Come for the cadaver, stay for the caucasians

The highway into Hanoi passes mud green rice paddies one after the other. The tips of sprouting plants in rows of wobbly parallel peek above the water and here and there move reed-hatted women bent in labour and buffalo dragging ploughs. At the outskirts of the city centre there is a large billboard with the pollution levels and an according physical analogue for easy interpretation: two smiley faces, two sad.

Hanoi shares much of Ho Chi Minh. Sky scrapers loom over tiny plastic chairs and gleaming international department stores rub shoulders with shady corner knock-offs. Five-star restaurants are around the corner from scrapheap metal huts and decaying concrete, and the footpaths are clogged with motorcycles. People fill the gaps in all manners of existence as they watch, hawk, eat and rest on their haunches.

Breakfast relaxation

But where the centre of Ho Chi Minh is full of broad streets and relative modernity, in Hanoi many of the streets are narrow and have gnarled trees leaning haphazardly over them with dirty buildings in various states of disrepair.

More motorcycles, overburdened with entire families or the day’s produce for market, cough unhealthily with a laconic indifference to the flux of congestion. The scattered cars, attempting to navigate the clogged arterials, straddle the dotted line down the middle of the road, honking without cease to warn those ahead out of their way. On many streets the outermost lanes house not cars, but pedestrians and vendors, their wares dusty and the retailers with facemasks against the fumes.

That said, there is very little pedestrian traffic. People move on their motorbikes or bicycles, and any spare plot of footpath is an eligible parking spot.

The heat

There is a practical ambivalence to overt displays of caution here. If it needs to fit on the back of your motorcycle, you’ll find a way to fit it. Everyone else will recognise the necessity of this, and let you motor along at half the speed of traffic and with cargo jutting out.

In Ho Chi Minh, like Hanoi, life is in the open. Store fronts give way to living rooms. A family dines on the footpath, parents and children around a low table. Their home is open behind them, TV on. On the side of a four-lane road three men sit in small plastic chairs under an umbrella with cables snaking towards a TV set up. The music is loud enough to be heard at the end of the street and one, with a microphone, is kareokeing. A man selling ice-cream from the back of his bicycle is moving slowly along, coasting to a stop at the side of the road. He walks to the nearest wall to urinate.

Hoi An

It is difficult to get people’s attention through eye contact. I put it down to living in the open. With people constantly passing, it would be a chore to respond to every glance sent one’s way. Watching is something of a pastime in Ho Chi Minh. Morning is the best time of day, the bustle of a fresh day unfolding through motorcycles and street pho. Vendors bring around newspapers, one even carrying the Sydney Morning Herald and The Australian. Ice coffee and a seat in the shade. This is the appropriate speed.

In my search for excellent pho I found one vendor in Hoi An with a particularly brilliant secret. Pork scratchings. Thrown into the broth as it goes over the thinly sliced beef, the distinct rich roasted fatty taste adds a tantalising dimension.

In Hanoi they have adapted French traditions into their own. Specifically their café culture with tables and chairs oriented for people watching. But instead of espressos and wicker chairs, there is ice coffee and plastic chairs and stools. Across Vietnam and Cambodia is the ubiquitous banh mi—baguettes with pork products or omelettes, fresh herbs and sweet and salty sauces.

Birds

At night along Pham Ngu Lau Street in Ho Chi Minh the tiny bars set up plastic chairs all over the footpath and onto the road. This is precious real estate. At 7000 dong a beer, roughly 35c, they do a brisk trade. When word spreads of the police driving down the street, there is a sudden rush. People are hustled off chairs which are packed up off the road, as it is illegal to encroach on it like this. I was concerned. The lady had taken away the tray our beer had been resting on. While we had secured our beers, she had my dried squid. Sold from the back of bicycles, the delicate wisps are taken down and scorched over an open flame, sliced up and served with some chilli sauce. There was also a man flogging boiled peanuts. Excellent beer snacks.

At the particular establishment we were attending there was an officious old lady who oversaw the distribution of beer and the exchanging of money. We called her Grandma. The second you were done she’d arrange for more, unfolding her massive wad of bills expectantly. She brought one superfluous beer to our table one time and wandered off without taking money. We rashly thought, free beer?! After Anders and I had split it, she rolled over. “7000 dong.”

Taking it easy

These plastic chairs and tables are packed with both locals and tourists alike. Anything you could want drifts by. Food, books, Gucci purses, movies, cigarettes, sunglasses. More chairs emerge as the night goes on and small groups morph organically, evolution in the form of outrageously cheap beer.

Still cheaper beer can be found in Hoi An. 4000 dong a glass. More culturally relevant in Hoi An is the old town. The product of the confluence of many traders and much money, the town is beautiful and quaint. By some chance it remains relatively uncorrupted by the tourist presence. There is of course tat and the catering to the dollar, but unlike places like Thailand where infrastructure is tailored to bring tourists, here it feels like tourists are welcome, but the town is how it is.

A hard day's work

Lanterns hang over the streets and at night you can buy them to float down the river. Birds chirp and flutter in cages in front of most stores. There is only one bar that blasts loud music and it just feels wrong. Thankfully it is almost empty. This is a beautiful and sleepy place. The markets here are some of the most pungent. Equal wafts of intense Vietnamese herbs and raw meat and seafood.

About three kilometres from Hoi An is the first beach I’ve seen for some time that has surf. It is also the first time for some time that I’ve been excited to go to the beach. With the AFL schedule having recently appeared before my eyes, this would be a frequent destination. Ideal for a 3km time trial (many seconds need to be shaved off my pace) or a calf-ruining beach run. Jogging back from the beach I overtook some very slow moving girls on a bike, much to their entertainment. They followed me the rest of the way, talking loudly.

Old Town, Hoi An

Apparently there is an 80kg limit on bicycles. Given Jess can’t ride, the system of her sitting on the back while I cycled that we had employed one day—not to mention the fact that I exceed 80kg comfortably on my own—was not an option when the rental lady noticed our setting off. So we were flogged a moped. Hardly miffed at the opportunity to hurtle around the countryside, we drove through most of Hoi An and indeed beyond the city limits. Overtaking cyclists, passing through rice paddies and being overtaken by honking cars. Unknowingly heading along a long dead-end street through a fishing village, by the time we reached the end as it drifted into a dusty boat repairing area, the incredulous looks suddenly made sense.

Cambodia feels at times like a shonkier Vietnam. The people are friendlier, but the buses are slow, the streets rutted, the food bland. US dollars come out of ATMs and Cambodian Reals are given back as change. Many reals disappear in the conversion process.

Lanterns

On the bus from Siem Reap to Phnom Penh the locals at the back decided the trip was too boring. At the first stop they bought plastic bags full of ice and beer and became increasingly more merry and loud as the journey went on, all cackling laughter and bus-toilet runs.

The killing fields are deceptive. From a distance what looks like a verdant field in what was once an orchard is up close filled with bone fragments and earth distended and bloated from burial and excavation. There is a tree against which babies were beaten. Bullets were too expensive, so people were killed imperfectly with farm tools. The rainy season sees ever more fragments and relics wash to the surface.

S21 prison holds countless photos of those interned. Gazes from anger to desolation. A reflex smile and eyes of despair. A repurposed school, the exercise equipment was used for torture, the institution of education not needed in a regime that celebrated peasant equality.

Le francais

Nursing an ill-advised choice of sugary drink we saw two grimy kids in Phnom Penh sifting through garbage bins for cans and bottles. As we walked past I gave them my can, which, when they realised was still half-full of beverage, delighted them. It was strange to feel guilty, knowing that I could have done so much more.

Public life

To get into the mausoleum of Ho Chi Minh in Hanoi you have to first be whistled at by a guard to work out that the logical direction of approach, from in front, is incorrect. You are then herded around the periphery, stripped of your bags, and then funnelled endlessly along before you appear, once more, in front of the mausoleum. His skin looks waxen and the shuffling gawping feels quite awkward. You can’t have your hands in your pockets. The guards are vigilant and emerging back out into daylight after such a long build up to such a short and eerie climax is unsatisfying.

S21

Walking back to collect our bags, Jess was pulled to a stop by one Asian lady. “Please, please.” She stood next to her as a man with a video camera hunched down to take a photo of the two of them in front of the mausoleum. Two rows of schoolkids all pause their chatter to stare at me. Some wave, some say hello. More yet giggle as I pass.

In Hanoi now with Jess, today Aaron arrives. Plans need to be made regarding motorcycles and a journey south.

Temples, transit, and the triumph of the will

It was the third time I’d eaten at her riverside breakfast stand and the first time I’d gotten a smile. 6.30am and with a bus and a ferry to catch in half an hour to get to Koh Samui, it seemed a shame that having finally won the wizened old lady’s affection, I was now to disappear forever. She served the most delicious chicken and rice. A simple dish that she somehow elevated, serving a constant stream of customers until she ran out and so motored home. The gentle slap of her cleaver as she dextrously sliced and diced poached chicken in the exact same manner each and every time a constant of the new day and testament to her enduring position on this corner before the first sunburnt tourist hove in to view, now, and forever more.

Lacking a beach, Krabi is a quiet place. Guesthouses offer rooms for as little as $4AUD a night. The main tourist cry you hear is for Railay Beach which is akin to all the other island beaches of Thailand that carry some repute: crowded with resorts and overrun with tourists. Still, the water sparkles that infinitely alluring appropriately categorised aquamarine and the limestone cliffs loom lichen green and bone white. Bottled water costs almost as much as a room on Krabi and the snacks of cuttlefish jerky and vacuum packed roasted chestnuts the same.

I finished the uncomplicated paperwork and left a deposit of my ID with the woman. The scooter was mine. For the day, at least. A wiry young man drove it out of the shopfront, which doubled as the living room of his house, a small girl sitting enraptured in front of the television just below road level. He handed me the keys and made a noise that said, “You’re ready. What are you waiting for?”

Tomb Raider Temple

You can tell someone who is new to riding a scooter by whether their indicator is on when they are motoring along with no intent to turn. Unlike in a car, the turn signal doesn’t automatically pop off after a corner has been successfully navigated. You have to do it manually. I was even more a neophyte. Recognising my look of confusion, he gave me a brief tour of the controls. Indicator, horn, ignition, seat opening. My indicator was constantly on.

The common thought of scooter design seems to support the placement of the horn below the indicator. Driving along the highway to the Tiger Temple, the lack of turns saw the trouble of this proximity emerge little. In sleepy, corner-filled city life the loud honking as the wobbly-looking white guy approached every corner was yet another ready identifier of the new and inept.

In the midday heat I was melting. Small blue lettering marked progress up the 1237 steps to the golden Buddha and I was gazing through sweat-stung eyes at 621. Half way. I had passed a number of people, some carrying huge tripods, others a few too many years, as I ascended the steep stairs that at the start are littered with monkeys, and towards the second third, the weary looks of those contemplating if they can make it to the top. Baleful stares as I passed by. A sweaty, panting mess at the top, it was a haven.

The supreme quiet of such a place compels you to contemplative dignity. There is a respect for being here, and awe at how it came to be. I remember riding towards the Temple and seeing this small speck high above—I wanted to go there. Then a chuckle. It looked stupidly high. I stayed at the top savouring the atmosphere for close to an hour and saw none of those I’d overtaken reach the top. Nor did I see them on the way down. The Temple takes its toll.

Tiger Temple

 It seems rather crude that the higher you get the closer you are to god. At eleven a.m. in Cambodia there is a twenty minute queue to go up the stairway to heaven. In Siem Reap it is alleged that you are in heaven on earth when you ascend the central tower of Angkor Wat, this the physical form of Mt. Meau, the Mt Olympus of the Hindu faith. The stairs are steep as the ascent to heaven should not be easy. Yet now there are rails worn smooth by the hands of penitents and tourists alike and steps at too easy of an incline.

The continents and ocean radiate around in the form of outer temple and moat. On the walls are endless bas-reliefs that appear to the lazy glance as repetitions, but which enjoy fractional change as they depict, like a flick-book animation hewn laterally in stone, the battles and triumphs of the God-kings in the honour of whose egos’ these places stand and crumble.

Apsaras, too, dance in incremental variations and everywhere heave tourists. In so many places paradise has elements of hell. Tourists are an inevitability of wondrous sights. Indeed, I am a tourist. But I like to think there is a difference between tourists. Those who follow someone with a flag. Who dawdle inconsiderately. Who stop for five minutes to take endless photos. Who make absurd poses for said endless photos. Who squawk and chatter with no appropriate sense of place. Who exist through a camera lens or iPad held to their head, never actually seeing what is in front of them. Never getting a sense of the human touch in search of the divine. Only filming, recording, happy-snapping.

And those who try to get a proper sense of a place and do so with due consideration.

Krabi

Angkor Wat, Heaven on Earth, does not feel that way over the loud voices and slow moving crowds. Tour groups ruin everything. Returning the next day Jess and I savoured the difference a couple of hours make. In the heat of midday as the buses reingest and disgorge the masses for mass lunch somewhere else, heaven is blessedly quiet. Sparrows dart and the breeze is gentle and cool. There are moments of silence, and those usually loud are now reserved. One tour guide walks past a Buddha, his jaded countenance of too many tours dropping as his eyes glisten. He pauses to return and offer a quick prayer, palms together and with a succinct bow.

Moments close to the divine quickly crumble down as you exit. “Mister, mister—cold water? Guide book? Coconut?” The sad façade faces of the small children who hound you mercilessly, “Three postcard, one dollar, one dollar, one dollar.” He looks almost in tears as we refuse. Suddenly he is deadpan and scanning the crowd.

Each temple has its own defining element touted for close examination. But the real trick to appreciation involves avoiding the crowds. Having been guided the first time to Phnom Bakheng, a hill on which all tourists gather to watch the sun descend into redness, we used the two or so hours of time this offered us free of much of the tourist traffic to explore the other temples in the peace and quiet. Bayon with its 54 towers and 216 faces of Avalokiteshvara—what ego. Neak Poan, at the end of a long path through the mangroves. Preah Khan with its corridors and tumbled towers. Baphuon Temple and its stunning afternoon view over sacred pools. We barely scratched the surface. 

My steed

 With tree roots intertwining and piercing temple walls and moss clung relics, Ta Prohm, the ‘Tomb Raider’ temple, is enchanting. Holding the illusion of being taken back by nature, the trees allowed to impose are carefully selected and the great wild otherwise pared back. Nonetheless it stands dignified and haunting, filled with the intricate detail of those bas-reliefs preserved across time and those being carved by workers doing restorative work under Indian sponsorship. At some temples they show before and after pictures of the restoration, wondrous halls and alcoves sprung anew like sacred phoenixes from piles of detritus. I cannot help but wonder whether this grand scale restoration is in the spirit of things. Restored ruins are not ruins anymore, and they do not clearly distinguish the ancient hand from the new. Does this take away from the spirit of the place, or is it a necessary evil?

In the heat such questions are beyond me. The tension between the authentic or the beautiful and tourist infrastructure has weighed heavy on my soul. In Koh Samui I caught a bus from the pier to Chaweng Beach, as that was where all the buses seemed to be going. This should have been indication enough. Arriving there I was immediately put in mind of other stretches of similar Thailand I had not been impressed with. Asking politely for wifi at a tourist office does wonderful things, and so I set off back in the direction I’d come in search of a hostel on Buphot beach. The local buses wouldn’t take me to where I wanted, only close, and all the taxis kept trying to rip me off. So once again in the midday heat I found myself undertaking a sweaty hike, this time in search not of God, but of accommodation.

For Thailand, this place was quiet. Only one real road on which there were a few bars and resorts, but minimal compared to other parts of gorgeously beached coastline. Also home to another giant Buddha, this one overlooking the bay and surrounded by bells around which one walks, banging them in turn with a bamboo cane worn smooth by many hands and many bells in an attempt to pray and absolve.

The heat

In the markets not far from here the meat sat warm in the late afternoon and the fish still periodically wriggled, crammed into a tank with just enough water to cover them, like vegetables in a pickling jar. Pre-cooked fish in a bag. Two westerners getting a carefully filleted eye of beef. More meat than a local would consume in months. I found some apples—an expensive taste of home.

There were six of us in the back tray of a ute heading to the night markets in Koh Samui. It was a surreal experience sitting laterally and focussing on someone to talk to them, the clear focus marred by the swirling colours of the passing world like a photograph or a music video. One Scottish girl insisted on standing up the entire way, her back to the driver’s cabin. One guy, thinking we’d stopped, stood up, only to almost fall out when the driver lurched into gear again.

We strolled around drinking 50 baht cocktails and eating miscellaneous street food. There was nothing too exciting going on, and the group had been split up. I was with Ben, who works on oil rigs in the ocean and had plenty of ink. We had come across Lorence and the owner of the hostel, Adam. Lorence, having befriended Adam, was staying for free and had been for a month now. They had come on a moped, and the four of us, now bored, wanted to go back to the hostel. Loathe to leave the moto behind, it took two trips, under the effects of mild inebriation, to ferry back and forth all to the hostel and the top floor penthouse for a balcony session. Also present was nong Joe, the tiny adopted puppy from the stray dogs that lived nearby who had just developed a delight in chewing people’s fingers and had yet to develop complete bladder control.

Once again I was on the beach and music was blaring. This seemed to be the inevitable end point of any night in Thailand. After questioning Lorence for turning away the advances of two girls he told me he was gay. How I didn’t see it when he started dancing is beyond me. He has moves. And eye lashes to die for.

After the beach I was sitting on the curb eating someone else’s 7-11 toastie. They sell laughing gas here on the streets and on the beach. With a wet slap Ben’s head hit the pavement. It didn’t seem very funny. He was struggling and the laughing gas proprietor would not return his glasses—lost during the fall—until the semi-concussed man had paid for his balloon. Cue a 3am visit to the hospital where no one had enough money to pay for the stitches required for his chin. He’ll be alright. Just another of the walking wounded strolling the coast of southern Thailand, feet, hands, heads wrapped in fresh white bandages.

Bangkok, 5am. I was sitting at the Rachathewi BTS line stop with my bags. The BTS starts at 6am. In the pre-dawn darkness the mosquitos are fierce. I had been in transit since 12.30pm the day before from Koh Samui on some very inconveniently connected buses and ferries. A two-hour layover in the middle of nowhere some eleven hours ago had seen me stretched out on a bench reading The Quiet American and thanking modern pharmacy for gastro-stop pills. At 5.30am as I gazed down filthy alleys in search of somewhere discreet to expel the torment of my intestinal tract, I shook my fist at the indignity of the human bowel.

Touching the divine

Since Krabi I had been dealing with some intestinal distress. It had come to a head in Koh Samui and it was dire. As I watched the policeman doing push ups on the handrails of the station I contemplated the Thai fitness focus as a means of distraction. In Krabi James and I had gone wandering and accidentally stumbled upon a local sports area which at dusk was full of people running, playing soccer, basketball, and on some miniaturised volleyball courts, a version of said game but played with the feet. One competitor risked some nasty grazes as he did a bicycle kick to spike the ball and I assume, win the point, landing on the asphalt with his hands before bouncing back up for the next. My final morning in Krabi it was just after 6am and I could hear the blaring beat of Gangam Style. Given that Krabi has a few bars but nothing resembling a club, I was intrigued to find the source. It turned out to be middle aged women doing morning calisthenics.

I was one of five people on the first BTS service to Chong Nonsi. I hurried to my hostel and blessed relief before passing out on a futon until a reasonable hour. The benefit of returning to the hostel at which you’ve stored your bag for two months is a sense of entitlement to their facilities, pro bono, when dealing with extended transit.

The purpose of this particular ordeal was to get to Ho Chi Minh City and meet Jess. First I had to get to Bangkok’s old airport, Don Mueng. One can do this two ways, one: a 300 baht, one hour taxi ride, or two: a 45 baht three-modes-of-transport-adventure. 15 baht worth of BTS, 25 baht worth of metro, and 5 baht worth of overground train. My ticket said depart, 3.20pm, arrive 4.08pm. At 4.10pm we hadn’t left the station. I gazed at other people’s tickets. They seemed to have paid 0 baht. It explained the service. The train was sweaty and people were crammed onto every seat and arm rest. Vendors traipsed up and down selling cold drinks, warm meat and comic books. A bit after 5pm I was at the airport. Duty free KitKats and some bland western sandwiches for my troubled bowel.

Our tuk-tuk driver around the temples, Mr Yen, for some reason vertically placed

I was determined to endure. I refused to be in thrall to uncooked vegetables, ice, vendor water, and rinsing my mouth with local H20. It took until Cambodia, but the bowel was triumphed by the will. And gastro-stop. The bowel might have had the most recent laugh, however, as latent chemical constipation saw me in the Asian squat in the middle of the forest just off Preah Khan temple, using sheets from my notebook indecently.

Ho Chi Minh is a city that moves more slowly than any I’ve been to before. The chaos of motorcycles gives the illusion of movement and energy, but they dawdle. Everyone honks constantly and for no discernible reason. Maybe to keep awake. Men lounge on their motorcycles by the side of the road in recumbent positions of repose. In the shade of trees, walls, or shop fronts, groups of locals sit, pick at food, and play cards. Houses open to the road have families sitting outside eating, drinking, laughing. Playing cards.

The Royal Palace and War Museum even close over midday so everyone can eat, have a siesta, play cards, or hang out on their motorcycles. It is wrong to hurry in this city. In the late afternoon Jess and I sit on a step and watch the crowds filter by, most in search of the street parade. Vendors slowly set up along the foot path. Candy floss, sweet coconut, dried sweetened-condensed milk sheet and black sesame spring rolls. A little girl from a nearby store comes and sits next to use, elbows back on the stair behind her in a pose of unguarded relaxation.

The stairway to heaven

A man selling coconuts gets me to lift his old-timey balance-style means of conveyance across my shoulder. Jess takes a photo and he sells me an overpriced coconut. Swindled by a street vendor for the second time in four and a half months. The coconut is refreshing. I would have a photo too, if I didn’t lose my camera after the first day in Siem Reap. Total frustration. I rationalise, but hate myself.

Cancelled bookings for Cambodia. Jess and I decide that given her short period in SE Asia we should just see as much of Vietnam as we can. But it is Chinese New Year. We wandered through celebrations in the park, bonsai displays and wood carvings part driftwood-natural and part serpentine-sculptured. The year of the Snake. A little kid with a plastic AK-47 poses in front of each one as his dad takes a photo. The dad takes the photo well over his head. Everyone is happy.

There is a street parade in the city centre. A street full of Asian tourists. Ten photos a minute, each. Cute hand gestures and posing everywhere.  Yellow flowered plants and sponsorship from a company that seems to be SE Asian Nestle, as I buy a cornetto-imposter from one of the many stalls. A foot taller than everyone, even used to it as I am I notice the gawping.

Taking it easy

In a one-day radius out of Ho Chi Minh everything is booked. We re-book and go to Cambodia on a sleeper bus that has sort of inclined futons large enough for a wiry Asian. Not for me. Barely for Jess. The foetal position and a 3-hour stop as the Vietnam border closes overnight. From Phnom Penh straight to Siem Reap. And the tourists. 

An ode to the plastic chair

I was laughing deliriously. We had just crested a wave and fallen into the trough with an ominous cracking sound. Sheet lightning flashed distantly above the lights of the squid boats on the horizon drifting in and out of view over the waves. Tacking back and forth, the more than slightly drunk man operating the unseasoned wood boat did his best to try to navigate the waves. The stars were very bright. Now I was just scared. Staring out at the waves as if my undivided attention would give me more control.

  

Boat trippin', Phi Phi

Drenched with spray, this was the return voyage to Phi Phi from a post-tour beach party replete with fire dancing, glow in the dark paint, and a sound system. In retrospect, I have become aware that my priorities are strange when I think I am about to be shipwrecked in the ocean. I wasn’t concerned about swimming the remaining distance in the dark waters. I was thinking about whether it would be possible to preserve my backpack with my phone, iPod and wallet in it. I ran through all the scenarios. A Bear Grylls inventory of items at hand. It wouldn’t be.

I could count four life jackets scattered at the front of the boat. There were at least thirty people packed in and it was crowded.

The beach

Eventually we made it out of the waves. We were close to the beach now and people were muttering at various volumes of their desire to be on dry land. Powering within ten metres of three moored speed boats, each about twice the size of our sloop, those of us with an unimpeded view from the front started shouting. With a crest at the bow of the boat that reaches maybe two feet into the air vertically we hit the mooring lines stretched from the front of the speed boats. The collision was lumbering, the prow of one boat taking a chunk out of the crest and narrowly missing the head of one passenger. Sleeping Thai locals rudely awoken rushed on deck.

With no obvious damage to the speed boats there was curiously little exchange. We motored on to the shore. The boat emptied quickly.

Not half an hour ago in we had been swimming on a tiny beach with plankton that flicker with light when you move in the water near them like glitter in a snow globe. Earlier still we had snorkelled and lounged around Maya Bay—the famous beach from The Beach—comically beautiful but seething with tourists. We had swum with a sea turtle in 20 metres of dark blue ocean. In the shadow of island cliffs we tracked its ascension from the bottom and the rock on which it had been eating seaweed to come up for air.

Muay Thai bar

Apparently a five per cent chance sighting, the tiny Thai guide, torso scarred and burned from fire dancing, shouted to all the nearby scuba diving boats, “Turtle, turtle, turtle,” in frantic excitement. I do feel for the scuba  divers taking photos from below, however, as my pasty torso will ruin their snaps of the turtle effortlessly slipping through the water.

Shops open-plan in the heat, the narrow paths of roadless Phi Phi were crowded. When the door at the front slid open it revealed a dorm that was two levels, two rooms, and four rows of bunks, the first of which started inches from the door. The dorms are linked by a very steep and shallow set of steps. The first time I attempted to descend them I slipped, bruising my left buttock and rendering sitting painful. The shower was a trickle and in all the space was either a bag or a human. Everyone knew everyone. Everyone woke at the same time. At midday when the air conditioner turned off it was intolerably hot inside.

Mall cops

With the music blasting the beach front is frenetic. Scattered thongs and thronging people. On a pole in the middle of one of the dance floors a man in only shorts is dancing. Health and safety be damned. In the hands of people hang buckets in each of which there is one bottle of spirit, one can of soft drink, and one bottle of Red Bull or the local version, M-150. Rocket fuel. There is an urban myth that some batches are laced with speed. One guy has a jar of body paint he is offering to everyone. People are smeared. I paint a moustache on someone. I wake with it all over my neck and shoulders. Every day I find new cuts and bruises.

Pole dancing

Ellis, Becca and I are in an infinity pool at a resort. It is past 2.30am as the beach clubs are closed and my watch when I check it at the hostel says 5.12. I make a mental note. The only thing on my body is paint and I am full of buckets. We were invited here by a girl we met on the beach after swimming in the ocean became unpleasant due to the smell. Waste. She said to watch out for security. When we are told to get out because of the chemicals he seems surprised when I emerge. The street vendors run all night and I get a stick of deep fried prawns and they get pizza.

“Sydney boy!” A girl I don’t recognise. We chat. I don’t want to ask her where we met or who she is. I’m embarrassed. I still don’t know who she is. The Superbowl is in two hours and I am lost in the streets. I struggle out of bed at seven to find I have missed the first quarter. There is a vendor up the street selling congee. By the end of halftime I have eaten two bowls and drunk two litres of water and an ice coffee. I almost feel human. Four annoying and loud Canadians who sound more like Americans are supporting the 49ers. I get increasingly supportive of the Ravens and leave quickly after they win.

Alley soccer, Phuket

The street food in Thailand is amazing. In Bangkok I meet Max, a street-food enthusiast. We fast become friends. On plastic chairs and tables, vendors range from selling one dish to having a menu, and with chilli, fish sauce, vinegar and sugar on most tables you can season to taste. Iced water in huge plastic tubs is served in glasses cleaned by being dumped in a small plastic tub of water and with a straw. Take away noodle soup in a plastic bag like a goldfish.

I’ve yet to find a toilet with soap. You spray yourself with a hose to clean up. People keep complaining about the lack of toilet paper, but I quite like it. These same people wrinkle their nose at me when I ask if they have been eating street food.

The locals start fires at dusk to ward off mosquitoes in rural areas

Khao San road in Bangkok is hell. But it is eclipsed by Bangla Road in Phuket. Bangla Road is longer and more like Vegas. Riddled with stumbling sun burnt tourists and extortionate prices. Tom—a new journalism aficionado—and I go to a ping-pong show. The previous night we left a taxi without paying as it became apparent he was doing a u-turn loop down the motorway to beef up the meter and we had driven past somewhere I recognised as minutes from the hostel some time ago. He followed us and threatened to call the police. We ran and found a tuk tuk. The driver honked before running red lights.

The stripper looks bored. Clearly it takes time to become a ping-pong master because she has seen better days. She just shot darts—one after the other—out of her vagina to pop several hanging balloons. She earlier smoked a cigarette and pulled a significant length of ribbon out before blowing out candles on a cake. To think we bought the guy who brought us here a beer in thanks.  

Sunset, Phi Phi

Tom sits in a chair with a ping-pong paddle in one hand. I have moved out of his proximity to avoid being hit by an errant ball. He connects with three out of four balls that fly towards him, his swipes crazed and protective. Under the UV light his shirt now shows a stain. Outside we can’t see anything. He asks if I want it as he is never wearing it again. I don’t regret my decision to tip 100 baht after she decanted then re-canted a bottle of coke. We drink to forget.

On the BTS line they have TVs at the stations blaring. My attention gets attracted by fat people jiving. The program advertised is called ‘Dance Yourself Thin’. “Be trendy, be Canon”. The noise here is constant and the throngs of people endless. And the heat. I can’t seem to stop sweating. People move slowly here. They even chew slowly. Cats and dogs sprawl. On the floor of the platforms they have arrows for where you queue to get on and where the doors will open and people will get off. Everyone queues.

Arun Temple

I caught the BTS to see the ‘world class malls’ at Siam. Enormous and expensive. There is an aquarium at the bottom of one and outside there is a dance number being enacted by six fish suited performers.

On Bangla Road I actually had a prostitute shout at me from across the street, “Me love you long time.” I had been drinking at the hostel with some Swedish guys, Olof and Dennis, along with a scattering of other characters. Called upon to finish his beer, Olof exploded upright, “I have the blood of the Vikings!”

Temple goodness

Patong Beach, Phuket. Hell. You cannot walk down the streets without being offered something or someone trying to corral you into their bar or restaurant. One suit maker takes me into his store. It is air conditioned and he wanted to show me the picture of Paul Gallan and the Wolfman wearing his suits. The beautiful beach is row upon row of deck chairs and umbrellas that barely end before the water. 100 baht to rent. Fat Russians loll and everywhere is a sea of red flesh. A lot of it old. I can’t look away.

They remind me of the carcasses of beached whales, except there is a different tragedy to the beached whale. Seeing something so graceful and physically imposing rendered powerless and at the mercy of an indifferent world is an emotive reminder of our own mortality. The tragedy here, of being beached on this theme park come zoo of a place, is the complicity to sustaining and enjoying it while time slips away.

The heat

Trying to find street food, I ask for help from a man hawking a tailored suit. It’s a good tip. We become friends. The next day he recommends other street food vendors. Then tries to sell me a suit.

I had to escape the crush so I headed to Phuket Town. Walking towards the port I finally saw some of the Thailand I was after. A man dozed next to a pool table in a sort of tiny al fresco bar. Another paused his welding to light the cigarette drooping from his lip with the torch. The vendor from whom I bought a coffee was sitting in the shade of a tree peeling an enormous bag of garlic with seasoned dexterity.

Street food with Max

Walking past a group of kids one turned and gawped at me such that the soccer ball kicked at him rolled past and to me. They came over and the biggest offered his hand to shake. The others copied, the smallest girl trying to shake my right hand with her left. Then she tried to sip my coffee, now just ice. I tried to show them it was empty and five tiny hands were alternately shoved into the cup to get the cubes rattling around the bottom. Their cheeks bulged.

Wandering down a stray alley that turned out to be a dead end I played soccer with a small boy and a flat ball while his sister peered around the corner to watch.

Fire dancing

I saw some Durian for sale and had to try. I now have a food I do not like. The texture alone is almost enough. Slimey and gooey. The flavour is quite pleasant and tropical initially before it gives way to a rancid, turned after-taste. I had a second bite and I couldn’t see myself getting used to it.

The thick white wall muted the road noise. It felt like a sanctuary and had a rabbit warren of houses. Outside one a woman was cooking something tasty looking in a wok. When I stopped to watch she asked if I wanted to eat. In the shallow terracotta pot by the table there were fish. This is what I wanted from Thailand. Peace and food.

I met James in Phuket and we went to Phi Phi together. We made it to Krabi on the 5^th. It was a quiet, pleasantly warm evening and the main street had barely a car going down it.

We grokked it.