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The LISTENup Podcast series is back for a limited time only (that’s my way of saying I’ll produce one when I can!) Strap on your walking boots, and come explore the Xishuangbanna region of China’s, Yunnan Province. One of the most incredible regions in the world, for myriad reasons.

To view the original post, visit Bee for Banna. You can read along like travel blog karaoke. Get the family together and gather around a fake fire with a bowl of prawn cocktail crisps, and enjoy my latest speech impediments. If you like what you hear, take another swig of homebrew and revisit the past episodes of the LISTENup Podcast Series.

While I fear your cursing praise, I do welcome any feedback. I’ll be honest, I think I ramble on a bit too much — but am I just tuning out to the sound of my own voice? I’d love to hear your feedback, and don’t worry — I can take your honesty, no matter how brutal.

007 LISTENup: Bee is for Banna is a post from Trail of Ants.

Consider visiting my travel blog to explore a wide variety of travel related articles, and score yourself a 7% discount on your next travel insurance policy with my World Nomads promotional code.

I stare at the newspaper. It wasn’t me. I gawp at the television. It wasn’t me. I trawl through the internet. It wasn’t me! I listen to the radio, podcasts, and conversations on the bus. It WASN’T me! At least — I hope it wasn’t me?

I didn’t know much about Asia before I scribbled over her ancient lanes. I thought it was a factory to stock my English necessities. Indeed, my local fish and chip shop, newsagent, petrol station, pizza shop and Chinese takeaway were all owned and operated by cheery Asians.

It’s only now, as I’m sat in as-safe-as-safe-can-be New Zealand, that it’s sunk in. I’ve left a trail of destruction in Asia. I tell myself every day it wasn’t me, but there’s a residual inkling; that it was.

I believe in the butterfly effect — that a butterfly can fart in Blackpool and lift the skirt of a Cornish virgin. So could it actually be possible, that I inadvertently contributed to some of the most iconic headlines of the past two years?

Perhaps the day I fell asleep in Moscow’s Gorky Park, I missed the chance to quell the August 2008 invasion of Georgia? I’ll never know, I’d quickly fallen asleep on a round-city recce because Moscow had swiftly bored me. However it’s not just the invasion of gritty Georgia that has me looking over my shoulder.

In July 2007 I arrived in Mongolia. The Mongols were in full on party mode; it was the annual Nadaam Festival and everywhere I looked small horses jerked fancy young jockeys around the beaten green Gobi. Gers sprang up; a hundred pickpockets tried their luck; I was cruelly threatened in a local nightclub; and I heard of one backpacker being kidnapped, and another who was raped.

Though shocking, none of this deterred me — I was in Mongolia. I was living a dream I’d dreamt for years. A year later — July 2008 — and Ulaanbaator became the stage to escalating violence as protestors rallied against suspected election fraud, and a year later a flood temporarily swallowed the capital. This was amazing; not least because Mongolia is one of the emptiest expanses of land I’ve ever seen. The devil had hit the bull’s-eye.

China’s also suffered. I spent three fascinating months there in late 2007 and ever since it’s been hailing horror. First of all, hundreds of thousands of my beloved Chinamen were affected by the worst snowstorms in decades. Then the warm up to the forthcoming Olympics became the catalyst to a massive anti-China uprising, resulting in my cherished Tibetan skies being splattered with the worst violence in Lhasa for twenty years. As if China hadn’t taken enough of a pounding in my absence, the Sichuan earthquake then culled tens of thousands and not to be outdone, the north-eastern Xinjiang region imploded in another round of ethnic violence. I won’t even mention their milk.

Brimming with innocence, I entered the Kingdom of Nepal. Word had already reached me of the Maoists — a terrorist group — demanding money off stoic foreign hikers in the mystical foothills of the Himalayas. Undeterred, I dodged my way around Kathmandu, spluttered down the river, clambered through bushes looking for tigers and rhino and snuck in and out of Buddha’s old place.

Other than a few spontaneous (yet peaceful) protests, I was confident things were running smoothly. Then I left — and a trio of bombs rippled the terai. Before I knew it the headlines told me the terrorists were in government and soon after they levered the monarchy permanently off their thrown. What had I done? The Kingdom had fallen.

India was never short of controversy during the four months I spent there — that’s one of the reasons I love it so. But nothing of the scale that happened after I left. First off, forty-nine people were slain by a series of bombs in Ahmedabad, and a few months later the sickening news came through that Mumbai had suffered a similar fate, with four times as many losing their lives to hereditary violence.

If all of this wasn’t bad enough, the next country I forayed into was Sri Lanka. I’m almost thankful that when I first stepped foot on the Venerable Island, it was already in the throes of civil war. It meant I couldn’t be the catalyst. The Sinhalese government pulled out of a six-year peace deal the week I arrived. I stayed for two months, fearlessly venturing to the war-torn east coast before looping around and back to India. Then the government accelerated its stance, fuelling the climax to a bloody feud. Maybe my many inquisitive questions were misplaced?

The next country I dared to step foot in, was tiny Singapore. Rumours were strife that a woman in her twenties was brutally cursed for crossing the road without being escorted by a little green man. And then, if that wasn’t shocking enough, I was told off for taking too long to order noodles. I’ve got my eye on Singapore, if only to see if anything interesting ever happens.

From Singa’ to the Indonesian archipelago. A two-month jolly around Sumatra, Java and bountiful Bali proved to be one of the most exhilarating periods of my life. I left full of admiration for a country of simple brilliance. Four months later the government executed the infamous Bali Bombers, which seemingly acted as little deterrent — eight months later, central Jakarta reverberated to the blasts of two of its iconic hotels.

A year in Australia ensued, for the most part I was safe in the haven of Melbourne sipping stubbies and perusing antipodean quirks. Then one Saturday I dropped Reb and her dad at Avalon airport, and the radio began to crackle through the news that became known as Black Saturday; bushfires left 173 dead and levelled lives in the worst natural disaster in Australia’s history.

All of the above lays in my wake. Battered and torn, broken and bruised. Lives inextricably twisted, love curtailed, and communities eternally altered.

Perhaps it’s true, that you only really know a country and its people once you’ve been there — once you’ve spent time laughing with its children. But perhaps it’s also true, that you only get to know a place, once you’ve left?

Trails of the Unexpected is a post from Trail of Ants.

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It’s a rite of passage that a traveller devour something they couldn’t find in their local café. Your friends expect it. Your family retches at it. People you meet on the road compete against it, and the bottom line is someone’s always gone one better.

I met an American senior in Mongolia who claimed to have eaten everything off the infamous feast table of Indian Jones and The Last Crusade, as well as countless other treats including drinking the blood of an African cow directly from its pulsing neck, but he wouldn’t eat the essential English breakfast ingredient, black pudding. I’m not a wanker. I respect peoples choices. This trip alone I’ve chosen to eat snake, scorpion, dog, fermented mares milk, pigs penis and the nuggets of loveliness on display in this week’s Reprint – the live larvae of the black bee.

It was during a privileged visit to a rural Chinese village in the southern province of Yunnan that the honour fell to me. They tasted a bit like sweet corn, and after a few bottles of baiju (Chinese liquor) I was popping them in at alarming speed, being careful to split them and remove their shitbag. I reckon I scoffed about forty or more, ensuring I tried the outer wrigglers and the more developed, bitter inner circle. It was a night to remember, not least because I turned vegetarian soon after (though that didn’t last passed Singapore).

Has this weeks Reprint image hit a cord? Let me know about it via the comments panel, or for more imagery from along The Trail take yourself over to the stills gallery.

The Reprint: ‘Bon Appetit’ is a post from Trail of Ants.

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I only ever had one pet. It was a tabby cat. I called it Thomas. My sister called it Fluffy. My dad called it Cat. It would forever be known as Thomas Fluffy Cat. Then TFC ran off, probably to a derelict pig farm at the end of our road that was the headquarters to a gang of ferals.

A strangely familiar looking cat turned up at one of my best friend’s house a few years later. It was curiously attracted to me, and I remain convinced that it is TFC, or at least one of his messengers. But this is all besides the point. None of the above has anything to do with the irresistibly cute ginger kitten in the image below.

Meme was the resident cat at my hostel in Pingyao, a small culturally significant town not far from Beijing. The garish shoe is mine too. I remain a stout fan of the Croc and all affiliated footwear, and stand by my claim that it is the most versatile shoe you could ever wish for in a backpack. Odourless. Rainproof (due to it allowing rain to run out of the holes). Sturdy. Compact (kind of, with a bit of squeezing).

The Reprint: ‘Ginger Blue’ is a post from Trail of Ants.

Consider visiting my travel blog to explore a wide variety of travel related articles, and score yourself a 7% discount on your next travel insurance policy with my World Nomads promotional code.

It’s no secret that China is building bridges in both the literal and physical senses and it’s a consequential fact that their economy is blowing smoke in the face of their environment, and their population. This weeks Reprint image is a soft example of pre-Olympic Beijing.

As a visitor to China one of my lasting memories will be the ability to look at Beijing’s midday sun without having to squint my eyes. The pollution in Beijing is so thick some days that you feel you could scoop it out of the air with a spoon.

It’s said that those breathing the air in Beijing are punished in the same way as those who smoke a packet of cigarettes a day. Cough. Wheeze. The Reprint shows the exquisite Beijing Opera house, a building that will surely become one of the more positive and enduring symbols chiming on China’s future.

Has this weeks Reprint image hit a cord? Let me know about it via the comments panel, or for more imagery from along The Trail take yourself over to the stills gallery.

The Reprint: ‘A Finer China?’ is a post from Trail of Ants.

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Have you ever hitchhiked via tractor to a faraway mountain village in rural China, to dine on warm bee larvae and pollute the local culture with their first experience of iPods, Dire Straits and Jack Daniels?

No? MY GOD, you haven’t lived! Winston, brew this man a cup of tea.

The village in question was found in the mesmerising region of Xishuangbanna in southern China. Banna will forever be remembered, for this wholly unexpected yet remarkable night. You can read all about this amazing time in my life, in a September 2007 post along The Trail titled Bee for ‘Banna.

This gentle faced man was in Western overload, you can just see the tip of my cigarette, the familiar white strands of the iPod and the telltale rolled-back eyes syndrome, as this man is what my fellow Poms and I would call ab-solute-ly bladdered!

Has this flashback given you brain ache for more? Do you need a quick fix of my South China times? Worry not young devotee, follow this link to become gridlocked in a gallery of photos from those cherished months I spent in southern China.

The Reprint: ‘Me Ol’ China Plate’ is a post from Trail of Ants.

Consider visiting my travel blog to explore a wide variety of travel related articles, and score yourself a 7% discount on your next travel insurance policy with my World Nomads promotional code.

This week, The Reprint showcases the most unlikely insertion (pun intended) of words you could possibly imagine in a Lonely Planet Phrasebook.

Suppose you were fumbling through the pages in front of a delicate Chinaman looking for the required ‘excuse me could you guess the way to the Grand Buddha?’ when you stumble across this (click the image to enlarge);

So there it is folks, when you’ve mastered the art of chopsticks grab yourself a cheeky Chinese takeaway and grunt out a “màndiăn lái”. Let me know how you get on. No seriously. Let me know how you get on.

The Reprint: ‘Mandarin Moves’ is a post from Trail of Ants.

Consider visiting my travel blog to explore a wide variety of travel related articles, and score yourself a 7% discount on your next travel insurance policy with my World Nomads promotional code.

I’d seen him from a short distance, twelve months previously, he travelled alone aboard a plane to Moscow. He wore a dark tracksuit top zipped over a light t-shirt, and loose pale green shorts covered the knees he cradled by his chest. His hair sprayed out in loose brown curls beneath a khaki cap, highlighted by scribbles of grey. His pale thin lips lined a shallow smile, and his early morning eyes seemed glazed with relief. As his homeland slipped beneath a thin veil of cloud, he lifted his cap and ran his fingers through his hair, his lips parted just once to release his farewell thoughts: Let the journey begin, my friend. Today, he lay upright on the rippled white sheets of a double bed, in a simple, homely room on the island of Bali.

His hair was shorter, still a familiar fiesta of curls and slashed with new grey. His face was slimmer, his pale skin had darkened and his spirit was now windowed by black-framed glasses. His khaki cap lay upturned nearby, a tide of sweat had set a shade in the rim and it was filled with worn foreign coins. His loyal backpack leaned tiredly, resting its bruises and scars against a bamboo table. He lay shirtless, wearing chequered grey shorts between a half empty packet of Marlborough and a swollen blue notebook. Ambient music moulded around his quiet thoughts, and I watched in silence as his eyes circled the motionless ceiling fan. He lay in the path of a mirror, reflecting the figure of a proud and mortal curio. Though he sometimes heard me, I sensed he never saw me.

He recalled how he’d left Moscow, slipping east through Siberia to the rhythmic beat of a Mongolia bound train. It was five days before he set foot in Ulaanbaatar. While he absorbed the strength of the mighty Mongol race, he followed the whispers through the kitsch of their annual games. He described the grace of wrestlers, the poetry of archers and the fear that pecked at the calmness of preteen jockeys. Asia mesmerised him instantaneously. He looked musingly at the ceiling fan, he found its will to spin tremendous. After a short time living with local nomads in their ger and exploding dust clouds with the hooves of horses, he journeyed onward to Beijing. The Mongolians, he declared have a degree in simplicity, their eyes hang like painted canvases in a dusty exhibit of Untold Beauty. His arrival in Beijing was infamous, he writhed in agony for three days. At moments he became so dehydrated he had to use his fingers to pry his swollen tongue from the inner of his cheek. China was kind after this initiation, and even in the cruellest moments he learned patience, compassion and conviction.

He recalled a southwest mountain village where he’d sat and eaten beside a loyal friend, whose name, when he spoke it, started the percussion in his eyes. Following a humble feast they shared cigarettes and baiju with a decade or more excitable locals, who later produced a segment of bee larvae. After a pregnant pause, he swallowed the first of the pale grubs, beginning a long evening of song and dance, laughter and merriment. It says a lot about the Chinese, they’re xenophobes who roll out their welcome mats with a courtesy offered to queens. He shuffled on the bed, and then I listened as he rolled his memory onto the Tibetan plateau. He visited Lhasa, spending two weeks watching the evolution of monks, and the perseverance of pilgrims. He thought highly of the Tibetans. Lhasa radiates beneath a sky so alive, so pure, so blue. It mainlines your veins, and suddenly you’re as wise as the ocean, as blameless as boys, and as boundless as her eyes. He left the Forbidden City in a failing van. He drifted in and around whitewashed monasteries and indigo lakes, vast pale dunes and rich red forts, sought all the while by scores of grubby faced youths. As the traveller’s tale ascended to the base camp of Mount Everest, I picked up the thrill in his tone. He told of being caught out in tumbling temperatures beneath a canopy of curious stars. After a slow 10km hike he recoiled and spent several hours shivering uncontrollably beneath a stack of blankets, his eyes still retained that frozen glaze.

The resilient city of Kathmandu became the stage to a fond farewell, to the girl whose name he chased around the orchards of his mind. He cast his eyes on his cigarettes before confessing it had taken many moons before he realised the feeling seeping from the Kathmandu shadows, was loneliness. The Kingdom of Nepal played stage to my coronation. The day I lost my queen preceded the month I found my Kingdom. It was there, in Nepal, that he first encountered Hinduism. He found sense in aspects of its tradition, Buddha had nudged him on an educational level, but Hinduism and all the myth and colour of its ways and words earned a place in his heart in ways he’d never permitted. He doesn’t believe in mortal gods, or the dictatorship he sees in other religions. The real Hindu takes strength from everything, and gives weakness to nothing. He looped around Nepal, taking to the rivers, roads and jungles before riding on the roofs of buses through the southern terai, stopping by the birthplace of the Indian Prince, Buddha before lowering himself over the border and into the heart of Hindustan, to India.

He smiled, as if trying to expel the gross history of this journey. His first night in India, he told me how drunk he’d gotten, attempting to forget the inward journey that choked him with anger, and drenched him in desperation and blood. I learned later that that aching anger would bind itself with love. He travelled the cities of the north with his parents. Together they took in the holy Hindu city of Varanasi; the glorious Mogul white cliffs of the Taj; the Golden Temple, home of the Sikhs; and the Buddha’s classroom of Sarnath. Between these, they fought with forts and took trains to temples before the three speared their way over rails to the southern, largely Christian city of Pondicherry. North India is crass and callous. You’re soul is robbed, your spirit burned and your destiny is devilishly realigned. Christmas was spent sowing seeds of kisses on that girl, she’d drifted on his whispers to bloom beneath the shadows of festivity and friends. He stopped his story for a moment to sip a sassy smile, though its cause would remain a private pleasure.

He then told me of the month of Janus, who opened a door to new beginnings on the isle of Sri Lanka. The surf and sands of southern Ceylon bore him the fruit of countless new friends, each was true, each loyal and distinct. One day, he fell upon the tragedy of two Sri Lankan brothers, whose family business, a turtle farm was destroyed “the day the sea is coming”, along with almost their entire family. I didn’t have to hear Nimal and Ruwan’s tragedy, I could see it in their eyes and feel it in my heart, and without words I knew she felt the same, we had to help. I listened to his thoughts on Sri Lanka, the gaps he left I figured were small parts of his self that he left in the sands to recover another day. The tea plantations, national parks and holy pilgrimages he spoke so sweetly of, sat beside his firsthand accounts of an island in turmoil, at war.

His return to India was more instinct than desire. He tore himself away from an island he loved and threw himself at the mercy of her southern states. He found shanti the day he rented an Enfield Bullet motorcycle, and found comfort from the loving arms wrapped around his waist. He described the thirty day journey in magnificent stages, from the temple strewn lands of Tamils, up and over the Western Ghats before descending their coats of grit and grim into the green glory of Kerala. All along their way they sipped hot sweet chai and snacked on wadis with a hundred, no a thousand locals. They pinched rice and sweet, spicy curries with their fingers from banana leaves and when their clocks chimed for their ‘hour of need’ it took just a shy passerby, or a hidden onlooker to attract a gaggle of intrigue and set them on their way once more. To thread a passage through India in this way, sweetened bitterness with bliss and spliced cruel with kind. Our path was scribed with poetries of passion, and slow ballads of awe and brilliance. The conclusion however, also brought a sequel to the Toodle-oo of Kathmandu, to his pillion, his equal and his muse. This time born of logic, laced with tears but remembered in gratitude.

He paused, then silently walked barefoot to his porch, as he sat down he drew his knees to his bare chest and lit a cigarette. The plumes of smoke moved thinly through the still, warm air of our Bali night. He stared up into the dim porch light, watching in wonder his self-made spectacle of careless wisps. He extinguished the cigarette slowly, drew a deep breath and continued his memoires, carrying his thoughts over the moss-covered rocks that surrounded a small hidden lawn. He recalled the three weeks of long days that followed her departure when he’d ventured into the state of Andhra Pradesh, going nowhere fast while thinking things over slowly. I knew it was time to leave India, when I was denied entry to a night train. My bribes fell on hollow ears, my begging fell on careless eyes and my will was spirited away on a feather, to a passive plateau. I’d lost the will to fight; I knew right there, right then that my time – for now – was up.

He took to Singapore, a city he knew was a contrast to India, the homeland of humble heroes and fantastic villains. He drank and shopped and laughed and sighed, he ate and walked and talked. Singapore – for the visitor at least – is as neutral as Asia gets with the West. She’s loyal, where others are scheming, and she’s tender where others are tough. He stopped to watch an ant, struggle under a prized crumb of toast, and then from nowhere there were two, then three, and then four to help carry their loot awkwardly away. Touché. He continued, explaining how he flew to Sumatra, an island of Indonesia and one he discovered to be inlaid with treasures. He mounted volcanoes, dipped his weary body in lakes and his finale was attended by the fire-red, pendulous orang-utans. He took an onward flight to Jakarta, capital of the neighbouring island, Java, and en route he lost his prized possessions; his passport, and wallet of critical cards. Corruption in Indonesia was not beautiful, nor welcome. It’s a crime of the coward. If this nation weren’t so soft and sweet in other ways, I’d instil you with its sour side and stench. He spoke of other islands ringed with golden beaches, and cultures descended through lineages of lore.

It was here on Bali that I heard these nibs of his enchanting year in Asia. I listened for over an hour, in awe. I thought I knew the definition of my emotions, I thought I’d felt them all. Though the depths of those in Asia almost reduced my prior sentiments, to mere essence. Even in the shaves of silence I heard the enigmatic echo of his epic. I see his friendships in the constellations of his ebony eyes; I feel his compassion in the warmth of his palms; I feel his excitement in the nape of his neck; I see his astonishment in the furrows of his brow; I sense his caution in the flare of his nostrils; and I’ve heard his story, a thousand glorious times. A thousand glorious times.

A Thousand Glorious Times is a post from Trail of Ants.

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Staring intimidatingly into two fresh black eyes, I barked menacingly, ‘reach for the sky!’. No response. I yelled, ‘this town aint big enough for the two of us’. Zip. ‘It’s not a laser. It’s a little light bulb that blinks’. Nothing. ‘Somebody’s poisoned the waterhole!’. Nada. ‘Who are you calling busted, Buster?’. Zippo. He just slumped aloofly on his backside upon a grassy verge, nonchalantly chomping his way through a mound of bamboo. The lardy giant panda was seemingly uninterested in impressions of my beloved Woody, yet the cowboy in me refused to be repressed. A few days after my showdown with the 50-or-so Chengdu pandas, I was in the one-horse town of Songpan, trotting unstably towards the magically entitled, Ice Mountain.

The supposed “22 hour” bus journey into Chengdu (home to the Chengdu Research Base of Giant Panda Breeding) from Lijiang had slowly become a 36 hour test of nerves, so it was no surprise that the “8 hour” journey onwards to Songpan became an equally grueling, 12 hour biscuit-munching marathon. My affection for Songpan continued to tumble when I was forced into purchasing gloves and thick woolen socks, the two undesirables taunted my usual flip-flop-flaunting policy. I felt violated at being infiltrated by cold. Any affection was then positively abolished when at 5am I was woken by a stray door-knocking Chinese tourist in search of travel advice, or perhaps a flag – I should explain, our room was in the aptly named Traffic Hotel, in the bus station where a brass sign, inconveniently reading ‘office’ shimmered smugly above our door. Reb and I grabbed a few more z’s, each aided by 2 duvets and an electric blanket and then clumsily mounted our hagged stallions- named Scruff and Rocky respectively. Our Tibetan centaur-like guides – whom we named Will (after the Fresh Prince, due to his colourful cap) and Smiler (after his forgive-me-anything smile) – led us out of Songpan and up into the beyond, through endless valleys and over mist-covered mountains via trickles of steep, narrow, rugged trails.

The mountainous landscape changed gradually from a mottled pallete of tightly packed, autumn-coloured bushes into a vast conical pine forest merging various shades of striped green into a comforting vision of a thick, lush, emerald rug. The views, momentarily, allowed me to forget the backbreaking nature of the ride. After just a few hours, Ice Mountain had formed a permafrost of resentment on my spine. The next 2 days would be a challenge. After 7 hours we reached our campsite – an idyllic clearing flanked by a rushing river and a rising mountain range – which at over 3800m was quite literally, breathtaking. Within moments the grassy plot acquired an awning under which blazed a cozy campfire. Our weary hands were swiftly gifted chopsticks, and we delved through a bowl of freshly chopped, subtly seasoned tomatoes while clutching freshly baked bread from the campfire. The afternoon was mostly spent reading and writing upon a granite rock in the middle of the river or exploring the local surroundings. White coloured edelweiss – the rare alpine flower – speckled the ground. Together with a vibrant blue, tubular cousin they acted like finishing touches upon this brilliant masterpiece.

That evening the tent was embraced fully-clothed, the sleeping-bag, duvet and sheepskin rug did little to stave off the shivers as we drifted off into unconsciousness, were safe in the knowledge that tents are always warmer in the morning. Morning found a way in, ‘are you awake?’ Reb asked with a telling chill in her voice, ‘I am, but I think my eyes are frozen shut’ I stammered. Will ignorantly hollered ‘get up!’ (though in Tibetan sounds something more akin to, ‘reeeeee-jibba-jabba-joooooo’) into the tent and we clambered out, our noses immediately becoming hooked upon the scent of our potato and baked bread breakfast. We dared not mention the ground frost that sapped the colour from the vibrancy of the previous days scene. Four or five mugs of Chinese tea later, we silently trotted off in search of the relative warmth of Ice Mountain. It’s blinding snow-capped peak frequently flashed it’s brilliance, asserting a piercing sense of power over all that lay in it’s shadow. We were helplessly caught in it’s gaze and by afternoon we were gasping for air at over 4500m within a barren graveled expanse with awesome, uninhibited views. While Reb flaked out on a rock, I tried in vain to reach the frozen white shroud masking it’s upper-reaches. I was denied by Smiler’s recall, echoing eternally up the valley. I bounded downhill like a renegade marble, eventually reaching Rocky et al. though the magic of Ice Mountain did nothing to disperse the exasperation I felt towards the return journey. ‘Clip bloody bone-crunching clop’ I groaned.

That night I dreamed a tale of an endless search for love, the streets of emotion navigated in the rear of a taxi, driven by the delightful French movie character, Amelie. Though as her taxi pulled up (in vain), my brain stuttered into consciousness and I realised I still had a days horse-trekking ahead of me. My back felt like someone had wedged a telegraph pole through it’s base. My knees felt like someone had taken a shotgun to them. My face was sunburned. My toes were cramped from the extra thick socks. My guts were bubbling from the fodder. My ankles were numb from bashing the stirrups. My arse was as tender as a rotting tomato and my mood, rightfully, reflected my afflictions. Will and Smiler – obviously eager to get back to Songpan asap – fed the feisty, gonna-beat-you attitude Scruff and Rocky had developed over the last three days. At every opportunity they would carelessly canter, as my menu of misery grew out of control. I sighed. I fell silent. My head slumped. ‘That wasn’t trekking. That was torture…with scenery’. Next stop, Tibet.

Selected images for ‘To Songpan, and beyond!’.

To Songpan, and beyond! is a post from Trail of Ants.

Consider visiting my travel blog to explore a wide variety of travel related articles, and score yourself a 7% discount on your next travel insurance policy with my World Nomads promotional code.