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.

“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.

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.

After 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.

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.

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.

The South-East Asian leg of the tour

Introduction

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.

Writing

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.

Referencing

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.

Motivations

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 5^th 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.

Disclaimer

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

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

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, 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!