Beautiful Places

From the lookout on Whitehaven Beach you can see the shadows of stingrays lying in the gentle turquoise waters of the estuary. The shallow sand flats spread across the bay in white, surf-ringed circles, and the vibrant aquamarine of the shallow water stretches across to the distance like a glimmering bedsheet. The beach is fringed by low cliffs and a lush rainforest whose mangroves sneak their roots onto the edges of the sand.

The sand feels like flour under your toes. The sun occasionally pokes out from behind dramatic clouds to warm you and there's a gentle breeze on the air, slightly chilly.

I walk along the tide-line and notice a collection of yellow leaves punctuating the shore. This place is stunning, and nothing to do here but dip your feet into the water and enjoy the very fact that such a place exists.

Australia

For anyone travelling to Australia, let this be known: it's bloody expensive. I stared longingly at the processed white supermarket bread. $4, which is just under 3 pounds, and way over budget for someone living the backpacker life. I looked hopefully at the chocolate, but a mars bar cost an extravagant $2.50... and it wasn't even be a big one.

I spent four days in Sydney sitting on my arse doing pretty much nothing. The three days of planes had worn away at my enthusiasm, as had the bollock-freezing Australian winter. On the first day I grossly underestimated the cold, tramping around town in a t-shirt and cruisy cut-offs and regretting my decision on the arrival of a cold breeze and light tropical shower. Luckily a kind girl in my dorm bequeathed me an enourmous grey knitted jumper that her luggage allowance would not allow and I invested in some $30 skinny jeans to keep the cold off of my tropic-conditioned knees.

I wasn't having a great time in the hostel. A large group of the Englishman's natural enemy; the French, was routinely occupying the cluster of dinner tables in the courtyard, and I was starting to get fed up of the hostel staff trying to get in my pants.

As a now more seasoned traveler, I recognised that I had come down with a chronic case of 'the lazies' and needed to take action or risk becoming a part of the hostel furniture.

Dodging pissed backpackers and the occasional prostitute on Victoria Street I marched into Wicked Travel King's Cross and grilled the lazy agent as to the main East Coast sights, which include some very expensive trips to Cape Tribulation, the Whitsundays and Fraser Island. I fought the brief handing-over-cash heart attack and brandished my well-worn Mastercard for a $1000 workout, ensuring that my next two weeks would be action packed with fantastic un-lazy experiences.

Realising that with my tours and extra internal flights I'd pretty much spent twice my Australia budget already (about half of what I'd spent in my 3 months in Asia) I popped into the local Coles to stock up on 60c instant noodles, the staple sustenance for the poverty-stricken backpacker.

In Transit

Delhi pisses me off again within 5 minutes of being there. After arriving from Mumbai at the domestic terminal I have to haggle with cab drivers who want ridiculous prices for a 5km cab ride. I know how much it should cost, and so do they, but they also know I'm at their mercy.

In the end, I have to pay 300 rupees for the fifteen minute journey, and the smug little shit driving me tells me "It's fixed price" to which I reply "No it isn't you thieving bastard," as the costing is clearly displayed on a placard in the back of his cab.

I've just done an overnight bus, and 7 hours in the Mumbai terminal. I am tired and pissed off.

I plan to have an easy evening in, plan my trip to Australia, order some room service and grab a good night's sleep. I'm hopeful when I walk up to the desk "Ah yes, Miss, breakfast is included in the rate and we will organise your transfer to the airport in the morning, which is of course complimentary. If you need anything just dial 9." Aaaah... yes! The room's nice too - clean and crisp - I'm feeling very good about this.

But the chinks in the armour start showing immediately. I can't get the wi-fi to work, which is a considerable thwart to my plans. I can find all my favourite channels on the TV- but none of them work (even when I resort to News or cartoons - nothing). The only thing I can watch is Hindi news or 70s Bollywood. The hotel is surrounded by nothing of interest -  I chose it for the purpose of it being close to the airport and a free transfer. I try not to boil over- maybe I'm just hungry. I decide to order room service:

"Hi, this is room 209 -  can I have a menu card please."
"What?"
"Yes, um, I want to order room service but there's no menu up here.."
"Menu"
"Yes."
"We have restaurant downstairs."
"Yes I know that, but I want room service."
"Oh, menu card is on the table."
"No, it isn't. That's why I'm calling."
"Ah.. Menu?"
"Yes"
"... there is restaurant downstairs."
"Right. Okay. Never mind."

I march downstairs fuming in my cat-print pajamas and snatch a menu from the desk. I order a grilled veg sandwich and a mango juice. An hour later I am served the dampest sandwich I have ever seen and a mango shake so thick I think they've made it with cement. The porter hovers around awkwardly after delivering it. I am not amused by his tip fishing after the crappy service and say "yes?" to which he replies "Shake. You must pay now. We don't have so we go across the road." I avoid pointing out that this order is wrong anyway and fish around in my purse.

"If you don't have it you should say so on the phone."
"Why?"
"Do you have change of a 500?"
"You don't have small money?"
"No. This is why you should tell people what's going on."

He then leaves without any money.

Resisting the urge to throw the bedside lamp at his head, I grab my tablet to vent at Pete - Wi-fi still not working. I check it at regular intervals throughout the night, and eventually give up at 11.30pm. My stress causes me to have punctured sleep and all my problems reel through my head; I have nowhere booked to stay in Bangkok. I told Pete I would call. I need to plan out Australia.

After the 4 hour flight from Delhi, Bangkok greets me like an old friend. I am instantly cheered by the bright lights, the bright pink taxis and the lack of honking.

But again my plans are thwarted. I know that the cab to town costs about 450 baht. There's a train, but it's miles away from where I want to be. I search around desperately for someone to split it with. There are two French guys standing near the stand.

"Hi! Are you guys going to Khao San."
"Sorry What?"
"Where are you staying? Is it near Khao San. Did you want to share a taxi?" I gesture to it.
"Ah yes -  you can get taxi here - it's a very good taxi."
"Yes I know but- where are you staying?"

Their blank faces are a sign for me to give up.

When I'm finally there, I can enjoy all my old haunts. Eat some water spinach on Rambuttri road, use the internet Cafe on the corner for 10 baht, shop for Souviners on Khao San. The tiredness is still lingering, but at least I don't feel the urge to murder anyone anymore.

I have a good nights sleep -  but the tiredness is still lingering beyond check-out time, and by the time the shuttle bus arrives all I want is to be asleep on the plane.

When I get to the airport, I'm right on time. I'm happy in the fact I'm getting a big flight out of the way, happy to be in Bangkok's fabulous shiny airport.

"Thank you Madam. Here is your boarding pass. Just to let you know the flight is currently delayed by 2 hours."

"..."

There are no words.