350. The Sydney Harbour Bridge ClimbWithout wanting to sound like a miser the Bridge Climb is one of the most expensive tourist traps in Sydney – perhaps Australia. That was the main reason that we had avoided this famous attraction for almost the whole year. However for Christmas we decided to splash out and make the Bridge Climb our last conquest in Sydney. In fact, to totally counter the miser-myth, they offer a variety of climbs at different times of day and we went the whole hog and chose the twilight climb which is far and away the outstrips the price of the bog standard day time climb.
So at 1900 we were at the meeting point waiting to meet our guide. I already knew that the duration of the climb was over 3 hours but I didn’t really know what they were going to do with us that could possibly occupy that amount of time. I would soon find out.
After watching a short video with the rest of our group we were taken into a back room which ominously had “No Toilets Beyond This Point” written on the door. An impossibly thin girl in a Bridge Climb jump suit started to debrief us on some of the safety aspects of the climb. It seemed a bit of a cheek that someone who looked like the slightest breeze would blow her over the side of the bridge was giving us instruction on how not to fall off the landmark.
Then she breathalysed us. Thankfully I was under the limit for once.
Next she sized us up for the most unflattering outfits in the world. They were one-piece and a very unseemly grey. As we were about to put them on over our clothes she said, “It’s 26C at the top and it’s very humid so make sure you strip down to your underwear before getting into the suits.” We did a slight double take but she pointed out the changing rooms and we realised that she was serious.
After depositing everything in a locker we were passed through a metal detector where an old American in a different group was trying to prove that he had a metal hip and wasn’t in fact carrying a spy camera up his backside. Then we met a chap called Neil who would be the person that actually took us up on the Bridge. We went through some more safety drills and then got fitted with out harnesses and latches which would keep us secure on the climb.
They had a small test area where we tried out all our equipment and then we were on our way out to “The Climb of your Life”. The chat about the bridge is actually very interesting but if you’ve spent any length of time in Sydney then you probably know most of the facts already. None the less Neil had plenty of anecdotes to while away the metres which were fed to us via a novel sort of head set that played vibrations through the skull instead of directly to the ears. The result was complete clarity of sound while still being able to chat to the people on either side of you.
The walk itself didn’t actually take very long and if there hadn’t been breaks for photos and admiration of the vistas then we would have probably managed the complete round trip in 30 minutes or less. However, stopping to have repeated looks at the view were certainly worth while as the Twilight Tour showed us almost the full range the Sydney Skyline had to offer – sunshine, dusk and night time. Alas no sunrise but three differing views for the price of one ain’t bad.
The climax was walking over the cross beams that link the two arches and saw us crossing the divide with eight lanes of traffic about 100 metres below us. Not quite as exhilarating as our skydive but it did feel like we were in a secret world out of reach of the rest of the Sydney residents.
At the end of the tour there was a questionnaire about what we thought of the tour. I ticked the “Better than Expected” box for everything except for value for money. When I was at the top of the climb I looked over into the sparkling lights of the city and realised that we were at practically the same height as the cocktail bar of the Shangri La Hotel and it came to me that for the price of a drink we had seen almost the same view. The cost of the climb for 2 was almost $500 and for that we could have drank the best cocktails in Sydney all night with identical scenery.
351. Flight to BangkokOur time in Sydney had drawn to a close and we were about to leave for a few days in Bangkok before heading home to the freezing wet greyness of Scotland. The weather in Sydney had just started to pick up and it was above 25C everyday and the sun was shining on a more regular basis. A small part of my gut ached with the thought of leaving the Australian Summer for a Scottish Winter.
However, Thai Airways really did their best to make us feel like we were still amidst the summer months. I say this sarcastically of course. I’d never heard a bad thing about Thai Airways and to be honest was really looking forward to the flight. That was short lived however as I boarded the most ancient 747 on (or off) the planet and with a great deal of anguish sat down in one of the frayed and uncomfortable chairs while glancing with dismay at the old fashioned ceiling mounted TV screens – which from my seat I would have to strain my neck for 9 hours to watch.
As for making us feel like we were still in Sydney, well the temperature gauge on my watch read 29.8C. There was no air conditioning and no fans above the seat that we could adjust. It took over an hour to get everyone on the plane and as our seats were at the back and we had boarded first we had been sitting in the sweltering heat for the longest time possible. Looking down the aisle I could see virtually the whole cabin stripping off top layers of clothing and fanning themselves with the in-flight magazine. We joined in.
There was no change in the temperature by the time we were in the air and after a further hour I called one of the cabin crew, who was visibly sweating through his shirt, to ask if they could turn down the heat. The reply was “It’ll get cooler soon” but it didn’t. Actually that’s not true – by the time we landed the temperature was at 27.9C which of course was still high enough to cook every one of the passengers.
Speaking of cooking… Well to say the food was bad was a bit of an understatement. By the time the trolley reached us they had run out of the “chicken” and the only thing that was left was the “Curried Fish Balls”. I’m not entirely sure what species of fish or what part of the fish these rubbery things came from but to say they were a bit like boiled golf balls would probably give you a better idea of what they were akin to. The rice that accompanied them was hard and brittle and the vegetables, if that’s what they were, had been over-cooked to the point of baby food. The second meal wasn’t much better. In fact it was exactly the same because this time they had run out of the beef so guess what we got? That’s right – Fish Balls.
My memories of long haul flights were previously all quite good but I think a lot of that had to do with the endless bar that is normally provided. Not so with Thai. At one point after the questionable meal I asked for another glass of red wine, which was served in veritable thimble sized glasses, and the cabin crewman just stared at me incredulously and finally said “I’m too busy. I’ll get it later!” Well, I didn’t want it later, I wanted it now. That said I didn’t have to worry about later as it never came at all.
Soaked in perspiration now, I was miserable. A gloom that even that even the prehistoric cinema system couldn’t lift. But my desolation was nothing in comparison to that of the cabin crew. I’ve never seen such a collection of melancholy and despondent people in all my days except perhaps at a Methadone Clinic and even the people at the Genito-Urinary-Medicine Clinic have a bit of banter about them. But not this lot. They were all victims of a humour by-pass and not a one of them cracked a smile for the entire duration of the flight. Asking for red wine twice may have seen me forcibly ejected from the emergency exit as the crew member lost it in a violent frenzy – so I didn’t.
Thankfully we eventually landed. Not the smoothest landing ever – there was a lot shaking right and left before the plane finally straightened up and then taxied to the gate. We couldn’t get off soon enough and stepping into the AC of the new Bangkok felt positively yet delightfully freezing after the horrific warmth of the Boeing. Our bags were through surprisingly quickly and then we were through customs in a shot. Out in the lobby two friends of Monica’s, Sarah and Amandio, were waiting for us and after some hasty hugs and hand-shakes we were ushered into a taxi that drove us to their home in the city.
352. Bangkok TaxisI’ve been in a taxi before. We all have. But if you’ve never been in a Bangkok Taxi before then I suggest you keep it that way. Unbridled terror would perhaps be the best way to sum up the collection of adverse emotions that gathered in our stomachs as the world flew past in a blur of ill-defined colours at roughly 150km/h.
Maybe this is the best antidote for a long haul flight but when the four of us got into the old rickety estate cab at the airport, I’d no idea what an ordeal we were in for. Sarah and Amandio seemed not to notice the fact that Monica and I, seatbelt-less, were gripping white-knuckled to our respective door handles with fixed fake smiles on our faces trying to disguise our gut-wrenching panic all the while engaging in small talk, none of which I can remember.
How we got to their apartment in one piece is a bloody miracle. Certainly the ride woke us up so violently that any traces of jet lag we might have accrued were well and truly washed from our systems. We had planned an early night but our blood pressure was so high after the taxi journey that we had no trouble talking with our hosts until the wee hours of the morning.
That, however, wasn’t to be our last experience with taxis in Bangkok. It seems to get anywhere in the city you have a choice of four modes of transport – the Skytrain, The Metro, Taxis and the infamous Tuk-Tuks. Of course you could drive your own car but that would be suicide and definitely not something for a tourist to attempt. Sarah and Amandio’s flat was near both the Metro and the Skytrain but neither of those go into the older parts of the city where all the tourist sights are to be found so more often than not we were stuck with the Tuk-Tuk or Taxi option.
Tuk-Tuks are three wheeler motorised rickshaws which despite looking like death traps actually appear to be quite good fun. However, we never managed to get one of these because every single driver that stopped for us was a scam artist. If you wanted to go to, say, The Grand Palace, the driver would say it cost 200 Baht or thereabouts. When you complained about the price he would then say “I take you 20 Baht but we make one stop. OK?” This is a cleverly orchestrated swindle as his plan is to stop at a jeweller or a tailor and try to get you into the shop. In doing so he gets petrol vouchers from the owner of the shop and you perhaps shell out for a suit you don’t need or some valuable-looking bracelets or necklaces which to all intent and purposes may be fake. Luckily we were aware of this sting and after 5 or 6 failed attempts to get into a Tuk-Tuk for a reasonable price with no stops, we gave up.
That left only taxis. Now unlike the rest of the world you don’t have to hail a taxi (or a Tuk-Tuk for that matter) in the conventional way. All you need is a map of the area. When you get that out your pocket about a dozen or so turn up from nowhere swerving all over the road to get to where you are standing, map in hand. So getting a taxi is easy but negotiating a price is difficult.
A few years ago there was a crack down on taxis as none of them were using their meters and were instead haggling with customers over the cost of the journey. It seems that this practice hasn’t died out and a short trip into the centre of the City, which should only cost about 75 Baht, starts off with the driver saying “I take you 400 Baht”. Hmm. No thanks. They all understand the word “Meter” though and reluctantly switch it on. That said they then pretend to not know where they are going and take you on a wild goose chase around the narrow lanes and alleys until such time as they feel the meter has run up enough to make their trip worth while.
Our taxi frustration came to a head towards the end of our 4 days in Bangkok when we had our bearings and knew which route for the taxi to go. About 50 metres from the destinations he made a U-turn and started driving through the back streets of China Town until we eventually had no idea where we were. He did, but kept saying “One way, one way” which it blatantly wasn’t. Eventually, we demanded he stop before the meter crossed the 100 Baht mark and got out. 15 minutes of walking later we found out where we were and got to our objective.
I realise that these people see tourists as dinner-tickets and ultimately arguing over 10 Baht is like refusing to pay an extra 17 pence but what really got me is how many people must get fooled by the antics of taxi and Tuk-Tuk drivers. There are plenty of people that visit these areas who are not up to speed with the scams and probably got home thinking “Thailand wasn’t particularly cheap but at least everyone was really friendly.” It’s a real shame that the culprits of these scams don’t think of the long term affects on tourism and only consider the here and now.
Thankfully, we were wise to these ploys and didn’t really get caught up in them. That didn’t stop my blood boiling every time I heard “I take you, 400 Baht!”
353. Thai Street FoodWhatever anyone says about the dangers of eating food in South East Asia and the inevitable Delhi-Belly , the delicious smells generated by the street vendors soon make you forget. It wouldn’t have mattered if I was eating slow roasted rat marinated in rancid dog crap skewered with a rotten maggot covered stick, the nasal hypnosis that took place from the moment I walked past my first food stall countered every good and valid argument for staying away from those potential gastric hand grenades.
I tried it all. In saying that, I’m not really sure what it was I was trying but I like to think that the majority of the time it was chicken. There were spring rolls, pineapple, melon, chicken strips, beef kebabs, fresh pressed orange juice, chicken wings, papaya, strawberries, roasted cashews, pork scratchings, and whole ducks to name a few. All of it tasted brilliant and I didn’t once have to reach for the bog roll.
A while later I was having a conversation with someone who had spent 2 months in Indo-China eating everything in sight. Ironically they had never had a bowel problem until the last day where, instead of eating the local food, had opted for an airport pizza. Six hours later she was glued to the lavatory and stayed like that for several hours to come. It just goes to show you that it would seem that it’s ok to eat what the locals cook every day – but avoid it at all costs when they try their hand at Western cooking.
354. Wat PoBangkok is well known for it’s temples and contains a staggering 28,000 if them. As a mate of mine said after a brief 3-day stop over there “If I see another temple I’ll puke!” With that in mind and having only a few days in Thailand we decided only to stop in and visit a few of the more famous ones, the first being Wat Po.
As my first encounter with the “Wats” of Thailand, I have to say it was quite impressive. The compound consisted of many individual buildings and a maze of paths and alleyways between them. We had opted not to take a guide but on hind sight it may have been invaluable as the significance of each of the structures and the Buddas and artefacts contained within them was lost on us.
There was gold everywhere, scattered on the pillars and spinarets, rooftops and monuments. Where there wasn’t gold there was a plethora of other colours – reds, greens, blues and yellows. To say it was a sensory overload was an understatement. Within minutes I felt like my eyes were bleeding from the optical assault, but alas there was no escape.
30 minutes into our exploration I’d burned off about 50 pictures on the digital camera and funnily enough days later I went through all my Thailand pictures and I couldn’t tell one Wat from the other. The one thing that made this Wat stands out from most of the others though was the fact that the main temple building contained the “Reclining Budda” which is a 40+ metre long monstrous golden depiction of Budda lying on his side chilling out. His huge feet were engraved with mother of pearl scripture and on the whole he was quite an awe inspiring sight.
The most distinctive aspect of the chamber apart from the “Sunning himself Budda” was that down the entire length of the far wall there were about 30 pots that people were throwing coins into. The coins, of a denomination that I didn’t recognise, were supplied after depositing a donation into a wooden box and people were, in a procession, walking down the wall throwing coins into pots. I’m not sure what the deal was with the coins and the pots but we opted to chuck some in each of the ceramic tubs while thinking about people that we wished well. I don’t know if any of them had any good fortune thanks to our spiritual mantras but it was still fun to join in with the ritual.
The midday sun was beating down on us crazily by the time we left the temple and we went looking for some cold refreshments. We wandered down the street looking for a bar or a restaurant but within minutes we were at the Grand Palace. From outside the high white walls the Palace looked incredible but unfortunately the King’s Sister had just died and the Palace was closed to all tourists so that was one thing that the 365 Challenge would have to miss out on. A bar and a beer were soon found and the Palace was soon forgotten.
355. Wat Phra Kaew As I said, the temple are everywhere in Bangkok but there are some that you just can’t miss. Wat Phra Kaew is one of those as not only is it in the grounds of the Grand Palace (and was still thankfully open to the public) but it also houses the famous Emerald Buddha which is an 18 inch jade sculpture of Buddha said to bring prosperity to which ever city holds it and is one of the most valuable of all the relics to be found in Thailand.
Again the requisite labyrinth wound its way round the temple grounds and to be honest the sights looked almost identical to that of Wat Po with the exception that there was a huge pure gold Minaretimaginatively called the “Golden Temple” and a rather large sandstone scaled model of the Angkor Wat both located in the centre of the enclosure. They were pleasant enough to look at and the Angkor Wat carving was moderately impressive but we were there to see the Emerald Buddha so made our way to the majestic building that he sat in.
Staring through the ornate and gold riddled door way we found the little green figure perched atop a lavish and busy golden pyramidal plinth that rose about 12 feet off the ground. First impressions were that he was smaller than expected and as it was winter (although it was 32C and the sun was doing its best to shine through the smog) he was draped with a golden cloak. That combined with elevated dais and the protective glass cabinet he was contained in made visualisation of the statuette exceedingly difficult.
However, the atmosphere inside the temple was palpably solemn and spiritual even for someone like me who is not in the slightest way religious. It was possible to feel the calmness that descended upon everyone entering the room. Groups of people sat on knees in quiet contemplation staring up at the idol as the scent of incense and the odd wisp of smoke drifted through the gathered crowd. Almost in a non-visual way it was quite a sight to behold and everyone of the company gathered there seemed to derive something personal and significant from the little deity.
Unnervingly humbled by the experience we left the temple in silence and made our way back out into the chaos that is the streets of Bangkok.
356. The Golden MountTowards the North West of the old city lies this peaceful hill. Three hundred or so steps take you up, via several rows of intricately decorated cast iron bells, to yet another temple but the Golden Mount has an advantage over any other tourist trap in the city. That is its view. At the top of the stairs you come into a small square room containing a further square ante chamber at its centre in which people were praying.
At opposite sides of the main room were two narrow and steep staircases both of which took you up onto the rooftop that was dominated by a large golden spire atop a square podium. Wrapped round the spire was several layers of vibrant red cloth that was covered in hundreds of messages from people around the world. Most were in foreign languages but one that stuck in my mind was, “I love Thailand. Stop Killing the Whales Now. Barry from London 2006.” A bit misplaced perhaps but it was one of the few that I could actually read and gave me an idea to the sort of things that people of other nations would have written.
Unfortunately for Barry, he wasn’t the best speller in the world and his message came lost some of its impact as it actually read, “Stop Killing the Wales.” I can’t say I’ve ever seen any Greenpeace Activists manoeuvring in front of shoppers on the high streets of Cardiff in order to prevent them being harpooned by Japanese “walers” (or researchers as they would prefer to be called!)
Surrounding the spire at each corner of the platform were metal structures that looked similar to silver Christmas trees. Hanging from the “boughs” were a plethora of tiny bells and attached to each clangers was a little metal love heart that also had peoples mentions scrawled on them. The small hearts blew in the wind and caused the bells to ring in delightful high pitched tinkles.
All that, aside the most important thing about the Golden Mount is the view. Looking out from all four side of the square roof top gave the most stunning views of the city especially in a place like Bangkok which is inherently flat. Of course the smog obscured some distant sights but close by it was possible to see the stark contrast of the shanty type housing sitting right next to the ultra modern high rises. The tall buildings and the narrow streets don’t allow this view from the ground but on top of the Mount the rich/poor disparity is shockingly obvious.
The breeze up on the roof was refreshing in the otherwise oppressive heat but the day was drawing to a close and we had arranged to take our hosts out for dinner so we wound our way back down the steps, to sea level ringing the massive irons bells as we went. After laughing unashamedly in the faces of two separate Tuk-Tuk drivers we found ourselves in a cab which for once got us home in the most uneventful and honestly metered way possible.
357. Thai Foot MassageIts seems that anyone who’s anyone in Bangkok goes for a foot massage on a monthly if not weekly basis. Our taxi back from the Golden Mount had been exceptionally speedy and as we walked along our street we saw a plush massage and spa centre. Apparently it had only been open for 6 months and although pricier that some of the other parlours in the area we had been told it was far and away the best. Realising that we still had a couple of hours before dinner was booked we made our way through the large glass doors and into an overwhelming wall of jasmine, eucalyptus, mint and ginger.
The perfumed air made us feel relaxed instantly and we were ushered to a lovely big couch were a member of staff brought us green tea and cold compresses to wipe over our faces. Once the tea was gone and the stress of the day had begun to melt from us a pleasant girl with flawless olive skin and a bright smile asked us what we would like. Both of us opted for the foot massage and I was keen to see what it involved as I’d never had one before.
Ticking the box that said “Standard” for the strength of the massage, I handed the paper work back to the girl. We were lead into a small alcove adjacent to the main lobby and introduced to our individual masseuses. Sitting down in the alcove the girls indicated we should remove our shoes and put our feet in the wash basins where they proceeded to clean them thoroughly. Next we were given slipper and lead to changing rooms where I was asked to remove my trousers and put on a pair of the provided fisherman pants.
My masseuse was waiting outside for me and took my clothes from me, stuffed them into a quaint little wicker chest and took me to the room where she was going to perform her talents.
There was soothing music playing from hidden speakers when I sat back on the most comfortable chair I’ve ever had the good fortune to plant my behind on. Seconds later it was in the fully reclined position and an eye mask was being placed over my eyes so I couldn’t see what was happening. A mildly warm blanket or towel was placed over my chest and arms and then I felt my trouser legs being rolled up to the groin. The massage was then under way.
Although luxurious and relaxing, there was no doubt that the way the small woman rubbed, caressed, pummelled, stretched and stoked my feet, ankles, calves, knees and thighs was incredibly sensual. With the new sensations being applied to my legs and the black out mask in place I found myself drifting away with my thoughts and I’m surprised that I didn’t eventually fall asleep.
The foot massage lasted about 40 minutes and to my surprise I felt the lady reach under the blanket and take out one of my arms which then received its own massage as did the other one shortly after. The experience was topped off, literally, with a head massage which was almost a complete sensory overload.
I wanted to stay there for the rest of the day in my pseudo-trance with years worth of various stresses being coaxed out of me by the woman’s nibble and capable hands but all to soon she was removing the blindfold and I was being shown back to the changing rooms. I felt like I floated home after that and I don’t know what creams and exfoliating agents she had been applying on my feet but to describe them as feeling… absent, is perhaps the most illustrative account of how good they felt – more like a lack of the usual discomforts that you spend all day trying to ignore. Of course if you take those pedal discomforts away then it suddenly seems like you’ve just been fitted with a new pair.
Even though it was the most expensive spa we spotted during our time in Thailand the cost of the massage had only been 450 Baht which amounted to about AUD$16 or £6.50! Cheap when your normal currency isn’t the Baht, but that’s pretty much the same for everything in Bangkok.
358. Cabbages and CondomsAlthough I’ve tried not to talk about all the individual restaurants we’ve eaten in (with the exception of the Melbourne trip) this one totally deserves a mention. Hidden behind a non-descript wall located right next to the Genito-Urinary Medicine clinic this eatery was a fantastic find.
The owner named it such as his ethos was that condoms should be as readily available as vegetables and with that in mind founded this series of restaurants. The proceeds from their sales are channelled back into sexual health awareness schemes in Thailand, hence the STD clinic next door.
As we walked down the narrow path to the restaurant we were surrounded by sexual health paraphernalia including posters, leaflets and various condom shaped sculptures. There was even a small shop which, had it been open, would have sold you almost anything condom related. Most impressively were the mannequins dressed in an assortment of outfits made entirely out of condoms and oral contraceptive packets including a Santa Claus whose costume consisted of red prophylactics for his suit and regular ones that hung from his face to form the beard. A quick look to the walls and the ceiling of the restaurant revealed that the decorations, light fittings and even the Christmas tree were festooned by condoms, all being strategically used to resemble more conventional ornamentation.
Initially, the spectacle distracted from the menu but soon scrumptious food was brought to our balcony table and I was genuinely surprised by its quality. The majority of the food on offer was Thai and we decided that incorporation of the tapas method of ordering and eating was the simplest way to try the most number of things on the menu. Not a single one of the eight or so dishes we ordered disappointed and had we had bigger stomachs I’m sure we could have spent the whole night there, chowing down on delicious eats and laughing at the randomness of the décor.
All in all perhaps my most favourite restaurant of the year, not only because of the novelty factor and its fabulous kitchen, but also because of the good that it does with its profits. I discovered some time later that all the waitresses are former prostitutes who have been helped by the projects and Cabbages and Condoms funds and that recently they have become the recipients of a prestigious award offered by Bill Gates. Good on them – if I could have afforded to eat there every day then I think I would have. Oh yeah, I forgot to mention that it was relatively expensive and cost the same as a good meal in Sydney would have. Mind you it was for a good cause and I like to think that my greedy stomach contributed to the well-being of at least one or two struggling Thalis.
359 and 360. Khlon Boat Trip and Thonburi Snake FarmThis whole day left a bit of a bad taste in my mouth. We had got up early and made our way to a wharf next to the Shangri-La hotel (or as the taxi driver pronounced it “Shanangaralia La”) where we were accosted by the boat tour operator who initially tried to con us out of 1800 Baht for the privilege of a tour through some of Bangkok’s canals or “Khlons”. It didn’t take long to get him down to 1000 but we had no further success and felt a bit cheated as the guide book suggests we shouldn’t have paid more than 800 Baht for a boat trip.
After the money had changed hands he walked us out onto a tiny, barely floating pier and whistled to one of the skippers who was moored a few metres out on the river. Dipping the massive drive shaft in the water and sending a sudden spray of mucky brown water soaring into the air with an accompanying roar of the oversized engine he almost too rapidly brought the long tail boat to the jetty and indicated we should take a seat in the middle of the lengthy quintessential Thai boat.
A millisecond later we tore of at breakneck speed to find the khlons. It reminded me of Roger Moore in one of the James Bond movies and as I watched other boats speed up and down the river I was reminded of the bit where he uses the propeller to ward off his would be attackers then motors off, drives over a random person’s boat and cuts the poor thing in half. Thankfully none of that happened to us and the ten minutes or so to reach the khlons were uneventful.
Presently, we pulled up at an automated lock system at the mouth of a set of canals which had unfortunately just closed so we had to wait for almost 30 minutes before it was back at the start of it’s cycle and our skipper could position his boat inside the lock before driving through to the other side when the huge metal door raised itself far enough up for us to squeeze under.
That brief stop gave us plenty of time to see our first house on stilts which was dilapidated and appeared horrendously unliveable. There were no doors to speak of, just low saloon style shutters that clung desperately to the rusted hinges and as we sat motionless in the still water waiting for the lock door to open we could see right inside the house which was barren and unkempt. It was then that I noticed an impossibly small old lady crouched in the doorway cleaning her clothes in a bucket full of filthy water. She went about her business seemingly oblivious to our presence. With the boats turning up every few minutes at the lock outside her house I’m sure she was used to it but I certainly wasn’t used to seeing that measure of poverty.
That scene was repeated over and over again as we travelled the narrow canals – kids fishing garbage out of the water, mangy dogs defecating on peoples porches, malnourishment everywhere and what appeared to be a mandatory lack of basic hygiene. It was nothing like it appeared in various books I’d read and certainly didn’t bear up to its pseudonym of “The Venice of the Southern Hemisphere.” OK, so perhaps the smell did, but that’s about it.
It seemed like forever before we found ourselves at the Thonburi Snake Farm. The pilot moored us next at the dock where several other boats had also stopped and we were shepherded into the small zoo. Initially, I wasn’t too phased by the undersized cages containing various snakes and lizards. Afterall they were only reptiles and it was perhaps unlikely that the cared about their living quarters. However, I began to notice that many of them were sickly and also appeared to have dreadfully bad skin conditions. Their water appeared stagnant and much of the food sitting on the floor next to most of them was old and decaying.
As I walked further into what can only be described as a POW camp for animals, I came across two tiny cages that each contained lemurs of some description. The poor monkeys had almost no room to swing and the bounced up and down the way that the cruelly treated bears do in WWF appeal adverts. It was heart breaking.
Normally, I’m not much of a zoo fan as I think that most creatures should be left in the wild, but when you think of the care and attention the giraffes get at Taronga Zoo or how much the keepers love the chimpanzees and how proud Singapore Zoo is of their snow leopards then a place like Thonburi Snake Farm, by comparison, would totally turn your stomach.
Monica called to me from another part of the zoo to say she’d found some more monkeys but I just couldn’t go and see them. I was desperate to leave. It was outrageous how badly treated these animals were but what was worse was that the people working there obviously had no clue how shocking it was to tourists. They genuinely appeared to be overly satisfied that their disgraceful animal centre was something to be revered.
Monica was as traumatised as I was and we made a bee-line for the exit. As we walked past a small amphitheatre in the centre of the zoo and man on a microphone announced that the “snake show” was about to begin and I’m ashamed to say that we decided to stay long enough to get a glimpse of some of the poisonous snakes outside of their glass prisons.
I realised immediately that we’d made a mistake. The first performance consisted of an angry looking man beating 2 cobras repeatedly in order to get them to attempt to attack him. It was appalling and the other snakes put on display were treated just as badly. It made me sick to think I’d paid the 100 Baht to come into this animal dungeon, especially knowing that none of that money was going towards the care or upkeep of these exploited creatures.
We couldn’t get out of there fast enough and luckily it didn’t take long for us to get back to the wharf at the Shangri La. It took significantly longer before I stopped thinking about the misfortune of those ill-fated animals.
361. Chinatown MarketsChinatown has to be the most vibrant and exciting part of Bangkok. We had put together our own walking tour of the area and allocated half a day to wandering the streets and alley ways of this wonderful part of town.
From the outset we knew we were getting to see a side to Bangkok that many visitors missed out on. By staying off the main roads we tunnelled our way deeper and deeper into the backstreets and hidden markets of the area. The place was bustling and the streets became more and more claustrophobic the further in we walked. At points it was impossible to see the sky as market place canopies and effervescent decorations obscured our view.
Soon it was impossible to tell if we had left one market or entered into another one – there was just an amorphous sprawl of stalls selling everything from electrics to Chinese herbal remedies. And the best thing about it all was that everyone was Thai or Chinese. We didn’t see a single Westerner and that suited us just fine. It felt like we had discovered something real in Bangkok that was normally reserved for the locals only.
It was several hours before we went in search of a main street as we had no idea where we were or what direction we’d been heading in. Choosing a compass point randomly, we essentially followed our noses until finally we burst out of Chinatown practically outside the Metro station. How fortuitous! We hopped onto the train and soon we were home, smiles on our faces and feeling for once like proper “travellers”.
362. Dragon Fruit“Do you want a dragon fruit?” called Sarah from the kitchen as we hauled ourselves through the door having just returned from dragging ourselves round Chinatown all afternoon. “Sure,” I replied having absolutely no idea what one was.
She appeared from the kitchen carrying the most lurid coloured object that I’ve ever seen. About the size of a mango and somewhere between purple and pink the fruit was handed over to me. I didn’t know exactly how to eat it, open it or peal it so I surreptitiously watched Sarah cut hers in half revealing a startlingly contrasting centre of white flesh embedded with hundreds of small black seeds.
Doing the same I then attacked the core of the dragon fruit with a spoon and discovered a taste and texture akin to kiwi fruit but far more subtle. After a few mouthfuls it actually began to taste of nothing in particular but did a fantastic job of quenching the thirst that I’d built up during our sojourn through the market. From the colour of the skin I was expecting this to be an entry to the 365 that would have been gastronomically ground breaking but it turns out that dragon fruit is just a tease.
363. Chatuchuk MarketWe only had one day left in Bangkok. Tomorrow we’d be leaving for colder, wetter, greyer but at least less smoggy shores. Since my experience with the foot massage I’d become determined to get a pair of the fisherman’s pants and word on the grape vine was that Chatuchuk was the place to go. With over 8000 stalls, it runs every weekend and if you are ever in doubt about the size of this place then bear this in mind – it has its own stop on the Metro. So by 8:30am we were on said Metro rumbling north of the city to the market’s train station.
As we got out we realised the enormity of the market and immediately laid down a contingency plan for getting lost. You know the kind that you’re parents used to give you if you went to a fun park and had the potential to go missing – “If you get lost make sure you go straight to that clock tower and we’ll come and find you there!” Somehow I could never find that bloody clock tower and would inevitably end up in the “lost kids” office for about an hour before my mum and dad, livid, would arrive screaming that I should have gone to the clock tower, all the while embarrassed that the attendants might think they were bad parents. Perhaps the shouting was more of a give away?!?
Anyway, we immediately got stuck in and went in search of the trousers. Seek and ye shall find. Well not in this case. We looked everywhere and I wouldn’t be surprised if by lunch time we had checked out 95% of the 8000 stalls. Everything was for sale – candles, soaps, tee-shirts, carvings, rugs, pets, remote control dinosaurs, plants, couches, soft furnishings, swords, fireplaces, water features and books to name but a small selection. But no fisherman pants.
I had given up. The crowds had become steadily larger and pushing our way through the tight side stalls was becoming unbearable. Ubiquitous “Beware of Pickpockets” signs eventually got the better of me and I decided to head out into one of the more open areas and sample some odd meat on a stick that I’d seen, or should I say smelt, earlier.
My stomach was rumbling by the time I began to cram the tasty meat-like morsels into my mouth and for a few seconds I forgot about my clothing mission, engrossed instead but the strangely pleasurable taste of the stick-meat or “smeat” as I had come to call it.
“Do these only come in one size,” said a Londoner to my left which distracted me from my food. Looking round I saw him holding up a pair of blue fisherman pants and I almost choked on the smeat. Two elongated strides later I was at the same stall wading through a mountain of the damn things. Every colour, every design, but yes, only one size. Thankfully that size was “fat bastard” and I was happy as a teenage super hero who’s just discovered that he has x-ray vision that only sees through clothes. Snapping up a grey pair and a green pair for next to nothing, I was exultant.
“Can we leave now?” asked Monica and it was at that point that I realised I’d been on such a mission I’d not noticed how pissed she had become with my continual single-minded loops of the market. Luckily, I knew how to make it up to her – as it was our last day in Thailand I’d booked us in for full body aromatherapy massages back at the parlour. I had no idea what to expect but I thought it couldn’t be much different to the foot massage. How wrong I was!
364. Aromatherapy MassageHaving never set foot in a spa in my life prior to 12 months ago, I was beginning to come around to the idea of self pampering and could totally understand why my sisters and many of my female friends raved about facials and massages. I was going to book us in for a traditional Thai massage but I’d been warned that they could be so rough that sometimes you came out in worse shape than you went in. I’d heard about the bruising, limping, agony that was often inflicted on newbies, not on purpose but just because a novice wouldn’t be used to that style of massage.
Therefore we opted for the aromatherapy massage instead and I figured that would be a more relaxing way to spend our final hours in Thailand than felling like I’d gone 10 rounds with a heavy weight boxer.
Inside the spa we filled out the paper work, paid for our treatments and drank more green tea. Once again we had our feet washed and then were lead in our slippers, upstairs through a maze of rooms where we finally came to 219. We were shown inside and asked to take off all our clothes and have a shower in the large cubical located to one side of the room while the masseuses waited outside. Then to cover our modesty we were told to put on the underwear supplied.
When I say underwear I might be giving you the wrong impression. Effectively the comprised of a band of fishnet material with a crotch sewn in and after squeezing myself into them I realised that not only were they not even remotely covering my bits but in fact it felt like I was pushing my genitals through a cheese grater. When in Rome though? So I lay face down on the bed with Monica on the other bed parallel to mine and the massage began.
Firstly, there were towels put over the backs of my legs which also covered my bum but then she tucked the top of the towel into my pants and pulled my briefs down to the top of my legs so that my arse was bare to the world (well to her and the other masseuse in the room.) I could feel various oils being poured onto my back which was followed by the massage. Literally she went from top to bottom and try as I might to relax I couldn’t help feeling slightly anxious every time she rubbed the oils into my bottom.
Eventually, blankets were put onto my back and she started work on my legs. This section was thankfully uneventful and extremely relaxing. The soothing motion of her hands worked out years of tightness and rigidity and I found myself hypnotised and entranced by the perfumes, the soft music and her wonderful technique. I think I was asleep when she shook my shoulder. At first I thought it was part of the massage but then grasped the fact that she wanted me to turn over.
Quite drowsy now, I lay on my back and she replaced the covers over my chest and legs. A face mask similar to the one used during the foot massage was placed over my eyes and I lay there peacefully as she prepared some more massage wares. Then she removed the blankets from one leg revealing it right up to the groin. The covers were pushed so far over that I knew my scanty, see-through pants were also on show. However, with the eye cover on I felt hidden from this indignity much in the same way a child playing peek-a-boo and thinks it’s invisible when its eyes are covered.
Immediately she got to work and too my surprise she not only kneaded the fronts of my legs but also the outer aspects and more importantly the inner tight. I almost jumped off the bed the first time her fingertips brushed against my scrotum and had I been in a seedier place I may have been convince that this wasn’t a massage parlour but a “massage parlour!”
However, it came to me that these people did this all day long and to them a practically naked man having his upper thigh rubbed with oils was no big deal and bared a great deal of resemblance to what goes on when a doctor examines someone’s chest. Later as I explained this part of the treatment to a mate of mine they laughed and in full knowledge of what the aromatherapy massage involves stated, “Yeah you really have to leave your inhibitions at the door in those places.”
After the legs were finished she went on to do my arms, shoulders and head in much the same fashion as the foot massage I’d had a few days earlier although this part also incorporated a chest and stomach massage which was entirely weird and kept making me want to fart. Thankfully for both me and the other people in the room, I didn’t but having my abdomen rubbed marked the end of the session and soon we were ushered into the shower again before donning our clothes and making our way back through the labyrinth to the lobby. A cup of green tea and a small helping of frozen strawberry yogurt and we were on our way back out into the smoggy streets of Bangkok.
It was only a short walk back to the apartment where all that waited for us were two incredibly heavy suitcases that required their final pack. A taxi was booked for the following morning and after a quick meal and a glass of lovely chilled Tiger Beer we opted for an early night. I wanted to stay up later, to make the day last as long as possible as tomorrow our year away from the UK would be at and end. However, the thought of 13 hours on a plane to Heathrow and a connecting flight to Glasgow still ahead of us gave me enough of an impetus to retire for the night. With our heaving suitcases propped up against the bedroom wall we climbed into bed and closed our eyes abroad for the last time of this 12 month vacation.
I was sad that things were at an end and there was very little that could pull me from the depression. The thought of the Scottish winter and the medical exams and interviews that awaited me were not nearly off set by the fact I would have opportunity to catch up with friends and family. At those reunions people would always asked about the year abroad and by discussing it you repeatedly came to realise what you were missing. When inquiring as to what they had been up to for the last 365 days the answers would be the inevitable “Same ol’ same ol’” and the understanding would dawn on us that nothing had changed since we’d left except perhaps a few other people were now married and there were a couple of extra sprogs on the scene.
Our time in Sydney and the 365 Challenge had given us a real eye-opener to how good life can be and the last thing we wanted to was to fall back into the rut that we had left and that all our friends were still in. So what could we do to keep life interesting and stop the humdrum of every day UK life? An annual 365 Challenge? Suggesting this as Monica tried to doze off almost earned me a slap so with that I settled down for my last sleep of the 365 Challenge, my brain buzzing about what the future would hold.
This year wasn’t going to disappoint. We had already heard about the fact that 1.5 million people would be lining all the vantage points of the harbour in the streets and apartments as well as designated viewing areas (some of which were unfortunately alcohol free zones) and also that the Foti Family, who do the fireworks every year, were planning to use some 3000 kg of explosive devices; approximately 11,000 shells, 10,000 shooting comets, and a total of 100,000 individual pyrotechnic effects. It certainly promised to be a bit better than standing in the freezing rain of George Square in Glasgow waving a pathetic sparkler all the while trying to avoid the fights, the vomit, the glass and the urine.
Then next was the violence. There was none. Unlike the UK where people have all the intentions of only “having a good time”, fights still break out a plenty which I suppose that is due to the gallons of booze consumed by everyone – and I’m sure that the crappy weather doesn’t help. Here there were people having barbeques, children playing and families and couples enjoying the evening. There were the obligatory roving groups of boys and girls but they all seemed content to have a laugh with each other and were exhibiting the least threatening behaviour possible. Everything just had a completely different feel to it and although people are generally in a good mood at this time of the year in the UK it doesn’t take much to turn what should be a great night out sour. 
The explosions and colour decked the sky for almost 15 minutes from a combination of platforms including barges on the bay and other strategic locations. The still waters of the harbour reflected the show almost perfectly and it was like getting 2 performances for the price of one. Really there was too much happening to take it all in – one minute you’d be looking, mouth open, at sprays of reds and yellows and the next there were ear-splitting hammerings behind you indicating you were missing another spectacle elsewhere. 
Get you minds out of the gutter! This has nothing to do with shaving peoples genitalia. 
Time was running out. We had done most of the things in the Sydney area and with only a few days left I was struggling to come up with any new adventures. Also I realised that I’d not sent anything home for my niece’s birthday which had just passed. With that I went in search of a new market and that new market was Manly. 
The 23rd of December was my last day as an employee of the Emergency Department and I was shattered. I’d just pulled 22 hours in the Emergency Department with only 4 hours off in between thanks to a rostering mix up that went from bad to worse and saw me doing a transfer in the back of an ambulance to a larger hospital with a chap who had a massive sub-arachnoid haemorrhage the result of which also made me finish my last ever shift in the hospital 3 hours later that I should have done.
One thing that did occur to me is that in the Northern Hemisphere there is the summer holidays in July and August and only a few months later, during the horrid winter months, there is Christmas to look forward to. Unfortunately, for the Australians their summer and Christmas is combined and then the rest of the year is uninspiringly uneventful. That said, if you live in more northern side of the country then it doesn’t really matter as its practically summer all year round, with the odd rainy season thrown in to break up the monotony. 
So after a few beers I was feeling a bit more awake and as soon as the rest of the household realised that they put me to work. That was my first encounter with 327. Moreton Bay Bugs which have to be one of the weirdest creatures ever to evolve on the planet. Although akin to langoustines and shrimp they really are a bit of an enigma with their flat shovel like heads and short curved tails and are pretty much only found in the Moreton Bay area of Queensland (no surprises there!). Apparently, as little as 10 years ago fishermen used to sell them for around $2 per kilo as nobody really knew what to do with them. Now they are seen as a lobster-esque delicacy and go for as much as ten times that price. I was given a big bag of them and charged with ripping off the heads and cracking open the carapace to reveal the meat that would eventually go into the most incredible seafood cocktail with mango mayonnaise starter for tomorrows Christmas dinner. Not the best job for someone who’d felt like he’d never slept ever and had drank too many beers. 
Even thought I was sat round a table with three over people doing the same to several kilos of shrimp and king prawns the humour was good and the chat was brilliant so the queasy nature of my employment was soon forgotten. 
Christmas day itself was a bit of a non-event. The household and all their respective families, kids and grandchildren appeared to be enjoying themselves but as it was 30C and the sun was shining it was a bit difficult to get into the Christmas spirit. In fact, to date only three things had actually made me feel remotely less bah-humbuggy. The first was a glass of mulled wine that German friend of mine has provided me with at a dinner party she had a couple of weeks earlier. The aroma of the hot gluehwein took me back to Scotland where my mum would have a big sauce pan of the stuff brewing on the stove every year on Christmas Eve for the arriving family and the pungent smell would travel through the house reminding everyone of all things Christmassy. Amongst my snowboarding buddies vin chaude was also a favourite après ski drink and that too made me think of the winter months. 
So all in all only three tiny things had me thinking it was actually the 25th of December and then it occurred to me that surely Australians hadn’t just been mimicking the traditions of the winter Christmas’s for the last 200 years. Shouldn’t they have come up with some customs of their own? Well, in fact, they had, the main one being barbeques on the beach. All over Australia people were celebrating on sandy shark-infested shores flinging steaks and sausages on their BBQs like there was no tomorrow. Fortunately there was a tomorrow and that tomorrow was Boxing Day which is when, at long last, I would finally get to 328. Put another shrimp on the barbie. Actually it was a marinated king prawn, but close enough. 
What a liar. We had just set everything up at Kangaroo Point Park on the south shore of the Brisbane River for the Boxing Day BBQ and the bloody heavens opened faster than you could say “Rain? Again?” For the next 30 minutes we were clustered under a collection of ridiculously inadequate umbrellas which failed to keep even a single drop of moisture off us. We’d have been better off with a couple of colanders on our heads. Fortunately, a large golfing brolly had been discovered in the back of one of the cars and this kept the shrimp, the snags (what a great word) and the isolated barbequer dry. 
Just as I was feeling like I could do with a siesta some bright spark came up with the novel and heart-sinkingly energetic idea of doing the 329. Brisbane River Board Walk. This comprised of heaving ourselves off the picnic benches and marching 7km up one side of the river and back down the other side. The pace set by Isla’s Dad was furious – almost military – and I thought it unlikely that the prawns and sausages were going to stay down, but they did. 
To that inner melody, we left the restaurant and undertook the long 330. Bay side walk round Flinder’s Parade to Shorncliffe and back. The onshore breeze kept us cool as we wandered south, chatting idly around esplanade. It took less time that we thought it would and ended up at a Brighton-esque pier that stretched far out into the Bay. We walked to the far end and watched the anglers wind up empty lines and certainly no bugs. Isla realised that the cool winds had tricked her into thinking that she wasn’t cooking under the Aussie sun but there was a faint blossoming of pink under her skin despite her factor 30 cream. 
Soon we were back at the car and within the hour we were at the domestic terminal of Brisbane Airport. It had been good to spend time with some vaguely familiar people over the Christmas period but without wanting to sound like I am shirking the great hospitality we were treated too, I think that things would have been better if we’d spent the time in Sydney. We could have tried to do something original instead of mearly bastardising the Northern Hemisphere version and there were plenty of “Ways and Strays” parties that we’d also been invited to should things have become boring. 
