Rajasthan or Bust
Very quick note, seeing as I have five hours until my taxi comes to pick up the Flying Martinis to take us to the airport and I still have washing in the tumble dryer.
See you in a day or so for the first of the Indian Misssives.
To recap: the Flying Martinis, nineteen teenagers, three teachers, three weeks, schooltrip, India.
There will be stories.
Oh yes, there WILL be stories….
Don’t ever miss a Misssive, subscribe!
Carry on up the Khyber
PROMISE TO ALL: An embargo on this kind of thingwill be in effect from the 9th of July
And then I remembered why I started the Misssives in the first place. It was to record my travels. I wanted to let my friends and family hear all our holiday/travel stories without having to: A: Actually speak to them
I solemnly make this promise to you: whilst in India I will not go all spiritual and hippy trail on you, I will not sit in the Lotus position even once, I will not adopt a brown baby like Madonna or Jolie, and I will most certainly not ever utter the words, “This place is magical”.
B: Be arsed to send postcards
C: Clock up international phone charges
*Finnish cuisine can be summed up by the dish “Egg Butter”. Fact: Egg butter is the reason the Russians or the Nazis didn’t invade Finland.
Meanwhile over on hot new blog (hint hint…) Spontaneous Production, I’m telling people to stay out of the cinema. Click here
Don’t ever miss a Misssive, click here!
Another Pin in the Map
A mustachioed bandit
I may have mentioned that the Flying Martinis are set to inflict themselves on a foreign country once more this year.
I pontificated about a month or so ago that wherever we go, some kind of political or ecological, but usually violent, mayhem ensues. You may or may not have read the post.
In fact, many of you got in touch to plead with me not to visit your towns for fear of natural disaster, civil unrest or biblical pestilence. You’ll notice that I have complied with these requests (merely visiting France this year and causing only the ill-fated and ill-judged marriage of the President).
We, the members of the The Flying Martinis like to travel whenever we can, but as always my mother is on tenterhooks, every time we tell her of our plans to venture forth. She is terrified that mustachioed saber-wielding bandits will run off with her grandchildren for no reason.
Being on tenterhooks is pretty much a full time job for my mum. I largely ignore it, rousing myself only occasionally to take the piss out of her insane anxiety. This from the woman who turned a blind eye to me and my brother using a neighbouring building site as a playpark when we were kids. (Who needs a bike when you’ve got a JCB?)
Last week, it was in the balance whether we would go to India or Belize on our school trip with Meeester’s school. I told her the two options offered to the students, thinking that she would concentrate her anxiety on India.
I was wrong. She apparently has some privileged information about Belize. You heard it here first.
Note: this information has yet to be substantiated by any media:
“Belize??? Jesus Christ, Misssy!!! They KILL people there!!!!!”
Message to Missives Readers and Commenters.
O
ne of the best things about blogging is the feedback you get on your posts from your readers’ comments. I read recently that only 1 out of every 100 people that read a blog actually comment. So, I thank you for taking the time to comment and to do it with such regular wit and aplomb.How do I thank you?
We-ell, Starting from Friday 22nd Feb I am going to honour a great comment from one of my readers each week and link to their blog. You lot often steal my thunder, so I’d like to chuck some kudos your way.
Sadly, My Daddy was just A Bank-Robber
Nepotism in action, yesterday
Yes! I’m doing that Gap Year thing like a twat.
Thinking of writing a blog whilst you’re there?Yes! I figure if Misssy M can do it, then so can I!
The perhaps the Guardian might showcase it on their website?
Oh that’d be lovely! Flipping heck that was easy! I didn’t have to spend years building up a readership or anything.
What is it? Oh, will the blog have to be good? Maybe original or refreshing?
No, no that’s not a problem. It’s just, well…your Dad’s not a travel writer on first name terms with the travel editor of the paper is he?
No, my Dad works for the gas board.
Oh dear. Better sling your hook then. Get to obscurity and damn your insolence!
For those of you who haven’t seen this story already. It’s this:
A 19 year old man-boy has hugely dull and unimaginitive first blog post showcased on the Guardian Travel site. What has he done to garner such a gig? He’s got the right parents. Luckily the site’s commenters sussed this out straight away. Read the blog, but then, even better, read the comments. Some comments are evil (some Guardian site commenters make Genghis Khan look like a pussycat) but most are extremely funny.
Just a little note to all my overseas readers writing incisive, witty and dedicated blogs about life abroad. You know who you are. My dears, don’t be down about the fact that the Guardian chooses to showcase the mutterings of an annoying teenager traveling the well beaten track of Thailand courtesy of his Daddy’s connections in the travel writing game.
Don’t be annoyed that they chose to do this instead getting off their arses and actually reading any of the quality blog writing already out there with a proven track record, authenticity and readers.
Don’t be disheartened ….because poor little backpacking Max Gogarty will be lucky if he can get a letter posted without vitriolic comment when the Guardian website regulars are finished with him.
Read of the week, this. Says a lot about the media today, I think.
Read the original post here.
And then read the response from the Travel Editor who needs a kicking here.
Ooooh la-la!
I’m back from Paris.
So much to tell…no time to do it now, but check out these teasers from my weekend in Paris:
- Zut alors! Am I the most excited person in Paris? Yes! It’s official!
- Euro-shocker: the French are ace!
- J’taime and all that! I speak French even though I don’t know how!
- Merde!!! I nearly miss flight home and have to run “Frantic”-Harrison Ford-style through Charles de Gaulle!
- Excuse Moi!!!! How rude must I be for two French chicks to take me up on my rudeness? Answer: not very, but more of that later….
More tomorrow!
Berlin: East Side Story
Wishful thinking
by a West German Wall graffiti artist
When I was 18 I lived in West Germany from 1988/1989. Turns out, this was a pivotal year in Germany’s history. You may remember….
Walls come tumbling downafter 28 years
In the region of NordRhein- Westfalen, the state sponsored English Assistant Teachers, of which I was one, got taken on a trip to Berlin every year, by way of thanks for their hard work and to provide them with a cultural experience.
In May 1989, we traveled by bus, leaving West Germany, making our way through the German Democratic Republic, the country name that makes me laugh the most, and eventually alighting in a little Western outpost called West Berlin.
Blue for West Germany (BRD),
Red for East Germany (DDR),
Yellow for West Berlin
In 1988, Berlin was still split into East and West by means of a hulking big concrete wall populated by men in ridiculous outfits, who were eager to shoot those who tried to climb over it.
East German guardsin the 1970s
Official figures say that around 125 East Germans were shot between 1961 and 1989, whilst trying to get over the wall, or walls. There were actually two parallel walls with a strip of land known unofficially, of course, as the “death strip” in between them. The Wall was over 155 kilometres (96 miles) long.
The body of Peter Hechter 1962: One of the few photos to reach the West
confirming the policy of shoot to kill for defectors
Bear in mind, official East German figures would of course be doctored. No one knew how many people were actually killed whilst trying to escape to West Germany at the time of the regime and the shoot to kill policy for defectors was, for a long time, denied by the Communist regime. Yet, the documents are there, now in German archives, confirming the command for shooting those caught defecting. The numbers are higher that those admitted to previously.
An East German guard peeks
through a crack in the wall in 1989
by Kurt Woodward
In 1989 the west side of the wall looked like this.
The East side of the wall looked like this.
At the end of our week in the city we were to spend a day in East Berlin. This would be the strangest day of my life.
Before our cross-border trip we were given a talk on how to behave in East Berlin. Anyone not attending the meeting would not be allowed to go on the three minute S-Bahn train journey from the west to Freidrichsstrasse in East Berlin.
The meeting, hosted by our West German school teacher chaperone, Frau Lohse, broke down like this.
As western citizens, we would perhaps be unable to digest the reality of life for those who lived in East Germany. We may be tempted to show our feelings about any weirdness we encountered or anything we may have read prior to our visit there.
We may even feel sorry for those who lived there. We may be too curious about their lives. We may naively try and do something that makes a small difference. In no uncertain terms should we follow these urges; East Germany was not to be messed with.
And be sure of this; not all East Germans want to escape.
We were told that the people of East Berlin may not be friendly towards us, but there were reasons for this. Having lived in Cologne, traditionally the most unfriendly city in the whole of Germany (and that’s saying something!), I was at least was glad to hear the Ossies had an excuse for their rude behaviour where the average Kolsche* supermarket assistant did not.
The East Germans would be nervous of being seen talking to visitors from West Berlin. This could be for two reasons. Firstly, the Ossies are acutely aware of always being watched by police, or undercover Stasi (secret police). Contact with Westerners was frowned upon at best. Secondly, many Ossies are suspicious or disdainful of those from the West. Their state feeds them propaganda about the West and it is not complimentary.
We were told, “Do not make them any more uncomfortable by seeking their company or imposing yourselves upon them, if not invited to do so.”
Secondly, do not give any of your money away. At the Friedrichstrasse train station in East Berlin, you may come across people who look like they might need some cash. Do not be tempted to give them any money. On reaching the East, all visitors are required to exchange 30DM for Ost-marks (simply known as Marks, the East German currency). You will find next to nothing to spend these Ost marks on. This is a ruse by the East German government to get their hands on Western money. You will not be able to exchange your leftover Ostmarks for Western Deutschmarks. You WILL have left over East money which you will tempted to get rid of.
Under no circumstances give your money to East Germans. This will get them into serious trouble. Most especially, do not give any Western money to East Germans – even if they ask you for it. It is illegal for an East German to possess western currency. Yes, yes, we know the DDR Government has it. Yes, yes, we know the DDR economy can’t function without it. Their citizens are forbidden it.
It was like being warned not to feed the animals by the zookeepers. We took it all in with a large pinch of salt. How bad could it be?
A final note from our hosts. Do not take photographs of any officials, border guards, The Wall or any government buildings. You may be approached by police, asked to empty your camera of film and surrender it. If this happens to you, do not argue. It isn’t worth it, you’ll be put on a train back to the West immediately.
The meeting ended with a wish for us to enjoy our visit to East Berlin, and a reminder that we are guests in a different country with different rules. Rules which, no matter how we feel about them personally, we must respect.
We would catch the S-Bahn to Friedrichstrasse at 8am the next day.
Next: Berlin. Part Two: Alexanderplatz and All That
* Kolsche: A person from Cologne. Also their local beer.
Batten down the hatches: The Flying Martinis are coming!
For someone whose dream is to be a travel writer (with the inevitable TV spin off making me a household name, of course) I have something of a predicament. I am a travel hex.
I am the firestarter. A twisted global firestarter, if you will.
I seem to be able to unconsciously cause major world events by involving them in my travel plans. This has happened too often to be a coincidence.
View the evidence, members of the jury.
May 1989: I visit East Berlin. November 1989, the country collapses (yay!) and the Berlin Wall comes down (another yay!). My official statement, which I had prepared should the press call (which they didn’t ) was simple,
“It wasn’t me, honest! I wasn’t leaning against it or nothing. It just happened.”
After we got back from East Berlin, me and my mates did do a human pyramid on the front lawn of the Reichstag, which we meant as an conceptual artistic statement on the whole east west situation*. Could it have been this action, that struck a chord in the minds of some Ossies looking over the wall at us? I’d like to think so.
March 2006: The Flying Martinis are due to go on a school trip to Sri Lanka in June**. Within weeks of the Flying Martinis being asked to join the trip, the years -long ceasefire between Sri Lankan government and the Tamil Tiger rebel forces is broken and violence ensues, plunging the country into renewed civil war.
The North of Sri Lanka is declared a potential no-go zone by all outside foreign offices, and the Tsunami stricken country sees its chances of economic recovery through tourism go spiraling down the drain. We still went though, cos we’re THAT hard. Couldn’t recommend a country to anyone enough. Things have improved slightly since we left, it must be said.
Meeester makes it to the the top of Sigiriya, Sri Lanka, September 2006: Misssy presses the “confirm” button on her e-booking for flights to Thailand. Within a week a military coup is underway against Prime Minister Taksin Shinawatra and tanks fill the streets of Bangkok.
Misssy watches the events live on Sky, making the Homer Simpson “Doh!” noise, with Britney Spears’s “Oops! I did it again!” looping in her head as an earworm.
Mind you as coups go, this one is bit of a laugh. Apparently, most Thai people slept right through it and only one drop of blood was shed when someone cut their finger whilst opening a tin of cashew nuts.
The Martinis make it to Thailand in April 2007 and no damage seems to have been reported.
“Mum, can we keep her?” Indy with fierce friend in Thailand.
Still, the coup is our fault, I firmly believe that the butterfly effect of my visa transaction set events into motion.
December 2007: Having taken delivery of Sonny the Dawg, our travel plans for the coming year will be largely centred around the British Isles. However, we have one overseas commitment in the form of a school trip in 2008. Where? Yup, you guessed it; Kenya!
Looks like that’s off then, eh?
Never mind, travel plans are being adjusted to take in a new alternative destination. Yet to be confirmed, it will be one of the following:
1. Thailand and Cambodia, or
2. Mexico and Belize, or
3. Rajasthan, or
4. Iran
Okay…. that last one is a joke, but you’ll know which of the other three we’ve plumped for when something huge kicks off.
* or larking about, I can’t remember which.
** The event that started me blogging
Pimp My Ride…
There are certain things in life that people say have happened but your whole life you’ve never seen any evidence of and you begin to think are urban myths. Here’s a few:
Getting a tax rebate;
Getting upgraded to first class by the airplane check in clerk cos she likes your face;
Winning the car you bought a raffle ticket for in the shopping centre;
Duvet day policy at work- (do you know anyone whose work has this? It’s a myth!);
Santa Claus;
Being “spotted” and made the next big thing by some Svengali;
Being upgraded from bog standard hotel room to a lux suite.
Well, smack my arse and call me Paris Hilton, we were upgraded in the Davis Hotel (our most expensive hotel room- end of trip treat) to the Ambassador suite!
In fact the way it was done was just beautiful.
Bedroom 1
Receptionist (to me): “Excuse me madam, would you mind if we upgraded you and your family to the Ambassador suite”.
Would I mind? Would I mind?!
“That’ll be fine,” I say calmly, whilst inner Gill shouts “Ambassador suite!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!We’ve made it !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!Aaaarrgggghhhhh!Hahahahahahhahaha!”
So we are taken to the suite by our porter who, rather cheekily, I thought, enquires, “Did you book this suite or were you upgraded?”
He is clearly stunned that such obvious plebs are setting foot in the suite to do something other than clean it.
“Upgraded,” I confess (“What’s it to ya?” Inner Gill thinks)
“This is the best suite we have in this wing of the hotel” This guy still can’t believe we’ve been allowed in.
“Hmmm” I say (“I’m tired of you doubting our suitability to this strata of luxury, my man. Now let us in so we can all run around naked screaming, open all the free soaps, drink the mini bar and wash our undies in the Jacuzzi,” Inner Gill snarls)
I’m getting the picture here and I think back to ten minutes ago. This was the guy who met us at the door. Let’s switch on the 70’s Blake’s Seven going back in time visual effect and return to yesterday in Kanchananburi. The scene is this, booking our taxi to Bangkok from a sixty/seventy year old guy who looked like one of Magnum’s contacts with longhair, moustache, opened Hawaiian short and flip flops. He wants 1,800 Baht (about £30) for the fare which is OK considering the hotel is advertising a taxi for twice that. He wants it paid in advance. No, we may be farang but we’re not stupid farang, mate. We give him half now, say we’ll pay other half when safely arrived in Bangkok.
John checks something before handing over the cash, “This taxi is air-conditioned?”
“Yes, yes, is big Toyota, has air conditioning!” he assures us
Next morning our cab turns up. It has rope keeping the boot shut, has a need of a great deal of panel beating repair work, is not a make of car known to man, is filthy and yes, that’s right, the air-conditioning consists of…opening a window. Only one of which in the back seat actually opens.
But it does have the additional features of a taxi driver with ferociously long nails (going for that Guinness Record, I think), an array of Hindu icons of deities arranges along the dashboard, a Sistine chapel-like fresco painting in engine oil on the car ceiling (do cars have ceilings? You get my drift) and plastic seats which given the absence of ac and the fact we’re all wearing shorts, makes for a thrush inducing ride from hell.
It gets s worse and John is responsible. Figuring we’ve got 2 and a half hours in this chariot of hell, he spies a cassette. John Lennon’s “Imagine”, the soundtrack to the documentary film. He takes the cassette out of the box, examines it, but it’s written in Thai. He asks the horny fingered driver if he can put it on. The driver looks pleased. He nods enthusiastically gesturing to the tape deck (tape deck but no A/C….humpfff!).
The sound of a south east Asian warbling woman blasts out the speakers. I glare at john in a “What fresh hell is this?” kind of way. John looks back, and offers this,
“Maybe it’s a Yoko track…”
But no of course it bloody isn’t. It’s 90 minutes of Thailand’s answer to Petula Clark. So now we’ve got the stench of hell, the feel of hell, the temperature of hell, the look of hell AND the sound of hell. Hell!
We cannot offend our horned host and listen to the tape until the end of the journey. He is chuffed we like it.
So flash forward to our arrival at the Davis which is top of the range hotel-tastic. See pics if you don’t believe me. And the Flying Martinis arrive in the Thai equivalent of the Trotters Independent Trading Reliant Robin. John opens the door and bashes it on the front step and apologises to the driver. The porter looks at him and shrugs as if to say, “Don’t apologise, you’ve probably improved it.”
This is the guy that takes us up to our room.
So I’ll leave you with some pics of the ambassador suite…..and later I’ll post some of us soiling it…..
The Davis Hotel, yes they let US in…
Bedroom 2 (Before the kids went in…)
Dr Louis Cheeseman, Scottish Ambassador to Thailand, outside his suite
Pimp My Ride…
There are certain things in life that people say have happened but your whole life you’ve never seen any evidence of and you begin to think are urban myths. Here’s a few:
Getting a tax rebate;
Getting upgraded to first class by the airplane check in clerk cos she likes your face;
Winning the car you bought a raffle ticket for in the shopping centre;
Duvet day policy at work- (do you know anyone whose work has this? It’s a myth!);
Santa Claus;
Being “spotted” and made the next big thing by some Svengali;
Being upgraded from bog standard hotel room to a lux suite.
Well, smack my arse and call me Paris Hilton, we were upgraded in the Davis Hotel (our most expensive hotel room- end of trip treat) to the Ambassador suite!
In fact the way it was done was just beautiful.
Bedroom 1
Receptionist (to me): “Excuse me madam, would you mind if we upgraded you and your family to the Ambassador suite”.
Would I mind? Would I mind?!
“That’ll be fine,” I say calmly, whilst inner Gill shouts “Ambassador suite!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!We’ve made it !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!Aaaarrgggghhhhh!Hahahahahahhahaha!”
So we are taken to the suite by our porter who, rather cheekily, I thought, enquires, “Did you book this suite or were you upgraded?”
He is clearly stunned that such obvious plebs are setting foot in the suite to do something other than clean it.
“Upgraded,” I confess (“What’s it to ya?” Inner Gill thinks)
“This is the best suite we have in this wing of the hotel” This guy still can’t believe we’ve been allowed in.
“Hmmm” I say (“I’m tired of you doubting our suitability to this strata of luxury, my man. Now let us in so we can all run around naked screaming, open all the free soaps, drink the mini bar and wash our undies in the Jacuzzi,” Inner Gill snarls)
I’m getting the picture here and I think back to ten minutes ago. This was the guy who met us at the door. Let’s switch on the 70’s Blake’s Seven going back in time visual effect and return to yesterday in Kanchananburi. The scene is this, booking our taxi to Bangkok from a sixty/seventy year old guy who looked like one of Magnum’s contacts with longhair, moustache, opened Hawaiian short and flip flops. He wants 1,800 Baht (about £30) for the fare which is OK considering the hotel is advertising a taxi for twice that. He wants it paid in advance. No, we may be farang but we’re not stupid farang, mate. We give him half now, say we’ll pay other half when safely arrived in Bangkok.
John checks something before handing over the cash, “This taxi is air-conditioned?”
“Yes, yes, is big Toyota, has air conditioning!” he assures us
Next morning our cab turns up. It has rope keeping the boot shut, has a need of a great deal of panel beating repair work, is not a make of car known to man, is filthy and yes, that’s right, the air-conditioning consists of…opening a window. Only one of which in the back seat actually opens.
But it does have the additional features of a taxi driver with ferociously long nails (going for that Guinness Record, I think), an array of Hindu icons of deities arranges along the dashboard, a Sistine chapel-like fresco painting in engine oil on the car ceiling (do cars have ceilings? You get my drift) and plastic seats which given the absence of ac and the fact we’re all wearing shorts, makes for a thrush inducing ride from hell.
It gets s worse and John is responsible. Figuring we’ve got 2 and a half hours in this chariot of hell, he spies a cassette. John Lennon’s “Imagine”, the soundtrack to the documentary film. He takes the cassette out of the box, examines it, but it’s written in Thai. He asks the horny fingered driver if he can put it on. The driver looks pleased. He nods enthusiastically gesturing to the tape deck (tape deck but no A/C….humpfff!).
The sound of a south east Asian warbling woman blasts out the speakers. I glare at john in a “What fresh hell is this?” kind of way. John looks back, and offers this,
“Maybe it’s a Yoko track…”
But no of course it bloody isn’t. It’s 90 minutes of Thailand’s answer to Petula Clark. So now we’ve got the stench of hell, the feel of hell, the temperature of hell, the look of hell AND the sound of hell. Hell!
We cannot offend our horned host and listen to the tape until the end of the journey. He is chuffed we like it.
So flash forward to our arrival at the Davis which is top of the range hotel-tastic. See pics if you don’t believe me. And the Flying Martinis arrive in the Thai equivalent of the Trotters Independent Trading Reliant Robin. John opens the door and bashes it on the front step and apologises to the driver. The porter looks at him and shrugs as if to say, “Don’t apologise, you’ve probably improved it.”
This is the guy that takes us up to our room.
So I’ll leave you with some pics of the ambassador suite…..and later I’ll post some of us soiling it…..
The Davis Hotel, yes they let US in…
Bedroom 2 (Before the kids went in…)
Dr Louis Cheeseman, Scottish Ambassador to Thailand, outside his suite
Bad Karma and Ladyboys
Hey everybody good news, I’ve found time to write a second blog! Why? Because the Thai equivalent of Greasy Jet (Nok Air) have conveniently moved all operations to a different airport than the one we booked to fly to the islands from. This only happened last week and even though I only booked our flights two weeks before that, they have not told us. One can only assume it was a snap decision on their part.
To explain , I buy tickets to Krabi from Bangkok Airport online five weeks ago. Great, we’re sorted! So this morning we rise early and take a taxi for our 9.35 flight. “Oooh by noon, kids we’ll be swimming in the sea!” I enthuse. Not a chance. Nok Air have moved operations from Bangkok Airport to their other “old” airport and guess what, it takes over an hour to get there. It’s like going to Heathrow only to be told that the flight you booked now runs from Gatwick. So we’re booked on the 4pm flight instead. I can’t tell you how delighted I am to be spending an extra six hours in a dilapidated old airport in Bangkok when I could be slumming it on a white sandy beach.
What’s worse, ranting, complaining, airport rage and general displays of anger are not done in Thailand. They don’t do it, they don’t like it, and they certainly can’t cope with anyone who does it in front of them. So I don’t do it.
People keep on saying “No problem!” to me and then disappearing for an hour at a time with my travel documents.
Even though it takes them 2 hours to sort out new tickets for us and absolutely nobody apologises for moving the flight to an airport the other side of town without telling anybody, making us miss a day of our holiday, I bite my lip and try my best to keep a lid on. I think I may be developing an aneurism as a result.
In the Taylor family (I used to be MisssyTaylor) we have a tradition of taking out our anger by attacking a cardboard box, (or anything inanimate that comes to hand) with a big stick out in the back garden. Actually, that’s not strictly true as only my mild mannered, unsinkable brother has ever done this. He’s a placid kind of soul and an anger management inspiration. Suddenly, I’m looking for a stick and a box to take out side the airport to beat mercilessly to save me from having a seizure. This Buddhism thing is all very well, but a nice bit of Ian Paisley protestant rage is probably more where I’m coming from at the moment.
Anyway, you don’t want to hear about that do you? I’ll tell you about Chinatown and our last night in Bangkok instead and let the rage bubble under for now. So last thing I told you was about Indiana and the stolen religious artefact (it might just be a gold painted lump of plaster to us , but let’s face it, it’s akin to chipping a bit off the Sistine chapel frescoes to take home for your gran, or drawing a bogey coming down the nose of Jesus in Da Vinci’s “Last Supper”).
From the point of Indy’s confession onwards, we head up the river in a long-tailed boat to Chinatown, home of the markets and cheap tat. The long-tailed boat costs a relative Thai fortune at about (600 BAT) £10, and we pretty much figure we’re being ripped off mercilessly but it was such a laugh, we don’t care. Every bow wave, this thing flies up in the air and splashes down spraying us with water. We try not to open our mouths as the river makes the Clyde look like a freshwater lagoon. But we’re laughing so much swallowing some filthy water is unavoidable; typhus is probably coursing through my veins as I type. The kids loved it, and the trip was over too quick. For 600BAT we should’ve asked for more time, but never mind. As one of our compatriots at the hotel said,
“Getting ripped off is all part of it, really, in Bangkok”
So we hit Chinatown which is full on Bangkok to the power of ten. Stinky and dirty and absolutely crammed full of people, dead animals hanging up, smells and tat galore. But you really don’t end up buying anything because you can’t get a handle on what there is to buy, there’s just too much crap, all crammed in to tiny shops with thousands of people squashing past you in tight little alleyways. Occasionally a moped tries to cram past you as well with the back loaded with cages full of something. I mean, these alleyways are not even the width of my hallway at home. It’s something I won’t forget, but we pretty much had to escape after an hour and a half.
Not least because, as I said before, Eve got a lot of attention and it became that she was getting manhandled a little too often by Thai ladies pinching, squeezing, hugging and adoring her. She is going to be unbearable after this- she thinks she’s the Beatles. In the words of John Lennon, “Bigger than Jesus”, (or Buddha- let’s spread the blasphemism).
So we jump in a taxi and head back to the hotel pool and have a lovely relaxing night in the Reflection Rooms which is a chilled out pop art little oasis in an otherwise mental city. John and I drink Margueritas by the pool which make us really feel like we’re on holiday. A guy puts lounge music on the stereo and we pretend we’re in the fifties.
We all play in the pool for a couple of hours and then have a great dinner of squid, prawns, spring rolls and thai curry before crashing out upstairs, watching of all things “The Beach” on TV which is set where we are supposed to be going to today. John is now worried about sharks. Forgot how graphic that scene is where the two Swedish guys get attacked by a shark. Think he’ll be sticking to the pool. He might not even come out of the bungalow. He says I’ve ruined the anticipation for him by “making” him watch the film. He’s not a drama queen, he insists.
But listen, I can’t stay too long, I’ve four fun packed hours to kill in this wonderful airport. I’m off to browse the airport’s only shop which sells only imitation bronze canons (which John informs me are actually phones) mounted on plinths of teak, cuckoo clocks, ornate ladies’ bolero jackets and portraits of Thailand’s King and Queen (but strangely no travel adaptors or batteries…) I think I’ll just get all my presents for home there. Failing that I’ll get Indy to nick a couple of Buddhas from temples for the folks back home.
PS: I’m posting this from Kaw Kwang in the Island of Koh Lanta, so we eventually made it! More of that later- internet access is available so they’ll be the odd blog coming soon.
PPS: A few folks have asked me about teh Thai Ladyboys. I have to disappoint- not see any ladyboys yet, and have stayed away from seedy areas as none of us want to have those kind of conversations with Indy yet.
One more Indy story before I go. On our first day in Bangkok a woman pointed at Indy and made two gestures: drags finger across upper lip as in “Moustache” and then cups hands on chest as “boobs”. I’m wondering if I’m going to have to go all lioness on her, since I think, “Is she offering to seel my son into some ladyboy revue show or slave trade?” No, she is asking , “Bird or bloke?”. And this is the first of many times this happens. The thais think my boy is a girl because of his hair. Thai boys have short hair. Louis unimpressed by this. Especially since I start singing Rebel Rebel by Bowie:
“You’ve got your mother in a whirl
She’s not sure if you’re a boy or a girl
Hey babe, your hairs alright
Hey babe, lets go out tonight”
He gave me a dead arm, but fair play I deserved it. Funny though….
