In the VIP

That’s a pretty menacing looking storm cloud, posturing over to the right. Instant rain hits the bus hard as we pull away from sea level gently, toward Chiang Rai. The three hour trip will take considerably longer though, as we’re now only barely in to double figure speed. And suddenly the streets are several inches deep in water. To my left a stream has been given an unexpected stint of momentum and is heading furiously in search for a connecting river.

From 26 Jan 2010

The coach only has 24 seats, each one almost fully reclining and shrouded in leather. I bought a few snacks for the ride and now wished I hadn’t; we have a steward onboard to serve us and she’s giving out free drinks and cake. Earlier she dropped the three TFT screens and played something that seemed like a Thai version of Emmerdale; though clearly set on a Rice field instead. It’s more realistic that way.

The air-conditioning has gone from being a blessing to a freezing cold annoyance – as we are gaining in altitude, so the ambient temperature is dropping. And the rain isn’t helping either. I found a few nice looking hotels on Trip Advisor; even the solar-powered torch that is Lonely Planet had some ideas. Feeling relaxed and no longer “green”, I decided not to book – I’m a traveller, that’s how we roll. On spec, on a whim is how I’ll find my bed for the night. I just hope there’s room in the inn and I don’t have to drag my bag and feet through this weather for too long. Looking ahead I see clear sky as the sun lights up the clouds. I’m hopeful.

Best for special health

I’m fairly certain the androgynous Thai that just beckoned me in was actually male. I can’t be sure though. I’d have run if I wasn’t lugging my pack around: It’s my last day in Chiang Mai and I’ll shortly be boarding a bus bound for Chiang Rai. I wonder if these two towns are siblings?

Three French Type Is fill the next Massage Parlour I stroll by; it’s a shame as I was set on going there for a treat. There’s plenty to go around here – of everything in fact. And soon enough there’s another sign. It’s cheaper, which is a shame as I’m really getting a taste for haggling and enjoying the banter.

This parlour is slightly different; she also teaches classes and proudly displays a large plaque; “Thai massage certification”. Lying on the floor, she disappears for a while. A heavily built lady, middle-aged with a lazy right eye (possibly glass), and very confident; I’m a little worried at the prospect of allowing her to be unleashed on my legs.

Returning with a basket containing oils, gels, towels and utensils she kneels in front of me. The spinning ceiling fan above is bliss and so I close my eyes and let her begin. Thai massage seems to be a very pressure-orientated discipline. And in no time at all, she’s generating about as much pressure with her sausage-shaped thumbs as a crocodile’s jaw. It’s slightly excruciating and I’m thinking my left calf will need a few days to recover – I hope in time for my run around Chiang Rai.

Hearing a wooden rattle and looking down, I see her handle a stick, about 15cm long and pointed at each end; one fine, the other round. I’m quite ticklish and it’s difficult not to flinch and giggle as she runs it in between my toes and around the sides. More pressure; as the fine point is used for deep-tissue work. The only good thing about this part is the time in between the stabs; there’s some good relief.
Like a meat tenderiser, the other end of the stick serves as a chisel, as she hammers away at my heel. This is a little strange, and there’s half an hour more to go. Just like everything when travelling, however, it’s an experience and one I definitely recommend.

I suffer from ITB and the occasional spell of “Runner’s Knee”, which are both very common complaints. Stretches help and after each run I’ll rip through a set. Lifting my right leg and placing it over my left, she forms a triangle with my bent leg and the floor. Leaning over and holding my left leg, she pushes my right knee it as far as it’ll go toward my left shoulder – this is perfect for ITB. Limping as I leave, if it wasn’t for my dead left calf – this would have been an amazing 120 baht massage.

Goldfish Memory

I’ve half a tank left and fancied heading north to view the Mae Sa Waterfall. It’s a big one; with ten stages and various points for picnicking, waist-high dips and hiking. I’m a little annoyed I forgot my tripod. No matter, I reckon I’ve a pretty steady hand.

From 25 Jan 2010

There’s no one here, save a few locals milling about and looking at me strangely as I pounce down the concreted slab steps, dodging rocks and trees as I run from peak to bottom.

From 25 Jan 2010

As the water grows progressively more incensed as you climb, the authorities have outposts dotted along the trail to ensure you’re safety. With none of them manned though, they’ve posted the odd sign in an attempt to dissuade visitors from stupidity.

From 25 Jan 2010

Arriving at the bottom, there’s a selection of Chicken Huts to cool down in. I think I’ll enjoy the windy road back down; that’ll help me cool off.

From 25 Jan 2010

Vampitos

I’m not on the blood donor list, but at this rate I may as well be. It’s just unfortunate that the litres I’ve presumably lost over the last month have gone to waste aiding pointless, inept flying insects procreate. Being privy to the process by which you are anaesthetised, impaled and tapped was a little shocking.

I’m sat typing thoughts in my Guest House and whilst waiting for the moped rental woman, have just compacted several rather large Mosquitos between my palms. There goes another, by the window. Quick you must be; their flight pattern is utterly random. And I missed it. I should probably start using my Deet spray to ward off these demons.

The culprit in question was caught sucking my toe on exit from a cave whilst sea kayaking. Having had its fill, the abdomen was swollen red with claret. “Little sod!” I yelled, swatting the miniature Vampire from my foot. On impact causing it to explode; my foot was sprayed and covered in the blood it had siphoned. This was a greedy little blighter; just a drink and it’d have gotten away.

A high pitched buzzing noise violently startles me from slumber. Fly-bys close to ears; it’s like they’re taking the piss. What defence is there against this constant onslaught; I must purchase an electrocution racquet and take the fight to them. Deet spray indeed works well as a repellent; but miss a section of your body and the Vampitos will eventually track it down like a proverbial bloodhound.

Looking around my room I can see the remnants of sole markings. Previous tenants have fought them on the ceilings, called in the cavalry on the walls and there are the remains of the aftermath everywhere. There is no DMZ here; it’s a boundless front-line and I’m an inflamed, itchy casualty of war.

Vertigo

Genes surely control a great deal of our constitution. And in that case I blame my Mother for my fear of heights. It’s not that I’m afraid of falling; rather at any given opportunity, I feel a burning desire to launch myself from whatever ledge I happen to be on. Waterloo Bridge for example; crossing it twice a day for nearly two years and I had to fight the urge constantly. At up to 120 metres above ground, standing on a ledge a metre wide, I’m glad there are four guides ensuring our safety.

From 23 Jan 2010

From 23 Jan 2010

Having completed the 24 point zipline course, I’m thankful for the experience; it’s gone some way to curing my vertigo. Though in hindsight, the cheaper 14 point option would have definitely sufficed. If I’d picked that, however, I’d not have traversed the 300m long, 50m high zipline. By this point, however, I was probably borderline heart-attack; my pulse soared and the sweat was relentless. “X Scream” at the top of the Stratosphere was terrifying, but was over in a minute – this lasted 4 hours.

From 23 Jan 2010

The harness is similar to climbing – in fact all of our guides used indoor climbing harnesses. These guys are fearless; happy to swing upside down and wave their arms like birds while zipping across the lines. Abseiling down the numerous points, they’ll do it inverted; using a figure of eight and braking by hand at the last possible moment. This is completely insane. Climbing at the Westway will forever seem tame in comparison.

From 23 Jan 2010

I spent most of the day hugging trees, much like the Koalas from yesterday’s Zoo. To say I was scared is an understatement. And by point 14, we finally find land and can sit: On the ground, where I can’t fall hundreds of feet to find a floor I cannot see. To make things worse, at each abseil point we’re let down by hand. There’s no auto-lock belay ATC being used. Just some dude; with his gloves.

From 23 Jan 2010

By the fifth zipline, the world knows I’m not all that keen; my throat is soar from yelling curses that echo amongst the scenery. The guides are outstanding, but do like to torment the punters; and I’m easy pickings. Each abseil I’m asked “Fast, slow? If you want go slow, just say cha cha”. It doesn’t matter what I say; I’ve accepted my fate and know what I’m in for. Best I just close my eyes as the G-Force pulls at my stomach from each drop.

From 23 Jan 2010

Our group is made up of four Irish squaddies on a year sabbatical, an Australian woman whose daughter was too scared to join us and a Hair Stylist from Florida. The latter being the most fearless of us all, surprisingly. He was more than happy to “Go Superman” across the longest line. This involves using the clip on the rear of the harness, so that facing forward; there’s nothing to hold as you “fly”. I’m glad I gave this a go on a shorter line; it’s an incredible feeling of freedom, but was irritatingly short.

From 23 Jan 2010

Intermixed with hikes over rickety bridges, it’s hungry work and I’m more than glad to be finished for the day, enjoying a late lunch. One of the guides earlier explained that he likes to drink Thai Whisky (or White Spirit translated literally), each night. A shot is 20 pence, and I only wish I’d had a good few before heading off.

From 23 Jan 2010

Dinner with Don Corleone

I’m a fan of Sousa, though I think some of his other pieces are better than the one chosen for the Monty Python theme tune. Speaking of which, I’m also a fan, and was instantly reminded of Mr. Creosote when visiting the Pandas in Chiang Mai Zoo.

China makes a fortune loaning these useless creatures to neighbouring countries. I say useless as it seems obvious that they deserve to be extinct. I can’t help but wonder why these monotone teddy bears are revered so much.

From 22 Jan 2010

Waiting half an hour for one to emerge and watching it eat, it’s shocking how wasteful it is. Look carefully and you can see the copious amount of Bamboo it neglects to consume – how many other animals would squander so much? Perhaps Pandas evolved to be this extravagant due to the adulation of humans.
I can't help but chuckle to myself as the enormous paws spread out as she emerges. Finding the closest food spot, she slumps on her behind as a dull thud is heard.

From 22 Jan 2010

From 22 Jan 2010

Twenty minutes of tooth picking passes and they’re off back to sleep: In their air-conditioned, carefully sterilised, quiet and calm environment (there’s antiseptic for your feet and humans carrying “be quiet” signs). These things are hopeless; a used chocolate teapot would at least have the decency of becoming hot chocolate. It’s a good thing that the food is dry, or it’d be like watching a Mafia Boss eat pasta and meatballs, having done a little too much K. Inevitably it does turn messy, as she finds some remnants on her stomach and licks them off. They’re only wafer thin after all.

From 22 Jan 2010

An interlude

The Sunday Telegraph magazine used to (and may still), have a section titled “Social Stereotypes”. Printed in the last few pages, week after week it supposedly characterised clichéd personalities. With 52 weeks in a year, these “stereotypes” soon ran out and the proverbial barrel began to be scraped.

I’d like to interject these entries of mine with a version of the aforementioned, and call it “Traveller Stereotypes”.

A few weeks ago whilst eating breakfast in Ao Nammao, my sister and I were discussing the people we’d been seeing over the course of our travels. We have agreed and standardised a convention for categorising fellow globe trotters. Yet to be ISO accredited, it is organised as follows: Type I, II, IIIa, IIIb and IV. The first of which is outlined below.

Type Is are seen frequently. They are generally tall, dominating the average height of the locals, but displaying far less dexterity. Perpetually wearing the same T-Shirt purchased at a stall for 100 baht; the image on the front is long past faded, edges are frail and holes litter the dulled pink cotton. Where most people hang shorts from their waist, instead long and baggy Aladdin-styled linen trousers dangle loosely; rippling and swaying around their ankles as they drag their feet. Sandals have been replaced with flip-flops, which have easily seen hundreds of kilometres worth of concrete scraping.

Hair is no longer demonised and is allowed to run riot. Occasionally you may find a beard jutting outwards like an ancient Egyptian statue; other times one so long that it would make you think Jesus has returned for a Seafood Pad Thai. If you’re really lucky you may see the elusive and rarely spotted hairless Type I; though they are considered endangered. Otherwise, the generic Is have the top of their heads decorated with Dreadlocks, which in the history of man have and will never suit honkies; the women even less so. Organically grown sagging man-bags replace the rucksack; it is better for the environment after all. Refusing to acknowledge the end of the 1970s, Type Is cling to their hippy ideology desperately.

The truth of the matter is that these dreaded, rough-looking dudes probably have a Father that’s the VP of Finance in a large multi-national organisation. Mumsy is no doubt kept in touch by the latest Blackberry touschscreen located in his man-bag: “Oh wonderful dear, I’m so glad you’re enjoying yourself. How is Elizabeth and how is the Spa?”

The girls are more likely rebelling at Mother for neglecting to purchase the prerequisite 4x AAs for the Barbie Mansion thing one Christmas, when she was young. She’s considered “cool” and “ballsy” by her Facebook friends, and thinks that life will be an endless voyage of hotels and photo opportunities.

I don’t think it’s possible to rough it in Thailand if you tried; everywhere has electricity, clean water, wireless internet access, cheap food and all of the modern conveniences us farang are used to. Please; purchase a razor and visit a hairdresser. And once you’ve realised that a uniform becomes so when lots of people chose to adorn it; dispense with the affectation and accept who you are.

I've found a bald spot

Today was my first excursion from Chiang Mai, and what an incredibly memorable one it made for. Up early and strapping on my HRM and Watch; I’d be cycling, Elephant trekking and White Water Rafting for the day.

If Top Gear did bikes, mine would have been in a special episode. This thing makes Halford bikes look good – and that’s no simple task. Joking “Ah, it’s made in Thailand”, my guide managed to skilfully repair it with his multi-tool about as fast as a Formula 1 pit stop. The brakes here are reversed (left is front and right rear), and I’m restricted to front-brake; as the rear was jammed against the rim. This is not ideal for hilly cycling; where’s my Gary Fisher when I need it? Limited to 3 gears at the back and one at the front, this was going to be hard work – like riding a “fixie”. This is what I live for, however; the harder the workout the better.

From 21 Jan 2010

Part one was a short 4K jaunt. With potholes dotted in the road like craters on the moon, and rocks placed perfectly to cause removal of leg skin by skidding, caution was in order.

From 21 Jan 2010

Arriving at the Elephant camp, I’m treated to the GT model. I think it must have a turbo-charger too, as in no time I’ve caught up a larger female ahead. These creatures truly are staggering to behold. Their wide feet bulge, as they delicately place them on the ground; the weight distribution is perfect and barely leaves a mark. Taking a drink from the river, they will consume up to 100 litres at a time. Bananas are devoured in copious quantities, and my Elephant will refuse to move until fed. He’s a chronic hunger for these fruit, and with each toss of his trunk back, I’m blown squarely in the face by the most horrid smelling breath known to man. It could possibly be compressed and used in chemical warfare. This is all, however, astonishing stuff.

From 21 Jan 2010

Noticing one of the herd ahead, I feel a lump in my throat, as I notice she has a large growth around her left hind leg. As a result, she cannot bend her knee; each step she takes is an extended limp from right to left, as she struggles to put as little weight on it as possible.

From 21 Jan 2010

When given comment cards I ask them to “please, please stop working her”. Speaking to one of the guides, he explains that she was born with it. And like a lot of things in Thailand; it’s a double-edged sword. Elephants no longer serve a purpose – machinery has made them redundant. Though without these treks, they would surely be poached from existence.

Jumping on to my bike, it’s a further 5K cycle over far more gruelling terrain than previously, to convene for lunch. The thesaurus doesn’t have words to describe the scenery – it’s like something from the film “Predator”. The ingenuity of the locals is akin to the final showdown, where Dutch builds a selection of traps. “Do it, come get me! I’m here, what are you waiting for?!”

From 21 Jan 2010

The guides cook food purchased earlier at a market, en route to the trek. And after consuming everything in sight and passing scraps to the local hounds, we have a short briefing on Rafting commands.

From 21 Jan 2010

It’s identical to dragon boating, except using a longer paddle. There’s the same lean, kick and twist to combine whilst sat diagonally on the edge of the inflatable raft. Seeing my camera in a plastic bag, the guide takes it from me “you will lose”, he says. And that was some excellent advice. Capsizing twice, my camera would have vanished, sleeping with the fishes.

I’m glad I learned how to swim recently. It’s not deep here and as we pass down the river, we’re followed by guides at the tricky parts. They’re on hand to throw lines, and as I’m panicking and headed for the bank – instead of the raft – I’ll have one to grab thank you. It’s easy to find where we capsized, just look for the highest heart rates in the following link.

http://connect.garmin.com/activity/22847457

Climbing back in to the raft and assuming paddle position (called “on the job”), I notice my left shin has a bald spot from the friction of the rubber. Girls take note – shave before rafting.

The locals here all seem to take a shine to my sister; she’s hot property on these shores. Yet as hard as I try, I cannot seem to agree a price for her. Our skipper “Tour Crazy” says he’s also known as “Fah”, and as we all questioningly repeat, “Yes. Fah Cuman” he says. His laugh is as mad as a Hyena, but infectious too. Asking to see my sister’s glasses, he passes them to me “you hold”, he says as his right arm reaches around and drags her screaming backwards in to the water. It’s only a few feet deep here and calm, but by this point, my jaw is in pain from all the laughing.

Looking back, the other boat is floating down the rapids gently, but not us – we’re spinning, capsizing, jumping the boat over the rocks and it’s thrilling. Tour Crazy exudes the kind of energy that a young child might, after being given a strong double espresso, followed by a 1 kilo bag of pic’n’mix – it’s incessant.

From 21 Jan 2010

Thirty pounds for all this excitement - I'd have happily paid more.

But I been done seen about everything, when I see an Elephant fly

As a child it was cute and funny, appealing to my immaturity. As an adult, it seemed strange, warped and exploitative. Either way, Disney clearly visited Thailand and after some presumably strong hallucinogenic, bumped in to this; giving them an idea for a smash-hit movie.

From 20 Jan 2010

Arriving in Chiang Mai, having taken my third and final overnight sleeper train, my scepticism immediately starts to evaporate and I relax. Leaving Bangkok was a joy, and with my new habitat feeling similar, yet less crowded and more peaceful; I’m allowed to fall back in love with Thailand.

Much like the giant rats here, the tuk tuks still infect the roads; although calling out to punters in a more jovial manner. There’s more to do here: The Zoo has pandas, the night safari is like a Jurassic Park theme-ride around landscaped national park, Jungle flight offers zip-lining through the trees with the gibbons for company and I’m now only a short distance from the Golden Triangle. That’ll be my next stop from Chiang Rai – for now, I’m content to run around the square.

http://connect.garmin.com/activity/22717210

I’ve never seen the point in CamelBaks – 10K in the height of UK Summer is perfectly achievable without additional water. Out here, I’m quite mistaken. Hydrated and feeling the water glug around in my stomach as I pound the streets, I feel for my shorts pocket to check for my inhaler. Running around the South Bank in London necessitates carrying it – here it is redundant. Have I found a location-based cure for Asthma, perhaps? A lap is more than enough and with a heart rate suggesting I’m seriously dehydrated; I’m quite glad to arrive back at the hotel.

Toward the centre of the town square, I am surrounded on all sides by Wats, each displaying their various Buddha images. The adage is true, however, and I’m beginning to tire of these cash-cows. My previous bout of cynicism is instantly restored, as I enter yet another room full of statues. The burning incense stifles breathing – what is there to take pictures of here? Yawning, I notice a difference; there’s some new and intriguing ways to worship.

From 20 Jan 2010

Unfortunately, there’s only 10 images rather than the typical 12 I’m used to. Unsure which is mine, I’m overwhelmingly disappointed that I’m unable to pay my respects.
My final Wat for the day is adorned with various tacky statues – if someone was to lay some green and drill a few holes, it’d make a perfect mini-golf course. The temple has a Westerner praying inside – the first I’ve seen. Is this staged, have I walked in to a dressed rehearsal? Welcome to Disney Land, Chiang Mai.

From 20 Jan 2010

Realistically, the next temple I’m keen to see is Angkor Wat. Instead, I’m convinced to take a boat trip along the river. It’s an expensive ride, and a little sad that Wikipedia has more information than our guide of 70. Though asking for a refund in Thailand is as futile as the Borg’s attitude to resistance. Enjoying the sublime “Mango with sticky rice” at the stop-off, I’ve a family of Chickens for company.

From 20 Jan 2010

From 20 Jan 2010

Strolling back, the night bazaar is awakening for business. The food stalls alone are as impressive in their sheer volume of stock, as they are in frequency of flies. Varying in size from the diminutive fruit, to giant pregnant blue bottles, it seems clear that Thai resistance to contaminants must be far higher than mine. Suffice to say, I shan’t be making any purchases here.

From 20 Jan 2010

45 metres worth of gold-plated cynicism

I decided to go it solo today, and enjoyed my little soirée with adventure. Perhaps it’s the permanent Baht sign above my head, attracting countless calls of “tuk tuk”, “taxi”, “where you go”, “you buy” and “cheap cheap”; as today I reverted to my original stance of extreme cynicism that normally adorns my persona.

In amongst the swarm of flocking aliens, I couldn’t help but feel that Wat Pho is heritage, disguised as cold-hearted commercialism, parading as a place of futile worship. I shall clarify that: It was built 450 years ago and was then partially rebuilt in 1781. If you take the time to look closely at these buildings, it’s easy to see how badly they were constructed; rushed bodgery almost. The colours have faded black, the maintenance is lacklustre at best, parts are broken and worn and monks are seen strolling around without a care, whilst naive worshippers donate handfuls of money in a bid to guarantee their place in the next life.

From 18 Jan 2010

Who lay all the electrical cabling for this place so it can light up at night, and when did the Monks decide to install automatic flushing toilets and movement-sensitive water taps? Those air-conditioned massage parlours lining the perimeter look pretty plush; perhaps I’ll have a go when there’s a free masseuse.

A week in Bangkok is long enough – it’ll get too tiring if you stay any longer. I do have the perfect solution, although sadly brain transplants haven’t been invented yet: Come in an Asian body. My sister doesn’t experience the kind of harassment, which I do. If I could actually tan, then at least I might cover my head with a hat and my eyes with aviator glasses. Three weeks of sun hasn’t done anything for my tan though – I’m just too darn honky.

I digress – back to the religion. Every one of the temples here has a donation box. Some have more than one. Some have different kinds. The process is as follows when visiting: Remove shoes, socks and hat. Purchase lotus flower, skilfully arranged in to a star shape. Further purchase of incense stick is required to increase prayer strength, so you’d better do that too. Kneel down before image of deity and say prayer. Bow down in respect; thereby increasing prayer power to level 3. Pay your fee for level 5. More money means a better chance of your prayer being answered, and further increased prayer levels. Unfortunately, as I don’t pray myself, I’m unaware which level activates the bonus feature. And if that isn’t cold-hearted commercialism, I don’t know what is.

From 18 Jan 2010

Some temples have even more ways of increasing your odds of a successful prayer. They come in the form of money bowls, where you can spread your bets over numerous pots. Pay 20 Baht and receive half-baht coins in return. That’s 40 chances to win; amazing. The temple that holds the reclining Buddha image (I state “image” as that is the correct term of reference), has money pots that cover its entire length; 45 metres of pots around 30cm in diameter. That’s nearly four times the chance to win. Ooh, I’m getting tempted myself now.

From 18 Jan 2010

My Physics degree helps with basic Maths. I work it out as 150 money pots, needing 80 baht to fill each one once, with some left over (the note-breaker men won’t change anything less than a 20 and I wonder why they don’t simply have coin-changing machines). That’s about one pound and fifty pence, or almost a day’s salary for some people of Thailand. If you really want to ensure you aren’t reincarnated as a parasitic blowfly maggot, you’d better get spending.

From 18 Jan 2010

Hang on just a second – I thought Las Vegas was much later on in my itinerary; where am I again? I wonder if anyone else has made the connection; gambling = religion. Religion = gambling? Ah, just a second, I must apologise as I’ve seen a clear difference. With religion, there’s one truly measurable fact: You will receive precisely nothing in return. That’s right, there is no winner. The house always wins. You pay and are expected to have faith that you’ll win. In the next life; once you’re becoming recycled in to soil and your brain no longer functions.

No thanks, I’ll save my bahts for exchange in to US Dollars. At least in Vegas I’ll get free drinks if I pray enough.

Opening Pandora’s box

I’m not a big cinema goer, preferring instead to simply queue torrents up and watch at my leisure. It turns out Thais take their cinema seriously, and for this price I was expecting something special for my admission fee. Ironically spending the most for a ticket in my life, where I’ve equally been spending the least for everything else, £16 to see Avatar in pure luxury was worth every penny.

The contrast of this place is so stark, when compared to Khaosan road street stalls. It’s a 5K drive in to Downtown, where slums have been erased and the shopping mall experience rivals Las Vegas. Five pounds for popcorn – one pound for a can of Coke? Someone is profiting very heavily here.

From 17 Jan 2010

Looking around, I need to shield my eyes with sunglasses, as the abundance of lighting and highly reflective, spotless marble flooring is too forgiving to reflections. As soon as popcorn dares to deface the pristine tiling, a cleaner appears hot on its trail, armed with dustpan and brush. The litter stands little chance; there’s an army of workers tirelessly maintaining the Paragon Cineplex.

From 17 Jan 2010

This city area seems immature to me, like it’s been rushed through puberty and the stretch marks are still apparent through the growing pains. Around the corner, street vendors desperately cling to business, whilst a new class of well-to-do Thais strut in Armani clothing costing more than an average month’s salary – giggling as they discuss the latest fashion.

Walking in to the cinema, there’s only 24 seats. This is opulent viewing; gluttony even. My chair fully reclines electronically; the leather is soft and smooth. I’m lavished with a free box of sweets, a pillow and a blanket; should the air-conditioning become too much. As the trailers roll before the main event, suddenly an image appears asking the audience to “stand in appreciation of His Majesty”. MTV-style shot clips are played of rice farmers smiling as they while away the hours earning a pittance, school children playing joyfully and uniformed women bowing to the camera. The soundtrack is the national anthem – this is propaganda that Goebbels would be proud of.

From 17 Jan 2010

It’s an amazing cinema experience, however, and I feel compelled to write a brief review.

Avatar (7/10)

If I was Native American, I’d be insulted. The best Sci-Fi takes a very real issue and uses an improbable setting to tell a story of humanity. With a film like District 9, there is no happy ending – and that’s about right; humans tend to have a way of wrecking everything they touch. That’s what made it so compelling. In American history, however, the native people didn’t win, they didn’t drive the invading Europeans out, keep their land and balance with nature. They got unrepentantly annihilated. And the fact that this film uses language, dress, beliefs and rituals that are akin to them (and other Aboriginals for that matter), I find distinctly patronising.

The story-telling is excellent for Sci-Fi (but average overall), though some of the dialogue of our main protagonist Jake Sully is questionable – “hooyah” may be grand for US soldiers, but to anyone else it sounds positively embarrassing. Sigourney Weaver is excellent, as is Stephen Lang as the typical, heavily clichéd black to the Na’vi’s white. The effects are indeed mightily impressive, though at times I was left wanting for a fully rendered cutscene to end, and some more dialogue to occur.

Watch this film in a cinema – it won’t translate to a small screen well. You really do need the bass to shake your chest cavity, or it’ll all seem like computer-generated tedium. As the credits roll, the worst chosen song in history ruins what could have been a fairly good ending. And leaving the cinema I felt somewhat disheartened – I only wish history had played out the same way as the film.

Pat Pong, Ping Pong, *pop*

From 16 Jan 2010

Ugh, my head hurts. This enormous weekend market thing is a little ridiculous. Packing in 10,000 stalls in to such a small area will make you delirious and struggling for air and space, as the hoards of bargain-hunting women glare around, goggle-eyed. A few hours are more than enough of this kind of punishment. It’s fantastically interesting and awesome to behold, but the shorts that cost me £2 will probably last me till the evening and then disintegrate in to a cloud of cotton-dust. I think a blind paraplegic must have put these together. And probably did.

Strawberries should be gloriously sweet and refreshing, but in sub-tropical climates, they’d turn to mush faster than an American jock fleeing a recently discovered ladyboy. So instead they are seasoned with salt as a preservative – I hold in high regard anyone that can willingly stop the gag reflex on chewing. The saving grace in all this is finally finding a stall selling some playing cards. Now to teach my sister the ins and outs of heads-up, in a bid to while away hours sat on the train. On route back to the skytrain, there's an interesting Thai David Blaine. Look closely and you can clearly see the wire from his ear (though sadly not in this picture)

From 16 Jan 2010

The evening brings with it yet more obstinate pestering. And much like those flies that wouldn’t leave me alone yesterday, these buzzing insects just need a hand wave and they’ll go away. For a while. I don’t under any circumstances ever want to buy the following: Novelty large fag lighters, Cube alarm clocks, wooden animals with spiny backs that sound like a cricket when rubbed with a stick (I’ll never forget that noise), tatty looking chains, flying toys, or tall multi-coloured hats. Eventually, however, it’ll become like white noise and you can switch off to it easily enough.

I can hear American accents to my right, so instigating conversation, I find that they’re brothers and travelling around Thailand before heading to Vietnam, and then home. After the usual travel story-trading pleasantries, we exchange details and are invited to go see the R.L.D. “Taxi meter” are two words that will save you a fortune here, and off to find Pat Pong we go. It’s horrendous, but as droll as it is disturbing. Are these men, women, both, half and half – it’s impossible to tell. With amazingly strong muscles though, the first ball flew almost 20 feet and hit Drew in the face. He spends the rest of the evening joking “Does my face look alright?”, “No”, I say “but I’m sure the antibiotics will take care of the Syphilis”.

It’s scam-tastic around here – after being told we can enter for free “You look, you look. Free”, the tout says, it’s 100 baht each for a drink. Soon enough the balls come out in a small container with liquid – which I assume sterilises them – and are fired one by one at us. Presently, we have a bill thrust in front of us for 1200 each, as we’ve seen some action. As we argue and win, we leave to see darts popping balloons and fairy lights extending from one girl to another. It’s worth seeing, but do go in a large group, to ensure there’s the numbers to argue the toss. Classy and full of culture, it most certainly ain’t.

Thai Time

Relativity explains that the faster an object moves, the slower time becomes and the heavier it gets. In that case, I’m currently doing an arbitrary Warp Factor and have become a fat bastard.
It’s half past eleven in the morning, and I’ve another hour to wait until the connecting bus arrives for transit to Surat Thani train station. Stuck in the middle of nowhere, with only numerous flies that won’t quit for company, I’ve just paid the equivalent of a day’s salary for two soft drinks.

This is how they roll in Thailand. One driver is asleep in the boot of his van, another singing along to what I assume is considered Pop music here. It’s like having my ear canals filled with powdered glass, and with each drum beat, someone packs it down with a chisel. These songs don’t last a standard 3 minutes. The “composers” write relentless repeats in to the “score” and refuse to finish by encoring, until it’s smashed so hard in to your brain that you can hum along without thinking.
I couldn’t sing along if I tried and I’m glad my iPod has some charge – anymore and I might threaten them with my tripod, fully extended.

These flies are about as clingy as a 20 stone monstrosity that you accidentally pulled, after beer goggles set in. Thankfully they only require the odd hand wave and are gone – for a while. On return they assume all is forgiven. But just like that beach ball bird, I just want them to leave me alone. I’m sorry for washing in fruity smelling soap. Now leave me in peace, as it just won’t work.

The tinny music has stopped; a reprieve. The relief is better than the kind experienced after holding your bladder firm, having drunk 4 pints in quick succession and neglecting to nip to the loo before the two hour journey home. It’s absolute bliss.

Once at Surat Thani, it’s a 6 hour wait for the train. That’s nothing to the Thais; insignificant to their general procrastination. Though at this rate I’m concerned that I may be rapidly approaching the speed of “c” and in which case, I’ll be infinitely big and time will have stopped. At least that fat chick will be about my size though.

-----
7.00 am following morning.

Hanging around people watching at a cafe last night was fairly uneventful. Spotting an internet cafe close by, I killed some time by aimlessly browsing for a penny a minute. The school children, ranging from perhaps 6 to early adolescence filled the area with a hum of general excitement. They’re playing LAN games and I was to be their cannon fodder for a while.

I quickly tire of the repetition; computer games are dull and monotonous and should be reserved for whiling away the hours at work, instead of actually finishing that report. As young as these lads are, I’m being told to “aim” and “target”, as boys a third my age “totally pwn” me (you should google that). After an hour of tormenting in Thai, I’m off back to people watching at the cafe; glorious.

From 15 Jan 2010

The train pulls in on time, to the second almost. It’s strange to see this kind of punctuality, but refreshing. Less so is my realisation that the toilets (left squat, right Western), are literally pipes, 15cm in diameter and a metre in length. That’s correct; excrement is dumped directly on to the train line. I hope that no one is laying any bricks, as it could cause derailment.

My suggestions for dealing with this are as follows (skip if squeamish):

1. Always ensure you have tissue to hand. Assume there is none in every toilet.
   Getting caught short is sticky. Reverting to socks is just wrong.
2. Buy hand sanitiser and guard it with your life. Gastro enteritis may make your abs look ripped, but it’s not funny.
3. Take small plastic bags for holding the above.
4. Do everything one-handed (practice first on a dummy run), so that one hand is always a known quantity.
5. Try to go when the train is mobile. Standing up and seeing what you’ve left is none too pretty.
6. Ideally always carry a large water bottle and wet wipes. Sun lotion gets sticky once mixed with a Day’s sweat.

As the sun rises, so do the sales women that pace up and down the train, wearing the hallway and my ear drums equally thin. I’ve no idea what they say, but it sounds reminiscent of a cat being tormented. Maybe by that troublesome neighbour’s kid, that got it in the ear with his BB gun. These women are like the T1000: They will not stop, until you buy something.

From 16 Jan 2010

An hour remains and the sickly sweet orange juice is far too much sugar this early. The double fried egg and ham will counter it, but I’m not so sure about the pineapple jam.

...a rhetoric (continued from previous post)

South Thailand has been raped. Where once the idyllic, serene beauty of unspoiled beaches lay; hotel spas and resorts have infected the whole area, like pimples on an adolescent’s face. It’s cruel, cynical development aimed purely at those sunbathing, so-called “thrill seeking” morons, wanting to pick up a Thai girl and strut on a beach. The charm has gone, and is replaced instead by commercial franchises for single-figured IQ sub-proletariat, solely wishing to tan themselves wrinkly. “Look at my tan”, they can profess when landing back home and arriving in the office Monday morning.

Taking a long tail boat to Railay made this all too apparent. The beach and views are stunning, but the visitors are more interested in absorbing enough UV to guarantee cancer, than looking at the natural beauty. There’s also coffee shops, for after.

Whilst Ao Nang was a disappointment, nothing could prepare me for Phuket.

Phuck Phuket.

From 14 Jan 2010

I was strongly advised not to visit, by a friend’s brother. I believe his expletive was “SHITHOLE!”, underlined twice for good measure. With grit and determination, I couldn’t stomach the area for longer than it took to find some street food and head off. I don’t want to be British here – anything but that. However, worse still are the Italians, who stroll around thinking they’re part of the starring cast of The Sopranos, and the beaches are the sets. I’ve heard skinhead, tattoo-ridden chavs attempt some basic Thai, but never once an Italian. And there seem to be far more of the latter here.

From 14 Jan 2010

Patong beach is a seething cesspool of the lowest common denominators. The entire stretch is densly packed with white plastic deckchairs, fading in the sun. There’s barely an inch to spare for trips to the masseuses and booze trikes, for the next round. Catering for people who genuinely think Thailand is all like this is easy, the ingredients are as follows:

• Using the beach strip as your pizza base, top with a bland puree of Starbucks, McDonalds, Burger King and Hagen-Dazs shops.
• Sprinkle a good cheese covering of various Irish pubs on top.
• Bake for two hours each side until brown, red, or peeling (to taste).
• Garnish with brightly coloured hotels.
• Serve with a side of ladyboys and whores.

Lovely, though not my kind of dish. I’d much rather eat fermented monkey flinging, whilst enduring Japanese water torture. But unfortunately this is what the South has become. Gone are the days of 50 pence a night chicken huts and backpackers that are in search of culture. We are being surreptitiously replaced.

From 14 Jan 2010

And they come in the form of hedonistic detritus. The kinds that flood like a swarm to holes such as Ibiza, Magaluf and Benidorm. The world becoming smaller is a double-edged sword; even tattooed, topless cretins can now afford Asia.
Thailand responds by clearing natural beauty to facilitate their tourism. It yields high returns, especially considering the non-negotiable Western prices of some of these places. And for that I congratulate them – please do continue to strip these farang of every penny you can. For they deserve nothing less.

Moving swiftly on it seems poignant to elaborate on the work ethic here, which makes me quite ashamed of my gender. Men seem quite capable here, certainly putting Westerners to shame, but it’s the women that run the show. Driving around I see female workers outnumbering men as they lay new road. The car hire company is owned and run by women – who are firm but fair. Stalls have parades of men hanging around, but only to facilitate business. The women cook the food, serve it and take payment. Men are an enigma here – they serve little purpose, save planting the euphemistic seed. Were it not for this menial task, I’m sure the women would happily have us extinct.

Back at the hotel, I spot a young girl strolling in to the reception lobby, followed by an overbearing, sweaty, grey-haired behemoth of a man. His gut appears wider than he is tall and like an impenetrable wall of tyre-rubber, built sturdily by the decades of self-neglect. He’s bought her, as have two of his companions similarly purchased other girls. They will earn around 1000 baht for each hour they endure their company. With an average salary of 4500 baht per month, it’s easy to see why these girls take the option. If anything these Dutch parasites should be grateful for their prizes, but instead they lord about acting as if it’s perfectly acceptable, while the Hotel staff try their best not to look on in disgust.

I hear Chiang Mai still retains some of the elusive Thai culture I’m only finding selectively elsewhere. I look forward to the train journey this evening.

Dude, where's my car?

Road trip!
On these roads, a flappy paddle tiptronic-equipped Porsche would have been magnificent. The gradients, mixed with S-bends facilitate a signposted 60 bend at almost 140 km/h. It's like playing a long track from a driving simulator.

There's no laps, however, and the automatic Toyota Vios responds nimbly as I clip yet another apex, accelerating out of the corner. Clear visibility and sensible drivers abound mean that slower moving vehicles move out of my way, not in to it; as they seem to on UK roads.

There are no parking restrictions here, no traffic wardens lying in wait to pounce on your unticketed car. The Thais don't have that mentality, they're relaxed. And stress free approaches to life, begets a stress free life.

A two hour trip covers the 188 kilometre from Ao Nang to Phuket. I like this car – a lot. The automatic VVT-i petrol engine is like a Ferrari when compared to my previous Tomy. It’s manufactured from metal that could also be used to wrap your lunch sandwiches in, but performs admirably and is a joy to drive. It’s quite clear that this model is only sold in SE Asia, as the air conditioning dial only has blue markings.

From 14 Jan 2010

Arriving at my first destination, the Gibbon Rehabilitation Project is somewhat smaller than I’d expected. The workers here are all Antipodeans, and after caring for our recovering cousins during the day, “hit the beach” at night. My pick of the troop is Tam, who after biting its owner’s baby (having been poached by her), is beaten so severely that her right hand and foot need amputation. She has only two fingers remaining on her left hand. Although I am deeply saddened, the saving grace is her successful breeding with another rescued gibbon.

From 14 Jan 2010

Charging 200 baht for entrance, the project receives nothing from the guards taking my fee. A donation is in order, then off to the waterfall for a challenging hike to point 10. I’d have continued further along the exhilarating trail, were it not for a busy schedule.

From 14 Jan 2010

Heading to the Aquarium, we pass an interesting Chinese Temple by the sea. Has my sister finally found someone to converse with? Sadly not, but one word in every dozen is a start.

From 14 Jan 2010

The animals here are wonderfully friendly, much like the people. Were it not for the horror stories my travel nurse expressed to me, I’d be more inclined to pet them. For now, I’m happy to let this heat-drained canine “chillax” in an incredible setting.

From 14 Jan 2010

These uncollared wandering dogs are very prevalent. I’ve seen them look both ways when crossing the road, mimicking their masters. Each one reminds me of “The Littlest Hobo” and the theme plays in my head as I question where each ones home is.
Looking around as we depart the Chalong Temple, my sister spots an omnipresent overbearing sight atop the highest point in Phuket Province. The “Big Buddha” has the best view of the island and sits proudly, as his 20 years of construction are only half way to completion.

From 14 Jan 2010

It must be several hundred feet up, as I count the number of times my ears renegotiate the pressure change. The view at the peak is indeed impressive.

From 14 Jan 2010

Back down the winding hill and it’s low gear all the way. On to the beaches to see what all the fuss is about...