50 in the shade (if you can find any)

Yes, that's right, I didn't know temperatures went that high, but they do, in Pakistan in the summer, and I rode right through the middle of it. Since the last update from Dharamsala, I've holidayed in two of the world's most notorious hotspots (Peshawar and Quetta), endured hours of police escorts, and I am now recovering in Bam from a spot of heat exhaustion (read - extreme diahorrea). I'm still travelling with T-bone, my intrepid German companion.

I would normally have steered clear of Peshawar, but I had received a strong recommendation for a tour guide there, and when I contacted the Prince he assured me that all was well. The ride from Islamabad was fairly straightforward until I got a puncture about 20km outside Peshawar. There was a big chard of metal in the tyre, so it went down pretty quick and gave me a big speed wobble at about 100kph. Fortunately there was a tyre shop about 50 metres away, so after taking the back wheel off, I paid the grand sum of 50 rupees and spared myself the trouble of changing the tube.

Pimp my bus - Peshawar style

On arriving in Peshawar, we checked in at the Rose Hotel and called the Prince, who came out to meet us with his colleague Hussain. While I was waiting for the Prince, I went across the road to a tyre shop to see if I could find a replacement inner tube (for a Transalp? Not easy...), where they told me that the Taliban had bombed an internet cafe in Peshawar earlier in the day with many casualties - I decided the situation was sufficiently hazardous for me to stay off Facebook for a few days. The Prince and Hussain arrived and they were an absolute blast, so we decided to stay in Peshawar for a couple more days so that they could give us the full tour. On the way up to their office, there was a loud bang which sounded suspiciously like a bomb blast, but the Prince assured me it was a wedding - he later fessed up that it was a bomb, but he didn't want to worry us on day one...

Local dress to help us blend in
(although the T-bone looks more like a Parisian painter???)

Fun and games with the Prince

The next couple of days were a laugh - the Prince (who really is a Prince) was a constant source of entertainment and Hussain was a constant source of political debate. We enjoyed fantastic Pashtun cuisine (i.e., meat), we visited architectural wonders, mausoleums, schools, markets...

In a 350-year old house in Peshawar

Dining out Pashtun-style

We met with the local tribal leader, which was a bit like meeting the Wizard of Oz - he was about 35 years old and his inner sanctum was like a teenager's bedroom, with posters, toys, a big TV... and lots of guns. We took the obligatory 'western tourist grinning inanely with an AK47' photographs, which will not be appearing on this blog in case I ever attain high public office and you decide to use them against me.

Is it loaded? If you have to ask...

Making bricks = donkey work

I then had to visit Islamabad again to collect my visa from the Iranian Embassy (come back at 4pm the next day - NO EXCEPTIONS!). Rather than spend another night in the dump that is the tourist campsite, T-bone and I rode up to the hill resort of Murree. It provides welcome relief from the heat of the plains, but has a big problem with touts. After being hassled by the same half dozen or so, that apparently work for every hotel in the town, I had worked up quite a temper, so it was not a good time for the local policeman to pull me over and tell me that I did not have a registration plate on the front of my motorcycle, and my bike was overloaded. After the overloading I've seen over the past few months, the reaction he got was sufficient for him to wave me on quickly...

I then embarked on the long slog across Pakistan to the Iranian border. There are three routes across to Quetta: very unsafe, unsafe, and moderately unsafe. We had originally planned to take the latter, but we figured that we could take about 200km off the journey by riding across the mountains through Lorelei (the 'unsafe' route). Unfortunately the plan came unstuck fairly quickly - we arrived in Dera Ghasi Khan to be greeted first by the traffic police, then by the real police, and finally by some shady looking 'military intelligence' in plain clothes. Our conversation did not get off to a good start - they asked me for my passport, I asked for their ID, they didn't have any... it was made clear to us that we were not to stay in DG Khan, and I was escorted back 100km to Multan. In Multan, the first two hotels I tried were 'full' (read - I don't want this Taliban-magnet in my hotel)... I finally found an overpriced room, but by that point I was beyond caring. We later found out that there was a bombing in DG Khan a couple of months ago that killed 30 people which explains why the locals were a bit twitchy...

Next day, we elected to play it safe and take the longer route to Quetta via Sukkur. Other than being extremely hot, the ride to Sukkur was fairly uneventful. In Sukkur we receieved the same 'no room at the inn' treatment from the locals and ended up paying a bit more than we would have liked (3,600R) at the Inter-Pak Hotel.

Riding through the desert

On the final 400km ride up to Quetta, we had a police escort most of the way. Other than one old Toyota pick-up that couldn't manage more than 45kph, we cruised along at about 90kph so the escorts didn't really hold us up much. They were always very polite and considerate, and we had a chai break every time we switched escorts at the end of each district (far more pleasant than the Iranian escorts - more of that later). I'm not sure how effective they'd be if we saw any trouble, but fortunately it never came to that...

My guardian angels - I feel much safer now...

This was probably the hottest day of the entire trip - in Sibi, the locals told me that this is the hottest place in Asia, and a quick check online confirmed that the maximum temperature on the day that we passed through was 50 degrees (and it felt it!). It's not too bad when you're cruising on the bike, although I managed to drink about 10 litres of water in one day.

Quetta had some pretty stern security, and really felt like it was on the edge of a war zone. We were passed by a convoy of trucks carrying new toys for the US Marines in Afghanistan - I don't know exactly what was under the tarpaulins, but I'm pretty sure that Teledyne don't make washing machines... But all in all, another friendly Pashtun town, and we stayed at the excellent Bloom Star hotel.

From Quetta, there was a gruelling 650km ride to the border at Taftan. To make things even more interesting, we heard that a group of French tourists had attempted the same trip a couple of days earlier, and were ambushed by Al Qaeda - one of them was kidnapped and is still missing. So security was stepped up even further, although I think the police were more afraid than we were (after all, nobody was going to bother kidnapping them...). This manifested itself in Taftan, the final town before the border, where we were unceremoniously dumped at the Customs House by the final police escort at dusk. We spent our final night in Pakistan sleeping rough in an unguarded truck park, deep in unfriendly territory - not the best recipe for a good night's sleep... Next stop, Iran!

Final resting place in Pakistan...

Pakistan - it's a man's world

The last update came from Dharamsala in northern India, where I was enjoying a few days of R&R at the excellent Hotel Akant Lodge after a tough week in the Spiti Valley. I changed the oil at a local workshop. The oil filter on the Transalp is not well protected by the bashplate, and it had obviously seen a few big rocks - it was totally bent out of shape, but fortunately it wasn't punctured. From there, we had a relaxing day's ride down to Amritsar except for the last 100km where we were playing Tata-roulette with big trucks overtaking cars, bicycles, ox-carts... I'm now in Gilgit in the far north of Pakistan after a mad dash up the Karakorum highway - more of that later - and I'm planning to stay here for a week before travelling back through Baluchistan to Iran.

Amritsar was a bit of a pilgrimage. In September 1997 I stayed at Mrs Bandari's guest house, where I met an Australian couple travelling up to Europe on a BMW motorcycle. That was the inspiration for this trip, so I was keen to stay there again. We camped in the beautiful gardens, and although it is no longer mentioned in the Lonely Planet, it is still as welcoming as I remember it, even though Mrs Bandari died a couple of years ago (aged 101).

Through a connection, we were able to visit a company in Jalandar than builds buses for Mercedes Benz India. The road from Amritsar to Jalandar was one of the most dangerous I've seen - it's under construction, and every few kilometres it switches from dual carriageway to contraflow with no warning - total chaos at 100kph... Indian drivers really are the worst I have experienced in any country, and after weeks of pent up road rage, I finally lost it and landed a well-placed boot in the passenger door of a Maruti Suzuki that had cut me up (if they're within range, they're fair game in my book)...

The Sutlej bus factory in Jalandar was a trip. We were hosted by Bernard, an engineer who had been sent by Mercedes to teach the Indians how to build buses like the Germans. After two years he was reaching the conclusion that this was an impossible task. He was under a lot of pressure because the order book was fairly thin and the family obviously had complete faith in this German whizz to rescue the company. He told us about all the challenges he faced - he had even been attacked by buzzards that were circling overhead. Just as we were preparing to leave, there was a swoosh and another buzzard swooped down and took a chunk out of his scalp! "OK", he says, "now I get a gun!"

Next day we took a quick look at the Golden Temple, and headed to the Pakistan border at Wagah. We were warmly greeted at the Pakistan side with a plate of gulub jamun. At 6:30pm the flag ceremony began , with large crowds on either side of the fence to watch the rabble-rousing chants, pythonesque high-stepping, and haka-like grimacing that is the nightly closing of the border.

Bordering on the ridiculous...

From there, it was a quick dash to Lahore to stay at the Regal Internet Inn, which seems to be the place to stay (which makes me wonder what the other hotels in the city are like). Already, Pakistan felt totally different to India - the city was more open and modern, the welcomes were warmer, and in the evening the smell of beef on the barbecue was never far away (as opposed to the smell of burning plastic).

On Wednesday, our group had a big parting of ways, with three of the Germans starting on the 3-4 day trip to the Iranian border. I headed north with Thomas Bohn, hereafter known as 'T-bone' or 'Boner' ('TaliBohn' was also considered but we're not making those jokes right now). The motorway to Islamabad begins with 3 lanes in either direction but we soon discovered that this was no autobahn as we encountered donkey-carts, tractors travelling in the wrong direction, buses stopping to pick up school kids in the fast lane, and even an old man salvaging grains of wheat from a broken sack in the middle of the road. Not to mention the speed bumps...

Islamabad is a new city build specifically for government buildings, and looks suspiciously like Milton Keynes. We stayed at the much heralded Tourist Campsite which was a huge disappointment. The manager was extremely beligerant, told us Islamabad was not safe, and then insisted that we camp right next to the road in the filthiest part of his near-empty campsite. Now I'm no security expert, but I quite liked the idea of putting the French motorhome between my tent and the road in case the bullets started flying. A brief stand-off occurred, but suddenly we were best of friends and I could camp wherever I wanted. We shared the campsite with one French and one German couple who had spent 10 days there and quite liked it (why?????), and about 30 Frontier Constabulary troops who had clearly not been told that it's impolite to point an automatic rifle at your midriff while they're practising their English with you. And they had made a real mess of the toilet block...

Next day I headed to the Iranian Embassy to pick up my visa. When I asked if I could collect my passport the same day, I was given the ambiguous 'Inshallah, inshallah' and sent off to deposit money in a local bank and make photocopies of my passport. Well bugger Inshallah, because after 2 hours of waiting around I was told it would be ready the next working day, and because it was a Thursday that meant Monday. I was not inclined to hang around in Islamabad for 4 days, so I grabbed my passport back and by 12:30 we were heading at full speed for the Karakoram Highway.

We were hoping to cover some ground and possibly reach Bisham by nightfall, but at the first stop for petrol we were ushered into a very smart office by a very important looking gentleman who welcomed us warmly to Pakistan, gave us a glass of apple juice, and insisted that on our return trip we come and stay in his village. That pretty much set the tone for the whole journey - every time the bike stops, people are very keen to have a conversation. At Haripur we stopped for lunch, and when we told the locals that were we planning to stay in Bisham, they laughed and said "Taliban! Taliban!". Good joke, guys...

In the end, we only made it as far as Mansehra, where we stayed at the overpriced Karakoram Hotel. I was not much reassured by the old guy at the gate with a double-barrelled shotgun, but at least he was first in the firing line if there was any trouble. Next day, we set off at 6am because we wanted to cover the entire 460km to Gilgit. We knew that the road would be rough and is prone to landslides, and we had to run the gauntlet through the Swat District and Kohistan, which are not known to be particularly tourist friendly. I had read online that the Pakistani Army was currently engaged in a full-scale offensive against the Taliban in the Swat Valley, and although the highway passes through the Swat District about 50km from the front line, it runs along a parallel valley (the Indus river) and is not affected by the fighting.

No left turn...

I was a little on edge when I saw a company of Pakistani soldiers on patrol with weapons drawn, but the only trouble we experienced was with the Pashtun kids, who are crack shots with their catapults. Fortunately, at 60kph I am safely out of range by the time the little buggers have loaded. This is not so good for T-bone who usually rides behind me, and he took three direct hits...

We made good time and by mid-afternoon we were out of the North West Frontier Province and into the Northern Areas, which are a lot more friendly. The whole ride up the Karakoram along the Indus river was beautiful, and late in the day we were treated to a great view of Nanga Parbat, the 9th highest mountain in the world at over 8,100 metres. Arriving in Gilgit was fantastic - it's a vibrant, friendly town. We checked in at the Madina Hotel, an overlanders' favourite, where the staff are totally in tune with the needs of the long distance traveller. I think it's my favourite hotel on the entire journey so far. There's a Slovakian couple travelling to India by Jeep, and a German girl travelling alone through Pakistan on a Transalp (truly hardcore!).

In the Hindu Kush, with man's best friend...

We hung around in Gilgit for a few more days to catch the start of the polo season, which was fairly full-on - I think Prince Charles would have been lucky to escape with just a broken arm playing with this lot.

I hope those things have better brakes than my Transalp...

Then we pushed further north to the Chinese border and the Khunjerab Pass - the highest point on the trip so far at 4,800 metres (and boy was it cold...). Unfortunately it's nearly impossible to get permission to take vehicles into China so we had to turn back, but since there were no guards at the border, we thought nobody would mind if we just went a little bit further...

At 4,800 metres in China

I may already have waxed lyrical about the Himalayas in Nepal and India, but the Hindu Kush is really something else - photos don't do it justice, but I'm told that the Hunza Valley was the inspiration for James Hilton's Shangri-La.

Rakaposhi - from my hotel balcony...

Next stop is Peshawar - I know it's a little dicey at the moment, but we have a guide lined up who has promised to keep us out of trouble...

Incredible India

OK, I admit to having been a bit skeptical about India. Overlanders don't always give it a good write-up, complaining about terrible driving, the overcrowded cities, and the oppressive heat. But while I've experienced a bit of each of these (and a lot of the first), India has turned out to be (as advertised) an incredible experience.

I'll pick up the story in Pokhara, Nepal. After doing the Jomson Trek with the Germans on rented mopeds, I headed west with them to Mahendranagar and the Indian border. The Nepali immigration folks were not too impressed that I had overstayed my visa by 5 days, and slapped me with a $45 fine before I could leave the country.

And I thought my ass was hairy (sorry mum!)

Across the border into India, the plan was to push on along the 74 Highway towards Dehradun, but navigating in India was a nightmare . Entering a town, we were typically faced with a crossroad. Straight ahead would lead into the market and a maze of alleys, leaving a choice of left or right, with no signposts to indicate which one would lead back to the 74. Furthermore, the 'main' (i.e., paved) road took long detours away from the route that was marked on the map as the 74. Eventually, we all ended up in Kashipur, having made much slower progress than expected and having taken a variety of roads to get there!

From Kashipur, I had resolved to split from the Germans and go solo again. I really wanted to see Dehradun and Rishikesh, where the Beatles stayed in an ashram and wrote a lot of the White Album. But Rishikesh turned out to be a fairly unremarkable (i.e., unpleasant) Indian town, and Dehradun turned out to be a fairly unremarkable (i.e., unpleasant) Indian city. To make matters worse, I didn't have a Lonely Planet for the area, so finding a reasonable hotel was hard work.

Next morning, I was feeling a bit sorry for myself - I realised that I was actually missing the Germans! Traveling solo in SE Asia was a lot of fun because it was never difficult to find a bar and meet the locals or other travellers. But India is different - people don't seem to go out and enjoy themselves, so meeting people is more of a challenge. Additionally, I was planning to ride the Spiti Valley, but I didn't want to do it alone because it involved about 800km in some very remote areas. So my solo travel lasted just 24 hours, and in Shimla I met up with the Germans again.

Shimla was a lot more pleasant than Dehradun, and I stayed at the charming Spar's Lodge. Parking was on the street, but the hotel was opposite the Lieutenant General's house, and the Gurkha sentries were more than happy to keep an eye on the bike. In Shimla, I finally had a breakthrough in the Great Tyre Hunt. I had heard of a guy called Vijay Parmar who runs a rally each year called the Raid de Himalaya. Turns out that Vijay is quite well known, because when I asked at the hotel if they knew where I could find him, they directed me straight to Motoworld, his workshop.

Vijay turned out to be quite a character. He told me all about the Raid de Himalaya, in which 150 motorbikes and 4WDs race around the mountains. It's been running for 10 years and has an attrition rate of 75%. He gave us a lot of information on our planned tour of the Spiti Valley, and confirmed which passes were closed. He loaded some of the rally stages onto my GPS for us to follow. But most importantly, Vijay had a couple of spare rear tyres that would fit my Transalp, so I was able to leave his workshop with a nearly new Bridgestone BattleWing - perhaps a bit too road-oriented for riding in the Spiti Valley, but hopefully good enough to get me as far as Turkey. As for the front tyre, it will just have to last (I don't use it that much anyway, heh heh). I also blagged a set of rear brake pads from the Germans (just trying to lighten their load...).

Race HQ for the Raid de Himalaya

In Shimla, we had a couple of encounters with other overland bikers. I was parking my bike near The Mall when I saw a yellow BMW 1200GS. Turned out it was Pascal and Arja. They're riding from Australia to Europe too, and we had exchanged emails a few times previously. A couple of hours later, another BMW saw our bikes parked at the side of the road and pulled up - this time it was Mark and Maggie Alsenbach, who are also doing Australia-Europe. I'd spoken with Mark a few times in preparation for the trip. So we had our biggest overlanders dinner since Bangkok, with nine attendees, and probably had the biggest party that sleepy Shimla has seen for some time...

Next morning we set off for the Spiti Valley. We knew that we couldn't complete the loop from Shimla to Manali because an 18km stretch between the Kunzum and Rohtung Passes was still and would not be open for another month. But we planned to do about 90% of the loop and turn back at Losar. On the first day, we covered about 150km to Sangkla. We stopped for lunch in Nagarta, where we ran into Drew, who had travelled up from Delhi alone and was a regular rider in the area. It was really nice to meet an Indian that showed a genuine enthusiasm for our trip - just like in Nepal, the locals normally skip any kind of welcome or introduction, and launch straight into the Three Questions ("How much does your bike cost?", "What mileage can it do?", "How many cc?"). Drew and I agreed to ride to Leh in a couple of years on Royal Enfields, and it's a commitment I intend to keep!

On the final stretch, we got our first taste of some of the terrain we would encounter... dirt road carved into a vertical cliff face... with no barriers... and blind hairpins... with the occasional oncoming truck to add a bit more excitement. That night, we stayed at the Hotel Kinner Kailash, where the staff were excellent, the dal baht was delicious, and we were given plenty of blankets because we were already at 2,800 metres.

View from the Hotel Kinner Kailash, Sangkla

You can just make out the road near the top of the picture... and the river 500 metres below

Next day we continued to the end of the road at Chitkul, where the mountain views were stunning. We then turned around and headed to Nako, hacking our way through some massive construction sites where new hydro-electric plants were being built. Half of India's entire electricity consumption is generated in this area, so there's a lot of activity. But past Pooh, the dams end and the landscape is beautiful.

Nako at dawn

After Nako, we rode on to Kaza. We arrived mid-afternoon, and decided to try one of the loops in the Raid de Himalaya that goes up to Kibber, the world's highest motorable village, and to the monasteries at Kibber and Komik.

The Spiti Valley - no further comment required!

The road was pretty treacherous - it hadn't been cleared of landslides so we were bouncing over 6-inch rocks on precarious tracks with some pretty hairly drop-offs. If that wasn't challenging enough, we were now above the snowline and meltwater made the track extremely muddy - I was starting to regret having switched to road tyres in Shimla. At Komik, the GPS showed that we were at almost 4,500 metres. The thin air didn't really bother me, but the Transalp was struggling, even in first gear. At the monastery in Komik, we were invited in for chai by the friendly monks. 200 metres later, the road was completely blocked by snow - end of the ride, and we backtracked to Kaza.

All-conquering heroes...

We'd heard that the road was blocked with snow about 10km past Losar, and if we couldn't make it all the way to Manali, we were determined at least to ride to the very end. Past Losar, the track got very bad - we were hacking through 10ft snow cuttings, and snow and meltwater was making for very slippery conditions.

Fine line between bravery and stupidity...


Better than skiing


Where we came from...


... and where we'd like to go

Eventually we reached the end of the line, just as promised. The road crew got quite a surprise when four bikes slithered around the final bend, but we received a warm welcome and chai all round.

End of the line - with the road clearing crew

It was 3pm and we were exhausted by the time we got back to Kaza, so we decided to stay another night . I didn't mind the fact that we were retracing our steps, because the scenery was so beautiful and it was worth enjoying the views from the other direction. At Sumdo, Claus decided he wanted to see the Tibet border, so we headed off along a side road. Just past the village of Gua, a concerned looking Indian soldier came running over, and we were invited to join him in his bunker for a chat.

Are you sure that you're not Chinese spies?

The conversation went something like this:

Concerned Indian Soldier: "What are you doing here? Don't you know this is a restricted area?"

Overland Biker: "Er, we wanted to have a look at Tibet"

CIS: "You must leave this area immediately. Would you like a cup of chai?"

OB: "Yes please!"

CIS: "Would you like to have a look at a 500-year old mummy?"

OB: "Why not!"

And that's how we found a 500-year old Tibetan mummy...

We finished our Spiti Valley tour with a night at the Golden Apple in Kalpa, which is a beautiful town just north of Rekong Peo. We then cut up the Tirthan valley and over the Jalori Pass. Already the countryside looked very different - much greener and more fertile. We camped by a reservoir in Largi, and pressed on to McLeod Ganj, just north of Dharamsala, a Tibetan community where the Dalai Lama lives in exile (and a very well-developed tourist spot). I'd been here 12 years ago - it's a fabulous part of India and it was fun to retrace my steps. A rest day gave me the opportunity to change the oil (lightening the German's load by a further 3kg - didn't they realise you can buy oil in India???!!!) and clean the air filter. Next stop is Amritsar, and then on to... Pakistan!

Mustang by moped! (don't tell the rental company)

It was Guido that cracked the Annapurna problem - how could I ride to Muktinath without detroying my Transalp? Simple - rent a moped and destroy that instead! In fact, it seemed like such a good idea that the Germans followed suit, and we duly set off on the Jomson trail with a mixed bag of three Bajaj Pulsars, a Hartford VR and a Yamaha FZ (OK, not technically mopeds, but collectively about the same engine capacity as an Africa Twin...)

Past Beni, the going was tough, and it took us 5 hours to reach Ghasa from Pokhara. By mid-afternoon, I had recorded the first spill of the trip as I fired my Pulsar up a rocky slope a little too vigorously, and pogoed my way into a stone wall. One wing mirror down. We stayed at the excellent National Hotel in Upper Ghasa, where we enjoyed some well-deserved momos, dal baat, and a few beers.

Next morning, we had our first casualty proper. Claus's Pulsar refused to start, and after an hour of bump-starting, kick-starting, and anything else we could think of, a local mechanic confirmed our worst fears - seized engine. Arrangements were made to take the bike back to Pokhara by truck, and we continued. After Ghasa, the road actually improved. We were in Jomsom within 2 hours, and we reached Muktinath at 4:30pm - about half way round the Annapurna Circuit, and at 3,800m, the highest point that can be reached by vehicle. Not much of a view that late in the day, but a real sense of achievement.

All hail the moped mountaineers!

We had just turned around and hoped to be back in Tukuche by nightfall, when I got a puncture. Not the best time and place to remove the rear wheel on a shonky old Indian motorbike, but with the help of two German mechanical engineers, we had it fixed in about an hour and made it back to Jomsom and treated ourselves to Yak steaks (and beer).

There was a bit of rain overnight, so when we got up the next morning, the air was clear and we were rewarded with some near-perfect views of the Annapurnas.

The big white mountains all look a bit the same,

but I think this is Annapurna I and Annapurna South...

We spent a few hours taking a lot of photos, but eventually we had our quota of big white mountains and started back for Pokhara. At that point, the elements turned against us and we endured a pretty heavy thunderstorm, which made the already tough conditions even more treacherous. When we returned the mopeds, the final tally was: one seized engine, one broken subframe, one bent handlebar, one broken mirror, one scratched exhaust cover, one bent engine bar, and various other cuts and grazes. The rental company stung us for about 28 quid in damages - I hate to think what I would have done to my Transalp on that route...

So long, Himalayas (for now...)

Heading for the hills...

I've been in Pokhara, Nepal, for the last four days, getting a really good fix of the internet, good food and good company. Sure, people will complain that Pokhara is too touristy these days, but I was definitely ready for a shower and a steak..

After Kathmandu, I headed east with the Germans. They were committed to reaching a hill town called Taplejung - I'm still not sure how this plan originated, but I was happy to travel with them on their odyssey for a few days.

We hacked our way out of Kathmandu along some horrific roads that were little more than a series of potholes (henceforth referred to as NRBs, or Nepalese Rim Benders), joined together by a small amount of tarmac. The first rule of Nepalese roads is: largest vehicle has right of way. The second rule of Nepalese roads is: LARGEST VEHICLE has right of way. The third rule is: liberal honking of horn is encouraged, but it won't really make a difference.

The worst thing about the road is the buses and trucks. They are painted in garish colours. They have ear piercing, multi-tone airhorns that are used every few seconds. They give way for nobody. And they belch dense black smoke, which is stings your eyes, coats your skin and clothes, and the effect it has on your lungs does not bear thinking about. And you have to overtake one every 30 seconds or so. While avoiding NRBs.

We made it out of Kathmandu, and after Dhulikhel we enjoyed about 20km of smooth, quality tarmac that meandered across a range of hills with plenty of blind corners. Unfortunately it was only 1.5 lanes wide, which is fine for a motorbike and a truck to pass, but doesn't leave much margin for error.

Further on, the road followed the Sun Kosi river along a deep valley. First the tarmac gave way to hard dirt, then sand... quite a surprise since this was marked on the map as a major highway, but we still had a lot to learn about Nepalese roads...



Every few kilometres the valley narrowed and the track snaked its way up hundreds of feet in a series of switchbacks, and then descended just as quickly again.

This bit's a little steep...

The track ran along ledges with sheer drop-offs for hundreds of metres, which certainly focused the mind on keeping the bike upright. This was tough riding, and there were a few fallers...

Oops, I did it again...

At one stage, we found a pedestrian footbridge across the Sun Kosi that was a couple of hundred metres long. No sooner had I mentioned that it would be amusing to ride over the bridge, Rainer was half way across, the the great amusement of the local kids. It wasn't until he was at the other side that he found the flaw in his plan - there was a set of steps, and the bridge was too narrow for him to turn around. 15 seconds to cross going forwards, 15 minutes in reverse...

Rainer, GET DOWN from there...

By 5:30pm, we were still at least an hour's ride from Bimeswar and it was starting to get dark. We bought some instant noodles and bottled water in a small village, and soon found a large grassy floodplain - a perfect spot to camp. As if by magic, a dozen or so local kids appeared, so we circled the wagons and issued stern rebukes to anyone who entered the compound. We were soon tucking into noodles and Marian's delicious homemade pesto, followed by a cheeky schnapps (I was doing my best to lighten the German's luggage by consuming all their provisions...).

The perfect campground?

Next day it wasn't long before we were back on tarmac again, and what a piece of tarmac! For sheer twistiness, this surpassed anything I'd seen in Thailand!

Doesn't get much better than this...

Another one for the bikers

We pressed on, and decided to spend the night in Janakpur, which turned out to be a bit of a dive. We checked in at the Rama Hotel, which was pretty unfriendly, but the Chief of Police was staying there with his retinue, so at least the bikes were safe.

A quick survey of the damage from the previous day's ride showed that the Transalp fared significantly better than the Africa Twins, which suffered a ruptured rear brake pipe, some sheared bolts, and a few missing mirrors. Hopefully it's just teething troubles for my travelling companions, but it makes me realise that I've been extremely lucky to have had no mechanical issues so far, in spite of some spirited riding and a few spills. A local mechanic was found, and it turned out that the brake pipe from Hero Honda fits the Africa Twin just fine, as do the mirrors...

Back on the road, we had an uneventful ride along the Mahendra Highway except for a few public protests, and we stayed at the Kamakshya Hotel in Damak, where Mohan provided claen rooms, great food, and secure parking for the bikes.

Bad day at the office? Burn a tyre...

Having travelled east almost to the Indian border along the Nepali plains, we turned north at Charali. The road rose steeply to almost 2,500m, and I needed my jacket for the first time in 3 months. At 5pm we reached Phidim, end of the sealed road. We were offered accommodation at a basic guesthouse, and we could leave the bikes at the police station. When we saw how tidy the police compound was, we asked if it would be possible to camp there, and we were given a fantastic pavillion to sleep in! The District Chief of Police, Hom Jung Chauhan, was a fantastic host. He explained that he had served in the UN Peacekeeping Force in Croatia and the Sudan.

Next day, we set off for the final push to Taplejung - 85km along a dirt track. We ditched all the luggage and planned to go there and back in a day. But after 20km, I pulled up. The road wasn't too difficult, but we were riding on uneven bedrock and 6" boulders, and my bike was taking a hell of a beating. If I'd been out for a weekend ride on a lightweight dirt bike, it would have been a lot of fun, but my Transalp has to get me back to the UK, so I'm trying to avoid giving it any more unnecessary punishment. There was immediate agreement among the others - I think they'd been waiting to see who cracked first - so we turned round and headed back towards Kathmandu.

Around lunchtime, we noticed a roadside festival with some interesting looking food on display. Rainer and I pulled over, and were treated to a slap-up feed. The quid pro quo was that we then had to visit temple for a quick prayer session, where we were mobbed by some crazy sadhus...

Please God, no more punctures...

"I have to ask, didn't you think it was a trifle unnecessary
to see the crack in the Indian's bottom?"

I then parted company with the Germans and headed back to Kathmandu to pick up my passport from the Pakistan embassy. I'd been hoping to make it back to the city in one day, but the last 120km on the Tribhuvan Highway wound its way up to to 2,500m, and by nightfall I was still 60km short of Kathmandu, so I stopped at the Everest Guest House in Daman.

The Avril Lavigne room at the Everest Guest House

I'd expected to see some spectacular views on the way to Taplejung, but so far I'd only seen the brown mountains, and I was really hoping to see some white ones. When I woke up the next day in Daman, I was finally rewarded...

Room with a view

Next day, I ploughed through the traffic into Kathmandu, picked up my passport with no dramas, and headed for Pokhara along the Prithvi highway. It was a really pleasant ride along the bank of the Trisuli River. Just before Bandipur, all the traffic came to a halt. "Traffic jam", someone explained with a big smile on their face, which seemed surprising given the relatively small number of vehicles on the road. Now my normal reaction to a traffic jam is to use Bikers' Privilege to ride around all the cars, buses and trucks, but in Nepal everyone applies that principle, so both sides of the road were blocked with vehicles heading in my direction. I slowly picked my way through, and at some points the locals helped with a bit of manhandling of the bike to get through some narrow gaps. After about two kilometres, I reached the epicentre of the traffic jam - but there was no cause to be found. All that happened was the vehicles were pointing in the other direction. Apparently what had started as a stand-off between a couple of trucks resulted in total gridlock, which was going to require a lot of coordinated reversing.

"Traffic jam, Sir!"

Having made my way past the traffic jam, the road was quiet for a while as expected, but I started to get an odd feeling that the road was too quiet... About 20km from Pokhara, I came to a police roadblock. The next district was having a bye-election, and the ensure security, the road would be closed until the election ended at 5pm. Apparently everyone else knew this except me... but at least it was 4:30. By 5pm, about a hundred motorbikes were lined up behind me - only problem was that the police would not open the road until they received a call from the top brass. Next thing, I was in the middle of a full scale protest, with lots of shouting, hornblowing, engine revving and edging towards the roadblock (which I was quite happy about, since it meant I was no longer on the frontline). The police were very goodnatured about the whole thing, kept smiling and showed a lot of restraint for guys armed with 4ft batons and the odd machine gun (although it's quite hard to take a protestor on a 150cc chicken-chaser too seriously). At 8pm, the police obviously got their phone call and reopened the road, although the crowd were happy to claim a jubilant victory for people power...



In Pokhara, I was happy to chill out for a while, and it wasn't long before I spotted a familiar sight - Guido's red and black KLR650. Marian was there too, and she had some very bad news - on the way from the Chitwan National Park, Thomas had hit a pedestrian, who had ended up in hospital with a head injury and a broken foot. Given the state of his bike, which was ridable but considerably bent, he must have hit the pedestrian quite hard (one of his panniers was ripped completely off). Thomas was invited to sleep at a police station again, although this time not voluntarily. Fortunately, the man appeared to be OK, and after some negotiation with his son, Thomas paid the hospital bill (about 600 euros), and was allowed to leave. Obviously, not a pleasant experience for anyone, although the Nepalis have terrible traffic sense and people frequently walk out into busy roads without looking. Definitely in need of a visit from the Green Cross Code Man...

I'm now faced with a bit of a dilemma. Guido just came back from a gruelling 370km ride up to Muktinath and back - the Jomsom Trek - in one day. It sounds like an incredible ride, and I'm sorely tempted. But I'm reluctant to do non-essential rides that will hammer the bike (most of the trek is off-road). I rode round the Phewa Tal lake yesterday, and nearly destroyed the bike hacking over a mountain just to get back to Pokhara (Lesson 1: get a map. Lesson 2: don't start these adventures two hours before sunset). My tyres are now down to about 15%, and I have a bad feeling that the rear shock absorber is leaking oil (OK, no need for denial - it IS leaking oil...). Rainer and Claus are considering doing the Jomson Trek, which is starting to fire up my competitive streak...

Caravan enters a new (sub-) continent...

Since the last blog I wiled away a week in Bangkok waiting for the paperwork to export my bike to Nepal. The shipping agent that the bikers generally use was probably the gloomiest Thai person I met in six weeks. I think she's tired of the same old questions - why does it take so long? - why does it cost so much? But at over $1,000 per bike, they're making good money from shipping motorcycles, and some of the riders are starting to look elsewhere. I'm still scarred from being without my trusty Transalp for over a month when I shipped from Brisbane to Singapore, so I played it safe, paid my money, and drowned my sorrows on the Khao San Road.

Bjorn and Elmar, the Germans that I met in Laos, caught up with me in Bangkok. Being the master networkers that they are, they had got in touch with all the other overland bikers nearby. Bangkok is a bit of a hub because almost everyone riding from Australia to Europe (or vice versa) flies in or out to avoid Myanmar, and each evening there was usually a gang of ten or more.

Hey, who wants to hear about my bike trip???

Now Bangkok is a pretty cool place to hang out for a week, but it was great to jump on a plane bound for Nepal. Guido and Esther, a couple of Swiss overlanders, were on the same plane. They'd heard that a group of German riders would be staying at the Yellow House in Kathmandu, so we headed there from the airport.

Kathmandu was quite a shock after Bangkok. Given that my knowledge of the city to this point was based largely on the Green Eye of the Yellow God, I was expecting something quite exotic, but Mad Carew has long since departed. At first glance modern day Kathmandu looks like it has been bombed extensively. And it doesn't really improve with a second glance, either. Nepal has always been poor, but it has had a particularly hard time recently with royal assassinations and a Maoist revolution. Since the dam for the hydroelectric plant collapsed last year in the floods, the country only gets a few hours of electricity each day... Very friendly and helpful people though (although after a hard day in the saddle, sometimes a little too friendly and keen to help...).

The Yellow House was a great find. It's basic, but it's very clean, well located, the staff are great, the food is tremendous, and all for 300 rupees per night (less than 3 quid). Later in the evening, the Germans turned up - Claus, Rainer, Thomas and Marian. They'd flown their Africa Twins in from Germany and were planning to spend 2-3 months riding back.

Apart from collecting the bike, the other priority in Kathmandu was to get a visa for Pakistan. For some reason, you first need to get a 'letter of no objection' from your home embassy, which meant a trip to the British Consulate. At this point, I discovered that when it comes to baksheesh, the British really are world leaders. Up to this point, the most I have had to shell out was $5 to get a customs stamp when entering Cambodia from Laos. But to get a simple pro-forma letter from the British Consulate, they wanted 35 quid! Obviously it's done extremely professionally, with a nice smile and a helpful leaflet that explains exactly how much you have to pay, and why it's necessary...

Letter of no objection in hand, I headed over to the Pakistan Embassy. I don't know much about Pakistan, but with the current troubles they're having, I did feel a certain uneasiness as I went into the building. But in fact, the folks in the visa department couldn't have been nicer as they processed my paperwork and chatted about England and Pakistan. I thought we were done, but this was only the first stage, and I was then ushered into another room for 'the interview'. The guy behind the desk was the spitting image of Colonel Gadaffi, and had a very serious look on his face. What was my reason for entering Pakistan? Where was a planning to go? How long was I planning to stay there? I answered all the questions with a straight bat - riding from Melbourne to London, Islamabad and the Karakoram highway, two weeks. He gave me a pained look, and told me that my travel plans were unacceptable. Two weeks was not nearly enough for Pakistan, and he reeled off a long list of cities and historic sites that I absolutely had to visit while I was there... I nodded politely and promised to extend my stay. He told me the visa would be ready on Monday. Mission accomplished, I headed quickly for the exit...

Next stop was the cargo warehouse at the airport to collect the bike. I'd heard that it was necessary to get a 'fixer' to help with the paperwork, since it's all in Nepali. At the gate I was met by the usual gaggle of opportunists, who were quickly shooed away by a guy who looked like he had slightly more idea what was going on, so I followed him into the warehouse. We sat down at a large table with about half a dozen other Nepalis. The conversation then went something like this:

Overland traveller: What is your fee?

'Fixer': 4,000 rupees (about 35 quid)

Overland traveller: Forget it! (stands up to leave)

'Fixer': OK! 2,000 rupees

Overland traveller: Do I look stupid? (heads to the door)

'Fixer': 1,000 rupees? (Overland traveller continues to the door). OK, no charge

No obviously, that doesn't really mean no charge, but it means that I decide how much he gets at the end of the process, and I'd heard that a good fixer gets 500 rupees for a job well done. The fixer then led me from room to room in the customs office. It quickly became apparent that he had no idea what the process was and had to ask the other fixers what to do. Furthermore, he didn't speak a word of English, and to make matters worse, he was extremely irritating. With remarkably little assistance, I got my carnet stamped by customs. My fixer then changed tack completely, tried to hug me and repeated the word 'friend' many times, at which point I reminded him that he'd just tried to fleece me for 4,000 rupees. My crate was then moved from the warehouse to a concourse out front, and unpacking began.

Now in my haste to complete the day's chores as quickly as possible, I had left two essential items at the hotel - firstly, the bike keys, and secondly two litres of petrol (I had to drain the tank in Bangkok). There was a spare set of keys on the bike, but it was a classic Catch 22 since I needed a 5mm allen key to get at the bike keys, and the bike keys to get to the 5mm allen key... Earlier, I had asked my fixer to find me an allen key and some petrol, but this level of resourcefulness was completely beyond him. Before you ask what I was planning to do if I really lost the keys, the allen key is usually taped to the outside of the bike (I am assuming that any would-be Transalp thieves will not be reading this blog).

Fortunately, at this point Guido and Esther came to the rescue. Being Swiss, Guido was carrying a good multi-functional pocketknife, and Esther offered to share her petrol with me. Having done the public motorcycle dismantling / reassembling in Asian countries a few times now, I knew that this would attract a formidable crowd, which can be harnessed for various tasks such as taking the crate apart. However, when it comes to the more delicate part of the process like putting the front wheel back on, the crowd can be quite a distraction, especially when you are trying to keep an eye on your tools, your luggage and a bag containing your passport and a thousand dollars in cash. Additionally, you are being bombarded with the same Three Questions:

Q1: Sir, which country are you coming from?

Q2: Sir, how many ccs?

Q3: Sir, what does this motorcycle cost in your country?

As I subsequently discovered, these same three questions are parroted at every opportunity across the entire country - do they teach them at school? Occasionally an innovative member of the crowd will throw in Q4: Sir, how far can you travel on one litre of petrol? But there is no Q5.

I was part-way through the job when Guido and Esther's crate arrived, and Guido's experience began to shown. He arranged the panels from his crate in a magic circle, and anyone who dared to cross the threshold received a polite but firm rebuke and were escorted out of the inner sanctum.

Guys, haven't you finished yet?

Bikes reassembled, I gave my fixer 250 rupees, which I thought was fair enough given his overall contribution (Guido and Esther paid 500 rupees, but their fixer was a lot more helpful). Additionally, we were hit up for 1 rupee per kg storage fee. The fixers then insisted that we pay another 2.5 rupees per kg 'labour charge'. I'd heard that this could be avoided, so I told them that I wasn't going to pay, at which point I got long-winded explanation about how fixers didn't get paid by the warehouse, etc. etc.. By this stage I was definitely smelling a rat. We were told that we would not be allowed through the main exit without a stamp showing that we'd paid the labour charge, but we decided to chance it and roared away from the warehouse. When we got to the main exit, there was no security guard, so no problem. The Nepalis could definitely use a lesson from the British on baksheesh...

The day's drama was far from over, however. Half way back to the hotel, my bike sputtered to a halt - out of petrol. We were just debating who would ride back to the hotel to get my two litres when an Anglo-German couple, Sue and Rafael, pulled up on an Enfield and offered me a litre. We got a few more kilometres down the road, and then Guido's fuel ran out. This time there was no alternative, so Esther and I headed back to the hotel for the extra petrol while a crowd assembled around Guido and subjected him to the Three Questions.

Next day, the priority was to find some petrol, since Kathmandu is in the midst of a strike by the drivers of petrol tankers, who are outraged that the Nepal Oil Company wants to phase out the use of tankers that are more than 25 years old (and some of them look a lot more than 25 years old). The Germans knew a local who made a few phone calls and found us 120 litres on the black market for 170 rupees a litre (regular price is 77 rupees, but overland bike trips don't go very far on an empty tank). We were then escorted around Kathmandu, first to one destination, then another, before ending up in a secluded yard. Our supplier turned up in a tatty old car with three drums of fuel, and explained he could only get 60 litres. Since we brought five bikes, we started measuring the fuel out in a five-litre jerry can, which was working OK until we had dished out 45 litres... and there was no more fuel. A heated debate then ensued, with our supplier insisting that we had taken 60 litres. We ended up paying an extra 1,000 rupees - personally I was ready to fire the bike up and head for the exit, but there were about a dozen guys in the yard and I don't think Guido fancied being the last biker to leave...

Hmm, I smell a rat...

That evening, Guido ordered a bottle of wine, and at midnight cracked it open to celebrate the fact that he had been on the road for five years - bloody good achievement, particularly when you consider that he has remained completely sane, relatively social, and somewhat clean...

Meanwhile, the Germans were about to embark on the first part of their journey - cross country from Kathmandu to Taplejung, which is in the north east corner of Nepal - and they kindly asked if I wanted to come along. I still had a few days to wait for my Pakistan visa, and I was enjoying their company. Furthermore, you will have noticed from the blog that it's very difficult to get pictures of myself when I'm travelling solo, so I thought I might get a few snapshots along the way. Finally, I must confess to having a little bit of bike envy, since their Africa Twins are more expensive and powerful than my Transalp. Although, as we were later to discover, not quite so reliable... Additionally, I think they ceded most of their power advantage by packing a significant amount of extra luggage. Spare tyres. A hammer. A coffee percolator??? So, next morning, I joined forces with the Germans, said my farewell to Guido and Esther, and we set off.

Intrepid adventurers about to set off into the unknown

Tomb raiding

Before I bring you the latest update, a quick apology for the fruity language that crept into the last blog (and was very quickly picked up by my mum) - I'll try to keep it PG from now on... I've also made progress with the videos - they're a bit grainier, but they can now be uploaded in minutes rather than hours, which is good news when you're sitting in an internet games room with a dozen screaming Thai kids playing a networked game of football around you.

Since last time, I spent five nights in Cambodia checking out Phnom Penh and the Angkor temples at Siem Ream. I'm now in Bangkok waiting for a freight forwarder to complete the paperwork on my bike. Then I'll be able to put it on a plane to Kathmandu, because I can't ride it through Myanmar or China.

Phnom Penh has incredible energy. It's is pretty edgy - there's more poverty than I saw anywhere else in SE Asia, with street children and people sleeping on the pavements. But there's also more affluence - a lot of Land Cruisers and new Mercedes cars. And it has some cool restaurants and bars, not to mention crazy traffic.. I stayed at the Indochine Hotel, which had nice rooms for $12 and let me park my bike in the lobby, although they didn't mention when I checked in that they would be waking me at 7am each morning to park it outside...

The big tourist draws are the Toul Sleng Genocide Museum, which is a former school that was turned into a 'security prison', and the Killing Fields which are about 15km outside town. Both are a sobering reminder Cambodia's recent past.

Choeung Ek - The Killing Fields

After a couple of days in Phnom Penh, I moved on to Siem Reap and the Angkor temples. The road is flat, straight and smooth, but hardly boring - after all, you're riding through the heart of Cambodia - beats working for a living... Siem Reap is Cambodia's answer to Louang Prabang - very tourist-friendly with good hotels and restaurants. I stayed at the excellent Angkor Park Hotel for $8 a night.

I heard that other overland riders had not been allowed to take their motorbikes into the temple area, but I took the 'ask for forgiveness later' approach and on this occasion it paid off. The temples of Angkor are spectacular enough, but being able to ride around them was the icing on the cake. There are plenty of dirt tracks between the temples that get you off the beaten track, so you get access to some pretty exclusive spots.

The temples of Angkor - stunning!

The plan was to spend a couple of nights in Siem Reap and then to move on to Bangkok, which would be my last big ride in SE Asia. But I woke on Friday morning to the unfamiliar rattle of rain on a tin roof and claps of thunder. Until this point, I'd been lucky enough to spend over a month without seeing a single drop of rain. So I decided to have another 'rest day' in Siem Reap, do my laundry, get a haircut and a massage - one of the many benefits of having no schedule or deadlines...

The trip from Siem Reap to Bangkok was another straight, flat ride, although it's a right slog as far as Sisophon because they're doing highway maintenance the Asian way (i.e., you just have to drive through the roadworks and dodge the bulldozers, graders and steamrollers). Not much fun on an overloaded bike with an impatient tar truck up your chuff... I was just relieved that I didn't attempt this section in the rain the previous day, because I'm sure I would have ended up on my backside.

The border crossing at Poipet was fairly straightforward, although I did have to wait for an hour to get my carnet stamped by Cambodian customs because they all take a nap from 12-2pm. After my previous encounter with them, I was glad to get through without any backsheesh. Given the collection of nearly-new Land Cruisers and Lexi in the car park of the Customs House, I think they have been frying bigger fish... As much fun as Cambodia and Laos have been, it was nice to be back in Thailand again - it's so nice to be able to dive into a 7-11 for a strawberry Fanta when things get a little warm.

So now I'm holed up at the Peachy Guest House in Bangkok waiting for Kittima at Trans Air Cargo to sort out the paperwork so that I can fly the bike to Nepal. Current estimate is about a week, and while I'm keen to move on to the Himalayan chapter of the trip, I can think of worse places to be stuck than Bangkok...

Last night I went to the Muay Thai boxing at Rajdamnoen Stadium. The ticket was a bit pricey at 1,500 Baht - about 30 quid - although it was close to the ring - but for sheer entertainment value, it was a bargain. It's all action from the start, the band whips the crowd into a frenzy, thousands of baht changing hands among the crowd - fantastic.

Another must-see in Bangkok is Jim Thompson's house. He was an ex-CIA operative that launched the Thai silk export trade in the 1960s, made a lot of money, built a fantastic house in the centre of Bangkok comprising 6 traditional teak houses that he shipped in from the countryside, built a fantastic Thai art collection, and then mysteriously disappeared in the Cameron Highlands.

Jim Thompson - cool guy, cool house...

On the way back from Jim Thompson's house, I discovered possibly the world's most adrenaline-filled form of public transport - longtail boats. The first one arrived at such speed that I was still standing on the pier in awe when it took off without me. Once on board, the fun really begins - the sidescreens come up to keep the spray out and you're off on a white-knuckle ride through Bangkok's narrow canals. Every 30 seconds or so you pass another boat, which churns up the water and things really kick off. Just when I thought it couldn't get any better, the guards on each side of the boat dropped the roof by 18 inches to get under a low bridge... magic. I really do think this could be the answer to London's transport problems - boats tearing up the Regent's Canal at 50mph. I'm going for another ride tomorrow...

The bike continues to run well, although I gave the old girl a bit of stick in SE Asia on some very rough roads, which was probably not the smartest thing to do since I still have quite a few kms to cover in some fairly hostile territory. I noticed a bit of clunking from the front-end, so I consulted Pete at Everything Two Wheels, who's providing 24/7 virtual mechanical support for the trip. His advice was fairly unambiguous (editted to comply with new 'potty talk' restrictions):

"For [heavens] sake, don't let some [local mechanic] near the forks. If he takes them apart he'll never get them back together. You need 37mm fork seal drivers to reassemble them. The clunking is the oil getting thin with it getting a workout on the bumpy roads. Buy some ear plugs. That will stop the clunking noise right away."

I decided to replace the chain in Bangkok. In spite of (or maybe because of) regular treatment with the finest sewing machine oil, the chain had started to sound like a sewing machine, and I reasoned that it would be easier to find a replacement at a decent bike shop in Bangkok than at the side of the road in Pakistan. So I headed to Bangkok's finest big bike mechanic, the Red Baron, where they fitted a new chain, cleaned the air filter, and sorted out the clunking (it was the head bearings, not the forks) for 11 quid in labour. At these prices, I can barely afford to leave Thailand...