Where there's a grill, there's a way

We land in Bangkok and have a couple of hours to spare, so we head down to the railway platform hoping we can get somewhere near the centre of town in the limited time we have. Barney reveals he still has some Fruit Bursts and passes the bag around the team. Delighted, we get a much-needed sugar hit and discuss the merits of citrus over berry while we wait for the train, before a Bangkok Railways official joins us on the platform. Barn, supposing the guard might also like a Fruit Burst, generously offers the bag forth. The guard is less than impressed, and furrows his already-stern brow even further, and then barks something in Thai, pointing to the ‘No Food’ sign we’d obviously missed. The uniformed official turns and salutes the oncoming train, while we hide the remaining evidence of any other food, and jump on the 160km/h express, which takes us nowhere near the centre of town, but instead to Phaya Thai Station, in a run-down part of Bangkok. We sample the street food delights on offer, choosing Pad Thai, chocolate crepes, and grilled bananas. After seeing the woman at the stall behind us re-fill an old water bottle from the tap and place it back in her fridge, we wash our lunch down with bottles of Pepsi that look legitimately sealed.

We head back to the airport and we’re bussed out into the middle of the runway to board our flight to Koh Samui on Bangkok Airways, the “Best Domestic Airline in Asia – 6 years running”, according to their in-flight magazine, promotional ads, name badges, head rests, plastic cups, and cutlery. The Party Plane, as we christen it, is highly decorated with multi-coloured swirls and stripes – very Austin Powers – and we’re treated to our first free in-flight meal and entertainment in the form of a Quebec version of You’re on Candid Camera. The cheap laughs satisfy, and team morale is at an all-time high as we arrive at Ark Bar, our resort for the next four days. We spend the first night on the beach drinking cocktails, swimming, dining and then trying our first buckets – some (read: mine) much more potent than the rest. The next day, we hit the shops and the well-travelled of the bunch teach me the art of haggling, my first success being a fluorescent, leopard-print bikini – a steal at 450 Baht.

George and Joan arrive from Koh Tao in time for a group lunch of more Pad Thai (when in Rome) and we plan the rest of the day’s activities. Some of us girls opt for a very indulgent two-and-a-half-hour massage and foot scrub session, while the boys head to the Thai boxing matches on that night. We’re marched upstairs out the back of Most Massage’s premises, lined up on mattresses in a neat row, and each appointed a masseuse. We’re then stripped off in a semi-dignified manner, towelled up, and our feet are scrubbed to within an inch of their lives. The oil massage follows, and for the most part, it’s very relaxing. Until I lift my head and see a small Thai lady mounting Harriet on the floor next to me. Heaving with laughter and with tears rolling down my cheeks, I have to bury my face in my pillow and spend the rest of the massage suppressing fits of hysteria, and reassuring my little Thai lady that I’m okay. We’re rolled over, oiled and rubbed some more, and some of the other girls unwittingly find themselves getting free boob massages (and in one case a free buttocks massage) that were not on the original order.

When the Thai masseuses hear that the boys in our group are at the boxing, they ask if we mean ‘ladyboy boxing’ and tell us about Thailand’s champion ladyboy boxer, Nong Tum - definitely worth a google. Thoroughly relaxed and laughed out, we find an alleyway of bars with two-for-one cocktail buckets and meet up with Hanna, Kate and Christie and their Swiss travelling buddies. We witness some excruciating-looking breakdancing fails (think: face meets concrete), and the night ends with another beach swim. The tide rolls in and takes with it George’s dress and almost her jandals. But, like the true intrepid traveller George has become over the past six weeks in India and Thailand, she doesn’t let this faze her. For a replacement dress, she makes do with a guy’s singlet left behind on the beach, and then heads to Burger King, regardless, for some flame-grilled beef goodness. I commend her resilience in the face of loss, and realise that where there’s a grill, there’s a way.

Woohoo! What a ride!

It’s too early in the morning to be awake while on holiday, and we’re taxiing through thick fog on the enormous runway of Singapore’s Changi Airport, having survived our first night sleeping rough in an airport. In a perfect world, the ‘rest area’ we chose to inhabit would have been more like a rest area and less like a thoroughfare; the air-con would have been a shade warmer than the ‘Arctic Blast’ setting it was switched to, and the dulcet tones of Christmas carols on repeat would have definitely been turned down a notch. But beggars can’t be choosers.

After leaving Auckland at 11.30am on Tuesday with Harriet, Pete (the infamous Barney) Erin, Emily, Chris, Caroline, Graeme, Anthony and Gab, we’re now on the second leg of the journey to Bangkok. We’re sans a few of the original crew who are on later flights, but have welcomed Renee into the fold off her flight from Perth and will soon be rendezvousing with George and Joan, Hanna, Kate and Christie, and then Tim in a couple of days’ time.

We’re mere hours into a two-month adventure, but I’m afraid there’s already been a casualty: the lovely blue polystyrene ball-filled travel pillow I carried all the way back from Germany three years ago has been left onboard the Jetstar flight we got off last night. I generally pride myself on not losing things, but after suffering serious cabin fever on the ten-and-a-half-hour flight, we were so desperate to escape the confines of the plane, that a travel pillow just wasn’t a priority at the time. Alas, the pillow has since been replaced by a shiny new red one, and it serves as a valuable lesson on personal belongings for the weeks ahead.

We make the right decision to head straight to the outdoor pool and Jacuzzi at the airport to meet up with my cousin Sarah and her man Mark who are en route to Paris. It’s an excellent venue for a reunion, a cold beer (much more palatable than the warm Heineken purchased for an extortionate price on Jetstar), a refreshing dip and a shower. Sarah and Mark gloat about the Thai green curry, fish and blackbean sauce and white chocolate cheesecake they were served on their Singapore Airlines flight from Christchurch, while we complain about the lack of meals available for purchase on our very budget flight. We also bemoan the lack of a single sick-bag onboard the aircraft when the contents of Harriet’s stomach decided they wanted to re-enter the land of the living – according to Erin, the airhostess looked at her incredulously, as if this was a totally outrageous request. Sarah helpfully adds at this point that “Singapore Airlines even dished out free toothbrush sets” – to which Emily replies, “The only thing Jetstar dished out was dirty glares and terrible customer service.”

After bidding adieu to Sarah and Mark, we pile into a maxi-taxi and head into central Singapore, and make our way to the Newton Circus Hawker Centre – an outdoor food court with dozens of stalls offering everything from satay sticks to stingray. The stall-holders all try to lure us in – with varying tactics and levels of success. One pulls a live crab out of a tank and chases us around the seating area waving it in the air, but we make a run for it and settle in at a table by a man who promises “very good price for you.”

Well fed and watered, we venture onto the MRT (subway) under the direction of Barney, and find out way to Merlion Plaza, where we’re greeted by the magical lights of the Fullerton Hotel on the Singapore River. We take obligatory photos of the Merlion statue shooting water from its mouth into Marina Bay below, and happen upon a rehearsal for New Year’s Eve in Singapore, which includes the countdown, a booming “Happy New Year!”, and a brief light show on the water. We dash back to the MRT for the last train back to the airport, and we all jump on board just as the doors are closing. All of us, except Harriet, that is. Upon realising this is the last train and that she has no phone on her, she throws herself through the nearly-closed doors and claws her way through the first set of doors on the platform, while we desperately try to stop the train’s doors from closing. Harriet displays incredible Amazonian-woman strength – the kind Emily likens to that of a mother who summons the adrenalin and power to lift a burning car off her child – and makes it on board in one piece, narrowly avoiding what could have been the first missing persons report we commission on this trip.

Safely back at the airport, thoroughly worn out but very satisfied, we set up camp for the night and I’m reminded of a card my friend Anna gave me when I graduated; it said, "Life should not be a journey to the grave, with the intention of arriving safely in an attractive and well-preserved body, but rather, to skid in sideways with champagne in one hand, strawberries in the other, body thoroughly used up, totally worn out, and screaming, 'Woohoo! What a ride!'"

The landing gear is down, and all electronic devices must now be switched off. We’re about to navigate Bangkok’s rail system and head into the city for some street food for lunch, before our final leg of this part of the journey – a flight to the party island of Koh Samui. What a ride, indeed.

Now, did anybody bring the champagne and strawberries?

Watch out for penguins!

Advice. It comes to us in all sorts of ways. From parents, teachers, advertisements, road signs, music, books. “Take a jersey”, “Don’t be a bloody idiot”, “Slow speed now”, "Don't stop believing" – you’ve heard it all before. 



If I could offer you only one tip for the future...

Sometimes, advice sticks with you forever. Or at least a song that’s full of advice will get stuck on repeat in your head for what seems like forever. Take, for example, “Everybody’s Free” – Baz Luhrmann’s chart-topping tune of the mid ‘90s: “If I could offer you only one tip for the future, sunscreen would be it.”

This particular gem has so far saved me from the painful effects of UV rays on the three days a year that Wellington gets sunshine. It's this exact piece of advice that would have helped my workmate Wesley avoid the large red triangle he is sporting on his forehead today. However, an anti-smoking video of the late Yul Brynner – one that my 4th form PE class was forced to watch many moons ago – has been the piece of advice that has stuck with me even more, and has no doubt added years to my life. The words Yul’s emphysema-ridden lungs manage to cough up have echoed in the heads of St Mary’s girls ever since: “Now that I’m gone, I tell you, don’t smoke. Whatever you do, just don’t smoke. Just. Don't. Smoke.”

The offending sun, glowing as red as Wes's forehead

Sound advice indeed, but I’ll save that lecture for another day.

I’ve received a great deal of other advice recently when discussing my impending travels with anyone who proffers an available ear (and anyone who doesn’t, according to my very Scottish pod-neighbour Kevin, who can now recite my itinerary word for word). Yesterday, my cousin Jeremy, who travelled to the Subcontinent earlier this year, texted: “Try not to say no to anything in India.” I take his word for it, and make a mental note to leave my Danger Ranger badge at home. My very well travelled friend Jane (who edited the book “Jandal Prints on the Globe”, a collection of Kiwi OE stories) helpfully offers the following, with regards to my new digital SLR: "If you’re taking photos on manual focus, remember to take a couple," she says, before adding "From experience on my last trip, ha!" - another most excellent tip. But the best piece of advice received to date has been offered by Clare, who's one of the four coming on the Base Camp trek: "Never stand down mountain of a yak." This also works for: "Never stand down mountain of someone having a yak."

The members of my immediate family, who haven’t travelled extensively and are less than adventurous, have offered a smorgasbord of advice lately, too. Dad, whose OE famously lasted 13 days ("I only missed one Saturday night in Wellington"), has been quick to warn me about the dangers of eating street food – or eating absolutely anything at all – in Asia. He's also positive that my drink will get spiked in Thailand, and recommends giving a wide berth to buckets and all refreshments. From my cautious Mum, who, to her credit, did live in London for some time and went on a “scary” trip to Russia, it’s mostly been “Ooooh, do be careful.” and “Oh gosh, are you sure you really want to do that [trek to Base Camp]?” Yes, Mum. Yes, I do. From my younger sister who tries to sabotage my savings so that her own are comparatively impressive, the advice has been to “definitely” buy the most expensive pack, and the highest quality clothing, pricey tramping boots and the best camera on the market. And “Why don't you just take more annual leave?”

It's important to note here that "a great deal of advice" does not equate to "great advice". While most of the hints I have received have been very well meaning (apart from the sister's, perhaps), unfortunately there’s a great deal of travel advice and information out there that just doesn’t stack up.

100 Cities - so far, so good

It’s only four days until D-Day, so this evening I decide to do some research about the cities we’re off to explore. Wikipedia is an obvious place to start, as is my 0.98kg Lonely Planet India guide. But first I open a large book called “100 Cities of the World” by Falko Brenner – something I picked up in a Whitcoull’s bargain bin for $5 one Fathers’ Day (Dad – I’m sure this wasn’t the only component of my gift. How are those socks working out for you?).

Before turning to Singapore and Bangkok, I flip through some of the other pages. I land on the very last page of the book, which happens to be none other than the World’s Coolest Little Capital™, Wellington City. A fine place to start my research, I decide. Like a true travel writer, I can note down some interesting titbits about my hometown and departure point, and then make comparisons to our destinations. “Wellington,” the book tells me, “is more than the political centre of the country.” So far so good. It’s only when I reach the next paragraph, that I understand why this book only cost me a crisp Ed Hillary. Under the heading ‘Watch out for penguins!’, it goes on to say that “Wellington is almost certainly the only capital city in the world where penguins freely roam the streets. This encourages visitors to walk alongside them.”

Penguins? Freely roaming the streets? Not last time I checked. Hang on – it could be a typo, I tell myself. Benefit of the doubt. Don’t judge a book by its talk of penguins, etcetera. I read on.

“The city centre is best experienced on foot. Visitors (and penguins) can wander through its shopping arcades, lovely cafes and, less happily, constant traffic.”

There it is in black and white, for a second time. Penguins. In Wellington. Are you for real, Mr Brenner? It's no wonder your book is now selling for $1.99 on the Barnes & Noble website.

In the words of Johnny Mac: You cannot be serious.

I come to the conclusion that this bogus travel book was written by someone who has clearly never visited the place. And so the age-old adage “Don’t believe everything you hear” rings true once again. I make a further mental note to myself to take everything I read over the next few months with a grain of salt, and to be as authentic as possible in my accounts of our travels.

Returning “100 Cities of the World” to the coffee table to claim its rightful role as a placemat and not a travel guide, I’m left with no option but to do a quick search on trusty Wikipedia to swot up on Singapore Airport and Bangkok ahead of Tuesday’s departure.

This second search proves much more fruitful (read: believable), and I learn that if we have more than five hours to spare at Singapore Airport, we could take a free city tour. “Even if stuck in the airport, there are plenty of ways to kill time.” Apparently Terminal 2 has an indoor garden, a music listening area with couches and mood lighting, a computer gaming room, a small movie theatre, paid massage services, and plenty of duty-free shops, while Terminal 1 has a swimming pool and jacuzzi, both open until 11pm daily. Excellent – sounds ideal, and (more importantly) factual. Something for everyone, and just the ticket for our stopover on the way to Bangkok.

Distrusted by uni lecturers the world over and an unacceptable reference source according to APA, Wikipedia – you complete me.

Sleeps 'til Shanta



Not prime realty.

It’s 6.30pm on a Thursday evening and I’m sitting on the floor of the Jetstar baggage collection area at Auckland Airport. My friend Gemma’s kind offer of a free ride to the airport was too good to refuse, but I’m now in the unusual position of being far too early for my 9.00pm flight home. In search of a humble power socket for my laptop, I drag my obscenely large suitcase through every cafe and seating area in the vicinity. I search high and low, looking like I’ve lost something (my mind, mostly) but evidently, power sockets in airports are not as commonplace as I imagined. I locate one, but – most inconveniently – it’s already in full employment, giving the Bluebird vending machine the lifeblood it needs to distribute little packets of chippies and chocolate bars to weary travellers day in, day out. Plus, it’s situated at the door of the men’s toilets – not exactly prime realty.

After another five minutes, my increasingly frantic search proves fruitful and I locate the only other power socket in the domestic terminal – hence why I’m parked up on the floor right here at Jetstar baggage collection. Classy. Two turbaned taxi drivers are talking animatedly in Hindi nearby, and the volume and pace at which they converse gets me excited about the thought of my impending travels to the taxi drivers’ motherland; the chaos of cars, cows and commuters of Delhi is just a matter of weeks away.

The worn, industrial carpet tiles glued to the concrete beneath me isn’t the most comfy seat in the house, but I’m roughing it in the name of training for the all-important Surviving Airports module of Intrepid Travel 101. I’ll be back here at Auckland Airport on Boxing Day, before venturing further afield for a self-commissioned study of the prevalence of power sockets in airports of Asia. In fact, the next few months see me hanging out at airports in Singapore, Bangkok, Koh Samui, Kuala Lumpur, Chennai, Delhi, Kathmandu, Lukla, Christchurch and Wellington.

Power socket: located.

Tonight’s flight is my 71st in the 18 months since June last year, so I’ve spent a lot of time in departure lounges of late. It would be fair to say that 2011 has kind of been The Year of the Airport for Miss Communicate – not that there's any complaining. Some people whine to no end about the whole waiting around fiasco of travel, but truth be told – I kind of like it. It often seems to be the only time I can legitimately do nothing but engage in the fine art of people-watching. With the advent of smartphones, it seems every spare minute I’m not sitting at my desk at work (train rides, walking to the supermarket, on the bike at the gym, and so on) is filled in by some form of iPhone-based activity – and hence, people-watching time is now a much more scarce commodity. Airports provide for the perfect setting for the discerning people-watcher: teary farewells, frenzied folk running late, foreigners, exhausted commuters, security staff, and turbaned taxi drivers – airports have it all. But let’s not beat around the bush; while airports are an essential part of travel, and a terrific place for people watching, they’re simply a means to an end. The real attractions are the cities, towns, villages, mountains and islands we’ll visit, and – most of all – the fascinating people we’ll meet.

One of these people we’re going to meet is called Shanta Kumar Baniya – known simply as Shanta.

While most of the population is counting down the sleeps 'til Santa (10, if you haven’t already worked it out), I’m on the official countdown of sleeps 'til Shanta (just 42 more to go). Shanta is the Nepalese Sherpa who’s got the enviable task of spending 14 days with me, Pete, Tim and Clare. For the princely sum of 1065 Euros each, it’s his job to make sure we get to Mt Everest Base Camp and back to Kathmandu, ideally in one piece. We were introduced to Shanta through Sarah, a friend of a friend (FOAF). Apparently Shanta has been trekking in the Himalayas for 13 years, and has taken a friend of Sarah’s (so, a friend-of-a-friend-of-a-friend – a FOAF-OAF?) on a number of successful trips. FOAF-OAF says, “Shanta knows where the safe food is. By taking his advice, you will avoid stomach ailments.” This is a good start. “He is excellent at managing the altitude gain to avoid getting altitude sickness.” Even better. Shanta’s name, we’re told, actually has a silent ‘h’ – meaning that it’s pronounced exactly the same way as the father of Christmas himself. Upon hearing this, I immediately envisage endless Santa Claus-themed practical jokes, puns and re-written lyrics to Christmas carols (“Shanta Claus is Coming to Town” – a classic) as we suffer cabin fever in each other’s company and become delirious at high altitude. Poor guy – he’s probably heard it all before, but this will not stop me from ho, ho, ho-ing my way through our travels with him.

We’re led to believe that Shanta is a bit of a legend, and his emails to the four of us have proved to be unwittingly hilarious. Communicating with foreigners is a beautiful thing, and Shanta’s emails are testament to this. He alternates between several different spellings of words (often in the same email), and likes to address Pete as ‘Petter’ (his most recent email beginning, “There Petter” – Dear Peter?). Shanta diligently tells us in one email, “I am going to Everest trekking for 20 days and will come back after 20 days so that I will be out of contact for 20 days.” Right – got the message: 20 days. Item number 8 on the list of services that he’s agreed to provide us with is “8) First aid kid box service”. Kid box? No idea. Items 6 and 11 on the gear list are also most intriguing: “6) Worm shocks four pairs” (warm socks – four pairs?) and “11) Long wonder wear” (presumably thermals or long underwear – unless of course he’s into granny pants/wonderbras/Wonder Woman outfits – none of which I would deem appropriate for the Himalayan climate, but all of which would provide for entertaining photo opps. Particularly if the wearer is Tim, Pete, or our man Shanta). 



Ahhh, no.

Hell no!



But for now, my Intrepid Travel 101 training session is complete, and my biggest challenge is to regain the feeling in my backside, which is now numb enough to have minor surgery performed on it, sans anaesthetic. The turbaned taxi drivers speaking at a ferocious pace have since been replaced by a group of Aryan-looking German tourists, and one of them is holding a Macbook, eyeing up my power socket. So, I’ll do the decent thing and share a bit of power socket love with my fellow airport-dwellers, and tend to my now growling stomach. All going to plan, I’ll soon be rid of the pins and needles that have amassed in my legs, and will be able to stand up to face my current Everest – bypassing the hardworking Bluebird vending machine and its deliciously salty snacks and sugary delights in favour of a more nutritious form of airport sustenance. I’ll also take a quick look at the travel shop to see if they can shed any light on kid boxes or on sourcing some worm shocks. As for the granny pants and wonderbras? I’ll keep you posted.