ESP

Gigging, I used to love it. I needed my weekly fix. I hated to miss anything, and staying in the know, in the loop, it was vital to me.

Nowadays it's a rarity to find myself at a concert. Tonight I'm doing it – I'm reliving that familiar feeling of standing around drink in hand, waiting for a band to come on, shifting my weight from foot to foot; ever so slightly impatient. The name of the support due onstage doesn't ring any bells. Tim Ten Yen. Nothing. No bells. I've been on the brink of it all for years now, and missing it in many ways, but not enough to get back involved. I've lost interest in investigating new bands, and I like a lot of things but not enough any more to really care. I'm into different sounds now. I no longer respect this genre in the way I used to. It's something I started getting into when I was what, 16? I’m 24. People grow up and tastes change. Those cringing photos of that ever so rebellious phase are proof enough. I believe a dog collar made a guest appearance a few times.

Tim Ten Yen is a cockney one-man band, a try-hard Londonner, a geezer in a suit. He performs some fairly hard hitting solid tracks which he happily bops along to. I consider looking him up on MySpace. But then I forget. Next is Eugene McGuinness, an acoustic guitarist whose floaty lullaby Bold Street sends me off on a drifting trail of thought which I get lost in for most of the set. When I come to, they are still playing similarly floaty tunes and I am bored.

But next is big for me. Really big.

When I was in my last years of school, still unsure of things, of where I stood in the world, and still a little bit angry about everything, then I liked Electric Soft Parade. More than that: I was almost a groupie. I wasn't under any misconceptions about their music - it was above average indie pop but nothing technically or musically groundbreaking, it just clicked all the right buttons inside me when I heard it. They were poor live performers, and I knew that too. They'd screw up and argue and be all over the place and basically not very likeable but I still followed them. But when it was good and it worked, I'd watch, listen and feel all at once satisfied and content.

My loyal gigging friend Edd sent me their new album but I haven't listened to it. I regret it now that I'm here and I will know hardly any of their songs. It'll be fresh though, or that's how I console myself. They come onstage and I look back at Edd, grinning excitedly. I am genuinely very excited. They look older, in a strangely comforting way. They're my sort of age, which means they've had about as much growing up as I've had in the past few years and I know what that means. They look so much more comfortable in their skins, and between each other. There's no arguing any more. They don't care they're in a shoddy student union and it is only half full, instead of a sold-out Shepherd's Bush Empire - they are just making music. They look a bit like... like a real band. Geppetto would be proud. Before, it felt like they were my band. Mine and Edd's and the other inherently geeky fans who loved them, and they didn't have to be impressive because whatever they did we knew we'd still be there to watch and listen and adore and secretly not mind if they got a bad review because they'd still be ours and not everybody else's.

They begin with ‘Empty At The End’, the first track I ever heard of theirs and it's just how it used to be but tighter, slicker, more altogether complete. I can't stop smiling and unabashedly love this moment. I stop myself from getting carried away: nostalgia has a lot to do with this euphoria. However, the band still appear pretty watertight. My excuse to myself about them sounding fresh, as it turns out, is true. I'm absorbed in the sounds and I listen to them with delight. They play two more old songs, a haunting ‘Silent To The Dark’ from the first album and the innocent sounding ‘Lose Yr Frown’ from ‘The American Adventure’. These bring back the same pleasantness in me that they use to, and I can't help but turn around yet again to Edd and make a stupid happy face at him, because it's a bit like the old days.

I may be acting like some middle aged bore about this, but it is a while ago now and I do feel like I've grown up, weirdly, "with" these guys who don't know me at all, and who I don't have a clue about really either. But looking at them fills me with all this stuff and all these memories of me becoming, well, me, and I can't help but fall under the illusion that I do know them.

I'm not going to obsess about the Electric Soft Parade, but as crass as it may be to say, I still think they are really good and for some reason every tune they create still strikes a big gratifying chord with me, and I'm helpless, I have to love them for it. Again.

Oh, and I still fancy Alex.

Looking In

There's money in this business. There's definitely that. Is that it? Is it enough?
Not for some. It's obvious who's there for the drive, the excitement, the risks, the buzz of the deals. Their eyes are sharp, quick to focus. There's passion in their movements. They stand out like a sore thumb. Life is work, work is life, things are fast and quick and busybusybusy and meeting people goingplaces doingthings keepingfit goingout makingmoney spendingmoney keepitgoing don'tstopnow or you'll.. you'll burn out.

Then there's the slower, stressed ones. They're getting the good money, they can't leave at that age, but are snowed under, given too much, taken on too much, they are too responsible and they're looking at the clock and for them it can't go slow enough. While the others are wishing the hands round, they're wishing Time would wash itself away and they wouldn't have to keep one eye on the ever bursting Inbox because they'd finally get it all done, have a clean slate, be back on top, on track, no backlog, no stress.

They don't look happy. They have a good job though, and they're good at what they do, and at the end of the day they have a nice home to go to. There's no turning back now, too old, too much work done already, a mortgage, a family.. no going back now.

The rest, the most, nearly all: for them it's a trudge. A daily slog through facts, figures, bills, envelopes, phonecalls, politeness, smalltalk, clock watching, time passing.

Everyone jokes about it; the running dullness, the eternal wait for the weekend, holidays, alcohol, weekends, the next paycheque, alcohol, holidays. In the day there's the constant tea and coffee and chit chat. The evenings hold home and tv, food, partners, perhaps a warm summer's evening, a glass of wine, a pint or two, yet more tv.

They've got used to it. It's normal, so it's OK, it's not so bad - the ease of settling into it. It isn't actively offensive as a way of life. The jokes about things being miserable are just jokes, and there's no decision to be made as to whether to keep this life, because it doesn't appear as a choice. That's.. that's life. And with a shrug they move on. On to the latest gossip, and so often it's not even their gossip, it's celebrity gossip. Or the office bitching. What he's been up to with who, what she had for lunch, what she wore that day, how hard he hasn't been working.
Content. Are they content? I daren't ask. I think so, in a way.

So where am I? On the outside looking in?

For now. But I can see it, I can see how it becomes normal, how we sacrifice what we want for what will do. I'm not lazy, I'm not stupid, but it's still a risk. And I don't want to be one of the excited work-obsessed ones. I want to create something and make it successful, something I'm passionate about, not just the money, not just the thrill of business, but passion in something that gives me something back.

A dreamer - maybe, but don't take that away from me just yet.

La Fin

I stopped writing for a while. I realised that the impact of the things I was seeing and doing was not something I felt I could sit down and express in the freshest way possible any more. I was with people nearly the whole of my trip, so my experiences were often shared ones, but in South America it was somehow different. I mean I was almost never on my own. It's difficult to explain. There's a hosteling culture which allows for travellers to jump from town to town, city to city, following the same path as each other, ending up in the same big mass well organised hostels, going to the same bars, the same sites, on the same tours; it's a tight circle. It's extremely irritating at times. The problem is, it's also seriously good fun. In any case, it meant I often got caught up in the swirls of the hostel hopping and my experiences felt completely normal and in a way, unexciting, because everyone who I was with was going through the same things too.

And now I look back on it, I'm amazed at some of the things I did and saw. One of the best I feel compelled to mention was a three day motorbike tour to Machu Pichu in Peru. Without consciously realising it, I put my life fully into someone else's hands without a smidgen of doubt of my trust in him, as we drove the most dangerous and exhilarating ride of my life, through some of the most dramatic, romantic and beautiful scenery I have ever been witness to. Ever.

I didn't have enough time. I didn't plan much time because for some idiotic reason I thought I wouldn't want it – I thought 7 months would be plenty. In fact, I was still under this misguided impression when I landed in Chile, as my heart was very much still in the madness of Asia, and with the people I'd left behind there and in New Zealand, and I began to feel vaguely ready for home. South America stood apart from any of this sentimentality for a good while. But in the end it won me over, and to my surprise I found all of a sudden, on reflection, it had begun to take over the previous places, and I longed to stay and do more, see more, to stop and take the time to explore properly. I didn't even see any jungle. I have to go back and see the jungle. I didn't see any exotic wildlife (in the wild, anyway). I didn't get to any tropical beaches. I have to go back and get to know some of those.

The end of my trip was a week spent in Brazil. The Iguazu Falls were mesmerizing. Mesmerizing! I found myself utterly captivated by the masses upon masses upon masses of unfolding sheaths of pounding water. It was truly Mother Nature at her most awesome (in the actual sense of the word) and fascinating to see. For a short time anyway, and not particularly all that enjoyable while freezing cold and soaking wet. Then Rio, with the most astoundingly beautiful city views I've ever seen and I'm pretty sure that have ever existed, where the vast Christ statue stands as a new Wonder of the World and looks out on the twinkling sea and rolling hills with open arms. Actually, the Christ is a dull, grey, simple and in my opinion pretty unattractive statue, certainly not worth even a nomination into being a Wonder of the World. But the views are enchanting; the city is vast, all ups and downs and greens and blues, and the buildings are so varied – around the stunning beaches lie the wealthy apartments, sidled right up against the tumbling slums run by drug gangs and dotted haphazardly all over the place. By all standards it's perfectly unique.

When I had just arrived in Brazil, alone for the first time in months, I wrote some pretty miserable thoughts down:

"I'm lying on the top of a bunk bed in an empty dorm listening to Coldplay, wallowing in the emotional melodies, embracing the loneliness of my surroundings. It doesn't get much more feeble than this. I'm not ready to go back. I thought I would be – I thought I'd tire of this travelling business, the endless nothingness, the routine of no routine. At times I did, and there were days when I just wanted to go home. But these always rapidly faded, replaced by amazing places, good people, fond memories.
It's the same old story: I've just left behind people I've let myself become attached to, and feel an emptiness in my stomach which won't go away."

I wrote once before that it was possible to isolate the effect a place has on me from the effect of the people there, and while I still believe this is true, it's also true that a place can't evoke nearly as much positive emotion as people. I suppose that's obvious, it's just strange to experience, and to have the maturity to observe yourself experiencing. So while looking at something amazing can still have a poignantly powerful impact on the brain, if there's something holding you back, a worry or a loneliness there, in that moment that you're seeing it the enjoyment is withdrawn and it can just become another ticked box on the List of Things to See.

So the things I saw in Brazil, I regret to say, had an element of that throughout. The feeling of being left behind combined with the impending doom of returning to England grew overhead like a dark rain cloud I couldn't shake off. And yet everything was still beautiful, amazing and all the rest. So many things were. God knows how many times I've said those words - beautiful, amazing, incredible.. ever in my whole life..

I suppose the point is, it has been great.

And now I'm back. And it really isn't so bad. I'm having strange vivid dreams about being back travelling, and wake up depressed that I'm not, but these will fade with time. And my friends are here, and Mum and Dad and 2 of my brothers, and I can't value that enough. And a wonderful new house for me to live in and a new job with great prospects, and I simply haven't a spec of justification for complaint. The more I say I'm miserable to be back, the more I know it hurts those who have been waiting for me to return, but I can't have it both ways, and while I'm young, I want to explore as much as is humanely possible. Or is it just that I want to run away again?

I think the latter. For now though, I'm going to try to be here, all here.

Horsing Around

The music is good, it fills my head and I concentrate on watching the decks, wondering how the DJ matches one track´s beat with the next. I look up at him, he´s larger than life, and I´m standing too near, right by the decks. He has tattoos covering his arms and his chest. I stare. Suddenly I´m turning around and the scene has changed; I´m lending something to someone I don´t know very well and everything feels wrong, something is happening out of my control. A group of people nearby start to run out of sight and throw something towards us and it lands right behind me. As it lands the small green object comes into focus. It´s a grenade. Everyone panics and runs, and I run and run and then I´m looking for cover and then I´m floating through the air, before I even hear the explosion, floating in slow motion like in the films.

I wake up sweating.

My mind is in a jumble, my body tense, racing with adrenalin. Already the details of the dream are trickling away in my memory, and I´m annoyed. Not that I want to analyse it or anything, I just want the memory back. It´s dark outside and the wind is howling violently, rattling the window - that must have been what woke me up. That or the mad bunch of dogs who howl wildly, nightly, all night. Or it´s the heat. It´s freezing cold outside but the hostel is overheated and stuffy. I´m tempted to open the window, but check myself as the wind is so loud I´m fairly certain it´ll blow the roof off in any case, which would allow for plenty of ventilation without me having to get out of bed.

It´s 4am. I can´t get back to sleep. The wind is too loud, too violent sounding, and in the strangeness of being awake in a room of sleeping people in the middle of the night, I imagine it´s worse than it is. I squint out the window and stare at the lights of the town flickering in the darkness, waiting to see one of them illuminate something terrible. A house coming crashing down, a tree falling on telephone wires - something dramatic to justify my concern. That would make me feel a whole lot better, and the town is a dump anyway. We´re in El Calafate in southern Argentina, a town which survives solely on the income from tourists who flock to see the nearby glacier, which is undoubtedly hugely impressive. The town is not. Apart from the main high street, it´s made up of a jumble of dirt tracks leading to nowhere in particular, with the odd house or hostel here and there. The land is arid, a dull beige, dirty and unkempt. The northern towns in Argentina had pretty plazas, quaint cafes and impressive churches, but here there´s just nothingness. No flowers, no trees, no grass, no plaza, no big church, just dust and more nothingness. In a couple of months it will, no doubt, look gorgeous, covered in thick layers of snow to hide the land, leaving only the pretty newly built lodge style buildings to make the place look nice for the ski season.

As it is, none of these houses get blown down. Much to my disappointment, nothing happens at all, except that the wind keeps howling and I stay awake for hours, listening to it raging. Finally unconsciousness hits, and the next thing I know my alarm is pounding through my head, hurting my brain. We´re going horse riding for the day, and I´m in a foul sleep-deprived mood for it. Our complimentary breakfast of tiny corn flakes in toddler-sized colourful plastic bowls with tepid UHT milk along with a side serving of stale french bread, unsurprisingly does not lift my mood. We set off to find the horses and I´m feeling somewhat claustrophobic, having put on as many clothes as possible and wrapped myself up in practically all my belongings in preparation for the cold. I feel like one of those babies who you see being pushed along in their prams by overprotective mothers who have smothered the child in so many layers of puffy clothing that it has to lie with arms and legs outstretched, head perfectly still, the bending of the limbs or the turning of the head being an impossibility. It´s not very comfortable.

The wind is still howling. It´s so loud we can´t hear each other speak, so we set off in silence. It´s Lil, Will, our guide and me, and tagging along are at least a dozen dogs, scampering along like mad things at the heels of the horses. I wonder if perhaps it´s the dogs who make all that noise at night, and scowl as I remember the sleeplessness. Rain is hurtling into my face, and there´s dust in my eyes. I´m thoroughly depressed and cannot quite believe I´m going to be sitting on a horse all day in this mind-numbing wind and paying for the privilege. Soon we´re out in the open land overlooking the town, by a crystal clear turquoise lake and looking up at snow-capped mountains covering the horizon. I should love it but I can´t. It´s pathetic. It´s not just the tiredness. There´s something looming over me that I can´t stop thinking about. I think they call it the Real World, and in not too long I´m going to have to face it. Actually, I´ve chosen to, so I don´t even have the right to be unhappy about it, but I still want to run from it. However, it´s not now, not yet, so I have to stop dwelling on it. I turn to see Lilly bob up beside me on her horse, and she´s saying something to me but it´s lost in the wind.

What? I yell.
This is hell on earth! she shouts back.

I am not alone. I feel better.

Eventually we stop for some lunch. The wind has dropped, the rainclouds have gone, and the hole in my stomach is being filled with cold meats and cheese and bread and several cups of local wine. By the time we´re back on the horses everything seems a whole lot better. To top it off, our guide comes galloping up cowboy style, donning a ridiculous poncho, looking as if he´s trying to re-enact a Marlborough cigarette advert, which makes me smile.

I´ve loved Argentina. I´ve loved being with Lilly and Will. It´s like being on a really long holiday in Europe. But that´s also why I can´t wait to leave - it just isn´t how I imagined South America at all. It´s so ordered and civilised, so in touch and, well, to repeat myself, so European. So before I do face the Real World I´m desperate to see something different, something as different as possible, something which impresses itself onto my mind and makes me feel I´m on an adventure to stay with me and not drift away into nothingness like my confused dreams. So I´m going up to Bolivia. It probably won´t do that, but it still sounds like fun.

Feathers and glitter

Buenos Aires, 2am, and it's raining hard. I'm with my old school friend Lilly and her brother Will. We're in a hostel renowned for its party atmosphere and recommended by backpackers all over the place. The nightlife doesn't start here till ridiculously late so we've only just had dinner and now are sitting in a corner of the hostel bar drinking sugary cocktails and being antisocial. The hostel have put on a "crazy hat" theme, an effort with, no doubt, good intentions, but frankly it stinks of the organised fun of university freshers weeks, and since I'm not travelling on my own any more I no longer need to continually make the effort to be social. It's a relief to fall back on the laziness of having an old friend for company. We we can just be, without the trying.

Everyone is leaving, heading out to various clubs, but the main one is a transvestite club, and much against my will I am persuaded by Lilly that this is the place to go. I am not amused. Neither is Lil's brother, but we succumb, for novelty value and all that.

Firstly we're dumped by the cab driver at the wrong club. This seems to be a running theme in this city - cabbies taking us around the world and back again as we're clearly stupid clueless English tourists who have no idea where we're going, and haven't the language skills to effectively debate our route. A second cab ride and another half hour later, we arrive at the right place. I know this because the first thing I see as I step out the cab is a huge, grossly fat man dressed in a glittery skintight Lycra leotard (of sorts), smothered in bright pink make-up and with large purple feathers somehow sprouting from his head. He smiles at us in the queue. My eyes widen.

Inside, the place is buzzing with people, several of whom we recognise from the hostel, and there are surprisingly few transvestites running around. Most people seem to have also come for the novelty value, which makes me feel much better. The curtain on stage is hauled up and a show begins, full of breasts and fake breasts and fishnets and thigh-high boots and gaudy colours and feathers and leathers and hats and lipstick, and far, far too much skin oozing out of outfits several sizes too small. The music is awful, it's like Moulan Rouge gone Eurodisco gone Regaton. But hey, it's all part of the show. I suppose.

Will has had enough and makes a swift exit, leaving Lilly and I gaping at the stage trying to pretend its a perfectly normal evening. I quickly decide to scrap this way of thinking, as clearly this is not just any normal place, there's plenty more clubs in this city which I know will be to my liking, so for now I decide to drop the snob act and enjoy myself. Obviously I still complain at regular intervals to anyone who'll listen about how bad the music is, which quickly gets boring for everyone except me, but it's pretty much vital to my existence to remind myself that I have good taste in music. This probably makes me appear to others as someone who believes that for this reason I am better than they. There may be some truth in that, but one shouldn't admit these things out loud.

It's getting late. The place is emptying out, and the curtain opens again, for one last show. This time, there's no scary looking women pretending to act out disgusting sex acts on men dressed as women. This time its a gorgeous, tall semi-naked page 3 style blond girl doing what by all accounts appears to be a strip club act. Lilly and I are right in front of the stage. We exchange concerned glances. We turn around to the crowd and are met with a sea of male faces, eyes glued to the stage. It has become apparent that, unsurprisingly, we are some of the only girls left. We can't watch for very long and convincingly pretend we are deeply insulted by such a cheap grotesque display, while finding the whole thing highly amusing.

The act finishes, and I look up to see my good friend surrounded, trapped in a circle of 6 or 7 Argentinian men. She makes a face of disgust. It is time to leave. A spotlight bursts onto the centre of the stage, the transvestite I had seen outside grabs the closed velvet curtains, and in a dramatic gesture flings them open, arms outstretched, holds a pose for a second or two, and then hurls them shut, bowing as he does so. The light goes out. It's over.

Free Willy

My alarm goes off but I'm already half awake. It's 4.30am and dark outside, and I've been half conscious for what feels like hours, worried that I'll sleep in. As quietly as possible I get up and scramble my things together, trying not to wake the three girls asleep in the dorm. I'm about ready to leave when one of them rolls over and mumbles a slurry, 'What time is it?'

'Nearly five', I whisper.

'5 in the morning?'

'Yeah, dolphin swimming, remember? Sorry!'

She looks pissed off. I hurriedly leave. I walk down to the dolphin centre and we are all given wetsuits, masks, goggles and flippers, and my particular favourite, a wetsuit mask which makes everyone's faces look like squashed up plums. A lady gives us an enthusiastic welcome and shows us a video about how to behave with the dolphins. She makes some relatively witty remarks but at this time of the morning I stubbornly refuse find anything funny. We are divided into groups and sent out to get a bus down to the boat pick up point. I haphazardly bundle up all my gear and wander outside, where it's getting light already. The centre is on the coast, in the town of Kaikura on the east of New Zealand's South Island. It's pretty much as far east as you can get, and its one of the first places in the world that the sun rises. Well, obviously the sun is continually rising everywhere but it's one of the first points on land that the day starts on our date system in any case.

I'm distracted by something colourful in the corner of my eye. I turn to see what it is and I let out a gasp, nearly dropping all my stuff in amazement. The sky is a burning, brilliant red. It's not just any red, not just any pretty sunrise, it's the deepest blood red and the entire horizon is flooded with it. I've honestly never seen such colour in nature before in my life, and I can't tear my eyes away from it. My hand has already instinctively reached for my camera, and I scrabble about trying to get it out without turning my attention away from the skyline ahead. I have this odd and very childish idea which though totally irrational, still pops up again and again: that colours like these are too modern to be natural, as if in the old days colour as bold as this never existed. Everything in the distant past to me seems as if it should have been a mixture of dull shades - greens, greys, browns, some mustard yellow perhaps - nothing like this vast expanse of technicolour in front of me. I snap a couple of shots but it's a pathetic attempt at capturing the magic of the light. It does it no justice whatsoever, and I am tempted to delete the image as its almost an embarrassment to the power of the sun. We are hurried onto the bus by our guide and I gather myself together and jump on. I'm already completely bowled over.

Within half an hour we're on the boat cruising out over the Pacific. The view back to land is picture perfect as the sunlight spills over the hills and over onto the flat water where it bobs around, so bright you can't look at it. I keep snapping shots, but eventually force myself to put the camera away to stop myself from taking yet another picture of almost exactly the same thing. A killer whale, an Orka, is nearby, so we divert from the dolphin chase to see it. The one whale turns out to be at least 5, a family of them and more, hunting stingray for breakfast. The previous day I had seen sperm whales, which were great to watch but you can only see up to 10% of their bodies from above the water, whereas these orka are a lot smaller and their black and white gleaming bodies slip past the boat again and again, in an impressively sleek display which I will never forget. That said, I've never forgotten seeing a killer whale at Sea World in Orlando, Florida, but somehow this beats it in my list of things to never forget.

We have to tear ourselves away from the whales to find the dolphins, which doesn't take long. They are completely wild, but enjoy the intrigue of having humans around them to play with. The boat is surrounded by dolphins jumping and wheeling and somersaulting in the early morning light. We get in the icy cold water and have to make noises to attract them, and they love it. You can make eye contact with them and they'll swim around you in circles, so long as you keep eye contact and swim in quick little circles yourself. I keep laughing which stuffs up my breathing system, letting water in. I can't believe what's going on around me. There's up to 600 of them playing with and around us, darting about with such speed and agility, without touching a single other body. They are such fine swimmers I feel a little envious.

Afterwards I feel rotten and want to puke. I weakly hang my head over a bucket for the journey back (where we find more orkas, but I'm not in the mood so much any more) and curse my human stomach for being so pathetic. I can't even enjoy the cups of hot chocolate being passed around by our guides.

Once off the boat I'm elated. The beauty of New Zealand doesn't cease to amaze me. I'm left speechless almost every day at some new wonder, and it's almost too perfect to believe. What's most striking is how untouched it is, how unspoiled. If there were a section of Britain with any of the natural wonders there are here, it'd be absolutely chaotic on sunny days, and overrun with shops clustered with tack. It seems it should be the world's best kept secret, and yet it's no secret. I keep having strange moments where I'm not quite sure where I am, and what on earth I'm doing. I'm not in Asia any more, and I think I'm still in shock. It's quite unsettling, and I'm pretty sure by the time I'm used to it I'll have left the continent to enter yet another world.

Vietnam. Mostly the bad things.

I've been in Vietnam 2 weeks. That's too long; longer than planned or wished, but I just sort of seem to get stuck in fairly unexciting towns for several days on end, without really managing to see or do very much.

Over the Chinese New Year ("Tet") everything shuts down - shops, transport, restaurants, bars – the whole lot. Officially it lasts only a few days but unofficially it lasts however long anyone wants, which is pretty handy if tourists are involved. Prices are hugely inflated and getting anywhere is a guaranteed ordeal. I haven't heard anyone say "Chuc Mung Nam Moi!" (Happy New Year) for at least the last week, and yet to all intents and purposes it still seems to be a good enough reason for everything to take twice as long and cost twice as much. I think there's a bitter element coming through here. If not, there should be, and I have plenty of reasons why.
I joined up with Tom and Danielle, who I kept bumping into in Laos and eventually decided to stick around with for most of Vietnam. Tom is 19, carefree, 6 months into forgetting about waiting tables in Bristol and also happens to be the tallest, whitest blondest boy that the general public of Vietnam have ever seen. One child literally jumped into her mother’s arms when she saw him. Danielle is from Melbourne, and has that awful braided hair you see so many travellers succumb to in South East Asia. She is eight years older than Tom and they make an odd pair, but are a good laugh and, more importantly, rooms are cheaper in groups.

On our first evening in Hanoi, the craziness of the place is a bit overawing but I am loving it; it’s as if Delhi and Bangkok had been merged in an explosion of light, colour and noise. There is excitement in the air with the oncoming of Tet and fresh beer at street stalls for under 7 pence a glass. Naturally, after a good 21 pence splurge I feel the need to find a toilet. I am guided by a friendly local lady down a dirty alleyway, where a man stops me and asks me to pay first. I am happy to do so but only have a large denomination bill, as I only just took out some currency and haven't paid for anything yet. He gives me back half of what he owes me in change, so I ask for the rest.

And then again.

"The rest, please." He gives me a few scraps more, then nothing. I nod encouragingly. “The rest?” Silence. “Erm, the rest? Please?"

Finally we’re almost there; I look at him expectantly, a hint of impatience seeping into my expression.

Without warning he jumps up, grabs the change, gives me back my original bill and puts his hand up as if to say, "talk to the hand honey". Naively I take this to mean he’s had enough and I might as well just go to the toilet for free. Unfortunately I only got the first part right – he gets aggressive and shouts at me while barring the way to the bathroom with his body.

We have to go through this facade almost every time we make any kind of monetary exchange in Hanoi, and have quickly come to expect it. Tom is thrown out of a corner shop full of Tet orientated gifts because he is white and would, no doubt, cause too much hassle. And if the price you name for something isn't what a seller wants, their expressions turn to disgust and you are ignored, without even a chance to barter.

"But hey", Tom chirps up, "We still have our wonderful hotel". It was true. We'd walked into a place where it was $12 a night for all three of us. It’s the best place I've stayed in my 4 months away. Best that I've ever paid for myself in fact. Spacious, spotless, complete with TV, air-con, mini-bar, massive bathroom, and a hearty breakfast included in the measly price. It seems too good to be true, and it is.

The tremendously friendly manager tries to sell us a tour to Halong Bay, on the north coast of Vietnam, famous for its beautiful limestone mountains and clear blue water, where almost every visitor to the country takes one kind of tour or another. We cautiously tell her we will have to think about it, which is a lie as there are places all over town for a third of the price. She quickly clocks on. Her manner declines rapidly and she swiftly turns into a cold, snappy cow. Tom is particularly hurt by this sudden transition as he is now bereft of repeated compliments on how charming he is, and how lucky to have two “boooootiful laaaydeeez” to keep him company.

The manager peaks full bitchiness at 7am on our second morning when we rise early to head off to Halong Bay – unsurprisingly - with a different tour company. She kindly informs us (after previously telling us that there was plenty of space over Tet) that there are no rooms for us that night. We are kicked out there and then, finding ourselves at 7.07am with our hastily packed luggage, standing on the street bewildered, tired and angry. At least we can laugh amongst ourselves about it; were I on my own I would have had to punch the wall or something similarly futile.

Anyone who deals with tourists wherever we go seems to have a natural disregard for helping us in any way, and people try to rip us off left, right and centre. For no apparent reason, I was going to be charged an extra $10 dollars to get a bus to a different town, when I had already bought my ticket. At that point, I lost the battle with my own anger and was left little choice but to go outside and punch the wall.

Nothing is ever explained; there are no smiles, no courtesy, just looks of repulsion or you're simply ignored. I've never been anywhere with such an attitude problem.

Tom and I are attempted mugged, twice, in a popular beachside town of Nha Trang. The muggers have a regular pattern: a small group of women jump off motorbikes where the men stay with engines running, while the girls run up to you pretending to be drunk and friendly. They hug me and grope Tom (asking him to "play" with them) as they quietly slipped their hands into pockets and bags. They don't take anything from us because we are just about sober enough to work out what they were trying to do and make a fast exit without any trouble. The second time we see them coming and make an immediate run for it, me pen-knife in hand; probably not the wisest thing I've ever done.

Before I get accused of blatant bigotry, it's obviously not the entire population of Vietnam who behave like this, and to generalise would be wholly unfair. But the tourist industry is riddled with an attitude of give me your money or get out, and unfortunately it’s people with this approach who I have come across on a daily basis. Yes, given the history, I can understand the resentment, to an extent. Sadly that doesn’t make it much easier to deal with in every day transactions. It’s not as if I can say to the nasty travel agent, “I’m British, not American, I was born in the 1980’s, and it’s not my fault.” That, perhaps, would be crossing the line.

Refreshingly, I am now in a town which I genuinely like. I've met some lovely Vietnamese people, which I was beginning to doubt was possible. It's another coastal town, further south than Nha Trang, called Mui Ne, where kite surfing and beautiful hotels are both rapidly expanding businesses. When I arrived I planned on spending one day here, having spent too much time getting stuck in other towns and hoping to head off to Cambodia and getthehelloutofhere as soon as possible. Finally, however, I have been charmed; Vietnam will have to host me, and I will have to deal with Vietnam, for another few days.