Perspectives by James Bayly

The sky turns a hazy crimson I wander the cobblestone streets of "Sunset Town," a grotesque simulacrum of an Italian village improbably planted on the southern shores of Phu Quoc, and island in south Vietnam.

I'm surrounded by perfect terracotta facades under a towering clocktower, but there is a profound emptiness that echoes between the walls. There's something almost post-apocalyptic about it - as if all the Italians were raptured to heaven, leaving behind only their architectural blessings and a smattering of bewildered Asian tourists clutching selfie sticks.

There’s no better way to escape the world than to hike above it. No news, no emails, no noise—just the clean, thin air of the mountains and the crunch of grass or gravel. Escaping to the outdoors has always been my sanctuary, the one thing that strips life down to its essentials. By foot or pedal, up and over ridgelines, across rivers that run clear and fast, through valleys carved by glaciers long gone but never forgotten.

There was a time when Hong Kong was the brightest light in Asia, perhaps the world. A neon jungle with streets paved with ambition. The clang of the trams, wail of distant ferries, and hustle of millions of entrepreneurs harmonised into that hum of a city that never slept. You could smell it - the scent of roasted duck, the salt of the South China Sea, the sweat of a thousand bankers and hustlers trying to carve out their piece of paradise. It was a city that made you believe in opportunity, in capitalism, in the idea that tomorrow you two could live the dream.

There’s a moment, somewhere on the winding roads of Hi Van Pass, where the engine hums beneath, the hairpin curve ahead is blind, and you’re inches from a sheer drop off a cliff into the sea below. You should slow down, play it safe. Instead, you lean in.

Riding motorbikes in Southeast Asia is the ultimate trade-off—one part liberation, one part mortal danger. It’s the closest thing to flying without wings, an open invitation to the road where you call the shots. But to many of my friends back home, it’s lunacy. A death wish on two wheels. “Are you crazy!?” they ask, horrified. I’ve seen the statistics, the numbers aren’t pretty - Thailand has one of the highest motorcycle fatality rates in the world and accidents involving tourists are a big part of it. Vietnam and Bali aren’t much better, with thousands of deaths a year, many of them foreigners who thought a rented scooter was as harmless as a bicycle.

The first thing that sticks to you in Bangkok isn’t the heat, though that comes soon enough - it’s the sheer contrast between the haves and have-nots. A Lamborghini purrs to a stop outside of ICONSiam, its driver stepping out in that latest designer outfits that cost more than the street vendor makes in a year. A few steps away, an old woman crouches beside a makeshift cart, selling mango sticky rice for a handful of baht. Over on the road, a tuk tuk driver beckons to any tourist that will look to him to offer a ride across the city for $4. The city lives in both worlds at once, without hesitation or apology.

Sukhumvit Road stretches like an artery through Bangkok’s restless heart, pumping life, commerce, and vice through its endless sprawl. Past gilding shopping malls, alongside through some of the best value for money business hotels, carved out under one of the busiest BTS lines.

It sells everything. With enough baht in your pocket you can feast like a king on street food or 5 start French restaurants. You can buy fake Rolexes, fake Ray-Bans, fake friendships. From late afternoon street vendors will display illegal vapes and sex toys for sale - including an intriguing number of strap on appendages.

I'm enjoying a premature retirement to travel the world with my camera (or at least till money runs out).

Instead of writing in an old diary to be shunned away and and forgotten, I'm doing a stupid thing and publishing my thoughts and recollections from on the road for you to read or express bewilderment at.