We looked at each other there and then but I don't seem to remember where and when.

Lost between worlds, lost between cultures, lost between people, religious feelings forcing an endless narrative inside my Farang skull, feeling best when on the road with my greasy old faded jeans, my sweaty T-shirt, my bulky backpack containing my woldly possessions.

Sleeping in third world rock bottom hotels, drinking cheap liqour with the locals, always in searching for a spiritual answer to my quest for peach and understanding.

Shunning away from camara hung tourists but having no problemo with the western alternatives living in self made huts on the beach of an impoverished nation.

Not really bothering to walk across the globe or move around on a rusty old bicycle with my tent and sleeping bag tied to the back wildcamping in the forest, chicken buses with roosters in cages underneath wooden benches while local passegers snort their noses openly, is the mode of transport I prefer instaed of a VIP with built-in toilet, reclining seats and a video screen showing the pirates latest releases.

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