On this day in 2011….Riding on the Mekong River to Huay Xai #Otdi2011

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”.

Boat Tour

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.

On this day in 2011….Head to Chiang Rai for Laos #Otdi2011

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

scooterWoke 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.

damage doneAfter 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?

templeWe 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.

hemanWe 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.

On this day in 2011….Jungle Trek day 2

05/01/2011 – Jungle Trek Day 2
DSCF1701After breakfast and the obligatory group photo with the locals, we started off on our hike to the Elephant reserve some 4-5 miles away on the other side of the mountain. It was a long old hike up through the hills, and the intensity was different from the last day. Hardly anybody spoke, we were far too concentrated on getting to the top and over to our destination, the Elephant Reserve. After a while we had all unwittingly synchronized our walking steps. We were all now walking as one. I used to have a theory as to why older couples begin to look like each other. When they’ve been together that long, they have laughed together, they have cried together and felt the strain together on so many occasions throughout life that their faces go through the same strains of emotion and begin to age in the same way as a direct result. The parents of Milhouse from The Simpsons are living proof of this.


The dogs from the village had been following us for a good couple of miles, flanking us on each side making us feel like Roman soldiers on the look out for the enemy, using Man’s best friend to detect their presence. At least everybody in the group had to stop once on the way up. Me and Ben who were at the back to begin with, were at the front by the time we reached the elephants.

“I suppose its like Mario Kart. When you’re last in the race you get all the luck such as lightening, triple red shells and consequently you normally end up winning” Ben reasoned. And it was exactly like that.

Mario On KartIt’s this understanding of each other’s observations which served as the first sign of the level of fun we’re going to have travelling together for the next 6 weeks. This kind of mutual understanding and perception of the world has taken many years to tune. Now, I didn’t know Ben prior to University, we grew up in parallel worlds, me in North-West of London, him the North-East, but nonetheless we had developed a remarkably similar outlook on life. Well apart from the possibility that we perhaps met at a Merlin Premier League sticker swapshop and traded observations and social commentary, I don’t think we had any interaction in youth. Although, in the first semester of University, Ben revealed a copy of Garth Marenghi’s Darkplace that he bought off the eBay the summer before. It was roundabout the time that my school friend Tom was building his piracy empire, with Darkplace being his biggest export, to fund our post A-level holiday and keep him in a summer of BBQ’s and beer gardens. There was a very good chance that Ben had been one of his customers. I do take great pride in reminding the pair of them, two big fans of the show, that it was this black market that they both created, the buyer and the seller, which perhaps denied a second series from being commissioned, as their love of the show was not accounted for, either in sales of box sets or the viewing of the original public airing.

We both went to school with the boy who boasted of having 10 computers and can remember being born. The old lady who waltzes with the 5-year old girl at a wedding. The bloke in the pub who starts a sentence with “I’m not being racist, but….” The soft touch Scout Leader with “I know boys will be boys”. The boy who wore Astroturf trainers to the disco and the girl who danced the Tutti Frutti. I think these people, I’m sure you’ve all met them at some stage in your life, have given me and Ben free reign to accurately stereotype who and whenever we like.

Ben’s Admission;

“Also, an example of reading from the same hymn sheet could be how we both independently incorporated ‘Jonathan’ into our parlance as a humorous name to supplant other words, and as a haphazard colloquialism to drop in various situations i.e “I am the Jonathan of the night”. We both came to University separately with this in our lexicon.

It’s convergent evolution: like how the octopus and humans, two animals with very different ancestral lineages, conditioned by similar stimuli, have independently developed a remarkably similar eye.”

As well as the Mario Kart reference, and his joint prediction that Nick Bennet came from a town centralised around a large retail park, we were both on song when discussing the whereabouts of all the Slush Puppy machines that used to occupy the canteen area of Leisure Centres across Britain. We both had sneaky feeling they’d probably ended up around here in this pocket of the world.

Ben and ElephantAfter more hiking, we finally came to a road and crossed it to get to the elephants. The Aristocratic Couple were the first to get on their elephant. I’d decided the boyfriend, the baddie from a Hugh Grant film, was pretty sound after chatting to him last night around the campfire. After all, how could he be a Hugh Grant baddie? If he had been, the elephant would have surely detected this and threw him off into the mud or at least hosed him down with dirty water. They always do to the bad guys.

Me and Ben boarded ours, who took us through his well beaten path into more jungle. Their clear lack of enthusiasm prompted Ben to remark “The elephants remind me more of a 16-year old working at Cineworld on a Saturday morning than an exotic animal in his natural habitat”. We got bored of the whole experience unsurprisingly quickly and began our usual discussions. We had been a bit miffed at the absence of Bainos on this trip so far. Bainos? You’re confused, so let me explain.Elephant

A Baino is the name me and Ben give to a type of character, aged 18-28, normally from the Home Counties though probably moved to one of London’s trendier areas post graduation, talks of the latest internet funny clips (at time of writing it was the chain smoking Indonesian toddler on Youtube), banal drinking achievements (“I downed 7 Jagerbombs, and about 6 pints of Snakebite”), the latest techno sensations (Deadmau5 or Kissy Sell Out were “AAAAMMMMAAAAZZZIIING last night”) yet still loves the classic (“Radiohead’s OK Computer is a flawless album”), overuses the word ‘legend’ and ‘literally’, has minor high-brow connections (“my mates Mum writes for The Observer”), gets tingles down his spine when walking across a crowded park with a crate of beers under one arm and a rugby ball under the other, probably played for his school team. They don’t possess the same vulgarity as the obvious pub lout and are slightly more sophisticated and cultured than the average spokesman for Booze Britain (“would love to go to Sri Lanka”) but nonetheless is still partial to the odd traffic cone theft on the way home from a night out. As usual, Ben’s sums it up in one condensed sentence; “somebody who systematically and mercilessly fulfils all of the target consumer stereotypes identified by the Nuts and Zoo magazine’s marketing team”. But than again, as Ricky Gervais said about David Brent; everybody knows one, and if you don’t, it’s probably you.

bamboo boatAfter lunch, we took a bamboo boat downstream. Nothing massively happened, we just did. Ben got on the first raft, I on the second with Benedict. It’s amazing to think how far the German’s have come in my list of favourite countrymen, even swapping places with Australia who were once my favourite but have now dropped to the bottom of my Top 10 list. Something I would have thought impossible back at the height of the anti-German days of Euro ’96 right through to Germany 1 -5 England. It’s even mildly surprising how far the Spaniards have come over the years, although I think it has a lot to do with the sportsmanship of Rafa Nadal and the strong unity of the national football team who were victorious at the last European Championships and World Cup. I’m sorry to say, but as for Australians, I’m not so sure. So far, in this small amount of time I’ve been in Asia, the only ones I’ve come across have been the mindless morons (known in Oz as ‘Bogans’) in their Chang Beer vests (known in Oz as ‘singlets’) forcing their loud anti-social drinking games on everybody else. Of course, the trip is still young and they have plenty of time for a comeback. And of course, I’m quite partial to a loud antisocial drinking game….

Then onto the white water rafting and me and Ben reunited to join two girls from Warrington to form a four-man boat (5 if you include the guide). They were the typical brace of girls you’d get on that reality Chanel 4 show Coach Trip, with their ‘game plans’ and Northern accents, but they were quite a good laugh to be honest. There was also a group of English school kids (school trip to Thailand = minted parents) who thought it was funny to splash us with their paddles, but soon realised this was not the case after Ben’s polite order to “fuck off you little dickheads”. To be fair to him, he didn’t know they spoke English as they were wearing big chunky safety helmets and also the water was unbelievably cold and not something you want splashed in your face when trying to guide your way through an assault course of sharp rocks at life threatening speeds.

We got back in the truck, which I’m sure has heard its fair share of over exaggerated rafting stories over the years, just like a coach driver who takes parties to and from a paintball centre. Before heading back, we dropped the moaning Czech guy off at a roadside so he could engage in a tougher trek. For an additional fee, he could travel with some of the village people back to Chiang Mai on foot. Basically they just charged him to help bring some documents they needed dropping off at the local Land Commission.

“So everybody, during the past couple of days, what moments would you say brought out your Karl Pilkington and which moments brought out your David Attenborough?” Ben asked the rest of the truck.

For me, my Pilkington moment came at the orchid farm – what was the bloody point! As for Attenborough, I would say playing the game ‘Black Face’. That was really getting into the native spirit, even if the punishment of having your face covered in charcoal was substituted to downing a shot of whiskey once Sunny had gone off to bed.

Got back to the Little Bird to find it over run with pissed up 19 year old Australians doing some drinking game that involves lots of shouting and swearing. This scene is the basis for the above reasons why they slipped down to the bottom of my Top 10. Don’t get me wrong, I love a good drinking game and know that it’s this sort of behaviour that gives a place the legendary status that I certainly will be looking for over the next four months. It’s probably just me being a bit grouchy having completed a trip to the other side of the world and a mountainous jungle trek within only a few days. I contemplate joining them, but they are too far gone and besides, as social as I am, when I haven’t had a drink, I feel like I’m one notch more sober than the average sober person. But for now, best ways be bed ways. Ben manages to knock off but I have trouble sleeping. It’s about 6.30pm and we were going to meet Nick and Benedict in town later for a few beers. I get up to head into town, as I’m aware the West Ham v Newcastle game should be on.

I find myself in some hideout run by some friendly English guys and my name is quickly added to the pool table. I’m accosted by a girl who can’t be any older than I was when I first smuggled my first alcoholic beverage up to my room for a cheeky drink. She’s working and it appears she’s my host for the night. A couple of games of pool later, I’m sure they’re letting me win, I down my whiskey and head out. I just fancy a few quiet drinks and head to another bar, hoping to bump into Nick or Benedict. It’s the same in every one; walk in, warm welcome, shown where to sit, girl comes over and sits with you. A group of English lads from Wolverhampton are getting quite the treatment so I give it a go myself, trying to persist with all the small talk coming from my little cute Thai Lady. I don’t like to reveal to much about what goes on here due to fear of breaking some sort of code or lifting the lid on what your husband really gets up to when he comes here, but I do consider myself somewhere between the Honeymooners and Sex Tourists and so like to think of myself as the middle man. Problem is, I can’t even maintain a conversation with a prostitute and how fucking bad is that for one man’s self esteem. I tell myself it’s just dislike for small talk and make an escape to the toilet where I find a spider the size of my hand. There is no way, I’ll ever enjoy this sort of thing and right there and then my curiosity goes out the window (along with my used toilet roll that your not allowed to flush down the loo) and shamelessly sneak outside just in time to see some bloke pick up one of the obvious Lady Boys on his scooter, who had offered me a blowjob earlier on in night.

Better go and find Ben. The hostel is near empty and Ben is nowhere to be seen.

On this day in 2011…Jungle Trek day 1

04/01/2011 – Jungle Trek Day 1
In the truckAfter a light breakfast, we were picked up for our Jungle trek outside the hostel by jeep around 9am. Being the first ones, we spent the next 10 minutes being driven around town to the other local hostels in search of the rest of the party. At a set of traffic lights, I noticed a building opposite midway through construction, with Bamboo used for scaffolding. I was going to take a picture as it reminded me of something from the Um Bongo fruit drink adverts but then I was instantly shamed by my ignorance. Why take a picture? Did I find it funny that poor people in the development world still had to use natural resources for construction? Although this gave way to a good discussion about what constitutes a developing country. Ben thinks the use of Microsoft WordArt on advertising literature is a good indicator of where a country sits. You see it everywhere, from adverts for mini cabs to adverts for various excursions throughout Chiang Mai. It’s almost like when you learn Word Art half way through a Design and Technology coursework project and you’re determined to use as many fonts, colours, shadow, bold and italics as possible. Hence, as soon as a country welcomes Word Art into their economy, they can begin to call themselves developing. Once the novelty wears off, they are developed.

DSCF1656After picking up the last few guys, we’re off. Well, we have to make a detour to a butterfly and flower orchid on the way to the jungle. Few flowers, even fewer butterflies and a whole lot of bored and anxious faces. After this, we headed to the outskirts of town and into the Jungle with the rest of our fellow travellers.

Firstly, we met Benedict, a financial consultant from Dusseldorf. A real nice guy who seemed to understand British sarcasm and wit, confirming the Germans as my new favourite race of foreigner. Especially after my trip to Berlin and Melt Festival in 2009, I find it hard to dislike Germans. I admire their way of thought, and their pragmatic approach to potentially awkward situations. Me and Benedict talked about the recent student riots, but he was even more amazed to hear about the legendary David Beckham degree that has been offered at some Universities. His sympathy for those affected by the education cuts was significantly reduced after I confirmed this. Next we had up was an Irish teacher who was perhaps in her mid/late 30’s, a seasoned traveller yet confessed her “rave days were over” when recalling a recent trip to Barcelona. She was really quite cool, kind of like one of the cast of the popular Chanel 4 show Teachers. I was quite surprised she had not seen the show. She was with Ryan, a Canadian English teacher who had drifted around the world after leaving Canada in October 1992. Then there was the 20-something English couple, who felt like they were running a modern day Pride and Prejudice type relationship; an aristocratic arranged marriage, in which the Duke of Windsor had paired his son up with the pretty daughter of a wealthy yet common land owner. The boy looked like he could have easily fitted into a Hugh Grant film playing the snobbish antagonist. Maybe he was just really good looking and rather smug about the whole thing. Unlike the rest of us, they had come from the east and were heading west and then south back to Bangkok.


Then there was Nick Bennet. I knew I had seen him or his type somewhere before. He looked like he came from a town with a DFS or Carpetright. Turns out he did, hailing all the way from West Thurrock. But there was something else. That’s it; He was the sort of bloke who would be interviewed by Sky Sports after England’s dismal performance at a World Cup or European Championship. Turned out I had it down to a tee. He had been interviewed at Table Top Mountain at last year’s World Cup after England’s humiliating performance in the group stages. I had never seen the interview nor had I ever met somebody from West Thurrock, but I just used the power of instant judgment. People who say you can’t judge a book by a cover, really need stop being so pig ignorant.

DSCF1670After lunch on the mountainside, we left the truck and began our trek with our friendly guide Sunny, who lived in the village we would be travelling to and spending the night. After walking through the hills and forest for about an hour we came to a quiet dirt-beaten road where me and Ben, having fallen behind, got chased by these stick wielding children. Once at a safe distance and nearer the rest of the group, I got a photo of them. There are probably more photos of them on Facebook then you or I. While taking these photos, I had to stop and think “who in the world is really going to be interested in these photos?” I wouldn’t be, if they weren’t mine. I’m much more of an action photo man to be honest, and think there are few better indicators of a man’s plastic existence when all his Facebook photos are of him with a pre-planned pose. If you’re going to get a picture of nice scenery, at least get somebody in it, preferably yourself. Otherwise, it might as well be a postcard. Keep it on the automatic setting, no good photo will ever come about from deviating way from this setting as it is designed to be the best one to suit the current shooting conditions. Also, make sure you get somebody to take it, taking it yourself with your outstretched arm is just going to end up with half your fore arm in the photo with your head in the top corner of the photo with the background out of focus. Plus it looks like you’ve got no mates. Finally, if you are getting action photos, ensure that there are no other camera’s in shot as it will look like all you did was go out to get pictures of each other. I knew you’d learn something from this tour diary.

DSCF1667But to be honest, it did still feel like we were the only ones trekking this mountain region. We had got left behind from our group whilst putting sun tan lotion on. Sun lotion must be the most archaic and impractical necessity still in production not to have been graced by the technological boom. It’s hard to put on (especially the shoulders), its nasty to put on (gets on your clothes and makes you feel clammy) and it’s so expensive for what it is (nearly as much as luxury aftershave). Surely, after they first landed on the moon, the next thing to do was design a pill that you swallow which protects you for a sound length of time from the burning sun. Surely, what with all this global warming, that should be on somebody’s list of things to do. I would look into inventing this myself, but I just can’t be bothered. As more little kids with sticks appeared on the horizon, we rapidly caught up with the rest of the group.

P1040924We passed a village where the locals were all playing native games. A couple looked quite fun actually. One in fact looked a lot like bowls while another involved spinning a piece of sharpened wood with a string like the ones our ancestors would have played with, while your opponents try to knock it over by throwing rocks at it. The longest running one wins. I wanted to bring some of these back with me, but know the only way to get my mates interested in this sport would be to incorporate it into some sort of drinking game. After activities, such as football or sailing, we were all quite accustomed to suggesting “yeah good laugh today, but next time we should bring a load of beers down with us”. The Anglo-Irish disease.

I noticed some of the kids had Chelsea shirts on. I didn’t want to see that. Not only as they’re Chelsea, but because of the impact it had on the sincerity of the village. I had even brought a pair of floral trousers that I picked up in Chiang Mai to fit in. Although is it supposed to be an exchange of culture? Like, I wear their clothing and they wear mine? Or should I wear my national dress so he can see the world without leaving this playing field? Should he feel obliged to wear his national dress to justify me coming here? People bang on about the best cities in the world for their “multiculturalism”, but if I travel all the way to one I want to see local lifestyle’s, not a global one.

We continued on. A Czech guy who we had been travelling with us, had constantly moaned about the lack of challenge in the trek. At every stop he would take off another piece of clothing and announce that “this is just sun bathing for me”. He was a bit of a cock and everybody knew it. By the time we got to the top of the mountain we’d began to ascent after the village visit, he was in nothing but a pair of tight fitting Speedo’s. It brought to mind the old age question: Is Britain the only country where wearing Speedos carries a stigma? But Benedict also had a smile on his face at the sight, as did the Irish teacher.

DSCF1675Atop the summit, flanked by endless hilltops and woodland below, we walked a bit further before descending back into the jungle, where our destination was only a few hours away. Half way through, the group got separated in two parts. As Sunny’s group kept marching on, I stayed back with some of the others who were looking after Ryan, who had a bad leg. After it was clear we might get lost, there were few paths leading in different directions now, I decided to run ahead and tell the others to wait up. I was running for quite a bit when it dawned on me that there was no way we were this far apart, and so I headed back to find another path. I took another one which looked a lot less beaten. In the dirt I could see the trainer print of a Reebok Classic. Shit! Nobody in our group was wearing Reebok Classics. In fact nobody except Geography teachers on own-clothes-day wear Reebok Classics. I wasn’t even too sure I’d even gone this way and already I was starting to panic a bit as the thought of being stranded here overnight began to set in. I had gone round in circles and had no idea which way to go. Maybe if I had listened in Geography more, and not ridiculed the teacher for his fashion choices, I might have learnt how to find my way out of this mess. I couldn’t even remember which way I had come down. Which way to go? Everything looked the same. I headed down one path and came to a stream. I began to recall shortly after setting off on my own, that I’d had crossed a bridge over a river which due to a natural dam, had a large volume of water built up on one side. Reebok ClassicsSo, knowing I had only crossed the stream once I headed towards where the stream was widening. Hence, where the water had built up. Somebody in the know may say my theory based on the river flow was geographically incorrect. Well the jokes on them, I’m no longer stuck in a forest!

DSCF1683That night at the village, we ate and got merry with a big bonfire. We helped Sunny construct it while the Irish Teacher and Ryan had a cigarette break. Looking at them, Ben noticed how much they looked liked (or how he imagined) a cameraman and producer from “that show with Charlie Boorman and the other bloke”. He of course was dead right, spot on; they really did look like Production Crew from the Long Way Down or the Long Way Round. It was as good a made up lookalike as you can get. Also, I’m sure that’s the first time I’ve heard somebody use the name of Charlie Boorman over Ewan McGregor though in reference to the show.

DSCF1686We were introduced to Sunny’s children who no doubt wondered why every night Dad brought home a load of his pissed up mates. Sunny then introduced us to his favourite group game called ‘Black Face’. Bit hard to explain, but basically, everybody gets a number. Everybody claps and beats their knees while somebody calls out their own number followed by another person’s number. The person whose number is called out repeats the process. This goes on until somebody forgets their number or is too late to respond, in which they lose. As a punishment they must let the last successful person smear them with black soot from the fire. They are completely out when their face can be blackened no more. So, the loser ends up with a black face? Oh the stigma of it all. They must have ruled this game out in British Primary schools sometime ago.

Wooden Cabin

After putting out the fire and finishing the last of the whiskey, we all headed back to the communal wooden cabin to sleep.

On this day in 2011….Waking up in the Chiang Mai mountains #Otdi2011


After a tranquil morning ride on the train through the Northern Mountains, we arrived around 1pm in Chiang Mai, found a place to stay at The Little Bird Guest House, showered up and was ready to explore. After lunch, we wandered around investigating various jungle trips, finally settling for the two-day hike. We went to a Night Bazaar on the other side of town to buy some supplies for the following two days.
Chiang Mai
I was surprised at how many English teams were represented on the stalls selling football shirts. Man Utd, Liverpool and Chelsea were as inevitable as finding a bogie in the middle pages of a book from your local library, but it was the lower league teams that weren’t as common as the average rate of nasal crustaceans in public literature that surprised me. I would later go onto update my Facebook status as “you know the world is heading in the wrong direction when developing countries not only produce fake Tottenham shirts, but also fake Tottenham training kits and pencil cases. I can understand the original ‘Top 4’ (and Everton and Man City after their extensive marketing campaigns in Asia i.e Chang beer etc), but Spurs? Nah, I can’t have that!” They didn’t really do pencil cases that was for effect, but they did have shirts, shorts and even Spurs TV.

Before you judge, this was to be one of only a handful of status updates over the next four months and hand on heart I am not one of those who force my whereabouts and daily activities on the world via social media. It was more to let friends and family back home know I had arrived safely. It garnered quite a few “likes” and Tom commented “could you grab me a Peter Crouch pregnancy kit” to which Sean replied “is that the one where you pee on a lanky stick?” Big G asked “what about basketballs?” in reference to a Man Utd basketball I received for my 9th birthday.

Talking of which I had brought a pair of Charlotte Hornets basketball shorts before coming out. That must be the equivalent of an American bloke coming out wearing Wimbledon FC ones, as they too are no more since relocating and becoming the New Orleans Pelicans. I like to think somewhere a Hank Miller from New Jersey had simultaneously posted; “You know it’s bad when you see an English Guy wearing Charlotte Hornets shorts. I understand Chicago Bulls and the Lakers, and maybe the Celtics (given the House of Pain connection). But the Hornets? Nah, I can’t have that”.

Ben also bought a Thai style British Military red coat, and we joked about this being the attire worn by the Thai Libertines tribute band. I instantly liked Chiang Mai and as Ben put it “It’s Bangkok in a glass, and purified”, with it’s very friendly population and clean streets, protected by a city wall and moat which housed several fountains. After seeing the obligatory “I love (with a heart symbol) Bangkok” T-shirts, I wondered who in fact could possibly love Bangkok. I mean, an “I’m indifferent to Bangkok” T-shirt would be perhaps more applicable to me. We discussed this as we strolled though the market, looking for supplies for tomorrow’s jungle trek, which perhaps was too soon for somebody who had not had a proper night sleep in the last 72 hours. Anyways we were stuck on what symbol could you use for the word ‘indifferent’? i.e love= red heart, hate= number 8. But Chiang Mai was instantly a hit and we had not even been here a full day.

Thai Boxing

After exploring an enigmatic lantern lit settlement on the other side of the river, we went to the Thai Boxing which was fun, although there was certainly a large fraction of Westerners that were getting restless after the first 3 matches. These were fought by kids. During these fights, the loudest reaction came when 2 kids almost fell out of the ring through the ropes. This generated the same crowd reaction that you’d find at a football match when the ball accidentally hits the referee. Our subtle and inherent sexism was exhibited when during the Lady’s fight we instantly lost interest, opting for the bar or the our own lookalike game instead. Without doubt the “Special Fight” was the best, which involved 5-6 Thai fighters blindfolded and thrown into a ring for a free for all. Often the Ref, a small Thai man about 5ft, would get caught and mistaken for a fighter by one of the 6ft plus fighters and receive a hefty beating. On one occasion the young ref fought back, kicking one of the blinded prize fighters down to the floor, much to the audiences delight. With the cheers ringing in his ears he went onto to deal further blows to the fighter. By far the star of the night and despite calls for “more refs” from the audience it was clear this section of the night was simply designed for the easily bored and entertainment-spoilt Westerners. By the time the headlining international fighters came out, you couldn’t help but sense that the fun had peaked with the fighting back Ref. It’s hard to imagine David Ellery or any other Premier League refs returning to his feet after having his head caved in.

On this day in 2011….Arriving in Bangkok #Otdi2011

02/01/2011- Arriving in Bangkok
After the long haul flight I finally arrived in Bangkok, and after getting the Sky train to Siam Square, followed by an unrequested tour of the area in a Tuk Tuk, I meet Ben at Lub D hostel. Once there, we head to the train station to buy tickets to Chiang Mai, in the North, both quite intent on escaping Bangkok in search of greener pastures. We’ll be back here for a proper explore and Ben has enjoyed it, revealing that last night he saw a Thai tribute band covering The Libertines, which I’m quite jealous of.

After we get our obligatory greetings out the way, we fall back into the conversations we’re both more comfortable with i.e “do you reckon you’d recognise Tony Pullis if  you saw him out here?” to “what odds would William Hill give you, that this Tuk Tuk driver has eaten from the salad bar at Harvester?”

One question, “are there any Western beggars on the streets of Bangkok”, was answered by a few guys back at the hostel who informed us about some Dutch guy known as the Farang Beggar who has a sign with “Need 10,000baht for flight home – please help”. He’s been saving for that flight for nearly 10 years it’s rumoured. I once saw a guy outside the Rockefeller in New York with a sign that read “Hungry, Homeless and HIV positive”. Let me tell you Kids, that’s no way to try and pull the birds.


The Tuk Tuk drivers make most of their income not from driving people around, but by taking them to travel agents, shops and restaurants where they gain a commission on any trade. So we were often taken to places that promised ‘Asda Price, special price and lovely jubbly’. After several detours our driver finally took us to the central station, but we faced instant disappointment as all the northbound trains were booked up. However, with a last minute cancellation we managed to get the last two tickets for the next and last sleeper train of the night to Chiang Mai.

jim glass“JIMMY GLASS” we chorused with high fives. This would become a common expression for when Ben and me received some unexpected luck, particularly when we thought we were down and out. If you don’t know the Jimmy Glass story, look him up on your next Wikipedia marathon. The ultimate Jimmy moment I’ve ever experienced was when me, Ben and a couple of other mates from University took a random trip to Tampere in Finland back in autumn 2006. After a very heavy night that involved White Russians, Casinos and two local girls coming back to our dormitory to shave our sleeping friend’s eyebrow off, somewhere between I lost my passport. The following day, Sam our group leader fought against the embarrassment of the enigmatic triangle shaved into his head (we played dumb and said somebody must have crept in during the night) decided we would head out to the countryside to rent a cabin. That was when I realized I no longer had my passport, and as a result I would have to head out to Helsinki for a replacement. We traced our steps back from the previous night, and hearts sank when last night’s Casino was closed. The kebab shop next door was open but had no good news for me. That was when Sam remerged from the alley next door, with my passport in hand. I felt a twinge of guilt for the role I played in getting those girls back last night to give him an involuntary trim. How the fuck did it get there? But that didn’t matter and the true extent of the Jimmy Glass element came with hindsight, as our stay in that cabin proved to be one of the best memories us guys will ever have together. I think both Ben and I would agree that trip would easily make the Top 5 moments of our lives…….

With about 4 hours until our Chiang Mai train we jumped in another Tuk back to our hostel, although the trip back was not to be a direct one. The driver told us he would take us back for half the normal fare as long as we paid a visit to his friend’s tailor shop; “Just look, for 10 minute, don’t buy, just look”. So we agreed, and carried out our duly 10 minutes of looking and pretending to be interested. Some great deals on some fine suits and if it had not been my first day, with the prospect of having to carry around a silk suit for 4 months, I would have certainly bought one. Considering I was back in Bangkok in about 6 weeks, I said “I’ll come back next time”, later realising this translates in Thai as “No thanks, I have no intent of coming back, and in fact (more in the case of street markets) I will even go as far as to cross the road on my way back to avoid buying your products”. Climbing back into the Tuk, the driver began pressing us, demanding to know what we bought. We told him ‘nothing’, which lead to a one sided heated exchange. He then swerved down a side street and at this point, I can’t remember which one of us, blurted out we had in fact bought something. His eyes widened a little, but so did his suspicion.

“How much you pay? How much Deposit?” he barked.

“Erm 1000b” I said without a clue as to how much that was, “but we said we’ll go back tomorrow, to collect them, our suits”.

I had only been in the country a couple of hours and already I’m down a side street practically being mugged. He wasn’t too happy, but nonetheless was eager to arrange a time to pick us up the next day to take us there. After being pushed into a corner we agreed to meet him outside our hostel the next day. This has got to be the first time a Westerner has conned a Tuk Driver.

From here we went to Chatuchak Market which was about 10 minutes away on the train. I bought a pair of Birkenstocks for 150b, about £3. They are normally about 30-40 quid in London. We also visited a stall selling second hand football shirts, including an away Burnley one from around the mid-1990’s, which I’d contemplated getting for my Dad.

Burnley FC

I was quite impressed with the lack of hassle from street kids, although the women selling the flamingo puppets had certainly lost faith in her product. White skinned Tourists here are not just ‘other English people’ like when you go abroad in Europe, but Westerners. Even the couple who looked like they had the low self-respect to appear on TV reality shows such ‘builders/holidays/restaurants from hell’ who complain about leaks/cockroaches/rude waiters in some resort in Gran Canaria (shy short fat bald man and his loud blonde wife, think Denise Welch and her husband from Auf Wiedersen Pet) were not just confined to coming from Rochester or Wigan, but Hamburg and Miami. It was just as we were leaving I was approached by my first Lady-boy. You’ll be surprised how many straight and seemingly secure Western men get caught up with them. A few people I was to meet further down the line would argue that due to the fact that they had pretty much converted everything from their genitals to their larynx, they were pretty much good to go. It didn’t wash with me, as she’s still got man’s hands, feet, legs and hair. It’s these little qualities in the woman that you take for granted.

DSCF1596After hand feeding the remains of our picnic to the catfish of Lumphini Park’s main lake, we headed back to the train station and boarded our sleeper train. We had bunk beds, and travelled through the night. Often I got up to sit by one of the large windows as we bombed through the Thai Countryside. Mostly dark woodland only rarely interrupted by the odd little settlement. I was most definitely here.

On this day in 2011…Leaving London #Otdi2011

01/01/2011 – Leaving London

Kingsbury, London.

Still feeling rough from last nights gathering, I have a quick tidy up of all the cans and bottles in the kitchen. The brunt of it was sorted last night after I bid farewell to my friends around 2am as they continued to celebrate the end of 2010 at some houseparty in Queen’s Park, while I did the wise thing and stayed up into the early hours packing and repacking my bag, half cut and half asleep. Of course, doing what I should have already done ages ago.

the george

I’ve not done much preparation since booking my 4-month around the world trip in November, and I only just picked up my malaria tablets, Christmas Eve to be exact. Like I just said, this bag has been packed and repacked multiple times. This is purely down to paranoia. I’m packing light and taking a small backpack, the kind that is more accustomed to small trips and music festivals as opposed to long haul marathons around the world. It is for this reason that I’ve gone through it with a fine toothcomb to ensure no contraband from its hedonistic past is still lurking away in one of its many pockets and compartments. My Auntie, who backpacked around Thailand in the early 1990’s, came round last night to wish me luck and to remind me about the perils of drug possession out there. She was once in a bar in Chiang Mai, only a few miles from its notorious prison, where on the wall were several letters from it’s foreign inhabitants, many of whom were British and Australian. They were loaded with words of wisdom and cautious tales of the pit falls of drug handling in this region. Many of the authors were severing sentences in excess of 90 years. In addition to their advice, they would also ask the reading traveller to come and visit them. Or at least write. This backpack has seen some crazy, crazy, crazy nights that even Kiss themselves would deem excessive, and so I don’t want to run the risk of crossing international borders with its past life. Hence what may appear an irrational obsession to check the bag several times over before packing in my line-up of clothes.

I finally get to sleep around 4am, only to be up again at 6am as Dad gives me a lift to the airport.

On the way to the airport I realise that I’ve forgotten to set up an automated “out of office” reply on my work email account. Oh well, not sure it really matters as I don’t often receive that many personal emails anyways and you don’t need to reply to the Global Markets Weekly Newsletter. As one colleague said to me at the office Christmas party a few weeks back “You’re taking your Leave of Absence so soon?” arching his eyebrows incredulously while straightening the thick black rim glasses on his nose “Well, I suppose it’s not a bad time, after all the company is not going to miss you very much, considering your lack of experience and current skill set”. He’s totally right of course and it is for this reason I’m not going to worry any further about setting up an automated reply to the future’s correspondence.

But what about a Facebook status update, just to let everybody I won’t be around? Anybody who doesn’t know of my trip isn’t really worth worrying about. So that’s that sorted. Also I’ve never been one to brag. It’s a recession after all, and not everybody can afford to take four months off to circumnavigate the globe. It’s a shame Helena Bateman from my primary school didn’t have the same level of subtle consideration when she decided to let the world know she was going Spain for a week with “Magaluf = sun, sea and cocccckkkkkktails!!!! Jealous much, Biatchesssss!!!!!” Plus it’s a bit reckless letting everybody know I’ll be out of the country for an extended period of time. I’m not sure if it would breach my home insurance policy, but I wouldn’t be stopping too short of asking to be burgled. “If anybody is interested, Helena Bateman’s Flat (25a King’s Street) looks like the inside of an Apple shop, it’s got that many gadgets and expensive equipment, though unfortunately the place lies empty for the next week” – could be an idea for a status.

Getting on the Mumbai-bound flight wasn’t a problem. The fact that I had curry for breakfast, brunch, lunch and dinner was. “Of course, you are going to have curry on Jet Airways: it’s an Indian airline, you’re on an India bound flight and it’s their national dish” I heard a culturally embracing woman say to her husband behind me. No you stupid woman, they’re all the reasons why they shouldn’t be serving curry on this flight. When you’re heading to a country, the first thing you should be thinking of when you land is where to satisfy that craving need for real traditional local food that you’ve been dreaming of since you left the travel agents clutching your confirmation of your flight details. Not the polar opposite, like what I now felt sitting in Mumbai airport impatiently waiting for my connecting flight to Bangkok, fearing the next flight’s meal would most likely be curry-based. I may have it all wrong here and the woman behind me berating her husband’s small mindedness may be spot on. I’m not here long enough to sample any Indian culture anyways as 2 hours later I’m on the plane to Thailand.

INTRODUCTION: Orbiter Lover Tour 2011

The South-East Asian leg of the tour

The South-East Asian leg of the tour


There was a faze on Facebook a few years back, of groups such as “I bet this sausage roll can get more fans than Cheryl Cole” being created. The aim was to see if that food item could overtake the popularity of chosen celebrity and as a by-product, undermine their standing in popular society.

I doubt any were successful, but ultimately begs the question; could an ordinary persons story be that more enticing and interesting than a celebrities?

I’m pretty sure for most celebrities, life only gets interesting after their famous. Take the early years of a famous snooker player “after winning in that junior snooker tournament, I went and played at another junior snooker tournament. In between tournaments, I spent the rest of the time training every day for 8 years in a dark gloomy snooker hall practicing my break….”

Boring. They’re famous snooker players, because they didn’t do anything else but play snooker. That goes for most sportsmen or famous people.

It was incredibly hard to get one of my mates to write an autobiography for this experiment, so I decided to do it myself in the form of writing up my travel notes from 2011.

My notes would also be perfect for sliding across the breakfast table whenever I knew I’d be bound to answer questions by some half-interested party regarding my trip. After which it’ll probably spend the rest of its days in the downstairs toilet replacing the old Nintendo Game Boy that currently resides there as a quasi form of entertainment.

I’d also promised myself I’d keep a little journal for 2011 (“what? Are you some kinda of poofter, or something?”). Over the previous year they’d been a lot in the media about 24-year old Poppy Dinsey, an internet sensation with What I Wore Today. On New Years Eve 2009, she promised herself that she’d upload a daily picture of her outfit. As far as New Years resolutions go, it’s relatively harmless. She’s hardly Colin “the Gay Slayer” Ireland, who at the dawn of ’93, promised himself he’d make more of an effort to take up hate-filled murder sprees on the gay community. Albeit, with more notoriety than Poppy.

Using the little blue notepad that some unimaginative staff member got me in the office Secret Santa of 2010, I sporadically compiled all travel notes. A full write-up was conducted on my return, yet has lived solely on USB sticks for the past 3 years.


I think I’m slightly dyslexic. Never been diagnosed, never got a free laptop at school or an extra 20 minutes in the exam hall. I should’ve brought it up with the school psychiatrist. My school never had a psychiatrist per se, although the caretaker used to double up as one during his lunch break.

I’m not going to worry about my limited vocabulary or incorrect grammar. For Microsoft Word has eradicated most barriers of entry to the publishing world as now anybody can write an average sentence, before using the in-built thesaurus to create far more grandiose one.

This has been the biggest advancement in social mobility since the changing face of the investment banking sector in the 1980’s, where competence to survive a testosterone-laden trading floor no longer required the Oxbridge educated, but also those who possessed the confidence and swagger that only Essex’s finest wide boys could provide on demand; son’s of fruit ‘n’ veg stallholders, creators of wealth, “masters of the universe” and you know the rest……

Of course this power of the Microsoft tool is routinely abused by people using it to sound more witty than they actually are, especially when posting on Facebook. It’s these people who don’t understand extravagant words are there to simplify sentences, not prolong them. Not only do they come across as masters of cacology, but also as if desperately trying to drag out an essay to satisfy the 1,500-word minimum set by an English teacher.

“It’s just ostentatiously convoluted parlance, in essence too verbose and prolix, and the biggest affectation of them all” – I reckon.


In post-analysis my notes from the trip were less about the things we did and places we saw. More so about the people and the incidences that happened along the way. It was supposed to be about the former, but essentially I’d never be able to do justice the beauty of the countries we visited – let’s face it, there’s a million other people who’ve done a better job in the past, and they’ll be a million more in the future.

One book I did read during my travels was The English by Jeremy Paxman. Instantly in awe of his rich historical references and extensive bibliography, I often sat back to imagine a tweeded Paxman below a bankers desk lamp scouring academic journals. However, my references aren’t in Tennyson or Yates but Aussie Paul and Nick Bennet from West Thurrock. My places of reference aren’t going to be Ypres or Waterloo, but Semuc Champey and Bang Kwang prison.

Of course this means my trump card of first hand knowledge and heuristic evaluation is even more pivotal. With the exception of French artist Henri Rousseau, who despite never venturing out of France managed to encapsulate the essence of the jungle, it’s a commonly held belief that one should visit the places they write about. Although of course if I wanted to write about pissed-up Aussies, I’d only need to head down to Walkabout, in Shepherd’s Bush. But just like the works of Rousseau, you’d probably be immensely underwhelmed when you saw the real thing.

When describing places and people, I will play to my strengths and use the ability of film references and lookalikes to describe my subjects, taking a nice break from the cliché “pursed lip” and “long flowing locks of blonde hair” phrases so common amongst budding writers and box room rebels like me who dream of somebody other than their parents reading the crap they put together.

The Trail

Starting in London on New Years Day 2011, I’ll make my way to Bangkok. From here, I’ll meet Ben (who’s flown from Australia via Indonesia) and we’ll head to Northern Thailand before moving into Laos, continuing East into Vietnam. From here we’ll begin our descent through ‘Nam and back to Bangkok via Cambodia.

From here a few weeks in the south Islands before Ben heads back to Oz. Shortly after, I’ll make my way to Los Angeles for a few days, before flying to Cancun. Here I’ll spend nearly 2 months snaking my through Central America, before flying out of Panama City back to London at the end of April.


So, why Thailand, home to the one of the most well-beaten backpacker routes, so much so it’s even got it’s own nickname (Banana Pancake Trail)?

During 2009-2010, Me and Ben had been talking a lot about the pressing need to get South East Asia off our chests. It felt like a rite of passage; the tubing, the mandatory photos of temples, the full moon, the shooting of AK-47’s and the banality of relaying such experiences to everybody back home. My burning desire to be part of the zeitgeist was holding me back from making any long-term plans, as I could not plot for the future knowing I didn’t have this out of my system.

Sitting around at work and listening to others discuss their Thailand experiences made me feel the same gut feeling of exclusion, as I imagine being the only virgin out of your mates at school incurs. Feeling like they’d all done something that you hadn’t; I was always quick and keen to rectify these sorts of things.

It was also important to tick this off before the whole thing became one big joke. The whole travelling and gap year thing had already taken a few knocks, especially after the Youtube sensation “Gap Yah”. Also, at this point, I’d heard Hangover 2 was already in production with the majority of it being set in Bangkok, so time was of the essence if I ever wanted to join Koh Phangan’s fluorescent paint renaissance while it was still relatively acceptable.

Ben shared the same concern, and as soon as my employee referral bonus dropped in to my bank on 5th November 2010, I headed straight down to STA Travel on Goodge Street during my lunch break to book up my around the world ticket, leaving in a matter of weeks.

After applying for a 4 month ‘Leave of Absence’ from work, I emailed Ben my dates of departure. By the end of the day, my LOA was approved and Ben too was booked up. It was all very quick.

Myself and Ben had come close to Thailand with two other housemates 4 years earlier, as part of an enroute trip to a former housemates wedding in Australia. It never did actually materialise into any tangible. But this time, we not only had one foot in the door, but two. Even if this time there were just the two, not the four going.


Some of the names in this book may have been changed for convenience. If I couldn’t remember/pronounce the names of people of interest, they’d often find themselves being re-christened by yours truly, often with its anglicised equivalent.

Also, to avoid any accusations of liable, slander or character infringement, this account is only 99.9% true – the rest is totally fictional.

And so the story begin…

I do hope this does not transpire to be a complete waste of your time

Dancing with wolves in the Latvian woods

Latvia walks

February 2006: Heartbreak! Latvia’s national Bobsleigh track is closed on Sundays, which means we’ll be unlikely to fulfill our ambitions of becoming the biggest mockery to the sport since Cool Runnings; the only reason myself and a number of good friends from University travelled the 32miles from the capital of Riga to the sleepy town of Sigulda.

It was about this time that the Winter Olympics Games were taking place in Torino, which may explain the lacklustre presence of the nations finest sportsmen.

Oh well, fair enough – this was only a bonus extension of our random trip to Latvia. Our serendipitous peak surely came a week previous back at Liverpool University’s Carnatic Halls, as we huddled around Greg’s laptop in his dorm room and stumbled across Latvia as a Ryanair destination. Student loans had been credited, winter exams rescheduled for a September re-sit and we sobered up in the cab to Liverpool John Lennon airport.

Forget the bankruptcy of New Century Financial or increased LIBOR, if you wanted an earlier indication of the Credit Crunch, you only had to look to 2006 where any old wankey student could flake around Wavertree High Street, walk into a bank with a NUS Card and half-hearted promises to make it their principle student loan account, and walk out with a 0% overdraft of no small amount. Times were good for spontaneous capital and the resultant student travel.

Back in rural Latvia, reassessing our options over coffee and piragi in the only shop open when the owner kindly interrupts with news of a small ski resort that sits just beyond the dark snow-covered woods on the otherside of a nearby gorge.

A brisk walk through the quiet town we locate the cable cart launch pad that we need to get across. The startling surprise by the quirky operator who springs from nowhere offers hope the cart is open for business.

We hop in and away, across the gorge and its vast snowy landscape, the cart’s shadow on the frozen river below a tiny spec, a single wolf prowling amongst the forest as the sole representative of life.

Turaida Castle

Turaida Castle

The words of the eccentric cart operator, something about our return crossing, get lost as we step off and delve into the enchanted forest with its castle ruins and distant smells of burning wood fires.

Eventually we find the makeshift ski resort, seemingly the only ones who had that day.

Given the last minute prep for the holiday, needless to say key items usually required for skiing were not packed, such as gloves. Whilst atop the summit, Greg and myself were approached by a young Latvian couple who lived nearby and out for their lunchtime ski. Her opening gambit was to force her gloves on me. I was a little surprised, not at her concern (they were in the early stages of falling off) but her genuine interest in our motives for visiting Siguilda. Given the lack of engagements from the locals back in Riga, stolid service was thought to be a nation-wide thing. But everybody from the coffee shop guy to the savior of blue hands had been supportive of our plight. Rural Latvia had proved more welcoming than its urban brother.

According to Economist Tim Harford, behavioral economics can answer this. In the Undercover Economist he compares the manners of people in both Paddington in central London and Preston in Lancashire. Arguing that people in Preston were more likely to be polite than their London counterparts, due to the former’s relatively low cost of time. Whereas in London people have an abundance of choice and opportunities, time is valuable, and the tolerance for holding a door open or willingness to strike up a conversation are often sacrificed first. Why would you want and chat to your lonely yet fascinating neighbour, when there’s Priscilla Queen of the Desert to see in the West End?

Of course ignorance may play a part. Here we were a novelty. It’d be interesting to know how this pleasant couple would perceive our value if they knew the true extent of the stag-orchestrated horrors being dished out night after night in their capital city. We’d been pretty well behaved however; one night Greg took all the girls from the strip club below our hostel out for food. For no other reason other than because of the sweet guy he is.

Us in Riga the previous day, January 2006

Us in Riga the previous day, February 2006

The rural woman mirrored the radiantly fresh faces that would represent innocent Norway at the Eurovision Song Contest. A stark comparison to Riga, where they resembled representatives of, well, Latvia I suppose.

So much fun is had it’s not until 5.30pm when the words of the cart operator come back to haunt us – the final crossing leaves at 6pm!

We race back through the forest but are too late to catch it. The last train back to Riga departs at 7pm and if we missed that, we really were in the red.

Sam, as usual, kept cool and decided we’d just have to head down to the river to find a bridge. Time was against us, and we soon found the easiest way down the deciduous valley was by sliding on our backsides through the icy paths created by the prowling wolves of the forest.

We’d had some practice in central Riga a few days earlier iceskating on the frozen Daugava River (the stupidest thing I’ve ever done), but we must’ve been sliding non-stop in single file down the riverbank slope for 10 minutes before we got to the bottom. Once there, Ben pointed out the old iron bridge that stood out from the surrounding snow. Although unsure if it was still in use, it atleast gave us a rough idea as to where the frozen river stopped and the opposite riverbank began below the thick snow. Sod it, our only real option as far as we could see.

Greg and Sean scouted the terrain to confirm where was safe to tread, allowing us to navigate a quasi-safe route onto the bridge. Our stupidity was rewarded with access across, just in time to catch a car bombing through a forest road somewhere behind. Me being the nearest flagged it down.

It’s dark by the time we catch the train back to Riga (with 3 minutes to spare) and we all conk out, woken only by the ticket collector looking for our slips.

Right, let’s crack on with the rest of the trip!

New music rekindles the motivations for visiting Camden in my formative years

A Wednesday or two ago I found myself at Proud Gallery, which serves as the sole functional reason to visit Camden for a night out nowadays  – where else can you get pissed in old stable in Zone 2?

Given I’ve not been back much since a few half-hearted 21st birthday parties, I wasn’t sure what to expect. To compound my dreaded mystic it’s Student Night. I mean honestly, who on earth chooses to spend their most cash-broke years in one of the world’s most expensive cities?

The place hasn’t changed much, but one element of refreshment came in the form of a band I walked in on, Miracle Blow. I was only passing from one heated room to another, a common exercise routine when you’ve lost your mates and out of cigarettes, when I stopped and stayed for the rest of their set.

They were a redeeming feature of a night characterized by drink promos and over-familiar doormen!

Not much of a music writer myself, I’d be ill-equipped to accurately describe their onstage presence, tunes or anything else music related to be honest. But yeah, recommend them!