13/01/2011

Today I think we saw the legend of Vang Vieng tubing at its best and we could now agree with everybody in rejoicing that it is “fucking mental”. We got the later bus up and instead of jumping off the first point, we continued walking upstream to where we’d been at yesterday. Along with Terry Bundy from Southampton and Dave from Melbourne, we were the only ones there except for a few others who had been in the truck on the way up.

According to Ben, “Terry wouldn’t be too incongruous in a white coat and hat working at the cheese or fish counter at Asda”. With the other two lads (with Terry and Dave replacing Will and Jack as our new pair) our group of names were no longer members of a GCSE math’s question, but locals of the Nags Head.

We did a few jumps and swings before the crowds started coming. They came from near and far. We then headed a bit further up to were the official party kicks off, and again the cheap homemade whiskey came right into play, making an appearance knocking us for six. We even spotted Ernie, the suspected undercover DEA officer we’d met in Chiang Mai, but thought best to stay clear. I did actually call after him purely on instinct, but Ben quickly gave me the look to suggest I was making a terrible mistake.

The four of us spent the rest of the day lounging around on the river or at the swing ropes, and only busy when making lots of new friends. In particular, a group of Aussie girls who I’d seen riding around town the last couple of days on mopeds. They were a good craic. Also we met Augustine from Argentina and his friends who begged us to come visit them in Buenos Aires at a later date. We would be seeing a lot more of them over the next few weeks on the same trail, even if on those future occasions it would be nothing more than a nod of acknowledgment. We had a big crew together and times were good.

We drifted down the river in our tubes taking it all in, giving all the highest and most dangerous looking swings and drops a go. We lost Terry somewhere, but Me, Ben and Dave had seen enough by sunset and were now going through the woods looking for the main road, tubes in hand. I lost them and was wondering around on my own, slightly worried I was lost forever; never to be recovered from this state of mind, let alone a dark forest. I could hear their calls but just couldn’t see them. My heart lifted as I came into a clearing and saw them in the back of a pick up truck with a load of other westerners. In I jumped and off we went.

Dave was also staying at Otherside, and so after a shower and a change of clothes, he came round and we all headed into town for some grub.

Of course, we couldn’t quite leave the hut without one creative boost of bowdlerized hallucinogenic story;

Mr. Pear Face; can you see his smily face?

“Look, your bag has a face on it” – said one of us, pointing to the rucksack hanging up.

“Yes, yes it does. It looks like a pear. A smiling pear” – said the other.

Laughter ensured for quite a while. For far longer than necessary, actually.

***Before we go and meet Dave for dinner, I hasten to add that I still think to this very day it looks like a smiling pear***

“Whatever happened to Terry Bundy?” was the question on everybody’s lips that night. Not really, we were all lost in one way or another. I had one of the best Thai Green Curries since arriving in South-East Asian and Ben seconded my motion. Dave had the Pad Thai. We met another group of lads and all went off to the Bucket Bar for some buckets and a pool table. These little luminous buckets have perhaps taking over Cassia fistula flower as Thailand’s national symbol and come with a choice of vodka or whiskey along with a can of fizzy pop. Fizzy pop? I used to think this term was used in television programs to avoid breaching product placement laws or clubs that weren’t licensed to use the words Coca-Cola or Sprite. But I think it’s just used as an umbrella description of any fizzy drink. I normally went for the whiskey and sprite, which was served and mixed in a small plastic bucket. There was no real plan tonight and even less so now that the island and all its late night clubs were deemed under curfew. The party island had been shut down by the local police last night in a crack down on all the rowdy behaviour. I had much faith in the owners to have them bribed by now but whatever, this was Vang Vieng, and you make your own fun.

Leaving Dave and the others, Me and Ben said we would go and scout the island to see if we could find anything and report back any findings.

The island was indeed very quiet, and it was clear there would be no repeat of the scenes here from the last few nights. Maybe this was it. The locals had finally had enough. However, I was not disheartened as there was certainly mischief in the air of the night and upon further exploration we came across it’s source in a little clearing which had previously been the centre of one of the dance areas. There was a campfire burning and a group of people around it muttering away. We joined them and after hitting another Shake, the experience became all the better while the scene began to make all the more sense.

Not sure how it all started, but I came engulfed into a debate to the nationality of Alexander Bell with a Canadian who claimed that he was Canadian, and at that one of Canada’s finest exports. It was nice to have a friendly debate based on previous knowledge without some dickhead pulling out his smartphone and whacking it into Wikipedia and ending all conversation. It went on until the rest of the group confirmed my suspicions he was born in Edinburgh, but conceded he was one of Canada’s finest imports (he died there). He still didn’t believe me. He then stood up, hand on heart and recited a few lyrics from a Canadian Nationalist song that mentioned Alexander Bell in it, from which he had built his case, with not a shred of irony or pisstake.

“Is that some kind of rap song?” I asked him after he finished the whole thing, much to his fury at my attempt to mock his national heritage.

This was worsened by the laughter of the other campfire attendees, which in turn set everybody else off. Truth is I was actually 100% being serious. Ignorant too maybe, but these shakes were strong. As soon as my mushroom bucket began to remind me of a school caretaker’s mop bucket, I stopped slurping and tried to make amends with the broken Canadian by talking him through some of the zodiac signs that we were seeing up in the sky. All wrong probably, but it’s my interpretation so that’s okay.

We’d probably outstayed our welcome with “this bunch of honeymooners” (as stated by some of the Aussie’s present) and so the two of us and a couple of likeminded lads headed over to one of the hammock areas that encircled the campfire. We were seeing all kinds of lights now, it was awe-inspiring. I find it quite cringe worthy trying to explain side affects of recreational chemical intake, as it feels more like describing the short-lived results of a child’s kaleidoscope (“all these crazy colours man”) but just thought you ought to know. We hung out with another load of Aussies, and I like how within minutes they were all using the phrase “honeymooners” to describe boring couples that you so often meet travelling. One of them though needed to be in shackles, hence earning him the nickname ‘Shackles’ from Ben. They even began adopting that one too. He really did though; he was huge, bald despite being only 19 and was shouting all kinds of obscenities and raucous animal noises. He was like one of the evil monsters from Resident Evil that you have to slay in order to get to the next level of the game. Although, with our uncontrollable laughter and babble coming out of our own mouths, we were like his mini-bosses you have to defeat in the earlier levels of computer games.

We left Shackles and his gang of Pixies and with one of the Australian guys, headed back to the mainland to get some food. He had a broken foot, so we helped him across the bridge, although he was extremely reluctant at first with “I’m fine, I’m fine” in the stubborn way wheelchair bound Lieutenant Dan is too proud to let Forest Gump help him back on his feet when he falls over. But after nearly falling off into the raging river below, we grabbed him and pretty much carried him across. What with him finally succumbing and letting us help him, I remarked “this is just like a Disney film this”. He began to take a turn for the worse and began to trip pretty badly with “what do you mean this is like a Disney movie? Put me down? Get me out of here”. Too late mate, you’re coming with us.

He sorted himself out once on the other side and we got some food and sat on a bench over atop a huge cliff that took a sudden drop to the flowing river below. We were than approached by Lloyd Ingram, the guy who was personally putting one of the street seller’s children through college or rice school (is that racist? I’m not sure), by going through her hamburgers at an alarming rate. He’d actually helped make Ben’s dinner last night when the stall owner took a break to boil some more rice.

We were all chatting shit when approached by yes, another Aussie guy from Melbourne. I use the word ‘Guy’ sparingly here, as none of us knew what the fuck it was. At first, we just thought he was really pissed hence his struggle to talk. Than we noticed he had an extremely deep voice but with feminine undertones. Pretty sure he was a male, given his clothes and choice of footwear. He sat next to me and it was here in the moonlight that I saw it. His face. I was the first to notice.

He looked like Walt Disney’s 1996 interpretation of Quasimodo. He’d noticed our shock at who he really was (and yes, his physical appearance does determine who he really is, don’t give me all that ‘its what’s on the inside that counts’ bullshit), and instantly began trying to justify his physical features.

The story went…He was a crack addict back in Melbourne but would often shoot himself up with testosterone to boost both his body and his high. He would compliment building up the muscle in his arms by giving hand jobs to the boys at school – but he wasn’t gay. He was something else. He promised he could make all the lads in Vang Vieng come in a day if wanted to.

Thankfully the story was diverted as he went on to explain that he was doing really well in Australia, winning lots of weightlifting competitions and was number 1 in the country. In turn, his mum had placed his photo on her fridge, an honour he was very proud of. By the third repeat of this story, he was now the 3^rd best in Australia. Now he was not on his Mum’s fridge, but his Grans one. At the time, I had this funny theory, or maybe more of an observation, that as he was sliding down the ranks in Australia, he was sliding down the ranks within his family members. His Mum probably kicked him out once he was no longer the champ, and now he’d turned to a life of handjobs and hypodermic needles. I stopped listening when he was now 24^th best in Australia and I dread to think which family member has him on their fridge at this current stage of his flailing career. Maybe his old Uncle that gave him all those tips on building up those biceps?

I tried explaining this to Lloyd and Ben but I just couldn’t make them see my point about the relationship between failure at sport and its correlation with how many photos of you there are in your family members kitchens. Despite the side-splitting laughter, they still couldn’t get it. I don’t blame them really, I was talking and thinking a load of breeze

Sad to say, but in Vang Vieng he was known as the ‘The Monster’, according to a passing group who interjected to give us some backstory when he went for a piss. It did seem a bit out of order and especially with the talk of his Mother and Grandmother, as it would take a heartless bastard to ignore the fact that somewhere this guy is somebody’s Son and Grandson. Okay, I’ll admit. It was me who first labelled him The Monster but I did manage to atone for my unpleasant branding of the Guy by saving him from falling off the cliff face and impaling himself on the rocks below. He started to talk about killing himself and I was selfishly annoyed that he may start ruining my mushroom trip that was in full flow. My selfishness didn’t stop there. If he did plunge to his death, it would make one hell of a selling point for this story. “Somebody’s Son, somebody’s Son, somebody’s Son” I reminded myself as I grabbed him back from the ledge.  I better wash my hands was my first thought, after he’d shaken it and begrudgingly thanked me for saving his life.

Me, Ben and Lloyd headed back down the hill discussing what the name of that guy’s autobiography would be if he ever chose to write one. Monster: My Story was the obvious choice, but I think we’d a winner with “Have you washed your hands mate?”

The other question had been “what if he actually did jump and kill himself?” To which me and Ben agreed on the hypothetical outcome; “Lloyd, you’ll have to go and inform the Australian embassy and track down his parents. After all, he’s one of your lot”.

We bid our farewells to Lloyd with exchange of Facebook details and plans to meet up in Vietnam and crossed the bridge back to our peaceful oasis on the other side. Ben would later learn that Lloyd was best mates with his next door neighbour back in Townsville. Despite the dark, we could still make out the bridge and were it split off towards the Launderette. The dimly lit area where we’d picked up our BRIT award looked a far cry from the glitzy podium it once seemed, and despite our success we would now be joining past winners such as Lemar, A1 and Ms Dynamite into pop star obscurity. Our time had been and gone.

It had been a mystery the last couple of nights; where was the party that started up around 4am and lasted until dawn? Many people had heard it, but the problem was nobody had seen it. Almost after every night, walking across the bridge to our Bungalows just as day was dawning, we could hear whooping, laughter and cheering somewhere in the deep mountainous forest, as if Vang Vieng was calling us back. It’s hard to go to bed, even after a full day and night’s session, when there might be another party elsewhere. It could be my generations Spike Island and I’d never forgive myself if I missed it for the sake of a kip in a wooden hut.

It’s one of my biggest fears, turning down an invite which ultimately leads to me missing out on some life-defining event. I’m sure I would have done a lot better in my GCSE’s had somebody just told me in advance that I, nor any of my mates would lose their virginity before sitting them. For a start, there would’ve been a load of parties I would’ve been able to have rain checked on. When I was about 8 years, I stayed around my Nan’s house one week while my parents had gone away. She lived on a main road that happened to be the nucleus of the neighbourhood where most of my friends from school lived. Can’t remember if it was actually a nightmare or my imagination, but I seem to have this vision of looking outside, not longer after going to bed and seeing a big group of school friends walk past, all of which had snuck out from under their parents noses to get up to their midnight mischief. Me excluded. Also a bit like in the summer when you had to go bed at your usual time, but given the longer days it was so much lighter. Struggling to sleep in the heat, made worse by the sounds of kids outside in the neighbour’s garden having loads of fun. Although at least my Parents came up with a good excuse for my absence when the older kids knocked on my door to see if I fancied coming out for a kickabout. Also when they’d call me in for bedtime, they’d open with something like “Rob that action movie that was banned at the cinema is on now if you want to come and watch it” to disguise the fact I was actually being called for my bath and bed. Turns out the grass wasn’t always greener on the other side, especially towards the end of the summer when Lynch’s lawn was cut to shreds from all that football. On that point actually, I can’t remember the last time I heard kids out playing in the garden or out in the street in my neighbourhood. I suppose who wants to throw water balloons at passing cars or set fire to a dog turd after leaving it on somebody’s doorstep, when there’s Call of Duty to complete on the Xbox.

We bumped into the Weymouth Boys once we’d made it to Otherside Bungalows. After asking them about the noise, one of them said “That noise? That’s a cockerel isn’t it?” He was right, cockerels placed up in the hills by the locals to try and coax people away from their beds and back to the party town, just like the Pied Piper of Hamlin did with all those German kids? No, they were just cockerels. I felt silly at first, but then more reflective on the state of mind I’d taken up since arriving here and the things we’d indulged in within this town and along its river. All things considered, it was hardly surprising I’d mistaken the cry of a farmyard animal for something completely different.

And even if it had been people, did it really matter? We’d had our fun here and it was perhaps a good thing we were moving on in the morning. Saying that, I will miss this place dearly.

After a smoke with the Weymouth Lads, who’d taken advantage of their medical insurance and claimed a load of laughing gas canisters from the doctors on behalf of a mate who’d broken his foot on the tubing, we stumbled back to our cabin and recorded on my camera an advert for keeping belongings safe from burglars (aimed at households of 1960’s Britain), inspired by the fact that we’d all our valuables under our mattresses. The first place that every thief/burglar looks according to reconstructions on Crimewatch. It may have worked in the last millennium, but not now, so why do we still utilize the mattress as a safe haven for our things?

Yeah, reading that last paragraph, I don’t have a clue as to what we were trying to convey at the point in time either. I was now more sure than ever that we were making the right decision in heading to Vietnam tomorrow.

12/01/2011

Kayaking today, although the real attraction for the trip was the chance to go tubing through a river that cut through a cave, with nothing but our headlamps and a rope guide to keep us on track. Which we did, and it was laugh. A nice bit of effortless fun before heading down river in our boats. It was only when we got to the first few populated spots on the river that we realized how much we’d missed out on our first trip down in the tubes and why it had been relatively quiet on our first day. Most people start up here around 2pm boozing it up until they have to make their way down at rapid speed. Or alternatively pay no attention to the 6pm curfew.

Our entrance into the melee from the stream was far from being a good one. We had done so well over the last few kilometres but as soon as we came in front of all the crowds, we got caught on a submerged shingle bay in the middle of the river. The instructor was calling at us, but we could not hear him for the jeers from all the pissed up onlookers leering at us from the bamboo platforms above on either side. This is a nightmare. One lad (American I think), a right proper fat fuck, jumped from the nearest ledge into the river. At first I thought he was on his way to help, and I gladly handed out my paddle for him to get on with us. But no, he jumped on our boat turning us over. Luckily all our belongings were safe and wrapped up, but he didn’t know. Once we got back in, slightly miffed at being bullied by a Sceptic (and one with ginger hair too!!), I looked for my paddle. While the oath clambered back up to his wooden throne (where he’d now be heralded a legend throughout the day), I gave the thumbs up to the crowd with big stupid ‘oh-you-got-me’ grin.

It was pretty funny, more so had it been somebody else, though I still dreamed of how good it would’ve been had I not responded with smiles but a crushing paddle knocking all his front teeth out, and then raising my oar in triumphant before cruising down the river to cheers from all the understanding onlookers. For the sake of this journal it would’ve been great – but of course I didn’t, that would’ve been totally unnecessary..

Would people blame me though? What if I told them I had lost or damaged my camera? I certainly could have won them over. God I hope there weren’t any Bainos up there. At the age of 23, you’d think I was out of the woods of being a victim akin to that of an episode of Inbetweeners.

Once safely drying off at a fire by one of the other bucket bars, we swapped mushroom stories with two Northerners. I exchanged my Brit awards experience for theirs, which involved staggering around Vang Vieng thinking they were both cowboys in the Wild West. It was a fare trade I think and as it was nice and warm, I threw in our humiliating capsizing ordeal.

The only river obstacle on the way home came in the form of a horde of swimming cattle that engulfed our tiny flock of kayaks.

It was decided; tomorrow we would come back up with our tubes and start from here. This is where it was at. Today was our Dunkirk. Tomorrow would be victory.

11/01/2011

It was raining when we got up and it rained for pretty much the rest of the day and so a second consecutive day of Tubing was off the cards. Bumped into the Weymouth lads again, who were occupying the cabin a few doors down. Today would be a chilled one, and would consist mainly of eating and watching Friends and Family Guy on sofas and pillows in one of the many hangouts. What must the local people, with all their hardship, think when they see us Westerners sitting around all day getting stoned and laughing at a talking dog or sympathizing with a group of people in a coffee shop? What must they think of the Western comedy scene, when we’re still stuck watching quintessential 90’s comedy.

Though I actually don’t mind Friends, but would never let Ben know that. Though I do concede at “Well, it’s better than all them fucking other ones….Chandler’s pretty funny – only because he’s the only member of the gang who wouldn’t actually approve of a show like Friends in real life”. Ben meets me half way on this, but really he just takes my word for it.

Later that night went for a few whiskey buckets and games of pool hall. We didn’t stay long so didn’t crack on with any more Shakes, as we had the West Ham Vs Birmingham Carling Cup Semi-Final to look forward to. We had nowhere secured to watch it but luckily after much hunting, we found a Guesthouse down one of the side streets that were prepared to let us watch it in their reception area. The Hammers won 2-1 and it looked like I could start looking forward to watching the Final in LA in 6 weeks time. We walked back to our cabin with an extra spring in our step.

10/01/2011

Leaving the hostel, we moved to our new headquarters and our home for next couple of days, Otherside Bungalows. For little under £3 a night we got our self our own private twin-bed bungalow, constructed of wood. There must’ve been atleast 10 other bungalows, but aside from them there was very little else except for the fields that stretched towards the mountains on one side, with the flowing river to the other. It was peaceful, but was also comforting to know the mayhem was only a few planks of wood away.

After dumping our stuff off we were keen to get going with some of this tubing malarkey. Back on the original side of the river, we walked through the main strip and saw the Chilean Girls (and their Mother), who were renting out kayaks for the day. We arranged to meet them later on the river, but never saw them again. Shame really, as I really thought we all shared something worth reconvening for. I won’t forget the sparkle in the eye of the eldest sister when I played the part of the affable fool. It’s been a long time since a girl gave me that look. A certain shared look, the odd glance, a reminder of true meaning in a region full of fake local salesmen with smiles and promises at a cost. Being from Southern Chile, they may even have a word for it; Mamihlapinatapai – “Two people looking at each other each hoping the other will do what both desire but neither is willing to do” (Urbandictionary.com). In England it’s known simply as keeping your head down and suppressing all feelings deep within.

But anyways back to the job at hand. Once we’d picked up our rubber tyres (commonly know in the West as ‘donuts’), we got ourselves on the next truck that was heading up the river to the starting point. Without delay, we grabbed a few beers and took to the stream in tubes that at one stage in their life cycle were inner lining of a tractor wheel. The first bar we jumped out at, or rather dragged into by one of the guys throwing ropes out for you to catch to be pulled in, had a selection of whiskeys in bottles with snakes and scorpions in. On the deck, we played table tennis and drank whiskey in the morning sun, while more and more people started pouring downstream. Afterwards, we got back in our tubes and drifted further down stream until we came to one with a trapeze and huge water slide (probably from the same former London council-run leisure centre as the Slush Puppie machines in Chiang Mai). This place really was the nuts and after a go on both, and a few more drinks, we set off on our way again. We were using this first day as a way of just getting a feel for the place and it was going well. It felt amazing being this pissed at 11am floating down the stream, beer in hand while Feel The Love, Generation played from one of the many surrounding bars. It’s a semi-shit song, but I think its release in 2005 was a much-needed one, as it was at a time when with all the terror and pessimism. This was of course, my drunken nostalgia kicking in but it felt good. Than disaster struck. Ben was calling up to me from downstream. He was out of his tube and walking towards the banks. He had lost his camera and with a helping hand from the locals was searching the water in the same way police search for dead bodies or criminal evidence. The search proved fruitless, and we were gutted. Although all the photos had been backed up on his computer the night before, it was the only waterproof camera we had. Well that was my selfish reason to be annoyed. Ben’s was perhaps worse as he had lost a very expensive camera.

After a good search, we had to concede defeat that it was gone, something neither of us took too kindly to. Oh well, it was lost now and without the tool that people rely upon to prove just how good a time they’re having on holiday gone from our possession, we could now concentrate on actually having a good time. No pressure to base our fun around getting pictures. After a few more whiskey shots, this more positive slant began to reign supreme amongst our thoughts. The local whiskey here, Whiskey Lao, is actually manufactured locally and by locally I mean in peoples bathtubs and sinks. I mean I’m sure it’s hygienic, but the problem is that consistency between brewers is rarely achieved and as a result alcohol levels fluctuate massively from shot to shot. You could be inadvertently necking 80% shots for fun before realizing you’ve shat your pants or worse, struggling for air on the bottom of the river bed.

Although we were having a great old time with some cool people, the River did not seem as packed as it had appeared on several photos and YouTube clips that I had been scrawling through on the internet at work over the past couple of months in anticipation. It was strange considering it was high season, and the town was overrun with backpackers. We had to be back by 6pm to drop the tubes off and collect our washing from a launderette before it closed so began our descent back down, stopping off for a joint and a drink at a Bob Marley themed venue with some Canadian girls. After this we jumped back in our tube, eager to make our deadline.

Although, we just simply had to make a visit to the Illution Bar, which appeared to be the last of the drinking dens before the long stretch back to town. The PA system, with the distortion on full effect, blaring out the incoherent promotions from the local owner gave the place some form of appeal. Plus, they had mushroom shakes. My only experience with mushrooms came a few years ago when me and a good mate sat atop an old Georgian town house just off Tottenham Court Road, watching planes coming into London’s City Airport, trying to analyze the motives of the people on board for taking that flight. The rooftop of a 6 storey building is no place to be experimenting with drugs, especially if making your debut with an infamous hallucinogenic. The Shroom Shakes were actually quite nice, and our party loving spirit was quickly noted by the owner who handed us the role of chief promoters, along with the microphone for the PA. We were heroes, bringing the crowds in. This is where I belonged, with the microphone to peoples hearts and minds. Making our 6pm curfew, time was not on our side, but the drugs were and that’s what came up trumps. For our hard work, we were rewarded with a joint to take downstream with us. So there we where, pleasantly stoned drifting down towards Vang Vieng, passing the smoke to and fro. Even in our state we had to be careful of river police. We had been warned of marijuana being handed out to tourists only for police turning up shortly after and detaining you until you coughed up $500. Similar to the warnings we received in Pakbang. This you could not haggle as they received almost as much for arresting you and getting a conviction.

Water and drugs are in my blood, even as we speak. They go hand-in-hand with each other. Right hand, water. Left hand, a perfectly rolled jigger. But the mushroom’s in my stomach are all new to me. I’ve several aqua-related experiences with other drugs.

I’ve heard that one of the big risks facing anybody on ecstasy, is drinking too much water, and effectively drowning themselves on the dance floor in Oceana (that’s the name of a club and a key date on the Peter Andre/David Hasselhoff/Pat Sharp tour – although the irony of drowning at Oceana was not lost on me). However, I have come close to drowning several times when high, and I am keen to explore the relationship between this self-inflicted artificial euphoria with H20. The first time I ever dropped a Gary Ablett was in the summer of 2006, Benicassim Music Festival. After scoring some with my dear friend who had discovered them a few months earlier at university, we paraded around the campsite meeting fellow campers as the sun set behind the mountains that sandwiched us against the sea. After exchanging our pleasantries with anybody and everybody, we gathered the rest of our group and headed down to the beach. It was our first night, and we’d only been there hours, but this was the best place on earth. The beach was littered with large groups, small groups and nomads all clustered around small fires and music systems (or the odd roving acoustic guitar player). We decided it was time for a swim and in minutes we had joined the dozen or so people in the Mediterranean, happily basking under the moonlight. It was a happy time, and we swore we could see Morocco.

“Well let’s go and find out” I said.

In retrospect, we both thought it and simultaneously decided the optimum outcome would only be achieved if we swam out to Morocco. Just in case you think this story ends with us washed up on the beaches of Morocco, it doesn’t. I just wanted to nip that in the bud, before you get your hopes raised. Besides, why would we go to Morocco when we had The Strokes doing their sound check about ½ mile inshore (it was the night before the festival and in my opinion the best). But we did swim out far. Really far. Far enough that we could no longer hear the music or the laughter on the beach. Just the two of us out at sea, with only the lights and campfires in the distance as our guide back. It was only when we started humming the jaws song that the attractiveness of our surroundings began to fade.

Fast forward a year and it is the night before the AC Milan vs Liverpool Champions League final 2007 and the city, Liverpool where I was studying, was buzzing. We had headed to a house party that was thrown by some friends of ours. Term had finished, and these were the last days of our second year of university. We decided the “night was still young” at 3am and we should “go to the 24 hour ASDA and pick up some more booze”. Clearly the night was still young. So young in fact, we needed to rely on ASDA and it’s anti-social opening times. After picking up booze, and the weed (which at 4am, for a student district, is harder to get than a Happy First Communion card or Frozen peas surprisingly) we all piled back to another friends house. Now really stoned, and with it offsetting the serotonin fueled buzz I had endured for the past few hours, I decided I needed to head upstairs. While pissing the remains of my night away, I stared dreamily at the bath. Dreaming of how nice it would be to get in. Now most dreams I have when asleep are just a jumble of images, where one minute I am speaking to somebody and then next, I’m speaking to the same person, but it’s somebody else. I’ve never dreamed of scoring at Wembley. I’ve fantasised about it of course. But dreamt about it? No. I’m positive Martin Luther King was being hypothetical when he made that famous speech on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial in ‘63.

But this I could actually imagine doing, I was actually dreaming about having a bath.

Next thing I know, somebody is banging on the door waking me up instantly. I’m in the bath. Fully clothed. The water is pouring over the edges, the taps are running on full. Panicking, I open the door only to be greeted with “What the fuck is going on in here. The kitchen downstairs is completely flooded!” Yes, this is more like my dreams. The bathroom floor was submerged and the soapy water (I had even went as far as add bubble bath) was filtering through to downstairs, where there was now a gaping hole in the kitchen ceiling, with water gushing through it. I head down, and some of the other guests are standing, bemused as one of the housemates feebly attempts to catch the waterfall with a saucepan. Some cannot help but snigger, while pretending to look busy. “It’s not funny; the roof’s going to collapse”. Now when somebody says “it’s not funny” in these situations, it’s fair to say it most probably is. But this wasn’t funny, this was serious. Well for me anyways. We eventually stopped the flooding and cleared up the mess. Luckily all the other housemates were too whacked to get up and investigate what all the commotion was about.

The following day, the lads of the house invited me over for the Liverpool game. Yes, they invited me over. I was expecting to walk in and be given a kick ‘in, but it was cool. I spent half the time watching the game, the other half praying the Kitchen roof didn’t collapse under the damp rotting wooden floor boards.

Another year on, and after Man Utd beat Chelsea in the 2008 Champions League Final, me and a good friend again find ourselves at another house party. But this time struggling to find any magic dust, shamelessly resort to gobbling a whole pack of pro plus just “for a laugh”. After opening a bedroom door we discover a room full of prancing hippies out of their heads. I think this was the room of the housemate who was under strict instructions from the rest “now, when everybody arrives, it is imperative you and your friends stay in your room. You’re aloud a drink, but just remember, stay in your room”. We bought everything they had to sell. It was a great remainder of the evening. The next day was spent suffering the worst come down. Normally, you have the world of sleep to find solace in and live out your nightmare. The dozen or so Pro Plus made sure that didn’t happen. Maybe, Champions League finals have about as much of a positive relationship with reckless drug taking as does the presence of water.

After drifting for what seemed like hours (probably minutes) the charm of floating down a stream in a tube began to wear off and our satisfaction with novelty was being replaced by a mild, although good humoured paranoia, which led to “get us out of this” being the general view. As if by magic a little sign with the sacred words “Tuk Tuk this way” painted on it, came into view on one of the grassy banks. It pointed up towards the woods. Result! Next thing, we’re climbing this hill on our hands and knees (tubes around our necks), spurred on by the fact the alternative of tripping out in the middle of a river surrounded by nothing more than woodland and the odd shanty town. We get to the top and there is a smiling Laotian who has probably seen this scene a thousand times. We get in the back of his truck, while he puts our tubes on the top. Ben asks him if he “takes wet money?” but then stops. Given the guys niche market, its obvious that he “only knows wet money”. It was good to be riding back now, although we did feel somewhat like the village idiots being brought back after attempting to show off, but ending up requiring the help of the emergency services. It was a humbling experience, and I could somehow relate it to that guy who campaigned against the war but then was taken hostage and was only released after the British Forces rescued him and he had to make a grovelling statement of gratitude. I could have sworn he drove us around town several times, just so the public could get a good look at the two idiots in the back of his truck. His catch.

The ‘Shroom Shakes had taken hold now but it really kicked in as we crossed the little bridge back to Otherside. Halfway across the bridge split in two, one leading to our place, the other leading to another set of bungalows. It was this one we needed to head to as it had a launderette were we had left our clothes. It was hear the shakes really took hold, and all of I sudden I was propelled to the Brit Awards where me and Ben were going up to the stage to collect our award. I was taking long confident strides on the ramp (bridge) leading up towards the stage (launderette) while nodding in appreciation to all the smiling and cheering faces below (the rocks on the river bed) and saluting the guys who had won the Best International Group earlier in the evening (a group of Chinese lads coming the other way). I turned to Ben and hugged him. We had done it! Although shit, I hadn’t prepared a speech and there were far too many people to thank. Although, once up there was no silver statue, no James Corden or Chris Evans and no stage. Just a little Laotian with a plastic bag with my clothes in it. Just for effect, and irony, I attached it on a stick and hung it over my back like one of those tramps in cartoons. Had I had more time, I would have looked for a red pen to draw the red polka dots on it, just for maximum authenticity.

Looking back, I had all the time in the world, but for now we needed to go back to Otherside and start work on our ‘difficult second album’.

We got distracted by a little pill Ben found on his bed. What the hell was it? Were did it come from? It’s good that we were in such high spirits to find its mysterious presence hilarious. Had we not been as hyper, it could have set us off on a paranoid frenzy that we were being set up and nobody needs that. We quickly discarded it, had a shower and put a clean shirt on.

Really buzzing now, we crossed the bridge back over the river into town; I would love to remember some of our conversations as the only thing I can remember is us struggling to walk due to an infliction of rib aching laughter. Back on the main road, we heard a cheerful “Hey guys”. We spun round and saw Aussie Paul. Paul from the Mekong River trip. But than again we had met Kiwi Paul last night, so don’t get confused. Paul, from Australia, that will do. Better still, Aussie Paul. Anyways he’s called us over to his table for a drink. Why not? He was a sound guy and we had bonded with him over many subjects on the second day of the boat trip and so we gratefully headed over to him. We talked about a number of things, me and Ben really trying our best not to slip up and let on that we were comfortably on another planet in some galaxy far, far away.

At one stage, I was talking and half way through, totally forgot what I was talking about and then when I remembered, realized it was not relevant whatsoever to what he had asked of me. It was a shame really as he had liked us and now probably just saw us as a spin off to all the other head cases here which had often been the catalyst of his polemic on the boat. To be fair, he was probably in better position to judge our character now more than ever. It could have been a lot worse though, as I was only seconds away from asking him where he’d got his single dreadlocked ponytail from. But luckily came to my sense that this was the mushrooms vision of Aussie Paul and of course this bald guy did not have one dreadlock coming from the back of his head and over his left shoulder. But I tell you, I was close and that would certainly have been game over. On the boat trip he had wanted a photo with us and shook our hands and wished us all the best with great pleasure in his voice. Now as we departed, I wondered if he felt the same. To be honest, a meeting between a sober man and two lads on mushrooms could have gone a lot, lot worse.

After some food, we crossed another bridge to what appeared to be an island separated from the main river bank, connected only by a couple of bridges. We made friends with a few lads from Weymouth who were also on a mightily fine trip at Rock Bar were we listened to Red Hot Chili Peppers while also getting our first dose of fire throwing, something that would soon become as familiar, as well as tedious, as Pad Thai curry and Lady Boys. At one stage, Ben lost his flip flops and we spent ages searching for them (again, probably minutes, if not seconds) and after giving up, he looked down and they were exactly where he had left them, exactly where both of us had been looking. I know what your thinking, if this makes this bloke’s travel stories, he must have had one shit time. But the point of this little story is strange things turn up, as with the pill on Ben’s bed, when on such substances. We left the open air club and all headed to one of the many restaurants showing Friends, where we woke up on the comfy sofas, joint in hand, shortly after closing time.

09/01/2011

Up nice and early in time for our ride to Vang Vieng, the home of tubing and reckless river-based partying. Could easily have stayed and explored this mysterious little town but hedonism awaited. We had breakfast with a couple of Swiss girls, served by a waiter who looked vaguely familiar.

“That’s the guy who we spoke to yesterday” one us pointed out, in reference to the Waiter.

“They all look the fookin’ same to me” the other replied, again in our best Northern accent.

Picked up by the minibus driver at the Hotel, we were on our way to the infamous party river by mid morning. I finished The Damage Done while Ben began Dead Babies. He then got chatting to two cute Chilean girls who he sat next to at the back. They wanted to know what he was reading, so he told them in his best Spanish.

“Dead Babies? Right, what’s it about you sick fuck, get away from me!” I guessed were their thoughts.

They were good value, nice pair of sisters, and at one stage I was quite confident we may be able to crack on with them at some stage. With this thought my spirits were lifted as we drove through the lush mountains of Laos. Although it might just be the high altitude and lack of air to my head making me feel this giddy. Nobody’s ever miserable when they’re that high up. It’s not the view, it’s the oxygen deficit. I was really falling for this country and was getting the first signs that I was soon to be able to join the annoying boys and girls (girls especially) who you always find discussing travel experiences with vague phrases such as “Oh, I Love Laos” with particular emphasis on the o’s and h’s.

We arrived in Vang Vieng just after nightfall and the party was in full swing. Well, by party I mean a load of Aussies with their shirts off covered in body paint urging anybody in earshot to “get fucked up, cunt(s)” while traipsing from one backpackers hang-out to another. And that was just the girls. Along with the Chilean Girls (and their Mother) we went and found a hostel. We found one with a downstairs that housed one of the famous Family Guy bars, in which they played back to back episodes to the stoner faced masses.

Me and Ben went out to explore the town and after finding the only bar which was not a breeding ground for mindless Australians, we opted for one that was showing Manchester Utd Vs Liverpool and watched it with a Kiwi called Paul. Kiwi Paul. He was staying in some riverside huts across on the other side. He was paying half the price we were at our place and had a whole bungalow to himself! After the game he would take us to have a look.

During the game I noticed the group in front thrashing their hands needlessly at the screen. I didn’t think the ref was having that bad a game.

“What’s their problem?” I asked Kiwi Paul.

Turns out the four travellers were using sign language to communicate. Paul would often take his eyes off the game to communicate with them. He had been working at a deaf school in Singapore for the last year and knew the language well. Impressive stuff. But what was even more impressive was the fact that these deaf guys had all come travelling by themselves and through blogs and forums had all arranged to meet at various stages of the Banana Pancake Trail. Me and Ben had only managed to get here from Bangkok by talking English very loudly and slowly in the ears of a confused and often scared South-East Asian. I had to take my hat off to them. It was far more impressive than Steven Gerrard’s long ball or Wayne Rooney’s shot from just inside the box. You’ll hardly see pages and pages dedicated to these guys and their achievements in the daily newspapers. Not to sound patronizing but I really believe this is what people should be looking up to, not some bloke on silly wages kicking a ball about for 90 minutes a week. Although after a while it did get on my nerves and they were now having a full-blown conversation in front of the screen and I almost missed Ryan Giggs take on two players.

After the match, we headed across the river via a bridge consisting of just a few planks of wood to the conveniently named Otherside Bungalows. It was perfect.

08/01/2011 – Boat Trip to Luang Prabang

We got up, took a few photos with the cute little baby from the hostel we were staying at, ate breakfast and then headed off down the hill to the boat pier on the river. Feeling rather tender from yesterday’s all day session we opted for the quieter looking boat, although the Brutish Aussies (all now donned in their teams football strip) looked just as bad as they pulled out on one of the other boats just as we were leaving.

“Look, its Dave Rowntree” Ben said nodding to some guy who’d just got on our boat.

I missed his face but could see he had short ginger hair, which was perhaps the only reasonable requirement for a lookalike, especially a ginger one. I didn’t have to wait long to see his face, as he stopped, took a deep breath, turned around and looked down at the two beaming faces turned up towards him, now trying very hard to conceal their laughter.

“The Drummer from Blur, right? Yeah, I hear it all the time” he said, taking it with good humour despite not really having a choice.

I had to explain to Ben that you always have to be discreet with lookalikes as that person has probably heard it a million times. This advice sailed out of the boat window and into the Mekong River as Ben then queried if one of the Laotian deckhands was in fact a Peruvian. Just as Dave Rowntree did, the guy stopped what he was doing and glared at us, although surely he didn’t understand that, surely? We sat with Aussie Paul for a while, before landing in Luang Prabang. A lovely gem of a town, we were escorted to a hotel near the river, everybody going separate ways again.

The Hotel we found, again via riverbank escort, was very nice and had I come with a missus, as opposed to Ben, I’m sure I’d have been more grateful for the swan shaped towels on our beds. Out in the kitchen I saw an old fridge magnet that read, “Nestle sponsors the SEA GAMES 2009 – VIENTIANE”. How the fuck does the capital city of a landlocked country host the sea games?

We went out after a few beers in search of some good food, and what we found exceeded our expectations tenfold. The town was very pretty with pastel coloured town houses and cream coloured holiday villas it “could’ve easily been Southern France or somewhere” we both agreed. This lead us to make the observation that the very nice parts of South East Asia are bound by how much they resemble the West and so why do we bother?

After walking along a tributary of the Mekong River we found an old wooden bridge that crossed over to a much darker wood. We crossed it, not knowing what to expect on the other side with the wood creaking below us and the water gushing below. The series of colourful lights in the trees on the approaching hillside were our guide, our northern star if you like. In the dark we found the hillside path and began to climb, flanked by hanging lanterns dangling from the trees. Our curiosity was rewarded with an amazing restaurant, constructed out of several little huts. Shower fresh and gagging for some peace and good food, we easily settled for this. We sat in our hut with its Turkish pillows and hot coals and ordered the Laos Fondue which comprised thinly cut strips of fine beef alongside chicken rice and vegetables. This place was perfect; there were even proper holidaymakers here. Sons with their Mums and Dads, that kind of thing. It was a really peaceful evening, and after a few beers we crossed back to backpacking world and hit another Hives Bar, a franchise of the place we went to in Pakbang.

07/01/2011 – Riding on the Mekong River to Huay Xai

Today we caught another bus to the river at Chiang Khong, catching a boat over the short river crossing to Huay Xai in Laos. Once in Laos we went to find some alcohol for the 2-day boat trip in the little riverside town. Ernie came with us but got lost, the middle aged Aussie bought some fruit and the Israeli-Russian vanished into the bustling crowds never to be seen again. We had also made some new friends, Jack and Will from Australia. They were young lads who had been travelling the world for the last 10 months and were finishing up here. We bought some Samsung whiskey and coke alongside some Beer Lao (I was also awarded a Beer Lao polo shirt by the shopkeeper for my efforts in securing enough booze for the trip). We were set; Rob, Ben, Jack and Will. Good old Commonwealth names. Almost like a school math’s exam question; “If Jack has four apples, and Ben takes two, how many apples are left for Will?” Of course, nowadays it would be “Sandra has four apples, and Henry takes two, how many are left for Ishmal?” I hated maths at school, so did not care, Will and Ishmal could solve their own food shortage problems out. I remember in A-level law we’d be presented with similar questions but with the names of characters from The Simpsons. For example, “Ned, after years of physical abuse from Homer, shoots Homer and his son, Bart, six times after their both start using verbal threatening behaviour towards him and his family……” and at the end of the scenario we would have to analyze it to devise a defence plan for Ned, based on what we know from the case study. If I had not revised the particular topic I would just continue the story. Story telling was more my thing.

The four of us had found our spot on the boat. Four seats at the back of the sheltered seating area. Good times, good enough I thought to warrant asking somebody to take a photo of the four of us. “Sure” said an enthusiastic girl “Say cheese”. I hadn’t heard that expressions since 1998. She followed up with “I’ll take one for luck”. I hadn’t heard that one since 2003. But that was explainable as with the introduction of digital cameras you could now see the photo seconds after it had been taken and make an informed decision whether another one is needed “for luck”. This is one phrase that has probably gone forever along with “would you like a table with non-smoking or smoking, Sir”.

After a while, we received a call up to the front of the boat by a team of Aussie Rules players, who were travelling around in a 15 man pack. We would be honorary members of the team. Jack and Will were clearly moved by this, although me and Ben maybe less so. Nonetheless it was fun, being at the top of boat, with the sun shining down, the loud music playing and the drink flowing. We arrived at Pakbang in the evening, our second stopover, and were greeted on the bank by the hotel workers vying for our business. In the drunken haze of daytime drinking we lost all the other guys and ended up being led up the grassy verges by a small girl who promised us “good cheap room for you”. It was quite a sketchy memory but I remember seeing everybody else doing and hearing the same thing, like zombies being taken by the hand and guided to where they would rest for the night. We were taken to a two storey wooden building that sat up on the only main road the riverside settlement and received a warm welcome from the elderly Thai owner and her young attractive daughter, along with a few backpackers we had met on the boat earlier who too had been caught in their web. Although the woman and daughter were the same height, they seemed to be of different scale; like an Action Man doll propped up next to a Garden Gnome. Nonetheless she had a twin for us (a room that is, not a daughter).

Once settled down in our wooden room, we heard a knock on the creaking door. It was the little girl who worked downstairs, but now pressing us to buy some weed. She had opium too, which I was quite keen to give a go, even though she seemed less keen about me trying it. “Good weed, good weed for you” was the party line. We declined as we had been warned by our captain that locals will sell the drugs to tourists just before alerting the police, splitting the huge bribe that the tourist would happily pay up to avoid spending the rest of their days in a Laotian prison. The perfectly square cube of “good weed” was also suspiciously packed in an air sealed plastic bag, like a free toy in a box of cereal. Reading the story of Warren Fellows on the boat earlier, I knew it was not worth the risk in any shape or form.

Another knock on the door came, but this time it was the friendly faces that we had met on the boat and seen downstairs. They wanted to see if we fancied going for a joint.

We went for dinner with the middle aged Aussie guy we first met on the truck from Chiang Mai. He was Paul. Aussie Paul. After a day of drunken rowdiness it was nice to have a proper and worthwhile conversation. On the next table was Ernie and a load of other like minded souls. They looked like the cast of the reality TV show Survivor. After a few more beers we joined the cast of Survivor and headed to a club called Hives Bar for more mayhem with our Brutish Aussie friends from the boat, all there in top gear. There was probably more restaurants and bars in this riverside town then actual local people – a scene that relies totally on the passing stopover brigade.

Although the highlight of the night was undoubtedly a jealous boyfriend decking a guy who was cracking on with his girlfriend, it’s always a bad sign of a night out when the highlight is a punch up. It’s a bit like the highlight being the kebab afterwards or the cab journey there. But to be honest, it was quite a good night. I think it’s just that I haven’t seen a pub fight this side of 2008.

06/01/2011 – Heading to Chiang Rai for boat to Laos

Woke up and decided on a good stiff English breakfast at a small Irish bar. I missed a good night by the sounds of things. Ben had got up, and with a load of others from Little Bird went to some lively part of town for some Reggae. Trust me to accidentally end up in the red light district. We sat and watched England claim the Ashes over the Aussies with our breakfast and fresh orange juice. Most of the menus in the restaurants here have little stickers covering the original price, with the new price written over it. Evidence of the recent inflation over the years due to recent transformation to a prime backpackers destination. I used to wonder how Chomp bars and Space Invaders could maintain their cover price of 10p for so long, defying the annual rate of inflation. I never did a dissertation at University as part of my economics degree, but had I done, this would be my topic of interest. I’m sure I could stretch my investigation to 10,000 words. My conclusion: By mass-producing the wrappers with the 10p value on it, the confectionary company is able to significantly cut its costs through economies of scale. Considering all factors remain the same (i.e. demand), this saving per wrapper, only needs to exceed the additional annual costs incurred through inflation. Hence, if they face a 2% increase in costs (electricity, rent of factory etc), they only need to ensure the savings from mass productions outweigh this. Also, everybody knows them as being the 10p snack and so any price rise will cut their USP, affecting demand. I believe they’re now 15p. That’s a 50% increase.

This area has clearly experienced a classic case of demand-pull inflation, as more holidaymakers have entered the region, demand has been greater for local produce and in turn this has forced the price upwards. Holidaymakers. I don’t think I’ve ever been a “Holidaymaker”. I’ve been on holidays with Holiday-Makers (my Mum and Dad) on all-inclusive holiday packages to the Canaries and the Mediterranean, but I can’t really say any of my Ryanair flights to Eastern Europe, joining the hordes of teenagers to the Greek party islands, bumming around the United States or my annual jaunts to some Europe’s music festivals justifies my existence as a holiday maker in the conventional sense. I don’t really get the term if I’m to be honest, but I guess honeymooners and families’ spring to mind. The ones unlike money savvy backpackers so common here, don’t care for challenging the first price listed by your average Thai market vender. This insensitivity towards price has no doubt had a bearing the rapid increase of prices here.

One skill that I was going to have to hone over the next 4 months was the art of haggling and bartering. It’s not something I like doing, haggling with people in borderline poverty over a couple of pence on a pair of sandals or a jungle trek just doesn’t sit comfortably with me. If I don’t do it with the ticket controller at Kingsbury tube station over the extortionate price of my Oyster card, why would I do it here in Asia? My feelings about this probably stem from Human Punk by John King whereby the protagonist recounts the first wave of backpackers to Asia in the late 1980’s that he comes across during his time working in a bar in Hong Kong.

Not only is it in my interest to learn this art, but in the interests of future travellers to these parts, as well as the locals. For it is vital in maintaining sustainable pricing and costs of living for both visitors and citizens. It’s all well and good being prepared to purchase goods at a higher price than the market value due to your higher purchasing power, but the knock on effects can be severely detrimental – and I’m not just talking about stickers on menu prices either.

As soon as too many people show they are willing and able to buy a product above the floor price that the seller is willing and able to sell at, over time this new price becomes the minimum a seller will sell at, hence setting a new floor price. The increase in prices, and increased profit as a result, now makes the plot of his market space that bit more lucrative as more streets sellers now want to enter the market to take advantage of the abnormal profits. So now, with demand for market spaces vastly outweighing supply, the land owner will now increase the rent of the space. Sooner rather than later, the extra cost reduces the abnormal profits that were being made. In order to make normal profit, the streets seller must increase his prices furthermore to compensate for the increase in land costs. Whereas the extra demand from an increase of tourists results in demand pull inflation, this here is an example of cost push. This pattern is replicated in the market as a whole, as cost of living for all continues to increase.

As a result, not only is it more expensive for travellers, but also, for the locals. Many of which would not have seen their incomes increase in line with increase in cost of living, unless of course they worked in the tourism industry. One solution, is for ethical businesses in these poorer countries to operate a two-tier pricing strategy, whereby the higher costs are passed onto “foreigners” through affordable, yet slightly higher prices, allowing “locals” to benefit from lower prices. However with profit potential, the opportunity cost of serving a “local” can become high, as businesses realise they could sell the same produce to a “foreigner” and benefit a greater profit margin. Again, the locals with lower purchasing power are priced out of the market.

Haggling on price is a way to maintain sustainable wages and costs. But haggle down to what you see as fair, as in doing so you will artificially enforce a reasonable two-tier pricing strategy. Also, tipping for good service helps too.

Although of course nobody wants to go on holiday with moneysavingexpert.com Martin Lewis. But in fact, I’ve noticed in post-credit crunch Britain, it appears quite trendy to have budget constraints. Most of the senior guys I know from working in the City, make quite a show of their new austerity measures from downsizing from Parsons Green to Shepherds Bush to Pret tuna and sweet corn baguettes to home made sandwiches. Believe it or not, this still a show of vanity, as by indicating how bad they are in the bad times, they are also subtly insinuating how good they were doing in the good times. The fact they were doing so well then, when their wages were aligned to the boom, indicates how pivotal they were as wealth creators. And how well they’ll do once again when the economy returns to strength. I bet these guys get a kick out of thinking people compare them to large investment banks – “just like Lehman’s, that guy thought he was too big to fail”. I’m pretty sure they’re no less well-off now then they were 5 years ago. It’s these same people who tell you over coffee on a Monday morning “man, I had a great weekend, although my bank manager won’t be too happy”. As if the manager of the Natwest branch in Epping is really going to notice the extravagant cash withdrawals made by a bloke who probably doesn’t earn a great deal more than the national average.

Right, enough of the lecturing, back to my self absorbed travel stories.

After brekkie, we headed to a book shop where I bought Damage Done which has long been part of the staple diet of backpackers to Asia. It tells the story of “12 years of hell in a Bangkok Prison” that Warren Fellows experienced after being caught trying to smuggle heroin out of Thailand in 1978. I had been eager to get my hands on it ever since being told about it at a family BBQ last summer by my cousin Jonathan who travelled out here about 10 years ago. Ben went for Dead Babies by Martin Amis, despite my efforts to try and persuade him to go for Amis’ other classic London Fields. The books here were extremely costly in relation to other daily expenses. One book costs the same as two nights in our hostel and a full English breakfast. At first I put it down to the high costs of importing them, but to be honest most are photocopied and manufactured here. Perhaps it’s because the locals can see how much we’re used to paying back home from looking at the cover price and adjust their prices accordingly. What’s also funny is that although the front and back covers are photocopied from the originals, there are often spelling mistakes within them. Maybe this is done intentionally in an effort to show that they are not photocopies and that they have just made one futile spelling mistake in publishing the book. But then surely that would lead to one questioning the likelihood of spelling mistakes in the book itself. I remember when I bought Scary Movie 2 off a street seller in Harrow town centre, the cover was the exact same as the original but on the back it had reviews from The Sun and Empire saying “The film feels musty and bogged down” and “Just the same old bad jokes from the first one recycled”. So whoever makes these front covers surely isn’t just photocopying from an original, as distributors would make sure these negative reviews aren’t present. They obviously aren’t worried about copyright infringement, so why not just photocopy an original?

We dossed around on a moped inspecting the fine array of temples Chiang Mai has to offer during the day, while waiting for our pickup at 7pm to take us to Chiang Rai, where we would be spending a night before heading to the border of Laos in the morning. After each and every temple, careful to stay just long enough in each one to avoid insulting the monks by leaving too early, we would normally exchange some sort of intentional philistine remark in our best Lancashire accents such “load of old shite if you ask me” or “they all look the fookin’ same to me”. Of course such statements need to be carried out in a Northern dialect, as I think generally that’s the most appropriate one to convey a narrow minded approach to foreign culture. Of course in real life this is an unfair stereotype, but it just works better. It may also work with a cockney accent. Again, an unfair stereotype, but that’s life. That’s the TV age of The Royal Family and the legacy of Bernard Manning for you. I must say car parks for temples make for excellent places to hone your moped driving skills.

Come 7pm, we board the Chiang Rai-bound bus alongside a middle aged Aussie Man and an Israeli-Russian lad who had lived in Hendon Central selling toy planes and knew of the Claddagh Ring, another popular drinking hole in North-West London. He was now living in Bangkok running his own “business” and was making a trip to Laos to make a “special pick up” and laughed at the idea of tubing with his claims to be “too old and mature for that”. I fervently disagreed as he certainly wasn’t too old (probably not too much older than me), but more so as the comment surely must’ve conflicted with the ambitions of the middle aged Aussie Man , who was obviously hungry for some tubing. We drove around Chiang Mai for what seemed like ages and passed the same bridge over the city moat several times before we found our last passenger at a private house outside the city. Really nice posh area, looked like it could have been taken straight from Radlett in Hertfordshire, England. Here we picked up Ernie.

Ernie, from San Francisco, was a typical west coast modern guy, slightly camp but had a girlfriend back home, with ripped jeans and ring on his thumb which people only buy when they’ve been waiting in the queue in Topman. The ultimate pulse purchase alongside miniature badges and wristbands, the retail equivalent of Cadbury crème eggs. He was very friendly and made no delay in cracking open his bottle of wine with his pen knife, spraying the Aussie Man with the red stuff, who was now made even more uncomfortable following the ageist comment of the Israeli-Russian bloke earlier. We drove back to Chiang Mai as the driver needed some papers. It was only a short drive back, but Ernie had extracted enough information from all of us; He knew where and what I had studied and where I was from. He knew the destination the Israeli-Russian guy was taking. He was particularly interested in him and dates of his trip. I thought he was just being really friendly. We stopped at a travel agent where our truck driver said he would collect our details for tomorrow’s border control and while Ernie was inside giving his, the Israeli-Russian took us aside and warned us that Ernie was in fact undercover DEA. His suspicion had arisen from the fact he could not understand why somebody could have so many questions. At this moment, Ernie popped his head around the corner and asked the Israeli-Russian guy “your passport please….for security of course, they need it”. It couldn’t have been timed any better. The Israeli-Russian guy was getting very paranoid. We continued our drive and finally made it out of Chiang Mai and to a little service station out of town. Here we swapped over into mini buses and headed to our stopover in Chiang Rai.

We arrived in Chiang Rai around midnight and were allocated our rooms in this motel that most probably survived purely on the custom of those making this bordercross. Me and Ben obviously shared, but you should have seen the look on the Israeli-Russian guys face when Ernie suggested they share. The room was very bare except for he flamboyant bed sheets. Ever wondered what happened to your bed sheets with your favourite 1980’s cartoon characters on them? Well, I’ll tell you. They’re here, in a little crumbling budget motel in the middle of rural Northern Thailand. Before having a good laugh at what must be going through the Israeli-Russian guy’s head, we hit the hay and passed out instantly.