I spent the morning looking for all the stuff I'd lost in the Than Thoc Hotel. When I asked the receptionist if she'd seen a rolled up sleeping bag (with the aid of Van De Graf's ingenius 'point it' picture book) she looked at the picture, looked at me, and stated "no."
This was highly irritating considering there are about twelve other porters and receptionists that she couldn't be bothered to ask, she didn't look anywhere behind the desk and to top it off she couldn't even muster the strength to be polite. After asking said twelve other staff members I eventually retrieved my sleeping bag, but didn't find the earring I'd dropped, as this question was too answered with a blank "No."
Sod this shit. The tour is over and so is my stay in this hovel of incompetant morons. I hoik up my backpack, say my teary goodbyes to the group and march off to my new $5 hostel down the road.
At first I can't find it, as it's tucked behind a weird side alley behind a travel agency, but a strategically placed lady on the road points it out to me. My My Arthouse looks very basic, but the two staff members sitting at the communal table give me a hearty welcome. In a timespan of 5 minutes the gay concierge has taken my passport details, given me my key, marked out the major sights of Saigon on a map and given me prices and timings for the bus to Cambodia. He then minces off to stash my passport in the safe.
I'm enjoying the return to the hostel after two weeks. The staff act without the snobbery and pretention of hotels. The rooms are basic, but are combatted with cleanliness. You can get a breakfast, minus the silverware, glass bowls and inflated price tag.
Our tour's Saigon hotel involved a sighting of the biggest cockroach I've ever seen. It provided an expensive breakfast of rotting fruit and cheap bread. The 'secure luggage room' consisted of a net placed over our bags in the reception area.
I've enjoyed the tour- mostly for the group rather than the regimented structure - but now I'm looking forward to the renewed freedom to make my own bad hotel choices, rather than have to suffer them at the hands of Intrepid Travel.
Friday 29 March 2013
Parks
In an unheard of show of efficiency, our overnight train to Saigon arrived an hour early.
In an indescribable show of crap organisation, we were not allowed to check into our hotel.
At 5.30am, Viet marched us bleary-eyed through the streets of Saigon. At this time in the morning the heat is already crushing, and I drag my feet in heavy steps along the pavement. Viet wheels us into the park; and it's heaving.
Dance music pumps out of distant boom boxes, and we can see clustered groups of people in sportswear on the lawns between the flowerbeds and in the bandstands. We have to move round some men setting up a badminton court in the pathway. People are waiting patiently for a go on the outdoor gym equipment, including chin bars and exercise bikes. We group under the shade of some trees to watch a women-only exercise group doing frantic chest pumps.In the distance some elderly people are doing Tai Chi.
Viet jumps opposite the group; for one crazy second I think that he is going to start taking the class, but he simply performs his usual suite of bizarre (though impressive) ninja stretches. He invites us to join in the exercise, but I think that he can read the collective sleep-deprived faces that say 'Sod. That. Shit.' He says he'll meet up with us later. We wander around the unselfconscious exercisers for a while, then pile into a Starbucks coffee for some calories and some glorious air-conditioning.
In an indescribable show of crap organisation, we were not allowed to check into our hotel.
At 5.30am, Viet marched us bleary-eyed through the streets of Saigon. At this time in the morning the heat is already crushing, and I drag my feet in heavy steps along the pavement. Viet wheels us into the park; and it's heaving.
Dance music pumps out of distant boom boxes, and we can see clustered groups of people in sportswear on the lawns between the flowerbeds and in the bandstands. We have to move round some men setting up a badminton court in the pathway. People are waiting patiently for a go on the outdoor gym equipment, including chin bars and exercise bikes. We group under the shade of some trees to watch a women-only exercise group doing frantic chest pumps.In the distance some elderly people are doing Tai Chi.
Viet jumps opposite the group; for one crazy second I think that he is going to start taking the class, but he simply performs his usual suite of bizarre (though impressive) ninja stretches. He invites us to join in the exercise, but I think that he can read the collective sleep-deprived faces that say 'Sod. That. Shit.' He says he'll meet up with us later. We wander around the unselfconscious exercisers for a while, then pile into a Starbucks coffee for some calories and some glorious air-conditioning.
Thursday 28 March 2013
Touring
Okay, you may have noticed that I've been rather lazy about posting as of late. My excuse, officer, is that I've been under the regimentation and resultant laziness of an organised tour.
Our fearless leader is called Viet; self-proclaimed kung-fu master. In fact, self-proclaimed master of many things including badminton, fencing, pool and karaoke. He speaks in a slow steady drone and often repeats himself. I find it hard to listen to him for more than 10 minutes, possibly a sign of the old family ADD coming through, but also a sign that I am not going to have an easy time being 'guided.'
Other members of my group include a lot of Aussies of various ages, one kiwi (my roomie, Lauren) and a recently married, very welcoming couple from Liverpool, Paul and Viv. Although the group seems very mis-matched at first, after a few days (and the hilarity of a drunken overnight train journey) we're all getting along swimmingly.
I struggle to get to grips with the tour at first. I've become used to doing my own thing; staying in £5 hostels and eating £1 meals. Walking everywhere. Having the odd beer and eating when I feel like it. On the tour we are piled into restaurants on a nightly basis. These restaurants usually cost 5 times what I am used to paying and bar the staff, you never see any Vietnamese in them. I know what the 'authentic' places are; I've been eating in them for two and a half months. In Vietnam they are everywhere on the roadsides, identified by the swathes locals crouching on tiny plastic stalls on tables outside. Even in Hoi An, the classic tourist-dominated town there are ban mii and noodle shops tucked away by the river banks and cloth markets. In Hanoi Stu took me for some Pha Ga (chicken pho) and some local girls took us through the seasonings to add; in an authentic eatery these are always provided on the table and include baskets of fresh herbs, chillies and limes. Viet says that street restaurants are dangerous, though I suspect that his restaurant choices have less to do with authenticity and more to do with pre-arranged back-handers.
Despite my moaning I've had some great experiences that I wouldn't have had alone. Swimming and kayaking in the rubbish polluted waters of Halong bay, drunken nights out and resultant bruises from dancing on pool tables, a bike ride around Hoi An where we saw how peanuts and the ubiquitous betel nuts are grown and a fantastic boat and snorkeling trip in Na Trahng where I managed to top up my sunburn whilst viewing some fantastic flower-shaped corals. The enjoyment was mostly due to the fab and fun set of people in the group, who for the lone traveler become a surrogate family. I soon have adopted aunts, uncles, sisters, and even that weird cousin that no-one wants to sit next to at dinner.
I'm not sure the tour structure is something I'm fond of anymore. After travelling alone it feels restrictive, as you must choose between being independent or being sociable. I found eventually that I would rather hang with the group, as this would ultimately guarantee fun, though it also guaranteed greater expense. It will also be the group which shapes your experience of the country.
For the most part, I had a great time in Vietnam. The landscape is a spectacular web of lush rice paddies, backdropped with sheer-sided limestone mountains and sapphire coves, and populated (genuinely) with bicycle bound ladies in conical hats. The cities have their own rough and dirty character, and present their own crazy charm.
Although I leave Vietnam feeling monetarily drained, I feel like I did maximise my time there. I don't feel like I missed out on anything and my deep seated loneliness has disappeared. Doing the tour allowed me to appreciate the advantages of travelling independently. I travel into Cambodia refreshed and ready to go.
Our fearless leader is called Viet; self-proclaimed kung-fu master. In fact, self-proclaimed master of many things including badminton, fencing, pool and karaoke. He speaks in a slow steady drone and often repeats himself. I find it hard to listen to him for more than 10 minutes, possibly a sign of the old family ADD coming through, but also a sign that I am not going to have an easy time being 'guided.'
Other members of my group include a lot of Aussies of various ages, one kiwi (my roomie, Lauren) and a recently married, very welcoming couple from Liverpool, Paul and Viv. Although the group seems very mis-matched at first, after a few days (and the hilarity of a drunken overnight train journey) we're all getting along swimmingly.
I struggle to get to grips with the tour at first. I've become used to doing my own thing; staying in £5 hostels and eating £1 meals. Walking everywhere. Having the odd beer and eating when I feel like it. On the tour we are piled into restaurants on a nightly basis. These restaurants usually cost 5 times what I am used to paying and bar the staff, you never see any Vietnamese in them. I know what the 'authentic' places are; I've been eating in them for two and a half months. In Vietnam they are everywhere on the roadsides, identified by the swathes locals crouching on tiny plastic stalls on tables outside. Even in Hoi An, the classic tourist-dominated town there are ban mii and noodle shops tucked away by the river banks and cloth markets. In Hanoi Stu took me for some Pha Ga (chicken pho) and some local girls took us through the seasonings to add; in an authentic eatery these are always provided on the table and include baskets of fresh herbs, chillies and limes. Viet says that street restaurants are dangerous, though I suspect that his restaurant choices have less to do with authenticity and more to do with pre-arranged back-handers.
Despite my moaning I've had some great experiences that I wouldn't have had alone. Swimming and kayaking in the rubbish polluted waters of Halong bay, drunken nights out and resultant bruises from dancing on pool tables, a bike ride around Hoi An where we saw how peanuts and the ubiquitous betel nuts are grown and a fantastic boat and snorkeling trip in Na Trahng where I managed to top up my sunburn whilst viewing some fantastic flower-shaped corals. The enjoyment was mostly due to the fab and fun set of people in the group, who for the lone traveler become a surrogate family. I soon have adopted aunts, uncles, sisters, and even that weird cousin that no-one wants to sit next to at dinner.
I'm not sure the tour structure is something I'm fond of anymore. After travelling alone it feels restrictive, as you must choose between being independent or being sociable. I found eventually that I would rather hang with the group, as this would ultimately guarantee fun, though it also guaranteed greater expense. It will also be the group which shapes your experience of the country.
For the most part, I had a great time in Vietnam. The landscape is a spectacular web of lush rice paddies, backdropped with sheer-sided limestone mountains and sapphire coves, and populated (genuinely) with bicycle bound ladies in conical hats. The cities have their own rough and dirty character, and present their own crazy charm.
Although I leave Vietnam feeling monetarily drained, I feel like I did maximise my time there. I don't feel like I missed out on anything and my deep seated loneliness has disappeared. Doing the tour allowed me to appreciate the advantages of travelling independently. I travel into Cambodia refreshed and ready to go.
Friday 22 March 2013
Hanoi
Hanoi doesn't have pavements: it has motorcycle parking zones which fill the space between the shops and the road. The tourist must dice with death on the latter to get anywhere, dodging bikes carrying fridges, flowers, saucepans, bricks, goldfish, mops, woven baskets, vegetables and entire families. In Vietnam anything can be carried by motorcycle and in the morning rush hour a tide of colourful bikes surges through the intersections, engines spluttering and drivers honking.
Stuart gives me a short tour on the back of his bike. As he wobbles and swerves through the intersections and we brush toes with the crowd of other bikers, he points out that the shops are located by trade, and as he navigates the crazy traffic I spot party decoration street, bamboo ladder street, catering equipment street, rolled up stuff street, packaged coffee street, wedding invitation street and wine and biscuits street.
This is definately the most mental city I've been to so far. The roads meander in random directions. Electrical wires are tangled in clumps around poles. There are hundreds of 'Pho' and 'Com' shops which clutter the pavements with low plastic stalls and clouds of meaty smoke. There are ladies in conical hats carrying fresh pineapple on shoulder-suspended baskets. There are cafes selling tasty locally brewed beer.
Stu does a lap of the enourmous West lake and then takes me to one of his favourite coffee shops. Locals sit on stalls chatting over low marble-topped tables as the smell of roasted beans wafts through the air. We have great fun chucking sunflower seeds on the floor and sipping the smooth local brew.
It's not the prettiest city in Asia. It's not the most interesting and the people aren't the friendliest. The pollution leaves a greasy layer of dirt on my face that I can feel when I hop off the bike. But it feels very genuine. It's not a town set up and sanitised for tourists, it's a town set up and maintained for the Vietnamese. This in itself is a refreshing experience for a major town on the tourist trail.
Stuart gives me a short tour on the back of his bike. As he wobbles and swerves through the intersections and we brush toes with the crowd of other bikers, he points out that the shops are located by trade, and as he navigates the crazy traffic I spot party decoration street, bamboo ladder street, catering equipment street, rolled up stuff street, packaged coffee street, wedding invitation street and wine and biscuits street.
This is definately the most mental city I've been to so far. The roads meander in random directions. Electrical wires are tangled in clumps around poles. There are hundreds of 'Pho' and 'Com' shops which clutter the pavements with low plastic stalls and clouds of meaty smoke. There are ladies in conical hats carrying fresh pineapple on shoulder-suspended baskets. There are cafes selling tasty locally brewed beer.
Stu does a lap of the enourmous West lake and then takes me to one of his favourite coffee shops. Locals sit on stalls chatting over low marble-topped tables as the smell of roasted beans wafts through the air. We have great fun chucking sunflower seeds on the floor and sipping the smooth local brew.
It's not the prettiest city in Asia. It's not the most interesting and the people aren't the friendliest. The pollution leaves a greasy layer of dirt on my face that I can feel when I hop off the bike. But it feels very genuine. It's not a town set up and sanitised for tourists, it's a town set up and maintained for the Vietnamese. This in itself is a refreshing experience for a major town on the tourist trail.
Thursday 14 March 2013
The Bus of Doom
Thank god there are some other tourists waiting for this bus. American Travis, painfully Irish Dermot, Mr. Liverpool and myself are nervously waiting for the international bus to depart, shoulder to shoulder with some locals who unlike us seem to know exactly what's going on.
There's a terrifying middle-aged Vietnamese woman in a Prada t-shirt who keeps shouting explosively at random passengers. A man on a motorbike wearing an incongruous flowery lady's hat whisks her away somewhere, and for a moment we breathe a sigh of relief, only to suck it back in moments later when he drops her back off with some extra luggage and she walks onto the bus and starts the engine. She's either a total nutcase, or worse, the driver, and we wait in a cold sweat for an alternative to appear. Eventually he does, and relieved we remove our shoes to step on.
The nutter woman is handing out the shoe bags, which means that although she is not driving the bus she is working for the bus company. She spends the entirety of the journey through Laos barking down her phone in a voice clogged by smoking what sounds like a good 4000 Vietnamese cigarettes a day, and scowling back at the passengers.
The bus to Hanoi is a fully kitted out sleeper with three rows of comfy bunks, and we grab four at the back and settle in. We are supplied with blankets and pillows, and frosty air-con wafts from the ceiling. Dermot pulls out his laptop and invites me to watch 'Ideal' as the pulls pulls away from Luang Prubang.
I'm very worried about this journey. There are horror stories abound about this particular land border crossing from Laos to Vietnam. For this reason, I'm wearing my money belt for the first time; anything of value I have, including my passport, is on my person.
The nerves escalate when we reach the Vietnam border, as the rip-off potential increases when you need an official rubber stamp. We follow the locals to the looming checkpoint building, an empty concrete edifice, constructed to place fear into the hearts of nervous 'farangs'. I hand over my passport, watch it get placed into a separate pile from the Asians, and then sit down to accept my fate. Scary woman shows up. She prowls alongside the glass screen and scowls at the uniformed officials. She gets her passport back first and immediately expresses disatisfaction at how it has been stamped, flashing the pages at a young official who nervously re-checks it for her.
Miraculously, 20 minutes later our passports are back and we're back on the bus, no money having been demanded and no possessions having been relieved from our persons. It becomes apparent that scary woman is looking after us. When we change buses in Vinh, she jabs her finger at the correct bus and has a shouting match with the driver on our behalf. The Hanoi bus leaves without incident.
The bus should take 6 hours, but instead it takes 9. The journey is interrupted by various stops; to onload and offload bags of concrete, to allow the men to piss at the side of the road (I guess that women have to hold it or squat) and to do a small amount of welding on the wheels of the bus.
We arrive exhausted in Hanoi at 10:30 and grab a highly inflated cab to the town centre. I check into my hostel and call Stu, who shows up on his scooter and whisks me away for a drink.
When I talk to the hostel owner in the morning, he asks if I had any trouble on the route. Apparantly a group of tourists on the bus two days previously were marched off it and watched terrified as the driver drove away with all their possessions and left them in the middle of nowhere. I tell him no; we were lucky enough to have a terrifying nutter woman on board.
There's a terrifying middle-aged Vietnamese woman in a Prada t-shirt who keeps shouting explosively at random passengers. A man on a motorbike wearing an incongruous flowery lady's hat whisks her away somewhere, and for a moment we breathe a sigh of relief, only to suck it back in moments later when he drops her back off with some extra luggage and she walks onto the bus and starts the engine. She's either a total nutcase, or worse, the driver, and we wait in a cold sweat for an alternative to appear. Eventually he does, and relieved we remove our shoes to step on.
The nutter woman is handing out the shoe bags, which means that although she is not driving the bus she is working for the bus company. She spends the entirety of the journey through Laos barking down her phone in a voice clogged by smoking what sounds like a good 4000 Vietnamese cigarettes a day, and scowling back at the passengers.
The bus to Hanoi is a fully kitted out sleeper with three rows of comfy bunks, and we grab four at the back and settle in. We are supplied with blankets and pillows, and frosty air-con wafts from the ceiling. Dermot pulls out his laptop and invites me to watch 'Ideal' as the pulls pulls away from Luang Prubang.
I'm very worried about this journey. There are horror stories abound about this particular land border crossing from Laos to Vietnam. For this reason, I'm wearing my money belt for the first time; anything of value I have, including my passport, is on my person.
The nerves escalate when we reach the Vietnam border, as the rip-off potential increases when you need an official rubber stamp. We follow the locals to the looming checkpoint building, an empty concrete edifice, constructed to place fear into the hearts of nervous 'farangs'. I hand over my passport, watch it get placed into a separate pile from the Asians, and then sit down to accept my fate. Scary woman shows up. She prowls alongside the glass screen and scowls at the uniformed officials. She gets her passport back first and immediately expresses disatisfaction at how it has been stamped, flashing the pages at a young official who nervously re-checks it for her.
Miraculously, 20 minutes later our passports are back and we're back on the bus, no money having been demanded and no possessions having been relieved from our persons. It becomes apparent that scary woman is looking after us. When we change buses in Vinh, she jabs her finger at the correct bus and has a shouting match with the driver on our behalf. The Hanoi bus leaves without incident.
The bus should take 6 hours, but instead it takes 9. The journey is interrupted by various stops; to onload and offload bags of concrete, to allow the men to piss at the side of the road (I guess that women have to hold it or squat) and to do a small amount of welding on the wheels of the bus.
We arrive exhausted in Hanoi at 10:30 and grab a highly inflated cab to the town centre. I check into my hostel and call Stu, who shows up on his scooter and whisks me away for a drink.
When I talk to the hostel owner in the morning, he asks if I had any trouble on the route. Apparantly a group of tourists on the bus two days previously were marched off it and watched terrified as the driver drove away with all their possessions and left them in the middle of nowhere. I tell him no; we were lucky enough to have a terrifying nutter woman on board.
Tuesday 12 March 2013
The Canopy
I was already convinced that the Lao were a mental people by the trying-to-catch-a-catfish-with-a-bin-whilst-on-a-passenger boat scenario, however after participating in The Gibbon Experience I'm coming around to their way of thinking.
You are invited to contribute to conservation and explore the jungle. To support local communities; oh, and to zoom through the forest canopy on 500 metre long, 100 metre high ziplines with only a rope to prevent you from becoming a splatted bug on the windshield of nature.
It is a truly fantastic way to view the jungle, and from the viewpoint of the canopy you really can see the wood for the trees. You can see the sun flare off of the forest rivers and in the mornings the evaporating moisture hits your face as the forest reveals itself from the mist. You get to sleep in a 50 metre high tree house, open to wildlife and the elements at the sides. You get to swim in a waterfall. You get to try weird jungle fruits. You get to muck around like a gleeful child whilst knowing that you're contributing to something educational. Yes I'm feeling very smug right now.
Once we've coaxed them out of their shyness, our two guides, Jun and Budlun are a hoot. Jun is quizzing Anthony about how to talk to girls and returns after his shift in the evening to play cards with us (bringing a hot kettle and an enourmous bag of peanuts with him). Budlun shows off by taking the zipwires backwards, doing them in tandem with other people and jiggling them about to throw us off once we've got the hang of it.
The only downside is that we don't see any gibbons, or any other wildlife really. I wonder how invasive zipwiring is (it seems less so than the trails- but I wonder about the noise). The guides also don't seem very interested in telling us about the environment or really looking for any animals.
My reckoning is that the Gibbon experience is much more about feeling like a gibbon than seeing any.
P.S- In case anyone is interested my injuries sustained were as follows:
-Bruises from crashing into a treehouse.
-bruises from falling off of a waterfall.
-hilarious burn on my forehead from catching it on the wire.
Thursday 7 March 2013
Lonely Laos
I'm having a bad day today. Me and Pete had a little fight this morning as I took offence at his mentioning I've made him late for work everyday this week by calling. In true girl style I have commenced a silent treatment Skype snub of indeterminable length.
I came over with a small group on the accursed slow boat of doom, but though civil, I didn't really gel with anyone in the group. I bump into people around town, but for the most part we exchange civilities and go our separate ways. My guesthouse is comfortable and the staff are friendly, yet I've yet to meet another guest.
I'm feeling very lonely, and also very bored. Luang Prabang is a nice town (especially it seems if you're a groan-inducing honeymooner) but it's incredibly boring. Yes the french architecture is charming, yes the markets are lovely, but believe it or not there is a limit to the amount of crepes and fruit smoothies I can ingest!
I've been fatigued since the boat, and it's messing with my eating and sleeping patterns. I'm finding the energy seeps out of me by midday and haven't had the drive to find somewhere more sociable to stay.
I'm also stuck waiting for my visa to Vietnam to be processed. This takes three days at the cheapest price, which means I'm sitting it out. I've been looking into trekking and kayaking trips but annoyingly the tours are for a minimum of two people and no-one else in this lazy town can be arsed; I am forced once again to feel disadvantaged by being alone. I wanted to hire a bike today, as being active usually takes my mind off of things- but oh! What's this? Apparently they need your friggin passport to do this AND MINE'S AT THE VIETNAMESE EMBASSY.
So yes, I'm frustrated once again. Ironically, Pete is working six day weeks so that he can afford to come and see me for a month (take that you smug honeymooning bastards!) But it means he is low on chat time when I'm at my loneliest. Oh, and I think dad has forgotten how to use Skype. Sigh.
So I must rely on my own sociability. I must resolve to be more sociable tonight! Onward, to the famous and hideous one pound all you can eat backpacker buffet!
UPDATE: the buffet was actually pretty good and I met a guy called Jeremy who's cycling around the world. You can read his blog at quinsadventure.wordpress.com
Wednesday 6 March 2013
Longboat to Laos
We're seven hours away from Luang Prabang on the Mekong river when the slowboat suddenly turns around in the water. We're all confused; are we stopping for more passengers? The boat circles round again and a tourist shouts down to the back "they're trying to catch a fish!"
Passengers run to crowd one side of the narrow boat. We can see the catfish in the milky brown water swimming near the surface with its whiskers sticking out. It seems to be gasping at the air and is moving quite slowly. My view is obscured but I hear someone shriek "there's a man in there!" and in a few moments I see him - he's paddling in the water after the fish and trying to catch it in a plastic waste paper basket. He's not having much luck; the slow-moving fish is actually fairly agile and keeps jumping out of the basket.
The boat swings round again. The man has given up with the basket; we see him run down the length of the boat in his pants (MANCHESTER UNITED on the waistband) to retrieve a big pole with a hook on the end to try his luck with that. As he's about to launch himself in again a local fisherman glides up on a narrow speedboat and hooks the fish out with a similar pole in one swift movement. Our man looks dejected, but the fisherman turns his boat towards ours and has a brief exchange with him. After the two men come to an agreement the fisherman quickly beheads, guts and slices up the fish, giving our man half of it, and speeds off to the bank. All parties satisfied, the boat continues on its journey.
Waxing
After returning to Chiang Mai I had started to feel a bit grubby. Days of camping out in toilets as a result of my food poisoning was making me dubious about the cleanliness of my clothing, and my insides felt suitably hollow and acid-burned.
I also realised how hairy my legs had gotten. Since buying a pair of the ubiquitous 'baggy backpacker pants' (don't resist them; their coolness and practicality more than make up for the hideous designs) I've been very unselfconscious about them. I've been unselfconscious about underarm hair also as the general drop in the standard of hygeine amongst backpackers, the result of sharing ramshackle bathrooms with a full spectrum of wildlife, mean that lots of girls have it. Also, you learn to really not care. Body hair? Ha! When I have a bed for the night THEN I'll worry about how some stranger judges me on a small aspect of my appearance.
My legs didn't really start to bother me until Jackie and I went kayaking and the cut of my short leggings made me sport an impressive pair of hobbit feet. Dammit. Now the hairy toes are bothering me. It's actually really quite long.
So I decided, in true masochistic girl fashion, to get them waxed. There were several reasons for this; one because waxing lasts a long time- I could have up to 3 weeks before I have to do anything else to them, two because my razor is blunt and tearing up my legs everytime I use it and three because I haven't had it done in so long I've forgotten how immensly painful it is.
When I walk into the tiny salon, two smiling girls inform me I must wait a few minutes for the waxer to arrive. They bring me some 'ice tea'(sugar syrup with ice-cubes in it) in an old fashioned wood and metal bowl and invite me to put my feet up and wait for the master of my destiny to arrive. When she does she's a small middle-aged Thai lady wearing shocking pink. She rushes in clutching a mobile phone and slips off her shoes, then fixes me with a beady eye and says "wax" in the manner of the grim reaper pointing at someone and saying "soon."
I follow her through the curtains of the salon into the darkened treatment area as she swats at mosquitoes. She invites me to lie on a free treatment couch and speeds off into the depths of the salon to prepare. There's one other customer in the booth next door yowling with pain. I think he's getting a Thai massage; I can see his torturer driving her elbow into his back.
My therapist returns brandishing an electrified tennis racquet. She scans the room, catches my eye and growls "mosquito." She then pulls back the other curtain slaps the massage patient's couch and chants"don't cry! Don't cry! You will survive!"
I'm now feeling slightly nervous as the staff have revealed themselves to be a bunch of sadistic nutters, and one of them is about to come at me with a spatula of hot wax.
She rubs my legs with a strange smelling slightly numbing lotion. A special Thai secret? Does waxing not hurt in Thailand? I'm hopeful as she spatulas a layer of burning wax onto my shin and presses a strip of fabric firmly on top of it. This hope is then dashed as she violently rips the strip from my leg, throwing her arm back as though she's starting a speedboat engine, and causing me to gnash my teeth together as every folicle of my leg burns in protest. She pulls her glasses to her nose, inspects the strip and says "ohh!" impressed at the number of hairs ripped from my stinging shin. She does this for the next four or five strips. Jesus woman, if you're that impressed make a bleeding carpet.
At one point she hands me the electric racquet to defend myself from the mosquitoes. I can still hear the poor bastard howling next door as his agressor bends his back in half.
This place is mental and these women are gleeful sadists.
As she tears the last of my hairs from my toes, the therapist inspects my blotchy legs for any impudent remaining hairs and then rubs a lotion into the now smooth but red and sore skin. I return to the waiting area for another cup of syrup to pay and leave and wander back the hostel with slow, stingy steps.
Sunday 3 March 2013
The inevitable undigestible
In hindsight it's amazing that I avoided it this long considering I've been feasting at dirty street stalls. When the cramps and nausea began whilst walking down a street in Pai I waved them off as a minor complaint, but now I'm camping out in the hostel toilet, hoiking my guts up every half hour. Because I'm in the top bunk up a rickety bamboo ladder a bucket must accompany any attempt I make at sleeping or I risk puking all over my mosquito net.
Jackie suggested I drink gatorade as it works as a salt and fluid replacement. I take a sip, but all it does is make the next wave of vomit a vibrant electric blue colour. She is an absolute rock though, and it helps to have someone looking out for you when you are feeling so crappy.
My previous experience with food poisoning tells me to get it all up and avoid eating anything for 24 hours. It's grim business. I've done a lot of toilet hugging. Jackie's being polite, but I can tell I look like shite. My accomodation for this night is up, and the lure of a private hut in town with its own bathroom rallies me to don my heavy pack and dawdle to the town centre riverside in a sweaty delerium.
It's clear that I can't face the bus today; I nearly vommed on it on the way here in perfect health, and the souvenir t-shirts declaring "bus to Pai: I survived 872 turns" remind me that this is a battle for another day. I check into my hut to ride it out and spend the entire day sleeping and hydrating. I'm glad that there's room in my schedule to do this; I don't want my prevailing memory of Pai to be covering the entire population of a mini van in electric blue puke.
What an elephant is
I think that elephants have dead eyes; if you want to learn an elephant's personality look at its trunk. The one behind us makes a sneaky grab for our bananas, its nose tip-toeing over our shoulders like cartoon fingers.
Their wrinkly skin makes them look supple, but an elephant's skin is actually very solid and rough. The hard wrinkles and thick hairs scratch my skin like a wire brush. They seem aware of their size, moving gracefully and lethargically about their business, apart from the baby which tries to put its feet up on the mahout's shoulders and rolls around in the dust.
They love the water. The second they see it they rush forward to roll and wallow in it. Their trunks waving in gratitude as we brush their hides for them. The baby rolls and splashes everyone; he likes it the most of anyone.
They also love sugar cane; the owner gives it to them as a treat and they snap the canes greedily in their colossal mouths. To make them open their mouths to feed them, you use the command 'bonsung!' But I find that this only works half of the time; elephants prefer to feed themselves and like to snatch the treats from your hands.
To climb onto an elephant's back you can use its strong legs as a ladder. The command 'yo-kaa' will make them bend it into a convenient shape and you can hold onto their tough leathery ears whilst you swing your legs over its back.
I'm convinced that their personalities are distinctive; our one definately has a temper. It ignores our commands, walks away from the track, eats everything in its path and sprays us with muddy water.
(We did woody elephant training out of Chiang Mai, Thailand: woodyelephanttraining.com)
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)