(Mae Sariang, Thailand)...I have just booked a three-week trip to Myanmar for this upcoming Novermber 2016. I have never been there, but last Novermber I was within a few miles of it in the Thai town of Mae Sariang.

Even though the road map to get there from Chiang Mai looked like the easiest reconnoitre ever, I got lost, taking a wrong turn to the left at the wonderful named town of Hot. When the road petered out to a track, I stopped for directions. They often require in Thailand a 30-minute wait while the gracious people of that country try and do their best for you. Someone sprinted up a lane to get someone who had learnt a little English at school. There are smiles and broken English, and then you are on your way again. The road was heading to the lakes and areas of Doe Tao, and I stopped at a road side vegetable and fruit market and ate packets of rice cooked in anchovies and garlic that cost the equivalent of 9 pence or 15 cents, ate sweet bananas that they refused to take money for and was also offered cups of water that I did not risk drinking.

One the way back from Mae Sariang, first heading north to Khun Yuam and then east, I got lost again and had to head over the highest mountain in Thailand, Doi Inthanon, during dusk, but all went well.
Mae Sariang itself is an interesting place. It looks to be one of those South-east Asian places that will be the Next Place to Go. There are tourists there, including a Pole or Czech (?) I saw on the overnight train from Bangkok to Chiang Mai, who nodded to me “hello” in the restaurant car (one of the joys of Thailand, not for its culinary offerings but for its sense of movement, colour and scenery) and then who I saw in Mae Sariang walking off into the distance without seeing me. That was one of those travelling moments I have had over the years of seeing mysterious travellers with unknown pasts and agendas, all quite happy so it seemed.
The Riverside Hotel (choose that, not the sibling Riverside Lodge) overlooks the Yuam River, and from my room a tree that contained two Stripe-throated bulbuls (Pycnonotus finlaysoni). To get to the other side of the river requires a walk along the town’s one major street, which contains an inordinate number of hairdressers, all of which were doing good business and could not get around to cutting my hair. A bridge at the end and to the right of this street leads across the river, and it is necessary to drop down on a dusty track, where a young boy was losing control of his goats and then an older man corralled his while on a small-engine motor bike. To the back of these two, through a wood, lay a series of fields (see photo above), some very poor housing stand apart from one another and chants and music emanating from a Buddhist temple behind the next set of farms.
Dinner on the wooden deck at the back of the hotel was pleasant. There is not so much to do here, which is delightful, but hiking excursions to hot springs and untrammelled national parks such as Salawin (where teak has been illegally logged for many years, the authorities claiming that the designation of it being a national park has halted that) are popping up, as are visits to the villages of local Karen and Lawa peoples. We stopped by a Karen village near to Ban Mai Phatthana, which appeared inhabited only by old women, one who smiled at us, one who hit in dirty clothes while sucking on a piece of cooked sweetcorn.
The next town up from Mae Sariang, Mae La Noi has a small market in the middle of the road, too. Not much else, but it is pleasant. The Riverside Hotel had a bored night watchman, who, when I asked for a beer, pointed at a locked fridge. I went to a bar three doors down, bought one and brought it back. A beer, that is, not a fridge.

(Al Ain, United Arab Emirates) … Al Ain (“The Spring” in Arabic) is an oasis approximately 100 miles southeast of Abu Dhabi, the capital of both the province of Abu Dhabi, in which Ai Ain also lies, and the nation of the United Arab Emirates. I reached it by bus from Abu Dhabi perhaps three hours after I arrived at the international airport. Ai Ain—I have also seen it spelt Al Ayn—feels like a city, whereas Abu Dhabi does not. That is not surprisingly considering caravans of camels and traders have been using it as a stopping point for more than 3,000 years.
In the middle of this city of half a million souls is a very large oasis (see photo), an area of calm, dusty walkways between shoulder-high walls and irrigation channels of much the same colour, and thousands and thousands of palm trees. The occasional sign says it is only accessible to farmers and tourists, which I rather liked, although that might be a warning for the country’s huge underclass of foreign workers to stay out. Most of the cheaper, more colourful restaurants dotted around town are Pakistani and Indian affairs with flat bread, rice and either vegetable or mutton casseroles, along with a wash basin to clean greasy hands (or at least the greasy right hand) after the meal is complete.
Many of the gates of the walkways walls in the oasis are locked. Some sport a sign saying they had been sprayed against vermin. I found one gate open and walked in, to sit on a canal wall (few had water in them) and enjoy the cool silence. Red-vented and Moustached bulbuls flitted around, and a Green bee-eater made sorties into the area.
There are several dun-coloured forts dotting the city, too. This might be because the United Arab Emirates’ first president Sheikh Zayed bin Sultan al Nahyan was born there. Then, maybe it is not because of that. The Eastern Fort is now part of the Al Ain National Museum, which I spun around quickly. Another fort, by a park and the Rotana Hotel, has been recently restored.
The large mosque just north of the bus station is not the prettiest one I have seen, and close to it I ate at a local restaurant called Al Matar, which I am sure means "To the death" in Spanish. The name appealed to me. Rather, visit the gleamingly white, spectacular Sheikh Zayed Grand Mosque back in Abu Dhabi, which is named for the Al Ain-born founder and is his resting place.
The central courtyard, white, white, white, with a large rose mosaic, is large enough to supposedly fit 40,000 people. I arrived there at 6:20 in the morning, when the mosque was beautifully blue and purple, before the morning sun turned its exterior into a golden honey colour. Open to tourists only at 9 a.m., I was given directions to a coffee chain establishment, where the only visitors were a long stream of ex pats who lived in tall blocks of flats around about it in the Zayed Sports City district.
The columns and huge expanse of courtyard are gracious and calming, and it is easy to forget that the mosque has only been here since 2007. Inside the mosque itself there are a couple of ugly chandeliers, but apart from those I very much enjoyed my hour here walking around. Just do not sit down. You will be barked at. No, it was not who perpetrated this apparent crime.
Another joy back in Al Ain was the mountain of Jebel Hafeet, one of the tallest mountains in the Emirates. More than one-thousand, two-hundred metres in height, from the top it is possible to see the mountains of the neighbouring country of Oman, as well as Egyptian vultures and Hume's wheatears. There is a border crossing near. Ten or so years ago it was possible to walk from the centre of Al Ain to the Omani town of Al Buraimi, which is pretty much incongruous with Al Ain, but with the rise of geopolitical angst, a wall was built, and now foreigners need to head south and across a no-man's land for some 25 kilometres. Visas are needed, too, and there are checkpoints.
I ran the 10 kilometres or so down Jebel Hafeet, the road almost twisting around to join itself so steep is the descent. French hotel company AccorHotels has a Mercure property perched close to the top. At the bottom, I had forgotten which way my taxi had turned on its way to the summit. A lorry driver gave me a lift to a bus stop, and just when I was told a bus was due to stop, an off-hours school bus driver in his school bus stopped for me and took me back into the heart of Al Ain.
The bus journey to Abu Dhabi affords views of spectacular dunes to both sides, and I espied camels.

(Cable Beach, The Bahamas) ... Finding culture on the Bahamas’ island of New Providence is not easy. It is there, though, but one needs to search diligently for it, especially outside of its capital, Nassau.
Considering where I was, this might be of no surprise, as I was there essentially to see the new Sheraton Cable Beach, which opened last January. It is a fine hotel, although wider plans to make it—together with the adjacent Wyndham hotel—part of a new megaresort called Baha Mar have stumbled.
Then again due to open in 2012 (it did not then either, and it remains in legal limbo up to now, 2016), this project was to have included a Caesars Park Hotel & Casino and Starwood Hotels & Resorts-branded properties W, Westin and St. Regis. It was to have been—so its developers gushed—the largest cluster of Starwood-branded properties in the world and a worthy alternative to the nearby, internationally famous playground of the Atlantis resort on Paradise Island (which, by the way, still retains its original name in the hearts of islanders: Hog Island, that is, where the pigs were kept, there at that time being no bridge and thus no chance of escape).
Nassau is a neat spot. Huge cruise ships pull into its cruise port, Prince George Wharf, which parallels Bay St., on which is the island’s famous Straw Market. I was told that the market developed in the 1940s, when the sponge industry there died, although it has roots in the 18th century when African slaves were imported. American soldiers looking to relax following World War II began to bring back straw souvenirs, and everything went from strength to strength. Today, these souvenirs are becoming increasingly cheap—straw bags with woven pictures of Harry Potter and Tweety Pie, for example, when I was there. Most is imported, I was told. If you want to purchase the good stuff—bags so perfect that they are as light as a feather but can hold 10 gallons of water—then you need to start talking to people and then being invited to their homes. That is where the good stuff is, not at the Straw Market. It is not the vendors’ fault. Most tourists seem to like Harry Potter and Tweety Pie. Market forces are at work.
A stroll away from the harbor area leads to the colorful houses and British-styled policemen in pith helmets, white tunics and shiny buttons that the island is known for. The pink Parliament Building should be visited, if only because access right into the chamber, where decisions are made affecting all of the 30 or so Bahamas’ islands, is possible. The room is small, but anyone visiting the United Kingdom’s parliament in London is likely to say the same thing; the United Kingdom governed these islands until 1973, and Queen Elizabeth II still is recognized as the Head of State. Outside Parliament Building is a statue of a young Queen Victoria, which was put up in 1905, four years after the sovereign’s death.
Farther up the hill are two worthwhile stops. The first is Fort Fincastle, built in 1793, which has several cannons pointed towards the harbor to protect early residents from pirates. A row of dark jail cells make for good photographs; a short walk from here is the—in my opinion—more impressive Queen’s Staircase, a 100-foot-plus set of stairs that was constructed by slave labor. Approximately 70 steps lead up the fort.
My favorite two attractions, however, were Graycliff and the Junkanoo Mini Museum.
The first, Graycliff is an internationally recognized hotel and restaurant. This is the quintessential idea of the colonial age, complete with smartly uniformed wait staff; white, metal garden furniture; fading photographs; dark wood, a baby grand piano and an impressive parade of stairs leading up to it. I searched for but did not find an elephant-foot umbrella stand, which I was convinced must be there somewhere.
Built by a captain of a schooner in the 18th century, the property’s guest list reads like a Who’s Who of sporting, acting and governing circles. Very impressive is its cognac, wine and whisky collections. Lunch and dinner here are not cheap, even if you do not order a bottle of 1948 Macallan whisky or a half bottle of 1865 Château Lafite-Rothschild wine (if you need to ask the price, you’ll probably not be able to afford it anyway). Overall, in the cellar there are above 250,000 bottles, and cognacs are the specialty, though.
The second was the Junkanoo Mini Museum. On the corner of West St. and Petticoat Lane, this museum—adjacent to the National Art Gallery, Government House and St. Francis Xavier Cathedral—chronicles the history of the islands’ colorful parades, which somewhat mirror those of New Orleans’ Mardi Gras, Philadelphia’s Mummers Parade and Río de Janeiro’s Carnival. On display are photographs of previous parades, which are held every Boxing Day (December 26) and New Year’s Day at Festival Plaza alongside Bay St., videos of the action and costumes in various stages of their construction.
As of 2006, there also has been a Summer Junkanoo Festival held every June.
Contestants—divided into crews—guard their festival creations with immense secrecy. These different teams, competing for bragging rights, have names such as “Roots,” “Fancy Dancers” and the “Valley Boys.” Seemingly, European warrior races are popular as names, too, with both the “Saxons” and the “Vikings” also doing battle.
Right behind the aforementioned Sheraton was a disused horse-racing track (see photo). I went to investigate it, and right next door was a fairly large metal bar or warehouse, scattered around which were masks, angels’ wings, sequins and pieces of colored material and paper. This was a Junkanoo shed, where the impressive parade costumes and floats are made. I was there in January, just after that Christmas’ festivities, so perhaps it was temporarily abandoned, to be set up a few months before June.
The track was abandoned, also, mainly because betting on horse racing is illegal in the Bahamas. In fact, it is illegal for Bahamians themselves to bet on anything. Only foreigners are allowed to. This sporting attraction was built when Bahamians could out down a wager; when suddenly they could not, the owners had to hope that sufficient foreigners were tempted. They were not.
If the Baha Mar project ever gets the green light, the track will probably disappear anyway. I made time for one other authentically Bahamian thing. A long walk along the beautiful turquoise seas from the Sheraton leads to Arawak Cay, on which are several rows of shack restaurants cooking up local cuisine. Collectively, it is called the Fish Fry, and initially I did not have high hopes for it. But it turned out to be fun. I chose one that had a crowd of local workers eating their lunches. An argument (from what I gathered, it was concerned with what was better, electricity or water, which struck me as a very curious argument, albeit an immensely entertaining one) was in full flight and voice, and the radio was tuned to a religious program. I ordered conch (pronounced “conk”), which was caught that morning and delicious.

(Zipaquirá, Colombia)... (Note that this text originally was written in 2001) ... Colombia is a beautiful country and an exquisite last frontier for commonsense travelers. When people ask me, I say, “it’s a wonderful place if you know how to walk down a street and get off a train,” meaning that it’s not for the first-time traveler. If someone gives you advice as to where not to go within the country, listen! Fly, don’t drive, between major cities. That said, I was very impressed with Bogotá. It’s a city with a lot of vitality, and the people have a healthy, positive outlook on life.
The train analogy is a little ironic, for Colombia currently has only one train line left, upon which on weekends leaves the Tren Turistica de la Sabana de Bogotá. Four trains, numbered 72, 75, 76, and 85, are active on the line, each of them between 100 and 150 years old (apparently they sleep somewhere in the beginnings of the dangerous southern barrios of the city, so I did not investigate).
Most people catch the train at its second station at Calle 110 and Carretera 10 (the photo above is a train station in the province of Boyacá, a little distant from the towns described in this post and, as far as I am aware, without a train for sometime). This is in the upscale northern section of Chicó, where you might be staying anyway (look for one of Bogotá’s few roundabouts and then walk along the grassy path of single-line track). The train (it was the #76) is a magnificent but slightly grimy black beast with red wooden sides and yellow and blue skirting, mirroring the colors of the national flag, and its loud, deep whistle is still rare enough to turn busy Bogotano heads. A handful of people were with me, all destined for the town of Zipaquirá, 35 kilometers to the north.
The journey is sufficiently obscure and adventurous to make for great travel. The French couple opposite me, from Lyon, were in Colombia essentially to adopt a child (the French come here to do that in the same way Americans were going to Romania 10 years ago) but were taking a break from the red tape to see the famous salt cathedral at Zipaquirá.
Initially, the train goes through suburban areas, but soon the landscape dries out, long lines of polar trees skirt large haciendas, and the train passes through small towns and villages. But don’t bother to hold on to your Panama hat, as it is not necessary at 20 kilometers an hour. The advantage is that one can really inspect the countryside, which is glorious. A restaurant car, lined with the same rich wood as the passenger carriages, sells beef or chicken and egg empanada rolls, tinto (black coffee), and barbecue and mayonnaise-flavor potato chips. A band entertains, playing Papayera music, security guards add that element of safety that is unfortunately a needed thing here, and the train has a circular front plate that conjured up images of the Wild West and Casey Jones.
The town of Zipaquirá itself is a joy, with a grassy square of palm trees, colonial churches and neat flower patches. It is worth a poke around, but most people on leaving the station head to the salt cathedrals. Literally hacked out of a huge mountain of salt, the cathedrals have been here for more than 125 years. The original cathedrals are closed, but a recent president of Colombia opened new ones several years ago. Consisting of 16 large chambers of various lengths and numerous passageways, this ode to God, which is still used for prayer and worked for salt, is impressive. Blue light magnifies huge crosses and altars, some of which are made of marble and some of salt. All of a sudden one stumbles over a Nativity scene or a statue of Christ.