The peoples' democratic blog of Matt Hayward

For better or for worse, I spent some time in Malaysia in the early noughties. Just outside of Kuala Lumpur was a suburb called Bukit OUG (or Overseas Union Garden). The locals considered it quite a posh suburb with expensive bungalows and lots of jungle and big yards. I’d found myself a condominium close by. While it was a nice suburb it’s hardly expat friendly. They mostly stay in Bangsar or Sri Hartamas. Bukit OUG is a place that definitely requires a car. As a proper expat, you’d need a driver in OUG. I don’t care what you say, no whitey can really drive on those roads everyday. The epic potholes, the chaos, or as I witnessed once assassination attempts constantly remind you you’re not in Kansas anymore Toto.

One thing OUG did have going for it was a burgeoning hawker stand scene. At night it was the place to be. At least 60 odd hawkers (or mamaks) sold anything and everything well into the night, preparing amazing food. It was a primitive scene. The better stores had semi permanent structures, rather than tarpaulins and camp ovens to cook on. Young guys would cruise by in their cars, slowly driving over the speed humps, improvised form timber logs. Many would do laps of the mamaks all night. It was the real deal. More often than not I was the only Johnny foreigner I could see there. It certainly wasn’t a touristy place.

A huge highlight was Steven’s Corner. They had tandoors made from converted washing machine drums scattered all over. Their naans and juices were legendary. Yes it’s still around but it’s been modernised into a franchise worthy store and frankly lost its charm.

Any Malaysian can eat like a king in Malaysia. In a country that’s meant to be a prodigious leader in multi-culturalism that might not sound like a big deal. But one night in the OUG taught me a lot about the real Malaysia. My mates would often take me there for a Sunday night feed and plenty of beers. This particular night Mohammed, who worked in the hugely profitable but massively unethical palm oil industry was on a winner.

“My boss gave me 5 thousand Ringgit to take out some Indonesian clients. He said don’t bring back any change”. Despite a night of abalone and shark fin soup, Mohammed still had about a thousand Ringgit burning a hole in his pocket. He looked to be of mixed Malay and Indian extraction. His other mate Manpreet was a darker skinned Indian. Manpreet and I knew we were in for a big night. And we headed off to the OUG beer garden.

Even amongst their own ranks there was dissention. Manpreet warned me about the Sikh Indians in our block and their fondness for ghee as an anal lubricant. I’ve never seen tins of ghee the same way since! Not partial to the gay scene, we left then be and got stuck into a night of great food and drinking.

As the night wore on, we’d sampled most of the hawker stands and were getting stuck into long neck bottles of Carlsberg beer. Most of the hawker stands were beginning to close. Only the most eager or desperate vendors still remained. Mohammed still hadn’t spend his wad by the wee hours. We were clearly in for an all nighter in the beer garden. The three of us were left alone but you could hear it getting rowdier. Strange jungle animals were making themselves heard, probably because we were stealing the night from them in their beer garden.

At roughly 4am, the police were doing their rounds on motor scooters. The police are nearly without exception all Malays. No Chinese or Indians in their ranks. Two coppers were quietly riding up to us in the dead of night. They had a look of “we’re going to fuck with you” in their eyes, making me feel more than slightly uneasy. You wont hear many Malaysians that sing the praises of their constabulary. Everyone’s been scared into fearing them by a corrupt cop or police brutality story. Mohammed and Manpreet kept drinking.

As the cops got closer, they could see I was clearly a ‘mat salleh’ or a foreigner. Their whole menacing look changed. Suddenly it was like I was the boys’ get out of jail free card. Their look changed instantly and they ventured off the way they came. Given they could easily be victims of unwanted police attention, I couldn’t help but wonder whether Mohammed and Manpreet had an ulterior motive in inviting me out. It’s left a sour taste in my mouth for the so called multi-cultural success story that Malaysia portrays itself to be.

The whole time I was there, a typical response to being Australian was ‘oh you’re so racist. I see it all the time on the TV. Like that Pauline Hanson woman’. Hanson was a notorious middle aged, independent politician. A baby boomer with a long drawn out Queensland accent that was none to fond of ‘the yellow peril’ or Aboriginals. All the Malaysians kept saying how they love Canada and would prefer to live their than the redneck Australia.

But while the Bukit OUG hangover came and went, the feeling of profound, engrained Malaysian racism prevailed. I really got a feel for how much the Chinese, the Muslim Malays and the Indians are at war, not peace with each other. Manpreet always joked that because less than 10% of jobs were open to Indians by law, you had to be a doctor, lawyer or a hit man. Their was a bitter truth to it though. Apparently the vast majority of jobs were only open to Malays by law.

On reflection, there was a great irony to the Malaysian perception of Australian racism. Pauline Hanson was a middle aged, fish and chip shop owner for a country town (or at least Brisbane). As per party rose to prominence, it very quickly fell based on public outcry and the mediocrity of her policies. But would she have ever got a chance to stand on the soap box in Malaysian politics? No way lah. Not a snowball’s chance in hell.

I wonder how many other white guys are being used as designated cop deterrents in Bukit OUG today?

For the traveling I’ve done I am forever grateful to have seen Syria. It is a place full of beauty, history and incredible people. The fact it’s not on everyone’s gap year bucket list makes it even better. There’s never going to be a Syrian Disneyland, Israel maybe, but this place is made of stronger stuff. You come to Syria for the souqs, the castles and citadels and ancient cities. Oh and the world’s smallest bar where the smallest room in the house is a sizeable chunk of the house.

This article is the most difficult to write. Because despite the lovely people and fantastic times had, the Syria I saw was one that wanted to just get on with it. A Syria sick of trying to invade its neighbours and conquer more territory, sick of losing all its good people overseas. They just wanted a normal bloody life. Now sadly that has been very callously taken away from them. That get on with it stance has hit boiling point and living a normal life means fighting to the death for it. It’s sad but it’s very true.

After a few days in Aleppo (now almost completely destroyed) we decided to head south back down to Damascus. Aleppo is a very European city very close to Turkey. I’ve forgotten how we found our driver but he was a very humble and sincere middle aged man. Without a word of a lie, his first name was Jihad. I’m convinced jihad must have many meanings. Because we even saw a women’s clothing store named Jihad. And none of the burkas or lovely dresses had ‘death to America’ embroided on them. It was just a regular store.

Jihad took us right into the desert to see an old monastery. It’s a hit with hippy chic French back packers. We went down undulating desert roads in the middle of absolute nowhere to get there. Nothing to see but sand and dodgy military checkpoints. One checkpoint was meant to be run by Interpol. There were three guys on duty there in track suit pants with a grey Chevy Suburban. Yeah right. But who are we to argue? They checked our passports, jeered at my Chinese wife (no doubt the only Asian they’d seen in a while) and lifted up their shitty boom gate and we were off.

Once we’d checked out the monastery, I had the scariest experience of my Middle Easter trek. We got back in the taxi and Jihad was acting a little weird. His was very short, driving off slowly and looking around. He stopped where there was no one around, went to the boot and pulled out a hessian sack. At this point I thought ‘dear boy the war for you is over!’. It was a tense moment.

He got back in the car with the little sack, looking over his shoulder. Assured no one was looking he pulled out a bottle of sweet wine and two polystyrene cups. It was an unbelievably awkward but funny moment when he tells us as a muslim he’s not allowed to drink. But you know, in the middle of nowhere, in good company, why not. God bless him.

We drove along sipping the terribly sweet Syrian wine like something out of the Borat movie. Jihad spoke wonderful English. Something he’d learnt from a steady flow of Belgian tourists he’d worked hard to get together. He told us how Hama used to be the major city of Syria, now it’s all Damascus and Aleppo. Back in the day, his father had bought him a house there. That was now a thing of the past. Even though he was striving to the same for his son. I fear that now basic survival has taken precedence.

We spent two days driving around with Jihad. He took us within 60 kilometres of Baghdad, the last Aramaic speaking village in the word and through the ancient city of Hama and back to Damascus. When nowhere was open for dinner, he’d find a hotel and have them cook for us. The hospitality of Syrian people like Jihad has made a profound impression on me. I’m not a religious man, but I hope and pray that they can one day get on with their lives the way they clearly wanted to. It is simply an amazing place that I hope is not forever destroyed.

Coming from Australia, people always joke about catching a taxi from Melbourne to Sydney (some 900 kilometres) let alone to another country. Well in Jordan and Syria, things are different. They will take you anywhere.

One night we’re driving around in a yellow taxi when we mention we’re heading to Damascus the next day. Necessity is the mother of all enterprise in the Middle East. People are genuinely friendly, but they need to earn the extra Dinar any way they can. No sooner than we had mentioned it and our taxi driver is hooking us up with a ride to Damascus. No dirty Greyhound busses or backpacker coaches. No sir! How about a nice clean Camry, or an E Class Mercedes to schlep across the border in style?! Why not we thought.

So he drives us to his depot, which actually wasn’t bad for a taxi place anywhere. Mind you there were military cargo nets, the obligatory hookah pipe and cigarette smoke. Plus the full-wall sized print of the King of Jordan in full Khakis, beret, Ray Bans posing with his assault rifle. You know as our negro friends would say ‘gettin’ his military on’. Strangely though it wasn’t out of place. I swear there’s someone from the government comes around and checks you have posters of the relevant dictators in full view, on pane of death. Because they’re everywhere. But thankfully we were here to do business and not wax lyrical about the king.

Yes the yellow taxis do the normal grind, the white ones will take you to Israel (with the right documents of course), Damascus, Beirut, you name it! It’s all part of that Middle Eastern, scare the shit out of you on one hand and loveable on the other charm. We hooked up a driver to take us to Damascus the next day. Basically door to door service. So we left wondering what tomorrow had in store for us.

The next day there’s our taxi driver in the hotel foyer, smoking and chatting. Don’t ever ask a Middle Eastern taxi driver to stop smoking, you may not like where he leaves you in the desert. Just a heads up. But our driver was jovial and in good spirits and I wasn’t about to start badly.

Driving out of Amman was mostly uneventful. Jordan must be like the Sweden or Singapore of the Middle East. They get along with their neighbours and pretty much everything is uneventful, well frankly boring. I was glad for my time in Amman but as a city it doesn’t do much for me. As our taxi driver opened up, he reminded me of a Terry Savales or young Omar Sharif. He was a charming bloke who seemed to know everyone wherever he went as the five hour journey unfolded.

Small town life in Jordan is really ramshackle villages and grafting a living day by day. You can see it in the potholes on the road, the perpetually unfinished buildings and the lines on peoples’ faces. There’s a lot going on but not a lot of material wealth to show for it. Oh except for the cops and their shiny Audi sedan police cars. The Hashemite Kingdom of Jordan looks after them very well.

Before a lengthy border crossing, we stopped in a cafe for a Turkish coffee. Lo and behold of course he knew these guys well too. Then it was back in the Merc for our final descent on Syria. We stopped in a car queue about 150 metres from the gate. At that point a local bloke who looked like a bit of an Arabic hobo approached the car. I forgot, in these interstate taxis you pay for a seat, not the whole car and we had two vacant seats. Stupidly I was in the front and my wife in the back. It was a bit strange that he got in so close to the border. Even stranger he reminded me of Aussie backpacker murderer Ivan Milat. But when in Arabia, you smile and keep your cool.

When we got to the customs point, there’s miles of semi trailers parked waiting for clearance. Lax Jordanian soldiers wearing half a uniform and half track suit pants are laughing and joking with our driver. Some of them almost leaning on their rifles for comfort whilst having a smoke. Guess what our driver knew those guys too. I was actually kind of thankful for it as it subdued the situation.

As we went into customs, we lost our new mysterious passenger and the mood gets a bit more serious. Women wearing full head to toe black burkas are everywhere and it’s a typical airport scene. Some moody customers clerk looked at each page in my passport, between glaring at me to ensure I hadn’t been to Israel. Thankfully Australian tourists aren’t high on their shit list and within twenty minutes or so, we’re back in the Merc heading into Syria.

Driving into Syria is a strange experience. Our mystery passenger got out at the first highway exit past the border. Perhaps the customs guys don’t like people literally walking across the border. Either way we stopped in the middle of nowhere and he started the long schlep home on foot and that was the last we saw of him.

It’s strange how a political border changes everything within about 20 minutes. Syria is much poorer than its neighbours. An impression indelibly left when the first Syrian patrol car we say was a 1986 Toyota Camry (I was there in 2011). The roads are in worse shape and you don’t see much of anything for the first hour or so. I just remember it being like wasteland until an hour before Damascus.

Fortunately Damascus was an instant hive of activity. Our cabby dropped us off at his favourite cafe outside of town, leaving us to get a yellow cab into the old city. Instantly he’s hugging the owner of the cafe and having another smoke. It was the strangest damn taxi ride I ever took in my life.

I’d like to say I’ve been to China but I don’t think I have. If you count 3 weeks in China with a long weekend in Beijing, then yes I’ve been. But at no point though to do I think I’ve really seen China.

You can see China through cracks in the concrete. If you look beyond the KFC at the Great Wall of China, it’s there. If you count eating a steaming hot bowl of intestine (and various other internal organs) soup as an experience, then yes I’ve seen China. Sure I was the only ‘gwai lo’ (white guy) in the place. Though tragically I’m still not convinced I’ve been. I could’ve been anywhere.

KFC at the Great Wall. I personally thank Kim Kardashiam

The China you see in Shanghai is through rose Coloured Louis Vuitton glasses. There are cars on the road, by god there are more cars than road. It must be the only place you will ever see a brown Porsche, yes brown. Because money buys status in China and no one really gives a rats arse what colour your status is. So these monstrosities not only exist but are common. One day I saw at least 5 Porsche Panamera’s (the ugly four door sedan) in brown. They would’ve been bought in cash by their newly bourgeois owners.

In Italy if you sold someone a brown Porsche, you would be shot on site for fashion hate crimes. Well dressed shooters would jump out of the bushes in Versace suits and shoot you for destroying other peoples’ dream cars on general principle. They’d then speed off in a stylish black Maserati leaving nothing but a lasting impression in tyre smoke. I like the Italians. Shanghai is not Italy though, first and foremost. It’s just status without style and chutzpah. And these things are very, very important to a big city.

Surprisingly Shanghai makes a great coffee, which contradicts everything I would’ve thought of this new money, newly proud city. Yes there’s great colonial architecture and buildings beneath the chintzy brand new skyline.  But words can’t describe how new this city is. The whole place feels like a brand new pair of shoes you don’t want to wear when it’s wet, for fear or wrecking them. The coffee thing only proves one point: anything foreign is status. It’s expensive, it’s extroverted, showy and adds to your status.

It took a long time to find any cracks in the concrete. Shanghai is the China that China wants you to see. They would be more than happy if you never left the glamour of The Bund or Hongshau Road (?), went home and told everyone how wonderful everything is. Yes she is magnificent in a Kim Kardashian kind of way, but that just proves that status and money can’t buy class.  A point sadly proven.

Despite being a gorgeous facade city, you can see flaws through the semi opaque pollution. In some of the nicest districts in Shanghai, I saw not just a homeless guybut homeless parent pushing his toddler around in a pram. This was in an area with lush parks, country clubs, massage parlours and the most elite nightclubs. That was the only glimpse of what possibly was the real China. One night I went for a walk and found nothing but new apartment buildings, often built at least 20 stories high and usually in fives and eights.

The aforementioned intestine soup. Tasted like lamb. If you know what the other stuff is please comment.

On the bright side, people are very friendly in Shanghai. This has been a trading hub for centuries. The Jews had kosher bakeries here in the 20s and 30s, even synagogues. The Taoists and the Jews actually got along quite well. They mostly left for Bondi when the Japanese invaded in WW2. There is a French concession to this day, there was also an American one. For centuries there hasn’t been a time when another culture wasn’t schmoozing it up big time in Shanghai and it shows in the nicer areas. But go 200 or 300 kilometres in any direction and you will be the only white guy in town.

At least Shanghai eats like the rest of China. In fact that’s the only time you feel you might be seeing some real China in action. At night the pavements are taken over by outdoor barbeques cooking skewers of the world’s finest mystery meat, seafood and vegetables. One day in a uni class at SIFT, a lecturer joked that lamb is expensive. So they use some chemical to turn pork into lamb. We didn’t care. They’re incredibly cheap and tasty and go quite well with China’s ubiquitous Tsingtao (pronounced Ching Dao) beer. For 10 bucks, you can truly eat like a king.You get the impression that in status-hungry China, these BBQ stalls are everywhere because locals skimp on quality food to scrimp and save for an iPhone.

My friend Sam and I got quite addicted to these Chinese style crepes that were being made outside the local convenience store only after midnight. They were full of onions, chives, grease and chilli and were just incredibly tasty. They went with booze like white on rice. In fact that food seemed to be the only real thing about the place. At about 80 cents a crepe too the best things in life nearly are free.

All in all I don’t really know if I enjoyed Shanghai. You can get McDonalds anywhere. There’s no doubt higher and prettier hotel bars in Dubai. Moreover if I really wanted to see a fake city on a massive scale, I’d rather Pyongyang. They at least have uniforms a dancing show. I probably didn’t scratch the surface hard enough. Plenty of mates found amazingly good live music venues and nights out.

So we’d arrived. The main bridge in town makes bamboo scaffolding look like a bridge in Berlin. It’s made of scrap wood and is so rickety it looks like something you’d make on a boozy weekend with some mates. The locals though ride their motorbikes across it every day without hesitation. Welcome to Vang Vieng, a town of the sublime and the ridiculous in equal measures.

The Laos Road Safety Council welcomes you

My previous post talks about the happy pizza and whisky bucket good times in this city. But tubing is what puts this place on the map. This is like Cancun or Bali for the slightly more intellectual. Or just plain those who have travelled for so long the itch gets a bit harder to scratch. So lo and behold you find yourself in this bizarre little part of world.

Frankly no one would be here without the tubing. While I had arguably the greatest day of my life riding around on a tiny 150cc motorbike, neither would’ve I. Perhaps that’s why Laos is so great. You can go with no expectations and have such a great time.

Tubing basically takes a four or so kilometre stretch of the Mekong river, puts a bar virtually every 100 metres and puts you in the inner tube of a tractor tyre. You float along the river from bar to bar, stopping as you please. For a few dollars (or Kip) you get a Tuk Tuk ride and your rental of an inner tube. La Dolce Vita for a backpacker.

Our journey began with some American guys. They were made redundant in January and were travelling till the money ran out. It was April. One of the Yanks hadn’t shaved since he was laid off – or showered by the smell of things. Except for a stripe from his lip to his Adams apple the width of a razor, leaving him with massive nineteenth century pork chop sideburns. He looked like some kind of carriage driver. Adam and his mate (I can’t remember their names) were true characters and were genuinely living the dream.

Adam and his mate regaled us with stories about how one night they decided to go camping in Van Vieng. They piss farted around until the sun went down and pitched a tent, unwittingly in a field full of poppies. When the sun came up the next day, a tent had never gone down so quick and probably never will. Even if the story isn’t true, they made great raconteurs and so the adventure began.

Also with us were a really young Canadian couple. The guy was well under twenty five and probably only had his foreskin and a few toes not yet covered in tattoos. Normally I’d say this guy was Emo but he was far cooler than that. His tatts were also just that bit more obscure, like the freemasons symbol on his Adam’s apple. And with a group together, our tubing adventure began.

We weren’t in the water no more than 5 minutes when two six year old kids swam up to my fiance’s (at the time) tube. Of course she fell for the cuteness and they pushed her tube to the banks, into the first bar. We’d travelled 100 metres. I guess this bar is often overlooked because it’s at the beginning, so they have to try that bit harder.

That pretty much set the tone for the whole trip. Some bars threw out ropes to reel you into their bars. You’d get to the bank of the river and they’d give you a free shot of Lao Lao (this cheap local sake/whisky that helps you sleep like a baby). As we drink the stories and the bravado get crazier. After about 300 or 400 metres, the bars turn from chilled out shacks to drunken amusement parks on acid. Complete with flying foxes (zip lines if you’re a Yank like Andy) and water slides designed by idiots and psychopaths.

We arrived at the crazy park and it was like natural selection meets reality TV. The water slide was shaped like a tick with a deep, sharp V at the bottom.  This girl got stuck on the end of the V and there was was nothing else for her to do but jump off about 10 or 20 metres into the shallow water. It was insanity. From where we sat at the bar, you could see the patchy, shallow rocky parts of the river. Yet it didn’t stop the flying fox guys and several got hurt.

After both the Americans and Canadians tried the flying fox without serious injury, I was in a surplus of cowardice. It was time for Team Australia to represent with gusto and bravery. So I wussed out and took the water slide. After drinking all afternoon I was damn near lucky to come out unscathed. I hit the water pretty hard and bruised up my leg. But at least I hadn’t broken bones. It suddenly came rushing back to me that the first thing I saw when we rented our tubes was a tourist with his arm in a cast and sling.

This has to be the craziest water park in the world. An Australian bar won’t serve you a beer in a glass near a pool for fear of being sued. Yet these bars will sell you poppies, booze and let you jump off a flying fox near rocks. But all good things must come to an end. From what I heard they’ve given up on tubing in Van Vieng. It probably brought in too many broke idiots and there’s not an international hospital for miles if you’re seriously injured. And like any good sport it’s dangerous all the time. When the water’s high, the currents fast and you can get carried off. When the water’s low, there’s heaps of jagged rocks and logs that you can hurt yourself on.

As for our tube down the Mekong, we only got as far as 600 metres in about 4 hours. How anyone can do the whole thing I’ll never know. It was just fucking crazy and I am damn glad I got to see it in my life time. It’s a special kind of madness and an incredible place and with or without tubing I will always fondly remember Laos.

Finally a rock bio that nails it. Peter Criss, the original and arguably best drummer in Kiss has penned a bloody funny, heart felt bio. Frankly it lacks nothing. There’s megalomania, hubris, orgies, car crashes, drugs, gangs, even show tunes.

Criss’ writing style reminded me very much of Billy Thorpe’s bios. Both guys write like you’re sitting next to them at the bar, irreverent and both from the heart and bollocks in good measure.

If there was any criticism, he talks about crying a lot. But if you worked with two Jewish putzs who ripped you off for 40 years, you’d do a lot of crying too. And like many books, the last 100 pages are a bit bitter.

Anyhoo – it’s only March and I think I’ve already read the best book this year. Whether you’re a Kiss fan (I like 3 of their albums) or not, get it. The Cat Man is an absolute pisser.

Laos is breathtakingly beautiful. If only because you’d never expect it to be. Luang Prabang up north is unmissable. Being the spiritual and to some extent governmental capital of Laos, there’s heaps to see. There’s antique stores full of old French et ceteras and Soviet era machinery. The few remaining French people cook up a storm in restaurants deserved of a Michelin Star. Or down the same street, you can have a mojito cocktail at a bar on the street, served by some crazy Lao guys dressed in cowboy regalia. Assumedly because you know, all western men are stereotypically cocktail drinking cowboys.

Dodgy Laotian whisky in a roadside bar.

Eventually though you grow tired of the place and it’s on with the new. So we decided to catch a bus to Van Vieng – home of tubing. Getting there is half the fun. When I say ‘bus’ I mean more like a Toyota mini van that seats about 12 in discomfort. Oh and like a Toyota because I later found out that they were called a Jinbei and I believe made in North Korea. So the voyage is already off to a flying start. No bus leaves Luang Prabang until every last seat is packed. Which kind of works pretty well with the general ‘try not to work too hard’ demeanour of the Lao people. But they will poke you with a stick to get another paying bum on an otherwise empty seat.

Van Vieng is slap bang between Luang Prabang and the major capital Vientiane. You wouldn’t be able to fly there on a plane any bigger than a kite. The roads from Luang Prabang undulate and twist incessantly.

Once on the bus you realise what a motley crew of travellers you’ve been bundled up with. We had an Israeli couple, that looked like they’d just finished their military service. They whiled away the tumultuous voyage saying nothing, doing Hebrew crossword puzzles (yes there is such a thing). Almost to the point of rudeness, but probably just to avoid the imminent car sickness from looking out the window. There was a Japanese guy and a bunch of flash-packing Euros. We were the only Australians.

I don’t get car sick, so I looked out the windows of the mini bus, down the steep cliff faces and into tiny villages. You’d be pleased to know that you see a lot of wells and water storage in these villages built by charities such as World Vision. Almost every village had one.

Eventually you get to Van Vieng. My immediate thoughts were “it’s a nice way to fill a paddock”. It reminded me of small Aussie country towns that you drive into, with the mandatory football field, a pub, a motel and a way out. Fortunately Van Vieng has a few tricks up its sleeve. You can get stoned or get something to eat. Or why not do both at once?

Some items on Lao menus are for instance ‘happy pizza’ or ‘happy milkshake’. They will have either hallucinogenic mushrooms or marijuana on them. In Laos this is basically full disclosure. I am slightly ambivalent about drugs. I’m not what you’d call an avid user them but I refuse to live in a world without them. But one thing I do know is that you DON’T want to digest these substances. It’s like booking a plumber. They will show up in the next couple of days. No punctuality required.

Thinking that would be our only THC based experience, we explored the town while the sun was still up. There was a great little ramshackle bar on the river. A very modest water front. They were playing mellow Red Hot Chilli Peppers and I thought this would be a good place to chill later on. Oh and there was a sign “Don’t try the #26. It will fuck you up”.

After a few whisky buckets in town we decided to come back. By this time there were 5 people there but the party was in full effect. Gone was the mellow commercial rock. Now it was hard core industrial techno music, somehow in tune to a massive bonfire. Speed freak stuff. Sure enough the Laotian bar tender was speeding off his gourd on crystal meth. He was tiny, naked but for a pair of jeans and not an ounce of fat and rocking very, very hard.

The barman threw down two menus. One was alcohol. All in buckets, no tap beer and peanuts here. The second was drugs and booze. At this point a Dutch bar owner came up and kind of winced when I asked if the second menu was a joke. It clearly wasn’t. The five punters and the Dutchman were clearly drinking off the later menu. We finished our whisky bucket and walked off. Oh and what was in #26? Whisky, speed, opium, marijuana and another drug that was more of a downer. I told a few drug aficionado friends and they all blushed. That’s the mother lode of psychosis and they wouldn’t have even tried it.  All this and I haven’t even got to the tubing yet. More on that another day.

Is it worth doing Van Vieng. Yes for a couple of days. Just getting there is an experience. Just remember some small towns will do anything to put themselves on the map.

One of my most memorable holidays would undoubtably be Peru. Even getting there is an adventure. Melbourne, to Auckland to Santiago (Chile), to Lima and finally Cusco. There’s not many airports in the world where they sell cans of oxygen instead of selling cartons of duty free cigarettes. The lack of oxygen hits you like a mother in law request you can’t ignore. You just have to grin and bear it. Somewhere between tipsy but with a nagging headache. But the buzz goes and the headache beckons.

Once you’re in town the place is painstakingly beautiful but the altitude doesn’t get any better. Oh and for good measure, there’s plenty of climbing up the long, steep undulating streets of Cusco. It’s so much of a work out, that you can come back and go to the gym for 3 months and STILL not be as healthy as when you got back from Cusco. So the first few days, just write off to altitude sickness. Do not pass go, do not collect $200.

Being a bit adventurous we decided to up the ante and stay on the outskirts of Cusco’s old city. About 20-30 minutes from the Plaza De Armas. It doesn’t sound like much, but most streets are too narrow for cars and have steps. Having said that where we stayed had amazing views of the town, was family run and just breathtaking. It felt hundreds of years old and had a dark, almost Gothic Spanish ambience. During the day, the alleys are scattered with grandmothers selling home spun woollen beanies and scarves. At night they’re quiet and dark.

One night, my girlfriend and I were tucked in bed by 11pm. Don’t forget all that extra exercise is knackering. And only the most cocksure, energy drink guzzling singles have enough energy to party. We were just about dead to the world when we heard an English hid with the diction of Harry Potter screaming “Help! Police! They’ve got a knife!” We were almost dead to the world, but you can’t ignore someone with a certain shrill in their voice of terror. He was in deep shit. Despite my girlfriend, I decided to get dressed and head down into the alley.

The Englishman was lying on the ground, coming to. A posse of about five tourists including myself all came down to help. The Englishman’s adrenaline was palpable.

“They said give me my money. I told them to fuck off and they pulled a knife on me”. The muggers were long gone into the darkness.

“Are we going to punch on?” one of the posse asked. A thought quickly quashed as whoever pulled the knife was clearly a lot more desperate than we were. We very quickly went from revenge to help mode.

“Did they take your whole wallet?”

“Yeah”

quickly we realised that Cusco is not the place to rely on a credit card company to post a replacement card. Being one of the highest cities in the world, I wouldn’t bet your life on reliable, cheap international postage.

“I have a copy of the card in my hotel room” the Englishman conceded. Quickly we realised the best thing a posse could do, was get him safely into the Plaza De Armas to the ATM. There he could withdraw a mother lode of cash and then cancel the card, before the muggers could trash it.

We walked through the twisted alleys and lane ways on a busy Saturday night. Each of us growing more relaxed but vigilantly looking out the corner of our eyes for the assailants. Thankfully one of the guys was an expat Aussie, also a Matt, that managed to relax the mood.

As we got the local ATM, we were in a sort of red light district. A nightclub spruiker was sleaze talking our local Matt into a night out. He was talking in his dirtiest Spanish but clearly we weren’t in the mood for tits and arse. Especially not when it was probably their brothers that mugged the Englishman.

After a late night chat with the Tourist Police, translated by Matt, our little adventure was almost over. “These back streets used to be full of dealers. Now we patrol them ourselves and they’ve cleaned up a lot” Matt said. He operated a local hostel within spitting distance of where I was saying. Evidently he still had his work cut out for him.

When the night was over it dawned on me. I probably saw the two local kids that attacked the Englishman. We were waking home from dinner and two twenty somethings are starting straight at my girlfriend and I. They stood firm in our path. Feeling a bit cocky, I gave them the thousand yard stare and thought nothing of it. Eventually they smiled and we kept walking. I couldn’t help but feel they were waiting for just a bit more darkness and someone alone. Maybe they had the decency not to mug a bloke with a girl.

We stayed in the bed and breakfast for the entire length of our stay. There was no more hassles or dramas. As we did walk home at night though, I always kept an eye out for friendly cops and guards. They will keep an eye out for you if you give them a friendly smile. You will even hear their whistle as they patrol around, their way of letting you know they are there.

Cusco is a great place. You will find amazing food, tourist kitsch and truly amazing Incan and Spanish sights. Once you climatise there’s truly unforgettable experiences. But keep your wits about you. Peru still has some darkness.

The best thing about hunting down vinyl is going to places way off the beaten track. Getting lost, stuck in traffic and bizarre subway connections, asking directions from confused locals all for that elusive pay off. Shanghai is no exception. If you’re all about the journey, then you’ll get maximum bang for buck here.

Number one on your list should be the Movie Star. This guy has heaps of vinyl straight out of Japan. About half of it is rap and hip hop and the other half rock and indie punk. I found a set of 6 ‘best of’ Rolling Stones vinyls from the early 70s for 20 Yuan each. That’s about $3.20 each. Condition was average but they were so cool! Even the occasional super rare Van Halen bootleg. There’s also a bunch of Acker Bilk, middle of the road, ‘pan pipe gold’ crap too but I don’t do ironic kitsch! The bloke that runs this store speaks fantastic English. Movie Star is in a very nice part of town full of exclusive clubs, massage parlours and golf stores if that’s your thing. Oh and a very nice supermarket with about 100 fully imported beers, which is very helpful with most Chinese beers being so low alcohol!

What you do need to know is that this guy has (or had) 3 stores. In December 2012, the Movie Star one was the only one that was open.

This is the shop front from Hongmei road for Movie Star records.

CLICK IMAGE FOR LARGER VERSION. This is the business card for the bloke who runs Movie Star. Really nice guy. Speaks great English.

He has another flea market style store near a Holiday Inn (Changshou Lu, behind the Holiday Inn Vista (700 Changshou Lu, near Jiaozhou Lu from the original CNN article). It’s behind a garage door in this kind of ramshackle hardware store. He hasn’t opened that in quite some time though I suspect that’s where his best stash of vinyl is. My advice is don’t waste your time going there. He also used to run a store called Broadway DVD but that has closed a while ago. All the good stuff has probably been picked. But there are some still gems that await the brave.

This flea market stall is sadly no longer open. Don't waste your time,

Another store Uptown Records is literally in the basement of a huge nondescript apartment building. As your cab driver drops you off, you get a funny look because it’s a weird place for a foreigner to go to and a bit intimidating to walk into. As they have then entire basement, there are retro clothes, bars and everything setup down there. It looks like it could go right off if they had parties down there. The selection of rock was pretty average, but there was heaps of 90s punk, hip hop and electronica dancy stuff. Sadly I must’ve been there on a Monday or something because only the record store was open.

Kook Music is also meant to be quite good. It opens at 5pm though which sucks. So plan your journey wisely! It’s apparently a few blocks from Uptown Music.

This is the shopfront for Kook music. Let me know if it's any good.

As always I hope this helps you in your own adventures. I simply found that a lot of articles were too outdated and thought I’d share! Your comments are most welcome!

The good news is all the music shops are on one street: Jin Ling Lu (or Jin Ling Road). This article from the Shanghai expat is a really good guide. It’s not just guitars they sell either, far from it. Traditional Chinese instruments, drums, pianos, you name it. This street is very close to The Bund too, which is the Shanghai waterfront. So you can really make a day of it, looking at the guitar shops and then wander down to The Bund and see all the sights.

The bad news is that the Shanghai Gibson store on Hengshan Lu closed in 2011. CNN should update their site! Hengshan Lu is a nice part of town with heaps of pubs and western restaurants though, so it would not be a wasted trip. They moved their stock into a shop on Jin Ling Road.

The standard of guitars is probably a little bit better than in Beijing. But they are primarily Gibson and Epiphones. Ishibashi Music is arguably the coolest shop. They have at least 100 Gibophones and great stuff like Paul Reed Smith. They have a decent range of pedals too. Most shops are really friendly and speak a bit of English.

What’s on offer?

Virtually all shops will have an Epiphone Les Paul or ten for around 2500-4500 Yuan (approx $400 – 750 AUD). There are hundreds of them in all colours and variations. So there has to be a big of wiggle room on the prices. And what Chinese shop owner doesn’t like a fire and brimstone, hard core bargaining session?! Not much in the way of Fenders or odd ball stuff. Fender don’t appear to have laid their foundations in China to the extent that Gibson have.

There are some Japanese brands like ESP and Edwards (the poorer cousin of ESP, traditionally a Japan-only brand) starting to appear too. Some of the cheaper ESPs are Chinese made and look like reasonable quality. It’s December 2012 now and I have never seen these Chinese ESPs/LTDs before. Ishibashi had a few Edwards Les Pauls for approx $1000 but they were exceptionally high quality and had a nice aged finish. They would rival any real Gibson.

A few shops had Chinese brand guitars that looked a bit naff, but played beautifully. For approx $260 you couldn’t ask for a better Les Paul clone.

Fakes and dodgy stuff

I found one fake Les Paul for 1700 Yuan, funnily enough, right across the road from the official Gibson distributor. It was so bad the square fretboard inlays didn’t line up properly! Apparently they had a few Fender Strat fakes too. But when you can get a sweet looking Chinese made Epiphone that plays great, why bother? The fakes would make a nice ash tray, but to play? Don’t kid yourself.

Also see my other article on guitar shopping in Beijing. It looks like the government is really cracking down on the fake merchants.

Suggested itinerary

Hit Jinling Lu later in the afternoon. The shops generally close around 6-8pm. You’d need about 3 hours to see all the shops. Then keep walking down until you get to the bund. It should be dark then and you will be in for a treat to see the Shanghai skyline at night, with al the buildings lit up. If you wander down some of the side streets, you will also find some great cheap food. I found a plate of dumplings for 8 yuan. That’s lunch for $1.20!