Thailand Fun

So Chinese New Year fell upon us and as the Vietnamese trotted off to their home towns to celebrate with family and their ‘lucky money’ – a custom that makes the consumer-hungry Western traditions seem a little less shallow as it simply involves giving each other money in specially designed envelopes – the school shut its doors for a week and we used this excuse to flee the country. We are hoping to gain the record for the longest serving Westerners to see have only seen one place in Vietnam, I think we are doing quite well.
So with our e-ticket in hand and ignoring the scare stories of Asian pilots who didn’t have the credentials to land in Europe we boarded a flight to Thailand which resulted in a very strange feeling to arrive in a hot Asian country with no jet-lag, still in the same timezone. Leaving the international delights of Bangkok behind we boarded a bus to the second largest island, Ko Chang – simply Elephant Island. After a remarkably comfortable journey on a semi-deserted bus we were on a ferry slowly ploughing its way through the stretch of water between the island and the main land. After being dropped off we piled into a little truck which seemed to be masquerading as a taxi, complete with roof rack for luggage and we began our education in the geography of Ko Chang. It soon became obvious that the roads circumnavigating the island had been constructed by a roller coaster enthusiast. Within minutes of leaving the ferry port the small engine was straining against the weight of eight passengers and a roof loaded with luggage as it struggled up the mountainous angle of the road. As tourists of motorbikes overtook us, who I could only guessed must have had their shirts ripped from their backs by the sheer speed of their travel, we made our way slowly to the brow of the hill only to crush into each other as we careened down the other side. The island consists of a number of different beaches around which resorts, huts, restaurants and roadside stalls have erupted like sores. Our first-stop to unload some passengers was Whitesands – supposedly the posh resort area of the island which translated as flooded with concrete to support shopping plazas, western shops and the obligatory Irish Pub all at inflated prices so that tourists could relax in the familiar surroundings of a run-down English seaside town. Fleeing quickly we drove through Kai Bae offering moderate to expensive accommodation with a large choice of restaurant, bars and shops – my favourites of the latter two being ‘Friendly Bar – where friends can be found for the evening’ - a cuddly euphemism - and ‘Bra! Bra!’ – simple yet effective. We ended up in the backpacker area of Lonely Beach, which is noted for its party atmosphere but the resorts and concrete had disappeared and the stretch of shops and restaurants were kept to a minimum. After an hour of locals pointing in different directions and being offered depressing rooms with hot water and cable TV we finally found the guesthouse where we made our reservations after a long sticky upward climb past other accommodation options which began to look very appealing in the heat. Hiding at the top of the path behind palm trees and jungle was the stilted reception and restaurant of Oasis. We were greeted by a suitably smiley host called Sunee and we looked out at the vista which offered only jungle and sea. Our simple hut had no TV and no hot water but what it did have was the ‘jungle shower’. A massive shower head through which water plunged straight from the jungle behind the huts to provide our very own cool waterfall. Brilliant.
Our time on Ko Chang alternated between activity and slothfulness. We decided to go elephant trekking, hoping that they would be slightly happier than those residing in Siagon Zoo. We were picked up at our hotel and transported over the hills and far away into the jungle where the elephant camp was based. Our companions for the day were a family of Eastern Europeans, consisting of an uber excited little girl, and what we guessed to be a Russian man from his suspicious demeanour, lack of eye contact and his decision to dress like a 1970s Russian tennis player. We arrived, ate the obligatory pineapple offered and then trekked off, joining some other groups, to wash the elephants. We stopped at a lake and were quickly joined by two elephants, who charged into the water. Everyone was encouraged to get in the water and swim with the animals. Our fellow tourists looked horrified at the thought and so it was obviously my job to reveal my bikini and wade into the water towards the beasts. Although it is lots of fun and a really unique experience to sit on the back of an elephant, scrubbing its head with a brush while it squirts you with water, the whole situation takes a rather more odd feeling when you look up to see twelve Eastern Europeans watching and taking photographs. I sincerely hope that those photos don’t make their way onto any holiday slideshows.
The owners of our guest-house were nice enough to invite us to go trekking in the jungle behind the huts as they needed to check on the water supply. Tim and I tried to decide if it was going to be a really easy walk or if our guides only had one type of shoe as we compared our choice of trainers to theirs of flip-flops. The father of the family led us off into the jungle and quickly upwards towards a beautiful vista, leading the way with the use of a machete. We climbed upwards for an hour, climbing over rocks, trees and bushes and wondering at the lack of water evident over the waterfalls during the dry season. Once the water supply had been checked satisfactorily and any kinks beaten out of the pipes snaking down the mountain our guide decided to offer us a quick alternative route back down to the huts. I didn’t spend too much time looking down of the precipice that he was suggesting we navigate ourselves down but agreed readily as he assured us through his daughter that the vines were very strong. They were indeed and at the bottom looking back up the vertical rocky face which had just thrown ourselves down Tim and I felt like Jungle Conquerers.
A few more days passed in a relaxed blur of sun, sea and snorkelling before we headed back to Bangkok. Our plans of getting the free green bicycles offered by the city to encourage to tour the cities attractions by an environmentally beneficial method were ruined by the rudeness Thai person we came across. At the clearly marked booth, designed and implemented for the use of tourists, sat a large woman whose job it was to provide a pleasant welcome and assist people in their pursuit of Bangkok’s tourist attractions. We approached.
‘Hello, we would like to borrow two of your magnificent green bicycles,’ was our opening gambit.
‘Wha? Where you go?’ came the unexpected and indignant response.
‘Well. We are not sure. Perhaps to the Grand Palace,’
‘Wha?! No! Look,’ she stabbed at a large map behind her and pointed out in her charming manner that we could only cycle on the highlighted circular path.
‘Well, that is fine by us,’ we responded.
‘Wha? How you go?’ she demanded.
‘Well. We aren’t sure how long it takes. Perhaps for half a day,’
‘Wha? No! You can have 3 hours,’
‘Well, ok,’
This type of dialogue went on for some time as she aggressively asked questions that only she knew the answer to. Needless to say that this attitude caused me some consternation, which quickly turned into anger. The prospect of the green bikes were soon soiled with hatred, I was in a mood and declared that the plan was disbanded. Poor Tim.
The rest of our stay was taken up with our pathetic attempts at haggling during holiday shopping and meeting the most stereotypical Australian man ever, he looked like he had walked straight out of Home and Away. He had been travelling round the world for a year, taking in the delights of Europe, the Americas and Asia to come to the life altering decision that Australia was the best country on Earth, which happily for him turned out to be his every other sentence anyway. Shouted by a drunken Australian in a wife-beater vest is quite an experience, only slightly marred when he began to cry about the plight of the Aborigines.
Holiday over.

xx

P.S My camera ran out of battery on the first day of our holiday so here are Tim and I's representation of the holiday through the medium of paint.

The story of Tim and the egg (not for the faint hearted)

Many of you will know the simple pleasure Tim obtains from the noble egg. Poached, fried, scrambled; he will delight in nature's nutricious package in any form. Except perhaps one...

The story goes a little something like this (some dialogue may have been altered for entertainment purposes):
Tim: I like eggs.
Christie: I know.
Tim: I think I will eat egg for lunch.
Christie: Ok.
Tim: I will go and make some now.
Christie: Ok.

Tim had difficulty cracking the egg into the frying pan and when he investigated further he found that all was not as it should be.

Tim: Christie, there is a problem with the egg.
Christie: Oh, what is wrong?
Tim: It has @#!!@~# feathers.
Christie: I see, that is a problem.

The eggs in question had been purchased from the supermarket and nowhere on the package could we find any obvous sign that they were a little further on in their development that we were used to. Once Tim had mustered up the courage to crack the egg completely out emerged the most horrifying thing I have ever seen. Blood, feathers and egg yolk spilled out into the bowl, which it took me a good ten minutes to get near. Apparently once boiled this is a Vietnamese delicacy. I have never seen anything so wrong in my life. We still have the eggs - if anyone would like one then please send us postage and packaging.
I'm not sure Tim's relationship with eggs is ever going to be the same again.
xx

Freedom - out of the frying pan and into the asylum.

Someone we met told us that if you don’t have a motorbike in Saigon you don’t exist so we have finally joined the ranks of the living and got ourselves some transport. Last week I went off in search of a bicycle; with the memory of forgetting which pedal was which on a quad bike and subsequently finding myself underneath it I decided that pedal power was probably my best option. Finding the sprawling bike shop was easy by taxi and the purchase of a slim green push bike went smoothly. As the little basket was attached, money exchanged and the vehicle placed under my supervision I realised that I would now have to get it and me home. Standing on the side of the road, looking at the bikes pouring by in the direction I wanted on the opposite side I wwas distracted by the constant stream of traffic flowing past me, barring my way. As the Vietnamese shop owners and Tim looked on nervously I got on and did what all sense told me not to do, I pushed my bike directly into the oncoming traffic. Surprisingly no horns were sounded in alarm, no shouts of horror at my actions were heard and feeling like Moses I parted the sea of motorbikes and wobbled off in the direction of home, leaving Tim to wonder how he was going to pay the rent on his own.
Despite how chaotic the driving style the Vietnamese favour seems from an outsider’s perspective once you are in the traffic it all begins to make sense. There are two rules that should be remembered to survive on the roads of Siagon:
1 – know your place. There is a distinct hierarchy that should be abided by and depending where your chosen mode of transport comes you need to get out of the way of those above you in the pecking order. Bicycles land firmly at the bottom of the pack, with only despicable pedestrians below them, and so should be prepared to get out of the way of anything moving faster than they are. Motorbikes in their vast numbers come next followed by the irratic, bordering on insane, driving of the taxi drivers and if anyone hears the blast of a bus horn they should get out of the way pretty quickly, this is especially convincing if the bus is careering toward you down the wrong side of the road, happily beeping its horn at all in its path.
Once I was riding along in the right direction the joys of travelling in Siagon burst upon me. The sun was shining and it soon dawned on me that riding a bike gives you permission to traverse the city as if it were a stage of a computer game. If there is too much traffic in your way it is perfectly acceptable to drive on the pavements, pedestrians are fools if they think that pavements are designed for walking upon and if you feel like the right hand side of the road is not for you on a particular day then there you should feel no compunction to drive on it, despite the majority of others doing so.
My presence on a bicycle caused much hilarity as it was obvious that I was old enough to drive a motorbike and I was clearly a Westerner so I could afford one so my decision held much confusion for the locals and for some bizarre reason this translated into random shouts of ‘Oh my god’ in my face as I was peacefully cycling about.
Following my cycling success Tim plunged into the deep end head first and rented himself a shiny motorbike. Following some tentative and stuttering starts he was soon singing ‘get your motor running’ at the top of his lungs and plunging into the traffic without concern for etiquette with the best of them. Our first stop was to purchase helmets. As previous form would have suggested Tim opted for a cheap option, one of the few that didn’t make him look like he was wearing a space helmet, while I, feeling more safety conscious, have ended up looking like I’m riding on the special bus.
So our adventures continue, now a little bit more speedily. I am psyching myself up for my first jaunt out on the motorbike. Tim and I both thinks its best that this experiment takes place in the dead of night when there will be fewer innocent by-standers.
xx
PS. We have purchased masks to protect us from the developing countries emissions but think we may be taking our protection a little too seriously.