Back to Thailand... Big Trouble in Little Bangkok Town!

Chang Mai night one was spent in a ridiclously overpriced, overpriced for backpackers that is, place. Next day however, at a suggestion from Lexi I found my way to A Little Bird guesthouse and its neighbouring local market where I found the woman of my dreams, 'Smoothie' Lady who made the best damn fresh smoothies and fresh fruit and musli breakfast bowls I have ever tasted. That and a cheeky nearby cafe which sold Earl Grey Tea and I was in a very, very happy place. I would soon get a message, much to my delight that young Kate would be arriving, having herself cancelled plans to visit further north in Laos, she decided to come to Chang Mai and I was to expect her arrival imminently, not too imminently as it would have it, she did not have the same fortuetous circumstance that I had, arriving at the Thai border on the slow boat in enough time to get across, her boat was evidently much slower than mine.

Chang Mai is a really beautiful town, pixie, fairy and everyother kind of mythical twinkly shiney lights adorning buildings and trees throughout, a canal running right through and the city itself built in and around old town walls. I arrived following a 2 day boat trip up the Mekong, a run to the border before it closed, 5 hour bus journey with nothing but Bryan Adams and everyother crooner awful girl music for company, and with three totally wet behind the ears travellers. Rocking up in town, being dropped off outside a strip joint, a taxi maul ensured before we bargained one down, asking him to take us to the 'little bird guesthouse'. A small tuk tuk, three grown men and a large girl, all with backpacks and more luggage than that crammed into it, it wasn't until he had driven around town at least twice, and once to a seedy, grotty backpackers not our own down a particularly dark alleyway that we realised that this tit hadnt a blues notion of where we wanted him to take us. A couple of shouty moments to one of the Leeds prats who wanted to voice his displeasure with the 'no speaky- no understandy' large doe eye'dtuk tuk driver we were on our way to a guesthouse I'd heard of. One night in a place I knew about just to settle the situation, at which stage was ticking on 1.30am we dropped bags for the night in a place that, for an extra payment, allowed you to take prozzies back to your room, classy!

Next day did actually manage to make it to the Little Bird Guesthouse and most importantly, as Lexi from LP recommended, found the smoothie lady, a woman who was willing to make dreams come true, at least in smoothie form, passionfruit, pineapple, mango and banana, and then, on hangover days, of which there were a few, chuck in some musli, brekkers through a straw, BOOM!

It was while I was in Chang Mai havin some good street eats, I returned back to the backpackers beer in hand to be confronted by a veritable slue of people with worried faces asking me 'was I ok', 'are you alright????', 'did you get hurt?'.... more than a little perplexed by all this uncalled for attention, goodwill and general care for my wellbeing from a crowd of strangers I looked confused and reverted to the age old get out move of not and smile and laugh a little. That is until the tenth of so person came up to me and I then started to worry myself a little, nothing had happened to me while I was down town having noodles, or so at least I thought... or did it? 'What the hell is wrong with you, why do you keep asking me am I alright?' I asked, 'THE EARTHQUAKE' the all answered in unison. What the holy sweet mother of frick, 'earthquake me arse' I replied. No seriously, an earthquake, a genuine earthquake, having taken place in northern Burma on the border with Thailand the 7.2 scale earthquake killed something like 11 people and could be felt the whole way where I was in Chang Mai, 1000km away from the epicentre. I NEVER felt a thing, apparently it was as if a big truck went by, things started shaking, bits falling of shelves etc but as Ive said before I never felt a thing, nothing, nada, absolutley nil earthquake nor ground shake did I feel, balls! As I've said before Ive always wanted to be in an earthquake, always wanted to be made feel the insignificant tiny scrap of flesh and bone in this savage brutal planet which at any time can decide to completely wipe me out with any number of facinating and untamed natural occurances. But no, I felt nothing, to say I feel completely jibbed by the whole situation of lack thereof, is a tad understated.

The Craic kicked off when young Knighty arrived, first night out we ended up picking up a Scando and a couple of English gals, a Dutchy or two and got involved in a body popping dance off with a Philipino lady boy and her/its posse. Good times.

Night number two would see us get involved with possibly the weirdest person I've ever met on all my journeys, Steve the drunken American who wanted to speak to me about his feelings and then decided to tell me I wasnt Irish, or Irish enough and I'd never understand what it was to be Irish, so said this particular third-generation Irish American. Needless to say piss was taken, that is until I checked my imaginary watch, made an imaginary phonecall and myself, Kate and a our Scando mate were on our way, first of course a stop for some Cheeky 7 Eleven. Back to ours it went from funny to funnier, when our group grew exponentially attracting people of all walks, colours and creeds with our wide a varied brand of conversation. 5am finish up... bad times as the day before I'd booked myself on a trip to the elephant sanctuary , 3 hours sleep and a hungover head it really wasnt an easy day.

Elephants do not smell good, one hour bus journeys do not feel good, nor does 3 hours sleep with a mouth that feels like you've licked a wool jumper that has been covered in cat pee.

But once I got over it, once I had a cheeky ham and sausage toastie from a 7 Eleven road stop along with a chocolate milk and a snickers, the complete breakfast of champions... yes mum I am eating healthily, I had had my cup of concrete and hardened the hell up, it was a great day. Not the kind of elephant sanctuary that allows you to ride the hefalumps, instead its the kind of place that saves and protects elephants that have been captured or injured, or being help in captivity by bad bad thai peoples.

That eve I was on a 10 hour bus journey to Bangkok, back to Bang'ers, with all the plans of heading to the south islands, Koh Tao in particular for diving... or so I thought?!

Nope, natural disasters have a certain way of raining on one's parade, quite literally. I mean, I've been very lucky so far, torrential flooding in India, and much of SE Asia, fires, earthquakes and waves the size of houses in New Zealand, OZ and again, surprise, Asia, and lil olde me just wasn't able to make it to a particular island paradise to sun himself and learn how to dive, yeah, that's right, perspective!

Ok… when I wrote the last paragraph I can’t really remember where exactly I may have been, but it was a long time ago, there has been a long, long time since I tried typing this blog again. But Ill give it a blast, right, I was on the 10 hour overnight trip from Chang Mai to BKK…

Landed in BKK, straight to Wild Orchid Villa on Sol Rambuttri as if I’d been here for ages, pro like, except it was 6am and my body was numb with tired having slept nought all night/ journey long.

But BOOM! Checked in, happy days and straight down to the Koh Tao dive shop to check on what the craic was going on the with islands, you know, with the torrential rains and flooding going on down there. ‘Yeah of course, no problem, its fine down there, there was a bit of rain but its all fine now’, is what I was told.

Quick spin on the internet and while I couldn’t find any info but next to me, left and right of me, behind me, and gathering more and more and more people with bags and smells and bags and pissed off faces were those of the some 1000 people who had just landed via Naval vessel into Bangkok. All of whom, who I asked regarding the standards of the islands, told me to ‘cancel, cancel, CANCEL’. ‘The islands are practically washed away, no beaches, no food, no fresh water’… and more importantly for wanting to go diving, ‘no visibility in the water’. The stories of just how bad it was, how many people were stuck, stranded in second floor hotels, lost, had destroyed all their possessions was nuts. You literally, for about a week in Bang’ers not sit at a café, food stall, pub, or anywhere else for that matter without hearing or being told the story of someone who went through it. Cancel the trip to the islands I did leaving me with 10 days in Bangkok, good job I bloody like the place.

Luckily, ta to the wonders of Facebook and the tinternet I found I wouldn’t be alone in BKK for too, too long, with Asho Birch arriving at one time, Seany O’Dowd who I met along with Everett Butler in ‘Nam and China were due to arrive in town.

Spent my days wandering around local night markets, the more local the better, my fave Sunam Luang quite close to Koh San road where you’d get followed with whispers of ‘Farang’ or foreigner. All good fun though, another visit to the weekend market but sure what’s the point, I can’t feckin fit anymore crap in my bags.

By the 8^th, 9^th and definitely the 10^th day, on which I was due to fly to Malaysia and Kuala Lumpur for the Grand Prix I was more than ready to get out of there. Though there was one final surprise in BKK, the arrival of Kate, yeah Kate, Knighty, Knightrider, landing in Bangkok, and even more, she also had plans to go to Malaysia after me while on her spin down to the Philippines and Bali.

Lazing and Lovin' it in Laos

The border crossing to Laos is a joke, as seriously taken as crossing then border from Cavan into Leitrim, though I still maintain that while freedom of movement must be granted to all citizens of the Country of Cavan, stricter rules governing just how openly people from that blighted country of Leitrim can hop our clean and wonderful borders should be granted serious consideration. But anyways, Laos, yeah, bar the $2 extra weekend payment fee to the border guard, a bit of join the dots immigration card on which I was, under the heading of PROFESSION, 'An International Man of Mystery', crossing the border is but a piece of piss, so to speak, or very easy, excuse the vulgarities.
Into Laos and bus to bring us to Don Det is there, happy out, a 30 seater bus for the 10 people, needless to say I glared at anyone even offering the bare inclination that they may in the vastness of empty seating space even dare think of sitting beside me, I was tired and cranky having got up at 7am and did not have my happy head on me until well after 1pm, we where on the island at that stage, now, in the middle of Laos countryside in was ticking 11am, still not quite human. The 2 hour bus journey from the border to the town where the boat to take us to Don Det is just that, 2 hours away, unfortunately, the infrastructure in Laos leave a lot to be desired, what with it being the 10th poorest country in the world and the poorest of all the South East Asian states, the 2 hour journey on mud tracks when it wasn't cracked and broken tarmac took on a 3 to 4 hour vibe. Though worth it to get there, finally, I arrived at Don Det, two random girls, an English girl and a Qubecan, my prerequisite for accommodation was that it A. was riverside, B. had a veranda upon which either sun rise or sun set shone upon, and finally C. had a hammock.... most importantly of all, that it had a hammock. I got all three and was a happy little monkey for my very easily spent 4 nights or so spent on the islands, sitting, sleeping, drinking, eating, sleeping, reading, sleeping... sleeping, it was great and just what I needed having boosted through China, Vietnam and Cambodia, an opportunity to do absolutely nothing. I understand that doing this whole backpacker thing its hardly what you'd call stressful, hardly a tough life etc but the constant moving and thinking about moving can take its toll, so when you have the opportunity to just dump your bags, take some things out, take check of yourself and sort out your life a bit then it really feels great.
Its just as well because little did I know that for the duration of my journey in Laos and then into Thailand that I would take solice, not in lying in a hammock reading a book for 4 hours while eating smashed watermelon, but rather in the long forgotten art of having the absolute craic with great people and plunging deep into the depths of consuming abhorrent amounts of alcohol, all the while never judging yourself, or others, too harshly when viewing photos the day after the night before.
And we move, skipping Pakse which was only a connection town, and Vietiaine, Capital of Laos which is very pretty but very boring, and onto Vang Vieng, backpacker paradise and land of thousand hangovers.
It was in VV that I met Kate, friend of Orlaith from home, who I had previously briefly met while in Bangkok. Little did I know that at this stage, that she would be an instrumental part in many more drunken nights out and be a travel companion extraordinaire thoughout the rest of my time in SE Asia.
Less said about VV the better, better for me as I save face. Having drank late into the night before, I was up bring ands early for, you guessed it, Tubing. I was, as the tshirt so wrongly says, 'in the tubing'. Whisky shots before breakfast, banana and choc pancake my only sustenance, it was a long day of buckets, floating down the river, more buckets, a water slide or two, more floating and more buckets. These buckets, to clarify are not for say, bringing feed for the cattle, though I observed a large number of people acting quite like farm animals, nor are they for building sandcastles, these plastic fantastic vessels are filled with the most ting tong piss piddley god awfully vile concoction of alcohol imaginable and served eagerly to an even more eager crowd of drunken morons, all baying to hop into large tractor tyre tubing and float down to the next ramshackle river side bar where they can go and do it all over again. On a cultural not, VV is defiantly the most beautiful place in the world that I have ever been off my face... to put it mildy. Its really stunning, the karst landscaping, unique and towering in the skyline, imposing itself and demanding attention, whether you are standing below looking up or are one of the flashpackers able to afford it as a passenger in one of the hundreds of hot air balloons that regularly take to the sky and add a very surreal overcast to the horizon.
VV is, however, not all about drunkeness
To jump a day or two, Kate and I arrived in Luang Prabang, it had started raining in VV just as we left it and the forecast said it wasn't going to be pretty for at least a few  days, including Paddy's Day, March 17, which to me wouldn't have made much of a change from home because its always raining on Paddy's Day.
Landed in Spicy Laos, immediately the fact that this place had no glass in the windows, no doors except for a sheet and no bathroom on the upstairs level stuck us as strange, to say that alarm bells were ringing is an understatement, but we persevered, and thank god we did because for the few days we stayed there, we owned it, damn well owned the place, adding two more to our group, Povo and Travely Wavely hating Lexi from England and hippie Frey from Denmark, as well as an veritable accoutrement of strays along the way, all of whom readily embraced the Irish spirit and donned the green with me on Paddy's Day.
Chicken soup for the soul this is not, nor is it the zen of motorcycling but I found a very happy place for myself in all the debauchery that went hand in hand with making sure that there was a bottle of beer lao in my hand... a quick moment to praise said elixir. When I arrived in Laos, I frowned, the beverage of plenty, and pretty much the only beer available if one was so inclined or perhaps destined to indulge in came with a little tiger on the bottle and had, at the start a sharp acidity, sour at first taste. As not so much a conosieur of such malt and yeasty beverages, more a keen admirer, I though in philosophical terms of what taste i was encompassing exactly... on a plain of consciousness arrived at over my second bottle while in the 'happy' bar in 4000 islands I came to the conclusion that it was in fact 'eeeeeeuuuugh!', yes, very grown up terminology but my seasoned palate dictated such an announcement and that this announcement be made to the entire bar and its accompanying patrons. To end a pointless story quite quickly, my aforementioned initial misgivings were just that, the more I consumed the more I grew to love Mr Beer Lao and was almost happy in the knowledge that every bottle that I made vanish and added to the wall of bottles, that his children would be happily and well educated in some far flung western country where there are McDonald's and people have toilet seats and are prepared to wash more than once every fortnight. After VV and my hangover to end all hangover, I was timid at first and determined, if at all, that I would take things slow... and I did. But then Paddy's day happened.Last year Liverpool, this year Luang Prabang, and what a fun Paddy's Day it was too. I shan't ever spend another Paddy's day in Ireland again I don't think, this is a resolution, its far more fun in other random countries, even though Laos barely heard of Paddy's Day, definitely never heard of St Patrick and I was one of only two Irish people in the whole of LP, a commodity by nationality, if only for one day.
The craic abounded in LP, though we lost hippie Frey we picked up two Canadian gals, an epic pair with our fail proof friend test, a joke of the dullest, driest and most callous of humours that virtually demands that one draws a line in the sand or crosses over to the dark side. Our grouping added to its numbers and I added to my time to be spent in LP by booking ourselves on a trekking trip to local tribal villages in the surrounding hill areas, to be 5 hours a day hiking, concluding on the second day with a dip in cascading waterfalls.
It was here we met the ladies, more ladies, I, a man now among 4 ladies, blessed among women and our drunken guide... yes, our drunken guide set off on this trek. We lost the guide on the uphill, too pissed or hungover to actually make it up the hill, the ladies went on and I trekked back down to try and get him to come, only to end up leaving him behind in utter frustration and carrying our lunches with me instead. No thanks to the idiot guide, we made it to the village around mid afternoon, the first day 5 hour trek was more a 2 hour, 2 and bit hour gentle walk in places and we were all left a bit miffed, expecting to be push, somewhat, to a certain limit. We quickly ascertained that the 5 hour trek per day as we were sold was not what it said on the tin, that the tour was more suited and more use to having fat Americans unable to keep pace to tend with. We however ended up putting the guide through his paces and took a sick satisfaction in seeing him in the horrors struggling to keep up with us.
Arriving at the village, a wash area which was basically a pipe coming out of the group, a toilet with a see-through wicker door and a room to sleep all 5 of us, under which the roosters nested is what greeted us. We knew it would be rural, we didn't expect the Ritz and we definitely didn't get it. But it was grand and we all set about wandering the village, stopping to stare at the single most hideous looking turkey bird we all agreed we had ever seen. It was as if its skull had shrunk inside its skin and the rest was just flaps, hissing at us and ruffling its ugly feathers at us to keep us at bay, not necessary as we all feared if we did we might catch whatever the hell was wrong with it. That that the daytime entertainment sorted, night time we were solidly attacked by the local village infant riff raff who took great joy in poking and prodding, pulling and hugging each and everyone of us and absolutely ruining out game of cards until we gave them our undivided attention...bless! Lexi, a confessed child hater, myself, not so keen on them either and the rest did our best, a surprisingly masculine looking girl in a very low cut dress, aptly named Village Ho by our crew latched onto Kate, the Canadians had the singers and dancers, Lexi's attention was demanded of by two of the smallest and I had to contend with two of the smaller ones and their heavy sister, not good as all they wanted was for me to repeat my earlier feat of lifting them high in the air or spinning them around, and I was still carrying my bike crash shoulder injury, enjoy so to wince and come to loath each and every time it was the heavier child's turn to be flung skywards. Day two of the trek took us to some local waterfalls, really beautiful with a supposed 'secret' swimming area, so secret that there are directions up on the wall of the hostel, but still so secret that myself and Kate, intrepid explorers that we are couldn't find it. The rest of the gals had cleverly just gone swimming in the waterfall pools.
Leaving LP, Lexi and Kate behind, the latter whom I would, unbeknownst to me, meet up with again before the week was up, I took the 2 day slow boat up the Mekong to the Thai border town of Chang Koing. The trip itself rather uneventful as 2 days on a boat can be, the really craic started when we arrived at 5.40pm in Huay Xai, the Laos side of the border crossing with the border set to shut in 20 minutes. One mad taxi dash to the Laos immigration, again a $2 dollar processing fee, we hopped a boat across the Mekong, now ticking 5.55pm, ran up a hill, filled out immigration forms and arrived in Thailand, in the nick of time, right before the border crossing closed. BOOM! A cheeky 5 hour journey would take me from Chang Koing to Chang Mai, my desired destination, and along with 2 Leeds lads and an American we did just that.

Classy Times in Cambodia

The bus to Cambodia, as most border crossings in SE Asia was an unmitigated disaster. First I thought I'd miss the bus, I went to the office where I'd bought the ticket, no one there, 'righteo', next I later found the proper place for being was around the corner, I found this out seeing a group of 10 backpackers loaded up walking past me in convoy, two of whom I'd met while in Dalat, Phil and Jess from the UK. I'm not kidding, waiting for the same they were actually in convoy because the guy and were being guided by a pied piper with his ipod plugged in so loud you could here his music from his headphones, apparently we had to walk to another stop. 10-15 minutes later we arrived, this is now 1am, the trip to Cambodian border takes 2 hours, I asked whether the border would be open when we arrived, knowing fine rightly it wouldn't be, open at 7am, and was totally assured that it would.
The bus... when it came, was a joke, for 25 people there were 20 seats, most of the bus space taken up by bags and bags of rice, set for delivery across the border... we were told it was rice, but who the feck knows because each bag was marked 'DO NOT TOUCH' in big red letters. The 2 hour trip to the border saw us stop 5 times, the final time at the most random side of the road place Ive ever been, not even a shop area, just a bit of scrub ground, with no explanation but that we would be ther for at least 3-4 hours... til the border opened...
The border crossing is a joke, and because it was a weekend the cheeky $1 dollar foreigner surcharge applied, over the border and then ordered off the bus, which itself was rapidly emptied of the suspect bag and then drove off, leaving our luggage in a pile on the ground and 25 very confused backpackers looking slightly lost on the side of the road... this time Cambodia side. Eventually made it to Phnom Phen and then to Sionukkville, my description is a Costa Del Cambodia.
Stayed in an semi expensive place before moving 3 doors up to much better accommodation at Monkey Republic, bunking in with Phil and Jess all that time. Craic was good, out and about for the few days I was there for. It was nice and the one day I did go down to the beach, afraid to at first because of sunburn from Hoi An and my freshly pealing back, I came back with no chest hair and a bruised ego.
Hairy Phil or Hairy Hoff as he was dubbed had his back threaded by a determined old scrot of a Cambodian woman with strong arms and quick temper. Out of sheer sympathy for the pain he went through, looking back at it, the sheer stupidity of it, I offered to put myself through a similar, albeit minimal amount of pain, his choice. Chest it was, and instead of just doing a small sample the scrot woman when straight up the middle of my chest hair, tearing out great chunks with affable aplomb, her delight in causing so much pain was only measured by the pain in which I was genuinely suffering by the whole experience. Horrific is how I'd describe it, and so as not to have just to hairy patches covering my tits with a go faster bald patch right up the middle I said to take it all off, at a cost of $7. Those of you who know me know that I shirk pain as best as possible, I'm not a fighter, I'm a bleeder and there was even some of that. The initial shock of the pain wasn't even enough to numb it so a quickly chugged beer helped ease matters somewhat, though not totally. I dare say in comparison that child birth is a doddle.
Sionukville consisted of drinking sessions with the dudes, playing 'minesweeper' at which I've found I'm mightily adept, nursing back sunburn and a pickled bald chest, and getting a case of the Trotskys, not the communists, from eating possibly the worst curry I'd ever tasted at a western restaurant, bringing basis to the fact that the only times I've ever been sick on this journey is when I've ate at places where whiteys eat. To really put the nail in the Sinoukville coffin for me Arsenal lost 1-0 to Birmingham in the Carling Cup Final... another trophyless season I figured and... another dash for the loo.
Leaving Sinoukville I headed for Phnom Phen, planning to spend enough time there to see S21, the infamous prison used by the Khemer Rouge and the Killing Fields, I of course did them back to back, a grand and fun day if ever there was one. Wasn't totally feeling the Phnom Phen vibe so ditched it earlier than probably planned and skirted off to Siem Reap to get my Ancient Temple thing on.
Stayed in a place called Garden Villa, fancy by name, not so by nature but its $1 rooms... I say rooms, more sleeping in a barn sectioned off with straw mattresses and mosquito nets, was right in my budget. So calling it my home I bought a 3 day temple pass and rented a bike to do it, forget guides, tuk tuks etc, best way to do it is by yourself. Rocking up to the main gate in my pink bike with a pedal squeak and basket in front I started off with the main attraction, the honcho of temples, the alpha dog, le grand feu, the biggie, top dog, top banana, top hat, top cat.... whatever, Ankor feckinshaggin let down... it was cool in a big temple-y kinda way, with all the water around it, big walls, the sun temple in the centre etc, all good in the 12 century hood so to speak. I however, back on my pink bike a squeak squeakin down the road found the other temples, the smaller, lesser talked about, lesser invaded by Jap and fat German tourist temples far more interesting. NB- If you are to visit the temples of Ankor Wat, make damn well sure you leave the main attraction ones, like Ankor Wat... which is busy all day long so maybe not the best example, but places like Wat Phra or the one used in the Tomb Raider movie whose name escapes me right now but has all the trees growing out of it and is bloody epic looking... just not so much when there are 40 to 50 miniature asian types with pervert camera lenses crawling over every conceivable photo opportunity and just snapping blindly at anything and anywhere to the extent that you just have to sit, maybe lie down and sleep, til they've all departed and the sliver of opportunity to take the pic that you wanted is granted, that is til the next tour group arrives and its the back to snoozing on a rock with your camera turned off and tucked under your arm. A second note to point out is that after 3 days of temples, day one was Ankor Wat and the Smaller of the 2 main routes around the temple enclosure- you begin to hate temples, day 2 was the larger of the two main enclosures- you really hate temples, day 3 is a quick spin round to anything you may have missed, or perhaps couldn't have got a shot of because it resembled rush hour in Tokyo... with cameras- YOU REALLY HATE TEMPLES, REALLY REALLY, I mean so much. Having being to INdia and already had my fill of temples, churches and whatever else, Ankor Wat can really take its toll. You really are there in that town for one reason and one reason only, and the tourist industry that has grown from it and is thrust down your throat at every opportunity, damn well knows it! Despite this, having disliked Sinoukville, hated Phnom Phen and with misgivings regarding the Cambodian people, not Singaporean thank god, not Thai savvy, not quiet as greedy as the Vietnamese but getting there very quickly and with added abruptness, I began to slowly attach myself to the country and the ice began to thaw on my experience, just as I was preparing to hop on a 9 hour bus journey to Kraite, a small town, not quite on the border but close enough to Laos, and my last stop in Cambodia before hopping over the its northern neighbour.
Kraite, pretty much only famous for its positioning on the Mekong River and its proximity to visiting the rare Myrawaddy Dolphins, of which there are only some ridiculous number like 20 or 30 still in existence, smelled of garbage when I arrived. It was smelly, dirty and every hostel I rocked up to was either fully booked or tried charging me an extortionate rate to stay there. Eventually I had to succumb to paying the $5, yes $5 dollars, I know I said extortionate but when you've been paying $2 to $3 dollars tops for a room you tend to get bent out of shape about little things such as an extra $2 dollars. So peeved off with the room price and the disgusting garbage smell I wandered off, booking the earliest bus out of Kraite the very next morning, to Don Det and 4000 islands in Laos. It was however just when I had booked my bus ticket that I sat down on the river bank, ordered myself a beer and realised what was before me, the sun setting, bright red, a blood red sky mixed with purple and blue hazes, grey wisps of cloud hanging here and there and the vast power of the Mekong river flowing in constant ebb, like a murky ribbon beneath, on my bank a slue of small street vendors selling coconuts, beers, noodles, fruit, on the other bank, small huts, families lighting fires, tidying, washing, cooking, working in the final hours of daylight before settling for the night, it was beautiful. That night I also spoke to an Irish person, the first I'd met in maybe months and to talk about home, to talk without having to use puncuation or enunciate each and every syllable to ensure coherency, not having to repeat whole sentences, and slowly slip back into speaking in Irish colloquial terminology, bliss... I really liked Kraite, if not for the rip off hostels and weird ever present garbage smell, then for one of the most breath taking sights and a deepening of the already huge appreciate of what I have at home and what I have awaiting me on my return.

It happended in 'Nam man...

Landed in China/Nam border town way earlier than the border was to open, people waiting for the gate to open lay on the streets but for us, having just spotted a rat the size of a cat and knowing there would be more went looking for a more suitable place to lay our heads. Landed at a pish posh hotel near the crossing and knowing we couldn't afford it, and unable to communicate with the security and night staff we cheekily crashed on the couches in the lobby.
Into Nam several hours later and we latch onto a bus to the northern mountain town of Sapa, supposedly very beautiful, in reality yes, but full of old and fat German tourists. Landed on a Saturday, February 5 which was interesting because Saturday, the first Saturday of CNY or Tet and is there local market day and a day in which the men try and find wives. They all, men, women, boys and girls  wear a shiny smock type uniform, dreadful but soaked in blue dye, the result, hundreds of Vietnamese looking like dressed up smurfs.
Sapa, though beautiful and a welcome sabbatical from not knowing what you were eating while in China, was fecking cold, and colder still when the fog set in, everything got damp and I got a chest infection.
Bored of how touristy the town was, and having missed the Super Bowl, we decided to move on and boarded a bus for Hanoi
Oh Hanoi, beautiful and insane Hanoi, back to a crazy city in which I can at least understand some of what they're saying, good food, cheap beer, lots to see.... lots of snot, sooooooo sick. Crash for the day, the boys were busy and find the second of the Hanoi Backpackers, then new one, much better. With great effort and heavily anti-b'd up we all transfer ourselves to it. Bliss! A home to actually call home in crazy Hanoi.
Really Hanoi began when I started to feel better, which was also the first night at the NEW Hanoi backpackers where myself, Sean and Everett and an Aussie girl teamed up and won the hostel quiz night and a new Hanoi backpacker tshirt... which was a Good thing because I was, at that stage seriously lacking in clean clothes.. The first city excursion/ adventure was to see Uncle Ho in state in his mausoleum. For you who don't know, the great liberator of the Vietnamese himself, Ho Chi Minh left a dying request.... to be cremated. What did the people who loved him and who he liberated do.... stuff him and stick him in a box and charge $4 to have a look at him.
Solemn faced you enter the mausoleum, smacked in the back of the head by a stoney faced burly guard (defo a commie look) and try not to laugh when the weird smell in the room is the first thing you have consciously smelt in nigh on three full days because you have such a damn well stuffed up head. Difficult, grim.... painful when you draw blood you've been biting on your tongue so damn hard to stifle the giggles. Even more so when there is Vietnamese before and behind you with tears streaming down their faces.
While in Hanoi... the dog even occurred. Everret away on scoping bike duty, myself and Sean went a wandering and found what I later learned is aptly named dog street. What nobody told me was that one, its bad luck to eat said animal meat during tet and also during the first week of the month... both of which it was. We had been enjoying our stroll though random backstreets before the ominous sight drew our attentions, a woman hacking what vaguely resembled a friendly household pet on a chopping board. The moment had come, dog, one of the final frontiers, do I or do I not, are my ambitions to eat one of ever animal merely lip service.... no, I had to man up, have a cup of concrete and harden up. $1 dollar for 4 bits and a bag of salt, chilli and lime... writing this is therapy, getting it out there, even though I am so not proud. It was utterly repulsive, totally disgusting, not the meat, the meat was meaty, it was the texture, the thick skin that accompanied it and the tiny dog bones and ribs in it.... not fun... even less fun when we faced down the disgusted Everret who lambasted not I but Sean, knowing fine and well that I was the instigator and ringleader. Had corn on the cob accompanied by delicious and nutritious corn water, as well as kebab for dinner that night.... may have been dog meat, who knows... but because it was in a Kebab it all of a sudden more acceptable.
The next major leg of the Hanoi trip was the debaucherous one night on Halong Bay, nothing if not an excuse to get totally rat arsed and a place where I made numerable comrades, some of who I would later meet at various stages of my journey. The night fully included, alcohol, hip shaking, alcohol, cards and cross dressing, alcohol, more nakedness, I-pod Nazi-ism... more alcohol! it was a fun night and one in which I realised that it was the first night in many years that the sole process of me being there was to just get drunk and have the craic, sure its being done before but I had forgotten that it can be genuinely a good time, no worries, just for laughs, kicks and giggles, and it was!
Following Halong Bay, I spun my way down to Hue, centre town in Vietnam, totally boring except for meeting up with Frenchie Xavier, from Halongsoon learned that Xaviers was non-existent and he promptly almost crashed his into a restaurant full of people. At this stage we met up with our soon to be realised 'crazy' guide, Bill, and Xavier was hubbing a life on my bike.
Bill brought us first to Boom Boom Hill, not called so because it was the scene of any great battle, though it did have a military hill base which overlooked the town, but named Boom Boom as Bill roared with appreciation because it was a spot often frequented by young Vietnamese couple... i need not say more.
Next was to a really beautiful series of temples, a Buddhist monastery, a quick stop for some Ban Mi, local sandwiches packed with pork pate, veg and chilli sauce, a snack which would become a daily staple simple because of its absolute deliciousness. It was soon after this, and soon after it had started to rain that the crash occurred. lined up at traffic lights, a bus pulls up idly by, Bill signals for me to pass it when the light turns green, I slip the bike into second gear, wait for the green light, bing, I take off, a little too quickly if I'm honest, a complete Catch U Next Tuesday pedestrian steps off the curb onto the road, I hit the road rather than the imbecile, the bike and me skids to a stop. Save for a scratch on my leg, a cut had and ripped shorts I'm totally unscathed. Lucky stars are counted, cup of concrete later and we're back on the road, slowly to continue our trip. Bill is all about the party, crazy Bill that is, Bill who was captured by the Americans and forced to act as a translator in interrogations of Viet Cong prisoners, he twigs out, wife leaves him, he twigs even more, Americans see this and dump him off their books and he totally freaks, shaves his head and joins a monastery where he stays for 5 years. Ultimately the highlight was leaving the city limits and driving through the outlanding paddy fields, taking a back road and passing before stopping at a house in whcih a 'plenty ceremony' is being conducted. Edjits that myself and Frenchie are we are quickly roped in, pay our respects and asked to dance, apparently dancing is good, I shake a leg and am handed a cucumber and a dong or two, frenchie gets a mellon and more dong.... its strange, we leave, Bill sticks his head in, popps out maybe 10 minutes later with dong stuffed in every pocket of his coat.
Hoi An next and love it. Beautiful french colonial, with a beach nearby and a canal. Here myself and frenchie end up meeting a veritable gaggle of people we had met in Halong. We get fitted for clothes and the whole time there was just a chill out. Rent some bikes and head off with gang from hostel up to Marble Mountain 10 km north of Hoi An, series of paths and nooks and crannys through the rock offering incredible views, dotted between are statuettes of Buddha hewn into the stone. Even more incredible is inside the mount, caves within caves, vast rooms excavated hundreds of years, lit by candle light, buddhas tower, look down beneavontly from the walls. really incredible.
Beach time next and the pink paddy I am, burned to a crisp, within day I will be pulling skin from my back like beef jerky and look like a leper.
Suits and done, travel further south still, splitting from frenchie who heads off to Saigon, I head for mountain town in the Vietnamese Highlands of Dalat.
Again, olde french colonial, its quite pretty, Dalat looks like a cross between Vietnam and the French Alps and is done in a day. Meet with German girl and adventure the town together, first night hitting the markets, second day hopping on the back of some bikes with tour guides and heading to see coffee plantations, buddhas, waterfalls, silk factories and drink some local rice spirit. when I said that Bijou was the worst thing I've ever tasted, it was basically methylated spirits, unknown strength, dirt cheap, stories of people going blind from drinking it, its not a nice drink and nor is it trying to be, rice spirit is the complete opposite, though with all the negatives  said above attached to it. Even worse, it took a whole litre of water and half a bottle of OJ to get rid of the taste. The highlight of the tour, a supposed Easy Rider tour, was the Dalat crazy house.
Dalat’s Hang Nga Guesthouse, deemed by locals “The Crazy House,” opened in 1990 and is indeed a strange and off the wall variation on natural aesthetics that began as one woman’s personal project and is now a tourist destination. Right that's the tour guide element of this scribble over, its, as its name suggests, 'Crazy', it really it. Think Dali-eque painting mixed by Tim Burton, Alice in Wonderland crossed with itsy bitsy spider and cat in the hat. Filled with unexpected twists and turns at every corner,misshapen windows and friendly stone animals—a bear, giraffe, and spider, a kangaroo with neon red eyes, its... yeah, crazy!
Dalat left behind, Saigon next on the agenda, arriving very early, day one was spent sleeping most of it and then off to the war remnant museum, formerly known as the American War Crimes Museum. Very moving, very poignant, the feeling and ethos of the place is somewhat dampened by the horrifically amusing propaganda spewed by the Vietnam commie Government, the word American often substituted for things like 'War Criminal Overlords' etc etc. Hard not to laugh on one side when you read some of the bias nonsense and then hard not to cry when you are staring at a picture of a child blown apart. MOst impressive part is the photo expo, complied over years and including photos from the front line taken by the worlds then best news photographers. The difference in the Vietnam War and others was the way in which it was covered, the media attention granted made it almost must watch, big brother, I'm a teenage soldier carrying a dead boy... get me out of here of wars!
Also from Saigon I had noodles in the noodle shop where the Tet Offensive was planned, the owner of which only died a few years, the noodles still as good and the room in which the attack on the US embassy killing 54 people, is opened for people to visit. That attack was the marking point in the US history when it was realised by the people of the US that there was possibly no end to the war in Vietnam.
INTERUPTION...INTERUPTION...INTERUPTION...INTERUPTION...INTERUPTION...INTERUPTION
IMPORTANT ANNOUNCEMENT... as I write this I now face into a further 12 hour wait at Singapore Airport, possibly the most boring airport I have ever been in, that includes Knock, but of course Knock has the whole large community centre with aeroplanes landing at it comedy value side to it. Why you my ask do I have an extra 12 hours to wait and why art thou lucky enough to be privvy to such valuable situation... well its like this, dearest dumbarse here decided it would be nice to set an alarm for himself to make it to the closing gate on time- GRAND SO FAR. dearest dumbarse here decided it would be nice to get himself something to eat before making his own casual way to the closing gate on time- GRAND AGAIN, SO FAR SO GOOD.
so what was the problem then, the flight was on time, Quantas are very efficient like that, I had checked in well on time, in fact the night before, I had my seat picked, bag put through, whats could possibly be the problem that would see this dearest dumbarse have to sit on his todd a further 12 hours in the biggest of airports... his clock on his phone was 20 minutes slow... I arrived at the closing gate to a very irate, physically small yet imposing Singaporean man who had just organised a veritable slue of ground staff, a team if you will, at, which he informed me, great expense to both the airline and the airport itself to find my bag among all the bags put on board the plane and bring it back to the terminal building. I was near terminal when I was told I wouldn't be able to board my flight...  but told in the same sentence there was a night flight, 12 hours later. A few deep breaths, the news I'd have to pay a transfer fee and 'Gameball' I said, a cursory pat on the shoulder for the wee livid fella himself and turned on my heel to face a tedious wait for my eventual flight to OZ
So I continue to write this from Sing'er airport, I repeat, the biggest of airports, so fecking boring I can't even sleep in the place. Now where was I... Saigon... 2011
Yeah, so damn good noodles. Next day I said feck it to Saigon, booked a night bus to Cambodia but first also booked a cheeky trip to the Cu Chi tunnels, famous for their usage by the Viet Cong in launching guerrilla offences against the Americans during the Vietnam War.
Nuts how the soldiers lived in those conditions, think about living in a box the size and height of your bed mattress for maybe weeks and then think of sharing that space with 10 other soldiers just like you.
Even shot myself, not shot myself with, an AK47, the weapon of choice for the peasant man, the working prole. Shot 15 bullets, each time missing the target and sending sprays of sand backing the target into the air. Even with the ability to only aim within a central range as the gun is locked to a pivot so as to not go on any bloody rampages, these things are generally frowned upon, I still missed the damn targets... I'll not be getting that phone call from Gerry, Martin or Mary Lou to join the 'cause' any time soon so.

I UNDERSTAND MUCH OF WHAT I HAVE WROTE HERE IS TOTAL NONSENCE BUT I FULLY INTEND ON FILLING IN THE BITS THAT ARE AT LEAST INTERESTING WITH ACTUAL FACTS AND DETAILS AT SOME STAGE IN THE NOT TOO DISTANT FUTURE

King Kong Hong Kong and Mass Migration in China

TWO THINGS OF NOTE BEFORE READING THIS... FIRSTLY, THE NEXT FEW BLOGS HAVE BEEN WRITTEN WHILE ON THE ROAD, AD LIB'D AND AND WITH NO SPELLING RECHECK ETC SO MUCH APOLOGIES. SECONDLY, ITS BEING UPLOADED FROM A FREE WIFI LAUNDROMAT IN COTTESLOE BEACH IN PERTH... BACKPACKING, BEST EVER!

I write this having come yet another full circle in my journey around the world. As I write this I'm sitting here in Singapore airport outside Gate C24 waiting to board my flight to Perth, that is to say I'm leaving South East Asia, a journey which has taken me 3 months in real time and 15 years otherwise to get around, and I still only saw some of it.
I've just finished eating a portion of chicken macaroni... for breakfast, its 7am and my flight is at 9am. They eat that sort of thing for breakfast over here, oh, and its served in a soup... pretty much everything is served in a soup.
As I was saying, I'm preparing to leave SE Asia, a region of the world in which I have zig-zagged, smooched, hooched, leered, veered, planed, trained and auto-mobiled (of various sorts and reliabilities) from Singapore to Bangkok Thailand, flew to Hong Kong, travelled cross-ways through China smack in the middle of Chinese New Year, the largest annual human migration worldwide, down into Vietnam (all the way down), into Cambodia, up through Laos, into north Thailand, back down to BKK, to Malaysia, back up to the Thai islands before... well, back to Sing'er where I now currently find myself, for the next two hours at least. That's the jist of the trip undertaken in all of 3 months on the road here, the stories come from what happened in between, they come next.
I've been in an earthquake, suffered whopping chest infections, the single worst hangover ever and a banged shoulder from crashing a bike, jumped 20ft of boats into freezing water, been massaged by a lady boy, seen sights I'd only even imagined or seen on TV, had the shits, sulks, laughs a plenty, being lost and found innumerable times, partied all night long... and all day, and made some smashing new friends... all the while carrying at least 20kg on my back, and then some.
Where do I start... from the start is usually best, innit. That was Friday January 21 when I first arrived in Sing'er from Mumbai, a culture shock in itself.
SINGAPORE
From the filth, the crazy manic jam packed brilliant assault on the senses that is MUmbai I arrived in a veritable bastion of western culture and mechanism, everything ran on time, all was large, bright, shiny... clean... I hated it... still do, its, well, its too perfect. Too, ... normal. especially after being in India and of course Nepal for the past month and a half where its not unheard of for a person to ride on the roof.
Despite my misgivings, I arrived in and area of Sing'er called Little India, the main backpacker area. Stayed in an Aussie backpackers, I don't really want to go on about Sing'er cos even now, just thinking about it bores me... what I can say about he backpackers is BED and BUGS... and LOTS OF 'EM.
Two days I landed in a city I would instantaneously fall in love with, back to the insanity, I landed in Bangkok, the BKK, a city famous for three things, temples, canals and hookers.
BANGKOK-Thailand- Round 1
Into Koh San road and eeeeeeuuuuugh, even at 11am when I arrived there were whities, pale faces, farrangs, Travelly Waveleys falling over the place, propping themselves up against 7-11's with two litres of water in one hand and the morning Chang in the other... I would myself learn to hate Chang-overs... they are not fun! Trapsing the streets for a place to live I wandered aimlessly onto a side road named Sol Rambuttri, a place I now happily call home. Hooked up with a place the wandering began.
As I said, BKK is famous mainly for 3 things temples, canals and hookers.... oh, and sex change op's. Its an eye opener if you've never being to a place that so totally overwhelms, I thankful served my internship in incredible India.
The Game plan- spend 5 days in BKK while sorting out my Vietnam Visa. Other than that a whole lot of getting lost and wandering about the side streets, eating all sorts of weird and wonderful mystery meats... and shop the markets, of which there are quite literally hundreds, BKK is buzzing at every hour of the day or night, the streets teeming with energy, bodies strewn hither thither filling up doorways and benches, some selling wares, some selling themselves, others just live there.
With the Visa sorted, meeting up with Orlaith ar eileamh, on her own trip and our now mutual friend Kate some of the sights I took in, some I can say I am proud of having seen, others not so much.
From the Muay Thai Boxing to the Palace, sailing down the BKK canals at sunset, spending bhat like its going out of fashion at Chatuchat weekend market.
The Muay Thai was impressive, totally racist towards westerners with western prices, western place to sit, Thai's pay 12th of the price you do etc for everything, drinks incl, met to Irish guys there from Westmeath and we all likened it to being the only black fella at a GAA match on a Sunday.
The trip there in the taxi was even more eventful. Myself, a couple o scando gals and an English bloke rock up thinkinUsain Bolt. Of course this is commented upon, driver pulls car to a halt and turns to Eng'ie in the front, stares him in the face and asks... 'dont you believe i was in the army'. The man has stopped in traffic, on a main road, horns honking, traffic manoeuvring around him, of course we bloody believe him. he gets out all of a sudden and goes to the back of the car, I jokingly suggest that hes gone to get his gun.... He has actually gone to get a gun! comes back and sits into the car with a GLock in his has and tries to get each one of us to hold it, not a freakin mission I'm getting my prints on that. The sweat is pouring and one of the girls gathers herself enough to say we'll miss the boxing if we stay about (in the middle of the road) any longer... his face changes, he smiles, says 'I was in the army you know' and drives off.
HONG KONG and CHINA
Unlike the sterilised version of the east that Sing'er so readily serves up, the most amazing thing I found about Sing'er was that in India to see another whitey was a novelty, now I was surrounded by them, HK was similar but the whole energy of the city was different. They too build every conceivable shape and size of building on whatever sliver of free city scape they could find, cars roams the roads in packs like wild dogs, speed limits unabided by, the city clearly an hub business and trade, but it was different somehow, more lived in.
V little was done, it was the run up to the Chinese New Year, having got my Visa while in Ireland I only needed to organise my trains. The city of HK is split into several islands, I stayed in Kow Loon, bastion of foreigners and in Cheung King Mansions, the cheapest accomo in town, absolutely grot. My room, the size of a bus stop toilet surprising became a 'get out' from the city, quite cold at the time of year I went . You can walk everywhere and if I was to go to HK I would defo make sure that I had planned the trip and what to do there that much more, fair to say a lot of stuff was preparing for closing for the new year, the night time horse racing season was cancelled in expectation etc and there was a general feeling of people moving out of home, but the city was still fascinating from what I saw. Old streets facing onto new and extravagant financial buildings, shops selling every conceivable type of dried up animal part, for food and medicinal purposes, side by side with H&M and Hermes, yeah... was nuts.
My train from HK took me to the industrial city of Ghuangzhou... when you talk to any person from China (those who do talk) or foreigners working there they all say, 'oh, I come from a small industrial city'... they're all industrial cities which says a lot about China.
Little did I know just how difficult it would be to travel in china during CNY. If the question was HOw difficult? the answer is terrifyingly difficult. Land in Ghuangzhou, I know none of the language, they don't speak English and as a rule of thumb until they're corrected, when then they treat you differently, they treat all whiteys as Americans... and they don't like Americans. I get to the train station eventually, rock up to find what can only be described as mass queues trying to get into a circus, rows and rows of people shacked up in tents, side by side, on top of each other, on top of bags.... is this the queue in... thankfully not, the queue was only a couple of hundred people long, the tents were there to house the people who had bought their tickets in advance and now had to wait maybe one, maybe two days before their train was due to depart.
I did a bad thing, when I did, after about an hour get to the ticket desk, the first time I got to the top of the queue I was ushered away from it in typically stone faced communist fashion by a burly guard to in best broken English told me that queue was not for 'me', me I expect is whiteys, so I queued up again and I'm not proud, when I got there, I was told there was no possibility of getting me on a train for at least two days, I pulled out the equivalent of 5 euro in Yuan and slipped it over the counter to him, I was booked, sleeper class on a train to Kunming, my connecting town to try and get into Vietnam, for the next day. My conscience clear of whatever poor commie Chinese farmer peasant I had just bumped off the train I went looking for a place to stay for the night, knowing that next day I was due to embark on a 24 hour train journey across China. I know I keep saying it but its 7 hours down and at worst 4 hours across in Ireland, looking at a map I barely scratched the sheer size of the Chinese mainland with my journey. 24 hours on a train sleeper, a fish in a bowl to everyone around me, the only whitey on there, feeding mainly on snickers and oreos, conversing with a girl the bunk below me only by writing it in text first and then her using her mobile translator.... it had its moments.
But and the end of it all I was in Kunming for what is really their Christmas, there finally I could relax. Picked a hostel and crashed.
Kunming is a fun city, Ill cap quickly, theres not a lot in it but it has a lot to do outside it. Its, again, an industrial city, though not as much industry as others. Part of CNY also meant that all the foreign english teachers were on hols so the hostel was hopping with them, some fun, all arguing the point that their city was much dirtier that the other persons. The day of CNY arrives and hooking up with two South African girls, we hit the town. Instilling the fact I am a light weight in the drinking terms, having affectionately named me 'Irish', clearly because Seamus is too difficult for them, they effectively imbibed me in local liqueur called Bijou... now known to me as 'the Devils shit and piss mixed with burnt hair and spit', a vile liquid if ever there was one conceived. Night started at 8.30pm, it finished for me at 10.30pm, in bed, not well. What happened in between was recounted to me next morning over breakfast, yes, next morning and breakfast, where we had gone to watch the local kids shoot fireworks at each other, one the gals, who is studying in Beijing got into a conversation with an old Chinese guy, known now as 'Grandpa China' for naming purposes, Grandpa China invites us all back to his house for more vile liquid and peanut brittle. At this stage I'm the only thing that's a bit brittle, make it up to his house, his hospitality knowing no bounds he gives us each an apple which, in my drunken delusions of grandeur phase promptly discard having taking a bite of it by throwing it behind my head.... time to go home, however I was assured by the girls that no offense was cause, that I was perfectly civil and veritable joy to be in the company of and that Grandpa China commended my drunkenness on several occasions. job done.
Kunming was completed with a spin to local park full of disgusting pigeons, a trip to a local temple and dining out at a poo and toilet themed restaurant, only the best for me. Leaving Kunming, the typical backpacker coincidence of meeting people at my hostel heading the same way occurred, Sean and Everret from the US and we'd be crossing the border to 'Nam together.

Transport and travel in the developing world... so far

Right so, in getting here to writing this I must address that in mind, body and soul, from the greenhorned, wet eared Belrubit boy naught but a month ago who landed in Mumbai and huddled petrified in his hotel room, I am back to said city and the experience in that time has seen me come full circle. Im still wide-eyed, easily surprised and often wrung thorough a wrenching series of emotions when ever I see something that goes against all my worldly instincts, but instead of running away from them, like I may have done when I first started out, now Im prepared to take it on the chin, stare it in the face, soak up the experience and file it under... Ive never seen that happen in Cavan!.
A lot of the "take it on the chin, stare it in the face, soak up the experience" that a traveller "enjoys", and I use the word figuratively, pertains to travelling itself, be it walking though a city, town, village, patty field, over a hill, up a mountain or though a forest, its all the same, it gets you to and inside somewhere different... different, as long as you havent been there before, and seeing as this is my first time travelling, everything is new to me.
My only two cents in all of this is that to travel in a developing country like India or Nepal, as I have been for the past 5 to 6 weeks, one must completely ignore, disband and otherwise forget one's flimsy clutch to life and accept their ever impending mortality, which of course if often put to the test as you step of a curb or hurtle though a narrow street filled with traffic, the driver of the 3 wheeled shuddering tuk tuk singing at the top of his voice while the sound system (yes, sound system, lil boy racers in Ireland can f their subaru's) in the back which weighs prob as much as the damn tuk tuk and me and the driver blares out the latest Bollywood love song (they're always love songs), all the while I try to remember how to bless myself in a vain attempt at seeking divine intervention to slow the fecker down.
But where to start, it was the Taxi in Mumbai on the way to the hotel, I looked at him then thinking, this mad b'tard, they cant all be this bad. I now realise that they are all that bad... or good, depending how you look at ity, and this transcends international boundaries and proven in Nepal where, late for my as yet unknown-to-me delayed flight outta Kathmandu, the driver, with a baksheesh or bribe of an extra 50 rps/50c to hurry up, drove up onto the footpath and over took a lane of traffic on the left handside. Im not proud of what I paid the man to do, or am I proud of the sheer white terror I witnessed in peoples faces, funnily, others didnt seem to mind or notice all that much, but I made that delayed flight on time!
Tuk Tuks to, while there are no tuk tuks in Nepal, INdia more that makes up the quota I feel for the entire planet,in fact, Mumbai probably makes up the quota of Tuk tuks for the entire planet, but while the Marahashians are proud of how badly they drive their tuk tuks, those in Jaipur, north in Rajastan couldnt give a feck, as my driver one night demonstrated, driving down the narrowest of alleys and out, sidewards may I add into a fast flowing stream of traffic, slotting with such delicacy into a spot between a car and a bus, with so little space to spare that I could hear the driver of the bus roaring at my guy Bahchudd or sisterf'er!
On foot we all know the dangers of stepping out into traffic, though crossing mainstreet Cavan brings with it a damn sight bit more certaincy of success that say, main street Kathmandu or Delhi or anywhere that driving is practiced with those with suicidal tendancies and nerves of the toughest steel.
So by foot, by two wheels (mopheading in Goa), three, four, including buses which, in either country are an absolute experience, though in Nepal it is positively encouraged that you sit on the roof. In fact, when I went to visit Bandipur, this tiny quiet mountain top town halfways between Crapmandu and Pokhara where no vehicles are allowed enter, exiting the town I took a 4x4 jeep down in which there fitted me... and 30 others, two on the roof. Yes, 31 people, the Mahindra may only have 4 gears and drive like a cinder block on wheels but it can fit 31 people, and there was even room for more.
Now some may think that 290 is an odd number of wheels to stick on a car, not even the Monk has a limo that stretched but was I allude to are the trains, while there are none in Nepal to speak of, again INdia provides a prime example.
I was to write and entire epistle on the subject in itself but such is life and I have been enjoying myself way to much and had far too little internet time to be yabbering on about the smell, the crowdedness, the people, the smell, the cramped conditions, the smell, the insects, the smell, the distance to travel, the smell... oh, did I mention the smell.
Well, its not all that bad, my first experience of and INdian railway station came at Kochi on my way to Goa, queuing is a not of prime importance to Indians, nor is the basics of waiting your turn, so every ticket purchace, ever attempted entry to the platform and even the carraige can be and often is, a struggle. But a fun one, I dont know, as I dont read over what I write, whether what I have written has expressed the sheer elation of arriving in somewhere new, sure the means of getting there, especially in Nepal where Nepal time means you're gonna be late, can be frustrating but getting there is the goal, and looking back, the transport is what can quite often make the experience that much better and the trains, despite the smell bode for me some of my fondest memories.
FACT judging by their insistence to go up and over as opposed to around or even through/ across, there are not enough Civil engineers in Nepal
FACT while on a bus, when a person in Nepal gruffly shouts at you while holding a goat, he generally wants you to then hold his goat while he goes and gets another kicking and screaming goat and carries it onto the bus with him
FACT in India, the rules of the road are, there are no rules. Its very Mad Max return to the Thunderdrome but its a battle of wits and a battle for survival every time you turn a key in the ignition and take whatever your driving out on the open road.

People of India, impressions so far... naughty and nice!

As I scribble this most recent of delicate edicts, I am in an internet cafe in Goa, beside the beach with the sun setting, really v beautiful. I made it from Kovalam, up to Allepey where I stayed on a boat on the Keralan backwaters there before heading up the mountains to Perriyar and Kumali, finally to Kochi and train to Goa where I now find myself. But like I was saying, as I scribble this most recent of delicate edictsI turn to the people of India, for the little over 7 days that I have known them they've had quite an impact on me. I always think the best representation of a country is through its people, that's why at one stage Ireland was known as the country of a thousand welcomes due to their often amourous approach to dealing out the pints and randomly chatting to any stranger who wandered into their local, "ar ya forrin are ya... ye look it!". Now, with the world knowing Ireland for the fact it has rendered itself in the mother of all economic mires, not to mention the gormless edjit that is Cowen throwing his big car crash head and making shapes on every telly broadcast we're known for an altogether different reason. You may not think I'm going anywhere with this ut I am, I promise. To get the negative out of the way first I begin with the issue of tipping, begging and rip off scams.
I cannot think of a single town, village or city that I have visited so far in this heluva massive country in which I have not be pulled, dragged, heckled or otherwise attemptedly drawn to try and buy some overpriced piece of tack from some stall vender, be is the latest greatest newest and more improved llungi (type of scarf), to eat at every restaurant with every concievable food type and name on the menu (always curried though) or, well basically just anything that is going to add further weight to my 17kg bag.
They're one thing, and boy are they one thing, one big thing with your big western head on ye and your supposed loadsa money (I now refer to the above para containing reference to the finiancal sh1thole the emerald isle now finds itself it with Captain Calamity and his band of merry pirates at the helm), the people of India should know, if they bothered watching the news, when they ask where I'm from, "Ireland", they should probably be doing the apologising on my behalf and splitting their hard begged or scammed ruppees with me for all that I've got to head back to.
You get hawked at everywhere you go, day 1 Mumbai, I went to buy an Indian SIM card and only for the fact I'd had the forsight to ask at the hotel how much one should cost, the cheeky b'tard say 399rps... they cost 66rps, and after much conflaberation and a threat to walk out of the shop he sold me one at 100rps with the 34rps credited to my pay as you go account. But one of many such tales, the taxi/ tuk-tuk drivers are the best though, at least their seminally good humoured about the fact they're trying to rip you off and when you tell them to "get away with yourself" in the broadest Cavan accent I can muster, they generally succumb and split their initial asking price in half. I have no idea why I'm paying for it in the first class, they're cramped, uncomfortable, they honk every 5 seconds as if there is going to be a curfew on honking and they're looking to meet a quota and, well these little mechanised traffic clogging bullets of death and back to my earlier point that they should again split the price difference even further if they're planning on making me wet my pants by shooting into open traffic with big grinny heads on them as I'm pinned to the seat, white knuckled with what can only be described as a grimmace.
And that brings me nicely to traffic, of which in India, driving is pretty much like Fight Club. 'First rule of driving in India... there are no rules. Second rule of driving in India... don't speak about rules of the road. Third rule of driving in India... there are no rules!', pretty much like that!
I have nearly being knocked down on pretty much every single day of this journey and the trip up to the mountains, on which I had dedicated driver was, well, to put it simply, the single most terrifying experience of my entire short lived life. Not only were the roads packed... with people walking on them, and even an elephant at one stage, but back to the people, some of whom were walking at least 180km to a temple in some far flung corner of the south for a bless yourself and an Our Father before heading back again, but the road surfaces themselves, well... in some places there just plain wasnt any. 'Money', my driver, I sound like such a pompuous colonial when I say that, but yeah, Money (is actual name, if that was a sign of things to come) drove this car like his life depended on it, and not in a good way, like a Sandra Bullock Speed kinda way, Great Escape over the fence, Tom Cruise Days of Thunder kinda way! on these dirt tracks, I soon learned that two Panadol and the sick travel bands my sis gave me were the perfect accompaniment to every journey.
The people of India, bar the bad experiences I've had, really are amazing, so friendly. Genuinely interested in you and why you wanted to come to their country. From what I've seen, Indian's do their best to make themselves look as western as they can. I saw a guy in a pair of cowboy boots and 10 gallon hat in Mumbai... it was 30 degrees, and not one advertisement seems to show an Indian-y Indian if you catch my drift. They're all, well, white-ish. Which brings me to the next next point, which is white skin worship. I had my first experience of being asked to pose for a photo the other yesterday while waiting for the train to Goa (the trains I leave for another blog), yer man was then upset with the photo which he took on his phone, at which time an admiring crowd had gathered and I was preparing my poor self to vogue for him Madonna style, but he was unhappy, not at the fact that he'd just taken a pic of my puss mug, but because his phone wasn't good enough in the light of the eve, genuinely upset!
The station, which I will leave is another part of India which combines another element of their culture, the distinct lack of personal space. Me from the fields has coped particularly badly with this. Indians do not queue, obviously something the English forgot to tell them about, but queuing is a mere, well not a suggestion, more a figment of imagination. As I begged the enquiries desk at the station which I will go into more detail later, about 40 others clamours over me and my bags, putting their faces close to mine, the buses too. And they treat each other similarly, its nothing for two men to walk down the street hand in hand. Before I'm accused of gay-bashing here I'm alluding to nothing of the sort, but they hold hands and tickle each others fingers, fully grown men I'm talking about here... its just wierd alright!
But what I leave til last is their friendliness, kindness, compassion for one looking so rabbit caught in the headlights as I sometime and their willingness to help if they can. Match that with a decent hospitable nature and great cooking when the curry fever leaves me (just for breakfast, I can't hack it for breakfast!), all in all India really is a v special place to be.