Easy Paider

Last night, whilst standing on a rickety bamboo bridge, Monica, Jackie and I watched a column of paper lanterns rise into the sky over Pai, next to a river reflecting the yellow glow of wooden restaurants. On our walk back to the hostel some happy dogs joined us. 

Every traveller I've asked has recommended Pai to me, but none of them explained how simply beautiful it is. Coloured lanterns hang across the pedestrianised main street, lined with souvenir and hemp clothing stores. At night handicraft vendors and street food stalls stuff into the sides of the road. The vibe from the bars and coffee shops is distinctly chilled hippie and the on-theme clothing on offer means that the town displays a full spectrum of colours.

It's a bit higher up in Pai; its residents are rewarded with cool evenings and mornings, and an abundance of strawberries and mushrooms in the surrounding mountains.

In true visitor fashion, we decided to hire out motorbikes to explore. If you are feeling masochistic you can explore Pai by push bike, however with the number and scale of the surrounding hills I would say this is inadvisable. The idea was that we would hire two motorbikes, as Monica was more keen to be a passenger. I was cool with this; hadn't ridden one before but you see idiot Australians doing it all the time, so how hard can it be?

It didn't help that the bike distributor was a moody arsehole Thai (a rarity amongst the Thai people) who assumed that every person knows how to ride every bike ever. He pointed at two 'scoopy-i' scooters and grunted. Jackie, who had wridden a couple of times before demanded an overview of the controls from him and he scowlingly obliged.

My first go on a scooter went as follows: I pulled too hard on the accellerator whilst the front was tilted sideways causing me to lose control, panic, and drop the bike. Mr. Arsehole rushed over to tell me to go and get my money back,  which I started to argue against until Monica agreed to drive it instead.

This actually turned out to be a good thing, as Monica is something of a natural. She had no problem carrying a passenger and was soon speeding us up the hills and into the sunset. We all spent the day visiting waterfalls, hot springs and canyons. If we were hungry we parked up at random places and ate. It was the first time I've felt like a proper adventurer. Even if I can't ride a scooter like an idiot Australian.

The Sunday Market

Allow me to paint the picture: It's evening and the crowd is so squeezed into the narrow pathways that you cannot change direction. You have no option but to move with the flow of the crowd. Vendors sit on the floor along the sides and centre of the street with their wares spread out on blankets; and lord what you can buy! Coloured fairy lights and lanterns glow out of the corners. There are Thai silk pashminas and skirts. Purses, carved soap flowers, dragons made of rope, little coats for dogs, beaded jewellery and t-shirts printed with Banksy-esque designs.

Temples line the road shoulder to shoulder with coffee shops and restaurants, and tonight their grounds are turned into spectacular outdoor food courts. I sit down next to an enourmous gong and a gold painted buddha and enjoy the foods of asia; curry puffs, phad thai, takoyaki, fried chicken and potato spiral washed down with cendol and Rosella red date tea.

The tinny sound of ancient speakers project the musical performances of various blind musicians, some doing tragically awful karaoke and others gathering a huge huddle of people as the flow of traffic is blocked by listeners. I watch a troup of four blind men sitting one behind the other rock out spectacularly as the baht notes fly into their busking tin.

In the early afternoon before the market is in full swing, I cross a through road and realise that everyone is stood still in silence. I stand with them confused until I am enlightened by the distant whine of the king's anthem, for which everyone is expected to stand and listen respectfully. It makes for an eerie break within the chaos of bargaining and the exchanging of notes and coins that is the market's usual soundtrack.

Thai cooking

"My name Gay. But I'm not gay. Just happy and sexy."

Kae (pronounced "Gay" in Thai) goes through the methods of cooking rice, particularly sticky rice, which is popular in the North. She says that sticky rice is more filling but bad for the waistline. She does a demonstrative pantomime of being hungry and full, finishing with her natural toothy, crazy smile.

After this essential Thai cookery staple we are marched round the local market to buy ingredients. Kae stands before a coloured mountain of produce and shows us a variety of vegetables and roots; thai ginger, ear mushrooms, pea aubergines, chillis in every size and colour - then onto the noodle shop for the wheat noodles, rice noodles and the mung bean glass noodles - and the tofu vendor for a bright yellow turmeric spiced slab.
She gives us free reign to explore the market for a while and I return with some thai donuts and a coconut and banana smoothie; this is to be my first mistake of the day.

We are allowed to choose which dishes we want to make and our small group of 8 is soon interspersed with other small groups depending on what we selected. I start with phad thai; mostly because I want to know what a proper one should have in it; turns out that the khao san road version is missing the tofu and dried shrimps. In comparison it is a bit bland.

Our instructor speaks english softly with a slight lisp and the typically asian loose "R". Her instruction and demonstration is concise and laced with humour; "turn on your station, medium heat- take care your eyebrows!"

We learn that Thai seasoning consists mostly of sugar, fish sauce "for salty" and oyster sauce. We suprisingly never add any soy or chilli powder. Everything is measured into the wok using a metal spatular. When we add the rice noodles they are not boiled first. A small amount of water is added to the wok and the noodles are flash-boiled before being mixed in with the other ingredients.

In the 6 hours that the course runs I also make and eat spring rolls, thom yam, chiang mai noodles and deep fried bananas. Chiang mai noodles are my new favourite dish and consist of red curry paste (which we pounded up from scratch in the morning), Indian curry powder and coconut milk which is then topped off with crispy fried wheat noodles and chopped shallots. It's the fifth dish we make and it's so delicious I eat the whole bowl.

This is a mistake. When we cooked and ate the first dish I was already full from the smoothie, now I'm full to bursting. When the class finishes at four I heave myself up and lurch round the corner to my hostel. Determined not to give the beautifully cooked food the indignity of being puked up into a communal toilet I glug some water and lie down.

Was the food worth the ensuing stomach cramps and the next day's crippling bout of what Dad calls "the shits"? You bet the hell it was.

For the love of Bangkok

I've been so excited about coming to Thailand- and I haven't been disappointed. Even though Bangkok for the most part is a mental traffic clogged concrete mess of a city. Even though the food so far has been greasy tourist-tweaked phad thai. It's the little things that I'm enjoying.
I love the chugging tuk tuks, and the Thais carrying their entire shop/food stall/wordly posessions balanced on them, with various makeshift shelves added as and where needed. I love  that you can get syrupy iced drinks everywhere (in the past few days I've had enough iced teas to amount to a lethal dose of sugar). I love the lewd low-quality t-shirts on the stalls stuffing Khao San road. I love Chang beer. I love chicken noodle soup and the meaty fishy smell that wafts down the road from the stalls.
Yesterday I got the water taxi and got lost. I got drunk with some Scots. I was nearly run over by a tuk tuk and I accidentally threw my rubbish into a grumpy man's shop (he kept his stock in a large metal bin on the road). And I loved it!
I have been indulging myself by buying a plethora of crap. Casio watches in every colour. Paper thin dresses. Coconut ice-cream and fresh papaya.
Bangkok is by no means perfect- but so far I am loving it!

Riding the overnight train

I'm annoyed when I get to my berth and there are 3 burly Fins sitting on it. But I have now been travelling a month and am not to be messed with. I assert myself by brandishing my ticket and declaring "this is MY bunk."

Actually they turn out to be very pleasant guys and they move aside without complaint. I've armed myself with snacks to combat my erratic bursts of hunger, and my kindle and tablet for erratic bursts of boredom for the thirteen hour overnight train journey to Chiang Mai. As I sit on my bunk I notice a faint pissy bleachy chemical smell reminiscent of festival toilets. Definitely not the best seat in the house.

Although the mattress and pillow are comfy and the yellow bed curtains offer a good degree of privacy, I get a really patchy nights sleep, mostly  because of the air conditioning which is turned up to the "bollock freezing" setting, which causes me to raid my bag for a jumper mid-way through the night.

I find that I have morbidly nostalgic dreams. I dream of my dead cats Siddy and Jack.  Of my Uncle Frank's wake and when mum and dad phoned me at university to tell me that Granny had died. I remember the bawling group hug my cousins and I had in a pub stairwell that same day. I dream a little of my ex-boyfriend's parents, and a little of him (though mostly with the words "bastard bastard bastard" running through my head). It makes for an unsettling night's sleep, but I awake bleary-eyed to be rewarded with views of jungle-covered mountains.

Am I feeling a little homesick? No time for that- the legendary city of Chiang Mai awaits!

Well, it awaits after a three hour delay anyway.

Bangkok Style

The small crowd scattered about the road claps slowly to goad the next peformer into topping the one before. After readying himself with a breath the gangly baseball-capped boy launches himself at the pavement and spirals into a gravity defying head spin, limbs jerking like a spider in its death throes. The next performer does an acrobatic somersault over a passing tuk tuk. The kids dance about in unison, flip their legs up, pogo hop on their hands and finish with a pantomime-style joint bow before handing around a baseball hat for change.

I gladly hand over a note; dinner with a show, or more accurately beer with a show. After a day of 'culture' at the floating market ( an entirely different kind of tourist show) I ventured onto the bar-stuffed Rambutri Street for some Chang and social interaction. I chose this bar as I like the live accoustic sets it offers, which today made a strange backdrop to the break-dancing flashmob that appeared. I end up talking to some Germans and Swedes, and naturally one beer morphs into several. The guy from Munich seemed particularly pleased with his acheivement of squeezing a ladyboy's boobs the day before, brandishing photographic proof on his phone. The Swedish boy Oscar it seems I might bump into again in Chiang Mai.

I leave my share of the beer money and stumble round the food stalls at the end of the block back to my hostel. Another fun night in Banlamphu and another pissed Skype call to Pete. I resolve to be more sober when I phone Grandma tomorrow.

Mood Improved!

No offence Lombok. I tried cycling round you. I tried your famed beaches that all the posh hotels have sectioned off and concreted over. I even went for a nice dinner and a drink with a nice Japanese guy in you.

But without your Rinanji volcano climb you are just damn boring.

Lombok

 I got the feeling that I was associating Lombok with being frustrated and scammed. I spent one full day there and then decided that I was incapable of enjoying it. I had one roommate in the entire dorm - a beardy long-haired skater called Rintaro who worked for a chain of  hostels in Japan. He seemed to be staying there for the sole reason that it was dirt cheap (5 quid a night including breakfast) but admitted that there wasn't much to do there. We went for a beer, and it was then I decided that I needed to move forward.

I'd already been for two long bike rides the day before which I think lifted my spirits enough for me to be decisive. Annoyingly the internet cafe shut at about 9pm (because no one is out in Sengiggi after this time) so I instead booked my transfer back to the Eka Jaya fast ferry and to Bali.

Considering that Kuta had been annoyingly busy and touty the first time I was there, on my return it was like an old friend. Immediately my spirits felt higher, and I waved the touts away with smiles and "No thank you"s.

I booked myself into a swish homestay room. It was brand new and had a fan like a helicopter. My own bathroom, breakfast, and two beds to choose from for 10 quid a night. Oh, and no ants in the shower. It also handily had an internet cafe next door, so after dumping my backpack I sauntered in to book my flight to Thailand.

The guys running the shop were practising songs for their live accoustic set, and on hearing I was English played a not bad rendition of 'Don't look back in anger'.

I spent the evening being a total cheap-arse (dinner cost me about 1.20) and getting a good night's rest.

I arrived in Bangkok on Friday, relaxed and glad to be on the move.

A Message for my Valentine

Dear Pete,

I think you should get your arse out to asia.

I need you to collect the tourist crap I've bought you -  as I probably won't be able to take it into Australia and postage from here is well expensive.

Also, my tan -lines are so hilarious, I really think you should see them in person.

Lave and snogs,

Lou X

The Pinnacle of my frustration

I am incapable of enjoying Lombok.

Whilst sitting in the Wira Guest house yesterday I came to this conclusion;

I am chronically frustrated.

I had a whole day and I used it for sleeping and reading. I have no desire to see anything or go anywhere, and also no desire to stay where I am.

This all started from that bad night's sleep in Gili, I hastily bought a ticket to Lombok in order to escape. But I got scammed - although I have arrived here and at my hotel for the correct fare, the travel agent lied to me about the possibility of climbing the Rinjani Volcano. It's common knowledge here that the route is shut, and his only intention must have been to get me here so that I will buy other tours off of him. I am in Sengiggi -  there is absolutely sweet FA to do here. But oh! what's this? You can buy a transfer to somewhere more exciting for a small fee! The travel agent will also recommend you his friend's guest house for a special price (most likely a lot more than the room is actually worth).

Nope, that's it, I've had enough. I'm catching the first plane out that I can. Trouble is that now it's Chinese new year all the fares have doubled. Crapsticks.

The plus of this story is that when I was sold my ticket over here, I hadn't paid for it. The vendor told me to pay for it when I arrived in Lombok by calling him. Lucky for me, the transfer driver took my ticket off of me, tried to undercut the agent by offering me transfers elsewhere, and I realised yesterday when I asked the driver for the vendor's number as written on the ticket he gave me his own mobile number instead.

So now I can't pay for the ticket, and I sure as hell am not using this company or any party associated with them to book anything else.

I was a bit better today and went for a long bikeride, which cheered me up a lot. However it just reinforced the fact that there really isn't much to do on this island, though it's much more local and less touristy than Bali or Gili.

I think I am fed up of Indonesia - Thailand here I come!

...as soon as I can afford it.

I Can't Get No Sleep

Yesterday as the sun descended into the sea in an orange haze of spectacular clouds, I sat on the beach with the wind gently wafting in my face thinking; this is an island paradise.

This morning I walked along the beach in a red mist of insomnia rage. My normal sleeping troubles (which had seemed to have disappeared) were further flouted by the droning snores of the dorm, then a drunken crowd crashing in and out, switching on the main lights and talking at top volume. A couple started to have sex in one of the top bunks. They had stumbled in around 4am to loudly discuss a drug comedown and ask their friend for a load of ibuprofen. To avoid the rhythmic slapping noise that was acting as ear sandpaper I climbed down my bunk ladder, threw on some clothes and went for a walk.

Gili Trawangan is an island paradise; you can see sea turtles just by snorkeling a few metres off of the beach, which itself is a stretch of soft white sand. There is no motorised traffic; only the jingle of pony-drawn carriages and the gentle hum of island hopping boats.

So far the nightlife has been fun. I had a great night yesterday whizzing around the night market with some hostel buddies, eating satay, seafood, tacos and pancakes for tiny sums of money. I then had a great time sipping Bintang in a bar as the live band bounced out a steady flow of reggae classics.

But drugs are not my scene.

I understand that people want to try new things and have a good time, and don't get me wrong- I am a bit of a square. But I am a square with some fairly rounded edges. Three years a special constable in the metropolitan police showed me a side to the drugs trade that isn't widely viewed. It is an exploitative industry on every level with a hideous cycle of victimisation for everyone involved. I have seen wasted faces and teeth that look like black pins. I have seen utter human despair. All of this starts with an individual making a bad choice. And then another bad choice. And then the bad choices pile up in a spiral of addiction that they could never foresee. And no, the kids here aren't just doing mushrooms and weed; they're also doing coke and heroin. Gili Trawangan is famous for 'drug tourism.'

And it is the industry that I don't like. Amsterdam's policy in regards to cannabis is incredibly progressive; in in this scenario I have no problem with people taking a drug that is properly regulated and produced legitimately.

So I know this island is a place for people to let go. I know it's a fairly secure environment to uncover the mystery of recreational drugs (the media industry also perpetuates the myth that this is some kind of normal rite-of-passage) and there is a part of me that thinks "Should I dive in and have a go?" But no. I know myself well enough to know that I am not the sort of person to be pressured by perceived social norms.

I'm obviously in the older set here. There is a younger set of twenty-somethings here whom you can usually tell from the crowd because they will be boasting about something, and that something is how drunk they were, how many drugs they took or how many people they have slept with throughout the week. It's a sense of having achieved something I think. And there are people here like me who simply don't do drugs. It's not my scene and I'm not above letting that be known.

I'm comforted by the fact there are some fellow bleary-eyed very pissed off people at breakfast, but for now I think I've had my fill of Gili for a while. I snuck off and bought my ticket to Lombok off of a shady-looking guy in the street.

Telling my Fortune

There must be something in my face, because I've now had my fortune told three times in three weeks, all unprovoked and all in different ways.

In Singapore a whiskery botanist grabbed my palm, after showing me some specimens of lemongrass and kaffir lime, and told me that I had had 'romantic problems' last year and was very sad. Apparently I have a wounded look about my face. He went on to tell me that I am now in a process of change and decision making that will lead me down the correct path. Alright then.

In Kualar Lumpur a fat Indian man with gold teeth, bought me a bag of hairy rambutan as I was perusing the Chinese market. He told me that I have problems feeling sexually satisfied, that I change my mind a lot, and willed me to 'experiment' with as many different men as possible. This apparently was divined by way of numerology. Given the prying and seedy nature of his conversation I figured he was trying to come onto me, so I quickly jumped on the LRT and sped off to the airport as quickly as possible to wait there for four hours for my flight to arrive and my skin to stop crawling.

In Ubud, Bali I was woken by the sounds of gongs, cowbells, roosters crowing, birds, dogs barking and  people speaking in neighboring houses. I floated out of the delirium of sleep and ended up in the Dewa Warung to eat some Tempeh. A local man with long hair and a tattoo of a tiger was sitting in the corner chain smoking.

"Hey you! Strange girl! Where you are from?"

After a brief conversation about reiki and reflexology (my knowledge on these subjects courtesy of mum) 'Beki' boasted that he could tell my fortune just by looking at me. I said "go on then".

As a psycological exercise he made me draw five objects on a page; a snake, a chicken, a bridge, a house and a tree.

I'm not going to go into the details but he told me that; I love my job (Rimli and Saffron - if you're reading this I know you'll be laughing), that I don't care about my boyfriend and he has curly hair (sorry Pete - you're out), that my money is very up and down (these days I'm pretty sure it's mostly down) and that I don't live with my family.

He then demanded $500 from me, which I refused on the basis that his analysis was a load of shit.

The Real Bali

The motorcycle chugs past rice paddy after rice paddy, and then rounds corners into small villages full of the traditional temple-like Balinese houses with open courtyard entrances. Jalhang (daily offerings to spirits) litter the road and chickens snap up the leftover crumbs.

Ketut is taking me on a motorcycle tour to see all of the neighboring sights. He's a keen informant and deliberately steers the motorcycle along the winding village paths so that I can see "the real Bail".

To be honest, I think that the tourist-saturated Kuta is as much "the real Bali" as the cultural bombardment in the centre. I felt like a tourist in both places. On Kuta beach surfers bob lazily off the shore waiting for the big waves to come along; when they do come it's in spectacular glassy curls. There are also rip-off merchants everywhere. You need to try and chill out a bit. March forward and ignore the people calling "you want sunglasses? bag? massage? magic mushrooms? wooden penis bottle opener!?" Go and have a facial and drink a cocktail and talk to some Australians. Because there are loads of them in Kuta.

But then by contrast you have Ubud; surrounded by mountains and massive spectacular shrines and traditional dance. Oh and French people. And hippies.

As I sleepily watch an early-morning completely bat-shit crazy 'Barong' dance performance, I can feel the sleazy claw of tourism over everything. The lion costume is spectacular- covered in flowers, tiny mirrors, shaggy fur and fluffy pom poms, all topped off with a snapping wooden mask.

But this wouldn't be here, performed everyday for what is in Indonesia an extortionate fee, without the tourists, who are as much a part of 'the real Bali as Barong and Jalhang and surfing.

Going it Alone

I am starting to resent couples. How dare they be enjoying lounging about in the hostels! How dare they enjoy going to restaurants and bars together, and doing amazing things like climbing mountains and white water rafting! They even enjoy re-telling the stories of when they were ripped off/harassed/attacked by insects! The bastards.

I am having a moan, but it's very hypocritical because if Pete were here I would be just as disgusting.

The point of this trip is self-discovery and proving I can do this independently. I am learning that I have to put the effort in to meet people, but that when the effort is made, people are usually very open to you. I have to learn to put up with shitty stuff that doesn't happen when you're with anyone else - mostly leering men, cat-calls and other general forms of sexual harassment (in Penang someone drove past on a motorbike and slapped me on the arse). Touts seem much more persistent; I'm currently finding this out in Bali where my pale complexion probably doesn't help either.

Despite this moan, some of the nicest people I've met so far have been couples, and it's been very much appreciated. Viki and Debbie in KL who invited me to eat with them, Connor and Marie in the Cameron Highlands who I got lost in the jungle with (without them I would probably still be trying to find my way out). In Penang I met Liz and Tom from Melbourne, and spent a fab day out visiting the beach with Liz while Tom puked his guts up all morning (courtesy of a seemingly legit Indian restaurant). I was able to have a really good chat with her about travelling independently, as she had done so all over Europe and Russia, and also the wanky way in which long-term boyfriends usually end up treating girls. Yes I am still bitter about it.

I also spoke to a couple from LA on the plane over from KL- they've asked me to call them up when I go over to Ubud.

People- keep spreading the love! I am appreciating it.

Well, sometimes. Try not to do it in public.

The Old Island of Penang

I'm sitting in a traditional style Penang house. The cafe is an old house entrance way; the high ceiling fans waft lazily at the heat. There are wooden slats at the windows curved into simple, symmetrical flower patterns, and though the floor in here is covered with faded mosaic tiles I can see the traditional wooden floor high above supported by cross beams. A sign up by the TV reads "please be quiet after 10pm (as walls are very thin)". At the doorway I can see the white knee of another traveller poking out -  he's chosen to sit outside under the arcade that runs the full length of the street. Motorbikes flash past constantly, and a courier dressed in red, white and sky blue pops stops by to deliver some post.The friendly old Chinese waiter, dressed in jeans and a white t-shirt  brings me my sweet lime juice and skims busily round the empty tables, finding old stains to wash out.

Penang is different from everywhere I've been so far in that it feels very lived in. Old style Chinese houses are everywhere with their plaster crumbling and their wooden shutters hanging off. The ones that have been well kept are cool caverns full of dark wood floors and panels; the doors are always open and a family is always sitting chatting inside. This island has UNESCO world-heritage status, and you can't help feeling that  the town has preserved something more than buildings. There are actual long-running business here- a walk down Love Lane onto the main street reveals small shops of locksmiths, printers, pawn shops and shops selling a variety of merchandise including car parts, mirrors and jewellery.

As I walk down Muntri Street towards Little India, there is a banner saying "SOS - Save our strays!" referring to the stray dogs and cats that lounge about the town eating the restaurant cast-offs. This town's 'Little India' is the best I've seen so far. Small shops blast out Bollywood hits and the air is clouded with the smoky smell of incense, which mixes pleasantly with the car exhaust. On the floor are faded chalk flowers and broken coconut shells left over from Thaipusam.  I soon learn that I can buy delicious samosas an bahjis from here - and the stall holders are very friendly, helping me pick out what I like. You can also peruse the shops for bolts of embroidered cloth, naan and roti, metal bangles, and the magazine stall has a good stock of the latest Indian trash fiction.

My favourite thing about Penang are the rickshaw drivers. We have them in London, however in London their vehicles are not decorated with flowers, paper windmills and miniature Hindu shrines, or driven by sun-reddened old men with no middle teeth. Some of them also blast out some of the Bollywood hits - or Gangnam Style...