Back to the Past (a Tad of the Future) and a Bit of Right Now

I'm currently sat (sitting - sorry mum) in a hostel called Good Dream in Krabi, Thailand. We got here yesterday and are struggling to come to terms with the fact that we now have to do things for ourselves after the luxury of Malaysia with the Phoon family and friends.

The deal here is that if you buy anything you get half an hour on t'internet for free. Which means whilst Helen attempts to finish her book, I'm buying beer and squeezing out a long overdue blog. Obviously not enough fibre in my diet.

A few things deserve revisiting now as they have actually had an effect on the last week or so. 

I didn't mention that we went to go and see The Dark Knight with KC which was fucking awesome, and has drawn the Keaton vs. Bale debate to near climax. It's currently pressing its perineum and thinking about the Milk Cup winning Arsenal team of 1993/94.

Since leaving KC and Aunty in KL we have thought about them lots, and apparently they have missed us too, so hopefully if we can fit it into our militant schedule and should be able to pop back in on them in September on the way back down. Not sure who'd be happier...

This was cemented when we heard that Aunty has a very sad philosophy that she must have done something very bad in a previous life, as 'everyone she cares for goes away'. This brought Helen to tears and me to manly gusts of blub.

*A warning to my father - if we can get Aunty on the plane to England she's coming to stay in B-Town for a bit - break out the Tiger Beer and Menthol fags*

I am also yet to retell how I'm being an incredibly brave boy. Since we left Heathrow I have not said 'No fucking way' to anything - even soft fruit! 

You may or not know that I have a - perfectly legitimate - fear of fruit that either will explode in your mouth (grapes) has hair on it (strawberries) or generally doesn't look very appetising (any other fruit apart from apples).

Yet, it seems that fear can be completely overridden by that other characteristic that I associate myself with frequently - embarrassment.

I have tried everything that has been offered to me including fruits such as Mangosteen and Durian - the proclaimed 'King of Fruits' - which is so potent that in hotels there are signs saying 'No Pets. No Durian'. It stinks. And it's - sorry Aunty, KC, Felicia and Tynners - FUCKING HORRIBLE.

I did have Marmite crab (yeah, Marmite crabs, wanna fightaboudit?) though, which were actually really nice. Apart from I ate loads of shell and the next morning it cut my bum.

After I sprayed my bloghurt all over a computer in the Cameron Highlands the Dagger and I decided to partake in a wee spot of drinkingmanship games to polish up in time for our jaunt to (the apparently pretty decadent, sic.) Thailand.

Do not drink Polish vodka at 4000 metres above sea level. This will happen.

We did however invent a rather good game called 'Where is Hilary Duff' - rules available on request. 

The next morning we went to book our ticket outta there and met a cool dude of Chinese descent that, without warning or permission, told us all about the Malaysian political system - which is very interesting and you should look into it you bastard plebeians as I don't have the time or inclination to go into it now. 

This feller was a legend and brought a bit of depth to an otherwise puddle of social knowledge that we had about Malaysia.

Also, rather importantly, when we were in Sing-Singapore we shared a dorm room with (along with another 22 people) two young pups by the names of George and Hannah. (Incidentally George looks like the 'I see dead people' kid will in ten years time and Hannah bears a strikingly similar poise both in looks and attitude as our old mate Pip from Uni.)

We didn't spend a great deal of time with them but did have a quick chat about our (now seemingly so distant) time in India. 

Helen swapped A Thousand Splendid Suns with Hannah for a book about a chap in prison in South America, where they had spent about five months. South America, not prison. They're far too nice and anyway George is from fucking Kent. Or Shepherd's Bush, I don't know, he sees dead people.

So, having just about learned their names, or rather remembered their faces - we randomly bumped into them on the Perhentian (meaning, roughly, Stop) Islands. It was both a lovely surprise and slightly embarrassing when I said 'It's the ghost kid freak and Pip' rather louder than intended. 

We spent lots of time with them and their buddies Dave and Amy (brownest girl in the world) and will hopefully end up doing more-of-the-same later on the Thai islands.

It was Hannah's birthday whilst we were there and we successfully trial ran 'Where's Hilary Duff'. To mixed reviews. I'm not sure if this was due to the game itself or the fact that we were drinking something akin to windscreen washer fluid that I'd purchased from a man called Dave from High Wycombe.

On the island, which was idyllic at worst, we did a mixture of nothing and extreme exercise. We (I, Helen feigned) actually managed to canoe around the whole of small Island in a little less than four hours. Check it out - I'm well strong and that.

We also went snorkelling, my first ever proper experience of it, and saw rays, turtles (ranging from baby to fookin' huge), all sorts of brightly painted fish and motherlicking black-tip reef sharks which was superwicked. 

I now cannot wait to learn how to dive properly in Koh Tao on the other side of Thailand. Helen's going to do her masters so she can, and I quote: 'Always be one better than the boy'.

We also witnessed a break in at the hostel reception by Mr Lizard (or it may have been another Mr Lizard...) All photos to follow once I've got permission to buy another beer off'f Dagley - she's here now...

Both before and after we went to the Islands we stayed with friends of the Phoon family, Felicia and Tynners in their magnificent condo overlooking the bay of Penang. They, once again, spoiled us rotten (they had bought me a crate of Tiger beer on the demand of Aunty - despite the fact they don't drink themselves - I drank a total of 5 in 3 days - what a pussy).

We had a good time in Penang, and certainly to my mind had some of our best culinary experiences yet. We went to a fantastic small, but incredibly packed, hawker stall where we had the most amazing food including an ice cream style thing that you eat throughout your meal - mothers would not be pleased.

We also saw the Old Fort, Georgetown and got addicted to Iced Lemon Tea - Rodia you'd love this shit.

This is too long and I'm sure you're a bit bored now. So I'll say toodle-hannah - I mean pip - and promise to try and make the next one funnier and shorter. 

Like Cannon and Ball.
Fearmalangay x

When it rains it Singapores

Singapore was sterile, censored, westernised, clean, apparently a bit like LA and full of indiscrimanatory fines. We didn't do much here apart from pay $19 for two beers and play pool with some nice boys from England.

I inexplicably cheated. Still don't know why.

The last five days have been the easiest five days, not just of this trip so far, but probably of my entire life. Let me try and explain.

Helen spent the last nine months or so working with a lovely lady called Phylia who is from Malaysia. When she heard that we would be travelling through, she offered us the chance to stay at her brother and mum's house in the suburbs of Kuala Lumpur. 

We obviously jumped at the chance. What we didn't realise was that Phylia and her family would then insist on paying for everything.

Not ones to shirk an opportunity, Helen ate everything in sight and I got drunk with the loveliest grandma in the world - apart from my own ones of course. Although saying that - my grandma doesn't ply me with beer from eleven in the morning. 

Time to step your game up G'ma.

We will be eternally grateful for the last four days as it truly allowed us to relax and recharge. We saw a good deal of Kuala Lumpur and it was also good to stay in the suburbs, as staying in hotels, hostels and homestays means you don't really get a feel for the indigenous lifestyle. 

KC and Aunty's house was also full of cats and dogs so Helen was in her element.

We're now in the (paid for - the guilt has stopped killing me now and I'm afraid I might be getting used to it) hotel in the Cameron Highlands which is a magnificently scenic place. 

Daggers and I went for a walk this morning and she got leeches all over her which I had to burn off. Other than that we've been making sure we have enough fat on our bodies for the winter - August in Thailand.

Off to go and eat my dinners now.

A New Ending

So, our last day in India has arrived.

We've been here for a month, and we've seen a lot. To properly get around India I think you'd need at least three months, as I'm not sure if you've seen it on a map, but it's actually quite big. So big in fact, that out of that month we've spent a week on trains joining up the dots on My First Map of India.

We've saved cats in Kochi, munched leaves in Munnar and seen the maelstrom* of Mumbai. Twice. Japes in Jaipur, duped in Jaisalmer and now near-dead in New Delhi. It would not be an exaggeration to say we are tired. Fucking knackered was how I've been putting it.

Oh yeah - we found out where all the Mountain Dew has gone

*Fuck off, yeah? I can use whatever words I want. It's my blogging fuck.
It's not just the heat and lack of sleep, India - especially for me I think, Helen's a robot - has been pretty emotionally draining.

A man 'walked' up to me yesterday standing on the top of his feet (if you can imagine that). This was the straw that broke Bobby's back. I actually said out loud: 'I cannot wait to get out of this fucking country.' 

The sheer desperation of people that you see every ten yards down every street is, to my eyes, only matched by the pomposity of the people who literally step over them.

And I have become one of those people. And I hate myself for it.

So, for my own selfish reasons, I am actually looking forward to getting on the plane to Singapore tomorrow morning. 

I will be sad to leave a country that it so rich in history and culture, but I certainly won't miss one that is so poor to its poorest people. It pains me to think that I can just leave, when this will continue to for these people. And from what we've learned, it's only getting worse.

It also pains me to say that I cannot see a way that India will be able to do much for them. It's estimated that the country will have a larger population than China in just over a dozen years time. This is not good news.

Helen and I met a girl on the train on the way to Delhi who argued that the kids on the street, and the deserted farmers that struggle to subsist, and all of the lower classes of Indian people are - and I fucking quote - 'better off than us in the UK'.

She argued that they have a 'fighting spirit' that we lack because we don't have to struggle to live every day, which 'enriches their existence' and - when the time 'inevitably comes that global warming claims a large stake of the world' - they will survive and we won't, because we 'won't know how to.'

I'd been sitting there for about twenty minutes listening and watching Helen bite her tongue with this girl, but sit I could no more. 

'Listen you fucking stupid stuck-up little post-hippy cuntb*g - you're wrong - 'they' are categorically not 'better off than us'. Now fuck off back to Cirencester.'

I may have just said the middle bit about her being wrong, but I think my tone implied the rest.

So, with a sense of slight relief, we close the first chapter of shit stories around the world.

In conclusion, I suppose you can look at it like this:

I am like a ten year old discovering his cock - scared of becoming exactly what he set out not to be. And, riddled with inner angst about what I really should be doing with my time on this planet, I'm doing what traditionally the Finnegan's and Fox's have always done - ignoring it.

My inner angst - not my cock.

P.S. On a slightly lighter note - we saw this road sign flashing on a roundabout in Mumbai:

ALWAYS GO ON GREEN AND STOP ON RED

UNLESS YOU'RE EATING WATERMELON

Safari So Good: or how I learned to stop worrying and love the Igor

Well, sort of kidnapped. Essentially a chap tricked us with tricks.

A young man walked up to us and asked if we were going to the Golden Palace Hotel, which we were, and he said that his boss had sent him to pick us up. We were bundled into the back of a Jeep with three Americans. But instead of going to our hotel we got taken to his hotel and shown around. 

Nothing could dissuade us from going on as planned however, as the Golden Palace had the pulling power of three Sven-Goran Ericcsons and two Paul Daniels combined - an 'Ice cold' (Lonely Planet, India, pg 426) swimming pool.

We had, however, listened to the hotel manager's spiel about his camel treks which take you out into the desert to see lots of well interesting stuff and that. Knowing that every man and his illegitimate dog would be offering us similar packages, we said we'd have a think about it, and managed to say to the Americans that we may see them later on.

We then went back to our hotel and met three young English guns by the names of Sam, Nicoletta and Ellie. 

We had a really lazy day with them, in and around the actually more like 'Half-hour-old-bath-water hot' pool and went up to the Old Fort with them for dinner. 

That evening we were serenaded by a man that was 300 years old and chased by a pack of rabid dogs, but the food was all right. These cats were off the next day into the desert, and, actually, come to think of it, we haven't heard from them since. God-speed young Britons, wherever you might be.

Pakistan, maybe. [In a flat round the corner from the army, perhaps? No one would notice.]

The camel treks were much more expensive at this hotel, and so the next day we went back to the other hotel, where we arranged to go the following day with the trio of Yanks, who we learned, amazingly, also had names - Liz, Paul and Jane.

Smashcut to the following morning, and the hotel owner shouting at Helen and I that we wouldn't be allowed any water in the desert as we refused to pay 200 rupees (about £2.50 - but it's the principle of the thing) for these shit fucking turbans that he'd tacked onto the asking price. Helen retorted that we wouldn't stay in his hotel when we got back (which put the willies up the American triplet as the hotel were looking after all our bags) and that if he had any business brain at all he'd realise he was losing money here. I think he got the point.

After promises of seeing loads of cool and interesting stuff, we essentially saw fuck all apart from a Jain temple that one of the girls shouldn't have gone in as she was having to employ the use of Vampire's Teabags (take that Jainists, you heathens!) and a village where I felt very awkward about walking around. 

Poorn.

In a nutshell, we got on top of a camel and got taken to a place with some shade where we ate a curry. Then we got on the camels again and went to somewhere in the shade and ate a curry. We then went to bed in the middle of the desert and woke up buried in a foot of desert. Although, in between this, some things of note did occur.

I really hit it off with my camel, Robert.

We led the pack, striding majestically over the dunes, farting into the wind and generally being the coolest human-animal partnership this desert has seen since Keith Harris and Orville did a promotional for Dixons out here. 

Bobby and I forged a relationship that frankly my fellow cameleers didn't enjoy, he was a strong character, a trusted friend and a compassionate lover. This made it a bit awkward when I gutted him and got inside, like I was on Hoth.

Helen convinced her camel, Rocket, to stage a sit down demonstration in protest over the wage structure and lack of a structured healthcare plan.

It wasn't until dusk, however, that the desert truly came alive. 

A barefoot man dressed in black strode over to our camp and said in a thick Soviet accent: 'Duzz anyvun have a zigarettes?' This was our introduction to the star of the desert show, Igor from Russia.

Within five minutes he had explained he was here with his mother and her friend, who 'no one in our country likes', quoted Blake perfectly and translated a 200-year-old Russian poem that bare no reflection to what was actually going on.

We stared in bemusement (although I have a feeling that the Americans were pretty edgy as soon as he had said 'Russia') as he retold how he had come to get a massive cut on his fist. 

'I am standink in big glass cage and I shout "No mother I will not go! Why won't you go! Argh, Arrrgh, AAAARRRRGGGHHHHH MOOOOOTHEEEEERRRRRRR!!!" he quite literally bellowed whilst making Hulk-Smash movements, before quietly pointing to his cut and saying: 'And that is how I got thees'.

As fast as he had arrived, Igor disappeared over the next dune, without saying a word. He was my new hero.

Fantastically, he returned when it was pitch black, explaining that he had been a professional flautist for twenty years (as he was only twenty-five I thought this was very impressive), wanted to be in Africa on his own and, to my great amusement and the American's astonishment, that there was 'nussink goot about democracy'. He then treated us to an epic whistled version of his favourite piece of music.

Every story started with 'I had eaten 400 marijuana cookies' or 'I was gettink stoned with 90 Belgians'. 

Then, out of the blue, he said he felt as though we were on a very big plane, but he was next to us in a very small plane. And there were tigers on both planes.

He then stood up, screamed 'Scooorpion!' and ran off. This was the last we heard of Igor. 

I hope he has found the English trio and they are having 'happy cakes' with some Belgians. Rather than being picked apart by vultures on the Pakistani border.

As you can tell, I made it out of the desert, and I'm almost certain Helen has too. We did leave separately as the offer of 200 camels was a bit too tempting I'm afraid. Only kidding. They were Camel Lights. Zing.

Off to Agra tomorrow to see a big building and then to a sanctuary for ex-dancing bears. Pole-dancing bears. Crazy bastards.

Hopefully we'll knock the building on the head by about midday as I really want to see Yogi moonwalk.

Tutty-bye x

Three Men and a Little Monkey

When I last laid a blog I explained somewhat briefly that Dagley and I were about to venture into the unknown (well, to us) deserts of Jaisalmer. Without wanting to spoil the end of the story, we didn't die. 


But before I expound how we didn't die, I will take you through the couple of days before we travelled through space but not time into the heart of pretty much nowhere at all.

















On our first full day in Jaipur we met a young American fellow by the name of William. Will was, and by all accounts probably still is, a very interesting and adventurous young student from just south of Boston. 

He'd been in India for about three weeks when we met him, and had been to many of the places of interest that we had planned to go to. He therefore dished out lots of tips and advice on where to go in our last week here. 

A farm-boy back home, Will is over here as part of his degree and will work on a farm about 60km outside of Jaipur. In his home town he grows cranberries, which will be a bit different to what he's going to grow here. Ice cream or something, I wasn't really listening.

With Will we went to many of the main tourist traps of Jaipur, my favourites of which were the Monkey Temple (which was full of monkeys), Amber Fort (which wasn't full of amber) and Muntar Juntar (which had its share of munters but was mostly full of huge sun dials and old star-gazing equipment).

We also took a long rickshaw drive up to Tiger Fort (fucking liars - not a tiger in sight - and apparently it's home to the world's biggest ever cannon, but I didn't see it so it can't be that big) and enjoyed a beer called 'Godfather 50,000' looking out over Jaipur. 

This was a strange experience as you could hear the city, but instead of sirens and cars and such you could almost pick out individual conversations.

Will, in all his glory, has also been studying Hindi since September and taught me a couple of words. My favourite of which is (phonetically) 'fearmalengay' - which roughly means 'we will meet again', but in a spiritual rather than physical sense. Loads of Hindi stoner priest nomad people said it to us at the Monkey Temple, and I now say this to everyone that I meet. To mixed reception.

After four days in Jaipur, we hugged (backpackers seem to be incredibly quick to hug - I mean, I'm all for a high-five on a first date, but I'm a man of dignity - the key is to remember you don't owe them anything) farewell to Will and made our way to the train station to go to Jaisalmer, which is in the North-west.

Our train was about an hour late and we were starting to get agitated about whether we were on the right platform when the tallest man in India bounded over and started to talk to us. As has now become habit, I introduced myself and my wife (it's just simply easier that way) Helen to the man that looked strangely familiar.

The same old questions were asked, answers to which were; Chris, Helen, yes we're married, no kids, England, London, a writer (arf) for a company that is now owned by Indian mega-company Reliance (they all like that), a PA, it's a sort of a secretary, one month, no it's not long enough to see everything, yes we like India very much.

He then offered to buy us a chai, which we duly accepted. As he walked back, he said to Helen: 'So, do you think you are clever?' 

We glanced at each other, we hadn't been asked this one yet and had no answer prepared... 'Erm, yeah?' came our reply. 

'An elephant falls in the lake. What happens to the elephant?'

We came up with many ingenious answers including he drank all the water and spurted it out with his trunk, he used his trunk as a periscope, etc. all to the giant's great mirth. At last we were let out of our considerable misery: 'He got wet. Ha-haaar-hahaha-haaa-hahahahahahahaha. Ha. Hmmmm.... ha!'

Ahhhhhhhh, very good, yeah, like that one. Soo-ooooo...

Feeling not half as clever but a lot funnier than this guy, I suddenly realised who he reminded me of - my much missed and loved Grandad. He was an Indian replica down to the last detail - the height, the ears, the tea, the lateral thinking questions and to top it off he even asked if we had any scrap paper!

Once we were on the train, at about twenty past one at night, he attempted to rearrange the seating so that we could sit with him, which caused nothing short of pandemonium. I eventually had to call a halt to the proceedings and instead thanked him for the tea (which he became sort of enraged at - tip, don't thank Indian people for tea, you may as well spit it out in their face) and said goodnight. 

Plus, as he was getting off much earlier than us in Jodhpur, to wake me in the morning to say goodbye.

This he did, and very groggily I had to refuse a cup of chai from him through the window bars on the train. As he shook my hand and walked off up the stairs I actually, much to my own surprise, had a little spiritual moment. 

Very strange indeed, but trying my best not to sound too mushy, or indeed psychotic, I'm pretty sure Grandad’s watching me round the world. (To be clear I'm being symbolic - I don't think Mr Singh's got a tele-photo lens on me as I type.)

So, onwards and hot-wards.

We were suddenly in a fucking desert.

On a train with no windows and wooden shutters that had gaps so big in them Jo Brand could jump through and make a characteristically profound quip about men weeing on the loo seat or that once a month women have periods. 

Heavily sprinkled in desert sand, we finally reach Jaisalmer where - duh-duh duuuuuh - WE WERE KIDNAPPED!

In case you're wondering why I've gone 'shit' crazy...

This happened in February:

http://blogs.guardian.co.uk/travelog/2008/02/skins_blog.html

Then these happened:

http://blogs.guardian.co.uk/travelog/2008/02/editors_response_to_yesterdays.html

www.guardian.co.uk/technology/2008/feb/17/internet?gusrc=rss&feed=technology

www.guardian.co.uk/commentisfree/2008/feb/17/backpackersbulliesandintern

Alternatively you could just Google Max Gogarty, Max Gogarty Travel Blog or indeed Max Gogarty loves FinneyontheWing.

We're going into the desert for a few days now, so as long as I don't get eaten by a camel I'll set your mind at ease when we get back. If I do get eaten by a camel, I leave everything to Max.

Adieu

[On reflection, I regret the incident. In a way.]