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Travel has always been a passion of mine and there’s nothing I like more than exploring a new place. Recently I was in Sichuan province in China and there was something it kept reminding me of. A place on the other side of the world on another continent. The more I thought about it and the more I compared and contrasted the two, I realised that they held many similarities. It reminded of my trips in Mexico. From the food, to entertainment, to the ancient history. (Tip: Scroll down for photographic proof.)

So here are a few (tongue in cheek) arguments I will make that Sichuan is the Mexico of China. But first let me set the scene.

Imagine you’re chowing down on a plate of street tacos in Mexico City, your mouth ablaze with fiery salsa, when suddenly—wham bam!—you’re transported across the globe to Sichuan, China, sweating over a bubbling hotpot that’s numbing your tongue into oblivion. Coincidence? De ninguna manera / bù kěnéng! If China had a long-lost twin who ran away to join a mariachi band, it would be Sichuan.

Both Mexico and Sichuan take their spice seriously—so seriously, in fact, that if you’re not crying tears of joy (or agony), you’re probably eating it wrong. In Mexico, it’s the chiles—smoky chipotles, searing habaneros, and deep, complex pasillas, while not forgetting the jalapeños. In Sichuan, it’s the legendary peppercorn, which doesn’t just burn but numbs, tingles, and makes your lips feel like they just got back from a Botox session.

Mápò dòufǔ (Mapo Tofu) is (kinda��) Sichuan’s answer to a rich Mexican mole—layered, complex, and capable of making you sweat through your shirt. And if Mexico has tacos al pastor, then Sichuan has chuān chuàn xiāng—spicy skewers dunked in boiling, lava-like broth. The perfect street food. Both are best consumed late at night, preferably after a questionable number of beers, in the company of people you just met but now consider family.

The love for heat extends beyond just the food—it’s an attitude. Mexicans and Sichuanese people revel in the challenge of eating spicy food, trading tales of the time they conquered the hottest dish on the menu. There’s even a ritualistic element to it; spice isn’t just a flavor—it’s an experience, an event, and a test of endurance.

In Mexico, the heat comes from the peppers themselves—raw, roasted, dried, or blended into sauces that range from tangy to downright combustible. In Sichuan, the sensation is more complex: the numbing of the peppercorn combined with the fiery kick of dried red chilies creates a flavor explosion known as "málà"—a dance of heat and tingling that lingers long after the meal is over.

But beyond the spice, the two cuisines share a love for layering flavors. Sichuan dishes incorporate ginger, garlic, star anise, and fermented bean paste, while Mexican cuisine relies on cumin, oregano, chocolate (in moles), and lime to build its bold and intricate taste profiles. It’s not just about burning your mouth—it’s about depth, complexity, and the celebration of culinary craftsmanship.

An assortment of Mexican chillies.

Source: Unsplash

Hotpot Base in Chengdu.

Source: Lachlan Page ©

If you thought masked Mexican wrestlers were the ultimate showmen, wait until you see Sichuan opera’s biàn liàn. In one corner: luchadores like El Santo, flying through the air in dazzling, tight-fitting spandex, their masks turning them into legends. In the other: Sichuan opera performers, flicking their heads to swap painted masks faster than you can say “How did they DO that?!��

Lucha libre masks scream power, mystery, and the undying right to pile-drive your opponent through a folding chair. The mask isn’t just decoration—it’s identity. Some wrestlers never remove their masks in public, carrying their lucha persona into daily life. Losing a match where the mask is at stake can be career-ending, the ultimate sign of defeat.

Meanwhile, over in Sichuan, the magic of the mask isn’t about hiding an identity but about transformation. Biàn liàn performers change masks in the blink of an eye, each switch signaling a shift in character or emotion. It’s a trick so shrouded in secrecy that performers are sworn to never reveal the technique, with legends of masters passing it down only to select apprentices. Although i’ve been told there’s a special cord they pull?

Despite their differences, both traditions have one thing in common: they turn the human face into a work of art. The bold, exaggerated designs of lucha libre masks echo the intricate, colorful patterns of Sichuan opera, both evoking a sense of drama, spectacle, and timeless tradition.

‘Biàn liàn�� (face-changing) performers at Sichuan Opera in Chengdu.

Source: Lachlan Page ©

‘Biàn liàn�� (face-changing) performers at Sichuan Opera in Chengdu.

Source: Lachlan Page ©

Mexican ‘Lucha Libre�� masks.

Source: Unsplash

Okay, time for a history detour. Everyone knows the Mayans and Aztecs left behind jaw-dropping pyramids, stone-carved warriors, and eerie jade masks that make you wonder if they knew something we didn’t. Meanwhile, over in Sichuan, the ancient Sanxingdui civilization was busy making enormous, bronze alien-like masks with bulging eyes and otherworldly features that look straight out of a sci-fi movie.

Both cultures were obsessed with the cosmos, both created intricate societies that suddenly vanished, and both left behind artifacts that baffle modern archaeologists. The eerie resemblance between Sanxingdui masks and Mesoamerican art is enough to fuel a dozen conspiracy theories. (Aliens? Time travelers? Ancient trade routes no one knew about? Netflix doco series coming 3, 2, 1��)

The similarities don’t stop at the masks. The Mayans and Aztecs built their pyramids as sacred sites, often aligned with celestial movements, reflecting their deep fascination with astronomy. Meanwhile, the Sanxingdui culture left behind a treasure trove of ritualistic bronzes—massive tree-like structures, masks that seem designed for giants, and intricate animal figures—all suggesting a civilization that revered its own mystical beliefs.

Both cultures also shared an affinity for sacrifice and the belief in an afterlife. The Mayans were known for their elaborate ceremonial rituals, while the Sanxingdui people buried vast quantities of bronze and jade artifacts in massive pits, seemingly as offerings to gods or ancestors.

The real question is: how did two civilizations, separated by an ocean and thousands of miles, develop such eerily similar artistic and religious practices? Maybe we’ll never know—but that’s what makes it fascinating.

Mayan masks at the Museo Arqueológico de Campeche at the Fuerte de San Miguel. Campeche, Mexico.

Source: Lachlan Page ©

Bronze mask at the Sanxingdui Museum near Chengdu, China.

Source: Lachlan Page ©

Mayan masks at the Museo Arqueológico de Campeche at the Fuerte de San Miguel. Campeche, Mexico.

Source: Lachlan Page ©

Sichuan and Mexico are like two siblings who grew up on opposite sides of the world but somehow developed the same taste for the dramatic, the delicious, and the downright spicy. They live loud, they eat hot, and they preserve the magic of their ancient past while throwing some of the best parties on the planet.

So, whether you’re slurping up a peppercorn-laden hotpot in Chengdu or biting into a salsa-drenched taco in Oaxaca, just know that somewhere, thousands of miles away, there’s a kindred spirit sweating over their own plate of culinary fire. And that, my friends, is the real spice of life.

So next time you take a bite of that extra-hot Sichuan dish or that habanero-packed taco, tip your sombrero (or your luchador mask) to the other side of the world. Because in the end, Sichuan and Mexico aren’t just places—they’re experiences. And if you can handle the heat, you just might find yourself at home in both places.

For more photos, feel free to follow me on Instagram at . Link here -

I write stories, but sometimes even words need a holiday. And I’ve always loved travel. These travel photos (from 2024) are the snapshots that didn’t make it into the novel—too scenic, too weird, or too full of goats. Think of this as the director’s cut of my travel brain. Sometimes a photo tells the story better. Enjoy the view, no passport required.

(P.S. My personal favourite photo is the last one!)

Secret island beach location in Thailand.

(Not Phuket, Koh Samui, or Krabi).

Source: Lachlan Page ©

Penang Streets, Malaysia.
Source: Lachlan Page ©

Bronze head in Sanxingdui Museum �� Chengdu, China.

Source: Lachlan Page ©

Huanglong (Yellow Dragon) National Park, Sichuan, China.
Source: Lachlan Page ©

Jim Thompson Museum �� Bangkok, Thailand.

Source: Lachlan Page ©

Nong Khiaw, northern Laos.

Source: Lachlan Page ©

The author (almost) at the top of Yulong Xueshan (Jade Dragon Snow Mountain) in Yunnan province, China.

4,680 m above sea level.

Source: Lachlan Page ©

Ipoh Town, Malaysia.

Source: Lachlan Page ©

Ganden Sumtsenling Monastery in Shangri-La �� Yunnan province, China.

Sometime referred to as “Little Potala Palace��.

Source: Lachlan Page ©

Fiction has a unique type of magic that seeps into the real world, worming its way deeper into society’s collective unconscious until it becomes reality. Case in point: ’s , a book first published in 1933. It didn’t just tell a story—it took a hammer and chisel to the map and invented a new place, Shangri-La: paradise on a page, a high-altitude utopia where time slows down, people live forever, and you’re always one cup of (very salty) butter tea away from enlightenment. It’s the kind of myth that wove its way into the world’s imagination and became a household name. The name stepped off the page and etched itself into reality, leaving footprints in city names, hotel chains, and the global imagination. And it all came from a novel.

We all know the luxury hotel chain borrowing the name and slapping it on properties from Paris to the Maldives. Infinity pools, bed sheet thread counts that could bankrupt a small country, and champagne breakfasts that scream opulence. But less is probably known about the book itself and the actual town (or city?) named Shangri-La.��

Recently, I travelled to Shangri-La and read Lost Horizon while there. It got me thinking about how an imaginary place from a book has inspired so much and how all this came from a single work of fiction. So, naturally, I thought I’d write a little about both my experience and the book itself.������

Let’s start with the book. The book’s name is actually (not Shangri-La) and begins with a plane crash in the Himalayas. The survivors, led by the stoic and enigmatic Hugh Conway, stumble upon a hidden valley and lamasery, Shangri-La, nestled beneath towering peaks. Here, life unfolds at a dreamlike pace, free from the world’s chaos. The residents live to ages in excess of one-hundred and fifty years old, yet still look middle aged, and spend their days reading books, meditating, and enjoying the surrounding nature. The book itself is well written. ’s prose is gentle yet vivid, painting a picture of eternal tranquility where people live in harmony and age with grace. This vision resonated deeply with a world reeling from war and economic despair, offering not just escapism but a beacon of hope. The writing actually seems quite fresh for being written in 1933 although the story is a little lacking in plot. Nonetheless, it has an intriguing premise and draws you in slowly and holds your attention.����

Source: Penguin Books (Vintage)

Hilton invented the idea of Shangri-La, reportedly inspired by travel articles about various parts of the Himalayas. In particular, many believe he was inspired by the writings and adventures of Joseph Rock, an Austrian-American botanist. While others, including Hilton himself, cited the writings of Évariste Régis Huc, a French priest who travelled to Tibet in 1844. ��

Since then, various armchair and adventurous literary detectives have tried to track down exactly where the place lies or at least where Hilton based it on, citing locations from Pakistan to China. Consensus shows somewhere in China is the likely location, as the book references Tibetan and Chinese cultures living together. But this fact still doesn’t narrow it down too much as it could be anywhere in Western China. Although the book itself gives some hints. The following passage from the book suggests the group were flying somewhere along the Kunlun mountains, essentially in the Tibetan plateau.��

“He guessed that the flight had progressed far beyond the western range of the Himalaya towards the less-known heights of the Kuen-Lun. In that event they would by now have reached the loftiest and least hospitable part of the earth’s surface—the Tibetan plateau.�� James Hilton, Lost Horizon (1933)

Again this doesn't exactly narrow it down too much as the Tibetan plateau is vast. However, later in the book (without giving spoilers), Chongqing is described as being reasonably close, and there is also mention of accessing Shangri-La via Thailand. Although this would, presumably, also require travel through Burma (nowaday Myanmar) to get to China. So it would be reasonable to assume it is, theoretically, somewhere near the provincial borders of , , and Tibetan in China. There’s a theory on that too which I’ll mention later��

All this talk of the ‘imaginary�� Shangri-La and its location begs the question: If it’s an imaginary place, then how is it possible to visit it? And, didn’t you say you visited it just a few paragraphs above?

In 2001, the Chinese government undertook a bold rebranding by renaming Zhongdian County, part of the Diqing Tibetan Autonomous Prefecture in Yunnan Province, to Shangri-La. The decision was both audacious and inspired, leveraging the mystique of Hilton’s creation to attract tourists. The move transformed a modest mountain town into a destination for dreamers, adventurers, and those chasing the elusive promise of paradise. Although when I visited it was mostly local Chinese tourists who had flown into the local airport who made up the numbers. The majority of them were young, dressed up in local Tibetan attire for the day, and waltzed around the town with a professional photographer in tow, snapping photos. The old town consists of wooden Tibetan-style lodges with cobblestone streets with a hill in the middle which supports temples and a large golden prayer wheel. It’s very touristy but beautiful and a nice place to stay in a small guesthouse and stroll the narrow laneways. Snow-capped mountains can be seen in the distance, offering breath-taking scenery—though this may be due to its altitude of approximately 3,200 metres, which leaves you puffing and gasping for air. Around town, it’s common to hear Khams Tibetan and the Naxi language, mixed amongst Mandarin. I would say I heard more Tibetan and Naxi than Mandarin although perhaps I just paid more attention to the more unfamiliar sounding local languages.��

Streets of Shangri-La old town (Dukezong Ancient Town).

Source: Lachlan Page ©

A Tibetan family overlook Guishan Temple in Shangri-LA old town.

Source: Lachlan Page ©

Laneways of Shangri-La old town (Dukezong Ancient Town).

Source: Lachlan Page ©

Outside the old town is a compact modern city with wide boulevards and large Tibetan-styled government buildings. But perhaps the most Shangri-La-esque aspect of the town is the Ganden Sumtsenling Monastery situated about 5 kilometres from the old town. It’s often referred to as Little Potala Palace in reference to its similarity to Tibet’s famous Tibetan Buddhist Monastery in Lhasa. A stunning place to witness, and intriguing place to visit and explore the number of large ceremonial halls and temples once you’ve climbed to the top. There’s plenty of adventure to be had in the surrounding wilderness, but perhaps (rebranded) Shangri-La’s real charm is wandering the cobblestoned laneways, saving your breath, and drinking hot chocolate by the indoor fire. Much like the fictional Shangri-La.����

A monk walking below the Ganden Sumtsenling Monastery

Source: Lachlan Page ©

Tibetan prayer flags at the Ganden Sumtsenling Monastery.

Source: Lachlan Page ©

Tourists posing at the Ganden Sumtsenling Monastery.

Source: Lachlan Page ©

So is this rebranded Shangri-La the “real�� Shangri-La that Hilton wanted to portray in his novel? Probably not. As was previously mentioned there have been a number of documentaries made on the subject, a sleuth of bookish detectives of which the most plausible and most convincing is Ted Vaill, an American lawyer who spent decades investigating Hilton’s sources for his novel. He hypothesised it to be a lamasery in the Muli Tibetan Autonomous County, a few hundred kilometres from the Chinese dubbed “Shangri-La�� that I visited. However, he was pleased the Chinese government had chosen rebranded Diqing as their touristic Shangri-La as it has meant the hidden Muli valley area has been kept off the tourist radar.����

Back to the book and its enduring legacy, Hilton masterfully blends escapism with a profound commentary on the human condition in . The novel’s Shangri-La isn’t just a refuge; it’s a mirror reflecting our deepest desires for simplicity, harmony, and longevity. As Conway (the main character) discovers, the valley’s secret isn’t just its isolation or beauty—it’s the way it prioritizes balance over ambition, contentment over conquest. Something that might reflect the Depression years in which it was written. Something that might be appealing in today’s world too, almost one hundred years later.����

So while my trip to Shangri-La wasn’t as adventurous or meditative as the fictional Shangri-La, it could be seen as a reminder of the power novels have to blur the lines between fiction, reality, and myth. Nowhere is this clearer than in the (rebranded) Shangri-La where Hilton's fiction leapt off the page and etched itself into reality, spawning a legend that continues to captivate the world. From the pages of to a tangible destination in Yunnan province in China, it stands as a testament to the power of storytelling to shape the world around us. And if you do make the trek to the physical, rebranded Shangri-La, order your yak butter tea with a little sugar (just trust me on this) and try the yak hot pot.������

Oh, and fun fact: There is a in Shangri-La.��

Source: SpyHards.com.��Podcast artwork by Hannah Hughes.��

I was recently invited onto the popular podcast to share my thoughts and show my deep appreciation for the movie ‘�� (1959) based on 's iconic 1959 novel.

Directed by and starring , Our Man in Havana has been a defining work in the spy genre, blending dark humour with intrigue—a combination that I try to create in his own novel, ���� set in Colombia

I joined hosts Scott and Cam to dive into the classic espionage tale and the three of us decoded Our Man in Havana's satirical take on Cold War espionage and the absurdities of intelligence work. As well as some exploration of the behind-the-scenes elements on the actors, director, and general fun facts about the movie including on-set visits from and . In true style, Scott and Cam engaged in their own high-stakes game of checkers with shots as they share insights into the themes and iconic scenes that make Our Man in Havana a timeless classic.

Click on the links below to listen!��

Source: SpyHards.com.��Podcast artwork by Hannah Hughes.��

You can follow on Social Media with the links below.��

was Adapted from ’s Pulitzer Prize-winning novel of the same name and the series has been superbly brought to life by the director (Most famous for the excellent Korean film OLDBOY). Much like the novel (which I recommended in my article ‘��), refuses to spoon-feed its audience. Instead, it beckons viewers to embark on a cerebral journey through a labyrinth of identity and imperialism told through a clever espionage story.

Source: IMDB.com

The story is told through the eyes of the anonymous Captain in the form of a confession of his past. This is the same as the book, with the narrator leading us through the action. The Captain, played by Aussie is excellent as the half-French, half-Vietnamese anonymous Captain who acts as assistant, driver, and confidant to a South Vietnamese General. Yet, beneath this facade, he is really a clandestine agent to the Communist North, relying vital information in invisible ink back to his superiors in Hanoi via France.��

The setting of the series begins in Saigon months before its inevitable fall and then dances across epochs, recounting childhood and previous episodes from the Captain’s life and follows his journey to Los Angeles among exiled former South Vietnamese army officers.��

brings his signature brand of electrifying charisma, donning a multitude of prosthetic disguises that would make even the most seasoned spy envious. His magnetic presence is felt throughout the series, infusing each scene with a palpable intensity that keeps viewers guessing until the very end.��

From the war-torn streets of Vietnam to the neon-lit alleys of Los Angeles, the boundaries between truth and deception blur, mirroring the fractured psyche of our unreliable narrator. Scenes rewind and replay, each iteration imbued with a slightly different hue, reminding us of the fallibility of memory. Stylistic flourishes abound, from recurring images that serve as bookmarks in our protagonist's fractured memories to abrupt cuts that jolt us between locations and time periods. All of which is occasionally tied together with the Captain’s narration.��

Amidst the intrigue, romance blossoms between the Captain and ’s (spy fans will recognise her from the series ) enigmatic Sofia Mori, adding a layer of emotional depth to the narrative.��

Perhaps the most memorable is Episode 4 (directed by of and Le Carré’s fame) which sees the Captain consulting on a Hollywood film based on a group of American soldiers fighting in Vietnam. This draws out comparisons to the Vietnam war movies that followed the conflict. Think: , PLATOON, etc. And in some ways, it reminded me of the spoof film: . Thus, the dark comedy angle will appeal to some but perhaps not others.����

traverses continents and eras with the agility of a seasoned spy. Along the way, it revels in the old-fashioned spycraft of miniature cameras and invisible ink, infusing moments of levity amidst the harrowing backdrop of war and betrayal. Highly recommended and much to like.

Check out the trailer below (Great soundtrack!)

Check out the book here ��

There is a wide range of spy novels out there that make up the espionage genre. From the more glamorous, action-adventure stories of Ian Fleming’s James Bond to the most realistic, morally ambiguous books of John Le Carré.����

But here I have selected five unique spy novels that might just seduce you with their covert charms. These books transcend the conventional boundaries of the genre, offering something new and fresh, a different take on the standard spy books you may be used to.����

One thing that may bind these together is their focus on character rather than plot

Source:

First up is the Spy Game trilogy. I’m cheating a little here by including a trilogy, but I think it’s important to group them together.��

Michael Frost Beckner wrote the story and screenplay for the movie SPY GAME (2001) starring Brad Pitt and Robert Redford. An excellent portrayal of the intricacies, moral ambiguity and complex web of the espionage world that oozes authenticity.��

His Spy Game trilogy of novels continue in this tradition weaving in and around the movie following CIA lawyer Russel Aiken (NB �� Aiken makes a brief appearance in the movie). From the first page it’s apparent this is not the world of James Bond nor Jason Bourne, but the real, multi-layered clandestine world of deception where psychology and personal relationships are more powerful than guns and bombs.��

The first novel ‘Muir’s Gambit�� acts a prequel to the movie, placing you into the mind of the narrator, Russel Aiken, a lawyer with the Central Intelligence Agency as he interviews seasoned CIA officer, Muir (Redford in the film). Muir recruited Aiken and so is somewhat of a father-figure and mentor.

The second book ‘Bishop’s Endgame�� sees Aiken recount his experiences as the CIA’s legal eagle trying to parse the power plays of the Agency’s higher-ups with the on-the-ground movements of Bishop (Pitt in the movie), while undergoing a crisis in his own personal life.��

The third ‘Aiken in Check�� follows Aiken defecting to Cuba as he attempts to free the love of his life, Nina Estrada from Cuban Intelligence. Aiken’s (now) trademark stream-of-consciousness musings on his life, Muir and Bishop, the CIA, quantum physics, time, and everything in between, are ever present and lend the novel an absurdist, Borges-like touch.��

Throughout all books, Beckner’s prose sparkles and flows and while the action comes thick and fast, there is also a deeper level at play in this trilogy. Psychological and philosophical musings underpin the operations and the complex characters brimming with life, add a human element which offers a poignant touch. A nice complement compared with your average spy thriller. An excellent trilogy which is highly entertaining, showcasing Beckner’s skill, dexterity, and experience as a Hollywood screenwriter and storyteller. Utterly unique.��

Click the link to grab �� ��

Source:

Viet Thanh Nguyen’s ‘The Sympathizer�� is an explosion of historical fiction meets espionage told with a sharp wit, dark humour, and unrelenting insights into the Vietnam War (or the American War as it’s known in Vietnam) and its aftermath.

The novel centres around a half-French, half-Vietnamese communist spy navigating the tumultuous end of the Vietnam war, with his subsequent exile to the US.

Nguyen's protagonist—unnamed�� is a man of divided loyalties, a "man of two minds," who serves as a mole within the South Vietnamese army and later in the Vietnamese refugee community in Los Angeles. This double consciousness serves as the perfect vehicle for Nguyen to explore themes of identity, political conflict, and the flawed narrative of American heroism in Vietnam. It’s this deep dive into the psyche of the anonymous protagonist which gives this novel its unique touch. It’s truly rare indeed that it manages to be both a page-turner, a profound study of the human condition, and generally entertaining and informative with dazzling prose.��

The book is soon to be an HBO series (produced by the excellent A24) in which the first episode will be released on April 14, 2024, so keep your eyes open as the trailer looks very inviting (). A unique and creative novel that rightly deserves its winning the Pulitzer Prize for Fiction in 2016.��

Click the link to grab ��

Source:

‘Who Is Vera Kelly?�� gives the espionage genre a fresh twist with a female protagonist undercover in 1960s Argentina with political upheaval on the horizon. Vera Kelly is tasked with infiltrating a left-wing student group suspected of working with the KGB.��

Vera Kelly is a character with a rich and complex backstory as she struggles with her alienation, identity and sexual orientation in a less than accepting era. Definitely not your standard-issue spy one might expect from other spy novels. Buenos Aires of the time is brought to life on the page with a gritty, atmospheric undertone. An unpredictable and compelling spy novel which stretches the genre.����
Click the link to grab ��

Source:

Similarly, American Spy by Lauren Wilkinson stretches the spy genre with a black, female protagonist who is an intelligence officer—Marie Mitchell—with the FBI during the 1980s. A time when the service was overwhelmingly white and male. Mitchell’s escapades into Burkina Faso task her with undermining the rise of the charismatic, revolutionary leader Thomas Sankara.��

I struggled at first with this novel as the writing didn’t gel with me, but I persevered and I was happy I did as the story unwound and drew me (and the writing finally gelled). Part passionate romance, part spy novel, part exploration of global politics during the Cold War and the US’s intervention in the affairs of other countries. I also enjoyed the setting for this novel which, partly set in West Africa, provided a distinct location from the average Europe and/or Middle East locations of many spy books. A unique take on the espionage world, perhaps opening it up to a different set of readers. Former President Barack Obama who included it in his Favourite Books of 2019, so that’s one reader Wilkinson has reached! Although I saw that Obama also included Le Carré ‘Silverview�� on a later list, so perhaps he’s a dedicated spy fan after all.��

Click the link to grab ��

Source:

Mick Herron’s Slough House series took a while to warm to the wider spy novel world, but once it did, it took off and has now spawned a successful TV series on Apple TV. Filled with dark humour, the novels centre around Slough House, a backwater building for MI5 spies that have f—ed up royally but are still kept on the books. A somewhat mundane purgatory of paper pushing and filing for a ragtag bunch of espionage misfits led by Jackson Lamb. Told with razor-sharp wit and dry sarcasm it’s safe to say these novels are the antithesis of the tuxedo-clad, martini-sipping Bond-esque spies and far removed from the action-fuel world of Ludlam and the Bourne books. The closest you’ll find are the characters from Le Carré’s civil servant spies only if they smoked, drank, cursed, released gas, and concentrated their efforts on bantering and rifting on each other rather than conducting meticulous intelligence operations. Highly enjoyable, utterly entertaining and Herron has breathed fresh air (and dry humour) into the genre. ��

Click the link to grab ��

Introducing my book, THE SMUGGLER’S APPRENTICE OF GUATEMALA, a short eBook-only novella about a backpacker who is recruited by MI6 to uncover a smuggling network.

The novella acts as an origin story for my character Oliver Jardine and reveals his entry into the world of espionage. Because it’s a novella, it’s shorter than a regular novel and is available as eBook only. It’s (partly) based on a true event that I experienced while travelling and living in Guatemala. I might write a post on that later�� ;)

The eBook is available at major online eBook retailers including , , , , , and many more. You can also ask you library to order it through or BorrowBox.

Below are some quotes from the authors and , both excellent authors with an entertaining array of books. Click their names to find out more about them and their books.

The road twists and turns, as we coast up a curvy road wrapped around a hill. The flat alluvial plains of the Kok river disappear behind us and ahead lies the misty green mountains that roll on towards the Myanmar border. Banana trees flash by and in the distance coffee bushes dot the hillside like small green balls of cotton laid in neat rows. Dry rice husks stand still in tranquil rice paddies adding square patches of straw-yellow to the greenery as they cling to the hillside in steep terraces. Mobile phone reception is patchy and it feels as if the city of Chiang Rai is a world away. And then, reaching the top, the road flattens out as small houses flash beside us as we drive along a hilltop ridge.��

��Ban Thoet Thai,�� announces our taxi driver, Teep.����

��Di mak,�� (very good) I reply.

We have arrived at the town of the opium king. Former opium king, I should add.������

Source: Lachlan Page © 2022

My wife and I are travelling in northern Thailand in an area known as the Golden Triangle—a term initially coined by the CIA to refer to the mountainous region where Myanmar, Laos, and Thailand meet. A stunning mix of tranquil rice paddies, misty mountains, and ethnic hill tribes surrounding the convergence of the mighty Mekong river and the smaller Ruak and Kok rivers. The area has an infamous history. It once supplied the lion’s share of the world’s opium, hence the CIA naming. But in recent times the Thai government and the UNODC (United Nations Office on Drugs and Crime) have worked to bring in a crop-substitution programme for farmers, which explains the variety of crops spread out across the hills and valleys. Later, back in Chiang Rai, the provincial capital, UNODC officials would confirm that the crop substitution programme is still ongoing with coffee hoped to be the new cash crop for the region.��

But it’s the history and story of the so-called opium king Khun Sa which has intrigued me and, as my curiosity got the better of me, caused our detour while visiting the nearby tea plantations of Mae Salong. However, I should note this is not an article to glorify drugs or trafficking, my wife is from Colombia, and while I lived there, understanding its history, one can’t help but be aware of the violence that follows the black market and illegal trade in narcotics. But nonetheless, there is something that draws us to these clandestine stories, and because this story is not particularly well known, and with the recent decriminalisation of marijuana in Thailand, I thought it was worth telling.����

We had arrived at Ban Thoet Thai (formerly Ban Hin Taek), a small mountain town a few clicks from the Myanmar border. Founded in 1903, it is ethnically diverse, as are many areas in Chiang Rai province, with Shan, Yunnanese, Lahu, and Akha people making up the inhabitants. The signs on small shops and restaurants that now flash by show Thai, Chinese, and Burmese scripts as I use a map app I have downloaded—reception is patchy up here—to help guide Teep through a series of turns in the town’s narrow streets. We arrive at a short dirt track leading up into the jungle and continue on uphill, after a few minutes we pull up at a cluster of utility vehicles, motorbikes, and—to our surprise—a white marquee set up over plastic tables and chairs filled with food and drink. A steady rhythm beats on a drum accompanied by bells and chimes, as we descend from the taxi. It’s an atmosphere of celebration, not what you would expect at the former camp of a notorious warlord/opium dealer/freedom fighter, Khun Sa. But in all my years of travel, stranger things have happened.��

Source: Lachlan Page © 2022

The history of Khun Sa and his legacy is a complicated one. He has been described as (depending on who you ask) a war lord, an opium dealer, a freedom fighter, and/or a Robin Hood-esque character who operated in the Golden Triangle during the 70s and 80s. His former Thai base which we were visiting is now a museum for mostly local tourists, it appears. But Khun Sa’s story doesn’t begin here, it begins in neighbouring Myanmar, formerly British Burma where he was born Zhang Qifu (or Chang Chi-fu) in 1934 to a Chinese father and Shan mother. The Shan are a minority ethnic group in Myanmar, who have struggled for an independent Shan state or at the very least, great autonomy. At 18, he trained with the Kuomintang (KMT), Chinese Nationalist Army soldiers who had retreated across the border into Burma from south-west China after their defeat in the Chinese civil war. The rest fled to Taiwan. It’s thought that Khun Sa’s father was in fact one of these fleeing soldiers.��

Not one to take orders and to take advantage of the booming opium trade, Khun Sa broke away and formed his own militia with other deserting soldiers, deciding to call himself “the Lord of Prosperity�� �� Khun Sa in the Shan language. Rising in the ranks of the Golden Triangle opium trade he was eventually captured and arrested by the Burmese military and spent time in prison in Rangoon (present day Yangon).��

On release in 1974, Khun Sa relocated across the border to Ban Hin Taek in Thailand (present day Ban Thoet Thai where we are now), cultivating influential Thai military figures who used him to help lessen the strength of the remnants of the Kuomintang forces still lingering in the jungle, increase Thai influence in Myanmar, and suppress communist insurgents (it was during the Cold War after all). It was in this period that Khun Sa showed his benevolent side building schools, a hospital, water & electricity supplies to help the townsfolk of Ban Thoet Thai and hence why I was now about to witness a small celebration to worship him on a lazy Sunday in northern Thailand.��

Out of the car and venturing towards the marquee, I see they are actually packing it up. A man approaches smiling and shakes my hand. ��Sawatdee krup,�� he says.

I return the greeting and ask in English, “party?”��

He smiles and nods.��

Our driver, Teep, appears beside me and after a quick exchange with the man, he quickly types into Google Translate on his phone, our main means of communication so far, and after a few moments the English translation appears: “Khun Sa worship celebration.��

After another quick exchange between Teep and the man, the man smiles and encouragingly points towards a large bronze statue of a man on top of a horse.��

“Welcome, welcome,�� he says, opening his arms wide and waving us towards the statue.

As I approach, women dance around the statue—which I now recognise as Khun Sa�� following the beat of a drum. They’re dressed in sarongs in a hill tribe pattern common in the markets in Chiang Rai and Chiang Mai. Open bottles of water, orange and green flavoured fizzy drinks—open with straws—and small packets of crisps are at the horse's feet mixed amongst melted candle wax and a bowl containing leaves and a lotus flower. All offerings to Khun Sa’s spirit. A small terracotta pot holds incense sticks which burn slowly, filing the air with hints of jasmine and lavender. Kids run around as young and old smile and join in the festivities. It’s a welcoming atmosphere, not one you’d expect from a museum of a former warlord/drug baron.��

Source: Lachlan Page © 2022

Turning away from the statue I see a gathering of shacks and buildings one hundred metres away—Khun Sa’s former base. The compound buildings are basic—bricks and concrete, tin roofs, with chicken wire for windows. Trees and bushes have grown around it, slowly overtaking it. I head towards them and I’m greeted by a smiling elderly man holding a broom. He monitors for me to enter through a gate and then he turns and proceeds to unlock several of the doors leading to a room of information boards with photos and writing in Thai and Burmese. I wander through, using the Google Translate app and begin to decipher the texts.��

Source: Lachlan Page © 2022

With the celebration, it seems that it’s Khun Sa’s Robin Hood legacy that lives on in Ban Thoet Thai. His assistance to the cause of Shan statehood also resonates with locals. In the museum, the Shan State flag—three horizontal stripes in red, green and yellow behind a white circle—is prominently displayed next to the Mong Tai Army flag of yellow mountains on a sky blue background with a white start in the top left corner. The exhibit talks of his accomplishments in fighting for Shan independence from Myanmar, although many commentators cite his supposed revolutionary ideals as a ruse to continue his opium trafficking and gain local support.��

Indeed, during the 1980s, when Khun Sa was situated back in Myanmar, Aussie journalist Stephen Rice visited him and interviewed him for Australian television. In the interview, Sa offered to destroy up to half the world’s heroin supply if the Australian government would supply $50 million cash or agricultural aid per year over a period of eight years. When questioned about this in the Australian Parliament, the then Minister for Foreign Affairs and Trade at the time, Gareth Evans, responded: “He is not a revolutionary leader but a major drug trafficker. The Australian Government is simply not in the business of paying criminals to refrain from criminal activity.�� It appears that not everyone bought Khun Sa’s ruse of using revolutionary ideals as a front for his drug trafficking organisation.��

As I exit the museum part, I see a row of doors set around a tree. One of them is open and when I enter two Thai women beautifully dressed in mustard yellow traditional dresses are taking selfies with a life-sized statue of Khun Sa. The effigy is sitting cross legged, dressed in green with a brown chequered scarf slung over the shoulders. After the selfie, they light incense sticks and candles as an offering and place it among the bottles of open water and fizzy drinks. They smile, greet me, and then exit, leaving me face to face with my second statue of Khun Sa for the day. Next to it sits a large framed photo of Khun Sa atop a horse, the obvious inspiration for the bronze statue outside.��

Source: Lachlan Page © 2022

I exit Khun Sa’s room—without taking a selfie—and head back to the car, mulling over Khun Sa’s legacy. The benevolent factor aside, his legacy is mixed. After being released from prison in Myanmar, and having established this new base in Thailand, he assembled a new army—the Shan United Army, a liberation front to form a Shan state independent of Myanmar. This group later merged with another Shan nationalist group to create the Mong Tai Army, one of the flags prominently displayed around the camp. With 20,000 troops under his command and at its peak, he was able to gain control over large swathes of land and continue to develop his opium business. That is until the 1980s when the US government began to take notice. Having previously turned a blind eye to Khun Sa’s opium trading as he helped to dampen communist guerrillas, the War on Drugs was picking up pace. The DEA (the US’s Drug Enforcement Agency) estimated that he controlled 70% of the drugs coming into the USA and so something had to be done, leading to the Americans placing a $2 million bounty on his head. However, they never caught him. After competitors entered the opium trade and within descent in the ranks of the Shan resistance army, Khun Sa’s influence began to wane. In 1996, he handed himself in to the Burmese government and moved to Yangon with a large fortune, eventually dying in 2007. The Myanmar government tolerated his presence as he invested in local projects.����

Sitting at a tea plantation forty minutes away in Mae Salong—it also has a curious history, formed by ex-KMT soldiers—and while sipping on jasmine tea and slurping up a plate of Yunnanese style noodles, my wife and I mulled over our experience. My wife, from Colombia, is no stranger to the effects of the trafficking of illegal drugs as Pablo Escobar unleashed terror on the country. His image has since been turned into something of a cult figure with “narco�� tourism a prominent feature of the gringo trail in his former home town of Medellín. Khun Sa’s former camp was more a museum to showcase his assistance in the plight of Shan independence than a cult-like curiosity that attracts narcos fans to Medellín. Still, it gave me a lot to think about as I carefully mixed my noodles with just the right amount of dark red chilli paste.��

Source: Lachlan Page © 2022

I thought of the happy faces worshipping Khun Sa’s memory on a tranquil Sunday, likely those who had benefited from the trade—the hospitals, schools, and other infrastructure that was built where the government was absent. But it’s equally important to consider the victims all over the world as a result of heroin trafficking. It’s a complicated situation, which requires a complex and nuanced solution in a globalised world. As in other places, cracking down hard doesn’t necessarily stop the drugs, they just move location, like an elaborate game of whack-a-mole. As drug trafficking and violence subsided in Colombia—but not disappeared, nor has the cocaine supply—it has only meant that cartels in Mexico have developed and grown stronger, transplanting the problem to another country. Someone else’s problem. Today, the opium trade is centred on Afghanistan and used to fuel illegal crime networks and the Taliban. Crystal meth seems to be the new drug of choice emanating from the Golden Triangle—although principally in Myanmar—with shipments regularly interrupted by police en route to Malaysia and Indonesia. The UNODC works hard to implement crop substitution programmes, a worthy endeavour to introduce a more viable alternative. But with the recent coup in Myanmar it seems that those programmes have been stalled, at least temporarily. The Thai government, having previously taken a hardline on drugs, has recently decriminalised marijuana in an effort to put the power back into government and legitimate businesses. The backpacker paradise strip of Khao San road in Bangkok now features brightly lit modern shops where you can choose your own pungent blend of marijuana with names such as space queen, super lemon haze, San Fernando Valley, or my favourite—for the name that is—Bruce Banner.����

Could this approach work for harder, more problematic drugs like cocaine, heroin, and crystal meth? The jury is still out.����

As for Khun Sa’s legacy? I guess the answer is, it depends on who you ask.����

was recently reviewed on Jeff Popple’s thriller and crime fiction book review website, .

Jeff was the crime book reviewer from 1982 to 2015 and now writes a weekly book column in the . He has previously been on the Selection Committee for the (“Australia’s oldest and most prestigious recognition honouring published crime fiction and true crime writing.�� for those not familiar with them) and the Barry Awards. He has also contributed to range of crime fiction related magazines such as , and Crime Factory.

Thanks to Jeff for the review of THE GENERAL OF CARACAS and please visit his website to keep up-to-date on new reads in the world of thrillers and crime fiction.

Read the review here (you’ll need to scroll to the last review) -

I’ve added a few snippets from the review below:

“…a smoothly flowing tale that is bolstered by good descriptions and plenty of reflection.��

“The dialogue is brisk and smart and there is a nice sense of cynicism to the proceedings.��

“…will appeal to those who are looking for something different in their spy reading.��

‘So the Dominicans used to fight with the Jesuits who would clash with the Augustinians?�� asks my wife

‘No, not the clergy,�� replies our guide, Gonzalo, in Spanish, ‘but rather their supporters would fight amongst themselves.��

‘Like football hooligans nowadays��, I chime in.

��Exacto!�� beams Gonzalo, ‘I’ll use that analogy next time.��

We exit the dusty Santo Domingo church, mount our bikes and push on as the equatorial sun blazes down. Heat radiates up from the road like standing over a hot stove.����

Gonzalo, leisurely pedalling along, yells over his shoulder with a cheeky grin, ‘And now, to the cemetery which hosts some of the town’s most valuable real estate!��

We dismount at the cemetery entrance near a group of elderly men, as Gonzalo begins his next story. ‘During Semana Santa, the town residents dress up and gather in this cemetery to light candles in honour of their deceased loved ones,�� the group of men nod, confirming, as Gonzalo continues. ‘The cemetery is so popular that some Momposinos can’t wait to die—just to be buried here!��

The men cackle with laughter like husky-voiced geese and chime in with agreement.��

��¿Si o no, caballeros?�� Gonzalo confirms with them. ‘Am I right, gentlemen?��

They all nod, still chuckling as one replies: ��Así es.’��

Mompox Cemetery. Lachlan Page ©

We are on a historic bike tour in Santa Cruz de Mompox (sometimes written as Mompos), a UNESCO World Heritage listed town on an island amidst Colombia’s Magdalena river founded in 1537. The once thriving trading post connected the coast with the Andes and was also used as a safe haven if Cartagena were to fall to the British or be ransacked by pirates.

It’s this strategic location that brought merchants, metalwork artisans, the odd botanist—Alexander von Humboldt passed through here—and the Dominican, Jesuit, Augustinian and Franciscan orders who established the town’s churches. This wealth and isolation led Mompox to play an important part in the liberation of the northern part of South America and self-declaring independence from the Spanish on August 6, 1811.��������

To explore this history further, Gonzalo takes us to La Piedra de Bolívar, a stone which shows the arrivals and departures of Simon Bolívar��El Libertador—who liberated much of northern South America. The stone shows Bolíar passed through here eight times during his independence campaign. On one occasion taking 400 able-bodied Momposino men to liberate his native Caracas, now immortalised in Mompox’s Plaza de la Libertad where Bolivar’s famous quote adorns a statue at its centre. “If to Caracas I owe my life, then to Mompox I owe my glory��. Those with an acute historical eye will also notice the ��Aqui habito Bolivar varias veces�� signs (Bolivar stayed here various times) around town.��

Simon Bolīvar in Casa de la Cultura in Mompox. Lachlan Page ©

Mompox’s Plaza de la Libertad. Lachlan Page ©

After our independence interlude we visit the San Agustin church which holds a decadent, gold leafed religious float, made in France and financed by wealthy local families. Hooded nazarenos carry the float taking two steps forward and one step back following in the footsteps of Christ en route to the church of San Francisco during Semana Santa �� Holy Week or Easter. The solemn processions here are some of the most famous in Colombia and are accompanied by candle-holding worshippers and brass music similar to the traditional Easter processions of Seville.����

The altar in San Agustin church, Mompox. Lachlan Page ©

Our tour continues on our pious equivalent of a pub crawl as we visit the churches San Francisco, Conception, and finally, Santa Barbara. It’s here, we climb the famous bell tower for a view over the Andalusian-style terracotta roofs and church cupolas where you get a sense that not much has changed since Mompox’s heyday as the once prosperous trading town.����

View from the bell tower in Santa Barbara church. Lachlan Page ©

However, while Mompox hasn’t changed, the rest of Colombia has. In the 19th century, a buildup of sediment at a bend in the river nearby made it less desirable and a new port at Magangue was established. Gone are the larger barges and paddle steamers which brought people and prosperity, although it is still possible to arrive via ferry from the port of Magangue. Nevertheless, Mompox remains relatively undiscovered, even for many Colombians.��

After our bike tour, we stroll along the Albacarrada (the main promenade along the river) past whitewashed colonial mansions, now housing cafes, restaurants and boutique hotels. We stop to drink icy pineapple juice and watch dugout canoes—similar to the indigenous champanes which feature on the towns coat of arms—ferry school children across the river and fisherman ply their trade on this fast flowing river outlet of the Magdalena.

Refreshed from the arctic jugo de piña, we head away from the river to Calle Real del Medio (Royal Middle Street) �� the old part of Mompox consists of three streets parallel to the river: La Albarrada, Calle Real del Medio and Calle de Atrás �� to the restored colonial casa which houses Café Ambrosia. We sit down to lunch of fried boca chico river fish, squashed plantain known as patacon, coconut rice and cold local corozo juice.������

To beat the afternoon heat, we return to our hotel, La Casa Amarilla, for a much needed siesta. Lying in hammocks around a leafy courtyard, a slight breeze breaks up the dense, humid afternoon air. Rested, we head out at sunset to wander the streets as ornate street lanterns begin to cast a soft glow on the white-washed stucco walls and the crackling hum of cicadas fills the night air. Locals drag their rocking chairs to the street to catch the evening breeze and chit-chat with passing friends. We continue along the Albarrada until we reach El Fuerte, a wood-oven pizzeria housed in the former San Anselmo Fort where the artistic furniture adds to the atmosphere and is, surprisingly, for sale.

During the several days we spend in Mompox, we also take a boat trip to the Pijino wetlands which team with great blue herons and kingfishers while howler monkeys rumble through the treetops lining the river. Back in town, we visit a filigree metal workshop, an ancient, intricate trade weaving together fine strands of gold and silver to create unique jewellery famous throughout Colombia. A technique that remains from its days as a trading port in which gold, silver and emeralds passed through between the Andes and the Caribbean.��������

Filigree metalwork in Mompox. Lachlan Page ©

Mompox from the river. Lachlan Page ©

However, the real appeal of Mompox is the sleepy, laid back town feel oozing faded colonial beauty and an alluring, lost-in-time charm. You can’t help but think you’re stuck in a time warp wandering the streets past palatial riverside mansions while iguanas scurry along the river bank as the Magdalena slowly drifts past. A far cry from its larger colonial sister, Cartagena, which receives floating cities full of bumbag-wearing tourists daily.

Santa Barbara church. Lachlan Page ©

Colombian Nobel Laureate Gabriel Garcia Marquez mentions this magical, isolated charm in his book, The General in his Labyrinth, when General Bolívar comments to José Palacios, his aide-de-camp: "Mompox does not exist. Sometimes we dream about it, but it does not exist."��

With a bridge constructed and tourism rising in Colombia, it won’t be long before more people will realise that Mompox really does it exist. Then, those that make the journey and visit her churches can reply as José Palacios did to General Bolívar when told that Mompox does not exist: “at least I can testify to the existence of the Santa Barbara Tower".

How to get there

Mompox can be reached via Valledupar or Sincelejo �� hotels can arrange transfers from these locations.

Places to stay

(Carrera 1 # 13-59) Expat run hotel with leafy interior courtyard near Santa Barbara church.��

(Albarrada de, Cra. 1 #14 - 57) A 17th Century renovated colonial house offering spacious rooms and a swimming pool, right on the Albarrada.��

(Calle Real del Medio #17-41) Heritage listed colonial hotel built around an enormous tree with a swimming pool.

Eating

���������Dz�� (Calle 19 #1a - 59 | Parque de la libertad) Chic restaurant housed in colonial casa on Parque de la Libertad.

Comedor Costeño (Calle de la Albarrada #18-45) Rustic riverside cafe with cheap local fare (try the Mojarra Frita) and ice cold cerveza.

El Fuerte (Calle de la Albarrada #163 �� cerca a la Iglesia Santa Barbara) Austrian-Colombian run wood-oven pizza and pasta restaurant on the edge of town with wooden artwork furniture.