There is no single Silk Road. There never was. What there was, for a few thousand years, was commerce finding the path of least resistance through some of the most inhospitable terrain on earth - caravans shifting routes like slow water down a braided river, following whoever was in power, whoever had the best roads, whoever was least likely to murder you for your goods. We gave it a romantic name later, the Silk Road is an invention to make trade sound poetic.
Forget the horse for a moment, there is another beast that rules the (optimistic) roads, tracks, riverbeds of Central Asia, and it was forged not in the steppe but in the Soviet Union's grimly practical imagination. It is small. It is loud. It is almost certainly held together by something that is not the original manufacturer's intention. And it is, without question, the sexiest car in the world.
Kyrgyzstan is a window into Central Asian history. It is open. It will not stay open forever.
Kyrgyzstan is where Nepal was thirty years ago, before the teahouse trails were paved, before the permits and the queues, before the Instagram coordinates were shared a million times and the solitude quietly vanished. Those who trekked the Himalayas in the eighties speak of it like a dream, the valleys of Kyrgyzstan today offer a version of what they remember. The question is not whether this will change, but how quickly.
There are places in the world where an animal and a people have become so intertwined that to separate them would be to unpick the very fabric of a society.
The great rolling grasslands of Kyrgyzstan and southern Kazakhstan are such a place, and the horse is that animal. Its not a romantic notion of an exotic curiosity - the horse is not a feature of this landscape. It is the landscape, or at least the pulse that moves through it.
Close your eyes. Think of a Soviet city in Central Asia. Thousands of miles from any coast. Designed on a drawing board in Russia, somewhere cold, built by people following orders. You're picturing grey blocks, identical buildings marching to the horizon, darkness, dirt, cold stone efficiency. A place that exists but doesn't quite breathe.
I'm riding a bicycle along the top of Xi'an's ancient city wall, and it's taking a while.
The evening is still sticky with heat, but the views are lovely and the sky is a golden haze. I'm feeling pleased with myself. After an hour of pedalling, I stop, look ahead, and realise I'm not even halfway around.
Zhangjiajie at dawn looks like a place the gods forgot to finish - stone pillars punching through cloud, a forest frozen in the mist, something surreal.
This is my favourite moment, entering in the early morning as the entrance gate first opens, long strides on wet steps, and the air fresh and quiet. Then, from a desolate perch away from the incoming crowds, I can unfold the small grey machine.
You arrive in a Chinese city and the first thing you notice isnāt the skyline. Itās the momentum. The place feels like itās growing - cranes everywhere, concrete curing, rebar like bamboo shoots. Whole districts under active assembly.
Back home, we treat building like a morality play. First we ask: Can we build it? Engineers run the numbers, architects sketch the dream, someone produces a glossy PDF full of hopeful arrows. We prove itās possible.
Iām standing amidst a turbulent sea of humanity - 60,000 people shuffling forward in a hot, sticky procession. Faces glistening with sweat, phone cameras raised like flags, the air thick with sunscreen and anticipation. We are all here, marching willingly toward a place built by hands now long turned to dust.
Golden hour is roll time. As the sky yellows, people pour out of rental shops in borrowed history and converge in the same photogenic spots. The real attractions aren't the temples or gates, they're just backgrounds. The moon gate, the span of an old bridge, the red wall that makes skin tones pop - this is where the action occurs.
There are few performances in life as impressive and captivating as the relentless, cheeky flirtations from Filipino men. These island Casanovas seem to possess an inexhaustible energy for playfully audacious remarks to the fairer sex. Their efforts to woo and charm are unrelenting, delivered with a mix of humour, boldness, and a twinkle in the eye that makes it hard to know whether to laugh, roll your eyes, or perhaps blush just a little.
Up high, at Liptonās Seat, the highlands wake slowly. Mist rises from the ribs of the mountains, and the morning cold flees from the brutal tropical sun. Itās easy to be seduced by the green geometry here, lines carving contours. But this isnāt just scenery; itās an insatiable appetite made visible: a landscape arranged to meet the demands of humanityās mornings.
I tumble out of the plane in Kathmandu with sleep-crusted eyes and a slight hangover from the past night in Bangkok. Tribhuvan International is half-airstrip, half-busted parking lot and a place I spent 48 sleepless hours in just over a decade ago. But before I can light a cigarette or finish the first of a hundred tiny cups of chai, the subcontinent issues its greeting: a thousand angry horn blasts, an attack of touts, a peculiar smell, and a lot of physical contact.
The sun hangs low over George Town, throwing shadows that stretch across the mosaic of colonial facades and weathered shutters. The five-foot ways, these sheltered corridors beneath the classic shophouses, come alive as the heat of the day dissipates. They support life in this city, and many others like it, pulsating with life, history, and the echoes of countless footsteps.
It begins the night before, thumb grazing a cracked phone screen from a hostel bunk that still smells of last week's bug spray. Photo after photo: bananas offered to grinning trunks, tourists in cheap disposable elephant pants, all smiling Instagram influencers. You open five tabs, close three, reopen two, and end up no closer to booking - or not booking - than when you started.
The highway north from Chiang Mai unspools like magnetic tape through rice fields and military checkpoints. You start to feel like youāre approaching the end of the road here, the end of āsafe civilisationā. Here, Thailand bleeds into Laos and Myanmar with nothing more dramatic than a muddy bend of river, but every map-maker since colonial times has circled the spot in red: the Golden Triangle.
The hour is late. Or early. The distinction blurs in the concrete canyons of Shinjuku, doesn't it?
In Tokyo, the subways are always on time - at least until the clock hits 12am. Just as many cities are coming alive, Tokyo grinds to a halt. Miss the last train and youāll find yourself locked out, staring at the gates as the overhead lights blink out like eyelids.
Japan doesnāt endure chaos, it embraces it. Earthquakes, typhoons, sieges, fire - this is a land that knows natural disasters like an old friend, one who keeps you sharp. And nowhere does that relationship show more than in its castles.
Forget Europeās crumbling stone fortresses. Think Himeji: a white heron poised to take flight. Think Osakaās hulking rebirth, all concrete and defiance. Think Hiroshimaāa phoenix risen from atomic ash. These places arenāt static monuments. Theyāre living lessons in antifragility, carved in wood, plaster, and sheer stubbornness.
There's something about Japan that makes you want to burn every goddamn photo you've ever taken anywhere else.
Itās not just the temples, all serene wood and meticulously raked gravel, looking like they were art-directed by some Zen master with an Ansel Adams fetish. Or the neon-drenched canyons of Shinjuku, where every sign, every epileptic screen, feels deliberately placed for maximum visual impact. No, itās the people - this entire country is a masterclass in aesthetics.
It starts with a suggestion, "just go, I ended up staying there for weeks". Next thing you know, youāre on a minivan climbing the switchbacks to Pai. Or youāre barefoot on a ferry bound for Gili Trawangan, your hair dusted in sand and regret.
Once youāve been around a few hostels in Asia youāll start hearing the names: Pai, Gili T, Siquijor, Pushkar, Vang Viengāa constellation of places orbiting in your daydreams. Out here, deadlines mean the next visa run. Job titles mean nothing. Everyone is five years younger than they claim or ten years older than they look, clothed in a patchwork of stretched singlets and accesorised in hemp.
Okay, grab a Singha, ice cold if you can get it. Because we need to talk about maps. Not the paper kind, the ones in our heads. This particular brand of bullshit they drew for us in school.
Civilisationā¢ ā the officially licensed version ā kicks off somewhere sandy near the Nile. Pyramids, pharaohs. Then Greece, philosophers in robes, inventing democracy and art. Next stop, Rome. Roads, legions, aqueducts, conquering everything. Then darkness, maybe some knights, and boom, suddenly we're talking Florence and London. Neat, tidy, centred.
From the restaurant of the 5 star hotel Iāve got 3 nights in as part of my heavily subsidised stopover of this former flyover state, I drink tea wishing there was a cold beer on the menu. Outside, and across the bay, the city's skyscrapers twist toward heaven in impossible shapesāglass-and-steel monuments to what money can command when freed from the constraints of reason or restraint.
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.
Thereās no better way to escape the world than to hike above it. No news, no emails, no noiseājust 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.
Thereās a moment, somewhere on the winding roads of Hi Van Pass, where the engine hums beneath, the hairpin curve ahead is blind, and youāre 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-offāone part liberation, one part mortal danger. Itās 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, itās lunacy. A death wish on two wheels. āAre you crazy!?ā they ask, horrified. Iāve seen the statistics, the numbers arenāt 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 arenāt 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 isnāt the heat, though that comes soon enough - itās 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 Bangkokās 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.