PHNOM PENH:

With my heart in my mouth and lungs on the verge of collapse, I timidly approached the store room of 'Happy Guesthouse', Phnom Penh, to find out whether my beloved machine, along with all my gear and equipment, were still where I left them over a month ago, when I took a bus for Vietnam and got unexpectedly diverted back to England. Hands trembling while, for the thousandth time, cursing my stupidity of leaving all my worldly treasures in an unlocked cupboard somewhere in Cambodia, I slowly opened the door.

Gut-wrenching horror and the sound of two lungs collapsing were all my senses were able to register as I stared in disbelief at a monstrous 12 by 12 foot block of Angkor beer, standing where my bike and belongings had once been.

PHNOM PENH - STUNG TRENG:

Bouyant from my feeling of relief that I still had a bike, and excited to finally get back to riding, I sorted out my Laos visa, fixed a leaking carburettor (somehow) and shot off for a 5 day ride up to Vientiane, the capital of Laos, to meet up with Neil and Meryl.

But, instead of the P&O equivalent I was expecting to find (for some idiotic reason), the vessel in front of me, supposed to carry my 250kg bike, was nothing more than a motorised plank of wood, the sort of thing you might play poo-sticks with in a gutter after a spot of afternoon rain. I immediately turned round to seek local advice on how fully grown adults got across, but was repeatedly told there was no other way.

At a bit of a loss, I once again reluctantly made my way down to the end of he jetty, which happened to be just long enough to make sure that, if my bike was dropped upon loading (a very likely scenario from my point of view), the water would be just at the appropriate depth for it to be irretrievably lost. Confronted with this sickening thought, I turned back again, squeezing my way through the jostling crowds trying to load on their chickens, determined not to risk everything when there HAD to be an alternative.

Once again I inquired off anyone and everyone and once again I was universally pointed back to the jetty. Getting desperate, I even considered gathering up some speed and trying to jump the gap in the bridge - at which point, I decided that perhaps I was getting a little melodramatic.

Sick of my own procrastination, and remembering the surprisingly large amount of people and chickens that reached the other bank without drowning, I made my way down to the jetty for the third time, doing my best to ignore the sniggers of

onlookers, who by this stage were probably quite eager to see my reaction if my bike sunk.

Streaming with a nervous sweat and barking out orders to my nominated team of helpers, we lifted the bike over what felt like a wide

ocean trench between the jetty and 'boat', and balancing it on the front of the craft, got on with an uncomfortable but thankfully very short crossing. Happily, unloading was actually a comparatively simple procedure, and I rode away feeling satisfied that a worrisome hurdle had just been successfully hurdled.

RIDE TO SAVANNAKHET:

The Laos/Cambodia land border crossing is a relatively new enterprise and just as the bridge was unfinished, so was the road on the other side of the river, making it a rather difficult ride on the Cambodian side. The Laos customs officers also seemed a little inexperienced - as they had never seen a carnet before, I had to borrow their stamp and fill in all the appropriate parts myself, before asking the senior official to kindly sign where I had marked.

After a leisurely pho (noodle soup) at a roadside shop, I sped north on the well-kept route 13 to Pakse. I'd originally planned to stay the night here but after the good progress I'd made, I decided to make a big day of it and continue for another 200km up to Savannakhet. All was going well until, about an hour from Pakse, I began to realise that the day's clear skies had definitely taken a turn for the worse, bringing on a 3 hour premature dusk. I continued on, hoping the storm would somehow blow itself out of my way, unfortunately though, I was riding on an unavoidable bearing, headlong (as luck would have it) into the very darkest and most ominous-looking part of the storm. I began to get a little nervous about the frequency and sheer ferocity of the fork lightening, unable to avoid supposing that one of those great trunks of electricity might, perhaps, decide to target me.

Two more minutes up the road, I spotted three Lao bikers at a standstill, gazing at the sweeping haze up ahead. I braked and stared with them. About 100 yards ahead of us was a blanket of water of biblical proportions, undulating back and forth with tre-mendous force and noise. I say water rather than rain because, when it suddenly lurched forwards engulfing us, it didn't feel so much like it was falling on you, but rather that you were suddenly swimming in it. The lightening, now directly overhead, lit up the

dark, blurred landscape like enormous flood-lights, and the instantaneous claps of thunder cracked with such deafening magnitude that they made my heart jump as if I'd just been defibrillated. Right now, I was scared of being obliterated.

Leaving the other three who'd turned back behind me, I wormed up the road in the blinding wash until, not far up, I noticed a group of about 20 bikes parked up beside a little roadside hut. Setting my bike with the rest, I walked to the shelter. Huddled inside the tiny hut were about 20 guys, soaking wet in clinging T-shirts, with their arms wrapped around themselves, grinning at this rather strange new-comer to their little shack. I exchanged smiles and nods with each of my shackmates, an audible 'hello' being

impossible with the deafening racket of hailstones perpetually pounding the tin roof. It took an especially loud crack of thunder to jerk 'TIN ROOF!' into my mind and decide that, looking around me, a structure built on top of tall stilts (as are all structures in lowland Laos) and made entirely out of tin, apart from the wooden floor and stilts, is probably not the best shelter in the worst thunderstorm I've ever seen.

Despite my enthusiastic attempts to simulate, with my hands, a bolt of lightning striking our little hut and the terrible explosions that would ensue (explosions making a more graphic illustration), I received only smiles and nods from my comrades. Retreating from the shelter making death signs while pointing to the roof, I felt fairly sure that I'd done all I could to warn them of the dangers, and besides, the fact that they lived here and probably got these kind of storms all the time meant they probably knew better than me anyway. My conscience thus soothed, I put my faith in my rubber tyres.

After a short while, I decided there was no sense at riding at such a pathetic pace with the relentless hailstones stinging my unprotected face and hands. Another large group of bikes soon emerged in the distance, parked up next to a sizeable stilted house, and I decided to join them.

As I climbed up the bamboo ladder I was immediately greeted with encouraging enthusiasm and welcomed as the latest arrival to the party, spontaneously sparked by half the local community being caught out by the storm. Whilst beaming faces ushered me under the roof, children were splashing around with delight beneath us, collecting fresh hailstones in empty cans and glass bottles. I was immediately offered a handful of these seasonal delicacies which I accepted, somewhat grudgingly, having unfortunately noticed the particularly murky puddle from which they'd just been fished. Despite being

utterly content with munching on my frozen rain, a bottle of lao-lao (rice whisky) was soon thrust into my chest with expectant grins. I accordingly took a swig and, with cheers and applause, was promptly ordered to take nother - these people definitely knew how to spend a rainy day.

With the lao-lao circulating and another bottle taking its place, I pulled out my camera to take a few memorable photos. Clearly new to digital technology, my younger hosts let out sudden gasps of 'waaa?' and 'oooh' as they observed my camera, before immediately starting to pose for photos. What I didn't know at that time, was that older generations of Laosians are generally extremely superstitious and have a deep distrust and fear of modern technology. Unfortunately for me, I happened to capture the great-grandmother of the household in the background of my first picture, triggering a tirade of abuse and spraying saliva, making me feel extremely sheepish and my younger friends fall over each other in hysterics.

Despite probably having been cursed to suffer a lifetime of bad harvests, I still felt sure that, if the storm had not eventually passed on, I would have been invited to stay the night and had a truly unique experience. As I wobbled down the road, trying to remember just how many swigs of lao-lao I'd actually had, I couldn't help regretting the bright blue clear sky.

The remaining 100km to Savannakhet were extremely uncomfortable due to the almost intolerable humidity - it felt as though I'd been dunked, fully clothed, into a vat of hot soup and was now being dried out by a steam powered oven fan. The scenery, however, was spectacular. The recent downpour gave the green paddies, interspersed with frolicking pink buffalo, an almost luminescent quality, while the steaming road, lined with scarlet blossoming trees and enhanced by the ethereal glow of evening sunlight, transported me to the Land of Oz.

RIDE TO VIENTIANE:

Off to an early start the next morning, I made good progress to Vientiane besides one disagreeable setback. Struck with some more striking scenery, I dismounted the bike and strolled to the other side of the road to take a few photographs. Unfortunately, the slightly uneven roadside and the problematically disproportionate length of my side stand meant that, as a particularly heavy truck trundled past, my bike quivered slightly for a

moment, and then unceremoniously toppled down into the roadside ditch. All the while I looked on in horror, feet rooted to the spot, only letting out a small 'oh fuuuu....' as it quivered, and '....ck' as it disappeared down the ditch.

Rushing to its aid, all my heaving to get it up was completely ineffectual, I barely even nudged it. Thankfully, it wasn't long before a passing pick-up spotted my trouble and two guys got out to help. With an enormous effort we righted the bike, whereby I noticed the frustrating damage of a bent brake pedal (just as my bike had sustained in a minor crash in Lahore) which although not the end of the world, meant a noticeably diminished purchase.

After thanking my helpers profusely and apologising for their strained backs, I got on my way again, back brake severely impaired.