I never saw any of the tourist sights in Lijiang, my first stop in Yunnan, except for one, the famous “old town”. Then again, it was kind of hard not to visit that one, as almost every youth hostel and guesthouse in town was located inside it. Originally built more than 600 years ago, the old town stretches for kilometers in every direction, a twisting maze of cobbled streets, goldfish-filled cannels crossed by quaint little bridges, and more tea shops than one could possible desire. It is indeed a beautiful setting for my daily migration from the hotel room to the convenience store, and despite my intention not to see a single tourist sight I spend more than a few hours wandering through these lovely streets.

The only problem with Yunnan is the weather – it is too good! The sky is a brilliant blue each day, with barely a single cloud to be seen, and the afternoons are the perfect temperature for being outside, which is a shame for tired tourists who just want to spend the whole day inside. Every day, the sheer beauty of the weather forces me outside, to wander the old town or even take a bicycle out to one of the outlying villages, which is well worth the effort. The scenery on the way is as good as the weather, with the towering Jade Dragon Snow Mountain lying serenely in the distance, and the endless green fields and blue skies are a sight good enough to make even the weariest traveler glad that he got out of bed.

While in Lijiang, I decide to embark on one last adventure; hiking the length of the nearby Tiger Leaping Gorge, one of China’s most famous treks. I pack my bags with sunscreen, litres of water, and a huge amount of snickers bars, my absolute favourite hiking snack in the world. I have a map, I have a mobile phone and a first aid kit for emergencies. When I arrive at the gorge after a two hour bus trip from Lijiang, I have absolutely everything I might need…except I have forgot my money.

DAMN DAMN DAMN DAMN DAMN! I have a grand total of 110 yuan, but the 50 yuan entrance fee quickly brings that amount down to 60 yuan. One nights accommodation will cost 20 yuan, the bus back to the start of the trek will cost 20 yuan, and the bus back to Lijiang will cost 20 yuan…in short, I have absolutely no money left for the luxuries of the trek, like food and water. There is no ATM in town, not even at the bank for some reason. Margo, a lovely woman who runs a café at the beginning of the trek, suggests I go on anyway, sure that I will find someway to manage it along the way. I know if I go back to Lijiang to get my money, I will never come back here to try it again. It is now or never. I set off along the dusty path, penniless, with the mountains in the distance beckoning me toward them. Soon I forget my troubles, and lose myself completely in the stunning scenery of the gorge...

Of course, Margo knew exactly what would happen. From the moment I let news of my situation slip to another backpacker at one of the stops along the way, the news escapes into the general community, and I am surrounded by people offering to lend me the money. I accept gratefully, and continue my trek on a full stomach thanks to their hospitality.

By this point, I definitely need it, as the trek is far more demanding, and far less touristy, than I had assumed. The high point of the trek is a lofty 2600m altitude, reached by climbing a full vertical kilometre in one day up the winding mountain path, and I am completely exhausted before I am even halfway. By the time I haul my lifeless body to the top though, it is completely worth it; the vista is amazing, from the raging Yangtze river snaking through the canyon some 1000m below, to the soaring, snow-capped mountains reaching impossibly high into the sky above, and the sight of an unbroken wall reaching from so far below to so far above is like nothing I have ever seen before. I stand at Tiger-Leaping Stone at sunset, looking out over the gorge, and all is quiet, except for the puffing of my breath.

After the sun sinks behind the gorge, an even more beautiful sight begins to manifest. With the sun gone and the moon not yet out to play, the night now belongs to the stars, who put on the most dazzling display I have ever seen in my life. At high altitude, with no moon, no clouds, and no pollution, not to mention almost no moisture, it is like nothing I have ever seen before; thousands, millions of stars crammed into every possible piece of sky, shining and shimmering majestically. The galaxies and planets float above, blocked only by the sillhoutte of the sleeping mountains; all of a sudden, I feel very small. The next day the stars disappear, there is just as impressive a sight to wake up to; the strangest clouds I have ever soon are hovering over the mountains. We eat breakfast slowly, as backpackers always do, and by the time we are ready to go the clods have dispersed, leaving the sky perfectly, endlessly blue once more.

As we walk, the terrain around the track is endlessly changing. We pass through a bamboo forest populated by mountain goats, wander through villages, find surreal white-sand cove and climb our way over boulders and obstacles along the way. I had assumed that the trail for Tiger Leaping Gorge, given that it is a big tourist attraction now, would be quite modernised and tame, like the endless stone staircase of Tai Shan, but this is not the case. The trail is nothing more than a tiny dirt track, maintained only by the steady flow of horses along it, with no amenities whatsoever to protect hikers from the elements. The first element that we have problems with is the wind, as we arrive at an exposed edge over the cliff-face. Earlier in the trek, we had heard what sounded like thunder, inexplicable on a clear and sunny day, but now we realized what it was. This was the noise of the colossal gusts of wind sweeping through the canyon, with such force that they create a thunder-clap, and it seems we are now in the middle of one. Holding our sunglasses and hats firmly, we proceed around the exposed bend, at one stage having to take cover under a rock like a platoon of soldiers under fire, before summoning up the courage to make a dash around the corner to safety. Later, we are attacked once again, this time by water, in the form of a colossal waterfall which has decided to include a section of the trail in its path down to the river below. Fortunately we make it to the other side with nothing more than wet shoes, and take the opportunity to fill up our water bottles and cover ourselves in the sweet, cool mineral water flowing past us, a treat on this warm, sunny day.

Eventually we begin to descend, and before we know it we are at the treks end, after two sweaty days of trekking. Funnily enough, it is the end of the trek where the scenery is the most spectacular, as the gorge itself opens up and is visible from the track at last. The scale of the vista is mind-boggling; from the mountain peaks, kilometres high, the rock face drops sharply all the way to the level of us mere mortals, pausing for an instant before delving endlessly further to meet the river below. Against this sheet of unbroken rock, kilometres high, everything else looks tiny, and us backpackers feel like ants lost in a world of giants.

This landscape of giants is a fitting farewell, for this will be my last adventure in China. Soon, I am headed to Kunming, to meet my travelling companion Alex once again, to prepare for a much longer journey.

Alex and I pack our bags, say our goodbyes to the friendly locals here in Kunming, and board a sleeper bus which will take not only to the border of China, but well past it, into neighbouring Laos and all the wonders of Southeast Asia, all in a mere 28 hours. The bed is too short and the movies they play are terrible, but the sheer novelty of having a bed on the highway makes it all worthwhile. On the way, I have plenty of time that night to reminisce about all my wanderings in China...From Beijing in the North to Hong Kong in the South, from Shanghai in the East to Litang in the West; From Mao’s portrait over Tiananmen Square to the window seat of the Victoria Tram, from the glitter of The Bund to the empty plains of the Tibetan Plateau; from Peking Duck to Dim-Sum, from Fried Rice to Grilled Yak; and most importantly, from new friend to new friend, as both travellers and locals showered me with kindness and generosity wherever I went. When I am finished saying my silent thankyou's, I look from the road behind to the road ahead, and wonder just what adventures await me in the future. As we leave the bus, I find a broken stone on the ground, the last marker of the highway, announcing that we are 3038km away from the China’s capital, at the end of the road at last. I cross over the border into Laos, and start again at kilometer zero. One journey finishes, another begins…

Yunnan remains copyright of the author NickRennic, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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After hours of crossing these bare plains, we spot the first sign of civilization; the small town of Litang, our home for the next several days. The setting of the town could not be more beautiful, sandwiched between huge, snow-capped mountains in one direction and rolling hills in the other, with nothing but perfectly flat plateau-land seperating them. The buildings look strangely small in this huge landscape, meekly standing in the corner, dwarfed by the majesty of the scenery surrounding them.

At 4000m high, we were told Litang would be a freezing cold place, especially in the late autumn. Having worn all my best animal-hair coats and woollen beanies, the first thing I end up doing once getting off the bus is taking all my layers off! Though the air might be cold, the sun at this altitude is blazing hot, and in the middle of the day there is not a single cloud to break the sun's tyranny. As we set about exploring the city, we do so in jeans and a t-shirt, but still carry our jackets in case we find ourselves in the shade.

Our first stop is the main street of Litang, which is colourful to say the least. Maroon-robed monks make their down the road, as do Tibetan men and women wearing anything from denim jeans to cowboy hats to traditional fur-lined robes. Passing yaks are by no means occasional, and seem to enjoy walking up and down the main street, stopping occasionally to look into the shop windows, perhaps thinking of buying something. Most of the shops seem to be hand-making jewellery, quietly engraving patterns into gold-leaf, or welding metal sheets together in the open air. Even the streets themselves are beautiful; almost every door is a work of art, with intricate patterns decorating the walls. People of all ages would greet me on the street, from one year old babies goggling at me from their mother's arms to old men waving to me from the windows of their houses. Most people stick with the standard "Tashi Dele", but some like to show off their English skills by greeting me with "Hello", "Nice to meet you", "Okay!", "Thankyou!", or "I love you!".

Walking off the main street for a few blocks, the buildings thin out, the road turns to dirt, and the city finally fades away into...nothing. A vast plain, without so much as a single tree or building on it, stretches infinitely to the mountains far in the distance, with only a few munching yaks to break the bare monotony of its surface. For the next several days, it becomes my favourite hobby to join the yaks in their wanderings, mulling around the plain in the evening as my shadow grows longer and longer. I never get very far however; it seems that whenever I walk near one of the small earth-coloured buildings scattered near the city, a family waves me over and invites me inside. These families are generally yak herders, and the first thing I am greeted with upon entering their home is huge chunks of yak meat lying on the floor, waiting to be sold at the markets. They serve me endless cups of yak butter tea, boiling it in the simplest way; just place the kettle inside a parabolic mirror, and wait until the scorching sun turns it glowing white and smoking. The first thing most people want to talk about is the Dalai Lama, who is regarded very highly in these parts; it is illegal, or at least not wise, to have a picture of the Dalai Lama, as this is still a part of China, but in the confines of their home they at least have the freedom to say whatever they like about him. Some of the men have even been to Dharamsala, the home of the Tibetan government in exile, where many of them learnt English. They tell me their stories, and I tell them with mine, as we sit and sip tea until the sun dips below the mountains.

Though the mountains in the distance are by far the most breathtaking part of Litang's surroundings, it is the hills behind the city that prove to be the most fascinating. The most obvious feature of these hills is a huge monastic complex, filled to the brim with copper and gold Tibetan statues carved in the most amazing detail, and intricate paintings currently being completed by the local monastic population. A thousand stupas line the walls, while in the centre, the main halls of the lamasery rise high into the sky, crowned by a huge golden image of the eightfold wheel. The monastery is not the only spiritual place in the region though; a number of small monuments dot the area, with piles of prayer flags, statues, carvings and scriptures, and even the shabbiest looking buildings seem to serve as warehouses for the spiritual treasures of this region.

However, no temple, monastery or mountain of prayer flags will remain in our minds as vividly as a bare patch of earth hidden amongst the hills surrounding the city. Though there is nothing to look at, this is indeed a sacred site; it is the site of the Sky Burials, an ancient ritual central to the Tibetan religion of this region. Such sites exist all over Tibet, but are almost impossible to visit in Tibet itself; in Litang, witnessing a Sky Burial is suprisingly easy. We rise early one morning and set out toward the hills, for what will prove to be, without hyperbole, the most incredible experience of our lives.

The contrast with a western funeral is striking, even before the burial begins. The people attending are gathered around a campfire, drinking beers together and grilling food for breakfast as they wait for the lama to arrive, strangely relaxed for a funeral. When the Lama does arrive, and the mood becomes slightly more sombre; there is silence as he brings the body out, punctuated only by the noise of the large birds circling high above. There is no procession of palbearers, no funeral march, just a potato sack with the body inside, the head lolling sickeningly from side to side...Then they heave it out, naked, on the dusty, sun-parched plain. I had expected an old man, killed peacefully by the slow advance of old age, but instead the body that comes out before me is that of a 20 year old woman, only two years older than me, who died the previous night in a car accident. I am shaken already, and the burial has not even begun.

The Lama begins chanting as he removes his knife, which he first uses to cut her long, black hair. I look away for the next part; after the hair, he takes the scalp as well, cutting away the skin all the way to the skull. Then comes the rest of the body, which he cuts into efficiently and with little hesitation, slicing open first the torso, then the hands and arms, then the legs and feet. While we watch silently, a much noisier crowd is gathering near us. Huge vultures, as big as eagles, are gathering nearby in huge numbers, watching the procession with great interest.

Soon the Lama moves away from the body, and the moment the vultures have been waiting for arrives. I take a few steps back to avoid getting in the way of the torrent of birds streaming toward the cut-up body, completely blocking it from view in the feeding frenzy that follows. It is not until the Lama shoos the last of the birds away that we can behold the terrible efficiency of these creatures; after about five minutes, what was once a woman's body is now a skeleton, with not a scrap of flesh remaining.

They are not finished yet, however. The Lama then proceeds to take the bones, place them on a block of stone one by one, and smash them with an axe, breaking the marrow out from the centre of them. Eventually he reaches the last of the bones, the skull, which he breaks with a few carefully aimed hits, then proceeds to open, removing the brain from inside. The brain, and the skull itself are then similiarly mashed up, until there is nothing left of the skeleton but what looks like a pile of red dirt. The vultures quickly resume their place, and soon even these remains have vanished, and what was once a human body has now disappeared completely from the face of the earth.

Many consider this practice to be nothing more than grotesque barbarism, as is the case for the Chinese government, who banned it for several decades before finally relenting. To attempt to understand a sky burial however, one must first attempt to understand the Tibetan people themselves. Tibetan buddhist beliefs maintain that the body is nothing more than a vessel for the spirit, and once the spirit has left it people should not remain attached to the empty sack of flesh by revering it or attempting to preserve it. Another important part of Buddhism in general is the virtue of compassion, and it is believed that by donating one's own body for food after death, the person not only performs a good dead but also gains good karma, which ensures a better rebirth in the next life.

Naturally, the images stick in my mind for many days after, and I have plenty of time to ponder what I have seen while wandering around the bare surface of the plateau. I look to the city, where a woman walked just days ago; and to the hills, where a patch of dirt still bears the smattering of dust that used to be her body. When I die, will I be anything more? The Western process of burial may be nicer about it, and a lot slower, but the end result is still the same; whether buried, cremated, or devoured by hungry vultures, one's body inevitably decays and crumbles, until it is no more than dust.

Sunset now, and Alex and I are on a mini-van once more, off the Sichuan-Tibet highway and onto a dusty road headed to the province of Yunnan. Our vehicle seems to rise into the very heavens themselves, floating to the 5000m mark over snow-covered mountain passes, on the very top of the roof of the world. The sun sets in distance, but at the very same time, the moon rises in the opposite direction, and we make the rest of our journey by the soft glow of the full moon, bathing the surreal scenery in silky white light. We eventually descend from this heavenly afterlife back to realm of the living, arriving in a city named Shangri-La. This town is nothing but a tourist town; I am sure the real Shangri-La lies hundreds of kilometres behind us. I sleep soundly that night, my mind filled with images of the place I have just left. Over the mountains, Litang too is sleeping soundly; the yaks munchquietly, the Lamas rest within the monastery walls, the vultures feed their young, the prayer flags blow silently on the hilltop, and the long dusty road stretches endlessly into the distance...as I fall asleep that night, I know there is no place I have been luckier to travel to than Litang, and no road I have been more blessed to travel than the Sichuan-Tibet Highway.

The Wild West (Part 2) remains copyright of the author NickRennic, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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But there is still a way into Tibet for budget travellers. The Chinese government's cartographers made a slight mistake when drawing the borders of Tibet, seemingly forgetting the entire Eastern third of the Tibetan Plateau. Known to the Tibetan as "Kham", this region has all the yaks, lamas and endless plains one could ever dream of, and is populated almost entirely by ethnic Tibetans, but as far as the government is concerned, this is all part of Sichuan province, not Tibet. The door to Tibet may have been closed for me, but it seems a window has been left open...I meet a travelling companion, Alex, a 22 year-old Chicagoian, and together we pack our bags in Chengdu, and set out along the Sichuan-Tibet highway.

"Welcome to Tibet" says a cowboy-hat-wearing man in the grocery store. After eight hours of clinging perilously to a cliff-face, we have arrived in our first stop in the Wild West, a small town called Kangding, but which this man would probably call by its Tibetan name, Dardo. Is this Tibet? I cannot help but feel that we have indeed entered a very different land. The ambling rivers of Chengdu have given way to the raging, freezing, ice-blue streams making their way back toward civilization, and the dusty hills have given way to towering mountains, stretching high into the clear blue skies above.

Naturally, the first thing we want to do is gaze awe-struck at the scenery, and there is a hill conveniently right next to the town for just this purpose. At the top comes a sign that we are not out of China just yet; a ticket booth on the top of the mountain, demanding an entry fee to access the peak. Fortunately, they offer student admission at a far reduced price. Unfortunately for me though, I have no student card. However, I have the ability to convince her I am a student by other means. When she asks for a student card, I reach into my money belt and pull out my passport. "Here is my student card" I say to her in Chinese. She scrutinizes it closely; yep, it does indeed have a picture of me on it, and a lot of fancy looking holographics. It must be a student card then. Alex is more honest, and gives her his International Student Card, the gold standard of student admission worldwide. She refuses it, and in the end he gets out his passport as well, which seems to satisfy the woman.

Like almost every mountain around here, this mountain has a great religious significance to the local residents, which they have celebrated by dotting the entire area with Tibetan Prayer flags, which seem to be manufactured in their millions. On the top of the mountain, a Chorta (Tibet style Buddhist Stupa) stands majestically, looking out over the mountains above, and the valley below.

And the scenery is not the only thing to get excited about. After all the plastic, disneyland feel of Chinese cultural sites, the Tibetan culture in these parts feels refreshingly authentic, as we discover on our first trip to a Tibetan Lamasery. Instead of shuttle buses running backward and forward, we reach Nanwu temple by foot, following a dusty dirt trail up a hillside, guided by a rusty sign. Instead of the noise of herds of Chinese tourists being led around by a shepherd with a megaphone, we are alone with the silence of the inner sanctum, punctuated only by the gentle chanting of a nun in the corner. Instead of an astronomical entrance fee, we are free to leave a few yuan at the foot of the statue of Maitreya buddha as we quietly take in the statues and murals surrounding us. And instead of bored looking security guards, we are greeted by maroon robed monks, who give a friendly "Tashi Dele!" to the foreigners wandering through their home and temple. Bright blue and green deities smile serenely from the roof high above, and Tibet suddenly doesn't seem so far away after all...

There is more to this region than just the Tibetan culture however. Another civilization, the Qiang, once lived here, and their descendants and the relics they left behind still remain in the villages dotting the hillsides. Danba, a four hour bus ride from Kanding, contains the most stunning of these, a collection of huge, thousand year old watchtowers, and archaeologists have had a merry time trying to figure out why they were built and what purpose they actually served. Getting to these watchtowers is as easy as catching a taxi, so long as you are prepared to accept the blatant extortion of the taxi drivers in these parts, who will ask for 40 yuan to cover the same distance that would cost you 3 yuan in the city. I decide to walk instead, and set off from the edge of the city toward a village some 7kms along the mountain road, eventually reaching the village of Suopo.

The village itself is picture-perfectly rustic, with plenty of mud-brick walls and fortress-like stone buildings, and all the pigs, oxes, winding dirt paths and mountains of corn one could possibly desire. On my way through the village, a small boy with his puppy introduces himself to me. Luckily, he speaks Chinese, as I have no idea how to communicate in the Qiang language used around these parts, and he offers to show me the way to the guard-towers. When we reach the watchtower itself, the boy offers to show me inside. Inside the thousand year old watchtowers? It seems that anything is possible for this young lad, and he and his friends quickly find the guy with the key and show me in.

The inside of the watchtowers is an archaeologist's dream. Every aspect of the watchtowers has been left exactly how it used to be, with floors made of nothing but dirt and hay, ladders consisting of a single log with slits cut into it, and historical relics scattering the floor from place to place. The kids run around the place enthusiastically, climbing up and down the ladders while showing me the sights on all the different floors. Here is the kitchen, with hand-made pottery still lying about like so much rubbish. Here is the bedroom, with the yak-skin blankets still waiting dutifully to be used by the guards. Here is the temple, with six-hundred year old buddhist paintings lining the walls. Here is the watchtower, and the spot where the guards used to sit and while away the night...Using my iPod as a torch, the kids explore some of darker corners in this ancient watchtower for the first time, having the time of their lives. Archaeologists may not know what these towers were originally built for, but I know what they are used for today; this is China's most ancient playground, a maze of ladders, corridors and secret rooms which would keep any child entertained for weeks.

Of course, there is more to our travels in this region than just one amazing adventure after another, and with travelling off the beaten track we inevitably meet the trials that go with it. The first, and most obvious, is the cold. Appropriate clothing helps; after my first day of shivering a lot, I promptly go out and buy a beanie, a scarf, a set of thick thermals, a pair of gloves, a pair of socks so woolly they let off sparks when I turn them inside out, and an animal-hair jacket which smells strongly of yak. The food here also helps; cups of sweet, salty yak butter tea, and bowls filled with tough, chewy yak meat, and plenty of restaurants specializing in Sichuan's most famous dish, tongue-scaldingly spicey hot-pot.

The bus rides are another frequent trial. The "Sichuan-Tibet Highway" is more of a small mountain road than a smooth black freeway, and many parts of the road are potholed beyond recognition. The bus driver does his best to avoid them, swerving this way and that as he rockets around the mountain bends, but when combined with the hairpin turns of the cliff-side road, one has a sure recipe for mass motion-sickness. The people with a window seat vomit out the windows. The ones without a window do so in plastic bags or even just on the floor of the bus, as is the case for the child next to me on one of the trips, forcing me to breath through my mouth for the next few hours. Some of the Tibetans on the bus distract themselves by chanting quietly, whilst the bus driver does so by playing his favourite Chinese techno-pop tracks at full volume. I need nothing to distract myself with, as I am fully preoccupied with the beauty of the mountain scenery drifting by my window, which makes all the chaos inside the bus worthwhile. Each early morning yields another amazing mountain sunrise, and each windy, bumpy, noisy, smelly bus trip is a journey through paradise, taking us further and further into the wonders of the Wild West.

The Wild West (Part 1) remains copyright of the author NickRennic, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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Firstly, the city itself. I was disappointed to find out that Xi'an is not actually the ancient Chang'an, but rather another city rebuilt on Chang'an's ashes. The newer city of Xi'an does quite a few drawcards, some left over from Chang'an, like the big goose pagoda, and some being a part of the newer city, such as the city walls. Unfortunately, whatever beauty these places might have had was completely taken away by the pollution, which was far worse than that encountered in Beijing, settling like a grim fog over the entire city for the entire duration of my stay. I refuse to take photos of anything; even the most beautiful city walls are ugly when covered in thick grey smog.

Luckily, however, Xi'an's biggest drawcard is actually not within the city itself, in a valley located far away from the smog belching power plants. The real reason most people make the trip out to Xi'an is to see the Terracotta Warriors, commonly ranking alongside the Great Wall and the Forbidden City as one of Chinese most amazing sights, and a definite must-see on any traveller's list. Upon leaving, I am absolutely mystified as to why this is.

Ok, I knew there were going to be a heap of Chinese tourists yelling and pushing. And I knew that it would be overpriced ($20 just to get in, 5 nights worth of accomodation in China), and that people would be trying to sell me things at every possible opportunity. I didn't even mind that the warriors themselves were actual reconstructions from tiny smashed up peices, or that the paint had long ago faded and left them stripped of many of their more interesting features. All I expected was warriors, lots and lots of terracotta warriors stretching into the distance as far as the eye could see. I saved the biggest cave for last, expecting to be at least mildly awed by the sight before me...to find a mildly large grouping of soldiers, perhaps a thousand, with only the bare dirt stretching into the distance. Disappointed, I quickly found a tour guide to point out some of the more subtle features of the statues in order to make it more interesting, who explained to me that the vast majority of the 8000 warriors were still unexcavated, in order to preserve them for future generations. I shall make a note to come back in a few hundred years...

My next stopover proves to be more rewarding. The same rulers who had Datong as their capital eventually moved to Luoyang, and here too they carried on their cave-building, resulting in yet another truly stunning series of cave art. Keen to avoid disappointment, I try to get to this one early to avoid the masses of Chinese tour groups which will no doubt descend on the place during the day. Luckily, the caves are for some reason open from 6:30am, and I get up at sunrise to catch a glimpse of the statues in the early morning. By the time I arrive it is 7:30, and I assume I am already to late to catch the statues at their most serene. However, upon arriving, I find that I seem to be the only person keen to take advantage of the early opening hours, and I almost have to wake the ticket collector up to buy my ticket, to be the first person to enter the caves that day. It is a truly amazing experience. A UNESCO world heritage sight, all to myself. No yelling tourists, no flashing photographs...standing inside with the 1500 year old Buddha's, the caves are serene once more.

It is an hour before the tourists start to show up. It is no exaggeration to say that, in the still morning air, they could be heard a kilometre away. There is something about Chinese tour groups that is infinitely worse than those found at most tourist sights around the world. Firstly, the Chinese tourists themselves tend to be more boistreous than their Western counterparts, yelling loudly and spitting on the paths whenever the opportunity presents itself. Secondly, they always travel in huge groups, neccesitating a tour guide with a loud megaphone in order to give the explanation to the group. Thirdly, they are always in a hurry, which means that they cut their way through every tourist sight with an efficiency and brutality that makes most slowly ambling backpackers like myself cringe. By the middle of the day, the place is overrun.

Luckily, however, there is more than one cave in this complex...2345 to be exact. Having seen the key sights, I now roam about the smaller caves which the tour groups have no time for. Standing before the ancient buddha statues, one can capture a glimpse of the spirituality they still manage to retain amongst all the chaos.

The tour groups are rushing through in order to get to the regions other major attraction before dinner time. Their destination is the Shaolin Temple, and, grudgingly, I follow them. I do not go to the temple directly however, but spend a few days in the nearby town of Dengfeng instead. Shaolin may have the fame and prestige, but it is the hills around Dengfeng where most of the kung-fu training is actually done. I spend many an afternoon wandering around this region, taking part in the local pastime of watching the students train. I am far less able to blend in with the scenery than they are however, and many of the students attempt to shout "Hello!" in my direction in between the punches and kicks of their routines.

Having heard the stories of a few ex-students in Beijing, I know that the life of these young kung-fu disciples is anything but easy. Day after day, month after month, of physical training of the most intense variety, with perfectionist teachers demanding not only technical and athletic skill, but also flexbility of the variety that makes the splits seem like a comfortable sitting position. Injuries are quite common; indeed, the students I met in Beijing were ex-students because of crippling injuries they had received during training. But whilst the physical training is nothing short of gruelling, its seems that the mental and spiritual training, once the most integral part of Shaolin Kung-fu, has now been all but forgotten. It is a performance art, an athletic art, and students come here not seeking enlightenment so much as a cut of the huge profits made from Shaolin Kung-Fu shows and demonstrations.

The temple itself only serves to reinforce my image of Shaolin. After paying a huge fee to get into the temple, I find the shaolin temple itself almost laughably overrated. Having been burnt down so many times over the years, much of the buildings are simply modern reconstructions, with dates like "1972" and "1994" inscribed into them. Except for one hall in the back, which has survived since the Ming dynasty. Here, I notice the brick floors have several indentations in them, which are said to be the places where the students feet rested as they performed their kung-fu, gradually wearing down the bricks through thousands upon thousands of kicks and stomps. Perhaps real kung-fu did exist here once before...

Shaolin is said to be the origin of Kung-fu, but more accurately Kung-fu is said to have originated from Bodhidharma, an Indian Buddhist monk who made his way here in the 6th century AD. After spending 9 years meditating in a cave nearby, Bodhidharma invented a system of spiritual exercise to give the monks the physical strength to support their long periods of meditation. And as if creating the world's most influential form of martial arts wasn't enough for him, Bodhidharma also used his profound insights during his period of meditation to form the Ch'an sect of buddhism, later to become known as Zen. Fed up with the temple itself, I begin a hike up into the mountains to see the cave where it all began...

Naturally, climbing this mountain has to involve stairs, as absolutely every tourist sight worth visiting in China does. But an hour or so later, the scenery is definitely well worth the effort...from the peak, one can see the holy mountains surrounding the temples, the fields beyond, and even hear the slightest sound of the din of tourists flocking below. Inside Bodhidharma's cave however, all is quiet. You would think that the cave where Zen began, the cave where Kung-fu began, would be one of China's premier tourist attractions, but the lack of cable car means only an intrepid few ever bother to come see it. Inside, a nun quietly tends to an altar of Bodhidharma's statue, and welcomes me inside to pray there. No guard rails here, no tourist crowds...just me and a nun, chatting away about nothing in particular, in the very same cave where silence reigned for 9 years. Afterwards, I climb to the peak to greet the huge statue of Bodhidharma sitting on the top of the mountain, sternly looking out at the amazing scenery surrounding him.

I head back down to the temple itself around sunset, to check off two more items on my standard-tourist-route checklist. The first is the pagoda forest, the one place where the authentic history of the temple has survived. Over the centuries, pagodas where built here for exceptional abbots and monks, and what survives today is a true forest of pagodas, dating from the 6th century AD all the way until modern times.

The second thing on my list is to get a classic Kung-fu photo, and as luck would have it there is a group of students providing just that. The gold clad Bruce-Lee's of the future strike their poses in front of the Shaolin gate, offering passer-bys the perfect photo opportunity.

Leaving Shaolin, I head for the last destination on my trip. For the end of my journey, I arrive at the beginning of Chinese history; Zhengzhou, the capital city during the China's first dynasty in around 1500 BC. The city itself is now thoroughly modern, except for one peculiarity; a long, high mound of dirt cuts its way through the city, the remnants of the ancient city wall. A wall which stood silently when the first Buddha statue was carved, when Bodhidharma first emerged from his cave into the cool mountain air, when the first thought of a terracotta army crossed the emperors mind... As I walk along it now, the ancient wall still stands silently, looking out over the modern city while the cars and motorbikes whiz around it. The earth spins, the sun sets...another day of history is complete.

The History Trail (Part 2) remains copyright of the author NickRennic, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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My first stop is the dusty town of Datong, about an hour from the Inner Mongolian border. Like many small towns in China, ultra-rapid dvelopment has left Datong hanging in the balance between the rural village it once was and the modern city it is trying to become, with taxis blaring and honking past each other while the donkeys drag their carts obligingly alongside. The quirks of the town itself are not what I am there to see however; moments after arriving, I meet two German law students who study in Hong Kong, and together we leave on a road trip toward the dusty hills.

The scenery on the way is nothing short of magnificent, with vast dry plains and canyons announcing our proximity to Inner Mongolia, and the villages we pass on the way blend in with the dusty tones, looking more African than Chinese. Our taxi driver doesn't speak a lot of English, but makes up for it by smiling a lot. Even after we leave the city, he continues to use the same "driving a pregnant woman about to give birth to the hospital" driving technique taught to every Chinese taxi driver, regularly attempting to overtake on blind corners and speeding around precarious canyon bends with a recklessness that suggested he was a rally driver in a past life. If anyone reading this is planning a trip to these parts, learning to say "Watch out there's a huge truck speeding right towards us" in Mandarin would be time well spent.

Having safely arrived at our destination, we headed into the ancient Buddhist caves of Yungang to pray for safety on the next leg of our journey. Though it may not be readily apparent today, Datong was in fact once the capital city of China during the Northern Wei dynasty, during the 5th century AD, during which the government converted to buddhism and constructed a vast series of Buddhist caves to prove their faith.

I step through the threshold between light and darkness, into the hallowed twilight of the first cave. Upon entering, I find myself surrounded by statues of all size and shape, from the angelic Asparas on the roof far above to the legions of serene stone buddhas and bodhisattvas carved into the rock face, with a few stone murals depicting events in the Buddha's life thrown in for good measure. I am told that the cave contains an amazing mixture of artistic styles, with influences from India, Persia, and even Greece, a legacy of trade from the silk road, but most of the subtleties are lost on me. Like most tourists here I am simply amazed by the scale, grandeur, and beauty of the statues themselves. The variety of statues depicted is amazing, ranging in size from the tiny niches covering the "thousand buddha cave" (though I didn't count) to the 17m high Shakyamuni looking down upon us mere mortals, to the hundreds and thousands (51,000, I am told) of other statues of disciples and enlightened beings cut into the stone walls. They make no effort to acknowledge me as I leave; they just sit there, meditating, as they have been for over a thousand years, and as I expect they will until the day I die, and then long after.

Our next destination is a bit more far flung, and the taxi driver resorts to loud music to keep him alert. Not the syrupy Chinese pop we are used to however, but rather one continuous track of Indian sounding music (although the driver assures us it is French), carrying on for hours without the singer drawing so much as a single breath. Then again, what is a road trip without music?

Having left civilization behind long ago, we head further and further into the horizon, winding our way through looming granite peaks as we make our way to our destination, the secluded Hanging Monastery. Situated in a valley surrounded by towering mountains in every direction, the monastery was once a place of withdrawal and isolation for its resident Buddhist-Confucian-Taoist monks. However, they made the mistake of constructing it on the granite cliff-face itself, hanging precariously on wooden beams, which centuries later proved to be such a hit with tourists that the place would never be quiet and secluded again. Like many Chinese tourist attractions, it bears a striking resemblance to disneyland; overpriced, overcrowded and stripped of any cultural integrity. We take our photos and leave as quickly as possible. The Indian music begins once more, and we are off to our next destination.

The taxi driver is always keen to show us his cunning in avoiding speed cameras and police cars, so I am hardly suprised when, grinning, he points to the tollgate ahead before making a turn off into a nearby corn field. As we drive through the most amazingly disintegrated roads I have ever seen, we pass a few farmers hand-picking the corn in their field. The scene is gorgeously rustic, and we ask the taxi driver to stop for a moment. No doubt already amused at the sight of a taxi struggling through their corn-fields, having three curious looking foreigners pop their heads out the window and ask for a photo proves too hilarious for them to contain themselves. They are still laughing as our taxi drives out of the field to rejoin the highway on the other side of the toll gate, no doubt with a good story to tell their families that night.

We make our way back to Datong, and leave the city just as quickly as we arrived, on a sleeper train heading South.

When I groggily emerge from the train the next morning, I am in Pingyao, another famous historical city. Here no road trip is neccesary, as the city itself is the main attraction. Unlike many of China's other Ming and Qing dynasty cities, Pingyao had the good fortune not to be bulldozed and turned into apartment locks, and as a result is left today much the same way it has been for centuries. My rickety "taxi" takes me throgh the ancient city walls, marking the coundary between the modern city, and all its concrete and white tiles, and into a very different world of narrow laneways, rustic wooden buildings and swaying lanterns.

Finding history in this city is as simple as checking into your hotel. With the abundance of historical buildings, it is simply not possible to find accomodation anywhere less than one hundred years old. For $6 a night, I stay in a room on the second story of a beautiful courtyard home, which used to belong to the governor of the region, looking more like a temple than a backpackers' hostel. Walking two steps ourside the door of the hostel, I am standing in the middle of a street that looks like a movie set. Such is the beauty of Pingyao.

However, though the main streets may have immense superficial beauty, it does not take long to see the effect that tourism has had on the city. The streets are lined with centuries-old buildings, but almost all have been converted to souvenier stands, and above the swaying lanters blowing in front of beautiful curved roofs make for a fantastic photo, but are almost certainly modern additions to make it look more picturesque, part of the Chinese government's attempts to turn the city into another of its infamous Disneylands.

Leave the main streets however, and it is a very different story indeed. Hopelessly lost one day, I somehow manage to leave the main streets and walk all the way to the outskirts of the city, and find myself in a neighbourhood where the developers and tourists have not yet reached. Here, walnut-skinned farmers lie their produce our on the stone paths for the sun to dry, while in the corners and on the rooftops, huge piles of corn from harvest lie waiting to be sorted. There are none of the movie-set curved roofs and swaying lanterns here; the buildings are all made of stone, with flat square rooftops acting as courtyards for storing produce in. Many of the buildings and streets are in a state of disrepair, with some homes completely collapsed, but still these muddy dirt streets and piles of rubble feel much more like the "town that time forgot" than the shiny movie-set main streets.

In the streets the children sit quietly doing their homework, and upon seeing a foreigner they come alive, souting "Hello! Welcome!" to the smiling figure aimlessly wandering through their streets. Even the wedding procession I stumble upon seems overjoyed to have a lost foreigner in attendance; people wave to me from the back tray of a truck making its way through the dirt streets, occasionally letting off firecrackers loud enough to set off the car alarms in the streets nearby. It seems that an old neighbourhood is not neccesarily a quiet neigbourhood.

Later that evening, I accidentally find what appears to be an unguarded path onto the famous city walls, which are normally accessible only buy an extraordinarily pricey entrance ticket. Once I have clambered on, I amble around the walls until sunset, to capture a few more of my "ancient-wall-stretching-into-the-distance" photos and look out over the city below. Around the centre of the city is the picture-perfect view of ancient China, an endless complex of beautiful curved rooftops...which are still under construction. On the outskirts of the city lies the true ancient China, piles of corn sit on crumbling stone rooftops, the people quietly living out their traditional way of life below...

The History Trail (Part 1) remains copyright of the author NickRennic, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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Everything begins well. We catch a bus for the first 70km for a paltry 15 yuan ($3), but are a little confused about how to make the next step from Miyun to Jingshanling...where will we find taxi drivers in this small town? No worry, the moment we get off the bus we are surrounded by taxi drivers yelling "Great Wall! Great Wall!". Our taxi driver doesn't speak any English, but he seems positively chuffed with the amount we paid to him for the taxi ($70 for both us for 150km, plus 4 hours waiting for us at the other end), and smiles and jokes the whole way. We revel in our freedom, stopping at McDonalds along the way and laughing at all the tour groups eating glad-wrapped sandwiches on their mini-buses.

After an hour or so, we arrive at the foot of the great wall, and leave our smiling taxi driver to begin our hike. At first glimpse, the wall looks like...well, like a big wall on top of a hill really. We walk through the gate, chatting loudly, until we come to a window and step outside to have a peek at the view. We abrubtly fall silent. In front of us is a panorama of bleak hills and barren fields, with the great wall gently snaking away into the distance. The landscape follows us for the rest of the way, with the views growing more and more superlative the longer we go. It is a harsh landscape, a landscape of war, an epic world of bleak mountains, crumbling watchtowers, everywhere characterized by the mesmerizing view of the wall snaking into the infinite distance.

We figured that Jingshanling would be the most peaceful section of the wall, given that it is of very little interest to most Chinese tourists, and is such a strenuous hike that most travellers would be discouraged. But the smell of foreign money proves too great to resist, and a whole host of locals hike alongside foreign tourist groups, selling T-shirts, water, coke, beer, snacks, photos, and just about anything else they can lug up there. Most of them are middle-aged or even elderly women, who completely deflate my new-found sense of masculinity when they tell me they complete the hike every day on their souvenier-selling runs.

Not that the hike is in any way easy, mind you. Soon after we leave Jingshanling the wall decays into its original Ming-Dynasty form, and without modern restorations to smooth out the hard parts, we are left panting for breath. The brickwork is decaying, and the path follows the ridiculous inclines of the mountain ridge, a dragons back of endlessly undulating ups and downs which the old women selling souvenirs seem to manage with ease. At one stage, we are confronted with what appears to be a sheer wall, but turns out to be a staircase - an 85 degree incline, which we are expected to climb to reach the top.

Finally we reach the end, exhausted and content. The gods of irony quickly disperse the clouds as I hop in my taxi home, but I am satisfied. I have what every tourist comes here for, an unmissable event in every trip to China; a photo of me on the Great Wall.

The Forbidden City

The first gate I walk through is Tiananmen, passing beneath Mao's famous portrait as I step through the red stone passageway. I enter a world of hawkers selling T-shirts, guides offering me tours, and photographers cameras with giant lenses as they bustle through the ticket queues. Armed with my entrance ticket, I proceed to the Meridian gate, which in times of old only the emperor himself could walk through, into a whole new world waiting beyond the palace doors...

I have seen temples before, and would consider myself a little bit worn-out on ancient architecture after travelling through Japan and China. But the Forbidden City is not a temple, nor is it an ancient building...it is a true city, sprawling endlessly on a scale that defies the imagination. I am glad I left an entire day to wander around, but realize even this will not be enough to see even half of the treasures on display. I happily bounce off the walls between the Hall of Supreme Harmony, the Palace of Heavenly Purity and other superlatively named buildings, taking photos everywhere I go.

Once again, I am "always alone, never alone", and before walking an hour I am adopted by a group of Chinese students who show me around the complex. In a rare variation, they are not English students this time, but rather students of Czechoslovakian language in the Czech republic. But luckily for me, they speak English as well!
Together we roam the imperial gardens with its amazing collection of strange vegetation, while I take photos of ancient Chinese buildings and they take photos of the foreign tourists. I guess there's something to interest everyone in the Forbidden City!

In the evening, the Forbidden City closes and the guards attempt to herd everyone out of the buildings, not an easy task given the massive size of the complex. At this time the scenery is at its best; the evening light casts warm shades over the stone, and the huge crowds that mar the scenery are completely vanished. It is a completely different world, quiet and majestic, and for a moment I pause to breath it all in before a guard directs me to the exit.

The Temple of Heaven

If the Forbidden City is the place where the emperors basked in their glory, the Temple of Heaven is the place where they came to humble themselves, offering sacrifices to the gods once a year. Here even the emperor cannot walk through the centre gate; this is reserved for the god of heaven himself in case he decides to come strolling in. Though not as grand as the forbidden city, it wins points for the minor details; the points of the two temples line up precisely only when you look at it from the furthest gate, the path is inclined a fraction of a degree upward as you walk toward the temple of heaven, the rainwater is channeled through auspicious stone sculptures on its way through the drainage system, and the walls of the altar of heaven are aligned in such a way that sound travels perfectly along them, allowing one to hear a whisper from the other side of the altar 20m away. Well, at least that's what the pamphlet told me; when I was there the altar was crowded with about 100 people attempting to yell messages out to each other over the tourist din, seemingly with little success.

The Memorial Hall of Mao Zedong

Although long dead, it is indeed still possible to pay a visit to the late Chairman. Following the example of Lenin, Mao's remains were preserved and remain on display in a grand mausoleum in the centre of Tiananmen square, free for entry to all those who wish to pay their respects. Unless you happen to be levied an unofficial charge, that is.

I was just at the point of lining up when a man in a suit stopped me. "Sir! No backpacks inside! Please follow me to the lockers". I find his efficiency somewhat surprising for a Chinese government employee; he blocks traffic on either side as he rushes me across the road, quickly hurrying into the doors of the official checkroom where I hand over my bag. Then he rushes me back over to the line, to lament the fact that "my friends", the two foreigners who happened to be in line next to me, are no longer there. "Don't worry, I can take you back to them!" he says.
"Hey that looks like them!" he exclaims, pointing to two generic foreigners standing halfway through the line.
"Yep, sure does!" I reply, and he lifts up the barrier to let me through, right in front of the security guards.

Then he explains, using gestures, that I should give him 10 yuan. That's when I realize that although he has the identical uniform to the other officials, he has no name badge; he is merely a mercenary, filling the gap in the inefficient government infrastructure. I gladly give him 10 yuan. Later, toward the front, I see the sign that says "no backpacks", and realize that without him, I would have waited in line for an hour only to be turned back at the front door. It seems Chinese Communism is as dead as its great leader lying inside; below the red flags of the people's republic, capitalist innovation continues in ways even the decadent west could never have dreamed up.

Peking Duck

I figure that the best place in the world to eat Peking duck is Peking (aka Beijing). And apparently the best (if priciest) place to eat Peking duck in Beijing is Quanjude, the famous duck restaurant visited by heads of state and government dignitaries from all over the world.

Me and my companion, a Taiwanese art student from California, are drooling with anticipation by the time it comes out. A chef (or at least a guy wearing a chef's hat) brings it out on a trolley, and begins cutting it up before our eyes with a giant cleaver, in a few minutes succesfully turning the duck into two main dishes of duck meat (according to our specifications), a plate of impossibly crispy skin, and a side dish of the meat from the head. The procedure is simple enough; paint some sauce on the pancakes, insert duck meat and scallions, wrap up, chew and feel happy. Despite the menu's protestations that Peking duck is low-fat and high-protein, I am absolutely certain that nothing that tastes this rich can be good for me. My friend describes the taste as "transcendent", and indeed it is difficult to describe. The duck meat is slightly smoky, and the skin ever so deliciously oily and crispy. Combine that with the tangy sauce and scallions, and you have what TV commercials describe as a "flavour sensation".

The Far East Youth Hostel Kitchen

Admittedly not recommended by any guide book, but a great place to wind down after a big day of touring. Drinking a cold 50 cent bottle of Beijing beer and listening to the other backpackers exchange stories of lands far beyond is something I look forward to every night, even if many of the conversations are in Hebrew or Spanish...

The Usual Tourist Stuff remains copyright of the author NickRennic, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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Clear blue skies, wide open roads, clean streets and technology that would put Tokyo to shame...where is the backward, polluted industrial city I have heard so much? It strikes me that no tourist literature had ever described Beijing as "beautiful", but that is exactly the word that comes to mind as I wander through it. The paralympics is still ongoing, with western tourists and athletes crowding every corner of the city, and the whole city buzzes with excitement.

The fireworks herald the end of the paralympics, and the last days of the olympic era come to a close. Gradually the tourists become less and less, and as they do, the threads begin to unravel. The roads, once relatively quiet, fill with cars honking cars, making many streets a walkers' dream of gridlock. Construction, put on hold during the olympics, begins once more, from the giant cranes silently sliding around the sky to the ad-hoc welding, sawing and sledgehammering in the streets. And then one morning I wake up and the whole world is grey. Walking around, I find the once beautiful streets are now dank and lifeless, and sitting on top of a hill in the evening I watch the sun becoming dimmer and dimmer, disappearing behind a curtain of haze before it even gets close to the horizon, leaving me cold and depressed in the twilight.

The subway system also goes through a dramatic transformation. When I first arrived during the Paralympics, I was amazed to see state of the art automatic ticket machines, escalators, and conveyor belts, and LCD TV's on every train, far surpassing the technology of even Tokyo's subway systems. Now, the subway begins to show its Chinese colours. The ticket system is completely incomprehensible to the locals, who just last year were using paper tickets, and each ticket gate requires several staff members to help the confused patrons. To make matters worse, every time they make a mistake the machines emit a peircingly loud high-pitched noise, ensuring that every station is a cacaphony of noise. There is one good thing about the transformation; Locals have given up trying to work the ticket machines and buy their tickets from the staff instead, which means I never have to wait in line for the machine.

On the trains themselves I am sometimes entertained by the regular propaganda screenings on the new televisions, with songs about the beautiful harmony of Chinese society, complete with video-clips of Tibetan people cheering and high fiveing Chinese visitors (I noticed that this particular ad campaign was never screened during the olympics), but for most of the time the TV's are simply quietly malfunctioning. To fill the silence, hawkers selling maps yell their way up and down the carriages, ocassionally replaced by duos invariably consisting of a pitiably disabled person singing sad ballads into a karoake microphone, and another running around the carriage asking for money.

And while I reminisce about the pleasant days of the olympics when everything ran oh so smoothly, I am completely oblivious to a much greater chaos about to visit me. For next week is National Day, a week long holiday when ordinary Chinese people get a break from work and a chance to travel around their country. China is a country of 1300 million people, and when the majority of them decide to get up and go for a holiday, chaos inevitably follows shortly. Especially if you happen to be in China's most touristed city...

On national day itself, I think to go to Tiananmen square, to watch the raising of the national flag and hopefully catch a glimpse of the Premier giving his speech. My hotel is only 20 minutes walk from Tiananmen square, its the perfect opportunity, right? Well, my hotel used to be 20 minutes walk from Tiananmen square, it is now more like an hour. The streets are jammed full of people eagerly taking pictures of themselves in front of anything even moderately famous, tour guides waving little flags and wielding megaphones, and the occasional local looking murderously at the tourist invaders.

The subway system becomes a complete nightmare, as any door, staircase or other bottleneck becomes a site of general pushing and shoving, and getting on and off trains falls only slightly short of mob violence on occasions. I resolve to simply sit in my hotel room and wait the week out, and I expect many locals are doing the same. Finally, the Chinese tourists leave as the foreign tourists had done only a few weeks ago, and Beijing is at peace once more. The newspapers triumphantly proclaiming that a new all-time record had been set for tourism during the week; in the period of one week, over 8 million people visited the city, including 2.8 million visitors to the olympic stadiums alone.

No doubt Beijing has enjoyed its time in the spotlight, but most residents seem to be glad to see the tourists go. The locals wander the neighbourhood with no particular purpose, playing chess on the street, and spitting in the gutter. Sure, its nice to be famous. But sometimes, its nice just to be yourself...

An Olympic Transformation remains copyright of the author NickRennic, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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The first thing I do upon arriving at Tai'an (the town at the foot of Tai Shan) is get in touch with a local. By a strange coincidence, I happened to make friends with a Tai'an Local, Song, on the boat from Japan to China. And by another strange coincidence, a Japanese friend I made on the boat, Chikara, is also in town when I arrive. I am glad for the company. Smaller cities tend to have more of everything that foreigners find difficult to adjust to in China: an untraversable language barrier, crazy traffic, beggars, rampant price inflation for foreigners, warm beer, and accomodation which involves co-habiting with both small and large insects. In places like these, having someone to hold your hand is a great help.

When we met on the boat, both Song and I had been staying in Japan and spoke Japanese as a second language, but the difference in our travels was striking. While I had been traversing the nation with a pocketful of cash, she had been working in a dry cleaners for 15 hours a day, having only enough spare time to cook her meals and sleep (in a dormitory with 10 other girls). After one year of such work she receives only $10,000, which might seem a ridiculously small amount to us, but here in the countryside there are thousands who would gladly take such a job if they had the opportunity.

Song's family live in a traditional style home in a village on the outskirts of the city, which we soon travel out to see. Her whole family greet us like old friends, immediately plying us with presents and food as they show us around. Their home has no running water, just a single tap in the centre of the courtyard where all water is filled from. The toilet is a trough which is flushed by filling a bucket of water from the tap and washing the trough with it, which transfers the contents of the toilet into a garden behind the building. The neighbourhood is the perfect romantic image that every traveller in China attempts to hunt out, with dusty roads, faded and cracked concrete, and the occasionally farm animal lazily making its way through the streets.

One night Song invites me and Chikara to dinner with her byofriend's family, who will become her family in a few months when her and Li get married. Me and Chikara assume it is going to be an average dinner meal, and so are completely unprepared for what comes next.

The dishes make their appearance slowly at first. The table is enormous, and the 5 or 6 dishes placed on it look rather lonely. Then some more join them. Then some more. Soon, the entire table is covered in two layers of dishes, and the waiters are endlessly re-appearing with yet more food. This is the banquet, the ancient art of the impossible-to-eat meal.

The meal begins with a toast of Baijiu, a Chinese spirit which is like a spicier, drier and stronger version of vodka usually containing about 45% alcohol. In banquets one does not toast only once; the night is an endless procession of toasts, and the perfect filler for a pause in the conversation is to hold up your glass and shout out "Ganbei!". Luckily the Baijiu is soon replaced with good old-fashioned beer, making the endless toasts far more manageable. Again, the alcohol is provided in such amounts that even if the entire table were rampant alcoholics we could not possibly drink it all.

They endlessly entreat us to eat and drink more, and I am only too happy to oblige. The food is delicious, the beer is cold and crisp, and Li's family are the warmest company I could possibly imagine. At the end of the night, filled to the brim with delicious food, I leave completely baffled by their hospitality. What have I done to deserve such kindness? Could it be that the Chinese people, the most populous people in the world, are the nicest and most generous as well?

We sleep in the next day. For a long time. Eventually, we drag ourselves out of bed, and decide to put all that sustenance to good use - today, we will climb Tai Shan!

...It begins pleasantly...walking along a meandering path under the shade of the cypresses, taking in the scenery around us. The path is dotted with iconic stone bridges, calligraphy tablets and shrines and temples, not to mention a few jagged peaks towering over us here and there.

Chikara is endlessly amused by my popularity in China. Being Japanese, he is not instantly recognizable as a foreigner, so he can blend into the crowds when travelling. I however, look about as subtle as a polar bear in a jungle, and immediately attract attention everywhere I go. Before we have walked our first kilometre, I make friends with two university students, and we decide to walk to the top together. Companions! Yay!

Soon, the meandering path stops meandering, and I am glad for our companions. The staircases are steep and narrow, leading endlessly and relentlessly upward. Conversation is a pleasant distraction from the trials of the climb, as is China's national hobby, chewing sunflower seeds, which the girls thoughtfully brought with them. As the sun begins setting in the sky, we encounter the final challenge: no less than a true stairway to heaven, an impossibly long, impossibly steep flight of stairs traversing the last section of the path to the top. How in god's name did Confucious climb this one?!

At last we are at the top, in time to catch the last glow of dusk on the scenery below. We had planned to walk back down during the night, aided by torches, but the idea of traversing the dangerously steep staircases at night was no longer so appealing, and the girls succesfully managed to convince us to stay the night on the peak and watch the sunrise in the morning. The peak was freezing, but the ever-perceptive Chinese businessmen had noticed this and created an excellent solution; for less than a dollar, you could borrow a Mao-era Chinese Army winter jackets for the night, which were not only incredibly warm but rather fashionable too. With Lin-Lins hat, which I ended up wearing at some point during the climb, I was a dead-ringer for an American cowboy, which ensured I attracted even more attention than before.

Rebelling against the high prices of the hotels on the mountain, we do what the masses do and simply sit outside chatting and singing the night away. The full moon passes gradually overhead, casting a ghostly light over the scene of hundreds of Chinese all waiting for the new day, the better prepared ones sleeping in tents, the less prepared simply huddling together and snoozing on the stone steps as we were. By 3am the rush to grab a spot for sunrise has begun, and we abandon our sheltered steps to perch ourselves on the rocky peak. It is windy, it is cold, but at least the atmosphere around me is warm; English majors somehow gravitate toward me until I am surrounded by them, leaving poor Chikara very much lost amidst a sea of English conversation.

The mountain is packed with people shivering in the pre-dawn air, occupying ever tiny little piece of space on the sacred peak like the proverbial Chinese "Ren Shan Ren Hai" (People Mountain, People Sea). Gradually the stars in the night sky begin to disappear one by one, and slightly, ever so slightly, the sky begins to lighten. The day is about to begin.

At first, it is just a rather dull gray, gradually getting brighter and brighter. Then the colours of daybreak begin, with vivid pink splashed across the horizon. They flow across the sky, morphing in slow motion as we watch, awe-struck. I realize that the "stairway to heaven" was an excellent name for the stairs we climbed...surrounded by surreal beauty on the jagged mountain peak, it truly feels like we are in heaven now.

Suddenly, a cheer rings out across the mountain, and we look to see the first feeble rays of sun peeking through the clouds. Gradually, it rises in the sky, a flaming red ball of light in the morning sky.

By the rays of the morning sun, I see the scene laid out before me. Having reached the top at night, I never actually saw the view from the top until now. The mountain is a lot higher than I imagined; from my spot on the rocky peak, I can see what seems like all of China laid out at my feet, a maze of rivers, mountains and fields. Good morning China!

When I am done admiring the view, I notice the town of Tai'an below me, and realize; I have to walk all the way down there now!

The walk down is as painful as the walk up. The narrow, steep staircases are the death of my knees, and by the time I get down I am a complete cripple. Upon arriving in the town, Chikara and I book ourselves in for a Chinese traditional massage, with the image of a lovely relaxing experience with scented candles and soft hands skilfully taking away our aches and pains. Naturally, we could not have been more wrong.

Everything is going well when the girls walk in, petite and giggly. Then they start the massage...by hitting us on the head. Huh? Why are they hitting me? They continue in this fashion, pummelling, pounding and general pulverizing us for half an hour or so, and I realize that this is not the type of massage I had envisioned. It is kind of like getting a massage from a girlfriend you have just broken up with. They show no mercy, massaging our tender legs with brutal force, with a look in their eyes that says "You'll thank me for it later", then proceeding to stand up and walk over our backs. I cannot help but be impressed by their skill though, not to mention their physical strength as they beat us up in a very precise way according to the principles of ancient Chinese medicine.

So, I go to sleep at the bottom of Tai Shan, battered and bruised by the days experiences. But though my body may be sore, my heart is elated with the experiences of the days past. I have walked the streets of a village, drank toasts with shirtless Chinese men, heard the story of the dry-cleaning ladies of the world, and watched the wanderings of the full moon. I have climbed staircases, made friends, been beaten up by a giggly Chinese girl, and cheered the coming of day from the peak of a mountain. The aches and bruises only last so long; the memories, I am sure, will last a lifetime.

Good Morning China! remains copyright of the author NickRennic, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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This fantasy evaporates the moment I head out the door and attempt to cross the street. In China, traffic rules seem to be more like traffic recommendations, and honking the horn seems to be the national hobby. Some drivers honk out tunes on their horns, and I swear I have seen cars honking on completely empty roads when there is not another car in sight. The taxi drivers are always in a hurry, and most seem to be under the impression that they are driving ambulances, stopping at nothing in order to get to the destination as quickly as possible. So do the bus drivers, weaving their 20 tonne vehicles in and out of the incoming traffic lane with reckless abandon. Throw in a few motorbikes and a couple of hundred push-bikes, and you have a sure recipe for chaos.

I manage to cross the street by hiding amongst a group of Chinese people and praying a lot, and after much difficulty end up on the Bund, ostensibly Shanghai's most picturesque mile. You would think that a lovely riverside boulevard would be the perfect place for strolling, but appearances can be deceiving. Knowing that anyone who has time to stroll has plenty of money too, a sizeable population of beggars and hawkers wait for me to arrive. The beggars are suitably heart-wrenching; the old-women clutch at your sleeve, faces covered with dirt and clothed in rags, whilst the children just sit on their cardboard boxes with glazed-over eyes. Then there are the hawkers, ever entreating you to buy their wares. However, I cannot for the life of me understand why they think I would want the things they are sellingwhich are without a doubt some of the most useless products I have ever seen. Like glow-in-the-dark horns. Or Army Men which stick to the walls. Or ridiculously long chains of kites. Or blobs of putty which can be thrown repeatedly at the ground. Or flashing, noisy electronic gizmoes which seem to have no other purpose but to flash and make noise. The most handy saying so far in China is "Bu Yao", which means "I dont want it".

Finished with the Bund, I head to East Nanjing road to spend a little bit of money. Or a lot of money. Not only am I the most foreign-looking foreigner in this whole country, but I have absolutely no bargaining skills whatsoever, and every shopkeeper I come in contact with seems to know this. I try out the experience of following one of the dodgy street salesmen into a very dodgy looking shop in the back alleys to buy a fake Rolex. The back alleys scenery is marvellous, with groups of men sitting around smoking and playing cards underneath improvised clothes lines hanging over the narrow street, whilst motorbikes weave their way around them happily honking away. My bargaining is less marvellous, and I end up paying 120 yuan ($20) for my shiny new watch. When the purchase is completed, the sellers are beaming from ear to ear, and I am absolutely certain I have paid 3-4 times the going rate. Oh well...

I have no luck whatsoever at picking out food either. I can't seem to find a single place to eat on the road, and inevitably end up at some fancy restaurant, being served by people in suits and looking out over the skyscrapers of the river from the wall-to-wall windows. Most menus do not have pictures, and all though I know a few of the characters (I especially made sure to learn the one for 'dog'), I still cannot for the life of me figure out what any of the dishes are. What is "Three Fresh Spice Happy"? What is "Golden Dragon Pancakes"? Obviously eating here will require a sense of adventure, and a multi-talented digestive system. Luckily the price of the food will never be a problem - even a meal at this posh restaurant, with a gigantic cold beer, costs a total of 40 yuan ($7).

Most things are cheap in China, even in relatively expensive Shanghai. Some things however, are definitely not. Being scammed is one of those things. Only after a few days in Shanghai did I succesfully identify the "two girls" combination as trouble. It's always two girls, and they always speak English, and you should always run in the other direction upon meeting such a combination. But the first time I ran into two girls who spoke English on East Nanjing Road, I had no idea of this. Ok, I had heard many tales of scamsters, but they always described "Attractive Girls", and these two were simply not that attractive. Given that many people were randomly stopping in the street to pose for photos with me, two "English Students" wanting to chat with me as I strolled along the road didn't seem at all out of place. We talked for about 20 minutes about all manner of things, before they finally got down to business in the most innocent way possible - "Hey, do you feel like a coffee?". Sure! Why not?

We drink coffee, and they start ordering other random little tidbits, and alarms begin quietly sounding in my head. Something isn't right here. Then they start calling me handsome. Something is definitely not right here. Then another patron walks in, a single foreign man with two Chinese girls. The penny drops. This is a fake coffee shop. The girls are professional scamsters. Run Nick run!

But its too late, and from the smiles on their innocent faces I can see that they have already won. As I try to leave, the bill arrives for1800 yuan ($300). Hmm....what to do now? Well, how about we start by finding a way out of this shop? Putting on my sweetest innocent 18-year-old-who-thinks-that-$300-is-a-perfectly-reasonable-price-for-coffee face, I show them my nearly empty wallet (I hide all my money in my pockets for situations just like these) and ask if I could go to and ATM and come back. They let me go, but only if Mr.Scary-Looking-Man comes with me. Damn, there goes my plan of running like the wind the moment I get out of the door. I guess I'll have to come up with a new plan...

I keep up my innocent guise until the last possible moment, and the scamsters fall for it as easily as I fell for theirs. They allow me to wander this way and that in the streets until I spy an English-speaking desk in a bank, at which point I drop the guise of looking for an ATM and hurry towards him. "Hey, how's it going? Look, um, these people are scammsters trying to rob me..." My scamsters protest loudly in Chinese, but I manage to hold his attention and continue calmly explaining my situation, until finally I play my last card: "Call the Police". The scamsters faces are aghast, and they begin to plead with me, trying everything (including mentioning once again how handsome I am)until at last they mumble excuses and vanish into the streets. I can't believe it...I won!

I sling my backpacker over my shoulder and stumble back to my hotel room in a state of mild shock, resolving to spend the next several months safely inside these four walls. My resolve doesn't last long though, and that very evening I find myself back out on the streets. Not strolling this time, I walk with my eyes on the road in front, dodging the offers of coffee and tea ceremonies, skipping over the rubbish heaps, and weaving my way in and out of the flashy-noise-making-gizmoes, and happily take in the nightscape surrounding me. I realize that Shanghai is not neccesarily a bad place; you just need to know the right way to walk.

A Stroll in Shanghai remains copyright of the author NickRennic, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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To celebrate my last night in Japan, I go to Osaka and catch up with Evan, an Australian guy living in Japan who I bonded with during our wild climb up Mt.Fuji together. It is the perfect finish to my stay; A delicious sushi meal, lots of lovely Japanese friends of his, and plenty of happy conversation. I even managed to find what I consider to be the perfect symbol of Japan - at the sushi restaurant, the waitress came out in a beautiful kimono, complete with traditional-era footwear, and then whipped out an ultra-modern touch-screen gizmo to take our orders. Ah Japan, I shall miss you...

The ferry: 50% Japan, 50% China

I decided to travel to China by boat rather than plane. That's right, a boat, like you see in the movies. Maybe it was the romance of the whole thing...maybe it was the purism of travelling overseas by literally traveling over a sea...or maybe it was the fact that it was far cheaper than any other possible mode of transport, and that I am trying to save every last yen in getting out of the country.

Half the passengers were Japanese going to China, the other half Chinese going back home. Almost everyone spoke Japanese, but almost everyone spoke Chinese too. The food is half Japanese, half Chinese. We sail through the islands of Japan, and soon we are on the high seas.

The boat ride was so much fun I would have happily paid to go in a full circle. Watching sunsets looking out over the high seas, a beautiful deep blue, falling asleep in a room full of 40 people to the gentle sway of the boat, and exploring the millions of secret rooms (including a fully decked-out Japanese onsen!) made the journey just as exciting as the destination. Like the Titanic, except without the crashing and sinking, and Leonardo Di Caprio.

Shanghai: 100% China

When I wake up on the second morning, and I notice the sea has turned brown. We must be getting near...

Eventually I catch the sight of land, my first ever sight of China. It is rather boring, like every first sighting of a country, just flat plains and dull buildings. But eventually the skyline builds, as does the ocean-going traffic. Soon we are surrounded by hundreds of other ships of all kinds, drifting through a river with giant buildings (most under construction) on all sides. I see the perfect photo opportunity; a rusty little boat carrying a boatload of coal, slowly chugging its way down the river, with a Chinese flag waving enthusiastically behind. I try and get my camera working in time, but it is too late, the boat has already passed by. Just as I am lamenting my misfortune, another boat comes into view, with exactly the same Chinese flag and exactly the same pile of coal. I lean over the deck and look into the distance...there is another, and another, and another, stretching in a line as far as the eye can see. We are now in 100% China.

...Then the boat pulls into the dock...

Suddenly I am on the ground, in a state of mild shock. Goodbye Japanese friends. Check into my hotel room. Wander the Bund beside the river, looking out over the skyscrapers of Pudong. Avoid the beggars, see the children lying on the street. Run across the road, trying to avoid all the cars and bikes intent on running a red light. Decline the offer of a motorbike ride, and take a $2 taxi instead. Eat 40 cent dumplings from the food carts. "Sir, DVD, Watches, Shirts, you want!" "No Thankyou". "Hey handsome man, massage for you!" "No Thankyou". Men play cards in the back alley, smoking and spitting. Children play in the street, laughing and yelling. 100% China.

The Slow Boat to Shanghai remains copyright of the author NickRennic, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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Most people climbing Fuji (about 99%) start from the 5th station halfway up the mountain, and the idea of climbing from the base is enough to get you some confused looks from the people at the tourist counter. Luckily though, there is still a path that caters to stuborn fools who insist on climbing every vertical metre themselves - the Yoshidaguchi trail, which also happens to be the oldest, most historical and most spiritual of any of the trails, used by pilgrims in the centuries before the 5th station and its bus network came into existence. The trail begins at Sengen Shrine, where like the pilgrims of old I pray (very, very hard) for safety along the way. From the Shrine, a winding dirt track leads into the forest, where the journey begins...

The lower reaches of the climb are truly heavenly. As I sit on my break in the middle of the lush forest, a bright blue butterfly as big as my hand floats past, completely oblivious to my futile attempts to get a photo of it. The trail becomes gradually becomes steeper, and before I know it I am entering the clouds above me, and am surrounded by mist. It turns out to be the perfect weather for the forest though; ancient shrines, decaying buildings, eerie silence and ethereal mist all complement each other to create a truly magical atmosphere. What is more, I have the path entirely to myself, with not a single Japanese tourist venturing to travel along this section. For hours I walk alone, in the land of the gods of the forest and the ghosts of centuries gone by.

Just as the afternoon is threatening to turn to evening, I hear voices for the first time on my pilgrimage...It turns out to be three Australians, who are trying to fiure out the best way to reach shelter before nightfall. How is it that four Australians manage to find each other on an abandoned track on the slopes of Mt.Fuji? We journey together until we finally we reach a hut just before sunset, happy to have found our way before dark. After hours of steadily persevering upwards, we have broken through the clouds, and are now in the heavenly world above. The days hiking finished, we stand on the top of the ledge, looking down on the sea of sky below us.

We sleep together in the mountain hut at 2000m altitude, and wake up at 3.30am to begin the next days ascent. We start climbing in the dark, but as we puff and pant our way up the slopes, the sky gradually begins to lighten. Eventually we decide to take a break, and sit down to watch the most memorable scene of any climb up Mt.Fuji - Sunrise. It is truly spectacular. Eating our breakfast of home-made rice balls, we sit dumbstruck before the truly awe-inspiring sight of a sea of pink and yellow clouds, the soft rays of first light, and a tiny crescent moon twinkling far above.

This is the end of heaven for us. From here the scenery begins to change, gradually coming to look much more like hell. The vegetation sheltering us from the wind begins to die off; first the trees, then the shrubs, then the grass, leaving us on a barren mountain slope with nothing but purple-red rock and dust. The rocks here are mostly lava formations, bubbling rivers of molten rock cooled mere centuries ago, and could only be described as hellish. The gradient becomes ridiculous, as the mountain trail gives way to endless staircases of rock and chains, and we occasionally end up on all fours climbing up the faces of the lava-rocks. My prayers to the gods of wind and rain at the shrine below also appear to have worn off, and the landscape is soon accentuated with ferocious wind and driving rain, which seems to be attacking us from sideways rather than vertically.

Luckily, my host dad had insisted on giving me hundreds of dollars worth of high-tech hiking gear before I left, and I feel very grateful to him as I don my gore-tex jacket, gore-tex pants, and my gore-tex hat and gloves. Still, the water ends up finding its way into my leather shoes, where it accumulates happily until it forms a pond around my feet. Only hours after that heavenly sunrise, we are encased in cloud with our heads down persevering through hell.

It only gets worse the higher we go. Not only is the weather gradually getting worse and worse, but we are starting to feel the effects of altitude, and I am beginning to wish I had bought one of those oxygen bottles the Japanese were puffing on every few steps of their climb. Instead, I take the much cheaper option of just panting heavily and trudging very slowly...conversation is out of the question, as even if we had the breath to speak the wind would whip away our words before anyone could hear them. So we pass the hours in silence, just trudging through the rain, one step after another, occasionally stopping to take shelter in bathrooms in order to empty out the puddles in our shoes.

Eventually we reach 3400m of altitude, only 376m from the top. We stop at a hut and ordered some food, hoping it will warm us up. However, our rest ends up having the opposite effect, as without the strenuous activity of hiking up the mountain we quickly start shaking violently. We hoped that by taking a break, we would wait out the worst of the weather, but it proves a futile hope; when we exit the hut at last, we are greeted by what could only be described as a hurricane. The rain is practically torrential, depositing huge volumes of water into the growing puddles in the lava-rock, and the wind is so strong it is actually picking that water back up off the surface of the puddle and hurling it back into the air. We are told that we are only one hour from the peak, but the thought of heading any higher in these sort of conditions immediately conjures up images of newspaper headlines: "Australian idiots attempt to climb Mt.Fuji in storm, search teams still looking". As if we needed any more ominious signs, Clancy's lips have started to turn blue, and gentle rumbles of thunder begin to echo through the clouds, around us rather than above us. I abandon my dream of climbing to the peak of Mt.fuji in favour of my dream of living to see my 19th birthday. None of us are happy about the decision, but we all agree that it is the right thing to do.

Ok, so I didn't get a photo of me on the roof of Japan. But I still saw more of Mt.Fuji than anyone starting from halfway, and I did get to see an amazing sunrise! And I will always have a great story to tell at parties, about the time I almost climbed Mt.Fuji.

Heaven and Hell remains copyright of the author NickRennic, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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It has been nice to have a home for a while, with the warm blanket of familiarity and routine. It was a good break from solitude too, being surrounded by people who look after me and cared for me, both my host family and my friends. When I left Australia, I had to go through the difficulties of leaving both family and friends. Now, I have to do exactly the same thing again! I waved farewell to little Vanessa, hugged a very emotional Eric goodbye, wished Amy all the best with college, and made every Japanese person I knew promise to visit me in Australia. I hung up my apron at the pub, and Doctor, ever casual, farewells me with his usual 'See you tomorrow'.

Of the 3 months I spent travelling Japan, 2 and a half of them were spent here in Tokyo...not precisely the kind of travel I had in mind when I left home! But I have no regrets about staying here, as staying in the one place turned out to be an excellent way to travel. Here I had a chance to read books, watch movies, sit in parks, walk the dog, and have meaningful relationships with the people around me. When I left Australia, I had dreams of diving headfirst into the unknown, but it turned out to be just as pleasant to sit on the edge and dip my feet in.

The main reason I stayed in Tokyo though, was less philosophical than financial. I needed to make money! And make money I did...even with all the ridiculous excesses of my Tokyo lifestyle, I now have the equivalent of $1000 in my pocket (or to be more precise, in my money belt). I am very satisfied by this achievement, and celebrate the way any sensible, mature person would - by using making the notes into a paper fan and fanning myself with it while basking in my own richness. With my purpose fulfilled, it is time to move on.

With my bags packed and a thousand goodbyes, I'll be leaving home tomorrow morning into the big wide world. With a song in my heart, as always. 'On the road again...I just can't wait to get on the road again...'

Sayonara Tokyo remains copyright of the author NickRennic, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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Roppongi is　the party zone of Tokyo, particularly known for its cosmopolitanism. One night, me and some friends pull up in a taxi at about 1am, about the time the night really begins in Roppongi. Our group is made up of bar staff and bar regulars, a mix of Czechoslovakian, German, Australian, New Zealandese and Japanese people. In Roppongi we are nothing out of the ordinary, as the typical party crowd is a hodge-podge mix of just about every nationality in the world.

We head for one of the most popular nightclubs, Muse. The best way to describe the feeling of being there is that of being lost in a rich Arabian persons house at night; there are a lot of sandstone walls, archways, and stairways leading up and down to rooms laid out in the most confusing ways possible. There are dance floors, bars, karaoke rooms, billiards tables, darts rooms...basically it is a theme park of everything people like to do while drunk. The dance floor is clearly based on Japanese rush-hour trains, with people crammed into every last cubic centimetre of space. In fact, the name 'dance floor' is something of a misnomer - you don't so much dance as wiggle, while being pressed in all directions by the backs of sweaty men. Most people cope with this by drinking a lot, but this is not an option for me as drinks cost at least $10 each. They only sell high quality beers, most of them international. I couldn't help but laugh when I found VB on the menu alongside the belgian and german names - obviously here it is considered quite the gourmet treat!

The crowd barely thins at all during the night, and everyone is a little bit shocked when the music turns off and the staff attempt to kick hundreds of people out onto the street. But its only 6am! I am told that they usually let you stay until far later (or earlier?). The matter of time is a little bit confusing, and I am not sure which schedule to follow. Should I act like its morning? Or late at night? In defiance of the bright sunlight and the dog-walkers beginning their day, we head to the local ramen shop to help ourselves to a big bowl of post-party noodles. Tokyo Tower sits serenely in the dawn light as the clubbers file onto the dawn trains...

This is but one night of many in Roppongi. I have never been to the same bar/club twice, and every time I have been out it has been a completely different experience. One Sunday night (yes, Japanese people love going out on Sunday night for some reason), me and Amy head down the main drag trying to find a place which looked good. After an hour or so of absolutely shocking, terrible karaoke (the American style with one drunk guy singing in front of everyone, not the behind-closed-doors Japanese style), we stumble into a place called 'First Bar' in search of the elusive Happy Hour. We miss it by a few minutes, and so we have to order drinks at regular prices. Given that the staff members are all wearing suits, I soon realise I cannot afford said prices.

But just as I am about to sink into depression, Amy points out a sign on the table...Sunday night special, Caipirinhas for 500 yen ($5). It's listed as 'Brazil's national cocktail'...well, if Brazilians like it, it must be good, right? I am a bit apprehensive when they hand it to us...it's a rather small glass, not nearly enough to party the night away on. My hopes rise though when the waitress says 'be careful, drink it slowly'. I take a sip through the tiny straw, and my face lights up. It tastes like Brazil! For those who are wondering what exactly a Caipirinha is, wikipedia tells me its a mix of cachaça, a brazilian spirit made from sugar cane, and lime and sugar. I fall completely in love with this drink, though I have not been able to find a place that sells it since. I must plan a trip to brazil sometime soon...

As well as finding quite possibly my favourite drink in the world, our waitress quickly becomes my favourite waitress in the world. I ask her which country she is from, which is basically the opening line for most first conversations in Roppongi. It is more complicated than I expected though, or maybe I have had too many Caipirinhas...the gist of it is that one of her parents is from Ukraine and the other is from a country whose name I could not comprehend but ended in slovakia, so I spent the rest of the night thinking of her as 'the waitress from Ukraine/Uqchelaslovakia'. We spent a fair amount of time both talking and dancing with her, she was so much fun! Amy will kill me for putting this photo up, but its the only one I have of the three of us. She was the victim of an over-the-top fake tan (she's normally about my colour) and was so embarassed she didn't go out most of the day - I thought it worked quiet well with the Brazilian theme though!

While setting new records for boogying, me and Amy met a couple of German guys. I have heard a lot of stories about Oktoberfest from the Germans I have met so far, and so naturally that is the first thing I mention. 'Actually, I don't like Oktoberfest so much' one tells me, 'I live over the road from it, and whenever it is on I can't sleep for a week'. Well, at least now I have a place to crash if I ever go to Oktoberfest... I was still carrying my backpack the whole time, and ended up inventing a new dance - the bag dance (ok fine, its just me dancing with my bag...but still, its very fun!). At some point during my second and third Caipirinha, Brazilian belly dancers came out (they might have been Venezualan, I can't tell) and the whole bar turned into a giant congo line. Viva la Brazilia! Is that even Spanish? Do they speak Spanish in Brazil? Ok, I have no idea, but the point is I love brazil.

One night I'm lost in a rich Arabian's house with two Czech girls, another night I'm in a Congo line speaking made up Spanish...No two nights are ever the same in Roppongi. I would like to say these experiences gave me profound insights into the nature of the Japanese culture and society, but really, they were just good fun! Viva la Roppongi!

What I've Been Doing All This Time Part 4 remains copyright of the author NickRennic, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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Everyone needs to get away from it all every now and then, and day hikes into the surrounding mountains are one of the most popular ways to do this. Exhausted from city life myself, I jump on a train away from the skyscrapers of Shinjuku to the mountains at the border of the city. The buildings gradually get smaller, until suddenly low-lying suburbia gives way to steep mountain greenery. I get off the train at the end of the line, and step into a street lined with traditional wooden buildings and old Soba (noodle) houses. With a belly full of Soba, I sling my backpacker onto my shoulder and head off up the mountain. I decide against the most popular trail, a bitumen road with a cable-car to take you up most of the up hill section, and opt for the pleasantly named 'nature trail' instead. With the vast majority of Japanese hikers on the bitumen trail, I have nature all to myself, and enjoy a splendid solitary walk through the forest. Later I realize I am not alone at all; a sign cheerfully explains that there are plenty of snakes around to keep me company, and identifies which of these friends of the forest are lethal and which are not.

Which makes me wonder - why did they put it halfway, not at the start? People who get bitten in the first half of the hike are certainly in trouble, as are the people who are terrified of snakes, who are now in the difficult position of being 5km into a snake-ridden forest.

Still, it is a very pleasant walk, with forest scenery so beautiful I can't believe I am still on the outskirts of Tokyo. Once I get to the top of the mountain I look out on the city laid out before me, vast and endless. While the city rushes about its business, the mountain top is still and quiet. I stay here from a while, looking wistfully over the valley, before continuing to the other side, where the there is nothing but green mountains to see. The hustle and bustle of Tokyo is completely forgotten as I walk alone, losing myself in the quiet of the forest path...

What I've Been Doing All This Time Part 3 remains copyright of the author NickRennic, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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I spend a whole day here, soaking up the Japaneseness of it all. When the sun sets and darkness falls, and I am so full of food I can barely move, I head off to meet my host family at the park. There are thousands of people here already, organized into little groups sitting on tarps around food and drink. The Matsuri nights are a chance for old friends to exchange gossip, to reminisce about the last time they sat in this park together, and to exclaim how quickly the year goes. There are at least 10 people on our host families tarp, and a mountain of food in the centre, of which I cannot possibly eat a single mouthful of. Suddenly the lights are extinguished, and we are left in pitch darkness. Then...BOOM! The fireworks have begun! Even though we are a small town, the display is spectacular, and lasts an hour long. A very important part of Japanese culture, fireworks are one of the most symbolic summer activities, and as well as being a family event it is also considered one of the most romantic occasions of the year. Boyfriend and girlfriend couples dot the landscape everywhere you look, dressed in traditional summer kimonos and holding hands. The scene lit by the fireworks is one of tender togetherness. The young lovers stand and sigh; the families and old friends gossip and laugh; the whole neighbourhood sits together in the local park, enjoying the night together.

Matsuri remains copyright of the author NickRennic, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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Think of words ending in -gry. 'Angry' and 'hungry' are two of them. What is the third word in the English language? You use it every day, and if you were listening carefully, I've just told you what it is...

C'mon, you can solve this one!

What I've Been Doing All This Time Part 2 remains copyright of the author NickRennic, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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Eric, from the Democratic Republic of Congo
One night, I was walking home after work at 1am when I heard footsteps behind me. Then a voice - 'hey man, how's it going?'...What?! English?! Here, in my home town?! I didn't know foreigners existed this far out of the centre of the city (except me, coz I'm special). He seems friendly though, so we stand and chat for a while, both equally amazed at finding another foreigner so close to home. His name is Eric, he is 28 years old (which doesn't faze me a bit, I'm yet to find someone my age in all my travels so far) and comes from the Democratic Republic of Congo. He started off in the Democratic Republic of Congo, where he went to school. He speaks three languages from growing up there - French, Swahili and another African language used in the Congo region. I know nothing about the Congo except that it has a scary jungle, but to my disappoint Eric tells me he did not grow up in the jungle with 30 foot anacondas, he grew up in the city and has never even been to the jungle. Dagnabbit.

He spent a year here in Japan in his youth, loved it but never really planned on coming back in the near future. He went to university in Canada so that he could learn English (his classes were a mix of French and English), and then decided to come back to Japan to do his masters degree here. His Japanese was fairly good from his previous visit, but nowhere near enough to study International Relations at a post-graduate level, so he spent a year here in language school. It paid off; he gained his masters degree despite the language difficulties, and his Japanese is the best I have heard of any foreigner. I tallied it up; he speaks English fluently (most of our conversation was in English), he speaks Japanese fluently (much more fluently than I), and speaks French, Swahili and his Congo language at native level. Five languages?! I'm jealous.

He is a very laid back person, and a very relaxing person to be around. He speaks slowly, and a contended grin is his default expression. His laid-backness doesn't fit too well with Tokyo culture though; he works with all Japanese people, who's tireless work ethic and disregard for sleep and rest he simply cannot match. He loves to sleep; every night he goes to bed at about 8.30pm, in order to get up at 7am. On the weekends, he catches up with friends, and sometimes goes to the beach, while his co-workers are probably still in the office working overtime. He has no desire to emulate them though; he's happy with his life the way it is, and the smile on his face is good proof of that.

Elder Holmes, a missionary from Utah
I run into Elder Holmes at the local Matsuri. As the only foreigners in a sea of thousands of Japanese, we naturally stop to chat. Dressed in a long-sleeve shirt and tie, I can imagine he would be not so comfortable in the hot summer sun, but he seems to cope with it very well. He is from the Church of Jesus Christ and Latter Day Saints (aka the Mormons). Not only that, he is a bona fide missionary, on a posting here for two years to spread the word of god. I am very interested in the idea of a Christian missionary in Japan, which seems to have a much more ambiguous religious outlook. For most Japanese, religion is a matter of a vague belief in spirituality, grounded in the idea that each different part of nature has its own spirit. There are the wind spirits, the tree spirits, sky spirits, as well as the spirits of those who have died. Some people have shrines in their house, and nearly everyone attends festivals (matsuri) at set times of the year to go to the local shrine and pray to spirits/gods for good luck. To most Japanese people, this type of religion is all they need - not a strict coda of beliefs, but just a generally concept of the divine and otherworldly. How then, would Japanese people react to Elder Holmes' efforts?

He tells me it is indeed difficult to work in such a different culture, and he meets a wide variety of reactions. Most people are happy to listen, but shy away from direct questions about religious belief, which sometimes frustrates and confuses his efforts. He encounters the same problems every foreigners meets when speaking to a polite Japanese person - it is almost impossible to tell whether the listener agrees with what you are saying, or disagrees. The language is another difficulty; When St Frances Xavier arrived in Japan hundreds of years ago, he declared that the Japanese language was an invention of the devil designed to prevent the spread of Christianity. Elder Holmes doesn't quite go that far, but he does find it difficult at times, although he has developed a large Japanese vocabulary of religion-related words I have never even heard before. He does end up talking to me about god (hey, he is a missionary after all), and I can attest to the passion with which he preaches when he tells me his own personal stories of how he found god; if he is succesful in converting people in Japan, I would say it is his eyes, not his words, that convinces them.

Vanessa's aunt, the pianist
One day while I am at Vanessa's house playing with Vanessa, her two aunts come and visit. They tell me that one of her aunts is a pianist. I am impressed. Then they tell me that she is a famous pianist, and plays solo at Suntory Hall in Tokyo in front of two thousand people. I am very impressed. Then they tell me that she owns a piano played by Chopin. Wow...

She plays a song for me on the piano (just a regular one, not played by anyone famous), Fur Elise. I don't know a lot about pianos, the playing of pianos or how piano songs are meant to sound, but it is still amazing. I've heard the song played many times, but she added a whole new dimension to it. The song flowed like a river from one note to the next, with some notes heavy and powerful and others light and carefree. It was a beautiful thing to listen to, I can completely understand why people would pay a lot of money to go and hear her play. When she finishes I am stuck with the problem of trying to convey that she really is truly and absolutely spectacular, in a culture where you are expected to compliment even the most basic level of talent. 'You...the...amazing! It's...beautiful!' I garble. I think she gets the idea anyway.

Amy from Washington D.C.
Amy has probably been my most closest friend here in Tokyo. She is a Sophomore at The George Washington University (aka 'GW'). Yes, it was founded by THE George Washington. She lives a few blocks from the White House. Yes, THE White House. Everytime words like 'George Washington' and 'White House' come up, I am completely star struck and feel like I am on the set of an American TV show. Even more so when on Friday over pasta and salad at her house, she and Pat (another American friend, who lives in Japan) have an argument about politics, with both sides mentioning the Bill Of Rights, The Constitution and various amendments. I sit quietly in my chair happily soaking up the American-ness of it all.

Amy has been my buddy for most of my nights out in Tokyo, as she lives practically in the middle of Roppongi. She was born and partly raised here in Tokyo, and as a result knows far more Japanese than I do, but she is also over the gimmickyness of foreigners speaking Japanese so all our conversations are in English. We eat sushi at the park, and watch scrubs together. We go out to the nightclubs, and set new standards for ridiculous dancing. Amy (I know your reading this you blog stalker you), out of all the people to share my adventures with, I'm glad I found you!

What I've Been Doing All This Time Part 1 remains copyright of the author NickRennic, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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What I've Been Doing All This Time remains copyright of the author NickRennic, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

Comment on this entry | Tweet this | Your own free travel blog | More Travellerspoint blogs

Between the many gates are yet more deer standing around, waiting for foolish tourists to buy deer food from the many stands lining the path. The deer know where the food stands are, and they know that when money is exchanged the tourist now has deer food in their hands. The moment the tourist finishes the transaction, they are surrounded by deer which bluntly demand the food that they have just born. Some people try and resist, try to hold the food above their heads and feed them one by one, but it is no use. In the end the deer always win, and most people just toss the food at them and run the other way, glad to escape with their life.

Having walked through the final gate, you suddenly have Todaiji in front of you. As the worlds largest wooden building, its size is hard to capture in words or even pictures. It is big, very very big. Built 1300 years ago, it used to be even bigger but was burnt to the ground several times, each time rebuilt to slightly different specifications. One thing has not changed though - in the centre of the temple sits the worlds largest indoor buddha statue. He is also very big, big enough that he needs the worlds largest wooden building just to keep him out of the rain. Gigantic guardians, gigantic temple, gigantic buddha.

A short walk above Todaiji is another temple, overlooking the city of Nara, where weary travellers like us can look out over the city where Japan began. The last sunset of our journey is complete, and the after one last night in our luxury hotel in Kyoto we say goodbye to the ancient city and are on the shinkansen back home.

With a suitcase full of souvenirs for friends and family in Australia, and a backpack full of famous Kyoto-region foods for my host family, we step off the train in Tokyo station. Here we say goodbye, for the remaining few months of my journey anyway, and just as soon as my dad was here he is gone again. I can honestly say it has been the most interesting week yet in all my travels of Japan, and I am glad my father was there to experience it with me. Some of the experiences were new to me, and some were familiar, but they were all better with the right company. Having spent most of my life being led in one way or another by my parents, it was very strange to suddenly be leading my dad around, but I had a lot of fun doing it, and I hope he had fun too.

The pace of life settles down once more, and the next train I catch leads not to towering skyscrapers or ancient temples, but to the back room of a pub, where I wash dishes for the night.

Father and Son Part 4 remains copyright of the author NickRennic, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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For the first two nights we are staying in a high-class Ryokan, a traditional Japanese style of accommodation running since the days before hotels. Upon arriving, there is a lot of bowing from the kimono-clad hosts. The diminutive women steal our heavy suitcases and insist on hauling them into our room, while we adventure out into the local neighbourhood. When we return that night, we are shown to our room. Tatami mats, sliding doors and bamboo shades. The only piece of furniture in the room is a low-lying table, which you use while sitting on the mat. Here we are served green tea (with traditional lollies!) and asked what time we would like to use the bath. We book it for 9pm, and the woman leaves with a thousand apologies.

The baths are traditional Japanese style, a room made entirely out of wood, where you sit on little seats while showering and then jump into a steaming hot body of water. It is indeed very relaxing, and very atmospheric with all the wooden walls and whatnot. After bath-time we go back to our room, which has undergone a sudden transformation in our absence. The table is gone, and in its place there are two futons, with little paper cranes on the pillows. I manage to move my dads out of the way before he collapses on it.

We booked breakfast for 8am. As westerners, we figure that means that someone will come to our room at 8am with breakfast. But that is not how it works in traditional Japanese culture. Breakfast at 8am means that at 8am you will be putting the food into your mouth. As a result, I am still asleep when the two kimono-clad breakfast pixies come into our room, and they decide it would be best to leave momentarily while I put some pants on. When everyone is fully dressed, the futons are collapsed back into the cupboard and the table resumes its position in the centre of the room. And the breakfast plates start coming...and keep coming...and coming...In the end we have about 20 plates on the table, a veritable banquet of traditional Japanese foods. I am still three-quarters asleep, I wake myself up gradually to the taste of rice and tofu.

Our bamboo shades have also been opened, and we can see all the wonders of the world outside. Our Ryokan is located in Kyoto's Higashiyama district, chock filled with temples, shrines and quaint alleyways. We can see examples of all three while we eat breakfast. If not for the lonely planet sitting on the table, I could easily believe we were in ancient Japan. Every day is a little bit different in the Ryokan - the breakfast is different, the kimonos they wear are different, and even the cranes on our pillows are made differently.

During the day, we leave the Ryokan (with lots of bowing, smiling and 'we'll be waiting for your return' from the hosts) to explore the city. There is plenty within walking distance - the famous Ninenzaka and Sannenzaka, and Shinbashi street, said to be some of the most beautiful alleys and streets in all Asia, are all part of our local neighbourhood. So too are the platforms of Kiyomizu temple, jutting out over a hill looking over all Kyoto from the forest. Here, we also take a side tour into one of Kyoto's strangest attractions - a tunnel inside a buddha statue, where you grope around in pitch blackness while a rope leads you around. Being without the sense of sight for about 5 minutes is a strange feeling indeed, and coming back into the sunshine is, as the pamphlet promises, an enlightening experience.

While walking the lane ways near the temple, we spot our first Geisha. There are only 1000 Geisha and Geisha apprentices in all of Japan, so when a Geisha walks down the street, everyone looks. More so when they are three of them. Always graceful, they were about a hundred layers of clothing, and in the blazing heat of the middle of the day I can't imagine they would stay out for very long. The only one who has more reason to complain is the monk chanting on the street, who wears one hundred and one layers of clothing and stands in full sunlight for hours on end. Only in Kyoto!

We are also within easy walking distance of the central city, where temples give way to shops, shops, and more shops. Even here though, Kyoto keeps a distinct charm. Little canals make their way through the city, and there is a peaceful river nearby, with a bridge built specifically for people to stand and sigh on as they look out over the mountains in the distance.

On any given day, hundreds of people sit on the riverbanks as the sun sets, and in the night they gather under the bridges to watch the buskers play. Here we treat ourselves to a very expensive meal on the outdoor deck of a restaurant on Pontocho, while looking out over the river. All of Kyoto seems to move at a very different tempo to Tokyo - it is slower, more relaxed, more cultural, and more human. The roads are made for ambling rather than rushing, the buses are leisurely compared to Tokyo's speedy trains, and people seem to exist as individuals rather than a human sea.

We are back on the bridge before too long, ready to experience another integral part of Japanese culture - Matsuri! Matsuri translates as 'festival' or 'celebration', and in the lead up to one of Japan's greatest, the Gion Matsuri (which we will not be there to see, dagnabbit), a shrine is to be carried through the city streets to be washed in the waters of the river we have recently been admiring, in a tradition dating back more than a thousand years. Muscle-bound men in headbands and simple cotton robes walk the streets clapping and chanting. The chanting is not just for appearances sake - it is to spur on those who are carrying the shrine on their shoulders, which by the look on their faces is very very heavy. Other men carry flaming logs over their shoulder, and whenever they turn to look around flaming embers fly all over the place. As well as the muscle-bound men, a very creative cast of characters from Shinto priests to kimono-clad Geisha walk the streets, and follow the shrine all the way to the temple. Given its historical significance, the actual running of the parade is rather casual, there are no boundaries or security, and ordinary people (or camera carrying tourists like myself) can mingle with the sweaty shrine-carriers, geisha and priests to their hearts content.

For the last two nights we transfer from our traditional Ryokan to the height of modernity, a very upper class western-style hotel located literally inside Kyoto's station building. It is interesting to compare the two forms of luxury - a room on the upper floor of this towering shiny building costs about the same as a night in the tatami and wood Ryokan. We still have tiny women insisting on carrying our gigantic suitcases, but there are no cranes on our pillows, and the furniture no longer transforms when we step out of the room. Instead of eating breakfast on the floor in our room, we catch an elevator 20 floors down and gorge on a buffet downstairs. The convenience can't be beat, however; after breakfast we walk out the door into the middle of the station building, and from there we have our choice of buses, trains or bullet trains to take us wherever we would like to go.

We quickly check off most of the remaining tourist sites, like the golden pavilion and the thousand and one kannon statues, and find the time to see a few museums and craft shops too. We also spend a fair few hours with map in hand wandering the back-streets, getting a taste of the 'real Kyoto' as we try to figure out where we are and where we are trying to get to. The meals are, as always, another highlight, and by the time we are finished here my dad has tried just about every Japanese cuisine there is.

One night, while both lost and hungry, we end up chancing it on a Sukiyaki restaurant who's menu is far too complicated for me to make any sense of. Upon arriving, my backpacker instincts perk up - something is wrong. The staff seem confused, a little bit unsure of what to do. It's too quiet, the people are too polite and too well dressed. If I was on my own, I would have almost certainly ran back out the way I came, but we are hungry and this place does appear to serve food. We are shown to a private room, and having heated up the sukiyaki pot, a kimono lady cooks and serves it to us piece by piece, chatting politely all the while. I figure out why my backpacker alarms are sounding - this place is far too high class for me to afford on my own, and it doesn't seem like they've ever had a foreigner here before. Luckily my dad is paying for it, my ability to speak Japanese smooths over the apprehension of the hosts, and eventually I just sit back and enjoy the experience of high-class Japanese food. When we leave, I notice the sign which tells me that this shop has been serving up Sukiyaki to the wealthy for over one hundred and fifty years. Ah, Kyoto...

Father and Son Part 3 remains copyright of the author NickRennic, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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We are reunited in Shinjuku station, and as Father and Son we begin our journey around Japan. Our first stop is Hotel Century South Tower. Having never stayed in a hotel expensive enough to have four words in its name, the experience is quite new to me. We walk about 300m from the station, into an air-conditioned lobby on the 20th floor of a shiny glass tower. We receive plenty of smiles, bows and other polite gestures from the well-dressed English speaking hotel staff, and then board another one of those smooth rich-people elevators where you cant tell whether you are moving or standing still. We stop off on the 34th floor, and walk into our room, which has a view every bit as good as Tokyo Tower`s. The view is characterized by tiny red lights on every tall building, which fade in and out randomly to create a very soothing nightscape.

Still, I cant sit there daydreaming for too long! Hunger calls, and I must prowl the streets to find my dad his first authentic Japanese meal. We settle for Yakitori (chicken skewers) in Shinjukus `memory lane`, a tiny maze of narrow streets with a prevailing atmosphere of economic depression. Just a block from the sushi shops and designers handbags of central Shinjuku, it serves as a reminder of `real Japan` beneath all the hype and glamour, where exhausted workers treat themselves to noodles, yakitori and beer on wooden benches.

Keen to see as many faces of Japan as possible in 7 days, my dad musters up the energy to board another train at 10pm. We only have one Saturday night here in Tokyo, and I figure there is only one place to spend it...Roppongi! He isnt much into nightclubs, but walking the length of the street is interesting enough. Here African-American men attempt to pull us into every kind of strip club imaginable, and go to great lengths to explain why going to a sleazy strip joint is an unmissable part of Japan. They are admirable for their perseverance, and annoying for the same reason, but there are a number of strategies one can use to get rid of them. You can duck into the nearest shop (none of them are willing to follow you grocery shopping), or you can just say you have a train to catch (even if you are walking in the opposite direction to the train station). After about an hour of this, we attempt to sleep whilst standing on the train back (its possible, trust me), and eventually go back to get some horizontal sleep in our 100m high hotel room. Four hours into the trip, we are both completely exhausted.

Father and Son Part 1 remains copyright of the author NickRennic, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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Having spent an hour in transit, I end up 120 seconds late for my first shift. Much worse than it sounds, being in a culture of impeccible punctuality. Luckily, this work place is quite possibly the most casual in all of Japan, and they let it slide. My mentor, who is known as "Doctor" for some reason, strolls around the place pointing out the various quirks of the shop. We have 19 different varieties of english beer (including "Harry Porter") served in pints and half-pints, fish and chips, salt outside the doors to ward away demons, and a sign writer with a sense of humour. The toilets are split not into the usual "male" and `female", but instead into "happy" and "lonely". If you want two people in the toilet, you have to pay by the minute. Rather than happy hour there is "unhappy hour", whereby 10 dashes of tabasco sauce are added to every drink after 2am. We also have music - 6000 records, CDs and LPs to be exact (what is an LP anyway?).

I pour my first ever pint of beer. I say "omataseishimashita" (sorry to keep you waiting) to customers. Doctor tells me to help myself to lemonade from the tap and leftover bread, and any beer that is not going to be drunk is up for grabs too. Life is sweet! Of course, my time is spent in the much less glamorous end of the bar, the kitchen. I fulfill the classic stereotype of the poor british lad by peeling a few potatoes for making mash potatoes. In Japan, Fish and chips, bangers and mash and chilli con carne are exotic fare indeed, and the Japanese customers indulge in the atmosphere by communicating with gestures and broken English, no matter how many times we assure them we can speak Japanese.

Midnight comes along, and it is time to leave Britian for Japan once more. I rush down to the train station, smiling at the sight of the businessmen and trendy young people milling around the street in a drunken stupor on a Wednesday night. Little do I know that I am about to join them...I misread the train timetable, the last train left one minute ago. Oh the power that the smallest quantity of time can hold...one minute means the different between sleeping on my futon and milling on the street with the drunks of Shibuya, penniless. I have only enough money to get home, and no more, as I did not plan to be spending a night out in Shibuya! Eventually I return to the pub and explain my situation, to which Doctor immediately tries to give me a wad of cash big enough to stay at any luxury hotel. I end up borrowing 2000 yen ($20), which gives me enough left over to grab something to eat as well. I figure my money should be right now, I have enough for a night at the manga cafe, a train home and breakfast if I need it.

My love affair with manga cafes intensifies this night, as I find quite possibly the best manga cafe in Japan. Ordinary manga cafes have high-speed internet, comfortable leather seats and a range of soft drinks and premium coffees. Here I have all that, a collection of DVDs, flavoured milks, a playstation 2 and soft serve ice cream in genuine ice cream cones! The last thing I want to do here is sleep. But sleep I do, breathing in second-hand smoke (I am in the smoking section for some reason), and listening to very un-sleepy Jazz music played over the speakers. A manga cafe is a little bit like a casino - a strange twilight zone where you forget whether it is day or night amid the constant lighting and buzz of activity around you. I wake up in this twilight zone and check my phone...its 4am, back to sleep. I have an alarm set for 6:50am, enough time for me to help myself to a cappuccino, some orange juice and cornflakes before my time expires at 7. I wake up again and check my phone...just a cute little animation with the word `late!`. Huh? 9am?! But...but....but...my alarm?! I resist the temptation to step on my phone, and rush past the cappuccinos and fruit juice to the front counter.

But it is too late, the damage has been done. The value packs at manga cafes are very cheap, but the overtime is not. The first 6 hours cost $12, but for the last two I am up for $8. Normally, this would be cause for a minor grumble. However, with my scant funds, it is much more problematic. I dump my coins on the table and say `here is $4`. He looks at me. I look at him. `and umm....I dont have any more money actually`. Fortunately, they have a deadbeat form for people like me, where you can write out an IOU and run to the bank and back. After writing down my name, address, phone number (They check by ringing it), I feel they are very trusting to allow me out the door without paying. Then they throw in `oh, and if you dont come back soon, we will report you to the police`. Ah, I see...

I dont carry my main ATM card for security reasons, but I do have a backup emergency cash fund for times like these. I feel very clever! Until I go to enter my PIN number...what?! Ok, it must be...What?! I know my third try will be my last, and spend about twenty minutes pacing back and forth in the cold, early morning rain trying to make the number appear in my head. I try one last time...DAMN! The machine does not eat my card fortunately, but refuses to let me try again. I go back to the train station, sell a few old train tickets I never used back to the station (they will give you refunds for anything here), and head back to the manga cafe, defeated. While walking, I interrogate my phone, the source of all my troubles...turns out it was set to `manner mode`. It decided it would not be very good manners to make an alarm noise, and so it emitted a feeble vibration instead.

I empty the entire contents of my wallet out on the counter, down to the last 1 yen coin. He counts it out...You owe us 380 yen, and you have 320 yen. You are still 60 yen short. 60 yen?! Thats 60 cents! 7 minutes of overtime! Once again however, it is the smallest deficit of time, the smallest deficit of money that makes all the difference, and so I remain on the deadbeat register. I could have walked out a free man if I had just not bought that bag of chips yesterday, or if I had woken up 10 minutes earlier...At least the guy sees the humour in the situation, and tries to stop himself laughing as he follows the company line - `If you do not come here by 6 o clock tommorow, we will report you to the...ok, well, there is a possibility that we might report you to the police`.

I walk home with 3 yen in my pocket, huddling in my jacket as rain patters down around me. I want food, I want a drink, and I want a shower. But more importantly, I want to take my entire life savings with me the next time I go anywhere.

Time and Money remains copyright of the author NickRennic, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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