The Beat Goes On

OK, so it's time to get out the patented Millsy word horn and attempt to cram in all the fun, joy and impatience that makes up another week in this bloody boiling continent. I'm now in Cambodia, having been bounced across the border in a flurry of unkept promises, duplicitous travel agents and a bombardment of queries as to whether I want a tuk-tuk or some lovely old boom-boom. Tuk-tuk drivers are fast becoming my least favourite humans - I even got asked, while I was in one, if I wanted 'tuk-tuk, sir? Hello, friend?' I'm in one! I'm bloody sitting in one being driven around! How can they possibly think I need another one?! I know Rob mentioned in the comments last week that I need to lay off the beetles, but I'm not that gargantuan that they need one per buttock. There have been a lot of chips lately, but they're mostly shoulder-bound, as per.

My last stop in Laos was on the flat-lining 4,000 Islands near the border of Cambodia. As discussed, Laos is a far calmer place to visit than its neighbours, but Don Det - the name of the island I chose out of the 4,000 - takes this to another level. The handful of bars and guesthouses are sparsely populated with red-eyed stoners, whose gravelly, strained attempts at conversation are more painful to sit through than standing barefoot on an upturned plug. And half as charming. Still, as a place to kick back and soak up the mosquitoes, it really can't be beaten. Hammocks that overlook the chocolaty Mekong swing peacefully in the breeze in front of your room and if reading and relaxing is your thing, this is the place to go for a timeout from the madness.

After being defibrillated back into the land of the living, I took a lying bus over the border to another fairly sleepy area in the north-east of Cambodia. Lying because the agent said it was on an air-conditioned 'VIP' bus that took five hours. The reality was half an hour on that bus, kicked off just over the border and wait for six hours in a restaurant before boarding a local bus, principally used for transporting fish and bad smells as far as I could tell, for a total time of 12 hours. The destination was the almost bustling town of Ban Lung, made famous for its blue (green) water lake encased in an ancient volcanic crater, waterfalls and jungle treks. I stayed in the beautiful Treetop Guesthouse, which really was as stunning as it sounds, and run by the ubiquitous Mr T. A nice man, but as I attempted to explain to him, I wasn't getting on no plane, fool. Well, quite.

I met an Argentian couple on the lying bus before we arrived at the guesthouse (I mentioned it once, but I think I got away with it) and on the following day we rented motorbikes (Yeah! Neeeaaaaaaarrrmmmmmm!) and took in the crater and waterfalls. This day was almost a complete write-off after being woken at 4am by another egotistical monk, screeching his devotion through a sound system that would make Streatham's most obnoxious car radios blush. Talk about love the sound of your own voice. Literally the only one then. However, riding around through the streets of Ban Lung (neeeeaaaarrrmmmm!) having a dip in the green warmth of the volcanic crater and having a massive beard now just about made up for it all. Just don't do it again, cheeky monk-ey.

I stayed a lot longer than I thought I would in Ban Lung, but this was chiefly as a result of finding gainful employment there. No, not as principal milk poisoner for Mr T, but rather as his writing and videoing bitch. The day I was going to leave I noticed he was struggling over a descriptive piece for a trek being led out of the hostel and I said, 'I can do that'. And he said, 'OK, then'. And that's how I ended up getting four nights, including two on a trek, all meals and my ticket to Phenom Penh paid for, which was pretty bloody sweet.

Unfortunately the trek was far harder than I thought it was going to be - a lot more difficult and painful than the one in Chiang Mai - and the trip home on motorbikes ended up being a muddy nightmare too. The same distance took an hour on the way, but after some rain took four and a half hours, in the pitch black, with one minor and one fairly major fall thrown in for good measure. I was going to do a whole post on it. Even had a name for it - Scar Trek. But I didn't bother in the end. I made a video for the trek as well, which I'll post on Vimeo soon for you to see. I'm not in it that much as I took all the footage, but that's possibly a selling point for you bastards. Why won't you let me in?!

So that brings me, finally, to Phenom Penh, where I'm sitting and writing this in the Sweet Home Guset House - genuine spelling error. Classic. The capital is everything I thought it was going to be, which is fast, fun and full of freaks. I've had a couple of nights out, experienced clubbing Cambodian-style (I've still got it, incidentally. You never lose it) and taken in the sights of the Royal Palace and Central and Russian markets. Called Russian for no reason at all - but if you were looking for reason, you've come to the wrong continent.

I also went to the infamous Killing Fields that pay testament to the atrocities perpetrated by Pol Pot in the mid to late 70s. An appropriately ghoulish experience, which included a visit to the torture prison S21 with its notorious photographic categorisation of the victims that made their last journeys there all those years ago. What surprised me most about this trip was the fanfare made and beauty grown out of the violence. Auschwitz is a cold, gloomy and grey place that reflects the horror born out of it, but the sunshine, flowers and well-kept grounds of the Killing Fields seemed incongrously juxtaposed with the subject matter. The remains that continue to sprout from the earth and the stories I heard will stay with me for a long time. Truly the saddest wank I've ever had. Joke, joke, joke, joke! Don't be angry - we all have our coping mechanisms.

So that's your lot for now. Thanks to an unprecedented three comments last week. Witchfinder general, I raise a glass to you, although I have no idea who you are. Thanks for joining in. Al, spot-on again - still don't have your new email, mateski. Come on, touch me, bruv. And Rob - where would I be without you? Certainly more bereft of blog comments for a start. I need more time to think of other consequences of a life without you. Tuk-tuk, sir?!

Traveller Checks

A little while ago I wrote a post while teaching about the different types of teachers. As this resulted in the virtual standing ovation that was zero comments I've decided to do the same thing again with travellers. Vitriol and spite fans, it's been too long.

The Bargain Hunt:

That could be rhyming slang for this particular brand of roamer. For them it's all about how cheap you can get absolutely anything, regardless of the minimal saving and the maximum discomfort. They'll brag continually about how they stayed on a plank of wood in Cambodia for less than the cost of a paperclip and massage their hands together gleefully as a pulsating grub arrives at the table between two leaves of freshly peeled tourist skin. If you pay more than 20p for dinner - including relaxing massage and signed ping-pong - they'll screw their pugnacious faces up in disgust and follow that with an incredulous grin, as though you're some kind of mug. Funny because it's exactly the same face the locals pull as they gag and heave their way through their grub grub. Bargain Hunt will tell you it's all about immersing yourself in the experience, but I'd argue that to do just that you don't have to sit naked by a rusty water pump with your swollen belly as flies plumb greedily at your eye jelly.

The Smug Fuck:

And it's a re-entry into the top five for this variety of teacher and traveller, but the conventions are altered slightly. This is the wanderer who, whenever you mention something heinous, have no idea what you're talking about. For example, when you scratch your weeping, bleeding legs to satiate bite after bite, they'll gaily exclaim that, 'oh, I'm not really troubled by the mosquitoes. If you put it out of your mind I find they don't bother you.' Suffering relentless attacks by the bloodthirsty flying gits is not a state of mind. If anything the little bastards find a 'chilled' attitude a welcome relief from the scorching heat. Speaking of which, the Smug Fucks also never endure the sun's compulsion to flay the skin right off your face: 'I didn't even put any lotion on today and look at you!' I'll have my revenge when, in about 10 years, your dermis looks like an old paper bag and mine's still milky fresh. I can wait.

Traveller Police:

This lot have their radars ready wherever they go, listening out to contribute their opinions and stamp out even the merest Western sensibility. Their answer to every nuance of frustration is, 'well, you're in _______ now.' which can be filled in according to whatever country you're unfortunate enough to make their acquaintance. This can be about anything, from getting no sleep, to being horribly ripped off or just getting annoyed with the perpetual inconsistencies of what is told to you and what actually occurs. Much like the actual police, Traveller Police are always there at exactly the point you don't want them. Say you've just done a particularly gruelling overnight bus journey, had no sleep and are pleading with some confused-looking, but very loud locals to keep it down because if you don't rest soon there'll be that blacking out thing again where you wake up surrounded by body parts. 'Hey, you're in Laos now, buddy', they unhelpfully smirk through their matted dreadlocks. And then the darkness.

Obnoxious teenagers:

Young, dumb and rude to their mums. I caught one of these freshly squeezed ball fruits actually arguing with 'mom' in a shared internet cafe about being safe: 'Mom, I am sensible! The car paint will come off! God!' Loud displays of hateful rhetoric fuse naturally into further demonstrations of how to ignore absolutely everyone around you and frankly give a shit. Rude to the locals, this lot want their Ibiza holiday anywhere they can and happily ruin a good night out for everyone else with their karate chop dance moves and incongruous drug abuse. The OTs parade their annoyingly perfect bodies around, wide-eyed and gurning, to the shock and awe of the indigenous people in their pursuit of the ultimate high in the most unlikely and inappropriate of places. Fun to watch as they nod in drug-addled approval for their brethrin, who jive and grind their buns off in front of a bemused-looking monk. Still, the drug police can only be round the corner - I wonder if they know the butt-fuck boogie? So good it hurts. A lot. For years.

The Besters:

An irrepressibly, to the point of utter delusion, positive group of trippers who have always had the best, happiest, most amazing, pant-wettingly incredible time and if you haven't - well, they just shake their heads slowly in mock sympathy. If you went on a trek and had fun, their time was more meaningful than just fun. If you enjoyed your time at a waterfall, they reached new levels of mystical enlightenment round the corner - oh, didn't you see that part? If you tried a local whisky and got a bit squiffy, they have stared into the eye of Buddha himself - who was grateful for the opportunity to meet them. A difficult bus ride is an experience you grow from; a lying, cheating travel agent is all about the experience; experience, experience, experience, experience, experience. This morning we were all woken abruptly and loudly at 4am by the local temple as they celebrated the life of an old woman who died recently. 'Singing', chanting, music that sounds just like the noise a Spectrum made when it was loading, all played through a speaker system that could be heard over 20km away, while happily only being 1km away from us - because God loves amplification. A Bester came down bleary-eyed and crease-headed but still smiling. 'It's good', she said. 'I really liked the sound. Amazing.' Cunt.

Just as I did with the teaching categorisation, I need to think about where I fit into all this. Well, I'm too much of a fussy shit to be a Bargain Hunt and have way too much self-loathing to be a Smug Fuck. Too moody to let the locals get away with it, so can't be a member of the Traveller Police and, let's face it, too hairy and crusty and about 15 years too late to be a teenager, leaving just The Besters. Overwhelmingly positive...? Hmm. No. I guess I'm actually the opposite of each of these sorts - but that's not necessarily a good thing and I'm certainly not blowing my own trumpet. I don't even have a trumpet. My experience out here is about trying to get by without offending anyone (too late) and making the most of it while trying to avoid being ripped off (fat chance) and sunburnt. Also, apparently, to sit in judgement upon all others from my septic and toxic point of view. Who do I think I am? I'm worse than the whole lot of them.

Thanks to my glorious girl for her comment last week - although it was a little hateful. Maybe I'm rubbing off on you a little bit? Sounds rude. Will be. By the way, I've uploaded a video of my first few weeks here, if you're at all interested. See it here: http://vimeo.com/30932580 Bwye!

127 Laoers

I can't believe it's only been a week since we last spoke. I have no idea where to begin - I've seen and done more amazing things than you could crack a whip at; met people I liked, people I hated (more of these, obviously, as it's my wont) happy locals, indifferent locals, surly locals. Fallen off a bridge, tubed down a river, got bitten endless times by mosquitoes, popped a few of the fuckers when they're too fat to fly away on my blood. Drank in quite possibly the most hedonistic bar I've ever been to, been undefeated on the pool table and slept in majesty and squalour, all for less money than the entrance fee to Alton Towers. This has been the last 127 hours in Laos(ers)

The slow boat journey into Laos from Chiang Mai took three days and included two hostel nights, a flash of blind panic, a little bit of sick and the cumulative erosion of my arse. The scenery on this trip was simply breathtaking. On either side of the Mekong - yeah, the bloody Mekong - vast wildernesses of jungle shrubbery interwove like only undomesticated and feral forests can - entangled and intertwined with one another in a series of frozen embraces like a Pompeian silent disco. This for hour upon hour almost distracted from the bot-bot gently crumbling beneath me but I'm not putting a photo of it on this post.

Getting into Luang Prabang after three days travel, the pace of the trip slowed considerably, which is no easy task after the slow boat. The surroundings were a manufactured beauty, but no less striking for it. After I relented to the first guesthouse to beckon me in, I put my bags away, had a shower and then walked out into the quickly erected night market right outside my digs. The streets were lit by an array of colours from the lanterns and candles which adorned them. It was like walking through a firework display up in the clouds, without any sound. The people were calm and friendly and no-one pushed and pulled you through the market with the desperation I'd witnessed over and over again in Thailand.

The night market came with its own fast food outlet down an alleyway, where plumes of traditional smells stung the eyes and rumbled the tum. The waterfalls were a spectacle in the coming days and offered a chilled relief from the biting heat that scratched at your skin like kitten claws in the midday sun. The festival provided a chaotic mix of music, temples, candled offerings floating down the Mekong and two fingers flicked at any sense of safety as fireworks bounced off your arm and exploded a foot away. I have to say, very difficult not to lose it at the kids for doing this, but instead I sated myself by swearing a lot at them and glaring. You know, that terrifying glare of mine. Picturesque in the extreme, but it still doesn't make it as the post photo.

Four hours from the still tranquillity of Luang Prabang, party city Vang Vieng rose from the touristic desire to experience the splendour of Laos countryside from the comfort of an inner tube. Rent one for the day and spend it drinking heavily in the bars dotted along the route and swinging into the water from their various equipment - this included a trapeze, a slide, a rope, an air bag, or just a fall, which I opted for after tucking a few too many local whiskies away. I felt more out of place than Stevie Wonder at the Imax in my UV protection t-shirt, green wanker hat and sporting my usual cadaver chic skin colour, but the beautiful ones looked pretty stupid too. Enough strutting to make a peacock blush, they lushed and pounded their way around the bars with that inimitable and unswerving confidence that only the very young can get away with. Now I know how it feels to be an 80-year-old woman and twitch nervously at the curtain when you hear that loud jungle music pulsing down the street. Incidentally, get some music of your own, ball-fruit - every single tune was a remix from when we ruled the earth. We still rule - I'm pretty sure of that. Stunning natural vistas, but even that didn't make the grade this week.

After drinking too much, the next day was about taking it easy - Easy Rider, that is! Hired a motorbike (with shopping basket accessory for added credibility) and bumped down the 'roads' to a beautiful blue lagoon which bubbled and steamed as I entered after the baking ride. So much fun and made all the better by the cave which lay above the lagoon after a steep 200 metre climb. This was quite superb and a real trial to conquer. No guide meant that it was down to us and our torches to navigate around the stalactites and stalagmites in the pitch black. Almost as soon as you enter, the light shone in through the mouth and lit up a golden Buddha lying on its side and shining in the sunlight. I've never seen anything so striking and just plain foreign. For once I felt like Dr Jones and that's why, after all the astonishing sights and unbelievable moments of the last week, that's the picture which makes it. Check. It. Out.

In the capital Vientiane at the moment (the capital city) awaiting a bus-bus-boat to 4,000 Island in the southern most tip of the country where I'm told the amazing displays will continue. Just ate a fried cricket, which was easily the most disgusting thing I've ever done, but it's about the experience, and it all contributes. Even if I will be pulling cricket legs from my teeth for the next day or two.

Thanks to mainstays Al and Rob for last week's comments. Al, if it makes you happy I'll admit it. She did offer the reach-around though, so that's mutually respectful, right? Also, I emailed you at your old email address - is this still correct? Message me, dammit! Rob, as you can see, it doesn't seem to be me that can't get over it. Get a Pop of your own - this one's taken. Cap chai.

Snap, Cankle and Pop - Part Two

So it turns out I wasn't the only one to suffer at the hands of Chiang Mai's after hours mean streets that night. Every single other person who stayed out later after the boxing encountered the same fate, except they didn't have a guy-girl guide guiding them back. In fact, it was revealed early in the AM that AM was the swiftest to return, with a new Commonwealth record of two hours and 34 minutes; the others took considerably longer - but they were considerably drunker and were trying, in vain, to find a mysterious and hitherto unbeknownst guesthouse by the name of The Holiday Guest Village Guesthouse. This, needless to say, does not exist.

So after next-to-no sleep (but still more than the others, who made it back about 30 minutes before we left - in all reality) I packed my bags and got ready to begin the first of my treks here in SE Asia. Although I was emboldened by the others' vampiric pallors, I still felt as rough as Pop's chin and the prospect of hiking through the tropical jungle in the sweltering heat was about as attractive as a backstreet Bangkok blood transfusion. The journey to our first stop was a muted affair and centred mostly around the desire to locate and consume lots and lots of water - this was a matter of urgency and fortunately a quick stop at a garage and local market allowed for this and for strength to slowly return. Plus a good chance to look, point, laugh, gag and marvel at a traditional local market. Always strange, always wonderful.

Our first stop on the tour was at the elephant 'sanctuary'. I put this in quotes as it was far from a sanctuary for these poor beasts. It became a bit of a moral dilemma for me and I really thought I just wouldn't be able to ride along because they were clearly being mistreated. Their huge grey heads were peppered with sickle marks where the drivers used painful spikes to guide them one way or the other and while some lolloped reluctantly towards us for our ride, others were brutally chained to the ground and spent the entire time taking one step forward and another backward in a textbook example of trauma and boredom. Still, I got to feed them lickle 'nanas on the way - come on, Nelly, carry me round the forest - no! sickle, sickle The other way! I felt so bad, but thought the organisers may get offended if I didn't go and it could create a big scene. I'm so weak. Sorry, Nelly. (tender sickle)

After the elephant abuse we ate lunch, building our strength for the first part of our trek. Dutifully the heavens opened during the eats and drenched the surroundings in a deluge of biblical proportions. With this unrelenting, we took up our possessions, wrapped ourselves in more plastic than freezer-bound leftovers and made the first tentative steps into the jungle. The guide, Nop (he preferred us to pronounce it Nob - not a problem for me) wore nothing but shorts and a T-shirt and skipped and twirled his way through the monsoon conditions as we huffed and heaved behind. The initial intention was to avoid getting completely saturated, but it's funny how quickly those inherent sensibilities leave you when you slip and fall for the 3rd time. I think the phrase you eventually come to is: fuck it. Tiny rivulets of snot, sweat and rain trickled purposefully into my mouth, giving the whole experience a distinctly salty hue, but about an hour in I realised something - I was loving it!

The surroundings were intriguing at worst and breathtaking at best. I've left a pic at the top of the post for your delectation - now in cool new panoramic! The jungle was hard and, make no mistake, treacherous (one of what became a very trek-based dialogue - see also arduous and painstaking) but it was the sense of achievement felt by every one of us by the time we reached our camp for the night which spurred us on through the paddy fields of the following day and the just downright dangerously thin and slippery bamboo bridges of the next. The hiking was filled with snakes, spiders, slips, falls, swearing, rain, mud, terrifying sensations of cobwebs breaking in your face and the sure knowledge of jungle spiders on you (getoffme, getoffme!) but the evening brought bathing in waterfalls, Nop's delicious massaman curry, singing, stories and beery silliness making it all worthwhile. Add tribal villages, a sprained ankle (there's your Snap) and an allegic reaction on my left foot (and finally your Cankle) and you have a memory to be cherished forever.

Here's to you, guys, and the treacherous Thai jungle. Cheers.

Snap, Cankle and Pop - Part One

Here is a list of things I've done since we last spoke:

- Travelled to Thailand's second city, Chiang Mai
- Gone to a Thai boxing match
- Got horribly lost at 2am
- Had my first poo (firm and pleasing to the eye)
- Rode on the back of a ladyboy's motorbike as she guided me home (not metaphorically)
- Rode on an elephant
- Trekked in monsoon conditions in the jungle
- Trekked through rice fields into a tribal village
- Resisted the urge to quote Platoon at every possible moment
- Relented to that urge - 'I'll do the whole fucking village, man!'
- Showered in a jungle waterfall
- Slept next to the waterfall on a mattress with less support than a string bra
- Sang and played guitar like the pathetically predictable traveller wanker I am

So I suppose you could say that my trip has now started in earnest. All of the above seem to fit snugly into any person's perception of what it is to be a crunchy, crispy backpacker and are certainly a world away from Bangkok's impression of a sexually deviant Blackpool - complete with busy hands and extra smelly bits. Chiang Mai is Thailand's second city and I arrived via the night bus after a fairly gruelling and entirely sleepless 10 hours. I kept my eyes closed almost all the way, but this was more about the shockingly dangerous driving I wanted to pretend wasn't happening than any attempt to actually rest.

It took me a good 6-7 hours to both unpack and unclench when I finally got to the hostel and there I met up with the group I was to be trekking through the jungle with for the next three days. A genuinely lovely bunch of people from Switzerland, Brazil, Holland, France and good ol' Blighty, we all agreed, after the briefing meeting, to meet up for a punchingly good time at the local Thai boxing ring after dinner. Although I'm clearly a lover, not a fighter, I have to say this too was super duper fun. Although quite brutal at times, there was clearly a lot of respect for one another in the ring and to add a little Thai authenticity (mental peculiarity) they brought four fighters into the ring at halftime and, after blindfolding them, set them on each other for a bout of wild haymaking. The ref even got a couple of sweet rights while he shoved them into the fray, which got the crowd going.

After this, and several extra strength Chang beers, a lot of the crew had disbanded and only four remained at a late night bar round the corner from the boxing. Conceding that they were bigger drinkers and later stay outers, I made the move to return to the hostel as we had to get up quite early for the trekking and it was already 2am. I got some drunken instructions shouted at me and started shuffling down the road in what I thought was the direction of the hostel. It only really took about five minutes before I realised I was completely lost.

There's something about total and utter and complete panic that taps into the primeval of a being. I felt my pupils dilating and my eyes widening and my complacent shuffling soon turned into frantic pacing. 'Ohmygod, ohmygod, ohmygod...' I gnashed over and over, with the occasional 'ohshit, ohshit, ohshit...' thrown in for good measure. The compulsion to live and survive had me cantering, rather than trotting now and my mind was awash with scenarios where I lived in Chiang Mai for many years and was known as the 'ohshit, ohshit, ohshit' man. The facts were as follows: I had no idea where I was, I didn't know the name of the hostel or even the street it was on and everything was closing around me. Chiang Mai was shutting down for the night, and, in a lot of ways, so was I.

Something itched the back of my brain. Something I knew but couldn't access because of the boozy fug that swam in my mind, looking for a late night station to buy a Kit-Kat from. Eventually it was only really the action of adjusting it that drew my attention to the camera that swung at my hip. Of course! I'd taken some cantankerous footage of the builders outside the hostel before I'd left for the night and maybe someone would recognise the road or building from this. I knew being a moody shit would come in useful at some point! I feverishly snatched the camera from it's case and clicked through the images until I came to the footage I'd been looking for. It wasn't great, but it was a start. Almost slavering with anticipation, I approached anyone and everyone with the camera and, wild-eyes bulging, pushed the images into people's blank faces. They looked as though they understood I was upset about something, but no-one looked as though they could help me. Finally I came upon a man in uniform and after presenting the short film to him he motioned to the corner and out of the shadows glided a short, pale, pretty ladyboy.

This certainly wasn't the first ladyboy I'd seen, but the first I'd had any sustained interaction with that wasn't some sort of obscene miming. She took a look at the footage and nodded confidently - she knew where it was and the man in uniform grunted that I should follow her. And off we went. It was strangely comforting to walk through the late night streets of Chiang Mai with Pop, as I discovered her name was. She had an air of elegance and certainty which made me feel like everything was going to be OK and never lost her cool throughout the constant jeers and cat-calling we endured from locals and tourists alike.

I lost the perpetual fear which I had worn like a prickly jacket for the last half hour and soon got into the groove of the rhythmic percussion Pop's high heels provided. I know the hostel was only a matter of minutes away from where we had started, but we walked for hours. I continued to remember small things which I thought might help - there was a waterfall opposite the road the hostel was on (not turned on at night) - there was a huge glass-fronted dentist nearby (the night shutters had come down) - it was near a temple (one of 250 in Chiang Mai) - but it wasn't until Pop took matters into her own hands (steady) that we made progress.

After two more hours we were back where we started. Pop seemed to have an idea though and clicked purposefully on until we arrived at another ladyboy's haunt. There was no doubting this person's original gender though - a long, heavy-featured and pale head with pronounced Adam's apple peered out through sleek black curtains of lank hair. When Pop spoke first, I realised how effeminate her voice actually was when her friend replied - like a man who had smoked rubble since the womb. The conversation resulted in us taking her motorbike and with me at the back and Pop very much in the driver's seat, we set off through the early morning streets of Chiang Mai. I couldn't help but smile as we passed the other prostitutes shouting out cheerfully at Pop, who returned their greetings with waves and incomprehensible words. At last I started to recognise landmarks and in what seemed like only minutes we were pulling up outside the hostel.

I paid Pop for her help and took a picture, which you can see at the top of the post. Definitely one of the most surreal and frightening things that has ever happened to me - but all the good things are, aren't they? This wasn't quite what I'd signed up for, but it had a happy ending and for that I was grateful. The sun was rising on the next day - the start of the trek - and I was back. Pop, this one's for you.

I couldn't fit everything into this post, so that's the Pop element of the title. Stay tuned for the snap and cankle elements - it'll be worth it!

Intense City

How do you go about describing Bangkok? That's a question which has perplexed me for about three minutes, while I've sat having breakfast. OK, so, well, it's... Erm... Yeah, so, when you arrive here, Bangkok just starts happening to you and there's nothing you can do about it. Don't even try. Yeah, that's about right.

I arrived at around 8:30pm and after dropping my shizzle off at the hostel, went straight out to see what this great big fuss was all about. The moment I left the confines of the Sivarin Guest House (on Sam Sen Road - say it: Sam Sen, Sam Sen - makes you sound Thai if you affect a borderline racist accent. Not the eyes though, don't you dare do the eyes) a massive rat with visible balls bouncing off his hind legs came bursting out of a hole in the road. We caught each other's gaze for a beat and then he just carried on with his ratty business as though I was no more than an inconvenience. I always thought they were meant to scarper away in fear of reprisals for their dirty behaviour, but I've never seen a less intimidated creature. That set the tone for Bangkok nicely though because frankly, you came here and, as such, you've asked for it.

I headed for the Khao San Road - famous for its lurid bars and Leonardo Dicaprio - but there's plenty more on the way and seeing is the least of it as the streets offer up a full-on assault on your senses from the off. Actually, less an assault than an all-out serial killer investigation complete with leathery skin mask and balls tucked between the legs. The roads themselves are a mish-mash of cracked grey concrete, with wet stains licking down them and the sound of running water spilling everywhere, but it's the smells that will get your nostrils in a half nelson and laugh at your attempts to tap out.

Some of the smells are glorious and pungent in all the right ways: fresh lemon grass, lime leaves, curry pastes; but equally many made me do a bit of sick in my mouth. Pig's feet bubbling in a cauldron of fuck-knows-what, chicken that reached its sell-by date months ago and are now simply a vengeful skin of farty smells and rancid flesh. I was famished after the 16 hours of travel, but felt about the option of eating street food the same as I do about watching a terrifying horror movie - I know it can't kill me, but I'm shitting myself all the same.

I approached the road and there really was no mistaking it. Garish neon lights fused with excited chatter and relentless human advertisements. The energy of the place in undeniable - its freneticism and pace are dizzying and to make a decision on where to begin is an almost impossible task. 'You want girls?' 'Where you from?' 'You like lucky sucky? Ping pong?' All absolutely genuinely spat out at me as I lumbered down the street, fully aware I was too exhausted to be fully aware. As a brief aside, I spoke to some people at the hostel who told me they'd gone to a ping pong bar (if you don't know, you should, but if not - well, there's a naked woman on stage and no ping pong balls and then suddenly there are - get it?) and they said they had been given bats and that after the ping pong balls a live bird flew out! I can't think that that's hygienic. Also, what if you score a hole in one with the bats? Prizes? A goldfish in a bag? Does that then go in? The mind va-boggles.

Anyway, it was the sound of live music which eventually drew me into one bar and after ordering slowly and loudly, I took my bottle of Chang across to the balcony overlooking the madness. I knew it would be this way, it comes as no surprise, I said as much when I got to Canada years ago, but they're all so young. But more than that, they all seem pretty conceited. The thing that struck me was the utter disregard with which a lot of travellers seem to be treating the locals - as though they're their playthings, to be chastised and toyed with as they please. Walking down the road up to the bar, one kid pushes his face into a street vendor's, gurning then laughing at their surprised reaction. This earns them a high five from their buddy and they mooch on like the cat that got the cream. And then truculently poured it over grandma's face. Upon seeing this I made a decision - Bangkok is not for me. It may be a snap decision made in the first few heartbeats of my arrival, but that's that.

The place is a hysterical hive of activity, but you can't help feeling, with the Khao San bookended by McDonalds and Burger King, that this activity is the product of a Western demand and dominance. Everything's in English - the people shout recognisable phrases from TV shows: 'lovely jubbly!' 'Aaaaiiiight!' 'Am I bovvered?!' and I have one of my own - get me out of here. Some of the behaviour is just downright shameful and I'm embarrassed to be a part of it, but that's not to say I'm not gonna enjoy myself tonight. I drink lots and overcompensate for the rudeness I've seen with lots of apologetic bowing and smiling and trying to say thank you by repeating the only phrase I've learned (Sam Sen, Sam Sen - That'll have to do). I meet lots of people who assure me I'm in good hands now and Bangkok is our oyster, but by about 2am, after no sleep for 22 hours and an ideological smackdown going on brainside it's time to return to the guesthouse.

The next morning I spend an hour looking for the door keys in my room. I look everywhere; in every bag, under the bed, the outside 'balcony', but they're nowhere to be seen. Surrendering myself to the reality that they're lost and I'll have to pay for some more, I sheepishly arrive at reception to announce the bad news. As soon as I do though the lovely lady pulls them from the rack behind her. 'Where were they?' I ask.
'I found them this morning - in the bathroom bin.'
'Oh.' Whatthefuck?! I remember putting something in the bin the night before, but I was fairly sure that was a bottle lid. Well, anyway, I think the keys tell me something more about the way Bangkok has compromised itself for the sake of us all - it's just a bit rubbish.

Big ups to my man Roberto for being the first to comment on this new blog (same blog, different topic) and in answer to your question, I stick my pinky into their bums and the resulting taste I find fairly definitive. Off to Chaing Mai next, the second city, for trekking, long necks and elephants. Apparently they're evacuating parts of the city because of flooding. Knew I should've brought rubber ducky. Shalom.

Altered States

It's the same old story - you wait months for a day to arrive and then suddenly it's tomorrow. Felt a little stressed (poor bastard - hasn't worked for two months and now he's sodding off for four more. Life's tough) but having bought enough pharmaceuticals to open my own branch of Boots and more electronics (Kindle, laptop, camera, iPod) than you could shake an opportunistic mugger at, it was finally time for the off.

Teary-bye at Gatwick with the better-off half (love you, see you soon) misguided optimism about a potential upgrade (sorry, sir, but you're not rich/famous/handsome/young/thin enough - please make your way to the 'essentials' wing and try not to stain anything on the way) and I arrive at my seat. 39F. A fire exit seat. Things may be looking up! So here's what I see that causes immediate ball shrinkage:

- Family of five with a new born baby, two and four-year-old sat right next to me.
- Family of four with a three and five-year-old sat right behind me.

OK, everything's gonna be fine. I'll just lose myself in the inflight entertainment and try to drink myself into an early sleep. Because I'm in an exit seat, I've got one of those TV screens that comes out of the arm and extends in front of you, so I promptly yank it out and try to manipulate it into the perfect viewing position. Once I have it I release my grip and the screen swings limply down into an unwatchable spot. I can't help but sense the sexual parallels and grin meekly at a disappointed looking lady sat next to me. 'This has never happened to me before', I venture, tapping the unit so that it waggles pathetically in front of us. She's unimpressed. Actually, so the fuck am I! My only solace from an inevitable night of shrieks, screams and projectile vomit is now impotently drooping ineffectually before me! I made a fuss. I needn't have bothered. 'Sorry, sir, there's nothing we can do. Can you hold it up?' The humiliation.

Seven and a half hours later I'm exhausted. The crying has been relentless and without anything to watch, I've had to stare bleary-eyed into the darkness forever. I feel like William Hurt in Altered States - that my delirium has somehow allowed me to gaze straight into the existential heart of the universe, where all the answers of life sit and wait for the soul to be tested to an extent that frees the mind and opens the corridors of enlightenment hitherto unattainable by a sane mind. My eyes are burning and I feel I've narrowly avoided cutting the trip very short due to some brutal infanticide, but I've made the first leg and I limp lethagically into Dubai Airport. And then it's all worth it.

Exotic, absurd, unusual, unfamiliar - I'm so enamoured by what I see that I'm immediately bitten by the bug again. The bigger picture suddenly comes crashing down on me reminding me of what's to come and I feel a ripple of excitement purr through me. Looking around it's all so different, they're all so different - and so, spirited away from my own natural state of indifference the journey begins.