Memories of Thailand

Same slide-show type of post as before, only this time I was able to put some actual video on:

I'll not post anything from Australia- it's been a family visit.

But now it is all over. For the last time, I'm dressed in my bush-shirt, grey cargo trousers and hiking boots. They are all faded now, torn, stitched and scuffed through Africa's bush, India's mountains, and Thailand's jungle.

I fly home in 5 hours.

Refering to my first post:

"On the 20th, it's all over. We're flying back to blighty. To get back on with The Job, and choose our new life. A family, a new washing-machine, car, compact disc player and electric tin opener. Good health, low cholesterol and dental insurance. Fixed interest mortgage repayments, starter home, friends, leisurewear and matching luggage. A three piece suite on hire purchase in range of f.."

My time as Grasshopper is now over.

Sadly.

Memories of India

Another slide show with photos and music from my phone. Even more hastily thrown together than the last one, as we leave for England tomorrow...

Kenya- A Reminder

Using pictures from my camera phone, I've put together a quick slide-show of pics from Kenya. The photo's I taken are not the best-just quick snaps I was able to take, as I had not lost the habit of keeping my phone constantly with me.

It's not great, but for me it's a reminder of what we were lucky enough to see and experiance.
It would be great to do another, good one, with proper photos we have when we are home. But I think The Job, and everyday life will overcome me when I'm home. But while I had nothing to do for an hour or so and thought I'd try out Windows Movie-Maker, here you are:

Melbourne

We left the Princes Highway into the spacious sprawl of suburbia that is so typically Australian- every house on a quarter-acre, mostly single story. We then picked up the cross-city motorways, where the houses became more familiar. Two and three story houses gave way to apartments, growing larger as we went. Then the flyovers gave views of the industry, business and finance of Melbourne, and the flashy skyscrapers of the Central Business District.

With very little difficulty we found the campsite nearest the city- 9Km away from the centre. Compared to the arrogant, awkward, pain in the arse city streets of Sydney, Melbourne was easy to get around, well sign posted, and almost, strangely, quite homely.

After so many hours driving, I was shattered- Mrs G couldn't share the drive as her driving licence was in her money-belt, stolen in Delhi. Once booked into the camp, a swift coffee, change of clothes, and a tea-cake, we were fit to "do" the city.

The cities tram network is a great way to get about, reasonably priced and late-running. Due to the late time of arrival, the tourist trail of museums were closed, so we hit the bars and a great restaurant in Chinatown. A large 3-dish meal, with mid-priced bottle of wine cost $60- I cannot remember the name of the place, but we were convinced to go in by a local bloke who caught us looking at the menu outside. He promised the best mixed satay in the world, and I couldn't really argue- it was indeed amazing, the best I had ever tasted.

The following morning we went to Pin Oak Drive- AKA Ramsey Street- the real street where Neighbours is filmed. We were surprised at how small it was- I struggled to turn the campervan around at the top. I felt very self-conscious staring at peoples homes, especially from our brightly painted campervan (pictured below). However, Mrs Grasshopper leaped out, camcorder and camera in hand, and done the tourist thing.

Soon as she did though, the residents started leaving their houses, jumping into their cars and taking off. I noticed a big guy in wrap-around shades and a high-vis jacket step out of a car, fold his arms and stare at us, looking just like a security guard. Along with the yellow "filming-do not cross" fences stacked up by the entrance of the street, and the exodus of residents, I figured filming was due on. We made off before being told to.

From there we went into the city centre, visiting the Melbourne Gaol where the famous bushranger Ned Kelly was hung for being a thieving murderer. He's a popular character here in Oz.

After seeing a show about Ned, and generally wondering around the 19th century prison, we went to the police watch-house, which was included in our ticket price. Following the 19th Century setting of the Gaol, and the advertisement of experiencing an "old fashioned arrest procedure" role-play, we were expecting an old fashioned Gaoler experience, complete with iron shackles and demo of Victorian coppering...

We actually got shown modern custody procedure almost exactly like we have here in the UK, and so were quite bored! The watch-house (police custody cells) was in use up until 1994, when they moved it to bigger, more modern premises. Since then, having left everything in the old one, they now book tourists in as a novel tourist experience. Admittedly, the cells were old and Victorian in design (like many old nicks in UK), but the booking-in procedure clearly doesn't change much over 14 years, or from the UK to Oz. Still, it was amusing to see how our fellow tourists enjoyed it!

We then set off for the drive into the country-suburbs, to see our family members- it was great, and we had a great time especially as I met mine for the first time ever.

We left back for Sydney just after 8pm on Sunday, driving until 2am, where we parked up at a rest area next to a full-size military submarine... Quite what it was doing parked up in a country town, in the middle of the bush I don't know. There wasn't even any water. It felt like an X-files set.

We slept until 8am, woken by children going to school... It was very surreal; in the dark, despite the illuminated submarine (WTF?), the rest area looked like any other you get on long Australian highways; toilets, covered picnic area, and a parking area.

Daylight however, shown us to be parked in the middle of a housing estate! The campervan that was parked in front of us had left sometime in the night, revealing a sign- "STRICTLY NO CAMPING!" I guessed that was technically just what we were doing, sleeping in our campervan.

A guy arrived to clean the toilets, and he eyed us suspiciously as I fell out the van, stiff and half asleep. Thinking brewing a coffee on our stove would confirm our honest mistake, we jumped in the front and made the last push to Sydney, roaring away in a cloud of dust. Slowly.

We got to Sydney by that afternoon. The city was a pain in the arse to get around- Sydneysiders somewhat arrogantly think your stupid, but you wonder why there are two signs for the airport, both pointing in opposite directions. Getting around India's cities is easier- I know from experience.

Our dour mood on arriving back in Sydney wasn't just the pathetic road signs and poor traffic management- it was knowing our travelling is at its end.

Two weeks until our flight. Maybe 1 more post.

Then home. I am looking forward to it, all things considered.

Victoria- and a pub!

We left Batemans bay first thing, anxious to get to Melbourne in plenty of time to see family we both have there.

The road swept along the coast further, over the Lakes Entrance giving amazing views, before heading inland. We crossed the boarder sometime after stopping for gas for our cooking stove and a caffeine fix. The landscape started to change gradually on our approach. Initially open grazing land of gentle rolling hills, with a mountainous backdrop, we were slowly drawn into deep forest, cut up by creeks and sudden stretches of flat grazing.

Doing the posted 100Kph, the campervan felt like it was flying along at warp speed, bouncing and swaying over every undulation on its suspension springs, it's engine screaming with my foot usually flat on the floor. At times the road became quite hilly, with uphills requiring constant gear changes and lots of revs to keep momentum, and downhill bends lots of forward planning, engine braking and nerve. Occasionally a break in the huge trees would give an indication of a valley or creek, but all of my attention was on the drive- not fast, but involving, and even a little exhilarating, particularly flying downhill after a difficult, noisy ascent.

As much as I wished I was on a bike, taking a relaxing flowing ride on this deserted, perfect tarmac, the fact it was challenging and exhilarating in a slow-speed campervan made it all the more appealing. A good sound track of the Doors, Rolling Stones, and the Clash from the CD player added to the fun.

We hoped to avoid night-driving, and the associated vehicle-kangaroo interfaces, so come sundown we were considering where to stop. We noticed some campsight signs, pointing the same way as a town called Orbost, so considered stopping there. But we appeared to be in the middle of no-where, so also considered just stopping for the night at a rest area.

But I wanted to find a pub, so we turned off for Orbost.

The town itself was a little unlike what we had seen so far, and had a frontier, almost wild west feel when we rolled in. It was a one-street town, full of serious pick-up trucks, 4WDs, and guys looking like they've lost their horse. The weather didn't help- the setting sun and heavy, just breaking rainclouds turned the world an un-natural, surreal shade of dusty off-pink.

I felt a bit of a prat turning up in a spray-painted, hippy camper van, in a town full of leatherfaced lumberjacks and calloused cowboys. But hey- I could see a pub!!

The frontier-town feeling stayed when we went into the local mini-market for supplies. Everyone in the shop knew everyone else, asking each other how the kids were, who was cooking that night, and such like. The shop was out of canned chilli (my favorite camping food), so we went across the road to the small Woolworths, which looked very out of place. In there, similar chattering was going on- everyone knew everyone, and seemingly their business too.
Stocked up on extra-hot chilli, coffee, and bread rolls, we followed the signpost left onto the campsight.

"Corr, not anava bleeder!" The guy on reception shouts when I ask him if he has an un-powered site available.
I look at him dumbfounded.

"You're a Bleeding POM!!!" He explains "Dunno why we call you POMs though- it was us who were prisoners of her majesty" he says thoughtfully.

I like this chap, with his friendly banter immediately.

"$13.60 mate" he tells me, which is more than 10 dollars cheaper than the last place- which itself was pretty cheap compared to many places $30+.

A bit of small talk later, Mrs Grasshopper hands over the cash and we're parking our campervan next to a hedge-row, seeking shelter from the now quite heavy rain.

The back door of the van provided overhead cover as I heated the chilli, which we scoffed at the table inside the candle-lit van with a cold bottle of VB lager. Once the rain had eased, we set off on the short walk back to the pub.

With a narrow covered veranda running the length of the building, and 1860's colonial architecture, I half expected western-style swing-doors as we approached.

The bar was packed, warm, smelt of beer, and was noisy with the chatter of a busy night. Pictures, jockey shirts and posters decorated the walls, beer glasses lined a shelf above the bar, and the furniture was basic, high-standing wooden tables and chairs, with low tables and chairs in the corners. There were no poker machines, but there was a pool table in the adjoining room, labelled "The Snake Pit". Everyone at some point turned to look at us as we squeezed our way to the bar, but it wasn't an uncomfortable stare- we were just a curiosity. Two glasses of Carlton draught were passed over for a very reasonable $6.80, and we made our way to the only free table, next to a wall covered in photos of the pubs patrons- fishing, dirt-bike riding, winning raffles and in various states of drunkenness. I gave Mrs G the only chair at the table, but 2 minuets later a young fella sits a chair down next to me: "There ya go mate!"

Mrs G and and I looked at the photos, pleased at last to have found a Proper Pub- somewhere to socialise, relax, and have a drink with other people local to the area. Mrs Grasshopper reached up to point to a photo, only to knock it off the wall. While trying to pin it back, she knocked off another one.

"Stealing our photos now are ya?" A voice calls over from the bar. It was a short, stocky blond bloke in his 40s, who immediately walked over with his hand out; "Robbie Price. Where you from mate?"

"North England...mostly" I say and shake his hand.

At this he breaks out into a huge smile "I fackin love England!! Spent quite a few years there, racing speedway bikes. I loved it mate!"

I explained I'm into motorbikes, riding a VFR800 back home, but don't know much about speedway. So started a thoroughly enjoyable hour chatting to our new found mate, who told us stories that had us laughing out loud, from when he raced in England, and before that racing horses as a teenage jockey. He gestured to the jockey-shirt on the wall- "That's why me and the landlord here hit it off so well, he loves his horses too." Originally from New Zealand, he'd settled here in Oz as a painter and decorator after his motorcycling career, enjoying the easy lifestyle and ability to easily find work.

Before long our drinks were finished, and I knew if we stopped for another one, we would end up here all night. We said our goodbyes, regrettably turning down Robbie's offer to stay the night at the pub, and went back to the campsight. It was by far the best pub we had been to in Australia so far.

The following morning I went for a run, aiming for the Snowy Mountain river. The morning was grey, and very cold with a fresh breeze, so I started running straight out the campsite. Hidden by trees, it took me a few turns to actually find the river, but once I did, I happily pounded the path running alongside it for a further half hour. A couple of times I passed people, who all shouted a cheery "Good morning" to me as I sweated and snorted past them, worrying one mans German Shepard, which I found amusing. By the time I got back to the campsite, steam was rising freely from my t-shirt and my trainers were soaked in the morning dew. But the grey clouds were thinning, and after a hot shower, a coffee and a bit of bread, the sky was clearing as we hit the last of the Princes Highway to Melbourne.

Batemans Bay

We continued down the sunny Princes Highway, sometimes heading off onto brown-badged "Tourist Drives", which took us onto clear ribbons of tarmac that hugged a dramatic coastline. Where-ever there was beaches there were surfers, making full use of the huge waves and bright sunshine.


I didn't envy them in the water though- sunny or not it was still a touch on the cool side! Mrs Grasshopper kept an eye out for a shop selling duvets and quilts, as I threaded our "Divorce" (camper-van) through small towns, villages, and exhilarating coastal highway.



We stopped off at a few towns, for coffee, photos and a bite to eat. We enjoyed lunch at an excellent Thai restaurant, which made me think of my Muay Thai trainer Deeday, and all the lads back at the camp.



We had a great day being a proper tourist, and stopped at sundown in a town called Batemans Bay, booking into a well-equipped campsite a 10 mins walk from the centre.



The Proper Pub Hunt continued...



...and failed. But only just.



We initially strolled into the Soldiers Club, which in the typical vein of NSW "Clubs" had a soul-less bar area, and busy casino area. It also had the restaurant area, and surprisingly a hair salon. We stopped for a drink and used their pricey internet, before heading off.



The following bar was a lot nicer, no poker machines, comfy bar stools and large leather chairs to relax in. One chap, clearly an off-duty employee, drunkenly shouting at us the $10 chicken schnitzel offer when he realised we were tourists. Once he finished the list of toppings (about 15 in total), he almost fell off his bar stool. I grinned as I paid for our Carlton Draughts.





"Shut up Steve, your scaring them!" The on-duty barman tells him, looking embarrassed. I look at Steve and smile, shaking my head once.


"They don't look scared..." He slurred back, looking at me through glazed eyes, friendly and quite happily pissed.





The Schnitzel was duly considered, on account of the laid back, friendly atmosphere of what was almost a proper pub (although it was actually a hotel) but we chose to have a further wonder about town instead. We bought a cheap duvet from Woolworths, got a good look at the Bay itself, with its leisure boats lit up by fairy lights, and felt the cold, biting offshore wind, before succumbing to fast food and an early night.





The following day we were to be in Victoria.

On the Road...

In a camper van called Divorce (It's spray-painted down the side) with my wife... Worrying, considering my driving and her map-reading...

It does 110Kph... down-hill... sometimes... It doesn't brake..., and it has "Honk if your really bad!" spray-painted on the back. It took me a 100K's to stop jumping and panicking about my driving when other road users sound their horns and gesture at me, usually at major junctions and traffic lights. Or maybe my driving really is that bad...

We only done a few hours the first night, pitching up outside Wollongong, before looking for a pub.
Amazingly for us- We failed.
We found a club- of the casino, bowls, and darts kind that seem to be everywhere in NSW. Devoid of atmosphere, but full of poker machines, it was at least a warm place to spend a few hours- it was freezing that night! My search for a nice, cosy local "pub", where you can meet strangers and have fun away from gambling remains fruitless. The guys in there seemed nice enough, once their empty schooners of beer torn them away from their gambling and they passed a few words topping up at the bar.

Surely we can find a good, traditional Aussie pub in Victoria?

After a freezing, fitful nights sleep, the following morning was mega bright and sunny, so I set off for a run along what seemed like the biggest coastline I've ever seen. The waves were big, the surfers were big, the beach was big, even the bloody seagulls were big.

Despite the glaringly bright sun and cloudless blue sky, the morning was still colder than crisp so the hot showers at our campsite were very appreciated. After a breakfast of sausages and egg, bought the night before at the local butcher and cooked by Mrs G, we carried on up the Princes Highway... (on the lookout for somewhere we could buy a cheap duvet)...

Travelling Again!...

.... This time by campervan, taking the coastal route to Melbourne to see family. We are only going for a week, but it's us out and about again, meeting new people and living out a rucksack.

I'm writting this in a Syney internet cafe, following a great night out on the town with Elaine, a great friend we met in Goa. It was brilliant to see her, share travelling stories, and catch up, over a few bottles of wine and a surprisingly pleasent Indian meal. Not quite Indian-Indian (no ochra and pannier on the menu, and the paranthas still didn't taste right), but very nice none-the-less.

Probably not the best evening meal as we're stuck in a campervan together for the rest of the day, thinking about it....

Australia

We paid a little extra for a pre-booked Taxi from our hotel to the airport- we couldn't be bothered wondering off onto the main roads with our bags to flag a "proper" meter taxi. (Most of the ones outside our hotel prey on tourists, refusing to use the meter and charging unbelievably ridiculous prices- like 600 Baht for an 80 Baht journey.)

Once our bags were checked in, I decided for the first time ever to "have a few" before our flight, using the last of our Thai money. Very surprisingly, I also had one of the best Tom Yam Goong soups during our stay in Thailand, at a sports bar in the airport while watching mixed martial arts fights and downing large bottles of Chang lager. Nice finish to our trip.

The flight was almost empty, which may be why nearly an hour before take off, the "last call" for boarding was being announced. This lead to a sprint, with painfully full-bladder, from the sports bar through security and into the aircraft toilets, in a panic that we were going to miss our flight. Damn Chang beer.

Dinner, a few whiskeys and a sleep later and we landed in Sydney. I figured it would be a lot cooler than Thailand, so I wore a vest under the bush-shirt I've taken to wearing when travelling.

It wasn't a bit cooler. It was bloody freezing!

The Aussies are still wearing their shorts, flip-flops (thongs) and T-shirts. But in my hiking boots, cargo trousers, shirt and dusty fleece, I was still feeling the temperature difference, apparently adjusted to hot and humid Thailand.

I wont go into the family meeting here as it's personal, but it was great, and the past couple of weeks have been cool (literally too- it's STILL freezing cold, and it rains a lot too!).

Mrs Grasshopper and I were also able to meet up with Shirley, our good friend from Africa and India, and Jenny, our Aussie friend we met in Goa. It was great to see them again and catch up on what we have been up to. We went to Manly beach for the day, and watched the surfers in the rain, as well as wondered about taking photos and visited a museum. It was strange to do a tourist thing here. It was easy to forget Shirley is still travelling, where we are on a family visit having "done" Sydney already, and Jenny is a local.

It feels strange to think we have now finished our journey. We are going to do something "touristy", maybe visit a vineyard, or even fly over to Melbourne for a few days. But somehow it wont be like true travelling, the learning curve being flatter, and the ride so much easier. The culture is so similar to ours, albeit prehaps more consumerist, with it's drive-thru donut shops (!), unbelievably cheap fast food, 3 litre V8 car engines and radio stations with traffic helicopters... (in the UK, even the emergency services struggle to afford a helicopter...)

It's been a great trip though. Anything worth mentioning I'll post, but in the meantime I'll put some of our photos and videos up over the next few weeks, now that I have ready access to the internet and a PC. Need to do something, as we now have plenty of time on our hands.

I ain't heard Bob Marley for ages...

Thai Massage Horror

Our last days in Bangkok were spent shopping at MBK and various other markets, including the backpacker ghetto of the Kho San road, picking up birthday presents and such like. We also had a wonder about, and seen the Reclining Buddha at Wat Po- a 30 foot behemoth of a statue of Buddha, painted in gold leaf in the most ornate surroundings I've ever seen.

Our last night was spent drinking, like all travellers, up and down the Kho San road, chatting to other travellers. We finished up in our favorite bar in Bangkok, where I got comfortably pissed listening to Addy, a talented guitarist and singer we listened to when we first arrived in Bangkok. Surprisingly he recognised us, and played some of our favorite songs, and came over to shake my hand and say goodbye when his set was over.

Today, our final day in Thailand, Mrs Grasshopper decided to get her hair done, and urged me to have a massage.

Now I'm not much of a massage person (unless its my missus doing it of course!), but aching from injuries, bruises and strains, I relented and went while she got pampered in the salon. It was only 250 Baht for an hour, in a place we seen the previous day. It was above a resturant on the Kho San, but very professional looking and a world away from the dubious massage parlours of Nana Plaza, Patpong and the like. I chose an oil massage, figuring I'd prefer the relaxing deep tissue manipulation over the sadistic submission wrestling of traditional thai massage.

Now I was always a bit concerned about getting a massage, that I might, erm, "respond" shall we say. I'm a bloke after all. What if being half naked and rubbed all over by a pretty, slim, thai girl with delicate fingers causes an embarrassing, erm, "uprising"?....

... I needn't have worried.
My masseuse for the day was Shreks long-lost sister. Older, bigger, ugly-stick beaten sister. (Who clearly enjoys weight lifting as much as eating.)

"Take clothes off!" She says (booms) cheerfully as she shuts the curtains around me. She comes back a few minutes later to find me sitting on the mattress in my boxer shorts, looking slightly uncomfortable.

"All clothes off!" She laughs, and disappears (which was impressive for a girl her size). I duly removed my shreddies and wrapped myself in a towel. She reappears, whips the towel off me and flips me face-down onto the mattress.

"No problem!" She says (bellows) laughing.

Now the massage was initially very nice. As her ham-like fingers pushed my muscles up my back, my hair stood on end and I could feel myself drifting off to sleep. Then she starts digging her elbows in, with her full tonnage behind them. My eyes shoot open as I feel my ribs popping and seperating from my spinal column. Elbows are for fighting with! I think to myself, as she crushes a disk in my back. Then she starts on the back of my thighs with her huge hands.

Ahhh, now THAT is nice! I close my eyes again as she expertly manipulates my hamstrings, up from knee to buttock.

Was that her finger?! My eyes blink open in alarm as my scrotum shrivels up in shock and fear at her flicking finger. Maybe it was an accident, I think, and close my eyes.

She does it again!

"OK?" she asks, this time deliberately tickling my receding man-sack.

"Um, er, ha ha!" I respond fearfully, and push myself further up the mattress, away from the offending digit. She giggles, (making the floor tremble slightly) and continues massaging the back of my thighs. She does it faster and harder. I then start to seriously worry she's going to slip, and one of her banana sized fingers will bury its self in my back passage.

Thankfully my back is soon over. She flips me onto my front and I shyly try to cover my still-terrified todger.

"No Problem!" She laughs again "I see many many man penis!" throwing a towel over my groin.

I let go of my willy and put my hands by my sides, feeling foolish.

She then whips off the towel, and stares at my dick!

"Ooh, very good!" She says, patting it with an enormous finger and then quick-firing thai to one of the girls outside the curtain. The unseen thai girl replies, giggling. Are they laughing at me?

I'm aware I haven't trimmed my man-patch for some time, and my petrified "old-boy" feels like he's disappeared into my stomach.

I look down.

It resembles a white handkerchief in a thorn bush. A small white hanky at that.

They must be laughing.

She leans forward and whispers; "Men like massage round here" pointing around my groin. "You like, yeah?" She puts a colossal finger to her lips. "Shhhh! special massage!"

Is she offering to.....? I shake my head furiously, "Um, no, er, not at all, thank you, er, I'm married, er, no, no need" I stammer.

And petrified, a voice in my head says.

"Ohhhh, ok...." She says, looking crestfallen. "I like foreign man, very good, very big. And hairy here." She first pats my winky and then rubs my moderatly hairy chest. "Special massage yes?"

"No. It's fine thanks, no massage there" I croak.

"Ok, if you want" She says with apparent disappointment. She then pinches my penis affectionately before covering me again with the towel. Then she belches, and I can suddenly smell garlic.

For F---ks sake! I think to myself.

The rest of the massage was pretty OK, though I was amazed my shoulders were able to take her full weight, as she leans down onto me, grunting garlic in my face and making the floor tremble.
The massage finished with a face massage, which was surprisingly good. Then she started punching me repeatedly on the forehead. What the F--k!

When she said it was over I dressed quickly, and almost fell down the stairs on the way out- my legs were like jelly. I couldn't tell if it was from the massage or the blows to the head making me concussed.

Me and Mrs Grasshopper met up again at our hotel, where she finds me writing this. We're gonna get lunch, have a nap, then shower and change into our travelling clothes for our overnight flight to Sydney.

I don't know if I will be able to sleep though. Not after that massage.

Leaving Home

I'm now sat in an internet cafe in Haad Rin. My bags are packed and next to me, and I have a few minutes before a Taxi collects us to go to the ferry. Unable to get a seat on the train, we then go overnight by bus back to Bangkok.

I'm always sad to leave a country, and this is no exception.
Ot took us this morning by the camp jeep to here, after emotional farewells back at camp.
In true traveller style, we celebrated the end of our time last night by getting legless with everyone from camp. Moo cooked me her favorite dish, and Mrs G and I brought plenty of Sangsom and Lao Cow. Deday, true to form, got through it admirably for such a small fella, and insisted I come back;
"Grasshopper, you come back. No Lady...." He points to Mrs G. "You no power, too much boomsing (sex). No lady, you more power, yaa, then you fight!" He laughs, making a sex sign with his hands, then pointing at me "Awww, no power, boomsing" he grimaces, mocking my exhausted state after training with him.

Ben, the camp manager settled our bill before we left, giving us serious discounts and not even charging for most of our stuff, such as food and soft drinks.
"Come back ok!" Was his last words, shaking my hand.

The weather this morning was overcast and wet after a night of rain, matching our mood. Now the suns out the humidity is stifling, we've left our little hut we've called home, and now I'm feeling somewhat melancholy. I just want to get to Bangkok now, sort out my stuff and get on the flight to Australia, to a family I haven't seen for years.

Travelling is almost over. It's been a long time since I was browsing through the possibilities on the 'net, sat in an office in the north of England with the rain drumming down, and a colleague who (correctly) thought I was a little mad, planning my dream of leaving everything and delving into the unknown.

But now, I'll soon be with my parents and brothers, at our final destination, and the dream will be complete.

Soon....

No fight

"Grasshopper- You fight, 1 week!" Deday tells me one night after training. This will be his first of three goes during my stay.

I look down at my reduced beer belly. Carefully developed over nearly 2 years of not training, eating and drinking too much, by gut is now mercilessly mocked by Deday and Ot as it slowly flattens.

"No, not yet fit for fighting." I say, patting my stomach. "Maybe in 4 weeks" I reply.

"Nooo! You fight Pansak, friday ok?, No problem!" Deday persists.

"No, gimmi 4 weeks Deday. Ask again then-ok?".

He screws up his face and pulls hard on his bamboo-wrapped cigarette. "Jakwaar!" He finally replies.

That's Thai for wanker.

A week later I can't walk properly, injuring my foot and hip in sparring. Before long I can train again, at first avoiding kicking, and then slowly back into full muay Thai training.

Then it goes again after a particularly good training session, to the point that I struggle even using the squat toilet.

Not fit to fight.

I'm gutted.

But then realistically, I wouldn't have been all that up for fighting Pansak, a local fighter who I have had the pleasure of watching fight three times now during my stay here. Not because he's intimidating or scary- in fact he's one of the best personalities to fight, being a caring family man, the most honourable of sportsmen I've ever met and always keen to share a beer with his opponants after a fight and introduce his family.

But the fact he's just over 5 foot tall, and about 10 stone puts us on very different footings- I'm over 6 foot tall and over 13 stone.

Not a good match.

But then finding thai guys my size was always going to be a problem, so I knew I would be fighting a fellow farang. Deday was finally able to match me up with another farang, training at a gym across the island. After I leave.

Some things just weren't meant to happen.

I'm not surprised- My training in India was not possible for over a month due to a flu-like virus, and I was too easily drawn to socialising with colleagues and fellow volunteers in Goa. I knew that, and I knew I had little time to get back to full fighting fitness here in Thailand.

But I gave it a go. I've had an amazing time. I've trained, lived and really got to know the thai and Burmese trainers, fighters and staff here at the camp. Getting to know "Real Thailand" is not easy in a country so saturated, funded, and often overwhelmed with foreign tourists. I had "Bloggers block" when I got here- I had so little to say about such a tourist-spoilt country. I could see little culture that wasn't forced for the tourist Baht.

There was no challange like in India, where you were a westener getting by in a strange land. Here in Thailand, you were catered for, yet another tourist who will drink too much, waste too much, take too much, and go back home "travelled", paying anyone and everyone who has made it thier life making your travelling easy.

It was "easy" to travel around here, and so difficult to see the "true country".

But I feel I finally have. It took a while. The guys and girls here, Deday, Ot, Pon, Moo, Ek and the rest "bring you in". After so long, with the right attitude, your no longer another Farang, but a member of the camp, one of the family. You see the difference in their spirituality, faith, thinking, justifying, living. A culture so buried beneath the tourist Baht, beyond the sights, I thought I would never see it. But I got a glimps.

Suddenly, I realised I was in Thailand. Real thailand. I shake scorpions out of my shorts without a second thought, I eat salty fried grasshoppers with my beer, and share my lao cow with my thai friends using one glass, and never eat alone. The conversation, the banter, the fun- it never stops, despite our language differences.

I now have too much to write about. So I wont. And too much more to see. But I wont.
I could stay here indefinitly. Train, relax, work in the camp and maybe fight every few weeks- an idylic existance I would love. But then there is the north of the country. The boarder regions. Even the mainland. So much more to see, so many fellow tourists to share it with, so many thai's selling it, making it accessable.

So I'm not upset about not seeing it. I have had an amazing, unique time here. I got to train in a martial art I love, to a level higher than I have ever achieved, in the country it originates, with amazing people who's life and culture revolve around Muay Thai. I didn't get to fight during my time here. But I got to know a bit of Thailand. A real bit. A gem.

I'll never be the same again.

Training

Bob Marley wakes me up again... I'm really starting to hate that song.


I turn off my phone and slid out from under the mosquito net, into my flip-flops and stumble into the bathroom. I share my sink with an army of ants, removing the remains of a large insect the ghecko must have missed from behind the tap.

It's a hot morning, and the thai-oil I rub into my joints starts to make me hotter.

Cicadas and grasshoppers in the surrounding jungle make a high pitched buzzing/chirping sound, the new sunrise uniting them in a harmony loud enough to drown out my rustling as I find a clean pair of thai boxing shorts.


I leave Mrs G snoring under the mossie net and walk to the training area, water in one hand, electrolyte powder and ankle supports in the other. I'm almost awake.


Ot, one of our two trainers meets me at the edge of the training area, I drop my things, place my palms together and we Wai in greeting. I lean against the ring, roll my handwraps and shoot the breeze with Dan (a scottish boxer) and Patrick (a canadian mixed martial artist), then put on my trainers.

I start my run up the hill and into the jungle, past the ring, then the generators. Pon is filling one with petrol and waves at me as I jog past.

I drop down the other side of the steep ridge, past a small family dwelling with it's family of chickens, and who's dog comes firing out like a round furry missile, barking, snarling and worrying my ankles. I stop, hands up, the dog stops. I ruffle his ears, and continue up the second steep hill, onto the track that goes deeper into the jungle.

It's steep enough that when I stumble, I can catch myself by just reaching in front of me. It levels off for maybe 15 meters, then for 100 meters continues up, at maybe 45-50 degrees. I'm sweating freely now, and my breathing had become deep, hungry, lung-burning pants as I take fast mini-steps up the gradient. My legs are now burning as I follow the track round to the left, then right, still steep enough to warrant steps.

The final hurdle is ahead, where the track becomes almost vertical, and my run is now no longer cardio vascular- my legs are now on their own, burning stored energy as my lungs cannot keep up. My empty stomach tightens and the familiar nausea washes over me as I will myself to keep going.

My legs are now burning, deep inside the muscles, and I swing my arms harder. Can't stop.


I get to the summit, where it levels off to a lesser incline, and now I walk, fast as I can, sucking air in hard and fast as my legs wobble and threaten to give up on me.

The cicadas are more numerous here, almost deafening me with a high pitched whirring that is disorientating and curiously unnerving.

A lizard, maybe 3 feet long comes barreling out of the dense jungle, crosses the track in front of me, and shimmies up a tree, making it shake with it's weight.

I can hear what sounds like a monkey to my left, but I cannot see it. The jungle either side of me is a wall of green and brown, its density allowing just a few meters view inside. A huge butterfly flits past.


I turn around for a second’s breather, and through a frame of jungle I look down onto Haad Yuan bay. A cool breeze washes over me through the break in the trees. The sun is bright, and the sky a pale blue dome over a calm aqua sea. Far below, the white sand of the beach is still empty, and the backpacker bungalows are completely hidden in the palm trees behind the beach. On the right side of the bay, the land erupts out of the sea dramatically, a steep, green covered ridge, with a skirt of huge boulders and rocks. There is a scattering of wooden huts built on these rocks, connected by wooden walkways, just high enough to avoid sea when it crashes against the rocks in bad weather.


It's amazing, pristine, a view of tropical paradise with a jungle soundtrack. A brightly coloured parrot fly’s above the coconut palms below.


I turn back, and jog the rest of the way up this ridge. I run fast down the other side, and continue the run up the next steep hill, this one not as sever as the last but longer. This continues, steep uphill, slight downhill, until I've past the spring that feeds the camps water supply and ran one more hill than last time, signaling my time to turn back.

The run back is easier, as I'm descending, but more dangerous- I slip on the dirt track as I struggle to control my steep descent, hopping over tree roots, vines and rocks.

My breathing is nice and steady again by the time I jog into the training area, wash the dust from my legs and pour cold water over the back of my head. Russ (Kickboxing instructor from Birmingham) puts some training music on as I swap my trainers for ankle supports.

The others have been skipping to warm up for the last 30 minutes, and I find myself stretching off alongside Patrick in the ring.


"Wanna spar man?" He offers.

"cool!"


We stretch, constantly dripping sweat onto the canvass and I wrap my hands and wrists ready for the bag work after. Patrick and I then strap on our shin pads and boxing gloves, and after a few minuets shadow boxing, Ot jumps into the ring and faces us off.


"OK...Ready... Fight!"


Patrick and I tap gloves, and we both dance the thai boxing walk- raised fists bouncing in time with the music, heads wobbling lightly with chins tucked in, balancing our weight through the balls of our feet, front (left) legs bouncing slightly.

We circle each other, our whole bodies now in a rhythm to the music. I focus on his chin through the frame of our gloves, our left hands extended to each other slightly, our rights nearer our face, left feet forward, on the balls of our right, toes facing front.


Slap! His jab hits my gloves. I immediately counter with 2 fast jabs of my own, step right and hook at his exposed kidneys, while his hands are covering his face. My glove glances his side as he skips and throws a roundhouse kick to my left side.

I take it, blocking too late but throw a hook to his temple, PAP! It connects, upper cut, blocked, he left jabs, I catch it in my glove, his cross right, I cover (block), I slap his guard down with my left and throw a straight right, PAP! He takes it on his nose and we both step back.

He bounces his head side to side- Ok, good one mate.

He throws a head kick, I block, catch/slip his 2 jabs, cross and PAP! He lands a hook to my jaw, stiff and clean. I bounce my head this time and we share a smile.

I slip my feet, then roundhouse kick to his side. He blocks it and our shins crash together hard, pads easing the blow. I drop into guard and throw a jab, cross, hook combo; he catches the jab and swings back on his hips, slipping round my cross, hook and then PAT!- he lands a hook of his own in my side. We're close, and automatically we pull each other into the clinch. We wrestle, moving around the ring fighting for the dominant position, heads pressed close together to avoid elbows, constantly slapping knees on each others sides.


We don’t elbow in training, but considerate knee strikes are fine.


I'm pulling him down and right, opening his left for clear knee strikes, then changing as he twists away. I land a fair few, careful as I know my knee is landing on his floating rib area. I'm now panting deeply against my gloves as I struggle to keep his head down and resist his attempts to "swim through" my grip. He changes his grip slightly. I get a blocking shin between us. He pulls, I resist, we adjust grip, pull tight again. I try and hit him with another knee, he jerks, then BLAM! I'm horizontal on the canvass and he's skipped back to the corner.


Great throwdown!


I smile and nod as he steps forward to help me up, and we tap gloves again. We're keeping our distance and catching our breath, landing roundhouses and straight kicks to torso and legs, most blocked, a few punches, all blocked.

He throws a roundhouse kick to my side, I catch it, step into it and throw a downward elbow into his thigh, let go and initiate what would be a back-elbow to his head. Obviously I don’t connect, and quickly defend against a flurry of punches instead. I block, parry and slip all except for a loud PAT! to my kidneys. Again.

We share a smile, he roundhouse kicks my side, I catch again, this time kicking out his supporting leg and he hits the ring floor with a crash. He nods thoughtfully. We trade a few more blows, padded shins and gloves crashing together. My eyes are almost unfocused, aimed at his chin/chest but striving to see his body as a whole, trying to catch that shift of bodyweight, distance, opportunity and warning.


He throws a roundhouse to my side again after a flurry of blows. I catch his leg again, this time pulling him into a punch before pushing him off balance and kicking his supporting leg. We both grin. He throws a jab, cross, hook, I catch them in my gloves, then suddenly PAT! He buries another hook into my side.


We grin wider and I shake my head in mock frustration.


Times up, we tap gloves, briefly, loosely embrace with a pat on the back, and get down to discussing our strengths and weaknesses to work on.


Round two is much the same, but this time more of our blows land. I can't catch his roundhouse again. I use my elbows to block those punches to my sides. We call it quits at round three, having had great fun but aware we have pad and bag work yet to come.

I'm now sucking air in deeply, and my hands are shaking as I shadow box by the ring for a few minutes, trying to recover. My shorts are dripping sweat, and I realize I'm out of water, despite only taking tiny sips.

The cicadas have calmed down, and the sun seems fully up and more intense than usual. The fans above the ring do little against the heat and humidity.


"Andy, Come!" Deday shouts to me from the ring.

Both Ot and Deday are kitted out in belly protector, shin pads and have Thai kick-pads strapped to their arms.

"Am I with you?" I ask Deday as I climb over the ropes, praying I'm with Ot, as I'm so tired, and he seems less concerned with work-rate than defending the punches and kicks he randomly throws at you.

"Yaa you with me! Now... stand, guard, guard!!"

I stand in the guard, like I was with Patrick.

"Jab bop!" (I jab the pad)

"Pan Bop! POWER!! MORE POWER!" (I cross-punched the pad, pathetically it seems)

"Kick" I throw a right roundhouse kick, hard and fast as I can, like a whip extending from the hip, right hand dropping behind my arse, left fist in front of my face. My shin makes a loud PUMF! as it hits the pads and sweat splatters off my leg. I quickly drop my leg back, and throw a left-right and then left cross elbow onto Deday's waiting pads.

"Urr-aaagh!!" Deday shouts by way of encouragement, nodding.

"Again!....."

For the 6 minute rounds, Deday would be shouting out strikes in different combinations, getting me whipping the pads with roundhouse kicks (low, mid and high), stamping his belly protector with teeps (front push-kick), punching the pads with jabs, crosses, hooks, uppercuts, along with cross-elbows, uppercut elbows, downward elbows, and knee strikes that were only good enough if they lifted him off his feet, and I pulled him onto them. Then jumping techniques were introduced, throwing flying-elbows and flying-knees to finish or start combinations, seemingly at random.

Every time I completed a combination fast and strong enough for him, I was rewarded with a loud "Urraaagh!! GOOD, POWERRR!!"


With Deday, poor form, failing to block a punch or kick he would throw, or not understanding a "trick/defense" he wants you to do results in a "NOOO! Ahhhhh, no!" accompanied by downcast head-shaking and a very seriously pissed-off expression. It appears to deeply hurt him if you get something wrong, or so he pretends. So you do it again, then again faster, then another combination, then a defense-counter attack combination, another combination, again and again.

Soon I was sure the round was over, having done absolutley every single technique he's taught me, in every combination seemingly possible. I was panting deeply, struggling to keep my gloves high, having not stopped, weakened or paused for a moment. He looks at the clock on the wall.

"Ahhh OK..." he says

I throw my hands down.

"20 kick!" He says, holding the pads high....

I groan and start kicking, fast as I can. Then we swap to the other leg.

"100 punch!" He shouts immediately, and I 1-2 punch the waiting pads, sweat flying off me as I punch, left, right, left, right, left, right.....

Then elbows....then knees.....then...

"OK 1 minute!"... Deday immediately goes to the ropes and starts his charm on some passing girls, who were watching the training with interest.

I run to the other ropes and get ready to vomit, nearly falling through the ropes, so tired I can’t stand.

One minute later, we do another round.....

After that, it's bag work for a short while, shadow boxing to cool down, and then I head off to my hut for a cold shower, dry clothes, and then breakfast with Mrs G and the lads.


We all spend the day recovering (doing nothing), and then start again at 4pm, replacing the run with skipping and the warm down with groundwork- sit ups, press-ups etc.

It's a great life!

Or at least it was until I got injured. Today I can hardly walk due to a hip injury.

Bugger.

Full Moon Party

The full moon parties that are held on our island draw thousands of western tourists every month, attracted to the drug and alcohol soaked atmosphere of other tourists (travellers) going nuts on a beach for 24 hours.

We didn't go to the last one, as we had recently arrived and preferred to chill out with our new friends Sophi and Dan from Germany in a quiet bar here on our beach paradise.

The next month though we decided to go, as did everyone else at the camp. So we all met up in the common area about 10pm on the full moon night, sipping coffee shakes, redbull to someones dance CD's, before squeezing into a worryingly narrow, wooden long-tail boat for the trip to Haad Rin.

The moon was out and full this time (last "full moon" party was postponed a couple of days due to elections), and indeed looked magical reflected off the gently rippling water as we sailed around the beach head and rocks. The moonlight seemed strong enough to read by, it was so bright. Our coxswain knocked off his solitary running light as we hummed through the flat water, the moonlight illuminating in silver our path through the rocks.

When we reached Haad Rin, the sight on the beach reminded me of the scene from Apocalypse Now- Music boomed from multiple piles of bass speakers, thrown together haphazardly. Lights flashed different colours, fireworks went off flashing and banging over the lights. The beach was a writhing mass of bodies, all dancing, staggering, falling, and boats like ours carried yet more people onto the beach, threading their way past each other, avoiding the fully clothed people dancing, or maybe swimming in the water.

They say up to 30,000 people can attend on any full moon, and being there, I can quite believe it. The bars were little more than trestle tables laid out on the beach in single line, selling small plastic buckets with a bottle of whiskey or rum, a can of cola and a redbull sitting in. For between 300 and 450 Baht (depending on your spirit of choice), the "bar" tenders will fill the buckets with ice and pour in the booze and 2 mixers.
A couple of straws and your good to go!
All the way down the beach, speakers pumped out different types of music- in front of one "bar", Timberlake's bassy tunes were making our kidneys vibrate, but with just a few paces down the line the music changed to Jungle music, with a London MC chatting like a machine gun to a pleasingly multicultural, but very British, crowd.

Our group split for a bit, as the single lads went off looking for company, and us married/quieter types found a bar where we could shoot pool and talk.

Eventually, after many beers and much amusement at the drug addled antics of the gap-year travelers, everyone from the camp met up again on the beach. One of our guys, a kickboxing instructor from Birmingham, had a nice American girl clamped onto his arm so decided to stay. However, the rest of us were too drunk or tired to go on, so we squeezed again into a narrow boat, and chugged slowly off the beach.

The beach was wrecked. Bottles, rubbish, and crap from the sea (brought by the boats) was floating in the shallows, which were also full of people swimming/falling about in the filthy brown water. As we chugged past the drunk and the wasted, I noticed a young couple bumping uglies, I mean really going at it, like rabbits on Viagra, just meters away from the boat. The water was so dirty, they will surely catch a nasty infection! (And probably blame each other for it....)

Mrs G and I got to bed about 5.30am after a nightcap in the camps restaurant area, a little drunk, but nothing near the state the "Full Moon Party" seems to induce in most people.

The following day we returned to Haad Rin, on a bank and shopping trip. The mess was still there; farangs off their faces and struggling to remain upright after 24 hours drug and alcohol abuse, beer bottles smashed into the soft white sand, cigarette boxes bobbing in the filth of the sea, and everyone mumbling about how many have died "this time".

But now the beach is clean, the majority of tourists have gone, and its back to normal.

For a few weeks at least.

The Journey To Paradise

We booked combination tickets (2nd class train, bus and ferry) to Koh Phangan (or Koh Pah Ngan, or Koh pan ngan, as translations differ), leaving Bangkok just after 5pm on the overnight train.

Having travelled on a few overnight trains in India, we were expecting the usual problems such as what stop is this, which train is this, that's my seat etc. It was a pleasant surprise then when the immaculately dressed railway cop took my ticket and escorted me to the right train, the right carriage, and even pointed to our seats.
We weren't expecting the train to be jam-packed with other farangs, with the de rigor backpacks and flip-flops either. Or to have so much space- rather than a 2 sets of 3-tier bunks facing each other on one side, and two bunks on the other side, the Thai train had just 2 tier bunks, on each side of the train running parallel to the windows.
They were big bunks too, with curtains that screened out the lights, and fresh clean sheets and mattress that a train employee made up for us straight after our meal. Even our meal was pretty posh- laid out on a table that a guy set up for us between the two seats that converted into the lower bunk. Beer and wine was available, and after we had finished, the train-guy leaned over to me conspiratorially-
"You come party carriage! Drinking, party music, smoking ok! 3rd one down- ok?"
"Er, ok!"

We made sure our stuff was secure soon as the guy done our beds, and wondered down the train.
We got to the third carriage, and could hear the music over the roar of the engine and the wind before we pushed the door open. The sight that greeted us made me laugh out loud- disco lights had replaced all the normal lighting, creating a dark but neon-pink and blue flashing atmosphere, the music was old rock, with Guns and Roses and Black Sabbath blaring out. There were seats and tables set up on each side of the carriage, with a neon-pink lined bar down one end, where the barman was dancing and yelling along to the lyrics while pouring a bottle of Meakong whiskey into a bucket of redbull and cola. All the windows were open in an attempt to dissipate the cigarette and cannabis smoke, which wasn't entirely successful but did add to the "Crazy Train" atmosphere, with the wind roaring along with the distorted guitars.
We got a seat, which was lucky in the packed carriage,and talked until alcohol fuzzed our conversation with an Australian couple, before collapsing in our bunks around midnight.

The next day, after getting to our station late, we found we missed the ferry. There was another one at 1400, however after buying new tickets for the 12 o' clock one, and generally being shuttled about by guys who didn't seem to have a clue what was going on, we ended up at the ferry port, only to get the 1400 one anyway.
It was a cock-up, and an expensive one, but I still cringed when our fellow passengers started shouting the odds and swearing at the thai guys. Maybe we are just use to having a few problems now, or maybe we're too laid back, but I still dont think it's a good idea to piss the people off that you need to help you. Certainly not here anyway, where "face" is important and shouting looses face for all concerned!

Eventually we got to the ferry, where I slept for most of the journey to the main port of Tong Sala on our island. From there it was another toyota pickup taxi to the taxi-boats, then a white-knuckle ride in a long-tail boat to our beach.

What a beach!

Backed by coconut palms, the beach is in a bay formed out of rocky hills on each side. White sand slips gradually out into aqua-blue water. To the left of the beach, when approaching by boat, is some rough-hewn steps leading up the rocks to our Muay Thai camp. By the time we climbed them, still wearing our hiking boots and cargos, we were drenched with sweat, and falling over, sucking the hot air into our lungs.

Our accommodation at the Muay Thai camp is a teak and bamboo bungalow, built on stilts on the rocks overlooking the bay. It's basic, with the bathroom back-wall actually being a large rock-face, and we wake up to fresh gecko shit everywhere each morning. However, the deck outside our front door is spacious with a large hammock hanging there to while away the hours on, listening to the waves and watching the world go by on the quiet beach below.

Rarely is there more than 10 people on the beach, and if that's too busy for your taste, there is a smaller bay and beach 5 mins walk away, which seems to be always deserted. If it's too quiet, there is a larger beach over the other hill, which has a small shop and regular taxi boats to the main beach of Haad Rin, where the ATM, 7-11 stores and all other traveller essentials are.

So now we're here, so far been here for 3 weeks, and I don't ever want to leave.

My routine is to get up at 7.30, as training is at 8 until about 10am. I go for a run for half an hour, which up and down the crazy hills here pretty much destroys me, and then into the training area for up to an hour and a half working on technique- shadow boxing, bag work, then finally into the ring for either sparring with a partner or pad work with one of the trainers. A guy called Deday is my favoured trainer, despite his habit of making me dive out the ring to throw up, due to the intensity of his 5-minute rounds on the pads ("30 kicks...Arrgh!! NO Power! 30 more, again!... now knee! More Power!!").

Training over, its a cold shower and breakfast with Mrs G, who usually has a leisurely lie-in.

Then...nothing.

Read a book on the beach, watch telly in the communal area with the other lads, or chill in my hammock, with the beautiful ladies strolling past below, on their way to Yoga or tantric chanting or suchlike.

Lunch.

Sleep.

A toasting session for Mrs G on the beach.

From 4pm to 6pm it's training again, working on conditioning this time. Skipping, shadow boxing and stretching then into heavy bag work, doing 100s of kicks, punches, elbows and knees until spots start swimming in front of my eyes.
Then into the ring for more sparring or pad-work.

The cold shower afterwards is heavenly, as the heat and humidity here makes you sweat just standing in the shade. Another meal, and then more chilling out!

Occasionally we will stroll to another of the bars in the area for a healthy fruit-shake. There is a DVD player and big wide screen TV in the camps restaurant/communal area, so many nights we all get together and watch pirate DVDs, as there are hundreds left over from previous students.

It's a hard life her during the week.

We get Saturdays off from training, so Friday nights we start off at a bamboo and teak bar/restaurant where we are like old friends with the staff (who love to consistently beat all of us trainees at chess).
All the bars here favor short mattress and pillows over chairs, and have a no-shoes policy, so we laze barefoot here for some time, before eventually going to another bar, a 10 minute walk into the jungle. Here it's the same score with the wooden construction and barefoot-lying- down thing. However, most people are giving it berries on the dancefloor, bottles of water in their hands and slack-jawed, happy-vacant looks on their faces.

Whatever you do, don't order the mushroom shake here.

The trance and house music booms until 7am, but due to the beer, I'm usually incoherent by midnight and snoring in our bungalow by 2am.

Occasionally we make the excursion to Haad Rin, a bank and shopping run for vitals such as electrolyte powders, soft-drinks and toilet paper (rarely used, as the, ahem, Indian/Thai way does the job nicely for me. Do try it before you judge!). We get to access the net there, and make any phone calls needed, as there is no reception where we are. Full to the brim with fellow farangs, sports-bars, 7-11's etc, its a relief to leave Haad Rin and get back to our tranquil, isolated piece of paradise.

Life is great here. It's easy, relaxed, and the muay thai training is second to none, as everyone has been fighting or training in Muay Thai since they were children, such is the culture here.
I now only drink occasionally and smoking messes with my training, so I rarely bother.

Simply put, it's a beautiful, healthy, peaceful peice of paradise for me.

I just wish we had longer here...

Staying on the Kwia

During our first trip we were to be staying on a house boat on the river Kwia itself. We got there via a Toyota pick-up truck "taxi", which we shared with other Farangs also on the trip, all of us sitting on two benches facing inwards with our rucksacks between our knees or strapped to the home-made roof. I could see why we swapped our air-con minibuses for the Toyota workhorses when we set off down the unpaved road which bumped its way to the river bank where the house boat was moored.
Once there, sweating and lethargic in the afternoon heat, it was a short walk down the bank and onto the houseboat, which already had freshly cooked rice, Thai green curry and a stir-fry waiting for us on the tables in the eating area.

"Oh God, now, no this is too much, I cant do this!" A shrill mid-Atlantic voice complains as soon as we disembark the Toyota. The owner of the nasally complaint is a stout woman who I figure is pissed off she has to walk down the stairs to the boat with her suitcase (not the most practical piece of luggage for touring Thailand). Everyone else has grabbed their luggage and bee-lined for the hot food, so I step forward to help.

"I am NOT carrying that down there, this is just too much!" She continues gesturing to the luggage and the slight thai girl who is our guide. The thai girl, who I figure is so small, she could actually climb into the suitcase and fit quite comfortably,with a friend, grabs the handle at the stout women's gesturing, and starts attempting to take it down the riverbank stairs. Satisfied, the stout woman wobbles past her empty-handed and down to the waiting food. I adjust my bags and help the Thai girl carry the suitcase, before it drags her down the bank and into the water. When we get the suitcase onto the boat, the thai girl gave me a knowing smile and says "Yeah, you English".

The boat was lovely, a flat raft with a covered communal eating area one end, and the other a line of simple rooms with attached bathrooms, opening out onto decking with table and chairs arranged for sitting and looking out onto the water, which flowed with surprising speed.

That night, after a great home-made thai meal, we sat on the decking and watched the river flow by , sipping Mekong whisky and talking about Europe to the bigoted, borderline racist and over-opinionated stout woman who was incapable of carrying her own bag before. I found it crazy she was so anti-immigration and so extremely opinionated on matters relating to England (and the royal family?!), considering she hadn't lived in England since 1968, when she moved to Canada.
Poor Canada.
Lucky us.

The next morning we were up early and before breakfast were taken to where the elephants were being bathed.
Former working elephants, now retired, their continued employment relies on farangs like us visiting them for rides and the chance to fool around in the water with them.

Now I wasn't sure on this, having studied at length the wild elephants of Kenya, gaining a huge amount of respect, care and healthy amount of fear for these enormous, amazing, intelligent creatures. However, these were domestic elephants, a far cry from the wild African elephant. Still didn't stop me worrying when I climbed onto it's back to set off into the river Kwia for bath-time.
However, the elephant seemed happy enough, it's mahout laughing and joking as the elephant happily tips us into the water again and again. It was strange, to be this close to the elephant, to feel its thick, wire-haired skin, to touch its tusks, and to swim around it, this huge, amazing creature. I noticed Becci was in the water almost constantly, seemingly unable to stay on as the elephant tips its huge bulk sideways into the water. I was faring a little better, which I was glad of- I felt very uncomfortable climbing all over such a magnificent creature, like it was disrespectful. However, this is Thailand, not Africa, and like in India, elephants have been domesticated for quite some time.

After "washing" the elephants, and then ourselves (I was acutely aware the water I was swimming in was the same the house-boats toilet empties into), we had breakfast, and set about our other trips. Over the couple of days these included "elephant trekking" which I found boring and didn't like the mahouts "pick-axe", and a visit to a waterfall.

The waterfall wasn't spectacular, however we walked a few K's further up and found some caves. For 50 Baht, the park-wardens took Mrs Grasshopper and I, plus an Ozzy couple who had a similar idea, deep into the depths of the caves. Becci opted out, not liking the tight fit through the entrance, but she met us outside some time later, when we emerged scratched, hot and soaked through with sweat. I had thought the caves would be cool, but in actual fact they were like an oven, and the oil-lamp the warden used didn't help matters. Pitch-dark, hot and with incredible narrow crevices to scramble through, it was an unusual but very enjoyable experience.

The ice-cold water I bought at the waterfall on the way home was amazing, after the heat of the caves and the walk!

We also visited the "Tiger temple", a Buddhist monastery that initially took in a couple of wounded animals from the local people, and now have a full sanctuary for a number of different animals, the largest being the Tigers.
There is a "rumor" amongst a number of travellers that the tigers there are drugged, in order for tourists to sit by them for photographs. The monastery refute this, claiming in the handout that accompanies the entrance ticket that the tigers are simply so use to humans. Certainly, there were a few baby tigers, who were running around with the farangs, playing with the kids, the handlers and even a 2 year old little boy, who was regularly nibbled on by a particularly excitable 6 week old tiger. The big tigers were half-comatose in the heat, and they lay about while tourists que to get their photo taken while stroking one. We didn't bother, though we got lots of photos fooling around with the tiger-kittens.

Before long we were on our way back to Bangkok, where we stayed out drinking again on the Kho San road, taking in the waves of Farangs, working girls, bars, moody merchandise and fantastic food stalls.
The following day we set off for Koh Chang.

To be honest, Koh Chang for me was a mammoth bus ride, a lovely air-con hotel room where I spent hours filling out forms and making notes, a bad Indian curry, a nice piece of fish, and then a mammoth bus ride back to Bangkok. I only left the room to eat and buy cigarettes and water. But apparently the beach was beautiful, and one night we watched guys dancing while twirling fire, which was cool, another night we found a bar that wasn't aimed only at matching girls with clients, which was nice. But it was soon over, and Mrs G and Becci seemed to have enjoyed themselves. I was just glad to get a start on my forms.

Unfortunately, once back in Bangkok Becci's time with us was over, and she left the night we got back from Ko Chang.

The next couple of days in Bangkok saw me finish my paperwork and DHL it back to the UK, and then we boarded a train, bound south where we would get a bus, then a ferry, then a taxi, then a taxi-boat to Koh Pa Ngan. There we were to be staying for 6 weeks at a muay thai training camp, where I can get back into training, and maybe even get a fight before we leave.

That overnight train journey was like no other we had experianced...!

River Kwai

We set off early the next morning to start our first tour. Becci and I had made a silly decision to share a bottle of whiskey that night, (I needed it to calm my nerves after the pingpong show), so we were up later than I had hoped the next morning.
We set off to Kanchanaburi province in a minibus, which was quite cool and had working air con, and soon arrived at the War graves.

It was a sobering visit, the perfect rows of headstones, marking the graves of those British and commonwealth soldiers who had died building the railway to Burma. I walked up and down the lines, the headstones glittering wet after the recent rain, and read the inscriptions. Many were my own age and younger, and I could only imagine how fucked up it must have been to have died so far from home, in such as strange foreign land, building a railway in conditions that were killing your friends around you. Not even fighting, but building a railway.

The Jeath museum by the bridge over the river Kwai and the Hellfire pass museum gave greater insight into the railway, the lives it cost, and the conditions for the prisoners during the end of their war. All in it was a very sober day- insightful, educational, and deeply saddening.



"We loved you with all our hearts, always. We will be united again one day in heaven- your Mum and Dad"

That was an inscription on one of the headstones. It really got to me, that one.

Bangkok

Or Krung Thep if your thai- the city of Angels.

We landed, a little disorientated from the little sleep we've had, and the strange hours we got it since we left our hotel in Mumbai 2 days ago (or was it now three?).
I text Becci soon as we landed, and before we knew it we were through the immigration checks, customs and standing by the taxi desk outside the shiny new airport. We sorted a metered Taxi, in an amazed daze that the driver was actually using his meter, instead of arguing over an initially 500% inflated first price.

As Mrs G and I marvelled at the immaculate modern saloon we were driving in, down a perfectly surfaced and organised highway, I actually felt like it was a little eery- no battered ambassador taxi-cars doing death races, no cows on the road, no auto-rickshaws barely cheating death (just thier passengers), and no constant beeping of horns. Even the roads were perfect, organised and clean, the police officers at the toll roads fit, disciplined and immaculately turned out, and with none of the barely contained aggression and menace of India's police.

Becci had text to say where she was, a nice new budget hotel just off the Khoa San road- the backpacker ghetto of south east Asia. We found it easy enough, and after paying the driver just under 300 Baht, we sat in the lobby and waited for her.

I felt somewhat self-conscious in my zip-off cargo trousers, hiking boots and bush shirt (all washed and dried within an hour back in Sri Lanka). Everyone else was in either the tourist uniform or traveller uniform. For tourists it comprises of silly hat, maybe advertising their hotel or coach tour, T-shirts with Singha beer picture or crude joke on the front, and loud shorts so awful they can hide vomit stains.
The difference is the travellers may actually have the vomit stains, often dressed in faded, torn old t-shirts bought in the last country they were in, big baggy shapeless trousers or combat shorts, and bags still with airline stickers attached. Some have flags sewn into their rucksacks showing the countries they were last in. Others maybe have "natural fiber" shoulder bags, sewn by a 500 year old woman in the Himalayas from the wool of 3 legged llamas. Or something cool like that.
Then you got the sex tourists, who have a habit of looking like, um, sex tourists. Mostly over 40, the teenage Thai girl holding their middle-aged sweaty hand as they stroll along kinda gives it away.
The one thing everyone will be wearing is "thongs" (Ozzy term- not the strappy briefs that hide VPL, but "flip-flops", horrible plates of rubber held to your feet by a strap that goes between your toes.) These things are far from high street fashion, but they are useful and for me that's about it. So I cant help but laugh when people spend loads on getting ones with fashion jewellery, buckles, and brand names attached. Those who do are usually the tourists.
(the "travellers" get renewable hemp ones. Or ones made by a 500 year old porpoise living in the andamans or something).

Becci came down to meet us after a quick shower- she had been having a few beers with a German couple she had met on the plane the night before, so like us was a little tired that morning.
We went to the cafe next door, looking for Indian chai as it was an Indian cafe, had breakfast, then went straight into the travel agents next door to book tours.
Our first was a visit to the war graves, bridge over the river Kwai, Jeath Museum, death railway and hellfire pass, as well as elephant trekking, elephant washing and a visit to the tiger temple to play with baby tigers. We'd be staying on a house boat on the river Kwia too.

The second tour ended up to be to Koh Chang, the two girls choosing it over my suggestion to go somewhere closer. Which was fair enough, as I would unfortunately be in the hotel room the whole time doing my forms for The Job back home. Plus I'm not really a beach-lover, getting sunburned under a fridge light.

Our week together booked, we had the day to chill out and catch up. Having not had a
nights sleep for a few nights now, we actually did pretty good to keep going until past midnight that night. Having found a room at the same hotel as Becci, we wondered up and down the Khao San, marvelling at how many white people there were, how the atmosphere was so different, and how there were no cows.

Somewhere, in one of the bars maybe, I suggested going to a Cabaret show that night in Sukumvit, the party area of the city. The cabaret performers are Kathoey or "lady-boys" in the west, heavily made up and in amazing clothing perform sing and dance routines which I've been reliably informed are great fun to watch, and a must-do. Tickets were advertised at the travel agents, so I figured it shouldn't be too seedy either, thinking of the girls respectability and all that.

The girls had other ideas though.

They dragged me to a ping-pong show.

Yep, THE ping-pong show, the one where they play pingpong without a net or paddle.

"It will be a giggle" says Mrs Grasshopper, as I shake my head in disbelief.
It will change how I see bananas.
And Candles.
Eugh!.....