Rubbish travel T-shirts you need to stop buying

I'm not the fashion police. The fact that I just used the term 'fashion police' should give you an idea of how diligently I keep up with the latest trends generally. I never want to look like I'm trying to be fashionable, to the extent that I've always actively curated a blandly unfashionable wardrobe, avoiding branding and unnecessary designs wherever possible - until I started travelling that is, when location-branded T-shirts became the only form of souvenir I allowed myself.

Now I'm not travelling so much and spending more time shut up in a flat, all those exotic place names do seem less relevant, and I'm back to the frustrating annual exercise of tearing through pointlessly patterned products at overstocked malls to find five cheap T-shirts with differently coloured, blank facades that'll see me through the next few years. It's even more difficult to find those over here, where I was led to believe their kids make them, but needs must when my white 'Save the Sea Turtles' shirt gets beiger with every wash and my girlfriend orders me to throw it out.

Since we've been travelling again, my travel tees have felt relevant again and I've been nostalgically reacquainted with some old favourites - bewilderingly popular products sold by pushy vendors on the doorstep of sacred sites (or inside) and in every other shop down your Khao San Roads and Legian Streets. Practical holiday mementos are to be encouraged, but you people need to stop buying:

Deleted scenes: Year two

Another year's worth of photos, videos and blog self-flagellations that weren't good enough to be uploaded at the time, or just didn't fit in with whatever agenda I was trying to push.

Does not include South Korea, which has enough leftovers for a dedicated post.

Circle the square

When I expressed the vague desire to travel up Australia's east coast, Byron Bay was the only place that received universal praise. You've got to go to Byron Bay, Dave. Byron Bay's so laid back, you'd love it there, Dave.

Do these people know anything about my personality?

I did actually like Byron Bay - as usual, when leaving civilisation behind and trampling through subtropical rainforest - but I don't get what I was supposed to find enthralling about the people of Byron Bay, who seemed to be the same self-absorbed, vegetating wasters in perpetual search of chronic drugs that I hadn't been impressed by when I'd met them in other countries.

Even if their lifestyle did appeal to me, why do I have to go somewhere to appreciate it? I understand that for surfing you need waves, but there are plenty of places where I can feel chilled out (yeah alright, not me, but people in general). Being surrounded by twats doesn't make me more inclined to be one.

Literally the Newcastle of the south

For a different perspective on these events (usually about two metres behind and to the left or right), see Oliver's exclusive behind-the-scenes report.

I can't tell you how Newcastle, New South Wales compares to its near-antipodean namesake because I never actually visited Newcastle upon Tyne. I never lived in North East England and never had any special reason to go there, so I felt no pressing need to make the 104-mile trip from Edinburgh or 185-mile trip from Crewe.

I never visited Newcastle under Lyme either, which was actually quite close to where I grew up. Assuming it to be just another boring market town like everything else around those parts, I never made the 14-mile trip from Crewe.

Come to think of it, I don't think I ever visited Old South Wales either.

However, I can confirm that the Newcastle of Australia is quite nice for a day out - just 10,462 miles from Crewe as the immortal crow that doesn't need to eat or rest flies.

Thieving Bastards III: This Time It's Racist

More tedious cataloguing of innocent bloggers and dastardly companies who used my photos without asking, this time from the first six months of my second year of travelling (September 2011 to March 2012). I'm hoping there'll be fewer of them as I get closer to the present and beat them to it, but then I'll probably be compelled to search again in a couple of years' time and see how things are getting on. I'm bracing for frustration, let's dive in.

Say Hoa Lo to my little friend

Sometimes you can learn too much about a country and lose those initial, innocent, ignorant impulses you might have had back when you weren't burdened by knowledge and experience.

I was in South Korea for over a month before I remembered 'oh yeah, this is that place they're supposed to eat dogs,' and it wasn't until my sixth day in Vietnam when I visited Hoa Lo Prison - which the incarcerated United States Air Force POWs sardonically nicknamed the 'Hanoi Hilton' - that I recalled 'oh yeah, there was that whole war thing...'

It's not like I hadn't seen 20,000 terrible films about it, all admittedly from the American perspective (though rarely with a positive outlook about the whole thing). So I was keen for the chance to redress the balance and see events portrayed from the other side of the conflict.

Though I wasn't quite prepared for the level of selective editing involved. This museum's white-washed trip down memory lane is the most darkly amusing cover-up I've seen since I visited the Korean DMZ and learned about the North's childish excuses when they were caught digging infiltration tunnels to the South. I may not be a historian, but my dad's a farmer and I know the smell of bullshit.

Things I didn't like about China

I liked this

Here's a post that'll come back to bite me and threaten to expose the values I've tried to explain to / impose on others out here in less liberal Asia as a sham. Those frustrated English teachers blaming their host country for their own shortcomings, Malay girls dropping casual homophobia into unrelated conversations and internet trolls boldly leaving racist comments behind anonymous IDs will finally be able to point out my hypocrisy as I reveal why I didn't like China very much.

I don't just travel so I can justify moaning, by the way (compare this to this). Sometimes I really enjoy my time in countries, but China wasn't one of those times. I haven't technically finished China yet, but I'm sure Macau will get creative with problems of its own that I can deal with elsewhere.

First I'll clear up that I don't have any problems with Chinese people, which should be taken as read. I've met nice Chinese people travelling in many places, who came from Real China as well as Taiwan, Malaysia, Singapore, Australia and other expat destinations. Of course I have - what country doesn't have 'nice' people? Except maybe England. That's right, I'm following the wrong assumption that slagging off my own country gives me a free pass to be mildly racist about another one.

Most of the problems I had with China are problems its Chinese residents have to deal with too, on a daily basis. And there are a lot of residents. And they can't even moan about it on Blogger.

Oh, Yuexiu sir!

If you've had the patience to follow these blogs for a while, I hope I've succeeded in making some of the major differences between China and other countries in this part of the world clear. Things that might not be so evident if you live in the West, where people don't seem to be very interested in absorbing much from over here except their cars and some of their food, but that can make spending any amount of time in China, Korea or Japan very different experiences.

But when it comes to public parks and other green spaces, the differences become less clear as you could really be anywhere in North East Asia. Things like old people exercising on playground equipment with impressive dexterity, middle-aged women dancing with an impressive lack of shame, pristine mountain trails, boring flowers painstakingly categorised, attractive old things to climb and no other white people in sight.

Really, it's only the constant, loud spitting right onto the footpath that reveals you're on the Chinese side of things, but let's put a lid on my bubbling Sino-stress until I leave this country and can let it foam out in unabridged borderline racist anguish. I'm already cheating the system to write these blogs on a German IP address, I shouldn't push my luck. Here are some pleasant parks.

Well, that about wraps it up for China?

Shenzhen may be southern China's commercial success story, but it doesn't have a lot going for it in terms of history and culture. That might be why they've over-compensated by cramming as many of China's greatest hits as possible into three square kilometres at the charming, impressive and amusingly named Splendid China. Grand!

I thought this would mean I could tick off essential sights like the Great Wall, the Forbidden City and those Avatar rock formations so I wouldn't have to see the real ones, but seeing these places in lovingly detailed miniature only made me want to visit more, like the sucker for advertising I obviously am.

If only I could find some way around these internet restrictions that are threatening my livelihood, I'd stay in China for a while. But today was a chance to leave those frustrations and malfunctioning virtual private networks in my hotel room and spend a sunny afternoon stomping around replica fortresses like a Godzilla without the excuse of having children in tow. I mean, child.

Geisha not from around here

When I headed to Gion on my first day in Kyoto, I was hoping to snap a couple of photos of elusive geishas in the wild, like I failed to do with Yakuza gangsters in Kabukichō. But I wasn't planning on being too obvious about it - a blurry, over the shoulder stealth shot would satisfy my sightseeing checklist, without getting in these women's way or making them feel like freak shows.

But I forgot this is Japan, where taking photos is as necessary as going to the bathroom (camera functions are often easier to get your head around than their complicated sci-fi toilets too), and these painted ladies seemed happy/resigned to stand around for five minutes each time they turned a corner and were swarmed by a new crowd of Japanese and foreign tourists.

Come and gawp then.

Memories of Germany

I studied German for seven years at secondary school and right through to sixth form, not that you'd be able to tell from my almost total lack of conversational German skills.

I haven't forgotten everything I learned, it's more the case that I was never very good to begin with. I'm pretty sure I only scraped a mediocre 'C' by abusing the senility of the frail German assistant, whose overly constructive feedback to my coursework consisted of crossing out my bad grammar and providing grammatically perfect German in red pen, which I could just type up. Like that would teach me anything apart from the value of the old and deranged. I wonder if she's still there, or if they've had her put down.

Another failed attempt to enhance our language studies was the semi-annual school trip to whichever uninteresting part of Germany could be reached in the least gruelling time by bus from North West England. I'm pretty sure no one came back from those trips feeling that their German skills had improved, but some of the excursions were memorable for having unrealistic stereotypes improbably reinforced.

So friendly

Let's start my Sri Lanka blogs off with a complaint. Just to be different.

I don't usually do a lot of research before I arrive in a country, beyond trying to find the lowest priced room and getting a rough idea of the exchange rate so I won't be violated too roughly by taxi drivers. This lazy research is probably the reason I end up booking these cheap hotels several hours distant from the airport, when I really could have done with something closer on a day I hadn't slept for about 40 hours (I wasn't going to rely on my alarm after last time).

But one constant that shone through in the various websites I read about Sri Lanka is just how friendly the people are. Seriously, these people are almost paranormally friendly - so friendly, they'll follow you down the street when you're trying to enjoy a peaceful walk, reminding you that they can give you a tour of the city in their taxi even after you've politely declined several times.

The waiters are extremely friendly too, standing right next to you and distracting you slightly from your lamprais, in case you suddenly change your mind about getting that second bottle of ginger beer and they can run to your aid. Despite previously having made you wait up to 30 minutes to take your order, making the lethargic Italians look like Sonic the Arseing Hedgehog.

The three-wheeler taxi drivers are the friendliest of all though. So friendly, they'll even take you to a hotel you didn't ask to be taken to, because they're concerned about your wellbeing and finances. Despite your protests that you've already booked a hotel and told them the specific address when you finally gave in to their nagging at the bus station and realised the extra cost of a taxi would be worth it for getting to your hotel faster than taking another bus, not having accounted for these time-wasting detours.

My racist, parochial tastes

I've made no secret of my general dislike of English people I meet abroad, due to a number of bad experiences. For the record, this has been less of an issue since I left Thailand last April, and since then I've just developed an aversion to Caucasian people in general, which is much less racist.

Obviously I've met plenty of really good ones too, but in general I've noticed I feel much more comfortable walking around foreign streets and seeing only locals, always being a bit disappointed when another white guy comes around the corner or gets on the subway. Maybe I just like feeling special? Or feel that standing out for my race is preferable to standing out for other reasons, like being a weedy, speccy Harry Potter lookalike (I was here first, damn you!) Or maybe I just like being left alone, and feel I'm less likely to be involved in a random conversation with a stranger if we don't speak each other's languages (if anything, the reverse is true). Whatever the reason, it's clearly a bit insane.

But for all this rejection of my home country and my championing of interracial relations (partly to redress the embarrassing, ignorant racism of my school years - but also because Korean girls are extremely pretty), my tastes are surprisingly and hypocritically Anglophile.

That's not to say I'm always up-to-date and on board with the latest British trends (I'm certainly not - how dare you!), but sometimes it might seem like I'm not even opening my mind to embrace art and media from other cultures. That's not entirely true - it's just that most people I meet seem to enjoy the type of Western rubbish I'm already aware of and trying to escape from, or equivalents from their own countries that seem to be basically the same in a different language. Kids today.

Who is Mr. David?

Learning the naming conventions of other countries can be important if you want to avoid accidentally causing offence. Knowing that the family name is followed by the first name in some Asian countries is basic, for example, and it's easy to learn the correct titles for Mr, Mrs and Miss at the appropriate level of politeness in whatever country you're visiting. That's just basic courtesy, even if a total lack of language skills means you instantly switch to broken English and desperate hand signals to explain the number of nights you've booked at the hotel that's lost your reservation, forgetting that in many Asian countries the hand counting signs are also different.

But why do trained hospitality staff who otherwise speak excellent English and deal with Western people on a daily basis unfailingly call me 'Mister David?' Who is he?

oh! NO~

I was a little surprised at the existence of Jeju Love Land on Korea's favourite holiday spot, Jeju Island - though the focus of this sculpture park and 'museum' is pretty much squarely on titillation (particularly penisillation) rather than anything too extreme. Despite their reserved manner, Koreans aren't compulsively puritanical, and this attraction isn't any more outrageous or corruptive to the young than the average British joke shop or seaside tat stall at Blackpool - until it dawns on you just how heterosexual the whole thing is. To a fault.

For a place so obsessed with cocks and presenting a softcore smorgasbord of sexual practices from around the world, the very notion of same-sex love or activities is glaringly omitted to the point of denial or ignorance here - as in pretty much all aspects of Korean life and culture. The light-hearted yet confusing and potentially offensive sign pictured above is practically the only admission that these sort of practices exist, and the caption doesn't seem particularly flattering. Though the inclusion of a heart confuses matters - are they admitting that romantic love accompanies this disgraceful act, or was it just a lazy choice for fig-leaf-style censorship?

(To avoid ambiguity, other signs depicting 'hilarious' sexual incidents all featured both a man and woman, the latter of which can be identified by being pink and having long hair like all women do).

Now I know my DMZ, won't you come and infiltrate me

Image: Tigers and Magpies

I made the fun/harrowing excursion to the border between the Koreas the day before North Korean leader Kim Jong-Il died, and I can't help but feel somehow responsible.

This is a pretty popular tour (as popular as South Korean tourism gets, anyway) to see history in the making, and although it's usually pretty safe, it might be a little while before it's up and running again. South Korea's drafted 19-year-old soldiers have enough to worry about without being on the look-out for pesky, meddling tourists trying to take sneaky photos of the North Korean propaganda villages. (I'm just jealous because my own sneaky photos turned out so poor).

After visiting the Korean Demilitarized Zone (한반도 비무장지대) and getting an impressively unbiased overview of its 58-year history (and counting - probably for some considerable time to come), I can't say I was massively heartbroken to hear of the Great Leader's death. The last thing I'd want to do is incite all-out war and the annihilation of human civilisation, but you can't visit the DMZ without coming away with the distinct impression that North Korea's rulers and strategists have all the military skill and integrity of a seven-year-old child. Specifically, me.

Japanese burn

Manila's historic, walled city centre doesn't seem to be a big hit with tourists, which I put down to most of it not actually existing, thanks to a solid month of devastation at the hands of the occupying Japanese in the Battle of Manila (part of World War II we don't hear so much about in the West, because it mainly affected brown people).

Those no-good Japanese, someone should destroy some of their major cities and see how they like... oh. Right.

There's been some rebuilding of walls and gates in the decades since, but most people would probably agree that the Philippines has more important things to spend its money on, like cosmetic surgery and embezzlement. For colonial sightseeing, Intramuros isn't as good as Georgetown in Penang or Singapore, but it's better than Malang in Java.

I still enjoyed spending an afternoon walking around these orderly streets, which offer a welcome escape from the bland, endless uniformity of Metro Manila in general. I always feel much more comfortable enclosed within crumbling walls than I do in bigger cities, and I grudingly accept that this will inevitably lead to me developing some sort of BDSM/asphyxiation-based sexual perversions in middle age, for which I apologise in advance.

Singappalling

Do you see what I did there?

There might not be much to see or do in Singapore, but this peculiarly well-ordered city is an oasis amidst the chaos of South East Asia. With its wealth of cheap food options and modern facilities, this place has become my base on this side of the world.

But saying all that, some of it's fucking shit.

Greatest tits

I've been writing this blog for nearly a year now - stubbornly refusing to keep a travel diary of my experiences for what seemed like a long time, but can only have been a week at most (it was in Florence that I wrote a couple of entries on WordPress, before getting pissed off and switching to good old, unreliable Blogger).

One of my favourite features of Blogger (aside from its dodgy spam detection filters that mistakenly restrict access to my blogs and then finally restore them after I lodge an appeal, but with all the images accidentally, permanently deleted) is its 'Stats' button, which allows me to autistically keep track of everyone who stumbles across my pages through Google image searches for sexy teachers and Michigan cheerleaders.

And sometimes a travel-based search term too. But let's be honest, it's mainly the sexy teachers and cheerleaders.

Paradise effing lost

It took until Day Four in Bali for me to begin to appreciate this tropical 'paradise.' Prior to this, you could say there were some 'hiccups' that prevented me from enjoying the experience fully. Though perhaps projectile vomiting occurring simultaneously with explosive diarrhoea would be a more fitting analogy (luckily this is only an analogy, and my kecks remain unsoiled).

If you're a fan of British consumer outrage, feel free to read more and learn all about the series of unfortunate events (only some of which were almost definitely completely my fault) that served to sour my first few days in Indonesia.

If you prefer your blogs happy and optimistic, take a look at the nice volcano picture and then sod off. You don't belong here!