One for Eddie: heading home before... heading home.

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After five delightful weeks in Pakistan Pakistan: the much maligned and misjudged home of hospitality. and the longest alcohol abstention of our adult lives thoughts turned to such libations. But where to end the drought? Ali suggested Sri Lanka. Like Pakistan - although for very different reasons - they had also been struggling and continued to do so, majorly. The economic chaos was such that there had been civil unrest and, as a consequence, much needed tourists and their wallets had largely vanished. This wasn't a Sudan, Iran or even a Myanmar situation, there was no safety risk to visitors, and our presence for a month could only aid ailing businesses. In addition, selfishly, the devalued rupee would also make it a budget destination for us; so, we'd be helping each other. Sorted...

With flights booked and time counting down to departure we began to pay more attention to the weather further south: rainy season should have ended; it hadn't and it was lashing it down. The forecast for the next few weeks was grim. Still... There are a number of beachside hangouts we'd yet to hang-in, they have reasonably priced and palatable Lion beer and we were far from curried-out.

What we hadn't been expecting was the nationality of the vast majority of those other few tourists present: Russians. Mostly these were young-ish couples, often with toddlers in-tow and I was presuming - hoping - that this reflected their negative attitude towards their nation's current, shameful, genocidal warmongering. Of course draft-dodging is not always a sign of consientious objection; there again, privalaged wealthy (regime-supporting?) cowards would be unlikely to hole-up in the same budget gaffs as ourselves. And yet, as we were to discover, this demographic has been established for some considerable time with many menus not only in Simhala/Tamil and English, but also in Russian. Notably, before the Russian invasion of their country, Ukranians were - apparently - equally as numerous. Now, of course, for Ukranians a holiday is the last thing on their minds. Much has evidently changed since our last visit a decade ago Sri Lanka: small island, huge heart..

Sure enough the rains persisted, but given our lack of touring plans - we'd criss-crossed the country on that previous lengthy visit - they weren't a massive burden. We found a new haunt on the southern coast mid-way between Hikkadua and Galle and hunkered down in our rickety hut that mostly rebuffed the driving rain and strafing sea-spray. Nevertheless, the lack of local eatery options (we did find one little shack who knocked up delicious traditional Lankan breakfasts) drove us back to Hikkadua and an old gem of a guesthouse, Sunnys, with our balcony literally jutting out above the waves. What I hadn't accounted for was the effects of sticky salt air on the computer which began to complain bitterly. Increasingly frequently at start-up the fan would fail to operate, the machine would freeze, and the Pakistan blog remained stubbornly unwritten.

In desperation we moved away from the sea to a new find set within gardens that, along with a most formidable monitor lizard, boasted a functionable-sized swimming pool. Ali was more than happy. Here a line of bungalows semi-shared a common seating area and we were surrounded by Russians. They were perfectly pleasant, why wouldn't they be, and one set took to joining us for evening beers over which there were loose apologies for their origins. Nevertheless, disappointingly, our lack of a fluently shared language prevented us from receiving an incite into their personal situation or engaging in a thorough discussion on quite what public opinion was/is back in Russia.

We had always intended to return to Laos, to our adoptive "home" Tad Lo and Sipasert where hopefully our dogs would still be in residence, or at least close by. Would we still feel the same way about the village and its people? Would they receive us back as warmly? Indeed, how would we respond to the return of tourists and... normality?

Thus several weeks later we flew into Bangkok where we were picked up by an old friend and colleague, Andy, who drove us down to Chonburi to meet his wife Oi, with whom we spent five days in their generous, attentive and fun company. The computer had, as feared, died a week or so before and yet Andy knew a man... Two days later we picked it up, as good as new: the man thought Pakistani dust more the culprit than Sri Lankan salt. I was merely delighted.

Meanwhile, there has been cricket: real, Test, cricket and England's fortunes had turned polar opposite since the sacking of the overly cautious captain (but supremely gifted bat) Joe Root. Not since Percy Chapman won his first nine Tests more than 90 years ago has a captain made a better start than our shy retiring (not) Ben Stokes. He has the best record after 10 Tests of any England captain since 1930. They chased down targets of 277, 299 and 296 to win their first home series 3:0 against the Black Caps, immediately making them the first team in history to chase over 250 to win three successive Tests and then extended that run to four in the covid-delayed fifth Test against India, where their chase of 378 was an England record and the eighth-highest of all time. An innings defeat to South Africa was a rare mis-step but they responded in kind before a series-clinching nine-wicket win in the third Test. Away, they whitewashed the Pakistanis 3:0, an unprecedented result for Pakistan at home. During this time - since Stokes took charge - England have scored at greater than 4.75 runs per over and have bowled out their opposition in 17 of 18 innings, the single exception being a one run defeat to New Zealand (still an away draw in that series) where the Kiwis scraped home with one wicket remaining. Wow... The seismic shift in approach, termed "Bazball" after the accompanying new Kiwi coach (who was no batting slouch himself) was coined by CricInfo's Andrew Miller. The mindset of fearless attack, attack, attack, even when under pressure is bound to fail occassionally (and has twice in twelve matches), but creates results in what would normally be dull draws and is engrossing to watch, even with those (potentially avoidable, thus far rare, defeats). It has all been a revelation, and with that I'll move on... The Ashes, against uber-combative Australia, may not be so one-sided this cycle? We'll see...

And so after a last splendid Thai meal with the Shinns they dropped us off at the station for the night bus to Ubon from where we caught a quick link to the border, paid our forty dollars for a Laos visa and at a little after lunch the following day we were back once again in the Peoples' Democratic Republic of Laos.

We adore travel, not least discovering new destinations, but there is something to be said for the ease that familiarity imparts. We knew the best way to get to the town of Pakse and the best place to stay once there. Less than two hours later we were billeted, showered and relaxing. The lady owner of Khaemse was elsewhere, but we were known to the guesthouse and one of her young sons merely gave us free rein to select from the cottages currently available.

Later that evening, en route to dinner, we chatted with the predominantly French expats gathered as usual at their go-to drinking hole and indeed confirmed with Sese (one of the drinkers) that his little restaurant was actually open: yes, his wife was running the show... It must be said that here in Laos, regardless of whether your husband is Laos or falang, you, as the wife, will inevitably be performing the lion's share of the work.

Alighting the local bus in Khouset we opted to walk the kilometre to Tad Lo rather than call upon the services of "Smiling Taxi", but hardly into our stride we were passed by Adie, Puen's brother, on a motorbike who pulled-up and whisked Ali away ahead of me. At Sipasert there were hugs all round from Puen and Nok, with baby Bell in tow. Baby Bell's given name being our surname is merely a coincidence. And then as the children returned home from school we were reunited with Khamlar, Pancake and Kita. Phuang was now - seemingly unhappily - back with her parents in Vientiane.

Our old, favoured, wooden room overhanging the grassy bank and fronting the river was currently uninhabitable, having once again been breeched during the rainy season floods. It was, we were assured, being renovated and a new wooden floor laid: we'd be able to relocate within the week. Hmmm, a "Laos week" no doubt, thought I. Additionally, it seemed, our neighbour, and now long-term resident, Mr. Bounchan (Laos by birth but a Canadian expat for several decades) had commandeered "our" (admittedly only previously loaned) fridge.

Our mild disgruntledness at the loss of a fridge immediately dissipated when little Namphun appeared and, tearing up to us, leapt into our arms, only to be closely followed by the equally enthusiastic sisters Mui and Mi.

Three days in and still there was no sign of "our" dogs. Apparently all had given up on their vigil outside our room, and then ceased to return periodically, several weeks after our departure. Ali was crestfallen.

And then the next morning, miraculously relocated to our old room, Lulu bounded onto the balcony and was back. Predictably she appeared to be pregnant. A day later a deliriously happy and rather healthy looking Pak Dam raced up to us on the street, only then to vanish once more. Lola appeared and chose to alternate between us and wherever she'd made her new home. But still Pak Dam stayed away; he'd obviously not totally forgiven us for abandoning him.

A few days later, in the middle of the night, I was woken by a frenzied scratching at the door. Even in my disorientated state this attempted invasion was only too familiar. On opening the door in he crashed and, having licked us all over, promptly curled up on the door mat and fell asleep.

The next few weeks saw us pup-sitting for Pukey's latest litter and, thankfully, there were no deaths on our watch, this time; nevertheless, four pups did later perish to a mystery illness that was, horrifically, to come back and traumatise us personally.

As time passed we were becoming ever more involved in the day-to-day running of Sipasert. Always having baked our own I began to make stove-top breads for the restaurant, both a great improvement and monetary saving on the poor offerings available locally; before I added several falang-pleasers to the menu: garlic bread, spicey salt-roasted peanuts and garlic slithers, caramelised sugar-coated peanuts with a hint of chilli and shakshuka were immediately popular. Meanwhile Ali performed a deep clean of the kitchen and all guest rooms, was involved in, nay dictated, post-guest room cleaning and overhauled laundary practices. Largely this meant she performed both. We aided Somphone in laying the foundations for a massive viewing platform up on the mountain in preparation for his future jungle treks and re-joined Poh of Palomei guesthouse in organising (and performing) litter clearance and recycling from our locale in the village. English lessons were, thankfully given our other commitments, sporadic: Phuang had gone; Khamlar and Pancake, now teenagers, both had preferable agendas for their free time, although Puen (mum) typically gave them little choice; which left our eldest, ever keen Kita, to keep us motivated. Later in the year he was awarded a certificate from school for being the most accomplished student in his year.

Since our return we'd only ever paid a token rent, but matriarch grandma (possibly encouraged by Mr. Bounchan who was astounded at the extent of our free labour) suddenly announced that - beers aside (they're not crazy) - they would no longer accept money from us. Indeed donations of meat continued to be thrust upon us. Our slow-roasted paprika- and herb-rubbed and root vegetable-stuffed whole duck was adored, equally our sticky Korean barbequed ribs, although our western variant of pork belly Tom Khem was less of a wow.

Of course Ali had always - during the Covid lock-down - been the first responder for any major medical incident in the village, but... Now we were armed with a far more extensive medical kit and, on the back of fliers we'd placed in all the local guesthouses and restaurants (plus others in influential falang haunts in the nearest city of Pakse) asking for departees' superfluous medical supplies - people coming to visit would drop off parcels collected at various partaking premises - we were inundated with all manner of medical enquiries. Really, not a day went by without a house call or call-out. Somehow the British Embassy got wind of Ali's efforts and they featured her on the front page of their web site to encourage donations of medicines, bandages and dressings. Shortly thereafter two French NGOs additionally offered their aid.

There've been burns (some terrible), gout, minor and far more serious infected wounds, an outbreak of scabies, sprains, breaks, unexplained fevers, suspected malaria and dengue cases, and all manner of lesser maladies. Fortunately we have excellent triage support from extremely well qualified doctors in both Australia and the UK; nevertheless, it has been busy and, at times, majorly stressful.

As I type this back in England - yes, we're nowhere near there yet - Tad Lo is currently, as related to us by a British worker for another French NGO based in Salavan, dengue central and two children have (dare I say it, possibly preventibly) died. Worryingly, local doctors appear unable to differentiate this untreatable virus (just drink, drink, drink) from parasitic (non-viral) malaria as highlighted by Puen and Kita who rang us today stating that they both have malaria. They have classic - mild - dengue, certainly not malarial, symptoms. There again, as they have not been given anti-malarial drugs, perhaps the doctors can differentiate and yet don't have a name for dengue? Either way it doesn't fill you with confidence. These days there are rapid (linear) antigen-based tests (much akin to those everyone became so familiar with for Covid) for malaria and, even rurally, they may have access to these. But why then when such a test comes back negative are you still calling the illness malaria? The old "gold standard" test for malaria was a simple thin blood smear that was stained and examined microscopically for the presence of the parasite within the red blood cells. I think I'll be adding a microscope to my NGO-donations wish list.

Previously a senior nurse in the U.K. Ali was a dab hand at human injections (with a lapsed registration these are certainly not something she'd perform now), but - having tried it once - she baulks at injecting street dogs (some are stoic, others howl pitifully - none have yet snapped). Hence I've inherited the role as Ivermectin jabber for those beasts suffering from the miserable scourge that is mange, of which there are numerous.

Anyway, November saw the on-set of high season, tourist numbers soared and with them our work load.

One afternoon thirteen year old Pancake had been out on a moped with baby Bell sat on her lap (yes... you don't have to tell us) when she collided with a cow, sending them flying. We weren't about, although reportedly both were fine bar minor abrasions. Regardless, a great posse headed immediately to the hospital in Pakse for checks. This left cook Moo, Ali and I to run the entire guesthouse for two hectic days. Hell, it all went rather well and, thankfully, both Bell and Pancake received clean bills of health.

We spent Christmas working with Somphone and Duc on the farm. Western New Year was mercifully sedate, although this was only a respite before a whole series of parties: Vietnamese New Year (Tet),January 22nd; Lunar New Year (Chinese), February 10th; Women's Day, March 8th, and that's before the really big one of Laos New Year, Pi Mai, whose celebrations extend for weeks either side of the official dates (April 14-16th).

However, we were due to miss them all. Having a wedding to attend in Rajasthan, India, we planned a lengthy visit. Visas were organised (the no Brits policy having been rescinded in late 2022) and flights booked for January 10th without complication. And then a strange thing happened. On the back of increasing domestic unrest, with a bizarre, seemingly overnight, flip of policy, China announced that it's citizens would be free to leave the country as they wished. Having been confined for nigh on three years a flood of holidaymakers was predicted. Worryingly for the rest of the world this just happened to coincide with a large up-tick in Chinese Covid cases, most thought due to a new strain. On the back of this development, just a week before our departure to Bangkok from where we'd fly to to India, they, India, announced that all entrants from a number of Asian countries (including Thailand) must have a PCR test 72 hours prior to boarding a flight. Ours was at 2 a.m on a Tuesday, all testing centres were now closed at weekends, and that, combined with travel logistics, simply meant we couldn't be tested, receive the results, enter them onto the requisite on-line data bases, obtain print-outs of such documents and make our departures. For the first time in thirty three years we had to cancel flights. Horribly - yes, we're not there yet either - it would see the start of a pattern.

One Sunday evening (no teaching... heaven...) we were chilling on the twilit balcony with the assembled dogs and a post-dinner beer when we received a phone call. Could we (I) come to Mama Paps? She had a problem guest whom all concerned thought I was best to deal with...? It materialised that the guest, a huge Czech man of dubious mental stability, with a penchant for excessive drinking, had not paid his bill for days and was simply refusing to leave. Mama very much wanted him gone tomorrow; he was not good for business, sod the unpaid bill. Now... The Laos do not like confrontations, not least when it involves a foreigner, and not on your bloody life when that foreigner is of hulk-like dimensions, unbalanced and constantly raving drunk. What to do? Call Andy, evidently.

Sure enough there he sat street-side in his illuminated solitude, bare barrel-chested, arms-folded, rocking and rambling to himself, fronting a bench bearing a great expanse of empty bottles, when I enquired if I might join him... for a beverage? I was buying. Fortunately drunks are usually able to find common ground and - showing willing - after sharing half a dozen more beers we were unified in our appreciation of Zep I over IV, Joplin over King, Hendrix over Clapton, Sumatra over Bali and... experience over stasis... Yes, he mused, I really do need to be moving on. When I returned at 8 a.m. the following morning he was still present, but (seemingly) packed and (possibly) ready to leave. An hour later, obviously heartily sick of my ingratiating returning presence, yet turning down my offer of a "Smiling taxi", he finally shuffled disgruntledly away, never to be seen again.

Mathilde, being Mathilde, was amidst another project; she'd had the tired - closed since the on-set of Covid - small guesthouse and restaurant of Fandee tastefully renovated and re-opened as Samake. Now the bijoux restaurant serves only ethnic Laos food (beautifully cooked by the lovely Duey), whilst the premises also provide an outlet for members of her "grandmas' school" to sell their wares. She's a good egg.

Before you knew it Tet was upon us and - predictably - at an ungodly hour we were summoned: Adie was hosting a soiree and we were required to aid in butchering a deer, shot the previous day by an unnamed sniper. We had been to Adie's before, for a rather drunken birthday party for his, then, two-year-old Mario Covid-free Laos. However, we'd never been out back and what confronted us was rather a shock: two massive - hopefully long since retired - concrete cock-fighting pits. To the side Kita and an unknown guy (the marksman?) were busy dousing said deer with scolding water before attempting to scrape off its fur with... spoons. Being largely unsuccessful it was decided to light a firepit over which the beast could be suspended, thereby scorching the fur for easier removal. All was proceeding smoothly amidst the the 9 a.m. vodka shots (really?), that was until the beast fell into the fire and rapidly began to bloat. Errr, were we going to gut the beast at some point? Preferably before the internal organs ruptured. Painfully retrieved, denuded of its stubble and, mercifully, finally gutted (the full unwashed entrails were packed away for later consumption) the carcass was presented to Puen and ourselves to butcher. This was performed with... What else? Eighteen inch long machetes. Finesse isn't a concept close to the Laos' heart. Nevertheless, the un-hung briefly maranaded barbequed steak was - surprisingly - beautifully tender and the unusual incarnation of a Carnation milk-incorporating stir-fry rather good as well.

Now, post-Covid restrictions, the Laos tourist visa situation has returned to type: on entry you are given 30 days and this period may be extended twice within-country. So, you may stay for 90 days before needing to exit and - if you wish - return immediately to begin the process anew. Mid-January and a "visa run" was required, this - given our southern location - is most easily (and cheaply, no entry visa required) performed by visiting Thailand, but bear in mind that the Thais only allow you to enter, overland, twice in a calendar year, six if you fly in.

Lulu had pupped although - infuriatingly having once again found a human-inaccessible conduit under the main house of Sipasert (see Births, deaths, a marriage and a sad parting, but definitely not goodbye (for long).) - we were clueless as to the numbers or their condition. She emerged regularly for feeds and we provisioned water at her subterranean entrance, but she appeared to be producing very little milk. Equally worryingly we were unable to hear any signs of life emanating from beneath the floor. Prior to departure, a brief jaunt of under a week, we'd already largely given up on any survivors. Mr. Bounchan would continue to feed her in our absence, but we held out little hope of seeing any pups on our return.

With new visas and rucksacks full of goodies unavailable in Laos we arrived back, only to find a roughly constructed pen on our balcony. Puen emerged bearing a pup and a baby's feeding bottle. Evidently Lulu had managed to rear one who had waddled out several days before, but for all her offering and all his suckling she really didn't appear to have much milk to offer. Hence they'd been subsidising him with a bottle, not too healthily of thinned, sweetened tinned milk. Unusually his birth hadn't coincided with any other litters (although Pepsi was now heavily pregnant) and a surrogate mother was unavailable, not that Lulu was likely to tolerate such an imposition. Still, the little fellow appeared robust enough and, even for one so young, was in possession of the most brilliantly green eyes. Almost immediately Ali named him Solo. Would he survive? We'd try our damndest.

However, in our brief absence, Pak Dam had disappeared once again and remained unseen by anyone for days. As we searched further afield and voiced our concerns the general consensus was that as he was now so healthy and meaty maybe he'd been stolen to eat. Stolen to eat? To eat! I thought Ali was going to be sick. We were concerned about a hit-and-run or other injury, the possibility of him being spit-roasted or ending up as canine chops or doggy burgers hadn't entered our heads. Christ... Where was he?

Having scared the bejesus out of us back he sauntered, although he was most unimpressed with the new inhabitant on the balcony (another male... with two testicles... bastard) whom he duly treated with contempt. Yet thrive Solo did.

At what we presumed was about three-four weeks we began to wean him with watery mashed rice and tiny tid-bits of banana, although he'd also suckle at any given opportunity. He was growing at a rate of knots. Lulu, bless her, took to gorging herself on mystery food sources outside of our provided meals only to regurgitate the unsuitable foodstuffs for her boy. Fish heads, really? She looked most perturbed as we'd wash away the grisly piles. So thwarted she switched to bringing him bones that were only marginally smaller than he. Maybe it had something to do with him being the only pup she'd managed to save, but we have never witnessed such relentless, selfless devotion by a bitch to her pup. She really is a lovely girl.

Poh enquired if we might help? He planned to utilise a different land-fill for non-recyclable litter disposal, at a more remote site. As the dumped predominantly non-recylable plastics are burned he had decided that the current site and its grim smoke was too close to housing. Consequently we would no longer be able to carry the bags to the dump by foot; and yet he'd found a solution in the form of a beat-up old motorcycle with side cart that we might use for purpose. However, its acquisition required some funds. Thus we proposed a two-sided exchange: yes, we'd buy the jalopy if, in return, he'd sponsor our application for year-long visas down the line - a process with an equivalent outlay if performed through a professional service. Deal done.

I should add that our recycling of plastic bottles, glass and metals, with the aid of the school bus for drop-offs in Pakse or Laongam, were paying for themselves: each - ready sorted and bagged - commodity commanding its own price per kilo that were, for our hefty loads, exceeding petrol costs. The heavy-duty plastic bags for carriage we used over and over. Hell, returning Sommersby bottles (a popular drink with the local youth) in their original boxes was positively lucrative. Tin cans we give to needy local families as there's a local pick-up for those, that pays.

At the end of February we - personally - had a guest, in the delightful form of eighteen year old Ailsa. The daughter of close friends in Scotland we've known her since she was a mere bump in mum Polls' tum. Backpacking around South East Asian pre-university, we were delighted and honoured that she could make time to pop in for a visit. The local children, all - still - spell-bound by Disney's Frozen, thought her, complete with flowing golden locks, magical. And magical she was with them too.

Quite why Pi Mai developments had started so early was unclear, but the river and environs were rapidly filling with a small ramshackle village of huts, gazebos and bamboo bridges. Somphone and I weren't building any this year; he (and Duc) were too busy entertaining an endless stream of wowed guests at his homestay in the Katu village of Ban Kok Phoung Tai. Our fliers and in-person recommendations may have prompted some initial visits, but word-of-mouth had it that theirs was a far more authentic and rewarding experience than a stay at the renowned, Lonely Planet-listed, long-running, "Captain Hooks" who, amusingly, is Somphone's (somewhat aloof) cousin. Nevertheless, Puen announced that Sipasert would have a shop/bar on the little island mid-stream and 24 in-river gazebos... Oh, and would we consider running them for her?

This was all fine, but what was starting to grate - really grate - was a temporary premises, up on the opposite bank, that was already operating as a beer dispenser, whose presence was accompanied by ear-bleedingly loud Laos trance "music". Not only was it mind-numbingly deafening, but they were initiating the cacophony at before 7 a.m. Obviously there were no patrons at this hour, only poor buggers facing who were trying to sleep. So why? Oh, and their clients were... when they turned up... uniformly (ununiformed) school children. Some (non school attendees - hell, their teacher might not have shown-up for work which is not an uncommon occurrence) might arrive early morning, others, the majority, post-school. Few drinkers were aged above fifteen, most were markedly younger. Ali frowned. Incredibly there is no actual legal drinking age in Laos, although - small mercies - at least all start later than child smokers in ethnic villages.

This was really harming business at Sipasert whose guests expect only the hum of insects and soothing cadence of the Tad Hang falls. People were checking out after a single night, quite justifiably unprepared to tolerate the bedlam. As stated previously... the Laos hate confrontation. Puen merely shrugged resignedly; not so Ali. And so began the periodic traipse across the bamboo bridge to ask politely, but firmly, for the volume to be reduced. I was forbidden from performing the act as I couldn't be relied on to do so without expletives and threats of violence. That said, I and my dog pack, did clear the vicinity when teenagers lingered, noisily, long into the night. With the support of senior locals we did, finally, manage to restrict the noise to sensible hours and, largely, a bearable volume, but... We're becoming a little wary of quite how Tad Lo sees its future development; several weeks of mayhem at Pi Mai is one thing, months of discord and we certainly won't be part of it.

And on that cheery note, an aside. A crazy aside. The local Laos were most surprised at the afore mentioned Czech gentleman's behaviour. Incredibly they seriously believed that foreigners were immune to such mental instabilities; yes, they have the occasional very peculiar-behaving individual, but falang similarly? Surely not. Indeed there is currently one particularly disturbed and potentially very dangerous homeless young man - well known to the police - at large who has taken to threatening people, and sometimes robbing them, at knife-point. His latest escapades have included torching houses and it is only a matter of time before this ends very badly indeed. And here's the point: there's no doubt as to his guilt in these matters but you can only jail someone if they - they, not the state - can afford to sustain (feed) themselves during their incarceration. You cannot send someone to prison if they (or their families, sometimes it falls to the victims) can't pay for it. Wow... Taxes (no taxes here, only bribes) really are good for some things. Hmmm, litter collection would also be nice. And a functional national health service...? Haha, gallows humour that from a Brit these days.

Pi Mai was mobbed; it was sweltering and we were run ragged. Still, money was made, not least by some of those in the village who needed it most; and, incredibly, with the help of our stocky little friend (who has finally stopped kissing me every time we meet), the detritus left in its wake was drastically reduced compared to the year before. Said pal is a simple gentle soul, invariably attired in green fatigues and matching military cap, and never without a great beam on his face, who Poh had employed to periodically trawl the walkways armed with a megaphone repeating no littering mantras. Post-work he'd always call in on us to brew him a coffee. Not just any coffee mind; it had to be Somphone's personally grown red robusta beans (lovingly roasted by Duc), ground right there and then. Equally, you had to remind him, daily, that he shouldn't wander off into the night with the coffee pot or mug.

Eventually it was over, constructions were dismantled, transient vendors left, the litter was cleared and peace restored. Puen hadn't sold any of her cases of Laos stout (like my uninspired idea of whiskey cocktails they didn't cater to the alcopop clientele who were massed in our environ) and these were duly presented to us as thanks for our aid. Not satisfied with that, a day later, she insisted on an additional gift of six crates of Beerlao. Grandma chucked in several kilos of wonderful pork loin and a couple of chickens, obviously not butchered. For us the party continued... at a respectful volume.

I've forgotten where and when such new culinary delights were presented but this visit had thrown up lizard (scales and all), cows udder (complete with teats) and goats testicles (these were actually a mousy heaven).

Pepsi had also pupped, in a sensible location, and her six all appeared to be doing well. We introduced Solo to them and - mostly - he played nicely. And then, as they matured, both mothers would lead all to the river to splash and chase together in the shallows. Sometimes even Pak Dam and Lola would join in. It was all too perfect.

Overnight, with no real sign of illness, one of the young pups died. Soon after another appeared lethargic and had taken to lying under the house alone. The weather was consistently over 40C and this didn't seem like the worst plan to us either. It also died. One was given to a neighbour and it was planned that the remaining three: Messi (Khamlar adores the Argentinian), Spot (the reason was obvious) and Wilson would all remain as Sipasert dogs.

Cute little Messi, the smallest of the litter, suddenly appeared sick; there were signs of some frothy vomit. He passed away that day. They were dropping like flies and now our Solo, older and stronger, had also stopped eating and was seeking solitude, whilst Spot and Wilson were listless. Rapid research suggested Parvo virus, a horribly virulent and extremely contagious disease that few young survive. Lulu had disappeared, almost as if she didn't want to witness the inevitable. We managed to commandeer the school bus, just as Solo emitted a pool of blood, and rushed all three to the vet in Salavan.

Placing Solo in a comfy padded box he snuggled down as Ali gently stroked him and then, with one last deep sigh-like breath, he appeared to simply let go; he didn't even make the journey out of the village. We sat in the back of the truck, comforting the other two, with tear-filled eyes. Arriving at the vets we suggested putting the now vomiting Spot and Wilson to sleep, surely it would be the kindest thing to do? He, a Buddhist, declined saying that he couldn't possibly kill them. He confirmed parvo virus yet stated he had brought other similarly infected dogs back from the brink of death before. Leave them with him and he'd do his best. It would cost two hundred thousand kip (ten pounds). Not convinced that he wouldn't simply leave them to their karmic fates we gave double and, amidst many wais, pleaded that he really would try to save them. Then we handed over Solo. Bereft and without much hope it was a despondent ride home.

Pups were dying, why hadn't we gone to the vets sooner? A very valid question and yet many pups, maybe half, don't live to see three months and you can't take responsibility for all of these dozens of semi-wild dogs. Solo was "ours" and we should have been more aware of what was obviously an epidemic unfolding. There again we couldn't have prevented what was to transpire; he wasn't a house dog and parvo virus can live for years in soil, where he was born; indeed Tad Lo, particularly now, must be a veritable incubator for the disease and it is mere chance if a pup avoids it. Of course in the west we vaccinate our pups against a core number of prevalent virulent diseases, including parvo. That said, vaccinations, being vaccinations, take time to be effective and require your pup to be isolated and sheltered from exposure whilst they acquire that immunity. That is not happening here. Vaccines are also given within certain age restrictions and pups die here before they'd even be considered old enough to initiate them. With the first death on our doorstep we might have pre-empted the potential rapid declines and got them all on drips (the only treatment, there is no curative medicine); such an approach - might - have saved Solo; obviously with the onset of symptoms it is already too late for a vaccine. Regardless, we now know that vaccinations are available and any future young charge of ours will be vaccinated. Given their lifestyles this is still far from full-proof, but at least it provides an elevated chance of surviving those initial few months. Mature dogs do get sick with parvo, but rarely is it life threatening.

Like everything here, until you've lived it you haven't lived it; however galling you simply can't impose your western mentality or, particularly, sentimentality. Life is more unpredictable, intractable, fragile... transient. It is cheaper. In many ways it is purer and more beautiful, but it is far more brutal. In Tad Lo more mothers have lost a baby in childbirth or infancy than those who haven't. It won't always be this way, things are changing and developing at a pace. And yet, still, their beliefs in Buddhism or Animism serve to console certain tragedies that we've largely negated.

The next morning, expecting the worst, we contacted the vets. Miraculously both, on drips, were still alive, just. Days passed and still they hung on. A week later Spot was taking a little food, Wilson was more active and it appeared that both might survive. Unhappily these events were unfolding just as we were due to depart: another three months had elapsed and, with only a single overland visit to Thailand still possible in 2023, we'd decided to head back to Britain. Our parents were clamouring for a visit and, as yet unkown to us, there were health issues on the horizon.

Puen, Somphone and Poh all have plans for us upon our promised return, this time with long term visas in place. Each is offering land or housing for us to develop and wanting us to partake in joint projects. At least we aren't short on options; as always, time will tell.

Direct flights from Thailand to the UK were extortionate and so we, much to our parents chagrin, decided to make use of our existing (unused) Indian visas. Flights from India several months hence were a positive bargain, plus we'd finally get to see our friends in Rajasthan after two aborted attempts. Chinu's wedding card had been sitting in Ali's pack for almost a year. In addition we could squeeze in a months trekking in previously little visited Uttarakhand before the onset of the rains.

Whether it is the effect of almost three years of Covid and the dearth of foreign visitors or merely the passage of three random years, India has changed, in some surreal and unexpected ways.

The tourist booking office at New Delhi station has closed; really, I promise you, it has closed, thereby finally falling into line with the scamsters assertions of decades (see "Scams", "rip-offs" and "robberies"). Never fear though because, although reduced to a single counter, it has only moved several hundred yards down the road to the IRCA Tourist Building. Regardless, India's wondrous rail system isn't what it once was; it simply can no longer handle the number of wannabe travellers and trains are booked-out weeks or months in advance, whilst trying to navigate the on-line booking site and its associated App. is a nightmare.

Which brings up another distraction... Given its spiders web-like sprawl to the furthest outposts and everywhere in between (the inaccessible mountainous States aside), together with the huge geographic expanse of India itself, I'd have said that maybe it was the largest rail network in the world. Not so, it ranks third. That mantle goes to the U.S.A. although, the east coast commuter belt aside, no one rides them... It's all freight. So, what country carries the most passengers in a year? By an incredibly huge margin it is... not China, nor India, but... Japan with a monumental 24.6 billion passengers a year. India lies a distant second on 8.4, with third-placed China carrying a mere 3.7 billion. Commuters... God love those Japanese salarymen (and women) and (truly) we do miss riding the magnificent Yamanoti line Japan: the expats' utopia.

Anyway, far stranger than the understandable railway meltdown is the situation at the vast public bus stations. This we discovered in Delhi at the northern-headed depot of Anand Vihar: they no longer have ticket offices. Anand has around a hundred bus stands and yet you are unable to buy a ticket in advance at the station: you must do so on-line (for a private company); either that or you turn up on spec and hope for the best. On-line booking is no friendlier than that for the railways and government buses are cheaper so we, like the other impoverished, merely showed up and waited.

Drastically changing tack: wine shops. Yes, we know they have never sold wine, but now, spirits aside, they only sell super strong 8 percent beers. You want a traditional 5 percent Kingfisher, the quintessential Indian beer, then you must go to a bar where you'll be charged 2-3 times maximum retail price (MRP, clearly marked on the bottle), well out of most peoples' (and our) means. At a bar this overcharging is legal and the wealthy appear content to pay it. Yet it's no great wonder that India has an ever emerging problem with alcoholism. Personally I had a run-in with Paraghanj's two remaining such establishments who initially charged me a (tolerable, although illegal) marginal elevation on the MRP (maybe I shouldn't have mentioned the illegality of their price hike? "There is a 25,000Rps fine for non-compliance" I helpfully informed) before attempting an even steeper tariff on my return an hour later (thwarted). Then - gobsmackingly, you might almost think that they'd taken a dislike to me - they requested double the price the following day. Much like their equivalents in dastardly Jaipur they are thieving dacoits and we healthily went alcohol-free for the remainder of our time in the Capital. "Government wine shops" are a mafiosi-run monopoly and the sooner a free market is introduced the better for all.

Then, on a somewhat happier note: dogs. Indian dogs are notoriously scabby starving inbred wild beasts that should be approached with extreme caution; and, at night, with a large weighty stick. Now, not so. We witnessed an array of healthy pooches of distinct pedigrees who were actually being led by a lead. Hell, evidently, many are now kept as pets. And those feral canines surviving on their wits? These are now, predominantly, lazy contented creatures, the majority of which (certainly in Delhi and Uttarakhand) are overweight. Truly, the uncared for dogs in these destinations are fatter than their pampered cousins in negligently indulgent UK, USA or Japan. How can this be? For most it has been three years of struggle and strife here in India and yet feral beasts are - patently - gorging themselves on discarded food. Of course whilst they are now - generally - perfectly placid there is still the very real risk of rabies which makes the prior, once automatic, arrangement of instinctive fear and avoidance less easy to adhere to...

Delhi was scorching, everyday was in the mid-forties; we'd left super hot Laos and placed ourselves in a cauldron.

The now fully operational and far reaching Delhi Metro is excellent. Cheap, well organised and spotless it is leagues ahead of Islamabad's that, whilst so much older, is still in construction and fails to stop at anywhere you might actually want to go. The Hindustanis are going to love that slight on their neighbour.

Ahhh..., and there's another thing... The Pakistanis that we met were downcast at the hostile sentiments that still exist with their closest (culturally and historically) neighbour. They really do want the animosity and distrust gone, for far better relations to be established. By contrast, the majority of Indians feel the polar opposite: that their muslim brothers want to swamp their country with Islam and are not to be trusted. Maybe there's a parallel here with Israel? Both are the seats of their respective religions and both are paranoid that those around them want their beliefs eradicated. Myanmar's Rohingya and tribal groups to the west of China have far more cause to fear religious cleansing.

We headed north to the hills. Climbing on endless switchbacks the smoggy air was replaced by fragrant fir and pine, the sun beat with less violence and a welcoming breeze replaced the blast furnace. This was heaven, even if I had endured sitting on an inverted bucket in the bus's aisle for the last six hours.

Having previously visited only those tourist-frequented haunts of Rishikesh and Haridwar Julley Ladakh this time we'd headed - initially - to Uttarakhand's most remote eastern fringe that abuts the Nepali border. Our first stop was the delightful little town of Almora that spills down a hillside at a gorgeously temperate elevation of 1,600m. Essentially it is a hillstation, although it isn't known as such - probably as it was established well before the Raj came a traipsing. Here our guesthouse owner at cosy Bansal's was beyond delighted when we sauntered (Ali) / hobbled (me... six hours on a bucket...) out of the night to his door: we were the first white tourists he'd seen in three years; and... wow... we were actually English (it's the clarity of accent more than the nationality per-se that endears).

From Almora's ridge there are mountain views on a clear day, but even when amidst the low cloud it is totally charming. The winding narrow streets, punctuated with ancient trees many of which are now integral components of walls, snake along the contours and are linked by stepped alleys. To the top of town is the old sector and here the aged houses boast ornately carved wooden balconies and shutters painted in brilliant block colours. The people are gentle and engaging, the dogs huge shaggy-coated loves, the wine shop honest, and there are several excellent eateries, not least the wonderful vegetarian Sumaglam whose mushroom karahis were to die for.

Wander out of town and you are immediately in sub-tropical forest dominated by Chir Pine that carpet the lanes with golden needles. It is a gentle 20km return hike up to Kasar Devi temple which at 2100m offers beautiful views along the valley below. This is supposedly, along with Machu Pichu and Stonehenge, one of the top three sites in the world for mega geomagnetic fields that emit cosmic energy (man). We didn't even get a tingle, at least not until our return and a couple of strong rum and cokes.

Another local bus ride of eight hours or so took us to... Pithoragarh. Lonely Planet (admittedly the 2011 edition) describes it thus: "Spread across the hillsides above a scenic valley that has been dubbed 'Little Kashmir'.... The people are exceptionally friendly..." It and they were anything but; Christ, even the dogs had reverted to mean dangerous beasts. We caught the first bus out the following day.

What awaited us twelve hours, a bus and a jeep, further up the road was the delightful Munsyari. Now this is a destination worthy of some hard travelling; the expansive Himalayan panorama from the 2300m perch is spectacular and with a little reconnaissance you can lounge on your budget-priced balcony with a sublime masala chai to hand and just wonder at the majesty that looms before.

We had plans to do the Pindari glacier trek from our current base, but first a not insubstantial acclimatiser was called for: an unescorted single day round-trip up to the Kaliya Top view point at 4,000m. We weren't sure how long it would take so, prudently armed with a kilo of trail mix, five litres of water and emergency wet-weather gear, we caught the pre-dawn bus out of town to the trail's head. Although not extreme, a 1500m-plus ascent in a few hours always burns the legs and strains the lungs. Nevertheless we were up by 8.30 a.m. which was fortunate as the clouds came rolling in shortly thereafter. And what a shame it would have been to have arrived later because the 360 degree vista was clear and... stunning. You're not as close to the peaks as you are in Pakistan's Hunza valley, but the number of mountains viewable from this single - easily accessible - point is incredible. Nanda Devi, India's highest peak at 7816m, was glimpsed but was the first to become enshrouded and stubbornly refused to emerge for the camera. Arriving back in Mansyari at a little after 2 p.m. after 16km of walking - happily a car stopped unbidden on our return and offered a lift into town (maybe the tenth to pass us that's more points to Pakistan) thereby saving an extra 4km - the chai stall was most surprised to witness our return: "You've been to Kaliya? What, all the way up?"

And then we received bad news: back in England Ali's mum had collapsed, had been rushed to hospital and a potentially very serious heart complaint diagnosed. Bless her, she's 88 and so we needed to get home prompto. Cue a rapid (two day, non-stop) retreat back to Delhi, the cancelling (doh... twice in thirty three years) of our planned flights and booking of others for the following day. I'm sure our insurers were amazed that we opted for the cheapest available 320 pound flights with Ethiopian Airways rather than Ethiad's at 900 squids, but we did get a rather pleasant brief stop-over in Addis on-route and, as our first claim in... thirty three years... you'd think they might remember that if we ever need to claim again. Incredibly, even amidst the shortage of beds in the NHS, Ali convinced the consultant (and then the real boss, the ward sister) to keep her mum admitted until we arrived: if she was well enough we'd pick her up on our way from the airport.

Thus we were "home" and three weeks later, following several set-backs and still in need of some fine tuning, but improving daily, on the 24th of June, June (for that is her name) clocked-up 89. And a fine couple of days surrounded by family she's had. She is not impressed with the speed with which we fill her brown (bottles and tins) recycling bin, but is most appreciative of my cooking... and her daughter's loving care.

I will head down to my parents in a week or so and hopefully Ali and the convalescing June will join us, after some more tests, shortly thereafter.

Of course quite when we'll get to head back to our other home, maybe via Turkey and Georgia, only time will tell.



Footnote:

Why the title "One for Eddie..."? Well... The last nine months haven't included any new destinations and I was little inclined to bother writing anything. However, Eddie (a man of a certain maturity - a friend of my parents) is now my only surviving fan (David my other older gentleman groupie, a friend of June's, having sadly passed) and as he is apparently brewing a keg in honour of my return to Beccles I thought I owed him a few lines...

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