I'm Taking Teabags

Kiwi land and beyond - unofficial musings of an inexperienced traveller.

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Trouble ahead

We’re barely 20km from our starting point, it’s pissing with rain, our gloves and feet are soaked through and we have run into trouble already: Rob’s bike keeps cutting out. 

We diagnose an electrical problem and sure enough the fuse is blown. Off we go again, new fuse instated, congratulating ourselves on our mechanical prowess but smugness is short lived. Three replaced fuses later and we limp to a hotel. 

One heater on full blast, one grumpy mechanic woken up, a big ol’ plate of dal and we’re dry and the bike is fixed (and by fixed, I mean our somnolent repair man disconnected the rear lights and said it would be fine without them). Tomorrow we can crack on towards Mandi, our next destination. 

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Highway to the danger zone - setting off from Vashist 

Two beasty Royal Enfield 500s are being given the final check and shine in Anu’s garage and for two weeks we are the lucky riders. We test rode the machines yesterday and now luggage racks have been fitted and all the vital parts have had a service (we hope). 

The fact that I can barely lift it off the side stand is a moot point...

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Ski ski

For gnarly boarders the idea of hitting 3ft of untracked powder in the Himalayas is probably enough incentive to extract some serious dollar. Sounded pretty good to me but after the first hour of trekking up the hill in heavy snow it’s hard, ridiculously hard. By the time we reach a small powder field two hours later, I’m not even sure I can muster the energy to strap my board on, let alone spend the rest of the afternoon falling down the hill and trudging back up again. 

But fall and trudge we do (all painful beginners with Rob the exception), until it’s time for bhaji sandwiches and guava juice to re-fuel us - yuuuum… The effort of getting up the mountain is rewarded by some seriously amazing views and despite the frustration of spending the day on my arse/knees the mountain is ours.

The journey back down is achieved via a combination of graceless bum boarding, rolling, tripping and the odd few metres of jubilant side slipping, but at last we reach the bottom and it’s dry clothes, back into the jeeps and time for a whole vat of hot tea.

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To the mountains we go

Nowhere says hippie backpacker quite like the foothills of the Himalayas, and in particular Manali. 

I mean yes, Thailand is full of backpacker joints but here it just feels like the peace and love brigade rocked up 30 years ago, made their mark and it’s stayed that way. 

In the Drifters’ Inn where we’re sitting, huddled around the wood burner clutching cups of tea (actual tea - thank you India), there’s shishas to the left and ganja to the right. Low padded benches are placed around the room begging for some stoners to recline and talk shit about authenticity. 

Compared to the carefully cultivated tourists joints of Thailand however, here there’s no over promising or ‘gap yah’ wannabes; just an eclectic selection of wanderers and locals.

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Into Delhi

Walking through Karol Bagh (or any market street in India for that matter) reminds me why I’ve never been particularly good at video games. You have to navigate your way from A to B and on the way you need to avoid getting wiped out by an assortment of obstacles - in this instance, tuk-tuks, rickshaws, taxis, motorbikes and even wandering cows. 

If that isn’t enough you’ve been given the added handicap of white skin meaning every man, woman or child is going to try and sell you something. If you’re wearing shoes on your feet they’ll need a polish (even flip flops qualify apparently), if you’re walking then you need a ride, if you’re outside then you’ll probably be wanting a full thali lunch and if you have a pulse then you’re 100% in the market for a new mattress. Oh and in true Sonic style, you’re going to need to jump over a lot of sleeping dogs, doggie doo doos and the occasional Singer sewing machine to reach the next level. 

The tourist epicentre of Connaught Place on the other hand is a world away from the market craziness. You can stroll into Costa for your skinny latte and pop over to Puma while you’re at it. You fancy picking up a Lee Child or Jodi Picoult? Yup they got them all - at the right price of course.

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Phuket, Patong and ping pong

Nai Yang to the north west of Phuket is a bit of a gem. At only one kilometre from the airport I’m envisioning sleepless nights filled with the roar of jets but it’s beautifully calm and the beach is practically ours. 

Phuket, whilst being generally one of the best bits of Thailand I’ve seen in terms of beach and accommodation, is a contradiction of a place - like an uber trendy friend who only hangs out at swanky places who, in reality, prefers a Burger King and hiding behind those hip outfits in the wardrobe is a shit load of Primarnie with the odd nasty pvc ensemble that seemed ‘jokes’ at the time. 

If that extended metaphor has left your rice a little less than fried then let me explain. The popular beaches are brimming with Stepford-esque identi-kit villas yet a short drive to Patong and you’re immersed in something that looks a bit like Oxford street in the January sales cum Amsterdam red light district, (you can’t look anywhere without seeing bored Thai girls gyrating listlessly on a pole or having a ping pong show flyer shoved in your face). 

Even outside the debauched Patong, the disparity is stark. A shiny new car dealership nestles alongside a beat-up chop shop, gilded gates harbouring an incredible temple jostles for space with a life-size Spiderman figure poised on a wall (well that’s just random Indian for you). Air conditioned, flashy 4x4s with tinted windows draw up alongside tuk tuks adorned with the customary floral garnishes. Everything appears newer, more expensive, western yet there are the same Thai ladies scarved and patient, selling fruit by the side of the busy roads and scooters roar past laden with three teenagers at a time. The radio dj is English but the Taxi driver tuned in can’t follow his jokes.

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Koh Phi Phi

What do you get if you mix Magaluf with cheap beer, fried food and a constant influx of 18-25 year olds? Well actually just Magaluf… but anyway the point is that as many a guidebook will gently tell you, Phi Phi has had a rebirth and has emerged, newly baptised from its Sang Som font as a 24hr party central.

Ok I’m being a little melodramatic because if you can drag your Thai whisky-addled body to the far side of the nicest beach then it’s still picture postcard pretty. But after looking around three dark and booze-tinged rooms in the centre it’s clear that we’ll need to walk a little further to find somewhere calm to lay our heads.

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The fish offence...

As nice as it is, Railay will be forever tainted with the after effects of a fish barbecue. 

There’s nothing like a 4am chunder run to banish those lovely memories of golden sands and ice-cold Changs. In fact it may have been the one too many Changs that didn’t help with the 4am situation. In between bouts of vom we contemplate ways of reaping revenge on the venue of our demise but arson seems a tad harsh and I’ve not boned up on enough gangster films for extortion. The only solution is to stick to pizza for now and swear never to touch a tuna steak again.

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If Carlsberg made coal miners... 

Jungle trekking in Koh Sok and a view of our lakeside floating huts. 

*Featured air/oar guitarist is our guide ‘Rookie’ 

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Sok it to ‘em

Our Thai guide, “my name Rookie” (definitely not his name) is sat on a vine mid-trek singing The Lion Sleeps Tonight. He’s just massacred a Celine Dion number and that was between making monkey nosies (I’m not being racist here) and gyrating around a tree whilst explaining the mating rituals of cicadas. We’re only half way through day one of our two-day tour of Koh Sok National Park and I’m wondering how we’re going to get through the rest.

Fearing possible limb atrophy following our four-day druggie beach stay, we’ve opted (I say we, there’s nothing about jungles and spiders that made this my decision) to head to the jungle,

It’s all pretty set up for tourists and the promise of sleeping of a floating raft and exploring a cave by torch light is enough to bring in the hoards. I have to admit, setting off on the longtail into the unknown was a buzz and the lake side accommodation ain’t bad. However we’re not convinced that Rookie isn’t off his rocker and we might have been better off in the boat with his colleague Pad Thai, or Pat Thai, (it sounds like the dish what ever way you say it).

In the tour brochure they neglect to mention how wet you will get caving - I’m thinking a few puddles here and there and some bat droppings. But at points you are genuinely up to your armpits and have to scramble through narrow crevices and up mini waterfalls. 

The only real dampener on the day, (pun intended - read on) is the group of Frenchies who insist on stopping to take off/put on their shoes at every river crossing while the rest of us doggedly squelch through in our hikers, pretending it’s something we do every weekend after watching Homes Under The Hamer. In fact, if it’s not the shoes they are removing it’s exchanging their teeny tiny slip de bain for walking shorts too. Ouf!

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Haad Yuan/Thian - hippie/stoner beaches. 

Stuck here for four days due to bad weather as it is only accessible by boat, two hour jungle trek (never again) or an expensive bumpy jeep ride.

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Hippie Haad

“It’s pronounced keen-wah” I assure Rob, nervously glancing around to see if any goji berry-muching hippies have heard his faux pas. We arrive in Haad Thian keen to escape the bucket-fuelled mayhem of Full Moon Party central and discover our inner zen, or chi, or something…

However Budda was not smiling on us five hours previous, as we stood on the shore of Haad Rin, hoping to bag a long tail to take us to the remote beach promising yoga and cocktails (in that order). To our dismay, we were told with many a hand gesture (not rude ones mind), that it was too stormy to make the crossing. So like many a flummoxed traveller, we walk aimlessly,  traipsing up one road, getting re-directed by a tiny Thai woman down another road. Finally we head towards a 4x4 which would take us for “good price, cheap cheap” only to discover that wasn’t the case and ended up lingering roadside hoping for some divine intervention. The answer came in the form of a Thai speaking, furious pot smoking, fellow Londoner who kept yelling ‘babe’ at me and knew the way to the beach via a two-hour jungle crossing in what is perhaps should be known as the ‘pauper trek’ considering most make the hike back when they run out of cash on the ATM-less hide-away.

Anyway back to the present. We finally arrive, ravaged by mosquitos (“What else?” As George Clooney would say) and as a reward I’ve ordered chips. Though I have admitted main course defeat with a bean burger encased in a bun that’s dryer than Ghandi’s flip flop, I’m not feeling guilty about the side order of fatty, deliciously cripsy oh-so Western and wrong chippy chips. The menu at the Sanctuary Restuarant, which unsurprisingly abutts The Sanctuary where you can get all your yoga in, has an extensive list of very healthy shakes. This, we discover, is because many of the guests are not only spending their days repeating postive affirmations and ‘ohmming’ but they are also fasting. This is probably the reason that the big fat chip en route to my mouth has suddenly become a flaming beacon and all hungry, envious eyes are directed at my indulgence.

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Full moon frolics in Koh Pangan

As I cautiously sniff my mushroom shake I’m thinking of Bridget Jones flobbing in the sea like a looney tune and seeing sparkly stars, how bad can it be? 

Well basically like someone has started making a nice milkshake then chucked lots of minced up mushrooms and sugar in and thought well that will have to do. “I’m not even feeling it” I say smugly to Rob as we sit up on Mushroom Mountain. In fact the Sangsom/Redbull bucket doesn’t seem to have had an effect either and I’m slightly beginning to wonder if we’ve been duped. An hour later and we’re dancing around like the sand is on fire and I’m smiling manically and then suddenly the crowd, which seemed tame before, is swelling and pushing and I have to get out or I’m going to suffocate. 

I grapple my way out of one throng of revellers only to hit another writhing wall of bodies. The key is not to panic. Rob is holding onto me like at any point I’m going to vanish into a puff of dope scented air but I’m determined to get out of the mayhem. Finally we get free and spend the next hour waiting for the effects to wear off...

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Cuppa?

I can’t believe I’ve come this far without talking about tea. I made my peace with dried milk in New Zealand. It’s actually not too shabby. But tea in Thailand is going to be a different ball game. 

After my first tentative order I wait with baited breath, praying to the God of Leafy Goodness that my morning will not be ruined. And ta-dah! The teabag is in the mug, not on the side, there’s boiling hot water in the mug. (Did I mention it’s an actual mug, not some pissy little tea cup?) I’m halfway through my mini chair celebration dance and then arrives the jug of steaming milk. So near yet so not PG Tips.

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You want massage?

I’m contemplating the ever-present Thai massages on offer but having just reapplied my factor 30 with a thin layer of sand underneath I’m thinking there’s no way I can deal with that kind of sandpaper action for half a bloody hour. 

I’m genuinely at a loss, do you shower first before they start pummelling your back or do you just roll with it like it’s a bit of exfoliation thrown in? I think I’ll have another Chang instead.

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Getting a bit of that sunshine and sandy feeling. Selfie sticks at the ready...

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The Easy Life

Here we are, Thailand. Home to golden beaches, offerings of pad Thai and fried rice whipped up in a trice on the side of the road, and weirdly lots of tailors. Didn’t see that one coming. There’s me relaxing with my first coconut cocktail and funnily enough getting a formal suit measured up just doesn’t naturally follow. 

As the title of this musing implies, Thailand does seem to have everything and our basic but cute accomodation ‘Easy Life Bungalows’ is no exception. They’ll make you anything you want to eat, even if they don’t know how. You want to flush the toilet? Well, here’s a handy bucket - voila! Washing clothes? Taxi? Internet? Everything is there, it’s just a lottery if it actually works.