Days 137 to 146

But onwards, to a rather unsatisfactory location, after Anturan, called Bedugul.  It appears that the peace and quiet didn't agree with us, after village life.  A rowing trip across the lake appears to be the only event worthy of note, along with an overly-agressive German neighbour who would bellow words to the effect of 'lights out' at 10.10pm.  The early part of the final day in Anturan seems to be taken up with brooding about the argument with E.  Lots of reflecting on,to put it basically, "Mars vs Venus" and the pros and cons of travelling with other people vs travelling alone.   It's not said in the diary but I'm sure I'm thinking, a little, about how R came back from his inter-railing with a final diary entry that says 'I hate G'.

The return to Ubud is the final phase.  It's dominated by shopping, eating muesli and sati (not together), cocktails and hangovers (after after other).  I also appear to have become an expert critic on the Kecak dance.   But, without counting, I reckon I'll have seen it around five or six times by the time I depart.

Post Day is a highpoint (twice by the looks of things).  Particularly pleased to be hearing from H and U (the latter appears to be in a very bad place at home).  And what can only be described as a 'telling off' from G on the subject of my not being interested or responsive enough to his previous missives.

Kampung Sari is the name of the place that we stayed, I think, on both occasions.  No doubt a high end resort 25 years later!

And then E is gone.  Just as J was, months before.  I'm a little homesick as a result but reflecting upon the fact that I'll also be home soon but am also very lucky to be spending more time in Bali.  In this final furlong I observe temple preparations, reflect upon the inherent selfishness of solo travel, eat doubly at lunchtime to avoid eating along in the evening, have sleeps disturbed by frog choruses, read Kerouac and Carrie Fisher, reflect upon the pretentiousness of some/many aspects of my play, and.  I. Go. Home.

22 days in Desa Anturan

We stayed in Anturan for around 22 days.  This was always the plan - to 'settle down' somewhere and to write.  I was, of course, writing my play and E was putting the legwork into being a travel writer (!).

The days were very much the same - breakfast and letter/diary writing followed by a combination of things.....

Chatting to Suidi.  The tone of conversations seemed to depend entirely on how well business was going.  Her tactic was to lure you into the shop, sit you down with a cup of coffee and chat to you whilst you gradually remembered all the things you needed - from books (Postcards from the Edge on one occasion, Maybe the Moon on another) through to suntan lotion and cigarettes.

Ketut - the chap who worked in Mandhara cottages (and his dwarf friend who sported a denim waistcoat with Tom Cruise on the back) and who's sexuality I spent a considerable amount of time wondering about whilst playing cards for E's hand in marriage.

Massages.  The beach was teaming with massage ladies with no-one to 'service'.  One was deaf and dumb and ancient.  She had her own form of sign language that you gradually got a handle on.  All of the massages that we partook in seemed, on reflection, to be of varying quality - usually varying to the lower scale of the register.  One of the massage ladies didn't get any business but the others gave her a cut of their earnings to protect them from bad luck!

Swimming.  I seemed to get it into my head that I needed a 'health kick'.  And the occasional swim in the sea was the extent of it.  I usually found excuses such a 'choppiness' and 'it was full of s**t' to not.

Sheltering from the Rain.  This was a trend, it seems.  The raining season had started to arrive by this point in proceedings and the result was a large number of days sheltering in our first floor balcony room.

A cockfight.  Indeed.  E was insistent that this was part of her vocational research and, to her credit, she sought one out.  It was as you might have expected.  Both an anticlimax and a dirty, visceral and disgusting experience.

Trips to Kalibukbuk for eating, drinking, dancing and watching films.  Bootleg versions of everything from Philadelphia through to a film called Blown Away (that I can't recall and won't be bothering with googling) followed by either a long walk back to Anturan or a motorbike taxi at high terrifying speed.

Writing.  It's interesting to see how much time I did, indeed, immerse myself in writing and in the process, technicalities and multi revisions of writing.  I unearthed the Play What I Wrote with this diary and flicking through it is.....interesting.

Dolphin Spotting.  or not.  A disastrous trip to sea with a french woman and a halftank of fuel in an outboard motor that had seen much much better days.

One big row (ish) with E about the fact that I wasn't paying her writing enough attention and that I was dismissive of her attempts at the expense of diverting attention back onto my own.  I'll just leave that there although it was the source of considerable scarring at the time.  Something that I would, in fact, return to when a similar (or not similar at all) disagreement broke out at the time of her wedding.    We might get there at some point.  Or we might not.

And that was me 'living' in Bali for a bit.  Living is, of course, a youthful exaggeration.  But 22 days are quite a few days.  They seem to be peppered with everything from me-style fidgets and bad moods (the combination of homesickness and post-nap grumbles) through to extreme contentedness and marvelling at 'i'm in Bali - isn't that something'.

Meno to Tirtagangga to Anturan

So - diary number two was in a box in the attic.  Goodness knows what I was trying to hide - and from whom!

So - jumping quickly backwards before we go forwards again.

New Year was spent in an unexpected location called Tirtaganga.  The journey from the Gills was long and arduous and finished for the night in a hilltop homestay in the pouring rain.  And it seems that its collection of animals (from chickens to porcupines) and its exceptional breakfasts were enough to convince us to stay.  There seemed to be an emerging theme at this point in the diary entries about 'money worries' but they seem to pass a little down the line.

New Year, now the diary reminds me, was spent in a local restaurant and then at the 'village party'.  And impromptu Kecak dance ensued which was followed by the inevitable reggae disco.  We seemed particularly amused that it was only the men who danced, never the women.

The mixing of the drinks and the inclusion of various types of arak resulted in sore heads the next day.  And that coupled with the 'bank holiday' vibe on the Bemos (in case I didn't say, they're minibuses that you squeeze onto (or hang onto) and shout "Girri' ('Stop') when you, indeed, want them to Girri) resulted in some frayed moods.

We found the fabled village of Anturan though.  This was where J had stayed 18 months prior and which had reached such elevated status in my mind (up there with The Beach (not written yet I appreciate)) that we had to stay there.  And indeed we did.  Firstly in a place called Mandhara and then in 'Simons'.   The latter was negotiated by E who's particularities needed accommodating.

The village was, indeed, very welcoming.  We got to know people by name and character.  From Suidi who sold us cigarettes and ice creams and rented us pedal bikes, through to the Austrian woman who rain the beachfront cafe and who'd been there for 2 years and spoke Indonesian to other longstanding Westerners because that was just as good a common language as English.

And many of them remembered J.  They remembered him and his guitar and the places he stayed in.  And that they'd tricked him into eating Dog Sate.  Maybe.

Boiley and Dominance

A large portion of that year was taken up with trips to Islington and Kings Cross for zero-paid or 'profit share' jobs.  All of which were coupled with 'networking' on the periphery (otherwise known as making considerable use of the 'pub' part of 'pub theatre'.  But at one point or other I'd decided to buy a car and earn some money.

The car part was a 2CV known as Boiley, which was sold to me by a long-haired chap who did a show at the Hen & Chickens with me and who lived in an enormous house in Sussex with his family. The car cost me £200.  That friendship's high point was, without a doubt, a cast trip to the country pile in question which consisted of a day/night of smoking and a morning of playing tennis.

But the paying job was somewhat more local.  Selling advertising at the St Albans Review was an interview I sailed through after citing my experience with Olan Mills (I can't remember if mentioned this - selling photo sessions to bored housewives) and having a modicum of articulateness that seemed to elude the other two candidates who were being considered at the same time as me.

The highpoints of that experience included completing a half page advertorial on complimentary medicine treatments available in the area.  It also included a quick foray into classifieds and discovering what 'dominance' consisted of when being featured by some advertisers.  I became adept at both designing (cutting and pasting bits of artwork from a scrapbook - literally) and selling adverts - especially at 'cut down price Tuesday'.  I got into terrible rows with the 'lads' on the Reps Table and my boss (a properly rotund (unlike SG) asian chap) took great pleasure in taking the mickey out of my car - to the point where he posted sarcastic messages on the front bumper.

But the phone rang with an enquiry about running another show at the KH.  This time in the evening.   This time for proper money.

  

SG

In many ways I'm deeply conflicted about SG.  One of the reasons that I started this blog was to exorcise some of the demons that have made me 'cringe in the shower' ever since.  SG is, to a degree, one of those.  He died quite a few years ago now and I remember there being an appeal in the newspaper asking for contributions towards his healthcare.  I didn't give.  I wish I had.

The first day of rehearsals was in a 'space' a few 'blocks' south of Angel.  There was a sandwich shop on the corner that's still there.  I don't think the space is.

The show was a one-act Moliere, being directed by a manic American called RG.  More on him, I imagine, anon.  We were going into the lunchtime slot that is programmed by SG under the guise, for some reason that I've never established, as Elephant Theatre.  I think the 'company' died with him.

RG introduced SG, prior to his arrival, as 'colourful and sweary'.  No-one knew quite what to expect, I'm sure.  I most certainly didn't.  SG was a rotund (although that term conjures images of the roly-poly bon viveur to some - he was none of those things), lank (grey) haired, tracksuit wearing, dog on string-toting and extremely sweary individual who claimed to have 'found theatre' whilst serving time (an involvement in the Great Train Robbery was also claimed - as yet unverified).  The C Word featured prominently and very quickly after introduction.

SG was 'Producer not Director' on this occasion but he'd be keeping an eye, he said, on the rooky American.  If required, he'd apply his standard 'week of blocking followed by a week of subtext' methodology on this particular piece of overblown French farce.

SG gave me a number of opportunities and experiences in the Kings Head from that point onwards.  The majority, bar one, at lunchtime and the majority, bar none, sparsely attended.  All of those 'Stage Manager, Kings Head Theatre' credits from that point onwards certainly helped my CV.  It got me a couple of waste of time interviews further down the line.  The interviewers thought that I couldn't have gotten such experience without training and equity card ownership.  Just an acquaintance with a man who claimed to have broken out of a prison transit van with a piece of scaffolding secreted down his trousers was all I had and needed.  I didn't get those jobs.

By the way

There's a gap, I appreciate.  It's complicated.

Back

Returning home I was greeted by my Mum and Dad at the airport.  Which is more notable than it might sound.  I hadn't been in contact for a number of weeks and although I had left them with my return flight details, anything could have happened and I most certainly hadn't said 'I'll see you in a couple of weeks at Terminal X' when we last spoke.  Oh the wonders of pre internet and mobile phone life!

It really was very sweet of them.

I'd been on a flight or two for around 24 hours and the drive back home wasn't as surreal as one might have thought.  I guess I've always been quite good at not embracing the drama or the culture shock.  I was just back in the UK.  Back home.  Without a clue what I was going to do with myself.

By massive coincidence, L called within the hour of my arriving home - not knowing that it was the day (just the period) of my arrival.  She, Mum, Dad and I went out for lunch at a local pub and that was it - back to normality.  Without a clue what I was going to do with myself.

The period of re-normalising was typified by getting more-or-less straight back into the social circuit of 'ten phone calls resulting in a trip to the same pub as usual'.  Not that that was dull - it was just what it was.  A particular memory is of someone who I wasn't particularly close to saying 'where's the tan from?' - and me telling them. 'Wow - good for you', they said.

I was lucky in that I still had some money left and I was living at home so there was no hurry to get into work - or any work.  And then the phone rang.  It was L again.  She was saying that a friend of hers needed some help putting on a show at the Kings Head Theatre.  She wasn't quite sure what the job was but perhaps I was interested.  And within days I was within the vicinity of one of the minor legends of the London Fringe.

Gili Nightmares

Trips like this are always full of bright ideas that don't quite work out.  The trick is to identify them when they are occurring and take evasive action!

One such bright idea was Gili Meno. 'A Paradise' they said.  The trip out was fraught in a manner than we weren't quite prepared for after all of the joys of Ubud.  But it improved on the final leg with a splash-tastic boat ride across some beautiful, still waters that also included a large barracuda being caught by the boatboys whilst we were at it.

The island, on the surface, was a paradise.  Soft sands, luscious jungles and idyllic homestays.  But it was hot.  You've arguably never been so hot in your life.  There was nothing to do but 'zombie around' (that's the words I used at the time it seems) and try not to melt.  Even the couple of walks that we tried to take at reasonable hours of the day were aborted due to mosquitos and heat, respectively.

The homestay was a bamboo construction on stilts.  We didn't manage to sleep a wink due to its overly-close proximity to the sea - which seemed to be getting closer and closer as each hour passed.  We later attributed our 'freaked out' nights to the fact that it was haunted and that the much-reported suicide on a neighbouring island had screwed up the place's 'balance'.  Ok.

And the only place to eat that seemed safe was this creepy pergola set amongst a forest of trees that had been strung up with fairylights for Christmas that played tunes.  We decided that the whole thing was like something out of a David Lynch movie.

It was, of course, very touristy and we made chums with a couple of medical students from the UK who were taking their commitment to tanning very seriously indeed.  The heat didn't seem to bother them in the slightest.

But my first and only foray into snorkelling was a triumph - the coral, the blue seas and the hundreds of fish.  'You can see where they got the inspiration for batik from' I wrote.

  

Happy Ubudian Christmas

Bali, in many respects, was the whole point of the trip.  The idea that Gamelan music would be echoing over every rice paddy was a dream that we dreamt during a rather boring music appreciation class at Southampton.   But we were, indeed, here.

Not after, however, a lengthy and exhausting trip on a very hot bus sat next to a very fat man.  The arrival in Denpasar was alarming in its midnight mayhem but we somehow managed to make it out of town to a place in Ubud that had been recommended to us and who's owner was waiting at the bottom of the steps for us at 4am in the morning.

And our Ubudian experience began in this gorgeous, garden-set bungalow where a chronic case of gut-rot set in.  E left me to it whilst I tried to ride the journey out in bed.

Ubud is rightly famous for its art, its atmosphere and its Monkey Forest Road.   We made many discoveries of our own, notably a cafe with its own turret that we made our own.  The biggest discovery was, however, the Bechak Dance.  About 10 minutes in I remembered an account of it that J gave me, weeks and weeks ago in India.  I laughed out loud at the memory and at the spectacle of around 100 sarong-clad men 'chak chak'ing their way through the most extraordinary ritual of dance, stamping, fainting and more!

There was little doubt that a great deal of Ubud was laid on for the tourists but a great deal of the fruit-carrying and flower-laying was part of everyday life.

And Christmas was approaching.  The run-up was marked with a complex and neck-burning journey back into Denpasar where I collected a good handful of letters for us both.  And E being a Dane, we celebrated on Christmas Eve with a treasure hunt, poetry writing, present-exchanging and BBQ Duck dinner.  You can tell from my writing that I'm the happiest and most excited that I have, perhaps, been for the duration of the trip.

I was well onto Day 108 and it wasn't as if the trip to date had been a bust but you truly felt that this was, indeed, the reason why we came.

Malang Market and the Bromo Gathering

E had gotten it into her head that Malang was a 'market town' worth checking out.  Unfortunately she was wrong and had the good grace to admit it.  It was, in fact, a little creepy.  Dirty and with lots of dark alleys that didn't look alluring, just alarming.  We did, however, have a nice place to stay - a white bungalow on a courtyard - and we spent the majority of our time hanging out and listening to Janis Joplin.  Oh yes - and eating donuts.

But better was to come.   Mount Bromo was a trip that everyone recommended.  A long sick-making bus journey to the top of a mountain and then up the next one!  We were sharing our final furlong with a couple of young Indonesian civil servants who were clearly talking about us.  They spoke much more quietly when we (inaccurately) managed to convince them that we spoke some of their language by asking them some questions in faltering Indo.

Up at the top was a guesthouse and 'restaurant' overlooking this extraordinary lunarscape.  A sand sea at the bottom of a cliff, within which were two smoking mountains.  Two volcanoes within a volcano. The sky was blue and plans were made to go and see the sunrise.

That wasn't until we had made some friends with some local language students who were camping in the freezing cold, drinking beer, singing songs and falling in love with E.  

So - up at 3am and across the sand sea.  Quite alone and lit only by the moon and a failing torch.  We were heading in what we thought was the right direction - quite fearless of the cravasses that appeared to be opening up in front of us.  But we 'turned a corner' and, somehow, found 'everyone else'.  There had been a motorbike convoy spotted in the distance at one point but this was a serious gathering.   Everyone (including water sellers and horse handlers) headed up the cliff, to the ever-increasing smell of sulphur, and waited for the moon to go down and the sun to very slowly rise.  I likened it at the time to Close Encounters and it still reminds me of that.

We stayed for another day and I tried the walk again, only to be sent back by rain.  The sky was newly overcast and the magic was gone.  Time to go.  Another long haul back down the mountain, a row with a ticket tout and a long long journey to.....Bali.

 

Batik, Trekking and Bedbugs

Yogyakarta remains one of the most beautiful and interesting places I've been to.  There are so many things that make and made it just that.

Our first task was to do a Batik course (of course).  In, what was, my usual style, I tried to reinvent the approach that could or should be taken and I tried to do a piece based on the cover of the book that I had been reading and that which made a particular impression on me.  Batik-making is difficult enough at the best of times - a trial of wax-dripping in the right quantities and dying and re-dying.  My reinvention didn't go particularly well and I quickly gave up.  E returned time and again in the quest for perfection and did rather well, although the levels of disappointment and dissatisfaction were not testament to that.

There were two notable and extraordinary sights to see.  Prambanan and Borobadour.  Both crawling with tourists but large enough to accommodate two more in search of a unique or spiritual experience.  The latter was my favourite, dotted throughout with buddhas, some encased in stone-carved 'cages'.  There was a way in which you were supposed to walk around it, in a direction and with a number of times that brought, I assume, good luck.  The whole thing is supposed to resemble a mandala.  We climbed to the top and imagined what it must be like at sunrise.

Accommodation and food were plentiful in town - although the first of the former had to be abandoned due to bedbugs.  But even that is a rite of passage for a backpacker.

For some reason that escapes me we decided to take a day out of town to a place called Dieng.  The journey was particularly notable in that the minibus that we 'took' (minibuses passed as buses in this part of the world) became more and more full - five people in the front seat alone - to the point of bursting - before the driver would consider departing.  As a result (or for some other life-threatening reason) the floor of the bus got unbearably hot later in the journey - to the point where you couldn't put your feet on it.  Reaching Dieng we found ourselves in a cool plateau - rice paddies and rolling hills.  The only place in town to stay was inhabited by some rather snooty Germans and we rather swiftly realised our mistake - this was a place for hillwalking and suchlike - not for 'hanging out'.  A couple of walks that we did, indeed, do were short and abridged thanks to the rolling mist coming down the mountain in a manner that was beautiful but a little forboding.  So - back to Yogya it was.

Merapi - the volcano - had recently erupted - the temperature was higher than usual, smoking was billowing and people were, of course, taking pictures.  People had died.

Bandung - JKK - Singapore (and wait) - JKK - Bandung - and onwards....

I found myself deeply troubled by leaving E alone in Bandung - a feeling that was exacerbated by a terrible dream which I can still remember to this day.  E was, in the first scene, surrounded by all of the people we had met in town - but I couldn't see her face.  The next and final scene was to see her rise towards me - face first - with dark eyes and hollow cheeks.

It turns out that my fears were unfounded - although she would have preferred to have stayed in Bogor, it wasn't so bad - she took a trip out to see an artists studio and, in general, hung out with the other backpackers that had swung by this area.  I found it particularly amusing that the guesthouse staff were particularly nice - something that I found contradictory when thinking about how unpleasant the town was in general.

My journey to Singapore was pretty uneventful - lots of uncharacteristically smooth connections.  I stopped by the old JKK guest house in one of their dorm rooms with the successful intent of leaving at 330am.  The bus to the airport was waiting for me but the destination was closed.  It seems I was particularly looking forward to a Dunkin Donuts breakfast there - alas, the disappointment!

The lack of legroom is all that appears to have been notable about the flight and I do remember sitting in the airport lounge for 5-6 hours waiting for my return flight.  I read the Daily Telegraph and worried about the state of the world.  I wondered about the cleanliness of the airport and my contradictory appearance.  My return to Indonesia was met with a raised eyebrow or two from immigration but I proudly sported a new two months visa with little trial or tribulation.

And back to Bandung.  A long-ish 'stopper' train that was notable for a long chat to a student for the duration - only to be criticised by another passenger, after he got off, for it being too long and noisy!  I also, by the way, got chatted up by two boys in Angie's restaurant in JKK.  I called them 'fags' in my diary - something that made me frown disapprovingly on reading it.  I simply can't remember (but doubt) whether than was an acceptable term even then.

And, as I said, E was perfectly content - the room was a little noisy but she had gotten herself into an early habit of being somewhat uncompromising on such things.  There was nothing holding us there so - so were were straight on to Yogya with a little ado as possible.

Bogor

Bogor was the most spectacular of revelations.  A hill-town-style jungle village, set on the side of a hill with a morass of shanty town below.  I found a guest house that I will never forget on the edge of town, next to a church, surrounded by transvestite prostitutes.  All of the rooms were set around a covered courtyard with battered lounge furniture to....lounge upon.

Bogar's botanical garden is the town's only 'sight' and is little more than a municipal park.  That said, it's surprise sight was a leafless tree, covered with bats.  The people, from one end of the town to the other, are consistently charming and welcoming.  I have my picture taken endlessly and a multitude of invitations to come and see homes and meet families.  I accept a couple of these invitations, to find myself deep in 'suburbia', sometimes acting as 'cover' for an illicit meetup between boyfriend and girlfriend.

I decide, at one point, to start learning Indonesian - on the suggested of 'Teddy' in the guesthouse, the terrible weather and hearing numerous travellers having picked it up with seeming ease.  I spend a couple of days on 'cat' and 'dog' and the numbers and 'that's expensive'.

And then it's time to go back to Jakarta to meet E who couldn't be more excited to arrive.  She's also terrifically well prepared for the trip (unlike me a number of months ago).  That said - her pre-travel nerves are quite similar to those that I experienced.  I had been very much looking forward to seeing her - by this point in proceedings I was feeling a little lonely and a little homesick.  Although I was talking, in my diary, about coming back soon and the 'chitchat' with others was much more pleasant and numerous than in might have been in the past.  E brings many things to the game - from someone to tell my 'tales' to (including a full photo viewing) through to someone to have a drink with - having long been a little teetotal.

After a terse exchange with the Jalan Jaksa guesthouse about their enthusiasm to get rid of us rather quickly, we headed straight back to Bogor.  E was particularly impressed and, it turned out, would have preferred to stay there instead of Bandung.  Because stay she must - on her own - I was headed to Singapore to renew my visa.....

Trans Sumatra

And so to the other semi-mythical story of my travels.  The way I remember it is that I realised that I had a too limited amount of time, now, to reach Jakarta in time to meet E.  The very practicalities of travelling were a little alien to me after these two weeks on Samui.  The chaotic unpredictability of minibuses, boats and buses was an unpleasant realisation to say the least.

Penang had mixed reports to say the least and a cramped minibus of a mixed bag of individuals arrived in this outpost and all concerned suddenly realised that they were in Malaysia now.  It didn't make much of an impact to say the least.  But I don't think I really wanted it to.  My only real memory of this spot was of an enormous cockroach coming out of the overflow in the sink in my room and needing to be scooped up into a newspaper and thrown out of the window.  I'd only seen its tentacles pointing out and thought that a burst of Lynx deodorant would real with it - said burst actually enticed it out rather than sent it packing!

And so to Medan.  And into a different country again.  Our arrival bus was swarmed by rickshaw wallahs - it was like being back in India - the shouting, hawking and deal-doing.  After getting momentary settled, I was overcome with 'advice' from travellers and locals alike about how to get to Jakarta.  I was worried how.  Boat vs Bus vs Plane were debated at length and I plumped for the bus only to be taken around town umpteen times by an increasingly irritating individual who wanted to get me on the right VIP bus, in the right place at the right time.  It seems I was to pay for him and his friends journeys around town and their return journey too!

And so a long 2-3 days of leaky-roofed bus travel began.  My notes use the word 'unbearable' quite a lot.  The bus was packed, the heat intense, the next seat constantly occupied - sometimes by people, sometimes by a box with a chicken in it.  The 'bus boys' thought I was bearing my lot calmly - they thought I must have been on something.  I'd wrap my head in the curtain to protect it from leaks and to use it as a pillow.  The stops involved inedible food and vomit-inducing lavatories.  The 'company' almost always insisted on resting their hand on my knee.  Although my mental state was calm - indeed my head was empty - I do remember letting out a hefty 'sigh' when I realised we had made to little progress.  Oh - and I think it was here that we crossed the equator too.

I arrived in Jakarta battered and bruised - hungover without the fun.  And it wasn't too bad - modern (I did, indeed, have a Burger King) but interestingly cultured - I went to the Museums and the Parks and realised that I was on time - by about three days.  So it was time to explore.  So I headed to Bogor.

Koh Samui Part 2

The second half of my stay in MaeNam was punctuated most notably by the Special Omelette episode.  A memory that has quite literally stayed with me for ever!  Not that it was bad - quite the opposite.

A 'normal' evening in Rasta Baby commenced.  The rather over-hasty announcement that we were having the 'special' resulted in a swift change of tone and a trip, we suspected, on the part of the staff into the jungle to dig up the goods.  Or maybe that's something I've made up since.

The omelette was served with due ceremony and we slathered it in tomato ketchup in the expectation that it was going to taste appalling.  Not that you'd know.  Thanks to the ketchup.  And nothing happened.  We paid the bill and went for a walk.

And then.  The most extraordinary evening/night ensued.  A star-filled dome of sky became the most fantastical thing.  A cat came and joined us on the beach and then came and sat on my table whilst we chatted and hooted.  There were parts of the beach that were eerily desolate and other parts where you could run your fingers through the sand for hours on end - it seemed.  No hippy-speak nonsense about the meaning of the world - just fireworks and fun.

We finally settled back on the balcony - MamaSan was stalking back and forth with a typical scowl on her face.  Something about the generator.  We failed to roll up successfully and thought seriously about getting the kiwis up to do so for us.  I had a shower and upset Jacquie by spraying her with mossy spray.  I slept, at two in the morning, the best sleep I'd had for a long time.

And of course the morning was similarly blissful.  Continued but enhanced relaxation ensued with a vague thought or two that I'd need to leave some time.

And leave I did - after two weeks, the naive exchange of addresses and the clumsy hug or two. It was day 70 and I needed to be in Jakata on day 83.  Not too much of a stretch but a considerable distance by land.   At 5.30am in the morning, I was off, not to return to Koh Samui for another three years or so, under entirely different personal circumstances.

Koh Samui Part 1

The return to BKK was pretty uneventful by the sounds of things.  My disdain at other travellers appears to have increased in magnitude - notably around their somewhat clean and well-kept appearances.  So - it was off to Koh Samui - with big ideas about meditation and thai chi in my mind.

My departure was of an afternoon/evening and was punctuated by a 'drive past' by the royal family - something that required all present at the bus stop to be upstanding.  The bus itself was, we subsequently found out, an 'upgrade' and actually allowed a little bit of sleep.  Lots of couples on board and lots of clubbers heading for the delights of Chaweng Beach.

The longest part of the journey, as I remember it, was the boat across to the island.  Maybe I was a touch seasick but I remember thinking 'is that it' and 'maybe that's it'.

The arrival brought me into contact with some 'greasy Italians' and Jacquie.  On the back of a pickup heading for the North of the island.  'Boguns' she called them.  And off we got at MaeNam Villas.  A complex of buildings that surprised and delighted me.  A little balcony, a chair and table and a double bed.  And a bat.  My other memory - which doesn't seem to be noted in my diary is of a shower without a head and a loo without a seat.

Jacquie and I hit it off particularly quickly.  Our first bonding was over a 'green tea' down at Rasta Baby - something that resulted in me passing out in my seat on her balcony.  Rasta Baby was to become a particularly regular haunt.  A Danish girl and her thai boyfriend who would put the grass on your bill and subtly encourage you in the direction of the Special Omelette.  Many an evening was spent there - racking up a huge bill and watching the crazies dance.

Some kiwis next door also became friendly - a couple with a toddler called Joe - on their way back to NZ from Tottenham.  He (the father, not Joe) became our guiena pig for the special omelette - but he was considerably larger than me - not that that held me back - more on that anon.

Motorbikes were another delight.  The first fifteen minutes were notable for ending up in a ditch on my side (memories of that fete and my parents having to administer St John's finest).  But we soon got the hang of it - until a small selection of bikes were impounded by the police for parking offences - an episode that resulted in a new phase of bartering...

Muesli seems to feature large at this time - as do late breakfasts and late lunches.  The occasional bout of homesickness and paranoia and interesting hints about 'out of control daydreaming' that I enjoyed just as much as I was disturbed by.....

And my birthday.  A birthday in Koh Samui punctuated by a phonecall home and the news that Mum was in hospital.  'It's my birthday', I said to my rather distracted father.  'Is that the only reason you called' said he.

A bridge from Kanchanaburi

The journey to Kanchanaburi was particularly marked by an Israeli girl arguing for a 'no aircon journey' which seemed to irritate me particularly.

But on arriving all irritation slipped away with the realisation that I was going to be staying in an idyllic bamboo hut right by the river.  The nights were cool, the accompanying restaurant was populated by charming staff and interesting people - as well as taxi soup, pancakes and newspapers - and I decided to take it particularly slow.

The walk into town and the bridge itself was short and untaxing.  There were a number of museums commemorating the war and the bridge itself - one, notably, had a temporary exhibition on Miss Thailand for some reason.  I was particularly struck by the war graves and the fact that many of those who fell were little older than me - cue lots of meaningful poetry writing.  

The second day saw me somewhat unpreparedly join a trip to some waterfalls.  I, of course, thought that this would be a somewhat sedate affair - sitting at the bottom reading the odd book or two.  It was, in fact, a full-scale climb up the waterfall itself - in flipflops.  Danes, Irish and Israelis abounded and we arrived back at the guesthouse exhausted but happy.

It seems I was reading DH Lawrence followed by 'Love in the Time of Cholera' at the time - I have no memory of the former and little of the latter.  'Disco Boats' went past my bamboo hut whilst I wrote diary entries and poems about 'falling in love with who you fall in love with' (!) and my neighbour (who had been keeping me awake at night by merely rolling over in bed) decided to go back to BKK because it was too cold here.

The restaurant staff did, it seems, think I was particularly lazy with my 1030 breakfasts and not going out exploring until 1.  But it sounds like I was finally on holiday!  My final night included a drunk old american guy who wanted me to believe that he was CIA and a descendent of Roosevelt - he'd been infiltrating the Burmese border for years and sending intelligence back.  You do wonder how these people ended up here and if/how they ever got 'home'.

Headed back to BKK - to the Merry V.  Laundry and a shave a preparations for Koh Samui.  I'd already decided that I was 'above' the party-seekers and that a quiet spot was just waiting for me.

BKK KSR

So - onwards.  The departure from Bombay was, of course, fraught with negotiations with over-enthusiastic Sikh taxi drivers and their brothers and the airport wait was supplemented with my remains 50 Rps.  But that was it - India done.

There was something of a relapse from the very first flight of the trip with paranoia about crashing and paranoia about everyone else on the plane being more friendly to each other than they were to me.

But the change once touching down in BKK could not have been more marked.   Got a taxi from the airport to town with a couple and a chap called Michael.  The couple had come from Thailand to India and back again - had only lasted a couple of weeks before the dirt got the better of them.  And Michael - a lone traveller who was gradually trying to get his motorbike home.  

And The Khao San Road - that famous backpackers Mecca of banana pancakes, street food and drinks over a pirate copy of Back to the Future II.  We naturally chose a spot off of the road, at the far end - just to prove our 'distance' from 'them'.  But I couldn't have been happier - a comfortable bed that was the location of my first siestas of the trip and a sense that this place was going to be considerably easier than the last five weeks.

Temple hunting is, of course, a must in BKK but these, as you'll know, redefine the word 'breath-taking'.  My natural propensity for not having prepared myself properly resulted in my being taken entirely by surprise as to the beauty and the meditative glory of these places.  The sitting, reclining or standing buddhas - every single one was a source of delight and wonder.

Even the 'last day of the gem sale' hawkers were worth a chat.  Even the 'getting lost looking for a meditation centre' was stress free.  Michael and I hung out (occasionally with others, mostly alone), celebrated his birthday (33), went to the weekend market, went to see 'True Lies' and lay in the guesthouse room, reading (where he had the rather unedifying habit of playing with himself whilst doing so).

It seems I was rather preoccupied with looking out for those girls from Hampi whilst tucking into my latest banana pancake with condensed milk and chocolate.  But to no avail.  I was overwhelmed with wonder at the ease of arranging my next 'leg' and that was it - onto the River Kwai!