Thursday, 23 June 2011

People are strange

Luang Prabang, Laos and Hanoi, Vietnam

“Oh, hello, you were on the plane with us from Luang Prabang” she said, scurrying across the busy Hanoi street and leaving her (his eyes seemed to suggest) long-suffering husband on the other side.  Whilst it pays to be just the tiniest bit suspicious of random people claiming to know you in foreign cities, the middle aged north-western woman, with her camera toting husband in tow could, I felt, be swiftly placed in the harmless category.  Harmless maybe, but boy could she moan.  “How did you like Luang Prabang” we asked, wishing five minutes later that we hadn’t as we were treated to a rundown of the numerous failings the city had amounting, if I followed correctly, to there being ants in her room and the boat that transported them there being grubby.  I have no issue with people having higher expectations, particularly if they’ve paid enough to justify such expectations, but writing off a whole city – a UNESCO world heritage site at that – on the basis of a tour company screw up seems a bit disingenuous to me.  “I refused to get in the bed on the first night”, she continued, images flashing through my mind of her hanging upside down from an alcove instead, arms crossed over her chest, her husband ordering extra garlic bread at dinner.  “Oh, well I hope you’re enjoying Hanoi a little more” I politely responded, keen to move the conversation into a moan free zone before I had to get all Buffy on her arse and pull out my wooden stake or fashion a couple of ciggies into a makeshift crucifix.  “Oh, this is much more like it”, she replied, “the hotel’s beautiful, I’ll be two hours tops out here and then it’s straight back to the pool - a bit of luxury, just like we’re used to”.  Our eyes met, sharing a look that I suspect is unique to Brits, indecipherable to any other nationality, that said ‘yes, that’s right, you’ve just slipped into show-off mode, now we both feel uncomfortable’.  Hastily back-pedalling she added “you know what I mean, we’re older, we’ve done all that doss-house stuff before”. 

I should be clear here, I didn’t dislike this woman – I may not want to be trapped in a lift with her, but I didn’t dislike her.  She’d chosen to go on a tour through South East Asia, deciding against numerous more comfortable experiences, and she and her husband were most likely spending a good chunk of the savings they’d built up through the summer of their youth to do so.  But the reference to her age made me inwardly chuckle, bringing to life the irony of a sumptuous passage I had just read in Paul Theroux’s Ghost Train to the Eastern Star:

Luxury spoils and infantilizes you and prevents you from knowing the world. That is its purpose, the reason why luxury cruises and great hotels are full of fatheads who, when they express an opinion, seem as though they are from another planet.  

This woman, in the autumn of her life, had chosen, precisely because of her age, a holiday that would spoil and infantilize her and which was resulting in a grown-up tantrum on the side of a busy road in Hanoi to two complete strangers.  By vowing to spend time by the pool instead of time in the city she was clinging to a comfort blanket, knowing that the only strange foreigners she’d have to deal with would be those serving her Martinis poolside, trained no doubt to international standards and in the international language of the service industry, English. 

This sounds scathing, but it really isn’t meant to.  I genuinely hope that she has a nice holiday, and that she stops stressing the little things (and whisper it, they’re all little things in the end).  I hope that she gets up early one morning and sees how the residents of Hanoi keep fit without access to a five star pool, stretching, tai-chi’ing, and slowly jogging around the city centre lake as the steam dissipates off the surface and before the cloak of humidity takes hold.  I hope that as the sun rises her concerns and fears and frustrations will set, and that the ‘Dangers and Annoyances’ section of the Lonely Planet (which, be honest, everyone morbidly flicks to first) will no longer say to her scam, charlatan and thief but opportunity, understanding and friendship. I hope that she begins to revel in the giddy sensation of ‘otherness’ that travel in a strange land can engender, and that she starts to see this otherness as a blessing and not a curse.  I hope that she realises that it is more often the people, strange though they may be, and not the places, that make for a great experience. 

I hope I can do the same.

(Oh, and I really hope a priest hasn’t blessed that swimming pool water because that would be, well, messy.)

< Competition time! There will be a fabvery little to no valueulous prize for the first person who can correctly identify the link between the title of this post and the subject matter.  Leave your submissions as a comment and if you post as 'anonymous' be sure to stick your name at the end of the comment.  Good luck blog fans and thanks, as ever, for reading! 
UPDATE, seven hours after publication - we have a winner already, and the competition is now closed, although feel free to leave other comments or connections that you see.  Read the comments to see the answers, including Mark's correct answer.>






Thursday, 16 June 2011

Risks worth taking

Laos, Huay Xai

There are some risks one can choose to take, calculated risks, risks that you feel you understand the potential consequences of and choose to take anyway.  And there are other risks that one takes every day – crossing the road, plugging in a kettle, getting on a bus – that through repetition cease to be perceived as risks, and become normalised. And a bloody good job too because a life lived at the beck and call of risk is not a life, but an ordeal.  Living a life devoid of risk is not living.  However, taking one of these normalised risks and this risk resulting in the silent plea of I want to live, does rather make one re-evaluate the risk-reward calculation.  It was this plea that crossed my mind, surprisingly slowly and serenely, as the bus we were on spun in two full circles on a greasy mountain road between Huay Xai and Lung Nam Tha in northern Laos.  Time really does slow down in moments such as these, and watching the green Lao countryside spin past me, desperately trying to lock eye contact with Helen, there was time to compile a list of possible outcomes; (a) we grind to a halt, (b) we flip over, (c) we spin off the edge, or (d) we flip then we go off the edge.  A macabre version of Who Wants to be a Millionaire.  Needless to say, none of these outcomes were really part of my mental risk-assessment process when I booked the bus tickets, or got on the rickety public bus, or silently assessed the driver’s skills as we sped round sharp corners.  Maybe these potential outcomes will be more prominent in my mind next time I get on a bus.

The fact that I am writing this sat outside a book store in the delightful royal capital of Laos, Luang Prabang, and not from a hospital bed or from beyond the grave (m-hah, m-hah, m-hah), suffering from no more than some volatile bowels and a mild hangover will tell you that the eventual outcome was, in fact, (a), final answer.  We ground to a halt on a patch of gravel by the side of the road, the friction stopping our slide towards the mountain edge, the only real damage done to the serenity of us and our Lao travelling companions.  Given that I’ve only just mastered the Lao for ‘thank you’ I figured it pointless to engage the driver in a lecture on the correct way to drive down wet mountain roads, limiting myself to a sigh and the plea, translated with conviction by the other Lao passengers, to ‘bloody well slow down’.  I’m not sure if they also translated my muttered rejoinder of ‘you fucking idiot’, but a look can tell a thousand words and from the daggers being pointed at the driver from everyone on the bus it was abundantly clear that a tip was out of the question.  I even broke my rule of ‘always say thank you to the driver when getting off a bus’, a rule that even the sink-hole of rudeness, London, hadn’t previously shaken me from.

The irony of this incident is that for the previous three days we had been engaged in an activity that posed far more of a visceral and immediate risk than catching a bus ever could.  We had been deep in the jungle, fighting off leeches, living in a tree house twenty metres off the ground, and zip-lining through the jungle canopy.  The Gibbon Experience is a popular activity on the South East Asia traveller circuit, situated just over the Thai-Laos border in the northwest of Laos, which despite the $270 USD per person price tag is booked virtually year round.  We hadn’t booked it, of course - we’re flexible, just going with the flow man, letting each country tell us what we should do, not some traveller’s bible guide book.  I jest, of course - to put it another, more honest and less pretentious way, we’re disorganised.  But, bus journeys notwithstanding, we’re also quite lucky.  We managed to secure the last couple of places on a trip leaving two days after we had crossed from Thailand into Laos, in a fun group of sixteen.  Well, mainly fun.  I didn’t take too kindly to being told off by a young Sloanie girl for supposedly killing an ant, when (1) I hadn’t, and (2) it’s a bloody ant, not a puppy.  This is the same girl who had just made a fuss about the fact that none of the baguettes we had been provided with for lunch were vegetarian, but instead of removing the chicken like the other vegetarians in the group had eaten it anyway.  Perhaps the principles of vegetarianism don’t apply in the jungle. I have no idea given that I grew up a long time ago made the lifestyle choice to be a carnivore.  I’m joking! A cheap joke at that. You can wipe the pieces of tofu burger you indignantly spat out off your computer screen.  I said none of this to our sloanie friend, of course, choosing diplomacy over conflict.  My response of cutting her safety rope was, I think, a far more effective approach.  Still joking.   
               
Lunch completed, we trekked on through the jungle, sweating more than I ever have before as the jungle wrapped its humid sleeping bag around my body, stopping eventually at a wooden platform surrounded by trees.  Waiting my turn I checked and double-checked the fit of my harness then meticulously attached my roller and safety line to the steel zip line.  Now, I’ve zip lined before, and it’s fun, but this was something else.  Shooting out from the trees I was suddenly suspended 100ft from the jungle floor, the rolling landscape all around me, the wind buffeting my face as I sped across the valley and onto the platform on the other side. Some shout ‘woo-hoo’ at times like these.  I don’t, I’m rendered dumb.  Getting back my power of speech I turned to Helen and muttered the phrase that hitherto has driven me nuts for its lazy and inarticulate over-use; ‘that was awesome’.  But this really was awesome.  Most things aren’t (well, unless you’re a complete simpleton who is genuinely awe-inspired by the minutiae of everyday life), but zip-ling across a forest canopy is.

Sleeping in a tree-house that you enter via a zip-line is pretty good too.  Certainly a step up from Premier Inn.  But I really shouldn’t be too dismissive about the over-use of the word ‘awesome’, brandishing its proponents as simpletons.  For this was the conversation Helen and I had when we awoke after our first night sleeping in the din of the jungle chorus, high up above the ground: 
   
Helen: How did you sleep?

Me: Not great, it was pretty loud, some of those insects sound like zombies.  I spent most of the night devising defence strategies for how we could repel a zombie attack on the tree house.  We’d be pretty screwed I concluded - I’ve only got a Swiss army pen knife, and if they are like those zombies from 28 Days Later then they’d be close enough to spit blood on you before you could effectively use the blade anyway.

Helen: Uh-huh, that’s not very realistic. I slept pretty well, although I did convince myself that one of the noises was a tiger, and it was laying outside the mosquito net.  But then I told myself it was probably a friendly tiger and that helped me get back to sleep.

Who’s the simpleton now?
 
So, what’s the moral to this story?  Do you take risks to experience something that is genuinely awesome? Do you think more carefully before taking a normalised risk, knowing that one day that risk may end your life? Do you live in fear, or do you live more freely in blissful ignorance? Jeez, I don’t know, I’m a simpleton.  Maybe you just live, and every so often say a silent thank you that you, and those you love, are alive and that there are moments in life that can, just sometimes, be awesome.


Left: One of the tree houses.  Right: Dawn breaks over the jungle.
Laos public buses - scary.

Thursday, 9 June 2011

Not well trained

Thailand, Bangkok to Trang by sleeper train

That feeling about trains, for instance.  Of course he had long outgrown the boyish glamour of the steam engine.  Yet there was something that had an appeal for him in trains, especially in night trains, which always put queer, vaguely improper notions into his head.  
Georges Simenon, "The Man Who Watched the Trains Go By".


‘Where. Have. You. BEEN’?  Yep, I’m in trouble, I thought.  The gritted teeth and fire in the eyes gave it away.  This was face-tremor anger, and even through the delightful cloud of irresponsibility that Thailand’s national beer, Chang, induces I could tell that I’d done A Bad Thing.  For those of you not acquainted with Chang it’s the most popular, and cheapest, lager in Thailand.  It’s also like Stella on steroids.  The quoted ABV is 6.4% but I’ve been reliably informed that it varies in strength from 6-8%.  Its logo graces the ubiquitous singlets worn by virtually every male traveller in Thailand, a uniform that displays bulging biceps and island tans.  You must understand – I’m not jealous of these bicep-ed young men wearing their identikit uniforms, looking fit and healthy and cool, part of the vest gang, singing Bob Marley songs around a beach fire.  No, I’m not jealous, I just want to beat them to death with the guitar and use the singlet to rub away the fingerprints.   

None of this, however, crossed my mind as I sashayed my way to the dining car on the overnight sleeper train we had caught from Bangkok, our destination Trang on Thailand’s western Andaman Coast.  I was feeling tip-top in fact, all at peace with the world, not the least bit misanthropic, and I may have even been humming some Bob Marley in my head (blah blah load of old bollocks blah, that’s one of his right?) .  I’d left Helen in our carriage, snugly ensconced in one of the upper level beds.  Oh, sure, I hadn’t actually told her I was going to the dining car, but it was a last minute decision.  I figured that as I had already clambered my way down from my own top bunk I might as well stretch my legs, have a sneaky little cigarette in the dining car, and do a little spying on who our travelling companions were. 

Well, it was just wonderful in the dining car.  There was no-one wearing a singlet, the Thai karaoke was blaring out of a table mounted TV, everyone was tucking into bottles of Chang or whisky, the lowered windows were allowing a cool breeze to cut the humid night, and the bustling waitresses were only too pleased to plonk me down on a seat, then plonk a Chang on the table.  This is how you do it, I thought, reflecting back on the last time I had been on a train, several months hence, 5.45am, freezing cold, en route to London, and very seriously questioning if what I was doing was the mark of an insane person.  But this moment in the dining car re-ignited my love of train travel, reminded me of those long and pensive journeys I used to take during the university years, the happy hours spent just staring out of the window and thinking.

Raising my glass to the young Thai guy sitting opposite me I took a long pull on the Chang, and lit a cigarette.  Before I knew it we were chatting away, albeit in broken English (his English being much better than my Thai), and through the universal language of smiles, laughs, and clinking of glasses we quickly established that we had a shared fondness for nicotine and alcohol.  I bought a round of Changs, he shared his bottle of whisky, we were having a merry old time. On the subject of time, one of the lesser known effects of mixing Chang with whisky is that it disrupts one’s sense of time, or more specifically the passing of time.  I’m sure I felt a cold chill pass through the dining car as I glanced at my watch.  In retrospect, this chill may have been guilt.  Or my wife truly is a sorceress and can manipulate the weather through her emotions (cold chill = rage, for future reference).

Pin-balling back through the train carriages I arrived back at our berths. ‘Where. Have. You. BEEN’?  ‘Er, I just had a beer in the dining car’. ‘Really’, she hissed through gritted teeth, ‘is that why your lips are smeared across your face’?  ‘OK, two beers.  And some whisky. But it was really fun’.  This wasn’t the correct response.  With a final outburst that is simply not printable I was banished to my sleeping berth, my doghouse for the evening.  And most of the next day as it turned out. 

She’s right, of course.  It was selfish to disappear unannounced, she was worried that I’d fallen off the train (not totally unrealistic), plus I’d left her with all the bags.  I’d been a Bad Husband, and I apologised sincerely and repeatedly.

But it was really fun.  

Before: Happy and together.  After: Shunned and alone (with a changover)
Update 18 June: So, we were doing our accounts today and I stumbled on this page from the daily expenses/mini-journal H keeps.  In case you can't read the entry for the event described in the post above it says: Ian + friends drinks - 400 baht + ?.  In dining car for over 1 hour - "No, let's not go to dining car" x 2. "No you can't have the computer I want to write my blog".  SELFISH WANKER.
Hell hath no fury...





<If you need useful information about trains in Thailand (or most places in the world) then I can't think of a better place than this lovingly created and meticulously maintained website: the man in seat 61>

Saturday, 28 May 2011

Vice, it's not nice

Hong Kong and Bangkok

‘Oh no, it’s happening again’ I thought to myself as I sat sweating in the humid waiting room of a massage parlour on the fifth floor of a building in Hong Kong’s Yau Ma Tei district.  ‘Do you think this is one of those types of massage parlours’? Helen asked me as a slim Chinese lady walked past wearing a mini skirt and crop top. ‘Yeh, reckon it might be’.  Once again, we’d blundered our way past the white tunic-ed and incense fragranced ground floor places with floor to ceiling windows, instead ascending in a stinky lift with a nervously smiling lady still clutching the photocopied brochure promising cheap massages that acted as our bait.  In an earlier post I spoke of how the spa-brochure advert of relaxation is elusive to me, partly due to a previous experience that I promised to reveal in a later, adults-only posting.  This is that posting, and although I’m pretty sure children aren’t regular readers, and could frankly find far worse on t’internet,  if you are immature in years or outlook then it’s probably time to log off from this discussion about vice and look at this nice picture instead.

This previous experience that tainted my view of massages happened in Singapore, on the first night of our honeymoon a couple of years ago.  We’d wandered around the Chinatown district in the sultry heat, floating on a cushion of jet-lag and beer, but still knotted up after our long-haul from the UK (Qantas A380 = ace).  A massage would be just the ticket we reckoned, a full body one at that, and hell, for that price it would be rude not to.  Ascending the stairs and into the dimly lit waiting room two attractive ladies re-arranged their short skirts, sitting to attention, with what were, in retrospect, bemused looks on their faces as they moved their gaze from me (male, makes sense) to Helen (female, not so much).  Clarifying that, yes indeed, it was both of us who wanted massages we were shepherded into adjoining rooms, divided by a thin partition wall, with gaps at the floor and ceiling, and encouraged to disrobe in private.

Now, this is the first obstacle for the novice massage recipient – just how much do you take off?  ‘Er, Helen, am I supposed to take off my pants’? I whispered through the thin wall. ‘No, course not you idiot, where do you think we are’?  We were about to find out.  Stripped to my pants (good ones, thankfully, this was a honeymoon after all), feeling stupid and self-conscious about my surplus of body hair and deficit of muscles, my masseuse entered the room, sliding the door closed behind her, and with a raised eyebrow asked me to lay flat on my front.  I’ve subsequently learned that it is not common practice for a masseuse to sit on your buttocks whilst massaging your back, but my rationale for her sitting like this, as if she were riding a horse (or bear in this instance), was that I’m bigger than average guys (height, you perverts, height!), and needed to adopt this position to get the appropriate leverage.  ‘Leverage’, now there’s a term I’ve enjoyed not using over the last few months.

Gentlemen, you will need to back me up on this.  Having a rocking weight sat on your buttocks whilst your front is pressed hard against an unyielding surface generates friction, and the physiological impact of this friction has an inevitable, and unavoidable, result. This is not eroticism.  In fact, in this instance it was quite the opposite.  With panic setting in, I knew that any moment she was going to ask me to flip over and lay on my back so she could continue with the second half of the massage.  A mental refrain of ‘think of dead kittens, think of dead kittens’ didn’t do the trick, and as I flipped over I fixed her with a sheepish gaze that I hoped would convey the sentiment ‘yeh, this is embarrassing for both of us, but it’s just the inevitable result of human physiology, so what do you say we just be cool about this and carry on like this elephant (OK, caterpillar) in the room isn’t really there’?

It didn’t work.  ‘You very hairy, I like’ she whispered, playing with the hair on my chest in a way that I’m fairly certain does not grace the pages of massage textbooks.  This reaction is not unique; it happened again two days ago when Helen and I had massages in Bangkok, this time in the same room, although on this occasion my masseuse went on to say ‘your wife very beautiful, you very lucky’ as she gazed over at Helen’s breasts being gently massaged by her colleague. ‘Yes she is, and yes I am’ I replied, thinking this to be a bit weird, but not a patch on the Singapore fling.  And let us return back to Singapore, to a situation that was escalating as quickly as my heart rate.  ‘Ooh, yes, you very hairy, you like that?’ she whispered, patting my penis as if it were her pet sausage dog.  ‘Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoaaa’ I whispered, keen not to disturb my new wife as she lay blissed out on the bed not five yards away, ‘I’m married’, urgently pointing at the shiny ring on my left hand.  As it transpires I hadn’t been as quiet as I’d hoped, my wife hearing me let out what she describes as a ‘low, nervous laugh’.  In a small part of my mind, right at the back, I was thinking that this was funny, but my predominant emotion was pure, unadulterated awkwardness, the Brit in me rising to the top in a tumult of unspoken um’s, er’s, and this is just not cricket’s.   ‘Hand job, 50 dollar’ she said, making a movement with her hand that, even allowing for the mutual language barrier, was not wholly necessary.  ‘No, no, no, married’ I whispered, pointing again at my wedding ring, and then onwards to the room next door.  ‘OK, 40 dollar…30 dollar’ she whispered, more urgently this time.  Part of me was thinking that if we carried on like this she’d be paying me.  She had, after all, already mentioned how attractive she found my chest hair.  Fixing her with my best serious stare I repeated ‘no’ and that was that, I thought, as she continued on the massage in a slightly sullen, but normal way. 

Five minutes later she began working on my right arm, lifting it up from my side and moving along from the elbow to the fingers.  Back on track, I thought, just as she grabbed my hand, turned it around so my palm was facing her and firmly placed it on her left breast.  Leaning in to my ear, my hand still clasped against her breast, she whispered in my ear ‘me your angel, make you feel good’.  Pulling my arm away and rigidly fixing it by my side I turned to my last trick; the disappointed look.  With a frown and a sad little shake of the head I repeated, more gently this time, ‘no’.  And you know what, it worked.  The rest of the massage went off without a hitch, despite it being the most uncomfortable twenty minutes I’ve ever had.

It was this memory that was triggered as my wife and I sat in the Hong Kong massage parlour waiting for our foot massage.  A foot massage – what could go wrong?  Nothing, as it turns out, my paranoia being just that, as the male owner rolled up his sleeves and attended to my hobbit feet, his female colleague drawing the longer straw and massaging Helen’s.  As we sat there, still in their waiting room, our feet being pummelled into submission, we discussed the horse racing that was being screened from the Happy Valley racetrack, all of us placing fun fictional bets on the potential winner of race 8.  We’ve cracked it, I thought, we’ve become street smart about vice.

Our subsequent experience in Bangkok’s Patpong area threw this theory straight out of the window and back into the gutter.  Patpong is famous for a couple of things – its gaudy night market selling knock-off watches and clothes, and its alleyways of vice.  As we walked up and down, left and right, through the streets stopping here and there for bites to eat, and just one more beer, we were constantly approached by touts promising us the fabled Bangkok ping-pong show.  If you don’t know what this is then I’m sorry but I just don’t have the energy to describe it, other than to say that this is ping-pong minus the bats.

As one more beer turned into two, and then to three, we agreed that maybe we should, you know, have a look.  It’ll be a bit naff, we reasoned, but we could always have a beer and leave.  When a tout offered us free entry and beer at 100 baht (about two quid) we reckoned this to be a bargain, show or no show, and followed him conspicuously through the market and up some dingy stairs.  Beers in hand we sat around a circular stage with four ladies lazily dancing, faces reflecting the same thought as the audience – we really don’t want to be here.  It was all incredibly seedy, about as erotic as athlete’s foot as the ladies demonstrated their genital dexterity, and was carried out in an atmosphere that told me this wouldn’t end well.  Waving away requests to buy drinks, a lady sat next to me and asked me to write my name on a piece of paper.  Bemused, and yes a little drunk, my stunning logic was to write down a fake name – Bill – that’ll fox them!  For the next ten minutes we sat, my eyes mainly fixed on the floor.  I only raised them to watch two separate sets of tourists walk over to settle their bills, and explode with rage.  These folk looked just like Helen and I – daft tourists who’d had a couple of beers and thought ‘this’ll be a laugh’ before realising this was unpleasant and exploitative and swiftly getting up to leave.  Their explosive reactions to being presented with their bill gave me a sinking feeling that we were about to be ripped off, even more than I had mentally prepared myself for.  At this point one of the ladies on the stage held up a piece of paper with the message ‘welcome Bill’.  My brain clicking into gear told me two things: this wasn’t hand written, and we needed to get the hell out of there.   ‘Not me, my name’s not Bill, must be someone else’ I shouted over the din, airily pointing into a different part of the bar.  ‘Helen, we’re leaving right now’ I said, taking 200 baht out of my trouser pocket and shoving it into the top pocket of my shirt.

Bracing ourselves for the worst we approached the sneering lady at the pay station.  Now, I was prepared to be a bit ripped off, this is how these places work, we’re stupid tourists, fair enough.  But the itemised bill presented to me really knocked my socks off, and put into sharp perspective just why the previous tourists had exploded with a rage that seemed unnatural.  For two beers which we’d sunk quickly in the ten minutes we’d been there, advertised as 100 baht each, we were presented with a bill for 3,100 baht (over 60 quid), made up of a random collection of fees including a per person ‘first look’ charge of 800 baht.  I know a little bit about negotiation, and one immutable truth is that anger never works.  So as Helen leant over my shoulder fixing the lady with a passive but dead-eyed stare, calmly outlining that two beers and no cover charge equalled 200 baht, I pulled the two 100 baht bills from my top pocket and told Helen to walk, quickly, towards the exit.  I calmly laid down the bills and smiled, said that the 200 was all I had, and walked off.  Approaching the near pitch black exit I saw Helen panicking and as I drew closer she turned to me, eyes full of concern, and exclaimed ‘they’ve locked us in, I can’t get out’!  Reaching to my left I pulled open the door.  ‘That’s a wall Helen, this is the door’.  Taking two steps at a time, me behind Helen hissing ‘quick, quick, QUICK’ we dived into the market as a Thai man ran down behind us, and then off to the left.  Not good, I thought, he’s going to get someone that I have no desire to meet.  

Zig-zagging through the throng we got to the main road, paused for just a moment, realised we needed to keep moving and so shot across the road, down a well-lit road and into the nearest respectable looking bar.  It turned out to be an Irish bar, virtually empty, but big enough and with enough dark corners to hide away.  With our drinks we took up an elevated position on the first floor, facing the door, and turned to each other with raised eyebrows, our hearts still pumping.  ‘You know what’ Helen said after a gulp of beer, ‘I thought I played that pretty cool, the way I looked that woman in the eye and didn’t react  when she called me a whore’.  ‘Yes, yes you did’ I replied, giving it a couple of moments before sarcasm got the better of me, adding ‘you were really cool, until you tried to get out through the wall’.  Bursting into laughter we began to calm down, the adrenaline receding.

But it disturbed me.  The massage story is funny I think, but the ping-pong story is troubling.  The image that has been left in my brain is certainly not an erotic one; these young woman doing ugly things with their bodies for the largely disinterested tourist crowd is a side of Bangkok that I’m not proud to have contributed to, and I would urge anyone else to just stay away.  The image that has been left is of the angry and sneering cashier, a middle aged Thai woman spewing venom at tourists night after night, some paying up, others refusing, all getting angry.  It’s a character that is so far removed from the normal Thai character that is full of shy smiles and kind words, and it is a character that I fear this woman has been forced to adopt, pressed into taking one of the worst jobs in Thailand, and funded by stupid people like us. 

Like I say, I’m not proud to have contributed to this.  Vice, it’s not nice.     

Sunday, 22 May 2011

Time’s up

Conclusion of Africa overland trip (Nairobi-Johannesburg) , Maun, Botswana
My stopped watch, and to-do list
My watch stopped at the very moment the overland truck pulled out from the campsite in Maun, Botswana, leaving us with all our worldly possessions gathered at our feet, the cries of ‘keep in touch’ and ‘have fun’ still ringing in the air.  I suspect a few hearts also stopped when our travelling companions, arriving at the Namibian border later that day, realised with that dull ache of acceptance that no, nobody on the truck had the keys to the safe and the luggage lockers, and that no, neither could they cross the border unless they broke into the safe which held all their passports. 
It was the following day that I picked up the keys from the kitchen counter in my brother’s house in Johannesburg and, for just a fleeting moment, thought nothing of it, so used was I to seeing this grubby little shoelace that had been cooperatively shared among the group over the last few weeks. Then the cold trickle of realisation beaded its way down by back, and on through my hungover cranium, in which a caveman equation was taking shape; ‘keys here Johannesburg, truck not here Namibia, bad’.  Without a word I dangled the keys in front of Helen and Natali (who had also finished her trip with the flight from Botswana to Jo’Burg, and was staying overnight with my welcoming brother and sister in law), seeing in their faces the self-same equation taking shape.  Like the three disciples of Shaggy we all declared ‘it wasn’t me’, before reaching a shared consensus that yes, this was bad, and no, we wouldn’t be popular, but yes, it would have been funny to be a fly on the wall at the Namibian border the previous day.  We still don’t know who it was that smuggled the contraband back from Botswana to South Africa, all of us agreeing that it was academic anyway; the end result being the same*.     
*It was Helen.
My watch stopping at the very moment the truck pulled out of the campsite in Maun lent a spooky punctuation to the conclusion of our overland trip, and our time in Africa as a whole, a reminder on my wrist that it was time to move on; an opportunity to look forward with excitement and back with fondness.  With this in mind it seems an appropriate time to mention the overall theme of this blog: you can’t leave your self behind.
I wrote a little about what this theme meant in my first ever post, explaining that my tao of travel revolves around how your ‘self’ reacts to new situations, how travelling is merely a case of placing your self – the beliefs, expectations, assumptions, worries, insecurities, and peculiarities that make you you -  in a different place.  It is not something you can leave behind at the airport, and it is my contention that nobody can enter into a new situation without the starter pack of your ‘self’ already primed.  The reference to the philosophical concept of the ‘self’ is not an accidental one.  In part it’s a reflection on the ideas above, but also it’s a joke, albeit an oblique and cynical one, on the clichéd view that travel is a way ‘to find your self’.  Meet someone who is travelling to find their self and all you will find is blankness. And probably an arsehole to boot.
What I have tried to write about in my posts during our time in Africa is just this: how my self has reacted to the situations we have been presented with.  I’ve thought about writing more of a travelogue, but it simply isn’t me.  Writing of how we did X,Y, and Z in places A,B and C, with beautiful sunsets just doesn’t come naturally to me – the things we’ve done have been amazing, the places awe-inspiring, and the sunsets have been beautiful, but I just don’t know how interesting it would be for you reading it.
So instead, and this is an indulgence for sure, to close the chapter on our time in Africa here is a retrospective on how my ‘self’ reacted to Africa:
…there was a recklessness, a conviction, but also a fear of disappearing for a year, all wound up in the phrase of ‘why the hell not’?
…there was the apprehension of starting what was, in effect, a new job in an utterly different place and being told ‘you’ll be able to handle it better’
…there was ‘the handover’ from one life into another
…there was a reflection, in those early days of the new life, on ‘expectations’
…there was an explanation of why Bonifus (our favourite child at the orphanage) would be the perfect dinner party guest in ‘the kids are alright’
…there was, in what transpires is the most popular posting, some toilet humour in ‘the toilet; a comparative study’
…there was my reaction to being sucker-punched by the sheer inhumanity of proper rural poverty, and I still maintain that ‘if you only read one post, make it this one’
…there was a step-by-step pictorial guide to self-imposed injury in ‘an idiot’s guide to packing shopping’
…there was the strange topic combination of belief and sleep walking in ‘I don’t believe in anything’
…there was a water-collection domestic, and the hope for a better future, in ‘Maji Imeisha.  Water – all gone!’
…there was some parenting advice in ‘crime and punishment’
…there was a heavy dose of vitriol and barely-concealed anger at corruption in ‘mzungu tax’
…there was a plea to say thank you, say sorry to heal a rift, tell someone you love that you love them, in ‘opt in’
…there was the great escape in ‘I predict a riot’
…there was the tricky subject of benevolence in Africa in ‘entitlement and expectation’
…there was a piece-by-piece take down of the journalist Mathew Parris and some do’s and don’ts for taking an overland trip in ‘happy clappy claptrap’
…and there was the psychedelic combination of dust and sweat in ‘mokoros and mushrooms’
So, have I found my self? Course I bloody haven’t.  You can’t leave your self behind, as these posts demonstrate.  What you can do is try to cause a few chuckles, raise a few eyebrows, and maybe even trigger a few tears.  I hope I’ve done all these things. 
Eastward bound, tally ho!

Saturday, 14 May 2011

Mokoros and mushrooms

Bovu Island, Zambezi River, Zambia
“Tell him about the dust” Brett hissed as I stood in his wooden stilt hut, the Zambezi River pulsing by outside the chicken mesh windows. I had a satellite signal booster pinned to my mobile phone, the phone itself clamped to my ear, and a sense of the surreal swirling around me like the eddies in the river.  "Oh yes, and there was lots of dust Dad” I added, keen not to offend the sense of self-imposed responsibility Brett had assumed for me phoning my father. “Um, anyway, I’ll try to call again soon, hope you pick this up okay, see ya”.  Pressing cancel on the phone I wondered if maybe I should have signed off the answerphone message with the instruction to “triangulate these coordinates and send help”.
The man himself
Brett is the manager of a wilderness retreat called Jungle Junction that is located on Bovu Island in the middle of the Zambezi River, accessible only by mokoro – the wooden dugout canoes that have ploughed this river for centuries.  Much beloved by hippies who, over the years, have come for a few days and stayed for months, Brett is the resident hippie-in-chief who takes his responsibility to the local community almost as seriously as he does to the steady consumption of magic mushrooms.  I liked him a lot, and tried hard (but largely failed) to construct a cogent narrative between what was going on in his brain and what actually came out of his mouth.   His insistence that I phone my father, apropos of nothing at all, as we sat sharing a lunchtime beer was, I figured, just the public airing of a Disney family movie that was playing in his mind.  And why not? Making a mental deal with myself I agreed that I would sink into this surreal world for a couple of days but if the word ‘dude’ ever escaped from my lips I was on the first mokoro out of there.
The dust Brett was so insistent on me mentioning on the answerphone message referred to a task we’d agreed to complete as a fair’s fair favour in return for him cutting us a great deal on the accommodation costs.  Jungle Junction have committed to building a school for the local community who live on the banks of the Zambezi, just across from the island, which will remove the need for the children to walk the 12km round trip to the current nearest school as they do now.  Our task was to sweep out the partially constructed shell, removing the cocktail of construction dust and goat droppings.  We were, of course, happy to do this but as is often the case in Africa one needs to think carefully before acting in a benevolent, and seemingly consequence free, manner.  This school is being funded (to the tune of $250,000) by donations made to Jungle Junction from ex-visitors, but the school itself belongs to, and is the responsibility of, the local community.  So, one must really ask the question that if the local community can’t be arsed to sweep it out then why the hell should a random group of tourists?  Paul Theroux, in his majestic book about Africa, Dark Star Safari, repeatedly returns to a broader version of this simple question about the efficacy of international aid, and I paraphrase – ‘if they can’t be bothered then why should we be bothered’?  If a doctor leaves her aid-reliant nation to work in the developed world then why does the developed world replace that doctor?  If a headmaster fiddles the books at his school then why should there be a constant stream of volunteer teachers?  The questions go on and on, but as I’ve already written about the phenomena of entitlement and expectation, you can probably guess which side I fall on in this debate.
100 kwatcha per millilitre kids
The compromise we made was that we would sweep the school provided we were accompanied by a troop of local children.  So liked pied pipers we gathered a dust-busting squad and set to work, sweeping out the school and gathering a week’s worth of black bogies.  As it turns out it is not just Kenyan children who find the concept of body hair fascinating.  Unbeknownst to me at the time there was quite a gathering behind my back as I swept and sweated with my t-shirt wrapped around my mouth and nose, bandito style.  One little girl, it transpires, traced  her finger around the hair on my lower back before rubbing both hands into the sweaty mess and then rubbing it all over her own body.  Weird, I know.  And before you ask, no, I wasn’t sharing Brett’s mushrooms.  But I figure that if Beyoncé can bottle her own drippings and make millions then there is surely a gap in the market for a l’eau de Chewbacca (Tagline = makes you feel grrrrrrrrrrrrrr).  That is how celebrity perfume making works, right?  Because if not I’m chucking away this bottle of Shakira’s newest excretion that I bought for Helen.    
Anyway, Brett will be happy.  I told my Dad about the dust, and now I’ve told you too.  Anyone need a shower?

<2,000!  I’m sure this will not be nearly as exciting for you as it is for me, but the blog has passed the 2,000 page views mark.  I’m just delighted by this and would like to thank you all for stopping by to read the vomit I spew onto my keyboard every so often.  I really am grateful.  I do enjoy reading your comments, and it fascinates me to know who is actually making all these page views.  So, why not leave a comment to say hi – post it as ‘anonymous’ in the drop down box if you can’t be bothered signing up for a Google ID , and just stick your name at the end.  It would be great to know who is staring back at me from the abyss. 
And a special thank you again to those of you who have become followers – family, old friends, and new friends.  I know it’s a hassle to sign up to be a follower, with little reward, but if it makes you feel any better I do lovingly stroke my cursor across your little thumbnails every time I go into the blog while muttering to myself ‘ooh yeh, you’re my favourites, that feels good, like that little stroke do you? NOW OBEY ME FOLLOWER’!  Anyone else want to sign up? You know you’ll love it!>  

Saturday, 23 April 2011

Happy clappy claptrap

Nairobi to Johannesburg, via Tanzania, Malawi, Zambia, Botswana
I’ve always thought of happiness as something that is alighted upon in retrospect; a flickering remembrance, an epiphany of nostalgia, the isolation of a moment that was not, and could not, be planned for or expected, and could certainly never be engineered.   The instruction to ‘don’t worry, be happy’ has, to me, always had an air of mild menace about it.  Have you ever, for example, been cheered up by someone instructing you to cheer up? No? Me neither.  But being cheerful, being ‘happy’, is surely a worthwhile ideal and perhaps those with sunnier dispositions are those who can isolate and process these moments quicker, recognise them for what they are, enjoy them immediately, and store the memory of them for longer.
The reason for this little reflection on happiness is that yesterday, as the sun pounded like a strobe light into my eyes and the truck bounced, dipped, slipped and slid over the rough road, a thought popped into my mind, as clear and as bright as the sun scorching my retinas; ‘I’m happy’.  Aided by my mature self’s drug of choice – music –I wanted to do a little jig inside the bouncing truck, perhaps have a tumble dryer dance-off with my travelling companions, all of us collapsing eventually and inevitably into crumpled, giggling heaps.  I didn’t do any of this, of course; I’m not a complete prick.  Christ only knows what the all-female contingent (my wife, two English girls, and three Argentinian girls) would make of a sweaty, unkempt, wild eyed solitary male’s instruction for them to dance.  There’s only one end to that situation, and with the exception of me learning the Spanish for ‘I’m scared’, it’s not a good one.  Mind you, on reflection, just give me a moment…
Back now! Just had a short break to, er, have a little think about possible alternative endings to that daydream.
Anyway, to the point.  This isn’t a post about happiness, there’s quite enough of that nonsense floating about the web, most of it starting with the words ‘God is coming’ (look busy).No, this is about overlanding – what I think it is, what I think it’s not, and why it’s making me happy. I’m inspired to write about this mainly in riposte to an article (suggest you read it before continuing) written by Matthew Parris in the January 2010 edition of the Spectator magazine in which he lazily criticises those who go on overland trips, such as the one we are on, for giving off an “aura of inwardness”. 
The article had been ripped out and left in a see-through plastic envelope in the restaurant at the Kande Beach campground, on the shores of Lake Malawi.  I like Parris’ writing – he writes with authority, with charm, and with humour – but this article annoyed me. It annoyed me with its lazy generalisations, its smugness and tone of condescension, and for the fact that the affluent, right-leaning, and middle aged readership demographic (in which I include Parris himself) of the Spectator are those least likely to go on an overland trip, but who are being encouraged to sneer at those who do. 
In the article, and in a failed attempt to be generous and less judgemental, he writes that “these are the young people who didn’t choose a package holiday to Ibiza, who wanted to do something more real”.  Leaving aside the laziness of using the meaningless cliché of ‘more real’, I’d like to know what exactly is wrong with choosing a package holiday to Ibiza?  It’s such an unbearably smug throwaway line, one which he knows his readership demographic won’t question, one that makes so many assumptions about youth, class, the correct form of hedonism, and the relative merits of booking a package holiday vis-à-vis packing up the Saab and taking Harriet and Toby to a gite in the south of France.  Everyone has to write for an audience, mine is you nutjobs, but making assumptions about what this audience thinks and feels is dangerous, and insulting, territory. 
He concludes his article by benevolently offering some advice to us overlanders, suggesting that one way to overcome our “aura of inwardness” would be to venture outside the campsites and visit local schools, where we would, apparently, be welcome.  Really Matthew?  Have you thought this through? Let’s test your logic with a simple yes/no quiz shall we?
  • Would you welcome groups of tourists into British schools so they could gawp at the poor conditions but get some cracking ‘Real Britain’ holiday snaps surrounded by excitable children?
  • If you were a teacher yourself, with a class size of 80 plus, would you appreciate your lessons being disrupted, and then having to calm the children down once the visitors swan off?
  • Are you aware that corruption is just as bad in schools as it is in other government functions in parts of Africa, and that maybe the teachers who do welcome this intrusion and disruption are those who directly pocket the small ‘donation’ made?
  • Do you think it actually benefits the children’s education, which is after all the purpose of schooling, to have a group of mzungus turn up out of the blue whilst they should be concentrating? 
If you answered ‘yes’ to any of these questions then it’s a bloody good job you packed up politics to become a journalist.  Mind you, if you answered ‘no’ to these questions then you’ve just admitted to writing something ill thought through and poorly researched.  Lazy, lazy, lazy.Continuing with the school theme: must do better, C minus.
Overlanding, in my experience of doing it thus far in Africa, simply isn’t a cultural experience in the way that Parris hopes for and recommends.  It can’t be – it’s all about onward momentum, about seeing beautiful places, and about picking up a snippet here and there of the culture which, yes, sometimes you do need to work for by stepping outside of the truck, the group, the campsite.  If you’re reading this as a prospective overlander with the hope that booking a trip will immerse you in the ‘Real Africa’ then I’m sorry to disappoint.  But it can be done – go and live with Africans as a volunteer, give yourself enough time to make friends with your hosts, stay away from the tourist route, ask questions.  Then go on an overland trip to see more of this incredible, often infuriating, but always awe inspiring continent. Just make sure you pack the following: realistic expectations, a hangover remedy, a willingness to put the group before yourself, and always carry with you the maxim of ‘how would this make me feel’ before blundering into a random school or sticking your camera into the home of an elaborately and beautifully dressed Masai family.
And if you need any more help in preparing here’s a list of do’s and don’ts, garnered mainly from the stories our brilliant Tour Leader Tim has told us from his seven years on the road (he’ll be so pissed off I pinched his best stories, but this is the abridged version so there’s still room for his book…):
Do…
· Accept the fact that the Tour Leader is, de facto, alpha male or female and therefore has first refusal  in the primal mating game that a group of (mainly but not exclusively) young people will inevitably descend into at some point
· Drink in the bar at the campgrounds, be sociable with other people (unless they are taking notes and looking smug), and buy the driver a beer after a long drive
· Take personal responsibility and understand that it is you, and only you, who is responsible for your actions.  Don’t get so drunk that you are admitted to hospital then sue your tour operator because you felt under pressure to drink
· Listen to the advice of people with experience, and if a sign reads ‘inside campsite = safe, outside campsite = not safe, this is not a joke’ don’t go for a little wander down the beach and then act surprised when you are forcibly relieved of all your possessions
· Be nice to your Tour Leader as despite it looking like the best job in the world, it’s bloody hard work
Don’t…
·      Respond to your group health briefing about the importance of safe sex by saying that ‘yeh, I went to chlamydia once, it’s just off Majorca isn’t it?’
·      Buy your driver a beer before he exits the truck after a long drive, thank him for keeping you safe, then report him after the trip for being an alcoholic in a bid to claw back your holiday costs through compensation.  Yes, this really happened, and yes I hope the two blokes who did this get run over by a real drink-driver
·      Go on safari and ask either ‘what do elephants hunt?’ or ‘will we see tigers?’
·      Crawl out of your tent after a heavy night, start moaning that you’d been promised there would be elephants roaming free in the camp but hadn’t seen any, and then realise your right arm is elbow deep in elephant dung
·      Read smug articles about overlanding by otherwise excellent journalists and decide it’s not for you
And if that’s not enough, how about this to close: overlanding - it makes me happy, and it could make you happy too.  Now how about that dance my dear, snarf snarf. 




Video: A very short video of the correct way, in my opinion, to welcome a new passengers onto the truck...