Down The Road

Remembering Christmas 2004

The week prior to Christmas of 2004 was spent in the Philippines. My friend had arrived to meet me in Malaysia and we had taken a MAS flight to Manila. After a couple of nights in the BnB (bums n boobs) spangled evening spots of Manila we ventured to Bohol via a flight to Cebu and a ferry ride to Bohol Island itself. Panglau was our ultimate destination. Peters House was the target accomodation at the Aloha Beach location. The holiday was already a glittering trail of new experiences for my friend who had never before visited the Philippines. My expectations based on numerous trips into and around the Philippine islands were being fulfilled and it was a week of toothy grins and happy experiences for me. Unfortunately accomodation at Peters House was unavailable but we were able to secure comfortable accomodation at a friendly guest house toward the west end of the beach. Diving was our primary pastime followed closely by eating, drinking, relaxing and laughing at anything from each other to the (other) odd characters dotted around the beach resorts. Peters House incorporated it’s own dive centre which provided us with our dive connection and an amiable dive schedule. My friend had set himself the objective of attaining his open water dive certification which he comfortably acheived at the expense of a few drinking evenings in an attempt to remain fresh and alert for both physical and academic tests the following mornings.

With his certification secured and gratefully received we left Bohol for Manila and a return flight to Malaysia on Christmas eve 2004.

We reflected on an enjoyable and successful week whilst supping ‘one or two’ beers at a watering hole not more than a monkeys leap from the twin towers of KL. Christmas eve dissolved into Christmas Day. Overnight would be in the Concorde Hotel, the infamous guardian of KL’s Hard Rock cafe, just a few minutes walk from our chosen Christmas eve watering hole. Our Christmas day 2004 was spent on the move. An early morning departure from the Concorde Hotel heralded a return to KLIA for a ninety minute flight to Phuket in Thailand. I had prebooked a beachside chalet at a resort in the peaceful vicinity of Kao Lag a couple of hours drive north from Phuket airport. True to the brochure promise and the booking we had made, resort transport collected us from Phuket airport in a timely manner and we arrived in Kao Lag during early afternoon.

After a simple registration process we were taken to one of a number of stylish wooden built chalets that sat at the edge of gardens and looked out across a clean tidy yellow sand beach. The dwelling was raised from the ground by eight foot high stilt like supports presumably designed to dispel the writhing wildlife that inconspicuously inhabited the gardens. We were so overwhelmed by the chic style of the accomodation that we failed to register the one undesirable aspect of what was to be our shared home for the coming week. Sleeping facilities in the one bedroom that the chalet offered was simply not going to suit us. It was good for two people. Two people who were inclined toward nights of close proximity and although I enjoyed my friends company I had no intentions of sleeping in the same bed as him! As this particular aspect of the accomodation signalled its dark meaning to our apparently parallel consciences our heads shook in a synchronized dispelling dance. The bedside telephone was wound into service and I explained the predicament we were confronted with. After a couple of minutes on hold (whilst, I suspect, the staff at reception chuckled and joked about the two, now confirmed straight, English guys that had been appointed a chalet with a Queen bed) we were told to wait there. The bell boy returned endowed with a surreptitious but acknowledging smile. He was jangling another set of keys and we were led to a chalet in the second row from the beach that was equally chic and endlessly more suitable with two single beds in place of the Queen. Deal. Second row didn’t matter. Single beds did.

The rest of the afternoon was spent exploring the immediate vicinity of the chalets and the beach. We chatted to a young Scandinavian chap whose task that afternoon was to man the ‘Dive With Us’ desk parked neatly off to the garden side of the path that wound its way between garden and beach. We were left in no doubt about the options for diving over the coming days. The short chat wetted our dive appetite and bouyed our excited anticipation of dive adventures for the coming days. It paved the way nicely for a late afternoon beer which was followed by shaves and showers in preparation for a Christmas day dinner at the resort restaurant.

Sleep, in the single bed, arrived before 11pm, as welcome as the beers had arrived in the late afternoon. Little did we know how the Good Lord had planned to ‘up the ante’ in the coming days.

Rested and looking forward to breakfast we departed the chalet on Boxing day morning at around 8am. A leisurely breakfast that typically saw me eating much more than I was saying was concluded by about 9am. My friend announced that he would walk back toward the chalet via the beach. I needed to head straight back to the chalet to attend to personal matters of an expulsive nature!

Inside the chalet, my first perception of the horrors to come was an audible, increasingly loud, invasion of the gentle harmony of gardens, beach and the faint washing of the breaking waves on the peaceful shore. It sounded like a plane coming into land. I stepped toward the balcony window of the chalet and, incredibly, witnessed a whitish grey wall of water charging through the gardens toward mine and other chalets. I recall having the thought that a reservoir must have burst, and a follow up thought that I hadn’t remembered seeing any sign or indication of a nearby reservoir, how odd. I recall having my palm top in my hand. I was looking up a word in its dictionary tool. I began to process the audio and visual inputs of the last twenty seconds and concluded that I would be better off out of the chalet than in it when the water arrived, which it was definitely going to do, very soon. I put the palm top into my shorts pocket as I started out of the door and down the wooden steps at the side of the chalet toward the ground about eight foot below. I would have been about half way down the steps when the water arrived. I was taken from the steps by the wave into it’s ripping curl. I could feel some sizeable debris raining down onto me in the water. I remember having a relatively calm train of thought that attached itself to a realization that this event was to be the means of death for me. So this is how I die; a solution to that lifelong curiosity. I attempted to look up from my buried position but I could detect no light; either because of the amount of debris or because of the density of silt in the water. From this point I can remember no more. Oddly, I never once felt panicked. My belief is that I was submerged for thirty to forty seconds. As I am writing this from earth and not heaven it is clear that, somehow, I survived. From the position of being submerged in that very very dark watery dead end I, somehow, found myself on the surface of the water alongside a chalet in the row behind the one that I was trying to escape from. Its outside stairway was still intact and I was afloat alongside its upper banister. Again I felt it prudent to avoid being on or in a chalet and opted to clamber into a tree using the banister for a leg up onto one of the lower boughs. I hadn’t climbed a tree for at least a quarter of a century but these circumstances were encouraging to a point more harrowing than I had ever before encountered. As I was negotiating my chosen position of safety I became aware of the eeery quiet that had descended across the gardens. As though the whole of every living thing from the plants to the birds and everything in between was either dead or in spellbound awe of the sheer and in this case destructive power of nature. Once I had elevated myself to a point well above the water I took in the view. I could see at least one collapsed chalet. There was a ghostly absence of life and the air was deathly still. Then I became aware of a worrying miserable despairing human groaning. It was a ladies sound. The picture became clearer, she was Mum to two young children of about three and five years old. Dad was around too but white with fear and concern. They were inside of the chalet that I had used as a leg up into the tree that I was now perched in. Father appeared on the slanting balcony. What should we do? Were his only words either because he was German or because he could be no more pleasant under these distressing circumstances. Probably the latter. I gave him my view on the situation. It would be no fun inside that chalet if it collapsed especially with two young children and all this water. He turned whiter and nodded in solemn agreement. He retreated into the chalet and I heard him say to his wife that there is a man in a tree outside that can still think. What shall we do? His wife appeared and I noticed her looking at me in a kind of visual denial as if she hadn’t believed her husband but had now seen me and was running down an avenue of thoughts such as … My God, first of all a gigantic wave that has come through the gardens, rocked our chalet and blocked our escape and now a man in a tree that can still think, it’s not possible; whatever is going to be next? He re-appeared. He had started to think. He asked me if I would take his son into the tree with me. Of course! I replied. We, me and the German white faced man’s son, sat in the tree together wondering what to do and why all this was happening. The wife clambered, with the husbands help, into another tree on the far side of the balcony and took the daughter into it with her. We retained our chosen positions of defence for a minimum of another forty minutes. We witnessed two more waves that rocked and rolled everything around us, including the chalets and in particular the chalet alongside my tree that was still being perched in by the German father of two and husband of one tree climbing female. As we coasted towards an hour beyond the arrival of that first vicious torrent of water and probably a full twenty minutes free of other water born motion I realized that the waters were in fact beginning to recede a little… In synchrony with that observation I was aware of voices calling to myself and others to escape the waters and the flooded garden area. Locals had arrived at the edge of the bank, the rise to from the garden to the surrounding area and the path to reception and the reception lobby. There was an urgency in their voices that matched a desperation in my mind. Wet, muddy, bruised, dazed and grazed I joined a few other forlorn souls in the short trek to the bank and made my way in mental solitude to the resort entrance where a few other guests had already begun to congregate. Staff at the lobby desk were beginning to run a register of reporting guests so I meandered a while, registered as a survivor and turned my mind to my friend. A glance at the register showed that there was no mark against his name. I needed to find him. I realized I was without footwear. I made my way back down toward the garden area but I guess I got it wrong. I appeared in a clearing and was amongst what appeared to be very basic living accommodation presumably for the staff of the resort. It was quiet apart from the gentle pur of a small fourstroke motorcycle approaching from behind me. The rider was a middle aged Thai man who beckoned for me to get on to the pillion seat which I did. We trundled off down the jungle path, him with a ploy and me in a daze. He delivered me to the main road which was less than 10 minutes gentle trundle through the jungle. I began to think that the Thai’s had already hatched some sort of recovery plan and that it entailed delivering injured or lost tourists to strategic meeting or collection points along the road system close to the coastline. I was fussed over by the locals and ushered to the closest abodes bathroom with signals of shower and clean up which I endeavoured to do. My friends plight was becoming more prominent in my muddled mind. Then I noticed a girl that worked in the resort and remembered that she had spoken some English. I explained my position and that my immediate concern was for my friend. I explained that I needed to head off back to the resort to look for him. She understood and immediately began to look for a means of transport. Within minutes a truck turned in from the main road and began to in toward the resort. She flagged the vehicle down and explained my predicament. Deal. I was signaled into the open rear of the truck and we moved off back in toward the resort and the gardens. I could think of little to do but call my friends name as we rolled along the jungle track. I was at the fifth call and raising the urgency and volume of my voice as it each time it was met with no response. Then my heart rose and a flush of relief poured through me as a voice called back…Gra! I banged on the roof of the truck and he stopped to allow me to alight. I am not normally a hugger of friends but this was the first reaction. We were speechless. He looked in ggod shape. In fact probably better shape than me. So we ambled onto the reception area in a mixture of dazed amazement, brief conversation and some tears. The coming days were to be even more disturbing!

The Beckhampton Blackberry Poll

Dear Chris,

please let me take this opportunity to appraise you of the results of this weekends celebrated Beckhampton Blackberry Poll.

I’d like to begin with a little of the background: In his capacity as ‘Chief Meddlar’, Mr F Avenall has sewn unprecedented neighbourhood anxiety in our local health program of late through his endless talk of blackberry deficit related illnesses; the most serious of which is rumoured to be a middle ages complaint called autumn eyeburn. Autumn eyeburn arises from the strong late summer sun being consistently and inexorably reflected from sparkling white T shirts and other similar garments. Blackberry deficit results in a reduced visiting bird population and a lack of red birdshit on clothes line dried whites along the block.
Meanwhile, another local octogenerian, Mrs Smith, often referred to as Joyce, in her well acknowledged capacity as ‘Lead Encourager’ has been frequently seen dancing the dappled stones of 66’s garden. Allegedly attired in period pagan robes and matching head dress Joyce cavorts freely with ritualistic fervour (who is not of this neighborhood – possibly from Stratton which is believed to have strong Roman connections as it is really close to Ermin St) in what is believed to be the Blackberry Moon Salsa. Ancient beliefs transgressing centuries of fruit worship suggest that the starlit performed Blackberry Moon Salsa produces the most juicy, succulent blackberry fruit on worshipped bushes.
Other inputs are more discreet. The Lane household have refined an attitude of indignant disregard. Only recognisable by this summers abandonment of the race for jungle supremacy. The unchecked urban growth at the rear of 68 became a victim of midsummer festivities. This years chosen solstice activity of druid like garden clearance was nothing but a well disguised act of submittal. There was nothing flourishing in 68’s soil that would bring them anywhere near close to receiving the blocks inimitable whisper of disgrace, characterised by the hushed tones, turned back and bent head, for the most neglected garden.

So, to return to the heart of the subject, please allow me share the following with you; Amongst those that care and in complete contrast to expectations created earlier in the year there is an overwhelming vote in favour of selfishness. In addition there is no one that is willing to compete in the event that you have so excelled in.. the race for urban jungle supremacy. You have a clear and outstanding position in that field and receive the blocks ignominous accolade. Now please leave the bloody bushes alone until we have had a chance to pick the fruit from what looks like the biggest and best crop for years.

Unfortunately we were unable to capture a shot of Ritualistic Fervor and Joyce dancing but you can see bushes at the height of their supremacy.

Ipoh ends

Late Apr 08

Over the recent months of travel and adventure the thought of going back to Ipoh had occasionally surfaced in my mind. Surfaced like the penalty card from a black suit in a mental game of visit poker. I’d frequently managed to sweep what always appeared as a court knave from the black suit of clubs away into a nook or cranny of my travel mind. I’d met with moderate success . It was squeezed between two other taller, wider, fatter cards in my ‘cards of life’ stack. With the Siam Reap and Phnom Penh cards now dealt out onto the table of reality it sat there in full ‘my turn’ view.

So it was with some trepidation that I made the bus trip from KLIA to Ipoh on a dark Wednesday night toward the end of March 08. A journey that I had made many times in the past after a holiday or sometimes a business visit. Then, it was returning home. This was different. I no longer had a place that I could call my home and Ipoh life had become something of the past. However it was still a home for a decade of acquaintances and several wonderful circles of friends.

Within days it had transformed itself from the Jack of Clubs to a pleasure ride. I cycled, met friends, laughed, drank beer, ate favorite foods, socialized and closed on open business of personal, legal and financial natures.

Now I am looking forward to going back again before I make my long haul trek to the family centre in the UK during late May.

Siem Reap

Mar 18 08

As the double decker sized bus that had transported me and twenty four other mostly European visitors in air conditioned comfort from Phnom Penh to Siem Reap approached the town centre a friendly (but entrepreneurial, I would realize later) Khmere wandered through the bus advising us to make our way directly to the office at the front of the bus when it arrived. From there we would be transported by local tuk tuk, free of charge to the destination, guest house or hotel that we had booked or desired.
On the face of it excellent service from the bus company. However my selected guest house was written off by the friendly Khmere in one short sentence that showered it with despise and disregard. With a smile this young entrepenuer suggested he could take me to a much more conveniently located guest house (that no doubt paid him a handsome commission to bring punters in) that had rooms from 7USD/night, had free internet and beer was 50 cents a glass. What he didn’t tell me was that he and his little team of tuk tuk drivers brought almost every one of their bus passengers to this location (probably with a similar disparaging story around punters previously selected accommodation)…..so…all the 7USD rooms were taken, there was always a queue for the internet seats, and the bargain beer flow always ended early to mid evening when the one barrel that was consigned to the loss leader deal ran dry. I would find all of this out later. What I discovered immediately I had signed up for a 10USD/night room was that he was more tacky than bubble gum. No matter what I said, he was convinced that I needed him the next day to take me to the temple region. In fact he would stay with me the whole day and, I was informed, for the following two days as well for a very reasonable 30USD. The more I listened the deeper it got.. you couldn’t do the temples without a driver as the temples were too far apart to walk between them. In the end I had to be abrupt and tell the guy to go. He still had the gaul to look me in the eye and ask me how I would see the temples then. I will sort that out I told him. Not your worry.
The irony of this little episode was that I saw the same guy a couple of days later at the guest house delivering another barrow load of innocent beer thirsty tourists..He had the front to ask me how I got to see the temples. His offended retort to my answer was that I didn’t support him. I raised my voice although I felt like raising my hand. At the conclusion of my tirade I pointed at him then made the sign of zipping lips and pointed to the exit. He didn’t leave the guest house but he left me alone.
So how did I see the temples? Well the upside of the entrepenuerial Khmere’s (EK) tactics were that there were no shortage of people with similar interests at my guest house. Within minutes of despatching EK on the day of my arrival I was making friends with Raffael and Corinne. Swiss, enthusiastic and adventurous. They had managed to do a tuk tuk deal for half the amount that EK had offered me. After a little further negotiation the next day was to be temple day for the three of us. The first of three temple days for R and C but my only temple day unless I was more excited by these buildings than I have ever been in the past.
We were on our way with our friendly but surprised tuk tuk driver by 8.15 and at the temple grounds admission gate by about 8.45. Personal photo endorsed tickets seemed an odd overkill but that’s what we got!! It must have been shortly after 9 that we were parked outside the outer wall of the famous Angkor Wat Temple. The whole township of Angkor Wat is massive and incredibly impressive. It evoked a glorious mental time warp within me and I found myself transporting the stone carved, mostly female figures from the walls into the reality of my new existence to produce a theatre of beautiful people adorned in period robes going about both business and pleasure amongst the courtyards, chapels, pools and other life exciting stylish stone structures with the grace, charm and poise of an age lost to time and the ironic march of ‘progress’.
I had the clear impression that both Corinne and Rafael were smitten in a similar way as conversation gave way to important and sometimes urgent investigation of passages, rooms and chambers whilst our imagination painted those theatrical scenes of the beautiful, mostly female for me, people cavorting their business in this exotic, romantic and historic environment.
The heat was on… March is into the hot season here in Cambodia and by 11am were drowned in perspiration and needing to keep a constant intake of liquid as part of our activities.
The tuk tuk transported us to other temple sites with 10 minute hops between each. Sadly some of the historic sites had been badly damaged by the idiotic rampage of ‘military’ forces during the Khmere Rouge era. However there were restoration and recovery activities underway at some of the more dilapidated and mutilated examples.
The après midi session was highlighted by temple specimens that were being incongruously invaded by trees and tendron like roots. Although these living sprawls added a new and surreal dimension to the remains they were in fact destructions pole faced ally. Plant life would inevitably have a shorter life than the structures and would decay in time to create gangrenous holes of imploding stone. The authorities appeared rattled by this relatively recent and newly evident problem. For the visitor it encourages a litany of index finger clicking and wishes of longer battery life and larger memory cards.
4pm heralded the tuk tuk charge back to town and celebratory beers in the late afternoon sun on the patio front of one of the many restaurant bars in the cozy little centre of Siem Reap. Beer sipped between indulgent, WoW like, recollections of a days exploration richer in new experiences than one might taste in months or even years of our other life (chasing ever increasing profits in the capitalist world).
Siem Reap and it’s cozy little centre became the centre of my increasingly easily adapted universe for a couple of days. It was hot but relaxed and occasionally wifi compliant. The oozing cushty feel persuaded me to stay one extra day longer than the original plan. Something that I failed to tell Mother Hen back at Phnom Penh mission control who deemed it violation enough to unleash the wrath of her clawing cynicism upon me when I reappeared for my final few nights in Phnom Penh. Sakeet, you are unique!

Other Lives

13 Mar 08

Other Lives
My ten day stay at a small guest house in Phnom Penh, produced some remarkable people learnings.
There are men here that appear to be my age or a little older that I find it impossible to have conversation with. To say that they are opinionated is an understatement. Their bristly behaviour spikes their body language. As a result caution is the newcomers leaning even before any words are spoken.
For these bristly warriors learning something useful or new would be an admission of inferiority that, apparently, must be avoided more avidly than an Iraqi bullet. The chosen method of defense against such discreditation is to adopt a bodily pose at the table that arted conversationalists would recognize as the Maori grizzle. Table time is spent thrusting their view and way onto others. Loud, bold declarations of how it is and how it must be done and the ridicule of even considering anything different. Later I came to understand that there is a simple descriptive term for these people that is appropriation personified. Blowhard! Attempts at introductory conversation on my part were mistaken for an invitation for full psycho-analytical assessment. My newfound shrink saw his opportunity to rise into a command and control position and launched himself into a half hour description of some ‘problem’ I was alleged to have developed (?) and how I must deal with it. At one point fairly early in the onslaught I turned to see if I was mistaken and he was talking to someone standing behind me. To be fair he gave me a choice on means of resolution. One option I was offered was to take a Khmere girlfriend. Now why would I want to do that? I smiled and nodded all the way through.
Self righteous. Deaf. Conceited. Pompous. Brash. Plus his mother countries presidents sirname rhymes with ‘Shush!’, surprise surprise!!. Occasionally he would stop and ask me what I thought so I just repeated what he had just said. He’d laugh and say..you see we doooo think the same way. If I’d needed to find a character that emissed every Northern Europeans idea of that great nations generic character I could not have stumbled upon a more appropriate individual. Or was it less a matter of stumbling and more a matter of luck that previous individuals that I had met from that great nation had been more of a gentle breeze than a ‘blowhard’. Anyhow as it was I didn’t need to find a character that emissed every Northern Europeans idea and image of that great nations generic character (who does?) so I was not unduly disappointed when he ordered himself another whisky and ice with the declaration that it would be his last before retiring for the night.
There is also an Englishman that bravely and regularly visits the table. In many ways he reminds me of a diminished Peter Cook. His ability to describe situations with enough sarcasm to raise a smile but not the hackles is well refined. He is a pleasure to listen to. He is a schoolteacher and his tales of classroom episodes in which he imitates the Khmere students and their overwhelming affection for UK ‘boy band’ music and their equally strong disaffection for the sun would make good material for a late night celebrity interview. In these little tales he is referred to as ‘Char’ (a seemingly affectionate abbreviation of teacher) by the Khmere students. He is my hero of the table. He does speak back, in an unfaltering matter of fact confident manner to the blowhards.
The mainstay of the table however is a lady. She is not English, she tells me, because she is from Guernsey. Time for everyone and only good words to say about them. One of the most relaxed members of the fairer sex that I have encountered. So relaxed that nothing needed to be done until it is time to panic. Unfortunately her original flight back home was missed because of a motorbike accident and a short stay a local hospital. As the end of March, the end of her extended visa period, approached I heard the words ‘I am beginning to panic now. I haven’t booked a flight home yet’!
I have wrestled with myself here. I was ill with chronic stomach pains and diahorrea for 3 days almost immediately I arrived in Phnom Penh. Making my way on the 2nd day from the guest house to a pharmacy a couple of streets away was a challenging task that will be etched in my memory for a very long time, because, quite simply, of the drama and desperacy of the situation. I must have looked like a windblown sheet of the previous Tuesdays Cambodia Daily. I certainly felt like one. Dehydrated, unshaven, listless and emaciated. I had lost my appetite about five days previous and clearly left myself bug prone. The pharmacy prescribed two boxes of pills and some rehydration drink. The climb up four flights of stairs on the return to my room left me in a bundle of litsless flesh and bone on the landing with hardly the strength to get my key in the door. However twenty fours of pills and pints of rehydration drink later, toilet visits had extended to six hourly and I had the beginnings of an appetite again.
I have found Phnom Penh a pleasant city to relax in. I have a nice room and some entertainment close by. The guest house staff are friendly and the food is good. I can sit and read or eat, or walk out to nearby entertainment.
With recovery and rehab rest nailed, I booked a bus trip to Siam Reap. 6hrs bus ride to the north to take in some of the incredible historic temples built around 1000AD.
The night before the trip I innocently sat in a bar for a brief beer before a planned dinner at a new location a couple of doors on from the bar. A fortuitous beer stop! Without it I doubt that I would ever have met ‘the demonstrator’. A UK guy around my young age also sat at the bar. After some minutes of niceties we touched on the subject of profession. Manufacturing is my stock response to the ‘what do you do?’ question. When I returned the question it was met with the alacrity of an excited teenager. I have the best job in the world came his boysterious reply; I am a professional demonstrator. Immediately I conjured up a picture of an all weather, grim faced, fist waving, placard touting, yomper inclined toward occasional bold verbal announcements in support of his current cause. This week ban vivisection, next week ban the bomb. No cause dismissed.
Further description of his tasks in this role took me into the realms of knife sales. He demonstrated how useful they were, what a good deal was on offer and, usually, people bought them. He gave me an example of the introductory crowd grabbing jibber and any shred of mendacity or prevarication that had crept into my mind was dispelled immediately. That was his profession! He was going to UK in a couple of days and would be picking up some demonstrator work in Tesco’s, Margate. A likeable, likely lad.

Fortuitous Revelations?

2nd March 08

What a week! Life has been rocked by revelations from a friend. Revelations that I am not at liberty to reveal here, which of course make them all the more revelationary! Two days in KL extended to six whilst I thought and rethought the impact of the revelations on my plans. I find little to excite me in KL anymore. I was staying at a little guest house close to Bukit Bintang so I had the obtuse and obscure pleasure of being within walking distance of the shopping malls of Sungei Wang, BB Plaza and a host of streetside coffee shops.
I took the opportunity of meeting up with a couple of old friends. One in particular that recent communication had got a little sparse with. The extended stay may in itself prove to have been fortuitous as the re striking of that communication could offer an interesting lead into activity that could usefully occupy some of my time were I to stay longer in the region. More inspecific information to mystify you. 🙂
So I finally got my head around the travel agenda and escaped Kuala Lumpur for Phnom Penh, Cambodia. Another Asian city but at least one with some interesting history and a pleasant laid back feel to it. On the expense scale it’s at least a couple of storeys below Kuala Lumpur. My basic guest house room in Jalan Tenkgat Tong Shin near to Bukit Bintang in Kuala Lumpur Malaysia without bathroom but with aircon, free internet access and basic breakfast was 75RM/night,12UKP (negotiated down from 85RM) and my aircon, tv, ensuite bathroom, no breakfast room at the Last Home Guest House in Phnom Penh 12USD, 6UKP. Beer Lao is about 40p a can and my fried noodles with chicken this morning cost me 1.25UKP. I will do some of the history in Phnom Penh over the coming days and then head off on a bus to Siam Reap where of the course the attraction is Angkor Watt.
If this contribution appears a little bland and factual it’s because revelations from a friend have temporarily distracted me from the fun and adventure of life in the travel room. I’ll be back!!

Crowded Planet Horror

At shortly after 5pm today a supporting wall and roof collapsed onto hawker stall vendors and customers at the Crowded Planet Restaurant in Jalan Tengkat Tong Shin near to Bukit Bintang, Kualar Lumpur, Malaysia. I was in the Seven Eleven shop next door when the accident took place. Renovations had been underway at the restaurant for a number of days. Onlookers were critical of the owner for undertaking renovations whilst attempting to keep the business open. Emergency services were quick to respond with Bomba motorcycle units first on the scene 15 mins after the accident occurred. It was thought that 5 people were trapped in the wreckage as Bomba personnel began the clearance operation.

The Temples of Kings

22nd Feb 08

I’ve been ill. Two full days of stomach pains, purging and mild fever. Instigated I suspect (as we always do in such cases) by what I had last eaten before my energy processor began to misfire and occaisionally backfire?!?! I lifted medicine from my hard knocks mental booklet of no pain no gain recovery and improvement techniques and starved for 24hrs. I’m almost back in the groove and last night had a delightful unbroken seven and half hours sleep. The longest I have slept for three nights at least. The two full days of illness were my last couple of days in Myanmar. Spent amongst the dour delights of downtown Yangon. Not the most illustrious finale to my Myanmar experience but enough to put the Bagan days into perspective.

The Bagan days (15th – 19th Feb) were relaxed exploration personnified. I had a full glorious three of them. Daytime sun was relentless. However temperatures moved into the uncomfortably hot zone for only 2 or 3 hours of the afternoon. Beyond nightfall temperatures fell to levels that demanded long sleeves and trousers plus bit more.
The region of Bagan covers around forty square kilometres and consists of Nyaung U, Old Bagan and New Bagan. Terrain is pretty flat. The North Western flank of the region is marked by the massive Irwawaddy River.

During the eleventh and twelfth centuries seven or eight succesive kings of the region were so bored and lost for ways of being a bigger and better king than their predecessor that each indulged their power and authority to make increasingly large and populous marks on the landscape and ultimately history. The result is two and a half thousand temples, shrines, pagodas and stupas that range in size from small and compact to massive with internal stairways leading up to terraces that offer rousing vantage points across the flatland of the region. All but the smallest of temples have a Budda statue inside each of the four compass point facing sides of the building. Many of them are of red brick construction and some have gold leaf coverings. Some are internally endowed with wall paintings presumably from the build period!!
Temples are not particularly my thing but I cannot deny the enjoyment of cycling the quiet roads and lanes with camera, water and wallet to discover the extent of those Kings indulgent follies during that period.
There were two notable acquaintance experiences.
Gita and Aloo had discarded their Spanish names and assumed Indian names for their travel in the region and possibly beyond…My early morning need for quiet solitude meant the chances of our breakfast room nods and brief hello’s turning into friendly conversation were unlikely. However a fate meeting of late morning cyclists at a road junction between Old and New Bagan resulted in friendly lunchtime chats over the next couple of days. Gita and Aloo’s ideas about food people and life were not so far removed from my own. Vegetarian lunch at a local dusty floored shack where customers were attended by local urchins earning a little for their families suited us just fine. We filled the air with tales of past travel and future dreams, and our stomachs with the satisfying mixture of rice and spiced vegetable delicacies. Gita set the pace of self indulgence by a ‘sleep time’ declaration and led out on one of the benches for a Burmese siesta. Aloo and I continued to explore the world across the depleted lunch table. Tea and cake completed the whole cosy experience at Gita’s return to the world of the conscious. Gita and Aloo wanted to live the life of the land they were in as much as possible. To behold their thoughts and indulgent yet warm and friendly nature was another outstanding landmark in my travel experience. Super couple.
The other notable acquaintance experience occured late in the afternoon of my final Bagan Day. I’d cycled leisurely around the Nyaung U town centre and was drifting back toward my temporary residence with thoughts on everything but the traffic when I realised this white saloon had arrested itself in my path. I careered around its left hand perimeter giving wide berth to the opening doors. I detected a commotion as though something had been discovered or found and then heard the name Graham mentioned. I braked forward of the vehicle and looked back to see Juan standing with his arms on the top of the open rear door and Connie with her head out of the front passenger window. It was indeed a suprise and a pleasure to meet them again in the dusty town road of Nyaung U. It took us just a few minutes to arrange ‘dinner’.
It was the post dinner activities that are most worthy of note here. With stomachs of Myanmar food and veins tickled with beer we ambled toward an audible source of music and song. Myanmar’s version of Gladstonbury was well underway on open land and makeshift stage not minutes from our dinner location. The final hour in the amusing company of my delightful friends from Majorca was sat at the outfield of the concert sharing Myanmar Rum and Star Coke that the ‘hot dog’ vendor had conjured up from somewhere. Stories were of Spanish and Majorcan fiestas gone by and hopes were of a hangover free morning. I flew from Bagan to Yangon within hours and I remember Connie saying, reassuringly, more than once that it would be ok as I could sleep on the plane. That frequently relayed anecdote for the alcholically confused!! I was still conscious enough to realise that making it to the plane might be the bigger challenge.

Blues in Bagan

16th Feb 2008

Yesterday I arrived in Bagan, Myanmar on a bus from Inle, Myanmar. I am at a low. There is little inspiration or enthusiasm in my blood. I am tiring of the travel and of the long periods of loneliness. I long for the company of my family and friends. I know there is no short cut to that. I still have much ground to cover, aspects of life to confront and many solutions to find. I will need to plunder the depths of my inner resources to address them.

In many respects the travel I have committed to has been a postponement of decisions about future life, particularly about where to live, what work to take when I decide to work, and about whether to take a ‘life’ partner should the opportunity arise… and I know it will when I start allowing it to.

I have however enjoyed the time in Inle. Inle Lake is full of wonderful sights and mellow people. The atmosphere is quiet and serene. Early morning mists and warm evening dusks bring contrasting moods to picturesque settings that appear to be from an age long departed in other parts of this world. I had the added pleasure of spending much of the Inle time with a couple that I met in Kalaw.

Kalaw is an almost car less town. It exudes the back packer atmosphere and nestles in the hills maybe 40km from Inle. Many visitors to Kalaw choose to take a 3 day, 2 night trek to reach the lake. One overnight stop is apparently at a monastery and rumour has it that the predawn chorus one awakes to is of the monks chanting their worshipful verse. I missed that. I took the soft option and chickened out on the 3 day trek in favour of a shared taxi from Kalaw to Inle. At least my knees still work!

It was during the early afternoon of the 11th February that I had the pleasure of meeting Juan and Connie. Hailing from Majorca now but originally Spain (Barcelona) and Holland respectively they were like old friends within hours. A chance meeting in the quiet Kalaw streets led to a coffee at a nearby shop then dinner in the evening and the shared taxi the following day to Nyaungshwe, Inle.

Juan’s sense of humour ran completely adjacent to my own and we found ourselves chuckling about sightings such as the hustle of small boats in a remote spot of the Inle lake that were positioned with afts to the hustle centre and the captains perched on their haunches at the afts deep in conversation. They’re talking politics was the witty comment from Juan..no microphones there! The day trip on a boat across the lake to take in the floating market, lunch and finally to collect their Dutch friends at the end of their 3 day hike from Kalaw to Inle lake was a notable pleasure. Connie was warm, friendly and caring. A lovely couple. I have an invite to Majorca. Bless them!

I followed the lake boat trip on the 13th with what was described as a 5 hour trek from my guest house on the 14th. Enquires made of the guest house, Aquarious, owner reassured me that the trek was gentle and did not need a guide. I set off solo in the morning armed with suncream, water and the little rough map that the guest house had presented me with. Two hours later I had begun to get the feeling that I had missed a turn somewhere. I had been climbing gently and in some places not so gently for most of the 2 hours. The sun was strong and I was panting for much of that time. There were breathtaking views of the lake and the little town I had walked from but I had not come across the English speaking, cave dwelling monk who was supposed to have shown himself according to the position marked on the map at between 1and 2 hours. I began to think that I would go to three hours and if I was still of the opinion that I was incorrectly routed I would turn and make my way back. At least it would all be down hill and would probably be less than a three hour walk back. I continued to climb and felt that I was probably close to the peak of what appeared to be one of the highest hills around. At almost the three hour point I happened across a small village with a distinct absence of people. Just one old guy working on some bamboo who completely ignored me. I wandered across some flatland between basic woven walled dwellings toward what appeared to be a place of worship under construction. That was also deserted. I noticed a couple of children watching me from a distance. A few paces away from the part constructed shrine was a more elaborate timber structure with an open window. I called a couple of gentle hello’s. Then I clocked a couple of novice monks in the shade inside the timber structure who were clearly eating and when they noticed me made the hand to mouth sign that suggested they were taking food. Don’t mind me I thought. I’m just lost in space.

A more senior monk came to the window and with a series of hand signs, aaah’s and ohh’s I was given to believe the village I should have been at by now was a long, long way over to the west. I tried to explain to the monk that I would like him to write down the name of this village. He put pen to paper in the form of Myanmar symbols. I am not sure it will be of any use to me now but it was a nice thought at the time. I will take a photo of the map and of his writing and put into my Picasa album for the Feb 08.

I turned round from the window with my many thankyou’s echoing in the air to see that the couple of children had multiplied to about 30. That and what followed made the whole walk worthwhile for me. I reached for my camera and made indications that I would like to take their photo. Immediately they fell cheerily into one straight line and I became convinced that this was not the first time they had had this request. I became even more convinced when, as I inspected the camera after the photo event, I was almost knocked over by the rush of the whole cheering group of children to my feet wanting to share the inspection with me. As I write this now I am again flushed with warmth that those happy children brought to me that afternoon. The photo will be in my Picasa Feb 08 album. My walk back was gentle. My boots were pinching my feet in a couple of places and I was sure that I would have some stiff muscles for a couple of days after but it would be a small price to pay for that experience.

That walk was to bring my Inle Lake visit to a close. I had bought a ticket for the bus to Bagan for the 15th February. 12500 Kjyet. A little over 10USD.

Before I leave Inle in this narrative I feel compelled to mention another lady that I met at the Aquarius guest house in Inle as I thought she was quite remarkable and had a lovely friendly way. Her name was Lola and she hails from Weymouth in Dorset, England. I want to mention this because I spent many family holidays in Weymouth. Lola actually owned and ran the Sandcombe Hotel close to the Esplanade Gardens for many years. Lola has retired from that business now but still spends the summers in Dorset. I have the impression that she spends most of her European winters in Asia and has spent a considerable time travelling in India. It was especially nice to hear that she still visits most of the South of England music festivals including Gladstonbury during the summers and she was keen to point out that she was old enough to be my mother. My admiration for others is pushed to new heights!

The roads are so bad here that it takes an age to get anywhere. I had to rise at 4.15am for the taxi at 4.30am to the bus stop at Taunggyi junction to take the 12 hour ride to Bagan. That bus ride was quite simply an endurance test. The bus had seats but little else that fell into the comfort category. It was incredibly dusty – inside the bus! The door didn’t close properly which was a problem for the first three or four hours as the outside and inside temperature was well below 10deg C and I wore shorts and sandals. As the day went by the temperature climbed to well over the other side of 25deg C and the door needed to be open but unfortunately that meant that the internal dust count frequently rose to haze levels inside the bus. As we came to the latter half of the day the passenger count exceeded seat count by a mutliple previously unheard of but it didn’t stop a gaggle of schoolgirls singing their way through the last three hot dusty hours to Bagan. As is the way in Myanmar we had some bold individuals travelling atop the bus for large lengths of the journey also. At Nyaung U, Bagan, I collected an almost unrecognisable brown Myanmar dust coloured backpack from the underside of the rattley old Isuzu bus and accepted the first offer of transport into the guest house area, a pony and trap. I am at the New Heaven guest house for 6usd a night inc breakfast. After that bus ride I can confirm it is aptly named.

I will adjourn for a beer now and be back at the keyboard over the next couple of days to record some experiences from the Bagan days. The writing has lifted my spirits a little as it always does. Nevertheless it is getting close to the time when I need to make some hard decisions about life beyond this period of travel.

The Night to Kalaw

11th Feb 2008

I arrived in Kalaw, after a coach trip from Mandalay that would produce such exclamations as; ‘oooh I say Graham, how terrible’ if I were to relay this little travel episode to the folks back home. Mandalay and Kalaw people in Myanmar would see it is as perfectly normal I am sure.

The Nylon Hotel in Mandalay took an extravagant (in retrospect) 17000 Kyet from me for a seat on what was touted to be an aircon bus from Mandalay to Kalaw. Aircon it was not; thankfully for the night trip it wasn’t really needed.

Seating was the unusual and compact 5 across system; no aisle. This was achieved with aisle fold down seats whose occupants were forced to play musical chairs when anyone else wanted to move, enter or depart. In other words we were packed into that bus like the proverbial sardines.

I tried very hard not to look to long and hard at the poor unfortunate soul who occupied the flip down aisle seat next to me. He was either Osama bin Ladin or his twin brother fully prepared for a cold night in the foothills directing operations to repel capitalist insurgents. My other neighbour was younger and seemed more friendly if not a little exuberant. He was pure entertainment. He was having a good bash at conversation with me as we rolled, literally, out of the bus depot. Short sentences of Burmese floated across to me on a vapour of whisky were always concluded with an enquiring ‘ok?’ to which I grinned a thumb in the air ‘ok!’. His happiness at my willingness to engage in a mostly hand signal and body language exchange of gestures was signaled by frequent flashes of betel infected crunchers. What you might call the Burmese smile.

Names weren’t important. We were getting along fine. Exchanges extended to chewing gum and boiled sweets.

Did he really like me as much as his seating position seemed to suggest? For a few moments I flushed as the delayed alarm bells began to ring in my head. He sat at an interference fit with left hand items of my anatomy. Mysteriously there appeared to be inches between the left side of his anatomy and the window. I made a show of measuring both spaces and shaking the hand as the Asians do to indicate the ‘why?’ or ‘don’t know’ status. The betel gums reappeared as he dug his leather jacket out from the cavity between his butt and the window. It was definitely ‘off the peg’ as I recalled noting when we were outside of the bus. As we both relaxed into a twenty percent increase of available seat space he dug me in the ribs with his elbow in a request for me to look more closely at the jacket. He had parted the lining and a wad of local currency as the size of a bedroll was peeping at me. He had also refined a laughable hand gesture that sort of said ‘anything goes’ or ‘let it be’, which was what he was waving at me now. Clearly a Jack the Lad.

Roads in Mandalay teeter on the edge of survival. Some were conceived but never born. The dust and fumes outside the coach were what had played havoc with my throat, breathing and sleep for the past days. I was heading for cleaner air. It was a little way off yet, I couldn’t wait. The scheduled arrival time was 4am. 10hrs of travel in this sardine pack. The torture increased as the TV and DVD player was stoked into action. For my inimitable pleasure there were a couple of hours of Burmese pantomime comedy acted out by Little and Large lookalikes in Sarongs and basic props. At points most of the coach were laughing and my whiskey mate would join in most of the singing although he would pretty much be solo in that effort.

The roads began to deteriorate and for most of the time were single vehicle width with wide side tracks for passing other vehicles. Toll points were slightly better prepared. We were also clearly and slowly climbing. At about 9.30pm we pulled into a the Myanmar excuse for a service station. Some of the more friendly occupants of the coach uttered ‘dinner’ with a smile and hand to mouth signs that confirmed we would be able to eat. I went forward to a table manned by a serious looking Burmese war veteran lady that handed me rations as if there was no choice so I assumed there was no choice and took a bowl of rice with a little garlic and peanuts sprinkled over the top. Listlessly, to the side dithered an emancipated fowl limb. I was also brought soup. Then my whiskey mate arrived. He had the similar base rations but had found some withered sausage like material which I was encouraged to try. Another lady had also appeared and was energetically peeling boiled eggs to which I was treated two. I assumed that this was part of the bus deal. I even ate the Burmese at a chicken leg. Then the most touching thing happened. The serious looking lady that had handed me the rice at the beginning was now manning the cash till and I saw her mutter something to the soup girl. The soup girl approached our table and looking at me said two thousand. My whiskey mates hand went up and around to suggest all in. Despite my protestations he bought my dinner. He bought my dinner. Dah!

Back in the coach the roads subsided to stoney tracks. At best our headway was hitting a maximum of 20kmh. We twisted and turned along the edges of hills. We were climbing more steeply. In the black of the night we’d frequently need to pull over to let an oncoming vehicle pass and we’d frequently need to navigate a narrow path around a broken down truck or bus being careful not to lose a wheel over the road edge. Then suddenly all of the twisting and turning stopped and within minutes we were into civilization. I spotted a board with Eastern Paradise painted boldly on it. We were in Kalaw! The driver pulled over and someone pointed at me. Gosh, my stop, realization dawned. I felt excited but alarmed. 2am. Will I be able to secure a room at my chosen guest house? Or would I have to snook down until dawn in crevice of a building somewhere? My trusty backpack was retrieved from the rear of the vehicle and I was left there to my own devices as the bus pulled away again. Hello..came the gentle female voice from an approaching figure. Where do you want to stay? This lady had heard the bus arrive, saw that it was to deliver a bewildered tourist and hopped out from her bed across the road to help me to a room for the night. Kalaw friendliness! Eastern Paradise, Yes it’s this way. We walked the 700yards to the Guest House and raised the proprietoress who, after multiple bell presses appeared in woollen hat and cloak over a night dress. Toto, my street meet told me she would see me tomorrow to talk about treks…ahh I knew there might be a catch. Nevertheless I can’t knock the friendliness. I was ushered to a room by the sleepy proprietor, given the time for breakfast and told everything else could be settled in the morning. I had arrived in Kalaw and had a place to sleep!!