Bird’s Nest Bevarage – 25% bird’s nest

Ayutthaya was the ancient capital city of Siam for 417 years. The city is an island formed by the convergence of three rivers in a fierce race to reach the Gulf of Thailand. Due to this easily defended strategic position the city remained the centre of trade, commerce, culture and politics of the nascent Thai nation until the Burmese invasion of 1767.

After a two year siege the city fell and the invaders looted most of the architectural, cultural and religious treasures, including a 16 metre high gold buddha. Despite the rape of much of Ayuthaya’s wealth the modern city is littered with ancient and holy ruins resulting in a declaration by UNESCO that Ayutthaya is a ‘World Heritage Site’. Hence i found myself on a train hurtling from Bangkok at a frightening 30mph!

The train provided a welcome and refreshing change of transport after a multitude of long and tiring bus journeys. True the seats were all wooden benches, there was no lighting and a plump kid in front of me kept whispering “six baht” (baht is the thai currency) or standing on my foot with his pudgy feet, but none of this mattered a jot. In thailand the windows on each train slide right down and lack protective bars restricting the intellectually challenged from sticking their whole torsos out into the rushing air. So i leaned right out of the carriage along with everyone else from countries where the nanny state dominates; feeling rather than just observing the landscape. The smells, the sites, the sounds. Forget air-conditioned VIP buses, this is the more rewarding way to travel.

Past central Bangkok with its constant buzz of activity. Past the business district which resembled Canary wharf with its forest of skyscrapers. Past what can only be described as shanty towns on the outskirts of the city; ramshackle ad hoc buildings of wood, plastic and corrugated iron. Despite all the (superficial and outward) trappings of development, the plush boutiques and hotels, the flat screened internet cafes, the mobile phones stuck to every teenage ear, Thailand is still progressing along the temporal path to ‘modernity’. (Or so the dominant socio-economic narratives would have it).

Later we would pass the King. Over and over. On billboards, on advertisments, on roadside gold-framed pictures, on wide stands decorated with fairy lights and excessive bunting. Even 100ft tall, looking out on the city from the side of a building. They adore him. This year he celebrates his sixtieth year on the throne. The streets are awash with people wearing yellow shirts and polos emblazened with the royal seal as if the uniform of a communal dystopian society. Yet this is voluntary. It borders on idol worship, or at least the personality cults of various Communist states. We brits and our queen have a similar relationship don’t you think?

Arriving at the train station i was bombarded with the usual tuk tuk vultures eager for a piece of fresh, wet behind the ear backpacker meat. Luckily i am now a seasoned traveller so with a cocky smile, a deft hop into the back of a van and a five minute ride to my hostel i disembarked…and found myself ripped off to the amount of 50 baht. Live and learn, humble pie and all that.

The main city is quite dank and dirty. Most of the city conforms to two questionable architectural principles; the innate beauty of square structures and the overlooked sublime qualities of concrete. But scattered around the city, especially on the west side, where the city becomes green and pleasant rest the temples i had come to see.

I decided to stay in a guesthouse called Tony’s Place. It’s a very homely hostel, old, wooden and very welcoming. My room was nicely decorated and pleasant, but laying on the bed writing my journal i was joined by an uninvited bed-bug. Now, if you have met me since the attack of the bed bugs in Malaysia (now commonly referred to as Black Thursday – or Boring Thursday to those i’ve told the story to) you will know i’m not a big fan! Straight down stairs to complain . Luckily they got me a new room in another hostel. They really were incredibly helpful, i can’t fault them at all for their service and apologies. Some hostels just don’t want to know or insist you have brought them in, avoiding any responsibility for infestations. Not Tony’s Place. Immediately they had a spray.

Anyway the next day i woke bright and early (11 o clock) and hired a rusty hunk of metal on two wheels with a girly basket and no brakes – memories of my trusty steed in Cambridge, which also lacked the basic function to stop flooded back. I set off for a three day leisurely exploration of the city.

The Lonely Planet highly recommends a visit to the Ayutthaya Historical Study Centre to understand the religious and historical importance of the city and its ruins. The museum is architecturally modern, all clean and simple lines. It would not loook out of place on the South Bank. Likewise inside, traditional cabinet displays were interspersed with intricate models of the Grand Palace and temples, and various forms of multimedia to bring thai villages, houses, festivals, religion and trade to life – (interestingly by the sixteenth century Ayutthaya was trading regularly with the Phillipines, Malaysia, China, Japan, the Middle East and even European states. Forget the media hype, Globalisation is not a novel phenomenon).

Though impressive and informative the museum failed to provide the preliminary tutoring it was suggested i would need to explore the temples. So i settled on tackling the city without a plan.
It was impossible to see all the city had to offer so i concentrated on the main sites. From Thanon Pa Thon, the city shrine covered in hundreds of small figurines, of peple, of gods, pictures of families, relatives, of animals etc to the larger, more impressive ruins of the Grand Palace i was consistenly awed.

The main ruins are simply stunning. Majestic in size and style.
For the rest of this post, please go here.

The return journey to Bangkok from Siam Reap proved equally arduous. Perched on the side of a pick-up truck for half hour before sprinting to the coach in order to gain a decent seat. Again the scenery was engrossing and demonstrated the pace, necessities and priorities of life in this country – traditionally dressed men packed wet clay into brick moulds, row after row baking under the Cambodian sun, town billboards advising parents on child healthcare with simple, step by step instructions and pictures, fields churned and ploughed by cattle and a farmers liberal use of a whip.

Later we passed a village of dust. Houses, shops, produce, signs and most probably dogs were covered in a thick layer of terraccotta dirt thrown up by thundering cars and vans.

Everything danced and jiggled inside the van as our driver tried, and failed (predictably) to navigate around the bumps. The door flung open on more than one occassion.

To read the rest of this post, please go here.

Cambodia is so different to Thailand.

Dusty and rocky pavements, unmade roads and thousands upon thousands of 2 wheeled vehicles – wealth and development seems to breed four wheeled transport, so for now the roads here are choked with bikes, tuk tuks and mopeds. The latter usually have four or five people, sometimes whole families (granny and baby included) perched precariously on top – remarkable acrobatic feats worthy of a circus.

In contrast to these insights and comparisons ironically i found Camodia, well Siam Reap to have side streets full of very trendy, fashionable and modern bars and cafes. Not what i expected at all. Mostly i found the architecture less modern and more classic and favourable than the somewhat tacky and concrete inspired buildings of Thailand.

The cafe’s and restaurants would not have looked out of place in a trendy suburb of London – hence why i chose a nearby stall to eat at; soup with rice, chicken, onions, kidney and congealed blood, washed down with free cold chinese tea in a tin cup. Delicious.

There are stark differences in wealth and development within Cambodia. A few short steps away from these cosmopolitan streets lay the old wooden market where i stopped to peruse the goods on offer. Within half a minute i had been approached by a beggar. The number of those living far below the poverty line is depressingly high, a fact not altogether surprising. Cambodia is one of the least developed countries in the world and has witnessed a tumultuous recent history:

In the sixties the war in Vietnam finally spilled over to Cambodia when American forces began pursuing the Vietcong into Cambodian territory. In 1969, American B-52s launched the first of many secret bombing raids over Cambodia, the start of a long, blunt bombing campaign which resulted in untold destruction and an inestimable number of innocent deaths. Political turmoil and a coup in March 1970 followed. Later the invasion of American, South Vietnamese and Vietcong troops turned Cambodia into a stage upon which the battles, ambitions and machinations of stronger powers were played out.

Even the official end of the Vietnam war failed to bring any peace for the population. The Khmer Rouge (Cambodian communist movement) intensified their civil war against the government, finally taking power in 1975 (the ominous Year Zero). Wasting little time they undertook one of the bloodiest, most fanatical and thorough political, social, economic and cultural revolutions in modern history resulting in the estimated deaths of 1.7 million people (though some claim 3 million) from an estimated population of 7.1 million in 1972. Read that again! Execution, starvation, forced labour and a perpetual and paranoid system of purges became the chaotic, yet systematic norm.

The Khmer Rouge were finally toppled in 1979 by a Vietnamese invasion. But well into the nineties it continued as a low level resistance movement. Even with the end of hostilities Cambodia’s turbulent history is very much part of its present. As if to confirm this insight i passed numerous painted billboards urging citizens to hand in guns and other weapons.

It is in this historical context that Cambodia has to be approached when travelling here. The infrastructure is apallingly inadequate, institutions are corrupt to their very core (see my post on the trip from Bangkok to Siam Reap) and civil society is weak and in places non-existent. Cambodia was never going to be Thailand, but i found that refreshingly interesting. I liked it for that, though it was at times emotionally draining.

Women cradling children and holding an empty bottle approached me with pained expressions on their faces. Kids with two young babies slung on their shoulders did the same. Kids!! No older than 8 or 9. Amputees on crutches would work their way into my path, smile and hold out their cap hoping i would drop some dollar bills into it.

One evening as i was tucking into some fresh spring rolls a barely clothed and filthy cambodian boy approached me and kneeled down, bowing his head to the floor at my feet. It was awful. One feels perpetually guilty – which is of course not awful thing, the situations these people face, not what i felt like that was troubling. I gave in and bought him some fresh, unfried spring rolls. Nutricious and delicious. He point blank refused them!

Another night a group of us sat at a trendy bar and sipped cold beers whilst outside a mother and child begged from afar. Her face wore a heartbreaking _expression – pained yet confused, as if she had no idea why this was happening to her and why vastly wealthier westerners would not help. Other kids flocked around the outside of the bar. A few of the braver ones approached the table while the security guards back was turned. Every major restaraunt, bar, shop or cafe has a private security guard patrolling outside. The kids scurry off when they turn around, no doubt because they get kicked, or at least the one i saw did.

In spite of all this we shook our heads and mouthed the word “no” to the crowd that had now assembled outside, and carried on with whatever we were chatting about. Reminding myself i was giving to a charity did little to relieve my sense of guilt and shame. To my left a girl with a large heart but small brain bought a young malnourished boy a glass of coke – very good for a kid that lacks many daily nutritional requirements and decent dental care.

It was depressing to see, and i am sure, much more depressing for them.

But what to do? It is axiomatic now to take the stance that by giving to these people you perpetuate their plight and cycle of dependency. There is nothing sustainable about giving a dollar here and there. That night i joined Cameron and Dom (who i met on the bus journey from Bangkok) for a meal with a director of Trailblazers, an NGO out here that has recently bought a school. She informed me that many of the kids are beaten by their parents if they do not bring enough money home; relenting encourages and contributes to their plight. The trouble with these argumens are they tend to breed fatalism and people simply walk on by. I therefore resolved the tension between my conscience and the realities of giving to an outstretched hand by deciding to give to one of the charities which do such good work out here. They are in a much stronger position to help these people.

Throughout the days i spent in Siam Reap i was constantly approached on the street. If not by beggars then by children selling postcards and books.

“Where you from?” they would begin.
“England”
“England. Capital London. Part of the United Kingdom. UK, made up of Wales, capital Cardiff, Scotland, capital Edinburgh, Northern Ireland, capital Belfast, Prime Minister Tony Blair. Rains alot……” and so on and so on.

After congratualting the kid they would then ask:

“So you buy postcard? Can send one to your girlfriend”
“I don’t have one.”
“You know why? Cos you no buy my postcard!”
Cute – the first ten times.

If it’s not children, it’s guys on motorbikes offering a night out with a “nice lady” (Dame Judie Dench is here?!), some weed, or a ride. Or tuk tuk drivers asking if you want to see the temples. Lastly are the cafes, waiters and the massage parlours.

It is all so alien to a British person who can (forgetting those sly and remarkably strategic charity sellers) walk down a street relatively unhassled – a solitary affair with few interruptions. But there is little point in becoming irate or irritated by it. This is after all another country and part of the culture. I fail to understand people that moan constantly about the norms of another country when they have chosen to travel there. A smile and firm “no thankyou” will usually suffice.

For the rest of this thrilling post, please go HERE.

In Bangkok the girls jetted off home and i was left on my lonesome. My one month visa was running out and so on the spur of a (mad) moment i decided to visit Siam Reap for a week instead of simply joining a visa run that takes no more than half a day – a rather stupid decision considering i was planning to visit Cambodia in five or six weeks.

So, the journey from BK to Siam Reap. They warn you in the ‘bible’ (SE Asia on a Shoestring Lonely Planet guide) that the trip is an endurance test of epic proportions. I brushed off any suggestions of difficulty, after all I was at this stage a veteran traveller of nearly half a year. Little did i know.

Woke at seven (an endurance in itself) and caught the first bus. Five hours later we stopped off at a small border town where our visas were organised for the princely sum of thirty dollars – ten more than at the border. “Oh it’s much quicker and smoother this way” they said as we all sat for half an hour in a restaurant waiting (and ordering food to pass the time – the real reason for stopping!) I later met a backpacker who breezed through the visa office at the border within 2 minutes. Money-making would be a theme of the journey.

Afterwards we finally reached the border. Land borders are fascinating places to me for the simple reason that i come from a postmodern EU where state borders lack their former importance. Moreover loud voices in various strands of academia, supported by the mainstream media have fostered the view that borders are an increasingly rare breed; relics from a past world-order. This one seemed seemed alive and well; Eurocentric theorising about the erosion of borders in the face of economic, political and cultural global flows seemed rather vacuous from this vantage point. This is not an argument that borders are impermeable containers of power, population, money or ideas; they never have been. A nation state ontology of world politics is largely meta-geographical mythmaking and globalization is no new phenomenon. Multi-dimensional, interconnecting flows have long characterised the international.

(Sorry for the world politics tangent, but a travel-log is so much better when its not just “i went here, then there, then here” – i thought i should share my experiences and feelings as i went and so world politics naturally makes a showing).

However, as i crossed the line demarcating Thailand from Cambodia certain changes were apparent immediately suggesting borders are more than arbitrary lines in the dirt. Cars were replaced by carts; fruit and veg, wood abd building material, even people were all pulled by women. Kids of no more than six or seven, babies strapped to their backs or slung over their shoulders appproached me looking dirty and bedraggled with their arms held out and whinning softly in the hope my heart would melt and my wallet would open.

Just across the border i saw three kids lounging in a patch of woods. They should have been at school, playing football or amusing themselves but instead they sat there scowls on their faces looking much older than their years suggested, as if their childhood had been robbed.

But not to paint too grim a picture – moments later a boy plucked a ball out of the river, though i must admit the banks were masked by a thick layer of plastic bottles, waste paper and other household rubbish. Still i had been warned the border town, called Poipet was a cesspit.

It was certainly a change from Thailand. There are no paved roads; the street to the bus station consisted of thick mud interspersed with lake-sized puddles. The shops and houses are all wooden shacks with tin roofs and flourishes of blue or off-white plastic sheeting. And the bus stop? – an unfinished brick building with metal pylons protruding from the walls and ceilings.

Whilst waiting for our second bus i was asked by a tour operator if i wanted to change any money. So began my journey on the back of a moped with my butt and teeth firmly clenched. The roads and traffic in Cambodia are a sight in themselves. Students of Chaos Theory should without doubt spend a term in this country observing the sheer volume of cars, carts, bikes and cycles choking the small streets. How anyone reaches their destination is beyond me and yet they all weave effortlessly in and out of each other. I felt i was watching a grubby, motorised dance. People regularly stop in the middle of the road, and like a stream of water the people behind part and join up on the other side. Some hurtle down the wrong side of the street, others cut people up without warning, and still more swerve dangerously close to pedestrians, animals and various other blockages.

From there we caught our last bus, a medium sized minibus. By the time i got on all the seats were taken so i had to endure a pull out chair in the aisle designed for children, short people or Umpa Lumpa’s. No chance to even lean back, I had to sit dead straight which for the initial half hour was fine but soon grew tiresome after that.

As the Lonely Planet claims, the organisers try and draw this journey out as much as possible.

For the rest of this post please go HERE.

…..yes you are correct in thinking this is the proper title of Bangkok (the longest city name in the world apparently). Fully translated it means “the City of Angels, the Great City, the Residence of the Emerald Buddha, the Impregnable city (of Ayutthaya) of God Indra, the Grand Capital of the world endowed with Nine Precious Gems, the Happy City, abounding in an enormous Royal Palace that resembles the heavenly abode where reigns the reincarnated god, a city given by Indra and built by Vishnukarn”. Grafty Green means something vaguely similar.

So Krungthep Maha Nakorn….(ok fine, Bangkok is easier) is a place that confounds, and yet supports preconceptions surrounding this sprawling city.

To many an occidental mind Bangkok conjurs up images of a mazelike warren of streets and canals, quaint teak buildings and tuk tuks, floating markets brimming with fruit and vegetables, ancient temples, orange garbed buddhist monks and small, smoky shops selling snakeoils, religious relics and

Yet Bangkok is a bustling metropolis – more modern in many respects than Kuala Lumpa. Skyscrapers race to outsize each other while wide motorways skim the rooftops of apartment blocks. The new airport is a stunning hymn to the gods of polished steel, smoked glass, trendy concrete and atmospheric purple and blue lighting. The streets are thronged with busy, fast-paced thais often clad in the latest fashions of skinny keans with retro t-shirts and always accompanied by the most recent Nokia or Motorola. The city i woke up to was a dynamic, thriving and multilayered entity comfortably accomodating more traditional thai culture(s) with supposedly globalised tastes, fashions, mentalities and businesses.

Preconceptions are so often pitifully inadequate.

Like thousands of backpackers before us, and doubtless thousands to come, we stayed on the infamous (rightly or wrongly) Khao San road – the main traveler hub. Most travellers get rather snobby about the place but i found it entertaining enough for a few days even if the restaurants are bad, the majority of people are other backpackers (not quite sure what the crime is about meeting other backpackers) and the road is always insanely busy. It is essentially a bustling crossroads where most backpackers in South East Asia either begin or end their journey (both easily identifiable – the latter tanned and dreadlocked, the former fresh-faced and wide-eyed). I found it relatively harmless. All those snobpackers who have some irrational fear of fishermen pants (which i do not own) should really spend their energy and time dealing with more pressing matters – world hunger perhaps.

The road itself is a forest of multicoloured neon signs advertising plush hotels, scummy flea-pit guesthouses, massage parlours, McDonalds (!), travel agents, internet shops and one ‘Gaylord Indian restaurant’ (?). Walking down the road you are permanently hassled by tuk tuk drivers showing you pictures of naked women and making lewd gestures (“It’s ten o clock in the morning” i exclaimed to one), thai people selling lighters, hammocks or any other tourist tat you can think of and those annoying but adorable small thai women who wear (supposedly) ethnic north-thai hats and who stroke wooden frogs all day thus emitting a croaking noise which soon becomes part of the Khao San soundtrack. (Note to anyone off to thailand – do not under any circumstances show any interest in them. I made this mistake once. Immediately every single one of those women in a mile radious began slowly approaching me from all directions – croaking all the while – until i was thoroughly surrounded).

Unlike the more familiar British or European counterparts the streets play host to a wider variety of activities. Shops, restaurants, markets, even life itself spills out onto the streets. Socialising, cooking, sleeping, games and sports (badminton in particular)
are often played out in under the glare of a street lamp. Whilst gorging myself at yet another hawker stall which lay precariously on the edge of the road, i noticed a small segment of the pavement nearby where a whole family sat selling various meats and produce. The child slept soundly on a small mattress underneath the table and grandma could be found watching tv from a makeshift chair. Environmental and economic factors undoubtedly contribute to this difference.

Most of our first day was spent perusing the numerous stalls that line the street and eating 20 baht pad thai (thai style noodles at a very reasonable price, though of dubious relation to the original dish) cooked up in minutes on the side of the road. Other than that i joined in the other thai people (and the rather more culturally aware and sensitive travellers) and stood still at exactly six o clock when tinny speakers along the road, and in various public buildings and spaces around Thailand blared out the thai national anthem.

The second day we decided to venture to the sunday market so Zoe and Hannah flagged down a tuk tuk – a death tap on three wheels basically.

People had warned me of these contraptions but no one told me a bad Michael Schumacher would be in the driving seat. We sped off, weaving in and out of the ever-present congestion and smog and skimming cars, buses and cyclists often a centimetre away.
Our driver revelled in taking corners on two wheels, swerving across highways from side to side and finally stopping, raising the vehicle up onto the 2 back wheels, revving the engine and then slamming down onto the tarmac hence speeding off – directly into the path of an oncoming car. Note to others travelling to Bangkok: DO NOT SCREAM. It only encourages them.

So we screamed.

Before we reached the market we found ourselves delivered to the door of a tailors we had not asked to visit (hence the cheap price of the journey). For ten minutes i gave the impression i desired a suit; i picked out a style and fabric while the girls ooh-ed and ahhh-ed and then we hastily made our excuses “Before i commit to this suit i would like to peruse the latest fashions currently seen on the catwalks of Paris, London and Milan” i said, but this guy was a pro, “Use our internet sir!”. Damnit. So i resorted to the bank balance fallback.

When we finally reached the market it reminded me of Istanbul’s Grand Bazaar, though slighlty less charming. It was a maze of narrow, claustrophobic covered alleyways brimming with hundreds of cramped stalls selling everything you could desire: rich silks and cottons; badly made bags, shoes, watches, belts and jeans (fake and authentic); row upon row of silver and gold jewellery; piles of gem stones; faux antiques ranging from mass produced buddhist heads to small clay tablets, and real antiques such as ornate porcelain figurines, cracked vases and weather-beaten wooden statues. Moving along the length of the market it was possible to buy brightly coloured chinese lanterns; dark wooden beds, wardrobes and tables; bed linens, lamps, even intricate wooden and gold leaf doors. Hours later i happened upon piles of dusty ochre, brown and red spices; dried fish pungent in the confined hot spaces; salted meats, herbs, crab sticks, shrimps, lobsters, prawns and even starfish. The juice makers, fruit vendors and small scale bakers provided much needed sustinence to continue the endless march. But i loved it. The sights, the smells, the sounds and the atmosphere were all rich and diverse – just as a market should be.

That night we went to a bar – not just any bar. The Esso garage around the corner. Every evening when the station closes down the forecourt is laid out with chairs, tables and (worryingly) candles while a bar is set up serving drinks and music is piped through some portable speakers. This set-up epitomises an essential fact of Bangkok – space can be found anywhere, it just takes some entrepeneurial spirit. So restaurants perch on the side of roads, clothes stalls line the pavements and bars spring up outside 7/11’s (local convenience stores). This entrepeneurial spirit is intimately linked to the variety of capitalism practiced in Thailand. Capitalism is filtered through the local or national culture in which it is introduced, both adopting and adapting traditions, practices and beliefs whilst at the same time influencing economics, society and politics in a relationship of mutual constitution. Capitalism in Thailand is different to capitalism in China which is different to capitalism in England or the United States and so on and so forth. Here it seems everyone is a shopkeeper, restaurant owner or provider of essential services. I have no doubt this is changing but for now Thailand seems to be a ‘nation of shopkeepers’ as Britain was once described by Napoleon. I found it all very interesting in a way that Australia was demonstrably not.

Most of my first trip to Bangkok consisted of wandering aimlessly along the Khao San, shopping in MBK (a giant Bluewater-esque establishment) and eating. Ruth had told me she would coming out to join me soon so i didn’t not want to engage in any sightseeing only to duplicate it and thus waste money. So i relaxed and enjoyed the city without really seeing anything of it – for now.

On my second trip to Bangkok (after travelling to Cambodia for a visa run – which will be covered in a seperate post) i met up again with Mark and Jon from Malaysia and a guy who, like me, has starred in his own movie. It’s called “The Most Unromantic Man in the World”. Watch it!

It was Mark’s last night and we wanted to cut up the dancefloor, so a very kind tuk tuk driver took us all to a place called Patpong, supposedly an area full of bars and clubs (little did we know). With my wits slightly dulled by some small shandy’s we were herded into a dark, rather foreboding club. Along the back wall were rows of young thai women of dubious repute. My brain,
slow in appreciating what my senses should have told me immediately was jolted into gear by Mark -“whorehouse” he whispered.
We left immediately. Honestly we did.

Preconceptions then occassionally contain elements of truth. We had discovered the seedy, sexually debauched underbelly of Bangkok.

And so it continued –

The next night we were approached by tuk tuk drivers making a sucking noises with their lips – the sound of a ping pong show. “But i don’t like sports” i may have cried naively. Half hour later we were ushered through the doors of an inauspicious club tucked quietly away down a backstreet (“this doesn’t look like a sports stadium” i think i squeeked). After having my camera removed we stepped through the doors into a dark room with a stage upon which a man and women were having rampant sex in a variety of positions bound to arouse only acute backache. The most interesting sports show i had ever seen!

Afterwards we were treated to a variety of acts of extreme sexual imagination. Who on earth thought to put razor blades up their vagina? I’m quite sure it could not originate in Britain – not from a Maude or Mavis or Beryl! Row after row was pulled from her nether-reaches and then in an act that made my stomach turn she began to slice a piece of paper cleanly and quickly into strips.

Wonderful.

Next, in an act that, if it were more popular, would require more creativity from anti-smoking campaigners, a woman lit a cigarette and proceeded to inhale it deeply – thick streams of smoke bellowing from her privates.

Stupendous!

Woman after woman took to the stage to demonstrate their talents – whistleblowing, dropping ping pong balls into glasses and even a peverse form of rythmic gymnastics; pulling out some brightly coloured ribbon from her privates, the woman danced around provocatively flinging it this way and that in wide arcs and circles while half of its length was still ‘attached’ as it were.

Delightful. Amazing!

But nothing could prepare me for the next event and the stunning feats of markmanship that would make any Red Army sniper proud. Balloons, held high by grinning spectators were shot out of existence with a pop and wild applause by a highly experienced woman (this one called Ethel i think), a peashooter and at least ten years of pelvic floor exercises. Moving targets proved no less of a challenge. Balloons were launched into the air never to return to solid ground in a bizarre twist on clay pigeon shooting.

Rows of young backpackers, businessmen and even an old guy and his wife (what a spiffingly delightful and romantic idea for a date!) lapped it up. Demeaning? Perhaps. And yet was my discomfort due to more prudish cultural attitudes to sexuality and nudity? Should i pity the women? Are they a product of low self-esteem, economic or social disempowerment, or some sort of chilhood trauma? Or did they pity me?! Are they the ones in a position of power (after all i paid a handsome sum for the show!)? A debate for another time.

So my time in Bangkok was relatively, okay almost wholeheartedly uncultural. But that was to change when i finally arrived back here – to be covered in another post – and was remedied by my later trips to Ayutthaya and Sukhothai which are my next posts. Plus i did appear in that movie (i can’t ram it down your throats anymore, if you haven’t read about it now you never will!)

Photos:

Sad to leave Pha-Ngan; the boat journey to Surat Thani.

Hannah the budding Communist and Zoe on the Khao San road

Khao San at night

Don’t let their smiles fool you – these women are the ruthless frog sellers i warned you about; eye contact is dangerous ala Medusa.

Supping on some Chang beers at the Esso garage bar

Mark, Yoyo (on the left) and some other thai woman who owned a bar we frequented.

Action! The set of the movie i was in

Wardrobe! I did have a trailer with a light framed mirror and my own make-up director but i lost all pictures of it unfortunately.

Thespians! On set.

The main star (on the far right) and some minor thai star in the middle called Alan Da (spelling?!)

——————————————————————————————-

Strange incident of the week:
Taking a leisurely stroll along the Khao San road i was approached by a group of whispering, giggling school girls talking excitedly to each other. Eventually one of them was pushed towards me who asked if they could take a picture. All of them suddenly burst forth and one by one stood next to me while the others snapped away like Japanese tourists in front of a (very) minor tourist attraction.

This has now happened numerous times and i am still unsure why. Any answers?

Amazing Thai food of the week:
On the corner of the road opposite the entrance to Soi Rambuttri is a small hawker stall with 3 or 4 tables nestled on the pavement next to the traffic and passers-by. It does, without question the nicest pork i have ever tried. It is slow roasted and incredibly tender. Served over rice, with pickled vegetables and steamed pak choi and drizzled with some spicy chilli paste it is simply divine. I highly recommend it. All for thirty baht (the price of a cup of tea in most cafe’s and restaurants!)

After my post on Myanmar (and not forgetting the Poo restaurant exposition) this will seem rather less interesting, but Ko Pha-Ngan was fun. Lots of fun.

After Samui we boated it over to Pha-Ngan, the second of the island triplets (the third being Ko Tao); a legendary place in backpacker mythology. Sun, sea, sand and most importantly…parties.
I immediately liked Pha-ngan more than Samui. We arrived in Hat Rin. It was no Perhentian Island undeveloped paradise by any means but it wasn’t overdeveloped…and after half an hour my buttocks were still unmolested by goups of sexually rampant Thai women. Verbal molestation was also unforthcoming. A thirty minute boat journey was all it took to leave behind the seedy streets of Samui.

Hat Rin was rather pricey for our budget though. 100 baht bungalows on the beach are now distant and hazy memories to those guesthouses cashing in on Thailand’s increasingly popular status as a package holiday destination. Chic upmarket bungalows now dominate the beachfront, lacking the atmosphere provided by a dark smelly toilet which require three scoops of water to flush (or more if you are Mark!), the wooden plasterboard or palm-leaf walls that just scream Laurence Llewelyn Bowen, and a floor made from only the finest strips of ill-fitting and flimsy linolium (LLB again).

So we jumped into the back of a pick-up truck to Sunset Beach which consists of a sporadic and spaced out row of small, quiet and unassuming guesthouses providing bungalows on the beach for very reasonable prices. Bird bungalows (our residence for the next few days) was therefore quite remote from the main action of Hat Rin but suited our needs. It was comfortable and relaxing, with a small restaurant/chill-out area right on the beach and open to the sea air. We were often the only three in the place. We were offered a three-bed wooden hut with a dark but en-suite (unimagined luxury!) toilet/shower room, and a small balcony complete with swinging hammock for those lazy hangover recovery sessions and days when all we could handle was some light reading.
The beach was just a few metres away and was often deserted. Sunsert Beach is the grubbier sister to Sunrise Beach behind which lies the main town and action. The sand is rougher and the water murkier. But it was fine for sunset watching or sunbathing.

It was all very satisfactory. But…..and boy was it big butt.

It was run by none other than the Spawn of Satan. I know, i didn’t expect to find her here either. This women did not smile in all the time i was there. This was no insignificant achievement; i stayed at this guesthouse for the equivalent of two Middle Earth ages – i was waiting for the full moon party and failed to plan my itinerary well. Seriously though, every time i approached her to order food she would usually continue watching TV for five minutes while i coughed lightly in the background. Realising this was insufficient i would usually have to resort to violent choking or wretching for her to move that monstrously large, satanic head of hers in my direction. When she finally acknowleged my presence and turned to face me (with a face like a slapped arse i might add) i would ask, in a voice i tried to keep from quivvering or squeeking randomly, that i would like a Massaman curry (a muslim dish from the south of Thailand which is absolutely delicious). She would stare at me, unflinching, with an expression most commonly associated with people whose bag or briefcase you have just grabbed and proceeded to use as a mobile lavatory, perhaps even hooting wildly in the process. Honestly. That was her expression. Immediately and with haste she would……well, sit still and fail to acknowledge you had ever spoken. After five minutes i would like to say she sprung into action, a positive blur from chair to kitchen. Unfortunately she would waddle off huffing and puffing. Now according to trite national stereotypes the British are supposedly renowned complainers, unhindered by shame or justice. I’ve always thought the opposite, we seem to apologise even when other people are in the wrong, “I’m terribly sorry you appear to have just spilt hot soup all over my hair and its now dribbling down my face, burning and scalding as it goes. Could i possibly have another dish. Thankyou….Sorry!” I am unfortunately one of Britain’s worst culprits of such behaviour, however this woman was wedged so far up my large nostrils that one day after she emitted one huff too many i started to wag my finger at her, “Your attitude” i raged, “is atrocious!”…of course she could only understand the most basic of english and thus probaly thought i was saying “pull my finger”.

That would certainly explain why she later held her nose whenever i was around. Alas.
That was the only thing wrong with the place. Other than that it was as perfect as you can get for two pounds a night. But enough of banal anecdotes interesting only to those who have met the woman, and even then perhaps not so much.

Pha-ngan lived up to its reputation as an island to party. Our first taster was the Half Moon Party (always reminds me of those jaffa cake adverts…total eclipse!). Whilst the Full Moon Party is the original and most popular there are now parties for every stage of the moons monthly wax and wane as local entrepeneurs have jumped on the proverbial wagon. (Think of the Full Moon Party as the Trinity College Ball of the island. The Half moon would probably be equivalent to Corpus Christi College or Jesus College).The party was held in the middle of the island in the countryside. The event was basically a big rave in the middle of a forest, though they had built a bar and DJ booth which were overlooked the main dance floor. Dancing and drinking were the obvious highlights of the night and need no more describing than that.

Other than that the first few days on the island were spent zipping around on mopeds. Originally we had planned to hire a longboat to Nam Tok Than Sadet (the main waterfall) which have captivated three Thai kings and hordes of tourists. Instead we hired mopeds. Half the price and double the fun. None of us had ever ridden such a contraption. Mark initially set off in the wrong direction. And on the wrong side of the road. Jon had a minor crash into him. I forgot how to brake. Such teething problems were soon ironed out however and we experienced no other problems, mainly because Jon aka Driving Miss Daisy never approached 20 miles an hour for the next two days.

Pha-Ngan is unfortunately relatively undeveloped outside the main residential areas and the roads are unruly. We ignored the (firm) advice of the locals to stick to the paved roads due to recent torrential rain and the fact we were driving mopeds and not dirt bikes and ploughed on to the nearest waterfall, down gravelly steep hills, up slippery and rock strewn mudways, and over deep gulleys etched into the ‘road’ by the recent monsoons. We soon learnt mopeds are not quad bikes and after 2km, which took us a good hour and a half we turned back. We proceeed to another waterfall nearby but it had dried up. The mission was thus not successful but we still we had a great time speeding through the terrain, though not such a good time when we returned the bikes complete with scratches.

Mark and Jon had to leave soon after the Half Moon shenannigans. They were travelling buddies since Taman Negara in Malaysia and I was sad to see them go. Finding backpackers you get on with is so rewarding. Friendships develop quickly due to the 24/7 nature of travelling and a month can seem like an eternity (i have no doubt Jon is frantically nodding his head right now – i can’t help it if my jokes become repetitive!), then just as suddenly as you met, you split. But that is the way of the traveller. Companions, (as well as places to call home and lay your head, daily rituals, and favourite bars/restaurants) are always transient. But so are periods of solitude. The cycle moves on.

…and then the next day Hannah arrived. Sweaty and bedraggled, but in one piece. The cycle had moved round alot quicker this time, for better or worse (just kidding Hannah – better!).
Me and Hannah (Hannah and myself?!) get on famously. So famously we are in Heat magazine. I swear…there is a double page spread of us drinking a can of coke. It’s edge of the seat, pant-wetting stuff. Truly gripping). We share the same sense of repetitive humour which for a whole two weeks revolved around Dumb and Dumber quotes. Poor Zoe nearly went insane.
The three of us spent our days on Sunrise Beach, sunbathing or in the sea during the daytime and at night perusing the bars which lay out mats, low tables and firelights on the sand and tempt your custom with amazing examples of fire twirling. I have never seen anything like it. (Why is fire so fascinating?) Their speed and dexterity was incredible and the demonstrations mesmorising. That is until they throw a lit baton into the air and it nearly hits you in the head. I attract these things, truly i do.

Brechia (from the Perhentian islands) told me that the nights preceeding the full moon were actually better than the main event. I totally agree. Some of my best nights this year were during the run up to the 9th. Again, dancing and drinking played their part and are largely uninteresting to those not there. Notable however was Zoe who attempted fire twirling – not the best idea after a few buckets and no experience. (Don’t tell Zoe but between you and me those singed eyebrows are never going to grow back!) Hannah meanwhile plunged into the sea with all her clothes on and her camera drifted out of her pocket and away into the deep blue. Well done Hannah. As for yours truly, I was, as always, the epitome of good conduct.

Then came the main event. The Full Moon Party. It’s legendary, part of backpacker folklore. A rite of passage for all those travelling the Thai islands. Ko Pha-Ngan is relatively quiet for most of the month but as the moon waxes so do the crowds. An exodus of biblical proportions, from every city, town and village in Thailand makes its way to Hat Rin for one hedonistic rave on the beach under the glare of the full moon.

The party was awesome. The whole beach was packed! Nearly 10,000 people pack the strip, all covered in fluorescent paint, drinking buckets and dancing the night away to the different tunes pumping out from every bar. Partying on a warm night, with the sand under your feet and the full moon reflecting on the sea just metres away is so much better than any club.
Randomly found Lucy and Becky who i last saw in Byron Bay, Australia. Was great to see them again, we had such fun travelling together.

Eventually got home around ten in the morning, minus my t-shirt (no idea where that went), covered in paint and rather sunburnt after a long walk home scaring the locals. Crashed out with Hannah and Zoe on the restaurant terrace for the rest of the day nursing a large hangover listening to music and the crash of the waves.

The beach the next day resembled a rubbish dump. Bottles, paint, straws, flip flops. It was disgusting. Alex Garland’s Daffy and his vilifying rant against cancerous tourism sprang to mind. Culturally insensitive travel, destructive to the local population, their way of life and the environment they inhabit has to be curbed. Yet the party was originally started by Paradise Bungalows a decade ago and the local population undoubtedly profits from the influx of tourists. As do businesses in, for example cities in the fromer Soviet bloc now overrun by drunken and belligerent stag and hen do’s. What then is the answer? A suppression of local tourist entrepeneurism? Or more simply a change in attitude from travellers to other countries and cultures. Perhaps those questions are too big for this humble blog.

However, with this in mind, (and the free t-shirt we received) me, Hannah and Zoe decided to join the beach clean-up brigade. It’s called ‘Party with a Purpose’. We donned our free green t-shirts, picked up our rubbish bags and set off down the beach picking up litter and feeling marginally better about our partying. We kept trying to pick up those weird plastic shoes that come in a host of lurid colours but unfortunately the owners kept thinking we were joking. If they had only let go i would have shown them otherwise.

Our last day on the island was meant to be boring and quiet, but Amy and Anna pulled up in a jeep so we hopped in the open-topped back and set off to explore the island, wind in our hair, sun on our face and some rocking tunes emanating from the front. Headed to the quieter beaches up north and had a very lazy day.

Lastly Hannah, Zoe and myself took a trip to ‘Mushroom Mountain’ in what was an interesting Bridget Jones experience.
I’ll say no more.

And so we left the island and began a mammoth 19 hour journey to Bangkok which began with a overloaded boat (shocking i know), but the sun was out, the sea was blue, and we sat on deck dozing.

Fire twirling on the beach (not me!)

Eat dust. Me and Mavis.

Mushroom mountain and beach in the background (before the “fun” began).

Jon at the Half Moon party – oh dear!

Chilling on the beach on full moon night i think. Hannah, honestly one straw will usually suffice!

Becky and Lucy and me at full moon. Warpaint!

Not sure where those flowers came from! Can just see my piercing if you look closely.

The morning after the night before…

Buckets – evil

Next stop? The infamous Khao San Road…

Best thing to do if you are stuck in the middle of nowhere and can’t be bothered to walk: Flag down any form of transport and jump on the back. Speeding motorbikes, clinging on top of teetering boxes in the back of a pick-up truck, or haning on the outside of an overloaded bus.

For those of you not in the know about Myanmar (Burma) and why there is a large question mark over that country’s place in my itinerary here is the lowdown.

Myanmar is currently governed by an abhorrently oppressive and regressive military junta which has been in power for over four decades. Without debating the intricacies of freedom and democracy as concepts and the eurocentric, white, male, middle-class biases in most discourses of the two terms, permit me to simplify; the government has stifled democracy and movements toward mass participation in the political process; it is Stalinesque in its liberal use of spies, informers, imprisonment (harsh sentences are imposed for even minor offences) and extra-judicial killings, all to keep the population atomised and acquiescent. Its flagrant abuse of human rights is well documented; torture, forced labour, the conscription of children into the armed forces and the brutal persecution bordering on ethnic-cleansing of the Karen tribes in the west and north of the country are a small sample of a long list of crimes against humanity. Media milking of the ‘Orwellian’ cow (don’t ask me where that peverted image came from) has drained all meaning from that term and yet ‘Orwellian’ still remains a legitimate description when applied to Myanmar.

The country’s rightful leader is Aung San Suu Kyi. Her party, the NLD, won national elections in 1990. The junta, refusing to relinquish political control of the country subsequently placed Suu Kyi under detention for 10 of the last 17 years. In May her confinement was again extended and there seems increasingly little chance the junta will make good on its 2003 promises of a road map to democracy.

That’s the basics, now the ethics – should i travel there?
No! That is the clear answer from Burma Campaign UK, an organisation working for the transformation of Myanmar into a democracy respectful of international human rights. They argue it is impossible to travel through the country without lining the pockets of the military regime thereby strengthening its rule and capabilities.

Moreover Myanmar is often considered unique. Tourism apparently underlies many of the human rights abuses suffered by the local population. Mark Farmaner, spokesmen for the group told Kate McGeown (a reporter for the BBC who travelled to Myanmar recently): “Much of the country’s tourist infrastructure is developed by the use of forced labour…People have been made to construct roads, airports and hotels, and thousands more have been forcibly relocated to make way for tourist areas.”

The intimate links between the tourist industry, the government and its oppressive policies have purportedly spurred Aung San Suu Kyi, to repeatedly ask tourists to stay away from Myanmar. “Tourism to Burma is helping to prolong the life of one of the most brutal and destructive regimes in the world…Visiting now is tantamount to condoning the regime.”
The debate therefore seems quite obvious, indeed for many there is no debate; don’t travel to Myanmar!

The equation becomes problematic when factoring in the wishes of the population. Indeed this is the main issue, listening to the wishes of the population, exactly what the military junta is (rightly) criticised for not doing. In her article McGeown writes that – “The people genuinely want you to come. As I stepped down from the plane onto Burmese soil, my head full of warnings about spies watching my every move, I was pleasantly surprised to find friendly faces rushing to greet me. ‘Thank you so much for coming,’ said an elderly man, smiling through betel-stained teeth.” She also quotes one tour guide who said “It’s very difficult…I really respect Aung San Suu Kyi, and I understand why she wants a boycott, but then we desperately need tourists’ money here – not just for me but for other people too.” Steve Hendrix in an article for the Washington Post asked a local if tourists should travel to Myanmar “he seemed surprised by the question. ‘They should come,’ he says.” These are evidently not isolated cases.

Furthermore, in contradistinction to Rough Guide which refuses to provide a book on the country, Lonely Planet has released a guide for Myanmar with useful advise for backpackers on ways to minimise the amount of money ending up in the juntas vaults and thereby maximising the amount received by the local population. It should be noted that recently, through her spokesmen, Aung San Suu Kyi (’the Lady’ as she is referred to by locals) has softened her previous stance against visitors and suggested that targeted tourism is perhaps acceptable.
In addition to listening to the wishes of the local population, can i actually speak with any authority, moral or otherwise of the Burmese people’s situtation without actually visiting the country? Kate McGeown again – “One day a tour guide showing me round one of the Burma’s many pagodas turned to me and whispered: ‘Please let other people know what it’s like for us here. We need the outside world to understand.’” Can i understand without travelling to the place, by merely being an armchair activist, learning indirectly from the comfort of an internet cafe? Savvytraveller notes that, after experiencing the country for himself, the fear upon suspecting of being watched by the secret police, the self censorship he imposed to protect those he met, he noted how “Burma had become more than someone else’s problem. In a small way, it became my own. Which is maybe the best reason to come here. To add a voice in support of people who are afraid to speak.”

Agreed. But even having the opportunity to talk to the population and learn from them about their situation and subsequently inform people back home, the media or the international community (grand ambitions indeed) is fraught with problems. Using that information could have serious repurcussions for those people. That is a heavy moral responsibilty to be burdened with. Yet surely doing nothing would weigh more.

The Burmese people are starved of information about the outside world. Visitors consistently report the intense interest the population demonstrate regarding life outside of the issues and information the government allows access to. A frame of reference for oppressed peoples, a lodestar around which people can begin to question what they are told and thus compare their lives with others was a large factor in the collapse of the People’s Democracies of Eastern Europe. It was for this very reason that those regimes attemped to block radio and television transmissions from Western Europe. Am i suggesting such a grandiose role for backpackers? Of course not. Backpackers of the world unite?! No. (Although i do share some striking similarities with Che Guevara). But according to savvytraveller perhaps we do have a part to play. A fellow Myanmar visitor told him that it’s alot better now. “On her first trip, back in 1994, locals feared any dialogue with foreigners. ‘It’s changed a great deal in that, now, you’ll get everybody speaking to you. Whether it’s just to say hello, whether it’s to practice their English, or whether it’s to put their side about what’s happening politically in the country.’”
David Steinberg, director of Asian studies at Georgetown’s School of Foreign Service agrees. In the aforementioned Washington Post article he states, “My opinion is that tourists should go…I’m a great admirer of Aung San Suu Kyi, and I’d very much like to see her come to power. But I disagree with her on this point. Tourism provides a rare channel of communication for the Burmese.” Then the main issue becomes whether one could face the moral responsibility of speaking to a local about issues such as politics when this could result in serious consequences for them and their families.

All these arguments have to be weighed up extremely carefully. However there is one argument commonly heard from those travelling to the country which i will not be swayed; adventure and excitement. Savvytraveller reports of a swedish traveller called Maria who travelled to Myanmar simply because it held fascination as a closed country. I find that sort of attitude fairly immature. Not only is it disrespectful and ignorant of the suffering of the Burmese people but it is also utterly selfish – a short adrenaline fix with scant regard for the consequences of those they meet, speak to or eat with. All for the right to brag to people at home about how daring they are.

Some of the backpacking travellers i have met are backpacker snobs. Most people have met them, “Oh i would never go to Thailand, NZ, Oz (insert other countries here)…so many backpackers”…or…”Oh so you went on the backpacker trail“. Thailand received roughly ten million visitors last year, Myanmar a tiny fraction of that. It can be disheartening to see the Brits abroad type which i’ve mentioned before, (though in general most of the travellers i’ve met have been very respectful of the cultures they visit and, shock horror, interesting and intelligent people in themselves) but I’m not going off searching for an ‘original’ place to travel just so i can sneer down my nose at people who backpack places where other feet have dared to tread. I’m not going to miss places that are beautiful, thrilling and enlightening simply because they may be well travelled. These arguments have not entered into the question mark hanging over Myanmars place on my itinerary. Backpacker bragging bores me and to be honest, finding somewhere unique to go or something unique to do is practically impossible nowadays, someone else will always have done it. I thought the trip i was doing, especially when i reached tibet and nepal would be quite devoid of backpackers (something i was not too comfortable with, after all i am travelling by myself). It seems i had little to worry about, i have met tens of people doing exactly the trip i have planned and many others doing substantial segments of it. When one finally realises uniqueness is a pipe dream, adventurism and backpacking bragging rights become a matter of arithmetic: if x number have travelled to a country one can brag… brave, adventurous, exciting. If x+1 travel there…forget it, boring, stale, unexciting.
Wow what a rant!

I desperately want to go to Myanmar, it is supposedly a beautiful country, rich in culture, history and spirit. Since reading of the ancient city of Bagan some years ago i have wanted to travel there, but the country will still be there when the military junta collapses.

I’m still debating but i feel my mind is 90% decided. I’ll give it a miss. This time. The other six countries (perhaps seven…i’m thinking of Bhutan now) hold enough surprises and delights for one year i am quite sure.

Just with essays, so the same with blog posts; they help clarify your positions. That post was as much for me as it was for others.

If you would like to find out more about Myanmar i can suggest a number of articles on BBC news to give a basic grounding. But for more detailed info and ways to help Myanmar i suggest visiting the website of The Burma Campaign UK where you can send an email to Myanmar’s government thereby joining in a campaign led by Mtv and BCuk, or buy Damien Rice’s single whose proceeds go to BCuk. Both would take only a few minutes of your time.

p.s. This has nothing to do with Burma but Simon Kingsley Winter almost made me get a B in A’level history.

The river has retreated to less frightening levels and no longer threatens to engulf my little wooden hut i am currently living in.
So no need to send in FEMA or the Thai equivalent, though as Naomi Klein points out (author of ‘No Logo’) disaster response and aid, in the wake of the U.S. governments paralysed and pitiful response to New Orleans, is being privatised. “Businesses do disaster better” is the new mantra of government policymakers, she claims.
Another traditional government responsibility shrugged off to be burdened by the people. The logical outcome? A quick glance at the U.S. healthcare system should provide the answer. For those at the top of societies pyramid – first class response. For those at the bottom – a dingue. Don’t believe Klein? The U.S government recently tried to charge U.S. citizens for their evacuation from Lebanon and the bombing inflicted by Israel (tacitly supported by the U.S. administration and using cluster bombs provided by Washington it should be noted). That is some government.

So a quick update on the Poo restaurant. I had second thoughts about eating there and bottled out last night. Today i found myself unconciously walking past it again and thought to myself, “Andrew, this is probably the only chance you will get to eat in a restaurant named after faeces. It’s a once in a lifetime opportunity! Grab it by the balls!”
Well, Poo restaurant was a delight! It started off somewhat dubiously when i received the menu only to find it proclaiming “I am poo, welcome” but the food was delicious and the owner warm and friendly. I highly recommend it.
Isn’t it amazing that i’m 24 and still find inane toilet humour hilarious. Trubbers what have you done to me.

Sorry to keep posting forward (i still have about five posts before i get to my present location) but this needs to be said, just in case…

Northern and north/central Thailand have recently experienced torrential downpours leading to massive flooding, numerous missing persons and a number of deaths. In Nang state the situation is the worst in over 40 years. Some areas of the province are submerged under nearly 2 metres of water. (I advise the Thai government to send FEMA and George W to sort out the mess, I’ve heard they worked wonders in New Orleans).

Anyways so I arrived in Sukhothai yesterday from Ayutthaya. Dumping my bags i immediately set off on my now ritualistic exploration of the surrounding area and stopped in my tracks upon sight of the river. It is incredibly swollen. The water level is at present above the bottom of the main bridge and the river bubbles up violently from its exit under the road due to the sheer volumes being forced under it. The currents are extremely rapid and burst onto the surface with some force while large whirlpools form, merge and then disperse. Watching the water rage one feels quite insignificant!

Sukhothai is a low-lying small provincial town. All that prevents the river from submerging half the town is a precarious looking metre and a half tall levee. Now i’m unsure how much funding has been pumped into maintaining these concrete walls, but we all know what happens when small-state conservatives reduce funding for important flood control construction works by 44% either because they are neoliberal, market fundamenatlists (supposedly!), or they have an unpopular and unwinnable foreign war in progress – or both. All this in spite of academics, engineers and experts all concluding New Orleans was one of the three most likely disasters to befall the United States. Thailand isn’t currently waging any war on foreign soil as far as i know, so i can only hope the government isn’t blinded to essential public infrastructure works by free-market ideologies.

Even if these walls hold (and i hope they do as my Bungalow is 20 metres away from the river and currently below the waterline) the volume of water flooding down the river is so great that it threatens to spill over the top. Sand bags nestle insignificantly on top of the levee but in some areas the river is already leaking onto the roads. Eek.

Last night a group of men with sticks poked and prodded the trees, logs and other debris which are becoming stuck under the bridge while commuters in their cars and those walking home stopped to stare, usually with mildly worried faces. For one group of boys it has become the main attraction in their day. They sat on the banks for hours. Sukhothai is not particularly vibrant it should be added.

Photos:

Uh oh, the bridge is straight ahead but you cannot see the botton of it as it’s submerged. To the right is the levee wall with the white building half of which is below the water line.

Uhuh, those sandbags will save us!

Workers clearing the debris. Interesting? Probably not.

On a seperate note i have found a restaurant called The Poo restaurant. Setting aside any worries i had that the name corresponded to the quality of service or food, i have decided to eat there tonight. I hope its not white tie. Lucy Allan (best friend extraordinaire) offered some timely advice – “don’t have the chefs special”. Thanks trubbers. Noted!
Evidence…