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?