Day 141. Hanoi, Vietnam. Motorcycle mayhem.

It might not be the biggest capital in the world, but we're willing to bet Hanoi is the noisiest. Home to 3 million people and at least as many mopeds, there's not a street or avenue that enjoys a moment's peace from the cacophony of screeching brakes, blaring horns and over-stretched 2-stroke engines.

We love it.

Lord knows where they're all going. Honestly, it's completely exhausting just watching from the pavement, with every bugger and his dog constantly buzzing between neighbourhoods stopping for neither man, beast or tourist.

This can make crossing the road a lengthy and unnerving experience. The trick is to be assertive. Try to make eye contact with any rider hurtling towards you and stride purposefully into the road. No-one will stop, but they usually make the effort to swerve.

Not that they care whether you live or die of course, they just don't want their mopeds damaged.

Once we got our confidence up we actually ventured quite far today. Firstly dotting around the vibrant maze of the old quarter, then completing a quick circuit of Ho Hoam Khan lake, and finally ending up across town at the Temple of Literature.

The latter is a gorgeous place, comprising five separate courtyards built 950 years ago in homage to Confucius and his disciples (not sure disciples is the correct term, maybe his 'top geezers' would be better?). Anyway, it was a very pleasant afternoon, and there was even a bout of Chinese Dragon fighting going on to keep the crowds entertained.

We were especially taken with the ceremonial drum that's used on special Confucius occasions. It's massive man; bigger than most of the rooms we've been staying in since we came away and probably just as loud.

I suppose it needs to be if it's ever going to be heard over the rest of the racket in this town.

Day 140. Honoi, Vietnam. Calm before the storm.

A lazy day loafing in lovely Luang Prabang before we took our late afternoon flight to Hanoi.

Wend feeling a little under the weather so I braved the frantic streets of our hotel's neighbourhood alone. Too scary for me folks, I'm off back to see the missus.

Day 139. Luang Prabang, Laos. Come the revolution.

Visited the Royal Palace this morning. Not that we're remotely interested in traipsing round stuffy old residencies of the rich and famous you understand. No, we had a more sinister agenda; to find out for ourselves the official party line on the disappearance of the Royal family in late 1970's.

On hearing we were planning to visit Laos, a fellow traveller had given us her copy of Christopher Kremmer's 'Bamboo Palace' a couple of months back. A fascinating and disturbing account of what happened to the thousands of people unlucky (or foolish) enough to oppose the revolution.

The King, being a wily sort of a bloke, tried to keep his head down while the VietCong backed bully boys went about their grisly business. But deep down, he must have known it'd only be a matter of time before the blue bloods were rounded up and dispatched to one of the newly built internment camps to be 're-educated'.

Shocking stuff. And to this day, the lack of freedom of speech in Laos means no-one is prepared to discuss what happened to the countless souls who disappeared.

The Palace remains pretty much how they left it in 1976; big fancy rooms stuffed with expensive trinkets and baubles. Just like any other Royal gaff in the world I imagine. Significantly though, the only people walking the corridors these days are officious looking guides who are well trained at blocking mischievous questions from tourists.

"So where are the family now?"

"Up north"

"They don't choose to live here any longer?"

"Abdicated. Moved north"

And so on.

Of course, no-one's daft enough to ask whether the family, or indeed the thousands of other political prisoners were killed. That would be a question too far, but it was still kind of interesting to hear such bare-faced lying first hand.

It's a tricky one. We really like Laos, it's a gorgeous place full of gentle, kind-hearted people. But as long as it's being run by such a dodgy set of corrupt muppets (who laughingly call themselves democratic), then it's a country we'll struggle to love.

Great beer mind.

Day 138. Luang Prabang, Laos. Vive la France.

Of all the towns we've visited in Southeast Asia Luang Prabang is by some distance the prettiest. Sitting on a peninsula bounded by the Mekong and Nam Khan rivers, the place oozes class and character, comfortably justifying its listing as a world heritage site.

Stroll through the old quarter and the French colonial architecture, smart street cafes and cool wine bars could dupe you into thinking you've landed in some gorgeous idyll on the cote d'azur. Turn into the next street though, and a gaggle of monks climbing the steps to an intricately decorated temple lets you know you're right here in the heart of Laos' ancient capital.

It's great. And we hired bikes today to see as much of the town as possible in the short time we have available. Yellow with black trim for me, powder pink for Wend (a paint job she's so taken with, she wants it replicated on her bike back in London).

Of course, if there's one thing the French know a thing or two about - other than testing nuclear bombs on remote South Pacific islands - it's food. And luckily, their influence has crept into much of Luang Prabang's cuisine, resulting in several top notch restaurants.

It seemed churlish not to try one for size. So after meeting up with our friends from Vang Vieng, Dennis and Pru, we gorged ourselves on the finest tucker we've come across since leaving New Zealand.

Gordon Ramsey quality it was, at Green Lanes kebab shop prices.

Day 137. Luang Prabang, Laos. Elated and deflated.

Another long journey today. This time however, the bus was OK and some of the mountain scenery outstanding.

A moment of mild alarm as we descended the last hill into Luang Prabang with a blowout on one of the rear tyres. Mild turned quickly to Major when it became obvious the driver wasn't bothering to stop to inspect the damage. He probably did a quick calculation, offsetting the chances of serious casualties among his passengers against the fact his missus would have the dinner on the table in 20 minutes.

Normally most passengers would vote for a pit-stop and tyre change, but after 7 hours travelling we were all happy enough for the bus to hobble the last five miles on 3 wheels.

Day 136. Vang Vieng, Laos. Down the tubes.

One of the reasons so many backpackers put up with such an arduous journey to Vang Vieng is because it gives them the opportunity to spend some quality time tubing down the Nam Song river.

It's a simple but brilliant idea. You queue up in the morning to hire a tractor innertube, signing a contract written in Laos absolving the rental company of all blame if you sever an artery, drown or simply fail to enjoy yourself. Everyone then piles into the back of a tuk-tuk and is driven 3 miles upstream where swimming cossie's are donned, suncream applied and prayers whispered before plunging in and floating for 6 hours back to town.

The first thing most people do is giggle - it is, after all a ludicrous concept - then there's a moment of calm while first-timers take in the gobsmacking scenery. Turn the second bend in the river though and the dramatic backdrop is quickly forgotten so the real mayhem can begin.

Dotted along the riverbank every 300 metres or so are a series of bamboo lean-to's serving ice cold beers to parched tubers (thirsty work dangling your feet from a rubber ring). Luckily for us, competition among the bar owners is intense and the more astute rig up sound systems, build sundecks and erect complex trapeze style rope swings that make river re-entry an adventure in itself.

Of course there are no brakes on an innertube, so if anyone fancies a beer they just shout at one of the barstaff who fish them ashore with long bamboo poles. Absolute genius.

No rudders either, so steering veers between tricky and non-existent. And at the end of a particularly speedy set of rapids I careered into a bloke who appeared to be sleep-tubing.

"How man, watch what you're doing" shouted Liam in his thick Hartlepool accent. So after buying him and his mate Sticky a beer by way of apology we spent the rest of the day in the company of a daft but highly amusing pair of monkey-hangers. Honestly, you wouldn't think it possible to have so much fun in one day.

Never did find out why Sticky was called Sticky mind.

Day 135. Vang Vieng, Laos. Curb's caving in.

Blimey this is a nice place. Giant limestone cliffs have become a recurring feature on the trip; firstly at El Nido in the Philippines, then at Ton Sai in Thailand, and now its Laos' turn, with the dramatic stacks that lie beyond the banks of the Nam Song river.

In dire need of some exercise after sitting on buses and boats for two days, we cycled to one of the region's many caves in the morning. Unlike the user-friendly caverns we'd clambered through in New Zealand however, this was more of a headtorch and hard hat expereince. But of course, Laos being Laos no hard hat was provided, so Wend bottled it after 5 metres and opted out.

This left just me and my diminutive guide to crawl through the opening on our tummys (guess who found this the most difficult; a 4'2" Laos whippersnapper, or a fat geordie).

A lot of effort for not too much reward if truth be told.

Met with Dennis and Pru later for beers and nosh. A very pleasant and entertaining evening that we've arranged to repeat at their posh hotel in Luang Prabang in 3 day's time (rest assured, the Smiths will be staying somewhere more modest - but it'd be a shame not to at least pretend we're guests at the nobbiest accommodation in northern Laos).

Watched Charlton stuff West Ham later. Alan Curbishley has the look of a broken man, wearing an expression not dissimilar to the one Dennis pulled earlier on being told the restaurant had run out of Lager.

Day 134. Vang Vieng, Laos. Going ga-ga...

With a few hours to kill in Vientiane after our latest overnight bus ordeal we called in at an internet place to check hotmail and do a spot of blogging.

Wish we hadn't bothered.

Keith, Stuey and Caz had all posted their photos from last weekend's wedding and seeing everyone having such a brilliant time made us extremely homesick. Great dress by the way Catherine, and Hoady, please write and tell us what tune was making you pull that gimp face on the dancefloor.

More automotive fun and games in the afternoon. We sat on our connecting bus to Vang Vieng for an hour and a half before the driver decided he had enough passengers to make the trip worthwhile.

The bus, described in the blurb as being 'for VIP's', was a late '50's Romanian model sporting the world's first tepid air-con system, deluxe vinyl seats that were so hot they made our skin blister and a luggage storage system that discharged rucksacks like oversized mortar shells each time we took a particularly sharp bend.

Delirium had set in by the time we reached our destination. Wend was foaming at the mouth, some French passengers were hatching a plot to kill and eat the conductor and I lost my mind completely and started listening to James Blunt on the ipod.

Actually, I made that last bit up, things will never get that bad.

The day was redeemed when we got chatting to Dennis and Pru, a Canberra couple who'd had the foresight to book a room at the coolest hotel in town. We shared a Tuk-tuk from the bus station and nailed the last available double. Wend's foaming mouth convincing the manager we were deserving of a 10% discount.

An uplifting end to a stinking 24 hours.