Author: thelongmosey

Yes, I know that is a testy little title, but it grabbed your attention! But sadly I think it’s deserved. My mother will be horrified at my dropping of the C-bomb, but it is indeed a word laced with intent, sometimes these things ought be said. I don’t think ALL young travellers are cunts, just an alarming number of them. I should preface the following bundle of words, sentences and thoughts by saying I try to stay away from generalising in a real sense. I occasionally do for effect, or when noting observed tendencies within a group or another, but it is always done with the understanding that really, everyone is their own person and has their own ideas governing their conduct, that labels don’t really apply. Plus I am a massive hypocrite, just one with a bit of a brain and perhaps some conscience or humanity, or at least I like to think.

Back to travellers, particularly cunty young ones, I am again not saying it is all. I am saying that through our travels we have met, seen, bumped into or indeed been lumbered in the presence of some who show a marked behavioural deficiency. Those terrible folk who have earned a place amongst these grumbles show one or many of these deficiencies and tend to exemplify the horribleness of which I speak. The number of which is somewhat startling and also may just do what broad strokes do and tar the opinions towards young (Western) folk doing something good. I have met plenty of nice young travellers, I say plenty, a few, like Holly and Ivan in the last piece, or Felipe in the following one, but all too often I see the same shit attitudes.

Enough of explaining my thought process and negating any ideas that I am an ageist, travellist, cuntist prick.

I shall use specific interactions with some of the folk I have had along the way with people (loose terminology) to highlight my points, but by no means think that I will remember all of them and you will have to simply trust my judgement (I apply my judgement liberally, judgemental is a word that may have been bandied at me before, but then again, so has unassuming) that it all too oft seems to be part of the same malaise that affects a certain type of traveller.

First case in point. A young English girl and a young American girl. We were sat on a minibus for 2 or 3 hours, felt like an eternity, by the mid way stop I wanted to gouge out my own brain and murder the two girls, if I was going to hell, it sure as shit wouldn’t be fair to leave these two for other people to suffer, I would be dragging their bitchy souls with me.

It didn’t start well. Thirty seconds in to the ride “English”, as she shall hence be referred to, spies the box labelled Tips for Driver, Thank’s”. She and “Yank”, the American that I call a Yank because she has apparently got, in her own words “a problem with the Yanks”, got to talking about the tip box.

“I’ve got a tip for you, get another fucking job” cackled English

“Oh you tell it like it is girl, fuck off I’m not giving you[driver] a tip!” came the Yank’s response, eyes and face alight at the hilarity of their shittiness.

“Why should I give you a tip you’re shit?”

The statements and questions were obviously said without intent to be heard by the driver, just shitty little wimpy cat-calls from the anonymity of the dividing wall had he indeed caught it.

They then followed it up by mocking the use of an apostrophe in the word “thanks”. I happen to be a fan of grammar, even though in my haste it occasionally abandons me. I have a particular bug bear with the level of comprehension of grammar in people today, my face often twitches when reading the Face-walls of some of my friends or acquaintances. I can understand a typo or a slip in concentration but I frequently see too many mistakes that show a lack of understanding of the words that people are choosing to use. But therein lies the rub. These are more often than not British English mother tongue folk making these errors, many of whom do not appear to appreciate the difference between US and British English. How on earth one has the nut sack to criticise the English of people from another continent, who living in developing nations have managed a comprehensible grasp of a quite complicated and intricate language such as English, I will never understand. What a gaggle of cock-swallowers we must be to think that acceptable. I’m not saying I don’t occasionally laugh at things that end up being a little drole or odd looking, but really these girls spat venom with their words. Worse still, it’s not like us Anglophones who learn French or German, for example. Those languages at least share common threads of influence and an ENTIRE FUCKING ALPHABET. It just stinks of disrespect and fuck-tardery.

On the linguistics point, I was riled a mere few minutes down the line, when talking about Quebec.

Or a girl from Quebec I suppose. Yank mentioned that she had a friend from there and she softened the “Qu” to form the “W” as she pronounced it then went on to have a discussion that it may or may not be pronounced “K-bec” adding that as her friend was from there and she said it must definitely be pronounced with the hard K but who knows. Trying to be helpful I chirped in “it’s both, one is English, the other French” I offered to the party.

“It’s definitely K-bec” exclaimed English in a dismissive tone that boiled my piss.

“Have you been?” asked the Yank

“No but it just is”

I could have coped with this had their yapping not set my piss to bubble point, but it had, still I held my tongue choosing to just think what came next. It’s not her fault that she doesn’t understand that I am fluent in French, or that I have been to Quebec (in fact, Yank thought it was by Vancouver), or that our A-level French assistant was Quebecoise. I just found myself listing in my head the cities and ridiculousness of her logic. Who gives a fuck what the girl from Quebec calls it? When speaking English it remains Anglicised. English speakers should no more say it with a hard K sound than they should say (phonetically) Parree (for Paris), or Raaance (for Reims). The French wouldn’t or shouldn’t say London as opposed to Londres, nor should they drop their heavily accented veriants of Birmingham or Manchester. We don’t say “I’m doing a bit of travelling this year… I’m going from London to Gotebourg,then Kobenhavn, via München to Den Haag, then on to Napoli” with our best Swedish, then Danish, German, Dutch and Italian accents. Instead we use their names in English. Fucking twats.

Prior to this the bus had been asked by the driver if we would like a coffee stop later. I had said first that I always have time for coffee, which is true. To be fair the rest of the bus hadn’t heard. English piped up with “No, I don’t want that, I’ll veto that for the bus” then she turned to Yank and said “I can’t be fucked with coffee, if we don’t stop we might get on the boat earlier and get the best seats”

Yet again I refrained from attempting to argue, there is a way things seem to be done here, they always involve lots of waiting and you never get anywhere exactly before whoever is in charge wants you to be there.

Then conversation took a turn for the worse, if it could, it started out with Yank saying how she couldn’t wait to get back home, to spend quality time with her puppy. The two gush over how cute the dog is and that it really is like having a baby. Only as far as I’m aware people don’t tend to abandon their young children for months at a time (if we are talking doggy age here it’s years!) to swan off and get pissed in warmer climbs trying to suck and fuck as many different nationality boys as one drunkenly can (sorry, an assumption was made there, but I’ll stick with it, I mentioned judgemental, right?). Not only that but it was left with first her brother, then her flatmate. Turns out she doesn’t even like the flatmate. She is even bitching about the fact that the bitch should just pay her her rent “already” and not say “but I was looking after your dog”. Now although I a gree that the rent should perhaps not be abandoned like that poor puppy, but I would have though it would be smart to have come to an agreement on this, before either assuming that she will look after it for free or just agreeing on a separate rate for the dog care. From what I could hear, the former seemed to be what had taken place which again is a solid sign of a prick, but the malice of which she spoke about this girl. Fat, lazy, disgusting and unhealthy, a bitch (black pots and kettles did spring to mind at this point). Never does anything, never seen real fruit and veg. They then proceed to destroy her processed food dietary habits, again something that I have no problem with in theory, I prefer real food myself on the whole. Only problem is in the very same breath they got to talking about the food here being great. How they absolutely love the packaged tuna toasties from 7-eleven. English says she loves them so much that she eats one daily without fail, has 2 most days and even has them 3 times a day sometimes. Oh the natural goodness.

Then came flood defences. Yank was from Mississippi. Her house built on a flood plain, apparently parts of New Orleans city are still neck deep in water, she was there to party in Spring Break or something. Strange that I didn’t see that when I went on Halloween. English chirped in “We have places in England that are like that. Not as bad but, I don’t know why they don’t just fix it, divert the river or something, put something in place.” I really didn’t want to get involved but I thought it my duty to at least give them some semblance of a rational thought.

“It isn’t exactly that simple you know, these measure have other effects and it’s a bit more complicated”

“No they can do something, of course they can if they just do something in a five year plan, it’s easy, they can fix it in 5 years.”

What the actual fuck did I just hear? It was that same fucking tone of dismissal that got my piss boiling earlier. No actual thought to her statement. Just a statement of hopeful opinion, marketed and expressed as fact, in a tone that hurt my brain and heart in equal measure. I wasn’t going to quiz her on this for fear of murder, but I got the impression she didn’t realise that you can’t just divert the flow around shops and houses. Overflow will affect other peoples land that it wouldn’t have before, perhaps a farmer for example. What says that he should have his livelihood ruined because someone chose to build in a stupid spot? Oblivious that the anti flood measures will likely affect the ecosystems of the river. Or that the altering the river at one point has huge connotations for the entire river system all the way down stream. I felt like breaking the girl’s nose. But that would have been rude. She was already fuck ugly (sorry, I’m being catty aren’t I…I just can’t help it). When we changed bus to pickup in Laos, I went to get some local currency. There was a sign saying ATM 200 metres down the road, so, given the ATM at the border hadn’t worked, I asked if I had time to the travel organisers. They said yes, so off I went. Apparently, the second I left Yank started bitching “Who goes to another country without cash?”

“I’m not going to miss my boat because he’s an idiot”

“Can we go without him?”

“Someone even said she tried to call a vote. I got back and we loaded in the pickup. She had opted for the back and not the cab. As the heavens opened I felt avenged.

I can’t be bothered with the specifics of the conversation any further and I am sure you are tired with my complaining about these two lowly horrors, but I attest that the whole thing was littered with that thing that often comes with new university graduates. Their ability to recite stuff they have been told, without actually having a grain of comprehension on the matter. The absurd position of within one sentence supposing something to be the case at the start, that by the end of the sentence is clear pointed fact. The mind boggles every time I hear it. It is not just these two I have heard talking like this either, again not all young university graduates are like this. I certainly can’t claim to know them all and I can’t even claim that most are, just that I have encountered exactly too many.

Turns out that these vans are a prime place to find these kinds of cocksausages.

A few days prior we had been on the bus from Chiang Mai to Chiang Rai. An American chap got on with his partner. They had been travelling for some time. At a food stop he listed off an impressive tally of countries in which he or they had spent a good amount of time. But Holy Jesus, the whole way there he had talked about people as groups with such disdain. The fucking Chinese buying everything and ruining it. The fucking rude Australians. The dirty Asians. When I challenged him, that it isn’t really fair to colour everybody with such broad strokes, no but it’s a short cut.

He spoke of how the service in Australia wasn’t up to his standard as he was paying money, it should be what he wants. Another piss boiler of a statement. I often got that attitude during my many years in service, and more often than not it was an attitude from Americans. As much as you think that is a generalisation, you may be correct, but it is also an observed one that comes from a systematically very different approach to their consumerism and their service industry. Mostly I would tell them to fuck off.

This one had got on the bus and said “We all going over the border and getting the slow boat” when I told him that was our eventual plan, but I don’t think the slow boat works from Chiang Rai, he was flummoxed. Worse still another young traveller decided she would jump in and not only express herself, but elevate herself above the rest.

“No, we have chosen a different experience”

Who the fuck says that? What a ridiculously loaded statement! I’m paraphrasing here but all I heard was “No, we aren’t your usual tourists who do the usual tourist thing, we are doing this our own way…but really, the bus is cheaper”. I get it OK, nobody wants to be as mundane as everybody else. In saying that I am not like these whingy and superior folk I may come across as whingy and superior, but to be honest, you’d be right in your assumption. The thing is, I know that I am a tourist, I know that I am a grumpy fuck that doesn’t want to be bothered by 20 year olds being dicks. I know that what I am doing is not breaking any moulds. I know that I am not going to appreciate anything but tourist Thailand or wherever else because that is what is accessible to us.

I try to appreciate the differences and the things that I see are unusual to me, and I try not to assume that because something is one way at home it doesn’t mean it should be that way here. But I am flawed. I fall in to that trap the same as everyone else, I don’t like the amount of litter I see here, but you can see plain as day there is a very different societal approach to that here and also a waste system to match.

There was one guy on the slowboat from the Laos/Thai border who was undoubtedly the king of the bullshitters. Another American, sorry, it’s a true thing. I first became aware of his wankiness as he was chatting to some Canadian folk across the way. Most of the young fucks were up the front getting pissed up, at 10 am. These three were sat discussing stuff but BK (Bullshit King) was harping on about how he has the perfect financial system, that he just needs to put x amount of his monies into y investment and he is set. Infallible. He talks of how the finance people have it all wrong. How he knows better and its down to his own foolproof system. I would like to see him attempt that with my former employer, a multi-billionaire businessman with more than a little business savvy about him. Little BK would have shat his little BK pants at the destruction wrought upon him. He then went on to talk about his studies. How he aced all his classes. That his marks were amazing, he claimed to have genuinely slept for some of them, even though he simultaneously claimed he was sat at the front and always quizzing the lecturers which is why he was so good, but back to the sleeping, he claimed he had learned them while asleep. I mentioned to Conny that that is called by osmosis, he probably would have known that if he was so bright. The worse was yet to come, after masses of shit talk where yet again assumptions were claimed as fact or opinions as truths or just flat out inaccuracies as accurate, it was delivered with such smug “surety”(thanks Donald) to be convincing, at least to the Canucks. To be fair, they were a bit wet behind the ears. Daddy was paying the trip, more college fresh folk “same same but different” as they say over here, at no point did they question this guys bullshittery. His scifi novel epic trilogy in the works, that he hasn’t written any of. But then…this…Moon Base.

This fuckstart has decided he wants a moonbase. Although it won’t be governed by laws of any other nations, and they won’t be beholden to any corporations. Note at this point it had gone from wouldn’t be to won’t be. No hypothetical here. He marvels them with his “credit system” instead of money, straight from every scifi film ever, but the Canucks marvel at his originality. The credits will be earned as to the societal importance of ones role. Strangely he uses a cleaner as his example of what is a low value job, “definitely not worth extra credit unless she is a very inspiring cleaner who gets others cleaning real well”. Personally I think cleaners would be quite important. But then he says we will only have the right people, we won’t accept anyone with any prejudices of any kind. Skin colour, gender, sexuality all of these things. They will be deselected from the gene pool before they get there, so there won’t be any of these kinds of problems. The thinkers, the architects, engineers. They will get the best, who will work for those extra credits because, you know, man need incentive and this is their incentive. It will be a completely new and innovative structure to an economy. Nobody would have any power over us. We’d have masses of missiles and we would only use them when attacked.

My mind was raging. Why oh why does this guy think he is owed his Moon base. How does he intend to stake a claim. How the fuck is he in space in the first place without being beholden to corporations? Is someone going to get him there and fund his building of a base, for nothing? Maybe his flawless investment scheme will pay for it. How does that compute with his “Humans need to be incentivised”? Who the fuck is going to let him colonise the Moon and go “oh crumbs, he beat us there, it’s his now”? The guy is straight up delusional. I wanted to destroy him but politeness just meant I quietly raged under my breath at Conny. I swear the last thing I heard him say was “I do hope I get my Moon Base, I think I should run it, I’ll be good at it, I got all these ideas…”

I am hearing everywhere people talk of Thailand as this magical place, lovely people, great food and very cheap with beautiful scenery. Which indeed it is. But is it the goal for the world’s metropolae to replicate what’s here? Fuck no. It is still a third world country. It is flawed, it is something to experience and savour, but it won’t shape my life in any inextricable way. More importantly, the majority of these young traveller types are intent on “experiencing” Asia, but if you hear their tales, they all involve getting off their faces in tourist bars, or on boats, or in hostels. This talk of learning culture and broadening horizons is pure bullshit fantasy. I wish they would call it what it is. They are here because they heard it was cool, and they could tell their mates how sophisticated they are. They will have their ridiculous Asian elephant print MC hammer trousers to complete it. What the fuck is with those by the way? The young folk lap them up. “Oh but they are traditional and sooooooooo comfortable”

Erm no. They aren’t. Open your fuckeyes fuckwit. The only people wearing them are fuckwits like yourself (admittedly one German guy “got” the irony). I should state here that this is a problem for westerners of all ages in these parts. The elephant pant is as much an issue for the middle aged traveller as it is the young cunt, but as a middle aged person one generally can be forgiven such sins due to deteriorating eyesight, an innate desire to feel young once more and copy the young folk, or indeed dimensia’s early onset. I am quite sure that tis could soon become an “early indicator” or a warning sign for the onset of Alzheimer’s and the like.

I suppose the biggest thing that fucks me off is that the young cunts come to a place seemingly to open ones mind. But all I can see is that they are closed further. Little to no appreciation of anything other than cheap piss to throw down their gullets and cheap rooms to sleep in. Worse still they expect this all to be done to western standards and when it isn’t they feel that they are entitled to be rude and disrespectful to people, the places, the traditions the ideas that exist in the places that these folk have come to.

I think I have at this point come to the end of what is an acceptable amount of rant, I surely have more, but alas I feel it is time to abate.

I must add once more that I am by no means perfect and everybody does everything for different reasons. I understand this and that is just fine by me. Perhaps I am indeed just old, but I just wish I saw a little more decency and respect.

We clambered aboard the night train, and were aware immediately that it wasn’t what we expected. I’m not entirely sure what I expected. Perhaps cabins with bunks on either side and a narrow walkway along one side. Kind of like I would expect to see in an old Poirot film or something. But no. We were found our seats, that were two seats facing each other with a bunk at the top that folds away. The train eventually got into motion and we were handed the menu for dinner. Entirely meaty and as such not great for the likes of me. Conny had already had some seafood soup from her favourite street seller in Bangkok, but just incase I had stocked up on crisps for later.

As later came by and the sleeping car had filled up with it’s mandatory fill of Germans, the Loud American and a couple o’Frenchies, I decided to head for a wander. To my delight I went to the “facilities” and found the loo was a throne around a hole in the floor. Even in the dark of night and the bottom of a toilet I could see the train tracks whizzing by. The whole thing was a very rickety old affair. And all the more charming for it. I am pretty sure one guy/girl either really wanted to see me pee, or just didn’t believe the engaged sign/non movement of the door, because there was an awful lot of trying to get in. Plus peeing takes longer on a wobbly train. There has to be a certain level of stream control and aim employed combined with a strong arm all whilst using a sturdy leg stance. The last thing I want is to be whacked by a spectator tumbling through. Next on my wander I was taken to the food car, a dingy looking dining area, and at the back, a proper kitchen, with actual food being cooked. I couldn’t believe my eyes. I turn to walk back to my seat as my belly let out a vexed grumble, but then, lo and behold! A menu! With the word vegetarian on it, I did not hesitate and ordered one up right away.

“Would you like to eat that here or should I serve it at your seat Sir?”

“Really, you can do that?” I replied, my face a radiant shade of awe.

“Of course Sir”

“I don’t know really, whatever suits you, what’s easiest?”

“Go, sit!”

I took my seat with a beaming content that was evidenced as Conny pointed out the look of a happy Cheshire cat amongst my usually drab and frustrated looking features.

“There’s a vegetarian menu” I marvel

Conny looks less impressed, but still happy I get some food.

I see the waiter striding to me tray in hand, but just as he gets there he plops the tray to one side and as if by waiter-magic he pulls a table out from nowhere, he sets it up and then delivers my meal.

A vegetable stirfry dish, some rice, some soup and some weird tofu/mushroom/awesome thing that I never expected on a train. Even some banana cake I had requested for Conny’s benefit and a coffee to boot! “Winner, winner, non-chicken dinner” I thought to myself as I unceremoniously destroy it.

Just as I am finishing my last morsels I see what had come to be an expected sight making it’s way toward me and us. It had started earlier on in the evening, as the train had got underway, there was an occasional clacking and shuffling down the other end of the carriage and then I noticed any unmanned seating was being expertly set into beds by a young and feminine featured man. He daintily pulled the bunk down and with precise swiftness and a couple of slaps in the right place made the bottom seats slide together as one bed. He then took the bedding and curtains down from the top and made both beds, lickety split and just like that in a flash. As the evening drew on and I was eating my meal I heard “I want to make your bed now” from a couple of docks down and a bit of confusion as Germans stood in the aisle and the familiar clacks and slaps rang out. Then one dock closer. Then just as I finished dinner, the waiter was upon me a split second before “Iwant to make your bed now” was directed at us.

We watched a movie in bed (sticking with railway orientated fare we watched Hatchiko, Conny cried). Then I moved on up to the top. If I am honest I didn’t sleep too well. I think its a bit like a boat, the gentle rocks down below are only amplified up top. Bashed about a bit I did manage a bit, when not being disturbed by a loud banging that I firstly assumed some train employee would address and secondly was way too lazy to investigate myself. The morning came around and we emerged an hour or so before we got to Chiang Mai. I went to use the facilities and was again tickled by the movement below the poo hole, but I set about my business of a number 1. I was happy to see we were going slowly at this point through the window, as were the spectators gathered at the crossing as they raised a giggle and a cheer! They were either laughing with me or at me, or even marvelling at my skills, but that’s a blank I shall let your mind fill in.

Our hostel at Chiang Mai was Manon Hostel, a little place off a back street, off a side street, off an alleyway…the taxi had a little trouble finding it, but we got there. I was another basic double, a fan, a bed, not much else, but it was clean and quite cute in an old fashioned traditionally hutty kind of way. We liked it. The owner was super nice and helpful too. We got chatting to a lovely young lady, Holly, and decided to go to the local Thai Boxing night.

I fucking loved it. It wasn’t the grandest of spectacles and the arena was only half full but the fights were excellent. The practitioners were some of them kids, some of them adults, all of them tough as balls. Some fights were a little more subdued but even in these the hits were hard. Some fights were hell for leather. One even included an English girl and I was convinced she was going to get the shit kicked out of her by a Thai lady. First round she looked ropey. Flat footed, a bit scared of a proper dust up so to speak, but then in the second she loosened up. By the third she had snapped a front kick into the Thai fighter’s face (both to my surprise, and the Thai girl’s I think) and by the end of the fight she was dominating. A well won victory.

Only one fight of six was stopped early and I can’t even say I saw what happened it was a blink and you’ll miss it TKO from in a clinch a knee was thrown and a chap was doubled as I can only assume a rib or two had snapped.

To be honest there isn’t much to Chiang Mai. It has a lot of temples, way too many to see. Whilst we were there we decided to partake in a cooking course. There were quite a few that were based in town, but we elected to go to an organic farm with a cooking school attached. Our teacher was Ken, a cuddly bear type dude, he clearly liked his food and clearly knew how to cook it having several years in several professional kitchens. He was a funny bugger too. I have to say the school was great. We learned some techniques and combos, ate way too much food and had a good laugh. The food really was quite simple but wholly delicious and we got to make it from scratch with the simplest of ingredients. Don’t get me wrong it wasn’t mind blowing information, I can cook as it is and would have a good stab in the dark at those dishes but being shown and tasting it was ace. Plus we got the cook book to take home. We also went to a hot spring down the road as part of our trip…but really it was 30° and it was only for your feet, so was entirely unnecessary. I would however recommend the course simply because it is nice to get into the real Thai countryside and see a farm and a market not geared towards tourists. Ken and the cooking course really was great. Better still was that we even had enough leftovers to feed Conny and I plus Holly(who didn’t even come on the course) when we got back to the hostel for tea.

The next day was lazy. Some strolling, seeing of temples and markets, we did find a cracking little backstreet with some coffee shops and beautiful street art, plus at the end was a bakery, attached to an Irish pub. We headed back to that pub later that evening. First we stopped at a rooftop bar. Somewhat misnomered THC bar, it has a certain connotation. Much to the chagrin of one Brit Expat who was told he could not smoke the chunk of weed he had in his pocket there. His disgruntlement only grew when Conny pointed out that he was smoking a cigarette under a no-smoking sign. He was even defiant, I would hazard a guess that he assumed Conny was one of those smoking police types who will ask you not to smoke near them. When she informed him that she didn’t give two fucks about his smoking as he is entitled to if he chooses, but the fact that we were on a building constructed of some very dry bamboo, he did become a little more polite.

Holly however had a craving for a pie. Having seen them at the bakery earlier, Conny and I were happy to inform her they looked awesome. So to the pub we went and fine pies were munched.

I liked talking to Holly. She’s a young girl, recently university’d, but she is also bright and a bit of a thinker. We talked philosophy and politics and such. Normally topics that can land a hard brained softy like me in hot and deep water. But she is smart enough to understand that we may differ on our opinions to the solutions, as her approach leans more right as opposed to my left leans, we want essentially the same thing, good shit for everyone.

Our next destination was Chiang Rai. It was on this bus we met another wise young soul, Ivan. This time from Switzerland. Again only a youngster, but a youngster with a brain. Much like Holly, he isn’t your average “young traveller” (this nomenclature will become apparent and appropriate in my next piece I will some times refer to them as YTCs). Having travelled a good way and still got a bit to go, he’s enjoying himself, but he also appreciates that coming to these places teaches you to appreciate back home in Europe, particularly us in our Germanic parts of the world. I’m a bit tired of the “experience” this and “culture” that of the “young traveller” because really they appear or claim to come here for both yet are blinkered to either. But again, more of that in the next piece. However, Ivan, as Conny and I have discussed, can’t fucking wait to be able to eat Fondue or Käsespätzle and the wonders of good dairy. We will be happy in areas of outstanding natural beauty without the need to sweat profusely through ones eyeballs. It’s not that we are not enjoying our “experience” or witnessing and learning about different “culture”. We are just also honest that its quite good where we are from too, and we don’t have to pretend that the world is “sooooooooo much better in Thailand, I wish I was there”. If I’m honest I like complete pavements and no piles of litter on the floor on my way to the pub. It was quite refreshing to meet someone with the same thoughts and balls to say it.

We stopped the bus at the White Temple in Chiang Rai. If I may have mentioned that the temples are numerous, and may have conveyed that if you have seen one you have seen them all. This one doesn’t fit that bill. Part Sci-fi, part Gothic horror with a Buddha in the middle it is a sight to behold. As you get to the walkway in front, there is a pond of arms reaching to you, for what appears to be dear life. The donation pots are hollowed out skulls suspended amongst monsters that are eating other monsters. The surrounds are populated with things that look like power rangers or pokemon. It’s all a bit fucked up. Chiang Rai itself is nothing more than a gate way to Laos in reality. Yes it has a night market where Conny got a nice hotpot (a clay Fondue Chinoise affair, where you cook your own food in a broth, I would have loved to try it but sadly the only had Chicken broth) and yes the main strip is nice and neat. But really we were only there to get the bus to Laos. Oh and it has the Cat Cafe (Cat’n’a Cup, to be precise) A fucking bonkers idea. A cafe, where you eat or drink surrounded by cats. We went in for breakfast, we chose to eat that out in the no cat zone. However, afterwards we headed in for coffee and Uno. The cats, for the most part, were aloof, nonchalent…as cats do tend to be. There was the odd one that would come for a stroke, some lay there being as handsome as they could, others were probably plotting murderous ways to destroy us and take over the world once they had eaten us. Others were super cute. There was one fluffball that bit Conny. That made me smile. But seriously, the coffee is decent, the breakfast was nice and the cats as entertainment is so fucking bizarre it can’t be anything but brilliant.

Next stop Laos. We had booked a van to the border to a slowboat down to Luang Prabang, 30 seconds in to the bus ride, I could tell that my piss was on heat and soon to be boiling. I thought someone might even die. That you can read about in the next piece.

Conny booked tickets for our onward travel to Koh Samui. She enlightened me as to the fact that the journey time would be 4, maybe 5 hours. She scoffed when I told her it was more like 12 in the things I had read on the interweb. So at 7.30 am we awaited our minivan pickup. Squeezed in with the others and packed t the rafters we headed to the mainland first via bridge then car ferry. This is where stuff starts to get strange. You see, travelling as a tourist here means, in general you are heavily reliant upon travel agents, now these want to sell you everything from scuba trips and day tours to taxi rides at your next destination or even accommodation. Of course, they don’t tell you but they are doing it at a premium and for a slice of the action, which is fair enough, everybody has to make a living. It is an odd place to be, the punter, the lost at land traveller trying to navigate a culture in which one cannot understand the alphabet, let alone the language. On one hand, essentially you have people shepherding you from one place to another, which is quite good, however the problem is there isn’t really and awful lot of information exchange regarding the finer points of the trip. For example, you ask the person with whom you book your original trip, they will say, with a smile and a happily dismissive wave of the hand “Yes, we pick you up, take you to bus then to ferry and Koh Samui”. Sounds simple doesn’t it? Well truth is they take you to a town. Where you go to another travel agent. She checks your ticket and gives you a sticker on your chest. If you are lucky it will have your destination clearly scrawled upon it. Then you are told to wait, and that you have time to buy some food or coffee before you depart, handily served in the same shop. Then your next van arrives. You are shoved and shouted, admittedly not aggressively, but also not exactly clear to the untrained ear. The result is somewhat confused western folk not knowing if they are coming or going, being steered like a flock of sheep into their appropriate van. A van which may take you for three hours until your next change on the other side of the country. Or as it did this time, three minutes, where we went to a different “travel agent”/cafe, where we informed we must all get off the van(luggage and all), sign in, get fresh stickers and that we had just enough time to purchase some food or a beverage. Then somewhat abruptly, we were all told we had to get on to the next van. When I say next van, I mean the exact same van that we had all just climbed off, that had been parked a whole 3 metres from where we sat, the entire time we sat there. So…onwards, to the next town, Lord knows where, and another cafe or “travel agency”. Again, dismount, change stickers, and individually register with the agent in your respective travel groups, one by one. The lady continues to tell us that we will need a taxi at Koh Samui, and to be fair we are wise to her game, but she tells us that the onward ferry we want is actually best taken from the other side of the island. So we were already thinking we’d stay somewhere near to there. Then she informs us that the taxi on the other end will cost x amount and take x amount of time, whereas she will organise a van for a similar x amount but it will be much more efficient and take us to our door. We concur that this would be a good idea and go ahead with the purchase. Knowing that she just wanted to sell us something but still, if it worked out in our favour, what’s the harm? We get on to the next bus and head to the ferry port, where we are dumped, told to go in a room. The boat is late, the whities amongst the crowd look tense, nervous, confused. Amongst the Thais, not an eyelid is batted. Trying to discern exactly what is happening is not easy, but Conny and I manage to figure out that our boat is on the dock and we can go and get on. Long story short, at 8pm we arrive at Koh Samui, then our van driver doesn’t know where the hotel is so he drops us off at one side of a market and says “go that way” and points at an alley.

The room at Castaways in Bophut was actually excellent. The owner wanted 800 or something Baht for a room with AC, but we just wanted a fan, so he showed us to a room for 650 Baht per night. It was clean, had a good bathroom, and strangely an AC unit. Better still, they had free chili and tacos in honour of Cinco de Mayo. Bonus. I would highly recommend anyone going to Koh Samui to go there, although I might not recommend Koh Samui itself. We did what you do on Koh Samui. Got a scooter, saw a Big Buddha. Had a mosey around the island. There’s nothing much of wonderous excitement to behold. Some nice beaches, a lot of very touristy pap. We went to one swanky beach bar as a treat, sat down and got the uno cards out as we waited for a waiter (of which there were many) to bring us a menu. We waited, and we watched as other guests did the same…only they got menus, and smiles and when they started to get drinks I began to see this as a test. How long before we could get served without saying something. Coming from the bar trade I tend to be of the belief that if the staff suck that much balls that they can’t see fit to serve us, they aren’t getting my money. Now, I get that I could have spoken up at any point, but really, it was mind blowing to see. About 40 minutes later, and about 5 tables served (and may I add served slowly) before us. We packed the uno away and went to the next place for dinner. A mind fuckingly expensive dinner relatively, but given what we had just saved on the cocktails, I wasn’t too bothered when the bill included an added service charge and a tax that wasn’t on the menu. Fuck it. At least they served us. It is odd to be in the expat haven kind of areas. It is something I grew accustomed to in Nice, but it is also something that pissed me right off about Nice. The Europeans and Americans complaining how shit the locals and their ways are, mean while they live there, refuse to speak the language and basically continue their former existence in the sun. If it’s that shit, don’t fucking move there, and if you do learn the language and stop moaning. It should also be noted that they do this normally while boasting on facebook or telling the same stories in the same pubs to the same expats of how they are able to “live the dream” in paradise and complaining about those damn immigrants back home who refuse to integrate.

I have lost track here somewhere…now where was I? Oh I remember, the expats. Safe to say, it was ok on Samui, but we were happy to move on to the next island. Oh, and remember that lady who told us to go to the other side of the island and such. Fucking liar. The boat went from where we landed. The taxi was next to nothing, and we even got it thrown in with our onward ticket. Mother fuckers. We had decided, here on out, whatever the agents want to sell us, no matter how good it seems, is not necessary.

Koh Tao is much more our scene. Much smaller, we stayed at the bottom end, a little village, with plenty of nice food available, a bar or two if we needed and the hostel the Moov Inn. The hostel itself a bit ramshackle, but the showers were clean and the beds cheap.

In our quest for some adventure, Conny and I decided this time we would opt for dorm sleeping. Save some money, and hopefully find it easier to meet folk. Erm, that didn’t work. Night one was plagued by a techno loving German who has never heard of earphones and a Chinese lady who loved the TV on her phone, again, without earphones, but this time also with a soundtrack of chuckles and even a skype call back home to China, at fucking midnight.

I know I’m a grumpy old man and all but fuck me sideways, these youngsters have no idea of common decency. Plus, they didn’t get out of bed before 2 pm. The best thing about the place was Coco. She was the hostess with the mostess. Originally from Poland, she has travelled a bit, and been at that hostel for two years. A lover of the body suit, including one that she had bought and was unsure if she would fit, Conny and I were obliged to help see how one looked, as it had come in a little more petite and a lot more sheer than she had expected when she ordered it online. She did indeed fit in it. It was nothing short of an eye opener to see such a lovely young thing squeeze in to such a tiny little thing, she did however have to cover up the bits as it was super see through. Disclaimer, I only took a peak when I had gotten the OK from Conny that all lady parts were covered. Hard as it is to believe, I am somewhat the gentleman.

For Coco, the important thing in a hostel is to make a nice feeling. She welcomed us, chatted warmly and was not short of helpful hints or a smile, even when she had just heard some devastating news about the death of a friend on the island. We rented a bike from them and they said up front that they are fair if there is a bit of a scratch or damage, no worries, things happen, it’s only if something silly happens there will be an issue. Unlike others they wouldn’t take our passport as deposit either, which for a traveller is definitely a worry when renting a bike. Coco really was the difference between making this a bog standard bed for the night and somewhere to go to.

Koh Tao

is known for its diving. Unfortunately given my ears hadn’t recovered from our discovery dive in Koh Lipe, I wasn’t able to go diving further. Doubly annoying was the abundance of whale sharks in the area at the time. One chap in the hostel had seen at least one a day all week and on his last dive encountered three at once. I would fucking love to see one of these magnificent creatures. Up to 15 metres of elegant cryll eating wonder gliding through the depths. That said we did go snorkelling. The reefs are magnificent. I don’t have much to compare it to, but it was beautiful. Full of colour and life. From the thousands of fish, nonchalently swimming just past your fingers to the giant golden coral orbs that appear to be bedecked with jewells of ruby, emerald and azure. The clams in their brilliance opening and closing as you wave by. Hoards of angel fish and brightly coloured goofy looking things, nipping at he coral giving exactly zero fucks about sharing their domain with us. There was one bay with a cliff like drop off into the deep blue, where I was hoping to see the silhouette of a big shark or something. Alas no big ones but we did see a shark, a tiddler really, but a shark all the same.

It does have its more backpacker and young party traveller kind of areas on Koh Tao, but really that wasn’t our thing. The beaches, as most have been are great sunset spots though.

Luckily for us, it was full moon time. This meant that the island would become a lot quieter a couple of days before and a couple after as the revellers would migrate to the neighbouring island of Koh Phangan. Conny and I, old and grumpy as we are, were not among them.

The day before we left, we were headed out to breakfast. I heard someone say something in German, then Conny saying “No way…”. I thought “oh a friend of Conny’s…no fucking way” as it dawned on me that this was not a friend of Conny’s, but a friend of ours, Elisabeth. She lived and worked in Gstaad and shared an employer with Conny and I. We sat down to breakfast then, from the back of the restaurant comes another face I remember, another former colleague. Christophe works alongside Elisabeth and as such also for our former employer. It was a little odd seeing them out of context but a real pleasure to see them both, even if Christophe didn’t recognise me, to be fair, compared to my working days, I have let myself go a bit (my former employer recently saw me and said “its not that your beard is long, or big that’s the problem David, it’s that it’s a bloody ISIS beard”) so I am somewhat in disguise. But as ever in these situations surprise hellos are always welcome and it’s always nice to see a familiar face. They however were headed to the full moon party on Koh Phangan, so we bid them adieu, and following Coco’s advice we had booked on to the over night boat the next evening.

Quite the experience, a big cargo ferry, with a large bunkhouse at the back, we are assigned beds and off we go. No fuss, no frills, nothing but the smell of engine grease and a blanket, but it was suitably pleasant. Upon disembarkation, the usual shenanigans ensue of people herding us and other tourists around. The one next to us on the bus has a French accent, turns out she is from the same town as where my parents live. Small world eh. 8 hours later, upon getting to a station called Bangkok, we are told that this is it and that there is a bus here to get to Bangkok, we climb down once more puzzled but armed with previous in this regard. We decide a taxi is the safest option and get to our next hostel. This time it is pod sleeping in the Bunny Burrow. It is from here that I am currently writing. To be honest, we wanted a double room but it sold out as we tried to book. The hostel is basic, but really modern. The showers are nice as are the loos, the beds not luxurious but clean, tidy and comfy, plus we had zero Chinese TV watchers.

Bangkok, I had assumed, would be dirty. I expected fully bonkers roads jam packed with crazy traffic. It is a bit of both, but nowhere near to the extent that KL was, it surprised me somewhat. We took a day or two moseying around. The temples are gorgeously ornate affairs. I wasn’t really expecting to see, as I went into the hall of the Reclining Buddha (a 46 metre long gold statue of Buddha lying down, evidently), the walls were one single giant artwork. Intricately painted, sometimes replicated patterns but interwoven with individual scenes. It looked at first like very intricate wallpaper, but opun close inspection you see that it was hand painted. The burial towers of the former kings are stunning in their tile work. To cap it off, we had a foot massage there. The massage is done by people from the nearby school of Thai massage. As I mentioned before, I love me some Thai massage. This was doubly awesome as we were brought in from the sweltering heat to an air conditioned room, with the smell of tiger balm on the air. It’s a smell that takes me back to my younger years, the smell of linament before a running race, or the deep heat in the changing rooms at Shotfields before a football game or, best of all, the smell of Vicks vaporub under Christmas tree lights (I love that so much I have been known to apply a little, cold or no, if I have stumbled upon it in someone’s bathroom or such).

We cruised up and down the river on the ferry. We walked along the flower, veg and spice markets. Ate street food in China town. It really is a nice place. Added bonus was Poe. An old school friend of mine that I haven’t seen for 12 years. To be fair Poe doesn’t change. He’s an oddball in an endearing way, much like myself I hope. Is exactly who he wants to be and good on him for it. We met him and a group of his old friends in a strange little bar called Pizzicato. Poe has lived in Thailand for a long time but recently moved back to the UK, and in essence this was a reunion kind of send off all at once for him and some his older Thai friends that he hasn’t seen in a while. To be honest, he was late, by a couple of hours. We weren’t, so we sat down and waited. Turns out the girl behind us was also waiting so we got to chatting, Then a couple more folk showed up, and basically last of all came Poe. I’d forgot he was so fucking tall when I went to give him a hug and nearly broke my own neck. The good thing was, this was not one of those chats of what we’ve been doing and such. I mentioned before those things tend to piss me off. It was more lets just chat shit. Talk about the music (which in that bar was fucking immense) or football or what a shithole we came from (I am split upon my feelings for Leek, equal parts ace/shithole). He bust out the brandy and he, Conny and the Thai folk set about the serious business of libation. Two and a bit bottles later, Conny was off chatting up the boys at the other end of the bar, while I was chatting to a girl about her current lesbianism, but she has doubts it will last as she actually loves a boy. There was lots of beverage, a wicked soundtrack and plenty of laughs to make for a great night. As we walk out of the door and the bar owner hails us a cab, two cars smash into each other across the road, and we are shuffled into the car and head home.

Today we are bound for Chang Mai. Tickets are booked on the night train and a double room is booked at our next hostel, I’ll let you know what happens when it’s happened!

Thailand, the islands. We headed from Langkawi on the ferry a few hours North to Ko Lipe, or Koh Lipe, depending upon which map you look at. It was an odd experience, to say the least. The boat was marginally better than the one we had travelled on from Penang to Langkawi, but it had the bonus of having no commentary on the movie they were showing. The Langkawi trip had been plagued by a French lady who simply couldn’t get her head around the plot of John Wick, at least not silently, waiting as a movie unfolds like the rest of us do, she had to make comment on everything…she couldn’t quite grasp the idea and even if she failed at that you would have thought she could at the very least grasp that movies aren’t real life, that not everything that happens in them is true, and sometimes it’s just a little too convenient. Nope, despite her flawed comprehension and reasoning, everything was punctuated with a ‘ridiculous’, ‘that would never happen’, ‘come on’ or ‘how would he do that?’. I wanted to slap the words out of her (this is not misogyny, had it been a boy I would have liked to do the same, nor is it anti-French, I know many solid French folk and as such would not judge) mouth. There were however petrol fumes. More interestingly, we had to surrender our passports at the start of the journey, which is somewhat worrying to say the least. Then we have to change boats, something that the travel folk failed to clearly explain, so a bunch of puzzled looking tourists were we as we were bumbled on to a long tail boat in the bay. It appears that this sort of odd, not quite informative version of travel is standard in Malaysia. When we took the bus from Cameron Highlands to Penang, we were advised, by the travel agent, to take the bus to Butterworth, then the ferry to Georgetown as it is simple, easy and cheap. We booked for this very service. The bus however did not actually make it to Butterworth, on the mainland, but it did manage to drop us all, once again puzzled looking travellers at the bottom end of Penang Island, having crossed the bridge. We weren’t really told where we were, so while most of us tried to say “no this isn’t our stop, we are bound for Butterworth”, our driver, failed to convey in his English, that his bus was not going any further, and that we had to alight. It took another representative to tell us that this was indeed as far as we were going and that we had to catch a taxi or local bus from here. How very odd.

Back upon Koh Lipe, the sea was beautiful azure blue. The sand beautiful and white, my feet were wet, having to jump in to the water at arrivals and immigration…a hut on the beach. We settled and had a coffee before getting a somewhat mad rickshaw ride to the accommodation we had booked at Adang Sea divers and eco lodge. Again, not the Ritz, but what is when you travel like us. It was however clean, the welcome warm, the room plenty big and right by a beach and moments walk from the pedestrianised zone that essentially is Koh Lipe. Again, amazing food abounds. Be it on the beach or in town. It was nice to see. Massively touristy, but not too much of that Benidorm style Brits abroad tourism. Folk from all over, plenty of local eats and nothing too rip-offey in terms of price and shit shop stuff. A few souvenir places selling tat but that’s to be expected.

The two great marvels of this stretch were new experiences for both Conny and I.

Marvel Number One: Thai massage at a hut on the beach.

Lugging bags around and sleeping on buses and boats can be a strain on the back. So we decided to get a Thai massage. Given that we had spent the afternoon at the beach (despite our suncream), we had done the very euro-tourist thing of becoming various shades of pink (Conny) and red (yours truly) so opted for the addition of an Aloe Vera massage. It was a bit odd, when the old lady told me to get down to my pants and she chuckled sexy at me. I had thought this may be the case however, and had donned my loveliest newest fried-egg print underwear for this very moment which I stridently bust out for all and sundry, proclaiming that I had done such. So, I lay face down. Thinking back to the last time I had a massage professionally, that was bout 6 years ago, and it was one of those couple massages, performed by some Germanic lady types, it was nice, but my biggest take-aways from that were the realisation that the two massages were both identical for Conny and I meaning that when she was massaging my leg, sure enough her counterpart was doing Conny’s, then when she was at my chest, sure enough I looked across and another lady was handling Conny’s tits, quite fully. The emotion of that was confusing. The other take-away was the paper banana-hammock which they gave me to protect my modesty, if my modesty was limited to my penis because balls were busting out all over the shop. Anyway, back to Thailand. I lay down and the little lady started to climb on me, but it felt good, even when I thought my knees were about to pop. She then lays blankets on me and uncovers the area of body that she is set to focus on, legs, arms, back and so on. The massage is a delight. At times a bit of a pummelling, at others the smooth caress of gentle hands at others it felt like water running purposefully through my muscles. On occasion, I was surprised by a hand stroke to the edge of my nuts (no this isn’t a happy ending type service, more that I think the lady was just oblivious to the fact I have sexual organs) her finger even brushed my bumhole, which I’m almost certain nearly fired and involuntary puckering to the extent she is still lucky to have a finger and that it wasn’t sucked in and bitten off by my tighteneing balloon knot).

Then came the stretches and squishes of my inflexible limbs. Due to the fact that I have become a massive fat fatty over the last 5 years or so, I have sadly lost flexibility in these limbs, to the point my one and only season in Liga 5 of Swiss football was hampered by inflexibility and fatness related muscle injury. So as she is pulling and pushing on those same muscles I couldn’t help but fear a pop. A pop that never came. The massage continued, my body, my legs again, my head, but only the top of my face, she wouldn’t attempt to penetrate the beard-barrage. There were several cracks of fingers, and a couple of crack failures(each of my big, messy formerly broken big toes) same goes for the fingers without failures. Then there is more pulling, cracking, some pinching. The pinching was particularly good, she seemed to find an imbalance in my spine, one side hurt an awful lot more but felt a damn sight better for it after, then there was the piece de resistance, quite literally, a move where she positioned herself around my sat-up body, she took my arm and made a circular swirling motion, counting to three and on three, one big yank/swirl that stretched the very soul of me to my limits. Then the other side one..two… and BLAM, I simultaneously thought “what happened to three? OOOOOOWWWWW that hurts! And Woooowwww that is awesome”

Conny had suffered much the same fate, except for she got a lesson in Thai boxing when the lady massaging her went to swat a mosquito that was set to assault Conny, only she got it wrong and became the assaulter, boxing Conny more than the flying assailant.

We did both however walk away feeling relaxed and awesome, our pinkish glow shiny and effervescent with the Aloe Vera and our new aura, with the same thought.

“How and where should we learn to do that”

Marvel Number Two: Diving.

We chose to do a discovery scuba dive, well, two in fact. Our Dive Master was Manu. A blonde dreadlocked man from Barcelona, all tan and interesting tattoos and piercing blue eyes. I should have hated the dude from the off through jealousy as it was clear, most ladies would fall in love with him on sight (this was confirmed later by Conny’s sisters telling us that they would have been too busy doing exactly that to even start to learn to dive). However, he is a thoroughly pleasant and cool dude. Clearly a solid diver and great teacher, he got us doing exactly what we needed in no time. I had a little trouble as we got in, something wasn’t quite what I was expecting, especially that I didn’t expect to find it difficult, I think I just fucked up my entry and got a fuck ton of water up my nose that made me feel uncomfortable. Anyway, he said the right words and I was fine and dandy in seconds. Similarly Conny had problems equalising pressure further down, no hassles, he kept her calm and sorted it all without words, just a couple of signals and those baby blues. The first dive was shallower, clearer, but obviously we had more to concentrate on. We saw moray eels, lionfish, a huge stonefish, groupers and such. We even stopped by a coral too look at a seahorse that Manu had spotted and was pointing at. I followed and looked, pointed and smiled too. Conny followed our points and looks. She kept looking, and Manu asked if she had seen it with the OK sign. Conny told him she was OK with the OK sign.

We got to the surface and, knowingly, I asked Conny, what about that seahorse. “What seahorse?” I knew she hadn’t seen it but Manu was like “I told you when I saw one I’d let you know, you’d come to my shoulder for a look…we just did that”

“oh I know, but I didn’t see the seahorse”

“He did exactly what he said he was going to Conny, we both even pointed right at it, how did you not see?” I chimed in.

“Ah well”

The second dive was that afternoon. If I’m honest I felt the air was coming a little too forcibly into my lungs this time, unlike the first dive, and wasn’t as comfortable, but nothing off-putting. I had another wobble also when going through the safety routine, to recover a lost regulator. In my previous attempts I had felt the tube against my arm, when I didn’t this time I got puzzled and went through the first three motions again and again expecting to feel it…when I didn’t Manu had to tell me to do the next part, and sure enough it was there. Strange how that little difference tricked me into simply not following the procedure. Clearly, I am not as smart as I like to think!

The water was not as clear this time, but we did go deeper and more importantly there was quite a lot of current which made it an awful lot of fun. We saw the same stuff, plus many thousands of fish swirling and whirling around, the beautiful coral and rock of the imposing cliff underwater along which we were moving. Conny was my buddy this time, she was as inconsiderate as ever, doing her own thing rather than realising we were two. This made my job a little harder, but still it was excellent. Somewhere along the way I missed a giant barracuda, which sucks a bit but does not detract from the day. It truly was excellent. I know we paid, but I think we were very lucky to have such excellent divers/teachers with us in Manu and his cohorts, and I would like to both thank and highly recommend them for their service.

We left the next morning on rickshaw to the next ramshackle boat trip, equally as ramshackle but this time an hours trip by sweaty hot speedboat, to a hard to find office for onward travel by minibus for the next few hours to reach our next island, Koh Lanta. The bus ride was a bit nuts. All seats taken including the one next to me, which was stuffed with luggage, not leaving me much in the was of space. The transmission was also under my feet ad getting hot fast, but there was aircon and save from a few dead bum scenarios this didn’t phase me. The driving to this point had been somewhat mad, but what would we expect? We took a rest stop about 40KM from Lanta. We all came back, a drink and snack taken in, the various loo requirements taken out. Pretty solid I’d say. The driver however. Different story I have no idea what was on his sandwich or in his cup, but I want some. He was in a special place from here on out. Strong bursts of breath, like those when punching a bag, kept on coming, seemingly with no reason. Then there was the occasional air fist pump. His driving got more erratic. He tried to converse in English with a German, only even I had no fucking clue what he was saying, so the German had little hope.

One taxi ride later we arrived at Relax Beach, much to our confusion. The place was lovely, but not the same as we were led to believe by Air Bnb. It was way too swanky. It did say Relax Beach RESORT, but despite our protestations the taxi driver said this was it and shepherded us to the reception. Reception informed us that this wasn’t the place and that we had to trudge along the beach to the opposite end with our packs in the blistering sun. We did this and came upon the last beach bar, as we had been told, called the Lazy Days, we asked them, and they informed us that we were indeed in the wrong place and we had to go back down the beach, to the bar before the Relax Resort that is called Sea Culture. At Sea Culture we ask for Abu, the host, we ask about the bungalow as it is called on Air Bnb, they have no idea. The owner even tells me that his family own the whole beach and he has never heard of Abu. At this point nerves are starting to fray, but the Sea Culture owner lets us use his internet and an English chap gives us the lend of his Thai phone. Abu doesn’t answer. Conny decides to head off for a stroll to see what’s what and returns triumphant. We are 20 metres from the bungalow. Two bars down. When I say bars, I mean beach shacks operated by local hippy dudes* enjoying the sea and sun and serving the odd drink. Relax Beach is just as you could hope. Super chilled, beautiful, warm sea, white sand, not too many folk. Our bungalow is definitely on the basic side, but that is exactly what we had signed up for.

Honestly Koh Lanta is lovely. Brilliant to explore on a scooter (cost 5 euro a day from the Sea Culture). The roads are rough and fun. The East side is barely touched by westerners, where the West side is, well, very Western. Still all done in a way that only the Thais could. We popped on the bike and headed to the Old town on the South East tip, passing an elephant taking a dip en route. Had a coffee in the Old Town coffee house on their back deck and got chatting to a lovely family from Chang Mai. Then we came back up and cut across the heart of the island, and descended to Last Beach. A wifi free zone, with a lovely cabana bar and a beautiful long white beach, with some impressive waves breaking and keeping us suitably occupied. After a day lazing in the sun, we headed back up the beaten track amongst the monkeys to the road. To our right is a national park to our left the coast road. We opted for the latter and headed North once more. A local market beckoned us in, where we got to try bamboo smoked rice for the first time since our friends in KL had recommended that we absolutely must try it at some point. They were right it was bloody delicious. A mixed grain sticky rice with coconut, wrapped in banana leaf and stuffed in a stick of bamboo before being burned on a barbecue. Nothing short of wondrous.

I am currently back on Relax Beach while writing this piece. At this very moment, the proprietor of Sea Culture is butchering a shark in the surf that they caught last night. The sun is strong, the breeze a refreshing aside. I really do like this place and would recommend it to those who like a life less hustled and bustled as I do.

*Our favourite proprietor of such a bar was John, the proprietor of U Way bar, that you could easily not see, but just follow the gentle music that draws you to it. It turns out that he knows Abu, but we didn’t know that until 2 nights in. The first thing he did was offer us a joint, I think that we do not partake may have let him down slightly, but he still had some good chat and a cheeky chappiness to him that one could not help but find endearing. Plus he made good coffee and was insistant that his beverages be of good quality.

Malaysia. Kuala Lumpur to be exact. The first stop on our Asia leg of the mosey. More Proton and Perodua cars than you can shake a stick at and home of some of the most horrendous driving I have ever witnessed. Fuck me am I thankful for Uber here. I’d have been dead in minutes. Either that or I would have been overwhelmed by the fumes of my own bowels emptying each time I attempt a manoeuvre. Boy is this place a shock. Our first lesson, never trust a booking.com picture or description of a room for rent. Pudu 88 was ok. Not spotless, not ‘nice’ but definitely acceptable. It was however a bit stinky and nothing like what we expected. Still, it was cheap and in a great location. From where we were we were in striking distance of all that KL had to offer. If that is we could negotiate the traffic without succumbing to actual death. The streets are mental. Cars bikes vans everywhere, swerving and honking. Pedestrian crossings are merely suggestions of where you are entitled to chance your luck with marginally better odds of not getting mowed down. We swiftly learned to follow the locals, strength in numbers and such. There were however some public transport stations close by, and they more often than not had entrance via footbridge. The public transport in KL is great. A little confusing with which lines go where, but I would hazard a guess that that is more owed to the completely unfamiliarity of foreign names than it is to the system itself. I have a theory that it helps being familiar with the words themselves that make up the names when understanding what’s what regarding the lines and where they go.

KL is a strange place. Massively capitalist, which in itself leans against my sensibilities, there is building and ‘progress’ left right and centre. As a result, the city is quite mucky, but not unpleasantly so. Plus, when you factor in the climate here, it would be almost impossible for the city to maintain the cleanliness seen in some of the nicer cities we have visited, plus all cities, by their very nature produce mess and clutter. What I would say, is that the people are friendly, helpful, and at no point did I feel worried.

Our first day proper there, we went for a walk in the shadow of the twin towers, at which point the heavens broke. Fuck me I have never been in a thunder storm like it. A couple of hours of intense rain lashing down while booming thunder, louder than anything I heard while living in the Swiss Alps, bounced around the skyscrapers. It was near deafening at times and the sky was pierced with brilliant forks of electric light all around us. I would have loved to have been up one of the towers when this hit. Alas, Conny and I were stuck in a tiny pagoda in the park, which by the time it was done had started to flood, we didn’t even wait for the end, we chanced it in a momentary lull, although not complete stop of the rain to run back to the shopping centre for a coffee.

This leads nicely into lesson two.

Everything in Malaysia seems to be sweet. Coffee, more often than not comes loaded with sugar, and if you want it white, artificial creamer. Tea, sweet. Bread, sweet, Butter(probably margarine), sweet. Even when you ask for no sugar, its sweet. That is if it’s not monumentally fishy. One dinner we had was with some acquaintances…Conny could not believe the level of fishiness in everything that was on the table (except my vegetables). Not only mildly fishy, but that pungent, stinky shrimp paste fishiness. Conny, had her fill of fish for a while. On the whole though, once you realise how to negotiate the food and it’s sweetness and/or fishiness, it is spectacular. And spectacularly cheap. Its not cheap everywhere, if you try and be western you will get poor imitations of western food loaded with shit and you will pay a pretty penny for it. However, the key is sticking to where the locals eat. Bistros from food cart kitchens under little tents, Conny and I had a full dinner each with a cup of tea and it cost 2€ for the lot. Food courts in the clearly local malls and not the western ones, China town, and little India. All have really good food, really cheap. All could quite easily cater for vegetarians too. So long as you explain no meat, no fish, no chicken, no oyster or fish sauce, you are grand.

We were lucky enough to know some folk here in Malaysia, so we went up the Maxis tower for a view of the city. To be honest we had no idea of how vast it was, we thought that in the days leading up with our little expeditions here and there we had seen most of it. Nope. We had seen but a fraction. We were never going to cover all this area in one stay. We did get around a bit though. We went to the National Mosque. Hardly a classic piece of architecture but nice all the same, and nice that we infidels, so long as we held respect to some of their customs were allowed to take a look around and learn a bit about how Islam is done here.

I have to say, the most overwhelming and heartening impression of Malaysia and it’s people that I get is one of tolerance and multiculturalism. At least from an outsiders perspective the mix of different peoples, religions and ethnicities here is wonderful. Their cultures happily co-existing alongside and among one another. With all this talk of Islam being the devil in the world it’s easy to forget that when done right, it IS a religion of peace and respect to others. Malaysia is a shining example (as far as I can see, I wouldn’t claim to know if there are any problems further beneath the surface) of a Muslim nation that doesn’t adhere to the framework that many believe to be what Islam is about due to the proliferation of Isis and it’s relative coverage in the media. Personally I am not a fan of any religion, but I am a fan of people having the ability to choose their own way to live, so long as it doesn’t hurt anyone. It is often made out that Islam is the bad guy, and while it does have a disproportionate number of madheads at the moment, that is no worse than the current crop of madheads of Christianity (and don’t get me started on the good old “when has Christianity done anything like ISIS” stupidity), Judaism and even Buddhism has it’s extremist murderous monks. Atheists have the exact capacity to be extremists, and as the apparent proponents of rational thinking have the least justification for doing it (the war on Christmas anyone?). Point is, it was pleasant to see that country can be considered to be of a given religion or belief and particularly one that is oft demonised for it’s intolerance, but those within that country are allowed to practice as they will without persecution.

Speaking of religion, we headed out one day to the Batu caves. 272 steps up the side of a cliff, the temple and its surrounding buildings seem to be in a permanent state of repair, like much of KL, but what did surprise me was monkeys. Loads of monkeys, I saw one steal something from a guys pocket, others just chilling on the railings. The temple itself was beautiful, if a little lost on me, the cave magnificent, but for the humans. I must say, I don’t like humans much. Particularly traveller type/touristy ones, I know, ironic given that is exactly what I am (although I try to minimise my twattishness, I am sure I invariably fail). Not people who go to places and look and learn and/or appreciate, but those fuckwits who go to a place, stand next to a sign that says “don’t feed the monkeys” while they not only feed the monkeys, but encourage their child to. Then guess what, the next child or tourist sees it, and you have several monkey feeders there. As I said, fuckwits. Plus the amount of litter created by us human folks. Admittedly the Malay people seem to be as bad as the tourist folk at this. This is a human condition, I have noticed everywhere that there is a concentration of humans, there is a disregard for what to do with one’s spent packaging or waste.

Moving on from such topics, once we were done with KL we decided to head to the Cameron Highlands. Up in the mountains it was a few hours by bus to the rolling hills of the tea plantations. The weather sadly was not in our favour as we took a trip up one of South Asia’s highest mountains and through one of it’s oldest forests. It was muddy, and wet, and cloud meant that there was essentially no view. We did however get to go to the BOH tea plantation and factory, plus the weather cleared. We were with some of the more obnoxious kind of traveller in our convoy as we headed to the Strawberry farm and the Butterfly farm, one of their number asking the driver if we could leave, just of her own accord, and then the whole group of four just walking in the butterfly farm past the lady at the booth, not paying as if to say ”what are you going to do about it?” It really pissed me off particularly as one of the girls reminded me of one of my favourite Danish people, if not people in general, only this one was taller, Dutch and a dickhead.

Our original plan at this point had been to head in to Teman Nagara national park, for a bit of trekking and such, but, given that the weather was only suggesting big storms for days, we opted to head straight for the coast and the island of Penang, particularly it’s old town, Georgetown.

This place is a marvel. I kind of imagine it to be what I expect Cuba to be like, if only Cuba had a population of South Asians and the long gone rule of the British Empire. It is a world heritage site, which means the buildings will stay structurally at least as they are, their facades are notably adorned with some of the most beautiful murals and street art I have ever seen. From tiny little cats (apparently these are done in support for the local animal welfare charity) to the large three story paintings with sculpture and anything else in between. It truly is a breathtaking part of the world to just walk around and take in. That multicultural thing I mentioned, on one street here you have the central mosque, the incense of a Buddhist temple, right by a Christian church and a Hindu temple.

I mentioned the food in KL, the food in Cameron highlands was good, but we chose to eat at a local Indian each day that was cheap and tasty. The food in Georgetown however is about as good as food gets. I’m not talking artsy fartsy high falutin’ stuff. Street food. They have halls, with every kind of food available, all tasty and quite nice. Better still, they have genuine street carts, often clustered on street corners and you will see locals in either of these, they sell snack bits that you can taste or put together and make a meal, all super cheap, some entirely vegetarian, others of no known origin, probably all entirely delicious. Not only do they have awesome food, but awesome coffee. Not everywhere admittedly, but it is easy to get a good one. In KL the only good one I had cost me 13 ringgit, whereas an entire meal could cost 16 ringgit. Here, for about 6-8 ringgit you could get a nice coffee, for example at the post card shop down by the port, opposite the Container hotel. There they have Illy coffee and sell some beautiful postcards and trinkets inspired by Georgetown’s street art. My personal favourite was called Easy Drip coffee. A stunning coffee bar and local roast house. They roast their beans in a roasting room in house, you can even go in and watch, chat and discuss with the proprietor. She loves her coffee, and knows an awful lot about it, she even gave us a lesson in roasting and how the location of the bean and it’s roast affects the flavour of the coffee.

We stayed at the Little India Heritage Villa, which was a pleasantly clean and lovely place with a delightful chirpy chap on reception/shop duty. It really was as perfect as we could have wished for again as everywhere was in walking distance plus right by a stop of the free circular bus. At this point I should include the standout place in Conny’s opinion. We had dined some way across the city, in China Town, Conny had required dumplings. But for dessert, she required something sweet from a bakery we saw down by the port. Conny informed me that when she had walked in before she had got a whiff of what they did there and it was apparently the greatest smelling bakery in existence. Obligingly I trekked the breadth of the city to fulfil her fancy, admittedly with a treat in it for me at the end. I walked in and was hit by the smell. Fucking delicious, I eye the sweet pastry balls that this place clearly specialises in and think the salted egg and caramel sounds intriguing, at which point Conny asks if they are all vegetarian.

“No”

“What there are some that aren’t?”

“No, they all aren’t”

“Excuse me?”

“We make them all with only chicken fat”

Fuck. Conny said they were delicious.

Otherwise, our only day trip was what we as tourists are supposed to do, and head up the hill on the funicular railway. Which we did. We had breakfast saw a fucking weird giant squirrel, and spoke some Chinese for some kids doing a project. I am pretty sure they tricked us into name calling ourselves but who cares. It is a nice view up there and could at times be quite relaxing to be out of it all. That is until we realised it was a Saturday and there was a large fun run event on. The place was swarmed with sweaty runner folk, and going down on the train I truly wanted to punch children, square in the face. Not only were they the last of three queues to line up, but when we were asked to move on to the train they rushed and pushed and cut in with no regard. Fine by me, but not the elderly couple in front of me or the chap with downs syndrome to my left. They piled in the car, massively over filling it with their stinky sweaty paws all over us. Not only at this point did I want to punch their faces but puke on them too. I held my nerve.

Next and last on the list for Malaysia was Langkawi. An island by the Thai border in the Andaman Sea.

We got off the ferry and headed for town, having not booked anywhere. Conny, being a bit shit at the backpacker thing, and not really into the walking in sweaty heat thing, was starting to flag as we neared the first motels. Add to this that the first one looked like we might die, the second we didn’t even reach as we saw a dead snake which left Conny hyperventilating, we had to make alternate arrangements. I left Conny at a stand with a beverage and the bags and went off on foot. I secured us a clean room in a hotel with our own shower and breakfast included. It was pleasant although double the price we were looking for. It did however have wifi which meant we could look for suitable lodgings for the next few days. Conny tells me she’s found a gem and asks if she can book. Of course, I say, without checking. It turns out that it wasn’t even on the island, which Conny hadn’t noticed. It was in fact on an entirely different island. We had to get a ferry out the next morning. The ferry itself doesn’t have a schedule per say. You kind of wait until its full. Luckily for us, that happened after the monsoon like storm that hit the moment we got to the pier. Then we got off the boat and tried to call our host, but my phone no longer worked. We were given the direction of the place by the locals and set out in the sweltering heat. Fifteen minutes later we came across some huts, Conny asked if this was the place, the lady said yes and got her husband. He sat us down, asked if we had booked, put the fans on, checked our booking. Then told us that this isn’t the place. That we need to go another five minutes down the road, but if we don’t get a room there we can pick one at his place!

Further down the road we come to Barkat Chalet. It’s no Ritz. It’s a little rough’n’ready, but that is what we were described and expected. It was right on the sea and then when we couldn’t see anyone we called out.

A voice from the sea called back “Hello!” and a head popped up from behind a boat. Our host, now friend, Shades was coming to welcome us. His wife Bara popped out and gave us a coke, while Shades came and rather than just giving us the keys and getting back to it, sat down for a chat. He offered us use of his canoes, his scooter, as and when we want free of charge, “live freely” was his motto. They offered us food at a discount daily due to our vegetarianism and really we were blown away by the hospitality. It was indeed an accident to go there, but it was a very happy accident in the end. We truly couldn’t have wanted more. The place has three funny dogs bounding around, my favourite of which was a stray who recently just joined the pack, somewhat randomly, he is called Mafia. There were eagles hunting and diving all over the shop, there were water buffalo that lazed in front of our beach. We went kayaking, we rode the scooter around the island and across the ricketiest of rickety bridges on to the next island. Shades and Bara took us out for tea with another guest, Adi. Everything was marvellous. Adi, is a frequent flyer at Barkat Chalet. He loves the place so much he comes every couple of months and is even building his own hut there. He helps Shades and Bara out a bit and looks after the likes of us, he is an all round lovely guy. He even came to fetch Conny and I one evening as he had heard us speak of bioluminescent plankton. So two nights we got to partake in this natural wonder. At around midnight, with high tide we went swimming and sure enough the further from the light of the land you go, the more you notice it. The water, wherever you disturb it glows green. Flickers of magic at your fingertips turn into clouds of glowing light with a swipe of a hand. Light bursts as you stroke forward, dripping through my beard and chest hair as I roll. Fucking amazing. It is hard to put into words other than that. Fucking Amazing.

Adi also took us out in his boat, up and down the river, giving us both a go at the helm.

I really could not rate this place enough. If you want to relax, enjoy a hammock or two, make some good friends and enjoy the beauty of somewhere very different, this place is it.