Nov 2008

I'm finally in a cab heading to the airport in Saigon. I have an Air France flight to Bangkok. Check in is fine, and then I sit with Ipod waiting for boarding, and watching all the French people. I can spot a Frenchie quite easily. They just have 'a look'. A Longchamp or Herve Chapelier bag is usually not far off. The flight is painless and I arrive for the second time in Bangkok. For this stay I've decided that I will do the old Khao San Road, which was last visited in 1994. The taxi crawls through Bangkok's clotted streets, I have no idea of the route but finally we get there. OMG!!? What has happened to Khao San Rd? It looks like Disneyland. I've booked myself into a sweet sounding hotel just around the corner. I deposit my bags, a quick shower and change, it's already 9pm and I only have one thing on my mind: Phad Thai noodles. At 9.05 I'm sitting in a restaurant down the street, which is the only one playing decent-ish house music, I have just ordered a Tiger beer and some Phad Thai with chicken and prawns! One beer leads to another and to a table of a Spanish boy from Pamplona. We discuss all the craziness of bull running and sangria, sangria stained white clothing and strange battery operated musical disco balls. I reminisce about the good old days on the Khao San Road. Claire big eyes falling in a hole in the middle of the road. Being sick after too much Mekong whiskey into the open mouth of a starving street dog (I didn't actually do this, can't remember who did?). I have until 1pm the following day to do a little shopping and then get to the airport. The next morning with a fuzzy head I manage a little shopping, a massage and another Phad Thai noodles, all before I get a minicab to the airport. I jump in next to an English girl who has blond hair with corn rows. Now I have a rule about that, and I'm sorry but it ain't good. What possesses fair haired Caucasians to get corn rows?? It looks shit. Anyway she's pretty funny (I know I shouldn't judge)...and she tells me all about her trip. In fact I can't get a word in edge ways, and that's coming from me, 'Esther the champion interrupter'. We get the the airport and both go to check in . I'm off to Mumbai, she's off to Sydney. We pop out after, for a quick smoke before we go through to departures. Whilst outside two Indian men (look like extras from the Munsters) with a trolley laden so full you can hardly see the driver, approach us and ask for a light. It's just one of those moments...I comment that I bet I end up sitting next to them on my flight, seeing as they're Indian they're probably headed to Mumbai. We go through customs. Sophie's been on a boat trip into Malaysia with some new found friends (I had the whole story told to me in the cab, it was "amazing"!?). Somehow in her passport she has been stamped out of Thailand, but not back in again! They drag her off for questioning. Well not really, but the do detain her. Anyway I'm running a bit late, so we say good byes. I hope she's OK? (I see her later and she's fine). I stop off in Boots for some essentials and then head to the gate. The flight seems pretty full. Right I'm squeezed on the window seat of a British Airways flight to Mumbai. Its chokka. The hand luggage situation is ridiculous. I thought they had rules? More and more passengers get on, but no one sits next to me. Cool maybe I'll get the three section to myself? It's been about 15 mins since I boarded and there don't seem to be any more people getting on, I move my bag to the seat next to me. Just as I do it, the extras from the Munsters show up, they are sitting next to me (don't say I didn't warn you). Life = sadistic sense of humor. They're actually very sweet (possibly too many sweets, v bad teeth) and want to know all about my trip to India. Unfortunately I have to go to the loo once during the flight, and they have to move their 'four' items of hand luggage which are crammed around our feet. Is it just me or does everyone look exceptionally good (or better) in airplane toilets? It must be the lighting? Indian Jones new flick (well hardly new), pants. Turn off half way through and a bit of a snooze.

We land in Mumbai its 8pmish, I'm in India wow! We have to taxi for about 20 mins. Although the captain has told us to remain seated with our seat belts fastened. There is an immediate rising of bodies out of the seats and running to the over head lockers. The stewardess tries to calm us down, but its all rather futile, people are already queuing in the aisles. I can't actually move in my seat, so stay put. Security is fine, although the Indian customs lady scrutinises me from my now eight year old passport photo. Have I changed that much? Then on to the baggage reclaim. I will reword that the 'pantomime of the baggage reclaim'. A busy pretty crappy (run down, being renovated, piles of building stuff lying around dangerously) baggage hall. Trolleys are grabbed then pushed with great speed and no particular regard for safety or human or anything, to the conveyor belt. This is done by everyone it seems. This results in all the trolleys crammed around the belt so no one can actually reach the belt. Unfortunately our luggage doesn't appear for ages, so the pack gets tighter and tighter. There is an initial load which creates mild hysteria, but then nothing. The same bags just seem to go round and round. People are edgy and bickering about the trolley jam. Finally the bags appear, but it's a farce because those who can get their bags off the belt, can't actually move their trolleys away. I just sit back and watch. I keep thinking of Meera Syal and her book 'Life Isn't All Ha Ha He He', it certainly isn't. My bag goes round three times before I decide to brave the riot. I'm in India, I'm not in a hurry, it's making me laugh = I love it!

From the madness I'm rescued by Lalal, P's trusty driver. A private car to whisk me into Mumbai, thank f*ck! I'm taken to a hotel (Sea View Hotel) by the beach in Juhu. The most expensive place I've stayed and possiblt the most rubbish. I'm checked in by a man with the hairiest ears ever, and then shown to a room which is filthy and has dirty sheets. I ask them to change the sheets. They bring fresh ones which are still stained (dirty). Yuk (my OCD about stains). Anyway I resolve to be OK about it for one night, Ill use my sleep sheet. P and his beautiful girlfriend are very sweet and invite me to stay with them on the following days. I do wake up though and have a lovely stroll on Juhu beach, get a henna stamp on my palm and chatter with a cricket playing girl whose whole family are playing on the beach. I have managed to accidentally arrive in Mumbai for Diwali. Which is the Hindi New Year. The whole place is lit up like Christmas. It's so pretty, fairy lights in all colours and big lanterns and fireworks. I spend the next two weeks in Mumbai or Bombay as everyone still calls it, on a bit of a bender. Thanks to wonderful P, I'm invited to the most incredible parties and meet so really cool people who work in Bollywood or do very well for themselves. It's a far cry from Shantaram's Bombay. In fact weirdly I stand at one party in a penthouse apartment in an expensive enclave of Colaba over-looking the slum in which Lin Baba lived. The Indian girls at the parties are breath-takingly beautiful, with waterfalls of diamonds falling from their ears. All the parties have bars layed on, and waiters and large bowls full off cashew nuts the size of boomerangs. This is uber bling. I've never seem anything like it. Indians love to gamble and this is what they do during Diwali. They all sit round youngsters, middlers and oldies, all playing poker and betting wads of rupees. I end up snogging a Bollywood director!...

Waterstones is a wonderful spa which P takes me to chill after the crazy all night gambling etc. So nice and relaxing an oasis of calm from the whirlwind. I'm also invited to P's parents, where I do the Diwali ceremony, thank you very much. During the days I head off from the flat in Juhu, via rickshaw to the train, which then takes about 30 mins to get into Churchgate, and from there I can walk down into Colaba and the Old Fort area. I do my usual, which is just wandering round stopping at various refreshment stalls along the way. It's definitely a crazy city, but I meet some lovely people, get ripped off in a rickshaw, eat amazing food, drink a beer at Leopold's, buy a plastic Ganesha. I take loads of photos of dirt and bumble bee taxis and shit and crap (not actually). There's never a dull moment in Bombay. It's a freshly cut out throbbing heart.

Is it just me or is water quite difficult to drink? I just don't like it.

Indian rules on the flight: no remote controlled cars

The herd of cows going to Diwali.

Bobby Deol in Speedos.

Expat party where we have to introduce ourselves on the mike.

Loving curry.

I make the mistake of getting the public train at rush hour (not first class).

Ben Stiller moment.

Indian men = friendly and chatty

Indian women (NB not all) = unfriendly and catty.

Beautiful gorgeous D, P's girly.

Gold, diamonds, watches, cars, massive TVs.

Johnny Walker black label.

More to come on the perils of excess in Mumbai and notes on a country where all sorts of crazy shit happens, like the whole time.

xxxxxxx

This has become a verbal memory of my photos, which I have just lost because a dog chewed my memory card. I'm devastated.

Cockerel in Paddy field.
The beautiful fat cows (unlike the skinny Cambodian ones)
Trang/Puong.
The Quiet American.
Crouching Vietnamese.
The small steel topped tables.
The tiny furniture which sits with the tables.
The street food.
No houses on stilts.
Pyjamas worn outside.
Banana plantations.
Cactus plantations.
Piles of sea oysters and other shell fish.
Woven coracle fishing boats with oars like cricket bats.
Mini Ha Long bay sculptures you can by for your garden or drive way.
Grey mist above the mountains.
Young Buddhist monk flame throwing.
Boys lying on the warm tarmac at night under their trucks.
Motorbikes.
Sleeping on motorbikes.
Crazy motorbike helmets.
Smell of tarmac in the rain.
Truck stops by the side of the road with hammocks and tables.
Skinny jeans and mullets.
The heavy red setting sun like a lazy eye.
Things in plastic bags hanging outside shops.
Old crooners like bar flies drinking beer and scotch, with wizened smokers skin, accompanied by beautiful young Vietnamese girls.
Vietnam War memorabilia.
No copyright laws, photocopied books, check that the cover of the book matches the interior.
Crafty cyclo guys, agree a price first.
Cacophony of noise.
Trying to cross the road in Saigon, you ain't crossed a street until you have here.
Great food, clean, simple easy.
Filthy feet (mine again).
Ka da (ice tea).
Mango shake.
Pho Bien (beef noodle soup with rare and well done beef)
Bun Cha Gio Chay (cold rice noodles, with coriander, mint, lettuce, beansprouts, carrot, cucumber, chives and deep fired pork spring rolls which you pour a sweet fish sauce over).
Cholon market.
Fresh spring rolls (the best).
Bags of weird red root stuff.
Sharks fin.
Burping shop assistant.
Amazing french bread and croissants.
Balls of tar on the road.
Motorbike drivers getting your attention.
Army officers drinking iced coffee smoking cigarettes.
Rubber band deck chairs outside cafes.
Cafes with TV's everyone goes in to watch the news or soaps or films.
Open hair dresses, cutthroat razors.
Billiard halls.
Markets.
Smelly meat stall.
Tofu lady.
Egg lady.
Trays of cat fish and shrimp, still alive.
Pomelo lady.
Pancake lady.
Dried squid man.
Lemon peel drying in the sun.
Crabs in trays.
Baguette trolleys.
Blocks of pate covered in glossy mayonnaise which is curdling slightly in the heat.
Waffle woman.
Sweet dried banana woman.
Bike repair man.
Recyclers, they crush the cans by driving the truck over then a few times.
Sun beds with sleeping Vietnamese.
The Vietnamese love their sleep, I'd say Olympic standard sleepers.
Bowls of steaming Pho.
Bags of Bun Cha.
Continuous honking of horns.
No fat Vietnamese at all.
Shuttlecock foot badminton.
Peanut lady.
Chestnut man.
Conical Vietnamese hats.
Fake bags, sunglasses, books, everything.
Zoom bar.

Bangkok for 24 hours next xxx

My time in Vietnam is a bit of a disaster. I'll get to it in a minute. Firstly I thought I'd take a bit of time thinking about stuff and about me. Ive been on the road now for nine months. Quite unbelievable, I'm so lucky to be doing this!

OK things Ive been thinking about: Tarot cards which were read to me before I left, said that there is a knight in shining armour waiting for me, and its someone I already know?! Well Ive been thinking and I don't bloody know who that could be...? Then Ive just finished reading 100 years of Solitude. Which got me thinking all about South America again. God I miss it and love it. This is all happening while I sit on a bus bound for Ho Chi Minh City or Saigon which I prefer. All sorts of things fly past my window as we travel. Blocks of ice being cut with saws. Bicycles parked outside cafes. Houses on stilts. Families sitting on their outside beds. Gateways to nowhere seem to be quite common here. Large bits of land all unkempt and jungle-like with big rusty gates keeping people out. A remnant of Pol Pot I wonder? Land which was promised, but with no money only gates were ever put up? Gates of deceit. The bus attendant looks like an Asian Yousif. Want a new tattoo. Loved Max's tattoos. I think I want a tiger? Would that be strange? There a whole gang of Germans on the bus and one of them is drinking his water in a most repellent way, I feel sick. I'm missing Sarah so much already, wish she was here to giggle with me. I just left her standing on the street outside our hotel in Phenom Penh. Surreal. Her cashpoint card wasn't working so I lent her some money. Its been quite hard keeping tabs on my spending but again, but there is more to come on this. I'm leaving Cambodia bound for Saigon. The trip wont be that long, six hours. I will be in Saigon later tonight. Not really sure where I'm staying, we'll see what happens. Something smelly is seeping from a carrier bag at the front of the bus right up the aisle, I move my backpack. The air con has started dripping on someone opposite. The bus attendant simply takes the curtain, pulls it over the offending air con nozzles and tucks it into the overhead rack. Genius! We stop to get a boat on the bus, the queue for the crossing is full of minibuses. They are jammed full of people, at least four people sit on each roof too. The road is swarming with hawkers selling green mango with lime and salt, there are baskets on heads full of baguettes and plenty of other snacks which I can't distinguish. We get to the border where we all have to disembark and file though customs. Our passports are given to the bus attendant who goes though each one and checks that we're all accounted for. A bus of about thirtyish persons and would you believe I'm last in the pile. I get to the back of the queue and wait. We all stand in the customs office and wait for our turn. There seems a hierarchy in who gets to go first. Vietnamese men first, then Vietnamese women, then Cambodian men, Cambodian women etc. Europeans are last and I'm the only female European. I'm therefore last again, the lowest of the low. Finally we're in Viet Nam man. Back to roman script. I will miss Cambodian crazy writing. It seems a little more built up and western than Cambodia, which it obviously is. Its dark as we arrive in HCMC. We pass countless street restaurants with people hungrily tucking into steaming bowls of Pho (beef noodle soup). We arrive in the dark on Pham Ngu Lao, which is the centre of the backpacker district. Street hawkers accost us as soon as we step off the bus, offering accommodation. Not really sure where I'm going, but fend off any advances and head down the street. 15 minutes later I'm approached by a young woman who offers me a room for $7 per night; she promises cable TV and hot water. I feel safe and follow her down a tiny alley off the main street. I'm shown to a little home down this lane, and into a room which is the master bedroom of a family house! The family seem really sweet, the room is spotless and has a lovely en-suite, TV and a balcony. Its just started to rain so I say yes. I'm pretty tired so sort myself out and pop out for some food. I find I little restaurant on the main street and sit myself down, order fresh spring rolls and some noodles and watch the world go by. I'm in Sai Gon, Viet Nam.

Back to the room, it's about 11pm and so I have to step over the whole family and a dog who sleep on the floor in the lounge? Interesting?! Once in the room which is up a tiny staircase at the back of the house I lock the door, and then worry for about ten minutes that someone will break into the room during the night. Will I be safe? I settle back on the comfy bed with terry toweling sheets which say 'I love you' all over them, and watch TV, I think I'll be fine. The fan whirs above my head and the bedside light glows red. Its hot and sweaty, I feel like Martin Sheen in the beginning of Apocalypse Now.

There is a huge poster of a Vietnamese bride and her Russian husband on the wall opposite the bed. She's the eldest daughter of the family. The picture is brilliantly photo-shopped and they look flawless. Its totally kitsch and I think I would now do the same, airbrushed wedding shots. The next morning I head out. Oh my god I love the family! They're really sweet. They speak no English so we communicate with sign language and writing things down. I head off to see the War Museum and a few other tourist sites. Outside the Ben Thah market I'm approached by a cyclo driver (tuk tuk cyclist). He shows me his well fingered scrapbook of his tourist trail. I ask how much he charges and hes super friendly and says that I can give him what I want. Hes all smiles and very persuasive. Its bloody hot, I'm not really sure where I'm going, so I decide to take him up on his offer. He cycles me about, and then an hour later delivers me to the War Remnants museum. I agree to meet him outside afterwards. I'm only in the museum for about 45 minutes but when I get out he's buggered off, with annoyingly, my Lonely Planet... I find my own way back to the right bit of town and am annoyed with myself for trusting my book with him. Luckily though I find out from a Canadian girl a week later that part of their scam is that they're all super friendly and cycle you all over. Then they tell you they charge 200.000 Dong an hour and get really nasty if you don't pay them. So in all fairness I escaped with just a missing book. I go to an ATM and withdraw $40, unbeknownst to me my last ATM withdrawal in Vietnam. I accidentally leave my card in the machine. What an idiot. I don't realise until the next day, which is Sunday, so the bank is shut. I have to cancel the card, because I'm not sure where it is. Monday morning I head to the bank and sure enough the card had been swallowed by the machine, drat. Double drat in fact. Now I'm screwed for money. What to do? They'll have to send me a new card from the UK, and then get it sent here. I head to the British Consulate and get coordinates for the card to be sent to. Then I mail home and find out it will take a week for a new card to be issued. I decide that I will go to the beach and just chill there until I have to be back in Saigon to get the card. I jump on a bus to Muine, four hours up the coast. Here I find a hotel which will accepts my credit card and spend a week doing nothing, eating on credit or as cheaply as I can, and work on my tan. There is a little restaurant by the beach which does grilled squid in lemongrass and sweet chili sauce with steamed rice ($2). This is lunch everyday and I still dream of it now. The following weekend I head back into town to wait for my card. When I get back to Saigon I decide to try and find a hotel which accept credit cards. I find one at $10 per night and head to bed. The worst night of my life, dreaded bed bugs again!! I cant sleep. I managed them in Colombia but I was in the jungle. As soon as I can I check out and go and find my nice family from before. Unfortunately their room is let, but friends across the road also have a room above a laundry. Another lovely room and again only $7 per night. I also explain my situation, through their daughter who's about 11, but speaks the best English. They are happy for me to pay then when I get my card. They all rally round and I feel safe looked after. So I'm waiting, stuck in Saigon waiting for this blasted card, with credit card but no cash.

The novelty of my travels has worn off. I hate doing status updates on Facebook. I want to be home. Ive spoken to Ed and he also agrees. Esther get your arse home asap. I still have a little cash left (I exchange 20GBP which Id forgotten I had). So enjoy street food which is super cheap and delicious. Well I regret dinner on two nights which leaves my running to the loo, but it doesn't put me off. I find a little bakery up the road which they sell cheap sandwiches and the best Mango shakes ever. I have a shake for breakfast everyday (50p). There are loads of Russians here and loads of Nigerians too. Unbelievably one evening I'm sitting in an Internet cafe and cant help seeing a Nigerian guy sending one of those dodgy emails about helping to gain access to funds in foreign accounts because of political situations and needing your bank account number etc. He's there for the whole hour I'm there, sending hundreds of emails to databases of people...well I never?! So it's just some guy in an Internet cafe in Saigon doing that? Weird. OK I'm weird, Ive now watched the Bourne Ultimatum five times. I stay in to watch films in HBO or Star films. I have my mango shake, my pho noodles ($2), my bit of time on the Internet, then back to room to either watch TV or read. Sometimes I go and sit in the park and read. Ive walked everywhere too, and tasted nearly all weird and wonderful street foods. My favorite being the food in a plastic bag. Take a small plastic bag and fill it with cut up rice paper, lime juice, chili oil, ground peanuts, sweetened watered-down fish sauce, basil, coriander, chives, deep fried quails eggs, beansprouts. All these ingredients which are in neat little jars on a wooden tray are mixed up in this bag with wooden chopsticks by a woman crouching on the street. Vietnamese knees are incredible. Anyway this food is incredible, I love it. You then head off and munch straight out of the plastic bag with chopsticks, brilliant! Officially 6 or 7 million people live in Saigon. Half of them own a motorbike. During rush hours, streets and avenues in the center of Saigon are flooded with these small motorbikes. Possessing a motorbike is a symbol of status. Many youngsters recognize it would be impossible for them to find a girlfriend without a scooter. The more expensive the bike, the easier it is for them to find a beautiful girl apparently. A typical teenager will pick up his girlfriend a weekend afternoon, take her for a ride, and sit in a park's bench to talk. Public kissing is un polite. The parks around where I stay are full of courting couples sitting on their bikes canoodling. I spend nearly three weeks in Saigon in this mode, still no sign of this card. Mum then decides to send me so cash via Western Union, which saves my life. Lisa puts me in touch with a brilliant friend of a friend, Suzy who takes me out and spoils me. Kareoke night, I do the worst ever rendition of "here I go again on my own", I really can't sing. Strangely though when I do a duet with Suzy we win, with our take on "hungry like a wolf". I do a great day trip out to see the Mekong Delta and meet a cool Canadian girl called Vanessa (of cyclo story earlier). Boris whom I meet at Zoom bar looks after me and takes me out for a wonderful German feast of Wiener schnitzel, spaezle and red cabbage. The Vietnamese waitresses have red checked Dirndl's on! My departure date is looming and still no sign of this card. I give up. I'm going to have to do India with cash. I think I can just about cope with that! Honestly what a polava.

'Is it just me?': or do I spend an inordinate amount of time locking all my valuables into my backpack with a combination lock, only to realise that in fact I need, my passport, or card, or something. Or that Ive forgotten to lock something away. So I have to un lock it and then re lock it, this process can happen up to four times before I can leave. Hopeless. Is this a form of OCD?

Miss everyone like hell xxxx

I love my friends sooooo much x

We've tried two mornings in a row to see the sunrise at Utopia. We keep oversleeping. On our last day Max wakes us up like a dad and we emerge bleary eyed to a magnificant sunrise, it's beautiful. We've booked ourselves onto a morning bus to take us back to Phenom Penh. A tuk tuk collects us and drops us at into town, and from there we jump on the bus. Its a bumpy ride back to Phenom Penh. When we reach town we get in another tuk tuk and head towards the lake, which is where most of the back packer accommodation is. It is revolting. A dirty back street labyrinth of lanes with seedy hostels, restaurants and bars. We check out three hostels all of which are sub standard. Onto another tuk tuk to try near the river. Eventually we find a hotel, which although more expensive, the room is clean and we have cable TV and air con.We head out for some lunch and walk through a street market just up the road. Its a cacophony of smells, noise, people, baskets of skinned frogs still moving, catfish in baskets still flapping. The dirt of the street mingles with the strange and gruesome fare on offer. Mayhem, and not a bit like Tesco. We find a rather plush french bistro and treat ourselves to a good lunch. After a bit more of a wander, some markets and booking ourselves on the 'Killing Fields' tour for tomorrow, we slowly head back to the room for some chillage. We pop out for Happy Pizza in the evening, first pizza in ages and very good (we don't do extra happy which includes sprinkles of ganja!). Back at the room we end up watching Lord Longford and share a pack of chewy stale maltesers, weirdly quite good.

The following day we head off in a mini bus to the Killing Fields. Tragic and quite unbelievable what the human race is capable of. Sarah has read the book 'First they killed my Father' which is a young girls account of how the Khmer Rouge destroyed everything she held dear including loosing her parents and sister. It makes us think about how different Cambodia would be today if this regime hadn't destroyed everything it did? They destroyed the infrastructure, the cities, the temples, and exterminated anyone they thought intellectual, they destroyed millions of lives. Back in town we also visit S-21 an old school, which was turned into a detention centre where through barbaric torture and torment, countless people were sentenced to death. Its heart breaking.

Sarah leaves the next day flying back to Bangkok and then back to Brussels. I don't want to think about her leaving. We go out for a nice dinner of Vietnamese Pho beef noodle soup. We've had such a nice time. Its the first time we've spent so much time together since we both lived at home. Its been a much needed bonding session and long overdue. There are not many people you can 'just be' with.

Sarah I love you for being: honest, kind, gentle, sensitive, humble, trustworthy, a listener, vulnerable, analytical, caring, loving, understanding, a dreamer, quirky, reflective, un-complicated in the most complicated way, reliable, persuasive, conscientious, feminine, glamorous without trying, tidy and eccentric, offbeat and completely unique. I'm the luckiest girl in the world to have you as my sister.

Our last day is spent with a bit of shopping in the morning, I find a really cool antique shop and have to buy a few trinkets and what not. Back to the hotel and checkout. Then I have to go, I hate goodbyes especially this one. I get in my mini bus bound for Saigon. Leaving Sarah standing on the street outside the hotel in Phenom Penh, Cambodia. Its like a strange dream. I miss her terribly. Were we really there?!

Wet sodden Cambodia, the earth soaked in rain and blood. The soil is so rich in human emotion it has a soul. It nurtures a people who deserve this Earth maybe more so than you or I.

Sarah thank you for our spiritual journey.

xxxx