All Good Things . . .

Our last meal in Yangon was at the Monsoon restaurant down by the river. Their menu specialises in dishes from around the South East Asian region but we settled for a selection of Burmese curry dishes; the first proper local grub I'd eaten since my stomach got mugged at the start. It was a leisurely affair as our flight to Bangkok wasn't due until tea time. As it was, it was late leaving, too, so we didn't get back to Chez Cav's until 9 in the evening. Mike muttered about going out but lounging around at airports tends to drain one a tad so we settled for an early night. Now its wind-down time before the long haul back to Blighty.

Friday was a leisurely affair too; Linda and I settling for a local Thai restaurant up on Soi 20 and a couple of drinks at Happy Hour before the polis forced all the bars and restaurants on Sukhumvit to shut down because it was Buddha Day. Saturday, Mike decided it was time we two had a pub crawl so we left the girls at home with a gin bottle and hit the town. Arrived home at three in the morning, relieved of a considerable pile of money, after a kaleidoscopic tour of go go bars, pool bars, sports bars, county & western bars, roadside bars, bars of ill-repute, rock bars, dance bars, you name it! Sunday saw the obligatory lie in 'til around midday. In the evening the five of us (including offspring James) treated ourselves to an open air barbecue: the sort where they put a large metal tray of hot coals on your table and you help yourselves to an endless variety of strange meats, weird fish, slimy seafood, foreign vegetables and unknown random delicacies to put on your grill or moat of do-it-yourself stock. Any thirst you may develop under the radiating heat can be assuaged with the help of a three litre tower of Singha beer (the girls took their own bottle of wine). Great fun! On Monday Linda wanted to see the "largest aquarium in South East Asia", the Ocean World in the basement of Siam Paragon shopping complex. It was certainly the most expensive aquarium I'd ever been to: nearly £20 each. Still, Linda enjoyed it. She's got a thing about penguins which is probably why I own so many T-shirts with pictures of the damn things. They were funny, though, even if she has got this habit of talking to them like Johnny Morris in Animal Magic (if you are old enough to remember that kid's show, that is: mostly we just get stared at by the other tourists). One penguin we dubbed "Vi" ("Village Idiot") had us so amused with its repeated neurotic waddle to peer at the water's edge and back to its house that we clapped when it finally threw itself in. More stares from the other tourists so we moved on to see some cool multi-tonne sharks (you could count the teeth!) in the underwater tunnels. Tuesday saw Linda on the Immodium again, unfortunately, so that was a quiet day. Probably her body telling her that its had enough sun, spicy food and alcohol and its time to take it home, thank you very much! Wednesday's our last day with an early flight on Thursday morning so that, as they say, is very much that!

Many thanks to those who stuck with my ramblings, even more so to those who took the trouble to add comments and encouragements, and especially to the philosophical musings of the Woodlands Caravanserai and friends. I usually write this for posterity, something to aid Linda's and my failing memory cells, so your witticisms add to the fun from this end considerably. See you in the Leap sometime!

Life under the Martians

So, given all the hassle with visas, was it worth it? As a tourist destination, there are more fun and easier places in South East Asia to visit. As a unique experience, it’s definitely worth the effort. Visiting Myanmar is questionable, ethically, according to Lonely Planet. And Aung San Suu Kyi has repeatedly stated that tourism should be discouraged because it puts money into the pockets of the generals. But it is also repeatedly pointed out that the Myanmar government makes billions on lucrative oil, timber and gem deals with Thailand, China and India; tourism is small potatoes in comparison. That the Martians are living in a military dictatorship is undisputed. Our hotel supplied us with a free newspaper, The New Light Of Myanmar, which always headlines with the State's political, economic and social objectives epitomising the virtues of State Controlled Government. In fact, they make Gordon Brown and his New Labour cronies look like the Party for free personal choice, light touch government and champion for private enterprise! The newspaper also loudly wished Kim Jong II a happy birthday on Wednesday (and the day we left saw our hotel hosting a farewell reception for the Ambassador for the Democratic People's Republic of Korea), so go figure! But the people want to see the tourists so the trick is to spread the money around. Our hotel, the Parkroyal in Yangon, was comfortable but expensive. $12 for a breakfast so we ate at nearby cafes. $6 for a beer so we found local beer stations. A tour to Bago was $100 each, so we hired a taxi off the street for $100 for the four of us. Decent restaurants are few and far between and many of them added a 20% "service" charge so you can guess where that money goes. You can eat from the street but cooking styles are like India, the later you eat the longer the food's been around. Look what happened to me!

Because of the lack of tourism, Yangon city hasn't evolved into an obvious "Downtown" culture, meaning that there is no obvious single locale for enjoying oneself in the traditional sense. The few bars and restaurants that are recommended either on the local street map or, say, in Lonely Planet are spread out over a large area necessitating the constant use of thirty-year-old taxis to get around. They were cheap enough, its just that walking from place to place in Yangon isn't really an option. Yangon itself is a city of contrasts. Well lit pristine temples, a well manicured People's Park, rich hotels packed with Japanese HiSos, living next door to a city in decline. Take a boat across the river, or an hour's drive out of the city, and you have instant third world poverty. There were crows everywhere squawking amongst the discoloured concrete shops and apartments. Throughout the night, after the curfew, we could hear packs of dogs viciously fighting over the scraps left behind from the vendors in the street behind our hotel. There are no mobile phones, no debit cards, no credit cards and internet access is severely limited and censored when it is available. Would I go back? Probably not. Glad I went? Definitely. Quite an experience.

Pagodas Galore

So thus it was that I staggered out of bed the next morning suffering from mild-to-medium food poisoning almost ready to face a CavTours Special. I figured I couldn't throw up any more and everything else seemed relatively stable (thanks for the detailed advice Dr. Gary!). We piled into our ancient six-seater taxi and rattled out of Yangon's main street heading north. It was after about 10 minutes when I realised that the fact that the vehicle didn't have much in the way of viable suspension any more and the periodic wafts of fish sauce factories, drains, and hydrocarbons meant that I might not make the trip without incident . . .

Before I detail our journey to the hinterland, I must document another aspect of our hectic first 24 hours in Myanmar yesterday. In the centre of Yangon lies the rather awesome Shwedagon Paya, an enormous golden bell-shaped pagoda that literally shimmers in the afternoon sun. No matter where you are, this artefact dominates the Yangon skyline (especially since the UN sanctions and the absences of foreign investments have inhibited the construction of skyscrapers and malls that are so prevalent in all the other emerging South East Asian cities). A $5 government-controlled entrance fee allows the visitor to enter the temple via a wide, ornate and graceful stairway lined with shops where the devotee can buy flowers, incense, Buddha statues, books and antiques. At the top one emerges into a marble plaza glittering with golden statues and the dominant towering pagoda bell. Walking barefoot on the hot tiles, clockwise around the pagoda, the visitor is attacked by a panoply of temple architectures venerating spirits, astrological planets, naga, chimera, necromancers, mythical creatures, buddhas, kings and heroes. There are people everywhere; walking, lying, sitting, singing, praying. The Technicolor attack of glittering golds and greens and whites overwhelms the senses until even the photographs fail to capture the enormity of the place. Indeed, I emphasise this because, of all the temples and chedis and wats I have visited in Thailand (and I've seen a few!), very few are a patch on the size and splendour of this site.

Anyway, back to the trip. Our destination is Bago, a former capital of the region, and about two hours from Yangon, vehicle suspension and other mechanical considerations permitting. Out of Yangon, the road becomes a straight six lane highway passing forests of bamboo and palm, military barracks, lumber storage fields and concrete walls. After an hour our driver stopped at the Taukkyan War Cemetery, a larger version of the Death Railway Cemetery in Kanchanaburi in Thailand, and kept in pristine condition by the Commonwealth War Graves Commission. Further on we passed the newly built road to Mandalay, which is the nearest I’d ever get to it as even now it’s a 10 hour drive away. The road looked wide and was completely empty which begs the question why so much had been invested in the road systems over here? It certainly can’t be for tourism as there is very little evidence of it on our trip. As for freight, we saw very little in the way of freight lorries; no Western artic-style wagons, no TIR soft sides, just a few open topped bulk carriers and, thinking about it, we hadn’t seen as much as a single 20 foot container on any road. Perhaps military dictatorships build roads for the same reasons the Romans did; to get their armies from A to B faster.

By the time we reached Bago village life became far more rustic with houses predominantly made out of reeds and thatch. However, Lonely Planet describes Bago itself as a “Disney-flavoured theme park of gaudy religious sites . . . this town probably contains a greater density of blissed-out buddhas and treasure-filled temples than any other similar sized towns in southern Myanmar”. True. And the government charge a blanket $10 to visit them, plus 300 Kyat if you want to take pictures. This contrast of poverty and ubiquitous golden temples seems prevalent in the area we’ve been to so far. We visited them all nonetheless although, in my somewhat shaky condition, the midday sun was making me feel quite dizzy so I stayed in the van at the last palace. Our guide took us to a decent restaurant for lunch where I limited myself to an orange juice and water while the others piled away the noodles. The long trip home just about completed our first 48 hours in Myanmar. It was enough for me. I said goodbye to the others and slept for 14 hours.

Down in Darkest Burma

Hello, Outside World! Finally found an internet cafe that knows how to get round the censors (would you believe that blogger.com is banned along with Lonely Planet: the latter I can understand as they are incredibly critical of the regime but I haven't started yet). We arrived at around 1800hrs just over two days ago. After a bit of preliminary checking of exchange rates and taxi prices at the airport we jumped into an unbelievably old Nissan Bluebird and rattled our way to the Park Royal Hotel in downtown Yangon. It son became apparent that all the taxis were of the same dilapidated state. Very few had doors with window winders, door handles, linings (just bare metal); few had working seat belts or even windows. Whilst on the subject of traffic, Yangon is completely devoid of motor bikes or scooters. We asked a local who explained that some kid had annoyed a general by driving aggressively around him so he just banned the lot. Not a bad move as the roads are easier to negotiate than in most Far Eastern countries. Our hotel turned out to be exceedingly expensive; the exchange rate we were offered was $1:650Kyat whereas we knew that the going rate was $1:850Kyat. So the first order of business was to pound the dark nighttime streets (street lights are few and far between) to find a better money changer. Plenty of guys on the street approached us offering to change money for favourable rates but Kyat denominations do not go above 1000 (about 80p) so you get rather a lot for your $100. I didn't fancy counting that much on the street, in the dark, in an unknown town, etc., etc. We eventually found a mid-price hotel who gave 820; that'll do. Armed with a thick wedge of the local currency, the rest of the night saw us patrolling the streets looking for something to eat; all the time looking at the pavement to ensure we didn't fall down a hole and ending up waist deep in sewage or something. We past a Tokyo Fried Chicken (!!) and thousands of street market vendors but nothing resembling a cafe/bar. Eventually we ended back at a "beer station" behind the hotel we changed our money: a basic formica table and plastic chair affair that sold cheap Myanmar Beer so the boys were happy. Amusingly, the side door led to a garage where some 50-odd local boys had made a makeshift cinema out of red plastic chairs in front of two large plasma TVs to watch the Man Utd game. Eventually, we took pity on the girls and deported to a rooftop restaurant so we could blow larger numbers of our cash on proper wine and food. Tomorrow, I promised myself, I'd get better organised and get a map of the area.

Up at a reasonable time the next day. Got a photocopy map off the concierge. The Cavs went their separate ways, Linda and I walked down towards the river which was a damned further distance than it looked on said map. Walked over a rickety railway bridge; through the Bogyoke Aung San (formally Scott) Market; passed the Sule Pagoda; found a series of cheap beer stations for further reference; found the Strand Hotel, the Custom House and the British Embassy. Stopped for a beer in a small corner cafe. Some boys were playing a guitar in the corner. One song was obviously Queen's "We Will Rock You" sung in Burmese so we joined in the chorus. They laughed. Eventually. When they realised what we were doing. We left a tip. We found an air conditioned American bar, The 50th Street B&G, that had an all day Happy Hour where we had lunch. I have to say, Yangon looks like a city that hasn't seen much development in the last 50 years. The state of the vehicles and pavements notwithstanding, the whole place looks run down and, if it wasn't for the sheer numbers of people living here in the aging concrete, I could imagine plant life beginning to take over. The people are fine if a a little reserved or shy; some even look worried or surprised if we tip them. In the early evening we met up with the Cavs and compared notes on our travels and ended up at the beer stations we'd found earlier. That evening we found what seemed to be a decent cafe for dinner. While we were eating the two guys Mike had been talking to the previous night called to us from the road to offer a taxi out of town. They must have been following us around too. As Mike does, he went over and negotiate a trip, heavy with conditions as to state of the vehicle, cost, destinations, duration,etc., of course, for the next day. In the meantime, I ordered a spicy red curry and spent between 1 am and 4 am that night throwing it up. This just hasn't been my week!

On the road to Mandalay

. . . or maybe not that far. Yangon at least, though. Or Rangoon, as it used to be known. Having documented the process to get visas to Burma I can now happily report that CavTours have caught up with the LamTours subsidiary and now have visas of their own. In just about an hour's time we’ll all be off to Burma, or Myanmar as its known now (pronounced mee-YAN-mar according to the woman at the London embassy I spoke to). Which, as I sit here writing this, begs the question: if the people in Burma were known as Burmese, what are the people in Myanmar known as? Meeyan-Martians?

If anyone thinks that I’m writing more gibberish than usual, there’s a good reason for that. When we returned from Vietnam we spent four days in a semi-vegetative state, emerging from bed only to visit the swimming pool or exploit the Robin Hood happy hour. Last night we belatedly celebrated Carolyn’s birthday at a Seafood ‘n Sauvignon event at the Grand Millennium Hotel here in Bangkok. At a 50% discount for 4 or more people, that meant we paid £15 each for all the rock lobster (no more singing, please, Ginge), snails, spicy squid, soft shelled crab, New Zealand mussels, oysters, tiger prawns, smoked salmon, seafood ‘n pumpkin soup, crab claws, potatoes gratin, and chocolate fountain we could eat in four hours. Oh yes, and let us not forget the endless supply of Chardonnay (not Sauvignon, but, hey, who cares!) topped up by eternally smiling waiters and waitresses at the end of every gulp and mouthful. And therein lay my downfall. Although I can consume what could be describe in certain undesirable circles as heroic amounts of Chang beer and still be able to get from A to B albeit in an admittedly argumentative frame of mind, I have discovered that an equivalent amount of “free” white wine causes a serious loss of motor control. Add to that the fact that Mike decided we should then all go on a pub crawl and the casual reader may justifiably assume that I was a stinking mess by the end of the evening. It was a major miracle that I wandered away from safe company in the early hours, found a taxi, issued directions in fluent Thai, made it up 21 floors to my long-suffering wife, threw up most of the night’s intake, and woke up the next morning in a bed that was recognisably similar to the one I’d left yesterday. I am absolutely convinced that the others will fill in the other gaps in my memory as the rest of this day progresses; something I am looking forward to enormously!

Anyway, back to Myanmar. Having read through a cheap copy of the Lonely Planet (so cheap I’ve had to buy a knife to cut the pages open before they fell out of the binding of their own accord), I realise that this part of the tour is not going to be like the other countries we have visited. For one: there are no ATMs, everything has to be paid for in pristine US Dollars. You can change dollars to the local currency, the kyat (pronounced “chat”), but the exchange rate depends on the denomination of the bill, its “pristine-ness”, and where you change it. Mobile phones are either banned or don’t work in Myanmar; and there is even a post on the forums that says that they are confiscated at the border and you have to pick them up when you leave. There are internet cafes, but I gather that the speed is reminiscent of the old dial-up speeds of pre-ADSL days of yore, so I’m not sure if I can post for this blog over there. The chances are good that we will be followed by security police while we wander around although nobody on Tripadvisor admitted to actually spotting anyone. But, everyone says the visit is worth it, the people want tourists to come even if the military leaders aren’t enthusiastic. So, hopefully, I will be able to report in a few days what life is like over there. In the meantime, I need to go and swallow some Ibuprofen.

Cao Dai and Cu Chi

If yesterday’s tour themes were social and economic, then today’s is religious and military. First a few words about egg shells. We visited an artisans’ factory yesterday and another one today. Fundamentally, it’s a government sponsored outlet employing disabled people to make objets d’art using paint, tiny pieces of eggshell, or bits of sea shell. The result is an incredibly intricate and labour intensive process of making plates, pots, wall pictures or large murals featuring representational scenes of Vietnamese culture. Once you understand the process the results are strangely moving (and expensive – not that I begrudge the price; it’s just our humble abode is not big enough to display the produce). We bought a modest picture for the front room.

Onward to the Cao Dai Holy See at Tay Ninh. I wanted to see this ever since reading the Rough Guide. Apparently, the Cao Dai religion started on Phu Quoc in the 1920s and now has anything from 2 million to 8 million Vietnamese adherents, depending on who you listen to. The interesting thing is that it portrays itself as a sort of meta-religion (my words, obviously) that attempts to incorporate all the good stuff about Far Eastern religions such as Confucianism, Taoism and Buddhism, but also adding cause-and-effect elements from the younger and more volatile religions of Christianity and Islam. Most interesting is the acceptance of “spirit intermediaries” (as the Rough Guide explains) in place of controversial (i.e. the other Religions got upset) “earthly messengers” such as Lao-tzu, Confucius, Christ and Mohammed. The former apparently include recent historical notables as Joan of Arc, Louise Pasteur, Napoleon Bonaparte, Shakespeare and Winston Churchill. After a write-up like that, I had to go and have a look. Unfortunately, the tour coincided with one of the four daily Mass services so there was no one I could question further. Suffice to say the Holy See was flamboyant, as perhaps you would expect a cult religion to be (do 2 million+ people constitute a “cult” or an “organised religion”?). The best way to describe the temple is by quoting Graham Greene who described it as “a Walt Disney fantasia of the East, dragons and snakes in Technicolor”. Curiously, we were allowed to take a picture of the highest altar where Buddha normally sits only to find a large globe the centre of which is a single eye surrounded by a triangle. Yeah, I know, I’ve read Dan Brown too.

A more macabre theme park awaited us at the Cu Chi Tunnels. Set up to commemorate the underground (literally) resistance fighters of the American War, our tour guide showed us remnants of the tunnel entrances that were as small as 80cm x 80cm. There were some artificially enlarged tunnels suitable for Western tourists but the experience was a hot, sweaty, claustrophobic affair, even with the installation of electric lights. The most amazing thing is that these tunnels ran for 250 kilometres and extended many metres underground in a warren of sleeping areas, kitchens, ammo dumps, and the like to protect the inhabitants from the constantly falling American ordnance. Even gorier was the demonstration of bamboo and iron spike traps. Nasty! Some of the more vicious had men clutching their groins with virtual tears running from their eyes. For fun you could buy some ammo and fire off an AK47 or M16 at a firing range.

And that was Vietnam in around 12 days. A fantastic place when you consider the loss of life from the French war, the American War, Reunification, Chinese incursions, Cambodian incursions and general economic collapse. Although still Communist run Saigon portrays itself as a thriving capitalist culture, made possible by the doi moi economic reforms of the 80s and international acceptance in the 90s. There's been a lot of development in a couple of decades. Fascinating place! Now it’s back to Bangkok for a rest before the next stage of the tour.

The Mekong Delta

To those of you who, in the past, have unkindly suggested that we're taking on too much for people of our age I would say . . .er . . . you could be right. Back in Saigon we decided to take things a bit easy for a day. Not that this was exceedingly difficult as we found the whole city shut down. On refelction, perhaps coming here during Tet wasn't such a hot idea. Everyone has packed up and gone away for their holidays and those that are left have put the prices up by 30%. God help you if your Immodium supplies have run out; all the pharmacies are shut: for 10 days! After a vegetable existence during the day we ventured back to the "posh" area of Dong Khoi in the evening. Celebrations there were in full swing with thousands of holidaymakers swarming past brightly-illuminated gardens. I promised Linda I'd bite my tongue, open my purse and buy a drink at the rooftop restaurant of the Rex Hotel; a place she insists is one of the "100 Things To Do Before You Die" (funny it wasn't on my list but half of those are probably not achievable). After watching and listening to the surging chaos down in the streets, and paying an unmentionable bill, we scuttled back to backpackers' street for a cheap meal.

So, its back on the road. Returning to TNK Travel we booked a one day tour to the Mekong Delta and set the alarm for 0630 hrs. Our coach took us 70 kms to the west where we crossed a brand new suspension bridge (only finished last year) over the first of the Mekong Delta rivers as it ultimately joins the sea. Seems only fitting as we've been bumping into this river on and off for the past three years on its journey from the Tibetan Plateau. Passing four large islands predominantly given over to fruit produce we arrived at the town of Ben Tre. The Rough Guide says that this place was the subject of that infamous American Major's claim that "it became necessary to destroy the town in order to save it" during the American War (as they call it over here). There followed a helter skelter program of experiences: a fruit brunch of banana, dragon fruit, jackfruit and sapodilla (which tastes of caramel); music from local instrumentalists and singers; a walk through the plantation; a paddle down the canal in a wibbly wobbly canoe; shopping for coconutwood utensils for my wok back home; holding a trayful of honey bees; playing with the family python (no, Ginge, not that -- the 35 kilo reptile kind); another boat trip across the delta to Turtle Island; lunch in a garden with an Australian couple and a Norwegian who lives in Oz; a visit to an ancestral graveyard and a lecture on local customs and beliefs; another boat trip across the delta back to the town of My Tho; back on the coach; visiting the rather beautiful Vinh Trang pagoda and the 50 foot happy Buddha statue; drive back to Ho Chi Minh City.

Knackered! So its back to Le Pub for a couple of large cold draught Tigers on Chua An Lac, a backpackers street running parallel with De Tham named after an old temple that's long since been surrounded by cheap hotels. A quick dinner at a popular street cafe and to bed. Alarm set for 0630 for another trip tomorrow.

Phu Quoc Island

Been off the grid for four nights on a desert island far, far away. I've gotten a few things right and a couple wrong so far. First, a cost-oriented head's up for tour guide Miguelito. I tried booking flights from HCMC to Phu Quoc on t'internet back in Blighty and then again at a travel agent in Bangkok: both came out at around 120 quid return each. However, when we booked flights in Saigon it was approx 80 quid each. Quids in, then, as they say. But it was with an unknown (to us, at least) internal Vietnemese Airline called Air Mekong, and when I checked later on-line it would appear they've just bought four Bombadier-class aircraft for their fleet. Although this conjures up Indiana Jones-style turboprop travel, the hour long bus ride was quite comfortable. The "resort" we ended up with, however, could be argued wasn't quite worth the money we were charged. As we booked late right on top of the Tet festivities all we were offered was the Thanh Kieu Resort at grossly inflated prices. To be honest, it wasn't that bad: a brick chalet bungalow that could best be described as "slightly delapidated". No a/c but it did have a couple of fans that did the job. No furniture to put clothes but it did have a couple of bamboo chairs. The lights all worked although you couldn't read in bed at night. Even had a fridge. And it was the first time we'd ever slept under mosquito netting, which was fun when you wanted to get up for a pee in the dark in the middle of the night. Oh yes, the room had a safe; it just wasn't the tiny box-in-a-closet you'd get in a normal hotel. This was a cubic metre of Fort Knox monstrosity that dominated the room, complete with steel key and four brass combination dials in invisible-to-read English alphanumerics. Jeez, the house leeches (yes! we had one of them) and millipedes must be a tough bunch of critters in this part of the world. Still, it was good for storing our clothes and doubling up as a bedside table. Because of Tet they charged us $60 a night which was roughly the same as our 4-star Elios hotel back in Saigon.

Except . . . at the Elios you didn't step out into a sun-drenched, white sand beach every morning, or clementine sunset every evening, so maybe I should put these costs in perspective. The island itself is really a gem to find. Its about 50 kilometres tall, only 15 kms from the Cambodian coast (although it technically belongs to Vietnam), and the beach we're on, Long Beach, is around 20 klicks on the western side leading down to the city of An Thoi at the south. Dotted around Thanh Kieu were family run "resorts" that doubled up as beach bars and restaurants. The children served the food so you were never sure what you were going to end up with. Ordering a simple "gintonic" could be met with incomprehension, followed by a blind repeat of "gintonic" in the hope that meaning would arrive, followed by a bottle of wine! Ah well, they're only kids not professional waiters. What's interesting is there is that there is very little in the way of major hotel development, although that must surely come and ruin the simplicity of the place.

Evenings saw us celebrating yet another bloody sunset (in the poetic sense of the word) at the Rainbow Restaurant next door followed by a twilight mooch along the beach to the aforementioned beach restaurants. On one night we had a few beers and "gintonics" and a Vietnemese Hot Pot, essentially a large soup tureen with raw fish, seafood, meat and vegetables that you tipped off a rim at your leisure, lit underneath by flaming sticks of paraffin wax that splashed and burned onto the sand beneath the table (and your feet if you're not careful!). About 10 quid all in for the both of us: great value to offset the cost of accommodation. The (slightly staggered) walk back along the water's edge through pools of darkness between the beach bars revealed not only a brilliant starlit sky but pinpoints of bright green lights in the sand as the wavelets washed up another tiny doomed bio-luminescent sea animal onto the beach.

The last day saw us try and be more adventurous and take a snorkelling trip to the 12 island archepelago south of An Thoi. Not a great idea as I nearly lost Linda trying to embark on the boat. They might be enthusiastic but the locals are no good at tying a boat up. Passengers were forced to be hauled up by the crew onto a worn tyre that was originally designed to be a buffer protecting the boat from the wharf (c'mon guys, would a piece of plank really, really have cost that much? -- the whole harbour was a half finished building site, after all). The boat lurched a few feet and Linda fell off the tyre and had to be hauled in unceremoniously by the crew before being crushed. She recovered quickly with true English dignity and the crew were suitably apologetic. Unfortunately, her luck didn't improve later when she pierced her foot with a sliver of bone walking on the beach. Not one of our best days of the tour, but we did both enjoy the rest of the trip and the lunch provided, even the hors d'oeuvres of freshly caught sea urchins' insides. We have to admit, though, to being glad to be back in an environment of relative comfort in Saigon. Especially in a room with a decent, hot shower!

Tet Nguyen Dan

Difficult to describe a new city in a few words. First impression: traffic, traffic and more traffic. Hanoi, last year, was nuts, mainly because of the swarms of motorbikes and scooters. Same here, but add cars, taxis and tour buses. Crossing the road is an art form, or a sport. Step out in the road, wave your arms about, gauge whether the next swarm is going to go around you to the left, or the right, or both. Slow down or speed up accordingly. And don't, really don't, assume that whatever side of the road you are walking on will preclude scooters coming at you from the "wrong" direction. Even if you manage to actually walk on the pavement, which is usually covered in parked scooters.

Saigon is a big city broken into 24 Districts although we were never going to explore much outside District 1, the "downtown" district. That is informally broken into two touristy areas, named after the dominant streets (dominant beacuse of the profusion of bars and restaurants, I guess). Our hotel, the Elios, is in the smaller area of De Tham and faces a long strip of gardens. Walking through these was our first introduction to next week's Tet celebrations. Tet is their New Year and the locals celebrate it in a hive of activity. All the available recreational space in the city is filling up with a wonderful profusion of plants, flowers, trees, shrubs, orchids and food vendors. Amazing varieties of colours and species; amazing prices too! But there are so many that even the constant din of the traffic orbiting the park, like indians surrounding the beleagured wagon train, is muted. In the evening, a slow mooch around the back streets of Da Tham reveals small homespun bars on the roadside where you can get a bottle of Saigon beer for 50p and a big bowl of traditional Vietnamese noodles with pork and vegetables for a couple of quid. You can literraly sit there for hours and watch the world revolve around you: there's always something interesting happening right in front of you. No need to explore the city.

For culture, Saigon offers a number of museums but nearly all of them are obsessed on the reunification after the American War. Yesterday we wandered away from De Tham to the large crazy roundabout at the end of the park, skipping through the traffic to the Benh Thanh Market. T'was hot and claustraphobic, made more unpleasant for the aggressiveness of the women forcing sales of stuff you really don't need: this is nothing like the gentle demeanour of the market people in Chiang Rai last week. Escaping that, we followed our tourist map to the huge grounds holding the Reunification Palace, a "whitewashed concrete edifice with all the charm of a municipal library" as the Rough Guide put it. When Linda learned that the "Palace" had replaced a 19th century colonial mansion she refused to pay the entrance fee so we went to look at Notre Dame cathedral instead. On the way we stopped for a drink at the expensive and ultra trendy Windows Cafe to watch the young and beautiful investment bankers and their girlfriends arrive in posh cars to the background thump of club music. There are War Remnants Museums and Ho Chi Minh Museums but you can only take pictures of so many confiscated American tanks and fighter jets. Hey guys, we get the picture: you won!

The second unofficial area of District 1 is centred around the street of Dong Khoi and was the area I first aimed for. Not quite what I expected, though (which was a street full of bars and Happy Hours). The reality is more up-market, predominantly a street of boutiques and jewelry shops with a smattering of bars and restaurants offering "buy three bottles of Sai-Gon beer get one free at 40,000 Dong a piece (about $1.50)). It does come alive after 6 in the evening when they turn on the lights and the whole street is festooned in glowing giant pink flowers and trailing white lights like frozen Christmas raindrops. We managed to find a street bar (whose name I've forgotten) selling alcohol at acceptable prices and sat back to enjoy the ambience. To be honest, we prefer the slightly more down-and-dirty back streets of De Tham, so we will be returning to the Elios when we get back from Phu Quoc.

Ho Ho Ho Chi Minh (City)

Alarm goes off at 0415 hrs. Quick shower and change. Get rid of last night's bangers & mash and Tiger beers (courtesy of Robin Hood's Happy Hour). Creep downstairs to avoid waking Cav Family. Greet guard at 0500 hrs who is opening apartment iron security gates for the day. Wait on otherwise empty street for passing taxi. Not long. Five minutes. Head off to Suvarnabhumi Airport (just found out that is pronounced "Sue-Wanna-Poom" which I'm sure my scatalogically-inclined friends would agree is a good mnemonic). Queue at check in. Queue at passport control. Queue at bloody simple-minded security. Queue at boarding gate. Finally get on Cheapo Cheapo AirAsia flight to Vietnam (the airline with the crappycrappycrappy web site that tells you all sorts of interesting -- and cheap -- deals then refuses to take your bloody money!). Get greeted by the rep from the hotel at Saigon airport. Ride in hotel car to Elios Hotel. Check in. Hmm, not even 1130 hours. Go have some lunch. Done. We're now in Ho Chi Minh City (formerly Saigon), Vietnam. Whoosh!

Not that it was that easy. The logistics of these CavTours-style adventures needs careful planning. For example:
Phase 1: decide on date range for Vietnam component of the Swansong and book flights from Bangkok. Phase 1 completed in England courtesy of AirAsia web site (before it went belly up on me). Arrive on Jan 27th; leave on Feb 7th; 11 nights in all
Phase 2: find somewhere half decent to stay when we arrive. Phase 2 completed in England courtesy of traveller advice on Tripadvisor web site and Agoda's booking service. Booked the first three nights at the Elios Hotel because they were close to some decent travel agents (see Phase 3 below) and other people seemed to like them.
Phase 3: find something to do apart from tour Saigon. Tripadvisor had a couple of consistently recommended travel agents in HCMC but it was difficult to book something in advance on their own web sites. Ditto at the travel agent we used in Bangkok. We decided to print off Google maps of their addresses in HCMC and make it up as we go along when we get there.
Phase 4: after check in and lunch go and find said travel agent, TNK Travel. Tell them we want a mini-package holiday to Phu Quoc island for four nights and flights from Saigon. Bit of a problem, they say, because of Tet (more about Tet later): very busy, not many hotels free. After a bit of haggling we book cheap flights and a hotel for the next four nights.
Phase 5: that's 7 nights taken care of: only four to go. Back to  the Elios check in desk. Can we come back on the 3rd Feb for 4 nights even though it is Tet; pretty please? Apparently, I haven't disgraced myself too much. We can. And at not too great a price rise, too. Great! Phase 5 taken care of.
Phase 6: what to do for the last four days? Back to TNK to see whether we can book some day trips to the Cu Chi tunnels or the Mekong Delta or something. One thing's for sure: I'm not driving over here!

Er . . . and that's basically where I am now at 11 in the morning on our first day in Saigon. Last night we patrolled the streets armed with aforementioned google map printouts and a copy of the Rough Guide to Vietnam. I think I'll save the sights and sounds until the next post.

The Golden Triangle

After a night in a very strange bar called the Peace Bar, basically a hippy 60s Rasta Bar with all the usual drugs connotations, we decided to put Gary's culture cap on and tour the Chiang Rai province for a day. Our tour guide was supplied by our hotel, the Wiang Inn. She was called Yei (meaning first born, or "oldest girl"). She spoke excellent English and, during the course of the day, maintained a commentary of a separate blog's worth of detail about local life in Northern Thailand. She also had a wicked sense of humour (having threatened to leave me behind many times if I wandered off again). Our travels took us to the most northern point in Thailand, first to Mae Chan and then a sharp right to make the obligatory visit to hill tribe villages. The Akha village was originally inhabited by migrants from Tibet 150 years ago. The village style was thatched woven huts on stilts, the people very into spirit worship, their elders brown and wrinkled finding the whole tourist-with-camera thing very funny, the children following us around demanding 20 Baht for their picture. I tried to flummox them by shouting back "No, you give me 20 Baht!" They think about this a bit and then make a pantomime of giving me money (a stone). I shout "You robbers!" and run after them. Great street theatre! The next village consisted of slightly more modern dwellings, the Yao people having migrated here only 100 years ago from the Yunnan province in China. We visited one house and was surprised to see a fridge and electric cables. Apparently, they've only had electricity for 10 years. Yei says they were all involved in opium growing last century but are now devoted to tourism. Unfortunately, there weren't many tourists to be seen; Yei explains that tourism has dried up in the north in the last three years, Westerners either not coming because of the recession or preferring the beach resorts down south. We bought some local artefacts but it was clear that there was so much of those on offer and so few of us.

Our next stop was Mae Sai, the most northern town in Thailand the focus of which being a border checkpoint across a bridge to Myanmar. People can get a day visa to cross over the River Sai to the cheaper markets but they have to pay 10 dollars to do so. Still, the bridge seemed pretty busy. Mae Sai itself had an enormous permanent market where I bought a new, bigger bum bag for my camera for 8 quid. The next stop at a jade crafting factory saw me neatly manoeuvred into buying Linda’s birthday present for her 60th next month (see? wicked sense of humour has Yei). We travelled eastward for a buffet lunch and a cold bottle of Chang on a balcony overlooking the mountains of Myanmar. Linda bought a beautiful hand painted, hand carved flower made from soap from a local vendor for Carolyn’s birthday tomorrow.

Okay, now you can call me a sad bunny. Some twenty years after I formed a team in my pre-retirement lifetime to study such things, I finally make it to the Golden Triangle in person. I had always treated the phrase as describing a Region in South East Asia but here they use the term to describe a point where the lines of the borders of Myanmar, Laos and Thailand meet in the middle. In fact, that point is where the Mekong River separating Thailand and Myanmar is joined by the Ruak River separating Myanmar, Laos and Thailand. In the village of Sop Ruak we were duty bound to visit the Opium Museum. Later, I spent an hour comparing notes on smuggling techniques our tour guide (who seems spookily knowledgeable about such things – I’d never heard about the trick with cabbages) and I gather that while heroin is no longer as massively trafficked as it used to be there is still a problem with methamphetamine smuggling in the region. Ah, the professional nostalgia of it all! You can take the boy out of the Job but . . .

One more stop on the way back to Chiang Mai. On the banks of the Mekong River (which flows down south still separating Thailand from Laos until it veers left into Laos itself) there is an ancient capital city called Chiang Saen. The biggest tourist attraction is Wat Prathat Chedi Luang, a crumbling 60 metre tall brick chedi built in 1331. We could have stayed and wandered around the town a bit longer but, sad to say, our collective advanced age was taking its toll and it was time for young Yei to take the old farts home. We made a brave effort to find a bar that night but soon gave up and retired to bed without any supper. Back to Bangkok tomorrow to prepare for the next instalment.

One postscript to this experience is worth mentioning. The day we left the hotel we bumped into Yei again in the foyer as we were waiting for a taxi. She said hello to us then rushed off, reappearing a minute later to hand Linda a little box. It was a gift from her, a pale green jade bracelet denoting good luck. Quite touching. I thought Linda was going to cry.

Hmm . . . What do do next?

After finally sorting out the nonsense of the Burma visas we now find ourselves with a week left in Bangkok with nothing to do. Or, rather, nothing planned; there's always something to do. To celebrate getting our visas Mike took me out on a tour of his locals although, ironically, he hasn't managed to get his own visa yet. As we came back late, loud and drunk that night I thought I'd better take Linda out for a meal the next night. We aimed to go back to a Mexican we'd found last year called Bourbon Street. Its still there but has magically transformed into a Cajun restaurant (see link for web site) with a strong Texan clientele. Excellent grub though, with emphasis on the seafood. I had a spicy andouille sausage (yes, I know what that means in French -- much to my disgust when I first tried it in France 30 years ago, but this is slightly different -- see link). Both Linda's stuffed shrimps and my sausage and garlic mash, not to mention the ever-so-strong margaritas, were so good we might actually go back for more next month. The following night, after yet another morning doing nothing by the pool, saw Carolyn, Linda and I at another Mexican for margarita aperitifs and thence to a well known Tapas restaurant for lots of food, sangria and wine.

Now the more astute reader at this point will see a pattern emerging. Perhaps, I am thinking, it might be an idea to take another break from Bangkok. Another trip down Soi 23 took us to the Reunion Travel agents. We used them successfully last year to get to Laos so we asked them to get us somewhere else. The next day saw us in a taxi to the airport, destination: Chiang Rai. We've been here just under a day now. Last night saw us looking for the local bars (damn! That pattern again!) next to the most amazing clock tower I have ever seen. Here's a picture substituting the usual thousand words. Not sure what to do next (in fact, we were not sure what we were doing here other than the fact I remember Gary going here many years ago and I'd always fancied it), we walked up towards the Thanalai Road with the intention of visiting the Hilltribe museum. Instead we stumbled across the most amazingly long Saturday Night Market we'd ever seen in this part of the world. Unlike the one in Luang Prabang which, it has to be admitted, is basically selling the same stuff over and over again, this market has a diverse variety of toys, clothing, jewellery, crafts and foodstuffs from all over the Region, not to mention pockets of live music and lots and lots of people. We found a Cabbages and Condoms restaurant and got stuck into some Northen Thai/Burmese dishes that cost not very much at all. Enough for one day, we thought, so we set the alarm for six the next day.

Getting up at the crack of dawn (yes, really!) we grabbed a camera and made our way up the empty Sunday morning streets to Wat Phra Kaeo which is billed as the "city's finest monastery". It was, as you would expect, very elaborate, with well tended gardens and spotless temples. Perhaps even more spectacular, probably because of its out-of-the-way location was Wat Ngam Muang. Situated up a hill off a side road, our poor old knees were worn out climbing a pristine naga staircase to be greeted by the early morning sun glinting off the east-facing temple. The most impressive thing, however, were the eight intricately carved timbers depicting historical scenes vertically up the tree trunks. All Wat-ted out, we have just bumbled back through the now-bustling food markets for a late breakfast and the hotel pool. Enough for now.

Getting a Myanmar Visa In Bangkok

I'm designing this post for anyone who needs this information as much as we did this week and has asked this question via their web browser. Our background is this: last November Mike and I agreed to book cheap deal flights from BKK to Yangon even though there was no guarantee we could get into the country because visa on arrival had been suspended since September 2009. I telephoned the Myanmar Embassy in the UK. They told me that we could download the required visa application form from the Myanmar Embassy in Canberra (of course, so obvious when you think of it!). On top of that, processing the application would cost around £14 and take two weeks; please include a self addressed envelope. Now, bear in mind that we'd had to wait a week to get our passports back from the Vietnamese embassy: that brought us to the first week in December. Add to that the snow that was paralysing England that month. Plus the general state of the postal service two weeks before Christmas. Plus the general attitude of the Trade Unions in the UK at the moment. We decided that it was unlikely we'd get our Myanmar visas, not to mention the passports themselves and all the other visas therein, back before we left for Thailand on Jan 4. So we didn't send them off. (Turns out we were right because the several documents I was depending on receiving, such as a replacement credit card, didn't arrive either)!

Jump now to the advice I am offering to others who decided to wait until they get to Thailand to get their Myanmar visas. First, the advice I got from this web site written in 2007 is spot on: its got all the directions you need to find the place. Read this first before continuing. From our experiences yesterday, I would also recommend the following (but bear in mind things can change):

1.      Preparation. If you want to get ahead of the game, complete all the forms before you get to the embassy. There is a little photocopy shop 200m down the road from the entrance to the embassy. They will give you a visa application form (similar in content to the Canberra one) and another form describing your last three jobs. You also need a photocopy of your passport picture and personal details. You’ll need two passport-approved pictures. Stick one on the application form and use a paperclip to attach the second picture next to it. Now you’re ready.

2.      Get there early. We arrived just before 0900 when the visa office opens. There were already 50 people in line. Inside, you’ll see 4 windows. Queue up immediately at #4 clutching your paperwork. This is a “pre-sort” queue that everyone has to use. If you’ve done everything in 1 above you will get a plastic card with a number on it. If you are ill-prepared, you get told what’s missing and sent away or to the back of the queue. If you have a number, go and sit down somewhere.

3.      The number counter on the wall tells you when to go back to the window with your paperwork. We were destined to go to window #2 (window#3 was for Thai passports only and window #1 was for business visas and tour operators or agents). This took around two hours but I gather it was a quiet day being a Wednesday. Surrender your passports and paperwork.

4.      At this point you may be questioned about your travel arrangements, your hotel, or your personal and professional history (see link above). We were told to come back on Friday at 1530. We argued that we were out of Bangkok until our departure flight date (about three weeks away) and asked for express process of our application. The officer wasn’t too happy but relented. We then paid 810 Baht each for the visa plus another 450 Baht each for the express service. (NB: they are not accepting US$ as far as we could see!) He gave us a paper receipt that had our names, how much we'd paid, and the date and time to return. He told us to come back between 1530 and 1630 that day. We left at 1100.

5.      We arrive early that afternoon at 1500 hours. A lot of people were already there. By some unspoken agreement everyone got up at 1510 and made a disorderly queue at window #4 (agents and tour operators queued at window #1, which makes sense as they were processing thick sheaves of passports). By 1525 we were about sixth in the queue that stretched right around the room. Unexpectedly, window#2 opened and a voice shouted “Express visas!”, and Lo! we were second in a new queue. By 1530 we had our passports and visas. (NB: the visa is only in operation for a month from the date you receive it; i.e. don’t get one if you are planning to fly to Myanmar in more than 30 days time. The duration of the visa is also one month.)

That’s it. If you discount the preparation work; all done in a day. If anyone outside our regular blog readers gets to this page because of Google searches I hope this is of some use. Certainly, the link I’ve made above helped us avoid some disasters. Back to normal next post.

Back in Bangkok

Mike & Carolyn drove down from Bangkok last Saturday to rescue us from our bohemian hell. Of course, that meant completing the ritual slaughter of a large fish and several dozen scallops plus various other edible sundries at a beach barbeque on Saturday night followed by a Sunday afternoon on the sands drinking Chang and reminiscing about people in dear departed C&E. Thus with heavy heart we paid our bill at the resort: a whopping £300-odd for the two of us for our little room (well, it was the cheapest they had but it had all the cons) and the occasional liquid lunch and evening meal over the seven nights we were there. We took a bottom-slamming speedboat ride back to the mainland, Linda squealing like a big kid, me hanging on for dear life.

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If anyone fancies an undemanding beach holiday that doesn’t involve living in high-rise megalithic hotels, screaming kids in ornate swimming pools, and rip-off bar and restaurant prices, then Koh Samet is a real find. Because it is also a national park, there is no overt development of the multi-national hotel-kind that you might find in the more famous Koh Samui: most of the resorts are of the bungaloid variety that are developed at ground level back into the forest. The admittedly modest strip of white sand is sometimes awash by the sea at times of highest tide so it precludes the regiments of sun parasols you find at similar beaches elsewhere. It was all very relaxed.

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By the end of it all, though, the ubiquitous Bangkok bacteria got me. I had already been suffering from a bit of the old gout in the elbow courtesy of the brilliant English sunshine. Halfway through the week the last knuckle on my little finger decided to expand to 17 times its normal size with the attendant mass of a small Jovian moon (from the pain and colour I assume it was tortured, volcanic, Io). “Gout!”, said an extremely attractive pharmacist on Samet after looking at it and stepping quickly away holding a protective chair. She quickly poured out a disparate collection of orange, white and lozenge-shaped tablets and instructed me in their use to which I understood not a word. Luckily, she wrote some words down which I checked out in a neaby internet café (thank god for the www and Netdoctor). So, now in addition to the Naprosyn and Co-Dydromol I brought with me, I have been swallowing Colchicine, Allopurinol, and Dycoflenac, all of which have made no difference whatsoever. Io is now changing colour and showing signs of increased volcanic activity. In addition to that, the pills have reduced my insides to the consistency of a watery soup so I’m also taking Immodium. I dropped into the pharmacy in the BioHouse building downstairs here in Bangkok who’s also given me a week’s worth of anti-biotics which do seem to be having an effect so I’ve ditched all the others and am now on standby by the apartment toilets writing this. Until next time . . .

All the world's a stage . . .

I've called Koh Samet "Hippy Island", although its more "Aging Hippy Island". All sorts, from all parts of the world, end up in this place, a beach somewhere outside time and space. The Real World seems light years away, which is the whole point of the holiday, I suppose. There's the tattooed East London gang, baring their bottoms to the howls of mock outrage of their wags, dunking glasses into a large plastic bucket of a nameless frothy pale cocktail at three in the afternoon. There's the quartet of Swedish bikini scraps on the sunbeds in front of me every morning after breakfast (funny how that happens). The German family of doting parents and three bemused toddlers making pyramid sandcastles by the water's edge next to their parked hi-tech transformer pushchairs. The bronzed, ponytailed hippy strumming a miniature pale blue guitar who looks as if he came here a year ago and forgot to leave. The scrawny, old German woman jerkily striding up and down the bay every day and night whose blackened leathery skin suggests she's been out in the sun waaaay too long. The endless chorus from the peripatetic Thai women: "Hello, you want massage? 200 Baht!" while you're three quarters through a more engrossing copy of Girl With The Dragon Tattoo. The licenced fruit salespeople balancing a ton of produce on two baskets at either end of a bamboo shoulder pole (I watched the diminutive Thai woman offer a statuesque English thirtysomething woman a chance to pick the pole up on her shoulders; she couldn't get both baskets off the ground!). At night, ultra-fit seven year old boys and their older brothers would come up to your beach tables at dinner time and cartwheel flaming sticks around like propellers, chucking them in the air, and generally splashing burning petrol around the beach. It doesn't do to have a table too close to the shore even if the scene of Chinese lantern-lit wavelets on the hard sand against a black sea is worth the effort to get to your chosen restaurant early. All in all, everything and nothing goes on here at any given moment. The only difference is whether, as I have done, you leave your brain in a pickle jar for the duration.

Hippy Island

The plan (well, my plan, anyway) to get to the island of Koh Samet was to hike down to Ekkamai bus station in Sukhumvit and travel to the Ban Phe harbour on one of Thailand's inter-city buses. 'Tis cheap, see? Carolyn and Linda persuaded me to get a taxi at ten times the cost citing the fact that it would be "quicker and more comfortable". Of course it was, so there are no disasters to report, such as getting on the wrong bus and ending up in Chiang Mai. An eternally cheerful female taxi driver duly deposited us at the wrong pier where the first ferry ticket tout we met sold us return tickets to Nadan on the island at twice the going rate and arranged for a motorcycle sidecar (a cage attached to the bike, basically) to drive us to the correct pier. After a hazardous transfer to a packed boat (they don't believe in ramps or gangplanks) containing an eclectic assortment of tourists (i.e. the eponymous hippies) and food containers for the island's inhabitants we duly arrived at Nadan harbour. The passengers were piled onto benches at the backs of a fleet of waiting trucks and we were shuttled to our respective resort destinations. Ours was the Samed Villa Resort. You can check the link to save me boringly describing the details. Suffice to say we are on a southernmost stretch of the most touristy part of Koh Samet, meaning that the obvious road doesn't extend any further south on the island but instead jackknifes over the middle to the posh side on the west (I walked over there two years ago: it's less hippy-ish, more ordered, and sterile as hell -- not for us mortals, methinks!). Our resort looks nice though; bungaloid-style rooms on a white sandy beach facing the east. That means we have to get up early to make the most of the sun which sets behind us. That would normally be a problem for an idle, retired b*****d like me, but after my last rant about depressing old England in the winter, I feel I should make the effort (shucks!). Anyway, a buffet breakfast is included so my innate meanness is satisfied in the bargain (not to mention Linda!).

Sukhumvit Street Life

Our first few days in Bangkok were spent re-acquainting ourselves with Sukhumvit life. Previously, I’ve ranted about the grey English winter and the complete lack of light and colour. No shortage of the latter now; the sun bright in the sky, temperatures in the 30s, and, god, the pleasure to feel warmth again. And the thing I’d forgotten was the noise and the smells of the place! The Bangkok traffic is as crazy as ever, motorcycle taxis still drive on the pavements, at least when the street vendors don’t force pedestrian and cyclist together onto the roads. The sound of jackhammers bounces off the high-rises until late at night, and sometimes beyond (Carolyn tells us that these noisy, inefficient, pneumatic drills are wielded by flip flop-attired Burmese immigrants because they are cheap – the drills and the labour – not much H&S over here!). The air is full of the smells of hydrocarbons and barbequed fish. The same woman and child are begging at the same stairway to Phrom Phong skytrain station, except that the child is regressing in time: she should be about 4 years old by now but this one is a six month old baby. Not much of a life to look forward to . . . The same happy hour at the Robin Hood pub and, unlike England, the beers are at the same prices. The only problem is, unbelievably, while the western economies are going down the toilet, the Asians have learned their lessons by not borrowing money like lunatics so that the exchange rate against western currency is a lot worse than last year. My 80 Baht happy hour pint of Tiger beer now costs £1.70: thank you again for everything Gordon! Having said that, happy hour has had a lot to answer for in terms of hangovers but let’s not go into that.

In pursuit of my goal to eat my way across South East Asia, we had lunch at my favourite street restaurant at the top of Soi 39 and Sukhumvit which is best described as an outdoor soup kitchen with a lost of rickety wooden stools and tables. It typifies everything I love about this place; chaotic (all the young men and women come here for lunch during the office dinner hour, all ordering at once), cheap (Linda had a fried rice dish for 80 pence; a large bottle of Singha beer is around £1.90), incredibly tasty (despite the fact that everyone does the cooking and table-waiting in an apparantly random sort of way), and you never know quite what you are going to get. Since nobody speaks English, you have to point at a faded picture in the menu and hope for the best. I ended up with a huge deep fried fish in a long steel bowl with pak choi and carrots and some inedible green stalky vegetable chopped up in a rich hot and spicy sauce that blew the top of my head off. Unbelievably good grub, and far more than I’m used to for lunch, so I had to sleep it off for a couple of hours by the swimming pool. Can life get any better than this? And everyone wonders why I’m a grumpy old git at home!

Gotta go and pack now. We are setting out on our own tomorrow without the protective umbrella of CavTours. Destination: the hippy island of Koh Samet. More to follow if we manage to find our way there . . .

Ubiquitous Bangkok bacteria

Typical! 36 hours without sleep; nearly 24 of those travelling upright door-to-door from Chez David to Chez Michael, and here I am at 2 in the morning local time, finally horizontal in a warm bed, staring at the ceiling completely unable to even nod off! Doh! Stupid body clock! Can’t complain about the trip, though. We flew Etihad again: slightly more expensive that the Indian (Kingfisher/Jet) and the other Arab airlines (Qatar/Oman) but a damn sight cheaper than Eva, Singapore or BA flights. Punctual service and transfer at Abu Dhabi, reasonable leg room (even if I did get the predictable a******s in front who pushed their seats back on both legs of the journey), quite passable airline grub, and state of the art movie/music/games systems to pass the time. It was entirely my fault if I picked four mindless films to watch (Predators, Airbender, Megamind and Expendables, if you’re interested).

Our hosts, Mike and Carolyn, say hello to the outside world. I’d like to say they are both well but, as Mike drove us from the airport . . .well, after having surgery on his destroyed knee cartilages, having a plate installed and walking around on crutches for a month his knee got infected with the ubiquitous Bangkokian bacteria so has been on antibiotics for 6 weeks. On top of that, his gout has flared up so he can’t walk very far (let alone pub crawl!). So, on top of the antibiotics, the anti-cholesterol tablets, the Dicoflec for the gout, the doctors have told him he can’t drink for a month. Picture this: two old farts in the front of the car driving into Bangkok complaining about their aches and pains, comparing knee and feet pains, and discussing the values of various medicines and the stupidity of doctors, while Linda sits in the back with her head in her hands. Carolyn, on the other hand, is a picture of health, what with her daily visits to the gym, her kickboxing training, and jogging up 21 flights of stairs to the apartment. At least, that’s what she claims. I’m in no position to follow her. It’s my knees you know . . .

Actually, the ubiquitous bacteria comment is no joke. After last year’s misadventures barefoot in a Cambodian swamp I spent the first half of 2010 digging funny coloured blood out of a poisoned foot. And if wasn’t cautionary enough, M&C are telling us about one of Mike’s colleagues (who we met last Christmas) who has found herself completely paralysed in a Thai hospital running up huge medical bills. It turns out she’s contracted Guillain Barre Syndrome (see link if you’ve never heard of it: I hadn’t), possibly contracted via food poisoning, possibly from swimming in the local lakes. It’s a real horror story but happy to report she is making the expected recovery now. Just goes to show how vulnerable pale, virgin, English flesh is in these here foreign parts. You can be sure I’m keeping my vulnerable bits covered this trip.

Flowers on Pluto

I think I may have mentioned this; in fact I’m sure I have: I hate this time of year! It’s not so much the psychotic hysteria by which the whole of Western civilisation worships that monstrous, red-suited neo-pagan deity (“Have you been naughty or nice? If nice you get PRESENTS; if the former, you SUFFER ETERNAL DAMNATION”, or at least you won’t get your laptop/xbox/camera/phone/whatever, which, I suppose, amounts to the same thing after all the hype).  It’s not even the constant regurgitation of decades-old pop songs that have long been bled of all the emotional relevance we enjoyed when such things were fresh and exciting. No, this year it’s the complete lack of light and colour that gets me down. On Boxing Day the temperature rose enough above zero for me to escape the log cabin and explore the post-apocalyptic wasteland of downtown Totton. There was little movement in the ice-encrusted park save for the occasional isolated zombie (like me). The sky was three shades of uniform grey partially obscuring what passes for a pale sun these days, leeched of all colour and warmth lying low in the sky reminiscent of a dusty 40 Watt bulb in an empty warehouse. Like the eponymous flowers on Pluto, I turned a frozen face to the sky desperately trying to catch the last tired, stray photon from a dim and distant star. Depressed I hurried back to my long suffering wife and started thinking about starting this blog. It’s not that I’m getting old and grumpy (no, really!); it’s that I know that are better places out there than England in December where people are alive in a land of light and colour and Vitamin D. We fly out on January 4. As before, I’ll keep this blog going if anyone wants to come with us vicariously (but mostly to help my ailing memory remember what it is I’ve actually done while I’m there).
Oh yes, and Merry Christmas!