Amidst the Chaos

The bells chime, and an automated voice announces this to be the last stop on the transit system of the skytrain.  Jordan and I step out of the doors, and immediately find ourselves engulfed by a sea of moving bodies.  The heat rushes towards us, hell bent on claiming yet another pair of unsuspecting people.  It will soon reduce us to panting, sweating animals.

We decend the stairs towards the street, where taxis of every colour weave dangerously through the crowded mass of motorized machines.  At the first sign of our raised arms, a green and yellow cab swerves over to the curb, eager for what we will soon learn to be a meager fare.  There seem to be no rules where traffic is concerned, and the driver appears  oblivious to the resounding honks that follow in the wake of his blocking an entire lane.  We on the other hand, feel  more flustered about holding up an impatient line of cars, and hurridly toss our bulging bags into the back seat.  Stumbling in behind them, we wipe our clammy brows with the backs of equally soggy hands, and tell the driver that we would like to go to Banglamphu.  After some confusion and map-studying, the driver indicates that he understands where we would like to go.  However, within the confines of stand-still traffic he reaches back towards the map several more times, which sparks some worry within our already weary minds.

The traffic in the city is dizzying, and if rules of the road exist, one could seem to spend their whole life studying them and never achieve complete logic.   Motorcycles squeeze through impossibly tight spaces, unwilling to delay their trip by mere seconds.  Tuk-tuks speed by, their brightly painted exteriors equally as impressive as their seeming disregard for any form of life on two legs.  Buses careen through the throng of vehicles, honking their horns as passengers step from their doors in the middle of the rushing road.  White blocked crosswalks are pointedly ignored, and the flashing yellow pedestrian lights serve little purpose.  To cross to street is to take one’s life into their hands.  While we stare open-mouthed at the scenes around us, our driver announces what we interpret to be the arrival at our destination. 

We watch his license plate as it manouvers back into the ocean of chaos, and slowly take in our environment.  The side street is hardly bigger than an alley, and the rough edges are lined with litter and construction debris.  We pass a parked tuk-tuk, and polietely refuse him while he badgers us to take a ride.  We trapse down to the end of the street, only to find an absolute dead end.  Convinced that we are ablout to discover ourselves lost, we pull out our map and intently study the shown land-marks, desparately searching for something to compare our surroundings with.  A massive golden bridge rises up in the distance, its shining wire cables acting as a beacon to our position.  We stagger back out of the side street and are once again thrown into the cluttered and deafening roar of the main streets.  Jordan tends to be good with directions, and soon we find ourselves turning down yet another side street.  This one seems to assert more potential, and is reinforced by the small number of Caucasian tourists that occasionally step from hidden entryways.  Towards the end of the lane, we eventuall glimpse our designated guest house (after walking by it once) and find ourselves staring up at a weathered sign that reads, “Bamboo Guest House.” 

After handing over the equivalent of about $8.00 Canadian dollars, we are led up a steep wooden staircase to a rather dark but charming hallway.  Room 210 is stark and bare, with little more than a bed and a small desk, but it is a welcome sight after two days of wooden benches and cramped airplane confines.  In spite of the light breeze that flutters in through the four open windows, we immediately reach for the large fan, intent on testing its full capability.

The guesthouse has neither blankets nor hot water, but as the chilly water flows through the humid air, never has there been a better feeling.  Taking several hours to recover from the weariness that comes from crossing six time zones, we lay back on the stone slab mattress and revel in the accomplishment of continuing our travels.

Some time (and another shower) later, we venture once again out into the wild, intent on discovering edible delights.  We stroll through a park, feeling much too flashy and gaudy in clothes that would be considered average and even understated back home. Thai music plays over a loud-speaker, and as we walk alongside a battered stone railing, we stare at a canal that would make the Thames River in London look like a beach-worthy resort.  The  water is cloudy brown and completely opaque thanks to the dirt and garbage that has no doubt been deposited in it for years.  We pass a man who is keeping a watchful eye on his three fishing lines.  Jordan whispers to me, “I can’t imagine anything even remotely edible being procured from this water.”  As if on cue, a large mottled grey fish floats by, its lifeless body tossing about on the choppy waves.  Time to continue our exporation of the area.

We find ourselves back on the main drag, and I marvel at the many opportunities to twist an ankle.  Tree roots push up at the already fractured sidewalks, and open holes are frequently noted amidst the haphazardly lain bricks.  With every new entryway, we are bombarded with an assortment of smells, all of them strong, but few of them favorable.  Live powerlines dip low into the streets, many within reaching distance for the immortal few.  The sheer amount of wires bundled together is so impressive 

that I can’t help but wonder how the tilting wooden poles don’t buckle under the weight. 

Stray cats and dogs lay about on the curbs, many of them thin and malnourished.  Their sad eyes seem to stare at nothing in particular, and their tounges loll from gaping mouths, victims of the heat.  Perhaps they are dreaming of a large and fulfilling meal, or of a loving pat on the head.

Still targets of culture-shock, we secretly rejoice at every tourist we glimpse, for they seem to be surprisingly few and far between.  Making the decision to ease our way into this way of life, we search for a restaurant as opposed to a street vendor.  There will be time enough to experience road-side cooking.

An eatery that is tastefully decked with cushy chairs and rich colours beckons us, and stepping inside we welcome the product of the air conditioner.  The menu is vast, and we feel somewhat overwhelmed by the choices that are presented to us.  Narrowing down the options proves to be a difficult task, as the photos present countles images of both colourful and uniquely arranged dishes.  Jordan orders a dish called, “Hon Rin Don,” which is essentially thinly sliced pork, served with vegetables and a delightful chilli sauce.  I order the “Spicey Salmon Salad,” which proves to be an excellent decision.  

Served on a small dish, cheerful pink pieces of salmon are nestled in amongst mint and lemongrass, while a decidedly fiery looking sauce provides the moat to my meal.  The first mouthful is unbelievably delicious, and the savory blend of spices of herbs make for a taste like few I’ve experienced.  Then the bodily fire alarm is set into action.  Few foods trigger my defence mechanisms, but I can shamefully admit that from the first bite, this plate does.  Across the table, Jordan is chirpily exclaiming about his appealing albeit spicy dish.  I offer him a bit of my food, and watch with sadistic satisfaction as he squirms uncomfortably from the sting and reaches for his beer.Tipping isn’t standard practice in Thailand, but after devouring such a lovely meal, we can’t resist leaving our eager young server a 20 baht bill.  (About $0.70 in Canadian, which seems like an insult tip to us, but is probably very appreciated by them.) 

The night market seems like the obvious choice after dinner, and with full bellies and eager eyes we make our way through the masses.  The market is a teeming scene of colours, lights, smells and sounds, the majority of these pleasing to the senses.  Shops line the streets, offering clothing, jewellery, toys and foods.  I buy a large slice of watermelon from a vendor, and while sinking my chompers into the sweet, dripping fruit, I reflect gleefully on the price of about $0.40 CAD.  Strolling along, store owners bekon you into their dwellings, hoping to haggle with inexperienced tourists.  Warmly coloured lanterns hang from the roofs of open air bars, tempting passerbyers to indulge in an experience that promises contented relaxation and a cold beer.

Feeling the effects of our journey, we slowly amble back to our guesthouse, passing several more shops along the way.  These stalls are settled in residential areas, and see less of the tourist rat race.  Wisened old men and aging wrinkled women sit quietly on stools, displaying the fruits of their labours.  I glance past the shop and into the abode beyond, catching a view of a man sprawled out on his floor, watching tv amongst piles of shop stock.  It seems that this is evidence of how the Thai culture lives.  They are less dependant on the technologies of the western world, and have yet to become slaves to the iPhone and internet.  In spite of this, they seem more content and at peace than many people I know. 

Creeping up the stairs to our room, we once again turn on the fan, and prepare to settle down for what will inevitably be a sticky night.  We hear a mewling from the hall, and upon inspection we find ourselves staring down into the wide eyes of a cat who has settled himself by our door.  He continues to meow at us, a tone of pleading in his cries, before padding down to the hall to another closed door.  He appears at our window the next morning, his amber eyes peering through the screen, begging us for some food.  Unfortunately we have no food with us, and we can do nothing but coo sympathetically at him through the barrier. 

Deciding it’s time to venture south, we make our way via taxi to the Humphalong Train Station.  Riddled with pleasure at our private cabin, we stare out the window as graffiti stricken walls and blackened apartment complexes retreat into the distance.  The buildings become less frequent, and city scenes eventually give way to brilliant emerald foliage.

Goodbye Bangkok.

     

In Transit

It’s hard to believe that the time has finally come!  We’ve moved on from our jobs as hostel cattle herders in the little town of Blenheim! 

We spent our last day in Blenheim by indulging in a delightful little wine tour.  We decided that instead of driving around, we’d grab a couple of bicycles from the hostel and peddle ourselves around the sunny countryside. 

Our first stop was a winery known as Brancott Estate.  It was the first winery to make its presence known in the Marlborough region, and it boasts the largest spread of vineyards.  We watched an interesting little movie, and then partook in a complimentary wine tasting.  The young girl pouring for us seemed to know quite a bit, and I felt like I actually gained a bit of knowledge through her.  She kept saying, “Oh just one more wine I need you to try… and then I just need you to try this one!”  (As if she was APOLOGIZING for offering us more free wine.  Sheesh.)  I ended up falling in love with their special dessert wine, and because Brancott is such a large winery, the prices were actually quite reasonable.  Put two and two together, and I ended up buying the wine that we later referred to as “liquid honey.” 

Armed with my new-found love, we trekked back down the steep hill to where we had parked our bikes.  Unfortunately, the wind had really picked up, and the cycling was tough going.  I almost worked up a sweat at one point.  About halfway to our next destination, we came across the most adorable little (Shetland?) pony.  I instantly shrieked with girlish delight, as females often do when presented with anything pint-sized and adorable.  Pulling over to the side of the road, I skipped over to the boards, hoping that he’d welcome my attention.  My wishes were granted when his ears immediately perked up and he ambled over.  It turned out that he really didn’t care one way or another for my cooing over his “fuzzy little mane” or his “velvety little muzzle,” but rather was more interested in the handfuls of grass that I was pulling up from the ground.  If you were to ask Woolly (as I named him) if the tired saying about the grass being greener on the other side is true, he’d say that he heartily agreed with that old cliché.  When he wasn’t trying to gnaw on my hair or tug at my sleeves, he was stomping his laughable little hoof into the dirt in an attempt to show us that he wanted more tasty grass.  He even went so far as to rap his hoof on the confines of his corral.  Ultimately his methods were successful though, because we thought it was “just so adorable” that we felt compelled to stay even longer and fill his tummy with more of the “greener on the other side” stuff.

I finally managed to pull myself away from darling Woolly, as we had to continue on our quest for the knowledge of wine.  The wind had seemed to die down a bit, and we peddled our way to a small family owned winery, where we spent the next 45 minutes politely trying to edge our way out the door after listening to the drawn-out and never-ending life story of the man behind the counter.   The next two wineries were pleasant enough, and feeling like connoisseurs, we decided to hit up one more winery.  When we arrived however, we discovered that they had closed early!  Cheapskates.  In any case, Jordan had to be back at the hostel for a Skype date, and we decided to start the long peddle home.  Admittedly, this was one of my favorite parts of the day’s adventure, and not because I was armed with a bottle of muchly anticipated dessert wine.  Let’s just say that my glee came at the expense of my companion.  We were cycling down a long, straight road, and at one point I looked behind me, expecting Jordan to be right on my tail.  Instead, he was little more than a black outline in the distance.  I decided to wait for him, and once he caught up, I asked him if everything was ok.  Instead of answering my question, he kept riding by and snidely said, “There must be something wrong with my bike because I can’t keep up to you.” 

So that’s how it is. 

Jokingly offended by his dismissed notion that I might actually be in decent shape, I decided to show him who was boss and zoomed ahead once again, reducing him to the same distant black outline in the dust.  A few minutes later, I decided to once again wait for him to catch up.  By this point I could see how hard he was peddling, only to fall behind again in mere moments.  At this point I agreed that there must be something wrong with his bike, (perhaps a dragging brake pad) but I couldn't quite contain my laughter as I watched the sheen of sweat spread down his face and neck.  He must have taken offence to my chuckling, as he tried to ride up quick behind me and smack me.  Karma intervened, and he lost his balance, careening over the shoulder of the country road and eventually falling off his bike to end up in a graceless sprawl in the ditch alongside.  If I’d been trying to contain my laughter before, I had no inclination to do so now.  The image of him as a tangle of lanky limbs, covered in grass and dirt is one I will not soon forget.  Alas, I wasn't able to enjoy the moment for long, as a car was approaching down the road, and his poor bike was still where it had been abandoned – on its side at the edge of the road.

After picking himself up and complaining about the grass stain on his pants, Jordan proclaimed with a smug smile, “Well at least I think I managed to crush all of the crackers you had in the backpack.  In fact I KNOW I did, because I heard the crunch.”  With a shake of my head and a grin of revenge from him, we again started on our quest for home.  The remainder of the ride was uneventful, and that evening after sharing a bottle of wine with the new managers, we were both excited to fall into bed.

The next day we rose early for one last 5:00am gym visit, and then caught the morning bus to Christchurch.  We arrived at “The Jailhouse” around 4:00pm, eager for a siesta, as neither of us had slept much the night before.  After a couple of short hours of relaxation, we set out in search of a worthy “Goodbye New Zealand” dinner.  We settled on a massive feast of Chinese food, which doesn’t really hold any tribute to Kiwi-land, but it’s difficult to find fault in a pile of steaming, delicious noodles.  So there we sat, shovelling in our food and sipping our wine – the perfect balance of disgusting and dainty – while contemplating and remembering all of our New Zealand adventures.

With morning came contented stretches and yawns, and considering we had literally spent the night in a jail cell, we both felt quite well-rested.  Breakfast consisted of left-over Chinese food, and I decided that while we were at it, we’d better finish off the wine I had brought with me from the winery.  Around noon we set out to visit some of the various outdoors stores, walking for hours all over the city to do so.  Eventually we ended up back at the centre of the ruined city, and partook in a hot drink from one of the container coffee shops.  To finish off our walk, we strolled through the vast botanical gardens that are lovingly tended near the centre of Christchurch.  We had planned to take in a movie later that night, and upon arriving back at the hostel to grab our stored luggage, we realized that we had very little time in which to catch the city bus that would take us across town to the theatre.  Hurriedly, we threw on our backpacks, and juggling our precious belongings, we set off in the direction of the nearest bus stop.  It was around this time that I experienced a moment that my mother can readily relate to.  The bus stop was in sight, and in my haste, I didn’t quite step far enough to place my foot solidly on the curb.  Time seemed to tick slower in that moment as the ground suddenly moved nearer and nearer to me.  So there I lay, quite literally stretched out in a clumsy heap on the pavement, cursing my luck.  I hastily scrambled to my feet, looking around to see if anyone had witnessed the spectacle.  I was even more distraught to see that my treasured (and expensive) daypack now had battle wounds in the form of rips and scratches down the front.  Jordan was more considerate than I would have been in the circumstances, and didn’t even crack a smile.  For that I was extremely grateful, because at that moment I vow that if I were to face a lion in battle, the cat wouldn’t stand a chance.  So Mom, you’ve got the sidewalk in London and the wave in Portugal, but I might catch up to you soon.

The bus rolled up several moments later, and soon we were making our way to the theatre.  We caught the movie with minutes to spare, and enjoyed every moment of the film.  (For anyone who is interested, “Looper” is an excellent movie… and no Mom you wouldn’t enjoy it.  It’s violent.)  The movie ended around 10:30pm, and after grabbing a small snack, we caught a cab to the airport, where we would spend the next 7 hours waiting for our flight out of NZ.

It deserves a mention that our cab driver was crazy, and had he not been on the job, I would have sworn that he had downed a rather large bottle of spirits before picking us up.  He was animated and friendly, but half of what he said made no sense, and his constant jokes ending with, “I made that one up!” started to induce awkward smiles and looks between me and Jordan.  He finally asked if we liked Austrian rock music, which in my opinion isn’t typically a question you can say “Oh yes I love the stuff!” to.  I’m open-minded, but how many people outside of the native country regularly listen to obscure Austrian music?  In any case, we responded that we’d be interested to hear it.  He then proceeded to blare the music so loudly that I was sure we’d get pulled over for disturbing the peace.  The sight of the Christchurch airport was a welcome sight, and just as we thought we’d make a clean break for it, our driver started saying how he was going to sing us the Canadian anthem, and started spurting off some lyrics that had to do with visiting Alberta in the fall.  Spending the night in the airport was starting to look good.    ….real good.

The time from 11:00pm and beyond passed more quickly than I’d have thought, and we finally found ourselves boarding our flight around 5:45am.  In my opinion, the plane was rather lacking in the amenities that you find in normal aircraft, but I attributed it to the short nature of the flight over to Australia.  We landed in Melbourne about 4 hours later, and proceeded to the security section of the international departures.  As per usual, I was “randomly selected” for a bag check, item swabbing and full pat down. 

The airport was gorgeous, and after gawking at the outrageous prices for food, we bit the bullet and bought a couple of breakfast sandwiches.  Our flight was delayed by an hour, and while we could easily see the plane right outside of the terminal window, we couldn’t understand the wait.  A Jetstar worker finally announced over the PA system that there was a “slight problem” that was being fixed.  Turns out it was just a faulty smoke detection glitch, which was soon repaired.  Phew. 

This plane proved to be much nicer than the first, and I bounced with excitement when I saw that the seats were two-by-two as opposed to three-by-three.  My excitement has since then been somewhat dampened by the realization that anything one would want in terms of “amenities” on this flight cost extra.  Even the TVs in each seat are only operable by purchase.  Jordan and I had only purchased a small amount of snacks for this flight, as they were extremely expensive in the airport.  We deduced that because this flight is 8 hours long, we’d at least be treated to a meal or snack.  Wrong.  When I said that you pay for extras on this flight – I meant everything.  You don’t even get complimentary beverages.  Pair that with the fact that the tiny flight meals start at $15 AUS and you’ve got a couple of travellers who feel a tad ripped off.

In any case, we’re about 3 hours into the flight, and I’m hoping to hold off hunger pains until we land.  Or maybe I will focus on my grumbling stomach after all.  It will help to distract me from the toddler across the aisle that has been incessantly screaming for most of the flight.

 I’m intrigued to see if the Singapore airport is as fantastic as I’ve read, and it will be exciting to catch our first real glimpse of Asian culture.

Sooooo Singapore.  Now that experience was… interesting.  We landed around 5:00pm local time, and after collecting our baggage, we had no idea how to proceed.  Were we to go through customs?  Or were we supposed to stay in the terminals because we were merely transferring flights?  We ended up asking an airport employee, and it proved to be the worst thing we could have done.

The Singapore airport is set up to be extremely comfortable for those who are in transit.  They offer free massages, a pool, several fitness centres, a couple of free theatres, countless themed indoor and outdoor gardens, free sleeping areas, and hundreds of shops.  Unbeknownst to us, the catch is that you have to stay inside the transit lounges when you land, going through customs and into the main terminals only when your next check-in is required.   Upon landing we were a little confused in the large setting, and we asked the fore-mentioned employee for some guidance.  He must have not completely understood what were we trying to ask him, and we were then told to exit the transit lounge immediately through customs.

On the other side of customs, we found ourselves in the main check-in terminals, which had nothing more than hard marble floors and scattered rows of hard wooden seats.  Not very lay-over friendly – especially for 15 hours.  We asked the information desk, and she replied that the amenities that had been advertised were not available to people who were not checked in, and were only to be used by people experiencing a layover.  She seemed in a rush to hurry us along, and didn’t really listen when we explained that we were indeed in transit and on a layover, and had been ushered out by mistake.

After hours of walking around trying to find someone who would help us, I stumbled across a brochure that hadn’t been available inside of the transit/layover areas in which we had arrived.  It mentioned that anyone with a layover was encouraged to stay within the transit lounges upon arriving, and that they should depart the lounges for their check-in two hours before their continuing flight.  At this point we had been walking around for hours, and were running around on almost 48 hours without sleep.  We went up to the officer who was manning the departures gate, and explained the situation to her.  Again she tried to direct me somewhere else, and seemed disinterested in our problem.  I could feel the tears welling up, and finally when she saw how distressed we were, she offered to go find someone who could perhaps help us.  She brought over another lady, who listened to our story, but ultimately in the end told us that we could not get back on the other side until 4:00am the next morning.  At this point it was only around 7:00pm, and the prospect of spending the whole night on those wooden seats was daunting.  She said that she recognized that it was the fault of the employee for putting us out in the main terminal, but there was nothing she could do.  In reality, she could have easily just shuffled us through the gates but was in actuality unwilling to do so.  When she asked if we were on a holiday and we replied that we were, she laughed and said, “Oh well.  This will be an adventure.”    

Needless to say, it was an extremely long and uncomfortable night. 

We finally boarded the plane, and with bloodshot eyes, I scanned the aisle for our seats.  A toddler was throwing a temper tantrum a few seats ahead, and imagine my shock (heavy sarcasm) when I realized that he was sitting right in front of my seat.   After 20 minutes of screaming and squirming, you would think that his parents would try another approach that doesn’t involve cooing, “It’s ok baby.  It’s alright darling boy.  Careful when you are bouncing sweetheart.  You might bonk your head.”  By this point, other passengers were starting to shoot glares in the direction of the parents, as they refused to spare everyone some sanity by taking their child to the lavatory where his screams would be drowned out.

You can partake in his screaming glory below.  Make sure you watch it all the way through, because it gets better with time.

This disturbance continued on throughout a good portion of the flight, with the tantrum-free moments consisting of the kid obnoxiously banging on tin peanut cans or reaching behind the seat to slam my window shut while I was looking out of it.    

The flight landed ahead of schedule in Bangkok, (THANK GOODNESS) and I couldn’t get off that plane fast enough.  We caught a skytrain to the downtown core, and from there took a taxi to the area of several hostels.  We ended up finding a small family owned, bare-bones hostel, which cost us a grand total of $4 each for a private room!  Pretty awesome considering it was costing us around $40 each for a double back in NZ.  It’s a bit run-down and stark, but everything is clean, and it’s a good distance from the markets.  There is no hot water, and the beds do not come with sheets or blankets, but trust me when I say that the shower I had was one of the best ever.  The heat and humidity are unbelievable, and after coming into a hostel with no air condition, you appreciate that cold water more than ever! 

So here we sit, about to catch up on some much needed sleep and relaxation.  Our plan is to hit the markets tonight, and partake in some of the street food.  We may or may not catch a train down to the southern part of Thailand tomorrow.  Bangkok doesn’t seem like it will do much for us beyond the exploration of a few markets.  It really is just a huge bustling city. 

Thailand Fact of the Day:  Feet are considered to be extremely dirty and unclean, as they are the lowest point of the body.  To show the soles of your feet in public (ex: propping them up on a chair) is considered extremely rude.