pub. It had been a long time! It was lovely, and a dog fell asleep in my lap. It turns out we hadn't really remembered the way up the hill back to our hotel though, and were left to navigate during a pitch-black powercut, a thunderstorm and some very spooky clanging noises (the gadanga man...). We made it, and huddled down in our dank rooms marvelling at how early everything closes in these parts.
We rode the fabled Darjeeling toy train, explored the markets and beauty parlours, ate cake and, of course, drank tea. Darjeeling feels, and looks, more like Nepal than India, as do the people. We discovered a nice homely little restaurant run by a friendly family including a spiky-haired Radiohead-obsessive with brilliant English, so ate a lot of tasty curry and momos to the sound of Creep on repeat. The weirdest moment was walking past a convent school and spying a hall full of Indian children dancing in sombre rows to Peter Andre's Mysterious Girl.
Anyway, that was enough fresh air - we plummeted back to Kolkata amid a thunderstorm. It was good to be back, but to damn hot to even contemplate doing anything except sitting in an air-conditioned cinema watching 3D animation, or reading Bollywood and cricket gossip in the papers over mango lassis. I was developing an obsession with Shah Rukh Khan, which meant it was high time to leave India.
Friday, 16 April 2010
Cox's bizzare
It was high time to get to the seaside. Hollie, Joe and me were reunited with Abi and Chris in the un-charming seaside resort of Cox's Bazaar, home to the longest natural beach in the world. Hotels are being thrown up on every spare centimetre of the place, and a stinking black stream runs parallel to the beach. But once you get to the beach, it all melts away.
It is a strange place indeed. The sun beats down, but the galeforce winds make it feel more like Norfolk than Bangladesh. People walk fully clothed into the warm, lolling ocean - Hollie and me wear our pyjamas. A man emerges from the waves brandishing a giant jellyfish. Two lifeguards lie together on a sun bed, stroking each other's faces. Huge dried fish hang on market stalls, the smell mingling with the putrid black stream which runs parallel to the sea to linger in our memories forever. Young men gallop past on ponies and, at one point, an elephant. We pay a boy of about 12 for sunbeds and umbrellas - whenever a small crowd gathers to stare at us, he beats them away with a stick. One girl fights back with a brick. On the third day we sit in someone else's patch by mistake, and our boy cries.
Like the rest of Bangladesh it's nigh-on impossible to buy alcohol anywhere. It just feels a bit more wrong by the sea. We do manage to find overpriced Gordon's gin and tonic in a hotel bar, served by a surly, judging barman and forced to listen to an Ace of Base album on loop as punishment for our wicked ways.
It is a strange place indeed. The sun beats down, but the galeforce winds make it feel more like Norfolk than Bangladesh. People walk fully clothed into the warm, lolling ocean - Hollie and me wear our pyjamas. A man emerges from the waves brandishing a giant jellyfish. Two lifeguards lie together on a sun bed, stroking each other's faces. Huge dried fish hang on market stalls, the smell mingling with the putrid black stream which runs parallel to the sea to linger in our memories forever. Young men gallop past on ponies and, at one point, an elephant. We pay a boy of about 12 for sunbeds and umbrellas - whenever a small crowd gathers to stare at us, he beats them away with a stick. One girl fights back with a brick. On the third day we sit in someone else's patch by mistake, and our boy cries.
Like the rest of Bangladesh it's nigh-on impossible to buy alcohol anywhere. It just feels a bit more wrong by the sea. We do manage to find overpriced Gordon's gin and tonic in a hotel bar, served by a surly, judging barman and forced to listen to an Ace of Base album on loop as punishment for our wicked ways.
Seven layers of sunshine and sweat
Srimongol sounded great - tea plantations, coolness and peace. It definitely wasn't cooler, but it was pretty. We were scooped up straight away by Khaled, a pint-sized, cowboy-hat-toting camp little fellow with an endearing stammer. Khaled runs a tour company which once owned a map, but lost it. We were allowed an afternoon on our own once we'd promised to spend the following day being shown around by him.
We went off on pedal bikes in search of the world-famous seven layer tea - I read about it in a tea magazine in Nottingham, no less - it's a top-secret family recipe only to be supped in Srimongol. It was delicious - each layer had a different taste, from ginger to lemon to extreme syrupy goo. Rejuvinated, we cycled through rice fields to be greeted by shy women and a mob of children, who shoved goats into our arms and chased us down the fields as we departed.
The next morning we set off with K-k-k-khaled in a rickshaw. Our first stop was a rainforest where pungent gibbons swung from trees and terrifying spiders the size of my hand strung webs across the path. We drove through lemon, pineapple and tea gardens and visited a picturesque lake full of l-l-l-lotus flowers. It was lovely but all too much for three weaklings from blustery grey isles - we were collapsed in our beds with chronic heat exhaustion by 4pm. Yikes.
Leaving Srimongol was pretty funny. We sat on the train platform with our bags to wait, and were soon surrounded by a circle of gawping faces, a crowd three deep. They just didn't know what to make of us. It would have been fine if the crowd hadn't been slowly increasing the temperature to about 50 degrees, but thankfully the station manager rescued us. He plonked us in his office behind his board of nonsensical flashing lights, sneered at our third-class tickets then made sure we were upgraded to a nice private carriage on the train. That barely stemmed the stares - cheeky little faces kept peeping through the millimetre of gap in the door, while some sneaksters just hauled it back to take pictures of us. There are a lot of sweaty mobile phone photos of us floating around Bangladesh now, that's for sure. So this is what it's like to be famous...
We went off on pedal bikes in search of the world-famous seven layer tea - I read about it in a tea magazine in Nottingham, no less - it's a top-secret family recipe only to be supped in Srimongol. It was delicious - each layer had a different taste, from ginger to lemon to extreme syrupy goo. Rejuvinated, we cycled through rice fields to be greeted by shy women and a mob of children, who shoved goats into our arms and chased us down the fields as we departed.
The next morning we set off with K-k-k-khaled in a rickshaw. Our first stop was a rainforest where pungent gibbons swung from trees and terrifying spiders the size of my hand strung webs across the path. We drove through lemon, pineapple and tea gardens and visited a picturesque lake full of l-l-l-lotus flowers. It was lovely but all too much for three weaklings from blustery grey isles - we were collapsed in our beds with chronic heat exhaustion by 4pm. Yikes.
Leaving Srimongol was pretty funny. We sat on the train platform with our bags to wait, and were soon surrounded by a circle of gawping faces, a crowd three deep. They just didn't know what to make of us. It would have been fine if the crowd hadn't been slowly increasing the temperature to about 50 degrees, but thankfully the station manager rescued us. He plonked us in his office behind his board of nonsensical flashing lights, sneered at our third-class tickets then made sure we were upgraded to a nice private carriage on the train. That barely stemmed the stares - cheeky little faces kept peeping through the millimetre of gap in the door, while some sneaksters just hauled it back to take pictures of us. There are a lot of sweaty mobile phone photos of us floating around Bangladesh now, that's for sure. So this is what it's like to be famous...
Bangles
Kolkata turned out to be my favourite big Indian city. It's green and higgledy-piggledy, full of beautiful buildings and smiling people. We spent an afternoon walking up the Hooghly, gobbling ice cream cones before they melted then wandering around the botanical gardens. The gardens are shady and free of traffic, and the world's biggest banyan tree is there: it's so big that all its wiggly trunks have separated to become its own little forest.
Sweaty and starving, we stumbled upon the mouldering staff canteen, begging for sustenance. The kind staff obliged: the four of us managed to eat lunch for a grand total of 32 rupees (50p) - egg, curry, bread and tea. Fit for a king.
Leaving India on the Maitree Express was a lovely experience. The Maitree is a shiny new train with private cabins, padded bed-seats and a constant supply of food (Indian or Bangla, depending which side of the border you happen to be on). We had to get off and wait around for a couple of hours on both sides of the border, which was long but entertaining.
Once we got moving through Bangladesh the scenery was stunning, all juicy green fields and glassy rivers with tiny brown heads popping out.
The peace ended at Dhaka, another big smelly city. Here, we were completely engulfed in the love of the Bangladeshis; the concrete chaos didn't seem too much of a drag when the people were so wonderful. Everywhere we walked there was a little ripple of smiles, squeaks of "How are you!" and people rushing over for a chat. Banglas are so sweet and friendly and silly that the constant stares and questions aren't annoying. They also seem to love having their picture taken, which is fine by me.
The best bits of Dhaka were in the little lanes of the old town, all fragrant markets, grand mosques, decorated rickshaws and colourful bazaars. We walked down to the bustling riverside ghat to see the boats and the Pink Palace, and found ourselves in a frantic melon market. Ruddy enormous melons!
The food in Bangladesh is a bit tricky for a non-meat eater; the restaurants we go to don't have menus or much English so we mainly have to pick mutton, chicken or fish and see what arrives.
After a few days we were more than ready to leave the city. Abi and Chris left for Chittagong to visit Abi's childhood lands, while we met up with Hollie and got on a train to Srimongol.
Sweaty and starving, we stumbled upon the mouldering staff canteen, begging for sustenance. The kind staff obliged: the four of us managed to eat lunch for a grand total of 32 rupees (50p) - egg, curry, bread and tea. Fit for a king.
Leaving India on the Maitree Express was a lovely experience. The Maitree is a shiny new train with private cabins, padded bed-seats and a constant supply of food (Indian or Bangla, depending which side of the border you happen to be on). We had to get off and wait around for a couple of hours on both sides of the border, which was long but entertaining.
Once we got moving through Bangladesh the scenery was stunning, all juicy green fields and glassy rivers with tiny brown heads popping out.
The peace ended at Dhaka, another big smelly city. Here, we were completely engulfed in the love of the Bangladeshis; the concrete chaos didn't seem too much of a drag when the people were so wonderful. Everywhere we walked there was a little ripple of smiles, squeaks of "How are you!" and people rushing over for a chat. Banglas are so sweet and friendly and silly that the constant stares and questions aren't annoying. They also seem to love having their picture taken, which is fine by me.
The best bits of Dhaka were in the little lanes of the old town, all fragrant markets, grand mosques, decorated rickshaws and colourful bazaars. We walked down to the bustling riverside ghat to see the boats and the Pink Palace, and found ourselves in a frantic melon market. Ruddy enormous melons!
The food in Bangladesh is a bit tricky for a non-meat eater; the restaurants we go to don't have menus or much English so we mainly have to pick mutton, chicken or fish and see what arrives.
After a few days we were more than ready to leave the city. Abi and Chris left for Chittagong to visit Abi's childhood lands, while we met up with Hollie and got on a train to Srimongol.
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