Flying out of the chilled, beautiful and really rather moreish Darwin and into Sanur in Bali was a little like swapping a tub of Ben and Jerries for a Cornetto. Or to borrow a phrase popular across South East Asia - same, same, but different. While the climate might be similar and there were beaches, that's where any similarity ended. In a nutshell, Sanur was shite. In fact, it was grimy, full of rats, devoid of character and shite. And as such, I'll not waste too long writing about it, save to say that highlights were pancakes and fish - separately, not together - at Titi's fabulous beach cafe, and sneaking into Five Star resorts to use their pools. Oh, and the crazy bus to Ubud, where we washed up next.
Though undoubtedly geared slap-bang at the tourists who flock here by the bus load and sadly lacking any sort of beach, Ubud was not only a vast improvement on Sanur, but something of a little charmer in its own way. If you manage to turn a blind eye to the confused families on package tours and the hoards of modern day Shirley Valentines all trying to 'find themselves' thanks to the hideous
"Eat, Pray, Love", Ubud is a really rewarding stop on any tour of the area. Our traditional bungalow was basic but beautifuly set, with shrines, sun and birdsong waking us each morning. Strolling through the town is pleasant enough, while a short hop out one end and into the rice fields that run alongside is quite magical - almost deserted, you could be in another world. Of the many places vying for your foodie dollar, newcomer
Mingles deserves a special pat on the back for great cocktails, genuinely inventive fusion menu and great staff. Not quite as tasty but infinitely more worthy, though, is
Sjaki-Tari-Us, staffed by and local young people with varying disabillities, and funding a wonderful Dutch-backed project that provides the only schooling and outreach work for similar young people in the reguion.
Another cheap flight with Air Asia took us to Phuket Town, perhaps best known as the location for the pretty dire film adaptation of The Beach, way back when it wasn't quite so spooky that Leonardo DiCaprio looked about twelve. Grungy but unremarkable, if I'd have known how terrible Kho Samui was going to be, I'd have pushed Louise to stay a day or two longer. Sadly I didn't, and so took a ferry to the island, arriving into a beachside bungalow in the supposedly more relaxed, less wanker-filled Bo Phut town late that night. Next morning, and things looked pretty good, our little complex having a few sun loungers, bar and its own private beach cove. And the half day we spent relaxing there, and in the sea, was really rather lovely, until we spolied it all by walking further along the beach, and into the broken glass, floating medical supply bottles, animal excrement and stray dogs that were the hallmark of the this stretch of supposedly beautiful coastline. The town was pretty dire to boot, saved only by a certain dusty charm and a handful of decent restaurants. Still, at least it wasn't Sanur.
Our plan had been to spend the next few days island hopping, but torrential rain and the promise of much more changed our plans for us. So instead, it was back aboard the trusty overnight bus, the trains being full, and onto Bangkok.
As the hub from which almsot every transport spoke runs, we would visit Bangkok a total of three times during our time in the region, spending a cumulative week there. Thailand's capital is feted by many (namely 18 year olds from Croydon and Lonely Planet writers) as a huge, overpowering mecca of neon and general madness, from which you may or may not escape with your life and sanity intact. We found it a little bit like a budget-Hong Kong, pleasant enough in its own way but nothing like the full-on sensory assault we'd been expecting. In fact, if anything, it was a little tame. That said, our digs near the infamous Khao San Road at the Rambuttri Village Inn were amusingly cheap if brutally spartan, while the sight of the Thai tourist industry making a killing while playing dumb to packs of spotty Brits and
French blokes in Aladdin Pants was pretty amusing. It goes without saying that the richest rewards lie away from this ghetto, and there are certainly plenty of rich pickings to be had. A walk through Chinatown gives any visitor a fantastic glimpse into the manic world of commerce at every level and trade imaginable, and is suitably grubby and dank to boot.
A great day out in its own right and a top way to avoid overpriced tuk-tuks and mind-boggling traffic congestion, the ferry along the river Mae Nam Chao Phraya is the locals preferred way to get about and costs next to nothing. Knocking spots off the 'tourist specials' that charge ten times as much with fewer stops - and no locals to watch - we used the ferry to take us half way from Khao San to the sprawling weekend market in Chatuchak, completing the journey on the Skytrain. The market itself is a sight to behold, with more hawkers plying their wares unofficially outside the market site than most other markets have full stop. Once inside the complex, you just need to surrender to the human traffic and lose yourself amidst the madness. A teeming blend of pretty much everything from tourist tat, jewelery and electronics to achingly hip local designers, folorn looking animals to flowers and household cleaners, this mighty living, breathing shrine to the Gods of retail and bartering is an assault on all the senses. Go - just don't expect to actually find what you were looking for.
What I certainly wouldn't recommend is wasting your time on is the idenikit chain hotels, shopping malls and on-street dildo and viagra salesmen that make up Sukhumvit Road. Unless, of course, you want to go shopping - the malls looked well equipped - or pay for sex with a local on Soy Cowboy, a strip of knocking shops and Go Go bars that looked even more tragic by day than I imagine it would at night. While passing no judgement on those who work in the industry, I still found the parade of pot bellied, sunburned, seedy-looking Europeans parading their paid-for fuck buddies skin crawling. Even more baffling was the dead-eyed look of their Thai comapnions who, like the Ruttles, are only in it for the money. If the men can't see this sadness, they are blind; if they can but carry on with the charde anyway, they are something much, much worse. At the other end of Sukhumvit is a tourist trap of a more benign nature, in the form of Jim Thimpson's house. An American silk trader who fell in love with Thailand before vanishing in mysterious circumstances, the house he built in Bangkok used wood and techniques from former traditional Thai abodes. While the house is quite something, the whole experience is diminhed a little by the shocking developments around the house, and the slightly 'wham, bam, thank you mam' nature of the group tour.
Our second stint in town saw us swap the Falang-filled ghetto of Khao San for a dash of the 'real' (well, more real) Bangkok amongst the gem, gold and cloth traders in Silom, in an inredibly priced (if windowless) room at the rather swanky
New Road Guest House. As well as being within walking distance of most Embassies, and as such perfect for dodging the agencies an sorting onward travel to most neighbouring countries, it is also blessed with an abundance of of great cheap local eatreries. It is also a walk to (and in my rat-arsed case, a short cab ride back from) Patpong, one time rival to Soy Cowboy, now reinvented as a Disneyland with tits and arse, erotic shows replacing many of the knocking shops. While the bars still have a fair few men too ugly and boring to get get their rocks off without flashing the Bhat, there are now more couples of all sexes and, a little weirdly, a fair few families. We also used the nearby river taxi stop to boat down to Wat Pho, one of Bangkok's most beautiful temple complexes, complete with a reclining Buddah of epic proportions. It's well worth arriving early as we did to avoid the tour buses that start flocking in from mid morning, bringing with them an apparently endless trail of disrespectful Falangs who really don't seem to understand why wearing a bkini to a place of worship is a no-no.
But the undoubted highlight of our time in Bangkok didn't actually take place in the city at all, but on a rare tourist train for local Thais (we were two of four foreigners on the excursion) to Kanchanaburi, via the fabled Bridge Over The River Kwai and Erawan Falls. Though the train leaves at 6.30am and returns more than twelve hours later, the day flew by, with the journey - first by foot, then by train - over the famous bridge the obvious highpoint. The waterfalls at Erawan were beautiful, while the Allied cemetry at Kanchanaburi was unexpecedly, joltingly moving. Throw in the chance to spend time chatting to some charming Thai people, and you've got a pretty perfect day. And for the princley sum of two quid each.
Stay warm,
Luke and Louise
(Posted by Luke)
