It took us two days to reach Chiang Mai. Two long tortuous days consisting of two boats, two buses, one minivan and one immediately regrettable ‘traditional’ noodle soup breakfast. Oh, and our first encounter with the legendary split economy of Laos.

We had heard rumours of split economies operating, not only in Laos but across South East Asia. Of foreigners routinely being charged more than locals for the exact same service or product. Skin tone, effectively, determining price. Thus far we had not encountered it personally. That we are aware of at least. That was, until now.

The first stop, four hours after departing Nong Khiaw was the gray nothingness that is Udomxai. This, my friends, is the kind of place that makes Stoke look like the cultural capital of the world. I’m not kidding. Even the guidebooks, notorious for sugar coating even the most desolate of places fail to disguise their distaste for this ugly little town. We weren’t planning on staying long. We were here simply to swap buses. To head to Luang Namtha in the far north of the country before then heading west towards the border crossing to Thailand.

And so, hunched over slightly due to the ever increasing weight of my rucksack, I ambled over, a little ungainly, to the small ticket office at the rear of the dusty bus station.

“Sabaidee”. (Hello) I offered, smiling.

The small, bored looking uniformed woman behind the window looked up at me.

“What time is the next bus to Luang Namtha?” I enquired.

“No bus today. Next bus tomorrow morning.” Came the curt reply.

This depressing revelation was quickly followed up by the recommendation that rather than waiting, we charter a bus privately for a cost of 175,000 kip each.

For the record the usual bus fare is 35,000.

Now, ordinarily we may have considered this option. Well, either that or spending the night here. Whichever worked out at the better value. However, the proverbial waters were muddied with the fact that we were joined in the open air waiting room of the bus station by a smiley, chubby faced local woman. The same chubby faced woman who had been on our previous bus. Call me cynical but she was obviously waiting here for a reason.

After a brief consultation with our Laos phrasebook and some light role play I turned to the chubby faced woman and asked her where she was heading.

“Luang Namtha”. She replied enthusiastically through her broad smile.

“Lot?” (bus) I asked, pointing towards the run down bus sitting idle to our right.

She nodded, seeming to indicate that yes, she would be utilising a bus for her journey. Could this be the same bus that the bus stations own ticket office were telling us did not exist?

Next I showed chubby my watch in the hope that she might indicate when she was leaving. Immediately she gestured towards five o’clock. Her bus was leaving at five.

Those rusty cogs in my head were turning with a purpose now. Suddenly I could smell something. It smelt like fields. No, not fields. What was that? Was that cows? It could be.

Ah, now I’ve got it...

It was bulls***.

And it was emanating from the small ticket office. Something was most definitely afoot.

And so, for the next two hours we waited. We sat and observed the small chubby faced woman. To see exactly what she did. Which bus she got onto. We also fired the most intense glare we could muster towards the woman in the ticket office. She, in return, glared right back. This was a standoff. But we did not flinch. We would not be stiffed. Not this time.

And then it happened. Just like that. The thin golden hands of my cheap $10 Casio watch put the time at just after ten-to-five as the petite uniformed girl emerged from within the ticket office and made her way towards us, her heeled shoes clapping against the bare concrete floor. I was sure I could see a dejected, almost guilty look on her face. Her eyes focused on anything but us as she opened her mouth to speak.

“Ok. Bus to Luang Namtha leave at five o’clock”.

That was it. No, “sorry I made a mistake”, or possibly even, “I’m a lying cow please forgive me”. Nothing. Just stated in a flat tone before she performed a neat pirouette and fled once more to the sanctuary of the small ticket office.

I couldn’t get over the blatant cheek of it. The downright dishonesty. At that precise moment though, as we prepared to load ourselves onto the bus, the same bus that for the previous two hours did not even exist, it felt like a victory. A small one admittedly, but a significant one none the less. A triumph for the backpacker community. For all those who have trodden these very paths before us and been subjected to this infuriating trickery.

And this remember, was only half way through the first day of our journey to Chiang Mai. And one hell of a journey it was as well, along various waterways as well as some of the worlds worst roads. In fact, the word “road”, in relation to the generally accepted trade routes of northern Laos, is misleading. More accurately I would describe them as a collection of pot holes that, strangely, seem to lead in a general direction.

If you were to listen to everything that those enlightened souls over at the Lonely Planet have to say for themselves however, you could be excused for thinking you were to be taking a relaxing sojourn along the gentle surfaces of the M1.

“Thanks to the all but complete highway three the journey to Luang Namtha is no longer a tortuous experience.”

“…it is an easy five hours.”

“All but complete?”

“Easy five hours?”

Perhaps the Lonely Planet might consider sending someone over to make that journey today rather than basing their opinions on research obviously conducted several years ago. The same outdated research that during our time in Nha Trang, in Vietnam, had us looking for their recommended restaurant. The ‘pick’ as they call it. The same ‘pick’ that was, we discovered, no more than a collection of rubble standing in a gap between buildings where once, presumably, it had stood.

Around 36 hours later, each having contracted chronic colds (thanks in no small part to the endless phlegm filled coughs of the diseased man seated at the rear of our most recent bus) we arrived in Chiang Mai and immediately checked into the Namkhong hotel.

Situated down a quiet alley set back from the main road and sandwiched between the famous night bazaar on the one side and the fortified walls of the old town on the other, it was a convenient location. At a cost of 250 baht for the spacious and spotlessly clean room, it was also good value.

Chiang Mai is a bustling city. A city made up of congested roads lined with the usual collection of glass fronted multi-chain businesses. The same names you would expect to find in any of the major cities of the world. From McDonalds to Starbucks. This however, is a city with a difference, for at its very heart, offering an immediate contrast to the modern web of a city that surrounds it, sit’s the neat, square reaches of the old town. Skirted by sections of moat and the crumbling remains of the ancient walls, erected 700 years ago to protect from Bhurmese invaders, the old town is a maze of increasingly narrow soi (streets), lined with a collection of enchanting Watts as well as cosy café’s, restaurants and guesthouses. At the weekend these same soi play host to the infamous Chiang Mai weekend night market.

The Thais themselves refer to Chiang Mai as the ‘cultural capital of Thailand’. Personally we didn’t see enough of the place to comply with that particular proclamation although it is admittedly an enchanting city. The kind of place you could easily find yourself arriving for a brief stopover only to end up leaving a week later.

One thing we did see plenty of though, was the aforementioned night market. This in itself is a spectacle to behold. Incredibly crowded with a mix of both Thais and farang (foreigners) and stretching as far along the narrow soi as you can see, it is made up of a colourful collection of stalls offering all kinds of handmade local wares. Between the tightly compacted rows of stalls and amongst the swarm of people passing through, you will also find the street performers, ranging from traditional dancers to blind percussion groups.

Wondering among the stalls, taking in the many sights and sounds whilst bathed in the moonlit glow of the cool northern Thai evening is a great way to lose a night of two. Which is precisely what we did. Both here and at the equally colourful, although admittedly more touristy night bazaar.

Along with the markets, another of the main attractions that Chiang Mai has to offer its scores of visitors are the endless Thai cooking classes that are advertised everywhere you look. From the half day to the full day they offered the chance to learn about the intriguing world of Thai food. From talks explaining the range of herbs, spices and endless varieties of rice they utilise, right through to learning, step by step, how to produce your own aromatic Thai dishes. From scratch.

Before we had even set a pasty Anglo-Saxon foot in Asia, let alone Thailand, we were excited about this particular prospect. On the days leading up to our arrival in Chiang Mai, Aimee had been wearing the joyous, beaming expression of a small child on Christmas eve. The expression of a self proclaimed food fanatic soon to be released into a whole new culinary world. She was not alone.

A little after 08:30 on the bright sun drenched morning of our third day here we were collected from the hotel by a stocky, youthful looking Thai man with short hair and wearing orange tinted, wraparound sunglasses. He introduced himself as Tommy. He was our chef for the day.

The Thai Farm is located a thirty minute drive from the centre of the city and is the kind of place you would expect to see featured on cooking programmes on the TV. It is simply an idyllic setting.

As you approach along the simple dirt driveway, the main farmhouse and adjacent kitchens are set just behind a generous decked patio alongside a small pond and all are curtained by the bright burst of pink offered by the blooming flowers hanging loosely from above. Surrounding the tasteful buildings are the lush grounds of this fully functioning farm. Grounds that provide the working kitchens with virtually everything needed to be self sufficient, ranging from numerous herbs and spices as well as both fruits and vegetables.

We opted, without hesitation, for the full day course. As well as a trip to the local food market and the subsequent talk, the class would see us producing (from scratch and using the freshest of ingredients) a selection of six traditional Thai dishes, from a hand blended curry paste through to the famous Pad Thai as well as a traditional desert such as Mango sticky rice or boiled banana in coconut milk.

Right from the initial task of preparing the curry paste Aimee was in her element, chopping furiously at her selection of core ingredients before waiting eagerly for the next set of instructions. The model student as always.

Lurking somewhere towards the back of the class however, was yours truly, the first bead of sweat already forming above my anxious brow. I, unlike Chef Evripidou, was flustered. I was already behind and we had barely even started. Things were not going well.

With each passing dish, in between frenzied bursts of chopping - the kind you might associate with someone known to possess occasional psychotic tendencies - and with growing panic, I took to peering desperately around the kitchen with the hope of discovering that I had caught up only to again receive confirmation that I was - still - two steps behind. In fact by now I wasn’t even sure what some of the strange looking items in front of me were let alone what I was supposed to be doing with them. I mean seriously, would you know what a ‘pea aubergine’ looked like? If you say yes, frankly I don’t believe you but for arguments sake I’m prepared to give you the benefit of the doubt. Tell me this though smart arse, what the hell do you do with it?

Anyway, not wishing to attract the attention of teacher Tommy I set about stealthily leaning over the shoulder of whoever happened to be at the work station beside me in a bid to ascertain what exactly I needed to do. In much the same way as you would when copying a classmate at school. Not that I ever did that of course. As I did so however, I caught a glimpse of Aimee, already finished and standing opposite me, shaking her head in what I perceived to be a combination of mild amusement at my plight and the usual disappointment at my embarrassing her yet again.

“What the hell are you doing?” She muttered under her breath.

My response was a simple one:

“I don’t f***ing know!”

Isn’t it amazing how the most peaceful moments of many days are during meal times? Suddenly, for a few minutes at least, the endless buzz of chatter dies and the instinctive desire to fill ones face takes over. Relative silence is brought about by the single swipe of a fork. All the worries of the day are forgotten and replaced by the taste sensations of the most wonderful of life’s essentials: Food.

Well that was exactly what happened as the curtain came down on our Thai culinary adventure with the final taste test and subsequent realisation that our collection of creations were, in fact, really good. Gourmet, I think, describes them pretty accurately.

I have only one thing to add before we move on and it is this:

If you ever find yourself struggling for inspiration in terms of a homemade desert than look no further than the Thai favourite, Banana in coconut milk. It doesn’t sound all that appealing I know, I thought the same before sampling it today and trust me when I say, it tastes a whole lot better than it sounds.

This is all you need to do:

Bring around 250ml of fresh coconut milk and a tablespoon of brown sugar to the boil and simmer. Slice (lengthways) and add a banana before continuing to simmer for a further few minutes (or until the banana reaches the required texture).

And that’s it. Job done. Minimal effort. Maximum reward.

We both now wait in eager anticipation of the Indian cooking class that we plan to take in what is the homeland of England’s adopted national dish, the modest curry.

Finally, the remaining two days of our time here in Chiang Mai passed by in a lemsip induced stupor. In the rare moments that we weren’t comatose we filled the time by feeling sorry for ourselves. No, we had not become dependent on lemon flavoured medicines. We were, however, both still harbouring what Aimee continued to claim was a cold. I wasn’t convinced. I was pretty certain it was the flu. Possibly even a deadly mutant strain. I mean, being a man, obviously I’m not one to exaggerate the effects of illness but I have to say, this was different. I truly felt I was on the way out at one stage. It was borderline. I was sure I saw a shadowy hooded figure at the window at one point, staring at me with menacing intent before tapping lightly on the single glazed window with his trusty scythe.

Although, in hindsight, maybe that was a hallucination due to the overdose of lemsip?

Don’t worry yourselves though, it was a close call but we eventually pulled through and at 14:50 on the afternoon of 17th December we boarded the second class sleeper train bound for Bangkok. The bustling chaos, bright lights and go-go bars of the Thai capital city awaited us…