So, in short, no further assassinations today (weapons are illegal in Bosnia) although the way some people drive, you might still think they were out to get you if you step out of line.

  Two hours south of Sarajevo, the medieval Ottoman city of Mostar, another front line known as ‘sniper alley’ where less than twenty years ago, combatants in civil conflict vented their anger on each other, across the divide and from the high surrounding hills; a few pockmarked walls and empty shells of buildings still stand (just) to bear witness.

  This morning hundreds streamed out of the Catholic cathedral rebuilt in the year 2000 in stark concrete to replace its destroyed predecessor while throngs of Japanese tourists marched past from the nearby coach park heading across ‘sniper alley’ into the Muslim Stari Grad or old town of Mostar.

  The tourist tat shops spill out onto the cobbled approach to the world-famous bridge, forcing the mass of humanity into single file as they press forward, intent on recording their presence on mobile, camera and iPad for future generations to admire. The bridge itself is a cross between the Venetian bridge of sighs and the Chinese willow pattern bridge, open only to human traffic, with quite a steep pitch. Its claim to world heritage status is fully justified, even though it was rebuilt in 2004 after severe war damage (interestingly Italy was the major contributor followed by Holland) and even if many visitors seem more interested in the semi-naked young man poised to throw himself into the sun-specked flowing water below, poised for a very long time it seems until sufficient funds have been collected to justify his foolhardiness. The location is really quite reminiscent of Rhonda gorge in Spain, surrounded by classic grey slate and stone buildings, precariously positioned overhanging restaurants and newer, less pleasing buildings in the background.

  They say that these are low-season crowds compared with August, but at times the street already seems at bursting point, so August crowds seem unimaginable. However, many arrive on day trips, some from Dubrovnik cruise ships, and so inevitably by early evening, the town slows to a quieter more pleasant pace, the shops are locked down for the night and Japanese is replaced by Serbo-Croat. As my fellow traveller puts it, the commitment to mammon here completely obliterates the awful recent history which, under the surface, still affects the local people’s attitude to each other’s community.

  The question remains why so many Japanese add Mostar to their European itineraries of Paris, London and Rome? Possibly Japanese TV once made a programme here. After all, they are now offering trips to the English tourist to see where BBC4’s Inspector Montelbano was filmed in Sicily, so what’s the difference?

  Chapter 26

  Laos and Myanmar Revisited

  For years, Kayah state in Myanmar has been closed to independent travellers due to insurgent activity, with the result that only a handful of intrepid travellers have penetrated this area largely populated by now seemingly peaceful tribespeople from the Yinbaw, Bre, Red Karen and Paduang tribes, the latter famous for their womenfolk adorned from an early age with neck, arm and leg brass rings of some considerable weight. We trust our special permission to enter the state will not be withdrawn before our arrival, as has happened to others apparently.

  Lack of access to internet communication will preclude any updates during the excursion.

  At Heho Airport, one of the gateways into the Shan States, some things never change as only ethnic Burmese are allowed into the airport, while Shan guides have to wait across the road to receive their charges. Almost all passengers are making the hour’s trip across to busy Inle Lake, but we are heading six hours further south through and out of the Shan States into the small state of Kayah, mainly populated by tribespeople like the Pa’O and the Paduang, closed to foreigners till recently because of tribal conflict. Much of the state is still off-limits, including areas still growing poppies with the connivance of the government, perhaps because the state still maintains its own unofficial army.

  The road is not geared up for four-wheel traffic: a central strip wide enough for a small car is paved with side strips of compacted earth on each side forcing hairy manoeuvres with oncoming vehicles, usually mopeds but occasionally huge smoke-emitting trucks or the very occasional public bus. The Loikaw to Yangon bus runs twice a week.

  Road building and repairs are underway on every stretch of road with large piles of rocks heaped up every few feet. We enjoyed no more than about 30 feet of actual tarmacked road since, as there is almost no mechanisation. All heavy work is done by hand, male and female. Hard labour indeed. The only tractors we saw, all three of them, we’re being put to use on a separate government agricultural project.

  But it is an endlessly fascinating landscape: often dark red soil, fields of garlic or cauliflower, pear trees or rice paddies often being burned off after the harvest, golden stupas atop limestone hills, frenetic villages of moped repair shops and tribal ladies in standard Pa’O orange headdress selling the greenest and freshest vegetables you can imagine. Foreigners are there none. The infrastructure, (lack of good roads, hotels, restaurants etc.) could not support the numbers. Eventually, we cross from the relatively prosperous Shan States into Kayah state, and immediately brick built house are replaced by teak thatched dwellings on stilts with rush matting walls. We hand over our travel permit signed by the Ministry of Immigration to enter the town of Loikaw, our base for the next few days. Rather surprisingly there are signs of Christianity everywhere: crosses on the side of homes, Catholic Churches and even a few catholic nuns in grey habits. On the other hand, there seemed to be quite a number of motorcyclists wearing what looked like WWII German helmets, one even had a swastika label on it. While the Burmese remain staunchly Buddhist, many tribespeople all over Myanmar migrated from animism (still practised too) to Christianity and indeed forty percent of the town’s population is today Christian.

  Our time here was divided between the magical sites within the town and some of the remote hill tribe people in the forested countryside, only reachable by barely passable tracks to hillside hamlets. The most famous are the Paduang tribe, whose women and young girls wear these heavy brass rings around their necks, arms and legs, extending their necks to look like dragons they supposed their ancestors to be when living in Persia in the long-distant past. It gives a woman, so attired, a unique facial shape and is worn day and night, I am reliably informed. More than 200 Paduang women have slipped over the border into Mae Hong Son in Thailand during the civil wars. They are much more commercialised over there, used to foreigners with cameras and consequently rather surly, not the case in Kayah where exposure has been very limited, so a friendly reception is more likely.

  The major objective of this trip for me was to visit the dramatic Thiri Mingala Hill Taung Kwe (Broken Mountain) pagoda, a group of thirteenth century stupas balanced on a soaring rock formation rising high above the town, with gold domed peaks linked by metal walkways, opening up magical views of the town below, outlying fields and a ring of mountain ranges. We looked down on the Buddhist convent we had visited that afternoon, housing about ninety shy young novices aged between 5 and 13, shaved heads and pink attire and very giggly! Occasionally, bold enough to say, ‘how are you’ or ‘my name is’. There were probably no more than a dozen foreigners in town, a very different experience from the now very crowded Schwedagon pagoda in Yangon.

  If they ever manage to get serviceable roads finished, even without access to any mechanisation, and the area is opened up like the Inle Lake area is today, this quiet authentically Burmese backwater will inevitably lose its current charm and openness to foreigners.

  Tomorrow we take to the waterways from a Japanese sponsored lake through a lengthy canal into the southern end of Lake Inle and the tourist mainstream.

  The south part of Lake Inle was also closed to visitors for many years due to local militia activity but a few long-tail boats now make the five-hour trip into the busy northern end of the lake. The misty banks begin to close into a narrow channel after a while, clogged with water hyacinth and reed beds where an occasional fisherman busies himself with wicker pots and thrown fishing nets. The journey is broken occasionally to view a pottery or an illegal distillery knocking out 40 and 60 percent proof liquor from crude pipes and pots, fair taking your breath away when swallowed. Until quite recently, the Khauk Pagoda complex lay undiscovered deep in closed Pa’O tribe country, dating back to 1765 and built in honour of the Burmese king’s return from conquering Ayutthaya in Thailand during Burma’s golden age. They are in poor state of repair, a forest of pointed stupas built with crumbling brick and housing an occasional Buddha image.

  The upper end of Inle Lake is now swamped with noisy motor boats and no longer represents our experience of earlier years before the country opened up, with the number of visitors now in the thousands, while in Loikaw and Kengtung, our next destination, there were never more than 25 Europeans at any one time.

  However, peace was restored once we took an hour’s flight to the most eastern part of Myanmar within what is known as the Golden Triangle. This bulge of land separates Northern Thailand, southwestern China and north-western Laos, and includes one of the most diverse ethnic hill tribe people in the country.

  The capital Kengtung or Kyaing Tong is a sleepy little town which once hosted Chinese traders and a few British officials, pilgrims and missionaries, of which more later.

  The landscape is made up of waves of mountains interspersed with terraced rice fields, home to an eclectic blend of cultures: Shan and Burmese in the lower parts and Lahu, Akha and Ann higher up, reachable only by trekking on foot up steep jungle paths.

  We started at the lowest level where the Shan people were running a huge unofficial distillery hidden away under tall bamboo trees for export to China in strong plastic containers for bottling abroad. All very industrious but the pace was slower as we trekked upwards to the Lahu village where women were peacefully sewing brightly coloured garments in traditional patterns while their men were out in the fields. The most striking building in the village was the Baptist church complete with church tower, a sign of missionary work in times gone by. Hospitality, in the form of green tea and a chat, was common, usually offered by ancient old men, too old and decrepit to work in the fields and often lonely as their children had often moved away, looking for a better and easier life.

  As the heat grew more intense, the path grew steeper! It was onwards and upwards to the Akha village, this time staunch Catholics with a curious (to us) custom: married couples lived together in the same residence, usually a spacious wooden structure with a large veranda and slated roof, but each having their own separate bedroom, his and hers. Now, anticipating the next question, I am pleased to confirm that the solution to the tribe’s future is to provide a separate shack, a ‘love shack’ so to speak, out the back where the couple would temporarily retire to ensure the propagation of the species. This arrangement was from day one, not just when the snoring gets too bad.

  And after a final push, we reached the Ann hill-tribe community at about 1800 feet, whose village, of course, had the finest views over the surrounding mountain ranges. Clearly, the missionaries did not make it this far because this is still animist country, run by shamans, one of whom showed us around his top-of-the-range abode. His status requires extra living space to house a large drum used for calling the flock to discuss community matters, and we were strongly advised not to inadvertently strike it for fear of demands for the equivalent of two large pigs and much additional cash to appease the spirits and the villagers.

  The boss was one of the few tribespeople we came across wearing reading-glasses, a sign of wealth and authority as he sat on the veranda with the best view in town, knocking out tin bracelets from strips of broken cooking pots. Additional space was also needed to house an internal hearth for large-scale cooking sessions despite the obvious fire risk as smoke rose and blackened the roof matting above. The one big difference between Ann and other tribes is that they do not subscribe to education for their children, for fear of losing them to the outside world, a common problem for all other tribes: the attraction of the ‘big smoke’ and bright lights for the young, who, if they stay just get paid a dollar or two to drag heavy wooden planks down to the valley.

  Our final day was spent travelling up to over 6,000 feet above sea level into the eastern mountains, the site of a small and remote British hill station called Loimwe, now a military base. Many of the old colonial houses are in very poor state of repair through neglect, though a few chimney stacks still stand, peaking out through the thick creeping vegetation. However, two complete buildings have been preserved, including the house built in 1918 for a colonel Rubel, according to a sign. Built in red brick in the Surrey hills style of the time, rooms were huge, all bedrooms had bathrooms and the house was as cool as if air con was installed, but no doubt log fires were needed at night as all rooms had fireplaces. It is difficult to imagine how remote life must have seemed in this remote community outpost of empire all this years ago, with few comforts of life and few social opportunities.

  A fitting end to an absorbing trip as we returned to the buzz of Yangon and the noisy celebration of Chinese New Year and endless lion dance processions.

  Chapter 27

  Mexico and Colombia

  Fear and trepidation as we approached a huge 25-foot high portal built in the Mayan style; apparently, the entrance to our Mexican hotel but more reminiscent of the entrance to Wormwood Scrubs. An official holding a threatening clipboard halted our vehicle and bombarded our driver with a list of questions designed to ensure that only foreigners and not local Mexicans were permitted entry into the 240 acres of resort which lay beyond the gates. The Guantanamo model, I guess. We realised that we were to be incarcerated without remission until the following Monday, physically cut off from the outside world, our worst nightmare when travelling, not our style at all, but we had a job to do so we pressed on, and on, and on for fifteen minutes to reach our accommodation. With dusk approaching, we plunged into dense rainforest along a network of winding tracks crisscrossing the terrain. Think Into the Woods, eventually making out a further network of waterways and mangrove forest hiding an occasional hotel condo and allegedly the odd alligator.

  We had inadvertently entered ersatz American territory, an enclave inside Mexico populated exclusively by tanned fit 35-year-olds on a business retreat bellowing at each other across the pool, cocktail in hand. Then you suddenly realise there are local staff here too scurrying about silently and obsequiously doing their guests’ bidding, but as they are often less than five foot tall, dark-skinned blending in with the background, they make no impression on the surroundings and are only visible to the guests when handing them yet another tequila, paid for by some mysterious corporate account to which they all seem to subscribe. The pool was completely full by 2 pm of guests standing around in clumps, to a man/woman clutching a drink. No one attempted to swim, probably just as well as the water must have been alcoholic too.

  Arrival at the front desk was curious. Flunkies hovered everywhere as we drew up: the drinks man, the hot towels man, the luggage unloading man, management representatives bowing and scraping waving us towards a reception desk where a lone employee was fully occupied on his lonesome handling other guests checking in, changing money etc. with almost twice as many staff as guests, I reckon there should have been 3 point 7 check-in staff, so another fifteen minutes was added to a very long day. From then on, service went the other way into overdrive; a request for an extra teabag resulted in a month’s supply, a call from a concerned senior hotel exec and a request to complete a survey on the experience. A loo roll request would have no doubt recreated the Manuel scene from Fawlty Towers. On the plus side, there are more loungers than guests rather than the usual other way around, which means we don’t have to get up at 03:30 to place our special import towels with the German flag on them to secure a spot.

  The management’s concern for the wellbeing of its guests stretched to all the restaurants where a request for a table automatically led to questions about dietary needs and allergies. Not sure if this is another Guantanamo feature or just a fear of litigation. I thought we would have to succumb to a medical to get anything to eat, but we had a wedding to attend in a nearby hotel, so we pressed on in a good cause in this surreal world, convincing ourselves that we would in future try to avoid being held to ransom like this, where competitive alternative eating options were deliberately made unavailable and where, just maybe, everything might not be subject to a standard 38 percent tax/service charge.

  NB: the alligators are no longer alleged.

  ***

  How to summarise first impressions of Cartagena in Colombia? Perhaps like Tobermory on speed, well not speed in Colombia obviously. What strikes the first-time visitor is the exuberance of colour, houses painted in the whole Dulux range, profusion of bougainvillaea, overhanging wooden balconies, a stream of horse-drawn carriages with drivers dressed like undertakers, and above all, people of every ethnic group and colour from descendants of the Spanish and Africans as well as indigenous tribes.